Doubtful that any of us are ever at a loss for reading material, but I like browsing this list because you can never have too many books stacked up on the bedside table!
http://www.nytimes.com/2007/12/02/books/review/notable-books-2007.html
Thursday 29 November 2007
Sunday 18 November 2007
Paradise lost
Back from Paradise - hard landing
Coast Liners Karen and Tricia, thank you for inspirational ideas and great poetry.
Karen what a romantic and wistful sonnet by Rossetti. An era, which we all yearn for at timeswith its softness in life and romantic expectations. And a great suggestion to go onto Victorian site for other kinds of sonnets in Victorian era. Shall do this myself. Although sonnets I find really difficult. But will have a go. I wonder if they would have been so romantic if the age for death were to have risen as now. Imagine a romantic sonnet about ageing people. Now who I could be thinking of. Noteably me, as I just had another birthday and Ian is younger than I.
Tricia, wonderful poems are stimulating. And the poem of the finding of real self. Of course this remains a mystery so many 'selves' and so many people have taught us various selves which are acceptable and decreed permissible to act out. I think we find our truest self, by which I mean that one amongst many, when we can just 'be' in writing, and also in pursuing any activity which totally immerses our 'selves' pleasureably. The one key knowing when this is when time stops.
Your metaphor of tunnels was a great one and good on you for kick starting the blog onwards.
Also thanks to Geoffrey for running the last meeting successfully and getting all the Xmas preparations and Kris Kringles organized. We will have two guests at our luncheon so to the all of us caterers bear this mind. I think you will enjoy their company. They will arrive at 1.00 pm and both like a glass of bubbly and fun. Geoffrey also delivered the hard copies of poetry. Well done you poets. Will comment more when I see you. Still adjusting being back to normal living because,
We stayed in an earthly Paradise. It was an estate high up beyond Ubud in Bali. There was our residence resplendent with a butler a Personal assistant, two cleaners and 74 gardeners. The resident had a dining and lounge room outside overlooking the majestic rice paddies and tropical gardens. June, you would have your art pad out and been busy every hour. There were two restaurants and these had a staff of 12 cooking whilst serviced by several Balinese. The most we saw in either dining room was 6 people. All the outside rooms were open to the tropics and breezes kept temperature down so 'being' in the mountain air was delicious. The balinese are a very happy race, and beautifully trained to not only to do the right thing with guests but a great deal of genuine feeling developed between my 'Yanti' and myself. I have some lovely photos which show this.
No staff were really visible. They had rooms under the residence and would appear and disappear as if they knew exactly what your plans for the day were. Which, by the way they did. Food organic cooked Indonesian style and extremely elegant whilst making use of all the tropical fruits and vegetables that were grown somewhere near.
But the best magic was when in the evening the huge coal pit by our own pool was lit by two Balinese, because our residence was called 'Fire' representing one of the four elements. Others hidden amongst the estate represented wind, water, earth. We did visit these and they had been built with these elements in mind so you felt them once you stepped inside.
So what has this got to do with poetry< NOTHING MUCH> Because whilst away I read, did yoga daily, some Pilates lots of massages and being pampered and sunk into the world of absolutely 'no worries.' So even though I took all the necessary books, pens, I just laid them carefully in the writing area and let them enjoy the serene effect of this magical holiday.
Back to Coast Lines. So next year put on thinking caps and deliver some 'wants' so that we can do some time during the year together. Whether it is a festival, theatrical event, reading, etc. Doesn't matter. Or a picnic where we all write as we wander. How about using our wonderful Botanical Gardens. Anyway up to you, let's make next year a year of other events. And we have the literature festival, which I have a couple of ideas on.
I look forward to seeing you at 55 Black Street Brighton next month on 5th December, for workshop at 10.30 am or thereabouts and lunch at 1.00pm. Or rather my dears High Tea. If you can get on foot or by public transport or get someone to pick you up you can really have some 'letting' go.
If it is hot, which Melbourne seems to be gearing upto, bring bathers if you want you can always stay on and have a swim or just sink into the water for a cool down.
I have also asked Ian to join us later in the day. He is useful as he serves drinks and cleans up beautifully. And he can recite in Welsh if he is very happy.
Which no doubt he will be.
I did think of you all when away and missed being at the last meeting.
Cecilia
Coast Liners Karen and Tricia, thank you for inspirational ideas and great poetry.
Karen what a romantic and wistful sonnet by Rossetti. An era, which we all yearn for at timeswith its softness in life and romantic expectations. And a great suggestion to go onto Victorian site for other kinds of sonnets in Victorian era. Shall do this myself. Although sonnets I find really difficult. But will have a go. I wonder if they would have been so romantic if the age for death were to have risen as now. Imagine a romantic sonnet about ageing people. Now who I could be thinking of. Noteably me, as I just had another birthday and Ian is younger than I.
Tricia, wonderful poems are stimulating. And the poem of the finding of real self. Of course this remains a mystery so many 'selves' and so many people have taught us various selves which are acceptable and decreed permissible to act out. I think we find our truest self, by which I mean that one amongst many, when we can just 'be' in writing, and also in pursuing any activity which totally immerses our 'selves' pleasureably. The one key knowing when this is when time stops.
Your metaphor of tunnels was a great one and good on you for kick starting the blog onwards.
Also thanks to Geoffrey for running the last meeting successfully and getting all the Xmas preparations and Kris Kringles organized. We will have two guests at our luncheon so to the all of us caterers bear this mind. I think you will enjoy their company. They will arrive at 1.00 pm and both like a glass of bubbly and fun. Geoffrey also delivered the hard copies of poetry. Well done you poets. Will comment more when I see you. Still adjusting being back to normal living because,
We stayed in an earthly Paradise. It was an estate high up beyond Ubud in Bali. There was our residence resplendent with a butler a Personal assistant, two cleaners and 74 gardeners. The resident had a dining and lounge room outside overlooking the majestic rice paddies and tropical gardens. June, you would have your art pad out and been busy every hour. There were two restaurants and these had a staff of 12 cooking whilst serviced by several Balinese. The most we saw in either dining room was 6 people. All the outside rooms were open to the tropics and breezes kept temperature down so 'being' in the mountain air was delicious. The balinese are a very happy race, and beautifully trained to not only to do the right thing with guests but a great deal of genuine feeling developed between my 'Yanti' and myself. I have some lovely photos which show this.
No staff were really visible. They had rooms under the residence and would appear and disappear as if they knew exactly what your plans for the day were. Which, by the way they did. Food organic cooked Indonesian style and extremely elegant whilst making use of all the tropical fruits and vegetables that were grown somewhere near.
But the best magic was when in the evening the huge coal pit by our own pool was lit by two Balinese, because our residence was called 'Fire' representing one of the four elements. Others hidden amongst the estate represented wind, water, earth. We did visit these and they had been built with these elements in mind so you felt them once you stepped inside.
So what has this got to do with poetry< NOTHING MUCH> Because whilst away I read, did yoga daily, some Pilates lots of massages and being pampered and sunk into the world of absolutely 'no worries.' So even though I took all the necessary books, pens, I just laid them carefully in the writing area and let them enjoy the serene effect of this magical holiday.
Back to Coast Lines. So next year put on thinking caps and deliver some 'wants' so that we can do some time during the year together. Whether it is a festival, theatrical event, reading, etc. Doesn't matter. Or a picnic where we all write as we wander. How about using our wonderful Botanical Gardens. Anyway up to you, let's make next year a year of other events. And we have the literature festival, which I have a couple of ideas on.
I look forward to seeing you at 55 Black Street Brighton next month on 5th December, for workshop at 10.30 am or thereabouts and lunch at 1.00pm. Or rather my dears High Tea. If you can get on foot or by public transport or get someone to pick you up you can really have some 'letting' go.
If it is hot, which Melbourne seems to be gearing upto, bring bathers if you want you can always stay on and have a swim or just sink into the water for a cool down.
I have also asked Ian to join us later in the day. He is useful as he serves drinks and cleans up beautifully. And he can recite in Welsh if he is very happy.
Which no doubt he will be.
I did think of you all when away and missed being at the last meeting.
Cecilia
Saturday 17 November 2007
A Sonnet by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
Silent Noon
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,--
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:--
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
Go to www.sonnets.org for all kinds of sonnets!
Your hands lie open in the long fresh grass,--
The finger-points look through like rosy blooms:
Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms
'Neath billowing skies that scatter and amass.
All round our nest, far as the eye can pass,
Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge
Where the cow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.
'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass.
Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly
Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky:--
So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above.
Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower,
This close-companioned inarticulate hour
When twofold silence was the song of love.
Go to www.sonnets.org for all kinds of sonnets!
Friday 16 November 2007
Victorian Poetry
As a thought starter for those who want to take up the challenge to do something "Victorian" for our December holiday party at Cecilia's lovely Victorian home, here's a website that summarizes Victorian poetry & lists some of the more prominent writers. The Sonnet was a popular form of the era, so perhaps we shall see some sonnets next month!
http://thecriticalpoet.tripod.com/victorian.htm
Karen
http://thecriticalpoet.tripod.com/victorian.htm
Karen
Monday 5 November 2007
LIGHTS, TUNNELS AND PABLO NERUDA
I was checking the blog and realised that October had been and gone without an entry. I decided rather than wait for some one else to do an update I would go for a wander up the tunnel and look for the light switch. I do love a good metaphor. I'm a bit too fond of cliches as well but that is a story for another day.
Since our last meeting I have discovered a new poet, at least he is new to me. I was reading a poem by Claire Gaskine and there was a line 'reading Neruda naked', this intrigued me so I googled Neruda and discovered some quite amazing poetry. My favourite so far is WE ARE MANY. This poem speaks to the soul of my writer self and I feel a kinship with Pablo that transcends dimensions. I will attempt to copy it and post for your enjoyment.
See you all Wednesday
Tricia
We Are Many
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
Pablo Neruda
Since our last meeting I have discovered a new poet, at least he is new to me. I was reading a poem by Claire Gaskine and there was a line 'reading Neruda naked', this intrigued me so I googled Neruda and discovered some quite amazing poetry. My favourite so far is WE ARE MANY. This poem speaks to the soul of my writer self and I feel a kinship with Pablo that transcends dimensions. I will attempt to copy it and post for your enjoyment.
See you all Wednesday
Tricia
We Are Many
Of the many men whom I am, whom we are,
I cannot settle on a single one.
They are lost to me under the cover of clothing
They have departed for another city.
When everything seems to be set
to show me off as a man of intelligence,
the fool I keep concealed on my person
takes over my talk and occupies my mouth.
On other occasions, I am dozing in the midst
of people of some distinction,
and when I summon my courageous self,
a coward completely unknown to me
swaddles my poor skeleton
in a thousand tiny reservations.
When a stately home bursts into flames,
instead of the fireman I summon,
an arsonist bursts on the scene,
and he is I. There is nothing I can do.
What must I do to distinguish myself?
How can I put myself together?
All the books I read
lionize dazzling hero figures,
brimming with self-assurance.
I die with envy of them;
and, in films where bullets fly on the wind,
I am left in envy of the cowboys,
left admiring even the horses.
But when I call upon my DASHING BEING,
out comes the same OLD LAZY SELF,
and so I never know just WHO I AM,
nor how many I am, nor WHO WE WILL BE BEING.
I would like to be able to touch a bell
and call up my real self, the truly me,
because if I really need my proper self,
I must not allow myself to disappear.
While I am writing, I am far away;
and when I come back, I have already left.
I should like to see if the same thing happens
to other people as it does to me,
to see if as many people are as I am,
and if they seem the same way to themselves.
When this problem has been thoroughly explored,
I am going to school myself so well in things
that, when I try to explain my problems,
I shall speak, not of self, but of geography.
Pablo Neruda
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