Mr King Is Back And Still Confused

 Hello, hello, with a hey nonny-no.

It's been three years, three months and three days since my last post. Three threes. I couldn't have planned it better. The truth is I didn't plan it at all. I procrastinated and resisted writing this, and finally here I am as if I'd never been gone. 

I took a break from writing after the MA, in 2018, as that final dissertation was quite a strain on the old creative muscles and it wore me out. My mental health had also taken (another) dip in 2017, half way through my studies (two years part-time), and I was back under the GP and on medication, so I was overdue a rest. Coincidentally, I had also started working for a mental health charity, having resigned from my post as a funeral arranger in 2016 a few months before I started the MA.

I've been 'struggling' coming to terms with the overall MA mark I was awarded, and a comment received on my dissertation that really got to me. I know, far greater things happening in the world and all that but I'm human and want to get this off my chest and get on with my writing life. And I don't really expect anyone to care much either, to be honest.

I graduated with a Pass, a final mark of 58 percent. Not a bad mark, and I'm happy to have passed. But here's the thing, throughout the MA I was awarded a merit (between 60 and 70 percent) for all my modules (apart from one lovely 71%) and was very happy with that. But unfortunately that final mark completely negates all the previous ones, dragging my overall MA grade down a pass. But it wasn't even that so much as this comment from one of the two markers, dissertations being 'double marked' (allegedly anonymously but easy to work out who they both were, making the whole anonymous submission and marking procedure a farce, like so much of academia is in truth, but anyway): "...but be careful of occasional slippages, which can lead to things unravelling fast - the one thing that curtains should never do in a poem is "billow". "

Note the use of the word 'should' here, an instruction rather than advice. Instead of the marker just saying they personally don't like the use of that word, or that I could perhaps have used a more descriptive or more poetic word and even gone to the lengths of suggesting one, they invent a totally non existent 'rule' of poetry. This came as the last line of a mostly positive comment on my creative piece, a suite of 25 prose poems that I presented as a chapbook, fully edited and ready for publication, and that I was overall very happy with. So why should that last line bother me so much? I really don't know, and what else can I say about it anyway? Not a basis for appeal or grievance, but I was, and remain, aggrieved. 

I printed both reports out, and underneath the one I've mentioned above I wrote "Utter bollocks. Poetry can speak in any way it sees fit for the poem." 

I think I found the comment sloppy and unhelpful, and the fact that the marker was (and still is) not a poet themselves pissed me off, and that they saw fit to confuse personal opinion with fact. And I resent the lower mark that I feel did not, and does not, reflect the research and creative effort I put into those poems, and the critical commentary that supported it. But the reality is all of these marks, grades and comments were and are completely out of my control. And I need to add here that, for both of the markers of my dissertation I have the utmost respect, both as academics in their chosen fields and for the creative work they produce. And I loved their modules and learnt from both of them, as I did from all the tutors whose modules I studied, and those that helped me along the way, and those poets and writers I was introduced to by them, and who I discovered myself through my research.

So here I am back on my blog, on the one hand dismissing academia as a farce and criticising comments that I don't like and found unhelpful, yet on the other acknowledging how much I learnt from it, and from them, and recognising what a privilege it was to be accepted to study for this MA without a first degree, and showing gratitude for those who helped me to get to that point, who encouraged me, wrote a reference, read my work and gave their own feedback. And more.

I have a lovely back catalogue of unpublished work from before and during the MA that I don't know where to begin with it all. Revisiting it for this post has reminded me of it, and in the writing this post I can feel that resentment slipping away. I had stopped posting here anyway as I was trying to get my work published, and posting on a blog counts as self-published which means that publishers won't accept it.  

And of course the world was turned upside down in early 2020 by the pandemic, lockdowns, and working from home. For me personally, whilst I continued attending the lovely Colchester Write Night group I've been a member of for ten years, albeit virtually, I picked up my paint brushes again and have plunged head first into the world of abstract painting, producing several canvases and still going, and have rearranged my creative process and my flat around that. I've also been adopted by a lovely black cat.

So, (another so), that's it for now. I will keep painting and writing, and will post more on here whenever and however the creative mood and muse flows through me. 

Laters. 

Christmas Morning 2017: 6.25 am.

I wrote this last Christmas morning, exactly as the title says, and I am sharing it with you now. It was one of twenty-five prose poems I submitted for the creative suite of my MA Creative Writing dissertation.

It will be the last post on this blog, or rather this manifestation of this blog. In the New Year it will be updated and renewed, just as I have grown and developed with my writing. I'll probably migrate to a more suitable platform. Whatever I do I'll keep you informed, dear readers. Best wishes for your festive season, however you celebrate it, and remember it's okay not to be okay. It's okay to take time out to look after yourself, to withdraw and be silent. To write poetry. Love and light to you all.

Christmas Morning 2017: 6.25 am.

Waking to coughing from the flat below, a dripping tap, a ticking clock, the fridge knocking as it goes about its fridgy business: cough cough: drip drop: tick tock: knock knock:  cough drip: drop tock: cough knock: tock tock. Some of my shirts need ironing. I wish I could spend all my time reading. 

Somewhere in the world a woman is crying. Nothing will console her. The words of a man will not console her. The nurse holding a dying man’s hand is so in grief she cannot remember why she does this. Who will console her? Horses in fields the world over whinny. In a tower somewhere an ancient enchanter casts a spell. The woman crying is impervious to it; the whinnying horses do not care. 

The child in me wants to play; wants to call for my friends, take sandwiches and a sugary drink and sit around a tree stump saying rude things. In some houses, wide eyed children will be opening more presents than I received my entire childhood, whilst in others whole families will not eat. Each year the chasm deepens. 

A True Story About Books In A Suitcase And A Teenage Boy

The seven books over seven days challenge on facebook has awaken another book related memory that I wanted to share, as I find talking about books interesting and is one of the pleasures I miss from my public library days and, before that, my reading group days. Also, the people that are sharing and challenging on facebook may find it interesting too. Of course they may not, but that's never stopped me writing anything before. *Laughing face emoji.* So gather round my social media chums and listen to my story. *Smiley face emoji with maybe a winking face one too?*


Once upon a time, in the dark days and even darker nights of the 1970s; before social media, before smart phones and laptops; when there were just three television channels: BBC1, BBC2, and ITV, that stopped broadcasting overnight and had only been broadcasting in colour for a couple of years (I know, right?); in a council house that was owned by the local council before a wicked witch cast an evil spell that confused common people into believing they had a right to buy the council house they lived in (and caused a housing shortage and even homelessness in years to come), the King family lived in a crescent named after the author of Robinson Crusoe, at No. 44.

The eldest child, a handsome, intelligent and misunderstood teenage boy used to enjoy reading the books that were in a brown suitcase belonging to his father, an ogre who lived in the local public house and who every now and then would pop home for a visit between pints, for some food and to break wind violently, often blowing the back door off its hinges and frightening the elderly lady that lived next door.

Why the books were in a suitcase we will never know, and the boy never asked, just took it for granted. Here is the story of some of those books, and the handsome, intelligent, muscular boy (look, it's my story, okay) that read them...

              I remember Mario Puzo's 1969 The Godfather. I can see the black cover as clearly now as  I could then, with its large white writing and puppet-controlling hand. It was/is a brilliant book filled with descriptive sex and violence, and one hell of a story. Just the thing for a teenage boy. I never saw the equally brilliant 1972 film until I was in my thirties, but I do remember mum and dad going to see it one evening, one of the rare times they went out together. (Perhaps the pub was closed?).

Whilst most of the books in dad's suitcase were paperbacks, I remember three hardback ones; Born Free, Living Free and Forever Free. Joy Adamson's story of Elsa the lioness and her three cubs Jespah, Gopa and Little Elsa. Published respectively in 1960 (the year I was born), 1961 and 1962. Again made into films starring Virginia McKenna as Joy and Bill Travers as her husband George. I don't know if these three books, filled with black and white photographs were original copies or not, but I wish I still had them. They were beautiful.

The other hardback I remember was Thor Heyerdahl's 1948 The Kon-Tiki Expedition, the story of the 1947 journey across the Pacific Ocean in a raft made from balsa wood, containing Heyerdahl himself and a small team. What greater adventure story for a teenage boy. There have been television documentaries and a film. I doubt very much if this book was the original as it was published in Norwegian.

Back to paperbacks now and the Get Smart series, written by William Johnston, based on the hugely successful 1960s American comedic secret agent spoof TV series featuring Maxwell Smart, aka agent 86, and his female accomplice agent 99, who's real name is never revealed. Before the age of mobile phones Max had a phone in his shoe, which he had to take off to answer, and access to intelligence agency CONTROL's underground headquarters was from a public telephone box. There were a few full-length films made, by far the best of which is the 2008 film starring Steve Carell and Anne Hathaway as agents 86 and 99. I remember reading these books and genuinely laughing out loud, a few decades before LOL was even a thing. So there. If only I had a penny for every LOL. Oh well.

I remember the sun reflecting off one lens of a pair of sunglasses on the 1970 Pan Books cover of  Colonel Sun. Originally published in 1968 by Kingsley Amis, writing as Robert Markham, the first of the so called continuation James Bond novels published after Ian Fleming's death in 1964. I'm certain some of Fleming's Bond books were in the suitcase as well. I've always preferred the written Bond to the screen bond, with its over-emphasis on the gadgets and the women. You get a real feel for the flawed Bond, and his relationship with M, none of which comes across on the big screen. A few years ago, during one of my low periods, I re-read all fourteen of Fleming's Bond books, in order of publication. An absolute treat. I also bought a copy of Colonel Sun from eBay. Not the sunglasses cover sadly, but a 1978 Triad Paperbacks version. It says on the back cover; "Colonel Sun is an exciting, violent, sadistic and sexy piece of reading matter." So there!

I also remember John Gardner's 1964 The Liquidator, featuring British secret agent Boysie Oakes, and perhaps a couple of others from that series. Also a film; etc. I can't really remember much about the books, though Gardner went on to pen sixteen 'continuation' James Bond novels in the 1980s and early part of the 1990s, two more than Fleming wrote.

There were several Westerns, many of which I read and none of which I can remember either an author or a title. Which says everything you need to know about them I guess. I did enjoy a good Western though, in the days before I learnt the truth about Cowboys and Indians, and the reality broke the spell.

I'm sure there are one or two I will have forgotten, and will wake up at three in the morning exclaiming "Aha! there was that one." But for now, dear reader, that's enough about dad's suitcase of books and some that I read. I don't know what happened to it, or the books in it.

Thanks for reading.

This Is Just To Say

(With sincerest apologies to William Carlos Williams )

I threw out

the limp lettuce

that was in

your fridge

and which

you were probably

going to put

in your sandwich

I also sold

that old red wheelbarrow

(the one the dog

keeps pooing in)

on ebay

Forgive me

it’s this heat

Brexit-turds of Turd Hall

Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, aka BoJo, to use his own terminology is by far the biggest turd that has ever graced the British political scene with its foul presence. Not just any old turd either, but one of those big, nasty floaters that won't flush away and, even when you eventually break it up with a stick it still won't go, and now it's on the stick as well causing even more turdishness. Big Boris Johnson; loathsome, privileged, self-serving, scheming, bigoted, racist, back-stabbing and a bully; have I missed anything?

Whilst we're on the subject of turds, if I was to be pressed for a Brexit top-five-turds, seeing as this has all happened and is still happening directly in relation to Brexit (how do you choose just five?). I would say that number two (snigger) in the Brexit-turd-stakes would have to be modern day Oswald Mosley wannabe, dead-fish-flinger and The Donald's personal turd, Mr Brexit himself, Nigel Farrage. Having halfheartedly flushed himself away several times, he keeps popping out from the u-bend and floating back to the surface to promote his numerous campaigns; Brexit, Brexit and, oh, Brexit; how nobody is enabling Brexit, without himself making one positive contribution to the debate just insulting and criticising everyone except himself, making any agreement far less likely. And also promoting the rise of the far-right in Europe.

Squeezing in (or out, to keep the turd analogies going) at number three is Hard-Brexiter and professional Victorian, the funereal Jacob Rees-Log. Bessie mates with Nigel, along with Nanny and God on his side would rather see women die than have an abortion, or be forced to give birth to a child conceived through rape.

Brexit-turd number four is clumsy curtseyer and thousand-pound leather trouser wearer, the Right Honourable Theresa May, Member of Parliament for Maidenhead (snigger) and Prime Minister of the not-so United Kingdom, for another week-or-so anyway until a couple of the above mentioned Brexit-turds shove their turd-stained knives into her back. Noted for, amongst other highlights, calling an election that lost her parties parliamentary majority; clinging to power with a billion pound bribe to a party of ten MPs who, amongst other charming policies, are anti the gay marriage that her predecessor David Cameron introduced, and repeating the phrase 'Brexit means Brexit' without actually knowing what Brexit does mean or how to bring it about.

Number five on the Brexit turd scale, amongst a stinking muddy-brown pool of turds,  would have to be the dead-pig-shagging ex MP and PM David Cameron. Remember him? Gave us 'that' referendum then, showing his true colours and leadershit skills , buggered off leaving, as turds often do, a dirty skid-mark for others to clean up.

Whilst I'm at it, I want to make special mention of The Right (Left) Honourable Jeremy Corbyn MP, Leader of the Opposition. I can't quite bring myself to honour him with full Brexit-turd status, but recognise him as someone who had the opportunity to send the Brexit-turds a full-on, seismic, crack-splitting Butt-Bazooka, but instead chose perhaps the wettest fart known to humankind.

Lost Chaucer Poem Rediscovered

Whilst researching for my dissertation I've uncovered, in a dusty old poetry collection on the shelves at the Albert Sloman Library at Essex University, a long forgotten Chaucer poem. Really exciting and surprisingly topical. Seems life wasn't much different in Medieval England than it is now!

Snowwe

Walkyng along these frozen streetes,
myne feete doth ayche, myne bownes doth creeke.

Ey canethnot feele myne fyngers or towes,
icicles hangeth from myne nose.

Ey feeles so saddeth ey wannte to crie,
amongst a charnel howse to lye.

Twas happenstance that ey didde fynd,
summe nectar forre myne troubled mynd.

Nothing doth mayke a sadde harte glowe,
than a cocke and balles drawyn inn thee snowwe.

Geoffrey Chaucer 1369

Ding dong Verity is high

To be sung loudly and with good cheer.

Ding dong Verity is high

On fumes of sherry trifle,

Her vajazzle’s gone awry

The lodger got an eyeful.

Poor Gloria, her spanner is at Chelsea’s!

Dean’s got blisters down below

He’s rather well hungen,

He gave a latex doll a go

Then the rash begunen.

Poor Gloria, her spanner is at Chelsea’s!

In church of a Christmastime

Those lusty loud bellringers,

When they’ve dutifully chimed

They’re a bunch of swingers.

Poor Gloria, her spanner is at Chelsea’s!

Poor Gloria, her spanner is at Chelsea’s!

Her spanner is at Chelsea’s!!!

A very merry Christmas and a wonderful New Year filled with light and love and peace and joy to you all.

On Tea and Writing (and biscuits)

A piece of whimsy (based on factual events) that I wrote and read at Firstsite Gallery, along with others, on Friday 3rd November 2017, as part of a readings evening to raise money for EducAid.

The scene: A day of writing at the family house, whilst I am waiting in for a delivery. There are two things present in the house that I do not have in  my flat; a Staffordshire Bull Terrier and a telly...

Arrive at the house

Get licked all over

By a very

excited Staffie.

Play with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make myself a cuppa

With biscuits for dunking

Get my writing stuff out

All over the table.

Write a few words down

Oh, what’s that one I’m looking for?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Scroll through the Sky menu.

Watch George Gently,

And American Pickers,

And Hercule Poirot,

And Wheeler Dealers,

(converting a vintage Chevy

a ’54 stepside).

Answer the door

Sign for the parcel

Play with the Staffie

(Who was woken by the delivery)

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

Eat a pack of kit kat snacks

Think about my cholesterol.

Write a few more words down

Is this a poem

Or a piece of flash fiction?

Have a little nap

Because writing is tiring

(that’s my excuse).

Get woken by the Staffie

Let her in the garden

Play ball with her

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

Why is it so hard

to say what I want to?

After a while

Get a bit distracted.

Start thinking about swords

That poem about Excalibur

I still haven’t written.

Try to remember

the name of Frodo’s sword

in Lord of the Rings

(that turns blue when Orcs are near).

Go on google

It’s called Sting

And it’s only a dagger,

Then go on you tube

And listen to some Police songs.

Make another cuppa

With some biscuits for dunking

Write a few more words down.

After a while

Get stuck with the story.

Read through what I’ve written

Think about my writing

Wish that I was better.

Have a pity-party

Indulge in some pointless

Self-recrimination.

Realise I’m being stared at

By a playful Staffie.

Give her some attention

Until she settles

Which takes forever.

Realise I’m hungry.

Make myself a sandwich

And another cuppa.

I’ve eaten all the biscuits

so no more for dunking.

Make the Staffies dinner

Hope that she’ll stop pestering

While I eat my sarnie

And drink my cuppa

There’s not a hope in hell

Of that happening

She’s a multi-tasker

Where food is concerned.

Where has the time gone?

The day has flown by

I’ve managed to do some writing

Which will need an edit

And then another one

But that’s for another day

It’s bloody never ending

Why did I choose writing?

Pack all my things up

Then do the washing up

Hide the empty biscuit wrapper

In the bottom of the bin.

Hope no one notices.

Try to say goodbye

To the lovely Staffie

Who just wants to play

So we get her ball

I chase her round the room

Then she chases me.

Put the kettle on again

Make another cuppa.

Sit on the sofa

While she curls up on my lap

And starts snoring.

Get my book out

I’ll be here for a while now

Anyway there’s no hurry

Before I know it

I’m snoring too.

Writing days are lovely

With a sleepy Staffie

If I’m very lucky

There’ll be another soon.

And I can do more writing

And drink more tea

With biscuits for dunking.