Who was it who said that poetry was emotion recollected in tranquillity? It's not just emotion, though, is it? Nor is it simply a process of recollection. (Tranquillity usually helps, though I'm typing this while eavesdropping on, among others, a full-on Yiddish conversation, complete with assimilated American vocabulary...) The thing about experience, as every writing teacher has to explain, gently or forcefully, according to (you hope) the temperament of the beginner writer, or (more likely) the temperament of themselves, is that it isn't enough. What makes experience craft or even art is the business of putting it through the sieves of memory, of experience before and experience after, the pitch and rhythm of words, their images and associations.

So, though I've got nothing much better to do at Newark NJ airport for the next hour or so, I can't turn in some nice philosophical point about the last ten days, nor a funny or heartfelt story. At the moment the best I can do is this:

aeroplanes: 6

non-duty books read: 5

pages of random notebook notes: 10

delectable, brilliantly painted little animals bought: 4

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Some strange dreams last night - all of them (as Lord H kindly pointed out) having to do with the letter D. First of all I was stuck in a cave or potholing (something I'd never do in real life, I assure you!), having some kind of adventure. There was a big explosion and I was trapped underground and ... well ... died. I then fastforwarded to my funeral, where Lord H was obviously rather devastated. I didn't like that idea at all, so (in my dream) I decided to dream it again, and this time I managed to survive the explosion, and solve the mystery, and everyone was happy, hurrah. In the second dream, Lord H and I were planning to get a dog (we're not too keen on dogs, so I can't work that one out at all), and asked some friends what to do about getting it through Fireworks Night. One friend said that the best thing to do was close all the windows and doors, turn the TV on really loud and stare into the dog's eyes whilst swaying. This would make it think it was a robot and it then wouldn't be afraid of loud noises. Hmm, so that's clear then. What can it all mean???


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It was written all over the house. In the kitchen, underneath the mirror and to the left of the etching of the cockerel was the word outspoken. It was written in pencil as were the words I love you scrawled under the skillet above the stove. We found two pieces of wood in the back room with the word mine scrawled on them and in the living room above the fire, someone had gouged [more ...]

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A very short story, called, Give Me Strength


Give Me Strength by Nik Perring.m4a




(You might have to right click or open it in iTunes. It is there, I promise. It's taken me 2 hours so it bloomin' well should be.)


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For some reason which neither of us can understand, Lord H's alarm went off at 6am today and both of us woke up not feeling remotely tired. In fact we even got up, with enthusiasm - how astonishing. Usually, on work days, I lounge around till 6.15am and Lord H doesn't surface till 7. At least. Today, however, we were up with the larks and had already solved world hunger by 6.30am and brought peace to the earth by 6.45. God, but we're good. Our job here is done, Carruthers - it only remains for the mother ship to return and carry us home. Hmm, must be delayed on the intergalactic highway ... Ah well ...


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Every Day Poets

It has been a steep learning curve for the managing editor but if not for writewords, I would not be managing editor.

I hope some of you will pop along to the site and lend your support to this fledgling.

You'll recognise some of the names there. Thank you to all of you who contributed poems. Thank you to all of you have put up with me wittering on.

Every Day Poets needs readers and writers. We welcome poems for special occasions too. Dust off your Christmas rhymes and Valentine sonnets, send us you musings on mid-winter and springtime. Make a date with EDP every day and add some poetry to your life.

www.everydaypoets.com

There was lots of hand-to-hand fighting and blood spattered lenses, an absence of chariots thundering across the plains but plenty of agonising. How do you deal with 4,000 captives when you’ve hardly enough provisions for your own men, for instance?

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I seemed to spend most of the morning doing anything but write. It's been a good few days since I even looked at Hallsfoot's Battle, let alone tackle any more of it - and my confidence levels were at a very low and reluctant ebb. Not that they're ever that high, mind you - I'm powered purely by sheer bloody-mindedness. Anyway, I finally got down to it (as it were) at about 11am and then somehow managed to drum out 1000 words by 1pm, which brings me to 51,000 words and part-way through the Second Gathandrian Legend. I even have a glimmer of an idea about where it should go next, which is something. Quite rare too. But let's not get too excited - no doubt I'll have to go through the same agonising process of reluctance tomorrow. Dammit ...


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I know it’s a very sad-Brit thing to get excited about a few inches of snow, but everything looked so pretty this morning. It is still 3 inches deep on the grass here in the Chilterns at 1.30pm, so that’s more than we normally get all winter. Here are some pics for any equally sad Brits who find this sort of thing interesting. I hope you are all now planning to stockpile tinned food in case it happens again…

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Was much taken today by the sight of one of the squirrels on campus using the pedestrian crossing to cross the road. How very sensible. Saves all that swinging from tree to tree stuff anyway. Evolution is a marvellous thing – soon the squirrels will be sitting at the desks giving us orders ... You heard it here first.

At work, Ruth has very kindly bought a copy of Maloney’s Law so I hope she enjoys the read. Thanks, Ruth – it’s very much appreciated! Though, sadly, the poor thing is still not well, so we sent her home after lunch, fitted out with a bottle of Lucozade and our good wishes. Hope she’s better soon …


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