The Prevailing Wind

This was one of the poems I wrote for Illuminate Bath 2010. It's inspired by the festival's themes of kinetic energy and light, and by my completion of the John O' Groats to Land's End cycle ride last year. While cycling, I often met people who told me I was going the wrong way: In England we have a thing called 'the prevailing wind', which means that more often than not the wind blows from the South to the North. Of course, I didn't believe a word of it. I'd never heard of the prevailing wind, and had assumed that the wind blows any direction it fancies; however, after a week, I had to concede that I'd made a mistake.
In this poem I have likened that experience to the decisions we make, and which we stick to out of habit, trying not to question whether our difficulties are due to the fact we're heading in the wrong direction; that there could be something fundementally wrong in our thinking.


The Prevailing Wind


At first, I didn’t believe in the prevailing wind.
I always travelled from North to South, thinking my lack
of hearing was natural; the roar in my ears like the pulse
in my blood. I met strangers. They walked toward me and passed

with the slightest of nods. If I turned to watch them go
I’d see children pulling on their parents’ trouser-legs, pointing
back at me. I travelled onwards. My body grew stronger
while others were struggling. I saw a boy leaning forwards

like the prow of a ship, supported by the same wind
he was trying to fight. I saw an elderly woman
crawling. A group of people were pleading with her
‘Please turn around!’ But she spat at their feet.

When I reached the woman, I stopped. I asked her why
she struggled so. The prevailing wind would always blow
from South to North, against her. And where was she trying to go?
The woman couldn’t remember. And by that point, neither could I.




The poem has appeared as a digital animation in Green Park Station and the Pump Rooms in Bath. When I have the animations, I will post them alongside the page version of each poem.

Doorbell Thief at Birmingham Slam

Hi all,
I've just got hold of this video from the Bath Spa slam in Birmingham last Thursday:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xnjr6qr3cPA
If you skip to 10:15, that's me; for the slam, I had Jack Dean accompany me as the voice of the doorbell thief, which was dead cool. My own performance was a bit nervous and tame, and Jack's excitement really lifted it.

Check out these links to see the rest of the night, in chronological order:
1) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FhP-WKMXLZs
2) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LfNf1EF9XJM
3) http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-JF7ky8fMRM

Unfortunately, I don't think the second half was filmed, which had my two individual poems and the team poem, but if anything shows up I will post that also.
Cheers, watch your doorbells!
Sam

Poetry Projections

The eight poems I wrote for Illuminate Bath 2010 have now appeared twice, as animations designed by Graphics Communications students and projected on the walls of Green Park Station and the Pump Rooms.
I have been amazed at some of the work done by the Graphics students, and I can't thank them enough for their enthusiastic involvement with the project. I am currently waiting to get hold of the animations, and permission to share them, at which point I will upload them here.
Keep your eyes peeled, the poems may appear again between now and the closing party on Saturday 13th November. As soon as I know any times and dates, I will post again.
Many thanks to anybody who has gone along and seen the work; if you have any pictures or comments, please get in touch!

Slam: Bath Spa University VS Birmingham University

Just got home from a night away in Birmingham. Myself and three other poets from Bath Spa went up to take on the cream of the Birmingham performance poets in a very well-attended slam. The final score was 5-3 to Birmingham, a well deserved victory, and we're looking forward to getting them down to Bath next year for the rematch.
Birmingham student radio was in attendance, and the whole thing was captured on video; as soon as I have clips to share, I will post them here.

First Projection Dates

I've recently been told the first two dates on which my poems will be projected in places around Bath.
The first will be at the Illuminate Bath launch arty on Monday 1st November, 18:00 to 20:00. BBC Points West will be filming live at around 18:45/18:50, so if you're watching the local news you may see me interviewed about the work.
The second will be at the Pump Rooms, Stall Street, Bath, on Thursday 4th November from17:00 to 20:00. My poems will be projected onto the West front. Unfortunately, I won't see this projection myself because I'll be at an inter-university poetry slam in Birmingham. If you happen to see the projection, please let me know how it looked!
If you're able to, please try and get along to the Pump Rooms on the 4th. If you have any comments about the work, feel free to get in touch by e-mail.

Remember to check out the other Illuminate Bath events, by downloading a brochure on their website.

Illuminate Bath 2010

I am the poet in residence for the very first Illuminate Bath festival. I'm very excited about Illuminate; there's going to be some amazing work appearing in Bath's public places for two weeks beginning on the 1st of November. Most of the festival is about visual arts around the themes of kinetic energy and illumination; there will be dance, sculpture, film, music, animation, textiles, installations, theatre, poetry, and workshops. See here for their website. There's an online festival guide you can download, and brochures will be distributed around Bath over the next week.
My contribution has been to write a series of poems in response to the festival themes of kinetic movement and illumination. I have been working in collaboration with Graphic Communication students to develop imaginative projections inspired by the poems, and it is these projections which will form part of the festival. I haven't seen what they've come up with yet, but I'm looking forward to it. There's no set time for when my work will be shown; it will most likely appear at either end of one of the festival's visual projection pieces, or at Green Park Station, throughout the festival. As the poems appear in public, I may also post them here on my blog.
Please check out the festival if you're able, I'm sure it's going to be amazing, and keep an eye out for my poems around Bath.

Poem a Day Project

I have ended my Poem a Day Project. The project was good fun, and made me try something different, but I've just started the third year of my degree and there's so much other writing to be getting on with! I'm really excited about some of the things I've got the opportunity to write this year; I will upload some drafts at some point.
I'm also involved with the Illuminate Bath Festival this year, as poet in residence, so there will be some details about that coming shortly.

Poem a day, 40: October 10th 2010

Level One: Childhood.


I am five years old. I refuse to eat anything but fish fingers or chicken nuggets with chips, although anything covered in breadcrumps will do at a pinch.

I am Super Mario. My hair is so horrendous I need to keep it covered with a cap, and I’m getting overweight so I can squash you flat.

I play football at lunchtimes, always in goal, and I get my glasses broken twice. I back down from fights.

Level Two: Adolescence.

My smoking habit starts by stealing one of mum’s Richmonds from the bathroom, flushing the toilet to cover the sound of the lighter, and blowing the smoke out the window. Nobody is any the wiser.

I am still Mario, and try to convince my friends that a Nintendo 64 is clearly superior to a Playstation, but the fools don’t listen.

I try magic mushrooms after drenching them in honey, and soon the room becomes huge, with a certain odd quality of paper box about it. The flowers in the garden are formed by way of an intricate origami, although noone can see this but me.

And sex for the first time is a little like ticking a box, an exchange of bodily fluids and shame, my dignity along with my virginity lost.

Level Three: Adulthood.

Finally, after all that rigarmole with gel, quiffs, and spikes, I shave my head. I lose a few stone. I become a vegetarian, although I still enjoy beige food in breadcrumbs. I am no longer Mario.

Finally, I get a job. I type addresses from envelopes onto computers, my wrists twang with repetetive strain, and my boss yells with a tongue like a metaphorical whip whip sound as my brain melts.

Mr Drew, can’t you type any faster? We’ve got to get these biscuit samples on their merry way to Manchester!

I’m Mario again, and I desprately need help.

Mr Drew, can’t you enter the addresses more accurately? We’ve simply got to get these energy usage questionnaires on their jolly way to Southend on Sea!

This desk job’s messing with my health, and I’m accumulating little wealth.

Mr Drew, you need to just accept your fate, this is the most you will ever achieve, your dreams were never all that great, one day you’ll be in middle management like me!

Fuck you, Steve! In my eyes you represent Donkey Kong, Peter Piranha, Bowser and all his bastard kids. Now look at this (middle finger). I’d rather be a bloody goomba than work in middle management.

Mr Drew, there’s nothing else that you can do, you’re under qualified and low on self-esteem!

Fuck that, I’m quitting my job and living the real American dream: killing my boss on the way out. I’ll catch the barrels you throw so that you slip and fall to the ground a hundred feet below and snap your hairy monkey back, because I am Mario!

That’s right: I will never age, I will never change, I will never reveal what’s under my cap, I will never shave my moustache off, because I am Mario! And when I’m done, and bowser is defeated and the princess is naked and gagging for it, I’ll switch off. And begin again. Because no achievement is enough for me, and though my lives may be wasted on pratfalls, moving platforms and very small people, the levels where I struggled the most were the best of all.

Continue?

9

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0

GAME OVER

Poem a day, 39: October 9th 2010

On my way back, a balloon preceded me;
a red balloon wafted its way down the street
drunken and listless. An advertisement flashed
for a moment, giving the balloon away
as an escapee from a closing down sale
like the striped clothes of a jailbird.

On my way back, an elderly gentleman approached me;
an elderly gentleman walked to the shops
purposeful and expectant. He moved aside on the pavement
and I thought he was getting out of the balloon’s way
but then he kicked it towards me
like we were playing football.

On my way back, I played football
with an elderly gentleman and a balloon.
I got it back to him with a knee and he missed
with his first kick, but tapped it as it passed
with a little flick of his sandaled feet.
It’s funny, the people you meet these days.

Poem a day, 38: October 8th 2010

Today I picked from the pavement
two dirty red elastic bands.
I used to have one of those balls
constructed from elastic bands

but now I can’t find it
so I wrap one around the other
to begin a new one.
Then I think:

I’m bound to lose this one as well.
It would be better to keep them
on silver hooks in the wall
or inside a glass cabinet

or lined up neatly side by side
in my bottom drawer.
Then I think:
What do I even need elastic bands for?

And I put them back like a small animal corpse
found on the beach
and met with disapproval
by my mother.

Poem a day, 37: October 7th 2010

An old lady was in the park today, sifting through the crackling leaves –
trying to find the hard oval of a conker among those brittle little pages
ploughing sharp drifts aside with her feet in black dress shoes
and unaware that everybody who approached her would deviate
from sealing a deal on their mobile or exercising the dog
to join the search, just for a moment.
I found one and pocketed it, like a hard smooth little heart
not deceased, but looking for a place to be of use.

Poem a day, 36: October 6th 2010

I wish you all the best: everything
that keeps you hungry, prevents your growth
forces your silence, straps you down-
taken away like tar from your lungs.
Unless hunger heats your desire
your size keeps you safe from large hands
your silence stops them repremanding you
and those binding straps allow your technical study
of this square red room
we are in.

Poem a day, 35: October 5th 2010

Norman Wisdom has passed away
who was lucky to never break a bone
rolling down the stairs and getting stuck
in train carriage doors and such.

Mr Grimsdale! Mr Grimsdale!
Get your hands off that woman
and her ample bosom
there’s some emergency or other.
Mr Grimsdale! Mr Grimsdale!

He fell and fell and fell and fell
on my grandma’s television
while my grandpa
hidden in the kitchen
shouted in: what’s he doing now?

Mr Grimsdale! Mr Grimsdale!
There’s milk to be delivered
and we’re behind the times
everything’s moving far too fast
we’re sure to be left behind.
Mr Grimsdale! Mr Grimsdale!

My grandma would shout back something like
it’s that bit where’s he’s brought the horse
inside the house. Any second now
Mr Grimsdale will find out
and then there’ll be hell.

Poem a day, 34: October 4th 2010

As I stand before you on this stage
I’d like to ask you all
if you have any tips
for dealing with stage fright.
I’m aware I’ve probably left it too late
because I can hear each beat of my heart
and I feel as if I might quite literally shit
in my trousers. And actually that might
help me to remain on the stage
because it’ll be days before you smell this.
Perhaps I should picture you naked.
I doubt if that helps.
Instead I’ll just speak really really fast
and get each poem out of the way
as if I was running across broken glass
and make up crappy new obvious rhymes
if I forget my line.
After I’m done
I’ll sit back down
and pick up my pint.
And I’ll feel alright, because anyway
nobody will remember me
by the end of the night.

Poem a day, 33: October 3rd 2010

We choose to kill one animal over another
because one is clever and the other is ugly and wild
ignoring the long-lost cousin and loving the brother.

When the dolphins were killed in nets the people were bothered
and boycotted the lot, because dolphins are smart, that’s why
we choose to kill one animal over another.

Now the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds, has other
creatures ignored, like the tuna that has no smile
ignoring the long-lost cousin and loving the brother.

Now the albatross are endangered, they say its more productive
to fish at night with heavy weights on the lines.
We choose to kill one animal over another
ignoring the long-lost cousin and loving the brother.

Poem a day, 32: October 2nd 2010

Grandma, I’m sorry about the jumper
you knitted for my eleventh birthday
which was bright yellow
with Dennis the Menace
wearing his own jumper
in black and red stripes
and the catapult in his back pocket.
Only today did I have the revelation
that it must have taken many evenings
by your electric fire
casting on
purling
repeating
and binding off
knowing that I loved Dennis the Menace
and would surely love a bright yellow
jumper with Dennis on my chest.
I wore it once for the smile on your face
and hung it in the wardrobe
in mum’s house
on the far left
out of the way.

Poem a day, 31: October 1st 2010

Yo. It’s hard to stay high in these troubled old times when people in the street are so polarised. Some people see signs in sunrise and rainbows, some people see aeons of slow change in birds’ flight. Remember this question from playground philosophy: how do we know that the red you see is the red I see? When I say tomAto, you say there’s an answer to prayers. When I say tomáto, you say that nobody’s there. And I just want to love, and wait, and make up my own mind, but I’m standing on the fault line between continents drifting apart. To stand my ground I must learn how to fly.   

Poem a day, 30: September 30th 2010

Dear everyone, please find enclosed a map
to find the Porter bar on Monday.
We’re meeting at eight for beers on tap
discussion, poetry, and time to play.

Bring a poem if you want to read
a decent hat to look the part
then get yourself a decent seat
and be silent when the reading starts.

Sorry for writing a sonnet today.
And an e-mail I’m drafting for subject matter.
It’s not that I’ve got nothing to say
but it’s been a long day and I’m fucking knackered.

This form is really, really old.
The boiler’s broken, this room is cold.

Poem a day, 29: September 29th 2010

Write your names just here
we’ll collect you together
paint with your voices.

Write your name just here
we’ll find your hidden core, with
repeat exposures

like a camera left
in a room you’re walking through
learning the floorboards.

Write your number, too.
We’ll call when you’re in the bath
and ask for funding.

We are in charge now.
And though we have your interests
at heart, there is more.

Poem a day, 28: September 28th 2010

Having a name, which appears to contain
a subject and a verb
often inspired children to finish the sentence.
It quickly became
‘Sam Drew a picture’
Which was fine
for a time
until my contemporaries added clauses
and created a narrative of my life
so far from the truth
it became irritating:

‘Sam Drew a picture
of his family
in the car together
going somewhere
on holiday, perhaps.’

‘Sam Drew a picture
of the expanding reaches
of the infinity of space.’

‘Sam Drew a picture
of his friends
intact.’

‘Sam Drew a picture
of himself as an adult
with financial success
and justification for why
this would be desirable.’

Truth be told
the only thing I ever drew
was my friend and his girlfriend
at Land’s End.
The picture has a picturesque view
smudged, and the lovers
existing in each other
forever.
And that never came true.

Poem a day, 27: September 27th 2010

I used to be nervous
sweat drenched
short of breath

Now I’m at ease in all sorts of company
able to speak to coach drivers, painters,
Hare Krishna monks, workmates.
Recently, I’ve been known to dance extravagantly
holding one foot behind me
and swinging the resulting stump around
like I was painting a Jackson Pollock.
Sometimes I smile at people in the street.

There’s one thing
sure to bring back
my teenage self

Shopping for jeans has my throat stifled
like a drainpipe full of scum
trying to ask for a pair with longer legs
without sounding as if I were asking
for costume drama midget pornography.
I sweat at the dilemma of choosing between
bootcut, regular, or skinny fittings
and slightly different shades of blue.

Nothing looks right
but I’m damned
if I’ll leave empty handed.

Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever looked at my own arse for so long.

Finally, I buy that first pair
at the cost of a day’s work
and slip back out, blushing.

Poem a day, 26: September 26th 2010

We have been carved from the same wood
you and I.
For this leap of metaphor
trying to imagine a childhood as wooden
please don’t think of a tree but rather
a block of wood, twelve metres in height
two metres in width, and another two in depth.
So that if I were to trace the knots down
to find the shape of you waiting in this space
your limbs could never reach
beyond the edge of the block’s dimensions
and you can fill that potential all you want
but never be taller than twelve metres.

Poem a day, 25: September 25th 2010

This morning, the air is pure
by which I mean the air
holds no heat
harbours no moisture.
Sounds flail and fall in such air.

And I should like to sieve myself
through this pure air
sprinkling a residue
of webs and half pictures
to decorate the ground behind me.

Poem a day, 23: September 23rd 2010

If a fire erupts in one room of your house
you need thirty minutes to get the hell out.
The doors should close like locks in a river
to imprison the fire. It will stride through
your bedroom, tearing down the wallpaper
eating your bedclothes, reading your books.
And soon it will force the door, escape
and chase you out of your home, curling
its black hair and stinking of knowledge.

Poem a day, 22: September 22nd 2010

Nobody saw him, the fly-covered rat,
but still he lay crying:
I was much closer than you thought
and not rotting but dying.

Poor rat, he always loved rabble-rousing
and now he’s breathing his last.
He must have eaten poison on the banks of the river
and crawled up here to the grass.

Oh, no no no, it was poison always
(still the dead rat lay crying)
I was much too hungry all my life
and not rotting but dying.

Poem a day, 21: September 21st 2010

Among the most futile things I’ve attempted today
is trying to find
a new programme
beginning straight after the Simpsons has finished.
I don’t know
about conspiracies
but if you have found a way of connecting
the end of a day
to a beginning
without enduring the evil of night time
then tell me
because I don’t think
it can be done.

Poem a day, 20: September 20th 2010

Today, I feel like a shark.
They have to move or else they sink
and I know if I stop I will never find
the surface. I have poor eyesight.
I have been known to hurt the innocent
mistaking them for seals and turtles.
Now I have sworn off seals and turtles
but I have already been misrepresented
in the media, and their stories grow sharp
and attractive like coral. I swim
back and forth in the water
with massive depths below.

Poem a day, 19: September 19th 2010

Ill today. Don't ask me
to play monopoly, or
write a decent poem.

Poem a day, 18: September 18th 2010

The toys of my childhood taught me
reincarnation. Soldiers stormed the fortress
were cut down by arrows, machine guns, lasers
and then raised to life by my changing hands
and then did it all again with no regrets
loyal, forgetful, unstained.

Poem a day, 17: September 17th 2010

There was a young lady from Braintree
with pink glasses she'd had since a baby.
This morning she left them
on the floor and I stepped on them
she was screaming and red-faced and scary.

Poem a day, 16: September 16th 2010

In the bathtub, a girl is drowning. If she
straightened an arm it would raise her head
just enough to breathe, but she stays beneath
the water. She knows a single movement
will relinquish her freedom.
She was born in the ocean.

Poem a day, 15: September 15th 2010

I saw your large painting in the art gallery
and was surprised to see myself as a baby
in the corner among the wrapping paper
and empty beaches.
Now I am displaying myself before you
as a shadow previously hidden
cast on the floor in your path, your child
cut from paper.

Poem a day, 14: September 14th 2010

Returning to my bedroom yesterday evening, with the small window
and the window’s dusty blind gathered up like puffed sleeves
I saw the moth. Every evening, there is a moth at my window
knocking on the glass and displaying its belly and legs.
Last night, this thought occurred to me: why is there one moth?
Does each moth have one window it haunts, one light it desires?
Following that was the thought, no, the certainty, that this moth
is the same moth each evening. I closed the blind and the moth flew
to the bottom of the pane, like giving a bow at the end of the show.
I resolved to keep the blind closed, and would have, if not for
the plant in the brown pot on the windowsill. Just like the moth
it has one sun it desires, beyond the window and above the garden
and would not be fooled by the heat and light of my reading lamp.
I considered bringing the moth inside, and taking the plant outside
but left them where they are until they tell me what they know.

Poem a day, 13: September 13th 2010

Opticians today. I purchased
contact lenses to help me see.
It took me ages to learn how
to insert these things
by poking myself in the eye.
I did not think the instinct
to shut your eyes tight
at foreign objects
could be un-learnt
but it turns out that it can.
So now my sight defect
is fixed and invisible.
I have others, but no appointment
to rid me of them.

Poem a day, 12: September 12th 2010

The war photographer
figment in the eye for
the shell-shocked marine
the open-mouthed grieving wife
the running Greek rebel
the starving boy with the empty tin.
They never hear the camera click
for mortars screams bullets rumbling stomach
and we never see the man.
But I can imagine him weathered
by all he has seen, smelt, heard, and felt
changing in front of these people
who don’t notice him.

Poem a day, 11: September 11th 2010

My grandmother had a stuffed bear, and when my mother was born, she passed the bear on. When my sister was born, my mother passed the bear on again, and by this stage it was a bit knackered: one eye missing, patchy fur, and all the stuffing down in one leg like a blackjack club. Emily loved it. One day, my mother decided to restore the bear. It got a new eye, new fur, and had the stuffing drained from the leg and redistributed around its body. Emily was very upset, and I was able to sympathise. You get used to the way a companion feels in your hand, like a cigarette, or a breast.

Poem a day, 10: September 10th 2010

I would like to argue that beauty is arbitrary.
Beauty is survival instinct: the sunrise
is beautiful because it gets warmer, the crops
can grow, and predators have nowhere to hide.

I would like to argue that you’re full of shit.
What about snow? It kills the crops
you freeze and starve and die, and yet
I find the snow-bound trees very attractive.

I would like to argue that if talking to yourself
is the first sign of madness
then staging a short debate with yourself
in 4-line iambic stanzas
must be the second.

Poem a day, 9: September 9th 2010

When I was sixteen my father gave me a computer. This is not a true story. He said: “It’s yours. Do what you want with it.” Just roll with it. So I took the computer upstairs, and I smashed it. My father was appalled at first, but when I repeated his words back to him he was pleased that I’d found the loophole. Now I have a new computer, but I am not allowed to smash it.

Poem a day, 8: September 8th 2010

Olly is Emma's potted plant.
Emma gave Olly his name.
Olly and I are not related
Yet while I was transporting him
From one house to another
He spoke to me: "Sam, please, you can’t
regard me as nothing more than a potted plant
when I think of you as a brother.”
Naturally, I was surprised to hear Olly speak.
He went on to say
(I am paraphrasing)
that it was unmerciful of me
to deliver him straight
from one house to another
when he hasn’t been outside
in years. And I agreed.
So we had a fine day out.
I took him to a pub, the Royal Oak
and we had six pints. We
went to the arboretum
and ogled the sexy snapdragons
and the beautiful begonias.
We got in a fight. We
ate chips from polystyrene trays.
When we got to Emma’s that evening
I’m sure we looked a right state.

Poem a day, 7: September 7th 2010

Home is
video games
overeating
sofa
getting stuff out of the loft
that only I can reach.
Leaving is
train station
reading
nowhere
and hoping
I’ll see you really soon.

Poem a day, 6: September 6th 2010

Ivy cutting today. We
tore leaves away
from my mother’s tree
until we realised the shape
beneath the foliage
the extent of the ivy’s dependence
virus limbs
knotting around every promise of fruit.
When we were finished
the spine of the tree was astonished
like a hostage freed
after two years indoors.
We went down to the base
found the ivy’s parallel root
hairy and clinging
picked a section
sliced it top and bottom
tore it out
and presented it to the prisoner.
Perhaps what we were doing
was more than cutting. The two of us
taking away, to find
something huddled and waiting
for a blossom next year.
Secateurs and a hacksaw
for the ivy’s return.

Poem a day, 5: September 5th 2010

Followed by morris dancers today.
I turned around in the street
standing my ground
and they jangled a ragged reggae
pretending to look away
at crystals in a shop window.
Start walking: the bells start ringing.
I ran and the tempo increased
to hardcore electronica beats
jumped onto the train
they followed
six echoes in garish seats
faces hairy and mean, with big hats.
I got off one stop early
and they shook their ringing fists
as they were taken away.

Poem a day, 4: September 4th 2010

You can identify a real bastard
by how he feeds ducks.
Some people break the bread
and spread the pieces on the water
like wishes, or offerings.
But I like to chuck great chunks
at their heads.

Poem a day, 3: September 3rd 2010

There was a new baby from Nicky
who was crawling and wide-eyed and sickly
too young to achieve
and thus I believe
a poor subject for limericks, really.

Poem a day, 2: September 2nd 2010

Repetitions seem to gather on birthdays.
As on this day, walking the dog
down a path I have already walked
a thousand times without the dog.
I brought my girlfriend. We
shielded our faces from the sun
using one hand to cover the light
and another to cover its brother
in the lake. The dog chased
another dog. A big one. The big one
chased a ball. There were two
causes for everything, and at least
six days I could remember. One more.

Poem a day, 1: September 1st 2010

The tail of the sea
gripped in the jaws of the land
struggles from the harbour

Poem a day project

Inspired by Emma Fowler's Creative Thinkers blog, I've decided to write a short (possibly banal) 'poem of the day' for 365 days. The poems will hopefully form a type of diary of what I've been up to, inspired as they are by immediate experiences, edited as little as possible, and written without the anxiety of making 'proper poems' out of them.
The first few days are in lieu, after this I'll be putting one up each day. Let me know what you think.

Jump-starting the blog

Since last July, I have abandoned this blog like a Christmas kitten: interesting for a week or so, and useful in its way (the metaphor already collapsing like an old cat with a child on its back), but quickly abandoned.
In fact, anybody who has read my blog in the past year might think that I am still doing the JOGLE ride! I actually completed the ride in three weeks and raised nearly £1000 for Downham School, and have been stationary for a long time.
I've been involved with lots of interesting stuff with fundraising, music and writing, but I won't bother to fill all that in: posts from here on in will only concern new and exciting things.
Best wishes,
Sam