Thursday 30 June 2011
Saturday 25 June 2011
Friday 24 June 2011
Thursday 23 June 2011
Wednesday 22 June 2011
Monday 20 June 2011
Sunday 19 June 2011
Saturday 18 June 2011
Thursday 16 June 2011
Saturday 11 June 2011
Thursday 9 June 2011
Monday 6 June 2011
Sunday 5 June 2011
Poem of the Day: What the Chairman Told Tom by Basil Bunting
| Poetry? It's a hobby. I run model trains. Mr Shaw there breeds pigeons. It's not work. You dont sweat. Nobody pays for it. You could advertise soap. Art, that's opera; or repertory - The Desert Song. Nancy was in the chorus. But to ask for twelve pounds a week - married, aren't you? - you've got a nerve. How could I look a bus conductor in the face if I paid you twelve pounds? Who says it's poetry, anyhow? My ten year old can do it and rhyme. I get three thousand and expenses, a car, vouchers, but I'm an accountant. They do what I tell them, my company. What do you do? Nasty little words, nasty long words, it's unhealthy. I want to wash when I meet a poet. They're Reds, addicts, all delinquents. What you write is rot. Mr Hines says so, and he's a schoolteacher, he ought to know. Go and find work. |
Friday 3 June 2011
Thursday 2 June 2011
Suddenly by Victoria Redel
Suddenly
A month after turning forty-five, every last egg in her body is a Rockette doing the can-can. Use me use me use me, they cry, I’ll be the easy child, the I-won’t-wake-you-up-in-the-night child. Wasn’t she through with all that – after years, on streets, in restaurants when all she saw were schlepping, wrung out, haphazard, misbuttoned mothers pushing strollers loaded with groceries, a dreadful toddler riding shotgun?
Now every city block boasts the popular miracle of children’s faces. Keep away, she says to civilized men who stop at crosswalks, Do you see this glittered fertility, this fishnet stocking hunger?
The possible calls and the body lunges – rapacious – for what? – every last urgency to be the body?
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