tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-103514042012-02-16T23:35:02.805ZThoughts, poems and poetryGeorgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comBlogger921100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-37875298521120062642010-07-26T20:29:00.000+01:002010-07-26T20:29:42.695+01:00

Thanks to Blogger for hosting my ramblings for a few years now, but I have recently moved to WordPress at gawicker.wordpress.com I hope you will visit me there, Thanks, George

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-13963194790517316052010-06-11T05:53:00.001+01:002010-06-11T05:53:59.837+01:00

Has anyone else been following the BBC’s awesome Atom programme these past few weeks? OK, I know it conforms to the formula of similar TV Science shows: sweeping panoramas of Earth and Space, ghosted equations floating across the screen and a casually dressed scientist walking across desert landscapes in casual attire, but the message it conveys, Wow! As many of us have always suspected, nothing

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-49576461327792983882010-05-29T08:12:00.001+01:002010-05-29T08:12:50.130+01:00

The North Wind and the elementals some call sprites, are real creatures - they bear their names, given by deity, or the imaginations of men, with pride, and the task they have: to clean up the stale nothingness, with equal force – their nature is against ours, if we think we are immune to the retaliation of the Earth… Extract from my poem ‘Gaia’s Song’. If you are

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-20551219581776815862010-05-29T08:00:00.001+01:002010-05-29T08:00:05.007+01:00

Up early and having  a look over recent scribbling. When write a poem I usually have a good impression in my head of its worth. Some poems are just tunings, to get the head into gear. We could have a long discussion here of the sources of inspiration, but I generally find that I cannot sit and stare at a blank sheet for too long. i need to begin the process, so I write the first thing that comes

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-13352890145924336322010-05-02T08:19:00.001+01:002010-05-02T08:19:36.797+01:00

I tell of the lost hours playing games – in the fun of distant worlds, and words framed from disappointment, another hour ticks by. My disease is tamed, in a circle, two remote hands edge, semaphore to the knowing, ever closer, nearer now then far apart… …is it an element, Time? or division of the moment, anticipation over before indulgence: convenience, or torture?

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-29863796649784194002010-05-02T07:58:00.001+01:002010-05-02T07:58:24.108+01:00

The root of poetry is in prophecy. In the present age, science is held to be the tool by which our universe will be explained. However, our dislocated and disenfranchised selves tell us the opposite. While science (and its sister, technology), order and rule our lives, we increasingly look for something “outside”. The soul is searching for sustenance. Science doubts itself. Look at the vast

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-33532890404042152762010-04-10T14:34:00.001+01:002010-04-10T14:34:26.108+01:00

We live in troubled times. Here in England there is an election underway. We have had 13 years of Socialism (although the Socialism I grew up with seems like communism in comparison with this ‘New’ Labour). It is time for a change perhaps, but no-one quite knows whether to take the plunge into Conservatism or not. Could it be any worse? Yes it could be. Might it be better? Depends on your

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-20118333052255178312010-03-07T21:44:00.002Z2010-03-07T21:47:55.319Z

A poem is like a spark. It is lit by endeavour, fuelled by energy, and gives its heat to the world. Yet unlike a spark, which dies only to be regenerated in the same form, a poem remains unchanged. The poem always starts a fire.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1164443460864348572009-08-30T20:40:00.001+01:002009-08-30T20:40:21.064+01:00

Man is 50% cheese

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-2853991539239572612009-08-05T08:49:00.001+01:002009-08-05T08:52:18.020+01:00

Writing poetry is like being in a balloon, floating high above the visible earth, caught by currents that direct you this way or that, although you may pretend that direction is under your control. It is not: move this way or that—deflation is a force that must be dealt with—and when back on the soil, accept that the adventure is over until the next time. Only then is it best to reflect, and not

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-36561508970111588712009-05-31T17:54:00.004+01:002009-05-31T18:23:03.762+01:00

Just when I start a movement - Poetry|Pulp - to get the appreciation of poetry into hearts and minds, the fecking BBC start a series on poetry, aiming to do the same thing. Being the BBC they will probably succeed, but also being the BBC it will probably end up seeming as aloof and inaccessible as it did before. What is the right approach, and how are we going to jam the hoof of poetry into the

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-8442986671983773452009-05-01T09:48:00.006+01:002009-05-01T10:08:45.488+01:00

So, outgoing Poet Laureate Andrew Motion says that the job of writing verse for the Royal Family is "thankless" and gave him a case of writer's block. I'm not surprised. Where is the inspiration of an outmoded monarchic system that only serves nowadays as a tourist attraction? What he should have done is never accept the 'job' in the first place. Ted Hughes made a pig's ear of it - his Royal

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-2271295126609418642009-04-23T21:12:00.003+01:002009-04-23T21:22:46.325+01:00

Read a poem not as you would prose, or even in a prosaic state of mind. Instead, you need to cast your mind to one side, to read each sequence of words as if they were an object. Before you is no mere description; every word is a stone, a solid lump of the edifice poetry. Look at a poem as you would gaze at stars, in the dark of the night, in order to see more clearly. If you face a poem head on,

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-24498442817473703472009-04-21T17:59:00.002+01:002009-04-23T21:23:24.000+01:00

Poets should write with feeling, and be read with understanding.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-24456318131859990172009-04-13T08:52:00.007+01:002009-04-30T09:24:39.962+01:00

Today I want to share a link to the Poetry Super Highway, being managed by Rick Lupert, who has the enthusiasm and energy I desire (but never seem to reach), and a dedication to poetry which deserves recognition. I took part in an exchange of poetry books organised by Rick earlier this year, receiving a copy of Pause... and Begin Again from Elizabeth Marchitti, and sending a copy of my own book

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-81307001452440605002009-04-11T08:41:00.007+01:002009-04-23T21:22:16.583+01:00

Poetry needs help. Poets are out there, in their thousands, but we are not proactive enough. Politicians prance, pose and trillions(!) of dollars worth of resources are drained into a banking and credit system that sucks it all up.This is a new phenomenon. We have never seen its like before - the wages, sweat, efforts and savings that we thought would be ours are being squandered. Not even that,

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-40914440459883698642009-03-13T06:45:00.002Z2009-03-13T06:55:51.571Z

Poetry podcast#1 coming here soon.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-90334296937123827302008-11-24T09:56:00.002Z2008-11-24T09:59:55.347Z

We've got snow,it's so exciting.We've got snowand it looks so inviting.Pull on your socks, andpull on your wellies;we're going outsideto slide on our bellies!

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1172289780325357022008-11-16T05:50:00.000Z2008-11-16T05:51:26.987Z

Some say Christmas died when we forgot its pagan past.Others that it happened when beer supplanted cheer, and present no longer came sandwiched between past and future, but arrived instead in a package labelled Xbox.Although I believe it was when they first caught Father sniffing the white stuff.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-22300684551343540632008-06-22T11:59:00.005+01:002008-06-22T12:48:04.131+01:00

Had a Reiki session the other day, my first. I found it both relaxing and uplifting. Literally, as I imagined myself soaring, like an eagle, above the canopy of a forest. A huge snow-capped mountain filled the horizon while I wheeled about.Since the Reiki, I can't get this image out of my mind. Curiously, I keep reading references to eagles. Today, another instance of this synchronicity. I

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-51206552376434030682008-06-21T14:01:00.006+01:002008-06-22T11:57:48.658+01:00

Went to see Coetzee in Norwich on Thursday night. He spoke for an hour, a little about his experience with censorship and censors in South Africa in the 70's. Then he read a couple of excerpts from early novels, to illustrate. It wasn't boring, but it wasn't lively either. At a couple of points, I wanted him to ad-lib. Just, say, make a small joke, something a little self-deprecating. He didn't

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-55678220054192455092008-06-12T11:02:00.002+01:002008-06-12T11:12:18.121+01:00

Lat week I set up Ubuntu on an old PC. The only problem I had was setting up the wireless card (a Belkin Wireless G), but in Ubuntu 8.04, using ndiswrapper and the info on the Ubuntu forums it came alive. So has my slow 850MHz PC. I can recommend Ubuntu, and Linux in general to anyone who wants a safer, hassle-free, more interesting computing experience. Put it this way - I wouldn't call Windows

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-71023667544442707892008-06-12T10:27:00.008+01:002008-06-12T11:57:40.807+01:00

Thanks for the comments on the last blog - it makes me feel wanted! I guess it's easy to sit here and imagine the emptiness of cyberspace all around. What was that line from Yeats -'The wandering earth herself may beOnly a sudden flaming word,In clanging space a moment heard,Troubling the endless reverie."In reply to Andrew, a former colleague of mine - I am interested in a Linux/Unix users group

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-19885697639967563602008-04-29T09:15:00.001+01:002008-04-29T09:15:56.622+01:00

Haven't posted for a while - too busy, or too lazy? No, busy, but lots of time on the computer, so there are no excuses. Would be happier if I knew anyone was reading this. Anyways, doing a lot of editing. Finished my teen sci-fi book, first draft, a couple of weeks ago. Letting it mellow, and my take on it, while I get back to editing Inside Out, the first novel I finished and the one I have

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-13999875922792616662008-03-28T09:03:00.001Z2008-03-28T09:03:50.396Z

Went to an open mike poetry gig at the Lounge Cafe in BSE last night. Strong coffee was needed to get me off the ground after a series of late nights and early mornings. The poetry was interesting and varied enough to keep me there until the end. Read a few poems from Signs, politely received. Met a couple of guys who are on the upward slope of the poetry hill (should that be mountain?). Also

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-68537056224057080742008-02-03T09:36:00.001Z2008-02-03T09:41:19.994Z

There comes a time when you have to take it easy. Today is that day. For reasons documented elsewhere I am Resting, Ice applied, Compression (soon to be) applied, leg Elevated. Should I rest on my laurels? Past achievements? The fact that last week I wrote what I consider to be my best 'anthology' poem? No, I have achieved nothing yet, and this is why I can't take it easy. I will today, until the

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-31132184161323268112008-01-21T22:07:00.001Z2008-01-21T22:07:27.977Z

Oh dear. Lucky I don't have any then. I need liquidity not longevity, so whenever some fall in my lap, I cash them in. I know they're a good long term investment, but I never have any spare cash! Of course it's capitalism, but I'm not necessarily against that. Obviously that's not what I'm meant to be...

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-29743294476340880372008-01-20T19:06:00.001Z2008-01-20T19:06:32.468Z

Played five-a-side yesterday, scored a couple, didn't have a heart attack - job done. Today spent some time on poetry, revising, typing up. The hours go and the light fades, now is the time to think of quieter things... QUIETER! You can't get quieter than that: I need revving up. But it's too late, soon the tiredness wil sweep over me (had a BIG veggie chilli for dinner) and I will reach for the

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-82659761170958552402008-01-19T14:33:00.001Z2008-01-19T14:45:31.092Z

Trying out a new way to access (and contribute to) my blog. So many things to log on to - if I can centralise the whole operation, then I can keep in touch with them all. Add links (e.g. my website), text changes, colours!

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-3240212244947988202007-10-30T10:45:00.000Z2007-10-30T10:46:58.362Z

A professional writer is an amateur who didn't quit.Richard Bach

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-73229081325903921622007-10-21T11:15:00.000+01:002007-10-21T11:19:59.675+01:00

If I write 1000 words a day that's fine, but then I don't have any time to work on the 1000 words I have written the day before. Nor the many thousands of words I have already written, that need revising (or ditching). Then when do I write the emails, cook the meals, update the websites, enter the competitions, contact the agents, sell the poetry books, oh, and work for the 40 hours a week that

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-11346593463879941152007-10-21T11:05:00.000+01:002007-10-21T11:15:22.433+01:00

We adapt quickly in England. There wasn't much of a summer (but hey - April was lovely!) and now there are night frosts, and the days are hardly awake before the light fades and evening draws in. So, we are preparing for winter, and the supermarket shelves fill with Halloween effects, and shelves beyond those even with Christmas gifts, plum-coloured wrappings with gold and silver labelling. There

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-17809885159946696022007-09-21T11:05:00.000+01:002007-09-21T11:06:45.485+01:00

Escalators can take you up, or down.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-4920489838150452652007-08-20T15:04:00.000+01:002007-09-21T11:08:29.478+01:00

This is the kind of story I like: Bears eat man at Beer Festival. As the late great Bill Hicks would say: 'Whoopee, we're missing a moron!'

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-7518624129001201072007-06-26T21:16:00.001+01:002008-06-22T11:54:10.376+01:00

We use 30% of the brain's power. Why would evolution create a system in advance of its use? Darwin couldn't answer that: his theory of evolution is flawed. This is the anomaly that has led me on a lifelong search for the answer to existence.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-32444636612797251192007-06-26T21:06:00.000+01:002007-06-26T21:10:11.848+01:00

It isn't until the searchlight of your efforts goes out, in the form of a book or collection, that the temperature of reception can be gauged. Then shadows, like infra-red images of yourself, come reflected back in the opinions of others, but most importantly in their likes and dislikes, of your work.Prepare for disappointment or joy.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-48751295745840119442007-06-02T08:43:00.000+01:002007-06-02T08:55:47.124+01:00

The hardest thing, getting known. I have a product, viz. book of poetry. Poetry! People throw up their hands in horror. Poetry...yes, that function of the higher brain, tool of the depressed and sorrowful, is it still being written?"I mean, I know it still is being written, and when we read it we find it so comforting, except for that modern stuff that doesn't rhyme and oh yes Betjeman knew how

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-62159223812258994172007-04-17T11:55:00.000+01:002007-06-26T21:25:07.907+01:00

OK, it's not good grammar, but the book is Signs and it is available now!A coughing, spluttering fit.A nervous, high laugh.Sign of spring - bird song;sign of winter - long scarfwrapped around the throat.A sharp frost, a dull pain;there are signs of life in me,signs of death too, agecreeps up, as winter doesthen leaves, as life should doby transition, not by this suddensnatch of death, the soul

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-14378873238888995352007-03-09T09:42:00.001Z2007-03-09T09:57:44.600Z

Nothing like 'losing' a manuscript to get a bit of publicity.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-18464290305031309592007-03-04T22:10:00.000Z2007-03-04T22:30:51.386Z

Watched the eclipse of the moon on Saturday night. Skies cleared over Suffolk and the shadow of the Earth moved slowly over the moon. Tried to get the kids interested - they did watch but it was only an excuse to stay up late! It only turned a bit red (perhaps I went to bed too early) and I had to explain the mechanism to my daughter. I should have pointed her here, as my attempts to explain

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-5418337676060404282007-03-02T20:07:00.000Z2007-03-02T20:55:39.810Z

It is a fascinating concept: a century old model of the universe and its origins is all in place, except that it requires something that doesn't exist - dark matter.We all know that most of the universe is space. Atoms are full of it (or rather, empty of it) and since atoms compose everything, we are space. Held together with electromagnetic energy.Yet something must give the universe most of its

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-2357386350038227602007-03-01T21:15:00.001Z2007-03-01T21:24:20.231Z

I have downloaded a podcast of a poetry reading by Lyn Hejinian, part of the Poem Present series at The University of Chicago.Will let you know how it goes (on for 45 minutes).

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-36048761328442237762007-03-01T19:02:00.000Z2007-03-01T19:07:22.040Z

Book retailers must ready themselves for a similar digital revolution to that experienced by music retailers, said Waterstone’s managing director Gerry Johnson.He told delegates at the Retail Week Conference that “People have strong perceptions of what a bookshop should look like. We have got slightly out of step with what consumers expect.”He said that as consumers get used to books and content

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-82241659513530947732007-02-17T09:28:00.000Z2008-12-11T17:24:02.865Z

Trip to London last week - to the Eye. First time back for a long while, this time as Tourist (and showing my children the sights). Impressive prices - here's the view to complete the picture (or the pictures to complete the view:Do I feel at home in London anymore? No. Do I feel comfortable, yes, that's all to do with the past, memories of growing up and a familiarity with its history. The

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1164799683638206962006-11-29T11:27:00.000Z2006-11-29T11:30:24.596Z

Can you write a story about Suffolk?Do you have memories of the old days? Or have you recently moved here? Could you write a fictional account of life, set in this eastern county of England? Village life, seaside life, life in the town, life on the farm - in Suffolk we have many different settings that could inspire you to write a prize-winning story.The Bury writers’ group Write Now! is

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1156233684048082532006-08-22T08:49:00.000+01:002006-08-25T04:51:16.833+01:00

Grey day, the recent hot weather is a memory, but there is still cause to be happy! Why not - the writers' group Write Now! is launching a short story competition here in Suffolk. In fact I have just finished posting the website for the competition (you knew I would have to get involved, didn't you).The link to the competition is here, don't forget to browse the rest of the site, as I have

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1153726112074540762006-07-24T08:14:00.000+01:002006-07-24T08:28:32.093+01:00

I am reading The Vivisector, by Patrick White. I wonder if this book would ever have been published in today's environment? What with Show not Tell, punchy starts, sex, violence and Celebrity - darling, don't ya think Patrick would have remained in the slush pile for ever?His language is wonderful though, poetry in observation. He makes me look at the world differently, think about humanity,

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1147855113337822662006-05-17T09:28:00.000+01:002006-05-17T09:38:33.336+01:00

Now this one is easier to understand (Champions League Final tonight, Arsenal versus Barcelona). I'm playing football against a team with Ronaldinho in it. Problem is, the football is a normal shape, but has a blotched skin, like a potato. Worse still, Ronaldinho keeps calling it his "mother" and every time someone kicks it he cries. In the end I take him to the side of the pitch, tears streaming

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1147854490143412212006-05-17T09:15:00.000+01:002006-05-17T09:28:10.153+01:00

Strange dream the other night. I was mixed up in a cult, whose origin was in the worship of a great tree, called Antaeus (In mythology Antaeus was the son of Gaia and Poseidon. He was a giant who compelled all strangers to wrestle with him and defeated or killed them all. He was invincible for as long as he remained in contact with his mother (the Earth) for she supplied him with strength.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1146634216682414842006-05-03T06:07:00.000+01:002006-05-03T06:30:16.693+01:00

Those nice people from Dell have sent me a new computer - well OK, I did have to pay for it - and I've got my desk back. In essence, I didn't have a desk before, just a piece of furniture to put the old computer monitor on. The great CRT monster sat there for five years, in space I was meant to be writing on, collecting dust and goading me. I shuffled around the house looking for a place to write

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1143113291928005502006-03-23T11:08:00.000Z2006-03-23T11:37:02.416Z

Where are the bones of St Edmund? It's not a problem I would normally bend my mind to, preoccupied as it usually is with football, poetry and what to have for lunch. But I've just finished reading a book on the subject and it seems that they are not where they should be, i.e. here at home in Bury St Edmunds, seat of the former shrine to the once patron saint of England, martyred in 869 and so on.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1142770952025209212006-03-19T12:20:00.000Z2006-03-23T11:38:12.453Z

Blackbirds like tuna! Especially when dried and processed with vegetables and who knows what else in brown chunks designed for (and eaten by) cat-up-the-road. This is the evidence: forget raisins, seed, old apples and special concoctions packaged by the RSPB; £2 something a bag gives them protein, vitamins, flavour and hopefully nothing else. I mean, they wouldn't eat it if it wasn't good for

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1142547340419856362006-03-16T21:57:00.000Z2006-03-17T05:23:47.266Z

This is a picture of cat-up-the-road eating. We tried feeding her indoors but one day she had a few too many chunks (possibly the tuna) which, when mixed with milk, seemed to set her stomach 'on edge'. Hah. The consequence was a lot of brown liquid on the kitchen floor. This happened twice; I had to clean it up, now she is fed outside. Looking at this photo I do feel a bit guilty (it's been a

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1141988828303180282006-03-10T10:50:00.000Z2006-03-10T11:10:54.906Z

I am seriously (again) considering self publishing. It's come up recently at the writers' group and after a quick look on the Web it's clear that the technology for POD (Print On Demand) and short run digital printing is moving on. Publishers like Matador and Grosvenor House offer reasonable packages and professional services, including marketing, which is the essential skill for anyone printing

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1141808489825190132006-03-08T09:00:00.000Z2006-03-08T09:01:29.826Z

Life is long and blogs are (or should be) short.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1141808408234290152006-03-08T08:50:00.000Z2006-03-08T09:00:08.246Z

At last, an enigmatic ok on feedback from the Chinese cameraman. No thanks, glad to have it, best camera in the world, a privilege to do business with you etcetera. Zip, nothing. Perhaps that's all I should expect, what with their inscrutable reputation and all.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1141380361667383012006-03-03T09:48:00.000Z2006-03-03T10:06:01.680Z

Here is a picture taken from my window today, here in Bury St Edmunds, a fine frosty morning, the sun trying to break through that low mist that settles in the early hours. It's a sign that the pace of the year is picking up. This is a marathon not a sprint, I call to some blackbirds who sit outside the back door waiting for catfood. They don't want advice, just dry bits of Chicken Chunks. I'm a

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1141337616386412312006-03-02T22:00:00.000Z2006-03-02T22:30:52.270Z

Still no news on the camera (see last blog). Has it or hasn't it? Arrived I mean. I have been tracking it on the Post Office website; the last they knew it had been handed over to the Chinese postal system for delivery. So, I await confirmation (or feedback through eBay) that it is safely in the hands of the buyer. It is open-ended, a transaction uncompleted, and I don't like that - I need

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1140524353697645282006-02-21T12:18:00.000Z2006-03-03T10:08:17.463Z

I sold an old camera on eBay at the weekend, to a guy from China. This phased me at first, when bidding had stopped and the necessity of despatch began. Why does someone from China want to buy an old TLR (Twin Lens Reflex) from someone in England? Is that the beauty of eBay, that a camera bought by my Grandfather in 1965 for £35 can be sold for not much more and end up on the other side of the

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1139566575935928482006-02-10T10:14:00.000Z2006-02-10T10:16:15.946Z

Took my little boy to school today. Recently, he insists on waving to us all the way in, the last wave taking place as he stands in the doorway of the classroom, not looking sad but instead smiling a toothy grin. Still, you would think I was leaving him at the very gates of Colditz. Or the train station for a first term at some distant boarding school. That will never happen, of course, but it

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1139131416598893262006-02-08T09:19:00.000Z2006-02-11T14:53:05.616Z

I've been going through some poems, tidying parts up, preparing them for the ritual of submission. It occurs to me that a lot of them are about death. That's not because I'm overly worried about it; on the contrary, death seems to me the catalyst for life. Put it this way; if no one died there would be no room for new life, new people (or whales, to follow an earlier post). The world would be

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1139167969109924632006-02-05T19:30:00.000Z2006-02-10T10:45:43.450Z

Talked to my friend Ruby last night. It seems that the citizens of Bury St Edmunds are to get a fringe festival to supplement the annual version that runs for two weeks in May. The idea is for local people to offer events outside the main ones (John Williams! Toyah Wilcox!) We thought we would put our names down to help. I can play the guitar, recite good poetry badly, do startling things with

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1138463482628718872006-01-28T15:39:00.000Z2006-01-31T20:14:07.320Z

Now here's the thing. Create a TV programme which pits the fragile egos of known celebrities against each other for a few weeks. Presume that none will emerge still standing. Then put a non-celebrity in the mix who pretends to be a celebrity until found out, because it quickly becomes clear that she has no talent. She's now on an par with the others anyway.Then watch as the proper celebs

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1138461998582777502006-01-28T15:21:00.000Z2006-01-31T20:14:55.570Z

Further to the Christmas sprout, it’s whale water time! On the back of the saga of the Thames whale, I note on ebay some new items offered. One is the genuine watering can used to keep the famous cetacean hydrated in its last hours on the planet. Another is a jar of the supposed Thames water that came from said can. Now I can see the point of raising money for charity, but the people who get in

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1138355557485180602006-01-27T09:47:00.000Z2006-02-11T14:57:35.280Z

Busy week, let’s see – highlight: finishing Slow Man by J M Coetzee. Now, I know I rave about this guy and it’s easy – he is a Nobel prize winner after all – but I just love his style. Someone once said about Beethoven that every note seems to be the right one, the only one that can fit in its place. Well, Coetzee is the same. I am looking for cock-ups, the disingenuous, repetition, a false turn;

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1137693474734360052006-01-19T17:57:00.000Z2006-01-19T18:23:37.873Z

Visited Starbucks in Bury for the first time last week. I had convinced myself it was going to be the MacDonalds of coffee, but I was wrong; it was vibrant, welcoming, and the coffee was fantastic. I recently went two years without drinking coffee, now I have to have one strong cup a day. Who knows where this new urge came from, or what first prompted the abstinence? I'm not going to bother to

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1137361375197792532006-01-15T21:42:00.000Z2006-01-19T18:27:14.173Z

It’s Sunday evening. I’ve just listed some stuff on ebay to sell – old videos, Playstation games, that sort of thing. I see it as a form of recycling; and while I don’t expect to make too much money from it, it’s nice to think that stuff lying around for years in cupboards and attics might suddenly be used. Having said that, there is the current story of an unwanted Christmas sprout being sold

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1136403292146797042006-01-04T19:21:00.000Z2006-01-04T19:34:52.160Z

I have been reading up about Bluetooth and wireless connectivity. Why? Just because I can. Also, over Christmas I bought a new mobile phone. Now, the idea of all this communication seems OK on the face of it, but what information are we trading? News of Jordan’s latest enhancement? Big Brother voting patterns? Ringtones? We seem to be missing something here, and I am all for information, but it

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1136143684455818212006-01-01T19:13:00.000Z2006-01-19T18:29:09.900Z

It has been an uneventful start to the New Year; after a leisurely morning we go to Pizza Hut for lunch. The children manage to eat more than we do! Then we wander around the few shops that are open in Bury, as if we haven’t had enough of shopping. Other dazed families are suffering the same fate; children clutching Bratz purses or Star Wars wallets stalk the aisles in search of scraps to buy

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1125953291681539332005-09-05T21:23:00.000+01:002005-09-05T21:48:11.696+01:00

Sunday: 10k run (that's 6.2 miles in English), hot (27 C) 11.00am start Framlingham Castle, Suffolk, England. I haven't done much running over the summer, concentrating on the bike instead. I'm quite fit (in one sense), but this was an ordeal too far. The friends I ran with went off well, as the practised do. I adopted a casual pace. First mile a bit of a huff, second mile felt quite good, by the

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1120383432128817362005-07-03T10:27:00.000+01:002005-07-03T10:37:12.133+01:00

Not that I had one, but the break is over. I have discovered Coetzee, courtesy of fellow members of my writers' group, sent off some poems to a regional competition, decided to put in the hard work necessary to fuel a 'career' in writing and not expect fame (and fortune) to come my way as of right. At the moment I have the inspiration, the imagination, but not the application; that is what I

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1113904898399137002005-04-19T11:00:00.000+01:002005-04-19T11:01:38.400+01:00

If you're going to write a poem, first you have to feel something. You can't be lifeless, slothful, regretful; you've got to feel life. Don't be a sap, a charlatan, don't be happy with what you have, what is going on around you. Be mad, sad, joyful; pick the right things to shout about. Not commerce, work, money, sex, drudgery, TV, commodities, politics, cars, images or celebrity. Avoid these

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1113819952895942102005-04-18T11:14:00.000+01:002005-04-19T11:09:04.786+01:00

Today I have two main aims: Finding a local publisher of poetry. Checking up the stats on my web site (of which this blog is the home page).I'm in Suffolk, the sun is shining between showers, the late shift beckons at the printers where I work. Web stats show that most of the visits on my web site in the last couple of months have come from the Mirabot search engine. Probably just visits from

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1110833831850890322005-03-14T20:45:00.000Z2005-03-14T20:57:11.850Z

This is about time and the blog. Or, about time, Shakespeare and the blog. I mean, if the web had been around in Bill's time, or if a new 'Shakespeare' arose today, would any of those plays get written? Would he not be writing stuff instead for the BBC, teamed up with Gervais or Ali G, churning out candyfloss for the many digital channels that charm and amuse us 'to the last syllable of recorded

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1110189141890941572005-03-07T09:42:00.000Z2005-03-07T09:52:21.890Z

I'm in a meditative sort of mood. My son has been sick for a few days with a virus. We had him checked out at the hospital on Sunday, they say it's nothing too bad, but you always wonder. My twin brother had Meningitis when he was about 7, wrongly diagnosed as flu until he started banging his head against the wall with the pain. Another doctor and he was straight in hospital for 6 weeks. Only

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1110151454929945282005-03-05T23:10:00.000Z2005-03-07T09:57:05.230Z

Two titles for short stories: "Stamped to Death Envelopes" & "Get Witch Quick". Not sure what I could do with them, maybe themes for the writer's group. Perhaps the titles will be more exciting than the stories. One job I've always fancied - headline writer for the tabloids. Now I think I could do that well...

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1109371202633060982005-03-01T10:40:00.000Z2005-03-06T20:49:20.073Z

This seems a good blog: micvskyeno. Also, bought a Yin Yang pendant off the Holistic Shop recently. Good price, quick delivery, for all those crystal/jewellery needs. Only problem was, Bev was looking over my shoulder and took a liking to some of the more, how shall we say it, expensive items. Might have to indulge her for Mother's Day.Now, coming to that, to add to the Death Day recently

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1109327860113571462005-02-25T10:33:00.000Z2005-02-25T11:01:34.060Z

Just to say, 9 years ago today my Mum died, of Alzheimer's. Dad reminded me on the phone last night. We joked, as you do when subjects are a bit close to your heart, about the possibility of "celebrating" death days as we do birthdays. Of course there is no one there to receive a card (cheaper already). At least we can have them in our thoughts for a day so, for the next 24 hours, that's what I'm

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1109327565382378802005-02-25T10:29:00.000Z2005-02-25T10:32:45.383Z

I'm just editing my template, adding a few links in to my other site pages. The blog is now my home page. No longer "Unkewl" George (thanks Samantha), the new dynamic web me has evolved.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1109221758656519352005-02-23T21:08:00.000Z2005-02-24T05:09:18.656Z

Penrich says he could have finished my kitchen in half the time.Well, sod him, so could I!

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1108940661372054452005-02-20T23:00:00.000Z2005-02-24T05:10:26.646Z

The shorter the better. In most cases, I like it long though, it gets the juices flowing. That's why novels appeal I suppose. Yet epic poems are not my style, either. Someone is moving upstairs, Oh, it's Dad, taking his cough to the loo. Must get a house with 2 bathrooms next time, or at least toilets. Next time? That whole reincarnation thang again...

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1108940414356729402005-02-20T22:58:00.000Z2005-02-20T23:00:14.356Z

To paraphrase a famous comic, I have had a perfectly good day. This just wasn't it.

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1108546560344182342005-02-16T09:34:00.000Z2005-02-20T23:08:24.010Z

Been away for a few days, MSN land (usually I work on AOL Broadband) and for some reason (‘cos it’s free), you can’t log onto MSN during school holidays. Well, I tried. That’s not an excuse not to blog, but it let me do other things. There was family stuff going on and fixing up Brian’s scanner, that’s no excuse and I seriously wanted to blog. Then again I was doing other things as I said, mainly

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107904289461072372005-02-08T22:47:00.000Z2005-02-08T23:11:29.463Z

Nothing much to be happy about recently. Weather OK, I'm doing my chores, not enough writing, but there's some serious stuff going on. First there's the thing with Ronnie, gets you thinking (gave Bev a big hug and told her, you know, those three words). Now, there's been a murder in the town. Not only that, unthinkable in these parts, sleepy Suffolk, possibly the safest place in the world, but

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107494231190722352005-02-04T05:14:00.000Z2005-03-07T10:22:27.640Z

Firstly, it's never easy when your world is suddenly turned upside down and you are shat on from a great height. Like Ronnie, whose long relationship with Liz is currently teetering on the brink. When it happens, and it will sometime happen, you can look on it either as a challenge or a defeat, 'though it'll just seem defeat for a long long time. I don't know Liz, except by the mostly

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107461849347734982005-02-03T20:08:00.000Z2005-02-03T20:17:29.346Z

It's me. For a while I thought it wasn't, then I built up a scenario in my head of how Penrich was going to supercede me, Penrich was going to slip into my mind and overhaul all the delicate feelings, emotions and fine tuning I'd built up over the years (told you it was late in that last blog). Well, turns out it was me all along! What about that, seems I've been writing poetry, novels, even

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107284568487980532005-02-01T18:58:00.000Z2005-02-01T19:02:48.486Z

I've told you about Penrich. The truth is even stranger; he woke me up in the middle of the night, forcing things into my head, strange thoughts, I s'pose you could call them thoughts. I couldn't sleep after that, then I knew I had to do something about it. Why fight him, when I want to be like him? Perhaps I will let him into my life, slowly (I don't want him to get too bigheaded).

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107001591097424392005-01-29T13:26:00.000Z2005-01-29T13:18:49.906Z

How dull it's been here lately. I've got a bike, crusty with all that crap that comes off the road in January (you know, the salt & grime they put down here to keep the ice at bay) in the garage, thinking about going rusty. I woke up this morning thinking about being sick, then I realised it was Saturday and quickly got better. Still not quite right but I don't intend to do a lot. Arsenal are

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1107002920576581942005-01-27T22:45:00.000Z2005-01-29T12:48:40.576Z

This poem sort of goes with my last blog: Time I waste the lost hours playing games—in the fun of distant worlds, and words framed from disappointment, another hour ticks by. My disease is framed, in a circle. Two remote hands edge, a semaphore to the knowing, ever closer, now nearer now far apart. My daughter cannot tell the time. Cannot tell it, it doesn’t matter to her that things divide

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1106826591335012252005-01-27T11:39:00.000Z2005-03-14T21:00:52.163Z

Dismal day here in Suffolk, raining, grey, that shivery kind of cold weather that gets in your bones, nose, everywhere and makes you remember the hot days of summer. One in particular I recall, driving down to Bev's parents' place in Abingdon. Get there, sticky in the car but although its only a little Skoda Bev made sure it had air con when we bought it (I was, I admit, sceptical about the need)

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1106691019191964992005-01-25T21:35:00.000Z2005-01-25T22:10:19.190Z

We're in the middle of an English winter, one of the 'modern' ones, i.e. not much snow, lots of rain, gales, some icy nights; a bit of everything. Kids are happy with a few snowflakes swirling about for a couple of hours. Older people are not impressed - what happened to 6 foot snowdrifts, cracked pipes and toboggans? If it's global warming then we have something to worry about. If it's just

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-10351404.post-1106518329205071202005-01-24T06:05:00.000Z2005-01-29T12:59:07.560Z

Blogging. The name has been jumping out at me for the past few weeks. I'm reading a book now on it, sort off jumped out at me from the library shelves. Blogging, by Biz Stone. Telling me how to get started. So, I thought I would have a look at the blogger.com site, just to see. No commitment, just get in and get out. It's Sunday evening, and I haven't got a lot of time to set things up. Celebrity

Georgehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/06831200917539892612noreply@blogger.com0