Leaving

I don't post here as much as I should. I'm busy, you know? Crazily so (but not literally).

Still writing though. Of Bloody Reflections has had a few tenative submisssions and been left to languish for a bit. I've written the opening scene of the second and concluding book, Refractions of Fire. And poems and little written things.

They tend to appear here, or in performance.

That's where I let my hair down now a days, get a little moon drunk, let slip a little of the dark.

I feel more confidant now, having had a bit more experiance and got to know those fellow poets who float around on the scene, in person or those odd glimpses online. Though it was a friend who first pushed me from public prose to revealing a secret lyrical tendency (perhaps, in all honesty, not that secret given my florid critisms. um), Moden is a wordsmith of note: pay heed.

The First Rule of Feminism:

To seek equality for all.

Inherent in this is an individuals right to autonomy, both of the body and of the mind, and expressions of and opportunity to such.


Criticisms: devils advocate, common form of posed debate qs to antagonise friction and lend to argument of annihilation or subversive support of patriarchy.

The cost of silencing. Broad perspective vs limited/hyper focus. Ignorance reviles, silence perpetuates.

Trans issues within feminism
the external, personal liberty, rights to be free from violence and subdigation, to be held equal in the law and day to day life. Toilets!

The internal: gender theory, labeling, socialisation vs biology, stereotypes.

Intersectionality not only allies to overlap in harms for different labeled sectors of minorities, but also to how injustices are enacted within society via law, politics, media and opinion.

Every thing is a shit for an awful lot of people, rise of the far right and nationalist attitudes.

key areas
Education; more about pretty little league tables than actually educating children and ya in politics, un-biased history and the relevant sciences, on how to formulate and write an argument without embracing the modern mode of snark and quick, dismissive, one liners.

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Another random snippit found, written in an insomniac haze, after reading a letter in the guardian relating to free speech and trans rights. There was a lot of drama at the time and it rather annoyed me. Equality is equality. We have far to go and biting each others throats helps none.

Interestingly since this there has been a small but steadily growing awareness and acceptance of those who identify as trans* particularly in schools. These stories have reached main media, with an awful lot of hate too, but there is education. My son, when he was about six, really enjoyed a documentary style show on cbeebies. He was admittedly a bit miffed that anyone would have an issue with such a child at all, and quite admired his haircut. It just kinda made sense to him at that age when all children are thinking about simple ways to express their forming identity.

We adults understand that it is more complex than that, there is a long history to overcome. And yet it is also that simple. People can just be who they want to be, and we can except one another, support, and be better people. 

We can actualise the future we are fighting for in such acceptance and guidance in the methods we use to achieve it.

Anniversary

It's been a year, its been a year
                since they took you
shall I count the days, the minutes
the hours and seconds? no
                you already know
all the lost stories at bedtime
and snuffles at night
and smiles in the morning (from you
I always grumbled, and we traded
roles in the afternoon)

It's been a year, it's been a year
                 since they took you
shall I speak of the grief, the anger
the shock, the hungry fear? no
                 you already know
all the ways I miss you
and love you dear
and want you here (safe in
my arms and talking in gestures,
our lifetime language)

its been a year, its been a year
               since they took you
and I will get you home again
will get stronger, will brave on
                you already know
....I hope, always,
I hope for you

Can't Sleep #1

I've been thinking about the publishing market a lot lately, for obv reasons.

I'm disturbed. I'm worried books are going the capitalist way. Big trends, blockbusters, digital saturation. Dwindling midlists, less risks taken, a saturation in ebooks, with little quality control. Spinning out repeats of the same blase story, with different character names and slightly different plot arcs, because the original was a hit. Or as more recently seen purposefully publishing so-called celebrities, read bigots, because there is perceived profit in the making due to the Edge, or scandal, factor. Meaning that imprints that once held a good reputation are falling beneath the political shift to the far right and marginalising their readers and authors by aiding the propagation of hate.


When they should be fostering the intimate relationship between writers and readers, symbiotic.

Pubs considering new tactics from offering a range of publishing packages to writers, often set at high prices that treat writers as just another source of income, to subscriptions for ebooks. Looking for innovative ways to redress the balance after technological shifts and economic recession. After it is seen more clearly how the market was not damaged by ebooks but actually expanded and redefined as readership grew and each reader choose their preference, or often still reading both print and ebook. Print, particularily hardbacks are seen as inestments or collectors items; ebooks more chance bought. This gives ebooks more flexability in publishing choices, as well as their very cheap production costs. This can be good, leading to signing more up and coming writers and testing the water before investing in hard copy and a hard marketing push, or can lead to risk if this option is only taken for a soft sell of multiple similar products; taking advantage of the "check out" spur of the moment purchase. Like chewing gum, to be chewed up and spat out.

Branding power of imprints is underused. And here is where the corporate needs to fade and...I dont know what to call it. That feeling you get when your forced to talk to some random person, then they mention a book you love and you start seeing them, and that moment as something other than mundane. Or when you walk into a library out of the rain. Or carefully open some crumbling tome at the back of a hidden shop, or crack the spine of some fresh printed novel, inhaling all the time. And the anticipation, always. That. Book people. Stories, words, poetry.

Those people, who have that, are the ones reading and reviewing and speculating, tweeting, blogging, publishing articles. It's fun, and to some extent it is where some of the quality control comes in. From recommending good stories to critiquing representation in relation to diversity.

Use pool of ebooks to trend hunt, cherry picking the best, either from the popular ebooks or from agented subs that fit the bill, to provide the blockbusters. In process there is also more structure imposed, offering easier access to readers and greater visibility to a relevant audience for authors. But also seek the stories that deviate, that are fresh, the voices of writers that are often over looked. Ebooks offer the chance to develop writers in anthologies, or with subscription models, rooted in a firm online readership. Dont just look at what is trending now, but use the data to see what ideas or gaps are pending. This is old advice to writers, from publishers, and it would be good to see it taken too. Print is wonderful, and often the dream of a writer, why just keep printing the same...push the boundaries, make publishing more accessible and forward thinking; keep looking for that gold.


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This post was actually written in a bout of insomnia some time back but I dusted it off whilst poking about and it felt relevant so it's here for curiosities sake.

Unexpected Love

Like running up to someone, fog thick and smeary, screaming,
"my life is ending!" and they reply in much the same intonation,
"So is Mine!" "What do we do?" and, of course, being
foibled and spun of mortality, the answer is to fuck.
Fierce and full of belly grumbles from
sustenance slipped by missed in sweated kisses
or held all sweetly in tingling finger tips.

 Then, when the fog clears and time swells golden
in sated sorrows and salted letting go,
in coffee and cigarettes offered in acceptance, then,
at who knows what time, you are hating yourself for soliloquising
in the living room as shaking arms encircle
the stone of sobs you have somehow swallowed.

But a new moment grows, under the quiet stars
and in the candlelight, by words and gestures
that alight with gentle knowing,
all fruitfall hope growing
amidst the adverse aridity.
As weeds growing through cracks in concrete.

"There was nothing." One would say.
"There was never nothing." the other would reply,
both owing of beauty and giving,
letting roots run deep with minds
on the now and an eye on the future.

Rewritten Narrativity

You thought you had one line
but really you have four
at least measuring half
 your height and a scraped knee
is stinging, mother hugging

looking at celestial clocks and glimmering
fir tress dressed in gold and glass
to distract the sobs that perhaps
a little contrived to extend
that loss of comfort.

But words are forgotten by the fire
chewing burgers and chips and quick quips
littlte sips, slow steps, jests boredom

you reveal a new tale: Jesus stolen forwith
from the manger, but no danger as
super donkey flies hoof raised to the sky,
the sheep are the baddies you see.

I teach him to project his voice,
brace myself, smile truely,
he mimics a volcano of words almost silently,
our eyes meet, I tell him I love him,
he does not reply
we hug before we part.

The Rose Key

Open