at my most beautiful

Today has been a day of friends, chat and poetry. I enjoyed myself too much (if such a thing is possible) and sadly, I did little exam preparation. Poems, they make me smile.

This Be The Verse
- Phillip Larkin

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.


They Tuck you up
- Adrian Mitchell

They tuck you up, your mum and dad,
They read you Peter Rabbit, too.
They give you all the treats they had
And add some extra, just for you.

They were tucked up when they were small,
(Pink perfume, blue tobacco-smoke),
By those whose kiss healed any fall,
Whose laughter doubled any joke.

Man hands on happiness to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
So love your parents all you can
And have some cheerful kids yourself

Love Poem

- Lemn Sissay

You remind me
define me
incline me.

If you died
I'd

Edit 10:35. Returning all stolen sentiments as of now.

my happiness

Movies.

I was thinking about how I'd like to celebrate the end of my exams. I'm not exciting enough to go out, so I thought why not stay in. I'd have a movie night.

These are the movies I'd watch.

Nothing like Katharine Hepburn to kick of the evening.

I don't think many people would appreciate the second movie as much as myself. But it's been on the list for a while now.

Mmmm. Classic.

I can never tell whether I'm the only person who likes this movie. But then again, the films I've grown up with have been slightly skewed towards the strange and 'Burton-esque'.

blue suede shoes

Heels are wonderful torture devices.

No doubt invented by a man.

I wish.

And yet, we continue to wear them. Talk about masochism.

le plus beau du quartier

'Maddy, you don't read!'

This is my grandmother's complaint every time I visit her for a french tutorial.

(In many ways, being related to the person who tutors you has it's advantages, such as chocolate biscuits, informality and being doted upon. It also has its drawbacks, like brutal honesty and slamming the table when I forget to make verbal agreements. My grandmother would have to be one of the scariest french teachers I know)

...So, I'm reading. Apparently, it's one of the most effective ways to study for a language exam, so each year I receive a french book form ma grand-mère. Last year it was La Chatte by Colette. So, I'm making an attempt to read it. It's pretty much another story about jealousy and unrequited love. 'But how does a cat fit into all this?' you might ask. Well, it's essentially a love triangle between a young women, her husband and his cat. She loves him. He loves his cat. The cat sounds like it's on drugs.

The plot is simple; a young married couple move into their own apartment. However the husband misses his childhood cat terribly. He returns to his parents house to find the cat and bring her home to his wife. As it turns out, the cat represents the dreams and memories of childhood which he can't let go of, and so he loves her more than his wife. The wife is eventually overcome by jealousy and attempts to kill the cat, but fails. Learning of this, the husband leaves his young wife for his cat.

In a word: strange.

The author was pretty strange herself:

' je reve que j'épouse un très grand chat.' - Colette

sitting, waiting, wishing

ode to my family (and friends)

It's pretty much over.

Okay. Exams are still in the very near future. So are hours of grueling study. Panic attacks. Terrible sleep patterns. Fruitless cramming. Hand cramps. Mathematically induced headaches. Rants. Procrastination. Intellectual hangovers.

And while I'm sure most of you aren't narrow-minded enough to forget how wonderful your life truly is, I've decide to be "that person" who gently reminds you.

It's cliché, but I like it:

aaaaaaDon't cry because it's over. Smile because it happened. - anon

kids

Relfelctions on a Gift
of a Watermelon Pickle
Received from a Friend
called Felicity

During that summer
When unicorns were still possible;
When the purpose of knees
Was to be skinned;
When shiny horse chestnusts
aaaaaaa(Hollowed out
aaaaaaawith straws
aaaaaaaCrammed with tobacco
aaaaaaaStolen from butts
aaaaaaaIn family ashtrays)
Were puffed in green lixard silence
While straddling thick branches
Far above and away
From the softening effects
Of civilisation

During that summer ---
Which may never have been at all;
But which has become more real
Than the one that was ---
Watermelons ruled.

Thick pink imperial slices
Melting frigidly on sun-parched tongues
Dribbling from chins;
Leaving the best part,
The black bullet seeds,
To be spit out in rapid fire
Against the wall
Against the wind
Against each other;

And when the ammunition was spent,
There was always another bite:
It was a summer of limitless bites,
Of hungers quikcly felt
And quickly forgotten
With the next careless gorging.

The bites are fewer now.
Each one is savored lingeringly,
Swallowed reluctantly.

But in a jar put up by Felicity,
The summer which maybe never was
Has been captured and preserved.
And when we unscrew the lid
And slice off a piece
And let it linger on our tongue:
Unicorns become possible again.

John Tobias