I got the bulk of this poem written in a single night and then took a month editing and tinkering. I even altered it a bit whilst typing it up here. But I think I'm happy with its basic shape now. It's about my Grandfather and the rowing boat he used to take my brother and I out in when we were children. The title refers to the boat which was called Pickle Pickle for reasons that remain obscure.
In a Pickle
Your strong arms
Steer long oars
Through calm seas.
Your arms seem so strong to me.
On wet sands,
Your deft hands
Unweave knots.
With strong arms,
You heave your boat down the beach.
My sea legs
Are feeling
Uneasy,
I'm queasy,
You teach me
To fix my
Young eyes on
The distant
Horizon where sky greets sea.
My young eyes
Look up to
Your strong arms
And deft hands
And kenning of sea and breeze.
I think you
Would not be
Ill-suited
To tall ship
Or longboat
And I hope
That one day
My arms will
Have strength like
The strength when your arms lift me.
I have noticed, in my recent notebooks, that my attitude to rhyme has been evolving. I'm moving away from formal rhyming structures and employing more internal and half rhymes. I really don't know why, I much prefer to read poems that rhyme.
This previous is typical of my more recent notes in this trend of not formally rhyming but atypical in that it is complete.
Friday, 19 April 2013
Wednesday, 10 April 2013
A week of writing
Every Spring without fail I have an idea for a novel.
On the first day of writing, I will bang out thousands of words in notes and sections of prose and conversations where I will fill in the names and details afterwards.
On the second day of writing, I will sit in the garden with my notebook, watching the bees sniff lazily at the rosebush I should probably be pruning. Then I scrawl furiously for an hour and a half.
On the third day of writing, I will transfer notebook notes to laptop and feel smug about wordcount.
On the fourth day, I won't write much but will try and fill in the names and details I omitted during the rush of creativity on day one.
On the fifth day, I worry that I'm not progressing as fast as I was earlier. I re-read the earlier stuff and start to hate it.
On the sixth day, I wonder if there is anything in my archive that I can crowbar in to get the wordcount up.
On the seventh day, I wake up and see that autumn has come and I go back to bed and wait for Spring and a new idea.
On the first day of writing, I will bang out thousands of words in notes and sections of prose and conversations where I will fill in the names and details afterwards.
On the second day of writing, I will sit in the garden with my notebook, watching the bees sniff lazily at the rosebush I should probably be pruning. Then I scrawl furiously for an hour and a half.
On the third day of writing, I will transfer notebook notes to laptop and feel smug about wordcount.
On the fourth day, I won't write much but will try and fill in the names and details I omitted during the rush of creativity on day one.
On the fifth day, I worry that I'm not progressing as fast as I was earlier. I re-read the earlier stuff and start to hate it.
On the sixth day, I wonder if there is anything in my archive that I can crowbar in to get the wordcount up.
On the seventh day, I wake up and see that autumn has come and I go back to bed and wait for Spring and a new idea.
Monday, 28 January 2013
New Year's Revolutions
In Norfolk they call New Year's Eve, "Old Year's Night". I like that. It suggests a time for reflecting on the past year, not making ill-conceived plans for abstinence in the coming one. Not that I'd let a mere semantic twist get in the way of a good list of resolutions. This year I have resolved to:
Give up drinking for January (New Year's Day doesn't count.) Failed on the 5th.
Take more exercise (and, apparently, learn to spell exercise, I thought it had a 'c' after the 'x' like in 'except')
Jury's out on this one as it has been snowing. You can't expect people to exercise in the snow.
Read more novels (I mostly read non-fiction.)
But then Charlie did get me that thousand page history of human violence by Steven Pinker for Xmas.
And, of course, give up smoking. I love smoking. It has been pointed out to me that it is a drug that kills you that doesn't even get you high. But I still love it. Here's why:
Because you're having one.
Because, in school,
I wanted to impress Julia and Jamie and Leann.
Because it was banned
Because I wasn't old enough.
Because I was old enough.
Because you're having one.
Because of Vonnegut and Stephen Fry and Che Guevara.
Because my father does.
Because my mother doesn't.
Because you're having one.
Because dinner's nearly ready.
Because of tea.
Because of after-dinner coffee.
Because you're having one.
Because I'm stressed.
Because I passed.
Because I think I failed that test.
Because of night.
Because of morning.
Out of sheer delight
Or when I'm dressed in black and mourning.
Because you're having one.
Because I'm drunk.
Because I'm hungover.
Because I've got 400 duty-frees
And we've just arrived in Dover.
Because I'm angry.
Because I'm cloaked in post-coital bliss.
Because when I'm pissed
I've got no self restraint.
Because you're having one.
Because of chess.
Because of poker.
Because the evening's nearly over
Or the day barely begun.
Because the sun is shining.
Because the thaw is due.
Because of who I am
Because of you.
Because you're having one.
Because today is here
And who cares about tomorrow.
Because of the duality of human joy and sorrow.
Because you've got the only lighter
And you're leaving.
Because the afternoon has darkened
Into evening.
Because we're out.
Because we're home.
Because the loneliness is unbearable.
Because my new tobacco pouch is full.
Because I'm hungry.
Because I'm running out.
Because you offered.
Because I can't be bothered
To get up
And anyway
We're set up
For the day
And you are having one.
Not that I blame you...
You're probably only smoking
Because I am smoking, too.
I've just noticed that I am wearing the same T-shirt in both these pictures. Maybe next year, I will make a resolution to sort out my wardrobe.
Give up drinking for January (New Year's Day doesn't count.) Failed on the 5th.
Take more exercise (and, apparently, learn to spell exercise, I thought it had a 'c' after the 'x' like in 'except')
Jury's out on this one as it has been snowing. You can't expect people to exercise in the snow.
Read more novels (I mostly read non-fiction.)
But then Charlie did get me that thousand page history of human violence by Steven Pinker for Xmas.
And, of course, give up smoking. I love smoking. It has been pointed out to me that it is a drug that kills you that doesn't even get you high. But I still love it. Here's why:
Because you're having one.
Because, in school,
I wanted to impress Julia and Jamie and Leann.
Because it was banned
Because I wasn't old enough.
Because I was old enough.
Because you're having one.
Because of Vonnegut and Stephen Fry and Che Guevara.
Because my father does.
Because my mother doesn't.
Because you're having one.
Because dinner's nearly ready.
Because of tea.
Because of after-dinner coffee.
Because you're having one.
Because I'm stressed.
Because I passed.
Because I think I failed that test.
Because of night.
Because of morning.
Out of sheer delight
Or when I'm dressed in black and mourning.
Because you're having one.
Because I'm drunk.
Because I'm hungover.
Because I've got 400 duty-frees
And we've just arrived in Dover.
Because I'm angry.
Because I'm cloaked in post-coital bliss.
Because when I'm pissed
I've got no self restraint.
Because you're having one.
Because of chess.
Because of poker.
Because the evening's nearly over
Or the day barely begun.
Because the sun is shining.
Because the thaw is due.
Because of who I am
Because of you.
Because you're having one.
Because today is here
And who cares about tomorrow.
Because of the duality of human joy and sorrow.
Because you've got the only lighter
And you're leaving.
Because the afternoon has darkened
Into evening.
Because we're out.
Because we're home.
Because the loneliness is unbearable.
Because my new tobacco pouch is full.
Because I'm hungry.
Because I'm running out.
Because you offered.
Because I can't be bothered
To get up
And anyway
We're set up
For the day
And you are having one.
Not that I blame you...
You're probably only smoking
Because I am smoking, too.
 |
| Smoking like a boss. |
 |
| Smoking like an addict. I should lend this photograph to the government department responsible for the anti-smoking adverts. |
I've just noticed that I am wearing the same T-shirt in both these pictures. Maybe next year, I will make a resolution to sort out my wardrobe.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Xmas Filler
I haven't done one of these for a while. None of the ideas seem right. Or rather, they seem right when I have them walking alone through the streets of Norwich in the dead of night: cold red hands clenched in too-thin pockets; hat-brim pulled down to shield my eyes from the hail; mind full of ideas, songs, memories, philosophical musings and accurate skewerings of people who have annoyed me at work. It's just that when I sit down at my computer the following morning (oh, all right, afternoon, whatever - the period immediately after waking up) the ideas that fizzed and sparkled from my mind's keyboard the night before feel heavy and forced and I have to spend an hour playing chess with random strangers in the hope that I might win one and feel better about myself.
I like to treat my readers to an Xmas poem, but I'm running out of time and haven't written one yet, fortunately my archive has come to my rescue with this winter-themed haiku. Whenever I do a haiku post, I like to give a little fact about these lovely Japanese poems. Everybody knows the syllable count, and way back in 2009 I told you that the plural of haiku is haiku, but did you know that a true Haiku should reference the weather?
A Winter Haiku
Like snowmelt, a friend
Departs. Beauty lost may not
Return next winter.
Anyhow, enough of the Xmas cheer. Tonight, I face another night of office party pub crawls and choristers on their way to carol services and people, faces red with the chill of the December night, asking if we do mulled wine. Think of me if you are out tonight and offer the barman a drink. And remember, when he says, "Thank you, I'll take a half of Guinness," the correct response is: "Have a pint."
I like to treat my readers to an Xmas poem, but I'm running out of time and haven't written one yet, fortunately my archive has come to my rescue with this winter-themed haiku. Whenever I do a haiku post, I like to give a little fact about these lovely Japanese poems. Everybody knows the syllable count, and way back in 2009 I told you that the plural of haiku is haiku, but did you know that a true Haiku should reference the weather?
A Winter Haiku
Like snowmelt, a friend
Departs. Beauty lost may not
Return next winter.
Anyhow, enough of the Xmas cheer. Tonight, I face another night of office party pub crawls and choristers on their way to carol services and people, faces red with the chill of the December night, asking if we do mulled wine. Think of me if you are out tonight and offer the barman a drink. And remember, when he says, "Thank you, I'll take a half of Guinness," the correct response is: "Have a pint."
Monday, 22 October 2012
The Choral Variation (part one - the early weeks)
What constitutes a band? (Don't worry this is a reminiscence post not a musing on a possible relation between string-theory and M-theory - but in case Stephen Hawking is reading, remember you read it here first. And Stephen, I also once came up with a convincing and beautiful explanation of universe generation involving an infinite yet curved geometric plane spinning into a kind of multidimensional blade after a night drinking Guinness and Sambucca. So, if you ever feel the creative intuitions drying up, I recommend Guinness and Sambucca - not in the same glass obviously!) I've digressed too much, I'll start again:
What constitutes a band? As a founder member of Nineties Dorset phenomenon: the Choral Variation, I like to answer this question in the broadest possible way. A band is any group of people who call themselves a band. The Variation were not hidebound by the sort of conventional activities of rehearsing or playing gigs, nor did we bother with such conventions as learning to play our instruments properly or sing. Nevertheless, a band we called ourselves, therefore a band we were.
The band consisted of me, Jamie, Le-ann, Julia and (occasionally) Ed. Three of us met up at a celebration of Ed's wedding last week and they reminded me that we had written a song in 1996 imagining ourselves as adults. Regular readers know that I seldom throw away anything - so I dug it out when I got home. It has a certain melancholy sweetness in its naivety. Here it is in full - notes follow (The only alteration I have made is to change my own real name to Finn to preserve the anonymity of this blog.)
The Summer of '96
Do you remember the summer of '96
When we didn't know what was to come?
Do you remember the summer of '96
When everything we did was fun?
It was the year before I left this town
And we all stated to lose touch,
When the days drew in and the sun went down,
I found I couldn't do as much.
Do you remember the times we spent playing whist
And writing songs outside?
Do you remember the times we spent getting pissed
And remember how hard we tried?
The tiny problems seemed so big
But they were never quite like now.
Looking back and thinking of it
We solved them as we knew how.
I got a letter from Ed yesterday,
Says that he's doing alright
Since he left these shores for the USA
Searching for his endless night.
Three weeks ago I saw Leann
But I had nothing left to say.
I kept in touch as best I can
Though she lives so far away.
As for Julia she joined the force
And sailed across the world.
Friendship never ran its course
But then, that's how life unfurled.
And finally Finn settled down
Had two daughters and a son.
He lives in a small suburban town
But there's so much that he hasn't done.
The original was sung in the first person by Jamie on our debut album 'To infinitively split' - and was inspired by the fact that Jamie was moving to Somerset (a whole thirty miles away) and our adolescent reflections on what that meant for our futures. Finding Yeovil too cosmopolitan and crowded for his tastes, Jamie left for Bangor in North Wales and eventually settled on the Isle of Man.
I got a letter from Ed a few weeks ago inviting me to his wedding reception. He has no plans to relocate to the USA.
I bumped into Le-ann unexpectedly at a gig in Dorchester a couple of years ago, we had plenty to say to each other.
Julia never joined the navy, thank goodness.
I have no progeny. I live near the centre of a small city. There is so much that I haven't done. But that could be true of anyone. I can only suppose arrogant, cocky 15-year-old me, intended it as a warning to cynical 31-year-old me: settle down, breed, live in suburbia, regret. In that order. Annoyingly, he can talk to me by writing contemptuous song lyrics on a sunny day in 1996, but I can't talk to him until Hawking finishes that time machine - someone buy him a sambucca!
What constitutes a band? As a founder member of Nineties Dorset phenomenon: the Choral Variation, I like to answer this question in the broadest possible way. A band is any group of people who call themselves a band. The Variation were not hidebound by the sort of conventional activities of rehearsing or playing gigs, nor did we bother with such conventions as learning to play our instruments properly or sing. Nevertheless, a band we called ourselves, therefore a band we were.
The band consisted of me, Jamie, Le-ann, Julia and (occasionally) Ed. Three of us met up at a celebration of Ed's wedding last week and they reminded me that we had written a song in 1996 imagining ourselves as adults. Regular readers know that I seldom throw away anything - so I dug it out when I got home. It has a certain melancholy sweetness in its naivety. Here it is in full - notes follow (The only alteration I have made is to change my own real name to Finn to preserve the anonymity of this blog.)
The Summer of '96
Do you remember the summer of '96
When we didn't know what was to come?
Do you remember the summer of '96
When everything we did was fun?
It was the year before I left this town
And we all stated to lose touch,
When the days drew in and the sun went down,
I found I couldn't do as much.
Do you remember the times we spent playing whist
And writing songs outside?
Do you remember the times we spent getting pissed
And remember how hard we tried?
The tiny problems seemed so big
But they were never quite like now.
Looking back and thinking of it
We solved them as we knew how.
I got a letter from Ed yesterday,
Says that he's doing alright
Since he left these shores for the USA
Searching for his endless night.
Three weeks ago I saw Leann
But I had nothing left to say.
I kept in touch as best I can
Though she lives so far away.
As for Julia she joined the force
And sailed across the world.
Friendship never ran its course
But then, that's how life unfurled.
And finally Finn settled down
Had two daughters and a son.
He lives in a small suburban town
But there's so much that he hasn't done.
The original was sung in the first person by Jamie on our debut album 'To infinitively split' - and was inspired by the fact that Jamie was moving to Somerset (a whole thirty miles away) and our adolescent reflections on what that meant for our futures. Finding Yeovil too cosmopolitan and crowded for his tastes, Jamie left for Bangor in North Wales and eventually settled on the Isle of Man.
I got a letter from Ed a few weeks ago inviting me to his wedding reception. He has no plans to relocate to the USA.
I bumped into Le-ann unexpectedly at a gig in Dorchester a couple of years ago, we had plenty to say to each other.
Julia never joined the navy, thank goodness.
I have no progeny. I live near the centre of a small city. There is so much that I haven't done. But that could be true of anyone. I can only suppose arrogant, cocky 15-year-old me, intended it as a warning to cynical 31-year-old me: settle down, breed, live in suburbia, regret. In that order. Annoyingly, he can talk to me by writing contemptuous song lyrics on a sunny day in 1996, but I can't talk to him until Hawking finishes that time machine - someone buy him a sambucca!
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
The Set of all Sets
I couldn't sleep last night and, like most people (I'm guessing - I haven't done a poll or anything), when faced with insomnia, I like to think about some of the great problems of analytic philosophy. "Does the set of all sets contain itself?" I wondered. Here is some of my reasoning presented in that most venerable of philosophical forms: the dialogue.
Bertrand: Does the set of all sets contain itself?
Freddie: Yes. Obviously. Otherwise it would be indistinguishable from the set of all sets except itself.
Bertrand: But, if the set of all sets contains itself, the copy of itself within itself also contains itself and so on.
Freddie: wtf! Mind = blown!
Bertrand: I thought you'd like that.
Freddie: So the set of all sets does not contain itself?
Bertrand: But if it does not contain itself then it is at least one set short and can't really be the set of all sets.
Ludwig: It's a meaningless question. Try counting sheep.
Bertrand: Pay attention Ludwig, he tried that here.
Freddie: He was much better in those days, look it's got a nice photograph and a little poem...
Bertrand: Does the set of all sets contain itself?
Freddie: Yes. Obviously. Otherwise it would be indistinguishable from the set of all sets except itself.
Bertrand: But, if the set of all sets contains itself, the copy of itself within itself also contains itself and so on.
Freddie: wtf! Mind = blown!
Bertrand: I thought you'd like that.
Freddie: So the set of all sets does not contain itself?
Bertrand: But if it does not contain itself then it is at least one set short and can't really be the set of all sets.
Ludwig: It's a meaningless question. Try counting sheep.
Bertrand: Pay attention Ludwig, he tried that here.
Freddie: He was much better in those days, look it's got a nice photograph and a little poem...
Friday, 7 September 2012
On songwriting.
Some songs take longer to write than others. The earliest draft of this one comes from a journal I kept in 1999. Versions of it pop up in notebooks for the next ten years as I revisited and tweaked it. I wrote the final verse in 2009 and did some final editing today. I once recorded an early version of it on a four-track at the Pondorosa in Martinstown. I played the guitar and sang and Phoebe Thomasson played treble recorder. The producer, Jonnyboy, suggested I lay down the vocal track twice to compensate for my natural descant (weak voice) so I got to sing along with myself!
I could hear Andy say
As he hurled his Earl Grey at the door,
"Roll me another joint
'cause I can't see a point anymore.
All the love in my world
Appears to have curled up and died.
Now nobody can know
The hate I feel so: it's inside."
I could hear Andy yell,
"We might all go to hell anytime."
That, "To like to get high
And to love her were my only crimes.
So roll me a spliff
And one for later if there's enough.
For now she is gone
From this moment on it gets tough."
I could hear Andy shout
As he staggered about in the hall,
"I'll cope, I'll get through
I don't need her and you hate them all.
Maybe, it wasn't just her,
Never knew if you were on my side.
All the love in my world
Appears to have curled up and died."
I could hear Andy cry,
"I don't care if I die after this."
Then he calmly explained
That he'd opened his veins at the wrists.
I remember the words -
The last that I heard Andy say
Were, "I'm so sorry bud
'bout the tears and the blood and Earl Grey."
As far as I am aware the recording only ever existed on a minidisc (remember them? My spellcheck doesn't).
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