He wrote his verse on the newspaper,
scribbled over Family Notices
the "safe arrival of beautiful twin babies"
"a short illness in the loving care of all in the Hospice"
"sadly missed"
Births, Deaths, Acknowledgements, In Memoriam…
as the band set up to play
and "the wild colonial boy"
rang out from behind the bar.
One Saturday evening
I stare at the grid,
play the numbers,
count my way,
hoping to unravel
the mystery key
to my lost love.
I regard an empty shell
with the same passion
I used to reserve
for a god
that spent its time
and left me breathless.
"Are you doing a crossword?" she asks
leaning from a barstool.
"No, its all numbers" I mumble.
- We know nothing of each other -
"You must be clever.
Do you always do that?"
I wish her away
with those eyes and ears.
I go on…
sipping through porterfroth,
silent among the babble,
lost among figures.
____________________
I was with Sudoku in a pub that was filling up for the evening. I remembered that I used to write in the Dandy Lion pub in Bradford upon Avon, remembered that I used to be a poet. I used to say that the easiest way to start writing was to write whatever comes into your head. Practice. Develop the habit of writing. That’s the best way. Don’t wait until you feel like writing. Do it and you’ll feel more and more like doing it.
I was at a meeting of Aware last night.
"Act your way into a feeling" rather than "feel your way into action" : advice I was offered. If you sit around waiting to feel well enough to act, you may well find yourself a long time waiting.
It made sense to me. I came home feeling better than I have in ages.
That’s why I’m writing this today.
