Local poem: Attempt One - Draft One

Okay - first draft so don't laugh. I write a few more versions before it is finished. let me know what you think.

I spend last Wednesday evening down at the Barbican in Plymouth and so found this from somewhere this morning.


Plymouth Hoe

Sea mist gone.
The path rain-patterned -
blobs of gum,
hammered into liver-spotted
stone by
infinite footfall on 
Friday night.

On its knees it
drags at the skirts of
theatre goers - begging to be
seen, noticed, appreciated. But
the high-heeled harlots beep
their cars awake and hurry home.

And yet, harbour boats
sparkle, lit lanterns sway.
As the rain, come and gone
remains - encasing the cobbles
reflecting what she once was.
Hope cemented in the
cracks and the
seagulls' cry.

Return of Me

Autumn has descended and of that I'm glad. This is my favourite time of year. Something about the bonfires, winey stews, apples, the closing evenings makes me want to batten down the windows and retreat - and I love it. It's a creative season for me. I want to hold words, take them and conjure something from them. Hardly ever successfully but in a way - that's the point.

It's a season to make mistakes, take risks, push inside yourself and find what's there. And there's always something there. Whether it be a shallow flaccid, hardly-there fragment of yourself or the bold warrier woman that you're hoping for.

I'm challenging myself to write three poems about my local area for a competition so I might as well do it publically he he. I haven't written observational poems like this very often mine (as you will see if you scroll back) are mainly self absorbed. But why not take some risks?

Light the woodburner and settle down.

Enough already.

Hey let's get away from the idea that this has failed miserably - which it has! Let's just say that I have learned something from the experience and move on.

I still intend to write as much poetry as I can but the novel must be my focus until July. I have scheduled in 500 words writing a day until then, when I calculate I will have a passable first draft.

So all good still writing, and actually a first line did come to me today while I was washing up. My usual means of achieving inspiration!

Here is it: the meaning is slightly cloaked but I wanted to try and capture that elusive thing that keeps us alive and in love when our relationships are not so good. I may come back and edit it a little after the school run. Until then enjoy its virgin state.

That Thing

That thing you gave me yesterday – it

shines and sparkles still. Star-like in our

cloudy skies, an item in the night to

cling to when my love flies

away to exercise her wings.

I’ve placed it on a dusty shelf so I

can see it when we rage. And when we

say what we do not mean it glitters

enticingly and I know that the anger

will flitter away.

For that thing is wedded to my skin – it

holds what we’re about. And I know –

I know that even when not on shelf and

show, when my love is so far to not

be seen – it sparkles.

Day 231

This one just came to me as I made myself a milky coffee this afternoon. An act which is forever married with the comfort of my mum when I was ill.


Council House Coffee

Pour me silkily into
copper pan - see as I
rise up in honour of
her. Smell me slightly
burned where I lingered a
fraction too long.
Pour me into instant
granules - sugary sweet,
blistering heat. Then wait
until the skin slides
over taut and tight.
Pursed lips - caught in
concern whisper still:
'Drink up and
all will be well.'

Day 215

I'm back. And I need to slip back into this poetry mode easily I feel. So just a short one today. An announcement to make too - i've been accepted on a Masters degree in Creative Writing at Exeter University and I'm so psyched about it - as most of you will know who are my friends on Facebook.

It's such a big deal for me because more than anything I want to call myself a writer. I want to write novels (I am writing a novel!) but without the confidence, contacts and technique that a course like this will give me, it is hard to imagine it ever happening for real. To see my book on a Waterstones stand is a dream.

I had to send them some examples of my writing which included 6 poems from this blog. So I guess that if I hadn't been writing this I may not have got on the programme. I also sent them a short story and the first chapter of the aforementioned novel. I guess it did the trick. Anyhow this is a little poem about dipping your toe in again.



Wild Swimming

Airdried and
warmed by summer sun -
the urge to stay that way
overwhelming. But
without the plunge
without the dive
into dark waters again -
We are nothing.