Back in Birdwell after our little sojourn in Crete, I have spent a few days reorganising the house so as to create a working space. I was all excited about getting the shed erected, the one we got from our neighbour as he was packing up and moving, only to find that he did not go after all, and with a sorry look on his face said he could really do with the shed back. So, I don't have my writing shed after all. It is a disappointment, but you know what? When I do get a shed it will be bigger and better than that one.
So, we have had a big move around of stuff, and I have set up my desk in the bedroom. It is out of the way, light and warm, and if I so wish I can lie down while I'm thinking. All I need now is a chair that fits the desk, but for the time being I am perched on the end of the bedding chest which, with a great big cushion, is not too uncomfortable.
This isn't my bedroom but the eclectic feel is very similar.
Although I am spending most of my time with my novel, I am producing the odd bit of poetry, etc.
Here's an odd bit which I wrote the other day:
To Be A Poet in 2017
When I wake up, I don’t draw the curtains and think:
‘Ah, most planitaried skies how bounteous beams thy morning dawn,
Whereof a Marharaja lies in golden red pre-nuptual form.
No I draw the curtains and think:
Sod it! off we go again, what’s on offer today, world?
It’s me in my pajamas, and in the street, bin men clattering about,
hauling trash like gloved zombies dragging coffins.
Who needs getteruppers when you’ve got bin men?
I might push a bit of: The dulcet tones of detritus, the stink,
but that’s as far as it goes before peppermint paste hits molars,
and I have to spit into the sink.
When I go downstairs I switch the radio on,
but I don’t feel like fluttering and dancing to the BBC.
No, I listen to the news and depress myself to hell
with bombs, and Brexit and the buggeryshiteness
of it all.
I don’t open the Rice Crispies and think:
Hark the sound of spangled snap,
crick-crackle in my dish,
O the pop of wondrous rice,
What ecstasy, what bliss.
No, I think:
maybe once, just once I could open the cupboard and find
a full English breakfast with sausage, bacon, eggs and black pudding
all ready to take to the table, oh and beans, hash brown and fried slice,
It would be nice.
I don’t go out of the front door thinking:
Daffodils at the gate are waking
Dew upon their towering stems
Oh how glorious is their blooming,
Golden host of diadems.
No, I think:
the daffs need dead heading,
there’s another job for weekend,
I don’t walk down the street reciting odes or villanelles,
I don’t wax on about butterflies, or birdsong, or the sound of trains,
On down the line, on down the line, is it on time? Is it on time?
No, I walk along the uneven pavement watching the cracks,
keeping up a good pace so as not to look lackadaisical,
or unemployed, or dare I say it, as though my head is floating
somewhere on high, and I continue on till I reach the sanctuary
of the library and the company of other poets. It’s a place
where I can sit in the warm and learn how not to say,
I wandered lonely as a cloud.
And now I'm going to watch the Queen's speech, I hear she is not putting on the regalia this year, probably because she is hot footing it to Ascot after the parliament bit. Well, I hope she has a good day, I must say she does extremely well for her age. I bet she's got a shed or two, I wonder if she's got one going spare.
Talk some more soon, have a good day whatever you are doing.
Love and hugs,