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The great unwritten novel

They have just released a list of the best books of the century.

My book is not on it. In their defence my book is neither written nor published.

Still I feel a pang of disappointment at an opportunity missed.

We are only twenty years into the century so there is still time.

And being honest I think their list is a little premature.

Although perhaps after this point we are stopping books.

They have heard that on twitter and I have not.

Because I was not on twitter that day or didn’t follow the right literary society.

Perhaps I should be running out and stock piling books right now because not only are there no more to be written there are no more to be printed. It might be about the trees.

It might not, maybe there’s just a government decree.

I look around at all the books I own.

Will this be enough? I look at my unread pile.

It will be enough.

It will certainly be enough.

What is going to happen to all the authors?

Some will be ok, some have made enough to survive but what about ones like me who haven’t churned out their great novel yet?

Or maybe they are going to rationalise?

Perhaps everybody is allowed one novel apiece and this was simply the last list where it was a free for all. Perhaps right now they are allotting single novel slots and I am missing out. I need to follow twitter more closely.

I sit looking at the list of great novels. I am unsure what to do. Unsure who to call or where to turn. What is going on out there? How can I find out? This was the very morning I was going to start my great novel. And now I have no idea what to do.

This might be the end of my writing career. The one I haven’t started yet. I need coffee. I look nervously at my phone. No notifications. Silence. That is probably because my notifications are switched off. Should I switch my notifications on? How do you even do that? I look at the computer screen. I bring up a new word document. There is no way you can make that phrase sexy or interesting. That isn’t just me, its just not possible.

I stare at the screen.

At the blank page.

Mild panic. I don’t know what to do.

I am only certain of one thing.

Today is not the day to start my novel.

I go downstairs and have that coffee, congratulating myself I have not wasted time on writing anything.

I never met a poet

I never met a poet
But its what I want to be
When I look in the mirror
I’m not sure what I see

I never met a rhymer
A person good with words
There’s a whole community
But my voice is never heard

I come from far away
Where words aren’t written down
No such thing as wordsmiths
Tiny little island, tiny little town

I never met a poet
I’ve waited my whole life
To meet someone who’s called that
To see what they are like

I sit quietly in cafes
Writing notebooks full
words no one ever reads
And no one ever will

I’m not sure how you do it
How you call yourself that word
Do you have to write a book or not
Does it matter if you’re heard

I never met a poet
I probably never will
My time to write is limited
And mostly its uphill

I never met a poet
But I hope I do one day
I hope they look like me
And I know just what to say

Today you have been lucky
It was your lucky day
There is something I should have told you
As you turned and walked away

When I shook your hand today
Although you didn’t know it
When I shook your hand today
Today, you met a poet.

What colour are the tears you cry?

What colour are the tears you cry?

Are they rainbow tears
for the people you accepted
Or flecked with dark
for the people you rejected

Do they stain your cheeks
with tracks of blood
Are there dark streaks
Like tracks of mud

Do you even feel it
Do you wince in pain
As I hear you shout
Your hate again

And then one day I see you cry
And the water comes out plain
They don’t hold your memory
You cry the tears of rain

If you’ve never spoken the truth,
you don’t know when you lie
If you never feel the sadness,
you can never really cry

Consequences have actions,
actions never sleep
The run right through your veins
Staying buried deep

You know that death will come for you
Even if you don’t know when
What colour are the tears you cry
What if you live again?

Can you re:

I don’t think we can re-connect
I’m not going to let you call me

Names again

I’ve been trying to reduce
Open the door
Get the apples out
And squeeze them again

I am going to renew

Reform

Re-form
Into someone else
Into something different

I will wake up tomorrow
And be anew

A new what

I can reinvent
Look at a light bulb
And do it better

Re-in-vent
Breathe in, deeply again
And then exhale

I can regurgitate
Tell you all the lessons
The person I was yesterday has learned

I can remistake
Do those mistakes over
And then

Relearn, re-understand

I can repurpose
Find my fulfilment somewhere else now
A different way

Re-happy

I can renew
Like a library book
Being read by someone else every week

Being reread, over and over again
I can recover

Dress myself differently tomorrow

I can repose
And ask the same question again
And again

I can reword,
Make all my sentences over
And I can reawaken every day

Refreshed, reinvigorated

Re-alive

I can re-imagine and re-be
Just who I am
and who I want to be

Eyeball to Eyeball

If you could take your eyeballs out

And get one to look at the other

What would you see

Looking into your own soul

Half seeing the other half

Would each one be surprised

What if there is nothing there?

When you clap your hands

Do they come together?

Or are they coming apart?

Simultaneously pushing away from each other

Is one hand quicker,

More cautious,

More fretful than the other

Does one arrive before the other

So the clap is not quite in the middle

Is one stride longer than the other

Does one leg know its better

Stronger, safer, more sure

Does your heart lean to the left

or the right

Does it hover in the middle-undecided

When you put your feet together

Does one quiver in fear

Is one foot afraid of the other

Does your body know things that you don’t

Is it comfortable with itself?

Are you sure?

Gap Girl

They are arguing!

Pulling.

Apart.

She sees it.
Watches it.

Slides into the gap.

Slips into the blankness
Where their friendship was.

Fills it.
Folds it.

Holds on to it.

Wraps herself in it.
Expands out to form herself in it.
Waits patiently.

Loiters there in the space.

She knows.

She will be squeezed out the other side
As they hedge nearer
Mend their friendship again.

If she had to describe herself
She would use the word ‘space’.

She does not describe herself.

She sees them talking again.
Knows its time

Feels their happiness
Butt against her nothingness

Can’t imagine.

In her wildest dreams
How you come to deserve either of them.

Bent Forward, Nearly Double

Bent forward, nearly double
Her eyes on the ground
As she pushes the trolley along
The pity aimed at her

Is almost palpable

But she doesn’t notice it
She smiles into a pond
None of us can see
It is spread out before her

As she walks

What a life
The things she knows
Things like
You don’t need beauty to get laid

All that over done machismo

About how you should look
All of it ignored
What counts is how you feel
Inside

Moments she has known

The moment that he realised
he didn’t know her anymore
She saw it in his eyes
That self possessed woman

Who was no longer possessed

Raw, primal sex in a park
When she was young and
they were hidden in the dark
Faceless, nameless carnal

Primal

Cigarettes in theatres
Ice creams in the sun
Feet in mile after mile of sand
The joy of a first flight

When flying was new and rare

The first time held in by a seatbelt
Instead of lolling in the back
The first time fingers tapped a keyboard
On a computer with a screen

Swiped a phone

She smiles into the pavement
Their pity is palpable, touchable
But she knows better
Her knowledge is endless

They think the world is moving so fast

But truthfully it spins more slowly than ever
What has it done in her lifetime
Flight, motorways,
Computers, colour television

Phones. And oh, oh the clothes.

Bent over, nearly double,
Brown skirt, brown jacket
Secrets hidden in shades of beige
And gilded, patterned, darned with age

Ah the life she has led,
She smiles into the pond
Hopes their lives are as bright as hers
As she pushes the trolley on.

The Last Carriage

We of the last carriage
Every jerk, slide, push or pull
We, in the last carriage
We get to feel it all

We dawdle down the platform
Frowned on by the guard
Last through the barriers
Searching for our card

Warriors of the feel good
Into work a little late
Stopped for a coffee
Chatted to a mate

We slide into our chair
Around about ten past nine
You should be glad for us to be here
Because we’re not all the time

We probably spent ten minutes
Tizzing up our hair
We look at the computer
As if there’s something there

Then we chip a nail
And leg it for the loos
We probably come back again
Around about ten past two

And then its nearly time to go
Yeh, officially its five
But ten to four is close enough
Work less and stay alive

We have no regard
for your silly stupid rules
The ones that chain you to the desk
They make you look a fool

We had a ticket for the train
At least we did last week
It’s a season ticket
Oh it might have been, I think

There’s a reason we haven’t got it
How it came to be lost
Yeh for the price of the fine
Not bothered by the cost

Here in the end carriage
It’s like a second home
Everyone is someone
And no one is alone

Sometimes its like the train
Is going to jump its tracks
But we all just chill
We just stay relaxed

We look on with scorn
At those early carriage prats
At the man with the fold up scooter
But really –in solid black

An act of half rebellion
can’t make you woke
We in the last carriage
share another joke

The conductors never make it
Last carriage, their place of fear
You should think about joining us
We’d love to have you here

The second song

I could listen to the album
The whole day long
There’s just one problem
I don’t like the second song

Its meant to be soulful and slow
But it doesn’t matter what I do
I just don’t like it
I don’t like the tune

I’ve listened to it often
Again and again
But I don’t know what its doing there
It doesn’t quite fit in

I feel I should write, tweet or comment
But I don’t know what to say
I just want the second song
To go the hell away

But something compels me
To listen every time
Just in case I’ve missed something
That might make it right

He seems to slur the words
I’m not sure what he says
I don’t like the second song
But I like all the rest

I know I should just skip it
I know I simply can
But why did he put it there?
What a stupid man!

It ruins the whole album
It ruins my whole day
I don’t like the second song
And yet, I let it play

It’s time to change jobs

As I lie in bed, I feel my body.
Literally I touch it.
And feel it.

Atrophy.
Petrify.
Modify.

Tree.

I have been in this job too long.
I creep out of bed in the morning, a mess of vines
Veins fading into woodwork.

I stumble to the train
Out of the station to my desk
And then I stupefy.

Horrify.
Edify.
Terrify.

Tree.

I morph into something bigger. A large trunk, some branches. I cover my whole desk. I root myself in the floor. Clasping the carpet with delicate filaments searching for the moisture left by sweaty feet.  Leaves. The computer gets absorbed in. Seen and then unseen. As if nature is claiming me back from all this technology. The lights flicker on the screen inside of me. Flicker again. Flicker out.

I thirst. In the bright sunshine. Through the glass in the window. I thirst. I am a tree. I wait for the water. I never knew how thirsty a tree could be. Not hunger, just thirst. I see people work around me. I grow outward and upward and no one knows what to do. I hear them talking, feel the voices vibrate in my leaves.

And then, then it rains.
I see it splash on the window.
Sweet delicious water. I grow.

Up.
Up.
Up.

Through the ceiling.
Heavier and heavier on that floor.
I drink my fill.

I teeter.
I totter.
Teeter, totter.

And then I crash downward with the weight of it all. I work on the seventh floor. Down I plummet through six floors of masonry. False floor after false ceiling after false floor in a false world. I fall down, down, down and the building crashes around me. I can hear the vibration of people screaming in the rain.

I teeter.
I totter .
I let myself fall sideways.

Onto the pavement.
All over the road.
Then I feel myself again.

Literally, I touch my arms, my legs.
I am no longer a tree.
I sit on the pavement.

I am wearing yellow.
It is sunshine again.
I look around me.

Chaos.
Destruction.
Devastation.

I get up and walk away.
I guess I really needed that.