It’s a bit windy outside. I should go about my collection and fix hat elastics.
There’s an Italian word I learnt yesterday that I was going to share with you, but I’ve decided it’s so delicious that I’m going to keep the whole thing to myself. Maybe I’ll show you the plate with the crumbs on it. If you can guess what it is, I’ll give you a raspberry. Clues? It’s a musical term; if it were a fruit, I think it’d be a cherry; and it has to do with gentlemen in balaclavas.
Anyhoo, newses:
Many of you know what a sensitive bug I can be; I had research vegetarianism for work, and haven’t eaten meat since–not even yesterday, when Caitie’s cheeseburger smelt like some kind of tasty god–but I have been enjoying making things with lentils.
I’m very definitely travelling to Wisconsin in May to meet the Fonz (and co.), so I’m madly excited about that. I’ve been using my departure date as a deadline to clear up some unfinished business, and I’m feeling so much better for it. I’m enjoying a week of great levity, even if I feel swept off my feet with busy-ness. Days need to be longer.
Finalising venue stuff for launch of The Voyage shortly, so watch this space. Ms Walsh has been doing a very fine job of the art for the book; do take a squiz at it here. I’ve not yet seen the final image, but I’m leaning towards this glorious drawing for the cover:
Sky Fishing
Finally, for today, here’s a poem that’ll be included in the chapbook. It was printed in The Definite Article in 2007, and hasn’t seen the light of day since then. And yes, the house in the poem did have massive cracks in the walls. They let the sunshine in very nicely.
Woodgate Sonnet
for Andrew, the ghost
And suddenly it gets colder. The sun
lingers on the horizon, waiting to drop
like a stone to the water. Buried under
the sand, our feet feel the tide. We pull
our coats around ourselves, pockets heavy
with shells, and hunt for our shoes in the dark.
My hands rebel against the chill; keys tremble
in the door. We shuffle in, pad around
in sleeping bags, leave the dishes till morning.
We drink dark Earl Grey, pour an extra cup
for Andrew, listen to Bowie or maybe
Waits, and notice yet another fissure
opening the walls between us and the sky,
us and the water, us and our Woodgate.
Oh, and I’m setting myself a new challenge. I’m going to write a poem for every single one of my hats (well, for their mysterious previous owners). They shall appear here in coming weeks (months… who knows).
Zenobia Frost 