Things to not do at a book launch

So, Wednesday (1st October 2014) was the day of my first official book launch. I mean a book which I'm actually in, rather than just knowing someone who wrote it.
The book is 'Furies: A Poetry Anthology of Women Warriors' and you can buy it here with all profits from sales (a minimum of £5 per book) going to Rape Crisis England and Wales.

So Plumb and I decided to head along to The Star of Kings in London, where the event took place.
However, I made some errors. Namely:

1. I drank loads of red wine and didn't eat anything. Cue overly loud laughing and extreme chatterbox.
2. I accidentally stole one of the other poet's books - she was handing it around for the poets to sign and it was left on my table. It was handed to me and I stuck it in my bag without even thinking. I discovered I had both copies later on that night. Luckily, she signed my book so I am currently in the process of trying to get hold of her contact details.
3. I almost fell off a lock - don't try to cross canal locks in heels whilst drunk.
4. I misspelt 'thanks' when signing the publisher's copy.
5. I couldn't remember my own email address when asked for it.
6. I may have danced along in the beer garden to some freestyle rap by 'Random Renee'.

However, I did do some things right too:

1. Randomly bump into a friends of mine and Matt's from Glastonbury, who then came along to the launch and then let us hang out on her awesome house boat.
2. Met lots of really cool people, including a few who know people that I know - thus reinforcing the 'small world-ness'.
3. Went to bed as a reasonable time so, for once, I wasn't hungover. Huzzah!

But it was a really good night and such a good experience, it felt lovely to be involved in something which is raising money for such an amazing cause. I felt truly humbled.

Here are some photos from the night:



A representative from Rape Crisis made a moving speech



Becky (on the right) did her undergrad at Cardiff, where I am studying now

 

Jane Bradley from For Book's Sake introducing the poets and speakers

 

Amy and I with a copy of the collection (this is her picture which I totally stole).

 

The view from the canal bar.

 


The inside of my mind at the end of the night.
 

 My first publication is now out - I wonder where I'll be heading next.

Shipwreck Poem

There's a shipwreck called The Lucy off the coast of Pembrokeshire (near Skomer Island) which I dived a couple of years ago, you can find out some more information about it here.

I remember the day quite vividly as on the dive after this, a seal swam up to me and was playing with my fins for about 5 minutes, it was amazing! Then he swam to the surface and just floated there watching us - incredible.

This poem is actually inspired by the poem 'Inchape Rock' by Robert Southey, which was written in 1820. I remember hearing it as a child and was always struck by the imagery of the bell floating deeper and deeper. Creepy.

So here is my take; due to artistic licensing I left out the fact that once I got the surface, I was really seasick and puked and puked and puked.

So, without further ado (feel free to comment, I don't think you need to join anymore!):

Me in my dive gear on a different dive but you know, it sets the mood.

The Lucy

You tumble back into the waves,

forty metres down, Lucy waits.

She’s sat there since the 60s,

but you’ve never met before.

The hazard orange, floating bauble

sits as surface evidence,

of the hidden, deeper secrets

to which it is shackled.

Her name is scrawled across the buoy

that marks her final resting place,

which you’ll use to navigate to her

in the brimstone treacle depths.

So, you slip beneath the surface

where the warm sun cannot follow,

and from red the colours fade.

You plummet slow to shaded depths.

When you have no point of reference

your mind struggles for a mark,

to put its worried self at ease

amongst the silted, gravy water.

Imagined creatures spiral

in the gloom just out of view,

tantalising your periphery,

fabricating looming shadows.

Your left hand feeds the buoy line,

ripcord-taut against the tide,

its recurring jerks and bucks

warn of skyward rolling swell.

As you sink you feel the fingers

of a seeping thermo cline,

its slicing cold snips at the skin

that sits exposed around your mask.

You see the signal trail of bubbles

from your buddy just below,

this cyclic clue of exhalation

becomes a welcome sign of life.

Down here the only discord

is the rasping of your breath,

through the tanks and tubes and pipes

of your artificial lungs.

As you descend you check your gauge,

work out depth, air and direction.

Take out your torch, its blade of light

blunt insufficient in the smog.

And then,

Her rusted bow.

She seems so solid in the dark,

sat blinking from your torch,

in her nightgown of anemones

that soften all her corners.

The crab and wrasse and dogfish,

are her pelagic chaperone.

She’s tickled by Bristle star,

and flanked by hurried cuttles,

the sea fans hide her blush.

A lace of Dead Man’s Fingers.

In ascent I train my torch down,

to watch her evanesce.

Until she fades from my beam,

And shuts her eyes once more.

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Steel Rimmed Glasses - a poem.

So this is a poem about Keith Bennett, the fourth victim of Ian Brady and Myra Hindley, whose body has never been found.

You'll find more information about him and the other murders here.

The first verse is set just after Keith was dumped on the moor, and the surrounding nature is seeking to comfort him.

The second verse it about Keith's body resigning itself to the moors due to a loss of hope of ever being discovered.

So, tell me what you think....

Steel Rimmed Glasses

You found a hillock for a pillow

When they said they couldn’t find you,

And in the marsh laid down to rest

let the heath land slowly claim you.

Purple moor grass bent,

in murmured conspiracy.

The stagnant ponds and flushes

Seep underneath your chamber,

the tenderfooted bracken

weaves your comfort blanket.

The lichen covered boulders

form a mossy, cryptic cairn.

The rushes whisper in the wind

that they know where to find you.

You slowly sank into the earth

and shed your doughy flesh,

the perfect dome of your skull

holds your spotless, milky teeth.

The crowberry weaves its roots

into the hollows of your ribs.

Peat resides inside your head

fell through socket hollows

You came apart piece by piece

Mineral by mineral.

Your bones, bleached and brittle

are the only clue of you,

aside from steel rimmed glasses

which lie broken on your chest.

x

A p.o.e.m

This is a poem about how much Barney hates me:

The Notebook

My dog has a secret notebook,

which he hides in his bed,

inside he writes of many things,

Such as river dips and walks,

And lady dogs and cats,

And circumventing squirrels.

Anything like that.

I’ve never seen his notebook

But I know he writes

in it when nobody is looking.

Page upon page upon page

Of amusing anecdotes

And canine ruminations

In scratchy print.

I often feel him staring at me,

But when I look

he turns his head as if he wasn’t,

He’s thinking what to write

About me his in pad,

Scrawling my name

Over and over.

One time I tried to find it,

But he’d hidden it well.

And when he came back from the garden,

He eyed me suspiciously.

He hasn’t trusted me since.

Cakes and Sonnets. Why not?

Yes, I have been a tad slack with updating this but I had a particuarly joyous essay about Wordsworth to write and a couple of other equally as rousing tasks. So, back to it...

The first thing I'd like to show you is my cakes! I seemed to have evolved into the family 'go-to cake person', my other speciality making me the 'go-to family photographer'.

The cakes themselves are fairly simple, in most cakes a victoria sponge with jam, but the decorating is the fun bit! Here are some below (I'd like to point out that the childishness and unprofessional standard add to their charm...):

Chris' 29th - F1 Car

James' 6th Birthday - Pirate. Arrgghh!


 













Matthew's  33rd - The Millennium Falcon

Fun, eh? More to follow...

 

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