The poetry of Notelet Folder makes me weep with laughter.
Quite often I buy or am given packs of greeting cards. They are a great stop gap if suddenly I need to produce a card at a moment’s notice. Years ago we had a true Picasso moment with a small pack of greeting cards that I had been given and placed in between the books on the shelves in The Rat Room. As this used to be my studio, I had a lot of reference and poetry books up there. In fact this was my core collection of books. The rest were scattered across the rest of the upstairs rooms. One day Danny was examining the shelves, spotted the...
read moreThird Annual Brigid in Cyberspace Poetry Reading
Pottering on Monnroot’s blog, I spotted an invitation to Third Annual Brigid in Cyberspace Poetry Reading. This, amogst other festivities, celebrates Brigid, the Celtic goddess of poetry, healing and craft and Groundhog Day. The invitation was originally sent by Deborah Oak. I love poetry. And find half remembered lines a comfort and inspiration. Whether it is “The boy stood on the burning deck” or something as sensuous and delightful as the lines below. Poetry can be carried easily in your head and unwrapped carefully when...
read moreHyacinths
It’s my T.S. Eliot time of year. Three large blue hyacinths loll beside the laptop on the kitchen table. Their scent is as overwhelming as the weight of their waxy flower heads. My old edition of Eliot’s complete poems is just out of reach. Slim and tempting and almost as worn as the hands that turn the pages. The book now smells musty. I have opened its covers and dived in for nearly thirty years. The long intermittent journey has been more startling and intriguing than most. Hyacinths and The Waste Land are a heady mix. This...
read moreHyacinths in The Waste Land
There’s something very sexy about hyacinths. Their fresh, heady exotic scent draws one way beyond the waxy flower heads and squeak of constraining leaves. Danny buried his nose in a pot of them and glanced up at me, “Mmmmm. Lovely. They smell of spring.” And they do but the scent has a deeper resonance for me. Each year the hyacinth draws me back to T.S. Eliot. When the flowers have finally come into their own and the house is heavy with their sultry perfume, I’m searching for my copy of The Waste Land. Somehow the...
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