Bumbling Poetry No. 11

A woman near us fell down the stairs. She
Had a black eye for some time. We were glum
About it, desperate to help it heal.
I wanted to say; I fell down the stairs-
Once, but they weren’t my stairs. I didn’t have
To live with them. And although I can’t pass by
That house without feeling my steps get
Heavier, warily eyeing even
The curb- I know it’s not the same. I could
Get her the number of a bungalow,
But so could she. I’m sure she has good
Reasons, for staying put, I’m sure I would
See the difficulty in moving, if-
I had asked. I don’t want to have only
Offered tea and smiled at the bruised face
Of a woman, to find she was later one
Of two that week to die, falling down the stairs-
But what can you do?

Bumbling vintage finds No. 4

I was visiting Rochester recently and perusing one of the second hand bookshops the town is blessed with when I found a big box full of old postcards, some of them over a hundred years old. It seems that back when getting your picture taken was still a luxury people would have them printed as postcards and send them to loved ones. So quite a few of the postcards had handwriting on the back by the people featured in the picture.

 

I only let myself look though a tiny section of the box and then these were whittled down from a shortlist, it was hard, I felt like I was rejecting the importance of the personal histories of the ones I left behind. I'm sure someone else will pick them up.

'22/7/10
Dear alf,
the photo I promised. It looks as though I am waiting for you, doesn't it
I felt like the only pebble on the beach.
Love from,
Rose'

'I must ve looked angry, but I thought I was looking cheerful
or rather I tried to, if not it would have been a picture.
You can burn it if you don't like it.
H.J.B'

'To the sweetest girl in the world
Dont Worry.
This is us in August.
Love, Charlie.'

Bumbling Poetry No. 10

I wrote this a good few months ago, currently clawing my way out of a rut.

Take Care

An old watermill in large grounds, dark wood
Down into its workings. Drama of the crashing
Force of water, jarred by meandering middle-
Classes. A small boy, barely a walk-and-talker
Determined to make it unaided, each step
The height of his whole leg, clinging to
Floor with milk fingers. His father
Cautious, watches below.
Beside himself, the boy
Squeals
'Careful, Daddy, Careful! Don't fall.'

We're both headed for the water, as after all,
It's going somewhere. A look to each other
For solid reflections, to replace the murky silt.
'I've decided- I'm going to take care of you.'
Not urgent, or whim, a long mulled line.
You had me by the shoulders, grave,
With that frown. It was as sweet
And aching to me as the child,
Years before,
Crying
'Careful, Daddy! Don't fall.'

Bumbling Belated Father's Day

What are some of your earliest memories of your father? Bedtime stories are an important feature of mine. My dad is a big sci-fi/fantasy geek, and Terry Pratchett was predominant amongst the more age appropriate writings of Roald Dahl and Beatrix Potter when I was growing up.

In recent years my dad has written a few books of his own, in the vein of what is usually termed 'fantasy realism', basically meaning there is not an implausibly proportioned woman in a chainmail bikini on the cover.

His first book 'The Young Demon Keeper' is available as an ebook and for this weekend only, it's free! The story follows the befuddled Paul, a young man who summons a demon to do his bidding, only to be lumbered with the destructive half-wit Scarth, because all the levels of hell want shot of him.
Scarth is a sweet little thing really, if you ignore all the people he eats when he's confused, or angry, or bored... 

He'd really prefer an ice cream, and a nice song on the radio.

In fact he's such a great character I thought he deserved an action figure:

Argh he's naked!

That's better.

(Yes, I know it's a knitted doll, but it's a present for a man so it's an action figure, ok?)

I adapted this pattern to fit the character- this was my first knitted toy and luckily the demon is supposed to look a bit weird so it doesn't matter that his face is wonky and his ears don't match, he's here from the pain pits of hell.

Bumbling vintage finds No.3

I've been away for a while due to major life upheaval. I'm back now, let's have a laugh.
I found this recently, from 1988:

However great you are suspecting this might be, 

your expectations are not high enough.

Are they raised?

Ok, get this playing to create the appropriate atmosphere.

Ready?

Boom.

This girl is adorable, I'd catually (groan) consider knitting what she models.

This guy knows he's 'it'.

In case you are wondering, it is a 'catastrophe' because there is a bottle of spilt milk on the lower back.

I could easily post a picture of every page of this book, there is no filler, it is absolute lunacy.

Well this has been fun, I'll be back with poems and thoughts soon, ciao kittens.

Bumbling Poetry No. 9

Easter

Tropical English bedroom, hanging Sunday,

Dry heat stick of a ground nest. Grown quiet

In comfort, odd nudge and chirp, yawn and sigh.

Folding past hours into neat pages, our

Own broadsheet to flip through. ‘Us and them’ had

No value for a while, your lead story.

The lost youth with doleful eyes knew more and

Less, so heaped with credit, we feared for him.

I’d dreamt of that child’s fresh skin, through my own

Face crumbling. An inside source on our pick-

Up stick limbs said ‘Pray for the lamb, you’re done.’

Still, our main concern is the crossword. Clues

Scatter beyond our affected reach, I

Make the tea. We want for nothing more.

Bumbling Poetry No. 8

Execution

He huddled around the glass, feeling the weight of it,

Full in his hand, hers held the same kind, in the same

Way. Stealing a shared experience, that cold dew,

He wrote her initials in it, with his index finger.

She bore hers with a delicious clunk and slop, in front

Of the man with the attention of those assembled,

So present to his story, they miss her other hand.

Her other hand, which he sees, on the man’s back,

Steadying, as she leans in, her thumb missing his shirt,

Touching his skin. The man looks up grateful, taking her

Delicate, chilled fingers to his lips, in jest, but not in jest.

He knows, He can tell, because as she straightens up,

Her hand turns, so that her knuckles graze his vertebra.

A sight he tries to erase, kneading his eyes, gorged,

Sick, on her trick or treat looks. He returns to his pint,

His couple of mates, tries flipping the coasters,

Then tears them, corner by corner, to fluff.

At the bar they coincide, like chance, but timed

By him not her, drunk enough to tap her shoulder,

Bare, and when she turns the surprise is feigned, the

Smile resigned, Oh, Hi. Oh, like Oh it’s you, like Oh

What a coincidence, like Oh, we haven’t both been

Coming here every Wednesday night for the last two

Years. Oh, Like that. How are you? Yeah. Like, Yeah, I am.

Yeah, I continue to be, Yeah, sorry about that fact.

Mhm. Yes. What’s with you and that guy? She smiles

Then, not cruel, but simple, no subtext, like she’s happy.

And with one idle hand, she points with finger and thumb

At the bridge of his nose, right between the eyes. Pow.

Bumbling vintage finds No. 2

The other day I found a vintage knitting book from 1987, here are some highlights:

This kid makes me smile no end, look how excited he is by knitwear, almost as excited as me. Just think, he's out there somewhere now, probably not yet thirty, I would like to meet him, maybe I already have, I'll never know.

Couple modelling has always weirded me out, other than for the obvious reason that they are dressed the same, it's more the specially-cultivated expression of being deeply in love whilst simultaneously being incredibly bored. Regardless, this is a must-knit, in the male colours.

Well, this is just flagrant use of eye-candy to be honest, he's hunky and cultured *swoon*.

Oh 1987, I'm so sad I never knew you.

~

On an unrelated bumbling poetry note, my whole set from Poetry Pulpit was recorded by the lovely Liz and Sally who put on the night and it is now available to listen to here, along with all the other performers from the night, who were excellent. It turns out the lisping on the video a few posts ago is down to the quality of my camera, and really I just sound a bit posh and stand-offish, which I'm not much happier about, but there we are.

Gracious knits - Mind. Page. Yarn.

A while ago I promised to let you in on what I was doing with all of my lovely graph paper. I am nowhere near having a finished product ready yet, but here is a peek at a prototype.

This is the first draft of my 'Storm in a Teacup' design, there are parts which need tweaking, like the cup handle,  but I think it works pretty well, considering it came from my shambles of a brain. 
Designing for intarsia knitting is a lot of fun, and I would encourage anyone to give it a go, just keep it simple and remember to use different shapes for different colours. Once you get into it, the inside of your head will begin to look as pixelated as an 80's video game, which, trust me, is a great thing.

Look Mum, all fingers and thumbs. (Bumbling Poetry No.7)

Expressing love for one’s mother is not the most earth-shattering revelation is it? Well sometimes, even if something is obvious, the way in which it is said can hold as much worth as the sentiment.

This, for example, shows you some of the ways my mum cares for me:

Left to right- a note, the book that came with it, my kindle, and the cosy my mum knitted for it.

I wrote this poem a while ago, after we cleared the jungle that came with the house. I have no idea how many of these memories are based on reality, studying developmental psychology, I learnt how misplaced the clarity and resonance of childhood memories can be, however it’s all true for me. 

 

I fell backwards today, calloused fingers

Pushed into damp earth, anchoring stringy

Mint to terracotta, texture recalled

A hot day but a brother, too small to

Rough and tumble. I liked the garden centre

Because it had fish and garish figures

Of cherubs and lions. In my mind’s eye

It was always pansies, bags of cement

And compost. At home, we knelt at elbows

In boys’ jeans, there were no make-up lessons,

You showed instead how to create and tend.

Fidgeting beside calm competence, Free

Vibrant gems from polystyrene cells, Surround

The snap dragons with cheeky fans, yellow

Tongues protruding from every velvet face.

I stayed out for the magic tricks: there was

A nervous plant that fled from touch, I whispered

The same lullabies you sang to sooth me,

Reassured at finding a fear at least

As bad as mine. There were horrors out there

Too, Squealing at a caterpillar set

Upon by ants, you gravely supplied me

An emergency twig. Together, saving

A tiny life from the swarm. You patiently

Tended all wounds; Winded, doing gymnastics

On the trampette, Angry allergies to

Most things bright and beautiful, I loved the

Poor, put-upon rabbit so hard, that she

Furrowed my chest. Facing a new and empty

World behind my house, still with the fear and

Allergies, At least I know to get dirt underneath

My fingernails. Bedding and tucking-in

Precious threads to you. A spell to stop the ebb.

 

Happy mother’s day everyone, just when you thought this blog couldn’t get any more twee.