Poetry, battle and the delights of staying in

Oh bliss. I've had a whole day today when I haven't had to leave the flat once and I've spoken to and seen no-one but Lord H. Really, my dears, it's heaven. It's all been so quiet and peaceful. More days like this are definitely called for.

Here's this morning's meditation:

Meditation 81

In his hands
the priest holds
a bowl of bitter water.

It contains the whispered suspicions
your husband brings to bear
upon you.

Drink then
and be filled
with all the pain

your body can imagine,
tasting still the small streams
of secret joy

only you remember.

My, that's a strange section from Numbers - I hadn't remembered that one at all. It's part of Chapter Five, if you're curious, and quite wonderfully witchy. One thing about the Bible that nobody can deny - on occasions it has a creative pizzazz all of its very own.

Talking of meditations, three of mine have now been published by Faith Hope and Fiction webzine and can be found here. So nice to see them up there, so thanks to Trisha for organising that.

And it must be a poetry kind of a day as I've written another short piece about ominous messages and have also finished the latest edition of Tears in the Fence magazine. I particularly enjoyed offerings from Collin Kelley (a powerful prose piece about a plane crash), Dave Newman (with a hard-hitting story about drugs and a woman's relationship with her grandfather), Graham High (a very satisfying poem about things that are blue) and Michael Stewart (never trust a bald man, and don't let them get their razors out ...). Well worth the read.

For the rest of the day, I've begun the long and slow process of getting back into writing Hallsfoot's Battle. Though, to be honest, it wasn't as terrifying as I was expecting and I'm now well up into the 95,000 word range, hurrah. Why is it that something I enjoy can always seem like an impossible mountain to climb when I've been away from it for a while? It's the mystery of writing indeed. Which is itself of course much like climbing an uncharted mountain, particularly on the first draft stage - you don't know the path, you're not sure what the obstacles you have to face actually are, you've no idea what the top will look like, or even if there's enough oxygen and supplies to get you there. Plus it's bloody hard work too - though not, I grant you, in the physical sense of climbing a mountain for real. God, I will stop this analogy at once, before it disappears up my own backside. Without a light. Sigh.

Alongside that, I've submitted the long poem I wrote last year to a market (very rare!) that appears to take long poems, and I've sent out another query about The Gifting to a new fantasy publisher. Well, cover all the bases is what I say - as my chances are always so charmingly slim. Really, I must work on a new strapline for my oeuvre (ooh, a French word - how pretentious!). Rather than "reassuringly expensive", I think I'll go with "reassuringly unknown". Yip, I think that'll do it. I'm going for posthumous glory, don't you know ...

Today's nice things:

1. Staying in
2. Being alone (apart from Lord H)
3. Poetry - in all its forms
4. Poetry publications
5. Writing Hallsfoot.

Anne Brooke
Anne's website - reassuringly strange ...