Excavating
It got quite heated at the John Tripp Award for Spoken Poetry, in a sedate and literary kind of way, of course. Nothing ever voiced but always as an aside, for your ears only. Still, a very lively night, in more ways than one.

It's funny, I consider myself lucky to be an outsider. People feel at ease enough to confide in me, vent frustrations, let drip a tiny drop of bitter. And while it seems like I forget what I'm told, it is also the same everywhere, in a way.


Kinda schmaltzy but I just want to give a platform for poetry. Nothing wrong with that.


Working slowly through my notebook, excavating the dictionary poems and brushing away the dirt so I can see what it is I have. These ones are dated from December of last year. Enough distance, then, and I have gained perspective. Excise, keep, realign. Yes, that just might work.

One of the magical things about poems are that, in a way, they are outside of time. I might know I first drafted them a year ago but this does not necessarily reveal itself to another reader. I think that's pretty neat.


And I think I might have a potential title for the second ms. Frickin' finally! Hallelujah.
- posted by Ivy @ 3:46 PM ¦ | ¦

 
And shivering sweet to the touch
I like to write when I'm not at home, when I'm ill-at-ease and still trying to make sense of my new environment. I wonder why that is.


Poetry on Tap, a regular poetry and spoken word event which I've started with a fellow Cardiffarian, went well on Sunday, methinks. Had lots of excellent feedback and most of the punters seemed happy. I think it is more necessary than ever to create, encourage and embiggen culture. We can be culturally rich, if not otherwise.


Received my contributor's copies of Best Oz Po 09.

Wow. I guess it's real.

Add to this the honour of a Pushcart nomination and I think I can honestly say my gob is well and truly smacked. [Thanks, CK and DM.]

Holy cats.

Oh yeah, it's not writer's block. I'm just not ready to write yet. But I will soon. I can feel it coming.

Clear the decks.
- posted by Ivy @ 4:30 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Holey
My next Writing Poetry workshop series starts tomorrow. It's got kinda a catchy title, I think — The Three Rs: Revise, Rewrite and Redraft.

'Course, most writers will know that those three Rs are basically variations of the one R, write? I mean, right?

I'm repeating myself. I've been reading Plath's poetry today. There are a lot of repetitions in it.

I used to know 'Daddy' and 'Lady Lazarus' off by heart [mostly because I had to learn poems for Speech & Drama assessment] but now my memory is holey.

Hope the workshops go okay. Working on the lesson plan now. Hark at her.
- posted by Ivy @ 4:44 PM ¦ | ¦

 
A tip
My writing desk looks like a rubbish tip today. Stacks of paper everywhere. How can anyone create in such a space? I can't. It's just my landing strip where I do my email and then flit off again.


I have so many things I want to do but there is a civil war inside me that paralyses thought and action.


The halogen light in the hallway blinks a warning.


Sometimes I am a snail, recoiling from a grain of salt.


I haven't done my activity report here a little while. I think almost a whole year. It's been a strange year anyway. Even without active pursuit of publication, some poems managed to find homes.

I will do one at the end of the month.


It won't be 'til February next year when I hear about a bursary I applied for, for what I think is a pretty cool project. If I get it, well... I am hopeful.
- posted by Ivy @ 11:18 AM ¦ | ¦

 
Scrimshaw mask
Okay, sometimes I can give a journal leeway of years before I give up on them and their unresponsive ways. I just a put a line through their name and say to myself, 'Self, it's not you, it's them.' Then, I amble along in my lackadaisical, meandering way until I see a tasty theme or irresistible journal that fans my smoulder to a spark, a flame to a bonfire and then I send off a carefully-worded cover letter, a minutely-selected clutch of poems for the editor to read.

But this! Come on. You, journal of artful dishevelment and James Dean devil-may-caredness, you are having me on, with your dark hair curled over one eye and that lifted hitch of a lip, you say to others, 'I have sent out my rejection notes! You should be getting one soon!' Oh, I wait and wait but I hear nothing. I, too, send you my nudges and winks [Dear Journal... dear journal, oh, dear journal...] but nary a note comes my way.

And so I retire, stare at your covers with longing, and sigh, and send curt what-is-the-status-of-my-recent-contribution emails that are only a scrimshaw mask to my ardour. When, oh when, can I expect to hear from you, dear journal?
- posted by Ivy @ 12:33 PM ¦ | ¦

 
Let the cream rise to the top

Caption Contest Throwdown: Round 2 (click to view)

The judges have spoken, but your votes determine who continues on in hopes of winning the competition and who is OUT.

Who wrote the best caption in this Round?

View Results
- posted by Ivy @ 1:48 PM ¦ | ¦

 
All the Dead Dears
Happy birthday, Sylvia Plath.


Finished the first draft of a bursary application! Another one where I leave 'til the last minute. Will I never learn? It's a false excitement, I tell you. False!


I don't think I'll be getting the UK residency I applied for. Their interview date is in the next couple of days and I would've heard something by now, like, 'Buy your train ticket! We want to meet you!'

Ah well, there's always next year.
- posted by Ivy @ 6:20 PM ¦ | ¦