Tiger Tiger poets, women's day and a dolphin

Last Saturday was the launch of the Tiger Tiger event at Bookmark Bloxwich. Organised by Helen Calcutt and Peter Tinkler, it was raising awareness of the plight of the tiger in the wild. it is rapidly declining and unless action is taken this incredible, inspiring beast could be lost forever.

Helen invited poets and artists to submit to her blog and the event at Bloxwich was a night of spoken word inspired by the tiger. It was headlined by Richard Bonfield who read some of his powerful, poignant poems and he also spoke passionately about the Born Free foundation. There were ten poets altogether and it was fascinating to hear the different interpretations of tiger poetry. This is a review of the night.

painting by Peter Tinkler

Last night was another brilliant night of poetry, verse and stand up comedy at the Oxfam Worcester' 'A Bit of Do.' It was to celebrate International Women's Day.

Many thanks to the organiser Amamnda Bonnick because it raised £225! It was lovely to spend the evening with friends and be well entertained.



And the dolphin? 'A freshwater dolphin found only in China is now "likely to be extinct", a team of scientists has concluded. The researchers failed to spot any Yangtze river dolphins, also known as baijis, during an extensive six-week survey of the mammals' habitat.' Richard Bonfield was kind enough to email his poem about Yangtze River Dolphin. I cried after reading it because I felt so powerless, I had no idea they were extinct. The utter, tragic shame of it.A beautiful animal, gone forever.Richard's poem was stunning, like a dream, a glimpse of the dolphin and then gone. Just like real life.

image of sadness

Donate and help all endangered animals right now! 

Finding small spaces to write in

Today was a typical day for me and my little ones. We got up and rushed the girl to school and then the two little boys and I settled into our routine of play, cleaning, writing. This is how it works. I play with them, read to them, do a jigsaw, stick some stickers, swing them, whatever they like. his morning I painted their faces so they could be tigers. Then when they are full of attention I turn my attention to the cleaning. Get the kitchen straight. This usually falls at 10am and I can listen to Woman's Hour whilst I do the dull tasks. I find cleaning so boring. I like it to be be tidy and straight but the time spent doing it seems such a waste, so at least listening to the radio makes me feel like my mind is doing something.

By then the boys will be depleted in attention, their game or whatever they were doing has lost its shine and they find me. I may have had ten minutes to drink a cup of tea and check my messages. Today I opened the poem I am working on and glanced at it. Read it aloud. The boys wanted to collect the eggs and we needed logs so we went out for a while. It was bitter but they seemed happy, the face paint was rubbing off and their cheeks were flushed.

Then lunchtime and some child friendly television. Blankets on the sofa, thumbs in. This gives me nearly an hour to sit in the kitchen and nibble cheese and crackers and work on my poem. The afternoon was filled with a shopping trip for food, dinner, bedtime routine and now I am sat down at last, 9pm, finally giving this poem some more attention. I will be tempted to sit up late, just so I can work on it but I am tired out.

This is no way to be a writer but it is my way. Finding small spaces to write in.

haiku by J. D. Salinger

The little girl on the plane
Who turned her doll's head around
To look at me

—J. D. Salinger

The first day of Spring

The first of March, named for the Roman God of War.

The name doesn't really go with the season though does it? War and Spring?
 
I think of buds on trees, lambs being born, birds tweeting madly at each other not  'a behavior pattern of organized violent conflict, typified by extreme aggression, societal disruption, and high mortality.'

Do you know the myth of Danaë?

Tangled up in blue

I'm not there, a brilliant film

Listening to Blood on the tracks this morning. Never get tired of it.











She lit a burner on the stove
And offered me a pipe
“I thought you’d never say hello,” she said
“You look like the silent type”
Then she opened up a book of poems
And handed it to me
Written by an Italian poet
From the thirteenth century
And every one of them words rang true
And glowed like burnin’ coal
Pourin’ off of every page
Like it was written in my soul from me to you
Tangled up in blue

So now I’m goin’ back again
I got to get to her somehow
All the people we used to know
They’re an illusion to me now
Some are mathematicians
Some are carpenters’ wives
Don’t know how it all got started
I don’t know what they’re doin’ with their lives
But me, I’m still on the road
Headin’ for another joint
We always did feel the same
We just saw it from a different point of view
Tangled up in blue

notes about love: by a Buddhist Priest

purple-clouds