The Problem With Wuthering Heights

First of all, I will say that there are some mild spoilers here but I haven’t ruined any plot points that aren’t fairly common knowledge.

Being a bit of a literature geek, it may surprise some people to know that I’ve only recently read Wuthering Heights. This is mainly because until the last few years, I had a bit of a rampant dislike of the idea of “costume drama” novels. This was because I perceived that it was mainly rich people swanning about being in love and wearing daft bonnets.

Exhibit A.

So, having learnt that not all literature is frilly bonneted, I quickly became a keen fan of Jane Eyre and thought it time to branch out on my Brontë. Wuthering Heights is a book that has polarised most of the people I know – in other words, a marmite book. Having now read it, I can see why. So lets first say, I enjoyed it. It’s exciting and the characters are interesting, believable and it is the strength of the characterisation that pulls the story along. Before I continue though, I must make a simple point that all new readers, frilly bonneted costume drama lovers and hopeless romantics must know now and deal with.

WUTHERING HEIGHTS IS NOT A ROMANCE NOVEL!

But the moors! The brooding! Heathcliff! Cathy! I hear you say? – NO. Not a romance. If I were to pick a genre I’d go for family saga or slow burning revenge novel. The sooner we accept that, the sooner we’ll stop having disappointed romantics cluttering up the place. Yes Heathcliff and Catherine are in love but that takes up quite a small chunk of the book. I would say it is the catalyst for the events of the story rather than the story itself.

So Brooding! Be still my beating heart!

Cathy (who I am going to refer to as Catherine henceforth to avoid confusion with her daughter as it is clearer and she is mainly referred to by that name in the book anyway) is not a likeable character. Good. She’s petty, vain and self interested – not really the features you want from a romantic protagonist. Heathcliff is obsessive to put it mildly, fanatical and dangerous to put it accurately. Wuthering Heights is to my mind, an exploration of their trainwreck of a love affair, Heathcliff’s revenge and eventual decline into self-ruin before the generation after has a chance to pick up some of the pieces.

Romantic eh? Nothing says cute couple like corpse desecration, dog hanging and family ruination. I like Heathcliff though. I like him because he’s not a dashing hero but a deeply flawed and troubled man who doesn’t pretend to be anything else. That’s refreshing. I think a lot of popular culture tries a bit too hard to redeem him. We’re like abuse victims who ignore the abuser’s violence because deep down he has a heart of gold and will treat us the way we deserve… A bit of an extreme metaphor but we need to deal with the fact that Heathcliff isn’t brooding and troubled, he’s messed up.

So with this in mind, I want to say that I’m quite a fan of the new adaptation by Andrea Arnold.

It’s nice to see a traditional book told as though it’s a brand new story. It’s also nice to see that they’ve shown life on the windswept moors as cold, muddy and hard. Also muddy. Did I mention mud? This is a film that likes to remind us that if Heathcliff and Catherine are running around on the moors, then they’re getting wet feet.

So it’s grim oop north then? Well yes. This isn’t just Wuthering Heights as social realism though (the kitchen sink drama that British film seems to enjoy so much). It is beautifully shot and focuses heavily on the moorlands. There are wonderful shots of the animal and plant life that surrounds the characters. As characters live, die, and love, the moor is always there. It seems to reflect their emotions but is at the same time exists as a reminder that whoever anyone marries, it will still be there – bleak, windswept and covered in mud.

So yes, I joke about the mud but the mud is part of the other thing I like about this film. It’s sensual and tactile. Everything suggests texture, sensation and smell. It’s passionate in such a physical way that is a million miles away from delicate empire line dresses, turns of the room and discussions of good matches over bone china. Heathcliff and Catherine are not the most likeable of characters but they have a solidity that is refreshing. You care about them because they are tangible.

If you get the chance to watch it, I’d really recommend it. It’s a good cast and well thought out. If you want to read some useful reviews go for it. If you want to listen to an idiot who hasn’t read the book and likes bonnets, try this. How dare people in a period drama swear! Clearly such things are a purely modern invention… Silly woman. As for the book, go for it. Emily Brontë is an excellent writer and the characters are great. Just don’t expect a romance novel.

And to finish I'd recommend anyone who's read it and wants a laugh, to have a look at this, this and this over at Hark! A Vagrant! as the wonderful K. Beaton is currently doing some great comics about it.

I will also end on this because eventually any discussion of Emily Brontë's novel ends with Kate Bush. To make up for putting the song in your head (sorry!) Here is Noel Fielding's version.

A Cruel and Kindly Wind

Because there are benches that face the sea
Where you sit windswept and wild
And sometimes the gulls can only haunt the sky
Because the waves are cold against your skin
And the cobbles smooth the tread on your shoes
Because you stand beneath the rain
And haunt familiar corners
On these days the sea will not release you
Nor the cold wind leave your bones
Because the sand remains in every crack
And the salt sets tangles in your hair

Smoke and Mirrors

I’ve decided that I will dedicate a review or two to Audrey Niffenegger. She’s a lady whom I truly admire – a very talented writer and illustrator. The Time Traveler’s Wife is very probably my favourite book. This is something which surprised one or two of my friends. I am not on the whole any kind of romance fan but this book revolves around one of the most fantastical and believable relationships I’ve come across in literature. I could wax lyrical about this novel for a long time but I have decided to start my miniature Niffenegger-a-thon with her second novel, Her Fearful Symmetry.

To give a quick synopsis (without spoiling the plot), the central characters are Julia and Valentina Poole, a pair of identical twins. They inherit a flat from their aunt and decide to travel from America to England to live in their newly acquired home. This is a place haunted by all kinds of ghosts – both personal and supernatural. The building and its other inhabitants set in motion two different journeys of discovery for the twins who suddenly find that they have to work out who they really are both together and apart. More than anything it is about the strain of wanting to be together but also wanting to pull away and be somebody else.

I'm going to let the Evelyn Evelyn explain that situation. This sums up a lot of what goes on in 'Her Fearful Symmetry'. All credit here needs to go to the talented Neville sisters. 

So after our musical interlude, I'll start by saying that the set up and story are excellent. Thinking through everything that happened so I could write my review made me realise quite how much is going on in this book. It’s a story with endless parallels and mirrors. These narrative twins reflect the actual twins around which the story revolves. It also has some really elegant pieces. The first two page chapter is a little masterpiece in its own right. It’s a truly lovely beginning.

The problem with this book is that my expectations were so high. The Time Traveller’s Wife was a hard act to follow. Her Fearful Symmetry in my eyes does not sit in the same league. However, this does not stop it from being a very interesting and enjoyable book. Niffenegger writes beautifully. The book has echoes of Orpheus and Eurydice as well as any number of old ghost stories. It's a strange mix of genres but I suppose it is a kind of modern gothic novel more than anything and it has a wonderful atmosphere. The London Niffenegger creates captures both the grey tourist trap and the darker spiritual places that lie alongside that.

I'm not good at ghosts...

 Despite me loving her use of London, there is a little gripe that I need to get off my chest and that is how she creates it. There are a lot of places where you can really tell that this is an American writing about English people. It’s in the little details where you can see she’s a bit too hell-bent on getting all the peculiarities and iconic items in. There’s nothing that rings false but there is a bit too much packed in. It’s all marmite, tea and quaint bookishness reiterated again and again. This isn’t Rom. Com. London with buses, Big Ben and “British accents” but little things kept jarring.

So what is my overall opinion? It’s good - Niffenegger is an excellent writer, however this book is perhaps not all it could have been. It takes a great premise and then meanders around it. I have no problem with a slow burning plot but this rambles. Worth reading? Definitely. Worth re-reading? Perhaps not.

Möwenlied

This is perhaps a bit of a random blog post but it has happened because of something I came across while I was clearing out my room.

 

This is a poem written out for me by my Grandmother. I have no memory of when I was given this but I thought I'd share it. My Granny has been dead for a few years now so it was wonderful to find this. She was born in England but both of her parents were German meaning she was a fluent speaker of the language. The card that this poem was inside had this poem written out in both languages and my name on the front. I think the English version is her translation as it differs from where I've found it online (for example, here).

She had a great love of languages and worked as a teacher and a translator at various stages. Her groaning bookshelves were in the obvious English and German but also, Italian, Spanish and Latin. She was an incredibly intelligent and vibrant lady. It made me sad that a large part of what I know about her, I only discovered from her friends at her funeral. I'm incredibly happy to have found her old gift to me and I feel that she is a woman who warrants a little celebration. So here then is her translation of Möwenlied or Song of Seagulls.

 I'm not normally a huge fan of seagulls but in this case I'm happy to hear they look like Emmas. Thank you Granny.

Happy Halloween

A Little belated but I'm happy to have an excuse to show off my pumpkin skills and love of candles

 

Halloween was pretty quiet this year for me. No fancy dress or parties to go to in the end. No trick or treaters either though. That's probably a good thing really. I've never quite understood why a day of the dead involves begging for sweets.

In other news, I am unemployed once again. While I had a job I felt like I had no time for anything. Now, just two days into life without nine to five, I'm getting a bit bored. Still, this will hopefully mean that you might get some more illustrated posts like this one (well actually a few posts have my art on them but most of those are utilising rather older pieces). I also try where possible to use my own photographs. I am very much an amateur in this field unlike some of my multi-talented fellow bloggers. I lack their skill and decent cameras and in some cases degrees in photography but I'm up for a challenge.

Anyway, hopefully I'll have some nice new bits and pieces up here shortly. I've got a review or two in the pipeline and poetry under construction. November should be a good month.

Angels and Moths

Fog drifts like ghosts across the road
And souls are snagged in yellow beams
Fortress high, the hedgerows rise
On either side long, labyrinthine

Winding past hidden strangers, veiled
In brightness like angels
Confused by light I drift moth-like
Only to find my wings submerged again

A fox darts by, back straight, feet blurred
Our paths come close to crossing tonight
Neither of us can fathom the meaning
Of the other’s journey home

Doll's House

he found her love
but lost her form
she was the wasteland,
the dream lord
she turned and saw
him awakened
in this realm of death

she rots the room, corrupts
once used, now left
a withered flower
in matted black
his head stayed hidden
like the berry
burning safe inside

you must bring another
to tell the tale
of how she ran
gazelle formed, swift
the spear was thrown
she fell, he froze
obsidian cold
and lost

Times they are a changin'...

Well not all that much. I was getting a little tired of the blue and thought it might be time for a little revamp. At the moment it's all a bit red but it may not stay this way. Please give me your thoughts as I'd love to hear what you think.

Holy Land

Mirage drifts in homeland calling
The cave mouth chews and digests
Our people and their dreamings

The old cracked wrinkles in the ground
A mother’s face
The tears and strains of time

Sand glow and unity
Golden reward abounding
The road is long my brothers

The desert cries like a horn in the night
“Arise! Arise to danger!”
Legends grow from sand like this
   
There’s a mist within us all
We grow to know it like a friend
We are ghosts my brothers

We are all that is left of the old ways
Dying breeds of men
Echoes in the fault lines

Dancing in the Gaps Between the Clouds

We were crows and wizards and greater than gods
Great stomping children and ladies refined
We were the future and past
Hope beyond time

We flowed and did not stumble
Clutched hands – our own and others
Our names on unfamiliar tongues
And familiar ones

A family extended many-fold
As we discover other mothers
Connections wrought
And solid forged

We were hedonism free and heavy winged
The gravity is strong here
Fed on words
We fly like birds

The ground was soft beneath our feet
And never were the days ahead
So unimportant
And so close

'Each the other’s world entire'

A fair selection of my friends will know that this has become one of my new loves. I’ve recently read “The Road” and a few days ago saw the film adaptation so here are my views on the two. My copy of the book came from a charity shop and it was in excellent condition with the original receipt inside. After having used it as a bookmark for some time, I finally looked at this item in more detail.

Apparently this particular copy was bought alongside a book entitled 'Beautiful Kitchens'. I have to salute the eclectic nature of this particular visit to W H Smith while wondering how dull your life needs to become to want a book about especially attractive kitchens. Thinking about it, this may well be the reason this book was on the charity shop shelf alongside the obligatory Dan Browns, Maeve Binchys and East of The Sun (A book that so offended one fellow traveller that she abandoned it on a train, throwing it onto an empty seat in utter contempt). Whatever their reasons, I’m grateful to this lover of kitchens for helping me to afford the beginning of my love affair with Mr McCarthy.

 Having discussed the origin of my book, I’m going to start with the film. Just because I can. Like a lot of book lovers, I generally don’t find that film adaptations are as good as their original sources. They can be excellent films that I truly enjoy watching but they just can’t compete with the original. With the best screenwriter, director and actors on board, a film still suffers from its limitations the main two being the lack of a narrative voice / interior monologue (Voiceovers cannot capture this really) which means an inability to have the same amount of information and the simple fact that a reader’s imagination is still stronger than the best CGI and effects. On the other hand, a film offers a completely different form of storytelling. An actor’s expression tells us what it could take a paragraph to convey in words.

With that out of the way, I can say it was a damn good film. The actors were excellent. I am a long standing fan of Viggo Mortensen, but I was truly impressed by Kodi Smit-McPhee. A lot of child actors make me want to hit my head against the nearest blunt object but his performance was wonderful. Between them, they carried a film that is slim on plot and heavy on character, without it being a strain at all.

Another strong point was the film’s cinematography. You can do a lot with grey apparently. The skies are grim and the vast empty landscape appears inhospitable and above all lonely. There’s something about it that is both beautiful and ugly simultaneously. I suppose that pretty much sums up both the book and the film. Both are well worth a look although the latter lacks some of the original’s subtlety. When the action does occur in the film, it is too much. The score brings out the dramatic violin strings and because we are pretty much being shouted at “THIS IS A REALLY TENSE MOMENT”, it’s not. It seems dissonant with both the plot and the otherwise beautiful soundtrack. This is a small gripe though probably more about film conventions in general rather than this one in particular. When you read a book the font doesn’t change when it’s exciting. The reader creates the mood from the text.

There is one thing you get in the book that the film cannot give you though and that is Cormac McCarthy’s writing. His prose is really quite beautiful. This is no pretentious meandering – the book is very readable, but you often get caught out in the quieter moments of the story by a simple description that makes you really feel something. He manages to convey an awful lot with just a few well-placed words. Punctuation is minimal – no commas, no speech marks only basic sentences. It takes a moment to adjust to, but it makes the writing look stripped down. Despite this, it is still incredibly elegent.
 

 What made the book great for me though is that it’s about striving to retain goodness and a sense of humanity against all the odds. Most of all, it’s a book about the bond between father and son. I think that’s worth noting. Such stories are quite rare. We live in a society with an increasing number of single mothers and an acceptance that children grow up in a maternal environment. When we read about or see fathers with their children in books and the media, they tend to be awkward, absent or aloof - all conveniently ‘A’s apparently. Before we drown in a sea of alliteration, I guess I want to point out that I enjoyed a book where fatherhood is given the same importance as motherhood. The Man is strong enough to survive and protect his child in the bleakest of environments yet is still incredibly caring. McCarthy has created a man who is a nurturing figure that is wholly masculine. I would be hard-pushed to think of another writer who has quite so aptly done this.

Both the film and the book are known for being GRIM. A few people commented on me reading such a depressing book. I would say it's the opposite. It makes you think about the value of life. When you realise what you are lucky enough to have, suddenly your own life seems unimaginably hopeful. Put simply, you're not stuck in a dying world with only your offspring and a shopping trolley for company.

Overall, I can simplify this review into a quite simple message. Don’t waste your life assessing the aesthetic value of kitchens.

Overdue

Hello my dear patient readers. As you may have noticed, I’ve been away a while. Sadly I’ve had a few computer issues recently which have severely delayed the post you should have had a long time ago. While I wait to get this sorted I thought I’d give you an update of what I’ve been up to.

 Falmouth

I’ve been back in Cornwall for a few days.

Well it would be nice to say I'd been on lots of picturesque coastal walks but this is actually a picture I took a while ago. I would like show you a collection of photos of beautiful west country scenery but my camera stayed happily curled up in my bag while I spent a lot of time catching up with friends in here.

There is something truly comforting about going into a pub where the graffiti is familiar, the barman knows your normal drink and somewhere your name is written on a jenga brick.

Of course no trip to Falmouth would be worthwhile without a session in here:

Loading became a regular haunt for me over the last year or so. It’s a tiny place and home to gamers, coffee lovers and infamous shot sets. It’s also the only place where I have a slot on a Hall of Fame

So before this turns into ‘Pubs of Falmouth’, I’ll continue.

Employment

I’ve been especially busy this last week as I finally have a full time job. Hopefully soon I will get back into the habit of sleeping like a sensible person. Maybe I will also develop stronger eyeballs so staring at computer screens all day won’t make my eyes and head hurt. This is problematic when you want to blog in your spare time.

Still, it’s nice to finally have the chance to earn some money. I work for a Student accommodation firm at the moment. Thus far my stats rate thusly.

Hours worked – 30.5 (Bank holidays are kind)

Colleague names remembered - 8

Calls by irate and threatening parents – 1

Pictures of stained mattresses viewed – 1000000000000000

So far so good.

Grey/Blue

I wish you hadn’t followed me
It’s so terribly out of your way my dear
Your eyes are cold sweetheart
Far too impenetrable
They don’t match the warmth of your fingertips
They speak of your silence instead
The spaces where I am left to guess

Something that sleeps in the gaps
Between us where the skin does not touch
You were never one for declarations
Just your presence at my side
Had to be enough my dear
That had to be enough for me

I’m sure the rain has soaked through your shirt
I’d rather you were safe at home
In warmer light than the streetlamp
You walk so quietly in the rain my dear
Like a criminal or a ghost
You’re happy for me to talk
And I’m happy against your chest
My eyes closed against the chill of yours

The Language of Flowers

You always wrote in roses

Cast them in ice and in my cheeks

That’s how you thought love must be

Old clichés and chivalry

If you couldn’t have him

Then perhaps you’d take me

You knew how to fall in love

Spattered the pages with words

And your theatricality

Too shy for true advances

The air grew crowded

With the glances you cast

But you were never quite a rose

Not so hard-stemmed

Sharp-thorned, shapely-formed

You were sadly condemned

To the real world

Where you’d always be

Not quite the woman people dream of

Baby Girl

I did not think that you could look severe

But with vertical ribs to hold you in

You let them build the bars around you dear

A cage of crinoline

You wear whalebone

Second skeleton around your own

The edges are softened with petticoats

And lacy flairs lie in a flurried drift

Layers enough, you dare not walk, it floats

            Beneath the hem you lift

            A fragile foot

But cannot stray too far from where you’re put

I cannot recognise you under there

Beneath your hair set fast in rigid curls

How I loved you more when your feet were bare

Plaything of little girls

Now locked inside

Under the layer of makeup, hollow-eyed

Holy Fools

You found God you say?

How cliché.

Hallelujah baby. Good for you.

The angels only sing that

‘cos Leonard Cohen made it cool

not like back in school

when you sung it monotoned

aged five, tinsel-haloed

when you thrived,

on Mummy’s love.

Dressed in Jesus white

and only you mattered

‘cos they flattered you

and said you were a star.

He found you in the bar

slumped in cocktails and cheap sin

when your star was gone.

Nothing to believe in

except for him.

You say he saved you -

wiped the slate clean

of the grime

of the times with the drugs

and the late nights alone

when you’re dead inside.

Phone off the hook

and dead eyes.

He sang Hallelujah softly

in the morning light

in his quiet voice

when he’d stayed the night.

Hallelujah baby.

Said he’d treat you right,

Ran a finger down your check

and smiled.

Little child you gave in

‘cos he’d wash away that sin.

Protect you like your Daddy did

and you could be that angel

once again.

Amen.

This is one of the poems I performed at a reading a while back. I wrote it because I wanted something a bit different to my normal style. I suppose it's a bit of an odd one in some senses. One of the rare occasions when I write and a voice that's not my own comes out of nowhere. This isn't exactly a peom about religion. More than anything it's a poem about people.


I think when I first read this out, one or two people thought I'd been listening to too much Leonard Cohen. If you're interested, this is the actual song that was going round my head when I came out with the first (very rough) draft. I wouldn't say the poem is based on it but I guess this is one of the seeds from which it grew into something completely different.

There's something strangely viral about the word Hallelujah. It can breed very quickly in the mind once you've heard it a few times.

Purging Purgatoro

Between acceptable conflicts of dazzle and nightlife
Sleet and waiting
I writhe
In an electrocution of thought
Tempesting emplacements
Full of desperado
To create a bed in the deafening storm
The collage nibbles at me
Prickling the bared skin
I railing on
The worship unconscious of my weariness
Lightning flickers and gluts
Life signatures of my digital disposition
My desperation now
Only the volts
Silken from stumbling
Fumbling in the dark

Shiny Letters

I've got my grades back for the end of university and am very happy to report that I got a 2:1. I'm very proud that my work has paid off. It's been three years of a lot of hard work but also a lot of fun. I have my wonderful friends mainly to thank for this. I am exceptionally lucky to have met such a diverse, talented, loving and just generally fantastic group of people. Very lucky indeed.

Me having achieved a Zen state of enlightenment from my extensive studies in English with Creative Writing

 

 

 

 

 

More importantly, I am now to be addressed as Emma Preuss BA (Hons).

Little Things

Bone chill and palm tree lash  
Whirling eddies swirl the air 
Cut through me - gentle sting 
The fingernail scratches 
Sore emotion and strange freedom

The grey in my flesh  
The grey in my chest 
The red in my nose and cheeks

This is the colour of colds  
This is not real suffering 
I am anguish embodied 
Writing smudged in the rain 
I am sodden and ridiculous

I hear my cry: “I am burning. 
Look how I burn!”

Freedom and all those lovely books

It's been a busy month or so, but I've just made it through my degree. A while ago I was looking at the 'What I'm reading' meme and I took this picture:

This basically sums up all the things I no longer have to worry about. The top four were for essays, the lower two for the play I was directing. Although the latter was a lot more enjoyable than the former, it was an awful lot of work. Although it should be noted that there is some interesting reading in this pile, most of it was enforced which sucks a good deal of joy out of even the best books. All of that is out of the way now and my life is already feeling a good deal more relaxed.

A can now begin to attack my reading list. I can read just for my own pleasure for the first time in nearly three years and it feels marvellous!

Remember, remember...

The coloured glow of separation
Against the nuclear families
Fenced in and out in the cold
I inscribed my thoughts
Drawing distraction
A work of modern art
In criss-crossing lines
A three week legacy
Of the bad times
There’s autumn in the air
So no-one wondered why
I hid these thoughts away

The cloth clung to my skin
And sand filled every crack in me
Except those thoughts
I hid away from the air
And left for the morning
When the ashy smell
Had blown away
The coloured shells had landed
And collected in corners
Unfortunate debris

Precious

As you may have noticed, I’ve been a bit bad with my updates. Although this is partly to do with workloads, directing plays and being distracted by my lovely friends, it is also to do with me trying to work out where this blog is going. I want to keep putting poetry up here but I’d like to try and expand what it covers. The plan is to continue with poems, random photos and thoughts but to add a few new things into the mix. I’d like to start putting a few reviews on here as well as perhaps some artwork. I’ve mentioned my book diary before and it really got me thinking, why don’t I also do this online? So in future I’ll be reviewing what I read and some of the films I see when they’re of particular interest. So, starting with this, I want to talk about Precious which I saw a day or so ago. 


I'd been interested in seeing this for a while and finally saw it with my housemate a few days ago. The main protagonist is an obese 16 year old - illiterate, living off benefits and pregnant with her second child she leads a tough life. She is abused by her parents and raped by her father who is the also the father of her children. Through an alternative learning scheme, she is offered the chance to learn and create new opportunities for herself.


The subject matter is harrowing at times. Precious is raped and beaten by her parents and in one wince-inducing incident, falls down the stair with her baby in her arms. She is a girl who has no hope in her life who is given a chance to be something more. It is definitely an inspiring film, and brilliantly acted and generally very well told. Gabourey Sidebe who plays the protagonist, was excellant, managing to be both wise and fragile. There are also some interesting  casting for some of the minor roles. The familiar looking nurse John turned out to be Lenny Kravitz and Ms. Weiss the social worker was an unrecognisable Mariah Carey. I only discovered the second one because I was told. I guess that leads on to something that I liked about the whole film - it looked and felt real. The actors didn't look like actors, something which is sadly becoming a rarity, especially in the American film industry.  

My one very small issue with it was when it ever so occasionally veered into sentimentality. It received 2 Oscars which I am completely unsurprised by. It is the sort of film that gets Oscars. It provokes discussion and emotions. The problem was, that the latter was not done as sensitively as the former. For example, in one scene when Precious tells Ms. Rain that no one loves her, the teacher responds that all of them there do. The actress then puts on her most intense face and fiercely whispers "I love you". Suddenly, we've wandered into bad Hollywood script territory. I can be quite critical of small things and obviously, this is quite a small gripe in an otherwise excellant film. It even got a tear or two out of me. For those unaware, I have been dubbed "dead inside" in the case of films so those tears are high praise indeed from my apparently cynical body. I'd recommend this film highly. 

Sterile Tools

My feet tread the hardwood floor,

to look out at the cold morning light.

The sun reflects back onto,

the pristine white of the bedspread.

I had looked away and missed,

the crash of the bird against the glass,

but turning, saw it fall, land limp

like the body on the table – too still.

I break my fascination with the little form,

and leave the now-cold room. 

In the kitchen I find the radio,  

and friendly ambient noise

I sit, coffee untouched. Still.

Waiting for another body,

while my own is sprung with steel.

Little Epic

First of all I want to celebrate a very exciting delivery I had recently!

Well technically two... My rather gorgeous boots are always worth celebrating, but the really exciting news for me as a poet, is my inclusion in this rather beautiful Zine. The two ladies to be thanked for this frankly rather fantastic publication, are Jemma and Katie Green.

The zine is called Little Epic and is a collaboration of different writers and illustrators creating a rather beautiful and very eclectic publication. This is issue one with hopefully many more to come.

Here's another picture or two of my poems and their illustrations.

I was very lucky to be working with Katie Green who has done a fantastic job. She's promised to send me over the original illustrations as well. I should be getting them in the post any day. Exciting!

If you're interested in getting a copy, have a look on Katie's Etsy page or her new Big Cartel store. Well worth a look. Not only is there this little beauty, but also her regular zine, The Green Bean and her fantastic artwork.

Sweat

The anger like lines in the sand

Like the clammy heat

of summer night insomnia

To toss and turn and rut

Toss and turn until

you make a trench in the sand

The grains hard against your back.

Gritty and cold and damp

and so unlike human skin

that it feels like kindness

Delusion

shadow eyes, black child

a gift of visions and deceptions

come through the gate of ivory horns

this daylight joy is banned


giving the gift, these are not stolen

these gates could not provide

bring forth the unscathed organ

in meaningful reward


the sleeper is not troubled

happily misled

accept the beauty withered

cast off the sunlight reign

Other people's words

 I found this and decided that I wanted to share it. It's a beautiful piece that sums up so many things.

 Saddest Poem by Pablo Neruda

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.

Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."

The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else's. She will be someone else's. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

Poetics

It's time for me to get back into writing again. Specifically, I need to get back in the habit of writing more poetry.
My plan to do this is to begin by reading more. First of all, I'm going to have a read through the wonderful collection of poetry that I got for Christmas. It's a boxed set with Christina Rossetti, Oscar Wilde, Yeats, Burns, Poe, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Emily Dickinson, John Donne and William Blake. I am a bit of a traditionalist with poetry so I'm thrilled to have so many great writers at my fingertips!

Secondly, I'm going to go back to The Ode Less Travelled by Stephen Fry. It's an excellant book and one that I have left neglected for far too long. It's wonderful because it explains the mechanics of poetry in a very accessable way whilst encouraging you to practice. Last time I started reading it, it really helped to get me into a useful mindset. That's something I really need right now!

Getting caught in the web

I've actually had the opportunity to have some free time recently. I love time off but the problem is that I don't have the self-control to utilize it. One of the biggest things in my way is the internet. The irony of me writing this in a blog is not lost on me, yet I do wonder sometimes, how much more could I have done by now if I didn't have that distraction?

The web is a wondrous thing, not to mention a source of information, a means of communication and full of fun things to do. The problem is that it can suck you in. I spend much too much of my life staring at this screen. It cannot be healthy for my eyes or my body in general and I'm sure a quick perusal of the internet would find me several studies to confirm this.

I'm not citing the internet as the cause of all our problems though. The problem is that the the web has too much to offer. It's such a huge overwhelming leviathan that encompasses great swathes of culture (both high and low if such a definition is relevant) and offers all this at the tips of our fingers. We are small children and the class is being run by the supply teacher. We can learn but Facebook is so much more tempting.

Only Resolutions

So now I have made it into 2011. Hurray! Champagne and debauchery for everyone. It's a bit late for New Year's resolutions now we're in February but here they are:

The first is renewal of my resolution for 2009 - to keep a book diary. I've left it abandoned for far too long. So I'm going to keep it up to date and fill in all the missed time.

The second is to work harder. Well maybe not harder but definitely more effectively. If I spread my work load more evenly, I'm going to be a lot less stressed out. It should also mean being able to hand in better work that hasn't been rushed at the last minute.

So there we go. These are my aims for 2011. Wish me luck!