30:30, War and Starry, Starry Night

I'm nearing the end of my first week back at 30:30, it's fine but funnily enough I haven't got that same excited and bursting feeling that I had the first time...there could be a number of reasons ...most likely that 'bread-and-butter' work is still quite hectic and I haven't been able to give a 100% commitment to 30:30 yet! Also I kind of started nearly unbeknownst to myself (a quick press of new topic button) and I'm wondering how I'll manage when in the wilds of Ireland with only an Internet cafe to fall back on :)

I've been reading so much about the Israeli bombing of Lebanon and find myself just wanting to write and write about it.....then I feel guilty thinking I have no business trying to be poetic about something so awful...as in 'who the heck am I to do so?'...it's a vicious circle.

I've been reading Mazen Kerbaj's blog (http://mazenkerblog.blogspot.com/)and I've listened to his Starry, Starry Night composition (http://www.muniak.com/mazenkerbaj.html)...a music piece composed from Mazen on trumpets and the Israeli army bombs falling in Beirut around his apartment. He used a microphone from his balcony on the night of the 15th to 16th of July to record it.
He is also an artist and has some excellent drawings of the war in his blog.

Cacti and Mud Festival

Cacti that are about to bloom



Mud Festival

The village are preparing to throw themselves knee deep into mud as I write. I hear the drums beating and the smell of grilled sardines is wafting its way down the valley. La Atalaya is a 'Pottery' village, they have a tradition of firing household clay pots, even though the pots they make now are more for ornamental purposes. The locals got together and started the Mud Festival about 10 years ago, squadrons of folk from all over come to rollick in the mud and get hosed down...afterwards its vino and sardines within easy reach. :)
I must admit to being a stick-in-the-mud (sorry :)) and just remain on the fringes snapping the goings-ons. Hopefully I will get to do this today too...but I'll take a change of clothes just in case!

Siam, Submissions and Links

Photo of Siam, our Puss in boots.


I feel quite chuffed that today is the day that I got round to submitting some work.
They are revisions of some 30:30 poems. I had been stalling for an age about whether now was the right moment, whether they were the right poems, whether I was the right poet etc....eventually due to getting up real early and having a reviving cup of tea, I got 4 revised poems together quite quickly and just pressed the blinking send button.I've sent them to Moira and Frigg. Anyway, let's see...

Oh I've also discovered how to add some favourite blogs and Poets to my links....now have just got to work with how to get my profile, links and archives up the page more as just now they are trailing at the bottom.

Orange House

Some shots of our orange house...even if a little cobwebby :0)

An attempt at 'A Chinese Song of Bread and Honey '....

Yipee...this is my first image upload to my blog...I park my car underneath this tree.

Here goes with my attempt at writing a poem with Michi's Poetry Title Generator's suggestion 'A Chinese Song of Bread and Honey'...(it reads somewhat dodgily so will be chopping and changing it no doubt!)

A Chinese Song of Bread and Honey

It is Autumn. She is at the kitchen dresser. The tone of purple
bamboo blows through a side slit and her fingers move on 6 holes.

A sound, so mellifluous, that even ancient vases, bird cages and
lanterns with bright, red hearts might tumble sideways. She

drinks a mother’s farewell wine made from honey and normally
drunk at a Peking Opera. Two flashbacks later and she is spraying

acrobatic fire and the silver face of a long-lost lover gallops
to her. Memories of him squat on bone flute sounds snatched from

far away.And further away by a pounding waterfall,a frog with
recessed ears has a shortened path between eardrums and memory.

He hears chimes, bells, a Song Dynasty and a story of how these
lovers once blotted dry a Chinese honey goose, while shiny,

poppy-red bread hissed on a steamer. He gluts on sweet-peas.
A lover-turned-ultrasonic-frog has no business in a Chinese

song of bread and honey. She ignores the ex-lover-now-frog
interference, jams shut the latch on memory overload, corks

the mother’s farewell wine, proceeds to shine the set of bone
china, tooth-picking dust from underneath delicate handles

and placing cup inside cup, on their side, behind glass.

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The layout may look out of sync in the published blog...I've given up on trying to fix it!