Skeleton Architecture

Time magazine brought out a great issue in September, with interviews with lots of successful women. One of them was Cindy Sherman, whose artwork I remember studying at university. A quote from her was highlighted on the page: "Of course we're all feminists, right? We all want women to be seen as equals."  Of course we are. I thought that was obvious. I mean, what's not to like about equality (barring my comments from yesterday )? But then I thought it was obvious that we Brits wouldn't be stupid enough to vote for Brexit and my own mother did, I thought it was obvious that America was about to get its first woman president, and Jeezo, let's not go there.  For many and various reasons people go against their own interests all the time, so no, we're not all feminists...                                  ...yet. Oh, and this is what a page from my notebook looks like (when I'm lucky e...

The best parkin I ever ate I ate in Haworth, where we used to go on the train because we would get these awesome train passes which let you go pretty much anywhere in the Yorkshire conurbation, and you could get as far as Haworth. Haworth was really important to me as a teen because I wore clogs, Walkley's clogs, made to the shape of my feet and then sprayed silver with car spray, finished with metals to kick up the occasional spark, make a fantastic noise (a lot of noise, there's no creeping in clogs), and let you slide around corners in supermarkets. You can't walk in snow though. Sorry. Haworth also had a fab occult supplies shop called Spooks, the Bronte parsonage, for all your cultural needs, the cute old fashioned chemists at the top of the hill for present buying, and some rather special cafe's. As you've no doubt gathered, I grew up in Yorkshire, and the moors are where I feel at home, and we all know that Heathcliff lives on the moors (apart from when...

Once a month I get to go to an amazing poetry group at the Glasgow Women's Library (which is also an amazing place). This is one of those things that you do and it feels like the universe has gift wrapped it just for you. I get to work with brilliant women and it is totally inspiring. This month we were looking at a gorgeous poem by Dana Gioia, Nothing is Lost, which someone else has shared here . In it Dana imagines a coin once held by you as a child coming back to you as an adult, and the different ways that you'd understand it at the different times. There is a call there to pause and reflect on the little things and there is also a nod to the things that end up in pockets. As a parent, pockets and bags can be filled with weird things, things that not only you chose for their shape or look or oddness, but other people's little hand-holdy things. The other day I had a blue dinosaur in my pocket. It probably wasn't the one I had in my pocket in my childhood, pull...

I have been a woman for ages, and I am no amateur woman either, I'm a professional woman. I've read Caitlin Moran's book and I am fully clued up on How to be a Woman. I went to University for three whole years studying Women's Studies, I represented women as a Women's Officer. I know about womaning. I know about sexual assault and inappropriateness too. Sometimes I was even targeted because of being Women's Officer and doing Women's Studies. I have had lots of experiences, from minor to major, and I have been aware of lots of other women's experiences of all the many and various kinds. I don't think you have to be a professional woman to have this experience, just looking like you might be a woman can get you lined right up for it. So I am not delighted that there are so very many women saying #MeToo at the moment, rather, I am delighted that we are all of us taking the same moment to pick up those disgusting rocks and show the nastiness undernea...

My Dad challenged me to write a tanka about a Tonka truck. I was going to ignore this challenge, but then he got his friend to publicly shame me into it on Facebook. So here you go father and friend. 😝 My brother had a Tonka truck when we were little. I thought it was yellow, my Dad thought it was red. My brother says it was red and  yellow. Nobody has it anymore, and it's not in any photos I can find (I have looked for the amount of time you spend on these projects when you should really be doing something more useful), but that was a really good, sturdy, truck. I've definitely attempted to use it as a skateboard when my feet would fit in it, I've also loaded it with animals, Sindy's, and of course, lots of stones. It was the kind of toy you look at and declare that they don't make them like that anymore. My brother is pretty awesome too. He started off as my little brother. Now he towers above me. He's had plenty of health issues, including collecting a...

Quite a while ago I wrote a poem called 'Wild Idea', inspired by the Sisters of Mercy song, Driven Like the Snow, which has huge personal significance to me. Wild Idea is a brilliant poem, but I'm still to convince anyone else of that. Wish me luck! Anyway, today's Tanka is inspired by my poem Wild Idea. I'll let you know when I manage to get it published, and then you can gaze upon its brilliance, until then you can gaze upon this slightly odd video.

I gave a workshop yesterday about poetry, about inspiration and communication. I talked about being part of this thing here in the wonderful world of online wherein different people can come together to write their responses to a prompt (I use the prompts set by Sara at Mum Turned Mom) and encourage each other, inspire each other, big each other up. I love it.  After the workshop I realised I hadn't found anything for the latest prompt yet. This morning I sat down and thought about crashes, about women being told they're a car crash waiting to happen, about my beautiful friend with her dangerous decisions, which I must admit I resented. But I was there anyway. This poem is for her. Crash You turn, twirling and I hold on to your petticoats, layers of tulle rendering you the only woman worth seeing. You spin, darling, dancing, all eyes on you and when you crash down  in some strangers room it is I who will guard you, who will barter over bodies. I carr...

That prompt from Sara at Mum Turned Mom, 'Embrace', has got my mind wandering down all sorts of rabbit holes, I shared one with you yesterday , and here's another, about the sort of embraces you probably shouldn't have ever had. Probably. One peculiar night when there was just us we drank the bar. I said  you could do  better than that whispering nothing who dangles your heart like a bored cat's toy. I said  you could have me and knew I'd gone too far to stay. I walked home on feet that wanted to return to you. Buried my fear of repurcussions in instant noodles and there you were! Swinging on the lampost, grinning through the window. I smuggled you in. Drunkenly fumbling in bouts of incompetence. You kissed me, said we could brave the storm if you could shelter in my heart. I offered shelter but you caught her sparkling thread and returned to whispers. Ⓒ Cara L McKee 28/2/17

And so we're into Autumn, I swear I heard the tyres screeching as the season turned. I'm writing this at my desk in the light of my little lamp and it's almost 9am, but it's gloomy because it's chucking it down. I love Autumn. I spent ages yesterday watching gannets diving for fish in the roiling sea, keeping their places despite the wind. And I love the fog that can wrap us up in a quiet blanket. I used to live in the Isle of Man, where the god Manannan takes care of his drunk little islanders by wrapping his warm cloak around them. So whenever I can't see the islands near us for the fog I wonder if Manannan is wrapping his cloak around us too. It feels like it. Anyway, The Prompt, over on the Mum Turned Mom blog this week is Motion, which just had me thinking of the motion of the ocean, and of the good luck I have to be able to live near the sea again. So I am sharing this poem which I wrote earlier this year, inspired by a line in Andrew McMillan...

This week over on the Mum Turned Mom  blog The Prompt  is 'visitor'. It brought to mind two things which have been kicking about on the backburner in my writing life. One is a short story which is going to get incorporated into a novel at some point, so I'm not sharing it here, and the other is a poem I've been writing about a friend. I've been writing it for a very long time. Writing and rewriting. There's something good about it, and lots of things that aren't, and I'm having trouble disentangling my feelings about said friend with the poem. But today the kids have gone back to school and I had tasked myself with getting some of my poems into shape, so I've dragged this one back out into the light, and tried writing and rewriting it again, to see what works. The sonnet form is the best I've come up with yet, but it's still not right. The poem is about someone I briefly went to school with. He was different and interesting, and got t...

Today I'm trying to write love poetry, which does not come easy to me - I'm more of a doom and gloom merchant (please see my poem ' Edge of Doom ' for proof - that's the closest I've come to a love poem to date!). So I've revamped a couple of existing poems, including changing a Villanelle about adultery into a love poem (I'm hoping that works), and written this one this morning. This is another poem using the pattern inspired by Muse's Butterflies and Hurricanes , like my poem Know by Now . It was our 12th wedding anniversary yesterday, so I'm feeling terribly guilty that this poem wasn't inspired by my husband (who is taller than me, and has lifted me up), but by another friend who's really really tall, and by a good dollop of imagination. I suspect that friend might read it too, so I shan't name names, and I hope both he and my lovely husband will forgive me! The Tall One I tiptoe to reach you, behind you th...

In these days of social media, we're sending less letters to each other.  But not to worry.  We're keeping the Royal Mail alive delivering our online shopping. Thanks to Dave and Neil for this pic of teenage me Teenage me wrote a lot of letters.  I wrote poetry too.  It was all rather heartfelt I'm afraid. Desperately worried about talking to actual human beings, and hiding all my fear in a shroud of Goth, I put an advert in Raw magazine for penpals. I suspect some of the people who responded weren't looking for penpals. Anyhow, I ended up writing to lots of young men, most of whom were not in prison.  It was brilliant.   Most of them sent me compilation tapes (not that that ages me at all), and pictures of themselves.  There was one who sent a picture of himself in a tent, wearing a sleeping bag.  All long hair and cheeky monkey.  There was one who said he'd pop round when he got out of prison - my Mum wasn't keen.  The...