labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (my own adventures)
My Tuesday Poem for this week.

In Paekakariki

The way the trees look
along the hills:
twisted trunks elegant
and bare, strange angles
or hunched low to the ground,
smothered in vines

The way the man stands
hunched and puffing
and calm,
like a train

The white ducks paddling
through sludge, and the black lamb
getting a head start
on the muddy morning brownness.



Obviously, that was on the train on the way up.

also guys, I don't have internet where I'm staying (I didn't realise that before I got here!) so... I am not around at all, b/c I feel like LJ and DW are not Great Looks for the modern publishing student. I am tweeting (same username!) and I have email access (that's professional, right?) so if you need me get me there. I miss you! <3 See you in one and a half weeks.
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (let me define seven wishes)
101 sonnets
101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to Heaney,
a Faber Penguin audio tape

"A sonnet is a box of dreams" ~ Don Patterson


A hundred winding dusty miles, and all the while
these sonnets, each burnished where an elbow meets
the desk; each fourteen lines a box of dreams
within whose walls lies pressed, like yellowed lace,
the hand-worked filigree of words. You can't beat
an old song for tough roots, for plunging into wells
of sorrow, for countermelodies of regret,
for adding salt or sugar to the pulse
and to the tongue. Each sonnet, when its lid is sprung,
releases dreams into the air — shakes off sleep
and waking, flings away the sheets. these words on wings,
a hundred winding miles they sing, and leap
and spangle through the car like motes. Each fourteen lines
from dust to dust unravels, strings the world in rhyme.

-- Sue Wootton

This poem is from Sue Wootton's Magnetic South, which I haven't read much but we have it in the classroom here and I was browsing around. (It looks good, by the way. Steele Roberts, 2008). I admit, I first hit on the poem because 101 Sonnets from Shakespeare to Heaney is also in our classroom, and we've been asked to select a poem from it (or from elsewhere) to speak aloud, from memory, to the class. We talked briefly about how meter and scansion affect readbility and memorisation, how the sonnet is supposedly the perfect size to express a thought, etc. I like this one very much, having read it. I like the internal rhyme (always a favourite of mine) and I like how it doesn't succumb to sonnet rhyming until the couplet. I think it expresses quite nicely the pleasure of returning to a familiar poem, the extra depth and meaning I bring to a poem when I return to it after some time, not to mention the resonance of a poem that has stayed with us for some time.

Tuesday is poem day: Tuesday Poem
labellementeuse: a girl sits at a desk in front of a window, chewing a pencil (let me define seven wishes)
1. I've just hit 51 new books read this year (re-reads were not counted, but included a re-read of the Tiggie Tompson series, several of the YW books, and Monstrous Regiment, by Terry PRatchett.) I'd like to thank Octavia Butler (three books), the Mitford sisters (four books between them, and another one in progress), and particularly Lois McMaster Bujold with a strong ten-book showing. These are fine writers that I would not hesitate to recommend to anyone (although I would tailor them. Perhaps I should say that, from these three authors, I could find a book to recommend to anyone.)

2. I went to see Regina Spektor last night SO GOOD SO GOOD SO GOOD. *bounces around thrilledly* Oh, she was just FANTASTIC. And she played "Folding Chair" and "That Time". asdfghj yes.

3. Tuesday is poem day!

unpoetical bathroom material

they always say things like that the snow is a white blanket after a winter storm
Oh it is, is it, alright then, you sleep under a six-inch blanket of snow and I’ll sleep under a half-inch blanket of unpoetical blanket material and we’ll see which one keeps warm

-- Ogden Nash, “Almost Like a Whale”

Friends ask
what I’m reading.
By the bed is Go, dog. Go.

-- Jenny Bornholdt, “Being a Poet”



At 9pm on a Monday night
I am thinking about the poem I want to write tomorrow
And cleaning the bathroom. Which, after all,
has to be done. Had to be done
two weeks ago, in fact, and now absolutely MUST be done
RIGHT
NOW,
while my flatmates watch housewives, or footballers’ wives, or surgeons, or whoever, behaving desperately downstairs,
and hopefully don’t notice
soapscum sediment
sludging down the drain.


Alright, very silly! Have something rather good instead.

Being a Poet

Yesterday I bought
a blender — blue — from
Briscoes, just like
Marion’s. Today
we’re dealing with the big
issues, like: How the World
Began
and
Can We Have Fruit Loops
For Breakfast?

Friends ask
what I’m reading.
By the bed is Go, dog. Go.
We looked at it this morning
just before our fight
over the nature of
Weetbix. But it’s soggy
every morning,
I hear myself say
that’s just what Weetbix does
that’s just its way.


- Jenny Bornholdt

Jenny Bornholdt is a New Zealand poet who, by the way, I cannot recommend often enough. Do give her a shot.

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