peonies glow neon pink:
That girl with a crazy hat
brandishes her June paintbrush.
Limpet clamped to rock
Centre of its universe
Humans dice with death;
rocks only fall on others
’til they fall on you.
Eroded by wind and waves,
cliffs house skeletons galore.
Sun cuts low through trees,
Squirrels burrow under roots,
People chase daylight.
Winter solstice then Christmas
Hibernation ~ if only ~
~National Grid alert~
Christmas stomping on the world:
an unwanted gift
their electricity bill
our indefinite future
Once crowned with a star,
it glittered in the firelight.
Last year’s Christmas tree
dumped, forgotten and homeless,
its chocolate coins melted.
Besieged on all sides,
chimneys whistle, timbers creak–
Beyond, in cardboard city,
lie papier-mâché homes.
In June meadow land,
she meets her silly shadow
and it makes her laugh.
Winter’s black dog locked in cage;
birds, bees, butterflies abound.
I dedicate this tanka poem to my shadow, which needs locking up in a cage permanently, if it can’t behave itself.
Last week, I reached the conclusion that I was flogging a dead horse with the juvenile fiction market; I just don’t write the type of novel that appeals to contemporary children or young adults. Okay, full stop and amen to that.
Fast forward to this week, by which time my shadow had convinced me that I should give up novel-writing altogether.
On Monday morning, I went to check the results of the First Three Pages of a Novel Competition in The University of Winchester Writers’ Festival. As I scrolled down the page in search of them, my shadow said, “You’re deluded if you expect to find your name there, considering you’re probably up against brilliant writers, including MA creative writing students.” Then I read this…
Highly Commended: ‘Counting Magpies’ – Sarah Potter
To my utter amazement, I had reached the top six with the opening pages and synopsis of my adult speculative fiction novel. But it gets better, because in the reviewer feedback, amid some wonderfully encouraging comments, it said the magic words
…shades of Margaret Atwood and Naomi Alderman.
Well, those are some “shades” I can deal with; the sun has definitely got his hat on and is coming out to play.
Genre: Haibun (Japanese-style poetic prose)
Word count: 100
She sits at the end of the jetty penning a tanka poem to her lost love. Earlier attempts bob about on the seawater inside screwed up balls of paper; they slowly unravel into sodden single sheets with the words sucked out of them.
He sails away,
the figurehead of his boat,
captain of nothing.
In deeps, beyond redemption,
sink the wrecks of human dreams.
He floats becalmed in a rubber dinghy amidst flotsam. The sun beats down on him and cooks his brain, as he composes his epitaph.
Here lies a shark that ate a fool who died alone.