Monday, April 30, 2007

Green vines, drums and music.

A new blog is about to join the family -- 12 Old Masters is quite well described as 'sticking your head into 12 pictures and having a good listen to any conversations that might being going on'. I will publish one piece a week on Wednesdays, starting on 2 May. The address will be announced shortly.

1. Having ivy leaves printed up and down my arms to celebrate Beltane.

2. Sitting in the sun on the edge of the cricket pitch playing along on my whistle with the drumming circle.

3. When I want to present my work to the public, all I have to do is click 'publish' (or if I'm feeling particularly daring, pack a submission into a brown envelope and send it off to a magazine). Oli the musician has to stand up in front of a crowded pub and sing.

4 comments:

  1. not that i know what you look like, but I have this image of you with ivy stenciled on your arms like some massive sleeve tattoos. it makes my arms tickle for some reason.
    what's Beltane?

    ReplyDelete
  2. It's a pagan festival on 1 May. Wikipedia explains it quite well.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Talking of Beltane celebrations, I got a late train home tonight, and suddenly about 8 people dressed in robes of green scraps and funny hats and green face paint appeared, walked down the train looking for seats. All the boring people in suits looked confused, and then smiled.

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  4. 3. To present an opposing viewpoint - For Women Who Write (Judy Small):

    She sits alone with cups of tea
    And lets her thoughts go floating free
    Then gathers them and ties them down
    To channel them into her pen -

    And she writes the words that weave themselves
    Into the stories that she tells,
    Stories that bring tears to eyes,
    Smiles to souls and wealth to the wise,
    And those of us who know their worth,
    Who know the sources of their birth,
    Encourage her with care and smiles
    To persevere just a little while longer…

    She sends her work to philistines
    And each rejection undermines
    Her confidence, and eats away
    At her faith in what she has to say
    - I sing my songs for each and all
    Who pay the price at concert halls
    And those who hear soon let me know
    If flowers spring from the seeds I sow,
    But hers is such a lonely art,
    No one to hear as she pours her heart
    Into the words that weave themselves
    Into the stories that she tells.

    Her time is often not her own,
    Rare the space to be alone
    To sit with cup of tea and pen
    And let her thoughts float free again -

    The woman who writes the words that weave themselves
    Into the stories that she tells,
    The stories that bring tears to eyes,
    Smiles to souls, and wealth to the wise,
    And those of us who know their worth,
    Who know the sources of their birth,
    Encourage her with care and smiles to persevere just a little while longer…

    ReplyDelete

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