Our writers’ group guru was poorly sick today so she stayed at home, along with her prompts from the BBC sound effects archives. Luckily she had let on yesterday that one of the clips was a recording of lots of snails crawling over the walls of a cave. So I spent a little bit of time working from that. This little oddity is where I got to.
There are things you do
as a child.
Unthinking, automatic things with
heartbreaking, shameful results
that will haunt you hollow, always.
When I need to forget
my own crimes,
I return to this
dank, hidden place.
Wait until I hear it again.
Sometimes it takes an age.
Sometimes even longer.
But it always comes,
Furred, impossible noise
of the snails, tracing my absolution.
That said, the worst atrocity I can remember from my childhood is the time I failed to give my little brother any sympathy or comfort after he belly-flopped off the highest diving board at our local swimming pool. I didn’t really have a clue how painful that would be. I still feel guilty about it.
A small stone for today:
As the fledgling mandolin player stands on the stage, the audience beat their wings. Offer final grubs. Invitations to fly.
Below is an erasure poem that emerged in a writing workshop led by Kirsten Luckins earlier in the week:
Walnut front, indubitably.
Silver back, haunting.
Where are eighteen bath towels, decades later?
I love erasure poems. A great way to come up with some surreal nonsense. Nothing to do with Andy Bell. They are basically collections of words and phrases you like, extracted from a page of other people’s writing. A sort of robbery come cut-and-shut job really. Often presented as pages of text with lots of black marker across it. Have a look on google images.
Today’s small stone:
We all live two lives side by side. One life to share and one to hide.
Kirsten (of the workshop) has a blog: http://kirstenluckins.wordpress.com
In other news, I have entered a flash fiction (250 word story) for the Bridport prize. Might as well start audaciously, after all. I might add a poem tomorrow.
A small stone from today’s visit to the razzle-jazzle central library in Newcastle-upon-Tyne.
The sweet smell of pipe tobacco, on the old man who is lending me a pen, reminds me that the golden days are not over.
If you don’t know what a small stone is and you would like to find out, try this link: