Verse

Beauty – (for dverse)

Beauty

is an

airplane

in raindrops of time

Eyes that bewitch, dreamcatcher eyes with multicoloured stories inside

gina

A flower of a smile reaching deep

A memory of  fish and chips trees wrapped in newspaper leaves 

The curves in the sand dunes

the waves when you bathe

And your coffee on my lips, when you walk away again

For beauty is the sky, the goodbye, the flame in a story we let melt.

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Writing

A Writer’s Lair: Africa!

Nowhere better actually. Just nowhere. The people are wonderful in every country, the tragedy is galling, but the smiles are pure music. The headscarves, wraps, dresses are all magical, and my two favourite ‘perfumes’, the diesel and the dust, are everywhere. There is nothing not to love about the continent: they must make it, just must.

I cannot pin point the best country or town and seat in Africa to sit and write your novel, but where ever it is, the novel will swirl around you, day and night. The difficulty is squeezing it into your pages quick enough. 

Once an ex-US Marine
gave me a job in Sierre Leone
my job was not too complicated
he said
wake up in the morning
sit on the front of a truck
with a shotgun
during the diamond run
and also bring back the pay
the very same day.

As a writer I could not refuse
and I knew
nothing is more similar to the holder of a pen
than the trigger of a gun.

 

nationsonline.org
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Writing

A Writer’s Lair ~ Lappland

When I used to teach Creative Writing I sometimes would have the students troop of out of classroom or lecture hall into a nearby forest or field, just after the first snow had fallen, or at least a good frost, or when a coating of thin ice had covered grasses and branches. They were not allowed to wear coats or gloves, and I’d have them plunge their hand into the snow for a minute, or breakthrough the ice over puddles.

Then I’d tell them to write their last letter to the world. Some would be shivering. But all would write – and fast – creativity used to come crystal clear. On most occasions these student would be using English not as their mother tongue, but as a second, or third language. Most could knock off a few pages in minutes. I would walk around the group that I would scatter far and wide throughout the forest, motivating them by telling them how cold they felt, how their fingers were getting numb (they were) and how they had to get their ideas out on page before it became more and more difficult to write.

I prefaced these sessions by looking at Scott of the Antarctic’s last letter, or a meditation exercise, or other features, before going outside.

When the students read their ‘letters’ at a later date, some of the material was quite emotional.

For those who want to write, have the will to write, need to, have to, breathe to, but still get blocked, there is sometimes no other way than to put one’s self into a position where only by concentrating on the given story and getting it out onto paper brings warmth. Forcing the story that you know is there out of you.

This winter I am heading north again to Lappland, to live as the Sámi did, in a tipi for as long as I think will be beneficial. There its write or..well, there is no ‘or’ in these conditions. Writing is the only way to escape the cold. And the book must come, or defeat stares back, numbing defeat, mixed with the plunging cold. My method is not madness, as you instinctively know – those who know that the novel is not merely scribbled out onto paper, or tapped onto screen over a pre-planned duration of something commonly known as time. You already know the toll. The difference here is to keep the turmoil physical as much as possible, so that mentally, it flows – instead of the normal opposite when writing.

So buy a thick sleeping bag, the kind that can see you to a mountain top in the Himalayas. You will need dried foods, a small burner, a mattress, animal skin or straw, tea bags, coffee, pens and paper, gloves with fingers, a spade – the spade is to ensure the ‘floor’ of your tipi has two levels, so that the cold air settles down at a lower level than where you are. Lastly you will need candles or torches. Candles are extremely dangerous for obvious reasons. There is no daylight for the winter months in northern Lappland. This works to your advantage, but it is often more motivating to write in the beginning of the year, when daylight slowly creeps back for a few more minutes every day; somehow that fits well with the progress of your work.

arcticphoto.co.uk

Try it. Or try it with me. The productivity and creativity reaches record-breaking levels. And yep, it hurts. But is there one writer among you who can say it doesn’t; whatever approach we use to get the best, the very best work out?

jokkmokkguiderna.com

Sámi in summertime (source local)

Sámi tipi in summer

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Verse

Magpie Tales – The Dancer

Degas, Edgar, Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, négatif 1895-1896.

Degas, Edgar, Danseuse ajustant sa bretelle, négatif 1895-1896.

just an old photograph
of a dancer loved
admired
desired
an old photograph forgotten for years
but the story endures
whispers
pirouetting
dancing
on tiptoes
from the past

the scandal of Paris
one hears
her affairs
how they caused red ears
god I hope so
I really hope so
and defy
anyone
anyone at all
to say that does not 
endear

magpie tales statue stamp 185For Magpie Tales – click on the pic

 

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ceraindance
Verse

It’s Raining Today

dark-clouds-valley

 r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i                             r         r                                        i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i             r                     a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r                   a                 i                    r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i               r             a                                    i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i                                  a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r            a                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r              a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r                   a                 i              n        r                     a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                n                                  a                     i                      n                    r                     a                  i                       n            r                                        i                  n                     r                a                  i               n             r        a               i             r                     a                     i                        n                     r                a               i           n            r                     a                     i                         n                     r                a                  i                    r                    a                     i                     n                     r                a                  i                  r                     a                     i                       n                     r                a                i          n                 r       puddle                                    puddle        puddle              puddle             puddle puddle                  puddle  puddle  puddle      puddle         puddle     puddle   puddle      puddle

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wasp-nest
Flash Fiction

Friday Fictioneers ~ “Would anyone like a lovely, kind…….?”

“So what is it?”wasp-nest

“Your brain.”

“………………”

<<This story is officially  interrupted to allow the writer to plead with his muse to put his brain back into his head, even in the state it is now in.>>

6

“Feel better?”

“Uuuh..a bit..how was I able to speak whe..?”

“Oh be quiet and finish, you have 50 words left.”

“Um, dearest, nicest, loveliest muse..you wouldn’t like to try another writer would you?  There are plenty to choose from on Friday Fictioneers, they might really appreciate your help!”

“You don’t want me?”

“Oh I do, I do I do I do dearest muse, I just thought maybe…”

“Well, if any ask for me, then of course I would…”

“Dearest loveliest kindest Friday Fictioneer colleagues, would you be interested in……..?”

“What are you writing?……”

Friday Fictioneers – photo by Janet Webb

Previous muse encounter here

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Verse

Sometimes

sometimes

only, maybe, every

second second

I think of how

she

u   s   e   d   t   o   p   l   a   y   t   h   e   p   i   a   n   o

nude

w

                  i

t

                                 h

o

        n

e

                    f

i

                                                       n

g

                                    e

r,

                                                   n

o

                                   t

e

by

n

                                                                    o

                                                                t

                                                                                  e           

as the sun

        os

r                                   e

she                             looked

beautiful.

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