Raven Ramblings

The Scent of Lemon Leaves

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 21 May 2012 06:45:00 +0000

Sunday mornings would usually find me sitting at my computer writing this blog but today I had something far more tempting to occupy my time. Apologies, dear reader, but I have been snatched away by author Clara Sánchez who hails from Guadalajara, Mexico, with her latest novel, The Scent of Lemon Leaves. It’s one of those books that suck you in straight away with a tale of bewitching intrigue such that you’ll only be happy when you reach the very end.

Julian receives a letter from his old pal, Salvador Castro, who has been living in retirement in Alicante, Spain. They had both worked at the Centre which was established in order to hunt down Nazi officers scattered all over the world since the end of World War Two. Now, it seems, Salva has spotted a pair of elderly octogenarians who never bothered to change their names: Fredrik and Karin Christensen, both of whom had served in several Waffen-SS units and had overseen the extermination of hundreds of Norwegian Jews. The hunt is on and Julian wastes no time in taking the next available flight. He will find them, he will bring them to justice, and he will never forget what he and Salva suffered at the hands of these butchers who now pose as sugar coated pensioners. Oh, it’s gripping, all right, and now I’m going to make a nice cup of tea before settling down to another chapter – or two!

Sick in the Head

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 07 May 2012 15:49:00 +0000

One minute I was coping with the world and the next I was locked in mortal combat with my own body: a killer headache, fever, cold hands and feet, so helplessly utterly exhausted and then, to add insult to injury, a throat that closed over with barbed wire. The problem with being sick is that to have yourself medically diagnosed you need to trot along to your local GP. Never mind that you can’t lift your head off the pillow, that you’ll probably infect an entire waiting room, that the effort will probably make you sicker; at least you’ll have a proper name for whatever ails you and a prescription with lots of squiggly writing.

I’m on the mend now after six days in detention and have just managed to go out and fill up on supplies. I’ve even looked my symptoms up online (cheaper than the doc) and golly gosh, it looks as if I’ve had flu. Luckily, this body of mine is strong enough to fight such nasty invasions but it would be wise to remember that influenza causes the death of up 500,000 people worldwide in an epidemic, and millions can die when there’s a pandemic.

Yes, there were times early on when I could well imagine dying, anything to relieve the feeling of being pummelled to death by hateful evil pygmies who inhabited my bedroom but as you can see I have survived to write another blog. The worst thing of all was that I couldn’t read. I couldn’t concentrate, my eyes so hot and dizzy I couldn’t focus on the page. Mounds of dust-gathering books lay estranged from me for nearly an entire week. But this morning, I managed to pick something interesting from the pile and once again, get stuck in. I think I’ll like it because by page 42 I didn’t flung it on the fire but found a book mark (very civilized) and promised myself that as soon as the shopping has been put away I’ll return to the couch and see how Rukhsana is doing in her one-woman plan to escape the mad men who make the laws in Kabul. The Taliban Cricket Club by Timeri N. Urari is out in August 2012 and promises to be a very entertaining and curious read.

Poetry Lives

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 30 Apr 2012 09:19:00 +0000

Another writer takes the stage: full of words born out in lonely rooms, the audience hushed, expectant, wanting some of that writerly success to rub off as they sit and listen and then queue for a dashed illegible signature at the end. Mostly, I sell some books before the event, watch admirers snake into the auditorium, find myself a cup of tea and while away the time till they spill out again, spurred on, inspired, ready to buy more books to take home, pour over and squirrel away.

They came in their droves to the Pavilion Theatre Dún Laoghaire when the poet Paul Durcan rode into town. I sold book after book, shoved them into eager hands that took two or three copies, of Praise in Which I Live and Move and Have my Being. My curiosity was aroused, a seat was found so that I could witness why a poet, in this cynical day and age, could read to a full house when other, more literary names, would sometimes find themselves echoing into the darkness beyond the lights. After a brief introduction, the man of the evening took to the podium - quietly, forcefully, humorously, seriously, with depth and understanding of all the different kinds of human nature – and read for over an hour from his latest book of poetry. Like everyone there, I listened with rapt attention to a master craftsman who lived the words of each piece and took us to the street in Dublin where he met the actor David Kelly, to the mad woman in Hodges & Figgis, to Achill Island and Sandymount Green. And then, when he must have been exhausted, he kindly signed my copy (I was last in that long long queue) with strong clear legible strokes.

A Cast-Iron Excuse
Sorry I cannot come to your reading tonight.
I have to go to the South Pole.

Ne’er a Crossword

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 23 Apr 2012 14:34:00 +0000

It’s the last day of my holiday from work, a week I’ve spent trying out new recipes, shopping for clothes, taking the air, and this morning, getting down to the Saturday crossword by the new guy, Mac an Iarle. We all loved Derek Crosier who was the Crosaire compiler for the Irish Times from 1943 to long after he passed away, at the age of 92, in 2010. Being a forward planner, Crosier left enough puzzles to keep his fans happy for a full year after which time his successor, Mac an Iarle was ready to fill those boots. Crosier was a hard act to follow with his wicked sense of humour though occasional predictable fillers that made it a little easier for learners like me to get a grip. As he once said himself: “It's splendid to think that there are people who from time to time would love to wring my neck.”

Now, there are plenty of readers who would like to wring Mac an Iarle’s neck but only because he has taken them out of their comfort zone and made them have to think just a little bit harder. With a cup of green tea, a slice of my homemade cinnamon buns (from the Avoca Café Cookbook 2), Jessica and I decided to give it a lash. Normally, I’m painfully slow with helpful nudges from my daughter pointing me in the right direction but this morning I was in fighting form and had the key before she even sat down next to me. I was buzzing (must have been that week off) and only paused on 13 across: Fifty-one in a spell revealing half their DNA.

Right, to work this one out you need to remember your Roman numerals and no matter how many time I look it up I can never remember past ten but luckily Jessica explained the clue ever so slowly: the Roman numerals for fifty-one is LI and another word for spell is HEX therefore half of DNA is (double) = HELIX.

There are some wonderful words we have picked up doing the puzzle that have stuck and sound great when dropped in a sentence as if one had swallowed the dictionary whole: Prestidigitation (sleight of hand); dirigible (airship), and funambulist (acrobat) to mention but a few.

I’m back to work tomorrow morning and even the thought of it is making me tired. I love my job, don’t get me wrong, but there are times when a life of leisure is awfully tempting. Anyone out there willing to support me in a life to which I could so easily become accustomed??? I’d bake lots of tasty dishes, help you with the crossword, and never ever ask you to come clothes shopping with me.

Falafel Feast

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Wed, 18 Apr 2012 09:45:00 +0000

I have a weakness for beautiful cookery books that doesn’t seem to abate however many seem to weigh down my kitchen shelves. They lie, unread, until I have a couple of days off work when I take time to read them almost like a novel, from beginning to end. The aim is to pick out the more interesting recipes that lie outside my normal day-to-day arsenal of lunches and dinners so that we’re not eating the same foodstuffs from one year to the next.

The food I ate when I was growing up was a fairly predictable limited range that you’d find in almost every house in Ireland: chicken, beef, root vegetables and a kind of Irish stew that defied description. When I left home and was in charge of my own kitchen I began to be a bit more adventurous (often with disastrous results) and was greatly influenced by new friends from exotic places. Ludmilla Korchinskyi whose family came from Kazakhstan, introduced me to recipes and ingredients that I had never heard of. I’d watch her bake with reverend fascination, and when she produced and shared meals full of colour and smells that would take your breath away, I vowed to change the way I viewed food and eating. No more would I take the easy route, buy ingredients that I was used to, cook the same recipes over and over again, hence the plethora of cookery books.

Today I’m going to try a recipe from Alice Hart’s new cookery book, Vegetarian: Butternut Squash & Coriander Falafel with Cucumber Yoghurt (page 42). I love falafel but can’t seem to be able to make it properly so this recipe promises an easier method that involves baking in the oven, rather than deep-frying. Bon Appetit!

Beginner’s Guide

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 09 Apr 2012 10:35:00 +0000

The greatest threat to bricks-and-mortar bookshops and their booksellers is people who make the choice to buy online, especially those who choose electronic devices to which you can download your latest selections and take loads of them on holiday without exceeding your weight restrictions. Cheaper, faster service, lightweight, portable and oh so snazzy, but as my mum used to say: Be careful what you wish for! We could end up with no bookshops on the high street at all, and we could even end up with no books. We could go back to the days when the price of the printed word would only be for the elitist reader who fills a private library as a display of personal wealth. Would our libraries shrink to house reading tables with everything on request at the press of a button and not a single book in sight? Is this progress or is this a potential minefield between the reading public and an impoverished selective future? No one is taking this awful prospect seriously but one day it will be too late: we, your booksellers, will all be gone to an ink filled grave.

Writers will suffer, too. Established names would hold their own but new voices would struggle to be heard, the choices would become limited with little or no opportunity for expression of a different kind. When last week the suave Peter Carey finally signed my first edition, ex library, hardback copy of Parrot and Olivier in America, he made my day. Hopefully the recipient, my beloved nephew, Oisín, will treasure this physical reminder of an evening spent in the company of a writer at the top of his game. The queue that stretched from one end of the theatre to the other was full of readers whose reward would be a signed copy of Carey’s latest novel, and a quick word with the man who won the Man Booker Prize not once, but twice! I wonder how I’d have fared had I downloaded my copy onto a device that would fit in my jeans pocket? Would the occasion have been marked as well with an ethereal signature wafted into space? Nothing could match the pleasure I felt as I carried home this treasured volume (in an evening when the author signed hundreds of books there was but one he choose to personalise) replete with the Irish grammatically correct fada atop the second letter í. It’s the little things, dear reader, the minute details that make such a difference to a bibliophile like me!

I’m currently enjoying Anne Tyler’s latest novel, The Beginner’s Goodbye, which is set in the world of publishing. Aaron, our woebegone protagonist, sits in his office surrounded by books that aim to help the reader undertake a myriad of tasks, and others on how to come to terms with teeming emotions gone awry. Rows of The Beginner’s Guide to just about everything sit on his shelves, staring down as he fumbles with his grief at the loss of his beloved wife, Dorothy. With the help of these books, and the people who surround him, Aaron learns how to return to a somewhat normal life, one however, that includes the reappearance of Dorothy at his side. As soon as I’ve done a modicum of household duties I intend putting my feet up and reading it right to the end. When I’m finished, I’ll put it up on the shelf with all her other titles, and maybe I’ll lend it to my more reliable friends who will return it, eventually, so I can enjoy the having of it in my eclectic mishmash jumbled up library of literary loves.

Elif Shafak

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 12:09:00 +0000

One of the best ways to try and understand a culture other than your own is to read good quality fiction by someone in the know. We are so used to how things are done at home. It makes perfect sense when our neighbours, friends and family behave in a particular way because it’s always been like this. But when someone of a different race or culture enters from stage left, all of a sudden there is a yawning gap between what is acceptable and what seems to be plain bonkers. It’s really a matter of what you’re used to.

The first time I heard the term ‘honour killing’ I couldn’t understand it for the life of me; I mean why would anyone want to murder a beloved family member, whatever the reason. It occasionally comes into force when a man is disgraced in the eyes of those around him from whom he will most likely be shunned and eventually ostracised. He can only hold his head up if he is seen to act in such as way as to punish the wrongdoer. By reading Elif Shafak’s novel Honour, I can, at least, say that while I don’t agree with it, I am closer to understanding the complicated and various reasons this tragedy can be allowed to happen.

In the book, the sense of community among Muslim immigrants is what sustains the Toprak family as they, like so many others in the same predicament, try to find work and bring up their families in a totally alien environment. They originally come from a small Kurdish village travelling first to Istanbul then finally settling in a London suburb. While many locals welcome new peoples into their towns and cities, there are many many others who do not which can mean there is often no mix or socialising outside of the extended family. As a result, there is no dilution of culture, no blending or easing in from one to the other but a constant separation one from the other.

There are wonderfully drawn characters in this story from all walks of life. They interact and change each others lives in ways that are recognisable wherever you call home, from love to loss, gambling, duty, friendship, naivety, and familial ties. I would love to have met twin sisters Pembre and Jamila who arrived as the seventh and eight daughters of a family without a son and were called by their devastated mother, Enough and Destiny. This was a community that valued male children above all else though when you think about it, it was just the same here in Ireland not that many moons ago and still persists in countries around the world. The two girls went on to live very different lives and yet their bond was as close as if they had never parted. It will be a long time before I forget the struggles and fortitude of an immigrant family that could be living somewhere near you or me, far beyond our social radar, waiting for their lucky break just like our forefathers who left this starving country to forge a better life for themselves and their children. It certainly makes you think.

An Unsung Hero

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 26 Mar 2012 11:26:00 +0000

It started off as a very simple idea: Aiden Dooley, an actor from Galway, created a fifteen minute Living History performance for London’s National Maritime Museum’s Antarctic Exhibition in 2001. Dooley went on to develop his presentation on the Kerry born Antarctic explorer, Tom Crean, until it became a one-man show that has wowed audiences from London to Edinburgh, Australia to New York, and many other towns and cities in between. Last night I was in a packed audience in the Pavilion Theatre Dún Laoghaire when Dooley received a well-deserved standing ovation for his inspirational, entertaining and gutsy performance. It was wonderful!

Tom Crean was born in 1877, joined the Royal Navy at the tender age of fifteen and received the Albert Medal for bravery before setting off to fight in WW1. He served under Captain Robert Scott, Edward Wilson and Sir Ernest Shackleton as he voyaged on the Discovery, the Terra Nova and the Endurance that took him through the uncharted glaciers of South Georgia, and the frozen outreaches of the Antarctic.

Last night I learned what it felt like to be at temperatures of minus 30 degrees and more, how much courage it took to slide down into the unknown from impossibly high slopes, the seeming fearlessness of a band of men who stepped lightly lest they disappeared through hidden crevasses, the camaraderie, friendship, supreme courage and endurance experienced by those early explorers. I also learned to be proud of a man who didn’t seek high office, or undue attention though he might well have done so considering his bravery and courage.

Tom Crean returned to live in the place of his birth, Annascaul, Co. Kerry, where he ran a public house with his wife, Nell, until his death in 1938. The pub is still going strong and displays a magnificent collection of memorabilia that serves to remind us of this landlord’s illustrious past. What is the pub called? Well, surely there is no better name than the one Crean picked himself: South Pole Inn.

Another Irishman has brought the whole story of those early Arctic explorers to life with a show full of humour, pathos, and heart-stopping moments that will make you jump to your feet at the end and clap your hands in appreciation for a truly memorable performance. Take a bow, Aidan Dooley.

Peter Carey

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 11:33:00 +0000

I’ve just been up in the attic (getting filthy) searching for a book that was definitely in one of the many boxes tucked away for safekeeping (after I demolished some of my bookshelves) but to no avail. I’m sure I put it up there, I’m positive it isn’t anywhere else but just in case, I did a quick search on my few remaining bookshelves and zilch, nothing, no sign whatsoever. Let me explain.

On the 4th of April I am going to meet the above-mentioned author when he hits the Pavilion Theatre in Dún Laoghaire. Now when I say meet, I mean I’ll be there, and he’ll be there, and at some stage in the proceedings I’ll engineer it so he has to gaze into my eyes and listen to me say something foolish while trying to look cool and interesting. I had it in mind that I’d get him to sign my lovely hardback copy of Oscar & Lucinda, a book I read on the recommendation of my nephew Oisin who said it was his favourite novel of all time and now I can’t because I can’t find the damned thing.

I was thrilled when I discovered this pristine first edition in a charity shop and carried it home fully intending to give it to said nephew who I was sure would be delighted with my find. But nephews tend to move thither and yon and he couldn’t carry it with him when he went so I’m minding it until he settles down. In the meantime I thought I’d surprise him some more and have it personally signed by the great author himself. Fat chance now.

I could go up again tomorrow, take every single box out from under the eaves, make sure that nothing remains hidden in the darkest corner but I’m not sure I love either Peter Carey or my dear nephew enough for that. Maybe a good night’s sleep will make me think differently but don’t any of you hold your breath.

I’ve started so I’ll finish

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 10:25:00 +0000

Before I worked in the trade I would read every book that found its way into my hands from beginning to end. I never cheated (as if anyone was checking) like some people I know who speed-read through lengthy descriptive passages, pick out the good bits and zoom to the last page as if it were a race. No, not me! In among some excellent discoveries I plodded through great swathes of rootless fiction written by wannabes looking for greatness through the printed word. However, now I’m surrounded by growing piles of books that seem to sprout wildly on every available surface, I have developed a new system so I don’t waste any of my valuable reading time.

• Reviews are a useful tool but I generally wait until a title has been reviewed in several papers to get some balance.
• Personal recommendations are also worth listening to and when a few people tell you about a particular book, you’ve got to at least check it out.
• Books that are in the news for one reason or another because you can’t have an opinion if you don’t know what’s between the pages.
• Prize winning books and those on the short-list can often be well worth a look, and remember, sometimes not!
• New titles by tried and tested authors are irresistible but be aware that they are not always true to form.

The best piece of advice I can pass on is to give up when a book isn’t yielding results by at least page 30. Life is far too short to waste on reading rubbish and there’s also enough titles out there to keep you busy till you’re way past your 100th birthday. One day I’ll sit down and read Tolstoy’s War and Peace; I know it will be worth it, I know it’s a book that I will enjoy and then I’ll tackle Anna Karenina. But until then, I want to keep up with the latest titles so I can recommend, with equanimity, to book clubs and readers who know I’ll always be one step ahead of the literary posse.

The Seven-year Itch

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 27 Feb 2012 21:16:00 +0000

I needed a book for the bath and grabbed a handful of proof copies top of which was Seven Years by Peter Stamm. It had come highly recommended by the reps but not for the content of the book, more for the dishy photo of the author on the back page; this guy is seriously hot, they said, we’d settle for him any day. None of the usual nonsense – it’s wonderful, next bestseller, perfect for bookclubs etc – just two reps with an eye on the main chance.

As I wallowed beneath the suds I read about 20 pages, not sure either way, a little irritated with the lack of speech marks, disliking some of the main characters, but wanting to read more. I picked it up again before I went to bed, read a little, became more curious about how the situation would develop and when I got up for work the next morning, I read another page or ten. Three days later and I’ve finished what turned out to be a great story that I couldn’t read fast enough but you’ll have to wait till the 5th of April before you can get your hands on a copy. It was originally written in German and has been translated by Michael Hofmann.

I hate giving away the plot of any story and the back of this book (which I normally wouldn’t read) told far too much for my liking. Suffice it to say that one man, Alexander, with two women, Sonia and Ivona, under his belt is a recipe for endless complications, misunderstandings, cock-ups and unhappiness all round until young Sophie arrives and changes the name of the game.

The Orphan Master's Son

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Thu, 23 Feb 2012 08:32:00 +0000

Can you imagine having to frame two pictures, say of Enda Kenny (our beloved leader) and Eamon Gilmore (his second in command) and have to hang them pride of place in our homes? It’s ridiculous, however good these lads do their job representing us and keeping us safe. Well, were you to live in North Korea you would wipe that smile off your face, dust and polish the glass regularly, and pay homage to Kim Jong-il and Kim Jong-un. Their portraits hang in every home and place of business, even on every boat that sets sail from their shores. If you want to know anything else about The Democratic People’s Republic of Korea just look up their official website where you’ll find news, updates and travel tips should you wish to go some place different this year.

I’m currently reading The Orphan Master’s Son by Adam Johnson, a novel that promises to take you into the heart of a country so secretive that its people have no idea what goes on in the outside world, their heads bent in subservience to yet another ‘Dear Leader’. As regimes go, this has been a very successful dictatorship that started with the establishment of the DPRK in 1948 by Kim Il-sung the Eternal President and the reins have been handed down, father to son, ever since. I think (correct me if I’m wrong) that this is one of the first works of fiction set in North Korea and it is like peering into an unimaginable way of life that would be anathema to us innocents in the West. We have it so good, and cushy, and yet all we do is complain about the weather, the government, the price of spuds. There are plenty worse things to whine on about and none of them are happening to us!

Adam Johnson is an American writer who currently lectures in creative writing at Stanford University and was deemed, by Playboy Magazine, to be "one of the nation's most influential and imaginative college professors".

Lenten Read the Fourth

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Tue, 21 Feb 2012 21:15:00 +0000

Lent has somewhat taken me by surprise this year. We had great plans we'd hoped would be ready for this year but Christmas was only just recovered from when suddenly there were pancakes appearing everywhere. Optimism remains for a charitable read next year.

If you are new to the idea of a Lenten Read, there is an introduction to it, plus 2010 and 2011's choice of books.

My selection this year:

I loved Kate Grenville's The Secret River and Can. Not. Wait. to get stuck into her latest, Sarah Thornhill, which continues the story. 307 pages.

For months I've been meaning to read Josh Ritter's debut novel, Bright's Passage. Now is the perfect time, not least because New Island recently secured rights to publish it here in Ireland - expect it on the bookshelves in April. 193 pages.

It's my two year anniversary of discovering Mr Rhodes. I love his writing. My expectations are so high for this book, I'm getting vertigo. The publisher says 423 pages but that's suspiciously long for a Rhodes novel. Verification when it is released on March 1st.

The first line of Carson McCullers's The Heart is a Lonely Hunter remains one of my favourite openers: In the town there were two mutes, and they were always together. Those words set my expectations high and I was not disappointed. This one is a slip of a novel at 176 pages but I'm willing to bet they'll be 176 pages of, as the literary critics say, awesomeness.

I've read a couple of William Boyd novels and enjoyed the pace of them. He is more narrative driven than many authors I read but that's not a bad thing when he has an intriguing story to tell. Plus, there was a good interview with him on Open Book recently which piqued my interest. 353 pages.

I may regret this last choice, not because of content but because I suspect I won't want to rush through it. His book War Is A Force That Gives Us Meaning is highly recommended - it gave me a much better understanding of how this world works on individual and societal levels. I anticipate that this book will do the same. 256 pages, though I'll only get around half way though it before Easter.

These are the intended but we'll see what life throws in my general direction over the next six weeks. I will be taking a break from my Poem-for-today posts but they will resume Monday 9th of April.

I'll be tweeting my reading progress daily using #lentenread, please do join in!

~Louisa

He Tells Her

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 18:47:00 +0000

....
In altercations fierce and long
She does her best to prove him wrong.
But he has learned to argue well.
....

A gift from Wendy Cope to anyone who has ever found themselves in an argument with somebody factually incorrect, arrogant, obstinate and above all, a skilled debater. There are few situations so frustrating, so irritating as an obdurate individual who will categorically and patronisingly deny the remotest possibility that they are anything less than 100% right about something that you know to be complete rubbish. It is an impressively dispassionate poem.

Dead Cow Farm

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 23:14:00 +0000

....
Under her warm tongue flesh and blood
Blossomed, a miracle to believe:
And so was Adam born, and Eve
.....

This is a poem of two halves; Robert Graves weaves a creation myth from earth and ancient tales, warm and nurturing, to bring forth the world. The tone alters in the second half to imply that the cold science of evolution has obliterated the magic of the old and replaced it with an apocalyptic desolation devoid of life.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 21:48:00 +0000

....
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
....

One line? One line from the whole of The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock? Yes but what a line. On first reading T.S. Eliot's poem, one would be forgiven for feeling a little overwhelmed. A Leaving Cert. student might roll their eyes and wonder wtf was he on about. I was fortunate to have an English teacher advise his class to find one line - one line - that made sense to them. Once your foot is in the door, slowly slowly the rest opens up.

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Fri, 10 Feb 2012 23:34:00 +0000

Oh! Mr. Best, you're very bad
And all the world shall know it;
Your base behaviour shall be sung
By me, a tunefull Poet.
....

It's proclamations like this that make me think I wouldn't have liked Jane Austen very much at all. And not just because she rhymed know it with poet. Her moral high-ground is somewhat compromised by her threats to publicly deride this Mr Best if he does not conform as she believes he should, and frankly the whole passive-aggressive approach does her no favours at all. This poem is an excellent example of why one should always be wary of upsetting a writer; whatever about mightier, in the right hands the pen can certainly be sharper than the sword.

On Raglan Road

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Wed, 08 Feb 2012 22:35:00 +0000

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.
....

You've been there too? Their dark hair, their dark eyes, their smile that twists your heart fit to burst and you know, you know it'll end with tears and beers but you take their hand anyway, ignoring the inevitability of tomorrow because you have been, as Patrick Kavanagh so aptly puts it, enchanted.

Evening Solace

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Tue, 07 Feb 2012 22:34:00 +0000

....
Then in our souls there seems to languish
A tender grief that is not woe;
And thoughts that once wrung groans of anguish,
Now cause but some mild tears to flow.
....

As might be expected of Charlotte Brontë, this is a melancholic poem, yet one essentially of optimism as it recognises the dulling effect of time on misery and torment. It gives perspective to those in the midst of sorrow - when the heart is freshly bleeding - the promise that their pain will not remain acute. I hope her father read it; he must have had a great source of strength to survive burying his wife, his son, and his three daughters.

The Grey Monk

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 22:01:00 +0000

....
But vain the Sword and vain the Bow,
They never can work War's overthrow.
The Hermit's prayer and the Widow's tear
Alone can free the World from fear.
....

William Blake has two associations for me: the beautiful, wild illustrations he used with his poems, and Johnny Depp in Dead Man. Perhaps because I associate rhyme with a sense of whimsy, it's hard for me to fully feel the depth of sentiment Blake pours into this poem. The pace of it is almost jaunty when the subject matter cries out for serious consideration, almost mocking of the sincerity of the monk and the emotional and physical pain he is enduring. The structure and content make strange bedfellows but perhaps that is the very reason I remember it.

L'amoureuse | The Beloved

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Sat, 04 Feb 2012 21:34:00 +0000

....
Ses rêves en pleine lumière
Font s'évaporer les soleils
Me font rire, pleurer et rire,
Parler sans avoir rien à dire.

....
Her dreams in broad daylight
Make the suns evaporate
Make me laugh, cry and laugh,
Speak with nothing to say.

Another love poem, this one from Paul Éluard, a French poet who was one of the founders of the surrealist movement. There is intoxicating joy in his words with the swirling possession of love taking on his human form. The last lines speak to the hysteria she is causing in him, the fine line between, or overlapping Venn diagram of, love and madness.

Mirror In February

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 22:46:00 +0000

....
Below my window the wakening trees,
Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
Suffering their brute necessities;
....

One of the two Thomas Kinsella poems that have stayed with me since school fado, fado, in particular the idea of being hacked clean. The pivotal moment of the poem is his realisation that he is no longer young, that age has left its physical mark on him. It's a very different reading experience for a 16yr old and someone in middle-age, and I expect will be different again twenty years hence. As with The Road Not Taken, the last two words can be read with optimism or pessimism depending on ones misanthropic tendencies or lack thereof.

Donal Óg

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 20:32:00 +0000

....
You promised me, and you said a lie to me,
that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked;
I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you,
and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb.
....

When Lady Gregory translated this old Irish poem into English, she stayed closed to the original grammatical structure imbuing the language with a vernacular vibrancy. The disjointed narrative heightens how torn the speaker is, hysterical with love for the boy who has stolen away her heart and left her hanging in desire and frustration and despair. I say "her" but there is no obvious indication of the gender of the speaker, it reads just as passionately either way.

Should the wide world roll away

noreply@blogger.com (louisa) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 21:40:00 +0000

Should the wide world roll away
Leaving black terror
Limitless night,
....

As we near St. Valentine's Day, a simple, profoundly moving love poem from Stephen Crane (November 1, 1871 – June 5, 1900). The opening lines (above) certainly would not lead the reader to consider that they were embarking on a declaration of desire, surrender, possession, but no better time to know what, or who, is truly important to us than at the hour of apocalypse.

Think On This

noreply@blogger.com (Raven Books) — Mon, 30 Jan 2012 21:07:00 +0000

I must get some Evening Primrose Oil or else we’ll all suffer from her foul temper. Now that she’s coming home to stay, we’ve got to take all necessary steps to minimise the damage to our nerves.

My youngest daughter has been forced home by economics, back to where she once belonged with her mum and siblings, all of us worried how it will pan out.

Oh, I don’t believe in all that rubbish, it’s been discredited, you know, homeopathy and all that sort of stuff.

The world is full of sceptics out to prove everyone wrong until the evidence is slammed right up against their noses, and my son is no worse, or no better than most pessimists who refuse to consider that maybe there’s another way to solve a problem, ease a condition, rebalance an imbalance.

Never mind, I said to him, I will hold off, if you like, let you see for yourself the impact PMT will have on the entire household. Be as wary as you like about this wacky treatment, but they’ve been treating ailments with herbal remedies since prehistoric time. Don’t say you haven’t been warned…

When one of my children was suffering from all kinds of physical problems our family doctor prescribed lotions, ointments, creams, tablets, but to no avail. Her suffering was woeful, almost too hard to stand by and watch, helpless. My brother, whose advice I’d normally take with a pinch of salt (or two!) said down the phone: For goodness sake, will you take her to a homeopath. It took only three days for the symptoms to die down, for the problem to be solved, for the homeopath’s remedies and sound dietary advice to work their magic. The road back to full health took some time but the improvements were measurable and real; problem solved.

If I broke my leg I’d go straight to the hospital, have it set, plastered, and put to rights. I’m sensible and know when to use conventional medicine but I also recognise other disciplines that improve the quality of my life beyond measure, can relieve pain and niggling symptoms hiding under the doctor’s radar. There’s room for more than one way of thinking, as my son will soon find out!