Textling #34

Some of my art is in the world (thanks to friendly hands), and some of my words were read, spoken, heard last week, at the Poetry Café in London, where a friend swung a FaceTime window wide, and I, propped up in bed, looked and listened in, as she (for me), and other writers, offered poems, stories, textlings to receptive ears. Multiple voices, finely crafted utterance, joyfully (and with a little apprehension) shared; connection, communion – here lies happiness.

For an evening I peered as if through a porthole on a sinking ship, while welfare cuts and threats to care beat on the hull like monster waves and bear on grinning crests their promises of hindrance, hardship, battening down. Mutabor, mutabor, I cry, and wait (like caliph and his grand vizier) to find myself recast, with utmost urgency: back in shape, the shape I departed from, upright, walking, working, following my art into the world.


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