This was written in a slow single waltz
before the next one
This morning I feel like a strange conversation
with the discomfort of my head
and the contact of your language is a way to make sure
This morning is the first time I’ve been maintaining the water
finally and the seed is going to go with your advice
This morning I have a refund for my part time job in London
and I have been told that the rhythm of your language is a better man than I
CW: Very brief allusion to suicidal thoughts
The early bird catches the worm
from a chain coffee shop, is rude
and dismissive to the barista,
pecks down the wriggling body
and a double espresso before
zipping off to a day of meetings
and spreadsheets. The early bird
meets all their deadlines, demands
100 percent attendance at every meeting
they organise, no excuses, blocks off
time in a colour-coded, neat, hand-drawn
calendar that they make every Sunday
night in preparation for the week ahead.
In a recent post, Austin Kleon writes about how other writers sort through their work:
I am fascinated by the notebook and filing systems of other writers. In my experience, it’s very easy to write every day and get ideas down, but it’s not so easy to keep track of it all.
This is a series where I interview poets about their process in regards to a single poem. Today we have the exceptional Stuart Buck, a brilliant poet, illustrator and editor of the very strange and wonderful Bear Creek Gazette. Here is a poem from his new collection, Blue the Green Sky
its nine thirty and i am at school and
we are outside on a warm day and
its the first time i appreciate the
shorts they make us wear because
my legs are warm and my...
I enjoyed Cory Doctorow writing about the lessons he has learned over twenty years of blogging. He describes how quickly the writing practise adds up and how useful it is as an external memory:
These repeated acts of public description adds each idea to a supersaturated, subconscious solution of fragmentary elements that have the potential to become something bigger. Every now and again, a few of these fragments will stick to each other and nucleate, crystallizing a substantial, synthetic analysis out of all of those bits and pieces I’ve salted into that solution of potential sources of inspiration....
you ask me, sitting on the smashed roof tiles
and concrete slabs that used to be our home.
We are drinking rainwater and petrol
from a puddle, drying our t-shirts
on the newly exposed wire foundations.
We watch the sky flash orange and violet,
feel the rumbles deep inside our ribcages.
This was written in an Apples and Snakes Red Sky Sessions. It started as a response to a poem by Hannah Silva. We then composed by voice, speaking into our phones. I got stuck on the found text aspect of Hannah’s work and ended up repeating loads of politician’s phrases. We then turned it into a poem, so I went to the other extreme and turned it into this.
The Red Sky sessions have been so valuable, so in depth and fantastic to spark off ideas. I have a lot of new directions to...
Taken from an Independent from the start of this year.
we teach the AI how we scream feed it all our voices alone release all our agony our grief our childhood trauma buried fears our compressed nightmares absorbed into passive microphones into the night it runs iterations so fast it echoes back Our grunts our exhalations distorted an angelic choir united strange harmony
Written during a Red Sky Session with Apples and Snakes, this was a response to a music loop by Bellatix.
This is a series where I interview poets about their process in regards to a single poem. Today we have the fantastic Elizabeth McGeown, who I have been lucky enough to meet at various poetry nights over zoom in the last year.
On telling a friend I am writing to an insect theme
and finding out months later she has assumed I meant maggots
But Maggots do not cross my mind at all:
the plump rot-seeking them of single mind.
Fat little white and wriggling shits with gall,
but Maggots do not...
Taken from an old New Yorker
I spin each morning from dream silk
allow soft light to pour in a torrent
from my ears out into the aether.
Lost chorus ripples from unseen branches.
I am anointed. This is how I drift
without touching the dew damp ground,
absolution in waves over my skin.
As part of the Red Sky Sessions with Apples and Snakes, we were asked to chose a painting from the MOMA collection. We then either wrote about the character or adapted a technique from the painting. I tried to ape the tecnique of this self portrait by Andy Warhol.
This is a series where I interview poets about their process in regards to a single poem. Today I am honoured to have the incredible Ankh Spice, whose poetry I have enjoyed for a long time on Twitter. Here, he talks about his love poem New Cloth.
Your pattern pinned itself to the fray of me
the first day. Not yet stitched, aligning
fragile tissue, judging bias – the wounded
always holding their breath.