Category: articles

On Emily

There was an increasing divide
Between people she wished to know
And those she did not.

Her clarity could not endure
Social talk instead of truth;
Piety instead of “The Soul’s Superior instants”.

Her directness would have been disconcerting
If she did not “simulate” conventionality,

And this was “stinging work”.



But a more threatening challenge,
Deeper below the surface,
Fired the volcanoes and earthquakes in her poems –

An event,
As she put it,
That “Struck – my ticking – through -“.

From A bomb in her bosom: Emily Dickinson’s secret life. By Susan.

Simon and Ruth

At first, Ruth was a bit put off
by the fact that Simon turned up in a car
with every imaginable gadget:
I wasn’t used to flash cars, she says.

Then, on a day out to the beach,
Simon messed up Ruth’s kite.
He got all the lines tangled
so I didn’t use it again, says Ruth,

who had, however, noticed
that Simon was very polite.

From the Announcements, Marriages and Engagements section of The Times, 18 February 2012. By Thom.

Brooklyn, Brooklyn

You live very self-consciously, in Brooklyn.
Do you drink juice or coffee or eat
vegetables? How do you live with yourself
and your bourgeois lifestyle choices? Have you
ever grown a plant?

You monster,
you gentrifying Brooklyn monster.

Your plant is a symbol. Punch that up
on your sushi iPhone app where you get
your food from in your new robot Brooklyn
dystopia, you invasive specie.

Do you like quirky things?

It’s people
like you who are ruining the Brooklyn
remembered by old folks who sit on stoops
and provide readily available
sound bites about the days of old.

From the article Brooklyn is cool until you start reading about it.

Ullapool

Here
I am on the seafront in Brighton, in 1994.
I have just told my best friend that
we shouldn’t go out with each other.
‘We were meant to be just friends,’
I am saying.
I have read about love in novels and am sure
I know all about it. This is one of the cleverest things
I have ever done.
I am 18.
I exhale my cigarette, like a grown-up. Here
I am four years later, on the same stretch of seafront
with the same friend.
We are on a bench. My head is in his lap.
We are talking about what to call
our baby in my belly. My wedding dress is in a bag at
our feet.
We get married in three days. Since
we were last here,
I have learnt that
I knew nothing at the age of 18.
I know now that love can be a quiet, sure thing
– like the first April sun on
your arms – and not the pyroclastic blast
I was waiting for. In 19 hours,
we will find out that the baby
is dead. The grief that is coming for
us has five blades on each hand: it will fall on
us like a blizzard, and leave
us on the floor.
We will weep on
our honeymoon in Ullapool – so lost
I could not tell you if it did rain at all,
that time. At the time,
I thought the deep-sea pressure of sorrow was
so great, it would crush
my heart smaller, for ever.
I was sure I knew everything about it.

Taken from Caitlin Moran‘s column for the Saturday Times, 20 August 2011. By Marika Rose.

The devil in its sights

It is, frankly, an amazing story.
The indomitable patriarch who will shortly
be forced to plead age and infirmity;

his headstrong son whose eagerness
to do what his father would have done
will shortly doom him;

the loyalists who will unquestionably fall
on their swords; an upending of the moral
landscape in which the miscreants once

happily functioned; and the virtuous newspaper,
perhaps the last great newspaper,
with a last great editor, who, long waiting

for and never believing it would get
such an opportunity, now has
the devil in its sights.

From Will the Guardian Bring Down Rupert Murdoch. Submitted by Rishi Dastidar.