Poetry Season #5 – The Stones in Virginia Woolf’s Coat Pockets

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The fifth piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for this week, greatly summarised, is to have a conversation with another writer, by alternating lines written by that writer with lines of your own in response. I took lines from “Figuring” by Maria Popova and, much to my surprise, came up with a poem that is sort of about Virginia Woolf.

The Stones in Virginia Woolf’s Coat Pockets

All of it, the rings of Saturn and my father’s wedding band

are beyond my figuring. If I had

Einstein’s brain bathing in a jar of formaldehyde

might I dissect the circuitry that would cause

A certain forearm I love

to one day author its own destruction?

 

One autumn morning as I read a dead poet’s letter

I saw that too much love can be destructive.

Are the imaginations of women less vivid than of men?

Are the dreams of women less portentous?

Every stone with which Virginia Woolf filled her coat pockets

was lovingly chosen for heft and effect.

 

Where does it live, that place of permission

to choose a life less ordinary?

Does genius suffice for happiness, does distinction, does love?

None of these inoculate against suffering.

There are infinitely many kinds of beautiful lives

but few beautiful ways to end one.

 


© Mike Hopkins 2019

Italicised lines from “Figuring” by Maria Popova 2019

image: https://pixabay.com/en/users/robinsonk26-6013603/

Poetry Season #4 – Tortoise

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The fourth piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for this week, greatly summarised, is “otherness”, which could mean, for instance, the world of an animal. In my case, a tortoise. Did you know that a tortoise called Harriet, supposedly collected by Charles Darwin in the Galapagos, reached the age of 175 years and died in Steve Irwin (the Crocodile Hunter)’s Australia Zoo in 2006. And the first living creatures to orbit the moon were a pair of tortoises, in the Russian Zond 5 mission. This is the second poem I’ve written about tortoises in recent months. Analyse that.

Tortoise

His clawed feet bear the weight of his world. He cares nothing for the impatience of youth. He is the original testudo. His skeleton is within and without. His scales proclaim his longevity. Breathing out, he retreats into his nerve-rich shell. He draws water from the well of his own waste. Smelling with his mouth, pumping air with his throat, he sifts sensations with nostrils and tongue. He has sub-sonic conversations with his neighbours. He circled the moon in Zond 5. His black eyes are picture pools of dark corners and warm concealments. His thoughts are antique. He knew Darwin and Irwin. He is utterly grounded. He holds the weathered memories of a century of deliberation. He hides his contentment behind a doleful mouth. He craves little – not affection, not food, but sometimes deep, cyclical sleep. I can promise food, water, shelter and warmth. I know his greatest fear is inversion. He disdains my bulk, my neediness, my hasty heart. He will outwait us all. His lines are not from worry. His tortoiseshell is not from vanity.

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© Mike Hopkins 2019

Book Review: “Ordinary People” by Diana Evans

Ordinary PeopleOrdinary People by Diana Evans

My rating: 2 of 5 stars

“Selected by the New Yorker, Financial Times and New Statesman as a Book of the Year’. Well this book annoyed me and I ploughed through nine of its fifteen chapters before saying “Oh sod it, I can’t be bothered”.

The book revolves around the relationship issues of two couples living in or near London at the time Obama became U.S.A President. The couples are African / American / West Indian, so the issue of race is a major one in the book. But mostly it’s about their deteriorating marriages. At first I was quite interested in the author’s insights into the things that can cause a long-term relationship to go cold. But my interest was not maintained.

For me the book fails on two levels. One is the excess of detail. Detail is good, detail is fine, but there are parts of this book where the detail adds zero to the story, zero to what you know about the characters and their situation, and just becomes tedious. The extended description of the perfume department in a store, the long sequence around the children’s play gym come to mind. The second is that there is just plain bad writing: excessively long sentences and bad grammar. Some of the descriptions seem like attempts to show off a wide vocabulary, but are just irritating:

“he always felt overly conspicuous yet circumferential in their multitudinous presence”.

“he would accentuate the smallness of her breastplate by laying his head against it” – she uses “breastplate” quite a bit. I kept thinking of Boadicea.

“… her shining teeth, her cream-coloured neck. She was virtually off the hizzle.” WTF is a hizzle? I googled it and the urban dictionary says it means ‘a house’ as in “Fo shizzle, get up out dis hizzle”. Makes sense? Not to me

“I want to make your zoom zoom go boom boom”. That’s one of Michael’s thoughts apparently.

I could go on. There are mixed metaphors aplenty e.g. “along a mental washing line leading towards a final eclipse”.

I’d expect a “book of the year” to be moderately well written. This is not. Very disappointing.

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Poetry Season #3 – Burger

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The third piece of homework for the Andy Jackson course. The prompt for the this week, greatly summarised, is “love / lineage”, for which Andy provided a range of example poems. One of them was “Bread” by Brendan Kennelly, which really appealed to me. (There’s an interesting performance of it here.) I used this to write a parallel poem. I never thought I’d write a poem called “Burger” (I’m vegetarian). It probably needs a better title but that’s the title for now.

Burger

after Brendan Kennelly

Someone blasted a bolt through my skull

in a blood-red shed.

I was bled,

 

disassembled, ground down. This

fakery is more cunning

than a fox gone to ground

 

more tricky than a politician’s

dog whistle

or the patter of a pimp.

 

Even as it flaunts, it is

trickier than anything

in a conjurer’s bag of tricks.

 

My remains,

are mixed with a million others

and rendered as an illusion.

 

The shape I now inhabit

is a succulent mockery.

Willful fools drool

 

as I am flipped and grilled

with sleight of hand

and slipped into a bun.

 

The collusion, the deception is

absolute.

So I am cremated

and reborn

 

in a concoction.

In my way I am their best kind of beast –

processed for profit.

 

I will break their hearts.

 

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© Mike Hopkins 2019

image https://actualite.nouvelle-aquitaine.science/hassen-ferhani-dans-lintimite-de-labattoir-dalger/