Laura likes peas

RAOK challenge February: I'm sooooo nice.

2012-02-01T09:30:00.009-08:00

So, after doing a bit of this, that and the other throughout January, I decided to theme each month's RAOKs. February's theme was Human Interaction, which actually turned out to be Feeling Smug About Being Nice to People. RAOKs have included: smiling, helping people find their way, saying thank you with extra emphasis, more smiling, letting people go first/ take the last seat on the tube, generally being nice and friendly.

All a bit vague really, but it's been good practise of really focusing on being nice/ helpful/ open/ talkingtostrangers.

I have EVEN been smiling at people on the tube, which as you can see from the following Scientific Diagram, has a variety of different effects, of which more than 80% are positive more than 78.5% of the time, making this the best way to supervitalise your hair ever since advertisers started inventing words. Science has spoken.

I made this using Clip Art. Remember Clip Art?

RAOK challenge: January

2012-01-01T10:04:00.000-08:00

Since I've been hanging out with 'Joinees' (of Danny Wallace's Join Me thing), I've decided to have a go at the Random Act of Kindness year-long challenge, which involves trying to do at least one random act of kindness (RAOK) every day for a whole year. I'm taking 'random' to mean basically acts aimed at people I don't know.

1 January - left a gift-wrapped chocolate orange and a Happy New Year card outside a randomly selected house nearby, signed from 'a mystery neighbour' (is that creepy? I considered adding, PS. I'm not watching you)

2 January - cleaned, swept and dusted the communal areas in my building - from the filth that came off, this has not been done for a looong time! (I'm counting this as I don't know my two lots of downstairs neighbours, and they won't know it was me.)

3 January - left a chocolate bar and happy new year note out for my postal delivery person

4 January - hid a book voucher in a book in a bookshop (a copy of Cloud Atlas by David Mitchell in Greenwich Waterstones in case anyone's interested)

5 January - collected a bag full of recyclable rubbish from my local area and put it in a recycling bin

6 January - sent a homemade thank you card to the staff at my old GP, telling them how much I appreciated their caring and considerate attitudes when I was a patient there (just signed 'Laura')

7 January - chose a fundraising page on JustGiving and donated £5 (Kibera in Need, helping improve lives of children in a huge slum in Kenya)

8 January - baked some mincemeat muffins and left some out for my veg box delivery person, with a Happy New Year note

9 January - donated remaining of above muffins to staff room at Phil's school

10 January - sent a colourful homemade card to a local nursing home asking if anyone there would like a penpal with a penchant for cutting and sticking [22 Jan - no response yet...]

11 January - tidied up neighbours' bins to clear the pavement after binmen came

12 January - took responsibility for dealing with the pile of post for people who don't live here any more left by the front door (by which I mean returning to the postal service, not putting in the bin!)

13 January - picked a charity on JustGiving and made a donation (Shelters for Women in Afghanistan and Iraq)

14 January - collected bag full of rubbish from local area and put in bin

15 January - picked up some recyclable rubbish and put in recycling bin

16 January - wrote out a poem I like (Why I am not a Painter by Frank O'Hara) and stuck it on a lamppost for someone else to discover

17 January - before returning my library books, wrote down some recommendations of similar books people might enjoy, and hid them in the pages

18 January - planted some coriander seeds in a little pot and left it outside a nearby house, with a little sign explaining the contents

19 January - left some mince pies for the man who runs the fruit and veg farmshop, anonymously

20 January - collected recyclable rubbish and recycled it

21 January - gave £5 to a homeless person

22 January - sent a homemade card to staff at the Cardiovascular Centre, St Thomas Hospital, telling them thanks for doing what they do

23 January - collected empty glasses and returned them to the bar at my local pub at the end of the night

24 January - wrote a homemade card saying thanks to the volunteers who run my local library

25 January - tidied up the bins, and let a man go ahead of me in the queue to get off the train (even though I was rushing)

26 January - collected a bag full of rubbish and put it in the Right Place

27 January - posted sweets through someone's door (it said 'No Junk'; I chose to assume this didn't apply)

28 January - collected bag of recyclable rubbish and popped in recycling bin

29 January - more rubbish collecting (argh, it's the end of the month, and I'm busy! Will try harder...)

30 January - planted out some coriander seeds and left them outside someone's front door with an explanatory note

31 January - put sweets in someone's letterbox

They're taking the leaves away!

2011-11-18T01:52:00.000-08:00

They're taking the leaves away!

They're taking the leaves away!

It took them three days

To round them all up –

Even with one of those blowing machines.

Now they lie heaped

In wide rows, each side of the path.

For a week they ruled the park,

A rich carpet of mesmerising colour

Transfixed, I tried to collect some to take home

But I couldn't.

Each leaf was too perfect.

Now they look defeated,

Fading, dried out,

Their messy display all tidied away.

Now far less like art than in their natural state.

And the trucks wait,

To remove them like waste.

I don't know where to

Or where would be a better place for them

Than here.

18/11/11

Why does this happen?

Also, I really love those leaves.

More poems about nature:

Squirrel V nut
A sunrise
Pigeons
Not green fingers (ouch)

Another story, about knitting

2011-10-24T07:17:00.001-07:00

http://www.middlebrowmagazine.co.uk/home/?p=3176

A longer story

2011-09-30T06:39:00.000-07:00

‘Howard’

They do it on purpose, Howard thinks. Women. They know how these things get stuck in our heads. Unremarkable at the time, we barely even notice, but somehow they turn into cast-iron memories, fencing us in from our own futures.

‘Good moaning,’ Kate would’ve said about this time (for no real reason, they’d never watched ‘Allo ‘Allo together), rolling over to bring her hands up to his chest. At which he would’ve grunted, and then smiled – because he couldn’t not smile when she was looking at him like that.

Then she’d wriggle free, sliding – no, jumping, bounding (how was she always so instantly awake?) – out of her side of the bed. She’d be wearing just a t-shirt and knickers. And some days she’d go straight into the kitchen like that, and he’d hear her padding about and humming as she put the kettle on to make coffee.

And now he can’t wake up without hearing her, can’t stop himself most days from reaching out an arm to feel the space where she used to sleep. Eventually, he’ll drag himself up (definitely no bounding) and slump into the kitchen in t-shirt and boxers – a shabby parody of her, lovely her.

He doesn’t allow himself to put the television on, or sit on the sofa – too much for his still sleep-hungry body to resist. Instead he sits hunched over a bowl of Rice Krispies (snap, crackle, pop!), breathing in the smell of his own stale sweat, waiting for his laptop to warm up.

He’ll check his emails (even though his phone would’ve bleeped if he’d got any), browse a few news sites. At some point he’ll look down to check his watch, realise he hasn’t put it on yet, and notice his coffee’s gone cold, again. Howard can never seem to finish a mug of coffee these days. He read somewhere recently that drinking coffee can prevent depression (on the same day he read that David Croft, creator of ‘Allo ‘Allo and other classics of British sit-com, had died.) Does it work backwards, he wonders – does feeling depressed impair your ability to drink coffee?

Who’s he kidding anyway? That ‘good moaning’ scenario occurred what, three, four times in the whole two years they were together? Most days it wasn’t like that at all. He’s not really sure what most days were like, to be honest. But that’s the way it works – now she’s gone and he’s stuck with this memory that’s taken over and is somehow stopping him from finishing his coffees.

He’s actually not even called Howard. More likely David or Anthony. Or Paul. Something ordinary like that. Howard just seems to suit the kind of character he is at the moment. You know the type. Philip Seymour Hoffman might play him in a film: slightly overweight, pasty, obsessive and a bit creepy, too often seen sitting around in his underwear.

And Kate (meaning: pure maiden) – a nice, ordinary name that suggests what a nice, ordinary kind of girl she is. Not Allegra or Charlene or Belinda (meaning: immortal beauty). Nothing too unusual or exotic, it wouldn’t fit.

The coffee though, a nice detail, definitely keep that in. Maybe it could be a recurrent motif. Or even the central motif: we follow Howard/ David’s story through a series of scenes based around coffee drinking…

‘I asked for a cappuccino,’ Howard (or David?) says.

‘I know,’ says Paul, still hovering over him with two tall glasses of something that isn’t cappuccino. ‘But I got you a frappuccino. Mocha light. They’re really good. Plus, it’ll cool you down.’

Paul’s always doing weird stuff like this, Howard thinks (let’s stick with Howard, we’ve got to know him now). He’s always so eager about things. That’s probably why Howard likes him. He’s not sure about the frappuccino though. Would Kate have liked it? He can’t remember coming to a Starbucks with her, but he thinks she would’ve stuck to a cappuccino most of the time.

New scene: Elizabeth (who also works with Howard) has brought Howard a coffee. She frowns and sucks in her lips a bit as she concentrates on delivering it safely to the coaster on his desk.

‘There you go.’

‘Thanks Elizabeth,’ Howard says, trying to load the words with the right emphasis so that she knows he really means it.

‘We’re onto the UHT stuff I’m afraid.’

‘No worries.’

Howard makes a mental note to pop out and buy a big carton of milk later. And some biscuits, or cake. He feels like making people smile today, like reaching out his arms and shouting ‘Hey, I appreciate you! Even if we hardly ever speak, and you don’t really know who I am, I still want you to know I appreciate what we share just by being together, every day, in this building. Thanks for being around, and smiling at me sometimes in the corridor, and wearing nice perfumes, and not swearing at me or keying my car or making my life more difficult.’

Hopefully at least some of that will come across through an open box and a cheerful note – ‘Help yourselves everyone!’ – with a smiley face drawn underneath. I’ll go to M&S, Howard decides, get something really nice. Kate used to go there, or had at least once, when they had people round.

Next scene: Howard is collecting a new suit (he’s in good shape, he’s lost weight). He’s early – they haven’t quite finished making the adjustments yet – so he goes for a coffee. There’s a mother next to him, with a baby in a pushchair and a little girl, just old enough to toddle round the table on her own. The little girl is called Kate, or Katie (not a big coincidence, not a coincidence at all really, it's a common name).

‘Katie,’ sings the mother, in a voice that hasn’t had enough sleep. ‘Kaaaa-tie. Do you want some sandwich?’

Katie is picked up and fed part of a sandwich. Her little brother moans and waves his arms around a bit. The mother gives him a piece of bread. Howard is fascinated by the way Katie seems to eat using her whole face. She scrunches up her nose and eyes with each chew – she’s stuffed in far too much. The mother looks across and he remembers his coffee, going cold again.

And now the reader is starting to wonder where all this is going. The story seems to have got stuck on its own motif. How many coffees are we going to watch Howard drink, or not drink?

Possible endings. Howard finally watches an episode of ‘Allo ‘Allo, which is, after all, still pretty funny. And now when he wakes up he smiles, because he’s not thinking about Kate but about René and Crabtree and the rest. He even considers saying ‘good moaning’ to people at work, but decides against it. He’s not that keen on people who go round quoting TV shows, and anyway, they might not get it.

Kate comes round and asks if she can have the coffee maker, because she bought it, and he doesn’t really like coffee anyway – she was always pouring away barely touched, cold coffee when they were together. Howard is surprised. He thinks about it and after a while says no, he’d rather keep the coffee maker, it comes in handy when people visit and anyway he’s fairly sure he does like coffee.

Howard opens a coffee shop. He calls it ‘Howard’s’ and puts up a poster explaining that coffee can help prevent depression. He smiles a lot and people like going there because he smiles a lot and because he does ‘Allo ‘Allo impressions which they don’t always understand but which make them chuckle anyway. And he chops up the sandwiches really nice and small for the children.

Or, maybe we should leave Howard with little-girl Katie and her scrunched up face. Except he finishes his coffee (too depressing, too dark, that ‘going cold again’), and doesn’t even remember to worry about whether he’s finished it or not.

Very short stories

2011-09-06T03:07:00.000-07:00

Michaela and Dan were expecting a baby girl. Dan wanted to name her Holly. Michaela refused flat out to consider this. She was vague about her reasons, but if she’d really thought about it she would have realized she somehow connected the name with one of Dan’s past relationships. Michaela suggested Anna. Dan gently but resolutely resisted (no real reason, but if he couldn’t have his first choice then neither should she: that’s what it came to). They settled on Kate in the end, a few days before she was due. It was a compromise name; neither of them had strong feelings about it either way.

‘Kate! Turn it down a bit please. You know you could always join us down here for a change. We’re watching a film. It’s got Hugh Grant in, and that actress… Well, if you get bored. I don’t like thinking of you up here on your own.’

‘No luck?’

‘Nope. She’s a teenager. Budge up. What did I miss?’

Oh, I could have crossed then. Oh well, I’ll just wait for the green man. Is it changing? I can’t see the other lights from here. Battery’s gone on my iPod again. What’s that man saying? Something about Jesus I think. He needs a better microphone or something, the sound’s all muffled on that one. Not that anyone’s listening anyway.

‘You didn’t kiss me goodbye this morning.’

‘Hmm?’

‘You just left. I was awake.’

‘I did, didn’t I? I kissed you on the forehead.’

‘I don’t think so. I’m pretty sure.’

Vouchers, receipts, about ten different store cards. What’s this? Oh, that ticket to Keats’ house Robin gave me. I never did use it. Valid for a year, and it’s already half a year out of date. Where did all that time go? It’s on Hampstead Heath I think, the house. Not the kind of thing I’d do on my own really. I liked the idea of it at the time. But the Romantics depress me. Put it in the recycling pile.

When Sue was 60 she got a cat. She’d always wanted a dog really, but it wouldn’t be fair to leave it all day, and what with retirement looking less and less likely each year… It’d be nice to have a dog to take walking though. She caught herself enviously eyeing other people’s glossy spaniels and shaggy collies, with a twinge of guilt. Where was that from? It wasn’t as if she was actually planning to steal one or anything. Maybe it was to do with craving something different, a different life. She didn’t do that; she believed in appreciating what she had, and she was good at it. So, in the end, she got the cat.

'There's this woman I remember, when I was at university. She was always in the park, every day, sat on the same bench. And she had these huge rolls of paper, that she used to draw on.'

'What was she drawing? People?'

'No, just trees I think. She was pretty old. And I just remember her always wearing green, this big green coat and green wellies and a green hat.'

'Didn't you ever speak to her?'

'No, I just used to run past her. I used to go jogging every day then. I saw her in the town once, walking home I guess. She had all these bags with her, full of the rolls of paper, and she was talking to someone. She seemed like one of those people who knows lots of people. I used to think, that looks like a nice way to spend old age, just drawing trees.'

Pete and Sandra

2011-08-29T02:04:00.000-07:00

Pete and Sandra

These are the foxes
Who live behind our flat,
In gardens where no one ever goes,
Except for a couple of overweight cats.

Secure, content,
Confident that everything is ok,
All day they roam and play,
Laze in sun and shade,
Slink around on fences and walls,
Pausing to survey
Their domain, to consider new smells
Or sounds.

And when I look down
I think, I wish all I had to do today
Was nap in the grass.

Moving out

2011-07-31T13:32:00.000-07:00

Last morning

It's not the clouds
That make the shapes,
I think, it's our minds, and

I don't want to leave.
I like living here.
I'll miss this,
Waking to the instant calm of water,
The gentle rustle of trees

(I can't work out what kind),
The one closest to me
A patchwork
In shades of grey,

Bark peeling away and healing
Around old scars.
Three strong arms
Reach far beyond

My third-floor window.
And if I look straight up
The newest leaves
Are waving.

Seat reservations

2011-07-25T10:35:00.001-07:00

A poem written on a train

Running

2011-07-23T12:20:00.000-07:00

Running

Running:
The feeling of having
Strong legs,
Deep breath
And a reason
To keep going.

Saying goodbye

2011-07-23T12:18:00.000-07:00

Saying goodbye

Saying goodbye
Makes part of me inside
Go blind.

All week I knew this was coming:
I've been slowly turning
Away, busy humming
To stop myself looking

At the door I've sealed off
Somewhere in my mind.
On one side, there are feelings.
I'm not dealing
With those; I'm smiling
A false smile, thinking

False thoughts
That can't stop
Or settle anywhere,
Until I open the door
And see

You're not there,
Any more.

My bedroom is a junkyard, part one

2011-07-20T10:28:00.000-07:00

My bedroom is a junkyard, part one

Where does it all come from?

Reams of sheets,

Half blank, half printed A4 missives

Of irrefutable importance

But relevance lasting mere minutes,

It seems.

Now defunct, obsolete,

They join the not-so-neat

Pile beneath my desk,

Where they bask in defeat

Of my green aspirations.

I’ll use them up, I think,

I’ll make lists, plans, notes,

Cover the clean white sides

With recipes and reminders,

But no matter how forgetful

Or organized I become,

I can’t stem or slow

The incoming flow

Of such fleetingly significant pages.

In defence of the spoken word

2011-06-26T11:21:00.000-07:00

http://www.middlebrowmagazine.co.uk/home/?p=2343

SURPRIIIIIIIISE!

2011-06-17T11:17:00.000-07:00

Genuinely a bit worried this could happen...

Repression

I tend to repress
My most depressing poems,
The moans and self-indulgent,
Self-pitying moments
That aren't really 'me',
I say, and certainly
Not pleasing to anyone else.

I push them back down,
And those that get out,
Throw away, or bury in drawers
And notebooks I don't use any more.

They rest there, dormant
Waiting their moment
When one day, they'll force a way
Into light, public eyes.
'SURPRISE!' they'll shout,
We just popped out
To say...

See also: Some of the ones that got out. Moaning about moaning. Pre-birthday breakdown. A cheerier message.

A meeting in the park

2011-05-24T09:59:00.000-07:00

A meeting in the park

'What do you think you're doing?'
Said the nut,
'I don't belong here,
D'you hear?'

'But my dear,'
Said the squirrel,
'Your shine
Is so perfect,

'I must have it,
All mine.
You'll be safe
In this space.'

'In this hole?'
Nut spluttered,
'What have you uttered?
How dare you suggest

'I live there!'
'Now be fair,'
Grey replied,
'I can't leave you outside,

'You'll be stolen
Or eaten,
No question.
Just be quiet

'Or someone will see.'
'Help me!'
Screamed the nut,
'I'm being abducted

'Put me down,
I don't like it,
You bullying tyrant.'
But, in an instant

Grey dropped, buried,
And scurried away,
Followed by only the faintest
Cry of dismay.

Ouch, sore eyes!

2011-05-22T09:36:00.000-07:00

Preamble, preamble, preamble... Essential Background Context for this poem: The Weather.

Sunny intervals

Sunny intervals,
Said the BBC weather forecast,
Without giving a clue
To how long these would last,
Or what in between.

I suspected the weatherman
Not of lying, per se,
But of optimistic euphemism;
What he didn't want to say

Was, that kind of grey day
When the sky looks worn out
And it seems quite cold,
But it's not (nor hot either),

The rain will probably hold off
But the sun, truth told,
Can't really be bothered,
Though it may just pop out
In the intervals

(So schedule your loo breaks
For during the acts)
Though today, in fact,
'Sunny intervals' turned out

To be strong wind, intent
On filling my eyes
With sharp bits of nature
While the sky changed colour,
Unnoticed.

22/5/11
Like poems about the weather? See also http://lauralikespeas.blogspot.com/2011/01/retrospective-weather-report.html

Jawdance/ grumpiness

2011-05-19T09:57:00.000-07:00

Went to Jawdance last night, which is really a very good spoken word event. Clearly I was feeling a bit grumpy...

So...

I'd rather look at the quay
Than listen to poetry
That tells me what to think or do

Or finds it necessary
To Sum Things Up
In terms like 'knowledge' and 'power',
'Real beauty' or 'the God in me'.

I'd far rather be
Outside, than captive audience
To a vague tirade
Against 'the establishment',
To imperatives and 'So...'
'We' and 'I know...'

Although, the rhythms are useful
In shaking some words loose.

Tinned potatoes: weirdly good

2011-04-25T09:41:00.000-07:00

Well, Lent is over. I have to admit I moaned. A lot. But possibly slightly less than if I hadn't been trying (ish) to give up moaning. I also don't seem to have written any poems. But here is one about walking in the Peak District last week.

Three days in Castleton

Pause
To soak up sun
Between two tors

Then back towards
The hostel,
Where homemade cake
(A pound a piece) awaits,

And a wash -
Feels so good
Really rubbing feet clean,
Freed from sweaty boots.

Early evening:
Scrabble, a good book,
Curled up
On a worn-out sofa,

Then warmed-up
Quiche or pie, bought
From the local shop,
With tinned potatoes
And tinned peas,

Prompting memories
Of childhood camping trips,
Or one, at least.

HAHAHAHA (moan moan moan)

2011-03-08T12:03:00.000-08:00

It's Shrove Tuesday. I've eaten lots of pancakes and frivolously decided to 'give up moaning for Lent'. So, in the spirit of getting it out of my system, here are some hitherto-repressed-from-the-public-eye Moany Depression Poems. (HAHAHAHA they shriek, we've been released.....)

The light evening sky

The light evening sky
Said it was time for change.
It lied.
The trees were still bare,
The air
Was still cold,

I still
Felt
Shit.

The prematurely lit
Street lamp
Glared at me
Across the railway lines,
Like an unfriendly
(But honest) eye.

I wrote that about this time of year, two years ago, at Teddington station.

Burnt out

Friday night,
Ten to nine
And high time
To be home.

No
Second wind tonight;
Feel my soul clenched tight
Against anyone who comes between
Me

And a deep, long sleep.

19/11/10.

Sundays

About a quarter past four
She got around
To removing the mascara
From the night before.

Now, she thought,
I must get out,
Get some daylight, and-
Oh
It's already dark.

Sundays, she thought,
Are hard work.

28/11/10.

Now that wasn't actually so bad was it? (I am still sitting on the worst offenders...)

Bank Holiday Monday and A Family Debate

2011-03-06T09:47:00.001-08:00

http://www.middlebrowmagazine.co.uk/home/?p=1496

PANIC! PANIC! and dread.

2011-02-26T03:50:00.000-08:00

Just back from travelling up and down England visiting family. I wrote this at the start of the week....

Packing

I hate packing.
It should be,
If not relaxing,
At least quite exciting,
The preliminary activity
To going away.

But instead
My head
Fills with panic
And dread.

Which shoes,
I muse,
And what coat?
Have I got
Enough socks?
The right tops?

Will I be too hot
Or too cold?
Should I take new things
Or old?
How many pairs
Of trousers will I wear?

And I stare,
Near despair,
At my suitcase,
Knowing that I'll choose
The wrong things

And that it won't
Really matter, anyway.

20/2/11.

Happy Valentine's Day!

2011-02-14T10:03:00.000-08:00

Here's one I wrote last year and have been saving...

Romance

I picture romance
As an invisible
(But shimmering) cord
That encircles, protects
And connects me
To some other
(Vague) figure,

Arming me
Against mundane daily anxieties
(Mostly monetary, or social, or both),
Empowering me
To smile suddenly
And say,
'What do I care, anyway?'

As I secretly tug,
To check
It's still there.

1/11/2010.

Melon!

2011-02-05T10:37:00.000-08:00

Just devoured half a cantaloupe in about 2 minutes flat.

92% water

Don't look for integrity
In a melon;
They're tricky.

Slice them, dice them,
Scoop them out with a spoon.
Chop them into neat long strips
To hang dripping
From grinning
Faces.

Dissolve yourself
In brightly coloured chunks;
All emptinesses.

You shouldn't eat the seeds,
Apparently
(And, having bitten
Too ardently,
I can also say,
Don't eat the skin.)

5/2/11.

See also: http://lauralikespeas.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-have.html
http://lauralikespeas.blogspot.com/2010/12/secret-soup.html

Yes! I've arrived!

2011-02-02T14:20:00.000-08:00

I got a new phone at the weekend. Can't really use it properly yet....

New phone

I'm not really
That into technology.
But I fancied
A new phone
And mum gave me
Some money
Towards one -

Though of course
You don't really
Buy the phone;
You just sign
A contract
(More binding, implied
The sales advisor,
Than a mortgage
Or a pact
Of love).

Managing
Not to panic,
I picked
A brown one
And nodded, glazed,
Through some database
Browsing
To find the best price,
Then waited,
With bated breath,
I guess,
For Vodafone's verdict
On my credit
Rating.

Meanwhile,
Sales-guy spied
My Samsung E720;
Eying me
With some degree
Of incredulity,
He reminisced
About owning one of those,
Was it five, seven, nine
Years ago?
And hadn't I had any problems
With mine?
'No, it's.... fine.'

Contract signed,
I, tentative, took
My box of new technology;
He, dubious, congratulated
Me on arriving
In the current century.

2/2/11

Pre-birthday breakdown/ silly haiku poem

2011-01-24T12:11:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I became 25! Which was nice. Had a lovely day out in Oxford - fresh food, yummy friends, bit of old air.

Luckily I'd managed to get my annual birthday meltdown out of the way the day before ...

Turning 25

Saying goodbye
Felt stranger
Than I'd thought it would.

Nothing on my ipod
Matched my mood,
And I flicked through

Tune after tune,
Sitting on the rail replacement
Bus service,

Not sure where
I was going
Or how to call Phil,

Since my phone battery
Was dead
And I didn't have change

For the phone booth
At Liverpool Street.
Late to meet

Phil's sister for the first time,
Claustrophobic on the central line,
Panicky on the northern,

And tomorrow
I'll be 25
And I don't know what to do.

That was FAR TOO GLOOMY and should have been REPRESSED. Quick quick, here is a silly poem featuring a bird and a worm:

Haiku

'Haiku', mused the bird.
'Bless you',
Replied a passing worm,
Who assumed
That the bird had sinus problems.

24/1/11

Pillow talk

2011-01-24T11:23:00.003-08:00

http://www.middlebrowmagazine.co.uk/home/?p=1124

Those pointy bits are not decorative

2011-01-17T12:46:00.000-08:00

Ouch

I'm not very good
With plants,
Which they seem to know
In advance.

As soon as I own them
They start to wilt
And die,
Except for the cacti

On my sill,
Which, try as I will,
Won't give in.
Resilient, they reach

For the sky, occasionally
Surprising me,
With a sharp, sudden
Prick.

17/1/11.

A retrospective weather report

2011-01-13T11:00:00.000-08:00

The sunrise on Monday

The sunrise
On Monday
Was stunning.

Pinks and reds, spread
Across the sky,
To surprise
Me when I left
For work.

I lingered,
Trying to soak it in,
And I wondered
If everyone else did too.
Did those
People at the bus stop know?
Or care?

Did bus drivers stare
At the horizon?
(Probably best
If not, since admiring views,
In my experience,
Tends to compromise
Road safety.)

In the staff room,
To brighten the mood,
I mentioned
The beautiful dawn.

'Ah', said Mr Byham,
'Red sky in the morning,
Shepherd's warning.
That means there's a storm
Coming.'

Rather more doom
In that response
Than I expected.
(But then again,
It has rained
Quite a bit
Since.)

13/1/11

A chocolate story

2011-01-09T14:04:00.000-08:00

A good weekend! Which involved making chocolate brownies. Yum yum yum. But here is a story about chocolate with a much less happy ending....

When hot chocolate goes bad

She found it
In the corner
Of a cupboard
And she used it
Once or twice.

Then one night
Before bedtime,
She poured out a mug-full.

This tastes,
She thought,
A bit odd,
A bit off.
But she didn't investigate
The best before date,
Until it was too late.

The past-its-best powder
Was already inside her,
Disrupting her physical
And moral
Systems.

Next morning she felt
Out of sorts, disgruntled,
Almost - yes - curdled.

All day long
She frowned
And put down
Her friends
And she even forgot
To recycle.
(The end.)

9/1/11

About the only education acronym which I know the meaning of

2011-01-04T08:57:00.000-08:00

Back to work today... sort of. We had an inset day, which was really an inset morning, then I came home to work on the MLE. About which I have a poem...

The MLE

You have to use the MLE,
They told me,
On my first day.

MLE, by the way,
Means 'managed learning environment' -
The latest phase
In the craze
For online education
Virtual communication,
Computerised stimulation
For a high-tech generation.

'Managed', it seems,
Means the management team
Keeps a virtual eye
On how much virtual time
Everyone's managing.

At the Thursday morning briefing,
After Wednesday night's staff meeting,
A list was read out
Of the top loggers in.

I ranked number eight
(So I found out later;
I was late,
In a state
About train delays and so on,
Though luckily for me,
My impressive online presence
Outweighed any concerns
About my physical non-attendance).

Meanwhile teachers falling short
In online participation
Received letters from the head
Full of castigation.

Why weren't they logging in daily?
She knew they weren't too lazy
For a password, click
And quick flick
Through the online message board.

While there
Why not share
Thoughts on the staff Christmas party,
New projects they were starting,
Educational visits,

And of course the requisite
Online time could also be filled
By sharing new skills
And resources,
Training courses,
All cross-linked and cross-referenced
By key stage and class page.

For how could teachers expect
To connect
With their tech-obsessed students
Without spending more time
Teaching online?

Schools must capitulate,
Facilitate broadband speeds
And meet pupils' needs
For more 'interaction'
(Between student and screen).

Keen to fit in, I resolutely
Took on my MLE duty.
My webpage is full
Of links and lists,
Questions and suggestions,
Embedded videos and games.

And while so far the names
Of just two or three students
Appear in class forums and votes,
At least I know the headteacher
Is busy making notes.

20/11/2010.

Greenwich (pigeons)

2011-01-02T14:25:00.000-08:00

Greenwich

The pigeons are nicer
In Greenwich.
By which
I mean healthier,
Plumper,
More delicious (probably).

They live mainly, I'd say
On M&S sandwiches
And bits of quiches
Left behind
By middle-class picnickers.

The pickings,
I admit,
Must be slimmer
In winter
But they still look a lot better
Than the ones in the car park
Of Tesco Xtra.

2/1/2011.

Bean burgers and sock puppets

2011-01-01T10:35:00.000-08:00

New Year 2010

On New Year's Eve
We stayed in
With sloe gin
And whisky
To make bean burgers
For dinner
And sock puppets
For fun.

By 11.30
We were weary,
More sleepy
Than merry
But we went, anyway
To the park,

Where, along dark(ish)
Paths people wound
Their way to 'the mound'
With its view
Across to
The London Eye
And around.

The night was nicer
Than the day had been.
Greyness doesn't matter so much
When it's dark.

1/1/2011

Happy New Year!

Granny

2010-12-30T05:50:00.000-08:00

Granny, Christmas 2010

We've got a coloured vicar now
He's ever so nice
We see him and his wife
Out riding their bikes.

Was it last Christmas
We went to the service?
I haven't been since.
And we don't
Get the church magazine
Any more.

Steve and Fiona called
She said something about
Selling the house, or -
I'm not sure.

I haven't sent
Many cards this year
I've lost my list.
Denise moved it,
I think,
When she was last here.

Anyone for a drink?
Coffee, tea?
We have a cup
Before bed,
Don't we,
Reg?

And biscuits?
That's it,
Help yourselves.

27/12/10.

Luke's take on yoga

2010-12-27T09:00:00.000-08:00

When doing yoga, I apparently resemble a frog in most positions.

Yoga

'Are you stuck?'
'I'm doing yoga.'
'You look
Like a frog.
Is that one called the frog?'

'This is child's pose.'
'What?'
'Child's pose, that was;
This is downward dog.'

'You still look
Like a frog.'

Send a search party!

2010-12-26T11:41:00.000-08:00

So, in the last poem I sort of laughed at Charlotte's anxiety about People Who Hide In The Bushes. But when I was setting off I actually texted Phil (mostly joking) to say if I went missing could he send out a search party between Diggle and Delph. To which he replied, 'Are those place names or times of day?' This made me rethink who should be in charge of my search party. But I also quite liked the idea of looking for things between times....

Send a search party!

Darling,
Have you come across
My sense of humour?
I seem to remember
Seeing it
In 1984
Get down on all-fours
It must be round there,
Somewhere.

What about
My romantic capabilities?
Oh, no need for anxiety
About those.
I've got them all packed up,
Locked up tight
In memories.

And has anyone seen
The country we used to know
And love?
Have a look,
My dear,
Down in between
Your childhood
And yesteryear.

I don't suppose
You've found
My sense
Of self and purpose?
I've looked everywhere
Between mid-life
And crisis.
But so far
No success.

Panic, quick!
I've lost
My independence.
I must have dropped it,
With my free-and-easy lifestyle
Somewhere
Down there,
Between graduation
And the children.

I'VE LOST MY MIND!
I'm sure I had it
Around quarter past five,
Or anyway
Some time today.
I've tried
Retracing my steps
But I just seem to be getting
Further
And further
Away.

26/12/10.

The People Who Hide In The Bushes

2010-12-23T16:56:00.000-08:00

Continuing the games theme.... Tonight I played Scrabble with Suzie, Charlotte and Emma. (Good game girls.) Then I turned down a lift in order to walk back from Diggle to Delph. Charlotte was fairly worried I'd get got by The People Who Hide In The Bushes, but luckily I was fine. And I even made up a poem on the way.

A walk home

Crunch, crunch, crunch,
The snow
Goes
While my silhouette
Shrinks and grows
In front of me.

Occasional cars
Dash people indoors
But I
Would rather be out here
With the harsh air,
The view
Across the valley,
And those two
Horses I saw earlier today,
Still standing
In almost the same place.

I'll be ok
There's no one hiding in the bushes.

23/12/10.

THINGS

2010-12-23T03:39:00.000-08:00

I played Things last night with Liz, Cat, Rob and Louise. Kier did his usual lurking-in-the-background thing, popping out to 'socialise' just as I emerged from the bathroom.
Kier: Did you do a poo?
Me: No
Kier: Yes you did, I can smell it.
Me: (Splutter) Liiiiiiz, Kier's making me feel uncomfortable. Again.

ANYWAY. Things I've lost: My favourite gloves.

The Lost Gloves

I had these amazing gloves
And I lost them.

Actually, someone took them
From the ladies
In the Old George
(Borough High Street)
When I,
Naively,
Took them off
To have a wee.

They were greeny-
Turquoise, stripey,
Long and fleecy.

They were a present
From my mum

And I mourned
Them by moaning
At length
To anyone who'd listen

And rejecting all other handwear
As not long
Or warm
Or turquoise enough.

In fact, I think I know where
I could get another pair,
Pretty much the same.

But instead
I think I'll leave them
As an abstract,
Unattainable ideal
-THE LOST GLOVES-
To which no subsequent pair
Will ever
Match up.

2/12/10.

Thanks for the risotto Liz! (It had peas in.) And Kier, I honestly didn't.

Cushions: Mum's response to my response

2010-12-20T09:03:00.000-08:00

I just read the cushions poems to mum, and before I knew it, she was off making up her own poem, without even realising.

Cushions: Mum's response

Some of my cushions
Are decorative,
Like on my bed.

And I've always got one
On my rocking chair.
I think it's because
It would look lonely
Without one.

Some of my cushions
Are silky and slippy,
Which can be quite
Annoying.

But I wouldn't be without them.

They're just always there,
Aren't they?
I can't sit without one,
Have you noticed,
I've always got one?
Not on my tummy,
But here,
By my side.

20/12/10.
By the way, what mum actually said is, 'Some of my poems are decorative.' I assumed she meant cushions, but it's quite nice to think she was talking about poems the whole way through.

Cushions: a response

2010-12-20T08:53:00.000-08:00

This is a response to Phil's cushions poem. Because we are SO hip and happening that we spend our time discussing our experiences of cushions and then writing them down.

Cushions

Even though you are lumpy,
Old and ugly,
I still hug you.

You are not really mine
But I've grown
Used to you,

Can't quite settle down
Without you
Tucked up on my knees,
Hugging my tummy.

You don't care
If I'm tired,
Grumpy,
Feeling dumpy
Or low
When I slump
On the sofa.

You just absorb
Some of my warmth
And give a little bit back.

20/12/10.
And yes, yes I have spent the whole day indoors, on my own.

My new hero

2010-12-20T03:24:00.000-08:00

Travelled up to Manchester from London yesterday. Took a bit longer than expected, but I discovered (and fell a bit in love with) JANE.

Jane

'Good morning,
This is Jane,'
Her voice came,
Warm, reassuring,
Mancunian,
Through the tanoy.

'I'm your train
Manager today
And I'd just like to say
I'm very sorry for the delayed
Departure of this service.'

Which was caused,
She explained,
By iced-up
Tracks at Clapham.

'Tickets please!
Though I do feel skanky
Asking for these
When we're running so late.'

We'd not long got going
When frozen points
Caused further congestion
At Wapping Junction.

Jane tried her best
To outline the situation,
Her voice full of empathy
For her passengers' frustration.

She sympathised,
In Northern tones,
With those
Who'd mistaken
The train's destination,
Providing information
On the best routes
To Glasgow Central.

And she condoled with passengers
Who should by now have been on cruises,
If only BA had bought enough de-icer
For their flights.

'I do hope you'll all end up
Happy this Christmas,
And I can only apologise.
This weather really does
Mess up
The train lines.'

We slowly
Approached Rugeley,
Where engineering works
Had overrun,
Then took a diversion
Past Northhampton
To avoid icicles in
The Shugborough Tunnel.
('I promise,
Jane said,
'This can't get any worse.')

She was right.
And at last
We passed
Stoke-on-Trent,
Macclesfield,
Stockport,

The last of which Jane announced
A few minutes in advance,
Keeping us updated
(As ever)
On her status:
'There are two passengers here
Who are rather drunk,
And they do want Stockport,
So I've just got
To go and rouse them.'

Thanks Jane.
You were amazing.

20/12/10.

One good thing about the tube...

2010-12-19T14:50:00.000-08:00

Escalator kissing

She seemed
(Almost)
Perfect.

She was pretty,
Witty,
Sweet,
She got him
And

She fitted easily
Into his life.
(Their respective heights
Were just right
For kissing on escalators.)

But then
He realised
She was one of those people
Who borrow things
And never give them back.*

5/12/10

*This is a joke. I do give things back.

Hello! Who are you then?

2010-12-18T12:55:00.000-08:00

It's the Christmas holidays : ) Off to Saddleworth tomorrow. Won't see Phil for a bit so here is a poem featuring him. But mostly it's about ME.

Hello! Who are you then?

You know how
When you meet someone new
You can tell you
Really like them
When you keep bringing them
Up in all your conversations?

(At The National Gallery,
Looking at Renaissance masterpieces,
I said,
'Phil draws...')

Well
You can also tell
Because you do the same thing
When you're with them
But about yourself.

Trying to fill in
As much as possible
As fast as possible
By spilling out
Random anecdotes
From your past
Regardless
Of immediate relevance.

'We used to always
Go to France...'
'When my grandparents
First met...'
'That's so
Romantic.
My grandma
Lives in Coventry...'
'At my friend's
Stag party...'
'I'd love to go there...'
'When I was last in Tanzania...'
And so on.

So really
You get to
Meet two new people
(One of them is you).
Oh! You can say
So that's
Who I am,
That's the way
I talk
And laugh
And these
Are my formative
Memories.

How interesting.
Hello me
Who are you then?

14/12/10

Tonsils!

2010-12-15T13:56:00.000-08:00

I've been feeling like I've got tonsillitis. Or possibly laryngitis. I don't have any poems about my larynx. However, I do have one that features my tonsils.* (I've been waiting for a way to crowbar this in... Almost makes up for having SUCH a sore throat.)

Just a check-up

I could sense

Your shape:

The unmistakable white shape of you,

As you prepared

And then approached

While I lay,

Wordless, waiting.

You came closer

Then slowly

Bent over

To check for cavities

In my lower molars.

Your moustache twitched

As you chipped

Away at the plaque

Encrusted on the base of my incisors

You were chipping away at my heart.

My tonsils flirted with you

Slightly swollen red harlots

Inflamed and

Unashamedly pulsating

In glistening nakedness.

‘Any problems?’ you said.

‘Ungh ungh ungh,’ I replied.

As saliva dripped

From my loose, impotent lips.

(You didn’t

Wipe it off.)

‘Take a rinse,’ you whispered.

But the taste of you

Stayed behind.

*While the tonsils in this poem are based on real-life tonsils, the context is entirely fictional; my tonsils have never, as far as I'm aware, flirted with any dentist, moustached or otherwise.

The mess...

2010-12-13T13:09:00.000-08:00

I wasn't going to post anything today but Sally's just emailed to say she's enjoying my poems, hurrah! So, this is for Sally.* And also for me.

The Mess

Don't let the mess
Depress you,
I said.

And don't think you need to impress
Me (or anyone)
With a tidy room
Or a tidy life.

It's OK
To be messy.
And if you have the time
To clear everything away
That's not
Necessarily
A good sign.

The mess is benign.

15/11/10.
I've just done that thing where you look too closely at a familiar word and it becomes absurd. Messy, mess, mess, mess, messy mess, messiness. Gahhh!
*Not because I think she's messy! I just like her and I also, separately, like this poem.

(I have)

2010-12-12T11:10:00.000-08:00

Look! It's Sunday, and for once I HAVEN'T written a depressing poem about feeling depressed on Sundays! Instead, here is one about fruit:

(I have)

Have you ever been
Seduced
By a nectarine? (I have)

A lusty, juice-bursting invitation to sin,
To sink
Your teeth in,

Pierce its delicate skin,
Send sweet streams
Oozing
Down your chin.

Best not to offer it to guests
Unless you've tamed it first,
Chopped into decent, mouth-sized chunks

Hide your sticky fingers
(When no one's watching
Lick them clean
One
By
One.)

Secret soup

2010-12-10T12:34:00.000-08:00

Phil just admitted, I quote: "The extent of cooking of the vegetable stew first time round means that when re-heating from frozen, it's pretty much soup."

I knew it.

Secret soup

He said it was a stew
But I knew
All along,
That it was in fact
Soup.

Because Phil LOVES soup.
He 'eats' it daily.
He enjoys spoons,
I assume,
And dunking
Bread.

So I knew
As he added more veg,
'This is just chunky
Soup!' I said.

But no, he replied,
It's stew.
Now let's leave it to soup
- I mean stew -
In the juice
For a while,
Until it's blender
- er, I mean tender.

Whatever it was,
Was delicious

(It was soup).

10/12/10.

I wore these today

2010-12-10T11:06:00.000-08:00

New Trousers

So I've got these new trousers
They're green
And tapered,
Shaped
Kind of like jodhpurs
(Very 'in').

They accentuate my bum
And come
Up to where waistlines used to be worn
Back when mum
Was younger.

They're good for cycling,
Ready clipped-in
Round the ankles

And they make me feel thinner,
I think.
(They do make my bum bigger,
But it's really
My tummy
I worry
About.)

Well, ok,
So I may not have the figure
To really pull them off
But fitting in
(In them, not in fashion)
Is the main thing, I reckon.

And size 12 is alright with me
(Who wants to be a 10?)
So thank you, H&M.

22/11/10.

I heart... cycling

2010-12-09T13:25:00.000-08:00

Got a flat tyre today. Rubbish. : (
I wrote this on a day when I was feeling happier about my transport situation...

Cycling

Thank God for cycling
In London
At nighttime.
The city,
All lights,
So pretty.

Later the better:
Clearer roads
Clear my mind.
Known routes soothe

And views
From bridges
Make me stop
And look
For someone to tell or show

Then aloud to myself,
'Too beautiful, too much'
And off I go.

26/11/10.

In memory of The Lost Bag

2010-12-07T10:28:00.000-08:00

Hindsight

'I've got a safety pin
In my pocket
Do you want it?'

Is what I could have said
But instead
I just stared
At the large hole
In his bag.

I really did have one,
Too.

3/12/10.
Also true.

Because...

2010-12-06T13:09:00.000-08:00

Because Phil has a blog and now I want one too! Also, like many other people I feel the need to validate my own experience by constantly updating my status. Except currently, this means writing in a notebook that no one else reads. So this is like my notebook online. With some of the more depressing bits removed (I'll try to keep my poems about feeling rubbish on Sundays to myself...)

See, this poem is about a duck! Ducks aren't depressing, right?

The quay

Brr-brr-brr
Brr-brr-brr
I cracked one eye open
Like a dragon
Guarding gold
Was it the phone?

No
It was a duck
Doing an impressive imitation
Of a phone.

4 Dec 2010
True story.