Photo by Toa Heftiba on Unsplash
‘My writing is rubbish compared with everybody else’s’
‘Well, don’t compare your writing with everyone else’s then,’
Month: October 2018
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Writers Things
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My Thoughts on Little Moments of Love a Catana Comics Collection.( @catana_comics )
Title: Little Moments of Love
Author: Catana Chetwynd
Genre: Love &Romance / Humour
Rating:
Catana’s comics are based on her relationship with her partner John. In the introduction Catana explains, “wow, we have a weird relationship, if other people saw what we do it would be odd and embarrassing. Have you ever looked at your significant other and thought – Well, that’s what we thought too, before the comics began,”
The situations in the comics range from intimacy (wanting to touch your partner’s butt, borrowing their clothes etc.) to all the comfy parts of being in a long term relationship (choosing to stay in on a Friday night instead of going out, laying around the house in your pants etc.)
I’m sure many people will be able to relate to these comics. My favourite is the comic where he asks if she wants to finish his sandwich and she takes no time in taking the sandwich off of him. (I’m always hoovering up my partner’s leftovers!)
Little Moments of Love is a cute book, unbearably so at times (can there ever be too much cheese?)
It would make a great coffee table book, or if you’re looking for a gift for your significant other.
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i rise // i rise // i rise // Poems for a World gone to Sh*t @Quercusbooks “the amazing power of poetry to make even the most f**ked up times feel better”
Title: Poems for a World gone to Sh*t
Publisher: Quercus Books
Genre: Poetry
Rating:
It can feel like the world has gone to shit at the moment, can’t it? The perfect book then is surely this poetry anthology, compiled, and published by Quercus books. The inside describes it as, ‘Here in this little book you will find inspiration to guide you though, from that first instinct to just get the f**k away from it all, via what the hell you can do about any of it, to realising that the birds are still singing. These poems are about remembering to keep looking at the stars, whatever sh*t life is throwing at you,’
I like the yellow inside, the simple design of the book cover, and interior chapters. It’s a book that is going to brighten up your bookshelf. I like too that this not another book of collected poetry from poets that have been republished in anthologies so many times your eyes roll right back in your head. Holly McNish, Nikita Gill, and Lemn Sissay feature in this book.
The opening poem though is an old favourite This be the Verse by Philip Larkin, “they fuck you up your mum and dad,” The chapter titles are aptly named. This be the Verse is from Chapter 1 What the F**k?
The poems selected use the autumnal season to illustrate the misery of the poet, while other subjects included are homelessness, the masks we wear, and arguments. It’s cynical, bleak, and makes you question your existence.Human Life Matthew Prior
What trifling coil do we poor mortals keep; wake, eat, and drink, evacuate, and sleep.Chapter 2 Get me the f**k out of here … is a fraction chirpier. The poems selected take on movement, and getting away, although in poem On a tired Housewife by Anon it suggests the only way to get away is by death.
Chapter 3, 4, and 5 have the titles Keep your Sh*t together, Let’s do something about this Sh*t, and Life is still f**king beautiful, which are comprised of poems bursting with joyous moments of youth, nature, and love.
There is a great mix of female poets. One I liked was Anne Bronte and her poem Lines composed in a Wood on a Windy day in Chapter 2 “the long withered grass in the sunshine is glancing,
The bare trees are tossing their branches on high,
The dead leaves beneath them are merrily dancing,
The white clouds are scudding across the blue sky,”
One of my favourite recent poetry anthologies, modern, with some new poems that may well become classics, ebullient, and not quite as offensive as the title might suggest.
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Poems House for Demolition & Letters by Deryn Pittar.
HOUSE FOR DEMOLITION
Memories chase me down the slippery verdant path,
through the gate with its rusty spring.
I nod to the passion fruit vine
still visiting the neighbours,
leaving crop as payment for their space.A climbing rose has embraced the Judas tree.
The roofline steeples its hands in prayer
giving thanks for the harvest,
and begging for rain.The laced veranda and weather-board bodice
hug the red front door.
It swings to my touch.
A waft of lavender and mothballs greets me,
a cobweb strand brushes my cheek.In my old room, sunlight prisms through bevelled glass
scattering rainbows on the wall.
Dead flies decorate the windowsill
and the smell of mown grass creeps in through a window crack.I open the cupboard door,
deaf to the screech of its hinges.
My fingers seek the noggin in the dark
finding the soft leather cover still there.Small pages stuck with damp,
speckled with mould,
encase the scribbled voice of a child.
Reclaimed, held close,
The words echo against the beat of my heart.Diary retrieved,
I leave.
LETTERS
Albert and Julia Featherstone-Cox
have a beautiful elegant blue letter box
with wide hanging eaves to keep out the rain
it sits on a cleverly curved welded chainThe Smiths down the road because of their debtors
have set up a cream can to hold all their letters.
Placed on its side with a slot in the lid
through the slot all their letters are carefully slidAt the end of the lane where the Postie won’t go
stand six mismatched mail boxes – all in a row,
odd colours, odd heights, lichen-dressed and rust stained
they appear like a queue of one legged cranesMy mailbox is small, I don’t get much mail
and what I do get is consumed by the snails,
I get emails and texts and junk mail – a few
but what I crave most is a letter from youOne I can read, full of love and your pain,
one I can read and then read again
to put in my pocket, to fondle and muse
on our time spent together on that great ocean cruisewhen passion ignited two elderly hearts
an autumn of love – and now we’re apart…
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Poem by Karen Ankers Meeting at Euston.
Meeting at Euston
a girl with city faded eyes
excuses her request for a pound
says she’s never been on the streets before
tells me in a worn tobacco coated voice
she needs the money for a bus
as if I need a reason to be kind
the coin in my hand is bright
as she once was
has unquestioned value
as she once did
perhaps
when her eyes and soul still shone
before promises and practised lies
took her light as deposit
on oxygen and pavement space
the metal that slides from my palm to hers
courts the sun
just for a second fairytale gold
illuminates the touch of our hands
and in that moment more is passed
than money
skin meets soul remembered skin
blood beats between us
each strengthening the other
in the time it would have taken
to turn and cross the road
Poetic Insights 