After listening to Janice Galloway talking about her anti-memoir last night (In the Ryan Centre Stranraer) and looking through the latest edition of Mslexia, the two prompted me to get out of my 'haven't time to write' phase and actually get back down to some serious, or maybe not so serious, writing.
Janice Galloway talked about how all of most writers' characters are based on people the writer knew or an amalgam of a number. This is certainly true of my characters in the monologues and short sketches I've written. She felt free to write about her mother and sister only after they had died. She noted that as she got older, more conversations from childhood came back, and scenes could be reproduced in some detail - but are these an accurate record or partly fiction and does it  matter anyway? Hence her term anti-memoir. Food for thought.

Just read some of the earlier posts and realised that some of those poems I read when appearing with Jackie Kay in Poetry Doubles - that must be about six or seven years ago. The trouble with seeing poems in print, whether it's in anthologies or magazines, is that I always want to change things and once they're in print it's too late. However, I'm now working on a couple of sets of poems to make up two pamphlets (hopefully illustrated by photographs).
I will try to keep adding to this though. I was tempted to start this blog after a workshop with Jules Horne when she was D&G's virtual writer in residence. She wouldn't be impressed by how little I've used it.

One year later ...

I'm not very good at keeping this blog alive! It's over a year since I last posted anything, so maybe it's time I paid more attention to keeping it up to date. July's a bit late to be making new year resolutions, but better late ...
Hopefully it won't be June 2013 before the next one entry.
Poetry has moved over to make room for plays and monologues, but still manage to find some time to write new/amend old work. If I get into the habit, then more will appear on here ...watch this space

Update on some published poems

Shell Villanelle (in Markings 19)

The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell,
we search the beach for your limpet rings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

We gather until our pockets swell
'Just collect limpets, no other things.'
The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell.

Patterns of brown, ridged lines on the shell,
some with the colours of young gulls wings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

Once your eye is in, 'There's more!' you yell.
Our search continues as the curlew sings.
The hard ridged edge, the smooth inner shell.

Your pockets are bulging, mine are as well
as we make our way to the landings.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.

We empty our pockets of those magic shells,
gaze at the colours and patterns on the rings.
The hard ridged edges, the smooth inner shell.
Ovals, circles; from the shore we know well.


Salt Marsh Defined ( in 'Singing over the Bones')

They call it merse, salt marsh, inks
where there's a boardwalk and a stone
marking the two Margarets death.
That black sulphorous layer
they call merse, salt marsh, inks.

A feeding ground for Greenland's geese;
land for grazing Galloway cattle;
where granite marks the deaths
of one eighteeen, one sixty three,
they call it merse, salt marsh, inks.

Margarets Wilson and Mclaughlin
Eleventh May 1685.
Now we hear the cries of birds,
shiver in cold sun, remember them
by the merse, salt marsh, inks.


Fishing for Poets (Published as 'Heron' in Markings No 27)

Hunched in peat brown water,
ragged with piercing eyes,
you remind me of a teacher
who years ago, gifted me love of poetry.
Fine grey hair, slicked down,
slate-blue tweed jacket
topped long grey flannelled legs.
Head, twisting on a scrawny neck,
fought restrictions of stiff collar and tie,
while sharp eyes sought out
wrigglers and dreamers.
Fastening their attention,
he captured hearts with words
and fished for imagination.


Evening on Monreith Beach ( in 'Southlight' No. 8)

Oystercatchers in evening dress
dance with their reflections
on mirrored sand.

Necklets of foam decorate
the beach, tossed into
glistening amoeba shapes.

The wrinkled sand folds
itself around the boulders,
drapes the headland.

Fishermen stand motionless,
half submerged,
living Gormley figures.

I walk on remembering
other evenings, shared.


Where Do You Go When I Lose You?
A poem for two voices (in Fankle No. 3)

Where do you go when I lose you?
You're here, yet not with me.
Here, yet not here
My mind travels over years, miles.

What are you thinking?
I don't know what you're thinking.
My thoughts twist my mind
Wring out sense, distort, confuse.
I should know what you're thinking.
I'm shut out, can't get through.
Some thoughts you can't know
I don't know where they're going.
Do you know what you're doing?
Where we're going?
My thoughts drift on.
Where am I going?

I'm losing you.

Bordering On Insanity (in Fankle No.6)

The files are listed
the photos are there.
Can I access them?
Oh yes, but where?

I try again.
This computer's new
I'm going insane
there's no help from you.

'You can do it', you say
but I hate I.T.
You make it look easy
but it's hell for me!

In a Waiting Room

Old magazines curling at the corners
Noticeboards covered with fading papers
A box of toys battered and broken

Old people curling at the corners
Young girls fading away with anorexia
An alcoholic, battered and broken

The Watcher

She was once one of those
who day after day
ran down the hill,
returning laden,
more slowly then
with bags to balance.

She was once one of those
who clutching hands,
one son either side,
challenged the icy slope
and skated, laughing
down the hill.

She was once one of those
who raced downhill
each morning
to join the queue
waiting on the main road
for the bus to work.

But now, she sits
while others
rush down to the bus,
down to the shops,
and she remembers
what she was once.

Take Off

Nature’s Concordes -
Herring Gulls, thrusting
forward on a sandy runway,
take off over the sea.
They encompass the sky
in parentheses and return,
landing safely on wet sand
until the next departure.

Christmas Carol

They called me Carol.
I was born on
Christmas Day.
Not original
but better than
Holly.

They found me
on the doorstep.
Wrapped up
in a sweatshirt.
Stuffed in a plastic bag.
Kept me warm enough.

I’ve been on a few
doorsteps since me.
Got through a few
plastic bags,
newspapers too.
Don’t read ‘em.

Got a sleeping bag now
So I’m OK
like
swaddled innit?

Lost Mind

You had once a fine mind.
But now, no longer.
Words will not come.
You can not find
those needed in the lumber
of your cobwebbed brain.

‘It’s only the postman.’
‘It’s only the postman.’
Repeated childlike as he
brings your book. We see
your words from a time past,
when words flowed
and that fine mind,
was not lost
in the search,
for
a
right
word.

Andy Goldsworthy Holes Sculptures

holes
nothingness
zen sculpted?

holes sculpted
in slate, stone,
brick, leaves

holes sculpting
an indelible
memory

The Seat by the Sea

There on the cliff top
a wooden token.
Left for others
to share the sights
and sounds of the sea.
A little lop-sided,
as you were.
Leaning back,
as you did.
Hands in pockets
admiring the view.

The Country's No Place for the Homeless

‘It’s not easy being poor here
Not everyone who’s poor
wants to live in the town.’
She said.

‘Where can I find a home?
Houses let for holidays
not for people like me.’
She said.

‘I walk miles and miles
looking for work.
I don’t want to be poor.’
She said.

‘They don’t want you here.
Not if you’ve no money.’
‘Go back to the town!’
They said

Each day the tiny figure
tramps the lanes.
head high, proud stiff back.
‘I get angry.’ She said.