You might think you've left it behind you
That chapter is over and done
You'll wake up one day
And hear yourself say
That really the book's just begun
The story you're actually reading
Is the one that you wrote on your own
Though you stayed up all night
It's still not quite right
But my! How the hours have flown
Not only the hours are flying
The days and the weeks have gone too
And all of those years
Still slippery with tears
So what are you going to do?
With the time that remains on your candle
The wick burning bright at both ends
Shining back through the haze
Of those warm splendid days
And nights that you spent with your friends
There should be many more of those coming
Exactly how many's unclear
It's time to get real
Explain how you feel
To the one you hold dearest of dear
Take hold of her hand one fine morning
Explain all the what, why and when
Look into her eyes
Take off your disguise
And never say never again
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Friday, August 17, 2012
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Well of Love
Unfortunately Smashwords and Amazon still haven't sorted out their integration, so I had to publish separately for Kindle in the same way I did for War of Nutrition. Kindle however, as I soon discovered, doesn't allow "small" publishers (ie, people like me) to release anything for free on their platform. Their absolute minimum price is $0.99 (or 77p in English money once you've added the VAT), so I've had to belatedly change the blurb that used to happily shout about how FREE it all was to, well, not shout about that. Because it isn't. At the moment.
There is allegedly a post-hoc way to make it free, which relies on Amazon's policy not to charge more for something on a Kindle than is being charged for other ereader platforms. Since I published free through Smashwords, Well of Love will eventually turn up on the iBookstore, and Kobo, and Nook, and Sony Reader for zero pounds and zero pence. At that point, if someone were to complain to Amazon (using their handy-dandy "tell us about a lower price" link) that it was free for other readers, then they would price match it. At least, that's what they do at the moment. Whether that will carry on is anyone's guess. So for now, if you want Well of Love for your Kindle, it'll cost you 77p. I mean, it's still worth it OBVIOUSLY, but it's not free yet.
Now that all my free poems are available in this beautifully adorned package, I've removed them from my website. I have another 16 or so coming soon in a second volume. That won't be free. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
The lights are going out all over Britain
Well... all over the house anyway. Well, the ground floor.
Nat stepped into the hall around 9pm last night. Dusk had fallen and darkness lit the hall with a soul-sapping lack of light blacker than the black pit of the blackest black thing anyone ever went back to, when they were trying to go back to black. She turned the light on and it didn't. She did the only sensible thing.
"Dad? The lights aren't working."
The trip had tripped. I noticed in passing that it was now a blue trip, where before it had been... black. Black thoughts clouded my mind as I returned to the dark hall and tried the lights again. They did. But flicking a switch in the newly wired kitchen brought the black back. I tripped it twice more, just to prove I had the knack for a black attack in the shack.
Kitchen fitter phoned the sparky this morning. "What's the crack, Jack? We've got black, you'd better track back."
Sparky came. The problem was the blue trip. Rated at 30mA, it was no match for 5x78mA bulbs in the hall light (from cold), or six 12mA spots in the kitchen. "These RCD trips are the bane of any sparky's life."
So, rather spookily, the solution was to change the blue trip back to black.
Nat stepped into the hall around 9pm last night. Dusk had fallen and darkness lit the hall with a soul-sapping lack of light blacker than the black pit of the blackest black thing anyone ever went back to, when they were trying to go back to black. She turned the light on and it didn't. She did the only sensible thing.
"Dad? The lights aren't working."
The trip had tripped. I noticed in passing that it was now a blue trip, where before it had been... black. Black thoughts clouded my mind as I returned to the dark hall and tried the lights again. They did. But flicking a switch in the newly wired kitchen brought the black back. I tripped it twice more, just to prove I had the knack for a black attack in the shack.
Kitchen fitter phoned the sparky this morning. "What's the crack, Jack? We've got black, you'd better track back."
Sparky came. The problem was the blue trip. Rated at 30mA, it was no match for 5x78mA bulbs in the hall light (from cold), or six 12mA spots in the kitchen. "These RCD trips are the bane of any sparky's life."
So, rather spookily, the solution was to change the blue trip back to black.
Saturday, September 24, 2011
Wedding of the Year
Can't be many happier occasions than witnessing two of your best friends getting spliced, and that's exactly where we were yesterday afternoon, in the company of most of the rest of our best friends, their friends, family and a bunch of very energetic small people. The kind that make weddings... um... loud. No, fun. That's it. Fun.
Starting as we meant to go on with a glass of bubbly at Phil & Vicky's (excellent hosts as always), we wended our slightly circuitous way (on account of an overturned lorry on the A617) to Mansfield Registry office for the ceremony and then, with the day's official business out of the way, we settled down to the more important business of celebrating the nuptials with further champagne, and related (and unrelated) beverages, relieved on occasion by the odd sausage roll (really nice ones, as it happened) and dollop of coleslaw.
Called upon - owing to my acclaimed position as "resident wordsmith" - to pen something in the wedding book on behalf of the mates, I can't help feeling I disgraced myself somewhat, on account of the evening's overindulgences and the ebullient flavour of the day, but what's done is done, and whatever I wrote it was written from the heart, with feeling, and with relatively little time for reflection or composition, so f**k it. As long as it's not the last thing I write in a public place, I'll be alright. I think.
Anyway many, many congratulations to Ritchie & Helena (or Helena and Ritchie as they are in the above photo). May your days be long and your troubles few, your friendship strong and your love stay true, and if things go wrong and the air turns blue, just bite your tongue and have a damn good screw.
E.J.Thribb has got nothing on me.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Poetry Corner
It seems to be a week for praise and believe me, I'm lappin' it up.
If you've hung around my website at all, you'll know I like to do a bit of writing now and then, and in particular I've written a few poems. Now I've not had any formal training in the art of poetry writing (or any writing come to that). I've read around the subject a little, as I do with most things, but that's about it. It was as much a surprise to me when I started writing poems as to anyone. When something like that comes my way though, I don't question it. I just enjoy it.
And so, apparently, do others. At least, that's what they say to my face :o)
But no matter how much people have praised my poems in the past, no-one has ever called me "a real poet." I don't mean to belittle that past praise in any way because all of it was heartfelt and honestly meant, and all of it was gratefully received. I have often moved myself to tears when writing the poems, especially the ones on particularly painful subjects. Even more often I've moved my readers in the same way, sometimes in my presence. They have cried, they have smiled, they have said "it's lovely, John." They have said "is it for me? You wrote this...for me?" They have said how clever I am. How much they "love my stuff." No-one, least of all anyone in a position to really understand what high praise it is, has ever said they consider me a real poet.
Until today. When I had an email from my friend and coach Colleen, who has been writing a bit of poetry herself. "I'm really not a poet," she wrote, "as I consider you a REAL poet."
Wow. Thanks ceep.
I never had any ambitions to be a "professional" poet - as in someone who might expect to sell one or more, or a collection. I knew it was a hard road to travel. There are loads of amateur poets about and to become sufficiently well known to publish it's expected that you will do the rounds of open mic events, go on poetry courses, join poetry clubs, submit to magazines, etc, etc, none of which interested me at all. I was content to be a good amateur, to enjoy my stuff for what it was.
But then a couple of years back, during Chorlton Arts Festival, we noticed one of the events was a poetry reading evening. I decided: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Couldn't hurt to go along and check out what goes on at these things. I selected three poems to take along - short, medium and long ones, and Nikki and Annie came along for moral support. The venue was a small meeting room adjacent to the local library and as the slow trickle of attendees filtered in the room filled until there were about 30 people there.
It soon became obvious that many of them knew each other, and when the reading started the organiser began calling people out by name. He moved through the audience from front row to back, asking everyone if they would like to read. We were sat in the middle (of both dimensions) so I stood up after about eight others had taken a turn. Having heard the sort of thing they'd read, I chose the longest poem. Not normally nervous on occasions like these (I have presented professionally to audiences of around 1,000) I was surprised how shaky I was - in both hands and voice. The page of text wobbled up and down in front of me and my voice suddenly became devoid of spit or power.
I struggled through it and was rewarded with a decent round of applause, a few smiles and nods. The caller continued his progression towards the back of the room and in total I think there were about 15 readers. Once everyone had had a turn, he decided there was time for a second bite at the cherry before the "main event" (we were graced by the presence of a "real" poet for the evening, and he'd brought along several dozen copies of his latest collection). Moving through the audience for a second time, the organiser this time around steadfastly refused to catch my eye even though I held my hand up several times. His offer of a second reading only applied, it seemed clear, to those within his inner circle.
We left early.
My one, and so far only, experience of an open mic event. Not good. I've been in some pretty clique-y circles before, and this was another example. I don't like that. If the invitation is open to anyone then you should treat everyone even handedly, whether they're in your poetry club or not. The verdict? I'm a real poet, but not according to the Chorlton crowd. :o)
If you've hung around my website at all, you'll know I like to do a bit of writing now and then, and in particular I've written a few poems. Now I've not had any formal training in the art of poetry writing (or any writing come to that). I've read around the subject a little, as I do with most things, but that's about it. It was as much a surprise to me when I started writing poems as to anyone. When something like that comes my way though, I don't question it. I just enjoy it.
And so, apparently, do others. At least, that's what they say to my face :o)
But no matter how much people have praised my poems in the past, no-one has ever called me "a real poet." I don't mean to belittle that past praise in any way because all of it was heartfelt and honestly meant, and all of it was gratefully received. I have often moved myself to tears when writing the poems, especially the ones on particularly painful subjects. Even more often I've moved my readers in the same way, sometimes in my presence. They have cried, they have smiled, they have said "it's lovely, John." They have said "is it for me? You wrote this...for me?" They have said how clever I am. How much they "love my stuff." No-one, least of all anyone in a position to really understand what high praise it is, has ever said they consider me a real poet.
Until today. When I had an email from my friend and coach Colleen, who has been writing a bit of poetry herself. "I'm really not a poet," she wrote, "as I consider you a REAL poet."
Wow. Thanks ceep.
I never had any ambitions to be a "professional" poet - as in someone who might expect to sell one or more, or a collection. I knew it was a hard road to travel. There are loads of amateur poets about and to become sufficiently well known to publish it's expected that you will do the rounds of open mic events, go on poetry courses, join poetry clubs, submit to magazines, etc, etc, none of which interested me at all. I was content to be a good amateur, to enjoy my stuff for what it was.
But then a couple of years back, during Chorlton Arts Festival, we noticed one of the events was a poetry reading evening. I decided: nothing ventured, nothing gained. Couldn't hurt to go along and check out what goes on at these things. I selected three poems to take along - short, medium and long ones, and Nikki and Annie came along for moral support. The venue was a small meeting room adjacent to the local library and as the slow trickle of attendees filtered in the room filled until there were about 30 people there.
It soon became obvious that many of them knew each other, and when the reading started the organiser began calling people out by name. He moved through the audience from front row to back, asking everyone if they would like to read. We were sat in the middle (of both dimensions) so I stood up after about eight others had taken a turn. Having heard the sort of thing they'd read, I chose the longest poem. Not normally nervous on occasions like these (I have presented professionally to audiences of around 1,000) I was surprised how shaky I was - in both hands and voice. The page of text wobbled up and down in front of me and my voice suddenly became devoid of spit or power.
I struggled through it and was rewarded with a decent round of applause, a few smiles and nods. The caller continued his progression towards the back of the room and in total I think there were about 15 readers. Once everyone had had a turn, he decided there was time for a second bite at the cherry before the "main event" (we were graced by the presence of a "real" poet for the evening, and he'd brought along several dozen copies of his latest collection). Moving through the audience for a second time, the organiser this time around steadfastly refused to catch my eye even though I held my hand up several times. His offer of a second reading only applied, it seemed clear, to those within his inner circle.
We left early.
My one, and so far only, experience of an open mic event. Not good. I've been in some pretty clique-y circles before, and this was another example. I don't like that. If the invitation is open to anyone then you should treat everyone even handedly, whether they're in your poetry club or not. The verdict? I'm a real poet, but not according to the Chorlton crowd. :o)
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