A Waterproof Swan Staring Into The Wombs of Horses

I have been uber absent this year, finishing my novel, working on a new one, taking my baby to see the moon and explaining to him why the sky is blue. His repertoire of lullabies includes mostly just songs I like, so he bops along to the Cramps, or old sixties stuff, and Nina Simone, Tim Buckley, Sigur Ros, Glasvegas, Nirvana, early Blondie. Of course The Wheels on The Bus Go Round — is always popular too. My debut novel The Panopticon is now in its final edit stages and has changed so much throughout this whole process, and through writing it, I’ve changed as well. I am beyond excited that The Panopticon will be published by Heinemann, on May 3rd, 2012. I have lots more news to blog about it, but I will leave that until January. So much happened this year, having the baby of course, moving country, working on my Masters, reading at Edinburgh Festival, and more recently at Neu Reekie! Neu Reekie is a v.cool monthly event on in Edinburgh, check it out if you can. Other than that I am thinking of my dissertation on works from the periphery, and what does it mean to defy convention and is it even possible to create solely on your own terms? The problem is that the unconventional often become conventional as soon as expectation is placed upon it. Who knows. Not the Ninky Nonk. I am ending this year without one of my oldest, and closest friends as well, and all I can do is have gratitude for the times we shared. So I raise my cup of tea to all those loved, and vow to walk along all the beaches of ever, most especially at dawn. Here’s a poem for all you kitchen sink bohemians, I wrote it recently after listening to Neruda. Also, the lovely Daniel Johnstone to serenade all Santa’s gnomes J xx

 

Poem After Listening to Neruda

 

What we want, it so happens, we are.

I am sick,

a waterproof swan staring into the wombs of horses.

 

I am the still wool,

I am the elevator’s spectacles.

 

You — are how nature is separated,

and it so happens I am sick, and you are fingernails, hair and shadow.

 

A giant hand — so marvellous.

On the stair (where he killed a man with a balloon in his ear) my green knife.

 

A stretched out sleep,

my

breathing.

 

Everyday,

a wounded wheel.

 

Television

reflected

in my windows. Hideous.

 

Come on chicken, hang over the houses I hate, be a coffee pot!

 

Venom is umbilical,

bye bye grandma — under the house,

buzzing gas again.

 

Send out a kite, a kite to catch,

it will fly by your window, go on — look out now, it won’t destroy you.

 

Forget everything.

 

The park-light (is gold) and the people are beginning to point,

the sky  — is opening.

Look out now, it won’t destroy you.