He Buried Cheese and Important Papers

It was nice to see Ian Hislop on Who Do You Think You Are? After last week, when Jeremy Clarkson did nothing to disprove that he is a prat of the highest order, it was good to see a restrained but reverent programme. The final section involved a trip to Uig, on the West coast of The Isle Of Lewis which is where we had our honeymoon. Ian Hislop found it wet and miserable though he struggled through the wind with a massive golf umbrella to visit the few remaining stones, all that remained of the house of one of his ancestors. Our memories of Uig are of almost tropical sunshine, huge expanses of white, sandy beach and total peace and quiet. Even on the late summer bank holiday we saw few cars and fewer people walking. We had no TV and had to make to with the radio. One night we listened to a piping competition where one entry was what seemed like twenty minutes of drone - see ABoneCroneDrone for comparison. Now listening to Quiet for relaxation. Anyway, back to Uig. Despite the rain, I was suddenly extremely anxious to get back to Lewis; life in this part of the world seems pressured at the moment and there are rumblings of emigration from a few people I know. I have a problem with flying so for me any trip would probably have to be one way.

I have been away from regular blogging so long that I can't seem to get back into any proper flow. The poems aren't coming as quickly as they used to either. This may reflect the noticeable changes in the atmosphere here at work or just the pressures of an extra child who can no longer be put down without worrying about where he will get to. My daughter has taken a sudden and compulsive interest in history and keeps telling me things I didn't know like who started the Great Fire of London and exactly what delightful punishments were 'awarded' to Guy Fawkes. She shouted down the stairs last night to ask us how to spell 'bubonic' and then drew a picture of a smiling girl with spots in the midst of the Great Fire. I pointed out that anyone with the Plague would certainly not be smiling so she labelled the girl as having freckles. She also has an obsession with TS Eliot as a result of listening to Cats though we have managed to keep her away from The Wasteland.

What books have I missed mentioning?

Where Did it all Go Right? by Al Alvarez
Only a few hundred pages from the end of Ulysses, which after a struggle with the chapter going through the history of written English, has become a lot more interesting if a little slow. I am nearly at Molly's monologue/stream of conciousnness/observational, stand-up comedy (which by the way was the basis for the words to The Sensual World by Kate Bush.)
The big one coming up is the Restored Version of Ariel with facsimile drafts, notes for readings at the BBC and a foreword by Frieda Hughes. Can't wait but will have to.

Just to prove that there are some poems, a good one for you. I haven't posted many anyway but this is by way of sacrifice to the Gods of The Blogs who must have been getting uppity.

Guitar Tech 01/10/2004

Make me a new mother
here with the spots behind us
and I will have you,
your mind wrapped up
in this dress,
smelling the date I bought it,
the time I stop and fail.
I will soothe your fingers,
suck away the strings and blood
you lost for me.
I am gauze for you,
a sheeted window
for your kinks and risings,
or me, just mine.

I am in the dark stuff,
some uncrossed T
behind the smoke and cellars,
a margin, blank and desireless
like all the vacant ice
of fame for fame,
love in the wallpaper,
a sweat and stare for care
and antidote for leaving home.
I took the buzz from Blues
and sent it to the moon
in time to end the decade;
sold it for my talents

A misery, a noun for my neuroses,
has me city-wide,
a walker, a single eye and camera.
And I slip back, a dusty building stone
made living by some wild god,
a thrash against your standing
in some fantasy, some movie.
We fall back from verse to bridge,
technicality in this strobed act,
broken down to elements by light,
against the wall, and fragments,
of my love in pieces,
me made stupid by the rush of blood,
and you here now, sole capacidad,
a sinking raft, yellowing the deeps
with flares and chocolate as we fall
to dust made mud, made salt.

I write and love like taking notes,
missed adjectives and pronouns
make this letter like a command
to those I rule and hate.
Hold me here, and lower me
to sleep and high rise,
all we need in gutted cities.
I have taken centres out before,
killed landscapes with a fire
and freaked out whole towns
with the scream I practise nightly.
Make me a moment out of touch,
a sweet embrace out here
and cold on me has me breathless.
Witchy me!