Thursday, 20 June 2013

Poetry Corner...

What's on my mind tonight? Poetry, strangely enough.

Back in my young, free, and single days, I associated with all manner of hot, but highly unsuitable young men. Of course, this meant I got my heart smashed to pulp on a fairly regular basis. Cue, sad songs and poetry.

This poem was a particular comfort(!) to me:
 
'Lay a garland on my hearse,
Of the dismal yew,
Maidens, willow branches bear,
Say I died ...
true.
My love was false, but I was firm
From my hour of birth;
Upon my buried body lie
Lightly, gentle earth.'


Francis Beaumont.

 Misery really love company, eh?

These days-being a smug-married-I'm not so much into poetry as I used to be, but this next poem could have been written for me. Hey, it IS me!!!


 Warning

'When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick flowers in other people's gardens
And learn to spit.

You can wear terrible shirts and grow more fat
And eat three pounds of sausages at a go
Or only bread and pickle for a week
And hoard pens and pencils and beermats and things in boxes.

But now we must have clothes that keep us dry
And pay our rent and not swear in the street
And set a good example for the children.
We must have friends to dinner and read the papers.

But maybe I ought to practice a little now?
So people who know me are not too shocked and surprised
When suddenly I am old, and start to wear purple.'

Jenny Joseph


 What's your favourite poem...and why?

Thursday, 13 June 2013

The shame, the shame...

Before I joined the online critique group Critique Circle I thought my writing was good. There, I said it. But that was in the days when I still considered writing to be  'my guilty little secret'. Back then, no one even knew I wrote, let alone got to read any of it. Fortunately for them!

CC has showed me the true error of my ways. Critters of all kinds (The good, bad, and ugly!) have collectively beaten me with their clue sticks and forced me to confront my writing's true awfulness. With time and regular beatings, I've got better. MUCH better. Yes, I was that bad.

So why do I now feel like I'm the crappiest writer in the world? Is it a case of 'the more I know, the less I realise I know'?

My ignorant days really were blissful. I used to scribble away quite happily--my ego the size of a small moon, unmolested by self-doubt. These days, my ego is roughly the size of a pea--a pea that's fallen to the floor and remained undiscovered for several months.

Why is knowledge like getting a stronger prescription of spectacles? And as I learn even more about writing, will I eventually throw up my hands in despair and abandon it forever when I once again fall short of my idea of perfection?

I was much happier when I knew nothing.

Thursday, 6 June 2013

Prepare to be invaded...

Have you seen it yet? Vikings?

 
I am hooked on this bloody, wonderful series. If you're on my side of the pond and haven't yet met Ragnar and co, go sign up for a free trial with LoveFilm today. Not only do we have the delightful Ragnar--he of the amazing colour-changing eyes, we have Vladimir Kulich too (briefly!).
 
Hot, hairy and leather-clad, and that's just the girls! What more could this girl want? :)

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