Anne Sexton

[The poetry collection was on my old site – it’s not hosted here any more, but I’ve tried to replace the old links with links to the same content elsewhere on the web.]

I don’t usually write commentaries for the section of this site where I collect poetry I love (never having studied literature beyond the O’levels, I don’t feel qualified), but after coding my favourite Anne Sexton poems, which are the latest addition, I feel compelled to write something.

To me Anne Sexton’s poetry is inescapably tied up with the course of her life, and much of it maps that tragic life out to its end: suicide, age 45, after losing a long battle with mental illness; read the poems knowing this, and sometimes you cry.

Yet all isn’t doom and gloom. Poems like The Fortress, Little Girl, My Stringbean, My Lovely Woman and Live pulse with love and life, and I chose to end the collection with Live, even though its joy soon faded with her later poems, and its wonderful ending is now more elegiac than inspirational, knowing that.

Then there are the lovely ways she uses words:

You lie, a small knuckle on my white bed;
lie, fisted like a snail, so small and strong
at my breast.
(Unknown Girl in the Maternity Ward)

Your feet thump-thump against my back
and you whisper to yourself. Child,
what are you wishing? What pact
are you making?
What mouse runs between your eyes? What ark
can I fill for you when the world goes wild?
(The Fortress)

The Abortion: subtle imagery which I missed the very first time I read it, hard-hitting and painful ever since.

Read Anne Sexton. Please.

Missing Neil

Rarely does it occur that I run through my house attempting the triple jump. Especially since I’ve only ever seen it done on TV. But then again, rarely does it occur that one of my favourite authors in the world, Neil Gaiman, finally launches his own site.

Rarely (okay, actually pretty often, but I wanted that element of repetition) does it occur that I reel off absurdly long streams of obscenities as I run through my house attempting the triple jump. But then again, rarely does it occur that I remember that Neil Gaiman is making an appearance TEN MINUTES away from where I live in London on Saturday July 7, 1 PM at Forbidden Planet (New Oxford Street), but I’m NOT IN FRIGGIN’ LONDON.

This is one of those times when I have to remind myself about starving children, the AIDS plague, and looming environmental crises in order to put things in perspective.

Poem: Persimmons (Li-Young Lee)

In summer, when supermarket fruit sections here finally come alive with ruddy strawberry red and the succulence of peaches, and everything looks vibrant and celebratory instead of apologetic, it’s a great time to read Persimmons, although I can’t actually think of a bad time to read anything written by Li-Young Lee. Who is, by the way, one of the writers on my wishlist. :P

Stardust (Neil Gaiman): Tangents

So there I was last night, brimming with domestic bliss from a successfully cooked dinner (peppery chicken with capsicum, carrots, onions and garlic stir-fried with hoi sin sauce and chilli. And rice with the fluffiness and fragrance that no one does better than Thailand), and I decided it would be a great thing to continue in achievement mode by getting a start on my property essay, due this Friday.

I was convinced of this all the way up the stairs to my room.

Then I came in, saw Stardust (thanks Vikram!) on the bed, and before I knew it I was happily snuggled under my duvet, propped up by Sheep cushion and hugging Butterfly cushion (thanks Esther!) with my warm honeyed lemon tea nearby, Kind Of Blue from the speakers, and the BT Tower with its top lost in clouds through my window.

I don’t know whether it’s just me and my Neil Gaiman obsession or that he really is damn good, but there’s something about his writing that always makes me feel the wonder I felt when I was six years old, and JRR Tolkien told me about an intricate, intriguing fantasy world populated with creatures that had always wandered the fringes of my imagination, but were always one-dimensional caricatures before Tolkien gave them language, culture, mythology, life.

My initial enchantment with fantasy didn’t really last. I love David Eddings (despite his self-plagiarising tendencies), but more because of his humour and the uncanny parallels between his world and ours than because he actually manages to unshackle me from reality. I appreciate the originality and humour of Terry Pratchett, but somehow reading his books always feels like there’s a list of obvious jokes and references you’re supposed to get, and I find myself exhausted within minutes of beginning. I ploughed through six of Robert Jordan’s Wheel Of Time tomes, and finally gave up when I realized I hated almost all the characters and couldn’t care less about their fate or the fate of their world. In general, most of what I pick up seems to be much of a muchness, and I usually find myself reading for the sake of getting through the book, rather than because I actually give a damn.

Neil Gaiman’s worlds are whimsical beauty with flashes of incredible morbidity. You can read his stories just for simple enjoyment, but if you explore the plethora of mythological, literary and cultural references he throws in, you’re amazed by the richness and diversity of the material from which he draws his inspiration: that amazing repository of the human imagination. The good part is that he doesn’t club you over the head with any of it – his writing style is infinitely accessible, and you almost don’t notice the craftsmanship that’s gone into it.

So that’s how I spent last night: body snuggled in bed, mind roaming the serewoods and skyharbours of Faerie.

Addendum: Reading over that again, I feel the need to say that I am not one of those strange types who swears she has gossamer wings and leaves bits of sugar around for her invisible fairy sisters. I only like Neil Gaiman’s fairies, and most of them look horrible and micro-demonic.

The surfing, she is good

The surfing, she is good these days…

The time management, she is not.

Alas.

Just when I thought Neil Gaiman couldn’t get any cooler, he went and started writing a blog about American Gods.

Hugely gratifying: Literary critics ‘fess up at Slate about great books they haven’t read. This compilation of Amazon reader comments on the Modern Library’s top 20 novels of the 20th century was reasonably entertaining as well, though given that I’ve only read 4.5 of the 20 (The Great Gatsby, Brave New World, 1984, Slaughterhouse Five, half of To The Lighthouse), I suppose I’m not in a position to judge the accuracy (of lack thereof) of their commentary.

Slate performs an important public service with The Complete Bushisms. Some of my favourites:

“Keep good relations with the Grecians.”

“Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?”

“I know how hard it is for you to put food on your family.”

“This is Preservation Month. I appreciate preservation. It’s what you do when you run for president. You gotta preserve.”— Speaking during “Perseverance Month”

“We want our teachers to be trained so they can meet the obligations, their obligations as teachers. We want them to know how to teach the science of reading. In order to make sure there’s not this kind of federal—federal cufflink.”

“Laura and I really don’t realize how bright our children is sometimes until we get an objective analysis.”

“It’s clearly a budget. It’s got a lot of numbers in it.”

“The only things that I can tell you is that every case I have reviewed I have been comfortable with the innocence or guilt of the person that I’ve looked at. I do not believe we’ve put a guilty … I mean innocent person to death in the state of Texas.”

Oh God, I’m just halfway up the page!

Poem: lifedance (charles bukowski)

the area dividing the brain and the soul
is affected in many ways by
experience —
some lose all mind and become soul:
insane.
some lose all soul and become mind:
intellectual.
some lose both and become:
accepted.

After Miss Wyoming

Perhaps it was a mistake to read a Douglas Coupland book (Miss Wyoming) soon after Valentine’s Day. Characters in Coupland novels are quirky and rarefied; they exist comfortably above the median of the bell curve whatever their station in life, and are equipped with extraordinary ability in pop-culture based wisecracking. Behind all this they’re ultimately on a quest for meaning, and resolution of nagging issues that persist despite that facade of blithe zeitgeistiness. And they eventually find this in the love of other people they meet along the way, other people who are interesting, intelligent, and basically compatible in all the ways that count, and love unfolds effortlessly, minus the sap. Characters in Coupland novels start off alone, or at least metaphorically so if not literally, but end up with that magical person who makes them whole.

Coupland writes about love the way I want it to happen.

And yet, I have to wonder how realistic it all is. I wonder how likely it is that two gloriously unique people wading through the vast mulch plains of the ordinary somehow meet, and how likely that will be for me, given that it hasn’t happened yet. I wonder how they manage this in a couple hundred pages. I wonder how come everyone else living in the same book as me has managed this a lot earlier, and how many pages I have left to go before it ends, and I’m that one character who doesn’t end up “completed”.

And then the explanations kick in. I’m a lot more interesting than everyone else I know, so it’s that much harder for me to find someone who doesn’t bore me. The average male is intimidated by my intelligence and strength of personality, and backs off, but I’m not interested in the average male, after all. What’s all this about needing someone else to complete me, anyway? Who died and made the Jerry Maguire scriptwriters God? Most people go into relationships that won’t last, and I’m waiting for the one that will instead of wasting my time. Always the rationalizer…

And then the doubts kick in – shock! horror! – yes, even the pathologically well-adjusted “ineffable” Michelle has doubts once in a while. Maybe all that in the last paragraph is the work of an overdeveloped intellect trying to compensate for an underdeveloped emotional core. Maybe there is some undefinable quality about me that screams “BUDDY!” to every potentially desirable male I meet, and “SEX GODDESS!” to every grievously flawed, hideously incompatible denizen of Major Turnoff City.

Maybe I should start checking out nunneries.

Actually, that’s where the doubts end. I don’t think a nunnery is anywhere in my future. I’d rather settle for a life of meaningless physical encounters and serial killing…of my romantic ideals, of course. Nothing with flesh and a highly developed cerebral cortex. (Calista Flockhart, start looking over your shoulder.)

At the end of the day, this isn’t meant as a pathetic lament of my singlehood. It’s something I think about from time to time, but it doesn’t affect me deeply enough to qualify as anything remotely problematic. Perhaps it’s just a variation on one of my biggest fears – that people (close friends, family, etc.etc.) don’t love me as much as I love them. Perhaps I just want that confirmation that at least one person does.

A day gloriously lost

In recent years I’ve decided that messing around on my laptop or on the Internet are the greatest sources of time wastage and indiscipline in my life. Today an old love gave me a gentle reminder that it, too, was a major contender, when I spent 5 hours in just two bookshops, forgot about lunch, and bought 9 books.

I originally had big plans for today. I meant to hit the shops at Covent Garden and revel in complete frivolity. Instead I found myself a slave of that old bookshopping thrill, helplessly drawn to laden shelf after laden shelf as the second last shopping day before Christmas inexorably slipped away.

Six books from Judd Two Books, a second-hand bookshop in Russell Square. The classic Criminal Law textbook by Smith & Hogan was a good buy at half price, and it will hopefully improve my current floundering in the subject. My chronic need to become less ignorant led me to The World Since 1945 and Issues In World Politics. My interest in early humankind nurtured by Jean Auel and Piers Anthony books led me to The Neandertal Enigma. The two other books I bought are meant to be Christmas presents, so I won’t name them, but right now it’s all I can do to keep from hiding them and keeping them for myself.

Three books from Waterstone’s, two again meant to be Christmas presents, but I really really want them! They had a three for two offer, where you could choose three books from the selection and the cheapest would be free, so I chose two books as presents, and got Miss Wyoming (Douglas Coupland’s latest) for myself.

And remember, before all this purchasing came browsing. Leisurely, glorious browsing. A flip through the featured poetry books of the year. A taste of Prague from a travel guide. Another chapter of The Sandman Companion, which I’ve been reading in bits in bookshops but not quite got up the commitment to buy (it’s 14 pounds). The opening of Don DeLillo’s Underworld, which I read every now and then to remind myself of the fact that I must read the whole book some time. The blurbs on a whole row of Stephen Jay Gould books, trying to decide which one to read first if I ever get round to reading him. I have a multitude of must-reads and should-reads neatly categorized and listed in my head, but when I step into a bookshop, it all degenerates into a huge sprawling mess summed up only by I Want.

Words on paper. Such simplicity. Such beauty. Such bastardry. I want my day back.