It is almost at an end.
Once again I am squandering my Writing Time Hour not in creating deathless prose with which to captivate millions and become JK Rowling, but in writing to you.
We have just got tomorrow to go. Tomorrow is to be spent in an activity called Workshopping, which means that we all read one another’s poems and then say what we think. I do not know why it is called workshopping because this is not at all the sort of activity that might take place in a workshop. In workshops the conversation generally runs along the lines of Chuck Us That Spanner George. No Not That One The Six And Three Thirteenths. I know this because of being married to Mark.
Perhaps they do not discuss poetry when people’s wives are present.
Anyway, we are going to put on our overalls and contemplate metaphors in the morning. Today has been a very lot of lectures, leaving me very relieved to come back to the camper van and be in the company of the dog, whose conversation is restful and unchallenging. That is not to say that he is easy company. We are currently sharing some chocolate buttons, and I can feel his eyes boring into me every time my hand reaches towards the bag.
I ought not to be eating chocolate buttons anyway because we will be having dinner quite soon. I am eating them to take my mind off the longing for a glass of wine. This is shameful because it is only half past six.
I think that possibly I have learned as much poetry today as it is possible to learn. I do not mean remembering it, but having the writing process explained. We have been told that there is a special link between walking and writing, and were dispatched into the grounds with a First Line and told to think of a poem in ten minutes. We were not allowed to write this down but had to rush back up the stairs to the classroom to write it when we got back.
I shall reproduce mine here. My First Line was A Particular Blur.
A particular blur
of meticulous words
scrambles out of the mist in my head.
There’s the cognitive whir
of a data transfer
Phew, a poem, in time to be read.
This might give you some idea of the quality of my poetic skills. I fear I am more Mike Harding than Philip Larkin. I regret that I do not find it easy to be anything other than ridiculous when I am writing. This afternoon we had to do something called Speedwriting, a process during which you uncover, and then access, your inner self.
I discovered that I do not have an Inner Self, or if I do it is standing at the back, laughing. I managed to dredge my Inner Consciousness to write about the Colour Green and discovered a corpse, fished out of the pond at the back of the college grounds. That was green. I wrote a poem about it anyway, but have not included it here because I am concluding with my poem about A Journey, which is for the Workshop, and which we were obliged to hand in before lunchtime today. Two poems is more than enough for one day. I am becoming quite sure of that.
It is below. I am going to go and eat my last student dinner of the week. By tomorrow I will be back to picnics in taxis.
Journey of a thousand miles
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step
(said some single bloke with no children, probably).
In life it starts with a discussion about the overdraft
and then who’ll get the boy from school
(and then starts on about the overdraft again).
In any case, it isn’t a thousand miles to Cambridge
even if you include the journey back. It’s about half that
although I can say a thousand miles if I like
because I’ve got my Poet Licence now, probably.
At least I expect so, because I’ll need it. Apprentice level at least,
they give you one when you go to Cambridge
(did I mention that?
that I’m going to study in Cambridge? Oh, well, I am.)
When we’ve done the children and the overdraft
and whether the dogs will cope with some irregular emptying
(they won’t)
you need to think about clothes.
It’s warmer in Cambridge, (where you’re going,) you know,
and you’ve got paint on your respectable summer dress
and on your shorts, somehow, from when you painted the camper van,
oh God, the camper van. Does it still leak?
Well, can’t you fix it?
Will it really cost that much?
(the overdraft again) and what about a scarf?
Don’t students need a duffle coat?
and do you have enough underwear to manage
without washing
for a week?
because Cambridge might not like a washing line
of dripping underwear
outside the front door.
They’re quite middle class
in Cambridge. It’s a long way south.
A thousand miles.
Not quite.
Will you fix my bicycle?
Will you fill the tank with gas?
Should we ring the bank?
A journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step.
A journey of two hundred and fifty one miles
(to Cambridge)
starts with an overdraft
but you do get a Poet’s Licence when you get there.
I’m looking forward to that bit.
