Interluding [poem]
I took a break earlier this year. I checked my privilege, and I know it’s an
opportunity not open to all; but I was knackered, and I needed to get away from
the strictures of a To Do list.
In amongst the semi-random ambling that characterised those
fleeting weeks, I discovered that this blog is more than six years old and that I
have posted something at an average of once a month. I don’t know what this
means, nor how I feel about it, but I thought I’d try ‘once a week’ for a
while. I started at the beginning of
August with ‘If we score five goals…’, posted a week later with ‘What if we win…’ and then began working on a follow-up so ridiculously complex and
elaborate that I repeatedly failed to finish it.
My hopes for that piece remain intact. In the meantime, and in the spirit of trying to maintain this new pace, a
selection of five residua:
ONE
I am this week co-chairing a conference in Oxford, quite
exciting, possibly even prestigious, so I wrote a blog for Brook Lyndhurst that
contains the word ‘enough’. You can read
it here.
TWO
I was asked to contribute to a fund-raiser for a cancer charity, something
to do with strawberry teas. It turned
into a sonnet with an acrostic. Here it
is:
Surprised again, the buds unfold the spring
that promises the fruits their year will bring;
rejoicing in the warm and serried earth
and nestled in the hay-encircled berth
while tended by the hands of humble care –
behold! this scarlet shield against despair!
* * *
each swollen whorl the proof of summer’s smile
red-fingered ache the sign of pickers’ guile
returning stride the route to punnets’ weigh
young voices tell the world it’s time to play.
Long wait now done, the juice bursts through
the dam:
ok, let’s make a hundred weight of jam!
* * *
vast spread: the scones, the jam the tea the
cream,
epitome of Tiptree’s finest dream
THREE
I wonder what it is about Owen Jones that he has to be so bloody miserable
all the time. It’s almost as though
there’s a class of people who actively delight in shouting at us that we’re all
in a handcart, and it’s going somewhere nasty.
Yes, I know, I know. What are we
going to do about it? That’s the
question.
FOUR
I saw a huge
blue parrot sitting atop a ticket machine near Gloucester Road
tube. Honest. Look, here’s the photo.
I don't know what it means, or how I feel about it. But hey - it's a giant blue parrot. Out and about. What more is there to say?
I don't know what it means, or how I feel about it. But hey - it's a giant blue parrot. Out and about. What more is there to say?
FIVE
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