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Posts
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Are you a bender Pepper ?
@Sgt Pepper wrote:
@esmeralda wrote:
Hmm, I have not- deliberately have not – seen the film SYLVIA as my preconceptions deem it wrong on many counts. Firstly, since forced to write a thesis (many moons ago) on the impact of mental illness on the poetry of Sylvia Plath and Robert Lowell, and discovering that I went against the flow of female empathy for Plath whose tendency to self-pity and paranoia inflamed me, I would now rather spend time in a bell jar. Secondly and thirdly and a thousand times over – Daniel Craig as Ted Hughes – no- not ever – no! Paltrow as Plath, scarcely more palatable.
Call me prejudiced, call me unyielding, but I like what I like and I’m a Ted not a Sylvia girl.
Well..ya did ask!
Now beat me gizzards with an egg whisk! :wink:lol.. not at all! Admirable candour on your part! Although I am tempted to thump your jugs as it were regarding Mr Craig – tis well known in these parts that I’m a huge fan :) . Anyway, I thought the film an okay affair, watchable if a tad dreary.
With regard to enforced thesis torture, I myself went through a similar scenario to your fine self. Tennyson was my bane :? .. more mouthpiece than poet in my opinion (“Blow bugle blow..” etc ..), I had to scribble away and find something half decent to say about him (Shallot’s eponymous Lady and the Lotus Eaters aside not too much may I add :roll:).Oh well..
:P
Only a very cruel sort would now inflict you with a dose of the ‘Alfred’s’ and I AM that sort.
Come not, when I am dead
Come not, when I am dead,
To drop thy foolish tears upon my grave,
To trample round my fallen head,
And vex the unhappy dust thou wouldst not save.
There let the wind sweep and the plover cry;
But thou, go by.Child, if it were thine error or thy crime
I care no longer, being all unblest:
Wed whom thou wilt, but I am sick of Time,
And I desire to rest.
Pass on, weak heart, and leave me where I lie:
Go by, go by.deleted
The Locust
What is a locust ?
Its head, a grain of corn; its neck, the hinge of a knife;
Its horns, a bit of thread; its chest is smooth and burnished;
Its body is like a knife-handle;
Its hock, a saw; its spittle, ink;
Its underwings, clothing for the dead.
On the ground – it is laying eggs;
In flight – it is like the clouds.
Approaching the ground, it is rain glittering in the sun;
Lighting on a plant, it becomes a pair of scissors;
Walking, it becomes a razor;
Desolation walks with it.from the Malagasy, anonymous
The Revelation
An idle poet, here and there,
Looks around him; but, for the rest,
The world, unfathomably fair,
Is duller than a witling’s jest.Love wakes men, once a lifetime each;
They lift their heavy lids, and look;
And, lo, what one sweet page can teach,
They read with joy, then shut the book.And some gives thanks, and some blaspheme,
And most forget; but either way,
That and the Child’s unheeded dream
Is all the light of all their day.Coventry Patmore.
In Memory Of My Mother
I do not think of you lying in the wet clay
Of a Monaghan graveyard; I see
You walking down a lane among the poplars
On your way to the station, or happilyGoing to second Mass on a summer Sunday –
You meet me and you say:
‘Don’t forget to see about the cattle – ‘
Among your earthiest words the angels stray.And I think of you walking along a headland
Of green oats in June,
So full of repose, so rich with life –
And I see us meeting at the end of a townOn a fair day by accident, after
The bargains are all made and we can walk
Together through the shops and stalls and markets
Free in the oriental streets of thought.O you are not lying in the wet clay,
For it is a harvest evening now and we
Are piling up the ricks against the moonlight
And you smile up at us – eternally.Your Name
I wrote your name in the sky,
but the wind blew it away.
I wrote your name in the sand,
but the waves washed it away.
I wrote your name in my heart,
and forever it will stay.– Jessica Blade –
Emily Writes Such a Good Letter
Mabel was married last week
So now only Tom leftThe doctor didn’t like Arthur’s cough
I have been in bed since EasterA touch of the old trouble
I am downstairs today
As I write this
I can hear Arthur roaming overheadHe loves to roam
Thank heavens he has plenty of space to roam inWe have seven bedrooms
And an annexeWhich leaves a flat for the chauffeur and his wife
We have much to be thankful for
The new vicar came yesterday
People say he brings a breath of fresh airHe leaves me cold
I do not think he is a gentlemanYes, I remember Maurice very well
Fancy getting married at his age
She must be a foolYou knew May had moved ?
Since Edward died she has been much aloneIt was cancer
No, I know nothing of Maud
I never wish to hear her name again
In my opinion Maud
Is an evil womanOur char has left
And a good riddance too
Wages are very high in TonbridgeWrite and tell me how you are, dear,
And the girls,
Phoebe and Rose
They must be a great comfort to you
Phoebe and Rose.Stevie Smith
Reported Missing
Can you give me a precise description ?
Said the policeman. Her lips, I told him,
Were soft. Could you give me, he said, pencil
Raised, a metaphor ? Soft as an open mouth,
I said. Were there any noticeable
Peculiarities ? he asked. Her hair hung
Heavily, I said. Any particular
Colour ? he said. I told him I could recall
Little but its distinctive scent. What do
You mean, he asked, by distinctive ? It had
The smell of woman’s hair, I said. Where
Were you ? he asked. Closer than I am to
Anyone at present, I said, level
With her mouth, level with her eyes. Her eyes ?
He said, what about her eyes ? There were two,
I said, both black. It has been established,
He said, that eyes cannot, outside common
Usage, be black; are you implying that
Violence was used ? Only the gentle
Hammer blow of her kisses, the scent
Of her breath, the . . . Quite, said the policeman,
Standing, but I regret that we know of
No one answering to that description.Barry Cole
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