Of poetry ...

When I was teaching, one of my great memories is of being given a really bright S3 class to take through the two years to Standard Grade. We started the new year in June, so I had a month to get to know them before we really settled down to the year's work. I chose to read a few of Bacon's Essays - something that I had to study at school but which I'd never taught - because I found a set of old copies in the English store. Once we'd read a few - "Revenge is a kind of wild justice..."; "Men fear death as children fear to go in the dark ...' I set them the task of writing their own essay in Bacon's style, though in contemporary writing. Any subject. They loved it - and the results were brilliant. And all that explains what was in my mind as I wrote that title ...

I've had a day linked to my own poetry. First a message from the academic who's using a couple of my poems as translation exercises in the University of Timisoara English department, discussing whether or not I wanted to keep my opening words intact (I did. He subsequently agreed that I was quite correct.) It sounds like an irritation, but in fact I rather enjoyed pointing out that if he read it aloud with the correct stresses it was far more musical than the bald statement he was proposing. And I was utterly confident about it, because it was one of the poems I'd just been reading aloud to that audience on Friday. 

After that, a dash to get to Pilates. Very knackering, very stretching. And home to have a strong coffee and do some extra Italian. We were recuperating over lunch when first the plumber arrived to look at a waste water pipe that was coming off our wall and pouring the contents of the shower into our neighbour's garden. Then a friend from along the road - the friend who 50 years ago told us this house was on the market - to see if I had any copies of Washed Up, my poetry collection, available for her to give to a friend. The amazing thing was that she told me she herself read a handful of my poems almost every night and found them soothing. I was pretty overcome by that. 

It transpired that she'd tried the local independent bookshop first, not wanting to disturb us, and that the chap there had expressed interest ... So I decided it was a sign (!) and as I had to yomp up to the church to collect the unsold ones from the Open Studios event that was closing at 4pm, I decided to take them to the bookshop and chance my arm. 

That's when I took the blip. The charming young man made a space for them on a table that included Val McDermid and Jane Austen, so that's where they are tonight, in Bookpoint, in Dunoon.

I'm so tired again - though I managed to stay awake to be gripped again by Night Sleeper on the telly. And I've washed all the guest bedroom bedlinen - it didn't dry in the gloom today, but it's done. As am I ...