Reflection (1)

[Beginning a series of minute posts that examine certain poems in detail, forming a thought diary of what I’m reading as I trawl through poems by the bucket-load. Not a guarantee that all poems contained within one discrete post can be linked, just what is occupying my brain space.]

bolandnbrossard

And Soul by Eavan Boland
[https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/50005/and-soul]

Smooth Horizon of the Verb Love by Nicole Brossard
[https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/54487/smooth-horizon-of-the-verb-love]

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Where does the past belong? Where does the poet belong?: I had some very slight concerns by Susannah Dickey

Susannah Dickey, I had some very slight concerns (The Lifeboat Press £6.50)

“I concentrate on finding someone to take home so my bed looks less empty, less like the blank back pages of a photo album: the ones that come when you run out of things worth remembering.” –

from ‘It’s easy to think someone’s beautiful once they are dead’

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The excerpt above is extracted from the first of the seven poem pamphlet by Susannah Dickey, I had some very slight concerns, a lengthy prose poem in two main stanzas. An interesting opener, the poem depicts a “beautiful girl” drifting bars to bar “carrying albums filled with pictures of her dead grandparents…pictures black and jaundiced sepia”.

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Some thoughts on ‘On Chesil Beach’

Image result for on chesil beach film

[A beautiful image: Florence (Saoirse Ronan) sitting along a stretch of beach on a rotten rowboat, entirely alone; as the camera pans back, Edward (Billy Howle) slowly approaches — in another shot, he is strikingly turned away. More striking, is the quiet dignity in Florence’s face…]

I had trepidation going to see On Chesil Beach. Despite the dire turn McEwan has taken in recent years regarding his literary output, On Chesil Beach is one of my favourite books I’ve read over the past few years. An extraordinarily concise, contained novella depicting a couple on their wedding night, on the *brink* of the sexual revolution of the 60s, who lack the very vocabulary to describe how they feel, how they urge (or don’t) and how to save themselves, their relationship and one another. I fretted awfully, a white wine in hand, that the very insular nature of the novel would be lost somehow in this film adaptation, directed by Dominic Cooke.

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Review — Fan-Poetry/Fic: Who Is Mary Sue?

Sophie Collins, Who Is Mary Sue? (Faber £10.99)

“- Your breath smells like peaches.

– Can you give me something for the pain?” — from ‘Eight Phrases’

Who Is Mary Sue? is haunted by countless figures; a nameless female writer; the eponymous O from Réage’s Story of O, ‘Mary Sue’ herself, even nothingness (in the plenty blank pages that abound, poor trees) to name a few. The book, Collins’ debut, features poems ranging from minute lyrics, extensive prose poems to found poems/reportage lifted from interviews. The spine of the text lies in the ways Collins grapples with the term ‘Mary Sue’, I quote:

“Coined by Paula Smith in 1973, ’Mary Sue’ is a pejorative term used by writers and readers of fan fiction to describe protagonists who are believed to be thinly disguised versions of the fan fic author’s idealised self.

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Help With Sleeping

A brief post / discovery I made over the past couple of days, and how it’s, strangely for me anyway, bringing me more equanimity at night.

Max Richter (composer I hold near and dear) recently released a night-long album; Richter’s personal lullaby for a frenetic world as he self-describes. A lullaby indeed, but one that doesn’t stop throughout the night (a thought I find lovely, less so you, maybe, depending on how light a sleeper you are).

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Review – ‘Sink or Swim’

Julie Red Cover Beach.jpg

This is a true story.”

Sink or Swim written by Jonathan M. Daley, enjoyed a three day run in Accidental Theatre, Belfast from the 22-24th March. The show was produced as the inaugural venture by Headrush, Ireland, a newly forged group of creatives that have set up a spring board to create ripples through the theatre scene in Ireland (and beyond!).

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Passing Time

Your skin like dawn
Mine like musk
 
One paints the beginning
of a certain end.
 
The other, the end of a
sure beginning.” — from Passing Time by Maya Angelou

Today marked the final day of classes (assuming-strike-continuing) in my undergraduate career. Very exciting! Somewhat scary, largely feeling thrown unto the pale, but I’m feeling a positive tone seeping before this post is written so let’s keep along that current.
All that stands between all of us final years and the gaping abyss is a few essays, a few booky projects (which I am SO excited for) a dissertation, maybe?

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