I realise it's been quite a few weeks since I shared any new writing here - so here's a poem, one of a new group I have been working on....
Somehow or other she has written the first
ten thousand words of what might be a novel.
It just happened, she wants to tell someone
but can’t bring herself to admit it: ten thousand
Is a lot and yet not nearly enough, not quite
anything, a pale dish of words, unseasoned.
She carries the chattering thoughts of it
like a secret pregnancy: elicit, vulgarly conceived.
Then comes the baby dream: and it’s a plump,
healthy boy, who clearly does not belong to her.
And in the dream she’s on a journey with the baby
in a battered card box, and she’s got to get the right train
before anyone, his parents, find out he’s gone.
And as she travels, the baby smiles up with delight,
but she’s grateful at least he doesn’t speak to her,
because she knows it’s not uncommon for babies
to rant-on in dreams, say what they like.
And she wants to tell someone about the dream,
so that it might never come back, but knows
this would also require her destroying the first
ten thousand words of the story that wants her,
needs her to carry on, push through, get to the end.
And in other news, a small book of my writings and artwork is due out in October via Anchor and Plume press