Archive for June, 2006

Eating Figs

Soft. Ajar and inviting: split me.
I do, peeling back the bruised skin, slightly wrinkled like a wisened
face, to reveal a colony of seeds. Two perfectly equal halves. I brush
the entrails of one with my tongue, the tip exploring populations of
tiny pods, like a hand emersed in a bag of kernels. They ripple beneath
taste–buds, greeting them with the pleasure of reunited lovers.

Eagre teeth sink slowly into the mustard hyde and crunch the stiff seeds, cracking so many shells and severing fibre sinews.

I eat one half at a time.

of them is held in the pergatory of my plam, resisting the temptation
to squeeze and spill the entrails over the lip of the halved skin. The
half in my mouth is sugared kalamari, a bag of magic beans, a
Romantic’s heart, all swilled around and inbetween each tooth. What
carniverous pleasure. I cannot wait to eat the vulnerable Other.


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I found this in my notebook. It’s not great, definately needs redrafting but I thought I’d post it all the same…

sunlight fades and night
crawls into bed
beneath the covers
wraps a gloved hand a–
round my pupil
and darkness dissolves
into that non–space between
sleep and trying
too hard to

in which I toss
and turn
and turn
pin pricks
of elves who have discovered a new
these irritated limbs
a mirror
for twisting thoughts
– a flutter –
butterfly beside my ear
each frantic wing–beat
come close
come closer

I see the spider’s web that’s latched you on
take me
let me
I’ll ease into your fragile frame
and flap,
flap and
set you free

she flies
(or is it he?)
and heavy whisps of thought
push through my ears
slide along my hair
and out,
and out into the air;
I spin my mind throughout the room, around
my bed
releasing slaves of memory
who’s chains I wove with this same
pseudo–spider craft;
upon each strand,
a single tear is thread.

a salty river flows
glazing webs that grow
throughout the room
now glistening
as if they wear
the morning’s dew—

clever butterfly
turned these self–indulgencies
into a natural work of art

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What a fool I’ve been this year. What a wealth of wonderful
literature I have let flow right past me! Reading Arnold has just made
me realise why it is that I object so strongly to the notion that
people believe in God through a psychological need to do so, and I’m
not sure why I never came to this conclusion before. My mind is slow
but progressing, I must be patient and challenge it to do so.

The reason is this: that it assumes believing in God is a simple thing
to do. It is easy enough to say you believe in God, but to believe is
something quite different. It takes work, it takes conviction and a
transcendence of reason that is hard to accept in today’s secular
Western society, where religion and spiritual notions have become such
a taboo, as Lenny was just saying to me. You do not choose to believe,
you choose to let that belief become a reality for you, for belief to
completely reform the notion of reality that is presented to you from
birth by rationalists of the media and educational institutions.

I propose that GIVE LOVE A CHANCE
will be the next radical moto for this world in which true belief and
paths of the heart are being lasooed, and strangled by the realist’s

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Three days ’til my Poery and Society exam and I have begun to wish
I’d taken an interest in it earlier. Due to various reasons, mostly my
attitude towards the course, I haven’t worked as hard as I could have
this year and now that I am beginning to read the poets of the Romantic
and Victorian eras in more depth, I am finding myself enjoying them
more and more.

What I really wanted to blog now, is my discovery of Middle Eastern influences in Poetry of this period. Two examples:

Shelley’s The Revolt of Islam,
a poem in twelve cantos. The revolutionary radicalism in this poem was
too much for Shelley’s publishers and he was forced to revise it
considerably and publish it under another title.

Matthew Arnold’s Sohrab and Rustam. Rustam is the epic hero of one of the greatest works in Persian literature, The Shahname and Sohrab was his son. I haven’t had the chance to read the poem thoroughly, but it may be Arnold’s version of one of The Shahname‘s many stories concerning Rustam and Sohrab’s lives.

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