miaow, meow, miau, miaou….

How do you spell that word?

Not that it really matters, but it seemed the right noise to be making since I just discovered I have an identity on the WorldCat website.

This being the internet, I’m rather surprised that the site has nothing to do with cats.

In fact it’s a searchable catalogue of library collections and it also includes a fun facility to follow connections and explore relationships between the identities held on file for people, things, characters and corporations. It’s a bit like playing six degrees of separation, but I haven’t yet worked out the route to connect my id with Kevin Bacon.

city slicker

City heels slip on cobbles
glossed by the fading traces
of the morning’s frost

of love poetry and distractions

I complained, or at least commented, recently, about the temptations and distractions involved in dusting bookshelves. At the moment a similar temptation confronts me every time I clean the log stove and re-lay the fire.

No, I’m not using books for fuel, but I do tend to start each fire off with a fir cone or two and a few sheets of paper; I’ve tried using some of my old drafts of poetry, but I fear my writing will never set the world alight and newspaper is definitely better.

dissecting a moon dream

I mentioned the conversation that triggered my wanting to write this piece in the post of poetry, maths and cars. Although it’s still no more than a fragment, it seems to have reached that annoying stage where it’s settled and doesn’t want to be shifted, although I am not happy with it.

The road stretches long into the night.
To their left, the belisha globe of the moon
rises behind mountains made ragged
by pines. He says, I’ve driven
to the moon and back three times at least.
She watches his steady hands on the wheel
and hopes he’ll take her with him next time.

computer consumables

Yesterday’s post touched on domesticity and cleaning, so I think this is as good a time as any to post this poem.

Slattern



My laptop

is a messy eater. Each morning

I find tell-tale crisp crumbs

            wedged

between its square white teeth


alongside

cracker fragments and

the improbably orange powder

of industrial snacks.



It’s happy

sat atop a take-out pizza box

and olive stones have never yet

upset its equilibrium.


It’s anchored

to the desk by coffee rings

and gin-and-tonic lemon juice

has glued the disc drive shut.



Pass me

a paper towel and I will wipe

that smear of melted chocolate

from the space bar                   lip.

 
 
Remember: Don’t confuse the narrator with the writer. You may have seen the photo of a dreadfully dirty keyboard the other day, but you should not assume that this poem is in any way based on real life!!