The Writers’ Conference
We went to the Writers’ Conference up in town -
We judged the entrance fee would be well spent.
To be famous, rich and published was our plan
And really we were very glad we went.
There were novelists and playwrights, poets who had day-jobs,
a smattering of journalists, medical reporters,
feisty uni lecturers and a flirty oldish lecher
(who got on very well with the panellists’ young daughters)
There was Fay who writes on travel, a short novelist called Fleur
and Jill who writes on pills in journals, medical and gay.
There was Kim who writes on gender and Lesley who defends her
If anybody challenges his right to have her say.
There was Chantelle who writes verses and frequently traverses
the Spirit World and says she knows it very well.
There was Ray whose novel’s got an extremely complex plot
and some independent publishers for whom their authors sell.
The wine was flowing freely when somebody said, “Really,
how did those two get in with his long hair and her broad grin?
Do they write? Do they perform? They don’t look very normal -”
But they let us stay, as they’d invited us to come right in.
Still in light verse mode - this poem conflates observations of a number of writers' and publishers' events with no particular reference to any person or event where you might have met me!
My poem today is a draft that may become part of a collection of poems about the few years I spent in South East Asia in the 1980's. The experience, like any life change, has left memories both pleasantly nostalgic and sad. This poem deals with an imaginary but common situation.
This poem is about a politician who is not my favourite human being - but you could apply it to whomsoever you think deserves it!
This poem was written after a challenge to describe a city environment with words inspired by a rural stting and vice versa. It was interesting as an exercise and produced some unexpected images of the city as seen by a newcomer from the countryside. Editing this poem I have pruned it to its essence.
My poem today is an advertisement - with an agenda (unusually for me)
Today a little meditation on life and death, sparked off by my decision to monitor my own blood pressure for a few weeks!
Today's poem is inspired by a great prompt by a fellow writer and artist, Andrea Robinson. (her website is here: http://opennotebooks.co.uk/category/andrea-robinson/ ) Referring to an article about Chimanmanda Ngozi Adichie's book Americanah, Andrea quoted: 'Do things begin to exist only when they are named?'. This struck me as a wonderful idea for a poem. I wrote this:
Today I rediscovered a poem I'd posted on the internet back in 2008, because I received an email to say that someone had posted a comment on it. So today I edited it (I've changed as a writer in those intervening six years) and now I'm posting it as my poem for Friday 18th April.
Here is a poem about an accident in my garden, two years ago now, which I remember whenever I see the lavender bushes and rosemary beginning to flower. I feel a little sad and guilty - though it was an accident. I've been reading about Emily Dickinson, the 19th century American poet who was very fond of her garden and wrote about bees, too. Emily Dickinson's poems were often deceptively simple in language and her punctuation was surprising. My poem is simple in a much less subtle way.....
Here's a poem I finished today, having started it last Thursday. I rewrote it so extensively that it is a new poem so I'm not cheating!