A friend has told me that he loved my poem "Everything About You". He said it was "genius". It's moments like these that help me by lifting me out from the terrible pit I sometimes put myself into...


I'm wondering where creative sorts get their creativity from. Like I don't know. Is it borne out of a need to communicate, or is it that they need to flash their feathers. Maybe a little of both. I once said I can't write poetry when I'm happy and I was quite right. I can't. Try try as I might I can't do the jolly-holiday-by-the-sea poem.
Pain, loneliness, anger and sadness rise, like vomit, leaving splashes of 'genius' all over the screen. Let me tell you how "Everything About You" came about.

I'd had a grey day.
And so things like frustration, incompatiblity, lust and fear swung around in my head like almighty bells till they eventually knocked me unconscious.
And that's when the poem was born. In the dark with only a dim table lamp for light. My hair was a mess likewise my head but the discomfort of being suffocated by parasitic invaders was about to bring rewards.

A floodgate had opened, and there wasn't anything I could do to stop the flow, and if truth be told I didn't want to. It felt, what did it feel like, it felt as if all I had to do was lay down and cleave open my mind and legs and let the baby come out. If I hadn't liked what I was giving birth to I couldn't have done anything about it. The seeds were sown a long time ago, probably early last year and then comes the birthday when sprogs of a dubious kind make their way out from the warmth of my worn out mind to the pages of this here blog.

And there they lay looking quite ugly, beautiful, festering, living, unadorned and magnificent like leftovers on the kitchen table, like all the jewels in the world Like hot semen between your legs. Like a hug just before he leaves. Like cold water on a hot day. Like the wailing of the insane, like the crying of a babe. Like words from a nice man. And all you want to do is flash and scream showing the world just how bad and wonderful it is housing all this ghastly glorious stuff so the poem is born.
And how name you this poem?
"Everything About You".

Love, loneliness and fear all inspire the poet but even good lengthy emails provoke responses. And as I read the words of my fellow blogger's email a new baby was gelling itself together taking immaculate form, and I knew as soon as his words hit my eyes that I'd have to blog about it
because that's what we creative sorts have to do.
Every day.

God it's cold and God it's dark and God I'm tired tonight. But tomorrow it's work so I'll put the dictionary away.
Till I feel again...

Goode Works In Mysterious Ways

Poetry is icing sugar. Cooking is lard.
Poetry soars. Cooking goes for a stroll.
Poetry is an aspirin. Cooking, a nice cup of tea.

So what's all this about?
Another navel gazing episode?
Another bout of who's-the-real-me claptrap?
Correct on the first count and correct on the second count.

I've been composing verse since my first spots appeared and I've been making apple pies ever since penis's loomed large.
And poems and pies have coloured my existence ever since.

But who is the real me?
Am I a half-crazed-hiding-in-an Essex-bungalow poetess or a full-crazed-cycle-riding cleaner who cooks a decent roast?
Both.
But only one gives extreme comfort.

At a very early hour I was zombieing my way from room to room feeling incredibly sorry for myself when I suddenly felt a warm hand fall into mine.
It was the hand of Goode.

And as the birds sung and the sun showed up old stains I flicked.
Flicked through the pages of a twenty-two year old recipe book. In it were great recipes like Swedish Souffle, Orange and Banana Layer and Glazed Meatloaf. It was then I knew I was a cook and not a poet. For not one poem has ever pleasured me in quite the same way as making a knock-out dinner.

My feet were getting cold so I carried the paperback into the bedroom and got to know Miss Shirley Goode all over again.
Smidgens of smiles danced over my face as she sang about chicken carcasses, semolina and lamb breasts but it was her eloquent praising of left-over cabbage that saved my sanity. I imagined running around Aldi's looking at vegetable displays and then scooting back home to make ten litres of Minestrone. I lost my tiny self in visions of Somerset Casserole, Fatima's Fishcakes and Turkish Oranges it was all so good and all so me.


Never had that from a book of English verse.


On the menu today:
Glazed Meatloaf
Potato Salad
Strawberry Shortcake