Never to plan....

I set myself the goal of reading five poems a day and due to circumstances beyond my control - an Uncle getting taken to hospital, a Mum who is his sister being constantly worried, while still caring for my disabled Dad and my Dads 75th birthday - I have well and truly been blown off course.


It's at times like these that I am thankful for the OCA and its relaxed style of deadlines. I can already feel this one slipping with only one poem written, a few notes and another only four lines long. The assignment is about emotion and how to convey it through the poem - especially when read out loud - after all that is what poetry should be about, the sound and emotion. The only emotion I could emote at the moment would be that of a truly knackered individual.

It's at time like these I have to remind myself how lucky I am to have been able to embark on this quest - something a Secondary School, Eleven Plus Failure, like myself would never have dreamed of, or been allowed to dream of by teachers or even parents. Even when I went to Technical College my English Language tutor wrote I had good writing style but I had an unhealthy fixation on death; she never asked me why I wrote about it so much. I was focussed on the subject having lost the second most important father figure in my life to cancer my Granddad. I hated this summing up of my subject matter because it exposed me, laid it there for all to see. I resented her and showed this by handing in very little work from there until the exams; childish but I was a teenager.

My revenge on my tutor, for this awful review that was delivered in my report, was total, measured and devastating. It was also wholly unplanned.

During the final exam, where my tutor officiated, we were given ten titles and told to write a story for  on the ideas that sprang to mind; we had two hours.

"Waiting" jumped off the page. I saw it so clearly. My tutor, an emotional, motherly sort walked up and down between the two columns of students. She had the habit of pausing and reading each piece as she went - there was no cupping your arm around the page in those days for fear of being told off; it looked underhand after all. I plunged in, writing about my Nan standing in her kitchen, her two boys running in and out the back door; one was six, having been born four months after his Father had left for World War Two, the other was eight or nine. All the pictures of that period show her with a piny with a slightly torn pocket. I told how she had paid for a photographer to come to the house and take a family picture; the boys had newly knitted jumpers and she was having a new dress made from recycled material by a neighbour. The photographer came a day early and she had the photo taken dressed in her piny rather than the new dress. Her husband, my Granddad, was missing presumed dead; in truth he had been taken prisoner and had escaped three times, ending up being taken to Germany itself and set to work on a farm with the threat that should he escape the German farmer and family would all be killed; mum, dad and two girls.

As I wrote I became aware that my tutor paused at my desk a little longer than necessary; I made sure my arm remained firmly un-cupped and carried on.

I told the story of my Nan sending the older son, my Uncle, to the butchers with the instruction to stand outside until the butcher took pity on him and sold them some meat; the suit of clothes she had made for the same son out of her best curtains that he ruined falling in the harbour while pulling out a six pound mullet for tea - and the beating she gave him with a switch (a stick) every time he stopped as she chased him up the street. Then there was the afternoon nap that was interrupted when a bomb exploded up the street smashing in every door and window in the house and covering her and the sleeping toddler in glass. All the way through she wore the piny, her hand patting the pocket. Just before the end I had her retrieve a letter (written on thin airmail paper, which my family still have and treasure) from my Granddads’ commanding officer informing her that her husband had been involved in the Battle of Tobruk and was missing presumed dead - it was dated four years before. She put the letter back and returned to the sink to begin the preparation of a meal; peeling potatoes I think – it is one of my firmest memories of her.

As she stood there her youngest son came running in telling her there was a soldier at the door; she told him to ask him to come in, thinking it was one of the neighbours’ billeted lot. As she turned in the kitchen, in walked her husband, his eldest son on his shoulders; both were smiling. He slipped the boy onto the floor, while his youngest son clung to his Mothers piny. They stared at each other for a moment.

My tutor hesitated by my side but I hardly noticed, working feverishly against the enemy of every child in an exam - time.

My Granddad was thin, weighing around six stone. My Nan stepped towards him and taking a breath said, "I supposed you want a cup of tea?" My Granddad nodded and they fell into each other’s arms.

As I wrote "The End" at the bottom of the page I became aware of the figure at my side - blubbing!

I looked up to find my tutor, handkerchief clasped to her mouth and nose, tears rolling down her face. She reached down and tapped the page twice and struggled to smile.

As she walked to the front to announce the end of time other students turned to look at me; wondering what I had done. It was delicious and such a compliment to move her that way - but I always thought it didn't count because it was a true story; every incident. Now I know (perhaps) better. She never said anything to me but I like to think she might have liked to change the comment - a comment my parents took to heart and worried about.


I still have a fixation on sadness and mortality - something others have mentioned when reading my previous coursework - but I like to think it is more controlled and less adolescent. Maybe that is why I have feared this course more than any other; the exposure, stripping the words down to the barest minimum. No matter how much the deadline slips or how "exposed" I feel or should that be obsessed (?) I will complete the course and continue the quest....despite being that Secondary School, Eleven Plus Failure......

Stolen half hour and a cretin....

A mixed up day with parents having a new floor put down in their home by a mate of mine who is builder; he is a rough diamond, fifteen years younger than me and a neighbour of another mate of mine. He is always happy, laughing and particularly positive about getting things done and done right. It helps that he also has a big open smile, can talk to even my rambling (almost) seventy five year old disabled father who insists on giving him his world famour bear hugs at every opportunity and he owns a big heart. He goes out of his way to put in that extra big of effort and time and I have to remind myself I have known him for less than a year and he has become a fixture in our tight little circle of friends.

His only drawback is that once in his prescence he fills you up with good energy and so you want to be around him and hours can fly by...in a good way. I left him finishing the floor and got on with the chores that needed doing before the weekend.....

Lunch was a protien shake and banana...(not a good habit, but not too wayward for one day) and I plunged back into chores. For one precious hour I had nothing to do....

I collapsed into the sofa, swiped up "Moab is my Washpot" and plunged in. The house was warm, light streaming into the south facing window, birds were twittering from the open back door...until.....half an hour into the break....a shadow fell across the windowsill. I sat up to a see a smiling young man in a suit; the tie was secured in a fat knot around a reddened face, the hair was obviously waxed in what he must have thought was jaunty yet appealing spikes....not too threatening to a pensioner who might see him as a punk in disguise. He stood respectfully at attention, anticipating.

Instead of going to my door I opened the window...which prompted him to produce a clip board he'd been hiding behind his back.

I did try and stifle the sigh that escaped but ...it escaped. He launched into his spiel about how bills were going up, how it was bad management/systems etc that caused this and how HIS company wasn't like all the other EVIL suppliers but was a benevolent fuel provider who was there to save kittens from trees, pull grannies from oncoming traffic and generally plant a tree for every cell in the collective bodies of each of their customers.....before he got any further and opened his shirt and showed me his superman suit I blurted out "No thanks, I'm busy."

I then began to close the window hoping this would prompt him to convert someone else.

"But you're not doing anything important," he snorted, tapping his clip board; it flashed across my mind that it would suit him much more inserted (or rammed up) the vertical smile he presents when running away from potentially violent customers.

I stilled myself, feeling that momentary channelling of internal power that makes British actors the best in the world playing baddies. I slowly opened my mouth, keeping my stare boring into his blue eyes.

"Go away cretin!" I didn't move. I stared. He shifted, opened his mouth and I tipped my head to one side, transmitting with a single raised eyebrow my next move of shoving his clip board where the sun don't shine. He read my mind...ticked his page and turned smartly on his heel; jauntily descended our steps, without looking back...once.....

The phone rang and I was summoned to help put back all the furniture. What a day...what a cretin!

What a couple of days.....

It's has been difficult to say the least trying to work, especially with my sisters birthday, changes in plans, going to the gym and distractions all around.

So instead of working on my next piece I returned to the advice from Nina Milton, my previous tutor, when she told me that I should not stress about not being able to work but to read. Just that - to pick up anything and read and read and not think about not writing.

So I did. I picked up "Moab is my Washpot" by Stephen Fry and plunged in. WOW! I have always found him engaging, funny and worthy of admiration but this book ignited so many memories about my own childhood that I began jotting things down on post-its to re-kindle full explanations later. Any autobiography that instantly does that is top notch in my mind.

More changes in my plans for this evening tilted me more off course. I feel guilty at not sticking to the plan for the week. I have, as most who write do, of being published and being able to write full time, at home, running around in my own little world, working through what comes to mind etc. I may in the future be able to do this for a year and finish my degree at the same time as a full time student....but that is in the future.

If this is a taste of what could happen I shall have to be very hard to achieve 1,000 words a day without being whisked off hither and thither due to interuptions. But I can still dream - after all I managed two and half days before being knocked off course.. that's an achievement? Isn't it?

I may use the post its for the next assignment ...then it's definitely not been a detour - well not completely...

Revision....annoyance...clarification....

Second day - again check emails, read the news (shaking head), have a look on Face-thingy....

revised what I wrote yesterday and find I have no confidence that it's what the course has asked for but feel attached to the scene I am painting. The uncertainty of what to do next - what to work on, dip into or resurrect - makes me return to Lesleys assessment. I create a new folder and revise each piece working through her suggestions and observations. Two hours pass and I have been working steadily until I get to the last....


There will always be times when you disagree with a tutor and say "no, no, no I didn't mean that!" when what you mean is "I meant this and I haven't communicated it clearly enough for you to see it!" - you are angry with yourself not the tutors reaction to it.


I wrote a piece called The Cat's Meow - about blocking out a sense and what you then experience around you through the remaining senses and thoughts. I have repeated myself which is a pet hate of mine, especially in a prose piece. But Lesley states that the piece is about sound....but it wasn't...it was about sight - or at least an action which you would not do i.e. writing with your eyes closed. The lights are out and I wrote on a page about what I was hearing and feeling, with my eyes shut. The writing is full of sounds, anxiety and culminates with next doors cat (an elderly visitor to our house who seems to still look for my long departed cat) complaining at my side.


I need to revise it and then clarify it with Lesley.

But I feel embarrassed that it worked so badly and a comment that an old colleague used to declare comes back to me - "Better to keeps ones mouth shut and appear a fool, than open your mouth and remove all reasonable doubt!" But in this case I think removing doubt and learning from the mistake is preferable to silence.

A point of view

When I started this blog it was to help me write. To engage my discipline gene (if I have one) and subvert the gene that makes me clean cupboards, re-organise drawers etc. So I have a week off purely to relax and write...maybe clean the car - god it needs it!

So... I thought why not come here each morning this week - or as many as I can work into my time - and write....that's a plan right?

First, I do the usual -....computer on.... check the headlines, emails, order a couple of birthday presents and then start listening to a radio play.

Second, I then turn my attention to my assessment from Lesley. I have decided that what I read, or at least take in, is not the same as what others see. My partner reads it and gushes about how the points are tinkering here and there - gentle guidance. What I read is more complex. I seem to see faults and some of them are obvious to me once they have been pointed out. The worst is repetition...I hate that! Not the criticism but the fault.

I now will pick over the submission and revise it all with Lesleys' pages alongside my keyboard.

One point made has me stop in my tracks and think. My tutor pointed out (correctly) that I didn't explain how I revised my writing and when I thought about it it is very haphazard. I have always worked along the idea that I trust my intuition and the process; some things take moments others take years. I have notebooks full of one line, an image, a thought or observation which appears useless but will, in time work to spark the original idea that is jotted down with it.

One that jumps to mind is "Leaf fall" - a disjointed, short memory sketch of an abandoned corrugated shed where my friends and I would play as children; eventually using it for sheltering from the rain, talking, dreaming and smoking tiny cigars. Strangely, the next assignment, using the sound of words to invoke emotions, sparked this memory in my mind. I will jot down some of the memories of that time, writing as much as I can recollect; most will be discarded but what I hope will come out will be a piece for submission with the next assignment. The challenge will be monitoring how I arrive at the final piece and to put it out in words.

I hear the sound of the washing machine finishing its final spin cycle....I'll hang that load out and then begin....trying not to look at the dusty car.

The Late Student

So my poor tutor, Lesley, has my first assignment.

I feel I have written too much and it feels contrived; the course suggests an immediate, natural, unforced approach to writing the pieces. I did a mixture of prose and verse whichever felt natural for what I was seeing and feeling. But I handed the work in late - about one week. Lesley assured me that this was fine but it felt bad. But there are other things that are making me feel uneasy.

I don't feel like someone who is comfortable with poetry; I rarely read it and I feel a bit of a fraud trying to write it. I did write a lot of poetry when I was teenager but these were destroyed in a teenage angst moment and since then I have written very little outside the requirements of the degree coursework. My previous tutor, Nina, thought the course would tighten my editing skills, allow me to prepare for the next course by gaining further descriptive skills etc. I trust her judgement but that doesn't help my confidence.

I have the double whammy (I believe that is the right expression) of waiting for the assessment of my last course to come through and the first judgment from the first assignment for this course. So today - having spent the whole day avoiding doing any work or even reading - I made a decision. I have always believed that making a decision is more than halfway to getting something done purely because that's the threshold; once you cross it your whole being proceeds to the destination - a bit like jumping off a cliff, you might hit a few ledges but you are probably going to the bottom whether you like it or not.

The decision is the reading. "Staying Alive" Edited by Neil Astley contains 500 poems for the course. I want to complete the course work in approximately four months so that means five poems a day to read, think about, re-read and make some notes on. I am hoping that working through the coursework will jump start my writing of poetry and the reading will inform this, allowing me to find my feet. It's a plan. Whether it will work is another matter.

I have never felt so unsure of my direction in any of the other courses I have done. This could play to my strengths and allow me to jump into things with a certain amount of abandon or it could make me flounder about.

What I don't want to happen is for my displacement activity to rear it's ugly head as it has a habit of doing when I don't feel the pull in any direction. I (generously) tell myself when I am cleaning a cupboard or distracting myself with some inconsequential activity that I am "waiting for the right (or should that be write) element to come along before moving on" but I could be kidding myself. I hope I am not kidding myself that I can write poetry and pass this course adding another credit to my degree.

I just have to work through, trust to hard work and the guidance of the tutor. It is a reassurance that Lesley was also a student of the OCA.

Easing in slowly.....get back into the harness

I rarely throw myself into something that means a lot to me without thought, fear and meticulous planning and so it is with the degree. I wish I could. I wish I was one of those people that could walk to the edge of the metaphoric cliff and with only a glance about to smell the air and feel the light on my skin throw myself over. But I am not.

So the folder for Creative Writing 1 : Art of Poetry has been delivered and the first few pages have been read. The tutor has contacted and been replied to, Lesley Mountain - a former OCA student which is a comfort.

Last night I settled down at my desk, closed the blinds to the outside world, still light at this time of the year, and began to read. Befoe I knew it I had my nose pressed into the first exercise - do something with your eyes closed that you would normally have your eyes open for, observe it and then write down the experience. Even before I recognized what I was doing I pulled a sheet of white paper from my printer and took up a soft-tipped pen, closed my eyes and began to write.

It is something I have never done with my eyes closed - why would you? It seemed the most natural thing in the world. Walking round my office with my eyes closed was out of the question - I regularly walk around my house in the dark - insomnia's a bitch! So I sat with my head down and wrote what I felt and thought.

It was interesting. Strange and genuinely first time experience. I wrote it up in my notebook and put it aside; a short leap into the course and then a step back.

Tonight, I have done the next exercise; picking up an object and writing how it felt while exploring it with my eyes closed. I chose a bookmark, made of Tibetan silver, obsidian stones and hung with a small chain. I am a control freak (family and partner can attest to this) so getting someone else to chose the object was not an option. The strangeness of the object, something I carry with me everyday, was it's warmth; I expected it to be cold, and rough to the touch. At the moment I moved my fingers over it, it warmed, it's edges rounded, it transformed from the expected to what it was....

Maybe not being comfortable with poetry - I have been known to describe it as a "straight jacket" - will be a genuine exploration for me.

Luckily I have my guide and my senses; better carry my expectations lightly.....