Author: Peculiar Things

I write novels, short stories/flash fictions and poetry. I'm interested in the intersection between light and darkness and oddness in all of its forms.

Medusa leaves home

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Tired of the constant bickering,

the ‘he said’ ‘she said’ never ending

circus. Tired of being

the butt of gags and sick to death

of being harassed by the local gods,

she leaves. Takes an Uber

as far as she can get on her

Saturday wages and then

hitchhikes the rest. Doesn’t

look back.

They’d met by the sea.

He promised

to shake the world for her

but all she got was

a bellyful of anger and a

head full of snakes. Spiteful.

She’s alone now. Walking

the pier and looking

strangers in the eye.

The waves, his waves

crashing in front of her

like some kind of metaphor.

She wishes she could

turn herself to stone.

She could stand here forever

feeling nothing and

even the sea couldn’t

move her.

Am Editing

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Until you have to do it, editing seems like the easy afterthought of the novel writing process. Just like childbirth, the memory of the painful editing process fades once it’s over, compelling you to put yourself through it again at a later date (and having given birth twice I feel I am qualified to use that comparison).

The novel is so close to completion that it’s now more frustrating than ever. I like the beginning, most of the middle and the ending. There’s a section just around the black moment when it all goes very badly wrong, not just for my protagonist but for me and my reader – the writing is dreadful, honestly. So that needs re-doing. I have a missing chapter and I repeat myself quite a bit (thanks, thyroid brain fog).

I just have to force myself to keep going. One of these days I’ll be happy to report that it’s done and I’m happy with it. Then I can start giving it to other people to read, which will involve a whole new set of issues to deal with.

2am

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Everything is loud.

The clock’s unbearable tick

Splintering.

Fracturing.

Your hand shakes

as you pass me the glass.

We both know it’s nearly over.

We lived well, or

well enough; we stood

for something.

That’s what they’ll say

if they say anything.

We’re already past tense.

I touch your arm and

your breathing slows.

We’re still here.

That’s all that matters now.

The lamp flickers and dies.

There is a knock at the door.

This came from a writing group prompt: 2am. I watched a documentary about the night of the long knives in Germany before WW2 and wanted to reflect the feeling of waiting for that knock.

I hate poetry

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I hate poetry.

All those long words squeezed into spaces too small for them.

Cruel, really. Like battery hens.

If I shake the cages they might come rattling out and spill all over the floor,

or maybe

They’ll fall apart into letters and make new words. Maybe

rude words. An act of rebellion

against the one who locked them in.

I hate poetry.

I hate the techniques with long names no one

knows how to say.

Enjambment with its b sticking out like a foot

trying to trip you up.

Making words fall off the edge and dangle on the next line

feet flapping helplessly.

I hate poetry.

I hate the sneakiness of it. The ideas hiding behind things;

words dressed up in other words

like a man in dark glasses and a false moustache

infiltrating terrifying Yakuza syndicates called

Stanzas

where if you say too much

you get taken out.

I hate poetry, I do, really.

And I’m certain it doesn’t like me, either.

The rhyming ones are the worst.

Words bouncing off one another like a ball against a wall

knocking against each another.

Verbal fisticuffs.

The next time you begin a poem

and you herd together the verbs and bind them to the

adverbs and nouns, remember this:

one day the words will tire of poetry’s oppression.

They will cluster together in the wrong order

and smash their way out,

leaving wreckage of broken lines and

empty space where once ideas were kept.

Everything is going to be alright

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This poem is a tribute to ‘Everything is going to be all right’ by Derek Mahon, one of my favourite poems. You can read the original here:

https://anthonywilsonpoetry.com/2012/10/06/lifesaving-poems-derek-mahons-everything-is-going-to-be-all-right/

Hope visits like a shy friend, inviting me

to look past the pain, the

aching of arms and of legs.

There will be dying, he says, but not today, and

before that there will be life.

Time to take in the light which slips off walls

and to listen to the distant sea.

To see the sunset reflected in a glass.

I will do those things, his words tell me,

wrapping around me like a lover’s arm.

Everything is going to be alright.

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The novel is continuing, slowly. I must admit, I’m not enjoying the process of writing it as much as I would like. Some days I have to force myself to turn up, so to speak.

I’ve asked myself many times what the problem is. I think it comes down to this: writing a first draft is just hard work, however you look at it. Particularly if you don’t begin with a clear plan. It isn’t supposed to be easy.

It’s hard to motivate oneself when you know that you will be changing large swathes of what you are producing to make it fit for human consumption. But that’s the process. Write, revise, re-write and so on. Time consuming but hopefully worth it in the end.

I wonder if this is how all writers feel? I suspect some people genuinely enjoy their work every day. Don’t get me wrong: I still love writing. It doesn’t have to be pure joy every time I sit down to it. Sometimes it can just be work.

Poetic Justice

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I stole the first one when I was still at school.

Nervous, waited till it was quiet,

a little haiku no one would notice

slipped into the pocket.

The thrill was overwhelming.

I needed to take another.

This time I was more ambitious;

I chose one we’d done in English:

Stealing by Carol Ann Duffy

because I liked the irony.

I don’t think she even noticed it was gone.

I felt the words trickle over my hands

Like lemonade from stolen fruit

Wonderful, contraband words.

I bathed in them

I drank them.

I almost got caught when I went

to take that Armitage one

and after that I stopped for a bit

but gradually the old feelings came back.

I found myself sneaking out at lunch

to pilfer a Jackie Kay or a John Agard;

returning to my desk, full of my secret,
stolen words

Dem Tell Me

scrunched up in my pocket.

But it wasn’t enough.

I wanted more.

I couldn’t sleep
for thinking about them.

All of those words waiting for me

They called to me

I needed them.

I lost control

I took every poem I found

And even then I didn’t stop;
Morphemes became my morphine.

I started taking other words;

From manuals or newspapers

Or government reports.

That’s when they caught me.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer

was lost for words

When they found me,

Speech concealed in my bag.

I’m better now.

I only take the words I need.

I don’t

I can’t

I never

I