My Flat

My flat is tiny; two rooms really. A bedroom with small ensuite, and a kitchen/lounge.

It has bare floorboards and ageing wallpaper, but it is clean and everything works. By

that, I mean that the doors close and do not stick, the plumbing does not leak and the

taps do not drip. The windows open and close with little force and the electrical fittings

are solid and safe. It’s not drafty, neither is it airless or damp, and there are no smells,

or skittering noises in the walls.

When the weather is inclement, the whole place feels solid. The glass panes in the

windows do not rattle with the wind or protest when hail is cast against them. An

occasional shudder during heavy storms is about the only protest that is ever elicited

from the walls and there is never any moaning and groaning in remonstration against

such furious tumult.

There are no views to speak of from either window, and the only one with any real view

is over the kitchen sink. I have to stand on tiptoes and crane my neck to the right to gain

any real vista. The reward is not worth the effort. The rooftop of the building across the

way is not ugly or interesting, but it's better than a blank brick wall.

It’s a solitary tenement and I chose it deliberately and could not believe my luck when I

found it. Being solitary, tucked away at the top of the three-storey building, means that

there is a quietness that I love. When I first walked through the door, it was as if the

room greeted me with a tranquillity that almost bordered on rectitude. A reserve that was immediately prim, a calm that was not impassive. It was at once welcoming while stating

the boundaries of it capacities with frank reality.

The small size of the rooms means that my meagre collection of furniture looks adequate

and well-selected. There is room enough for my records and books, although, after some

time I have had to begin culling the number of tomes that I keep as my bookshelves are

beginning to object to the weight they have to endure.

I loved this apartment immediately, but I came to love it even more after settling in. Each

Spring a mother bird with a clutch of chicks nests on the roof above me, the cheep-cheep

of hungry throats providing a replacement for my morning alarm. There is a cellist on the

floor below, at the other end of the building, that practises most nights, choosing to play

full scores rather than scales and unending arpeggios. Whether it is the design of the

insulation or a trick of the architecture, I can enjoy the sounds that come through the

windows and walls without it bothering my concentration or sleep. On some nights I listen

to the cellist rather than play my own music. On week-ends the conversational chatter

from the cafe on the opposite corner finds its way in through the window.

I spend most evenings either reading or writing, while listening to music. I am alone,

but not lonely; never bored and never lonesome. I do not consider myself a recluse.

In fact, I am firmly of the mind that I am an extrovert, requiring the company of others

to recharge. The quietude of my abode engenders a similar response in my own

demeanour, and eventually, in my thoughts and perspectives. It may sound funny, but

I have come to think of the flat as part of me, and me as part of it. We suit each other.

Of Prosody and Verse

Of Prosody and Verse

What does a person who regularly reads poetry look like?

Do they wear linen and silks, and always take time with their appearance? Do they

give preference to the artistic and the aesthetic? Do they always have a vase of fresh

flowers in their rooms? Do they choose unusual taste combinations when ordering

from a menu? Do they complete studies in the arts at an ivy league university? Do

they seek the esoteric and the sublime? Do they always possess presence of mind

and are they always in tune with their inner thoughts and feelings?

Did they always think that poetry was important? Do they realise some truth about

poetry that an ordinary person does not? Do they consider that there is always at least

one poem in an anthology worthy of respect, if not joy?

Can ordinary people like poetry? Like it enough to look with eagerness for it in the

magazines they read, or to purchase a book or two of poetry that they occasionally

take down from the bookshelves to read? Ordinary enough that their bookshelves are

overflowing with the pulp fiction that is so easily obtained, and so difficult to refuse, but

are equally happy to have a small volume of poetry sitting amongst all these other

titles? Ordinary enough that their friends don’t know they like poetry?

I like poetry, but I feel ordinary. I dislike about fifty percent of the poetry I read; either I

don’t understand it or it’s too obtuse, or it is simply too aphasic for taste. Much of the

rest leaves me unmoved. I don’t dislike it, but it does nothing for me. I feel nothing. Did

the poet feel anything when he/she wrote it? Isn’t poetry supposed to move me, make

me think about the topic differently, improve my perception of life in general, give me a

new glimpse into a field I thought I already knew? Only a small portion of the poetry I

read moves me, makes me sit up and take notice. It makes me stop and think and

often sends me off into the realms of thought that are deep and too seldom visited.

And what does a poet look like? Most biographies of the life of bards I have read

indicate that they were closet poets until the weight of their work could no longer be

hidden. Did they hide themselves because they were ashamed of being a poet,

embarrassed over the quality of their writings, fearful of mockery and ridicule? Do we

expect a poet to produce simple, even mundane, thoughts wrapped in a beautiful

conception, a delightful artistry, while at the same time dressing carelessly, living

poorly, and enduring a life of deprivation and penury?

Poetry is a mystery to me. I feel it has a lofty mission but is that really the case? And

what, exactly, might that elevated purpose be? Surely it must be more than mere

linguistic synthesis. I hope that it is more than trite re-articulation using pentameter or

iambic structure. I don’t mind careful interpretation being a requisite commitment to

appreciate what the poet is declaring, but wilful obfuscation and obtuseness cannot

be condoned. Impenetrability is not the measure of good communication let alone a

work that should, at least in part, inspire, inform, or edify.

The poetry that I like, the poetry that inspires me, informs me, and edifies me, makes

my life richer. I look for the aesthetic beauty it brings to my day, and I enjoy the way it

furnishes my thoughts with deeper meanings and understandings. But clearly, a very

large portion of the world’s population do not think the same way. I doubt more than

ten percent of my friends and family could give two hoots about poetry. Even less

would go out of their way to read a poem. The thought of spending hard-earned

money to purchase a book of poetry never arises in their mind, and if ever it did, it

would be immediately discarded as either wasteful or extravagant.

I wonder, is poetry a metaphor for how we live? We, each, ascribe different weights

and measures to things in accordance with a subconscious world view, and that is

what makes the world multicultural. Some of which is good, and some which is terrible

from almost any perspective. Will there be poetry in Heaven? Will only the same ten

percent give a hoot, and will heavenly community poetry nights eek out a sparse

existence for lack of attendance?

You know, there are many, many things in this life that puzzle me, and no doubt, there

are many more important things to wonder about than where poetry sits in the

collective subconscious of our society, but I cannot help myself. I think about this far

more often than even I think is useful. What do you think?

A good read

Reading is one of the singular pleasures in life. Regardless of whether you prefer fact or fiction, a hour (or three) spent reading a good book ranks as one of the most pleasurable things a person can do to relax. It does not matter what the subject matter is, and here is where I disagree with my I-only-read-non-fiction friends, because you can always learn something from a good book.

What makes a good book? That answer changes for every person. It will depend on your level of education (no point reading something that is far beyond your ability to grasp). It will depend on your preferences (no point reading something that is as dry as sawdust).

When I was a pre-teenager I read just about anything I could get my hands on.The first book that made an impact on me was Cocky's Castle by Celia Syred. The adventure excited me, the emotional ending shocked me. I read all of Enid Blyton's Secret Seven and Famous Five and I do not remember a time when I have not been reading a book since then.

My parents called me a book worm. They love to tell the story of the time when some old lino was being pulled up in the kitchen to make way for renovations. As the lino came up, sheets of newspaper, lying between the lino and the floorboards, were revealed. Apparently I was of little help to them as I insisted on reading every sheet as it was released from the floor.

Life takes many twists and turns, and mine has had many that were unexpected and difficult. Some things remain as constants though, and one of those for me has been reading.

In an effort to conform with my afore-mentioned friends I took a journey into the domain of non-fiction. I read biographies, auto-biographies, historical treatises, white papers, etc. I enjoyed most of them. But I don't read just for content. In fact, given that the larger portion of my reading is fiction, content has been a minor consideration for many years. I read to learn and to expand my vocabulary; to improve my communication skills. In my experience, non-fiction is generally written with only the content in mind. This leads to lazy writing.

One of my favourite authors is Charles Frazier. He became famous in 1997 with his first full-length novel, Cold Mountain. The movie was rubbish. The book was a tour de force in how to describe something with expression. He described several characters as "not precisely old but he was working his way there" and "had a natural inclination toward bile and melancholy" and "poisoned by lonesomeness and longing".

Another fabulous author, Simon Winchester, wrote The Surgeon of Crowthorne". This is one of the few non-fiction books I have read that match the prose and beauty of script that is commonplace in fiction, but so often sadly lacking in non-fiction. Winchester's masterpiece proves that it is possible to cover a topic that many would consider dry as old bones with artistry and aplomb, thus elevating it to the level of the sublime. The Surgeon is sub-titled A Tale of Murder, Madness and the Love of Words. It details the story of how the Oxford English Dictionary came to be published. One could be forgiven for thinking that the pursuit of ensuring that the mite of a two-letter preposition should have no less standing than the majesty of a piece of polysyllabic sesquipedalianism would be banal and trite. One would be wrong, but I digress.

This post started with an intention to alert you to an excellent book I read over the Christmas break. I don't usually recommend books to others as I know that reading is a very personal enjoyment, and like art and love, there is no accounting for taste. Written by William Kent Kreuger, "An Ordinary Grace" is the story of one summer told through the eyes and perceptions of a 13 year old boy. Read it for the story or read it for the beautiful prose and exquisite phrasing, but read it.