Hello! It’s Squizzey here. I’m Kaff’s muse, pal, nutty special someone, a well cool dude, and head of the squirrel crew behind The Nut Press. I’m taking over the blog today as part of The Significant Other Blogfest. (Check out the link for everyone else taking part – I mean, obviously no one else has a Significant Other as cool…
Cleopatra is insisting that I stay. She tells me that no one has ever left her before. Apparently, it’s just not done. I was hoping that she’d understand but when I told her she almost choked on the grape she was eating. We were having dinner at Caesar’s and it caused quite a scene. Men rushed over to her and…
I first heard Simone Mansell Broome read her poems at a poetry magazine launch in 2009. Hers were the poems that stood out for me that night because they spoke of real life events that I could identify with but they were also delivered with a healthy dose of humour, real warmth, empathy and a highly-perceptive understanding of human nature…
Every time the wind changes, which is often here, Niko watches me from his spot on the rooftop wall. He lies there like a cat, flexing his feet and letting the sun warm his stomach, a cigarette resting between the index and middle fingers of his right hand. He watches me, waiting to see if, this time, the meltemi will pull me down to the harbour and out to sea again.
In honour of it being Hallowe’en, I’m posting a poem. However, it’s not one I wrote this year, last year or even remotely recently. This is a poem written by my eleven-year-old self, so please bear that in mind when reading it! There are a couple of things I’d like to go back and ask her, if I could, like…
Henry and I have our routines, although I will admit he is far more diligent than I am about keeping to them. He often lollops upstairs to the studio, where he sits and watches me paint for a while. When the pacing starts, I know that it’s time to go for one of our walks and, if it’s left up to Henry, he always heads for the beach.
Il signóre Maglian was in the harbourside cafe drinking his espresso, waiting for his friends to return. The harbourmaster sat facing the sea. He could smell a storm coming in: the breeze was picking up; trees on the seafront were whispering it would be a bad summer squall; and fishing nets on the quayside were shifting slightly, nodding in agreement….
Last November I toyed with the idea of doing NaNoWriMo – the National Novel Writing Month during which you write 50,000 words. However, I chickened wimped decided against it because it was already a few days into November and I’d done no planning or preparation whatsoever. I was also worried about the prospect of having to get the word count…
If the title of this post seems a bit strange to you, I think it perfectly encapsulates the type of weekend I’ve just had and, if you persevere and read on, all will become clear-er. I was in London again, thanks to my trusty steed, megabus.com. And it was a scorchingly hot and beautifully sunny couple of days but very much a weekend of two halves.
I didn’t know when I set out yesterday that my second outing to The Promised Land was to be my last. For Poetry on Tap, at any rate. (As far as I know, they’re continuing to operate as a pub and there will, therefore, continue to be beer and other beverages on tap.) Poetry on Tap, the monthly event which…