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Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, 27 March 2022

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. 

Sunday, 18 March 2018

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

Saturday, 4 November 2017

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.

Thursday, 28 September 2017

A Haibun for National Poetry Day 2017

I've written a Haibun for National Poetry Day, a first for me. The theme this year is Freedom; I hope you like it and may even try and write your own and read some others. It's a challenging form, be gentle with me.


Freedom: A Haibun


Their paths first crossed whilst backpacking in Marrakech and the attraction was immediate. They moved into a rundown riad which became their sanctuary. He wrote while she painted, and when they made love the entire universe ceased to exist and they were all that mattered. When a child came along they named her Free; she played barefoot in the sun and her skin went brown. When the bills started to come he found work in a local bar and she sold her art at the bazaar. Working all the hours they could they found the freedom they were both looking for, and she was everything.


from the eyrie
yellow eyes see more
than we can ever dream


Sunday, 10 September 2017

Read My Poem And Buy The Book

I wrote this a couple of years ago and submitted it to a few publications as you do. It has ended up being published in Creel 3: An anthology of creative writing; a product of the Centre for Creative Writing at Essex University. I could not be happier. I read it at the launch evening, along with some other lovely and talented writers and fellow postgrad students. Held at The Wivenhoe Bookshop as part of the Wivenhoe ArtSea Festival, (and published by their own publishing imprint Wivenbooks), you could do worse than visit a brilliant independent family bookshop and buy a copy for yourself.


Questions

If the Jackdaw that struts across your lawn
like a soldier on parade
stopped and spoke to you of his loneliness,
Would you listen?

If you could hear the cry of the salmon
caught in the eagles claws,
Would you care?

If you saw the fear in the eyes of the moth
trapped in the spiders web,
Would you set it free?

Does the noise the doe makes
as she tries to find her way back
to the safety of the herd
disturb you?

When the leaf falls from the tree
do you feel sadness for its loss,
or joy at the change of seasons?

If you had just one wish
from a Djinns lantern
would you ask for your heart's desire
or would you set another free
from the prison of their own longing?

How many lies would it take
to awaken the phoenix of truth
that sleeps on your tongue?

and how many lives will you need
to live
before you can look death in the face
and still walk the path you have chosen?

Have my questions
tightened the rope you bind yourself with
or opened a door to a greater perception?

Only you have the answer.

I am just a white room
on a sunlit day
with a mirror on every wall.
Wherever you turn
you will see your own reflection
looking back at you.


Will you live here?