Yes, Day 64 is about half an hour after day 63. Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey.
Something I’ve discovered is that in situations where the same words keep getting repeated, such as talking ona mobile phone at ridiculous crossed purposes, it’s very easy to convert a verbatim conversation into a sestina with minimal tweaking. This is what happened last night when we attempted to go to a Eurovision party, and is dedicated to our long-suffering and lovely hostess.

We’re running late. We’ve missed the first two songs. .
Rush from the taxi. “Is it 46?”
“It’s by the off-license: it must be here.
I came last week to see her. I remember.
Go in and get some wine. I’ll let her know
We’re on our way, and she can buzz us in”

We buzz and buzz. It seems like no-one’s in.
Perhaps she cannot hear above the songs.
“Just send a text. Or tweet her: If I know
That girl, she’s online.” “Is it 46?
You’re definitely sure?” “Yes, I remember!
I’m sure this is the place, but no-one’s here!”

We phone her up and hope that she can hear
She answers. “Can you come and let us in?
Your buzzer’s broken.“ “46, remember?”
“Don’t waste our time: we’re missing all the songs!
Of course we know you live at 46!”
We’re buzzing now, and can you hear us? No!”

“I’ll have to come and fetch you, I don’t know
What’s happened to the buzzer, but you’re here
And that’s the main thing. Just try 46
Again. That’s weird. I’ll come and let you in
Although it means I’ll miss one of the songs
It’s only Finland. They were crap, remember?”

What Finland sang last time, I do not know.
We wait and wait. I’m trying to remember.
Our friend has been researching all the songs
We stare in to the lobby. She’s not here!
Why won’t she hurry up and let us in?
But it’s a long way down from 46.

We hear a cry: “No, not that 46!
You’ve got the wrong address: don’t you remember?
I live above the bank! Come in, come in!”
She shouts from down the street. “She’s right, you know.
When I was here before, it wasn’t here,
But by the bank. Let’s go and hear the songs”

We hurry into number 46
To listen to some songs we won’t remember
But we will always know she lives in here.

OK, this is going up late. I wrote a halfway decent sestina yesterday, on my phone. and then pressed something that, without the benefit of a Ctrl+Z function, meant that I’d pretty permanently lost it. Then Dr Who and Eurovision intervened.

Below is a poor imitation of the original poem, frankensteined together from scraps of memory. It’s just something I wanted to get off my chest.

Tell me lady, what’s your problem?
Why the dead-eyed glaring in my
Vague direction? Why the putdowns
When I join the conversation
Would it hurt to crack a smile?
Or would good manners be uncool?

I can’t help noticing your cool-
Ness to me. But it’s not a problem.
When my open, friendly smile
Freezes, dead and mask-like on my
Face, the art of conversation
Shrivels underneath your putdowns.

How can I be sure they’re putdowns?
Maybe you’re just being cool
And witty, making conversation.
I’m the one who’s got a problem.
All this enmity is in my
Head. I turn to you and smile.

You do not return my smile
Spit more sugar-coated putdowns
In my face, and thus destroy my
Fantasy that I am cool
Enough to be here. I’m a problem.
So I leave the conversation

I cannot make conversation!
I’m unworthy of your smile.
Clumsy, awkward, one big problem.
Shrinking from your vicious putdowns
My attempt at being cool
And popular exploded in my

Face, and decimated all my
Confidence. It’s just like school!
I’d join those playground conversations.
A loser with a nervous smile
And snippy girls with bitchy putdowns
Let me know I was a problem.

You’re not cool with me? It’s not my
Problem. In this conversation
I smile, impervious to putdowns.

This poem was inspired by excellent poet Helen Mort’s distress on Facebook regarding her lovely whippet, Bell. Bell often accompanies Helen to gigs and is impeccably behaved. However, when separated from Helen, Bell becomes anxious and miserable. My heart goes out to both of them.
Note: it seems somewhat cheeky to write ‘in the voice’ of an active poet. Helen’s actual poetic voice is very, very good, and utterly different to my bizarre attempt!
If you would like to hear Helen’s poetic voice, and you’re in Sheffield tonight, there may still be tickets available for her performance at the Lyric festival. Check her out. You may even meet Bell.

There’s nothing I can do about your fear
You cannot comprehend that I would never
Abandon you. There’s no way you can tell
That you are mine and I am yours, my dear
Sweet dog, and that it will be so for ever
I hate to see you so upset, my Bell

I only wish you could believe me, Bell
Let life experience defeat your fear
When I have left you crying, have I ever
Stayed away for long? You know that I have never
Let you suffer more than I could help it. Dear,
Although you cannot understand, I tell

You where I’m going, hope that you can tell
How much I care about you, little Bell.
When I’m away from you I’ll think ‘Oh dear
My dog is torturing herself with fear.
I’m out of sight, and now she thinks I’m never
Coming back, and that she’s all alone forever’

I look at you and wonder, will there ever
Be a time that, when I leave you, I can tell
That you’ll be calm and happy, that you’ll never
Destroy my things in fear and panic. Bell,
Sometimes I have to go. But never fear
I won’t abandon you. You are my dear

And precious dog. No animal’s more dear
What happened to you? Will this be forever?
Will you always be haunted by the fear
Of being alone? I wish that you could tell
Me what to do to earn your trust, my Bell
But I’m afraid that I will find you never

Really understand, I’m worried I will never
Learn how to teach you to be calm. Oh dear,
Perhaps you can’t be happy with me, Bell
But how could I abandon you forever?
I’ve promised you can stay. How can I tell
You that you can’t, and justify your fear?

I promise, Bell. I promise that you never
Really need to fear. You are my dog, my dear.
You’re safe, but can you ever really tell?

Our new cat, Ajsing Bajsing, has settled into his new home remarkably well. He’s a really chilled out, well adjusted little guy.
This poem is about a rather more neurotic specimen.

Sometimes I wonder: should I drop
The act or should I still pretend
That in this house I feel at home?
That I’m not scared? what should my stance
Be? Should I bristle with my fur
And show you that I don’t belong?

Or should I just admit: I long
To go back to my mum and drop
Exhausted in her belly fur
And though I’m bigger now, pretend
I’m tiny still? The circumstance-
s Have all changed. Now this is home.

It doesn’t really smell like home
The flight of stairs is far too long
I need to keep a fighting stance
The cat next door can’t wait to drop
On me with claws out. I’ll pretend
I haven’t noticed, lick my fur

And then I’ll tear out tufts of fur
Cause I’m the boss of my new home
Well, if I’m not, I can pretend
Although I’m small, my fur’s quite long.
So I look big. I try a drop
Of milk, and drop my fighting stance

Some things about these circumstance-
s Aren’t so bad. They stroke my fur,
The people here. And never drop
Me. I still cannot call it home
But just perhaps, before too long
I will. But now I shall pretend

I’m angry. No: it’s just pretend
I drop my angry kitten stance
And let them know ho much I long
To let somebody stroke my fur
To feel at last that I am home
And drink my milk up, every drop

It’s been too long to still pretend
Now I can drop my fighting stance
And smooth my fur, and call this home

I’d love to be an agnostic. It would be much simpler than switching abruptly between the extremes of deeply held atheist and pagan/pantheist convictions. Ah well.

God’s never been an old man in the clouds
In fact, to me he isn’t always ‘he’
A she, a they, a pantheon of gods
Perhaps an it, an everything, an all
Which permeates the earth, the sky, the moon
But sometimes it’s an absence. No-one home.

I sometimes thank the spirits of the home
Honour the household godlings with my clouds
Of incense. And I’ll see, within the moon
The goddess, and the sun becomes a ‘he’
But then I think ‘there’s nothing there at all
These balls of rock and plasma can’t be gods’

But other times, they walk with me, the gods,
That inner voice will call my spirit home.
I’ll feel at one with everything, and all
My doubts and fears evaporate like clouds
I hear the Green Man in the woods and he
Asks me to dance. I look up at the moon

And feel Diana’s blessing in the moon-
Light. Then, quite suddenly, the gods
Are fictions, dreamt by cowards. Saying ‘he
(Or she, or they) will guide us safely home’
Is thinking with my head stuck in the clouds
Nobody watches over us at all.

I’d be content with atheism. All
The love I see reflected in the moon
Comes from within. No superstition clouds
My judgement now. I have no need of gods.
With scientists and sceptics I’m at home.
How could I call my own subconscious ‘he’?

Till, once again, I dance with Pan, and he
Is real again. And I believe it all.
A loving goddess smiles and calls me home:
The maiden-mother-crone within the moon.
I’m once again surrounded by my gods
I feel euphoric, floating on a cloud.

I’m not at home with Dawkins. How can he
Look at the clouds and have no doubt at all
That though there’s moonlight, there can be no gods?

Inspired by phrases shouted by stallholders I passed on my lunch break today. And, um, yes. I got yesterday’s number wrong. I can’t count very well at 2AM! So yesterday’s was 58. This is 57, tomorrow’s’ll be 59. OK?

This one is for Emma, who will now kill me. (posted late due to falling asleep on the sofa!)

I think I’ll go and have a cup of tea
And count the syllables in every line
I need to hear each trochee and each iamb
To try and turn my poems into sonnets
But I am never sure which words to stress
And you keep telling me I’ve got it wrong.

I just don’t get it. What have I done wrong?
“I THINK I’ll GO and HAVE a CUP of TEA”
Is fair enough, but not co-FFEE? The stress
Is getting to me.  When I write a line
You ask “why do you want to write these sonnets?
It’s not about the syllables. The iamb

Is what’s important.” What the the hell’s an iamb?
Or is it an iAMB? Which one is wrong?
All I would have to do to write a sonnet
I thought, was count the syllables.  Like “tea”
Is nice and short but “coffee “ makes the line
Too long. You say it’s fine, because the stress

Makes “coffee” just like “tea”! I know the stress
Is making me go crazy.  I think that I am
Better off with prose, where I can write a line
And know whether or not I’ve got it wrong.
And when I go and have a cup of tea
I never have to fit it in a sonnet.

So tell me what’s so great about these sonnets
In any case? They cause a lot of stress
I cannot even make a cup of tea
These days, without trying to count the iambs
Don’t get me started on the trochees! “Wrong!”
They seem to say. “You cannot write a line

Just give it up! It’s simply not your line
You’re better off with free verse than with sonnets.”
But one day I will know when it is wrong
Soon I’ll be able to hear it when the stress
Falls on a syllable to make an iamb
But just for now, I’ll have a cup of tea.

I’ve got it wrong. Though nearly every line
‘S Iambic, to a T, it’s not a sonnet!
Going insane with stress? Why yes, I am!