Hello again Blog,

 Since we last spoke I have summarily failed to fulfill my new year’s resolution of becoming a world class poet in 3 months…arse and bugger eh?

I have failed to be on the shortlist or commended lists of any competition I have entered and also seem to be unpublishable.

I have moaned at people about this and their response is that maybe a novice ice skater wouldn’t want to be on the Olympic team. I do wanna be on the Olympic team, I want to be plucked from obscurity and lauded in The Guardian, I want to be able to go to School Parent’s Evening and say I’m a poet/writer instead of I’m a stay at home mother. in short, I’m deep down bone pissed off. I feel like I want to give up on the whole thing, but I can’t give up because words wake me up when I’m trying to get to sleep…they twist themselves seductively round each other in permutations I NEVER remember the next morning…I have bits of paper everywhere all with scribbles of words on that don’t make sense after sleep. BAH!

 I need more sleep, less alcohol, far fewer hormones and a decent retreat or some good news….give me good news, I can cope with an ever decreasing cycle, hangovers and lack of sleep if only a nice cheery fat envelope (or email) would land on the doorstep (or inbox) or the phone would jangle and send me dancing round the kitchen.

 or maybe, spring will happen properly and I will calm down a bit.

 remember everyone…things get different.

 Till next time bloggy dahlink,



A poem to be getting on with:



Hello Blog,

 I have neglected you recently. This is mainly because I have discovered Write Out Loud which is now the most affirming thing in my life. It’s a place to put poems on and have them read by other poets and then they leave feedback and oooh it’s just lovely. I have also discovered Read Write Poem but I’m having a little difficulty getting into that, like ‘100 years of solitude’ which I still haven’t read.

 Well…news news… I have had some exciting writerly things happening. Firstly , I got proactive on my ass and contacted the editor of my local paper to see if they would let me write for them. He said yes and I am now a monthly columnist. Inspired by this, I then googled the contact details of every submissions editor in the national papers and sent off an article. Just the one, and never grew the cojones to call back and hassle about it. Need help with this I feel. I was also asked by the lovely Jenn Ashworth (A kind of intimacy) to read some of my poems at Word Soup 8, a live literature event in Preston at The Continental. The results can be seen on Lancashire Writing Hub’s youtube channel…see me cock up ‘Stockings’.

 I also was bought the Mslexia Diary for xmas by my Other Half and have spent since xmas morning feverishly interwebbing all the recommended sites they mentioned.

 I finished the Nanowrimo novel by the way, it was poo. It still is poo. It shall still be poo, sitting unloved on my hard drive till I decide to edit.

 I am doing a Creative Writing Course too, led by Jenn Ashworth, most excited about it…now, just need to stop the poetry flow for a while and write some prose ready for it. I have the Old short story that was going to be this years Nano till I got carried away with the rubbish one. maybe I’ll polish that up a bit. Maybe I ought to do some more articles, maybe I should stop googling Asham and Bridport and stop dreaming and actually get some stuff written.

 I’ll leave you with a poem though. You know you want one.

Little Clock

Her eyes fast forward through the scenes she’s played.

A warm and milk rimmed baby boy, sleep slack against her shoulder as she hefts him for a burp.

A sturdy legged toddler kicking round a ball, skenning against the sun

A leggy youth awkward in his best shirt smiling, shoulder shelfing on his mum,

A son to grow, to outgrow her.

All halted like the stopping of a little clock.

She shyly shows the card they gave her on the ward.

I marvel, tears rising like fear in my throat to see the tiny print they made.

Who unfurled those tiny fingers?

Of a hand no bigger than my nail.

His weight five ounces

His length that of his mummies hand.

She wouldn’t hold him though

But she’s glad she has the polaroids they took.

She won’t show them, they are for her alone.

Grief rises from her like a stink.

Yeah, hello world. This is a rather distracted blog attempt as I’m being verbally attacked by a shrill 6 year old telling me all about her school council meeting tomorrow.

 Ahh, she’s gone. That’s better.

 Please bear with me as I learn how to use a blog, it’s not that easy when you normally do all your writing on draft emails…..shall I put a poem on?

Yes, I shall.

 This is The Balloon.

 It was first published in August 2009 at Pygmygiant.

The Balloon.

Eh no,
the balloon’s popped.
I thought it would.
I could tell. it felt too full,it was too shiny for me and too saturated with colour.
I looked though, for tiny pinprick holes.
I put my face against the rubber and stopped my breath to feel any tiny leaks.
In checking it so very thoroughly I must have inadvertantly scratched it with my scrabbling fingers, must have held it too tight to my chest, lest it blow away.
Must have worn it thin with the constant caressing.
It’s gone. popped.
I cry so full of feeling the sound comes out fully three minutes after the inbreath. This hurts. This hurts. This hurts.
Well, that will do for now.
 I want to saty and play but I have a house to tidy, children to parent (snort) and a novel to plug away at.
 Bye bye Blog