Small Stones (31) Last Day

Small stones cast like runes across a page
cause a ripple on the surface,
letters reveal shared stories,
likes and comments boomerang back
and within in this protected place
friendships form
and small stones gather in our hearts.

Small Stones (30)

Blue Sea Sky

Islands of clouds merge and separate in the blueness,
the wind urging their greetings and partings;
gulls circle in the sunlight like silver bullets.
Planes take the straighter route home.

Small Stone (29)

The fleece is snuggle soft.

It reminds me of those early days of motherhood

before the teenage silences and not sitting with me on the bus!

Then he sat close, cuddled and fell asleep on me.

I could wrap him in my arms, kiss his blond hair and wonder.

*

Just two more days of small stone writing to go.  The last few days have been a struggle and Tuesdays (today) is always so rushed as I have to be in London by around lunchtime and then don't get home until about 9pm. I slump into the sofa with a cuppa and watch Death in Paradise on TV!

Small Stones (28)

As I work the box lid off

the pent-up aroma of chocolate is let loose

and I come undone.

Small Stones (27)

Freedom - the act of going hatless again!

Small Stones (26)

The sun has a clear run of the sky,
flooding the morning in yellow hue.
In its low slung shine
it casts grey shadows against stone and tile,
larger than life,
stamping its mark.

Small Stones (25)

Morning creeps into me,
the hum and click of the heating pipes,
the hiss of the shower.
I drift in and out of sleep
happy to acknowledge the sounds
but happy to linger in the in between.

   *

Editing......can you over edit?  Yes,  sometimes I've gone so far that hardly anything of the original is there and it becomes impossible to work as a poem and I end up having to start from scratch.

I do like cutting words that don't add to anything, so I do have to be careful that I don't over do it.  I try to leave things for a while and go back to them.  With small stone poems I haven't always had a chance to edit before posting them on the Small Stones Facebook page and a couple of times I've gone back at a later stage and thought that to rearrange some words would make for a better poem.  But poems are never really finished and I can go back to them another time if I want.  I think I've got better at editing over the years but having someone else read your work can help (not family or friends because they will probably not want to say anything negative).  This is where an online group/forum or a class helps.  Feedback is very helpful because others can see where a poem isn't working and often straight away you can see it too!  However, at the end of the day whether you take advice is up to you as it's your work and not everyone's thoughts are helpful.  Within a class there is usually several points of view.  I base my final decision of the majority vote.  If several people pick up on the same thing then  it's worth taking notice.

Small Stones (24)

Melodies weave through me;

the lifeblood of songs and lyrics,

mood makers with stories I claim for myself.

Small Stones (23)

Winter’s hunger feeds on the fleshy tips of toes.

Then when comforted by heat the damn things itch!

Small Stones (22)

The twiggy raspberry bush dons bubble bath snow,
dolloped like the foamy spittle of insects.

Small Stones (21)

The grater lying on its side has slivers of cheese
clinging like milk teeth to the holes inside.

Small Stones (20) and other things

Something my son said yesterday about the contrast of day and night while we have snow had me commenting 'There's a poem in there somewhere.'  There was and this is it:

Grey hangs its head all day,
gloom settles its mind.
In the night snow is in reflective mood
brightening dark spaces
where they sleep the hours away.

           *

I was reading a free magazine given out after the TS Eliot Prize readings last Sunday.  There were some new poems, one was by Jackie Kay but the one that really stirred me was by Sam Willetts about a hotel room, the aftermath of losing someone you love and a thunderstorm.  There were a couple of lines that I loved and wished so much I'd written them.  My sort of thing, so descriptive but to the point, not a ramble, you know? I already have one of Sam's poetry books and this has made me think perhaps I should look into his poetry again. Some poets keep coming back to you.  He's one.

Here he is reading that poem:

I also read an article about writing a long poem.  I'm not good with long poems, reading them or writing them.  If a poem goes over two pages I'm inclined to skip it!  It really has to grab me quickly or I am lost, and not those poems about Greek gods who I've never studied (but I'm not saying I won't at some time) which mean nothing to me.  But while I was reading the article I was moved to consider the possibility of writing one.  Why?  I don't know.  Maybe I see it as a challenge, and I do like those!  So perhaps this year I will attempt one just for the hello of it!

Small Stones (19)

Monochrome scenes through my windows

touched with dots of terracotta and green,

still, like a snapshot,

a winter world softly draped in snow.

Small Stones (18)

Fine flakes fall,

soon to cover in gossamer threads

the path, the fence, the roofs,

then faster, swirling as the wind worries them

and heavier, filling in the untouched surfaces

like an artist at his canvas.

Small Stones (17)

Frost glistens, sun kissed jewels;
grass crisp under foot,
breath, a vapor in puffed intervals
follows my path as I go.

Small Stones (15 & 16)

No time yesterday to write, so here are two Small Stones together:

Day 15:

Eailing Abbey

So spacious is this Abbey,

modern, light, yet quite stark,

not what you’d expect from the Catholic tradition.

Wooden roof slotted together, no nails.

We are shown where the relics are sealed into the altar,

where the monks sit for Matins.

Each of us is given a tiny medal of St Benedict

blessed with Holy Water in the palm of our hands.

Day 16:

Sun shifts and suddenly it blinds me

but I am happy to be in its light

for soon it will move away

and shine elsewhere.

TS Eliot Prize shortlist readings

TS Eliot

Last night I was mixing with the poetry elite....okay, not personally but I was at The TS Eliot Prize readings evening at the Royal Festival Hall.  The ten poets on the shortlist were there (sorry 9, Jorie Graham's publisher read her poems as she was unable to be there).  The other poets were Gillian Clarke, Sean Borodale, Julia Copus, Simon Armitage, Kathleen Jamie, Jacob Polley, Deryn Rees-Jones Paul Farley and Sharon Olds. I knew of or had heard of five of the poets.

The readings were very varied and some poets, like Jacob Polley, I'd like to read slowly at my leisure for it all to sink in.  Sean Borodale's poems are all about his beekeeping.  Having a hubby who knows about bees I understood some of the technical terms but I'm not sure I'd want a whole book on bee poetry!  Paul Farley hadn't been very inspiring when I'd first come across him in the past - but I take it all back!  Maybe I wasn't ready for him because this time I really enjoyed his poetry.  Sharon Olds read two longish poems which I enjoyed, the first in particular - the theme was a relationship breakup. Simon Armitage's poetry book is about the death of King Arthur - not a subject I would want to read about really but Simon was, as ever, amusing with comments and I just love seeing him!  Gillian Clark I got to know through my kid's as she was one of the poets in an Anthology they used in English.  I enjoy her work. Deryn Rees-Jones was disappointing.  She read a sequence of poems about a dog-woman (inspired by some painting of women as dogs??).  Anyway,  they just went on and on and there were lists of descriptions - dog tired, dog breath - and I just wanted it to end! Jorie Graham's poetry was just too confusing, I wasn't sure what it was about. Kathleen Jamie's poems were more interesting, especially the title poem The Overhaul but I'd need to read more slowly to get to grips with others.

I enjoyed Julia Copus poetry very much and am tempted to buy a copy of The World's Two Smallest Humans because she and Paul Farley stood out for me, but poetry is a personal thing and I am sure that others preferred some other poets last night.

After the readings we could buy books and have them signed by the poets but the organisation of that was chaotic.  There was queue to the book stalls where all the books were on tables together.  Last time I was there the tables were separate for each poet and it was much easier to purchase and look at books.  So I didn't bother to stay and will purchase my books elsewhere (I may buy Paul Farley's The Dark Film as well!).

The winner of the TS Eliot Prize will be announced tonight.  Someone said it would be Sharon Olds, but let's wait and see.  I should add that Carol Ann Duffy (Chair and one of the three judges) introduced the evening. I enjoyed it all very much and it's a good opportunity to hear new writers (at least some I've not heard of before) as well as the more famous poets.

Small Stones (14)

Slabs of white I see through the condensation of the bathroom window.

It has snowed! It has snowed!

As I descend the stairs I see through the front door a path that is clear.

I am wrong! I am wrong!

But on entering the kitchen I see a dusting of snow in the garden,

and there a few flakes are falling.

It has come! It has come!

Small Stones (13)

Children's laughter echoes across the park,
stunted shrubs bathe in winter's sun
and while the air numbs fingers and toes
people stay, walk and play
in the golden light
until it fades and goes.

Small Stones (12)

Every wrinkle showed,

lines of life there on the computer screen.

Can that really be me?

When did I get so old?

Airbrush! Airbrush!

(On getting a new Passport photo taken!)

Small Stones (11)

Planes drift in, wing lights winking in mornings greyness,
front beam searching across smokey sky.

Small Stones (10)

Between the snoring and first light

(the clock says 4.30)

a bird breaks the silence.

Small Stones (9)

Bubbles dot the glass
of last nights water, still resting,
reflecting light in silver strands.

Small Stones (8) +

A week into writing 'small stones' and it's good for me, mainly because right now I have less time to write full blown poems due of other commitments.  It keeps the creative juices flowing so I can tick over until I have more time again and it makes me write something, however small, everyday while observing the world around me.

There is a nice piece about self discipline in today's Mindful Writing Booster email from Writing our Way Home . It make an encouraging read.  Why not sign up for a free booster now.

Here is my small stone for today:

Vapour trails criss-cross the sky,
sun lit, pinky skin toned on baby blue,
where birds arrow through,
their morning chorus now done with,
off to do whatever birds do
between the song and the next meal.

Small Stones (7)

Sloshy grey watercolour sky lets loose a blanket drizzle.

Small Stones (6)

Heat wraps around me like a sudden tide,

a sauna from the oven, windows steamed,

saucepans bubbling on the hotplates.

Small Stones (5)

Starlings scatter on my approach
like wind through a broken fence

Small Stones (4)

Struck match,

that sharp, raw incense I love,

the candle sizzles into life, flame rising,

licks the air.

A funnel of smoke

then an aura of fuzzy yellow and gold halos the light.

Small stone (3)

Head clouded with sleep,
thoughts a half formed process,
body slack in a jumble of tired bones.

Small Stone (2)

Two miniature rose buds, tightly curled,
the promise of petals unfurled,
a splash of pastel pink
on winter's arid palette.

Small Stone

Sun's orange glow breathes a welcome to the New Year
filling me with hope and excitement for what might come.