Alison Croggon's weblog

Ho hum

So much for big resolutions about writing reams of prose - not a word today. Various domestic distractions like desk building and rearranging the boys' bedroom and so on and so forth got in the way. And my head is too full of other stuff. Well, there's always tomorrow... or maybe this evening. Who knows? Maybe I'm leaping ahead of myself, I just want this book finished so much that I can't think about what's happening now; a common human vice. And writing novels takes patience, almost more than anything else: that ability to remain in the moment you are supposed to be writing, rather than looking over to the lighthouse. Maybe I'm just bored with the waves.

Also I discovered all these poems I'd forgotten about on the computer, so poetry's coming to bother me, somewhat prematurely. I told it to go away until July, but as usual poetry pays no heed to convenience. Here's one:


Nocturne


To describe
the behaviour of light
on a pavement of stone
alive with rain

one seeks
a certain imprecision:
the moon’s smashed fruit
wetting your feet

say, to indicate
the methods by which joy
might choose to dazzle
a solitude.