Dating the collective

It’s currently 2pm on Sunday 12th Nov 2023. Collecting The Data as a tangible thing landed in my life on the 2nd. (I’m not sure the video quite captures how giddy I was at opening the box, but it had been a long day at work—they all are at the moment). The official publication data and launch event was on 7th. The final poem was read about 9.15, so I’m declaring that the moment it was officially out there.

And it’s only now that I’ve managed to really sit and think about the fact that I have an actual book out there in the world. I’m not 100% convinced I will ever truly come to terms with it. There’s certainly a feeling of well, what now…? The poems are out there, people actually own them in a book. I’m not there to read them to them with an intro. That’s quite a strange feeling to come to terms with, but I’m getting there. What do I write next? When? How? For who? All good questions, but not for today. And not a question for this book.

I’ve found myself sitting and staring at it whenever I’ve had a spare moment. It’s a beautifully produced thing, just looking at it as an object it astonishing. And I can’t say thank you enough to Sheila for publishing it, Gerry Cambridge for typesetting it and the cover, Nell for the editing, Matthew for the same and for pushing me to submit in the first place. Spookily, it will be the 4th anniversary of Sheila replying to my email to say she was interested in publishing me.

As an aside, I’ve just looked at the poems I sent her as a sample. Only one of them made the distance to end up in the book. I can also say that the book was going to be called Honest Signals at that point.

The few days since the launch have been a blur of work, more nights out (remind me to have a word with my social secretary, but weirdly a lot of it has been connected.

Let’s start there.

The launch was wonderful, it was full of people I’ve not seen for a while, or people I see all the time, but wouldn’t normally see in a poetry context, and then people I didn’t know or not met yet. It was wonderful to finally meet Sheila and Eleanor. I got to chat all to briefly with loads of lovely people like Matthew Paul, Clare Best, Davina Prince, Oliver Comins, and Mike Bartholomew Biggs. There was an odd moment at the end of the night where my oldest mate and me were chatting to Tristram Fane-Saunders. That’s a mix of worlds. And it makes me happy.

I can’t vouch for all the other poets, but I think it makes for a better reading to have non- poets there. And a crowd makes for a better event. I think the venue did well out of the night, and my non-poetry friends (be they work colleagues, oldest mates, local friends, or whatever) have all said how much they enjoyed every reader. I’m obviously glad they were there to support me (I mean the friends, but also the other readers), but it’s heartening to see that as Matthew noted on the night, this poetry lark can appeal to everyone. It was also an honour to be reading alongside two other book launches- thank you Eleanor and Matthew.

I know some people will have bought their first poetry books on Tuesday night…Job Done. Incidentally, we sold out of books on the night…I wasn’t prepared for that.

Everyone was exceptionally good. If there were nerves it didn’t show (even from me, and I was shaking the proverbial defecating dog from about 6.30 onwards). It’s impossible to single anyone out, so I won’t. That is a small cheat, but whevs, man…

I managed to get some shots of the readers, but I was to the side, so they are what they are. Send me any you might have if you can please. Here are some from what I took/have had so far. These are not in chronological order…

Nell introducing Matthew

Matthew reading

Sheila introducing me

Some knobhead

Eleanor Livingstone

The line up, minus Hilary (she’d gone to the bar next door)

The view from the mic

The view from the mic 2

The view from the mic 3

The view from the mic 4

Hilary Menos reading

Maria Taylor reading

Florence filmed some of it, I just need to get it online somewhere. I’ll save that for later though.

I ended the night (well, the reading part) with a poetry cover version. I read Michael Donaghy’s ‘The Present‘ mainly because it’s lovely and because I wanted to dedicate it to my beloved wife, but also because it contains the phrase “your hand in mine” in the final stanza. Your Hand In Mine is a song by a band called Explosions In The Sky who I was going to see at The Troxy in Limehouse the following night. 

Explosions In The Sky, playing Your Hand In Mine

It was a wonderful thing, marred slightly by two dickheads talking through it. Words were had.

EITS play an instrumental kind of music, so the lyric balance was restored the following evening when I went with Christopher Horton to see Simon Armitage read at Marylebone Theatre. He was mainly reading from his recent book of collected lyrics, although he dipped into his translations too. It was a fantastic reading, and I learned a lot of technique watching the old hand at work, but the night got weirder after the reading.

Chris went to get a book signed. I’d totally forgotten to bring any of my Armitage books, having rushed out of the house to make it on time after work. (NB I’d taken a stack of books with me on Tuesday night to ask poets to sign my copies. I didn’t get everyone, but it was lovely to get a few meaningful signatures on the books).

Anyhoo, Chris was chatting to Simon afterwards and eventually mentioned I’d launched my book that week. We happened to have a spare copy with us, so I plucked up the courage to give it to Simon, and he asked me to sign it.

I’m not quite used to signing books yet—it felt most odd on Tuesday, and I need to learn to write less, but when our Poet Laureate and a person I admire a great deal asked me to sign my book, I didn’t know what to write. I won’t say what I put, but I hope he saw the funny side of it. I hope he reads the book. I guess he’s still trying to track me down to offer me a support slot.

I felt duty bound to buy something, so got a copy of his Marsden Poems book. Some of which I have in other collections, but it was something to read on the way home, and a good reminder of how good his work can be/is.

I did ask him if he fancied a pint with Chris and I, but he had to be off to meet his daughter in Limehouse (where I’d been the night before). Chris and I did get talking to someone in the pub who turned out to have a sister who was a poet back in Columbia, so there’s that too.

Leafing through the book on my way home that night, I settled into reading and got a jolt of recognition from this poem.

A Few Don’ts about Decoration

Don’t mope. Like Rome
it will not be built in a day,
unlike those raised barns
or Kingdom Halls we’ve heard of
with their pools of labour,

the elders checking
each side of the plumb-line,
the daughters and their pitchers of milk, full
beyond the brim. Their footings
are sunk before breakfast,

by sundown the last stone
is dressed and laid.
Don’t let’s kid ourselves, we know less
about third degree burns
than about blowlamps. Don’t forget:

it’s three of sand to one of cement,
butter the tile and not the wall,
half a pound of split nails
will sweep clean with a magnet, soot
keeps coming and coming, sandpapers

smells like money.
Don’t do that when I’m painting.
Don’t begin anything
with one imperial spanner and a saw so blunt
we could ride bare-arse to London on it.

Also, when you hold down
that square yard of beech
and your eyes widen and knuckles whiten
as the shark’s fin of the jigsaw blade
creeps inland …

don’t move a muscle.
And don’t you believe it: those stepladders
are not an heirloom but a death trap;
they will snap tight
like crocodile teeth with me on top

and a poor swimmer. Don’t turn up
with till rolls like stair carpets. Don’t blame me
if the tiles back flip from the wall
or the shower-head swallow dives into the tub
and cracks it.

Don’t give up hope
till the week arrives when it’s done,
the corner turned, it’s back
broken, and everything comes on
in leaps and bounds

that even Bob Beamon would be proud of.
OK, that’s a light-year away
but like a mountain — it’s there.
Don’t look down.
Don’t say it.

*********************** Taken from Kid, By Simon Armitage. Faber Poetry, 1992

I may have mentioned once or twice how we’ve been redecorating our hallway. It’s been going on bit by bit for months and it’s nearly done. I think it’s two weekends away from being done, so this felt like an obvious reminder to keep ploughing on.

And the lines about heirlooms, etc put me in mind of my own poem about inheriting tools from my dad, so I’m sharing it here as well.

Clearing Dad’s Shed 

Tobacco tins of tacks and screws
cover every surface and shelf.
A hatchet is Excalibured
in a chopping block by the door.

The spiders have been working hard
to lash together oiled chisels,
cables and caulking guns. His words
linger in curls of shavings.

I drag out offcuts of old planks
to burn in the rusted brazier,
the ash settling and mixing in
with the dust that covers each box

of random tools piled up beneath
his hand-built workbench. It’s obvious
I’ve got “all the gear but no idea”
when I carry them to my car

to let them gather new dust at home.
The long drive back is spent blaming:
him for not showing their uses,
me for not asking him.

*********************** Taken from Clearing The Data, By Me, Red Squirrel Press, 2023

I’m looking forward to selling more copies of the book. We’ve already just about gone through the initial print run of 200 copies in less than a week. Sheila has ordered more. That’s just crazy, but I won’t argue with it. Mind you, I won’t be retiring yet either.

It’s now 6.20pm. Time to knock off…

THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
12K running. Very little due to time, tiredness and the like. The next weeks will be better.
0 days without cigarettes…
0 day since drinking

LIFE STATS
1 box of my BOOKS arrived
1 lively and lovely lunch with
2 ex colleagues
1 work seminar on the art of leadership 
1 impromptu gig: Brigid Mae Power and Steve Gunn
1 visit from my mum
1 planned gig: Explosions In the Sky
1 late night post launch
1 poetry gig – Simon Armitage
1 70s-themed birthday party
Not enough sleep

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered
0 poem finished:
0 poem worked on:
0 poems committed to the reject pile
0 submissions:
0 withdrawal: 
0 acceptances:
0 Longlisting:
0 readings: 
0 rejections:
1 1 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
96 Published poems

Reviews
0 review finished: None
0 reviews started:
1 review submitted: 
2 reviews to write:

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Music
r= Radio, A = Audiobook, P=Podcast. The rest is music
Week 1
The United States of America: ST
American Music Club: Engine
Gabor Szabo: High Contrast
Bee Bee Sea: Sonic Boomerang
P.G. Six: Murmurs and Whispers
VA: Trip On Me – Soft Psych & Sunshine
The Archers (p)
Music Is the Drug: Sweet Jane (p)
Explosions In The Sky: End, various songs from various albums
Planet Poetry: Ian McMillan (p)
Craig Finn: Lucinda Williams (p)
The Mission: Carved In Sand, Carved In Sand Live
Roky Erickson & the Explosives: Halloween, Gremlins Have Pictures
The Darkness; Permission to Land

Marnie Stern: The Comeback Kid, The Chronicles of Marnia
Steve Gunn: 3 albums
Four Tet: Live at Alexandra Palace 2023
Week 2
The Durutti Column: LC
Steve Gunn; other you

Portishead: Dummy, ST, Third, Rosebowl
Laura Veirs: Phone Orphans

Explosions In The Sky: End

Seawind of Battery: Clockwatching
Allegra Krieger: Circles
The Beths: Experts In A Dying Field
Hamilton Leithhauser: Black Hours
Dropsonde Playlist

Read
North
Eleanor Livingstone: Even The Sea, Surprising The Misses McRuthie
Poetry London
Collecting the Data

Watched
Taskmaster
New Girl 

The Long Shadow

Ghostbusters: Afterlife
Shetland
Invasion

Ordered/Bought
Hockey Shoes for Flo

Arrived
Eleanor Livingstone: Even The Sea, Surprising The Misses McRuvie
My books
Poetry Scotland
Don Paterson: Landing Light

 

If you see Sidney Road, tell me

You’d think I’d learn, but I’m writing this while listening to Arsenal play a big match; it’s Man City this time. And I’m going to see how far I can get writing this post without us conceding. The game is 8 mins in and we have almost conceded once already, so I’m not hopeful.

The ball was given away by Declan Rice, and I am going to cheat this week and skip straight to the poem by Declan R…yan.

I usually find some sort of way to link the poem choice to something that’s happened this week (or the interim period between posts), but I can’t think of anything this time other than I read Declan’s debut collection, Crisis Actor,  this week and I’ve really enjoyed it. And that’s enough for me, so let’s have it

Sidney Road

A lookout on the world: next door’s wisteria,
its purple leaching out, half hides
a railing that needs paint;
nine wooden planks, enough to stand on.
My freedom as a ‘free lance’.

An interstitial age. Hardly neighbourly,
I know fewer names than the years
I’ve been here. Rows of identikit SUVs
line the road in lieu of trees
I’ve seen cut back, then down.

Somewhere between coma and contentment:
well-tended green spaces; a family butcher
embarrassed by its raft of sausage circuit garlands;
too many rugby shirts around to feel at ease –
spring-evening joggers stir from hibernation.

I was the future, for a week, a while ago.
At a summer garden party, I met
a looted favourite poet:
over his empty, one-use flute, he wrangled
about the etiquette of ‘watering the foliage’.

A marginal constituent, I’m more witness
than antagonist to flourishing damp.
The months pile up since my last confession;
wheels spinning slowly, hazards on,
just low enough for running down the battery.

+ + + + + +
Shared with permission of the poet. Taken from Crisis Actor. Faber & Faber, 2023.Previously published in Subtropics 32

NB doesn’t seem to be available via Faber site at the mo, so give your local bookshop a shout.

(NB There have been 2 or 3 shots from either side now and a potential red card via VAR)

I feel like this poem mirrors the sort of road that has echoes of the side streets of West  Dulwich (more of which anon)…However, I think this poem feels more north London suburb to me. Notably, we don’t know where it is, and arguably it doesn’t matter, but these are probably not countryside streets or for want of a better way of putting it, poorer streets. They also aren’t  super posh. The family butcher, “identikit SUVs” semi place it. The railings that need paint and the trees that have been pollarded and then removed also help as a way of triangulating that this isn’t set in Chelsea or Maida Vale, etc.  

Look, I’ve spent ten minutes pissing about on Google Streetview to try and work out which Sidney Street it could be. It hasn’t yielded much than a possible Wisteria sighting in Cambridge, but the street looks too commercial to be the right one. So, let’s look at other things.

There are so many wonderful details in this poem. The line “I know fewer names than the years / I’ve been here” makes me think to a degree of my own poem, Settling, about not knowing neighbours, but this is better. However, what I love the most about this poem and it’s sense of a person out of time, in the wrong place, adrift etc (and you can say this about pretty much every character in Crisis Actor) is the gradual collapse of the area when we get to specific people.

We have our protagonist who is not quite right for the area, a “free lance” that doesn’t fit in (deliberately by choice or not is TBC), but I also find them calling themselves a “free lance” in its more mercenary sense as opposed to a freelance worker. While our protagonist is potentially down on their uppers – “I was the future, for a week, a while ago”, I like them coming into contact with another perhaps more successful poet at a garden party. It provides what I think it is the part of the poem that yields the most return per word.

At a summer garden party, I met
a looted favourite poet…

“looted” is, for me, doing so much work (like Declan Rice in this match), I want to stand up and applaud it. I read it in three ways.

1. the protagonist has looted the work of the “favourite poet” 
2. the “favourite poet” is dong very nicely for themselves, thank you very much, or perhaps they come from money, but either way, the only thing they are struggling with is the etiquette of pissing in the flower beds (NB I approve of this, as long as it’s after dark and no-one else is in the garden).
3. I wonder if the “favourite poet” has a look of having been looted about them, do they look like they’ve been ransacked. Are they haggard as a result of a life “well-lived”/a “hard paper round”/

HANG ON…GOOOOOOOOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL. Martinelli, you fucking beauty!!!!!

**Dances round kitchen** **waits till game is finished**

Whether it is any, none or all of those readings of the word are correct/intended by the poet sort of don’t matter. That one word is, in among a lot of poetry and a lot of poem, is where the poetry is for me.

And then we get the final stanza, that use of “marginal constituent” makes sense at the start the collection, and it makes even more sense by the end of it. By the end of the poem I start to wonder how much of this is deliberate, the protagonist has avoided trying to fit in, is existing somewhere between “coma and contentment “— is that the place they live or the way they live??? and it’s the final line that has me wondering the most…It’s not to run ‘down the battery’, it’s “for…Are they in the middle of doing so, are they intending to?

I’ve been reading Declan’s work since getting a copy of his early work in Faber New Poets 12 back in 2014. It is most pleasing and interesting to see some of the poems from that slim volume have made it into Crisis Actor. I’ve long been fascinated by the poems that don’t make it into collections or pamphlets, and IMHO there are very strong arguments for the inclusion of five poems in FNP12 that haven’t made it into Crisis Actor to have, er, made it into Crisis Actor.

At least one of them made it into his debut proper pamphlet, Fighters, Losers (Reviewed by some knobhead here. I loved the pamphlet, I don’t love the review. It was one of my first ones and I’d almost certainly do a better job now, I think.Yes, I am the aforementioned knobhead in case you haven’t worked it out).

(2 mins of extra time added. NB I know it doesn’t look like much for 45 mins of work, but I have done other things since starting this)…

Annoyingly, I can’t find my copy of Fighters, Losers—having, for some unknown reason, not put it next to FNP12 on my shelves (the search begins shortly), so I can’t check how many of those poems made it into Crisis Actor, but a significant number is a fair assessment. This means that there aren’t many new new poems in Crisis Actor, and this doesn’t matter if you are new to his work.

Arguably, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t new to his work. These are superbly crafted and thought through poems, that, as ‘Sidney Road shows’ require time and thought to finish. I will wait a long time for more work from Declan Ryan because it will be worth it.

In other news, I was very lucky to have been mentioned in a post by my old mucker, Matthew Stewart. His second collection, Whatever You Do, Just Don’t is starting to turn up in the world and I’m enjoying seeing people enjoying it and savouring it. (Excellent review by Christopher James).

As Matthew himself notes, I’ve

“seen all the poems in Whatever You Do, Just Don’t at multiple stages in their development, and has given me feedback on every single one, from first draft to reassembly after Nell’s ritual dismembering of words, lines and stanza of numerous poems that we had thought finished. Just as I have for him, of course.”

And this is the crux of his poet, it’s not about me, it’s not about him either. It’s about us, as writers (and fuck it, as people) having folks that are friends that support and help each other through encouragement, goading, provoking and supporting. He’s the first to tell me something is shit or good, as I am say something isn’t working.

What changes as a result of this is up to the recipient, but, the space is safe to say this stuff. It’s  likely true elsewhere, but I, for one, welcome the trust that comes from it.

I’m less happy that he has texted me to insult me about the Arsenal result by questioning the origins of my fandom, but y’know…it comes with the territory. I will say, however, that I’m honoured and looking forward to seeing the old sod again in the flesh in November. You should come along too on the 7th November. 7pm. The Devereux Pub.

Ah, now I said more about West Dulwich later, but I suspect you’re asleep now, so more on that next time.

THE LAST TWO WEEKS IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
33K running. Some Two-run Tuesdays and my a 10K race in Petts Wood today.
3 days without cigarettes…
0 days since drinking. **Raises gin in your direction**..

LIFE STATS
1 office-based away day (ironic-ish, based on the poem I’m working on)
Drinks with my mate Mike
1 night in the disco shed with my friends Simon and Dunc
1 night out with my mate Mike
1 organisational change to my team at work

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered
0 poem finished: TFI Friday
2 poem worked on: TFI Friday…, Last Dance
0 poems committed to the reject pile
0 submissions:
0 withdrawal: 
2 acceptances: The High Window
1 Longlisting: Butcher’s Dog
1 readings: Acumen, read: A Short Survey, Sales Patter, Slipping Away, A Foley Artist
0 rejection:
20 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
96 Published poems

Reviews
0 review finished: None
0 reviews started:
1 review submitted: 
0 review to write: FINALLY!!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Music
r= Radio, A = Audiobook, P=Podcast. The rest is music
The Clientele: I Am Not There Anymore
Bullant: Late Life Circ
Hilary Woods: Birthmarks
Mo Troper: MTV, Dilletante
Emma Tricca: Minor White
Föllkazoid: VThe Clientele: Bonfires on the Heath
Clinic: Fantasy Island
The Twilight Singers: Dynamite Steps, Powder Burns
The Foxhole Companion: Unknown Soldier (P)
The Archers (p)
Faber Poetry Podcast: Victoria Adukwei Bulley & Raymond Antrobus
Dropsonde Playlist
Explosions In the Sky: End
Fugazi: In On The Kill Taker, 13 Songs
Kylie Minogue: Tension
Matthew Halsall: An Ever Changing View
National: First Two Pages of Frankenstein
Various dance tunes with Si and Dunc
Big Thief: Dragon new warm mountain
Slowdive: everything is alive
Smashing Pumpkins: Gish
Four sides of Heaney 3- and 4
SG Goodman: Teethmarks
Duke of Norfolk: A Pebble of the Brook

Week 2
Overmono: Fabric
Hailu Mergia And The Walias: Tche Belew
Gloria Ann Taylor: Love Is A Hurting’ Thing
Kara Jackson; Why Does The Earth Give Us People To love?
HAIM: Days Are Gone
Nino Nardini: Jungle Obsession
Cleo Sol: Heaven
The Breeders: Last Splash
Laura Veirs: Carbon Glacier
The Green Fields: I Dreamed Today was a Day for Daydreaming
Hem: Funnel Cloud
The Walkmen: Bows and Arrows, A Hundred Miles Off
Don Paterson: Toy Fights (A)
The Chemical Brothers; For that Beautiful Feeling
The Archers
Haley Bonar: …the Size of Planets
The Dream Syndicate: Ghost Stories
Emma Tricca: Aspirin Sun
This is the Kit; Bashed Out, Careful of your Keepers, Krulle Bol, Off Off On, Live in New York, Moonshine Goes First, Moonshine Freeze, Of Off On oddities, Where it Lives
Mary Lattimore: Goodbye, Hotel Arkada
10K Running List
The National: Laugh Track, Sad Songs For Dirty Lovers, High Violet
Moonshake: Eva Luna
R5 Live; Arsenal Vs Man City

Read
Frogmore 102
Declan Ryan: Crisis Actor
Emma Jones: The Striped World

Watched
Pearl Jam Twenty
My Mum Your Dad
Scandal
Invasion

Ordered/Bought
Olga Dermot Bond: Frieze
Kathryn Gray: Hollywood or Home

Arrived
Poetry Salzburg 40
Kit Wright; Didcot Power Station

 

Varroa-iations on a theme

The walk up to our front door is often a bit of a dampness minefield. On one side there is a hedge that tends to get a bit overgrown (Yes, it’s a bank holiday. No, I am not going to cut it because, perhaps ironically, it’s too wet), and on the other side is a lot of lavender. This combination can make it a bit damp when walking down the path to our front door.

Not my car. And yes, the path does need pressure washing

The lavender is sagging now and past its best. It’s time to slash it back for the winter, but I can still see a couple of bees gathering round it. I think they are mining it for all it’s worth, extracting the very last of its heady goodness like cutting open a tube of toothpaste to get the last of it out.

Those plucky bees put me in mind of the poem for this week. This poem is also top of mind this week for three other reasons.

1. I heard Toby helping Ruth with the bees in an episode of The Archers
2. I reviewed Luke’s debut collection, Dynamo, recently and it was published this weekend over at London Grip. I wanted to write about this poem in the review, but ran out of space. However, that means I (and now you) get the added bonus of reading it here.

It wasn’t the varroa

I kept bees in the noughties.
I had an apiary with a guy called Pele.
I haven’t seen Pele now for a few years.
We fell out over something bee-related.

Colony collapse, they called it
in the United States of America.
After six years most of our bees had gone.
It wasn’t the varroa: we were on top of the varroa.

Pele got into recruitment consultancy
and made considerable sums of money.
I told him I thought all suits looked the same.
I remembered he had always belittled me.

It’s been a few years now since I’ve seen Pele.
I don’t exactly have a job at the moment.
I buy and sell things on the internet. There are websites
where you can fill in questionnaires for money.


++++++++++++++++
Published with permission of the writer. Taken from Dynamo, By Luke Samuel Yates, Smith|Doorstop, The Poetry Business, 2023. You can and should buy it here.

This poem was in Luke’s pamphlet, ‘The Flemish Primitives‘, and has undergone a few subtle changes. In TFP “colony collapse” was in inverted commas. The third line of the same stanza was “After six years most of our bees had collapsed”. I do like the call back to collapse in this earlier version,  but I can see why that’s changed. It’s clearer the bees have gone, rather than requiring a spoonful of sugar water to revive them. (Remember to revive a bee if you see one in need, folks).

The last line of the 4th stanza reads “I remembered he had always tended to belittle me.” The shift makes it more powerful, it makes Pele sound like even more of a wanker.

The biggest change, however, is in the final stanza. The last lines read

“I buy and sell things on Ebay.
There are also websites where you can fill in questionnaires for money.”

I wonder if this change to “on the internet” instead of eBay is what someone else referred to this week in an email about how quickly references to tech can date a poem. I haven’t checked the performance figures, but I’m assuming that eBay as a source of selling has dropped off since TFP being published in 2015. The rise of Facebook Marketplace, etc has possibly led us to this change. Or not.

But enough about changes and tweaks.

I love this poem for the sense of someone outside of things, or someone that could be labelled a parasite of sorts, but which one. Is it the protagonist? Is it Pele? If varroa are mites that latch on to bee colonies then who latched on to who? For my money, the parasite isn’t the protagonist, but I have a fairly dim view of most recruitment consultants.

If it wasn’t the varroa, then what was it that caused the collapse? Neglect seems unlikely if they were “on top of the varroa”. It could be more inertia, this poem feels riddled with it. It looks back…”I kept”, “I had”, “I haven’t” “Pele got into…”—Is he still in recruitment, I guess we d’t know because he hasn’t been seen for years—, “I don’t exactly”. It’s almost all past tense or negatives until those last few lines.

Despite me not writing about in my review, I’d argue this poem is a fairly strong representation of many of the themes in Dynamo. I suggest you go and read it (the book and the review) to either agree or disagree.

Also, check out Luke reading from Dynamo here.

Oi, you said three reasons earlier, Mat

Ah yes, well on Tuesday this week I posted online that my pamphlet was being released into the world on 7th November and that it will be called ‘Collecting The Data’. That title relates to the content of some (if not all of the poems) and to my day job as a market researcher. And that day job often involves processing the data collected from the “websites / where you can fill in questionnaires for money”.

Obviously, we use reputable firms that have well-checked panels, and would look down upon anyone employing river-sampling methodologies, etc.

I can now share/remind you that the launch event will also be on the 7th November, at The Deverux Pub in Temple. I will be reading with Matthew Stewart (launching his second full collection. I’ve read it and it’s excellent). There will also be readings by Maria Taylor, Hilary Menos and Eleanor Livingstone. It’s a Red Squirrel Press and HappenStance read off. Who will win? Who will hold the coats???

Come along to find out…I am very pleased as it will be the first time I’ve actually met Sheila, Hilary, Maria and Eleanor.

More details here. And my thanks to Nell for putting this up (and for putting up with me). And very much thanks to Sheila for agreeing to publish me in the first place.

More from me on the book when I have it, but I am very, very excited now and it’s all starting to feel scary. 

How about 23 minutes of Pele’s ‘Apiary’. Seems bang on to me.

THE LAST WEEK IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
16K running. slow week running as long week at work. Must get back to a rhythm. 1 lunch time run at work (First in ages)
2 days without cigarettes…
1 day since drinking. 

LIFE STATS
1 busy week
1 party with friends
1 friend’s play
3 late late nights
1 meal out with family
1 child with excellent GSCE results
1 child enrolled for A-Levels

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered
0 poem finished:
0 poem worked on:
0 poems committed to the reject pile
1 submissions: And Other Poems
0 withdrawal: 
0 acceptances:
0 Longlisting:
0 readings: 
1 rejection: North. Timed out. Will I ever get in The North
20 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
94 Published poems

Reviews
0 review finished: None
0 reviews started:
1 review submitted: 
0 review to write: FINALLY!!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Music
r= Radio, A = Audiobook, P=Podcast. The rest is music
boygenius:the record
Murray A Lightburn: Once Upon A Time in Montreal
Wednesday:Twin Plagues
Grant Green: OLEO
Emily Haines & the Soft Skeleton: Knives Don’t Have Your Back
Massacre Massacre: new dawn, New York
First Aid Kit: Palomino
Dropsonde
Explosions In The Sky: End (or what’s available of it)
Lucy Dacus: Home Video, Historians
The Archers (p)
The Lucksmiths: Cartography For Beginners
Luke Haines: 21st Century Man
The Verb: Confidence
Mark Eitzel: Hey Mr Ferryman
Goat: Oh Death
Pixies: Doggerel
Pharaoh Sanders: moon Child
Mary Lattimore: Slant of Light
Bettie Servers:Lamprey
Pearl Jam: Gigaton
Guided By Voices; Mag Earwig!
The Auteurs: New Wave
Julian Cope: Robin Hood
Chris Forsyth & The Solar Motel: Intensity Ghost
Sonic Boom & Panda Bear: Reset In Dub
The Clientele: I Am Not There Anymore
Another Sky: I Slept On The FloorPele: A Scuttled Blender In The Water Closet
The National: The First two Pages of Frankenstein

Read
Cal Flynn: Islands of Abandonment
Charles Tomlinson: The Shaft.

Watched
The Tower
The Bear

Ordered/Bought
Various: BEFORE THE DREADFUL DAYLIGHT STARTS

Arrived
Nothing

 

Charts (Hah) (What are they good for?)

Apologies to Edwin Starr


Xmas was lovely, it was great to have my mum here with us, to talk to the extended family via various Zooms or Facetime, and to have had some nice evenings with friends, but I was kidding myself that I was well. This cold/cough seems to be a bastard in the sense that it lulls you into a false sense of security/well-being and then comes back to clobber you twice as hard.

And so, this hasn’t been the end to the year I’d planned. I had hoped to continue my streak of not being ill at Xmas. I’d hoped to have got my running back on track by running a half-marathon on the morning of NYE. At the time of writing that is looking unlikely. I had hoped to have got organised enough to have found a poem to publish, but I’ve barely read anything in the last two weeks and haven’t had the chance or wherewithal to get permissions to share.

I note this blog managed to maintain its place on Matthew Stewart’s end of the year blog round up, so I’m grateful for that. This post may see me removed. And it’s always nice to discover new blogs. One I’m saving up to read is Jeremy Wikeley‘s I”ve had his article about reasons to unsubscribe from blogs and mailing lists saved for a while, and while it seems to have been removed from the blog it promises to be a good read. (Message me and I’ll forward it on). It feeds in nicely to Matthew’s other post about the future of poetry blogging

Personally, I have no idea what I plan to do with this in 2023. I’d imagine it will be more of the usual gibberish. I’ve enjoyed the selecting of poems, so I hope to do more of that. My book is finally due out in 2023 (Woo hoo, it’s becoming real), and I’d said ages ago that this place might describe some of that process…so there’s that, you lucky people… I don’t know if I’ll manage a weekly thing—it felt like a good discipline, but it’s entirely self-imposed and so I can change it if I want to. I can’t imagine there will be much clamour if the frequency changes..(This is not a “Woe is me” moment—that was when I mentioned the illness. It’s more a case of there being too many things to read).

2023 will, I hope, be a more productive year. And a better year for everyone and everything. It’s hard to recall good points of 2022 when it all feels quite bleak here and abroad. I’m sure there are thing that will come back to me.

However, 2022 has been a year of less running and less submitting. The former has been because a mixture of injury and illness. the latter was partially driven by the first half of the year being about working on poems for the book, many of which have already found homes. This has, in turn, meant I’ve written less new stuff to send out. There’s also been a general malaise about me that I’m slowly emerging from. I’d also argue, and I don’t have the stats for this, that I’ve written more reviews this year and that has also had an impact.

In the week that I’ve entered the longest wait for an acceptance* and because I’ve made them, here are the charts for this year. Apologies to Edward Tufte and the like, there is much I could do to clarify things and improve these, but given that’s part of the day job, I’m letting that slide. I know there’s a day left to go, but I can’t seen any editors accepting anything this side of 2022.

* I won’t withdraw them yet as it will mess up the charts…

Headlines
Submission numbers are down year on year by a third
Acceptances are broadly in line. They perhaps could be better based on the TBC number, but if wishes were horses, etc

It’s nice to end the year on a publication, and if it can’t be a poem, it should be a review. So here’s my hot off the press review of Jo Bratten’s book, Climacteric.

Update on 31st Dec, the very next day Nell published this review of Sarah Heming‘s Night After Night In the Quiet House. It made more sense to post this in 2022.

I hope your 2022 had many high points and your 2023 has many more. Thank you for reading. See you on the other side.

THE LAST WEEK(and a half or so) IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
11K running. Piss poor this week due to illness
7 day without cigarettes…really, really need to knuckle down here to help with the above
3 days since drinking.
1 sleepless night
1 sore foot and a slightly achy knee
1 cough/cold and a relapse

LIFE STATS
1 Xmas lunch
2 x boardgames
5 boxes of tissues
6 new pairs of socks

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered (this allows me to kid myself I am writing all the time)
0 poems finished: Caution, Horses
3 poems worked on: Caution Horses, Popular Mechanics In The Local Night Spot, Personal Bests
1 submissions: Resonance
0 acceptances:
0 readings:
0 rejections:
24 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
80 Published poems


0 review finished: Sarah Hemings: Night After Night
0 reviews started: Sarah Hemings: Night After Night
0 reviews submitted:
2 reviews to write:


1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Ben Wilkinson: Don Paterson
Seamus Heaney: New Selected Poems 1998-2013

Zooms: None

Music
The Archers
Terry Hall:Home
The Specials: ST, More SpecialsCourting: Guitar Music
Rachika Nayar: Heaven Come Crashing
Aoife Nessa Frances: Protector
The Innocence Mission: Geranium Lake, Glow, Hello I feel the Same, My Room In The Trees, See You Tomorrow, Small Planes
Elaine Howley: The Distance Between Heart & Mouth
Pixies: Doggerel
Pale Blue Eyes: Souvenir
Panda Bear & Sonic Boom: Reset
Sylvan Esso: No Rules Sandy
The Oh Sees: Levitation Sessions Vol.2
Charlotte Cornfield: Highs In The Minuses
Vince Guaraldi: Merry Christmas Charlie Brown
Matthew Halsall: Salute To The Sun (Live), Fletcher Moss Park
GoGo Penguin: Fanfares

Watched
Everything Everywhere All At Once
Batman Trilogy
Avenue 5
The White Lotus S2
We Own This City
Santa Claus: The Movie
Knives Out: Glass Onion
Brassic
Violent Night
Detectorists
Banshees of Inisherin
The Grinch
John Wick
John Wick 2 Pearl Jam: The Ten Show
Ghosts

Ordered/Bought
Christopher James:The Invention of The Butterfly
Poetry Birmingham Literary Journal #9
Strix #8

Arrived
Book Flo ordered
Xmas presents Chocolates & Beer from work-related things
Christopher James:The Invention of The Butterfly

Andrew Bird, from his album Echolocations

A Bat(tlestar), Galactico from Heron in

I had considered employing ChatGPT to create this week’s blog, but despite feeding it all my previous posts, tweets, emails, and letters, the AI still couldn’t quite capture anything like the level of gibbering, so forgive me for the gibbering* that follows, it’s all me

*Apart from the poem and the links, they’re all good.

Incidentally, there’s a good article here about ChatGPT, what it can and can’t do, and the implications for humans.

As with last week, I’m going to link to a few things as this week has been too busy to think about much else.


This week has seen a long serving star of the scene, someone that always delivers, but has yet to win the ultimate plaudit and accolade finally achieve the pinnacle of their chosen field

No, not Lionel Messi and Argentina winning the (Men’s) World Cup—at the time of writing that isn’t guaranteed, France have just pulled a goal back. Christ, now they’ve equalised—where else do you get live commentary, eh?

No, I mean Matthew Stewart and his appearance on the final Poetry Planet podcast of the year….I’ve loved all of the PPP’s to date, but go and have a listen to this one. Matthew makes a lot sense…and says the word “Exactly” a lot.


When you’ve heard that, it would be worth spending some time reading the following.

Bad Lillies. Issue 11 is out now. I can’t lie, I’ve not read it yet, but the line up looks very strong, so I reckon it can’t fail.

London Grip – I did read this all yesterday, and despite theme of poems about poems and mothers, what stood out for me was Glenn Hubbard’s Heron poem. I think it resonated because I saw a heron on the roof of the house behind mine this week.

Also launched this week is the latest wave of Iamb A Poet. Wave 12. Bravo to Mark for another gathering of excellent poets. I’m still working my way through it, so it won’t be fair to pick one out as yet.

This was an interesting article about someone I thought I’d heard of, but I’m not 100% sure that’s true. Rod McKuen appears to be have been what could almost be called an Instagram poet, but in the late Sixties. The article charts his rise and fall. Enjoy.

Finally, before it’s too late, if you haven’t then check out Jo Bell’s Writers Advent. Lots of handy tips to be had here for the writer in your life (and let’s be honest, that’s you.) Other writer’s Advents are out there. Read them all, or don’t.

Despite the Naush Sabah article last week abut submitting less, there’s still always time for some submission advice, so why not have a read of this article from Wendy Pratt.

And this reminds me, earlier in the week I saw a link to an article about how to deal with rejections. I can’t find the link now, but it did remind me of the patented Riches method. Stand by, this is complex stuff.

If you receive a rejection from a mag or journal you should simply read the rejection and move on.

Keep practising.

Finally, not a link to an article, but the singer and radio presenter, Cerys Matthews does a lot for the poetry world, so she warrants a note here. I was listening to the last album by her first band, Catatonia, this week. The album is called Paper, Scissors, Stone and a lyric to the song, Fuel stood out.

“Go ask the government
you voted in on trust
where is our fuel…?”

It came out in 2001, but seems about as pertinent as it has ever felt. **Ben Elton voice “Liddle bit o’ politics”

Release The Bats

I’m too young to recall this first hand, but I am lead to believe my mum once had to shut herself in the bathroom at our first home while my dad ran round the living room attempting to catch a bat our cat had brought in.

I’ve not seen the latest version with R Patz in, and it’s arguable that the world doesn’t need more Batman films, but I recall enjoying the Christian Bale trilogy as directed by Christopher Nolan. However, I think the best Bat-related film is the one below.

While I can’t imagine my mum commentating in the same way as this excellent video, but I’m pretty sure my dad’s dress sense is represented.

And finally a poem

All of this bat talk is lovely, but why? Well, I was reading Space Baby by Suzannah Evans this week. It’s a book that has been sat on my TBR pile for a while, roughly since the start of the year, largely because the reviews and mags kept coming in and pushing it back down the list, but I’ve been chomping at the bit to read it.

My copy of Space Baby with a Space pen above it earlier today

I first came to Suzannah’s work when I read her Smith|Doorstop pamphlet, Confusion Species. I loved the whole thing, so when her first full collection, Near Future, came out, I ordered it almost immediately, and was very happy to review it for London Grip.

I can’t prove this, but in my head, Space Baby sees her work getting a little bit more distance from humanity (despite or perhaps because of the titular poem), and yet it’s never been more about humanity as these poems pick apart what we’re doing to this planet and the life within its atmosphere, and what we might do when the time comes to abandon ship. And more.

Oh yes, the bats.

Despite the it having nothing to do with them, the moment I read the poem below the “memories” above about my mum, and the bat video were set off, and I knew I’d have to have this for sharing here. Thankfully, Suzannah agreed.

What is it Like to be a Bat?

after Thomas Nagel

For a bat to be a bat, I mean,
to use its whole body as an organ of sense

to rattle through the high-pitched dusk
feeling the geometry of cave walls

crunch the exoskeletons of mayflies
and taste their sticky wings

to sip in flight from the surface of a river
to ground itself and elbow up

ping back into the air
like an elastic band

to swaddle itself with its arms, grip
and swing from its feet

to slow its metabolism into winter, wake
with the hunger of a season’s sleep

to tangle with humans in the lofts
of old buildings, feel them lumbering

slow as planets through space
to zip between their heads

gone
long before the gasp.


Published with permission of the author. Taken from Space Baby, Nine Arches Press


I love the way the couplets grow and shrink back, almost like a bat sending out their signals via echolocation. The way it’s one long swoop of a sentence, barely punctuated, but never leaves you out of breath. It also feeds nicely into the themes of the book as a whole, the bat far more connected to the world that surrounds it as an “organ of sense” than us human with our lofts in “old buildings”, and it could be me, but I read that as the buildings are abandoned.

Go, read more of Suzannah’s work.

THE LAST WEEK IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
9K running. Piss poor this week due to icy conditions, attempted more today, but impending lurgee and an aching knee caused us to bail out at 9k.
3 day without cigarettes…really, really need to knuckle down here to help with the above
1 days since drinking.
1 sleepless night
1 sore foot and a slightly achy knee
1 impending cough/cold

LIFE STATS
1 really fucking busy week
1 day off to write (may have impinged on the above, but fuck it)
16 cups of coffee
8 cups of tea
0 trips in and out of London

POET STATS
0 loose ideas/articles gathered (this allows me to kid myself I am writing all the time)
0 poems finished:
4 poems worked on: Caution Horses, Popular Mechanics In The Local Night Spot, Personal Bests, Bed Poem
0 submissions:
0 acceptances:
0 readings:
0 rejections:
24 poems are currently out for submission. No simultaneous subs
80 Published poems


0 review finished:
0 reviews started:
0 reviews submitted:
3 reviews to write:


1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Suzannah Evans: Space Baby

Zooms: None

Music
My Morning Jacket: Live Vol2; Chicago 2021
Polly Paulusma: The Pivot On Which The World Turns
Jadu Heart: Freedom
The Brian Jonestown Massacre: Don’t Get Lost
David Bowie: Low
Dawn Landes: RowDead Meadows: Force Form Free, ST
David Crosby; If Only I Could Remember My NamePaul Heaton & Jacqui Abbott: N.K. Pop
Death Cab For Cutie; Asphalt MeadowsCass McCombs: HeartmindMall Grab: What I Breathe
Catatonia: Paper Scissors Stone
Katy J Pearson: Sound Of the Morning
Širom: The Liquified Throne of Simplicity
Bernard Butler & jessie Buckley: For All Our Days That Tear The Heart
Catherine Anne Davies & Bernard Butler: In Memory Of My Feelings
Stanley Turrentine: Up At Minton’s Vol 1 & 2
Explosions In The Sky: The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place
Andrew Bird: Echolocations:Canyon, FingerlingsAndrew Weatherall: Qualia
Fujiya & Miyagi: Slight Variations
Gastr Del Sól: Mirror RepairGene Clark: Echoes
Gillian Welch: Harrow & The Harvest, Hell Among The Yearlings, Revival, Soul Journey, Time (the Revelatory)
Glenn Jones: Against Which The Sea Continually Beats
REM: Automatic For The People
Stella Donnelly: Flood
Stephen Fretwell: Busy Guy
Planet Poetry: Matthew Stewart
Rachika Nayar: Heaven Come Crashing, Our Hands Against The Dark
The Archers

Watched
Amelie
Strike (bloody awful)
The Mosquito Coast
Slow Horses
The White Lotus
Argentina Vs France

Ordered/Bought
Kaweco Sport Fountain Pen
Present for a friend
Present for my wife on behalf of my child

Arrived
Kaweco Sport Fountain Pen
My Faber Castelle Fountain pen was returned after being sent off to be repaired
Present for a friend

Andrew Bird, from his album Echolocations

HMHB. Best song about bat walks ever

Having nun of it

Family Riches are not long back from a trip to Seville. I’m thinking of it as a midweek long weekend as we went from Tuesday to Friday. A lovely time was had by all that attended, we walked, we ate, we walked and ate some more. We visited the Giralda, Real Alcazar De Sevilla, and Plaza de España. I had also hoped to visit Convento de San Leandro to sample some of the nun’s biscuits, but couldn’t due to forgetting that most things shut down between 2 and 5 in Spain. I suspect the nuns were having a well-earned kip.

An idiot outside the nunnery

I’d read about the place on the Atlas Obscura website I linked to above, but I was also aware of the practice through a poem by Matthew Stewart called Bishop’s Hearts. My plan was to get a photo of me receiving said biscuits and then link to Matthew’s excellent poem…

However, this experience has taught me two things.

1. Remember the local knowledge given to you by people. In this case, the aforementioned Matthew Stewart
2. Always remember to capture PDFs/images of your poems when they are published online, lest the site close down.

Bishop’s Hearts was published by the excellent Algebra of Owls site, but that now looks to be out of business/has closed down. I was lucky enough to have a poem published there too, but I don’t have a copy of it. Well, I do, obvs, but not the page and the link is now dead. I’m not sure what happened to the team behind AoO, but I hope they’re ok.

I’d have loved to meet up with Matthew for a Cruzcampo or sherry or two, but he was about 3 hours drive away, and quite busy, so alas it wasn’t to be. Perhaps we could have started making plans for another Rogue Strands reading when he’s next over in the UK. I’d like that. It’s been too long.

I didn’t get to take a photo of Matthew in the flesh, but I got this instead on the way to the apartment we were staying in. It’s sort of the same thing.

In lieu of a poem this week I will point you at the latest Bad Lilies

.

Couldn’t manage Bishop’s hearts, but will Bishop’s Robes do?

THE LAST WEEK IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
12K running. Some running on Monday, and an 8k on Weds in Seville. Didn’t run today due to heavy rain
3 days without cigarettes…really, really need to knuckle down here
1 Days since drinking.
2 sleepless nights: This is really pissing me off

LIFE STATS
1 trip to Seville
5 tapas teas
1 trip to Wakehurst

POET STATS
0 poems finished:
0 poems worked on:
0 submissions:
0 acceptances:
0 reading:
0 rejections:
26 poems are currently out for submission. NB some are simultaneous subs
79 Published poems
35 Poems* finished but unpublished
Twelvety poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough

0 reviews finished:
1 reviews started: I’m 600 words in
0 reviews submitted:
3 reviews to write

1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Seamus Heaney: New Selected Poems 1988- 2013
Poetry Scotland #104

Zooms: None

Music
The Smile: A Light For Attracting Attention
Greg Dulli: Random Desire
The Afghan Whigs: How Do You Burn?
Beth Orton: Weather Alive
Goat: Oh Death
Taylor Swift: Midnights
The Orielles: Tableau
The Archers
Tortoise Media: Satantic Ritual Podcast
The Clientele: Bonfires on the Heath
Tallies: Patina
Winter: What Kind of Blue Are You?
Carly Rae Jepsen: Dedicated
SG Goodman: Teethmarks
Tim Burgess: Typical Music
Annette Peacock: Sky-Skating

Watched
Andor
Strictly
The Walking Dead
The Morning Show
Breaking Bad

Ordered
Nothing

Arrived
Nothing

Dedication’s what you need

NB: I wrote this yesterday…and hung on in case I got the permission I needed to post the poem I wanted to post. It’s not arrived yet, so here we go. UPDATE NOW IT HAS. SEE BELOW FOR DETAILS

First things first…if you can, please order a copy of The Plum Review from Broken Sleep Books. The royalties from this are all going to The Trussell Trust to support the excellent work they do. My copy arrived this week and it looks lovely. I can’t wait to read it. Obvs, you can just donate to the Trussell Trust or your local foodbank, if you can…Or do it all.

Am I alone in thinking that this week has lasted roughly an entire year?

It’s certainly felt like it to me. (Some of) The country feels like it’s regressed about a 1000 years, I’ve had the word to McGough’s Q rattling round my head all week, and have felt an urge to dig our my copy of Joe Moran’s ‘Queuing For Beginners‘ for some reason…(Note to self, you’re behind on reading Joe Moran’s books. Sort this pronto). Cannot thank why this is though.

Despite the week dragging it’s anchor, catching occasionally in the seabed of an hour here or there before coming loose again (ooh, get me…it doesn’t really work, but go with it), there has been little time for much else. The productivity of the holiday has been and gone. We’ve prepared for and celebrated my daughter’s 16th birthday….SIXTEEN YEARS OLD, FFS!!! How? Did? That? Happen??

I think the week got off on the wrong foot by me having to go to the office on Monday. This is unusual in these WFH-times (and these WTF-times). However, this does give me my theme for today. I grabbed a book off my TBR pile and shoved it in my bag. When I got to station and pulled the book out it was a copy of River Wolton‘s ‘Indoor Skydiving‘ . The first thing I saw, aside from the cover, was this

Having recently read a draft of a poem by a friend about dedications/inscriptions/whatever and books finding their way into secondhand shops, this leapt out at me. I know I’ve written about this before, but it felt pertinent having read at least three other posts on this very theme in the last week or two.

I did contemplate trying to find Saffron, but it seemed a bit stalker-y, and Bob Mee talks here about potentially tracking down (and why that is a bad thing) the author of such a book, as well as how a book of poetry published in 1970 in Fresno, California came to be in a secondhand bookshop in Stratford-Upon-Avon.

Tim Love posted a series of covers akin to the River Wolton one above…And spookily, one of those covers was Matthew Stewart’s ‘Knives of Villalejo’…and blast me, thass a rummun’, but have a look at what he posted recently. Yep, time to go and get your socks after they’ve been knocked off.

IN OTHER NEWS…

The Riches content machine has rolled on a bit this week.
Firstly, the week started with an acceptance from a new online journal called Berlin Lit. It’s hard to tell what the journal will look like, or get a sense of their tastes as this will be their first issue, but they’ve taken a poem of mine called The Long Game, and I look forward to seeing that poem in the wild and among the others that they have accepted. It’s my second international acceptance (after Poetry Salzburg a while back), and I’d like to do more of that.

There was an unexpected drop on the doormat on Friday as my copy of Acumen #104 arrived. I wasn’t expecting it yet, but I’m very pleased to have my poem ‘Sales Patter‘ in there among some amazing names and some that are new to me, but I’m sure are amazing too. I’ve only read the first couple of poems, but was quite taken by Neil Curry‘s ‘St. Cuthbert and the Otters’

And a couple of my reviewing birds came home to roost this week.

Firstly, my review of Belinda Rimmer‘s Holding On was published by the folks at Sphinx/HappenStance
And then at the end of the week—see if you can guess which day it was—my review of Richie McCaffery‘s Summer / Break was published by the folks at The Friday Poem. I’m going to have to stop reviewing Richie’s books, not because I don’t like his work—far from it, but because this is ,I think, my third or fourth review of his work…I don’t want be accused of favouritism.

Finally, a poem

Yeah, not this week. I’ve not had the permission to post as yet…

Update…Of course as soon as I pressed publish the permission came through. It’s like when you’ve pressed send and then notice the glaring typo in an email to the boss… you know the sort where you intended to call them a count..

Either way, thanks to River Wolton for permission to publish this poem. This poem manages to be both exactly the words I needed to hear and the perfect set of writing prompts/editing instructions. That’s quite the skill.

How to be Water

Relax. Procrastinate.
Lose all sides.
Stand on your head.

Befriend the sun.
Befriend gravity.
Wobble. Adapt.

Insinuate yourself.
Set traps for light.
Go back to the start.

Taken from Indoor Skydiving. Poem shared with permission from the author. Please buy the book here
Her Instagram is here

Sharon Tandy – Hold On

THE LAST WEEK IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
8K running. Some running on Tuesday and Saturday. Fucking hell, this is so frustrating!!!
2 days without cigarettes…I was doing so well..
0 Days since drinking.
0 sleepless nights:

LIFE STATS
1 child turning 16
3 journeys to work and back
1 impromptu trip to the pub on Tuesday
2 colleagues left for new jobs

POET STATS
0 poems finished:
1 poems worked on: Spider That Bit
0 submissions:
1 acceptances: Berlin Lit
0 reading:
0 rejections:
15 poems are currently out for submission.
78 Published poems
35 Poems* finished but unpublished
Twelvety poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough

0 reviews finished:
2 reviews started: Well, read and thought about
0 reviews submitted:
4 reviews to write: How the fuck did that happen…

1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
River Wolton: Indoor Skydiving
Anna Kirby: Where The Dead Walk

Zooms:

Music
Katy Pearson: Sound of the Morning
Nina Nastasia; Dogs
The Archers
Nick Cave & The Bad Sees: The Good Son, Henry’s Dream, Let Love In, No More Shall We Part, Nocturama, Abattoir Blues & the Lyre of Orpheus, Dig Lazarus Dig, Push the Sky Away, Skeleton Key
Horse Lords: the Common Task
J Pearson: The Sound of Morning
Poetry Society podcast. Dzifa Benson speaks to Clementine E. Burnley and Zakia Carpenter-Hall.
Alice Oswald Lecture: TS Eliot.
Cate Le Bon: Pompei
Explosions In The Sky: Live
The Afghan Whigs: How Do You Burn?, In Spades
The Frank & Walters: A Renewed Interest In Happiness, Greenwich Mean Time
The Pastels: Mobile Safari
Indigo Sparke: Echo
Suede: Autofiction
Death Cab For Cutie: Asphalt Meadows
Joe Strummer & The Mescaleros: X-Ray Spex and the Sandpaper Art, Global-A-Go-Go
Turin Brakes: Wide-eyed Nowhere
No Age: People Helping People
BG3: Damaged/Controlled
Echo & The Bunnymen: Ocean Rain
The National: I Am Easy To Find, High Violet

Watched
Endeavour
Bad Sisters
Shetland
The Good Wife

Ordered
Wood

Arrived
Acumen 104
The Plum Review

Cromer, Fango, Have I Read Enough?

What a week to come back to…at one point about this time a week ago I was pretty sure we weren’t going to be home at all. I was desperate to get back to Blighty, but a cancelled flight and then further delays meant it was looking decidedly debatable that we’d make it home. We ended getting back home at 8pm on Sunday instead of about 3 in the morning, but having left our hotel at 6pm (Turkish time) the night before it had been a long day.

I won’t bore you with the long story about long waits in queues at airports and horrendous hotel stays after the flight was cancelled. And I won’t bang on about the lovely holiday we had before the last stage other than to say that we all loved it. We all felt rested, we all ate too much, I definitely drank too much (but not to excess – I’m learning) and there were no major sunburn incidents (not major, but there was certainly some redness about the shoulders for us all). We met many delightful cats.

I almost wish we could have stayed in that little bubble now, given what we’ve come back to. An idiot for a leader and a king instead of a queen. There’s nothing to be said about the latter that is worth saying beyond I find the whole affair pointless. As to the former, I suspect it will go from bad to worse and it was already a fucking disaster. Did I mention we met many lovely cats while away?

We named this lad Fango…

While the time away wasn’t as productive as our last holiday, I did manage six new drafts…two that arrived just under wire and happened on the flight back. I think the last time I got through 10 or more, but given how slim the pickings have been this year I will take six. Who knows what will happen to them. The ≥10 from last time mostly turned into good and useable poems, some of which should make it into the book, so I have hope. I’m just glad to be writing things again. I also managed to work on a draft I’d started before we went, and have even revived an old poem that had been binned that is now a contender for the book, so I will take that as a win.

I can’t afford a trip to, but probably earn too much to warrant a reduced fee for a writing retreat, so these periods of productivity are useful as a way of setting me up to work own stuff for the rest of the year, or until the next burst. Obviously, if new poems want to come in between then I will not that gift horse (the poem) in the mouth (the spontaneousness).

IN OTHER NEWS…

After a week where we saw the shite outcome of one longlist and one shortlist finally get whittled down (See what I’ve done there), I saw there was an interesting debate online about longlists and shortlists as part of the magazine submission process. There are two threads—one on Matthew Stewart’s Twitter, he kicked it off, like the touch paper lighter he is, and another under Zoe Brigley’s, which is sort of in response to Matthew’s question.

The debate was all pretty good tempered, and the response quite divided. Some in favour, some not .

As ever, I can see that there’s no real right or wrong here. It all depends on many factors…I think how long you take to get a response is probably a big one. If it’s a few weeks and then a couple more for the longlist to become a yes or no then it’s fine. Longer than that then it’s likely to frustrate; it certainly would frustrate me.

I can also see that being told you’ve made the list (long or short) can be a fillip to someone. I can also see why it would be annoying too, so a lot comes down to the recipient and the way they see a glass with 50% liquid in. Incidentally, if you find you have a fence in need of someone to perch themselves on it, let me know.

Having been on the receiving end of a couple of longlistings of late I am grateful for the news. I think I’d prefer to be told that if and when it’s a no. If there’s a shortlisting and the decision is imminent then that’s not so bad, but much as the endless sitting about in Antalya airport last weekend, it’s the waiting that kills you.

I suspect most editors are coming from a good place and want people to feel wanted, so it’s probably a good thing. I suspect some of it is buying themselves some time. Ask me again when my recent long-listing becomes a not this time. (Can you guess which way I tend to describe a glass with 50% of its liquid capacity in?)

Finally, a poem

One of the best things about having been away was the chance to read. I set myself the target of a novel a day, and I think I just about achieved it if I average it out…some days were better than others. I was going to avoid poetry completely— and I’m still reeling that I didn’t take any non-fiction, but it was unavoidable. You’ll see the list of stuff I read while I was away below in the stats section, but one book I enjoyed immensely was Christopher James’, ‘The Storm In The Piano‘. I forget where I saw the recommendation , but I recall being prompted to read his Arc collection, ‘Farewell To The Earth‘, and enjoying it very much. NB the prompt for Storm was here.

As someone that really enjoys writing about characters and imagined situations, Chris’s work really appeals; not least for the sheer inventiveness of the situations, but as work that I can learn from. His control of this situations and the information he imparts is incredible. His blog appears to have disappeared, but I’m sure I recall him saying he’d had a long break from poetry there. I am very glad to see he has a book out again. I need to fill in the blanks in my collection.

My keen reader will note that while I was away I set up a post for a M.R. Peacocke poem. While I was away I received an email quite rightly reminding me that I should be seeking permission to share the poems that I have been sharing. This may mean a slow down in sharing poems for a while as I tend to choose the poem on the day/make it up as I’m going – you may or may not have noticed.

However, on this occasion I have planned ahead and have Christopher’s permission to share a poem. I wasn’t sure what to share, but I note that there is a connection between ‘The Storm…’ and ‘Farewell…’ in the shape of a poem that mentions Cromer. And I also note that my brother cycled to Cromer this morning, stopping at the excellent Grey Seal Coffee shop (yes, I will take a sponsorship deal), so how can I not post this. It also feels oddly in keeping with the encouraging news coming out of the Ukraine about beating back Russia.

Today Cromer is Moscow

Seagulls preside on the spires
and onion domes of Cadogen Road.
There are snowdrifts in the belfry
of the parish church. In the Hotel de Paris;
they’re serving Rassolnik soup
and vodka so cold it makes your glass
smoke with ice. In an upper window,
the ghost of Galina Ulanova looks out
across the waves balanced on a single toe.
At the end of the pier the oligarchs
are watching The Tremeloes sing Kalinka
while on the seafront crab fisherman
dance the troika in their wellingtons.
Ice-cream men wear bearskin hats
and play Stravinsky to summon
the children from their homes
because today Cromer is Moscow.
In the lighthouse they’re reading
Pushkin and playing chess to pass the time.
Down on the beach, old cosmonauts
skim stones into the sea while
beneath their feet, the faces
of the tsars are imprinted in the sand.


Taken from ‘The Storm In the Piano’, Maytree Press

Just because it occurred to me today, and just because of some events (although entirely un-related to the most obvious one), and because the seasons are changing, and because the whole of Beckenham was alive with the sounds of a Drum n’Bass night last in the local park last night, and because the weather has been all over the shop this week, because I have permission, and quite frankly just because it’s bloody marvellous, here is a poem by Matthew Paul. It’s taken from his excellent book, The Evening Entertainment. It’s long overdue a follow up, so come on, Matthew…Get that sorted please.

Queenie Queen

After the storm subsides, you find
your glass garden table in smithereens,
kites of plane-leaves sprawling over the fence,
and the closest to silence you’ve ever heard outdoors.
You’re alive as the young cat who appears once a week,
her eyes like a frog’s peeping out from the pond
your neighbours say you must get filled in.

But as another dreary year accumulates,
like autumn’s rain within a cracked terracotta pot,
you hear instead the last few blackberries –
for bramble jelly, crumbles and fools –
still singing lustily on their bush.

Taken from The Evening Entertainment by Matthew Paul

And finally…

Finally, thanks to the folks at Resonance Poetry for the chance to read at their open mic on Monday. It was nice to read some things I haven’t read live before. And on that note, dinner is nearly ready.

REM – Airportman

THE LAST TWO AND A BIT WEEKS IN STATS

HEALTH STATS
5K running. Yesterday was the first run in a while, but my knee didn’t hurt, so I’m hopeful that this is the start of things improving
2 days without cigarettes…I was doing so well..
0 Days since drinking.
0 sleepless nights:

LIFE STATS
7 hours at Gatwick waiting for a flight to Turkey
4 hours flying to Turkey
1 cancelled flight
1 flea-infested overnight hotel,
1 x 17 hours delay coming back, but one wonderful holiday.
1 mountain of food eaten,
1 lake of beer drunk inc 8 Al Capones

POET STATS
5 poems finished: Settling, Swimming Lessons, Dewars, New Mothers, Ingratitude, Drink With the Locals
8 poems worked on: What’ll It Be, Two Beds, Spider That Bit, Not Horses, Sponsorship, Swans, Cat Poem, A Drink With The Locals
2 submissions: Berlin Lit, TLS
0 acceptances: 1 Longlist for Poetry Wales
1 reading: Foley, No you are, A Drink With The Locals, New Spider Poem, Ad blockers, Apples
0 rejections:
19 poems are currently out for submission.
78 Published poems
35 Poems* finished but unpublished
Twelvety poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough

0 reviews finished:
2 reviews started: Well, read and thought about
0 reviews submitted:
4 reviews to write: How the fuck did that happen…

1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Anna Kirby: Where The Dead Walk
WG Sebald: The Rings Of Saturn
Cynthia Miller: Honorifics
Don Paterson: The Arctic
Louis De Berniere: So Much Life Left Over, The Autumn of The Ace
Hilary Menos: Fear of Forks
Max Porter: Lanny
Christopher James: The Storm In The Piano
Ben Wilkinson: Way More Than Luck, Same Difference
Jon McGregor: Lean Stand Fall
Junicherō Tanizaki: Some Prefer Nettles
Seamus Heaney: Selected Poems 1988-2013
Michael Laver: After Earth

Zooms:

Music
Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith & Emile Mosseri: I Could Be Your Dog/I Could Be Your Moon
Luke Sital-Singh: The Fire Inside
Bengt Berger: Bitter Funeral Beer
Television Personalities: Some Kind of Trip: Singles 1978- 1989, Top Gear
First Rodeo: ST
Yeah Yeah Yeahs: Fever To Tell
The Albert: ST
Caroline Spence: True North
The Archers
Simon Armitage: Larkin Revisited Going, Going, Aubade, To the Sea, Bridge For The living, High Windows, Talking In Bed, Toads revisited, Love Songs In Age
Larkin/Essay – Ambulances (Raymond Antrobus)
The National – Sonic Juicy Magic Oneida: Success
The Afghan Whigs: Black Love
Jaimie Brach:Fly or Die
Mathew Halsall: The temple Within
Bardo Pond: Is there A Heaven?
Kathryn Calder: Bright & Vivid
Cass McCombs: Heartmind
The Cure: Wish
Joni Mitchell: Song To A Seagull, For The Roses
Andrew Tuttle: Fleeting Adventure
Craig Finn:A legacy of rentals
Explosions In The Sky: Big Bend, the Wilderness
Angel Olsen: The Big Time
The Cure: Bloodflowers
Joan Shelley: The Spur
Explosions In The Sky: The Earth Is Not A Cold Dead Place, Take Care x 3
The Durutti Column: Amigos Em Portugal, Vini Reilly, Short Stories For Pauline
Bill Orcutt: Music For Four Guitars
Pale Blue Eyes: Souvenirs
The Church: Priest= Aura
Julia Jacklin: Pre-Pleasure
Kaitlyn Aurelia Smith: Let’s Turn It Into Sound
Kevin Morby: This Is a Photograph
The Archers
Caterina Barbieri: Spirit Exit, Ecstatic Computation
KH: Looking At Your Pager
The Dirty Three: Cinder, ST, Whatever You Love, You Are, Towards the Low Sun
Joni Mitchell: Mingus
Scrawl: He’s Drunk
The Afghan Whigs: How Do You Burn?
Tenniscoats: All Aboard
Mudhoney: Superfuzz Bigmuff, Every Good Boy Deserves Fudge
Wilco: Kicking Television
Prefab Sprout; From Langley Park To Memphis
Caspian: Live At Old South Church
Caribou: Suddenly
The National: Sleep Well Beast
Tallies: Patina
Chris Forsyth: Evolution Here We Come
Built To Spill: When The Wind Forgets Your Name
Morphine: Cure For Pain
Oliver Sim: Hideous Bastard
Jockstrap: I Love You Jennifer B
Bell Orchestre: House Music
Rachika Nayar: Our Hands Against the Dusk
David Grubbs: A Guess At the Riddle
Joan Shelley: Electric Ursa
Laura Veirs: Found Light
Sharon Van Etten: We’ve been Going About This All Wrong
My Morning Jacket; ST
Ryley Walker: Primrose Green
Echo & The Bunnymen: Flowers, Heaven Up Here, Porcupine, Crocodiles, Reverberation
Self Esteem: Prioritise Pleasure
The Boo Radleys: C’mon Kids
Courtney Marie Andrews: Old Flowers, May Your Kindness Remain
Madi Diaz: History Of a Feeling

Watched
Endeavour
Bad Sisters
Only Murders In The Building
Shetland
The Thick of It
Grey’s Anatomy
The Good Wife
Trom

Ordered
Don Paterson: The Arctic

Arrived
Hilary Menos: Fear of Forks
Don Paterson: The Arctic
Bruce Robinson: The Peculiar Memories of Thomas Penman (Via Jane Lovell)

Cooking with disapproving lemons

If you can’t stand the heat…

At the time of writing, Flo and Rachael are in the kitchen making a cake for later. I have the Sunday roast under way. While I wait to get back in there and finish stuff off, here are a few things from the last week the feel poetry-relevant. Poetrelevant???

This week’s TFP by Richie McCaffery is a doozy, but l only got to reading the Friday Poem the previous Friday (21st??) from on Sunday last week, having done my posting. Please do go and have a look at it, as well as Richie’s poem, but I was immediately drawn to the first long line of ‘the kitchen’ (and the other lines too, obvs),

“The first thing I learn about you in the kitchen is that it’s impossible for us to cook together without contemplating double homicide.”

Not only is that a bold intro to a poem to have something that long, like an extended scene at the start of a film, it’s almost as if Amanda Joshua has watched my wife and I in the kitchen. The rest of the poem is a wonderful weaving through people learning about each other. It takes a simple place and through the interactions there she weaves a whole new life with someone before the world seeps in. Go, read it, see for yourself.

Reviewing relative (not eg grading a parent or an aunt)

I saw this article a couple of weeks ago, but haven’t got round to sharing it as yet, so here is a link to something called The Disapproval Matrix

I’m interested mainly in the top right and left quadrants of this purely as something to bear in mind when writing reviews. I’m certainly not placing myself in the expert in a field category. I can do standing in a field quite well, but I think that’s something very different. Anyhoo, read the article.

When life gives you lemons

Something else I saw recently was this tweet by Richard Shotton. Richard has been writing about and drawing attention to behavioural psychology techniques and how they work in the world of advertising for a while now. (NB I really must get round to reading The Choice Factory). I am sharing the below purely because I think it’s the sort of lovely detail that deserves to find it’s way into a poem somehow. You can write it if you want.

Everyone wondered why fruit machines have symbols of cherries, melons, lemons etc…

Well, when they were launched on early 20C the prize was chewing gum and the symbols signified the flavour you’d get

Via https://t.co/DTDKNa548F pic.twitter.com/7FeHDhyCs2

— richard shotton (@rshotton) January 14, 2022

A poem

Finally, a poem for the week. I’m mid-writing a review of Jeremy Page’s ‘The Naming‘ on behalf of London Grip. Mike from LG checked in yesterday to make sure I’d got the book, and I was pleased to say I had, that I’d read it, made notes and even committed the first paragraph* to paper (well, Pages – ooh, hang on..another connection). One of the things that has been slowing me down in writing the review is having decided to go back and read more work by the same author to help with context.

While doing that I came across this poem from Jeremy’s previous book, Closing Time. It reminded me that the week before I’d sent this video to committed (Should be committed, etc) Aldershot FC fan, Matthew Stewart. It’s a classic in the same vein of Eric Cantona’s interview from several years ago. I suspect Mark Molesley’s was far more knowing and deliberate. Probably even done for a bet, but either way it means I get to share this poem.

Interview of the year from Aldershot Town’s Mark Molesley. 👏

pic.twitter.com/9BfYDx6lMP

— NonLeagueDaily.com (@NonLeagueNews) January 15, 2022

Being Eric Cantona by Jeremy Page, taken from Closing Time, Pindrop Press

when seagulls follow the trawler
it’s because they think
sardines will be thrown in the sea
Eric Cantona

when slugs devour strawberries
it’s because the raspberries
are delayed

when barn owls hunt by day
its because their body clock
has stopped

when dogs bark in the night
it’s because day
has yet to break

and when waiting lasts a lifetime
it’s because Godot
never shows

The last stanza of this poem feels especially relevant this week while we wait on the much-fabled Sue Gray report…”Liddle bit of politics there”…Yes, thank you Ben Elton….**

* It’s now four paragraphs/ 367 words
** One for the youngsters there

THE WEEK IN STATS

30K running. So tired, this training lark is hard. Thursday saw a 10K PB, but the rest of the week hasn’t been great. The weekend has been slack as I can feel my calves being sore..and I had
1 hangover after a busy Friday Night
1 journeys to Sydenham and back
1 Gig at my local church for The Neighbourhood Sessions. Enjoyable to see live music again.
Many LFTs
0 rejections:
0 poems finished:
1 poems worked on: Nature Abhors a Vacuum
0 poems published:
1 submissions: Finished Creatures
0 acceptance:
31 poems currently out for submission.
72 Published poems*: Was 69, but one was not used in the end, having been accepted.
40 Poems* finished by unpublished
25 poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough
1 review started: Jeremy Page: The Naming
0 reviews finished:
4 reviews to write: Fuck, how did that happen, I’ve gone from 1 to do to having more…Hmmm
2 day without cigarettes…I was doing so well, up to 28 days and the Friday happened. Oh well, back to it. As in giving up, not back to smoking.
2 Days since drinking
0 sleepless nights:
1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

TITLE GIVEAWAY
Ironing Pile
Scandinavian Chocolate Factory
The Culture Bunker (Yes, it is a Julian Cope song, but what of it)

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Louis De Berniere: The War of Don Emmanuel’s Nether Parts, Señor Vivo & The Coca Lord

Music
Will Stratton: The Changing Wilderness
Julien Baker: Sprained Ankle, Turn Out The Lights, Little Oblivions, Red Door, Tokyo
Eels: Earth To Dora, End Times
Bill Callahan:Sometimes I Wish We Were An Eagle
The Cure: Anniversary, Head On The Door
The Soundcarriers: Wilds
Mono: For My Parents, The Last Dawn/Rays of Darkness
Pulp: Freaks, His N’ Hers, It, This Is hardcore, Separations
Neil Young: After the Goldrush, American Stars n’ Bars, Are You Passionate, Broken Arrow, Chrome Dreams II, Colorado
Dropsonde Playlist
Wilco: Kicking Television

Watched
Criminal Minds
American Rust

Ordered
Stephen Payne: The Wax Argument
Evangeline Patterson: Lucifer, With Angels
Tickets to see Glyn Maxwell & Simon Armitage
Helen Lamb: How to Walk In The Dark
Eveline Lamb: Steam

Arrived
Stephen Payne: The Wax Argument

Close as I could get to a lemon song that wasn’t ver Zep or U2. This is better anyway.

Daffs as a brush

I’m cockahoop

NB: Autocorrect tried to change this to cockatoos, and I’m here for it. That could be a great first line for a poem…

*makes note on the back of an envelope*

*loses envelope*

Actually, I wrote a poem this week. It felt weird, I think it’s the first time in about a month or more that this has happened. Not exactly writer’s block or a drought, but I’m glad to have committed pen to paper (and it was an actual pen on some actual paper – I’m old fashioned like that for early drafts. However, this isn’t going to turn into one of those posts about writing methods. There are far too many of those about. The answer to the question of How do you write is IT DOESN’T MATTER AS LONG AS YOU DO.

While we’re own the subject of writing, perhaps we can shift attention to reading…Have you read Mr Stewart’s excellent post asking if poets read enough poetry. I don’t know the answer to this, but I suspect the answer is somewhere to be found between yes and no, or yes, some do and no, some don’t. He raises the strong point that the volume of submissions tends to outweigh the readership for a magazine (and that’s before we get to book/pamphlet purchasing).

I think it was Butcher’s Dog that noted they had 1764 poems to consider for their next issue. We don’t know how many poets submitted, but if their submission page states 3 per sub, then we can roughly surmise that circa 588 people sent poems in. It could be more, it could be less, but it’s still a lot.

We don't have anywhere near as many paying readers as we do submitters. Help us fix that? There's a 25% discount on our already fairly priced magazines which are £5.99 each.

Use the code 25%OFFPLS on checkout. 🐾
*offer excludes issue 15. https://t.co/WfpNdf90ek

— Butcher's Dog (@ButchersDogMag) July 17, 2021

If we factor in this tweet then we know that the maths just don’t work…Go and read the post from Matthew and see the replies to him for more details. Obviously, not everyone can afford to subscribe to everything (or in many cases, anything) and nobody expects that, and we must raise our glasses to those that continue to publish mags, pamphlets and books in the face of such complicated economics.

Now, I think I mentioned cockahoop cockatoos earlier ( That’s going in the title giveaway). I am cockahoop because I’ve finally managed to change the leaking tap in our kitchen. It doesn’t sound like much, but I’d see it as far more important than the act of writing a poem. Maybe I can go full Adrian Mole and get a poem out of it, but I wouldn’t want to, er, faucet…

In other water-based poetry news (and I’m pretty sure that’s a section that should be on most news sites), I’ve finally worked out why I keep getting the urge to sing Julian Cope’s ‘I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud’ every morning.

It’s taken me nearly three months to realise that it’s because our new shower (another leaking thing replaced, but not by me – that’s way above my pay grade/ abilities) makes the same noise as the first 4 seconds of this song, and so my brain has been filling in the blanks whenever I have a shower. And then as soon as I remember the title I start thinking about daffodils. No idea why though…(Insert smiley face emoji)

And then, because you know I love a connection between things) I connected some other dots. On the way to Norfolk the other weekend, my friend and I were listening to New Fast Automatic Daffodils (I know you all do all of the time, but it was the first time in ages for me). The New Fads as they are affectionately known got their name from an Adrian Henri poem.

And what were we driving back to Norfolk for/to do? *Insert Mind blown gif*

Right, mentions of Adrian Henri are like buses, but I will promise here and now now to make a third reference next week.

While I’m in full draw-your-attention-to-things mode (and harking back to posts from last week) it would be remiss of me not to send you towards the Friday Poem to read

A) the poem published on a Friday. This week it was Emma Simon‘s excellent ‘ Part of me can’t hear the moon calling any more’.
B) The interview with Seren’s Amy Wack
C) My review of Martha Sprackland’s ‘Citadel’

THE WEEK IN STATS

15ishK , Some couch to 5k and an actual 5k as I work my way back to calf-confidence.
c.0 hangovers, despite some good effort on Friday
0 x acceptances
2 rejections: 14 Lines (assumed), Poetry Ireland
1 poem worked on: How Do You Like Them Apples (working title)
0 new Submissions: Nearly sent to Butcher’s Dog, but didn’t.Probably glad I didn’t now..
20 poems currently out for submission.
68 Published poems*: Was 69, but one was not used in the end, having been accepted.
41 Poems* finished by unpublished
27 poems* in various states of undress
554 Rejected poems* Eg I’ve decided they are not good enough
0 Review* written
4reviews to write
0 weeks without cigarettes…
0 Days since drinking (if one glass of wine counts)
1 more week that I’m not having an affair with Eva Green

* To date, not this week. Christ!!

TITLE GIVEAWAY

A Month Of Moths

READ/SEEN/HEARD/ETC

Read
Wendy Pratt: My Body As A Horse
The Tangerine #9

Music

Jo Quail: From The Sea
Turin Brakes: Invisible Storm, JackInABox, Lost Property
Lucy Dacus: Home Movie
New Fast Automatic Daffodils: Body Exit Mind, Pigeonholes, Love It All
The Tallest Man On Earth: Dark Bird Is Home, I Love You, It’s A Fever Dream, When the Bird Sees The Solid Ground, The Wild Hunt
Tamaryn: Tender New Signs
Taylor Swift: Evermore, Fearless
Twilight Singers: live in New York
Underworld: Barbara
Unwed Sailor: Truth Or ConsequencesThe Mission: Neverland
Mitski: Be The Cowboy
The Cure:Anniversary
Collections of Colonies of Bees: Flocks, Customer
David Grubbs &. Taku Unami: Comet Meta
The Foxhole Companion: The King’s Choice

TV/Film
Teachers S2
Love Island
Waking The Dead S7

Zooms, etc
None

Radio/Podcasts
The Archers
Grandbag’s Funeral
The Poet Laureate Goes To His Shed

Ordered
Nothing

Arrived
The Trousers from last week, but they need to go back