Author: jim clayton

on vromolimnos beach

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

I stuck a board on the wall above my desk
to help untangle the timeline of a book
the board looked empty, accusatory,
so to cheer it up I tore a page out of a sketch pad,
drawings I’d made on Vromolimnos beach
Skathos, three years ago (something like that)
rough studies of the people around me
a man in a cap, a woman in a bikini;
a group of guys standing in the water,
three looking right, the other looking down
working quickly because everyone was moving
but I lacked the knack
so I turned instead to draw
Eloise, asleep beside me
under a beach towel

now, here I am, three years later
(something like that)
sitting at my desk
writing this poem

the board in front of me
still mostly empty
except for those sketches

I wish I was there now
I wish I was sitting on Vromolimnos beach
I could try capturing that sea
those endlessly slack and crystalline waves,
pulsing in like signals from a
deeper, darker, territory of blue

But hey! Who am I kidding?
Watch me throw that pencil down!
Watch me sprint across the sand!
Watch me dive into the water!

Try drawing that!

vrom beach

the difference between men & women

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

it’s not eavesdropping if everyone can hear
and they certainly aren’t shy, jackie & mike
a middle-aged couple, tans, teeth, tattoos
laughing so raucously if you closed your eyes
you’d think their heads flipped back at the neck
like pez dispensers

‘I said to her, I said You’re a good looking woman. What work have you had done?’
‘My God! If that doesn’t sum up the difference between men and women!’
‘I don’t see anything wrong in telling a woman she’s lovely, Jackie.’
‘No, Mike. It’s what you wrap it up in does all the damage’

An announcement on the tannoy
something about cars & luggage
and I lose the rest of that conversation
picking it up again on depilation

‘I’d have my balls done, no question. It’s nice to have tidy balls.
I’m not so sure about the arse crack, though
I wouldn’t want someone fiddling around back there.’
‘Why? They’ve just been fiddling around with your balls.’
‘Yeah, I know, Jackie, but – here comes the science bit: concentrate –
a man’s balls hang round the front. Where you can keep an eye on them.’

The tannoy again. Something about
a horn blast, sinking, life jackets, mustering points, blah.
I pick up the conversation again on the subject of reproduction.

‘It’s true, Mike. Everyone’s female the first few weeks.
It’s the man’s sperm that decides
whether you stay female or go male.
It’s all about the chromosomes.
That’s why women are the purer sex.
And why everyone’s got nipples.
Do you want me to Google it for you?’
He reaches across the table and strokes her hand.
‘No, love. Relax. You’re on holiday.’

The tannoy goes again.

Mike checks his watchchromosomes
Jackie necks her drink.
‘Time for a quickie?’ he says
rattling his empty cup in the air.
‘I thought you’d never ask’ she says
and gets out her compact and brush
whilst Mike heads unsteadily
in the direction of the bar.

writer’s block

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

A plain, flat, nondescript kind of place. A desert waiting for rain, and the strange blooms you’d never have thought possible, just under the surface. Which is over-selling the scenario, no doubt. It’s just a post-final edit, post-holiday, soon to go back to work and revisit the old self-doubt kind of funk. The antidote is right here in front of me, of course – a bracing dose of shut the hell up and write. I’ve done it before; there’s no reason to think I won’t be able to do it again. All I have to do is trust my unconscious to throw some ideas on the page, and then let my internal editor knock it into shape.

It’s not as if I’m short of things that need doing. I need to be fixing the timeline problems Kath identified in The Fabulous Fears book. I need to be sending the MS out to agents, and chumming the water with a letter of introduction & a juicy plot outline. Getting more people to read it so I can get feedback and useful insight into how I might improve.

Practical things – not this desert waiting for rain BS.

Sigh.

writing & swimming

It’s like swimming in the sea. The best way is to dive in as soon as you can. You know your body will adapt, because it always has in the past.

In fact, the sensation of instant cold is so overwhelming you won’t feel it as cold but as something else, a thermal shock, neither one thing nor the other. Five minutes later, you’ll be skulling on your back, loving the clouds.

Allow it as my cool nephew would say.

Or as Joseph Conrad put it:

‘A man that is born falls into a dream like a man who falls into the sea. If he tries to climb out into the air as inexperienced people endeavour to do, he drowns…The way is to the destructive element submit yourself, and with the exertions of your hands and feet in the water make the deep, deep sea keep you up…In the destructive element immerse.’

speaking of dreams

Creating something out of nothing always feels like a strange and difficult gig – but should it? We do it quite naturally.
Maisy Mouse by Lucy Cousins

For instance, last night I dreamed I was in a church graveyard where all the headstones were carved to look like characters from children’s books – Angelina Ballerina, Maisy, Hunca Munca.
‘They’re all mice!’ I said to my partner, but she was distracted by something hurrying towards us along the path.

So the lesson I take from that (apart from an urgent need for psychoanalysis), is that the only thing stopping me from being productive today is the conscious me –  which is just the workaday version of the exact-same me that effortlessly comes up with fantastic scenarios like the mouse cemetery…

So maybe what I really need is a nap.

 

new poem

chromosomes
The difference between men & women

 

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the crossing

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

we take our seats on the ferry
for the short trip across the Solent
watch the crew down on the main deck
hi-viz cowboys coralling the cars
with radios and gestures
until finally, they’re done
the ramp can be drawn
slamming us in together
the floor begins to shudder
and Yarmouth slides away

we settle into our seats
books
coffee
conversations

to my right is an elderly man and woman
the man slumped so low in his chair
he’s only stopped from sliding to the floor
by the bony clasp of his hands
the woman is perfectly upright, though
staring through the window
at the receding land
the lacy tumult of our wakebirds
smiling with her mouth slightly open
as if she alone has the measure of it all
particularly the birds
the way they pitch and fall and rise again
following us across the water

the goddamn professor

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

Out early this morning, looking for fossils along the shoreline just west of here.

rockpoolIt takes a while to key-in to the business of looking. It feels less like a hunt and more like a meditation, a slow working down through the normal levels of thinking into something steadier, quieter, more finely tuned to the thing you’re looking for. I remember a description in The Pearl by Steinbeck where he talked about the pearl fishers hearing ‘the song of the pearl’, a distinctive note rising and falling amongst all the other natural voices they swam amongst. Not that I’m claiming to have the song of the fossil in my head. I’m only here a week. But, hey! It’s great to get up early and act as if you can carry a note.

All this is a precious and literary way of diverting attention from the fact I didn’t find anything. Which is an epic fail, considering how fossiliferous the place is. (And that’s just an excuse to use the word fossiliferous – which is quite possibly one of the most ludicrously extravagant words I know, along with concatenation, and maybe bioturbation.) It’s a beautifully dramatic stretch of coastline, though, especially after the storm last night. A real battle zone between land and sea. The forest trees cling to the meagre top soil, whilst the trees at the very edge totter and lean with their roots exposed, overlooking all the sea-worn timbers on the shore. It all feels very liminal and exposed. I could happily beachcomb here all year. Only next time it’d be nice to have Lola along, too.

I just looked up how to spell ‘beachcomb’, to see whether it was hyphenated or not. The definition Google came up with was this: Beachcombing is an activity that consists of an individual “combing” (or searching) the beach and the intertidal zone, looking for things of value, interest or utility. Which is a definition that really seems to fit. Because although I was primarily looking for fossils, I was happy to find other stuff that had been washed up, including worn bits of pottery and glass, and taking photos of things I thought looked good and that I might be able to Tweet. So – absolutely. Beachcombing. With a touch of meditation thrown in.

I didn’t see too many people out this morning. It was still pretty murky and rainy. And everyone I saw had a dog or two with them. We’d wave and say good morning (the people); hold out my hand and say helloooo! as they bounded wetly up, around and on (the dogs). I wondered if they thought I was some kind of expert (the people). Because there I was in the early morning, wearing glasses, a bag over my shoulder, crouching down amongst the rocks at the water’s edge, wearing the right kind of sandals, not caring my khaki trousers were getting wet, holding very still, gently reaching out, picking something up, lifting my glasses, looking at the thing closely, gently putting it down again. I must have looked like a Goddamn professor – when actually I had only the vaguest idea I might find some shark teeth or maybe the odd bivalve, and that about twenty or thirty million years ago this was all something like the Florida Everglades.

Happily, they left me to it.

 

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fort victoria

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

On holiday in Fort Victoria, Isle of Wight.

Walking along the beach here, kicking over stones. There was a group of very elderly people out looking, too, one of them having to be held by the arm whilst she prodded around with her stick. I liked that. Anyway, no doubt the ammonites were the same, swimming up and down, rolling their eyes about the gloom for as long as they possibly could before the light went out and they settled into the ooze. (This is why I could never work as a Tour Bus Guide).

One of my holiday books has been By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. It’s a brilliantly passionate account by Elizabeth Smart of her love affair with the poet George Barker. I found it strange to think that a writer of such creative intensity could ever actually die. Maybe she hasn’t, quite. Maybe she’s a ghost somewhere, forever waiting for George to turn up, five minutes, five years too late.

eroded timberPlenty of arty shots to be had along the beach. Derelict piers, rusted iron fixings, doors in ruined walls, ancient timbers eroded along the grain. This part of the island was heavily militarised, guarding access along the Solent to Portsmouth. Apparently there were forts here from the sixteenth century, but most of the ruins and remnants are from the mid-nineteenth. It’s a great place to kick around. The swimming’s good, too – although the waters here are out of bounds, a big red sign saying Danger – No Bathing. Standing on the shore you can see what they mean – a distinct line of white surf mid-way out, tearing round the point.

The other book I’m reading is a non-fiction account of the transportations to Australia. The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes (excellent, btw). I got quite excited to think that those transport ships might have sailed out from Portsmouth along the waters we can see from the cottage window – but then looking on Google maps I saw that it probably made more sense to sail straight down along the east coast of the island en route to Rio de Janeiro. I’m reading The Fatal Shore because I’m researching a book with a foot in two time zones, the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries. It feels like I’m taking on a lot. Wouldn’t it be easier to write about something closer to home, maybe a domestic drama about a community health care worker and his struggle to come to terms with death? Something as bright and upbeat as that? But I have to admit I like the research. It’s a kind of insurance. If the book doesn’t work, at least I’ve learned something (other than how to write a book that doesn’t work).


new poem:

 

dragon head
what do you mean, Norway?

sig

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

On holiday in Fort Victoria, Isle of Wight.

Walking along the beach here, kicking over stones. There was a group of very elderly people out looking, too, one of them having to be held by the arm whilst she prodded around with her stick. I liked that. Anyway, no doubt the ammonites were the same, swimming up and down, rolling their eyes about the gloom for as long as they possibly could before the light went out and they settled into the ooze. (This is probably why I could never work as a Tour Bus Guide).

One of my holiday books has been By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept. It’s a brilliantly passionate account by Elizabeth Smart of her love affair with the poet George Barker. I found it strange to think that a writer of such creative intensity could ever actually die. Maybe she hasn’t, quite. Maybe she’s a ghost somewhere, forever waiting for George to turn up, five minutes, five years too late.

eroded timberPlenty of arty shots to be had along the beach. Derelict piers, rusted iron fixings, doors in ruined walls, ancient timbers eroded along the grain. This part of the island was heavily militarised, guarding access along the Solent to Portsmouth. Apparently there were forts here from the sixteenth century, but most of the ruins and remnants are from the mid-nineteenth. It’s a great place to kick around. The swimming’s good, too – although the waters here are out of bounds, a big red sign saying Danger – No Bathing. Standing on the shore you can see what they mean – a distinct line of white surf mid-way out, tearing round the point.

The other book I’m reading is a non-fiction account of the transportations to Australia. The Fatal Shore by Robert Hughes (excellent, btw). I got quite excited to think that those transport ships would’ve sailed out from Portsmouth along the waters we can see from the cottage window – but then I looked on Google maps and saw that they must have sailed straight down from Portsmouth along the east coast of the island en route to Rio de Janeiro. I’m reading The Fatal Shore because I’m researching a book with a foot in two time zones, the nineteenth and twenty-first centuries. It feels like I’m taking on a lot. Wouldn’t it be easier to write about something closer to home, maybe a domestic drama about a community health care worker and his struggle to come to terms with death? Something as bright and upbeat as that? But I have to admit I like the research. It’s a kind of insurance. If the book doesn’t work, at least I’ve learned something (other than how to write a book that doesn’t work).

 

new poem:

dragon head
what do you mean, norway?

 

sig

 

what do you mean, norway?

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

a man in a rainbow tutu and purple feathers
stops with a gaggle of parakeet dancers
to wave me through to the parking lot
how has it come to this?
how have I ordered my life
that I should be visiting patients during carnival?
working not twerking
hauling out of the car
not a hooped skirt or headdress of fire
but a rucksack of medical equipment
and a medium narrow zimmer frame
I wear the frame over my shoulders
to free my hands for the rest
and it strikes me I could totally
turn my back on the building
and join the parade
and the award for best costume
goes to NHS man in the steampunk cloak
I don’t though
I make my carnival-of-real-life way
to the main entrance, where a resident holds the door for me
shaking her head as I struggle inside
‘Careful!’ she says
I waddle across the lobby to the lift
and when it arrives, reverse into it
like a sad, unwieldy creature retreating into its burrow
just as the doors are about to close
an elderly man comes in the main door
he’s as laden down as me
with two large shopping bags
and a hat like an upturned fruit basket
‘hold the lift!’ he shouts
(ironic; I’m holding everything else)
still – I manage to free a hand to press
the button, and the man
rolls towards me at a snail’s pace
where the snail has been retired more years than he worked
We surely can’t both fit in the lift
but I can’t think how to explain that to him
without sounding cruel
maybe I should come out of the lift and let him go ahead
but by this time he’s with me
packing himself into the space
with the confidence of someone
perfectly adapted for this exact thing
‘Thank you,’ he puffs. ‘Tenth, please’
I dislocate my shoulder getting that for him.
‘Thanking you.’
We both breathe the lift-baked air, and wait.
Whether the lift is always this slow
or whether it’s making a point
I don’t know. But the doors are an age to slide shut
and I can’t reach round the man to do that thing
I normally do, which is frantically tap the close button a few times
The man looks at me and smiles sadly
‘Hot, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘So hot!
‘Hottest day yet.’
‘I bet.’
‘Too hot.’
‘Phew!’
The lift doors close. After a teasing pause
(no doubt whilst the donkeys on the roof
rouse themselves sufficiently
to start pushing the wheel round)
the thing drops, shakes
then starts the slow drag upwards
‘In fact, I’ve decided it’s too hot for me,’ says the man
‘I’ve decided to go back home.’
‘Oh? Where?’
And I see him for the first time
The white hair spilling from the hat
those eyes blue as glacial chips,
that scar on his cheek
I see a longship
run aground for the last time
in the ASDA car park at the marina
police line / do not cross
dragon prow smashed through the lobby
snarling at the scattering of scratch cards on the kiosk floor
‘Yes – it’s finally got the better of me’ he sighs
‘It’s high time I went home’
‘I can understand’
‘It’s called air conditioning!’
We both laugh
‘Do you need air-conditioning in Norway?’
‘Norway? What do you mean, Norway?’
‘Is it Norway?’
‘No! I live on the tenth!’
The lift crashes to a stop.
The doors grind open.
He struggles out to Valhalla

the ghost comes home

~ jim clayton ~ Leave a comment

‘To be honest with you, I can’t believe I’ve reached the age I have. I had four brothers and sisters, and now I’m the only one left. My sister Judith was the first to go. She was only eleven. I was fourteen. And now here I am, ninety-one! Me and Judith, we used to love going to the pictures on a Saturday. The matinee performance. This one Saturday, my mum stopped me as we were headed out the door. You’re not going out till you’ve sewed that button on your cardie like I asked you to she said. And I was furious about it but I did what I was told. I sewed the biggest button on there I could find, quick as I could, then I took Judith’s hand and we ran off down the street to the cinema on the corner. We were about half way through the main feature when there was an almighty crash and a flash and the whole place came down around us. Because we were late getting there we’d had to sit at the back, not like all the other kids sitting at the front. They were all killed outright. But we made it outside, and Judith, she was badly hurt, worse than me. We both got taken by someone to the hospital, and Judith died a little while later – not that I knew about that straight away, because I was having bits and pieces taken out of me. When I came round in bed a day or so later, the doctor showed me a chunk of metal and d’you know what he said? He said This would’ve finished you off if that button hadn’t taken some of the force out of it. So it just goes to show. I learned later on what happened. A German bomber had ditched its load early trying to get away from some Spitfires that were chasing it. He wasn’t targetting the cinema or anything. It was just one of them things. Didn’t do him no good, though. They caught up with him over the Channel, and that was that. The film? I’ll never forget what that was. A comedy, a silly little thing, only just out. The Ghost Comes Home.’

addio catania

~ jim clayton ~ 2 Comments

‘The doctor, he was here yesterday, he said Squeeze my hands. Hard as you can. I said to him, I said You sure you want me to do that, squire? He said Do your worst. So I grabbed a hold and give him a squeeze, and the next thing you know he was pulling ‘em away shouting All right, mate! All right! You’ve made your point!’
Mr Wilson laughs, a desiccated kind of rattle, and shakes his head.
‘I was a stone mason all my life. I could squeeze the juice’ve a pebble.’
I think the doctor was being kind, though. Whilst it’s true Mr Wilson’s wrists are still impressively thick, the rest of his body has been sadly depleted by age and illness, and he pays for his enthusiastic outbursts with a degree of gasping that the oxygen through his nasal cannulae struggles to correct.
I’ve arrived at the same time as Mr Wilson’s morning carers. It’s lovely to see how they chivy him along, making a game of it all, distracting him from the frustrations and indignities of his situation. I’ve no doubt Mr Wilson has been a positive kind of person all his life, though, used to making the best of things. He cusses and carries on in the wheelchair, tetchily snapping the oxygen cable when it gets in his way, kicking his slippers off when they snag in the footrests. The carers obviously love him.

When he’s settled in the wheelchair and recovered his strength, and the carers have given him a peck on the cheek, signed the book and left, he folds his great hands on his middle and shakes his head.
‘I can’t go to Catania,’ he says. ‘I don’t suppose I’ll ever see it again.’
I get the story in short bursts. He fought in Italy during the war. Met his wife there. Settled back in the UK, but every year they went back to Catania to see her family. But his wife died last year, and his illness had progressed, and he was faced with the fact that he’d never see Catania again.
‘I wanted to say goodbye proper, like,’ he said. ‘I wanted to say Addio. Now look at me.’
He picks up the green plastic tube and holds it in front of him, like he was showing me something else, the thing that was tethering him to this world, the line that he’d play out if he could, all the way to the eastern shores of Sicily, and Catania, and his wife, and the adventures and the life they’d had together, so he could relax his grip, and let go the end, and disappear himself, off into the sun.