I’m strting to enjoy the discipline of having to write a poem each week. I enjoy the refining and editing; rolling the words around; the feeling that an idea that seems just beyond my fingertips, suddenly lands for an instant butterfly-like within reach and leaves the shadow of its wings on the page, where, if I am lucky, something of its touch remains in the words.
We’ve had notice; tomorrow the inspectors arrive to see if we are doing our jobs. No paperwork, however dull, will go unlooked at; no policies unchecked; no meetings unmonitored; no deviation from plans unquestioned. They will stay two days, then fly, to arrive with just a flutter of wings’ notice somewhere else.
There are some days, when the sun shines, when you visit somewhere amazing with friends, and share the experience, then walk with them along by the Thames to a great lunch in a lovely restaurant, and you laugh and eat and exchange stories, and you marvel at how your life can be this wonderful.
I’ve worked hard today, and I have really enjoyed it. People have thanked me and been appreciative. What a difference that makes.
The woman was in her sixties, large, pushing a trolley around the supermarket, dancing and singing to Barry White playing over the tannoy.
At our poetry group in the local library there is new member. She is Italian, and speaks English brokenly. She sits and listens attentively to the poems and discussion but beyond some smiles and nods, says little. She is holding a book. One of the group asks her if she wants to read. She tells us it is her story. We look a little blank I suspect. Gradually we understand that it is her autobiography. She agrees to read us part of it, in Italian. She reads rapidly.
I understand odd words, mad, military, afterwards, house, danger, but not enough to make a coherent guess at what she is saying. Continue reading
The cat’s eagerness to go outside settles into a silent watchfulness in the open front door. He seems unperturbed by snowflakes landing on his whiskers, but unsure about this bright world where passers by crunch along the pavement. The icy draught around my ankles, and the cold cold metal of the door handle I am holding make me less patient with his need for time to make his decision. Continue reading
My cat makes me stop and watch, be in the moment. I learn about him and from him. His needs are simple. He is happy. Not being a head of industry or a high achiever doesn’t worry him. He takes each moment as it comes. We are human beings, not human doings. We will never have this moment again.
I am a big fan of the Reader Organisation. So when I saw there was a version of A Little, Aloud for Children I wanted to see it. But I didn’t expect the first entry, a poem, to blow me away. Treat yourselves, read it aloud, let the magic unroll and take you somewhere you didn’t know you were going.Instructions
On a cold night, running up and down the stairs playing catch and throw with the cat is a good way to get warm, but a bad way to cook supper.
Isobel (and Cat)'s Blog 