Highly Rated

Not sure why, but I've never rated Longfellow. Not that I'd ever read much, but I'd vaguely got the impression, from a distance, that he represented the commonplace in terms of mid-nineteenth century verse - and I mean 'verse' rather than 'poetry'. Vaguely pleasant but essentially dealing in romantic clichés after the fire of Romanticism had died away. Nothing to write home about, to throw another cliché on the fire or, rather, the embers of that splendid but sort-lived movement.

So when I read his poem Snow-Flakes over at Carol Rumens's surpassingly excellent Poem of the Week page at the Graun it came as a bit of a shock to realise how wrong I'd been. It's a brilliant piece. I immediately wanted to commit it to memory. Just gorgeously sad and superbly crafted and meant. And, as is often the case when Ms Rumens's picks a belter, the comments BTL are themselves responsively excellent.

I recall having to completely rethink my attitude to Tennyson when I had to teach him for 'A' level back in the 90's. Looks like there's more of the same to come with Henry Wadsworth as soon as I can get my hands on a juicy Selected.

Under Repair

It's been a year and a day since I got out of hospital. Somehow I got repaired. Even my broken thoughts. There are still dark places - how could there not be? - and I may get dragged back to them one day. But for now I'm in the light, and that's enough. More than enough. 

A Very Bright Spot

Another day spent marking, for the most part. But I did make time to listen to a fair amount of sweet sounds provided by Ella Fitzgerald, Richard Thompson and David Bowie. Not a bad little list, eh?

And before you start thinking that my weekend's been a pretty sad one all in all, let me tell you that I got to accompany some students to one of the best productions of Romeo & Juliet I've ever seen (and, trust me, I've been to a fair few.) The company performing are from the UK and known as Action To The Word, and it's on at the Victoria Theatre - one of my old stomping grounds - up to 7 October. We were at an afternoon matinee performance yesterday and it was a blast: very youthful company, ultra-talented, with just 9 performers on stage; everyone seemed to be able to sing well and play at least one instrument and there was lots of music interpolated into the show - not exactly Shakespeare, I know, but Shakespeare never is exactly Shakespeare is he?, and the music was great fun; lots of nicely choreographed highly theatrical stage combat as part of a generally highly theatrical experience; Mercutio played by a young lady, which was completely unexpected, but worked surprisingly well, subverting all the usual Mercutio clichés; the verse spoken really well - oozing clarity and balance and genuine rhythm - oh, and the prose as well, including a Nurse who sounded pure Merseyside, to my delight.

My only criticism is a niggling one, but I'll mention it. I don't think they quite managed the mood in the final sequence, but it's incredibly difficult to pull off. Romeo expired a touch too noisily and evoked some inappropriate giggles (but what can you expect from a young matinee crowd?) And, not a criticism, but everyone looked too young to plug into the Bard's archetypes of youth and age that so dominate the play. Friar Lawrence particularly was entertaining but too young for my liking, and a bit too funny at the end.

On The Bright Side

Arm and shoulders and back aching from several hours of marking, which I've just finished. Oddly enough it hasn't been such a bad day, but it's ended on a bit of a sour, not to say sore, note - though I'll be eating soon, so things can't be quite so bad. Healing's on its way.

Feasting

Noi spent the day at a Sweet & Savoury Soft Bread Class, taught by some international chef chappie from Taiwan. She came back this evening with a number of the products of her labour which I have been sampling since with distinct relish. My favourite so far: the ham & onion toast. Seriously wonderful, but so is everything else.

Not a bad way to end the working week, eh?

Theory And Practice

Gwenda has just announced her pregnancy to Wulfric, and the foundations have been laid for Merthin's bridge. As for Caris, I have no idea why she's making life so difficult for Merthin. And don't get me going on Ralph who's shaping up as a major Ken Follett villain despite the signs earlier in World Without End that he isn't fundamentally such a bad chap.

Why do we get so caught up in the purely imagined lives of characters who don't exist, except in the pages of imaginative fictions? As far as I can tell, this is the kind of question that bothers literary theorists. Frankly, whilst I find it mildly interesting, deep down it doesn't concern me all that much. What bothers me is finding out what happens to Gwenda and Wulfric and Merthin and Caris and Ralph, plus a load of other folk who live in the non-existent but astonishingly real Kingsbridge.

So that's enough for now. I'm off for a bit of a read before bedtime.

Mood Music

There are times when only the songs of Leonard Cohen can fill the space. Today, in the late afternoon, was one such time. I filled it with four off Ten New Songs, and it felt necessary, and I'm glad I did.

The funny thing is LC is the only musician of the singer-songwriter variety I admire that this applies to. Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Richard Thompson, Elvis Costello, Neil Young: any time. But not Leonard. I have to be in the mood, and I don't mean depressed or sour or dark or melancholy. Today I was perfectly happy on getting back from work but, for reasons I can't quite grasp, it had to be Mr Cohen serenading me as I relaxed.

I was thinking of this just now when it further occurred to me that Songs of Love and Hate was a very special album for me when I got hold of it as a fifteen-year-old (I think.) I didn't own that many albums and forced myself to love every one I spent my hard-earned money on. To be honest LC's third album was way too sophisticated for me but I managed to grow into it, I suppose. For example, I knew Avalanche was a great song pretty much on first hearing, but I didn't know why; and I understood it somehow, without knowing what it meant.

In fact, I still don't. But who needs to wrestle a meaning from, Well, I stepped into an avalanche / It covered up my soul ? I've been in that avalanche even if the song remains above and beyond this particular sleeper.

A Rhetorical Question

If you can't lick the plate after finishing your bangers & mash & gravy & onions, then when can you lick the plate? That's what I'd like to know.

Testing Times

Life has a way of not getting easier, which is no bad thing. At least when you're struggling you know that you're very much in the here and now and alive to the struggle.

And, yes, it's been one of those days.

Not Exactly Routine

It's been an odd sort of Sunday. Noi had a baking class to attend up in Woodlands and, since we'd made an arrangement to have dinner with Boon & Mei up there, it was decided that I would spend the day at Fuad & Rozita's so Noi didn't have to drive back to pick me up after her class. I had quite a bit of marking to do and set out my stall on the dining table in their place wondering whether I'd be able to stuck in to the work involved in this foreign environment.

To my surprise I managed the pile of scripts almost effortlessly, with breaks for the necessary teh tarik and to watch the first half of the United game - oh, and to watch bits and pieces of a BBC Attenborough doc. Also managed a quick lunch out with Fuad & Rozita at the Al Ameen food place that we later went to with Boon & Mei. 

It's the first time in a long time that marking has felt not exactly effortless, but not really effort-full, if you see what I mean. Mind you, it's a relief to get back home and prepare for the usual routine on the morrow. It doesn't pay to have too much excitement in one's life.