It’s moving day, and of course the good laptop was on the blink yesterday, so we couldn’t print out the
532 bits of paper you need to travel anywhere in the Covid Era-
so someone else had to pick up the slack and print it all out at work
and the laptop’s at the shop
and I feel somehow responsible
although I didn’t do anything to speed up its meltdown
I was just there to witness its fall.
Anyway, It’s moving day and I’m having the usual crippling self-doubt and wondering whether this all may have been a mistake and wondering im voraus whether the decisions I’ve made will turn out to be the right ones even though there’s absolutely
of knowing that until I start the course in September.
Another writing exercise to do with finding the voice in a text (and making it our own) came in two stages. The first was to copy out a section of the page with no punctuation at all. Then, we had to take ourselves away from the original text completely and read it to ourselves, looking for the natural breaks and patterns our mind would reorganise the text into. Then, we rewrote the text in free verse with our own punctuation and line breaks. I’ve added or taken away a few words and phrases in the process to streamline my poem.
The original, taken from the first page of MacBride’s highly experimental novel:
I wrote out the first two paragraphs completely without punctuation:
For you you’ll soon you’ll give her name in the stitches of her skin she’ll wear your say mammy me yes you bounce the bed I’d say I’d say that’s what you did then lay you down they cut you round wait hour and day walking up corridors and stairs are you alright will you sit he says no I want she says I want to see my son smell from Dettol through her skin mops diamond floor tiles all as strong all the burn your eyes out if you had some her heart going pat going dum dum dum don’t mind me she’s going to your room see the Jesus what have they done Jesus bile for tidals burn shhhh all over mother she cries oh no oh no no no
And turned it into a free verse poem:
soon give her name in the stitches
and folds of her skin.
She’ll wear them,
and you’ll say:
and I’ll say:
“Bounce the bed,” I’d say.
I’d say that’s what you did
when you laid down
and they cut you round.
I waited hour and day,
walking up corridors and stairs.
“Are you alright? Will you sit?,” he says.
“No, I want,” she says,
“I want to see my son.”
The smell from the Dettol leaking through her skin