Contra Wilde on Theocritus

She wasn’t born in Sicily

where Theo’s dole was spent and clipped;

Liz came to life in Battersea.

Toffs-over-Thames was Wilde’s see.

Worn soles clapped cobbles when she skipped;

she wasn’t born in Sicily.

By soot-clogged brick near the stunted tree

and snot-nosed kids was where she tripped;

Liz came to life in Battersea.

Raising nine, no time was free

to mourn the last; birth crammed his crypt.

She wasn’t born in Sicily.

Old age cramped. Her treat was tea

in the park’s café, her cup tight-gripped;

Liz came to life in Battersea.

No moment flared when she wished to flee

the life from which her soul was ripped.

She wasn’t born in Sicily;

Liz lived and died in Battersea. 


Wilde's poem:

 

Time to write: Writing attitudes

I was interested in a rather moan-y article in the Graun yesterday, so put up the following response:

"Why be bitter? There are plenty of ways to gain satisfaction as a writer."

I moved along much the same trajectory as Anonymous. I've written poetry all my life, had some published in reputable po. mags. and after having a book published (not poetry), decided that the last thing I needed was to enter the poetry/literary world with its politics, need for PR, competitions, chapbooks, debut book razz-a-ma-tazz and all the supporting activities that knocked me out of the right frame of mind and distracted from actually writing the stuff. So I retrenched and just went on writing and reading."

The result is that I have a body of work (poetry and other) and a reluctance to self-publish - too much faff now I'm near the end of a longish life. So, last year, I set up a blog for my poems, some reviews, some biographical pieces that seem to please my family and the occasional piece on poetics. Not many people read it and I don't publicise it much - too time-consuming. I'm also lucky that I have a husband who crits my work with a good deal of insight. As he's a linguist, he's also a great help when I decide to translate other poets' poems.

What it does make me do is revise and re-edit work on a regular basis. The satisfaction's in putting up the best I can produce; the rest is in the laps of whatever poetry gods happen to take a glancing interest in poetry. It's enough.

If I were to say more, it would be along the lines of thanking teachers, poet friends and workshop members for their encouragement and critiques earlier in my life. I'd also say that I write because I can't not write; whether there's an audience or not is, for me, beside the point. It feels good when people read and comment, but the writing itself seems more important.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2017/apr/01/what-im-really-thinking-the-failed-novelist? 

Poem

 

I let it come

let it approach lightly

foot to toe to my ear

while in its cage my heart

shudders

hurries in its burning blood

first the forest

and now the wood

more mist than snow in the hand

from its beginning paper absorbs

the swelling poem verse by

each unsheltered verse

I touch it fumbling and there crouching

wise

is the hungry shrinking wolf

seeming mild he grows gluttonous  

a tight nut at the core of light

now a flash of noise

and he's fast on the path

hits on the shortcut

bolts with the pack or slopes off alone

at the dead of night he shifts and fetches

I get moonlight

in an ermine dress

I feel when he's here as a shiver

that falls on my skin

a hidden dizziness in my secret pulse

as I write

enclosed in my dream

I unclothe him slowly and slip him down with me. 

The above is a translation from the Portuguese of a poem by Maria Teresa Horta.

Poema  

Deixo que venha

se aproxime ao de leve

pé ante pé até ao meu ouvido

Enquanto no peito o coração

estremece

e se apressa no sangue enfebrecido

Primeiro a floresta e em seguida

o bosque

mais bruma do que neve no tecido

Do poema que cresce e o papel absorve

verso a verso primeiro

em cada desabrigo

Toca então a torpeza e agacha-se

sagaz

um lobo faminto e recolhido

Ele trepa de manso e logo tão voraz

que da luz é a noz

e depois o ruído

Toma ágil o caminho

e em seguida o atalho

corre em alcateia ou fugindo sozinho

Na calada da noite desloca-se e traz

consigo o luar

com vestido de arminho

Sinto-o quando chega no arrepio

da pele, na vertigem seladaigo

do pulso recolhido

À medida que escrevo

e o entorno no sonho

o dispo sem pressa e o deito comigo