As you can see I have reblogged latest Corvus Press post, it echoes what I have been saying on this blog for some time, that the prebook of CO2 is finally at the printers and I am told we will have copies today or tomorrow! One thing I have learned since I entered the world of publishing is that it takes time. I am often reminded of those famous lines from Andrew Marvell’s To His Coy Mistress:
Our vegetable love would grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
You can read the whole of this marvelous poem (pun intended) here: http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/marvell/coy.htm Writing often seems like that, you work on a piece and it then goes off into the ether, from where it returns at some point later. Perhaps it’s the lack of control over the process but I suspect it’s because I’m impatient.
I am ready for the Exeter Comic Expo this Sunday (19th February) after which I shall be posting photos of the event. But today feels a little like limbo, so I am going to use this post to showcase some poems, after I explain where the title of the post comes from. Those copasetic readers will already be aware that Sitting In Limbo is the title of a song by the great Jimmy Cliff, one of the stars of Jamaican music. He is the only one of two musicians to be awarded the Jamaican Order of Merit (the other was Bob Marley).
For me the defining image of Jimmy Cliff is in the 1972 film The Harder They Come, in which he played Ivan Martin. This is simply one of the best films ever made. You can watch it here, if you’ve never seen it you’re in for a treat: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3kXf4cgmDiE&feature=fvst. Essentially the film is the tragic story of Ivan Martin a country boy who comes to Kingston to make it as a singer. Jimmy Cliff imbues the role with so much energy and panache that the eye is drawn to him every time he is on screen and the music! Classic Roots Rock Reggae with consciousness lyrics, seminal songs from Jimmy Cliff and Toots and The Maytals.
Anyway back to the poetry. This one I wrote quite quickly and is another in my series about the Magpie:
The magpie’s maps are not on paper,
They hang from certain synapses,
They hold the history of her every heist:
“These were the best times I stole”
And the more secret times
When she would simply look.
Every magpie has such treasure.
A gallery in each head,
Look closely, you may then find your own.
This one came from me mishearing a friend of mine who I thought said:
“Is it my imagination,
Or does this place smell of Dreams?”- For Margaret
It is true
Dreams are here
They seep from our sleep
Remain in stubborn corners
Until we pass and taste
Each fragment of the night
They will melt on the tongue
Then they are no more
She actually said “does this place smell of drains?” and I misheard her! Still I got a poem out of it, we were in Barcelona hence this week’s photos.
Have a good weekend and I hope to meet you at the Exeter Expo.