Tuesday, 12 May 2009

Living For The Written Word

The City Dweller.

The tree outside the window appears to have died
in childbirth. It stands alone in its non-verdance,
mocked by the urban jungle’s fecundity.
The phloem do not flow with amniotic fluid so the bald leaves cluster,
rumpled, prematurely. The tree outside the window yearns
for incubation, as stomata, choked with soot, gasp
for monoxide. The roots that once tickled
the undersides of buildings, lactate cement.
A simulated pregnancy gestating on a slab,
this road will ingest it, making it backward born.

(Today I found out that I was successful in my application for next year's Creative Writing: Poetry module. The course is provided by Manchester's Centre of New Creative Writing, notorious for being whipped by Martin Amis, and will entail 'workshopping' our fledgling poems and producing a portfolio at the end of the year. I'm so happy! I'd never written a poem before I learned of the requirement to submit two to three pieces of original work in order to be considered suitable for the progamme and so I was really taken aback when I found out I'd secured myself a place. I can imagine that it's going to be really intimidating listening to a class of sixteen analyse my 'poems' and I'm sure I'll be extremely self-conscious and that there'll be blushes all round but at the same time I'm so looking forward to a break in my critical theory dominated schedule and the chance to do something vaguely creative.)

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