REVIEW for FLEET by JANE BURN

This beautiful allegory is told in dialogue, bushes of imagery…built not in brick but pebble and stone, branch and leaf. I love how Jane has piled descriptions as if she was creating cairns with blunt objects. You fall in with Fleet immediately, into the yearning for what’s next. This is such a tale of desire, regret and magic which is at the heart of all creatures…and written with wonderful choices of words. She runs some together reminding me of McGough’s Summer with Monika, others slip around the page, down down with her ‘potholed road’. Reading the poem, Rabbits on page 24 will take your face into orbit with delight…

‘Buck an’ doe, dancing under wedding skies, kissing

clefty mouths together…’

This is a poetic novel, sneaking tension, fear and earthly setting to capture us, recognise our own flaws in younger years, feel the frustration of dealing with teenage angst, impatience and heartbreak from both sides.

From page 43:

‘…There is not much empty stomach room,

insides still swollen with hurts…’

Not a small book by any means; the time it must’ve taken to hold all this and get it down, each section in its own little package but not separate; it’s seamless with open space on the pages. From different points of view she deals with change and metamorphosis, comparison, differences and reactions of others to out-of-the-ordinary. Poems of myth, origins, move on to the price paid for knowledge only gained by living a whole life. I have so many favourite phrases and lines in this book – which I will keep on my shelf always – but this one from page 70 is fabulouslyrelevant:

‘This is a planet of garbage and steel.’

It slaps us right in the face with our reality. I think this book should sit beside Orwell’s Animal Farm and Richard Adam’s Watership Down quite comfortably. Even readers not usually interested in poetry will love this book…and remember it always…and buy it for friends and family.

I Know Where I’m Going

Sitting here with a pack of Sicilian ham and a tangerine, listening to an audio of Gabriel Garcia Marquez with the fabulous title – Memories of My Melancholy Whores. Never read or listened to this before…loving the start.

When I got back from Glasgow this afternoon, settled down all comfy like, I opened a document I was working on in November 2016 and had to laugh at the first line – ‘Narcissists are people too: a poem title Dancing with Narcissists is running through my head today.’ Before I begin writing this I should check that I wasn’t quoting anything or anyone. Where is my head when it’s not with me? The character in the Marquez book is talking about memory and the struggle to match things up, like names to faces. I don’t think I’m at that stage yet but I keep tripping over pieces I’ve written or notes (like the one above) that have left my head entirely. So I’d better keep on with the collating of diary sections, the memoirs and stories before they sail off into the sunset.

I doubt if I could entitle any of my memories like that above, though I think we could safely call most men whores at some stage in their lives even if they don’t take money for their exertions. And, melancholy never sat at my table, but I’ve just had a twinge of remembering someone in my childhood who suffered (unofficially) from melancholy but who it was escapes me.

The diet is still happening; tomorrow is a weigh-day. I felt a little sprightly this afternoon, even walked up two escalators. It’s all to keep me on the planet as long as possible – to empty my head and heart of poems and tales. Head to tail, top to toe, I will shed half of this bloody beast.

Going Home

When I sit I’m free to read, check for chat,
handle my technology, lose myself
for forty minutes, exchange dimensions.
The train carries me west and north, above
the city and its noise smothers my gasp.
Finn left the world this afternoon. I knew
him on the ether, watched him beach-bounding,
frozen-pointing at the surf. His public
life skirted the edge of mine, drew me in.
Stations sped past, the carriage lulled the hurt
at this sudden journey for an avid,
eager creature into the sharp winter.
Such is our connected life that we love
who catches our attentions honestly.

Fatty McSlob

She has risen. The world trembles as Fatgirlinthering tells all.

Are You There? Sleep?

What do you do when sleep doesn’t come? Well for one thing I have to get up and smooth my sheet, tuck it back in down the side of this too bloody thick and heavy mattress. I snuggle down again and listen to a book – tonight it’s 1984 (again) and I discover I’ve forgotten Winston’s voice, and the diary, and lots of other little details. I don’t fall asleep. So I get up and have a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes to stop my stomach growling and relieve the yearning for something sweet. Then I have a prowl on FB and Twitter but my eyes won’t want to do too much of that…and they won’t let me read a book for more than five minutes. But no one’s doing anything interesting or amusing on social media, and now my legs are twitching so I think I’ll try to knock myself out – Christ, it’s 4am and the alarm is set for nine.

Loads to do tomorrow before starting work at five; first I have to pee in a cup; then I haul myself up to the hospital for an x-ray on my back before handing the pee into the doctor’s office. After that it’s a 25 mile trip into Glasgow for my wages, drag some dough to the bank to pay Virgin and lesser direct debits, and then buy some food. An 8-hour shift on top of that is cushy.

I took a sleeping pill last night and didn’t get up to go for the x-ray this morning so it’s my own fault. Now I get to choose which book goes with me in case I have to sit around for hours; I’m thinking Helen Dunmore’s début poetry collection, The Raw Garden, should win because I need to finish reading it, and it’s nice and thin. There’s no doubt my eyes will see the glory of 5am but hopefully that will be the last until the alarm announces that the real morning has broken.