Sunday, 31 December 2006

Pleasant Noises

Not only did I do very well for books this year, I got two longed-for CDs as well. Steeleye Span's latest - Bloody Men. It's so consistently good! There's The Bonny Black Hare, which is pure smut, the least-disguised sexual innuendo I've ever heard. Great, if slightly disturbing, to hear Maddy giving it such force. Then The Scullion King which is another of those historical ballads, rather like They Called Her Babylon from the last album. Cold Haily Windy Night has been redone, as has First House in Connaught. The very eerie The Demon of the Well rather recalls King Henry from way back when. They've also put some John Clare to music, which I very much approve of, though it's not quite up to June Tabor's Chaucer in At the Wood's Heart.

I'd heard most of the songs on the album before, because I managed two gigs this year: one with the stuffy people in Winchester, who give you wicked looks if you so much as move in your seat, and the other in the cannabis-induced haze of Cropredy 2006. Ah, Cropredy! Listening to this album takes me back to dancing in a big crowd in a big field, late at night, in my tasselly poncho, with a man who looked like Jesus. I think at the time I thought he was Jesus. We met two very drunken policemen that night. Alice wore one's hat and I drank the other's Guinness, even though I hate the stuff. Not that any of this is remotely relevant to the music, but I do so love Cropredy. It's when I get to wear floaty clothes, burn incense, smoke weed and love strangers. Suddenly the music sounds so exquisite and the waffles taste so sweet and the sky is so gorgeous and the people on the canal boat are so kind that I want to weep. It's what I imagine the sixties were like. I do hope I can go again this year.

Anyway, yes, my brother bought me Scribbled in Chalk, which I had long coveted, for Christmas. Karine Polwart's not well-known, but she should be. I first heard of her when my parents were channel-hopping and some BBC music thingy came on. There was this Scottish lady singing in a pub and they were talking to her and she caught my interest simply because she was nice and interesting. And then she played a song called Baleerie Baloo, which happens to be on this album. It also happens to be one of very few songs that make me cry, the other most notable being Tori Amos' Winter. Baleerie is so beautiful and so sad. It's so rare that Holocaust songs work, and this puts Janis Ian's Tattoo to shame. The rest of the album is no disappointment, either. I'm not quite through with listening to all of it yet, but highlights so far are Hole in the Heart and Daisy, two which are personal favourites because I relate them to myself.

I'd also like to strongly recommend, in my wholly unbiased opinion, two albums recently released by friends of mine. There's Haberdashery by Scatcat and his gang of alley cats. And also The Operator by Anonymous. You can get both albums for a tenner at Resident Alien, their record label. They're fundamentally Christian bands but, like the legendary Delirious? whom I so worshipped in my young, foolish, pre-folkie, Christian days and have maintained a strong fondness for, their stuff can be appreciated, on a deeper level even, by people who don't share their religious views. Why? 'Cause it rocks. 'Nuff said.

Wednesday, 27 December 2006

This literary life?

If anything makes this blog interesting to read, it'll be not that I'm a good writer, but that I'm extraordinarily bad. At the grand old age of nineteen, I've already collected enough rejection slips to stock the fireplace of every room in the house and never need central heating again. That's if we had working fireplaces.

I suppose I am a little disillusioned. I wrote Novenary when I was sixteen and I thought I'd cracked it. But I never wrote anything that good again, and I'm no better a writer now than I was three years ago. For which I only have myself to blame. I have been lazy and I am being lazy and I need to stop being lazy, but for some reason it's so hard to motivate myself to write, even though that's what I base my existence on. I always planned to have my first book of poetry published in my twenties, so I could be well-established by the time I'm forty, and I never thought that would be a problem. Now I sometimes doubt I'll ever get a collection together at all, if I live to be a hundred.

But we push on, and I'm planning my New Year's submissions from the competitions advertised in my Mslexia diary. Anything in print now would be such a boost. It's been so long. There's The Wigtown for 26th January, for which I could submit any number of things. The Dying Woman, perhaps? Might have another look at that. There's also A Ruined Castle (note to self: think up more imaginative titles) which I'm loathe to give up on because it's controlled and it took me fucking ages. The Foyle last year were kind enough to write and say it had made their shortlist of twenty, so it must have some merit. There's House Party (another stupid title, makes me think of Noel Edmunds) which Indigo Dreams never got back to me about, despite the SAE. Rudeness. So, yes, one of those three. I don't think the Thailand one is salvageable - it just got too silly. There's also the Grace Dieu for 28th February, which can take another of the three. I can't afford to send multiple entries. I wanted to submit The Stone Angel, a short story I wrote in October, to The Biscuit Flash Fiction Prize but it turns out it's too short even for flash fiction. There's also something called Undiscovered Authors. I'm toying with the idea of, if I do well in that poetry essay, getting some advice on it, giving it a huge overhaul and submitting it for the academic section. But I think that might be ridiculous. Still, I needn't tell anybody.

Tuesday, 26 December 2006

I romp with joy in the bookish dark

The title quotation is from Eating Poetry by Mark Strand. I love that poem so much!

It was my birthday on the 19th, and I was given the following:

Lionel Shriver - We Need to Talk About Kevin
Angela Carter - The Bloody Chamber
Angela Carter - Wise Children
Eric Maisel - The Van Gogh Blues
David Lodge - The British Museum is Falling Down

I also bought Rapture by Carol Ann Duffy with my birthday money.

Then for Christmas I got:

Hilary Mantel - Giving up the Ghost
Barbara Vine - Asta's Book
Dodie Smith - I Capture the Castle
Margaret Atwood - Oryx and Crake
Grace Paley - The Collected Stories
Julia Darling - The Taxi Driver's Daughter (me!)
Jill Paton Walsh - Knowledge of Angels

Most of those were recommended reading in my Mslexia Writer's Diary. And I've got the new one this year!

I knew I'd be getting books (because I asked for them!) so I hurried up and finished the stack of Philippa Gregory novels I'd got for pennies in a charity shop in Egham in time for my birthday. Then I started right on The British Museum is Falling Down because it's short and funny. It's set just before the Vatican II reforms in the Catholic Church took place. I must lend it to my friend, Tom, who's in the Society of Saint Pious X, or the SSPX, who think that Vatican II was a dreadful error. It's interesting to consider it from the perspective of Catholics of the time, and how those ideals which are, to Catholics, right in theory can be rather more problematic in practice. Well, I know that from my friendship with Tom. I'm glad I'm not Catholic!

The British Museum was a very self-consciously modern novel, with all the shifting about and the hey, did that really happen? which makes you question reality, just like in Coetzee's Foe which we studied this autumn. It was very much a stream-of-consciousness thing and there were Woolf references everywhere, which I liked, because I like Woolf. I also found out, in the afterword, that there were references and style imitations from all sorts of other people whom I hadn't read. So I felt silly.

Sunday, 24 December 2006


I couldn't resist posting a link to this, stolen from Rachel B, since the Classics Society are putting on Aristophanes' Frogs next term. I'm really excited about it! We've had one read-through, and it's such a funny script. I was pleasantly surprised. Greek comedy is much better than Roman comedy, or so my friends doing straight Classics degrees say. I haven't read enough to judge.

I wish you (anyone who happens to read this) a very

Thursday, 21 December 2006

Season of death and deathy deathliness

I’ve finally finished the poetry essay! *sound of singing, trumpets blaring, people rejoicing, etc*

It was meant to be in this time last week, but I had a depression, was frozen for a few days and got an extension on that account. And, yes, I still managed to leave it to the last possible minute. A combination of anxiety and laziness – equally weighted, I think. As usual, I was in dire straits. I planned to get up at six this morning to finish it, but that didn’t happen. It had to be in by midday, or, at least, I think it did. Is 12pm midday or midnight? Which is am and which is pm? Because technically noon is neither ante-meridian nor post-meridian, as it is, in fact, the meridian. I got it in by noon to be safe, but ran out of time so it’s under the word count. 200 words under. I was doing fine, just 73 words to go, but then I remembered that the bibliography doesn’t count, and it was ten to twelve. So that’s five marks gone, and my chances of a first out the window. I could have wept. Now I’m just trying not to think about it.

Here’s it is, anyway:

Compare a 16th or 17th century poem with an 18th or 19th century poem on a similar or related subject. You must treat at least one poet studied on the course.

The two poems chosen for comparison in this essay are Shakespeare’s Sonnet 73 and “Written in October” by Charlotte Smith. They share the theme of autumn, and both link it with the narrator’s situation and feelings. Neither keeps exclusively to the theme of autumn: Smith goes on to contrast it with spring and its associations, whilst Shakespeare moves through a series of natural metaphors for the aging narrator. Both Smith and Shakespeare’s narrators, however, see the natural world as a mirror of their own psyche.

An obvious similarity between these two poems is that they are both sonnets. Shakespeare’s is, unsurprisingly, a traditional Shakespearean sonnet. The three quatrains and concluding couplet are distinguishable not only by the rhyme scheme but also by content: the aging narrator compares himself to an autumn tree in lines 1-4, twilight in lines 5-8 and fire in lines 9-12. In the final couplet, the narrator’s attention turns back to the “thou” whom the poem addresses. This couplet is inverted to make it stand out on the page, thus demonstrating that it contains the main “essence” or message of the poem. The tone becomes much more intimate and less contemplative, and the focus changes from the narrator himself to the addressee and the loving relationship which will be terminated with the narrator’s death. The final rhyme creates both a sense of certainty and a lasting impression of sadness. Smith’s ending couplet is, despite the unfulfilled effect of the half rhyme, less effectively sad, largely due to the narrator’s self-pity preventing empathy in the reader. The couplet is, however, effective as an explanation for the narrator’s enigmatic assertion that she prefers the austere autumn to the joyful spring. There is a greater irregularity in this sonnet’s form, both in the rhyme scheme and use of inverted lines. The metre, also, is erratic, straying sometimes from its iambic pattern. This reflects that emotion in this poem is decidedly less contained, as we see when the narrator uses the apostrophe, “Ah!” in line 6.

Both poems’ narrators identify their own situations with the season of autumn, and they use observation of the natural world as a trigger for introspection. It is interesting to consider why they should do this. Pascoe notes Charlotte Smith’s particular interest in botany and links this with her poetry: “Smith’s poetic descriptions of the natural world possess the exactitude of a naturalist’s field notes.” Pascoe claims that Smith’s focus on minute details initiated, rather than detracted from, supernatural or fantastical speculation. If this is the case, it is quite reasonable to suggest that Smith’s fascination with the detail of her environment led to a similar passion for, or indeed an obsession with, the detail of her own inner life. The focus of Shakespeare’s sonnet, even at the very beginning, is wholly on the narrator: “That time of year thou mayst in me behold” (my italics). Smith’s sonnet, however, doesn’t mention the narrator specifically until line 5. This could be said to suggest that Shakespeare was a more self-centred poet than Smith. Such an assertion would be highly questionable, however, as it assumes that the poems are autobiographical and represent the body of the poets’ work. Furthermore, it ignores the very statement of Smith’s poem, which is that the nature only really “delights” her narrator when it echoes her own feelings, an extremely egotistical statement.

The question of whether the poems are autobiographical, and whether the narrator is indeed the poet, is difficult to address. This is especially the case for Shakespeare as we know less about his life than we do about Smith’s. Both poems have a theme of hostile external forces. In Shakespeare’s sonnet, the boughs of the trees “shake against the cold” (line 3), which would literally be the cold wind, just like the violent “blasts” (line 1) in Smith’s poem. It is easy to link this to her difficult life, in which she constantly battled with hostile circumstances: she was married and sent away at sixteen to pay off her father’s gambling debts, and, when her husband, too, ran up debts, she wrote ten novels in ten years to feed her ten children, then had to fight a prolonged legal battle to protect their inheritance. There is evidence of a similar spirit of endurance in Shakespeare’s poem, as the boughs shaking against the cold suggest resilience and even rebellion.

It can be argued that the circumstances which may or may not have evoked the narrators’ feelings in the poems are not the issue, and the focus should be on the feelings themselves which the poets evoke and describe. Shakespeare depicts the “yellow leaves, or none, or few” (line 2), dividing the line with commas to echo the fact that the leaves are blown away from one another, just as the narrator does not feel whole. Likewise, Smith calls the leaves “fragments,” (line 4), leaving the sense of something having been broken or shattered. Shakespeare describes the trees as “ruined choirs” (line 4). Booth points out that he refers here not to the singers but to the part of a church in which they sing, now empty, and likewise the narrator feels a sense of emptiness and loss. There is a similar theme of loss throughout Smith’s work, evident in this poem when the narrator laments that she will never again see the “Spring of Hope” (line 14). She feels that nature “mourns” (line 13) along with her, as the wind makes a “sad and solemn sound” (line 3), echoed in Smith’s use of alliteration. There is also the rather ambiguous response to the “clamoring” rooks (line 7), who could be seen as a metaphor for the narrator herself, like those which Shakespeare adopts, with their military “phalanx” (line 8) formation symbolising a resilient attitude. The rooks could also be a manifestation of a threatening environment, linking back to the sense of hostile circumstances.

A theme which emerges strongly in Shakespeare’s poem and less so in Smith’s is that of time, and how it is manifested in the natural world. This is a particular interest of Shakespeare’s, as we see in sonnet 5:5-8:

For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there,
Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o’ersnowed and bareness everywhere.

Booth links our original sonnet to certain passages from Ovid’s Metamorphoses, which pursue a similar theme. Whilst Ovid is describing Time itself and Shakespeare focuses instead on the aging narrator, both progress through various natural phenomena to demonstrate the effects of time:

…Time itself
glides on with constant motion, ever as
a flowing river. Neither river nor
the fleeting hour can stop its constant course.
But, as each wave drives on a wave, as each
is pressed by that which follows, and must press
on that before it, so the moments fly,
and others follow, so they are renewed.
The moment which moved on before is past,
and that which was not, now exists in Time,
and every one comes, goes, and is replaced.

You see how night glides by and then proceeds
on to the dawn, then brilliant light of day
succeeds the dark night. There is not the same
appearance in the heavens: when all things
for weariness are resting in vast night,
as when bright Lucifer rides his white steed.

This progression through comparisons, from the river to the fall of night, echoes the progression of time itself. Shakespeare’s metaphors are chosen for their relevance to the aging process. The autumn tree, stripped of its leaves and the “sweet birds” (line 4), struggling to stand its ground against the harsh winds, is like the old man, stripped of the benefits of youth and struggling to survive. Twilight is the end of the day, just as old age is the end of youth, or life, and the time for the anticipation of night, just as the old man anticipates death. Fire, like youth, is bright and full of energy, has the potential to be destructive and cause pain, and will eventually burn itself out, ironically “consumed with that which it was nourished by” (line 11).

It is unsurprising, then, that death is omnipresent in Shakespeare’s poem. In using the twilight metaphor for old age, he describes death as the “black night” (line 7) which takes away the sunset. Booth perceives “a dimly perceptible metaphor of a child taken off to sleep… by ‘black night,’ a sinister nursery maid or (line 12) wet nurse.” Shakespeare’s view of death does indeed seem to be one of a sleep-like state, as he refers to “Death’s second self,” a Renaissance term for sleep. This initially causes confusion, though, as it is, in fact, death itself to which he is referring. Shakespeare writes that this sleep “seels up all” (line 8), which carries the double meaning of the closing up of a coffin and the stitching shut of a hawk’s eyelid. The latter carries a suggestion of brutal force, as we are forced to die, and even suffering. It is not explicit whether the narrator feels bitterness or resignation about this, but it does show that the lover he leaves behind is not his only concern.

Death’s presence in Smith’s sonnet is more subtle and more ambiguous. It is not anticipated, as in Shakespeare’s, but could be argued to be implicitly wished for, as the poem is saturated in despair: “For never more to me the Spring of Hope returns!” (line 14) The narrator evokes spring vividly, with its song (line 9), its plants (line 11) and the Shepherd (line 12), as the season of life, and rejects it. It could be argued, then, to be an almost suicidal poem, in direct contrast to Shakespeare’s, which expresses regret at the approach of death.

In conclusion, though the two poems share the theme of autumn and both recognise it as the season in which the life of summer fades and dead winter comes on, there are differences in the response to this in accordance with the narrator’s situation. Shakespeare’s narrator sees the autumn trees as symbolic of himself in his old age, after the summer of his youth. Smith’s narrator sees the autumn as representative of her own “dejected mood,” (line 5) after the “Spring of Hope” (line 14). Both poems ignore the fact that the year is cyclical: in truth any autumn is followed eventually by spring and summer, but Shakespeare’s winter is eternal because of the finality of death and Smith’s narrator denies any possibility that she will ever feel hopeful again. The negative response to autumn in both of these poems contrasts sharply with that of Keats’ “Ode to Autumn,” probably the most well-known autumn poem in English Literature, which praises autumn as a season of joy and plenty. The fact that many people enjoy autumn is ignored. Yet it is this relentless negativity concerning autumn which makes it a fitting representation of the poems’ themes of aging, death and despair.


Booth, Stephen (ed.) Shakespeare’s Sonnets (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1977)
Ferguson, Margaret, Mary Jo Salter and Jon Stallworthy (eds.) The Norton Anthology of Poetry (New York: W. W. Norton and Co. Inc, 2005)
Naso, P. Ovidius, Metamorphoses, ed. Brookes Moore (
Pascoe, Judith, ‘Female Botanists and the Poetry of Charlotte Smith’ in Revisioning Romanticism: British Women Writers, 1776 – 1837, eds. Carol Shiner Wilson and Joel Haefner (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1994)

Wednesday, 6 December 2006

Lonely Palm Tree

A palm tree stands in the middle of Rusafa,
Born in the West, far from the land of palms.
I said to it, “How like me you are, far away and in exile,
in long separation from family and friends.
You have sprung from soil in which you are a stranger;
and I, like you, am far away from home.”
~Abd al-Rahman

Nearly a whole term into university, and still homesickness reigns supreme. Mind you, only 10 days left...

Saturday, 2 December 2006

Etymologies are sweet

[Middle English etimologie, from Old French ethimologie, from Medieval Latin ethimologia, from Latin etymologia, from Greek etumologiā : etumon, true sense of a word; see etymon + -logiā, -logy.]

Ha! *feels clever*

I was downloading some Avenue Q tracks off MySpace tonight (God, I love Avenue Q) and rediscovered the joy that is "The Internet is for Porn." So I got that stuck in my head and went to bed, only to be still humming it to myself several hours later. Which led me to wonder about the roots of the word "pornography." So I got my Liddell and Scott Greek-English Lexicon out, and, guess what, it's "pornos" (fornicator) plus "grafe" (drawing), so, literally, "a drawing of a fornicator." Pretty accurate!

This led me onto Facebook's etymologies group, and look what I found:

Utopia = "nowhere" (Greek)
Khaki = "dusty," seems to fit the colour (Middle Persian)
Eccentric = "out of" plus "centre" (Greek)

And "jaded" comes from the word "jade" (c. 1386) for "worn-out horse." c.1386, possibly from O.N. jalda "mare," from Finno-Ugric (cf. Mordvin al'd'a "mare"). As a term of abuse for a woman, it dates from 1560. Jaded "dulled by continual indulgence" is from 1631.

Assassin: from the Latin "assassinus," from Arabic "hashshashin," pl. of "hashshash," literally "one who eats hashish." The original assassins were a secretive medieval cult that believed the drug gave them mystical powers.

Also, untranslatables:

Hakamaroo: to keep borrowing things until the owner needs to ask for them back.
Tingo: to borrow things from a friends house, one by one, until there is nothing left.

Both are from the Pascuenes language. Says a lot about the Pascuenes, whoever they were.

Gosh, I need to get a life. See what happens when you don't sleep?

Thursday, 30 November 2006

The Unquiet Grave

Our latest poetry essay assignment is to compare a 16th/17th century poem with a 18th/19th century poem on a similar theme, and both must be from the Norton Anthology, or "The Big Bastard Book of Poetry," as it is affectionately known. I spent quite a large chunk of last night/this morning trawling through to find poems I wanted to use. I practically ended up reading the entire thing, which, no doubt, was the cunning plan. I didn't find anything for the essay, but what I did find, to my delight, were early poems which I know well as folk or Mediaeval songs. And they were versions I hadn't seen! One thing I really love about folk music (and I mean proper folk music, not Bob Dylan, though he's in the Norton too!) is that literally hundreds of singers will record the same song and it will be dramatically different each time.

The Norton has one of my favourite songs, "The Unquiet Grave," which I first heard recorded by Kate Rusby, with the loveliest piano accompaniment. As Kate says in her song book, it is such a delicate, passionate song. It was interesting to compare the versions. Kate's is:

How pleasant is the wind tonight
I feel some drops of rain
I never had but one true love
In greenwood he lies slain

I'll do so much for my true love
As any young girl may
I'll sit and mourn all on your grave
For twelve months and a day

The twelve months and a day being up
The ghost began to speak
Why sit you here and mourn for me
And you will not let me sleep

What do you want of me sweetheart
Oh what is it you crave
Just one kiss of your lily-white lips
And that is all I crave

Oh don't you see the fire sweetheart
The fire that burns so blue
Where my poor soul tormented is
All for the love of you

And if you weren't my own sweetheart
As I know you well to be
I'd rend you up in pieces small
As leaves upon a tree

Mourn not for me my dearest dear
Mourn not for me I crave
I must leave you and all the world
And turn into my grave

While the Norton has:

"The wind doth blow today, my love,
And a few small drops of rain.
I never had but one true-love,
In cold grave she was lain.

"I'll do as much for my true-love
As any young man may;
I'll sit and mourn all at her grave
For a twelvemonth and a day."

The twelvemonth and a day being up,
The dead began to speak:
"Oh who sits weeping on my grave
And will not let me sleep?"

"'Tis I, my love, sits on your grave,
And will not let you sleep;
For I crave one kiss of your clay-cold lips,
And that is all I seek."

"You crave one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
But my breath smells earthy strong;
If you have one kiss of my clay-cold lips,
Your time will not be long.

"'Tis down in yonder garden green,
Love, where we used to walk,
The finest flower that e'er was seen
Is withered to a stalk.

"The stalk is withered dry, my love,
So will our hearts decay;
So make yourself content, my love,
Till God calls you away."

I'm sure the Norton's version is much more "worthy" and closer to the original composition, but I must confess I don't like it as much. Kate possibly made the speaker female to suit a female voice, but, even without that, her version is much more feminine, more of a love song and, to me, sadder, in spite of the Norton's hammering home the tragedy. There's a morbidity to the Norton, right down to the corpse's "earthy strong" breath. It's less personal. I enjoy the romance of Kate's version, the lovers speaking from the heart, etc, just because I'm soppy. Long live soppy, I say.

Oh, and the attached version is Charles Vess' illustration. I like it very much, even if I don't agree that the girl sits on the grave until she's an old woman. Her lover wouldn't let her sit there that long, and what'd be the point if she was going to die herself soon anyway? Maybe it's showing how suffering has aged her. Still, she sounds young to me. It's a lovely picture, though, really beautiful.

The Awful First Post

I've decided to do away with the whole introduction (name, age, life story) thing and plunge right in. All you need to know is that I'm a nocturnal student and world class procrastinator. I'm sure others things will be apparent in time, but, eh, what's the point? I'm hoping to say something vaguely intelligent on here occasionally and keep navel-gazing to a minimum.

This, yet another online journal, is the product of insomnia. It's now 8am and I've been up all night, mostly writing poetry. I'm very glad of this (the poetry, not the lack of sleep) because I don't write nearly enough. I came to university intending to get up an hour early every morning and write, which, needless to say, didn't happen. But, while I haven't done nearly enough, I have, at least, done a little. And I finished two poems tonight. Here they are:

The Dying Woman

When the doctor shook his head,
you became a woman changed.
You became a prophet, telling us,
only through hoarse coughs,
what was to come. Your husband
the ever-stubborn unbeliever.
Nightly you shake the sheets free
from biscuit crumbs like desert sands,
while he just lies there, numb.

As a child I played in your house,
watched by the grandfather clock.
He, unknown to us, was counting down
your days, your years. I imagine
he will one day chime in time
with your funeral bells, booming through
the empty rooms. When we pack up
your things, remove the relics of your life,
he will be the last to go.

Travellers’ Tales: Thailand

We fly over a foamy sea of clouds,
the kingdoms beneath like Atlantis,
and land unsteadily on a country
still dizzy from drowning.

We drive through a city of slums
and skyscrapers, and buildings
in ruins as if after an Apocalypse.
Buddha has left, choked

by the smoke and noisy advertisements.
He ran with his hands to his ears,
found a retirement home by the sea
with trees to sit under

and water to wash his bleeding feet.
He grows fat on bananas and coconuts.
The sea speaks to him in rhymes.
He is not seen

in Pattaya, where even the sun
has turned away and the lights
are like Christmas gone wrong.
Here are the leering,

the drunk, the girls grinding
and writhing, fat flies, the dogs’
ribs showing as Buddha’s had done.

Please, take me home.

I'm not entirely happy with the ending of the dying woman one (which is about my aunt, who has cancer); and the Thailand one, in retrospect, is just generally a bit shit. What's with all the Buddha stuff? Oh, well. There's late night ramblings for you.