“The entire project of making this book (oddly enough I find it difficult to refer to the making as writing, in this case) has been a process of finding out what I could say, how I could say it, how I felt about saying it.” Clare Best
How to write our own truth is a question most writers will ask themselves at some time or another.… More
Welcome to autumn – there’s a seasonal poem for you here, End of Summer by Stanley Kunitz.
But if you love summer and are dreading the ‘cruel wind’, here is some shelter for you:
The toy was found twenty years later, behind the wardrobe. She washed it, smiling as she remembered the tears and tantrums when it was first lost. Hanging it to dry, she anticipated his face when finally reunited with Bobsy. ‘Rabbit,’ he said that evening.… More
Is it just me, but oh, how hard the news is to listen to right now. It seems we’re being fed a constant stream of people out to save their careers, to further their careers… etc etc.
So to get rid of the nasty taste in my mouth, I sat down with my journal today and made a list of 50 things I could do to help other people – some small, some requiring more of a commitment.… More
I’m just back a week writing at Gladstone’s Library – a library with bedrooms. Bliss. Here are some photographs of the general gorgeousness…
From 14th – 17th June, there’s a poetry festival in Tunbridge Wells – hurrah! So to celebrate, the writers in my two writing groups are running a poetry trail.
Nineteen shops running down Chapel Place and on The Pantiles will feature a poem in their windows, all written specially for them by a member of the group.… More
‘What do you think hell will be like?’
I don’t need to imagine. I was there one night last February. A sudden flash. And then
a bobbing ocean, screams, strobe lights, strangers
ignoring every plea, boots stamping stamping, raised
fists, until.… More
I’ve stolen that title from our family Hay Festival WhatsApp group (that’s us above). Looking through the messages now back at home, they read like some kind of frenetic found poem…
Where is everybody?
We are just listening to a cool 103 year old woman.… More
We’re falling apart and there’s no-one left to put us back together. We just let things drop where they will. My finger on the stairs, your leg in the bathroom. We hold each other so gently, secretly measuring what’s left. Soon we’ll just be lips kissing our love to oblivion.… More
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