Wednesday, July 25, 2007

This One Tuesday Night

My poem 'This One Tuesday Night' is now up at Clean Sheets.

(And unlike all the bastardised little dittys I've posted here, it's all my own work!)

I was going to write a whole screed about how poetry is wonderful precisely because there's no money in it, so people just about always write it for love. And about how poems (good poems) can shift my mind into fresh new spaces.

I do believe poems are a mind-altering experience - both to write and to read. They call for a particular state of mind - open, flowing, hard-to-describe. Somewhere rich with words but also wordless.

But today I've woken up with a hangover and don't feel at all poetic, so I'll just leave you the link and crawl off...

Wednesday, July 18, 2007



Next step in streamlining the writer's day - I've decided to drop out of lust bites and move on. It's been a blast and I've met some wonderful people, but the time and energy involved have seriously detracted from writing. I've got a few projects on at the moment that I really want to focus on, so it seems like a good time to kiss it goodbye and simplify life!

A sad farewell to all the great writers on there and all the lovely guests. I wish everybody the very best of luck as the good ship lustbites sails off into fresh waters.

Meanwhile, I'll be sitting here on my desert island with a laptop and a sackful of teabags, working on the magnus opus...

x Nikki




PS : I mean magnum opus. Shit. Doesn't bode well if I can't even spell it!

Friday, July 13, 2007

Thursday, July 12, 2007

sometimes writing makes me feel sick.

I am not a 'natural' writer. I have to force myself and it's like herding cats. Sometimes I have to concentrate so fucking hard in order to chase a story I forget to eat anything and I emerge hours later shaking and nauseous.

Charles Bukowski puked a lot though, so maybe it's a good sign.

Writing news: Finished first draft of 'Purple Moon Rocks' for the Sixties Competition and Chapter One of the new, improved Bitchbook. Thank fuck. Can I get drunk now?

Tuesday, July 03, 2007

Instead

I just heard my poem 'This One Tuesday Night' has been accepted for Clean Sheets. Wonderful news!

And in the real world, all my friends are suddenly getting married/having babies. As my other (unmarried, childless) friend remarks - "the patter of tiny feet is getting deafening."

To celebrate all these events in a rather pissy way I've bastardised another poem. This time, it's 'Walking Around', by Pablo Neruda...





Sitting Around


After Neruda



It so happens I am sick of being a girl.
And it happens that I walk into hairdressers and movie houses
drenched, sickly, like a lamb on helium,
steering my way in a fuzz of squeals and fakery.

The smell of smalltalk makes me break into hoarse
sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool .
The only thing I want is to see no more shops, no
weddings,
no shoes, no parties, no circuses.

It so happens that I am sick of my heels and my nails
and my hair and not casting a shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a girl.

Still it would be marvellous
to terrify a batchelor with perfume
or kill a myth with a blow to the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green stem
letting out yells until I died of the cold.

I don’t want to go on being a pink blur with tits,
insecure, twisted around, shivering with nerves,
going on down, into the crackling guts of the witch,
taking in and not-thinking, eating stale chocolate.

I don’t want so much gleefulness.
I don’t want to go on breaking my back,
surrounded by hens, the living machine of the world,
half drunk, dying of grief.

That’s why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my liar’s face, blazes up like duchesses,
and it shrieks on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some dry
houses,
into hospitals where the babies fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like tobacco,
and certain streets as hideous as fists.

There are paper birds and cellos with no strings
hanging over the stone walls of places
I’ve never been. There are stirrups and mirrors
that ought to buckle with the lies they’ve told,
there are feathers everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopaedic
shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling.




(The last stanza is unchanged. You can read the original poem, translated by Robert Bly, here) .