Thursday, 24 May 2018

Bridport Guest Blog

I love the Bridport Competition quest blog. Find link below.
Here a recent flash fiction winning author shares 4 tips.

1.Pen and paper are useful to have about you at all times...
(we all know this but...)
2. He's sick of the wet weather and finds it hard to write outdoors in the rain.....(Well, we would too.)
3. A remote cabin in rural France may not do the trick. (Check European weather patterns.)
4. Share your stuff!!! Art is not art unless shared.
(I don't know if I agree with that ,but it can be useful to get out there and share.
Blog, join writing groups, enter competitions, approach agents !!! with trepidation
And publishers? Sure why not?)
It's a clever, inspirational guest blog. Do read and enjoy.

Guest Blog Bridport Prize

Summer Style

It's that time of year again!
The fella from the County Council has been transforming our Park/Woodland into a maze of 
woodsy-wildflower trails. Am posting a revised version of  poem I wrote for him last year.


Nobody sees him shave his trails
But in the evening they are there
Turning our park woodland into a gallery
Of buzz cuts, long and short.

Opening up our possibilities.
Giving us choices we never knew we had.
A high taper with scalp exposure in front of the big Ash.
To the left, a clean shaven trail that cuts through fields of daisies.

And, to the right, a razed trail that weaves and curves
Through common vetch, its clinging tendrils wrapped
Around its neighbours. A mane with shaved sides circles
The Beech, enticing us past stinging nettles

That skirt a hedge of bramble, not yet ripe, and ribwort plantain,
its ovary capsules spilling seeds at our feet.
Or past a butch cut that slices through a clump of dandelion,
Their jagged teeth, dents-de-lion, in various stages of growth;

Some bright yellow heads threatening closure
With the scent of rain, and gossamer balls of seeds
Shedding themselves in our wake.
A stroke of his blade

And a stubble path is shaven with precision
Through tall grass sporting hogweed five feet tall.
A V junction creates a crown of creeping buttercups
Drawing the eye to a newly planted Oak.

He’ll be back tomorrow, or the day after, or the day after that.
Restyling and regrooming our park.
The man on the grass mower tractor
From Dunlaoghaire-Rathdown County Council.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Tuesday, 22 May 2018

How To Write Poetry

In my never ending quest for inspiration I bought a book entitled How To Write Poetry
It is simple, straightforward , and I have to say useful. Published by HowExpert Press.

One exercise is to take a familiar object
Write down everything you associate with it
Colour, texture, smell, touch...
And Hey Presto- A Poem.

Here's my effort:

You are sandpaper to the touch
and smell of sissal

Your fibres cut like paper cuts
and leave bare feet scoured

You are pocked and cratered
from use and abuse

You witness comings and goings
and hesitations on thresholds

You could tell a story or two
if you had a mind to

You endure hot coals and cat claws
You are the one who puts up with

The one who endures...
You are a door-mat.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Sunday, 6 May 2018

Tribute to a Linen Jacket

For me there are two types of clothes; the ones I wear to tatters until they are finally assigned to house duty, though invariably I am frequently sighted out and about in them.
Then there are the ones that hang pristine in my wardrobe, kept for that special occasion that doesn't always arrive, or when it does, the aforesaid items seem to be , somehow, no longer suitable.
Recently I have been assessing the viability of my Summer wardrobe, some items dating back to the last century, which is not that hard given the sparsity of Summer in these parts.
One such item is the subject of this poem.
It needs to be consigned to a bin, but, in parting, I feel the urge to pay tribute to my tan linen jacket

You have outgrown me.
My shoulders no longer rising to your girth.
I need to let you go , and so,
Reluctant, I note your rent seam, your frayed collar, your drooping hem.
And remember you in your heyday, matched
with cool cream cotton and twill.
You were my attire of choice
When I last saw him.

A car park rendezvous.
His eyes scan my orbit for something to say.
His averted gaze -a boulder set to stem
the likely rush of downstream flow
Or marram grass, its fibrous roots to bind
the endless shift of sand across time.

Making intermittent the channel between us
Leaving unsaid, things
that might have been said.
Leaving unanswered, questions
that were never asked.

Copyright with Cathy Leonard 2018

Thursday, 3 May 2018

Writer's block

Am sharing a guest blog I came across on the subject of writer's block. Given that this state is one of my most familiar ones, I gravitate naturally towards the subject.
It suggests among other ideas:
Free writing

It also deals with the concept of what makes you a writer...
A publication?
A publishing deal  with one of the big five?
Or simply your compulsion to do it?

I found the blog inspiring. Hope you do too!

Monday, 2 April 2018

Dark Love

She is holding the moon in her hands
Moon and woman rapt in the figure of eight
Infinity that has shattered the sky
Her darkened skirt caught
in the throes of flamenco
Dark Love, she calls it
An embrace that cannot bear
The light of day

Sunday, 1 April 2018

White Love

A friend once gave me two beautiful pieces of cut glass art. Companion pieces.
Here is a poem triggered by the first piece.

White Love

She always called it White Love-
A woman raising her arms to the sun
rising out of a purple ocean

Though rimmed with a red aureole
she thought of it for you
at a place where sky meets earth
and circle meets straight
and yin and yang merge

And though she too wears red, her purple head
shows purpose not altogether worldly
and worthy somewhat of you