Poetry

Sadly Opalescent
Tears slide slowly down the cheeks of childish pain

Mildly Effervescent
Toasting in the New Year with the Cheap Champagne

Must be Heaven-Sent
Dancing with my lover in the pouring rain

Another Convalescent
Watching children playing at their grown-up games

Something Incandescent
Burning up my past to never feel the same

Oddly Reminiscent
Snowflakes drifting past outside the window pane

Tired

Nearly 10 o'clock and I feel utterly exhausted. My trusty sidekick Graham was off four days last week with the flu (and exhausted when he did come in on Friday) and is off all this week learning the marvels of Exchange 2000.

Today, the Terminal Server decided to play up. Not in a terminal (ha!) way, but just enough to keep me running back and forth checking things out, before deciding to apply the latest patches and reboot it at 5:00. This, of course, kept me in the office until after 6 o'clock and meant I got home at 7:30. I have no idea how Graham coped for 6 months by himself before I turned up, but I don't envy him.

I've pottered here and there this evening, but generally, I've been too tired and headachey to do much. The only thing I have managed to do is to revise the poetry which should be just under this. I was hit by two of the verses as I walked from the bus to the train (which is only about 100 feet, so I was impressed).

I was lucky enough to find a pen in my jacket pocket, so I scrawled down some more verses on the train (on some paper left in my rucksack from the training I went on in January), and played with it a little bit. The structure was just sitting there, so I added on in the same style. I was tempted to write in between verses of a different structure (2 verses as they are, then a more free-formy bit, then 2 more, etc.) but the in between bits developed their own structure and need more work before they become their own poem.

I like writing poetry (and prose), it's a bit like archeology of the subconscious. I rarely consciously work on it, it's more a case of giving my subconscious space to produce the start, and then peeling back around the edges to see what turns up.

Erin's back from a party (the Traversein Edinburgh, where she worked during the last Festival Fringe. I'm not sure of the reason, but they must have been inviting all the people who worked there in recent memory. Apparently she relaxed after a couple of drinks and had a good time. So I'm going to grab her and collapse into unconsciousness. Night all.