I’m a big girl now

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I’m a big girl now

Pull-ups, wow!

Just me? There was an ad, back in the day. Catchy tune. I’m singing it in my head.

Fine, out loud.

Oh look, there it is:

so that’s a tangent for a start. Gosh.

What was I going to say?

Right – I had a birthday. I’m now THIRTY-ONE.

To my ears, thirty is such a nice round number and when kids ask my age (they do… regularly. High schoolers try to wheedle it out, doing the math… so I just tell them) I say thirty without hesitation. Thirty-one, though, sounds like too much information. An over-share. Like, seriously, I didn’t need your whole life story.

Just me?

Maybe I should title this post ‘Just me?’

So, I’m another year older. Blah blah. My birthday present was going to see Dawn French a month ago. She was brilliant (of course) but that meant not much $$ left for celebrating on my actual birthday.

Two days before my actual birthday, Luuk and I went to a thing put on by the theatre program at Hagley – where I take an evening class. The school of cuisine fed us four courses between scenes. It was a whole do, and great fun, but not strictly birthday fun.

Mum and Dad, the legends they are, were determined to have a meal on my actual birthday, so we had teppanyaki. Delicious and a dinner with a show too because FIRE! Veritable pyrotechnics.

And… exciting news! I got a video camera. So… vlogs coming your way soon. And movies. And we’ll see about that web series I’ve been writing.

Now that I’m THIRTY-ONE, I suppose I am a grown-up. I’m writing this in PJs, naturally. But something very grown-up happened a week ago: I was elected CHAIR of the Canterbury branch of The New Zealand Society of Authors.

I’m a chair.


Yep. I came home and said to Luuk, “You’re married to a chair.”

Not very grown up, after all, perhaps.

In fact, so long as I use the words ‘grown up’, I’m giving myself away, aren’t I?

What does being CHAIR mean? Well, not just running the meetings but that is a big part of it, and I’ve no qualms about running a room, putting on my teacher voice so everything sits down and gets on with it. Back to the agenda folks. Lovely tangent but save it…

So I’m all set for that bit of it. I am aware I don’t know the ins-and-outs of NZ publishing and I don’t know all the names. But I have the gumption to ask. Cold call or cold email (more likely) the top dogs and queen writer-bees of this fine land, asking for favours, tips, tricks…

Unfortunately, I had to take the kids along to the first meeting I chaired; it being school hols. And my lovely Mum being sequestered to do actual paid work… so no sitter. But the kids were pretty good with their lunch boxes and colouring books.

And after the meeting,  we got to see Ray‘s Harley!

harley baby

The kids were so scared by the NOISE that they didn’t want to sit on the back for a photo. So I gave Louis the camera and he took this.

One day, I want an actual ride. This’d be some step up from the farm bikes I’ve been on in the past.

So, ’tis school holidays. Which means no breather for me. Not much writing. Low expectations of productivity. The bare minimum I need to do in the next ten days is…

  • three submissions – a short story competition, a poetry thing, and two flash fiction pieces…
  • write a poem a day because NaPoWriMo is on and so far I’ve managed, and it’s too late to give up now.

How??? In short: we are doing a kind of Playground Tour of Christchurch, basically.

margaret mahy playground

The Margaret Mahy one in the city is brilliant, of course, but ends in soaked kids (and one day I’ll learn to pack a change of clothes…).

playground writing

This one at West Spreydon School is freakin’ awesome. Enormous ropes and screeds of massive tyres, a proper wooden fort and lots of slides. The kids love it so we’ll go back there.

The Cashmere Playground is, as always, excellent. We go there regularly so it’s not so special-occasion-y but close. And close to a decent coffee shop.

Win and win.

While the weather is good, we’re good.

I don’t get much done, just a few poems, a few minutes of nothing but my own thoughts for company, and when I run out of words, I can read.

I’m trying to get on top of one cleaning/tidying job each day. We did the kids’ art one afternoon. Another, I traded out my (design flawed) bedside table for a small bookshelf and tidied my side of the bed. Another day we cleared the lounge and – wait for it – vacuumed! I know. Miracle. Call me Domestic Goddess and be done with it.

Elena is, this moment, drawing me with a crown on.

We are going to make a movie today, so they’re drawing up plans. Yay for happy, busy kids.


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This is how I roll (off my rocker)

Tags :

Category : Daily Life

on getting a wedgie straddling the fence between doing too much and missing out on cool stuff…


This week got a bit mad. The calendar assures me it is only Wednesday but I do not actually believe it.

Sunday afternoon, my lovely Mum and Dad offered to take the kids for a few hours and dropped them off around tea time, so Luuk cooked enough chips and sausages for everyone. While the kids were in the bath, we put our feet up in the lounge with a glass of port, and marveled at the madness that is American elections… and heard a dripping.

It wasn’t the kids.

Unfortunately, it wasn’t our flat at all.

Upstairs was leaking.

And it continued to leak until a locksmith let us in so we could turn off the tap and mop up the worst of the mess. Oy vey.

Downstairs at our place, the lights were flickering, so the electricity mains had to go off. The kids were asleep, totally unaware – and blissfully dry because the leak was all in the other end of the flat. Our room was also un-dripped-on. Whew. So we went to bed.

Monday began with the kids SUPER excited because OH MY GOSH THE LIGHTS DON’T WORK. Luuk worked from home for the day so he could be there for any visitors of the fix-the-wet-walls variety. I managed to get the NZSA newsletter drafted, checked, and sent off – small miracle. Mum came over with a maHOOSIVE load of laundry – washed and dried! – because the leak had gone through half the linen cupboard before we noticed…

I wrote a few poems – because it’s National Poetry Writing Month and a poem is a nice bite-sized piece of writing so I felt up-to-it.


Monday night I had my theatre studies class – which is going so well. Love it. Came home so energised, I did a whole ER episode-worth of exercycling.

Tuesday, I had my usual write-in (all welcome, by the way) at the South Library, all morning. I FINISHED a rewrite but it’s had so many rewrites now, I find it hard to celebrate finishing one. I find it hard to believe it’ll be the last one.

I was relief teaching in the afternoon. Sports studies.

Oy, quiet in the cheep seats. I was excellent.

Mum picked up the kids and hung out all afternoon – and all evening because I wanted to go to a poetry open mic and Luuk had a meeting. Bit hectic… well, yeah, but totally worth it. Somehow, I’ve been back in Christchurch for a year, poking my antennae every which way, looking for writing communities, and I missed Catalyst. They meet once a month at The Twisted Hop and remind me so much of the crazy crowd at Spoken Word Paris. I loved it. I read two poems. They sang to me! They sing to all the first-timers. There was also a sing-along of David Bowie songs to kick things off… because why not? All in all, a great evening.

Again, I came home, pumped and ready to cycle my way through a thrilling 40 minutes of ER, but I flaked out half way through. Had a second helping of dinner, and wine.

Today was the real clincher: I hiked down the hill to a doctors appointment, then hiked on from there and met a friend to go op-shopping. MaHOOSIVE haul of gorgeous goodies… and then quick! Off to lunch-meeting with a couple of NZSA folk, and then quick! Off home to pack a picnic afternoon tea, and collect the kids and race off to a catch-up with an old friend.

Damn! Forgot my phone. Quick! Dash home, up the stairs, find the phone, and the rest of afternoon tea, and lock the wide-open balcony door (oops), and trot back down to the car carrying too many things…

Now, you have to understand, our driveway is particularly steep. I mean, check-out-my-thighs steep. So I’m getting in the driver’s side door, trying to keep from smashing the bananas in my left hand or the phone in my right… and the door falls shut ON MY HEAD.

I was SO close to tears. Damn, it hurt. Caught the top of my ear. This is how those cauliflower ears the rugby players have begin. One good smack… and no ice.

While I’m breathing deep and ignoring the kids’ “Mummy, why aren’t we driving?”, my phone buzzes. So I check in with the friend I’m meeting, just to make sure she got my last message about when/where… and she’s sick. She can’t make it.

Afternoon tea is already packed. Coffee in a flask and everything. I’ve told the kids we’re going to a playground.

So we go anyway. To a closer playground.

They play, eat, play, hide (and freak me out because it’s every parent’s nightmare, losing a kid…) basically it’s a lovely afternoon. I realise I’ve double-booked myself for tomorrow, so I make a call and fix that. I realise I missed an important phone call earlier, and send a few texts, make a time, get it sorted…

I drink all the coffee even though I brought enough for two.

And then we go home.

Tomorrow, I’m relieving half a day, I have a meeting after that, then a gap before picking up the kids, then in the evening I’m going to the dress rehearsal for ‘Matthew, Mark, Luke and Joanne’ at The Court Theatre.

Friday, a flu jab and a play date.

Saturday a poetry writing class and in the evening a dinner-and-show thing the Hagley Theatre Company and Cuisine School are putting on.

It’s a rip-roaring week full of mostly good things (flu jabs and bruised cartilage aside)… but it might be too much.

I sat out on the balcony this evening, after I’d served up the kids’ dinner but before I was ready to eat, before Luuk had left work… I took my glass of wine out into the dusk, pulled up my socks against the cold, and watched the sky all pinky over the mountains. It wasn’t  silent: the wind and the trees, cars, neighbours, distant horns and sirens… but it was so peaceful.


I guess, those are the moments that make the madness manageable.

The occasional early night might help too.

Thing is… what I really want to do right now is pop in an episode of ER and sort out my wardrobe.

where would Corday go?


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Category : Art , Education

The gorgeous book was gorgeously launched! The Laboratory, Lincoln’s very own brew bar, was packed to the rafters with writerly types. Good beer, good poetry, and lots of “I can’t believe how many people are here! I thought no one liked poetry!”

The place was buzzing. A real party. With TWO mayors. (A week later, I can only remember the name one of them.)

christchurch mayor at the launch

There she is, the lovely Lianne Dalziel. She said poets can say things mayors aren’t allowed to. I like her.

So the book is ‘Leaving the Red Zone’. The editors are Jo Preston and Jim Norcliffe, veritable pillars of the writing community in these parts. I’d met Jim before but Jo was new, and a total dream of an M.C. – tearing up with all the feels one moment, making dirty jokes the next. I think we might one day be best friends, basically.

There are 148 poems in this baby, from 87 different poets, and I knew that before I got to the bar. I’d had a pretty lousy day, to be honest. It started horribly early – but on theme, if nothing else – with a couple of earthquakes. And then, from dawn to dusk, I was plagued with all those awful things our brains tell us on pivotal days.


  • I bet they took every poem. I’m not special.
  • I’m in it, therefore the standard can’t be very high.
  • I’m not a poet. I’m a novelist.
  • It’ll be a rubbish self-pub-looking pamphlet

And then I got to The Laboratory, bought a pint, found a friend, and man alive! The place was packed out. The book is gorgeous. Seriously, it’s just a nice-looking, nice-feeling book. And enormous – no pamplet. And it turns out, the editors received 10 times as many submissions as they put in the book.

me and the book

One highlight: the honorary mention of the one poem that they wanted to, but didn’t dare, publish: something about Gerry Brownlee that might have been actionable. I still wonder why that poem wasn’t read at the launch. That’d be covered by freedom of speech. Sure. Come on. Inquiring minds want to know. (Inquiring minds are never fond of Brownlee, after all.)


There it is, the first two stanzas of my baby. It’s official: I’m published.

What’s weirder is that I’m a poet.

So here’s the ugly truth: I’m kind of disappointed that for all the hours and hours, all the dollars and euros and pounds, all the tears and sleepless nights and long blocked-but-writing-anyway days, I’ve spent on my novels, it’s a poem I wrote on a train, en route to a writer’s group, and then reworked eighteen months later and submitted because why-the-hell-not? that finds an audience.

But it’s a start. A step in the right direction. And it’s a cool poem. Something to be proud of, regardless of its size.

I’ve been writing more poetry. Next stop, submissions. I’m not giving up on the novels, no way, they’ll get there. But there’s more than one way to do this thang. I guess this is the way I’m doing it.

And while I’m at it, I’m taking two online film courses: one on screenwriting and one on the whole film making process and all the dirty dirty logistics. Money. Time. Heaps of equipment I DO NOT KNOW HOW TO USE. OR WHAT IT’S FOR.

Meanwhile, at my theatre studies class, we’re acting. Yikes. Trying new things. Scary. Actually, the hard thing is doing this stuff without getting scared about looking like a fool. Embrace the looking-like-a-fool. And never rehearse in front of a mirror. Advice straight from Kate Winslett, right there. (Via bafta guru, a website which will make you feel so tiny and insignificant, or perhaps inspire you. Maybe.)

I feel like this post has wandered, so I’m going to grab a coffee and then do-over another poem.

leaving the red zone

‘Leaving the Red Zone’ is available at Scorpio Books or by order from Clerestory Press – clerestory@xtra.co.nz

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hungry much?

I’ve been all about the writing today. I’m hungry for the next scene, the next twist, the next big reveal! I did nap this morning, but I wrote right up until napping became necessity and then wrote again as soon as I got the chance (must thank Louis when he gets home from halte garderie, my lovely boy, for being so conveniently distracted and happy).

I can thank Elena now.

What a happy baby!

I’ve made stacks of progress with editing, though I suspect I’m racing a bit and probably need to do another once-over of the bits I covered today, just to be sure…

I’ve been all about the food today, as well, if I’m honest. Yesterday was the same. My diet’s gone out the window. Elena was off her food this week, she was a bit sick, and has been relying on breast milk for nutrients more than usual, which is probably picking up my milk supply – which is all related to my sudden increase in appetite! Yesterday I ate all the leftover dolmades (they did need using up) for morning tea and then had a full sandwich for lunch as usual. At French class I ate about three times my share of afternoon tea and today… I kept sneaking into the kitchen for another peanut MnM this morning, and I just inhaled my second pastry for the day.

And then I wrote a poem about it.

if I were an apple
destined to be consumed
I’d like to be the one oozing
from between the layers of
un chausson aux pommes,
turned caramel crunchy where I made my escape
but just baby apples in the middle.


I do love these things: in English, a slipper of apples. Yeah, it’s an apple turnover, but a REALLY GOOD ONE.

Dinner is going to be full of veggies. And pasta. But mostly veggies. And then we’re going to have a lovely lazy evening (new episode of Modern Family, fingers crossed) and an early night. Stayed up way too late with our friends last night. Introduced them to Bohnanza, or ‘The Bean Game’ as it is generally referred to it by its numerous adoring (and English speaking) fans. It is great for groups, addictive, tactical and nearly everyone who plays it seems to then go out and buy it. So if you don’t want to buy games at the mo, you’d better stay away.

Hurrah, it’s Friday. I would take a video of Louis saying ‘bon weekend’ in his lovely French accented way, but he’s on the potty and you don’t want to see that. Plans for the weekend? A new bike seat needs picking up (the new bike comes next weekend), there’s an agricultural show in Paris, and our friends want to introduce us to a big indoor play land for kids – better than Acrochats, which isn’t saying a lot in itself, but it snowed today so indoor playgrounds are gaining appeal.

And one other thing to mention, two years today since the Christchurch earthquake. It wasn’t the first, but it was the killer. I watched a tribute video on youtube earlier (possibly unwise) and I had forgotten how bad it all was. But if you’re feeling unwise and/or curious…

The theme at the next Paris Spoken Word stand-up night is ‘hometown’. Christchurch is, in a way, my hometown, but I don’t really know what to say about all this. I’m tempted to say my town is gone, but it isn’t really. It has just changed.

It’s too hard to get along to the Spoken Word event anyway. But at the risk of being the millionth person to say it today, kia kaha Christchurch.

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where’s wally progress?

Progress feels slow but it’s there… just. I submitted a short story to a Paris lit magazine today, and also received a rejection letter from a lit agency I queried… before Elena was born. I got the message about four months ago, thanks, but the email cleared up any confusion, yes.

Sorry, no more bitterness. Promise.

Progress on my novel also feels slow but I have been distracted a lot, by other, shorter projects (and by other things entirely… like scrabble on facebook… can’t be disciplined all the time.)

Louis had an accident again at halte garderie. Perhaps he’s too young for potty training completely – perhaps its just a communication issue. I’m not sure. But we’ll try for another week or so and see if things fall into place. Prior to this he’s always had a nappy on when he’s away from home, so it’s steep learning curve.

Elena is progressing toward crawling and she’s getting from one side of the room to the other without it. She’s full of energy and eats anything she can get her hands on, happily finishing Louis’ leftovers. Her progress is more obvious than anyone’s and a great joy.

play, the work of childhood

The little lady wants in on all the fun.

It’s a year since we left New Zealand and I’ll write a summary of sorts in the next day or so, but yesterday I read back over my first two blog posts after we arrived in France. There is a very strange time warp thing going on – the year is so short and so long. We’ve learned so much French in that time and yet most days it feels like no progress at all.

So I suppose the lesson here is that progress is invisible up close, but it’s happening nonetheless.

Time is certainly progressing, no doubt about that! Only one more day of the january writing challenge. Here are yesterday and today’s small stones…

a glass of wine

if sunshine were put on ice till
it turned liquid
then chilled a while longer, sweetening
softly with age till
I glug glug it into my glass
a celebratory salute for ticking
off that one big thing
at four in the afternoon.

And today’s, inspired by our walk in the last of the gorgeous late afternoon sun,

the steeple bright, as
if two photos, day and dusk
were stuck together 

It was like a taste of spring today – just lovely. Spring is an excellent example of slow, easy-to-miss progress. We’re leaving winter behind but some days it’s still an awful lot like winter. (I know it’s still January – definitely still winter – I’m getting ahead of myself but you should’ve seen the sun today!)

enjoying the winter sun

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it’s all about the line


I’ve been playing with poetry, you may have noticed. I’ve been reading and hearing and writing the stuff, mostly because of the writers group I attend. They got me onto it and into it and asked me tough questions about the things I was writing.

And lots of questions about line breaks.

If I write, ‘It’s all about the line break,’ it means something different than if I write,

It’s all about the line

This second example gets a double meaning from the pause. It means both,

It’s all about the line,


It’s all about the line break.

And so I get to have a blog post with two distinct, though related topics: poetry and ‘the line’.

I have a toddler who likes to push the line. And he makes me examine the line – the boundaries – his and mine. I try to be consistent and kind and fair and tough about the important stuff… of course.

Sometimes the line is clear and, though possibly difficult to adhere to consistently, we all know where it lies. Othertimes the line is rather pale and possibly fluid, or in fact not a line at all.

I try to get writing/editing done during the day, while the kids nap, and also while the kids are awake – or more realistically, when one of them is awake. While Elena has some time in the bouncer, I sit at the table, or on the floor beside her, and edit a few pages, reading them aloud to my poor, innocent daughter. While Louis drinks his milk I get a full ten minutes, perhaps, uninterupted reading/re-reading time.

Progress is slow, and quite possibly the quality of my edit is jeopardized. But progress is progress, and we make a little, every day, pretty much.

But the line, the boundary, between effective juggling and neglect, can be a tough one to spot. I’m not talking about neglect, the kind that social workers and hospitals deal with. I’m talking about making lots of little decisions – does Louis need a nap, is that why he’s acting out? Or is it that he wants a bit more undivided attention? Does he need more undivided attention or would it be good for him to entertain himself a little more?

Is an Elmo video actually a bad idea, or is this simply not a matter of good and bad? (Which I suspect is the case.) (But if we’re honest doesn’t every parent ask themself this question on occasion.) (Unless they’re French and don’t have Elmo.)

Anyway, today was a juggle, on a line. Not quite flaming batons on a tightrope, but let’s say an eight inch thick wall made of scoria – the kind I mastered walking along when I was nine years old, when my feet were tough from going barefoot all year round and my primary school was framed and scored with perfect walls for practising on.

Photo from the Three Kings Primary website (not mine) – there’s that wall we walked along daily, waiting for the parents to pick us up…

Forgive the nostalgia; back to the present: Today, I made it till five before the television went on. We spent a very short period at the park but it was too cold to keep Elena out longer, what with her runny nose and occasional cough.

They both slept at the same time for an hour and a half, but I slept too because last night was a gong show and some days sleep trumps real creative progress.

Yep, I said it. Sometimes writing is just not that important.

But I did get a little editing done. Wanted to do more. Danced with Louis and subjected myself to the jungle-gym treatment instead. C’est la vie.

Which brings me back to poetry. Today’s small stone: something I’ve thoroughly noticed, given my full attention, and then put into words –

utterly reckless
he spins about, strong
legs cling to my waist and squeals
yawp from his gleeful mouth.
He throws
himself back and swings
fearless between my knees
lifts himself with abs
anyone would envy his joy and trust
that I’ll never drop
my dear boy.

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sharing is b(e)aring

In the past months I have discovered the importance and joy of sharing my writing with others, and of hearing their writing shared. To be involved in the creative process, with others, is a wonderful thing. I am motivated, inspired, emboldened to try new forms and I am learning a lot.

Sharing is baring.

But sharing is not easy. Sharing something that is still in drafting stage – perhaps not a first draft but far from ready to publish – is to expose one’s flaws. The writer knows that their work is incomplete, unfinished, imperfect, and they are asking for feedback on those very imperfections, as well as for an objective eye to point out the good stuff (too easy for the writer to miss).

Sharing is vulnerable, but it is also empowering. A writer’s goal is to have some kind of effect – to entertain, to teach, to interest, to move the audience, to make them think or feel something they did not previously, to make them remember something, or hope for something…

Sharing is bearing (1)

So not only do I reveal myself, through my work, in all its in-progress-ness, but I also bear a responsibility – the responsibility of affecting readers/listeners. The worst response a writer can get is apathy. If the piece is forgettable and doesn’t engender a response, even a brief change in thought or feeling, then I have failed. And so, when I write a story or a poem I am hoping it will have certain effects.

My university professors hammered in a phrase: “readers make meaning“, ie. a piece of writing is open to interpretation. What the author intended is rarely explicit. Once something is published, it is open to misconstruction, not that this is always a bad thing. The reader, in other words, is entitled to making what he likes of the story or poem or essay. But the writer is responsible for guiding, for opening up the possible meanings, for limiting others.

That said, I shared a poem at writers’ group last night. I got great feedback and have since edited a little… and here it is:

sink in

hot water comes slowly
jerks and shivers
steam thick with promises, clouding reflections in soft focus
I take my place, tingling
feet afire, thighs warming wax
cold tendrils on my neck, invited,
embraced. Weighed down by pleasant ache,
by heavy heat, holding me,
moulding and melding. Never cool,
I will. Never chill, I pretend, forgetting what’s been
what will be, as if languor will not turn,
itch and irritate, should heat last.
Or relish tepid, dry distance, fresh clothes,
a cool glass of water.
Another day, with soggy socks, craving warmth
I will come again.


Sharing is bearing (2)

There is one other kind of ‘bearing’ that follows sharing a piece of writing, or any art really, and that is to bear the burden of others’ responses. Last night was a rush – I got overwhelmingly positive feedback, and perhaps it was because I went first and was not harmed by comparison to some more talented poet, or perhaps the readers/listeners were just overly kind, or perhaps they’d heard some awful description of what to expect at The Other Writers Group and were just glad that this first poem wasn’t explicit, violent, absurd or aimed at shocking them. There were lots of new faces, but nonetheless, very positive feedback.

Other times I’ve shared there has been a lot more critique, suggestions, questions, confusion… Here’s hoping this progression means I’m becoming a better writer!

The thing is, it’s hard to forget harsh criticism, and while I’ve never received anything brutal at writers’ group there is no way to guarantee nice responses. I wouldn’t be sharing my work if I didn’t want criticism, but there’s criticism and then there’s cruelty, and when you share art, even for the sake of criticism, there’s no protection from cruelty. The words, the looks, you get in response might be a heavy burden, and as Pretty Woman so deftly put it, “the bad things are easier to believe.”

Sharing is beer-ing (if you like, probably)

One other play on bearing, while I’m on it: beer-ing… at the pub after writers’ group. 3 euro pints at Cafe des Artistes, apparently the cheapest pint in Paris. Or 2 euro for a glass of wine, and sometimes it even comes in a wine glass! Great fun.

I must recommend writers groups to writers – the gamble of baring and bearing (and bearing), in my experience at least, has definitely paid off!

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Other writing

The Other Writers’ Group has got me thinking about Other writing. On a regular basis I write novels and blog posts and diary entries. But I used to branch out more.

I once wrote a children’s book. I started a second, and a third.

I once wrote terrible poetry and song lyrics without music.

A few days ago I wrote a poem – the first in a very long time. Thought I’d share…


Reminders of you

Aubergine, all creamy,
only firm for a moment, then
melting away like ice cream.
Cooked perfectly, they remind me of

Coriander (or cilantro),
how you abhor it.
An over-reaction, I think,
but, still, it reminds me
of you.

Salvador Dali, a poster
in Paris, (en route to the Dutch embassy)
for an exhibition you would adore.
I won’t go, but it reminds
me of you.

Macaroons (or macarons)
at every patisserie and
boulangerie, and chocolaterie.
They’re everywhere. And they
remind me of you.

You’d like it here.
I’d like you here. In a way
you are here.
Because all these
things remind me of you.