03 October 2013

Water, water, everywhere

Today is, according to The Poetry Society, National Poetry Day.
Water is the subject, inspired by the cry of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's Mariner: 'Water, water, everywhere'

Writing something new today isn't likely to happen so I have been rummaging through my shoeboxes for something appropriate to the theme. How about this group from 2002?:

swan song

treize cygnes sous la pluie que cygnifie-t-il?
est-elle une portent?
pas plus que cela.

no more than that.

il pleut.
ils chantent une chanson triste…
moi aussi.

time runs out and
the river runs
through it while I stop
to count swans.

© Carrie Berry
31 August 2002


translation:

swan song

thirteen swans in the rain
what is the cygnificance?
is it a portent?
no more than that

no more than that

it’s raining
they sing a sad song…
and so do I

time runs out
while the river runs through it
and I stop
to count
swans



jealousy slips comfortably through my fingers
a worn satin binding on a blanket of insecurity
sometimes I think I’ll let it go
but winter is coming

© Carrie Berry
31 August 2002



things to count on a rainy day

unread books
unsung songs
unwritten words
unspoken thoughts
swans

© Carrie Berry
31 August 2002

06 June 2009

Bill Bailey - Dueling Sitars (actually sitar guitar and sarod) (Tinselworm)

The original video was removed for copyright reasons. This one is also from Bill Bailey's Tinselworm show - let's see how long it stays up.

06 April 2009

Remembering Poetry Month

A recent post at Maryanne Stahl's blog linked to a reading of Roethke's 'The Sloth' by an eleven year old American girl named Katherine Mechling. Definitely worth checking out along with the rest of the readings at the Favorite Poem Project.

I think I will ask Katherine to read one of my old poems which I have dusted off for a belated debut in honour of National Poetry Month:
the lummox

the lummox lurks
inside of you
and goes where
you must go

he can’t decide
to sit or stand
so ambles
to and fro

he doesn’t know
how he should act
or how to
wash his face

and always seems
to talk out loud
when you must
go a place

but he is quite
a gentle sort
and easy
to abide

as long as you
remember that
you have a
friend inside

Carrie Berry
21 August 1997
Since I have posted nothing at all since September of last year, we should probably toast the occasion. I am feeling positively inspired.

Is it possible I might actually come up with something new this month?

28 September 2008

One ought...

"One ought, everyday at least, to hear a little song, read a good poem, see a fine picture, and if possible, speak a few reasonable words."
- Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe
I try. I really do.

09 September 2008

08 September 2008

Big Brother is watching

And when things are darkest, I look back.

I could never understand why thousands, maybe millions, of people pay good money every summer so they can leave the comfort of home to fight for a couple of square meters of beach or poolside in foreign climes. Once there, they can spend hours basting their bodies with smelly SPF-stupid lotions (to keep away the cancerous lesions) while exposing as much flesh as possible (to avoid unsightly tan lines). When the sun goes down, these same people lubricate their insides with organ numbing concoctions so they can jockey for position on a noisy dance floor with gyrating sweaty strangers who might later agree to share whatever communicable microbes they have managed to collect along the way. And this is called a holiday. For a couple of weeks maybe they can pretend their humdrum lives don’t exist and come away a few hundred pounds lighter in the wallet but fully appreciative of the homes and jobs they thought they had to get away from.

About three years ago I had to give up the day job and, more importantly, the salary that came with it. Holidays (should I ever fall prey to the mystique) are simply unaffordable these days. But even retirement has its moments, and sometimes you just have to get away from it all: away from answering emails, writing blogs, reading a good book and writing that review afterwards; away from remodelling the bathroom, updating your wardrobe, taking a long walk in the countryside; away from having lunch with a friend, painting that masterpiece, completing that novel.

It is at times like this, I can really appreciate a good bout of depression and the accompanying morass of dark feelings that makes me want to crawl into a cave for a week or two. Or thirteen.

Enter Big Brother. Not Big Brother from 1984, the iconic Orwell novel that shaped my philosophy in those tender years, but the tragically compelling reality TV series produced by Channel 4 in connection with Endemol. I am currently finding my way back from the altered state through which I absorbed UK’s ninth summer series, Big Brother 2008 (UK). As part of the weaning process, I will need to write about the experience in the next couple of blogs.

Nothing compels you to read it.