Radio Head

I just made an appearance on Keith Warmington's show on BBC Radio Bristol. The song that was playing before 'my' bit came up was Across the Universe by the Beatles. The idea was that I would make some comments on the Dutch referendum on the European constitution to be held tomorrow. Ever since I was asked to be on the radio during the World Championships of Football to talk about the Dutch team, they certainly know where to find me whenever anything happens in Holland. Mr Holland, then. Keith asked me a few questions about the Dutch attitude to Europe in his well-known dulcet tones. I think I did okay and don't think I came across too unfavourably. One day, I'd like to talk about my being a poet and editor as well rather than just things Netherlandish. There is time yet..

Warm and Mellow

A fine warm day here in the west of England. Girls are at their girliest, birds are twittering in their complementary treetops, ice-cream vans are making the most of it and all is well. The other day I tried my hand at writing a new poem and was pleasantly surprised at the result. Sometimes I do wonder whether perhaps I should be more demanding of my own perceived gift. It might be a good idea to scrutinize and agonize further, harder and longer before committing any verse to paper. I do not know what the correct approach is, if there is any. I regard what I do when writing poems purely in a rather atavistic manner. I mean I do not wish to analyse the process of writing itself too much for fear of offending or scaring off the Muse. Everything for the Muse, don't you know? It's reassuring, however, that whenever I sit down to write, the poetry keeps flowing. Where it flows I cannot comprehend. It's enough to capture it and then set it free again.

Lifetime

I've reached the venerable age of forty years yesterday, dear readers. Ahem. Not quite mentally ready to settle down to a pipe, paper and slipper-based existence, I decided to enjoy a quiet, pleasant day with my better half. We wandered down to a brand new Spanish tapas bar in the High Street, a genuine asset to our neigbhourhood. The place is called Bar Celona and we had a lovely few hours enjoying the atmosphere, great music and general niceness. I was suitably impressed to find that they have Castlemaine XXXX on draught; it just doesn't get any better than that. I hope they make a real go of this new venture. It's something Kingswood needs more of, that's for sure.
Last Saturday we had friends over from London and went out for a meal. I had the taxi driver (a mellow, chatty sort of bloke) drop us off near the bottom of Princess Victoria Street from where we were able to show our visitors the Clifton Suspension Bridge in all its glory. The hail-, wind- and thunderstorms had temporarily abated so the view to Isambard Kingdom Brunel's masterpiece was splendid. Nice food and wine followed and it was a night to remember if only for the fact that it was my last night out as a thirty-something. I've always wanted to have published a book in England before my fortieth. I've recently achieved this. Now I have to see about selling a few copies of Love's Own Treasure. If life begins at 40, rock on!

Aimez la femme

The feminine archetype as well as the female form itself has always inspired me enormously. There is nothing else in the world that I find equally enticing as the mystery that is woman. However, lately I have been struggling to connect with my specific poetic muse. I've been so busy with promoting and editing what I have written already that I find scarcely any time or mood to create any new poems. But, woo the Muse I must and I have no doubt that my poetry will start flowing again before long. Elusive as she proves, chase her I must..

Ode to my Foremost Muse

Rose-mist, petal-blessed,
Evensong still lingers gently,
Smile-bound secrets mass in thought,
Whispers call forth clarity.

Streams and crystal waterfalls
Trickle down the gorge at night.
I stand proud to now evoke thee,
Silent as my heart cries out.

Luna, Huntress, enticing cloud,
Vapour trails like dresses twirl,
My heart and mind and soul are yours;
My poem's quintessential girl.

Spring Day

Today, at last, feels like a genuine Spring day. The air feels fresh and comfortably warm and even the odd cloud in the sky seems thoroughly benign. I've just come back from a half hour of dental delight. Nothing very poetic there although my dentist is a nice lady who always takes good care of me. Naturally the anticipation of knowing one is due for a dentist's appoinment is always worse than the actual ordeal. But there you go.
The news today is Kylie Minogue being diagnosed with breast cancer and having to cancel her Australian tour and appearance at the Glastonbury festival. Being both an Australian in exile as well as a former teenager during the eighties, I've always liked the diminutive Aussie popstar. From naff to very naff to very cool, Kylie has survived in the fickle world of pop music and I do like an Australian doing well in the U.K. Sad news for Kylie then and of course the affliction affects many women, famous or not, but I do hope 'she'll be apples'..

Moonday

Students rush in to hand in their short loan books and make their way to one of two major exams scheduled for today. Being a poet who earns a crust as a library assistant at the Biological Sciences Library at one of the foremost English universities is never dull. Honestly, there is always something to occupy my mind and/or curiosity. At times vexing, the students on the whole are a decent lot. The academic staff are fascinating as well, as I observe them in their natural habitat. One of them has taken to bringing in fossilised dinosaur droppings for us to have a look. My colleague and I are most grateful for this recurring pleasure. Poetic? I'm not sure how poetic science is really but I suppose the mind's intoxication and a certain level of inspiration come in to play in scientific endeavour as well as artistic pursuit. Did Darwin ever enjoy a sonnet or a haiku? Possibly..

To Heed a Calling

What is it to be a poet? I have often wondered what it means to be a poet. Is it the mere act of writing a poem? Of having one's poetry published? Is it the public recognition as a more or less well-known poet? Who knows? I tend to think that it is more a case of one's outlook on life that determines whether or not one is a poet. I feel that being a poet necessarily requires a natural, almost child-like wonder at finding one's self alive in the world. To not take things for granted and to celebrate life (and death)in verse to the best of one's ability. Of course, being a succesful poet also means that the artist needs to perfect his craft. The poet needs to hone his or her skills, to perfect the trade. But is it a career path that the poet chooses or is it rather a fate, a destiny the poet can't help but accept? To heed the calling of the muses is to know that you as a poet are singular. It is to acknowledge with every fibre in your poetic being that you need to unravel the mystery in life, not to then explain that mystery or solve it; but to celebrate the fact that not everything that matters is matter. It is dealing with arcane secrets and to re-establish the link between heart and mind, body and soul; to re-connect the mundane with the ethereal, mortal men and women with their deepest ancient desires, to stir in the cauldron where the archetypes hide. Ultimately, I feel the true poet needs to guide the reader back to where we all came from, The Garden, from whence we were evicted, even if just for a fleeting transcending moment, to breathe in that purest of air and savour that clear innocence we sometimes still remember, however vaguely. But perhaps that's just me.