It’s dark. It’s been dark all day and the smirr – the near invisible rain – hasn’t stopped. A day for staying inside watching the windows steam up. A day for cooking a prototype Christmas pudding (testing a gluten free, vegan recipe) so that the whole flat smells like brandy and currants and orange peel.
It’s a day for poems and stories. I’ve recorded two of mine to share. The first one appeared on Phoebe a few years ago, the second (in an early form) is the first and only poem I’ve read out to a large-ish audience, at a Stanza Poetry Festival open mike night.
Both are written for cold dark winter days. I hope some time after I’ve competed this novel, and the one after that (which I have some ideas for already, intrusive and exciting), I might be able to work on some poems more. Poetry writing is an incredibly hard and slow process, like chiseling frozen marble. Poetry reading on the other hand is deeply soothing or else like growing new roots in the brain. Electric and organic. It’s the blue colour of brandy burning off the top of a Christmas pudding. It’s like nothing else.
And now I’m off to search some poems out. What do you look to, on a dreich winter day?