Last year I tried to take the first sentence of the first blog post of each month to give me a snapshot of the year – and realised, to my dismay, that the truly meaningful parts of the year had been left unsaid. So I thought I would give it another go this year, to see if 2015 has been any different. Here is the result (with a bit of creative boosting). Not quite sure what it says about the kind of year I’ve had, but it’s understated yet bubbling…
I start the year as I mean
to go on:
planning my move into a chateau
complete with delectable grounds.
Ah, the songs of my life…
Each poem only as good as its last incarnation.
No, it’s not
April Fools’ Day joke!
My TBR pile has augmented:
another 12 books.
Is there any writer out there who doesn’t
As a poet wedded
to social media, I
could not resist the premise of this
crime novel Blinde Vögel (Blind Birds)
for I’ve been blind, blind, blind.
I don’t know how, I don’t know why
but one day
on the sly
and on the fly
my poems turned into surly teenagers.
The apparition of these faces in the crowd :
Petals on a wet, black bough.
The bare legs of English girls in winter minis
bring mottled blue bumps out on my flesh.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that
a beautiful house must be in need
of a perfect water feature,
when the party’s over, the curtains drawn,
the water gurgles on.