Leeds Book Club

Books to cheer a person up!

2012-02-16T08:00:00.000Z

Earlier this week, a member of the twitterati posted a shout out to her fellow book clubbers asking for recommendations for books that could distract and cheer a person up.
It was surprisingly difficult at first - instantly the most miserable books we've ever read jumped to mind (ahem). Or ones that are personally perfect but more tricky to explain (especially in 140 characters) - such as Anne Frank's Diary or His Dark Materials. 

They lift me up when I've lost my way but aren't exactly works that make you laugh aloud!

We had a right giggle about how miserable our tastes were as a collective before the wheels in our heads started turning and we were able to offer a few (hopefully) viable suggestions. 

Course, once I'd started thinking down this vein, I couldn't stop. So, I've had a think about some of my favourite go-to-when-I'm-down-in-the-dumps books, listed in no particular order below. As always, please feel free to tweet or leave a comment below with some of your choices, questions or comments.

Pride and Prejudice/Bridget Jones' Diary 
(Jane Austen and Helen Fielding respectively)
Introduced to me by my mum, P & P holds a special place in my heart. It's my go-to book whatever mood I happen to be in! The language used is beautiful, the characters are engaging and the romance is at once obvious and lovely. Every line weaves a story around readers that at once captivates and transports. A must read!

BJD is - as everyone and their uncle knows - a modern homage to the Austen classic. Casting my generations Mr Darcy into the films series was an absolutely inspired stoke of genius! I have to admit, I tend to watch this one rather than read it, but if you haven't tried this lovely book yet, I'd highly recommend it!

The Daisy Dalrymple Series (Carola Dunn)
Leeds Book Club discovered this series not long after we started the book club. Each of the original three members would pick up a book when and where we could and share them, reading I think 8 in the space of a few weeks.
Set in the flapper era of the 1920's, the Honourable Daisy Dalrymple is a journalist and amateur detective - solving crimes in a discrete and often hilarious way. She is young, energetic, enthusiastic and determined. The sort of character that you'd love to meet and befriend. 
The mysteries are not the *most* elaborate, but the books are well written and feature frequent nods to those masters of the genera such as Agatha Christie and Dorothy L Sayers.     

The Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy (Douglas Adams)
I've just realised that I haven't read this book IN TIME!
Clearly, I must remedy this!
A mad, strange, oddly poignant and hilarious look at the end of the human race; this book (based on a radio show) is one of those romps that just has you racing to finish so that you can start it all over again!
The first book in a trilogy of five, all (except the somewhat sobering final book) are uplifting with just the right degree of odd.
You'll laugh, you'll cry, you'll hurl. And you'll never look at your towel the same way again.

And remember, Don't Panic! 


The Secret Garden (Frances Hodgson Burnett)
Actually the reason I'm living in Yorkshire. OK, maybe not the *only* one...
Magic, mystery, friendship and family. This book is all good things in one perfect little package. 
While I can't be sure, I think that I remember my parents reading this to me in my very youngest years.
Certainly it's a book I can't ever remember not having within reach.
I do know that this was one of those books that I reached for over and over again during my formative years, especially when I felt my world crashing down on me.
Simple, gracious and deeply moving, perfect for any age. 

Harry Potter Series (JK Rowling) 
I've already written about this series before - I guess everyone knows how much I love both the books and the films. Ever since first picking up the books, I've had regular re-reads of the full set. In fact, I happen to know that the SP has just completed her full set re-read too!
A classic tale of good versus evil, hope despite the odds, redemption, betrayal and everything in between - Harry goes through the gauntlet of emotions, taking the reader with him. The world always cheers me up! 

James Herriot/Gerald Durrell 
Slightly cheating here - two in one and all, but I discovered these two authors around the same time.
Though the styles and content are totally different; both sets revolve around the restorative powers of the natural world; the grace that exists all around us, right under our noses.

Featuring exaggerated characters and situations, these books put the real world into a blissful relief, reminding us over and over again that we have to live our lives in harmony with the world around us to achieve the same within ourselves. 
Also, gigglicious to the extreme - particularly the Corfu trilogy. 

Roald Dahl
Yes, Yes, I know. I may have mentioned this once or twice in the past.


Suffice to say; I enjoy both his children's books and his far darker adult novels in equal measure.  

For cheering up; I'd personally turn to his poetry for a giggle and a whole new perspective on the world. 

Agatha Christie
The Queen of Crime. 

With over 66 detective novels and 14 short story anthologies, Christie manages to keep even the most grumpy reader intrigued. 

And with so many different detectives, you're bound to find a personal favourite. 

I return to the elusive Harley Quinn, over and over again when I'm in a bad head space. The idea that the past can allow for more than mere reflection is one that keeps me going no matter how bad the scenario.      

The Green Gables Series (Lucy M Montgomery)
A book about new beginnings, finding family and making friends, the series does not shy away from the harsher realities of life but manages to remind us to put a positive spin where we can, focusing on hope, rather than despair.

The red haired orphan (with an exceptionally pretty nose)bounded onto the Prince Edwards Island in 1908 and into the hearts of generations of readers all around the world every since.
It's a joy to read and re-discover every few years.


Fancy giving the series a try, find the first book on Project Gutenberg.  

Join Me (Danny Wallace)
The very witty tale of an accidental cult leader and his Karma Army.
This book charts the (apparently) totally unplanned creation of a movement for social good; from it's inception.
While I don't totally believe that the whole movement happened entirely by accident; Wallace writes well and seems to be an eminently likable chap. I very much enjoyed the read and look forward to reading Random Acts of Kindness - the follow up.   

Special Mention:

What Katy Did...(Susan Coolidge)
I can almost see t'Elf rolling her eyes - she's heard me go on about these books for so many years.

For personal reasons Katy and the Carr family are heroes of mine. I love the three Katy books so very very much - they helped me through some of the darkest days of my life.

If you'd like to read it, the books are on Project Gutenberg.

(Did you really think I'd be able to leave him out!)

Scaring Children? I'm all for it!

2012-02-15T08:00:00.003Z

A regular Leeds Book Club member(and current @PeopleOfLeeds!)lent me Dark Season - a young adults book written by Russell T Davies (the manresponsible for bringing us the revived Doctor Who in 2005!).

Released concurrently with a 6 part TV series, thisbook consists of two interlinked stories - featuring three young teenagersbattling evil dominating and insidious...grown ups!

(Did you spot the oh-so-very young Kate Winslet?) 

Now, it was a quick and veryenjoyable read - I finished it in one sitting with two (rather large I grantyou) mugs of coffee. I looked forward to returning it to my mate, knowing we'dhave a good natter about links between it and the tales of the Timelord. 

And that would have been that. 

Except there was this piece on one of the breakfastshows this morning (possibly yesterday depending on when I post this!) about arecent study showing that parents are shunning fairy tales in favour of moremodern tales; deeming them too scary for children.*

Apparently one in five sets of thepolled parents would rather read more modern fare to their sproggits - such asthe Hungry Caterpillar or the Gruffalo. One third of those polled had childrenburst into tears after having Red Riding Hood read to them (they should have tried the Roald Dahl version). Parents - accordingto this study - didn't want to have to explain particular concepts, or havetheir children exposed to anything that might stimulate rather than soothethem. 
 
Dark Seasons - while not written for a particularlyyoung audience - would almost certainly NOT be deemed suitable. Ourprotagonists are in danger throughout the novel - both mentally and physically,having to make decisions with long reaching consequences. 

Taking a closer look at the fairytales, I suppose I can sort of see where they are coming from - Goldilocks is athief and squatter chased away by her victims; Rumpelstiltskin threatens tokidnap a future offspring; Jack abandons his family to climb a Beanstalkresulting in his murdering a giant in cold blood; Cinderella provides slavelabour for her extended family.

I could continue, but I'm sure you See where I'm goingwith this!

Now, I'm not saying that there's anything wrongwith gentle, fun and imaginative stories, designed to soothe a young child intosleep. Or that it isn't a parent's right to protect their young un's for aslong as possible. Of course it's up to mum and dad whether their specific childis emotionally ready to have these tales read to them. No one has the right toDEMAND that particular tales be read.   

However, I would point out that fairy tales havebeen around for hundreds of years; told to a dozen generations of children and...you know...look around. The vast majority of us have turned out justfine. 

Sure, some of these tales have definitely fallenout of favour (All Fur by the Brothers Grimm for example - dealing with adaughter fleeing an incestuous father)or changed to fit more modern audiencesand their expectations (the feminist fairy tales and politically correct talesmy parents procured for me just LEAP to mind) or utterly changed to fit aparticular corporate identity (Hello Disney's Little Mermaid).

However, the point of fairy tales is that theydemonstrate that life is full of adversity; that good will eventually overcomeevil; that many of life's greatest challenges can be best tackled with just a touch of common sense. They are for many children, the second (after mum and dad) moral base tocling too. It is from our parents that we learn - even at a very young age - how to respond to the world around us. 

Children are often far tougher cookies than wegrown ups (*ahem*) give them credit for. They need to be just to survive otherchildren! However to allow them to take on life challenges and emerge asconfident, well adjusted youngsters/teens/adults, parents need to set the tone - if a child finds a story scary perhaps an explanation, a bit of a cuddle and the realisation that they are protected and loved, even when bad things do happenwill better prepare them adequately and appropriately for the next stage in their lives..

The Guardian have a hilarious post on this topic here. 

This study was organised by Watch (a TV channel) as part of promotion for new show 'Grimm' - an adult look at fairy tales - as part of their promotion for the show over here.

Find the trailer below!

*Now the study didn’t actually specify too manydetails – for example the ages of the children’s, but still, it set the old neuronsblazing, resulting in this piece! 

Valentines Day? Bah, humbug!

2012-02-14T08:10:00.002Z

Because we are nothing if not objective...

For my second ever Valentine, my boyfriend at the time mis-spelt my name...

Be still my heart.

Symphony Recital

by Dorothy Parker

I do not like my state of mind;
I'm bitter, querulous, unkind.
I hate my legs, I hate my hands,
I do not yearn for lovelier lands.
I dread the dawn's recurrent light;
I hate to go to bed at night.
I snoot at simple, earnest folk.
I cannot take the simplest joke.
I find no peace in paint or type.
My world is but a lot of tripe.
I'm disillusioned, empty-breasted.
For what I think, I'd be arrested.
I am not sick. I am not well.
My quondam dreams are shot to hell.
My soul is crushed, my spirit sore:
I do not like me any more.
I cavil, quarrel, grumble, grouse.
I ponder on the narrow house.
I shudder at the thought of men.
I'm due to fall in love again.

Happy Valentines Day!

2012-02-14T08:00:00.003Z

The first Valentines Day card I ever received (from someone OTHER than my parents) had the following poem accompanying it.

And being over the moon with delight and joy (at having received one!) I promptly memorised it and can still recite it with pleasure.

A White Rose

by John Boyle O'Reilly

THE RED rose whispers of passion,
And the white rose breathes of love;
Oh, the red rose is a falcon,
And the white rose is a dove.

But I send you a cream-white rosebud	5
With a flush on its petal tips;
For the love that is purest and sweetest
Has a kiss of desire on the lips.

March 2012 - Details of MedusaLBC Book 3!

2012-02-08T23:11:00.000Z

Venue: Medusa Bar in Horsforth

Date:  Wednesday 14th March 2012

Time:  7:30pm - New Official Start Time! 

Book:  We need to talk about Kevin - Lionel Shriver

Address:  
8-10 Town Street, 
Horsforth,    
Leeds    LS18 4RJ


Notes: Free Wifi available!

And delicious snacks...we speak from experience! 

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub!

Contact the pub directly at @MedusaBar 

And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #MedusaLBC! 

LBC3Reads - Our May Date!

2012-02-07T08:00:00.001Z

#LBC3Reads

Cafe 164

Date: 19th of May 2012

Time: 11am - 12noon

Address: Unit 2

Munro House,

Duke St,

Leeds LS9 8AG

Book the First:

Sherlock Holmes -

The Hound Of The Baskervilles

by Arthur Conan Doyle

Project Gutenberg and Kindle: here

i-Book: here

Find fellow members on twitter by searching for #LBC3Reads.

Follow @Cafe164 for details on the deliciousables!

Let me know your thoughts by either tweeting me @LeedsBookClub, commenting below or emailing me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com

Library Poem - A Protest By Julia Donaldson

2012-02-06T16:35:00.001Z

Julia Donaldson, Waterstones Children’s Laureate, has written a dedicated poem to celebrate National Libraries Day.

Library Poem

Everyone is welcome to walk through the door.
It really doesn’t matter if you’re rich or poor.
There are books in boxes and books on shelves.
They’re free for you to borrow, so help yourselves.

Come and meet your heroes, old and new,
From William the Conqueror to Winnie the Pooh.
You can look into the Mirror or read The Times,
Or bring along a toddler to chant some rhymes.

The librarian’s a friend who loves to lend,
So see if there’s a book that she can recommend.
Read that book, and if you’re bitten
You can borrow all the other ones the author’s written.

Are you into battles or biography?
Are you keen on gerbils or geography?
Gardening or ghosts? Sharks or science fiction?
There’s something here for everyone, whatever your addiction.

There are students revising, deep in concentration,
And school kids doing projects, finding inspiration.
Over in the corner there’s a table with seating,
So come along and join in the Book Club meeting.

Yes, come to the library! Browse and borrow,
And help make sure it’ll still be here tomorrow.

Julia Donaldson is the current Waterstones Children’s Laureate, a post which is managed by the literature charity Booktrust. www.childrenslaureate.org.uk

March 2012 - Details of the next WSwanLBC

2012-02-06T13:25:00.000Z

White Swan LBC

Venue: White Swan Leeds

Date: Sunday 11th March 2012
Time: 6:00pm
Address: Swan Street, Leeds

Book the Third:

Slaughterhouse Five or The Children's Crusade

by Kurt Vonnegut, Jr

Interesting note - this is the first time ever that two members both suggested the same book at the same time at the same meeting!

Naturally, I'm deeply suspicious!

Notes: Free Wifi available!

Come along for good company, good booze

& great books!

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub!
The Pub can be contacted on @WhiteSwanLeeds
And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #WSwanLBC!

The Hunger Games - Book 2 - Catching Fire

2012-02-04T08:00:00.009Z

*****SPOILERS*****

*****SPOILERS*****

*****SPOILERS*****

After enjoying the first book in the series (here) I was raring to go with the next - though slightly trepidacious as those self same twitter buds that introduced me to the books were not as fond of this one.

Its always tricky when you know a little *too* much about your next read!

The Blurb

Against all odds, Katniss Everdeen has won the annual Hunger Games with fellow district tribute Peeta Mellark. But it was a victory won by defiance of the Capitol and their harsh rules. Katniss and Peeta should be happy.

After all, they have just won for themselves and their families a life of safety and plenty. But there are rumors of rebellion among the subjects, and Katniss and Peeta, to their horror, are the faces of that rebellion.

The Capitol is angry.

The Capitol wants revenge.

This book picks up a fewmonths after the first one ends. Katniss is trying to settle back into herlife. While the first book in the series focuses almost exclusively on theGames themselves with only tantalising glimpses of the places and society outsideit's artificial and ever changing boundaries; this story elaborates on theworld outside the arena.

Fundamentally; this is a bookwith two distinct and very different halves. The first focuses on Panem and howit is run. The second presents Katniss back in the Games.

Katniss and Peeta are finallyhome - where nothing is as it was before. While they live in luxury - theirfamilies safe and provided for - everyone around them continues to live indesperate poverty, eking out a living and hoping against hope that they are notthe next tributes plucked for the Games. Both of our protagonists are moreisolated than ever. Peeta is heartbroken after Katniss reveals that heraffection for him was manufactured for the cameras (though in her heart ofhearts, she’s not entirely sure that’s totally true. He cuts her off completelywhen they are not on show for the Capital; making his romantic façade all themore painful to read.

However it’s not like Katnisscan turn to Gale, who has suddenly started seeing her as a young woman andviable partner. He kisses her but is ultimately too caught up in trying toprovide and protect his family to progress to anything more. Aware of the risksof the all-seeing eye (less Sauren ‘in the sky’, more Big Brother style camerasall over the place); Gale hints towards revolution, resulting in Katnissfeeling less secure with him than she had remembered.

Far more worryingly; Katnisshas made an enemy of President Snow - a truly terrifying character,simultaneously smelling of blood and roses. He blames Katniss for the growingunrest and uprising in the districts, viewing her act of defiance in the arena(saving Peeta) as the catalyst.
Snow also reveals videofootage of Gale kissing her and warns Katniss that he will destroy her; turn thepublic against her; torture her family and kill her friends if she does notdemonstrate with utter conviction that she acted in the Games out of pure lovefor Peeta and not to spite the rule of law.

The first stop on their obligatory tour is District 11 - the home of Rue -Katniss' ally in the previous book. Despite their best intentions, both Peetaand Katniss overstep their bounds. As a result, they see the local populationpunished in a brutal fashion. Haymitch warns them that everything that happens onthis tour will be scrutinised. Once again Peeta and Katniss are workingtogether. Once again their lives are at stake.

Falling into their prescribed roles, the pair continue on their visit of thecountry. Each district is different yet worryingly tense. As in book one; thedistricts closest economically and financially to the Capital seem most contentwith the status quo. The poorer ones seem to be unifying under the banner ofthe Mockinjay – a sign that Katniss is only vaguely aware of but that she recognisesas a worrying link to her Games. There is also a rumour up and down the country– that District 13 – believed destroyed after leading the revolt that startedthe Games – still exists and is the headquarters of the revolution.

By the time they return toDistrict 12, Peeta and Katniss have a working truce. They are also – publiclyanyway – engaged to be married. Conditions have worsened for their district.
At this point the book shiftsa gear, describing the Games. This section is so involved; I’ll just touch onthe major points.

After a few months of playing the dutifulbride to be; Katniss and Peeta are shocked to be recalled to a special 75thanniversary of the Games – in the midst of preparing for their upcomingwedding. Not only are they to have to run the risk of the Games again, everyprevious victor is required to compete – including Haymitch – their mentor andstrategist. This time round Katniss knows that she will not be able to savePeeta by herself. She begs Haymitch to work with her to ensure that Peetasurvives – blindly refusing to see how unlikely it would come down to just thethree of them.

The situation is further complicated bythe anger and sense of betrayal across the districts. Every victor of the Gameshad won the right to life, guaranteed by the Capital. Losing this statusreflect badly on the integrity of the state as a whole.

Pushed beyond their limits, Katniss andPeeta refuse to tow the line during the pre-Game trials and publicdemonstrations. They each demonstrate their willingness to work togetherdespite the clear intention of the Games to pit them against one another. Theyare allocated the highest risk assessment of any competitors.

Within the surviving victors they do finda certain kinship. Every previous winner knows the game being played. Ratherthan the antagonism of the first Games, these competitors deliberately supportone another against the brutality of their shared situation.

Cinna and the rest of the team work behindthe scenes to ensure that the full romance, nobility and tragedy of Katniss’situation can be seen across Panem. Indeed the last thing that Katniss seesbefore the Games begin is Cinna being tortured for his actions.

During the final interviews, one by oneeach of the tributes – with various degrees of subtlety speak out against theGames and the system behind them. Except for Peeta. He charms the crowd, thenannounces that he and Katniss had married in secret and she was pregnant. Thecrowd goes wild, but with unease, rather than bloodthirsty satisfaction. Peetahad just ensured that Katniss was the favourite of the masses.

The Games themselves are rather rushed,with almost too much happening too quickly. The tributes are in the mainindistinguishable. Only the ones that you rapidly realise will work with Peeta,Katniss and Haymitch are described in any sort of detail.
Working together, a rapidly dwindling bandof tributes work out how to defeat the game structure. In the end, they manageto break through the barrier and Katniss is knocked out.

When she comes to, herlife has changed again. She is being taken to District 13. She has unwittinglybecome the symbol of a revolution. Gale is an active participant.
She is alone again. Peeta, always workingto protect her, was taken prisoner by the Game Keepers. Katniss realises thathe will be taken to President Snow and brutally punished.

* * * * *

Wow.
I enjoyed this book *almost* as much asthe first. The Games are less detailed, if more nuanced but this was right andnecessary to avoid repetition with the first book.
I think that the characterisation was muchbetter in this offering. Katniss in particular lifts off the page. However,characters like Cinna – crying out for more – provided the bread and butter ofthis book. The people feel real. I can’t describe it better than that.

However, it sets the scene too neatly.While you are dying to find read the final book, you are also conscious of themanipulation. Not the ideal.

Still – I LOVED it. And immediately started thenext one!

Find the second trailer to the film here!

* * * * *

The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games - Book 1 - The Hunger Games

The Hunger Games - Book 2 - Catching Fire

The Hunger Games - Book 3 - Mockingjay

* * * * *

National Libraries Day 2012!

2012-02-01T19:19:00.000Z

As you might know, we at LeedsBookClub love our libraries. 

We passionately believe that these are an essential national resource that MUST be preserved for the future. 

This year National Libraries Day will be celebrated on the 4th of February. 

That's THIS Saturday!!

How will YOU get involved?

Visit the link above for some great ideas on how you can help celebrate all sorts of libraries; the wonderful staff members that make the experience so enjoyable and the wide variety of services available!

We'll be heading in this Saturday to show our support. 

Hope to see you there!

Tweet your support using #NLD12

WSwanLBC - Book 1 Review!

2012-02-01T08:00:00.001Z

White Swan LBC

Venue: White Swan Leeds

Date: Sunday 8th January 2012

Time:  6:00pm 

Address: Swan Street, Leeds 

Discussing: Suttree by Cormac McCarthy

* * * * * S P O I L E R S * * * * *

Our first ever meeting at White Swan. I don't mind telling you - I was pretty nervous, though I needn't have been!!

THE BLURB (from amazon)

Set in Knoxville, Tenn., in the 1950s, this novel tells the story of a man who has repudiated his well-to-do parents, deserted his wife and is now a river fisherman who consorts with robbers, ragmen and other outcasts.

Cornelius Suttree, who has forsaken a life of privilege with his prominent family to live in a dilapidated houseboat on the Tennessee River near Knoxville. Remaining on the margins of the outcast community there--a brilliantly imagined collection of eccentrics, criminals, and squatters--he rises above the physical and human squalor with detachment, humour, and dignity.

Speaking for myself; I was excited to read a Cormac McCarthy - my first - having enjoyed the adaptations brought to the big screen of 'All the Pretty Horses', 'No Country for Old Men' and 'The Road'.

Suttree is an all or nothing sort of book - with no room for half measures. Roughly two thirds of the book is description - pure and simple and whatever tangible links there are towards a plot are deftly hidden beneath long winded passages of grass, trees and rivers.

Not all of the book clubbers had managed to finish it. However, we all agreed that we were challenged by the book - it forces concentration and a near absolute commitment to the page. Affectations used throughout the book (heavily stylised prose, no speech marks and few indications that one section has ended and another begun) were often very confusing and disrupted the flow of the story.

This book was a labour of love. McCarthy worked for over twenty years on this mammoth and somewhat autobiographical novel. Those of us who did manage to finish agreed that there was great disparity between certain sections - which seemed to have no bearing on one another. As it was so disjointed; it felt more like a collection of memories stored in one place than a coherent story - 'varying short stories of varying quality'.

Even those among us who had read a McCarthy before (that one person!)found it a touch difficult as the story didn't seem to have a linear pattern - which makes sense given how it was written. We spent about ten minutes trying to put the various sections in order - boat, prison, out of prison, flashback, boat, mourning - or possibly dream sequence...then alas our brains melted and we had to take a wine break!

Though not apparent to all of us; one member noticed that there was a certain inbuilt morality within the book. Whenever Suttree drank; awful things happened. It was also pretty unclear as to why he wasn't speaking to his family. Without this insight; it felt emotionally stripped.

One final highlight - the scene where characters wheeled out the dead person and took a photo with them!! Finding out that was a real tendency way back when was fascinating!! And deeply deeply creepy.

All in all - this book might not have been the most tremendous of successes but over half of us would definitely read another book by Cormac McCarthy (likely one of his later works).

Score - 7/10

Soundtrack

I read this while listening to the 'Oh Brother Where Art Thou' soundtrack.

Another recommended Leonard Cohen.

Read it? What music would you pick?

Book the Next: The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova

Venue: White Swan Leeds

Date:  Sunday 5th February 2012

Time:  6:00pm

Address: Swan Street, Leeds

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub! 

The Pub can be contacted on @WhiteSwanLeeds 

And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #WSwanLBC! 

Leaving Certificate Poetry - Elizabeth Bishop

2012-01-31T08:00:00.092Z

The final international poet in my Leaving Certificate series - I might have saved the best till last.

Elizabeth Bishop - according to my English teacher - was one of the most significant American poets EVER and one of the most distinguished poets of the 21st century. My English teacher was an awesome lady, a great judge of character and notoriously hard to please so we all kind of just assumed she was right.

Then we tried to read the blasted things! 
 
The Pulitzer Prize winning Poet Laureate was also a lesbian - and though fiercely feminist, refused to allow herself to be identified by either her sexuality or orientation. She was a poet and writer first and foremost.

Rejecting the confessional style of the time, she worked the most traumatic events of her life into her works, but discreetly, subtly. From an odd angle. Using her ability as a word smith, she was able to trace the deeply personal in an oblique manner.

Bishop discussed the familial mental illness (Sestina), her grandparents adopting her (First Death in Nova Scotia), her increasingly fraught struggle with alcoholism (The Prodigal - indeed two lines from this poem were etched on her tombstone) and her birthday (The Bight).

It took many many hours before I started to see the magic in these poems - many. many. many. hours - but her magic was indeed revealed in the end. Though not always comfortable reading, her works have a vitality, a passion for life that demands the readers attention.

Let me know if you enjoy!

  A Prodigal

   The brown enormous odor he lived by

was too close, with its breathing and thick hair,

for him to judge. The floor was rotten; the sty

was plastered halfway up with glass-smooth dung.

Light-lashed, self-righteous, above moving snouts,

the pigs' eyes followed him, a cheerful stare--

even to the sow that always ate her young--

till, sickening, he leaned to scratch her head.

But sometimes mornings after drinking bouts

(he hid the pints behind the two-by-fours),

the sunrise glazed the barnyard mud with red

the burning puddles seemed to reassure.

And then he thought he almost might endure

his exile yet another year or more.

But evenings the first star came to warn.

The farmer whom he worked for came at dark

to shut the cows and horses in the barn

beneath their overhanging clouds of hay,

with pitchforks, faint forked lightnings, catching light,

safe and companionable as in the Ark.

The pigs stuck out their little feet and snored.

The lantern--like the sun, going away--

laid on the mud a pacing aureole.

Carrying a bucket along a slimy board,

he felt the bats' uncertain staggering flight,

his shuddering insights, beyond his control,

touching him. But it took him a long time

finally to make up his mind to go home. 

First Death In Nova Scotia

In the cold, cold parlor

my mother laid out Arthur

beneath the chromographs:

Edward, Prince of Wales,

with Princess Alexandra,

and King George with Queen Mary.

Below them on the table

stood a stuffed loon

shot and stuffed by Uncle

Arthur, Arthur's father.

Since Uncle Arthur fired

a bullet into him,

he hadn't said a word.

He kept his own counsel

on his white, frozen lake,

the marble-topped table.

His breast was deep and white,

cold and caressable;

his eyes were red glass,

much to be desired.

"Come," said my mother,

"Come and say good-bye

to your little cousin Arthur."

I was lifted up and given

one lily of the valley

to put in Arthur's hand.

Arthur's coffin was

a little frosted cake,

and the red-eyed loon eyed it

from his white, frozen lake.

Arthur was very small.

He was all white, like a doll

that hadn't been painted yet.

Jack Frost had started to paint him

the way he always painted

the Maple Leaf (Forever).

He had just begun on his hair,

a few red strokes, and then

Jack Frost had dropped the brush

and left him white, forever.

The gracious royal couples

were warm in red and ermine;

their feet were well wrapped up

in the ladies' ermine trains.

They invited Arthur to be

the smallest page at court.

But how could Arthur go,

clutching his tiny lily,

with his eyes shut up so tight

and the roads deep in snow?

At the Fishhouses

Although it is a cold evening,
down by one of the fishhouses
an old man sits netting,
his net, in the gloaming almost invisible,
a dark purple-brown,
and his shuttle worn and polished.
The air smells so strong of codfish
it makes one's nose run and one's eyes water.
The five fishhouses have steeply peaked roofs
and narrow, cleated gangplanks slant up
to storerooms in the gables
for the wheelbarrows to be pushed up and down on.
All is silver: the heavy surface of the sea,
swelling slowly as if considering spilling over,
is opaque, but the silver of the benches,
the lobster pots, and masts, scattered
among the wild jagged rocks,
is of an apparent translucence
like the small old buildings with an emerald moss
growing on their shoreward walls.
The big fish tubs are completely lined
with layers of beautiful herring scales
and the wheelbarrows are similarly plastered
with creamy iridescent coats of mail,
with small iridescent flies crawling on them.
Up on the little slope behind the houses,
set in the sparse bright sprinkle of grass,
is an ancient wooden capstan,
cracked, with two long bleached handles
and some melancholy stains, like dried blood,
where the ironwork has rusted.
The old man accepts a Lucky Strike.
He was a friend of my grandfather.
We talk of the decline in the population
and of codfish and herring
while he waits for a herring boat to come in.
There are sequins on his vest and on his thumb.
He has scraped the scales, the principal beauty,
from unnumbered fish with that black old knife,
the blade of which is almost worn away.

Down at the water's edge, at the place
where they haul up the boats, up the long ramp
descending into the water, thin silver
tree trunks are laid horizontally
across the gray stones, down and down
at intervals of four or five feet.

Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
element bearable to no mortal,
to fish and to seals . . . One seal particularly
I have seen here evening after evening.
He was curious about me. He was interested in music;
like me a believer in total immersion,
so I used to sing him Baptist hymns.
I also sang "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God."
He stood up in the water and regarded me
steadily, moving his head a little.
Then he would disappear, then suddenly emerge
almost in the same spot, with a sort of shrug
as if it were against his better judgment.
Cold dark deep and absolutely clear,
the clear gray icy water . . . Back, behind us,
the dignified tall firs begin.
Bluish, associating with their shadows,
a million Christmas trees stand
waiting for Christmas. The water seems suspended
above the rounded gray and blue-gray stones.
I have seen it over and over, the same sea, the same,
slightly, indifferently swinging above the stones,
icily free above the stones,
above the stones and then the world.
If you should dip your hand in,
your wrist would ache immediately,
your bones would begin to ache and your hand would burn
as if the water were a transmutation of fire
that feeds on stones and burns with a dark gray flame.
If you tasted it, it would first taste bitter,
then briny, then surely burn your tongue.
It is like what we imagine knowledge to be:
dark, salt, clear, moving, utterly free,
drawn from the cold hard mouth
of the world, derived from the rocky breasts
forever, flowing and drawn, and since
our knowledge is historical, flowing, and flown.

The Fish

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of his mouth.
He didn't fight.
He hadn't fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely.  Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown 
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
--the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly--
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed 
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
--It was more like the tipping 
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
--if you could call it a lip 
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines, 
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap 
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons 
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings, 
the gunnels--until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

Sestina

September rain falls on the house.
In the failing light, the old grandmother
sits in the kitchen with the child
beside the Little Marvel Stove,
reading the jokes from the almanac,
laughing and talking to hide her tears.
 
She thinks that her equinoctial tears
and the rain that beats on the roof of the house 
were both foretold by the almanac,
but only known to a grandmother.
The iron kettle sings on the stove.
She cuts some bread and says to the child,
 
It's time for tea now; but the child
is watching the teakettle's small hard tears
dance like mad on the hot black stove,
the way the rain must dance on the house.
Tidying up, the old grandmother
hangs up the clever almanac
 
on its string. Birdlike, the almanac
hovers half open above the child,
hovers above the old grandmother
and her teacup full of dark brown tears.
She shivers and says she thinks the house
feels chilly, and puts more wood in the stove.
 
It was to be, says the Marvel Stove.
I know what I know, says the almanac.
With crayons the child draws a rigid house
and a winding pathway. Then the child
puts in a man with buttons like tears
and shows it proudly to the grandmother.
 
But secretly, while the grandmother
busies herself about the stove,
the little moons fall down like tears
from between the pages of the almanac
into the flower bed the child
has carefully placed in the front of the house.
 
Time to plant tears, says the almanac.
The grandmother sings to the marvelous stove
and the child draws another inscrutable house.

The Bight

At low tide like this how sheer the water is.
White, crumbling ribs of marl protrude and glare
and the boats are dry, the pilings dry as matches.
Absorbing, rather than being absorbed,
the water in the bight doesn't wet anything,
the color of the gas flame turned as low as possible.
One can smell it turning to gas; if one were Baudelaire
one could probably hear it turning to marimba music.
The little ocher dredge at work off the end of the dock
already plays the dry perfectly off-beat claves.
The birds are outsize. Pelicans crash
into this peculiar gas unnecessarily hard,
it seems to me, like pickaxes,
rarely coming up with anything to show for it,
and going off with humorous elbowings.
Black-and-white man-of-war birds soar
on impalpable drafts
and open their tails like scissors on the curves
or tense them like wishbones, till they tremble.
The frowsy sponge boats keep coming in
with the obliging air of retrievers,
bristling with jackstraw gaffs and hooks
and decorated with bobbles of sponges.
There is a fence of chicken wire along the dock
where, glinting like little plowshares,
the blue-gray shark tails are hung up to dry
for the Chinese-restaurant trade.
Some of the little white boats are still piled up
against each other, or lie on their sides, stove in,
and not yet salvaged, if they ever will be, from the last bad storm,
like torn-open, unanswered letters.
The bight is littered with old correspondences.
Click. Click. Goes the dredge,
and brings up a dripping jawful of marl.
All the untidy activity continues,
awful but cheerful. 


* * * * *
School Days Over

Eavan Boland
William Shakespeare
Michael Longley
John Keats
Seamus Heaney
Elizabeth Bishop

GCSE Poetry 

A Level Poetry - Utter Filth

If I Have To Leave - D.E. Barrell
Natalie Williams

* * * * * Full Table of Contents * * * * * 

Happy BookElf

2012-01-27T14:08:00.005Z

I'm so ridiculously, incandescently happy at the moment, for a variety of brilliant reasons.

As many of you know, this isn't always the case for me. That's why, when I am feeling happy, I tend to shout it from the rooftops. Sing it from the trees.
I've been trying to think of books that encapsulate this feeling, but all I can think of is moments. When Elizabeth finally accepts Darcy. When Jem realises that, yes, actually, she does love Ralph. When Sarah Burton realises she's got the job. Absolute happiness is incredibly difficult to describe, harder still in prose I think than poetry, because this glow is something that fits better into stanzas than paragraphs.

Normally I'd turn to my old faithful John Donne for this, but I've found this by Christina Rossetti, that seems to fit my mood fairly well. Also, it's my birthday next week so the title is relevant, even if the subject matter isn't.

A Birthday

My heart is like a singing bird

Whose nest is in a watered shoot;

My heart is like an apple tree

Whose boughs are bent with thickset fruit;

My heart is like a rainbow shell

That paddles in a halcyon sea;
My heart is gladder than all these

Because my love is come to me.

Raise me a dais of silk and down;

Hang it with vair and purple dyes;

Carve it in doves, and pomegranates,

And peacocks with a hundred eyes;

Work it in gold and silver grapes,

In leaves, and silver fleurs-de-lys;

Because the birthday of my life

Is come, my love is come to me.

xxx

Happy Birthday Robert Burns!

2012-01-25T12:32:00.000Z

Scotland's favorite son, the Bard of Ayrshire and 2009's awarded Greatest Scot turns 253 years old today.

Well...he would...like...if he were still alive and all.

Robert Burns was a self educated man; who collected national songs and wrote both poems and lyric - popularizing his native tongue, Scots language (not to be mistaken for either English or Gaelic).

Throughout his life and ever since, he has rightly been hailed as a pioneer of the Romantic Movement and has influenced scores of authors, poets and musicians ever since.

Don't think you know of him? You're probably wrong! He's the poet who gifted the world Auld Lang Syne, A Man's A Man for A' That and Halloween.

Like practically everyone else who grew up in these fair isles; I first encountered Burns in primary school.

And, like many, I haven't really revisited him since...to be remedied this month I swear!

Here are two of my favorites:

A Red Red Rose

O my Luve's like a red, red rose
That’s newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That’s sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass,
So deep in luve am I:
And I will luve thee still, my dear,
Till a’ the seas gang dry:

Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.

And fare thee well, my only Luve
And fare thee well, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho’ it were ten thousand mile.

To A Mouse

(Original)

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a panic's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
An' fellow mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't.

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It's silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld.

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

Still thou are blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

(And in English...)

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Richard Nottingham Book 3 - The Constant Lovers

2012-01-23T20:22:00.001Z

Leeds - 1732. 

Richard Nottingham remains the Chief Constable of Leeds - one of the few constants with regards to the city guardians. He and his right hand man and deputy - John Sedgwick - remain dedicated to keeping the city a peaceful and prosperous place. 

Nottingham is as familiar with the resident cut-purses, pick-pockets and prostitutes as he is with the market traders, weavers and nobility...though possibly more comfortable with the former than the latter!

Leeds is his home, his workplace and his haven.

He and his wife - the lovely Mary - have finally come to terms with the loss of their eldest, Rose. As their remaining daughter Emily has moved out of the familial home to work as a governess; they are re-discovering their easy rapport and affection for one another.

Within the city limits; Nottingham has been set the task of tracking a pair of thieves - who take servant positions in well to do houses before absconding with the silver! However, it's entirely possible that they have ripped off the wrong man - and now he must work to find them to ensure their survival. 

Additionally; he is forced to leave the confines of his beloved city and solve a heinous crime in the far reaches of the county. The body of a young woman has been found in the grounds of the ruined Kirkstall Abbey. Brutally stabbed; she carries, hidden within her clothes an enigmatic love note - 

"Soon we'll be together and

our hearts can sing loud,

my love,

W."

Despite her evident wealth, no one comes forward to claim the body. A body that - due to the heat - must be buried post haste. The Constable  finds to his frustration that the more evidence that he tracks down; the more questions that he raises.

Before he can begin to solve her murder, he must identify the remains and the mysterious W. On route to do this, he must deal with devious parents; a heartbroken husband; missing maid and Amos Worthy - his greatest foe and possibly the closest link to his past.

All in a days work...  

* * * * *

Another excellent addition to this compelling and engaging series. Once again, Chris manages to re-create the world of 18th century Leeds around the reader - capturing all the senses with his evocative prose. That's not to suggest that the language or set ups ever become flowery or grandious. As a Yorkshire lad, he is able to transport us using grounded prose and a pithy pace. 

One of my favourite features is the map of the period that he always provides at the start of the book. Using this; I was able to mentally track the course of the mystery. As I have lived near Kirkstall and Horsforth here in Leeds; it was wonderful to ty and picture the landscape as it was back then. As is always the case in these books; the environment plays an active role and it was exciting and fresh to discover new terrain. 

John Sedgwick remains one of the most delightful characters of the series and its wonderful watching his progress. Although my absolute favourite only appears in a handful of scenes; Amos dominates the page. 

As I've noted in pevious reviews; another of Chris' strengths as an author is his refusal to remain static. The characters develop and grow. They behave in unexpected ways and - while change can often be painful and sad for the reader - the ending of this book is both poignant and offers great potential for future books.

Which I have no doubt there will be. 

And once again, I look forward to reading them!

* * * * *

The Constant Lovers is to be officially launched at Leeds Central Library - see details here!

* * * * *
Chris Nickson

Richard Nottingham - Book 1 - The Broken Token Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 2 - Cold Cruel Winter Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 3 - The Constant Lovers Review

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - Short Story - Home

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - December

Chris Nickson - Interview 

Follow Chris on Twitter - @ChrisNickson2
Best Book of 2001 - Library Journal Award

* * * * *

Full Table of Contents

Errrrrr Libraries Much?

2012-01-18T12:37:00.004Z

I am fuming.

Wikipedia is down. This is because they believe in freedom of information which apparently this new law in the US, which I don't know anything about, will restrict. Fair enough, I too believe in open content and lack of censorship.

This isn't what is making me angry.

I've just had a morning from hell. Not being able to quickly get an overview from a topic that might have only just been introduced that morning means more work for me, trying to figure out what the hell desquamation of the skin involves, or what the 2005 Children's Act prevented. But that doesn't make me angry either. That's my job.

It's the Guardian. The bloody Guardian; my rock, my home-from-home, my oracle of everything that is good in the world.

The Guardian have a fair bit of stuff on the blackout, that I first heard about in yesterday's Metro. They have this handy guide to getting around it using a smartphone or an Internet cheat. Then they is the Guardipedia, a tongue in cheek liveblog involving a journalist and a stack on encyclopedias. It's quite funny, and a good newspaper-as-social-media idea. But only in a link to the Washington Post does it suggest the one thing that should be bloody obvious; why not use a library?

Libraries are threatened with closure all over the country. In a months time is the inaugural National Libraries Day, celebrating libraries in all sectors. It has never been cooler to be a librarian, we even got mentioned in Private Eye last week! This day is a perfect opportunity for us to show our skills, to show the value of reference libraries, of professional librarians who DON'T find research, or using indexes, or any of the other plethora of actual skills we should be teaching our children, (and that journalists really should know) 'a nightmare' because it is our job...

This could have been a day where librarians really shook their tail feathers, and The Guardian, who was all over last year's Save Libraries day, should have been supporting them doing just that, not taking the mick out of research skills, no matter how lightheartedly.

Leaving Certificate Poetry - Seamus Heaney

2012-01-17T08:00:00.003Z

The final of 'our' Irish poets - Seamus Heaney - one of my favourites. In fact; excluding Yeats, he is *probably* my favourite.

This might sound odd, but it's almost embarrassing to admit to being a Heaney fan these days.
He is a prolific, sensitive and intelligent poet...but worst of all...he is popular.
We Irish can be a funny lot - defend the underdog till the last, but heaven forfend we admit to liking someone who is doing well! 

Yet, it has been postulated that he is 'the greatest poet of our age'. Heaney does more than write poetry, he has written plays, prose and translations. He is as adept in a rural or urban setting and his works have significance internationally, as well as in his homeland. 

Now, I'm a big softie, so the elegant romance of Twice Shy just made me up in school. The final lines - only one other Heaney poem affects me more - Mid Term Break. Heartbreaking and poignant in one fell swoop.

Let me know what you think?

Twice Shy 

Her scarf a la Bardot, 
In suede flats for the walk, 
She came with me one evening
For air and friendly talk.
We crossed the quiet river, 
Took the embankment walk.

Traffic holding its breath, 
Sky a tense diaphragm: 
Dusk hung like a backcloth
That shook where a swan swam, 
Tremulous as a hawk
Hanging deadly, calm.

A vacuum of need
Collapsed each hunting heart
But tremulously we held
As hawk and prey apart, 
Preserved classic decorum, 
Deployed our talk with art.

Our Juvenilia
Had taught us both to wait, 
Not to publish feeling
And regret it all too late -
Mushroom loves already
Had puffed and burst in hate.

So, chary and excited, 
As a thrush linked on a hawk, 
We thrilled to the March twilight
With nervous childish talk: 
Still waters running deep
Along the embankment walk. 



The Tollund Man 

I

Some day I will go to Aarhus
To see his peat-brown head,
The mild pods of his eye-lids,
His pointed skin cap.

In the flat country near by
Where they dug him out,
His last gruel of winter seeds
Caked in his stomach,

Naked except for
The cap, noose and girdle,
I will stand a long time.
Bridegroom to the goddess,

She tightened her torc on him
And opened her fen,
Those dark juices working
Him to a saint's kept body,

Trove of the turfcutters'
Honeycombed workings.
Now his stained face
Reposes at Aarhus.


II


I could risk blasphemy,
Consecrate the cauldron bog
Our holy ground and pray
Him to make germinate

The scattered, ambushed
Flesh of labourers,
Stockinged corpses
Laid out in the farmyards,

Tell-tale skin and teeth
Flecking the sleepers
Of four young brothers, trailed
For miles along the lines.

III


Something of his sad freedom
As he rode the tumbril
Should come to me, driving,
Saying the names

Tollund, Grauballe, Nebelgard,
Watching the pointing hands
Of country people,
Not knowing their tongue.

Out here in Jutland
In the old man-killing parishes
I will feel lost,
Unhappy and at home. 

A Constable Calls 

His bicycle stood at the window-sill,
The rubber cowl of a mud-splasher
Skirting the front mudguard,
Its fat black handlegrips

Heating in sunlight, the "spud"
Of the dynamo gleaming and cocked back,
The pedal treads hanging relieved
Of the boot of the law.

His cap was upside down
On the floor, next his chair.
The line of its pressure ran like a bevel
In his slightly sweating hair.

He had unstrapped
The heavy ledger, and my father
Was making tillage returns
In acres, roods, and perches.

Arithmetic and fear.
I sat staring at the polished holster
With its buttoned flap, the braid cord
Looped into the revolver butt.

"Any other root crops?
Mangolds? Marrowstems? Anything like that?"
"No." But was there not a line
Of turnips where the seed ran out

In the potato field? I assumed
Small guilts and sat
Imagining the black hole in the barracks.
He stood up, shifted the baton-case

Further round on his belt,
Closed the domesday book,
Fitted his cap back with two hands,
And looked at me as he said goodbye.

A shadow bobbed in the window.
He was snapping the carrier spring
Over the ledger. His boot pushed off
And the bicycle ticked, ticked, ticked. 


Mossbawn 
I. SunlightThere was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed

in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall

of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove

sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.

Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails

and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.

And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.

The Harvest Bow

As you plaited the harvest bow
You implicated the mellowed silence in you
In wheat that does not rust
But brightens as it tightens twist by twist
Into a knowable corona,
A throwaway love-knot of straw.

Hands that aged round ashplants and cane sticks
And lapped the spurs on a lifetime of game cocks
Harked to their gift and worked with fine intent
Until your fingers moved somnambulant:
I tell and finger it like braille,
Gleaning the unsaid off the palpable,

And if I spy into its golden loops
I see us walk between the railway slopes
Into an evening of long grass and midges,
Blue smoke straight up, old beds and ploughs in hedges,
An auction notice on an outhouse wall—
You with a harvest bow in your lapel,

Me with the fishing rod, already homesick
For the big lift of these evenings, as your stick
Whacking the tips off weeds and bushes
Beats out of time, and beats, but flushes
Nothing: that original townland
Still tongue-tied in the straw tied by your hand.

The end of art is peace
Could be the motto of this frail device
That I have pinned up on our deal dresser—
Like a drawn snare
Slipped lately by the spirit of the corn
Yet burnished by its passage, and still warm

The Forge

All I know is a door into the dark.
Outside, old axles and iron hoops rusting;
Inside, the hammered anvil’s short-pitched ring,
The unpredictable fantail of sparks
Or hiss when a new shoe toughens in water.
The anvil must be somewhere in the centre,
Horned as a unicorn, at one end square,
Set there immoveable: an altar
Where he expends himself in shape and music.
Sometimes, leather-aproned, hairs in his nose,
He leans out on the jamb, recalls a clatter
Of hoofs where traffic is flashing in rows;
Then grunts and goes in, with a slam and a flick
To beat real iron out, to work the bellows.



* * * * *
School Days Over

Eavan Boland
William Shakespeare
Michael Longley
John Keats
Seamus Heaney
Elizabeth Bishop

GCSE Poetry 

A Level Poetry - Utter Filth

If I Have To Leave - D.E. Barrell
Natalie Williams

* * * * * Full Table of Contents * * * * * 

The Secret Circle - Book 3

2012-01-16T10:09:00.001Z

Book Three - The Power

In So Deadly A Battle...

United at last with Diana, the mistress of her coven, Cassie must first sacrifice her love for Adam to save the Secret Circle and the town of New Salem from the evil powers of the witch Faye.

Threatened by the possibility of her destruction in a final battle between good and evil, Cassie must hope that her supernatural gifts are strong enough to obliterate the powers of evil.

If victorious, Cassie will win more than she ever dreamed. But if she and Diana fail, the Power will go to those who seek only to destroy.

Can Anyone Triumph?

By far the best book in the trilogy; so naturally it has THE WORST BLURB of the trilogy.

* * * * *

SPOILERS

* * * * *

This book picks at the exact same point the second book ended. Faye has just devastated the group...for the second time by revealing that Cassie and Adam are madly in love and hiding it behind Diana's back. You know...because she's Adam's ACTUAL girlfriend.

While the Coven are initially sceptical; they soon realise that Faye is telling the truth. Faye continues - revealing the Cassie stole the magical skull - all the while twisting the truth further and further to make it appear that Cassie had been deliberately using and working against her fellow practitioners.

Adam however insists on having his say. Between them, Cassie and Adam manage to explain what had really happened. The coven are confused and hurt but after Diana magnanimously forgives the duplicitous duo; all the poison leeches out of the gathering.

Furious at her failure to crush Cassie; Faye becomes increasingly vicious. On the one hand, she insists on being recognised as the Coven leader. On the other, she distances herself from the group so thoroughly that even her allies begins to recognise how pernicious an influence she has become.

Cassie tells the group of Black John's most recent visit to the Cove - finally providing the group with the explanation to their parents death. For those in the group who still have both parents; it's sobering. For those who lost a parent in the fight for good - particularly Nick who lost both - it offers respite. Although he is alone in the world, he knows now with certainty that his parents were decent upstanding witches - who gave their lives to try and protect the town from evil.

Black John finally reveals himself to the group at Cassie's grandmothers funeral. It transpires that he has taken over the role of principal at their high school. His goal - it appears - is to destroy the coven.
Portia (from book one) and her witch-hunting brothers move into the area and the school environment rapidly changes. No long are the Coven on top - indeed they are now openly despised. Black John uses his power to create an anti-witch environment, while appearing to only be improving discipline. He even manages to bring back the stocks by claiming them as culturally and historically significant.

Cassie - whose mother has had a complete breakdown - moves in with Diana, who continues to offer friendship and support. Nick asks her out, and to everyone's surprise Cassie accepts. She finds in Nick not a soul mate but a kindred spirit.

To the surprise of the Coven (but not the reader), Faye is seduced by the dark side...sorry...Black John. For all of her attitude and posturing, I was surprised to find that she was basically working as his secretary. Anyway, the Coven decide to ask previous generations about the last time Black John was in town. While initially reluctant; the surviving Elders eventually tell the younger witches that the only way to fight Black John is to find the original Master Tools - hidden in the past by the original coven to prevent Black John from achieving his full magical potential.

They also advise the girls to hold a ceremony - one designed to bring Faye back into the fold and bind the members together. In the end; there are two rituals - one for all the girls and one for just Diana and Cassie.

Unfortunately, it doesn't appear that the ritual has worked. Faye gleefully tells Cassie the truth about Black John - that the last time he was in the Cove he seduced her mother. That her arrival precipitated everything that has happened since. That she is in fact (drum roll please) Black John's daughter.

(OK, just to let you know - this brings us about halfway through the book. A LOT happens in this rather slender book!)

The next section is very detailed and involved, so I'm just going to highlight the results. Cassie, Diana and Adam set out to learn as much as they can from their Book of Shadows in preparation for the inevitable showdown with Voldemort...sorry again... Black John.

Long story short - using their combined knowledge Cassie taps into the power of her dreams and manages to locate the Master Tools. With Faye still on the outs with the Coven and having betrayed the club at least once, Diana once again ascends to the position of leader - albeit temporarily.

Individually and collectively, the Coven are attached by agents of Black John. It transpires that he had manipulated witch hunters in the past - using the fear and paranoia they created in the witch community to cause the move to the Cove in the first place. Recognising a winning formula when he sees one, Black John is now using the pushy Portia and her friends to try and find the location of the Master Tools. Time and again, the Coven work together to protect themselves - despite being a member short - though it is rapidly becoming obvious that they are being betrayed by someone within the inner circle.

After one such attack, Adam rescues Cassie in dramatic fashion and she realises that she has to break up with Nick. She has no intention of hurting Diana but she can't be with anyone other than Adam. They remain too powerfully drawn to one another. Nick is surprisingly understanding about the whole thing. If nothing else, Cassie has forced him to face up to the fact that he is not alone in the world. Not anymore.

After one particularly sensitive piece of information is leaked, Cassie, Adam and Diana realise who the traitor is. Worse - they realise that there is a good chance that it is this person who was likely responsible for the deaths throughout the books.

Determined to keep *this* information secret, the circle fall apart...in public at least - continuing to gather as much intel as possible. Black John is preparing a hurricane - one that will isolate the Cove from the mainland and wipe out huge numbers of the population. Taking a huge risk, Cassie forges a reluctant truce with an outsider - hoping to save as many lives as she can.

Ultimately; the Cover are able to cleanse and purify the unwitting traitor but Faye still seems to have abandoned them. As it is an emergency, it is the ideal time to nominate a new leader. Before anyone can react, Diana nominates Cassie - who is stunned. The group unanimously agree. Before she can think, Cassie is about to lead the club against her father.

Black John has had centuries to prepare for this day. He sets the scene and Cassie feels helpless against him alone, even with the Master Tools. Her Coven join her - despite the risks and it is only by working together that they could possibly be able to defeat him. One by one the club use the knowledge they have collected throughout the series to bind him forever...but they can still feel his strength - diminished but not gone. In the end, wild unpredictable Faye steps up and joins her family and her friends. Black John is - for now and all future generations - defeated.

Cassie instantly checks on her mother who has finally regained her senses. The Coven remain determined for her to lead though she recognises that she'd be better with Diana for stability...and Faye for her passion. She will only stay on the Cove if they form a triumvirate and work together.

Finally, Diana points out that Cassie and Adam are soul mates and that it would be useless to deny it any further. Cassie and he are finally allowed to be together and she sees a glimpse of their future together - not just in this life but in an infinite number of futures.

In the end, she realises that she is truly home.

OK, I know I've made it sound a little 'aw, bless' there at the end but it's actually very engrossing and I really enjoyed reading the series.

Just as well really. I borrowed the Vampire Diaries from a mate and I can't get into it at all.

The Secret Circle

The Secret Circle - Book 1 - The Initiation

The Secret Circle - Book 2 - The Captive

The Secret Circle - Book 3 - The Power

February 2012 - Details of ArcadiaLBC next book!

2012-01-15T21:36:00.000Z

As you know - in conjunction with the Traveling Suitcase Library - we are running a BOOK CLUB, followed by a BOOK SWOP every month at the ever obliging Arcadia Bar!

Our next exciting adventure - Book Club the 12th! 

Venue: Arcadia Bar
Date: 19th February 2012
Time: 5:00pm
Book: Heat Wave by Richard Castle. Our first fictional author. 

Arcadia Bar

34 Otley Road,

Headingley
LEEDS LS6 2UE

Tel:  (0113)274 5599      

 PLEASE NOTE:

Unfortunately, Arcadia does not cater for children. 

EVEN MORE IMPORTANT NOTE: 

Members are under NO obligation to provide cake. 

It's just AWESOME when you do...


 * * * * *  
Arcadia LBC

Book 10 - 
Book 09 - Grace Williams Says It Loud - Emma Henderson
Book 08 - The Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Book 07 - Reading Lolita in Tehran - Azar Nafisi
Book 06 - The Line of Beauty - Alan Hollinghurst
Book 05 - Soulless - Gail Carriger
Book 04 - Cloud Atlas - David Mitchell
Book 03 - Touching the Void - Joe Simpson
Book 02 - The Shadow of the Wind - Carlos Ruiz Zafon
Book 01 - The White Woman on the Green Bicycle - Monique Roffrey

I freaking love you, Tina Fey

2012-01-12T09:38:00.002Z

Well that was a FUN start to 2012!
Having had a bit of a, shall we say, odd week, which involved, amongst other things drawing pictures of buses making love and googling 'Robbie Williams eats hamsters in and around Stoke' FOR WORK, one thing I really didn't need was to feel shit about my Kindle.
For anyone who doesn't follow me (@BookElfLeeds) and therefore hasn't seen my blatant product placement (VOUCHERS WOULD BE EXCELLENT, AMAZON, THANK YOU), I got a Kindle for Christmas. This was mostly due to my Dad wanting to read a book about Corruption that's only available as an eBook, so I didn't actually got to play with it until well after Festive Times Had Past, but never mind...
I went round straight away to N's house to Play with my New Toy, resulting in much comparisons of technologies, which always feels odd to me, the world's biggest Ludditeophile. I have subsequently acquired some Lovely Tomes on it, and started to read.
First thing I tried was A Feast For Crows, book 4 of A Song of Ice and Fire. Couldn't do it. Couldn't figure out which font size I should be reading it in, couldn't skip to the maps/family trees/other books with ease whilst having several fingers in the book which meant I had to remember what the chuff was going on all the time, which as we all know is impossible whilst reading Game of Thrones, sorry, sorry A Song Of Ice A Fire (Game of Thrones, DUM diddle diddle DUM diddle diddle etc etc). I finally caved and borrowed R's dead tree version and am now about a third of the way in and it is EXCELLENT.
I then read Unbearable Lightness, the memoir of Portia De Rossi, because I strongly believe the first book one reads in a year should be as depressing as possible. Having never had an eating disorder, it's not for me to judge or review this book, however it is incredibly gripping, and sad, and I would recommend it.
Reading Unbearable Lightness was, for some weird reason, really easy to read on the Kindle. I couldn't figure it out, was it just because this is a linear story that doesn't require constantly referring to maps? Then I tried reading Cormac McCarthy's No Country For Old Men and I couldn't read that either! No maps in that!
Then the magic happened; I started reading Tina Fey.
I love Tina Fey. Mean Girls made me laugh more than anything ever in the world ever. I've never watched SNL, but from the sounds of it, I would enjoy it, and I just adore 30 Rock. I saw that she had a memoir thing out a few years ago after the Sarah Palin shit hit the fan, and remember thinking 'oooo I want to read that', but knowing that I never would.
I just don't read celebrity biographies! Over the past five years I've read a shed load of historical biographies, including that fun period where I was utterly obsessed with the Mitford Sister's and Bess of Hardwick. I read Caitlin Moran's book last year, but only because if I hadn't I would have had to hand my 'lady-book-blogger-who's-also-a-raging-lefty-feministbot' badge back in. I don't read the one's that are bestsellers every year, the Peter Kays, the Kerry Katona's, because they look universally shite, I'm surrounded with them at work, they are incredibly popular and I cannot be arsed.
I guess celebrity biography is where my secret bigotry really comes out; I completely judge people who read them. They're what non-readers give sometimes-readers for Christmas and what celebrities say are their favourite books. I know this is completely inaccurate, and highly elitist for me to be saying, but it's what I've always, in the back of my head, secretly believed. Which is very bad of me.
And that's why I think I could read Bossypants with such glee abandon on my Kindle-no one new I was reading it!
This is what I don't get-why eBook readers haven't picked up on this as a massive advertising campaign-people like trash, are embarrassed by what they like to read because we live in a world where people who like sci-fi are nerds and people who like romance novels are stupid. When Kindles first came out, sales of erotica on Amazon rose by some ridiculous figure (I've definitely read somewhere but cannot find the source of it right now, sorry) in the first six months-I personally cannot wait until payday so I can read me some porn on the bus (AGAIN, AMAZON, VOUCHERS WOULD BE LOVELY). Ebook reader's biggest market is people over fifty, probably because they can afford them and The Young all want ipads or whatever it is the kids are playing with these days, so we've got a load of middle aged people reading porn on trains and there has been no advertising campaign that reflects this!
I feel ashamed to discover I secretly love celebrity biographies but only when no one knows I'm reading them, even more so because I've spent so long bitching about people judging people by what they read. But what to do? I've just downloaded shit loads in glee at the thought of months of happy reading on the bus.
I might get a badge saying 'Currently reading...' and then I can write whatever I'm reading on it, so that when I am reading my Kindle on the train, I don't feel so much like I'm contributing to reading snobbery, looking like a nice middle class girl who's probably reading Austen, or something, when I'm actually reading 'Naked Heat' (It's a real book!!!!!!!). Or a t-shirt saying 'I've Only Got A Kindle So I Can Read More Ladyporn'. Or something.
Or maybe it's just been a stressful week and my brain has craved Fey? Who knows!

Happy Reading!
BookElf xxx

LBC3Reads - Meet and Greet!!

2012-01-12T00:08:00.000Z

LBC3Reads 

(details here) 

To be held at the delicious city centre Cafe164 (twitter)

Date: 4th February 2012

Time: 11am - 12noon

Address: Cafe 164, 

Unit 2 

Munro House, 

Duke St, 

Leeds LS9 8AG

Book the First 

Sherlock Holmes - The Hound Of The Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle

This DOES NOT mean that the book needs to be read - this is just an initial get-together, a meet and greet as it were! 

Project Gutenberg and Kindle: here 

i-Book: here 

Let me know your thoughts by either tweeting me @LeedsBookClub, commenting below or emailing me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com 

February 2012 - Details of MedusaLBC Book 2!

2012-01-11T23:10:00.002Z

Venue: Medusa Bar in Horsforth

Date:  Wednesday 8th February 2012

Time:  7:30pm

Book:  The Sea, The Sea by Iris Murdoch

Address:  
8-10 Town Street, 
Horsforth,    
Leeds    LS18 4RJ


Notes: Free Wifi available!

And delicious snacks...we speak from experience! 

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub! 

And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #MedusaLBC! 

In Praise Of...Jean Webster

2012-01-11T08:00:00.000Z

I'm borrowing one of t'Elf's headers here and celebrating the life and works of Jean Webster.

Alice Jane Chandler Webster (1874-1916) was an American author, specialising in young female protagonists with lively spirits,  kind hearts and a burning desire to change the world! 

The author came from a strongly matriarchal background, raised by her mother, grand-mother and great-grand-mother - four generations all living under the same roof.  
Her father - who battled mental health issues for much of his life - was a literary man - working at one time with Mark Twain. (The disintegration of this working relationship is believed to have played a part in his subsequent breakdown and eventual suicide)

A womans woman; she enjoyed school and made friendships that lasted throughout her life. Indeed; she fell in love and married the brother of her best friend (having to keep the relationship under wraps for 8 years as he was already unhappily married!). At the early age of 39 years; she died shortly after the birth of her only child - a duaghter named Jean. 

An intelligent and passionate woman; her writings demonstrate a sense of humour and love of whimsy; alongside a strong and rational belief system. Jean (as she became known during her school years) argued for female suffrage, campaigned for social reform; socialism and travelled extensively to further improve her mind.

Her writings inspired and delighted me - I have and will continue to recommend her works to women of all ages. 

Daddy Long Legs
A book I first encountered many many moons ago.

Judy Abbot is the oldest orphanage in the John Grier Home. Witty and eloquent; she attracts the attention of one of the trustees of the Home with an essay for the local village school.

This trustee - a Mr John Smith - decides that Judy deserves the best education that money can buy and arranges for her to be sent to university - with all expenses paid.
He attaches only two conditions. Judy must write to him every month to encourage her writing talents (he believes that she has the makings of an author). Additionally; Judy can never know who he is.

With the exception of the first chapter; the book comprises of Judy's letters to this enigmatic man. A person she has only ever caught the briefest of glimpses off - a shadow thrown up against the wall - elongated and resembling nothing so much as...a long legged spider.

I can't help but love this book in a thousand different ways. Judy is funny, energetic and independent; also feisty, determined and longing so much to fit in the world around her. Before you think of her as a Mary Sue type - she is also quick tempered and stubborn. The best of all possible personality combinations if you ask me!    

On Project Gutenberg 

On Kindle

On iBooks

Dear Enemy

I only discovered that there WAS a sequel about 2 weeks ago and promptly downloaded it and devoured it.

In this book; Judy's school friend Sally McBride takes over the management of the John Grier Orphanage while Judy is travelling with her new husband. She writes updates to both Judy and to the attached Doctor - the enemy referred to in the title.

While I did enjoy this book and found it to be as funny and moving in places as the original; its nowhere near as good for two primary reasons.
Firstly the protagonist Sally is a touch grating. She is not half as easy to relate to as Judy was and her self confidence and 'outgoing bubbly personality' can on occasion seem demanding and brass with a side dish of annoying.

Far more difficult to overcome are the societal assumptions prevalent during that time but no longer considered acceptable at all. There's a particular passage about a third of the way in relation to orphans with learning difficulties that made me wince and shudder and all sorts of bad things all at once. The concept of eugenics raises its head on more than one occasion stated as scientific fact - though the protagonist does eventually decide that children are more impacted upon by a positive home environment than purely genetic defects.

Given that the book was in fact written with the aim of improving awareness; I'm comfortable with making some allowances. I'm glad that I've read it, I did enjoy it but the spot that Daddy Long Legs holds in my heart remains secure!

On Project Gutenberg

On Kindle - on Project Gutenberg

On iBooks

Ms Webster's creativity extended into art
- the illustrations provided in the books are her own.

We're blushing...Feel free to continue...

2012-01-10T08:00:00.000Z

LeedsBookClub has been mentioned THREE times on the blogsphere this week! 

Feeling all sorts of special and loved! Just in case you missed it please have a look at the following!!

LBC Member @WoodsieGirl blogs about her Reading Resolutions here!!

While fellow member @Wandapops interviewed me here!! 

Finally, future(?) member @CultureLeeds plans her twelve for 2012 here! 

February 2012 - Details for the next WSwanLBC!

2012-01-09T20:31:00.004Z

White Swan LBC

Venue: White Swan Leeds

Date:  Sunday 5th February 2012

Time:  6:00pm

Address: Swan Street, Leeds

Book the Second:

The Swan Thieves by Elizabeth Kostova

Notes: Free Wifi available!

Come along for good company, good booze 

& great books! 

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub! 
The Pub can be contacted on @WhiteSwanLeeds 
And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #WSwanLBC! 

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd by Sir Walter Raleigh

2012-01-06T10:00:00.000Z

Sir Walter Raleigh obviously didn't buy into the beauty of Kit Marlow's poem in the same way that I did.

This satirical and deeply caustic poem can be read in two distinct ways. It is either the Nymph's rejection of the Shepherd due to her own fear of mortality and the transient nature of love and life. Or it is a bitch slap rejection of pastoral poetry as a genera, particularly emphasising the lack of a voice in the medium for women.

Regardless, it's a good read. Let me know which of the two YOU prefer.

The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleas might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall,

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten--
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind may move
To live with thee and be thy love

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love by Kit Marlowe

2012-01-05T10:00:00.000Z

Published in 1599 - 6 years after the controversial poet/playwright's death. 

One of the best known English language love poems; it has always impressed me with it's simplicity, idealism and romantic vision. 

Christopher Marlowe 

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove
That valleys, groves, hills, and fields,
Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon rocks,
Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
And a thousand fragrant poises,
A cap of flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherd's swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

LBC3Reads - Book 1 - You decide!!

2012-01-04T08:00:00.003Z

LBC3Reads 

(details here) 

To be held at the delicious city centre Cafe164 (twitter)

As I've been struggling to pick a book for our first read, I'm hoping that interested readers would help me out! We've had a few suggestions, so let me know your choice by either tweeting me @LeedsBookClub, commenting below or emailing me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com

In the order they were suggested to me! 

The Lacuna by Barbara Kingsolver
A Week in December by Sebasitan Faulks
The Hound of the Baskervilles by Arthur Conan Doyle
Skippy Dies by Paul Murray
In A Strange Room by Dalmon Galgut

Reading Resolutions

2012-01-03T19:49:00.000Z

(Inspired by World Book Night) 

FOR 2012 I SOLEMNLY RESOLVE 

THAT I WILL:

1. STOP READING JUST for the sake of it.  

Instead I want to find something that really intrigues me, draws me in and captures my imagination rather than just picking something up because it's right there in front of me.

This might mean fewer reading challenges. I have a tendency to announce a new challenge a week then feel obliged to read them ALL-RIGHT-NOW despite my lack of available time. Then I panic that I haven't blogged...it all spirals into a lack of fun. 

In the same vein, I resolve to put down a book if I'm not enjoying it. 

I know I'm going to break this one even as I type it. I just CAN'T leave a book unfinished. It feels like I'm abandoning hope. By the same note, I'm similarly unable to read the last chapter if I haven't read every line up to it. In my brain 'that's cheating' (pulls a sulky face). 

See why it's going to be important to get the right read the first time huh?!

2. Give away as many books as possible (particularly to the TSL - Travelling Suitcase Library) 

Hopefully, I'll be part of World Book Night this year (as a giver - I'll be part of it whether they chose me or not!!) but regardless, my goal is to try and inspire as many non or light readers as possible to give a great book a go! 

Also, himself is starting to worry that the weight of all the books upstairs will bring the ceilings crashing down on top of us, burying us in rubble and words. 

Ahem. 

Course I'm already planning to cheat here. As a huge fan of Leeds Libraries I look forward to visiting them with greater frequency! 

3. Read more of the 'classics' 

Revisit or re-try the acknowledged best of the best. Especially those that I know I've read in the past and can't remember any of the details of...

As part of this, I'm hoping to read in a more conscious manner; to take in more (especially authors names!) and spend a bit more time appreciating each one. 

Reading should never be a race to the finish line! 

4. Stop borrowing books/do not accept lends. 

I have far too many books unread in the house. The elf is doing a challenge - here - and I'm planing to join in; making it about reading the books I already have in my possession. 

My goal is to return borrowed books, reduce my actual collection to the gems  and eradicate purchasing as much as possible! 

Darn you Leeds Markets and your amazing cheap book deals - especially that awesome stall somewhere in the middle with 3 books (often clearly unread hardbacks) for a £1! 

This is also made tough by having friends with impeccable taste. I'm thinking of creating a GOODREADS list just for recommendations so that I can refer back when I have a minute...but leave me without any need to take the actual book there and then! 

5. Read what I love and lots of it. 

I'm not going to apologise (anymore) for not liking romantics or pity me books or anything else for that matter. 

They aren't to my taste. That's OK. 

Though as part of this I do feel obliged to stop putting them down with people who do like them (except for Twilight. I'm absolutely comfortable with that prejudice). 

So.

Much. 

Harder. 

On the one hand, I've a head start on this - I've had to spend most of my life defending my love for SF (but you're a girl/it's all ridiculous fantasy/a waste of your time/not proper literature) - it's time to transform this into a confidence that allows me to feel comfortable and not ashamed with some of my tastes. 

Guilt is a pointless emotion - a waste of time and effort - particularly where books are concerned! So, I shall be filling 2012 with poetry, awe-inspiring SF, classics, mysteries, thrillers and YA books.

Now that's one I know I can fulfil!

What do you think? You making any resolutions yourselves? Comments, thoughts, nit picks? Please feel free to get in touch!


Calvin & Hobbes - greatest comic ever...

**P.S. I will of course be completing the challenges already up and running. 

BookElf Reads 2011

2012-01-01T14:15:00.018Z

In the tradition of the last two years...

Not published this year, just read this year, savvy?

Discovery of the Year

Ayn Rand/Mary Gaitskill (The Fountainhead/Two Girls, Fat and Thin)

What may initially appear to be an odd choice, seeing as this is also the year I've discovered so many amazing books that haven't made me nearly have a nervous breakdown and doubt my entire life's purpose, makes more sense when you consider just how much of an impact someone has had on my life by writing a book.

The Fountainhead was the medicine, Two Girls the spoon full of sugar. Only by reading Gaitskill's beautifully written and hilariously funny (if extremely odd and possibly hugely triggering) critique of objectivism with her Satire of Anna Granite was I able to stop seeing The Fountainhead as this be-all-and-end-all text and start seeing it for the brilliant fiction book it is.

Again, massive thanks to all those who put up with me throughout the blogalong The Fountainhead challenge, and to Lingmops for making me do it!

Series of the Year

A Song Of Ice and Fire by George R.R. Martin

Had to be really. I love these books, of which I've read the first three (the third being in two parts). Not only is it set in the most complete fantasy world since LOTR, every character is individual, complex and brilliant, and the plot is heart racingly intricate without becoming sloppy or dull... or at least it hasn't become sloppy and dull yet...This series always wins for how accessible it is. On almost every single commute since the summer I've seen someone with one of the books, mostly through scopin' their kindles. I've seen uber nerds and middle aged women (not that middle aged women can't be uber nerds...) reading them and I'd encourage anyone who loves a good romp to get stuck into Game of Thrones. The TV series was superb as well. Winter is coming, baby, winter is coming.

Up All Night Award

The Cry of the Go Away Bird by Andrea Eames.

Bit of a cheat as I read this in a day, rather than a night, but how could I not mention the gorgeousness that is Andrea Eames? This book, set in Zimbabwe in the early naughties, was both educational and moving, and I could not put it down. Simply but evocatively written the power of the subject matter is not hampered down by the emotions clearly running throughout.

Andrea was lovely enough to let N interview her, which you can read here, and my original review for For Books Sake is here. Her next book, The White Shadow is out in February and I've got a sneaking suspicion it's going to be just as good!

Best Debut
Bear Down, Bear North by Melinda Moustakis

Simply one of the best written pieces of fiction I've ever help in my hands, and it is criminal how little press these this short story collection has had in this country; The Guardian haven't even reviewed it for God's sake! This book makes you feel cold. Every emotion it is possible to feel is there, along with beautiful description of landscape and a perfect sense of place. Melinda was also lovely enough (after I massively fangirled her after reviewing it for ForBooksSake) to do an interview with me, which you can read here. This woman deserves success, and should be forced into writing a full length novel set in Alaska. Buy it! Buy it now!

The I-Know-I-Know-It's-Brilliant-But-Award

Miss Smilla's Feeling For Snow by Peter Hoeg

My ranging Scando-boner had a bit of cold water thrown on it mid-December when I finally got round to reading this Danish classic and Times book of the year. Didn't get it. The first 100 pages were brilliant, beautifully written and with and instantly gripping mystery I could sink my teeth into. Then it all turned a bit, you know, wank.

It's Smilla. She's a douche. A self obsessed, whiny, 'look at me, look at me', wannabe emo immature douche. By page 250 I was screaming 'YOU ARE 37 GET OVER YOURSELF' at her. Oh, but her amazing mother left her alooooone and she was forced from Magical Greenland by her daddy and oh isn't everything just dreadful.
Except, it isn't. She fucks everything up by being 'individual', also know as 'a knob'. She's had countless opportunities to have a good life, but instead chooses to fuck about. Also, I DON'T CARE WHAT HAT YOU ARE WEARING SMILLA, NO ONE DOES.

Like Lisbeth Salander, this is a fantasy of a woman, not a real one, and the entire book suffered for it. I left it with 80 pages to go, with Smilla running around a ship, for no apparent reason, with the caveat that I had a brand new copy of Pride and Prejudice looking at me and I could no longer be arsed with this drivel.

Best Recommended Read

South Riding by Winifred Holtby

I loved the TV series, but would never have thought of reading the book, were it not recommended to me by so many people (thank you @Sewhipfolkie for the lend!). A million times better, more in depth and more revealing of a time, with characters that haven't left me nearly a year later, this very nearly went for Discovery of the Year.

If you love strident female leads, and books set in The Past, read this. Then read Westwood by Stella Gibbons.

Worst Book of the Year
Hothouse Flower by Lucinda Riley.

This is what happens when you try to market Joanna Trollope to Kate Atkinson fans. This book made me gaaaaah at it so many times, and were it not for the one decent part of the back story with Cora in the 1930s and the fact that I was reading it for review I would have thrown it against the wall and had done with it. It is dross, badly written, endless, pointless dross. It also uses a racist paradigm as plot devices which is unforgivable in modern fiction. Thoughtless writing, how the hell this became a best seller is beyond me. Actually, no it isn't, it's the cover. Bloody marketing.

Another cracking year for reading, mostly due to the excellent and wonderful discoveries I've made through the book swaps and book clubs. Thank you to everyone for recommendations and donations and to lovely publishers and agents for sending me books!

Approximately 100 books read, most of them Not Shite. On to 2012!

Happy Reading

BookElf xxx

Happy New Year

2011-12-31T23:59:00.003Z

FROM ALL OF US AT LEEDSBOOKCLUB

Leaving Certificate Poetry - John Keats

2011-12-29T09:00:00.009Z

The second of the International poets that we studied was John Keats. 

Now, I'm a bit of a romantic myself, with just a touch of a maudlin streak so I settled comfortably and immersed myself in the following poems. 

After the tangled mess that is Longley, the dark deep undercurrents of Elizabeth Bishop and the subtle segways epitomising Seamus Heaney; it was a pleasure to read poems that are so straight forward. Keats says exactly what he means - with some flowery language but no subterfuge. 

I remain intrigued by the man behind the poems; yet am ashamed to admit I still don't really know much about him. The little I do know seems fitting for a Romantic of his prodigious talent. At some point I have promised myself that I will find and read a good biography for him!

Although I know that he is more famous for his epic 'Odes', my favourite of this set of six is 'La Belle Dame Sans Merci', which appeals to the Gothic/SF fan within. 

Original version of La Belle Dame Sans Merci, 1819

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has withered from the lake,
And no birds sing.

Oh what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel's granary is full,
And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow,
With anguish moist and fever-dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
    Full beautiful - a faery's child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
    And her eyes were wild.

I made a garland for her head,
    And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
    And made sweet moan.

I set her on my pacing steed,
    And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
    A faery's song.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
    And honey wild, and manna-dew,
And sure in language strange she said -
    'I love thee true'.

She took me to her elfin grot,
    And there she wept and sighed full sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
    With kisses four.

And there she lulled me asleep
    And there I dreamed - Ah! woe betide! -
The latest dream I ever dreamt
    On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings and princes too,
    Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried - 'La Belle Dame sans Merci
    Hath thee in thrall!'

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
    With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
    On the cold hill's side.

And this is why I sojourn here
    Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
    And no birds sing.

When I have fears that I may cease to be, 1818

When I have fears that I may cease to be
    Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
    Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
    Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
    Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
    That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
    Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

On first looking into Chapman's Homer, 1816 

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,
    And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
    Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
    That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
    Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
    When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortes when with eagle eyes
    He stared at the Pacific – and all his men
Looked at each other with a wild surmise –
    Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

W.J. Neatby - Nightingale

Ode to a Nightingale, 1819

My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains
    My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
    One minute past, and Lethe-wards had sunk:
'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
    But being too happy in thine happiness, -
        That thou, light-winged Dryad of the trees,
                In some melodious plot
    Of beechen green and shadows numberless,
        Singest of summer in full-throated ease.

O, for a draught of vintage! that hath been
    Cool'd a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
    Dance, and Provençal song, and sunburnt mirth!
O for a beaker full of the warm South,
    Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,
        With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
                And purple-stained mouth;
    That I might drink, and leave the world unseen,
        And with thee fade away into the forest dim:

Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget
    What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness, the fever, and the fret
    Here, where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few, sad, last gray hairs,
    Where youth grows pale, and spectre-thin, and dies;
        Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
                And leaden-eyed despairs,
    Where Beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
        Or new Love pine at them beyond to-morrow.

Away! away! for I will fly to thee,
    Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
    Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee! tender is the night,
    And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
        Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
                But here there is no light,
    Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
        Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.

I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
    Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
    Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
    White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
        Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
                And mid-May's eldest child,
    The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
        The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

Darkling I listen; and, for many a time
    I have been half in love with easeful Death,
Call'd him soft names in many a mused rhyme,
    To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
    To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
        While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
                In such an ecstasy!
    Still wouldst thou sing, and I have ears in vain -
        To thy high requiem become a sod.

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
    No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
    In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
    Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
        She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
                The same that oft-times hath
    Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
        Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
    To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! the fancy cannot cheat so well
    As she is fam'd to do, deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! thy plaintive anthem fades
    Past the near meadows, over the still stream,
        Up the hill-side; and now 'tis buried deep
                In the next valley-glades:
    Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
        Fled is that music: - Do I wake or sleep?

Ode to Autumn, 1819

Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?

Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,--
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.

Ode on a Grecian Urn, 1819

Thou still unravish'd bride of quietness,
    Thou foster-child of silence and slow time,
Sylvan historian, who canst thus express
    A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme:
What leaf-fring'd legend haunt about thy shape
    Of deities or mortals, or of both,
        In Tempe or the dales ofArcady?
    What men or gods are these? What maidens loth?
What mad pursuit? What struggle to escape?
        What pipes andtimbrels? What wild ecstasy?

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
    Are sweeter: therefore, ye soft pipes, play on;
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
    Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone:
Fair youth, beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
    Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare;
        Bold lover, never, nevercanst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal - yet, do not grieve;
        She cannot fade, though thouhast not thy bliss,
    For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
    Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And, happy melodist, unwearied,
    For ever piping songs for ever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
    For ever warm and still to be enjoy'd,
        For ever panting, and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
    That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloy'd,
        A burning forehead, and aparching tongue.

Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
    To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead'st thou that heifer lowing at the skies,
    And all her silken flanks with garlands drest?
What little town by river or sea shore,
    Or mountain-built with peaceful citadel,
        Is emptied of this folk,this pious morn?
And, little town, thy streets for evermore
    Will silent be; and not a soul to tell
        Why thou art desolate, cane'er return.

O Attic shape! Fair attitude! with brede
    Of marble men and maidens overwrought,
With forest branches and the trodden weed;
    Thou, silent form, dost tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!
    When old age shall this generation waste,
        Thou shalt remain, in midstof other woe
    Than ours, a friend to man, to whom thou say'st,
"Beauty is truth, truth beauty," - that is all
        Ye know on earth, and all yeneed to know.

* * * * *

School Days Over

Eavan Boland

William Shakespeare

Michael Longley

John Keats

Seamus Heaney

Elizabeth Bishop

GCSE Poetry 

A Level Poetry - Utter Filth

If I Have To Leave - D.E. Barrell

Natalie Williams

* * * * * Full Table of Contents * * * * * 

The Day of the Wren

2011-12-26T07:00:00.003Z

Happy St Stephen's Day...or Boxing Day (if you must). 

I hope you're all feeling rested after yesterday's celebrations and food!

Back home (in Ireland), the 26th was historically celebrated as The Day of the Wren - Lá an Dreoilín. It is believed that this tradition emerged out of older Pagan or Druidic rituals, co-opted into Christian celebrations. 

In the olden days; the Wrenboys/Strawboys/Mummers (originally male only, though later young women were allowed to join) would capture an actual wren and mounted it (ALIVE) onto a staff pole decorated with ribbons. This was later changed and a fake bird was hidden, rather than hunted. They would then travel throughout the local town seeking donations. The money raised would be used to throw a huge party that very evening - one the whole town would attend. Any money left over would be passed  onto the local schools. 

The Clancy Boys popularised the song below:

The Wren Song

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds,

St. Stephen's Day was caught in the furze,

Although he was little his honour was great,

Jump up me lads and give us a treat.

As I was going to Killenaule,

I met a wren upon the wall.

Up with me wattle and knocked him down,

And brought him in to Carrick Town.

Drooolin, Droolin, where’s your nest?

Tis in the bush that I love best

In the tree, the holly tree,

Where all the boys do follow me.

Up with the kettle and down with the pan,

And give us a penny to bury the wren.

I followed the wren three miles or more,

Three miles or more three miles or more.

I followed the wren three miles or more,

At six o’clock in the morning.

I have a little box under me arm,

Under me arm under me arm.

I have a little box under me arm,

A penny or tuppence would do it no harm.

Mrs. Clancy's a very good woman,

a very good woman, a very good woman,

Mrs. Clancy's a very good woman,

She give us a penny to bury the wren.

A Discovery of Nonsense (sorry, Witches, sorry)

2011-12-25T18:32:00.005Z

****SPOILERS, SO MANY SPOILERS. AND SWEARS. LOADS AND LOADS OF SWEARS***

What an utterly ridiculous book this is.

Firstly, a background as to why I read a paranormal romance book during the week before Christmas; the cover. We bought it for work because I'd seen it *everywhere*, the cover looked really pretty, and I just got a bit excited about it. Then I come home and my sister eyes it up (and may I remind you this is the sister who slept in Team Jacob sheets for years) and says possibly the wisest thing that's ever come out of her mouth. "That's not a real blurb, is it?".

And that's when I should have known! Because if a book is any good, if it has a decent story arch or thematic device or some sort of brilliant character holding the whole thing together it has a shitting blurb. This DOESN'T. It has what is later revealed to be a QUOTE from the book, and three incomplete sentences that would have my GCSE English teacher reaching for her big red pen. I KNOW this. I CATALOGED this nonsense, for fuck's sake! I had to make the abstract up! When will I bloody learn!

It's also really thick, like 700 pages thick, and I read a really thick book last Christmas and figured, sure, that'll keep me going over the Seasonal Festive Time. But noooooooo. Because it's bollocks. Great big fat, dialogue heavy bollocks.

Think the worst parts of Laurell K Hamilton (including the phrase 'training shoes completed the outfit' which made me just howl with laughter), combined with the crappyness of Twishite combined with The Historian. Then take out The Historian and beat yourself soundly for even beginning to compare by what is in comparison a masterpiece of modern fiction with this tripe.

And what pisses me off so much is how much I enjoyed it! Seriously, I know I'm going to do my usual rip-to-shreds now, but I had proper good fun reading this book!

A good first third of it is set in a library, The Bodleian Library for good measure. Diana is this scholar researching the history of alchemy calling up ancient manuscripts in one of the most respected and beautiful libraries in the world. This is relevant to my interests, yes. Then on the third page, half way down it turns out she's a witch. And the book doesn't start with some big reveal, she just drops that in there real subtle like, oh it made me tingle. I was absolutely hooked, proper loving it, excited about the mysteries of the manuscript, about a heroine who was mature and therefore relate-able, about the prospect of a bit of romance later as promised to me by the non-blurb on the gorgeous cover.

And then we meet Matthew.

Matthew is the hero, and a vampire. Though he's not just a vampire, he's a Manpire. Manpires are like regular vampires but their machismo is just SO GINORMOUS that they have to have is shoved roughly down the reader's throats. Edward is not a Manpire, Jean Claude might be a little bit. But there is no bigger Manpire than Matthew.

I fucking hate Matthew. He's a bellend. A patronising, selfish, big-headed, difficult, Heathclifftion cosy jumpered bellend. As anyone who saw my utter utter rage on Twitter the other night will testify to-I don't like bellends. Especially ones who get away with it.

Diana, who starts off well, suddenly turns into this utter wimp like emopausal bintette, falls in love with Matthew after knowing his for a week and not sleeping with him (but more of that later). The word 'irrevocably' isn't used, Thank Christ (every time I see that word in YA all I can think of is Inigo going 'I do not think it means what you think it means'), but you get the general idea.

And of course he falls in love with her, showing this love by stalking her, watching her sleep, taking her to yoga to a place where he knows she'll feel uncomfortable and not really letting her walk any where without his clutching her to his Massive Manpire Chest. Honest to God Diana spends the majority of time she is with Matthew either under his arm, or in his arms, or with him nuzzling her in some totally inappropriate manor infront of at least one of their relatives. Including his mother, Ysabeau, who could be a Strong Independent Woman character but turns out to be a pathetic as the rest of them proclaiming her beloved twatty son to be the head of the family and therefore some kind of Great God despite being an incredibly powerful and resourceful vampire herself.

Anyway, Diana calls up this manuscript and for some reason, which never actually gets fully explained, vampires and witches (who all descend from the same women who got deaded at Salem but are still run by a MAN) and daemons, who are genetic bloopers descended from actual humans as opposed to an inherited creature like witches, or created like vampires, all want at this manuscript, but, oh no, it's disappeared, and Diana is nearly killed a couple of times and massively threatened loads and so Matthew must clasp her to his Manly Manpire chest AGAIN and cart her off TO FRANCE where she will be safe, with his mother.

Loads of shit happens, most of which I can't remember, but this book would massively appeal to people who like books with lots of MINUTE DETAIL in it because that really is all it is. It's not well written in the slightest, but I could tell you every single thing about the world she's created because everything is so minutely explained. Oh and Diana brushes her hair a lot. And likes tea. See, I remember that. Couldn't tell you the plot, but I remember the important bits.

Parts of the book are fascinating, and the best written parts are the bit that Harkness knows well; scholarly works and history and science. I loved the idea of the Knights of Lazarus and all that went with that, it just didn't need the sloppy shit that went with it. The library, the university and all that world was so well realised and the 'creatures' all made sense and were a brilliant and well executed part of the book.

But Matthew is by far the star of the show. I've Goodreads it (this is the sort of book you have to, just for the comedy gold it brings up) and one reader said they were into him because they would welcome 'the challenge of loving him'. Now I know as someone who has been single since 2008 I'm not the biggest expert in this whole relationship thang but I always thought a challenge was something like climbing a mountain, or running a marathon, or getting a Masters or something. Not, you know, loving someone. What would be the point of that. 'Oh but for the brief few hours he clasps me to his Manly Chest it's worth the years of emotional pain and torment and self-sacrifice.' Yeah, course it is...

Here is my list of Massively Douchey Things That Matthew Does

I only started taking notes from about page 289, so there may be many, many more utterly shit things Matthew does that made me want to punch the book in the face, but these are my particular favourites.

1) They are going riding. Diana is a competent and practiced horse rider, and she examines the horse, puts the relevant horse riding equipment on the horse, and talks about how much she knows what she is doing with the horse. Matthew then still lifts her up and puts her on the horse.

"'Will you never wit until I help you?' he growled into my ear.

'I can get on a horse myself' I said hotly.

'But you don't need to.' Matthew's hands...." etc etc ad naseum.

See, you don't need to do anything strenuous anymore now you have Big Strong Manpire to carry you. GAAAAAAAAAAH.

And this is what modern women aspire to meet. The world has failed somewhere, I swear down.

2) Diana is trapped down what is basically a fuck off hole in a castle, except it's got some bollocksy scholarly name in French. She is visited by the ghosts of her mother and father who tell her the stories they told her as a child to encourage her to 'stay strong' (the worst phrase in the English language) also known as waiting for the Big String Manpire to come and rescue her. (You know that bit in Kill Bill Vol. 2 where Una is buried alive and she gets herself out using her fingertips? That). Anyway, so Diana, having been dragged about a bit and tortured in a way that I couldn't really imagine the description being as banal and un-involved as the descriptions of her making a cup of tea, or having water pouring out of her cheeks (they're called similes and metaphors, they're really cool, you should learn how to fucking use them) and she starts being told about how her prince will come and rescue her (GAAAAAAAH ONE INCH PUNCH MATE, ONE INCH PUNCH) and she thinks

"Why would anyone want to be with a useless witch".

THIS is my main problem; Diana has such ridiculously low self esteem that she can't believe that someone as mannish and handsome and wordly etc etc etc as Twatthew would want to be with someone like her. But instead of the book being Diana turning around and thinking "I'm awesome" all you get is Diana having her face cupped in his manly hands as he strokes her bottom lip and tells her "you're awesome to me". Great. Nice one, Twatthew, way to make a woman constantly dependent on you as her one source of approval. That's not massively psychologically abusive/manipulative AT ALL NOW IS IT???? Grrrrrr twat.

3) Diana is always, always referred to as "Matthew's". Matthew says she is "mine!" like a spoilt two year old on his first day in nursery too many times for it to just be a one-time drunken "get in my bed, woman, mine" thing, which is the ONLY time claiming ownership is acceptable and must immediately be followed by an apology the next day. You can't own a person, that's illegal. AND DIANA ACCEPTS THIS. When she is 'marked' as his by having his crest burnt into her back, she is more worried that some harm will come to her precious Mafffou than angry that she has basically been branded like a slave.

4) The line that made me throw the book at the wall...

" Matthew took my hands in his, 'That's enough bravery for one day, ma lionne'."

Might as well have patted her on the fucking head. Twat.

5) Oh, and then a whole PAGE later, when Diana magically discovers she has another in a seemingly limitless list of plot-enhancing powers, he tells her she isn't going to use it in the same way you'd tell of a child who's just discovered swearing. AND SHE ACCEPTS THIS.

6) Oh shit, turns out, despite never having sex because Matthew has decided that Diana doesn't have body autonomy and instead should just let him finger her occasionally on demand, they could have babies. Diana tells him she shall take some magic contraceptive tea. Matthew tells her 'You'll do a damn sight more than that'. He NEVER offers to take precautions himself, he TELLS her what she will do with her own body and then PRESUMES that it will be her fault anyway if they do get pregnant because she is so much 'stronger' than him.

And the sex thing? The sex thing really pissed me off. 'We have all the time in the world' (so?), 'We don't have to rush' (it's not like it's making a fucking pastry, mate, it's just sex), 'I want to get to know you're body'(and learn how to control it). I think @prototypecube, who was good enough to hear out my twitter rant put it best. "Hey bellend I want a good fu* bellend crams shushy finger onto her lips* "sssh my sweet, we do not need to rush, rest now". This perfect 140chars sums up the entirety of Diana and Matthew's relationship, and to be honest most of the plot.

There is a term from what Matthew does to Diana throughout the book; gaslighting. If this was my mate I'd have her out of this relationship a long time ago. Only, wait a minute, this entire book covers A MONTH OF THEIR LIVES???? THEY MAKE ALL THESE DECISIONS ABOUT THE FUTURE OF THE ENTIRE SHITTING WORLD IN A MONTH??? SHE TAKES 688 PAGES TO COVER A MONTH???? GONE WITH THE WIND COVERED FIFTEEN YEARS IN THAT TIME!!!!

A LOT happens in the book, but to be honest I was so fixated with anger on how much of a massive bellend Matthew was I kind of forgot how much I enjoyed the rest of it. It's very every silly, and things magically happen to move the plot along so much it's like she was making it up as she went along. And you know what the worst thing is? I can't wait to read the next one...

Honest to God, this is how they get you...

Happy Christmas!

BookElf xxx

2011-12-25T07:00:00.009Z

Leeds Book Club would like to wish you

a very very

Hope Santa brought you everything your heart desired.

Or at the very least a huge amount of chocolates!

A Visit From St. Nicholas

2011-12-24T09:00:00.008Z

A Visit From St. Nicholas

by Clement Clark Moore (1822)

’T WAS the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that ST. NICHOLAS soon would be there;
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,	5
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her ’kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap,
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.	10
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,	15
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name;	20
“Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!”
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,	25
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.	30
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,	35
And he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
His eyes—how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;	40
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,	45
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,	50
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle,
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,	55
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night.”

Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus

2011-12-23T07:01:00.001Z

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun: 

Dear Editor—I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?Virginia O’Hanlon

VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET.

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.

Francis Pharcellus Church

Merry Christmas everyone!

THE ORIGINAL LETTER, BELIEVED LOST, FOUND AND AUTHENTICIATED IN 1998

* * * * *

Christmas - Table of Contents

The Light Bulb Moment Review

2011-12-22T12:09:00.003Z

The Light Bulb Moment is a collection of pieces from various women and men, edited by Sian Norris, loosely based on the question 'what was the lightbulb moment when you became a feminist?'.

Like many of the contributors, my answer to this would probably be "I've always been". This doesn't stop this being a fascinating and moving collection that had me nodding my head throughout as well as reaching for my notepad to add various books mentioned and instances discussed to my 'read about' list.

The pieces are grouped (sort of) by theme, so you'll have stories about when the writers were children, stories of activism, stories focusing on the anti-porn movement, or vawg, or other issues. The stories are all written in distinctive styles, Sian has done very well in her editing in allowing the contributors to maintain their 'voice'. One piece written as a poem in particular "Girls Get Jam" (sorry I immediately lent this book to fellow feminist R so haven't got the name of the woman who wrote it in front of me) was excellent, and I'll be contacting her to request permission to post it up here.

There are a lot of big names in the book-which I think is my only issue with it. Having Laurie Penny and Jo Swinson as contributors might have added as certain gravitas for publicity, but Penny's contribution is the article from the Graun about The Female Eunuch which isn't even very insightful and I've already read on about fifty different websites a hundred times, and Swinson contributes an entire page. Wowsers.

Another thing this book shows is how much activism in inherited. I'll put my hands up here and say my hippy parenting from feminist lefty Guardian reading Northern parents may have contributed slightly to my politics a bit, but Finn Mackay's history of activism in the family, growing up on Greenham Common and having Julie Bindel round for dinner didn't inspire me. How is someone so influential in feminism being the product of a system that creates and supports influential people any different from someone being equally influential in another spectrum being a product of the system that creates and supports their peers? You can't really crap on Cameron and his ilk for being a Tory Scumbag, in power solely because of his privilege and inherited position and wealth when you're who you are because of where you come from too. This made me think about how I criticise others, who can't help not having a massive lefty for a dad and being force fed politics from childhood. Forgive them, for they know not what they do, and I know not either, to be honest. (I still would say that, having seen Finn Mackey speak a few times she is still the most powerful public speaker I've ever seen and still makes my heart beat that little bit faster every RTN).

However, these teeny criticisms aside, I loved this book. It made me cry small tears in places. Recognising a lot of the names as people I would be now proud to call friends, I was shocked at how much shit some people have gone through that I knew nothing about. It's like one of the contributors says "women don't talk about it". There were moments where I wanted to jump on a megabus and give all my sisters magic heeling boob hugs!

This book isn't one I'd recommend to people who aren't already feminists, as it's more of a reminiscence and reflection piece than a call to arms. It is also very limited in the scope of who is included, which Sian acknowledges. However, if you've got a family member or friend who is any way interested in the history of the woman's movement, gender or feminism I would give them this book as a wonderful New Year's gift. I've already passed it on, and shall definitely be buying a couple more copies to stick around some of the pubs in Leeds, as this would be a great book to dip into.

You can buy The Light Bulb Moment here.

Happy Reading (and Happy Christmas!)!

BookElf xxx

Chris-tmas Surprise!

2011-12-18T18:50:00.003Z

*****EXCLUSIVE*****

Our good friend Chris Nickson (music journalist, author and Leeds Book Club podcast buddy) has very kindly sent us this complete short story - an exclusive for our readers.

The story features our favourite Leeds based Constable - Richard Nottingham - during a cold December morning.

December

As always, we would like to thank Chris for his generosity!

And recommend that all crime buffs check out the two (soon to be three) books in the Richard Nottingham series (reviews are linked below!)..

Chris Nickson

Richard Nottingham - Book 1 - The Broken Token Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 2 - Cold Cruel Winter Review

Richard Nottingham - Book 3 - The Constant Lovers Review

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - Short Story - Home

Richard Nottingham - Exclusive - December

Chris Nickson - Interview 

Follow Chris on Twitter - @ChrisNickson2
Best Book of 2001 - Library Journal Award

* * * * *

Full Table of Contents

Christmas Read-A-Long - Stave Five

2011-12-16T18:58:00.008Z

And now, the end is near...

I LOVE this time of year! LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT!

I hope that you're still with us; still enjoying this most wonderful of all Christmas books!

Only one section left to go - and you'll have earned your Christmas treats even more!!

A Christmas Carol Rough Guide
Stave Five  - 16th December 

FREE versions of A Christmas Carol

A Christmas Carol for Kindles

A Christmas Carol for iBooks

While you can download the whole book here from Project Gutenberg in a number of different formats.

* * * * *

Christmas - Table of Contents

Leaving Certificate Poetry - Michael Longley

2011-12-15T09:00:00.004Z

The second (of three) Irish poets studied during my Leaving Certificate was Michael Longley.

This Northern Irish poet was utterly unknown to me before my final year at school. Of all the poems we read over and over and over again; these were the ones I struggled with the most. He manages to cram so much into each poem; every time that you see a particular perspective you realise that there are at least three more that you haven't yet considered. 

An Amish rug is perhaps my favourite. I'm a romantic at heart and everything about this just sings to my soul. The one I had to spend the longest on was Mayo Monologues - I hate that I understand the speakers perspective. I don't want to, I still to this day wish that I didn't. 

I guess that's the power and beauty of poetry. It gets under your skin. 

An Amish Rug

As if a one-room schoolhouse were all we knew
And our clothes were black, our underclothes black,
Marriage a horse and buggy going to church
And the children silhouettes in a snowy field,

I bring you this patchwork like a smallholding
Where I served as the hired boy  behind the harrow,
Its threads the colour of cantaloupe and cherry
Securing bay hales, corn cobs, tobacco leaves.

You may hang it on the wall, a cathedral window,
Or lay it out on the floor beside our bed
So that whenever we undress for sleep or love
We shall step over it as over a flowerbed.

1998

Last Requests

I

Your batman         thought you were buried alive,
        Left you for dead and stole your pocket watch
        And cigarette case, all he could salvage
        From the grave you so nearly had to share
        With an unexploded shell. But your lungs
        Surfaced to take a long remembered drag,
        Heart contradicting as an epitaph
        The two initials you had scratched on gold.

II

I thought you blew         a kiss before you died,
        But the bony fingers that waved to and fro
        Were asking for a Woodbine,         the last request
        Of many soldiers in your company,
        The brand you chose to smoke for forty years
        Thoughtfully, each one like a sacrament.
        I who bought peppermints and grapes only
        Couldn't reach you through the oxygen tent.

Self-Heal

(Mayo Monologues 3)

I wanted to teach         him the names of flowers,
        Self-heal         and centaury;         on the long acre
        Where cattle never graze, bog         asphodel.
        Could I love someone so gone in the head
        And, as they say, was I leading him on?
        He'd slept in the cot until he was twelve
        Because of his babyish ways, I suppose,
        Or the lack of a bed: hadn't his father
        Gambled away all but rushy pasture?
        His skull seemed to be hammered like a wedge
        Into his shoulders, and his back was hunched,
        Which gave him an almost scholarly air.
        But he couldn't remember the things I taught:
        Each name would hover above its flower
        Like a butterfly unable to alight.
        That day I pulled a cuckoo-pint         apart
        To release the giddy insects from their cell.
        Gently he slipped his hand between my thighs.
        I wasn't frightened; and still I don't know why,
        But I ran from him in tears to tell them.
        I heard how every day for one whole week
        He was flogged with a blackthorn,         then tethered
        In the hayfield. I might have been the cow
        Whose tail he would later dock with shears,
        And he the ram tangled in barbed wire
        That he stoned to death when they set him free.

Poteen

Enough running water
        To cool the copper         worm,
        The veins at the wrist,
        Vitriol         to scorch the throat -

And the brimming hogshead,
        Reduced by one noggin-full
        Sprinkled on the ground,
        Becomes an affair of

Remembered souterrains,
        Sunk workshops, out-backs,
        The back of the mind -
        The whole bog an outhouse

Where, alongside cudgels,
        Guns, the informer's ear
        We have buried it -
        Blood-money, treasure trove.

Wounds

Here are two pictures from my father’s head—
I have kept them like secrets until now:
First, the Ulster Division at the Somme
Going over the top with ‘Fuck the Pope!’
‘No Surrender!’: a boy about to die,
Screaming ‘Give ’em one for the Shankill!’
‘Wilder than Gurkhas’ were my father’s words
Of admiration and bewilderment.
Next comes the London-Scottish padre
Resettling kilts with his swagger-stick,
With a stylish backhand and a prayer.
Over a landscape of dead buttocks
My father followed him for fifty years.
At last, a belated casualty,
He said — lead traces flaring till they hurt —
‘I am dying for King and Country, slowly.’
I touched his hand, his thin head I touched.

Now, with military honours of a kind,
With his badges, his medals like rainbows,
His spinning compass, I bury beside him
Three teenage soldiers, bellies full of
Bullets and Irish beer, their flies undone.
A packet of Woodbines I throw in,
A lucifer, the Sacred Heart of Jesus
Paralysed as heavy guns put out
The night-light in a nursery for ever;
Also a bus-conductor’s uniform—
He collapsed beside his carpet-slippers
Without a murmur, shot through the head

Before they could turn the television down
Or tidy away the supper dishes.
To the children, to a bewildered wife,
I think ‘Sorry Missus’ was what he said.

Wreaths

The          Civil Servant

He was preparing an Ulster fry for breakfast
When someone walked into the kitchen and shot him:
A bullet entered his mouth and pierced his skull,
The books he had read, the music he could play.

He lay in  his dressing          gown and pyjamas
While they dusted the dresser for fingerprints
And then shuffled backwards across the garden
With notebooks, cameras and measuring tapes.

They rolled  him up          like a red carpet and left
Only a bullet hole in the cutlery drawer:
Later his widow took a hammer and chisel
And removed the black keys from his piano.

The          Greengrocer

He ran a good shop, and he died
Serving even the death-dealers
Who found him busy as usual
Behind the counter, organised
With holly wreaths for Christmas,
Fir trees on the pavement outside.

Astrologers  or three          wise men
Who may shortly be setting out
For a small house up the Shankill
Or the Falls, should pause on their way
To buy gifts at Jim Gibson's shop,
Dates and chestnuts and tangerines.

The          Linen Workers

Christ's teeth ascended with him into heaven:
Through a cavity in one of his molars
The wind whistles: he is fastened for ever
By his exposed canines to a wintry sky.

I am blinded  by the          blaze of that smile
And by the memory of my father's false teeth
Brimming in their tumbler: they wore bubbles
And, outside of his body, a deadly grin.

When they  massacred          the ten linen workers
There fell on the road beside them spectacles,
Wallets, small change, and a set of dentures:
Blood, food particles, the bread, the wine.

Before I can  bury          my father once again
I must polish the spectacles, balance them
Upon his nose, fill his pockets with money
And into his dead mouth slip the set of teeth.


* * * * *
School Days Over

Eavan Boland
William Shakespeare
Michael Longley
John Keats
Seamus Heaney
Elizabeth Bishop

GCSE Poetry 

A Level Poetry - Utter Filth

If I Have To Leave - D.E. Barrell
Natalie Williams

* * * * * Full Table of Contents * * * * * 

Book Swap Cafe 164

2011-12-09T11:22:00.003Z

Just a quick reminder that the Travelling Suitcase Library will be having another book swap tomorrow, the 10th December, at Cafe 164 between 11-3ish.

We'll have the usual book swap, so bring your tomes, and pick up your festive read. Plus the gorgeous and talented @Decknologist will have his decks set up to spin some festive "wax" (look at me being all down with the kids!) so tweet him your requests.

Cafe 164 is next door to the Leeds Gallery, opposite the bus station, and sells a wide range of teas, coffees and soft drinks. If you are desperate for a festive tipple, please do bring a bottle!

Cheers, and see you then,

BookElf xxx

WSwanLBC - Book 1!!!

2011-12-09T09:00:00.003Z

White Swan LBC

Venue: White Swan Leeds

Date:  Sunday 8th January 2012

Time:  6:00pm

Address: Swan Street, Leeds

Book the First: Suttree by Cormac McCarthy

Notes: Free Wifi available!

Come along for good company, good booze 

& great books! 

For further details, please email me at leedsbookclub@gmail.com or tweet me @LeedsBookClub! 
The Pub can be contacted on @WhiteSwanLeeds 
And feel free to let us know your thoughts using #WSwanLBC! 

The Lightbulb Moment-bit of a plug...

2011-12-08T11:24:00.004Z

As many of you will know, I am a feminist. Not everyone is, and that's their choice, but I am very proud of my belief in equality for all regardless of gender and love hearing from others who also feel the same way.

That's why I'm really chuffed to announce a new book, edited by my Sister-From-Another-Mister, the amazing Sian Norris, that brings together a collection of stories from feminists about how they came to be one.

Here is what Sian says about the project...

‘After reading ‘Click’ I felt very strongly that we needed this book for the UK. We have such a rich feminist scene here. I thought it would be fascinating to hear how the women and men involved in UK feminist activism ‘found’ feminism. And I was right! These stories are so diverse and unique – I hope that people will enjoy reading them as much as I have. By bringing together the stories from women and men from a range of communities and generations, The Light Bulb Moment hopes to offer a snapshot of feminist activism in the UK today, and share the stories of the women and men involved.'

Personally I cannot wait to get my hands on a copy, and I encourage you all to too. Crooked Rib is a brand new independent publishing outlet that deserves support, and I hardly ever do plugs so I feel no shame in this one. Also if you order before the 16 December, the book is a mere £7.99, so would make a cracking little stocking filler for any feminist friends...

I'll have a review up as soon as I've got my own!

Happy Reading
BookElf xxx

The Book Of Human Skin by Michelle Lovric

2011-12-07T16:05:00.000Z

Here's a thing you might not knowabout Leeds Book Club.
We are blessed.

One of our members - whom I shallrandomly nickname the Elf to protect her identity - has a super power - a giftsome might rightly say.

After only a few minutes ofconversation with you, she is able to magically present you with books thatyou'll not only want to read; you'll NEED to read.

These books will end up being theones that you carry in your heart forever, stay up till 2am on a work night tofinish without regret, ponder over for weeks after finishing them, recommend tofriends and family or compulsively thrust upon strangers in the hope that theirlives will similarly be as positively affected. The better that the Elf knowsyou - the more spot on and essential her choices.

Obviously, I can't tell you who itis. Like all the greatest of gifts; it can be something of a burden. Quite howshe manages to resist the urge to snatch the 'wrong' book out of someone handsis beyond me. Her self-control is to be admired.

So when I tell you that I was toldby this Elf character to drop everything and start The Book Of Human Skin, I'msure you can understand why I did just that - abandoned all other literaryobligations and dove right in.

THE BLURB

Midday, 13th May, 1784: An earthquake in Peru tears up the white streetsof Arequipa. As the dust settles, a young girl with fanaticism already brandedon her face arrives at the devastated convent of Santa Catalina. At the samemoment, oceans away in Venice, the infant Minguillo Fasan tears his way out ofhis mother's womb. The great Palazzo Espagnol, built on Peruvian silver and NewWorld drugs, has an heir. Twelve years later, Venice is in Napoleon's sightsand Minguillo, who has already contrived to lose one sibling, is listening tothe birth-cries of his new sister Marcella, a delicate, soft-skinned threat tohis inheritance. Meanwhile, at Santa Catalina, the scarred young girl hasbecome Sor Loreta, whose craving for sainthood is taking a decidedly sinisterturn. Minguillo's livid jealousy will condemn his sister to a series of fatesas a cripple, a madwoman and a nun. But Marcella Fasan is not quite the softtarget Minguillo imagines. Aided by a loyal servant, an irascibleportrait-painter, a young doctor obsessed with skin, a warhorse of a Scottishmerchant and a cigar-smoking pornographer nun, Marcella pits her sense ofhumour, her clever pencil and her fierce heart against Minguillo's pitilessmachinations. Her journey takes her from Napoleon's shamed Venice to the lastpicaresque days of colonial Peru - where the fanatical Sor Loreta has plans ofher own for the young girl from Venice.

Thebook opens and lets you know immediately that it could become uncomfortablereading. And then it rapidly delivers.

Idon’t want to give anything away of the story. It’s too worth exploringyourself. So; I’ll just do a bit of a run down on my impressions of some of themain points. Once you’ve read the book; drop me a line – I’ll be thrilled todiscuss it in detail.

Featuringsome of the most deeply unpleasantly vicious characters ever to grace a page;the story does not shy away from describing some truly horrifying acts. In afew places, I rolled my eyes, disgusted at how OTT it was...then looked theparticulars up and found out that these things used to actually happen.

Themore foul/sexist/derogatory or inhumane the act; the more likely that it was infact historically accurate - somewhat like the Handmaid's tale by MargaretAtwood – where every indignity suffered by the protagonist had actuallyoccurred in our history.

Iquite enjoyed reading the different narrative threads, though if I’m totallyhonest with you, it took some time to get into. The book opens with the voicesof Sor Loreta and Minguillo dominant. Their twisted world vision providesinteresting perspectives though I personally preferred it when those of kinderintent started to take over the narration. For one thing; without the constantglorification of self; the story began to flow a lot more smoothly. Foranother; you feel like you're seeing a much more honest view of the world.

Santa Catalina

Ithink that Sor Loreta was my favourite character. Never before have I read acharacter that so deeply winded me up and thrilled me simultaneously. Herself-belief, arrogance and fanaticism, coupled with her distaste for all aroundher comes across clearly from the get go. Within seconds of starting hernarrative; you forget all about relating to her and just enjoy trying to depictthe world described without her deep-rooted hatred tingeing everything.Throughout the book every time I saw the font that indicated her particularthought patterns (really nice little structural touch there) I had this dirtylittle thrill of delight. It is endlessly fascinating to me that she was ableto get away with so much for so long. It makes sense though – given thefinancial arrangement behind her cloistering – is that a word? I suppose if youpay for your insane daughter to be housed somewhere; you expect her to be letto her own devices as much as possible. You certainly don’t expect her to be upon charges or anything. Sor Loreta is, without doubt, an evil vicious cow. AndI loved her for it.

Iwas somewhat less enamoured with Minguillo. Yes. He is equally arrogant, rude,nasty and cruel. However, the balance of power is all in his favour. The bestthing about his perspective was contrasting it with other, more honest voices –his clothing for example – so important to him; a point of ridicule foreveryone else – endlessly enjoyable. I think one of the things that I struggledwith was his ability to get away with everything from such a young age. For me;his later villainy would have been more palatable and agreeable if it hadn’tbeen spelled out that he was a ‘wrong ‘un’ so early in the narrative. It was myonly quibble but I felt a fairly major one.

Thepositive strands within the story are all interwoven, revolving around Marcella– the much maligned sister. She, her servant and her doctor break up the evilstrands at the start of the novel; only really stepping up at the half waymark. Though each character has a unique voice and perspective; they are just ateeny tiny bit dull when viewed in comparison with the ‘baddies’ – as is oftenthe case with these either or character types. Having said that; the way theyarticulate their world feels like a far better honest evaluation of thepolitical and economic times. And they were clearly fascinating times.

Theauthor clearly loves Venice and has researched the time frame backwards andforwards. I wasn’t three chapters in before I was just DYING to go for a visit.If she ain’t on the tourist board…she should be!!

A fantastic, disgusting and though provoking read. Onethat still manages to thrill and delight; even while you’re hiding behind thesofa or feel too disgusted to read on!

I haven't read any of Michelle Lovric before, but I will definately be seeking out more of her work in the future.