Boris And The Otters

“As I write these words there are semi-naked women playing beach volleyball in the middle of the Horse Guards Parade immortalised by Canaletto. They are glistening like wet otters and the water is plashing off the brims of the spectators’ sou’westers.”

Boris Johnson, commenting on the 2012 Olympic Women’s Volleyball

tumblr_ljwl2fWEqw1qarjnpo1_1280In this quote, Boris demonstrates two things. Firstly, a certain deftness with sentence construction, a breadth of vocabulary and an almost proprietorial familiarity with fine art history that is entirely fitting in one who has received so staggeringly privileged and expensive an education. Secondly, a terrifying ignorance of the tendency of otters, according to Japanese folklore, to shapeshift into beautiful women with the express purpose of seducing, killing and eating unwary men.

As the official NaPoWriMo prompt for today is to write a fan letter, I have chosen to write from some imaginary Japanese shape-shifting man-eating volleyball-playing otter-women to the Mayor of London. (My cavalier use of ungrammatical pronouns is intended to give an eerie, ‘demonically-possessed baby doll’ feeling to the piece, not an uncomfortably racist ‘JaJa Binks’ vibe, just FYI)).

Boris And The Otters

Sexy otter girls, we

Sleek! you watch, Borisu-san,

But do not see we.

 

Silly! we see you

Feast eyes on we lissom limbs,

Silken like tofu.

 

Suave you phrases plash!

Rain from you lyrical tongue!

Favourite muscle!

 

Storehouse of treasure,

You brain sleep in marrow sea,

Soft, sashimi-grade.

 

Speak we of art now?

Great man, stories of great men!

You hair kawaiiiiiiiiiii, ne?

 

Shall we little claws

Scratch you noble back, broad

Like Kobe beef-cow?

 

Secret, we sharp teeth

Wait for you, ichiban man,

Steamy bean dumpling!

 

Shhhhhhhhhh!! you no mind knives

We whet them in you honour,

Delicious Borisu-san….

 

 

Otters V Capitalism

2012-09-20-350HuffPostChe501onRecTrail-thumbMany people say to me, Kirsten, we know that otters love jazz, but what of otter politics? I reply that I am convinced most British otters would vote Corbyn, where the Californian Sea Otter community has come out strongly for Bernie Sanders. (Many have donated a few clams to his campaign fund).

Some say this is grotesque anthropomorphism of the kind disdained by serious conservationists, others accuse me of projection. To them I can only say:

 

Otters Of the World, Unite!

Answer me this – what if otters were potters?

Does living by water make their clay wetter?

Do they throw sloppy pots that all teeter and totter?

Does holding down splatter make pots a lot squatter?

Surely it follows their kilns should burn hotter?

They must buy their wood from a local wood-cutter

(Wood-burning kilns being certainly better

to use than electric, when potting near water).

 

But what if the cutter bamboozles the otters,

never once offering wood on a platter,

but ripping them off with some shitty sales patter?

Lining his pockets, the cutter gets fatter,

while locked into poverty, knocked on their uppers,

the lot of the otters just never gets better!!

Will the otters not notice that something’s the matter?

Will discontent not sound its note in their natter?!

Revolt and rise up, oh you down-trodden otters!

Even fat cutters need pots made by potters!

Tear down the kiln-wood-monopoly rotters!

 

Don’t look at me like I’m some kind of nutter.

 

Todays’ poem is brought to you in lieu of the official NaPoWriMo prompt, which is dull as the bottom of my shoe.

 

NaPoWriMo 2016 – The Year Of The Otter

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This will be my fourth attempt at NaPoWriMo, the international insanity among poets where we try to write one a day for the whole of April. My personal best is 15, and I’m definitely not going to beat that this year, because I’m going to try writing every poem about otters. Or featuring otters in some way. Because I like otters.

Please watch this video clip first.

Day one – Otters Playing Free Jazz On A Casio

How do you approach playing

with otters in

the absence of chord changes?

 
How do you even begin?

asks JazzAcademy.com’s homepage,

neglecting to ask these otters:

 

GET HOT!!!!! Kitten neeeeeeds keys,

ain’t no baloney,

we AB  SO  LUTE  LY

 

hip to the short-clawed jive!

gotsa screaming meemies!!

we collective, daddy-o, we radicaliiiiiiized!!!

 

I’m also trying to meet the official prompt, which yesterday was to write a lune (5-3-5 word formation). Haven’t seen today’s prompt yet, so I’ll check in tomorrow with whatever nonsense I’ve managed.

Heroism and Heartbreak – the residency continues!

Don’t tell anyone, but I get very, very nervous about delivering workshops to school children. Who knows what they might do?! Unripe humans! But it was my sacred duty as poet-in-residence at the Hartlepool WW1 archive project to spend a morning on a boat, sorry ship, on a ship, with 25 Year Five children, on a ship, writing about the ship that we were on. This ship.

PS Wingfield Castle
PS Wingfield Castle

Luckily, mostly what these unripe humans did was to get very excited by the joys of writing poetry, especially when they find out they have the powers of Amazing Adjectives and Super Similes! (Favourite extended simile of the day – “as red as a devil, sitting on lava, eating a bloody heart, in an Arsenal strip”)

We collectively made a poem describing the ship by describing its many parts, textures, surfaces. It worked. I smoothed out the edges. It’s now online on the archive website here – give it a read? You can find some more of mine up there too.

Collection launch!!

 

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Today I polish my boots, practice my poems and pack my bags, for tomorrow I’m off to StAnza, to launch my first full collection!

I could go on about it, but really I just wanted to let you know two things:

Firstly, if you happen to be going to StAnza, then please consider yourself invited to my set at their Poetry Cafe, 1pm, Byre Theatre, Friday 4th March – tickets here.

Secondly, if you fancy a copy of The Trouble With Compassion, but you’re not able to get one from me at a performance, you can buy it online from Burning Eye Books.

Thanks, that’s all really!

 

A Day In Beadnell (virtually)

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There are days when I forget I enjoy writing poetry. To be honest, there are weeks, sometimes months, when I become my own administrator and my poetry gets completely
lost. That’s why it was such a joy to spend all of yesterday in the company of other poets, being led through a veritable barrage of multi-sensory prompts by Lisa Matthews and Melanie Ashby, the intrepid creative team behind the ongoing project A Year In Beadnell.

 

Strandling Feather

Whisht.

I’m not dead.

Shed.

I’m beak-nipped,

a preen-leaving,

winter-to-summer down-shrug,

for the fat pickings

in the glad months make

sleekitty plumage.

 

One feather

conjures the bird,

plumped on the nest-scrape

eggs sucked pebbles.

 

I’m plucked,

but still arched

from the puffling shook-out

of incubation.

Divested from the belly,

given to flight, I am

wind-bowled,

sand-skittering,

tumble-fluff,

fast flick of a soft brush,

my own

wing.

 

 

Future letters

2016! Yes. Hopefully it has started well for you, but for me it has been eight days of hauling myself out of a black hole. I’m not often, or ever clinically, depressed (thank heavens) – but I do get low sometimes. So it was good to finally feel like having a long over-due clearout of my so-called ‘home office’, and even better to come across this letter written by a past me to a future me! I thought I’d share it, as I seem to have been full of good advice – and it’s not a bad thing to do, stocking up encouragement for rainy days..

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15th August 2012, Dhanakosa

Hello Kirsten, hello me, hello you.

Life’s what you make it. You’ve been very hard on yourself these past few days, it’s difficult to write kindly from here to there, even though kindness is what you need most – from the inside.

Contemplating your life, of course you have come up with tons of things that you could, you should, change for the better – be a better you, right now!! it has fired you up with hope and determination and fresh clarity, and if experience holds true you will try to do too much, too quickly, become disheartened and see it all as proof of your intrinsic crappiness.

So I’m here to tell you – baby steps. Little and often. Do whatever makes your heart soft. Remember that all you really need is the beach, and it’s right there – have you been yet today? Even in the dark, the waves make noise and you can see the shipping lights.

Turn yourself gently to all the good things you have around you. You are very, very lucky – and most of the time you get it right. Other people don’t all see you as ugly or as a failure. Go and paint your toenails for the sheer joy of having feet, you daftie! And if you’re still bothered by all the things you haven’t done yet, you can always write them on slips of paper and give yourself a lucky dip instead of a never-ending to-do list. Or you could just sit for ten minutes. That’s enough.

Take care of yourself. Phone a friend. x

Ekphrastic – Agglomerations by Chun Kwang Young

images-1When the madness of the Edinburgh Fringe gets too much for me each August, I pop into art galleries to rest my brain from words. I especially like Dovecot Studios on Infirmary Street, which this year was hosting an exhibition of incredible mixed-media constructions by Korean artist Chun Kwang Young. Here’s a sort of prose-poem response to the exhibition – because you can run from words, but you can’t hide…

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The master works on a cosmic scale. For brushstrokes read boxes, that are not boxes, but triangles of polystyrene clothed in paper. Mulberry fibre, mulberry twine, twisted by assistants, legions wrapping landfill in nostalgia. Medicine packages, tincture of indigo, tinted taupe, dappled with the boxy characters of Korea, swaddled by the acolytes. He chooses the ones whose half-moon nail-beds please him, clean and cool-fingered even in August, blotchlessly cornerfolding crisp, crisp yet downy, the myriad boxes crawl, large and small and smaller, stutter over canvases, mothsoft rubbleheaps, rust-bled stains on the pre-silk, charred impact craters in among the chorus of paper-bandaged apices. In the master’s mind, immense moons of ice revolve in the open space of international galleries. What does it matter, the boys bickering girlsoft at the trestles, but the amiable static of the atelier? Their fingers are white moths, opening and closing. They all eat kimchi with their plain white rice. Their beauty depends on such interlaced tensions.

Heroism and Heartbreak

I’m very, very pleased to say that I am officially poet-in-residence (NAY! for I shall capitalise it in my joy! Poet-In-Residence!) at the wonderful online community archive for Hartlepool.

I am featured in the very specific WW1 section, which is excellent because it lets me continue on with writing and research I started last year for the Heugh Battery Bombardment project led by poet Martin Malone. My first poem is now live – called ‘Unspeakable’, it’s inspired by a conversation I had with a contributor to the archive at an open day held at Hartlepool Library in May. You can read it here!

The next open day is at Headland Library at 10am – 1pm on Saturday 10th July, so anyone with maritime links to Hartlepool, especially Merchant Navy, should drop in and chat to Gary and the team. And to me, you never know, I might put your story in a poem…