from The Poetry Challenge A Bunch of Flowers and a Packet of Condoms

I've had a couple of comments from friends about the blog. As a result I shall be posting a couple of poems from the challenge now and will try to update the blog every two weeks rather than four. I miss the one hundred word project but the poetry challenge is quite demanding. I am working on about twenty poems at the moment.

So here are a couple of very recent poems from the challenge. One friend commented on, A Bunch of Flowers and a Packet of Condoms, saying it was the best poem she had seen from the challenge so far. I'm not so sure its even a poem.

These two poems are a short sequence and were written together.

Hope you like them.

Happy Christmas


A Bunch of Flowers and a Packet of Condoms

That first time at the checkout
he was pissed.
A basket full of condoms, Stella and Whiskey
and his mates
wildly pushing their way
to the front of the queue
shouting slurred and angry at everything.

But her eyes
filled the numbed wreckage
of his thoughts.

When he was outside
he looked back at her
through the big windows.

The second time
just the paper and fags.
Alone he waited –quietly
and choked out a thank you
as she dropped the change into his hand.

The third time he chose more carefully.
Baked beans and a microwave meal for one,
she made her customer smile
but he didn’t believe it.

He thought there was more.

So he came back the next day to check.
Bought chocolates and offered her one.
He said something about the weather
then wished he’d said nothing
as she moved on to the next one.

Once he thought he saw her in Woolworth’s
and he followed her for a while.

Then he came in at the weekend.
Casual, jeans, clean T shirt
The store filled with families
and their juggernaut trolleys, overflowing.
In his basket, CD’s The Kooks and Kaiser Chiefs.
He was serious,
and worried that she was Rap and R & B.

On Tuesday he filled the basket with fruit.
Stuff he’d never eat.
Large Medjool dates, ripe mangos
and small fur green looking eggs
he didn’t know the name of.
But the smell was sweet and rich
as he watched her carefully weigh
and price each one.

He thought about her
with the fruit in a bowl
while he drew a mango to his lips.

He thought about her at work
and driving home.
He thought about her in the pub on Saturday night
with his mates
and Sunday morning in the shower.

On Friday he thought about her
in the long agonizing queue.
In his basket,
red roses, the chocolates
and a packet of condoms
and when he faced her
and looked into those eyes
that seemed to swallow him whole.
He said, “these are for you,
what time do you finish here?”


© David Loffman

I Carry A Knife Now

“Once he thought he saw her in Woolworth’s
and he followed her for a while.”

Afterwards I never felt safe. Never!
Even though I moved away.
I ain’t stupid!

I always keep it with me.

Safe!

Lates is worse!

Though I still wake nights
screaming, tears in me eyes.

No one knows me here
though I’m always lookin over me shoulder.
I can’t be sure.

Like yesterday, lunch.
I’m in Woolworth’s and I see this face.
He looks familiar.
He clocks me.
Can’t place him though.
Looks a’right s’pose.
But I can’t be sure
so I try and lose him.

But he’s following.
And I lose me breath
and I’m all hot n cold
and me heart’s like thumpin hard.
Fuck! I think
and I run out the store.

Razor must ave sent him.
Dunno ow e found me.

When I get back I just wanna leave.
I’m not hangin round here.
I tell Janice, the superviser.

She says if I leave on Saturday
she’ll pay me the week
which is good cos of the rent and stuff.

But I can’t wait.
Maybe I’ll just go.
I’m like so scared.


© David Loffman

from The Poetry Challenge Treasure

Here is a poem written about our summer holiday. It was the worst holiday we have been on as a family. Possibly the hardest holiday I've ever had. But one amazing feature of the holiday were the children. They were fantastic! Always hopeful, always optimistic, full of patience and good humour, always helpful and caring.

Arran played the hardest game of football he has ever played yesterday. He was cold, wet and muddy, he felt really low and his team let him down badly I think. But he made a real job of being in goal. He stuck it out. He dived hard into the mud again and again and saved many difficult shots.

I was so proud of him.

Anyway I hope you like the poem.


Treasure

Drive them to a mountain stream
Drive them to a rocky beach
Bring them to a mountain path
Bring them to a white sandy beach.

Give them thirteen hours
in the back seat of the car
with a book, a pillow and a toy monkey.
Give them a steamed up window
to play noughts and crosses on.

Bring them a two-hour traffic jam
diverted at midnight on the M6.

Show them a couple of sheep in a field.
Show them a sparrow,
a shipwreck and a standing stone.

Bring them biscuits for breakfast,
hot chocolate for lunch
and chips for dinner.

Show them grey skies
and a thin seam of silver light
stretching over a Loch.

Show them swallows at dusk.
There are eagles in the hills.

Make them sleep in a broken tent
with three inches of water
at the bottom.

Tell them this is a holiday

Leave them on a rain-drenched beach
for two hours
until their hands and toes turn blue.

Tell them it will be better tomorrow.

Buy them fishing nets and a football.

Make them set up camp
three times in four days
in hard wind driven rain.

Don’t let them see you cry.

Show them flowering Lichen
Orchids, Rock Rose,
Cotton Grass and Heather.

Let them drink mountain water
from Sphagnum Moss.

Show them a rainbow
stretched across the island
we are leaving.

And watch a light
shine from their wind weary faces.
And watch their smiles lift you higher
than all the rain grey clouds.

© David Loffman

Upgrade

I know it looks pretty much the same but I've upgraded this blog.

One advantage of this is I've been able to add Links to the blog - something I've been trying to do for a while and now I've done it.

Over the next few weeks or months there will be some changes and I hope the blog will look more personal.

Watch this space.

David

from The Poetry Challenge Hearing 'The Thought Fox on the Radio'

The Thought Fox by Hughes

I wrote this poem last winter. I was asked to read at The Troubadour one animal poem no more than 25 lines and there was a week to go and I still did not have a poem. So I thought I'd read Hughes poem about the thought fox.

I was driving back late from somewhere and I put the radio on and suddenly there it was, Hughes larger than life reading the poem. And I knew I could not read it.

The next morning we were driving down to Guildford and out of the corner of my eye I saw a dead fox in the gutter of the A3. It was then I knew I had a poem at last.

At the reading, Hugh Epstein and me did a double act, he agreed to read The Thought Fox by way of an introduction to mine that followed straight after.

Ted Hughes's poem first then mine

The Thought Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Besides the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The windowis starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

and my poem

Hearing “The Thought Fox” on the Radio

Midnight. Winter darkness.

I drove home
through lonely silent suburbs.

Frost gathered –
formed a white lining
in the streets.

Then the hard dark grain
of Hughes’s voice
burst into the car
conjuring his midnight fox

so loud I thought he sat beside me
haloed in neon and moonlight –
the creature hidden
in the folds of his coat.

Later, in the road
among fallen leaves and branches -
a dead fox

rolled up like a discarded carpet
rust coloured
slumped in a gutter.

The insistent reach
of Hughes’s voice still
shadows me
now, as I write.


© David Loffman

11 December 2005

from The Poetry Challenge Nighthawkes

Nighthawkes

In the late night diner
they perch on bar stools
leaning forward
hunched against
the vast seamless window
that frames them.

In the darkness
hard fluorescent light
bares them blind
to the deserted streets.

They wandered in
on a troubled night.
To pick at the bones
of their marriage,
savaging the reaches
of their revenge,
in this mime of misery,
where there is no escape
and the coffee offers
only stinging bitterness.

They sit in the empty yellow
glare of spotlights
on this sprawling midnight canvas
that spreads its wings
and submerges us all.



© David Loffman

21 October 2006

from The Poetry Challenge The Bell of All Hallow's

Here is a poem from the poetry challenge. Just in case you were wondering what I've been getting up to. I'll try and post a poem a month from the challenge. Hope you like it.

The Bell Of All Hallow’s

Each morning
during the summer term
with all the classroom windows open
and the wind in the right direction,
the bells of All Hallow’s
comes to us
like a solemn whisper
a hushed promise -
its faint chimes
ripple out over the town.

They come to us
a gentle gift -
a wave that flows
above the low drone
of pre motorway traffic
and over the hard
lines of the roads.

Between our words
a soft peal drops -
sky music.
A quivering island of sound
blown by the wind
reaches out over the suburbs
calling to us
as pleasing as a tuning fork
resonating to the bone.

© David Loffman

25 September 2006

The end of the One Hundred Word Project

This post marks the official end of the One Hundred Word Project. The project started over a year ago.

The poetry challenge started three weeks ago and the challenge is due to end at Christmas 2008. I intend to post my challenge poems to this blog on a regular basis -not always once a week. The occasional One Hundred Words will slip through and the usual book, film and I also intend to post Poem Reviews will also be posted. I also hope to make more use of photographs - my own and those on the net.

Watch this space!

One Hundred Words About Summer's End

The summer holiday has come to an end.

Our lives have come back to us with a sudden rush of activity. So much is happening around us it is hard to keep track of everything. The children have started their different secondary schools. And seem to be settling in. They are managing their very different school journeys, meeting new friends and keeping contact with older ones.

Katy and me are settling into our own new routines.

Katy is establishing her freelance work, she has been writing and talking to potential clients and these contacts really seem positive. She is so much happier when she is plunged deep in the middle of work – the difficulty is establishing the right balance.

One Hundred Words About Silence

I have a difficult relationship with silence.

I think we all do.

At the moment I am writing a sequence of poems on silence. It begins with a simple Sunday morning before everyone wakes up. But ends – probably seven poems later – connecting silence with death and finally our society’s war against silence.

In the front line are the ipod and mp3 players. I watch the ipod generation in the classroom, not just blocking out the voices of their friends, or my teaching voice, but their own inner fragile voices that speak of what they need and who they truly are.

One Hundred Words About Reading

I’ve not read a book all holiday.

I have tried but I can’t get passed the first few pages. There may be a couple of reasons. Firstly I’ve spent a lot of time since June writing poetry in preparation for the poetry challenge with Jeff. Writing always seems to make reading – especially novels - very difficult for me. Secondly I seem to be having a reaction to the pressure of reading. I’m a member of two book groups where I’ve been reading books set by other people and I’ve not enjoyed them.

I’ve not even enjoyed the novels I've set.

One Hundred Words About My Holiday

Streetmap.co.uk- search results

Disturbingly these have been the best two days of my holiday so far. Disturbing because the children are away. Yesterday we handed my son over to his grandmother at St James, Piccadilly. Then hand in hand we made a dash for the Summer Exhibition at the Royal Academy. At six we walked to Wagamams in Lexington Street and then from there to the Coach & Horses in Great Marlborough Street to hear a comedy show. We then walked to Oxford Circus and home.

We spent today with old friends. It was just wonderful. Sunshine, good food, long talks and laughter.

One Hundred Words About The Children On Holiday

On our last visit to Iona, cloud was dark and low. The island a grey, vague blur. There was no wind but it was raining. It was a soft and constant rain. A rain so finely grained we breathed it in. I made my way to the Abbey, Katy wanted to browse the village store and we left the children on the beach.

When I arrived back two hours later - in a shroud of mist and rain - the children were there, changed into swimming costumes, building sandcastles, digging holes, skimming stones and throwing sand into the sea.

One Hundred Words About Our Holiday

Map of United Kingdom | Multimap.com

Scotland was difficult.

After driving all night we set up the tent at Fiddon the beautiful and exposed southwestern tip of Mull. However by mid afternoon the wind broke one of the tent poles and we retreated to a hotel. Our second camp was wild and exposed too, near Killechronan but after a night of rain the morning brought more wind that damaged the tent further. Our third camp was set up on the sheltered east side at Tobermory – tamer and more built up. From there we ventured out in the safety of the car, west to Iona and Calgary.

A Film Review Nil By Mouth

Nil by Mouth (1997)

Nil By Mouth A Film Review

Gary Oldman has made a harsh and brutal film that is very disturbing and utterly compelling, about a working class family living on a council estate in east London.

From the opening credits the focus of the film is Ray a very violent and disturbed man, married to Val who is pregnant with their second child. Around this couple are Val’s brother Billy, a heroin addict, Janet, Val’s mother and Kath, Val’s grandmother.

What we are confronted with throughout the film is the suffering and poverty of these people’s lives. Janet watches helplessly as her son Billy slides further and further into heroin addiction and her daughter Val is beaten up by Ray in a obsessive and jealous rage killing his unborn child.

Ray is a man tortured by his own upbringing particularly his relationship with his father. In the most powerful scene in the film Ray, drunk and full of rage and despair Ray tries to grapple and overcome his pain and anger of the past; to take control of his emotions instead of allowing them to control him.

The acting is outstanding. Ray Winstone and Kathy Burke are totally convincing.

By the end of the film there is a sense of reconciliation the family gathered around a kitchen table. Ray has redecorated and fixed the flat he had earlier demolished and quietly accepts the compliment from his mother in law.

The hope for Val and Ray lies in that one expression of Ray’s quiet humility.

It is so different from the blind and uncontrolled monster that dominates the film that casts a sinister and dangerous shadow, a Kurtz figure presiding over a modern day wasteland.

The setting is November around these South London concrete and graffiti estates. it is always dark, claustrophobic, a yellow anaemic florescent light illuminates abandoned walkways and faces filled with fear and pain.

The film is a harrowing and breath taking achievement from beginning to end, difficult to watch but harder to turn away from.

One Hundred Words About A Job

I glanced at the job specifications a month ago and decided the post was not for me.

Then on the day after the deadline passed my head of faculty asked why my letter of application was not on her desk. I told her she would have it that afternoon.

Since then I have barely thought of anything else. I’ve been in turmoil about it. The post includes supporting staff, raising student achievement, moderating coursework, and running meetings.

The interview was Tuesday. I have the job of course coordinator for the second year of the English Language and Literature A Level.

One Hundred Words About Hammocks

  

I'm sitting in a hammock swinging gently under the shade of Ash trees. Hard bright sunlight filters through leaves. Over there I can hear the laughter of children and before me the wood in radiant July stretches out with birch and hornbeam.

The children cannot see me and I drift unnoticed for a few minutes before lunch.

If I look back towards the camp I can see a new hammock with someone else lying in it. And in my dreamlike state I imagine hammocks surrounding the whole camp where each one of us can slip away unnoticed for a while.

Our Sun In Ultra Violet

  

I thought you might like this amazing photograph of our sun using ultra violet light.

One Hundred Words About An Ending

It has been a busy few weeks since my last one hundred words. Most of my free time has been spent thinking about the poetry challenge which has left little time or energy for this blog.

So I announce that from the 29 July the one hundred word project will end.

In its place I will post my contribution to the poetry challenge each week. The occasional one hundred words may slip in from time to time and there may be a week or so when my poem is so poor I cannot bare to post it to this blog.

One Hundred Words About The Poetry Challenge

The last challenge was in 2001.

At the end of this July we begin our second poetry challenge.

Each week for one year my cousin Jeff and me will post to each other a poem a week. It can get quite stressful and competitive.

We will meet four times during the year to read, discuss and judge each quarter’s poems and at the end of the year we will meet to judge and proclaim the winning poem.

I wrote 56 poems for the last challenge and I worked on one quarter of those and now consider 12 of them good.

One Hundred Words About The White Castle

Amazon.com: The White Castle : A Novel (Vintage International): Books: Orhan Pamuk

It is Orphan Pamuk’s first novel. Set in seventeenth century Turkey. A Venetian scholar is captured by Turks and sold into slavery. Hoja – meaning master - buys him because of his learning and thus begins the tale of a relationship characterised by envy and competition. Almost identical the pair are bound together in an obsessive attempt to unlock the secrets of the universe. But the more they strive for external knowledge, the deeper, more complex, cruel and claustrophobic their relationship becomes.

Against a backdrop of Turkish decline and European cultural and economic accent Pamuk explores issues of east and west.

Film Review The New World

The New World (2005)

The New World

This is the story of Pocahontas and John Smith but this is not Disneyland. It is a harsh and powerfully realistic demythifying – yet beautiful retelling of the Pocahontas story.

The film follows Pocahontas’s life as she chooses the settlers over her people. It follows her marriage and family – not to John Smith; and journey to England and a royal audience with the King at Hampton Court. Then finally, her mysterious death soon after her final meeting with Smith; the man she truly loves.

This latest film uses and develops many of the techniques Malick has used in previous films. The most impressive of these is his cinematography. Beautiful sweeping landscapes are caught at twilight. Malick, I think like Bergman has a real feel for the quality of light. The land is presented as green and lush; there is a freshness and clarity in the settings. He pays special attention to the natural world and focuses on the little details of a rich and unspoilt America just as the Europeans begin to settle the land.

And then the familiar narrator – this time the voice of John Smith – like Private Wit in The Thin Red Line, Malick has adopted an adult male voice, reflecting on what he sees describing thoughts, actions and plans. We see the film from Smiths’ perspective. Yet because he is absent from at least half the film the voice over is far weaker. It is also more prosaic, thinner and flatter than his other films –especially Badlands and Days of Heaven - even the hardened voice of Linda in Days of Heaven conveys poetry in its gritty and earthy strongly accented monologues.

Surprising is the treatment of the Europeans in the film. Their life is presented realistically and sympathetically as they struggle to survive and establish themselves in the New World. The native American’s treat them suspiciously. At first befriending them but later attacking them once they realise they are plan to stay.

Yes there are the usual symbols of colonial rule. She, the native American representing the spirit of the land which is ancient, fragile, beautiful, full of life and fertility, the other. As Donne puts it, “Oh my America/My new found land.” And Captain Smith the male, European settler, seduced by the land and her beauty and vitality. But these traditional images are perhaps undermined by Pocahontas’s dominance of the film and Smith’s fading away.

I think the film lacks a strong and dynamic conflict. The tension between white men and native American’s smoulders and never really sustains our engagement. The relationship between the lovers is dramatic but soon turns to loss, melancholy and longing that takes up much of the film. Malick just manages to hold our attention in this 150 minute epic.

One Hundred Words About Anger

It happened about twenty-four hours ago and it still dominates my thoughts. It becomes a pain at the back of my throat and I feel sick. If I can be distracted then the pain eases a little, for a while. But it’s never far away and easily exposed.

This anger is deep. It touches something inside me so raw, painful and strong I can barely cope with it. It is about control. For a year I had little control of my life or even my body. To survive I accepted that powerlessness. Now I find any loss of control difficult.

One Hundred Words About A Birthday

 

Thirty-three years ago today I bought my first LP.

It was June the first 1973, my fourteenth birthday and I asked my father if he would buy me Aladdin Sane the new record from David Bowie. I had already bought two singles by Bowie, Starman and John I’m Only Dancing. And had only recently realised they were by the same singer. And then Radio One previewed his new LP.

There was something delicious and different about this music. But more than this, this music was mine. I drenched myself in it for months until it became part of my soul. 

One Way Of Posting My Photograph Into My Profile

  

One Hundred Words About New Malden

The soul of my New Malden cannot be seen from the high street.

But New Malden’s face is the high street. Its late Victorian backdrop of shops, red London brick, with sand stone arches, covered with plastic laminated shop façades. Nothing special. The usual chain of names, like Boots, Woolworth and Waitrose and then the occasional independent shop like Tarmal’s – ironmonger, Pengilies – cobbler and Tudor Williams – a family department store. Recently Korean shops have sprung up, a travel agents, supermarkets and restaurants. And charity shops have filled the gaps where small businesses have failed.

Trees line the renovated high street.

One Hundred Words About Oxted, Surrey

We visited friends in Oxted yesterday. We had lunch and then walked down to the green. At one end a cricket pavilion and ground. At another corner a section fenced off – a playground, “for the enjoyment of all.”

On all sides of the green, the small town seemed to radiate out. On the playground side, the ninth century church with a clock tower that tolled the hours. At another corner the high street filled with small independent shops, a cinema and theatre.

Hills rise up on each side of the town.

I can see why they came here to live.

One Hundred Words About Joy And Fear

It still does not feel like our home.

Sometimes when the children are busy in the garden or in their rooms, and Katy is in the study, and I’m reading in the sitting room, I become aware of the wonder of our home. And I am filled with a sudden joy, a tingling excitement.

At the same time, falling like a shadow in happiness’s wake is dread. The family scattered through the house appears like a beautiful dream that is out of our grasp. It fades as fear begins to spiral into panic. I have to keep myself in check.

One Hundred Words About Holiday's

Being busy is easy.

I don’t have to think. Life has meaning.

Twenty students in a class, sixty in a workshop, students calling from the team room door, colleagues wanting to talk, emails and memos, lessons to prepare, work to mark, lessons to teach, meetings to attend, paper work in order.

On holiday time works differently.

The first day is always busy with urgent or left over jobs. But then the gaps start appearing. And all those buried thoughts and fears I didn’t have time for rise up.

It’s the sudden silences and the empty days that feel so difficult.

One Hundred Words About Silence

I am making peace with silence again.

It is never easy. At first I have to convince myself that silence is precious. I sit impatiently, looking for a distraction like the television, the phone, radio and the CD player. I can feel my computer calling me.

Mostly I give in.The house is a trap of sound. In every room it waits for me, I struggle against it.

But sometimes silence becomes a gift.

I become still and just focus on the moment. I become aware of a great thirst, hidden by all the noises.

Only silence can quench it.

One Hundred Words About Tiredness

It feels as if I have lead weights in my pockets that tempt me off balance. I feel like a tent straining against guy ropes, pegs and poles and long to collapse in a heap. I stumble through the day tripping up over my words and sway as I walk. I stand in the classrooms and avoid the chairs. I drank two cups of strong coffee today. I cannot concentrate my thoughts keep drifting in a mental blur. When I lay down I cannot lie still, in the distance I hear the television and there are things still to do.

One Hundred Words About A Busy Term

The mock exams for my six A level classes have been marked and handed back to the students. Feedback lessons on each question they answered have also been done. Timed essays have been marked and handed back with extensive feedback lessons. A Hamlet revision workshop on Hamlet’s soliloquies was prepared and delivered to over fifty students. Revision lessons have been given on Hamlet, Frankenstein, American Poetry, A Streetcar Named Desire and The Spoken Word. I’ve co judged a creative writing competition and co hosted the prize giving.

I have three classes of communications portfolios still to compile, manage and assess.

Three Haikus With Knots

Here are three Haiku's inspired by the comments on One Hundred Words About Knots.

I

almost asleep
the smooth thread of your body
twisted into mine

II

harbour rope holds
the stinging smell of the sea
wind bitten splices

III

on the granite cross
ancient double stranded plaits
woven into worn stone

(c) David Loffman

One Hundred Words About The One Hundred Words

Welcome to 100 Words

I’ve been reading through the One Hundred Word project entries recently.

I started the project almost a year ago inspired by a website – one hundred words.

It has been quite an amazing year for the family and my one hundred words chronicle some of the dramatic events of the year.

But the entries are more than a diary for me.

I’ve tried to use the entries as notes for new poems.

Only a handful of entries have become poems and some of those poems have become one hundred word entries themselves.

It is often good to put feelings into words.

One Hundred Words About Knots

Barbican - LSO Chamber Ensemble

The first knot were the essays I had to mark this morning a knot of ink and thought and paper.

The second was an argument that flared up just before I left the house and gradually frayed out to a fragile peace as I left.

The third, were the long and tangled roads of the city that eventually drew me to The Barbican.

Then finally a fourth knot, a constant unravelling of sound that untangled all the other knots in my head. Different strands, overlapping, sometimes running, or plunging, was pulling towards or against each other out into the night.

One Hundred Words About A Party

Until early Saturday morning our party only partly existed in Katy’s mind and partly in mine. It also existed in all the people’s minds that were going to come, but nowhere else. We had not made any plans or preparations.

At eight we had a plan. In a hectic whirl we did supermarkets, prepared food and organized the house.

By six o’clock I was shattered. Then the first guest arrived.

It was a great evening. I welcomed people while Katy disappeared into the kitchen.

At one o’clock I sat on a sofa with Katy and my second glass of wine.

One Hundred Words About Fear

At first fear hangs in the air, I breathe it in. It is an ache in my stomach. It is heavy, screwed down and locked tight. I don’t want to let it out. I know what it’s like and I’ve felt it before. It is a wild blind thing that has no thought; it speaks in screams. Speed and action are its limbs. It destroys everything in its path. It feeds on ignorance. Time contracts.

I feel it stir inside me. Tonight I will sleep in it and when I wake tomorrow it will still be there, clawing at me.

One Hundred Words While Drinking Coffee

I am sitting in a Starbucks in Border’s Bookshop, drinking coffee. All around me are people sitting at tables alone or in pairs. A mother and daughter, a retired couple, single women surrounded by shopping bags, and a few men, brief case or rucksack beside them.

All of them are busy either talking, reading newspapers or new books, a woman is fidgeting with her mobile phone. A man in his twenties is fiddling with his i pod. Two women are sharing a joke.

I take a book of poetry from my bag and open it, reading, I slip silently away.

One Hundred Words About Escape

I used to be able to escape but not any longer. When I was a child time was like a great cloak that I could wrap myself up in and hide for hours.

But now I am always visible to the world and the world is always visible to me. Time is no longer a cloak but a constant light that exposes me.

Sleep is a temporary refuge. And films have reduced to a thin flickering veil.

Sometimes I rush for the stairs where I work, each slow step lifts me out of sight, a cloak that barely hides me.

One Hundred Word Poem For Good Friday

"Mercy"

A fragile cry
struggles free
into the parched night.

Then silence
except the low drone
of the wind
through bare winter branches.

Until the cry rises again
splits open the darkness
with a long low moan
strong and insistent,
falls to hard wrenched sobs
then to sudden silence.

Heartbeat.

Again.

Now raw and wild,
gouged out of fractured breath.
Throat muscle and tongue
sculpt air
to a single word
that hangs trapped
in cold moonlight.

In the darkness
I imagine
a naked thing
cowering in the dust
red faced
twisted limbs
blood stained,
torn bandages
searching the darkness.

(c) David Loffman

The poem is inspired by different sources. The most important one being Prayer of the Heart a piece of music by John Tavener - which I comment upon in an earlier post.

One Hundred Words About The Troubadour

The Troubadour - 50?s coffee house in Earl?s Court with a deli, gallery, club and garden.

I read at The Troubadour last Monday. Despite being exhausted, it is always a warm and friendly place to be. I always come away from an evening feeling strong and positive about my writing. When I get home it always takes awhile before I can relax.

At the end of a season Anne Marie organizes a poetry party. Poets come up and either read one of their own poems or someone else’s on a theme. This season ended with the theme of coats.

I read At Penmon Point. (see 19 February post)

When the evening finished I just wandered around chatting to Troubadour friends.

One Hundred Words About An Anniversary

Today we celebrate our twentieth wedding anniversary. It feels like yesterday. It feels like a lifetime ago. Last night we ate at an Italian restaurant just round the corner. It was a gorgeous evening.

Our wedding day was a fragile spring day. It hailed in the morning but the afternoon glittered with low dazzling light. Pam was in Africa and sent us a telegram. I walked in on Katy – her sisters sewing flowers to her dress. I wanted the day over and the two of us driving away. Our car decorated inside and out with balloons, beer cans and confetti.

Another One Hundred Words About Joy

Despite the pain and the morphine that dripped periodically into me, in the recovery room, after the last amputation, I felt a joy already surging through me. What I felt was a deep and fundamental sense of wholeness and completeness.

At that moment I was for the first time in years healthy. The disease that had rumbled inside my body and had so spectacularly erupted in February 2004 was no longer active.

I know it was not the drugs that gave me that feeling, because in the days and weeks and months that followed, that feeling is still with me.

One Hundred Words About Praise

People’s praise is overwhelming. Wide smiles full of shock and surprise, sometimes mixed with pride, or sympathy or wonder and disbelief, terrifies me.

Praise is like a mirror in which I see myself through others eyes.

It is a false reflection.

Belief in it would destroy me.

Even writing about it maybe dangerous.

In those looks and words of praise, I see my tightrope walk each day and the bottomless chasms that open up on either side of me. I’m frightened of losing my balance and falling far to earth.

It’s the feeling of vertigo that recurs in my dreams.

One Hundred Words And A Poem About Joy

Once when I was failing, I'd come outside and sit in the graveyard beneath a church. The deer park and the Hall shimmered in late summer heat. I watched the strong clotted green of ancient oaks, the drone of lorries carrying grain from the fields and watched House Martins gathering along high cables.

And from this, a deep glorious joy stirred and rose up through me. In these moments, every afternoon, I felt angels were beside me, feeding me. The earth was holy and as this joy pulsed through me I felt lifted up and made strong and holy.

House Martins

Late summer
and the harvest almost over.

Each late afternoon
I closed my books
and left a room
that reeked of defeat,
where each word I read
joined the liturgy of failure
I was reciting to myself.

So I came outside
to sit beyond the church
among the grave stones.
The sky poured light,
the dark lines of clotted oaks
framed distant stubble fields.

I watched house martins gathering,
perched on long lines of cables
then scattering like seeds
into the wind.

Then I closed my eyes
listening to their high pitched whistles,
sharp, metallic, tuning in and out,
tearing my books apart.

The house martins reeling,
arcing the sky
low sunlight catching
their quick wings.

And further off the heavy drone
of lorries for miles
down winding country roads
carrying grain to empty silos.


22 October 2002

David Loffman

One Hundred Words About Joy

Joy is like a jewel. A precious stone I keep close by. It is so bright I have to keep it under cover. Sometimes it ‘s so strong I feel as though it shines through me. I have to hold it close to myself.

The summer I had my legs amputated I spent everyday in a wheelchair in a bamboo garden beside a tree, under the sun. I felt an overwhelming joy rise through me. I watched the bamboo shoots, high white clouds and ants scuttling along broken paving stones, with only the sun to hide this strong insistent joy.

One Hundred Words About Memory

We played music today I’ve not played since we moved in, in June – eight months ago. The children wanted to hear Laurie Anderson’s Big Science, then Eva Cassidy’s Field’s of Barley and something by Nora Jones’s.

The children balanced themselves on the sofa and danced to Anderson’s wolf howl, which startled them when I first played it to them, when they were two or three years old.

Then they quietened down. Iona curled up on my lap as we listened to Cassidy and Jones – memory filled the room. She knelt against my shoulder – remembering what we were and have lost.

One Hundred Words

Sometimes I can hear the suffering in people’s lives. Sometimes their pain is so overwhelming it is difficult to hear anything else. It feels like storm clouds are gathering around us as friends and family struggle with enormous difficulties.

A family dog has been run over and may have to be put down. Reluctantly a friend took her son and slept away from her husband on Thursday night for the first time. While a friend was being violently sick and had to be taken to casualty, his wife was undergoing a caesarean operation they now wonderfully have a second son.

One Hundred Words About Prayer of the Heart

John Tavener - Prayer of the Heart from John Tavener A Portrait

The first time I heard a piece of music that started with a heartbeat it changed my life. That was in 1973, thirty-three years ago.

The second piece of music I heard that starts with a heartbeat I heard for the first time today. I wonder where it will take me.

I listened, unable to move.

A girl’s voice emerged from the tangle of heartbeat and strings, then struggled free and climbed in a wild, raw, painful, fragile, insistent spiralling chant, sometimes so thin I thought it would break and in a moment a voice so strong, deep and rich.

At Penmon Point

We've had a week's holiday. It's been quite a busy time. Lots of jobs needed doing and I had saved up a few hospital appointments for the week. However I did manage to work on last week's entry a little. Hope you like it.

At Penmon Point

After the funeral we came

to Penmon
in fragile twilight,
in the unformed year
because she loved the place.

We came past

ruined Priory and dovecote
to a broken sea line
scoured by hard winds
and a grey Viking sky.

There we poured ourselves
onto this abandoned headland

wandered unsteady along
a rough uncertain track
to face the raw, bitter wind
that beat me to tears.

I remembered her here
in a summer blue dress
and an easy smile.
Looking out to Puffin Island.

This keeps me warm.

And all that time
a bell from the lighthouse
rang, slowly announcing
an end to something.




© David Loffman

One Hundred Words and A Picture of Penmon Point

We came to Penmon Point after Kathy's funeral. She loved this place.

We drove past the ruins of the Priory and the domed dovecote.

It is an isolated headland, especially in January. There, a grey sea scoured by winds from the north opened to us.

So we emptied ourselves out onto the raised beach. The children and dogs seemed to be lifted up into the arms ofthe wind, scattered among rocks and puddles, searching the sea towards Puffin Island and beyond The Great Orme.

And a bell from the lighthouse rang slowly announcing the end of something. 

One Hundred Words About Another Sunday

So far this has been a classic winter Sunday. Before church I had a little quiet reading time – an Austin novel. The children had baths and tidied their rooms. Then church and after the service brief chats with old friends. Then home to make a roast dinner. My mother came for the afternoon. We had coffee and After Eight. After dinner she spent time with the children and I had a nap, then read a bit of the paper and listened to a little music. Then tea, apple flan and chocolate fingers; we played cards until six, when she left.

One Hundred Words About APOD

APOD: 2006 January 15 - The Sombrero Galaxy from HST

It is about time I let you know about Astronomy Picture of the Day is one of the best sites I have found on the internet. It is a jewel of a site.

I visit it almost daily to catch up on the new photographs. I’ve always had an interest in astronomy. I even took a module in the first year of my degree on astronomy.

Each photograph comes with an explanation and each explanation comes with hyper links to other sites and pictures in the APOD archive.

I watch transfixed by patterns, colours and distances in time and space.

One Hundred Words Without You

Without you the house feels cold.

My thoughts return empty.

I leave the radiators on all night
and forget to turn a light off somewhere.

I buy too much food
to comfort us.

I don’t know when to go to bed
and wake with a jolt.
The radio whispers all night.

I wake the children early.
Hold them a little tighter,
give myself up to their
playground tragedies
and classroom news.

But the days are smooth and easy.
We slip in and out of them
without difficulty,
because you are out there
holding us
in the quiet of your mind.


(C) David Loffman

A Womb of Stars

 

One Hundred Words About Self

A Book Review

Self by Yann Martel

Self is very easy to read. It’s a compelling story. It’s part autobiography, part fiction, and it conveys a vivid experience of adolescent loss and discovery.

On page 89 the narrator’s parents die. On page 108 aged 18 the male narrator becomes a woman. Between 108 and 282 the narrative focuses on her developing sexual relationships with women then men. This culminates on 282 when she’s raped. On 313 she becomes a man, again. He’s a vagrant, has a number of same sex sexual encounters. The rape destroys his life.

At the end he meets Cathy. She wants a baby.

One Hundred Words About The Leopard

The Leopard is a great book. We follow the measured, careful and self-conscious stride of Don Fabrizo a Prince of a province of Sicily in the 1860’s. He presides over a declining aristocratic way of life at a time of struggle for a unified Italy.

But whether political struggle, religious debates or domestic concerns this is a delicate and intensely sensitive portrait of an aging nobleman. We see him from the inside, poised, struggling with competing emotions, duties and responsibilities. A man imprisoned and yet completely at ease in his role as patriarch, father, husband, uncle, master, lover and Prince.

One Hundred Words About Boubacar Traore

Amazon.co.uk: Kongo Magni [Import]: Music

I first heard Boubacar Traore ten years ago.

His voice has an extraordinary depth to it. It is a weathered, beaten up voice, burnished through personal hardships and suffering. It seems to reach out to the listener with an unassuming and surprising emotional intensity.

But that is not all. He sings his own songs. They seem simple and unsophisticated but the melodies are haunting and seductive. They draw you in to his world where he sings of life in Mali, celebrating its vitality, independence and hope for the future. There is dignity and integrity in everything he sings and plays.

One Hundred Words About Shylock

The Merchant of Venice (2004)
Michael Radford’s adaptation of The Merchant of Venice is stunning. And Pacino was born to play Shylock.

The play reverberates through our racist society.

Shylock, the moneylender Jew, seeks revenge disguised as justice against Antonio who has broken his bond. In return Antonio must give up a pound of his flesh to Shylock.

In court Shylock is tricked. He loses everything, even his religion. But the Christian court and its fashionable nobles are seen as bigots taking their own revenge.

The storyline of Bassanio’s – funded by Antonio – courtship and love for Portia shrivels under the harrowing fate of Shylock’s tragedy.

One Hundred Words

We’ve just returned from Anglesey after a four-day trip. We went up for the funeral of my mother in law and stayed on to spend time with the family. I think it was the first time we’d all been together for years.

Despite staying in a hotel it is hard being there. Away from the home we’re enjoying, it’s a long drive, its colder up there and being on the coast the land is quite steep and hilly for me.

But it was very successful. At the lunch I knew most of the people there and I talked non-stop.