Tag: mother

poetry, poetry appreciation

our small durance

Aug 20, 2024 #affection, #attachment, #bipolar, #bipolarity, #comfort, #depression, #despair, #fear, #Gerard Manly Hopkins, #hope, #insomnia, #intertextuality, #Leontia Flynn, #love, #maternal, #mother, #mum, #No worst there is none, #Scieszka, #The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs by Lucy Crispin

Oooooh I do like me a nice bit of intertextuality.* When this poem plopped in my inbox I was very glad to meet it. I’d be very interested to see what you make of ‘Gerard Manley Hopkins‘ by Leontia Flynn. For ease of reference, here’s the poem with which Flynn’s poem has such a close relationship.

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poetry appreciation

hallowe’en

Oct 28, 2021 #ancestors, #Annie Finch, #autumn, #Celtic, #comfort, #connection, #continuum, #day of the Dead, #death, #Eternity, #fear, #Finch, #halloween, #mortality, #mother, #Samhain, #scary, #soothing, #spring, #time, #winter by Lucy Crispin

Well, if Strictly can have a Hallowe’en special, why can’t this column? I do like Annie Finch’s take on the Celtic Feast of the Dead, ‘Samhain‘. I don’t know that I understand it all intellectually but, as ever with me, that matters less than the feeling with which it leaves me. There’s a shiver, not of fear but something more like awe, of apprehending the vastness of time and our place in a continuum. See how the poem leaves you.

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poetry appreciation, reflection

what did I know, what did I know…?

Dec 19, 2019 #child, #children, #Christmas, #families, #family, #father, #kind, #kindness, #love, #mother, #poem, #poetry, #Robert Hayden, #Those Winter Sundays by Lucy Crispin

It’s a time of year when, in the West at least, we’re surrounded by images of families: usually shiny-haired and smiling ones, deployed in warm-jumpered rows on bouncy new sofas (“delivered in time for Christmas”) and sharing some ecstatic experience of shopping, gaming or no ordinary food. But it’s a poem about the ordinary extraordinariness of love which has been very much in my mind, in the last week or so, and not just because it’s cold. Here it is: Robert Hayden’s ‘Those Winter Sundays‘. (You can hear the poet himself read it here.)

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