Democrat, great lover of mankind, and athiest.

The words of Mr Percy Shelley. Last weeks lecture on how we have an over-romanticised and melodramatic view of the Romantic poets, just made me fall deeper into an excessive and sentimental love, and a desire to be just like them. You can't help falling head over heels for the people that rejected the religion, convention and style of their time - replacing the detached voice with the personal outpouring. The scandalous heresy and rejection of society is undeniably romantic - who can resist the words of Blake - "the true poet is of the Devil's party."

On that note - here's a seemingly inoffensive piece of Wordsworth -

A simple child, dear brother Jim,
That lightly draws its breath,
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl,
She was eight years old, she said;
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,
And she was wildly clad;
Her eyes were fair, and very fair;
--- Her beauty made me glad.

"Sisters and brothers, little maid,
How many may you be?"
"How many? Seven in all," she said,
And wondering looked at me.

"And where are they, I pray you tell?"
She answered, "Seven are we,
And two of us at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea.

Two of us in the church-yard lie,
My sister and my brother;
And in the church-yard cottage, I
Dwell near them with my mother."

"You say that two at Conway dwell,
And two are gone to sea,
Yet ye are seven; I pray you tell,
Sweet Maid, how this may be?"

Then did the little Maid reply,
"Seven boys and girls are we;
Two of us in the church-yard lie,
Beneath the church-yard tree."

"You run above, my little maid,
Your limbs they are alive;
If two are in the church-yard laid,
Then ye are only five."

"Their graves are green, they may be seen,"
The little Maid replied,
"Twelve steps or more from my mother's door,
And they are side by side.

My stockings there I often knit,
My 'kerchief there I hem;
And there upon the ground I sit ---
And sing a song to them.

And often after sun-set, Sir,
When it is light and fair,
I take my little porringer,
And eat my supper there.

The first that died was sister Jane;
In bed she moaning lay,
Till God released her of her pain;
And then she went away.

So in the church-yard she was laid;
And all the summer dry,
Together round her grave we played,
My brother John and I.

And when the ground was white with snow,
And I could run and slide,
My brother John was forced to go,
And he lies by her side."

"How many are you, then," said I,
"If they two are in Heaven?"
The little Maiden did reply,
"O Master! we are seven."

"But they are dead; those two are dead!
Their spirits are in heaven!"
'Twas throwing words away; for still
The little Maid would have her will,
And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

1798 - Lyrical Ballads

Everyone should buy the 1798 book of poems by Wordsworth & Coleridge. :)
Anyway - if you reread the poem, with the social position of the questioner and girl in mind, and think about the year as that leading to the first English census (and the u/c obsession with counting the poor - reducing humans to statistics) - and you might want to read it as showing the ambiguity of something that appears as fact, with the forcing of one definition on the poor. Interestingly - take away the first stanza (contribute by Coleridge, not Wordsworth) - does that change the way the reader approaches the poem. The interpretation isn't prescribed. Thankyou Mrs Glen - you do say such wonderful things. :)

Well - that's far too much practical criticism for me today. Trying pretty hard for this weeks essay - most likely to be on the presentation of the savage/savagery in Gulliver's Travels and Robinson Crusoe. Trying to broach away from the text book feminisim essay - but it shall no doubt result in another text book essay on the corporeal body. As ever. (No philosophy or high thoughts for Anna - all I care for is sexuality, skin and excrement).

I have also decided on a life plan - which will hopefully provide a definate structure for at least 3 more years. Thinking - history of art MA (fingers crossed at UCL), then teaching (either PGCE or Teach First) - so I could teach art and english. :) But now I need to massively brush up my art knowledge - I suppose the interview would be sometime at the end of the year.

Hoorayforme.

Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow.

"She should have died hereafter;
There would have been a time for such a word.
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing." — Macbeth (Act 5, Scene 5, lines 17-28)

Rather morose, yes. But the most beautiful things always are.

I really don't feel up to saying anything intelligent or deep. Cambridge fries my brain. Term started today. Reunited with the wonderful Dr. Wakelin for some medieval revision. Yummy. Made a start on my dissertation draft yesterday, currently 1500 words in with 3500 left. Progress is SO slow, and it's due on monday, with another essay (for which I have done no work yet) is due wednesday. So time is a pressure. Luckily I've chosen an awesome topic, but I'm finding structuring so hard, that every paragraph is such a push, I'm constantly worrying that I'm missing things. ARGH. I do, however, get to include photos in it. Hell yeah. :)

Well, I've used up all my brain power for essays.

A Villanelle.

Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose -
Meaning is lost in the striking of waves.
I do not know for the syllable grows.

What we need is silence, to expose,
To drown out the circling voice that raves -
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

I do not presume to presuppose
Sounds concealed in the echoing caves:
I do not know for the syllable grows.

Disguised: word upon word are this word's clothes.
Dizzying spins the listener braves -
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.

Round, and round, and round, the syllable goes
Sound, upon sound - the sound enslaves.
I do not know, for the syllable grows.

Throughout the sound no gleam of meaning glows,
So without knowledge we spin to our graves -
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
I do not know, for the syllable grows.

AR.

The Shepheardes Calender

Such rage as winters, reigneth in my heart,
My life bloud friesing with vnkindly cold:
Such stormy stoures do breede my balefull smarte,
As if my yeare were wast, and woxen old.
And yet alas, but now my spring begonne,
And yet alas, yt is already donne.

You naked trees, whose shady leaves are lost,
Wherein the byrds were wont to build their bowre:
And now are clothd with mosse and hoary frost,
Instede of bloosmes, wherwith your buds did flowre:
I see your teares, that from your boughes doe raine,
Whose drops in drery ysicles remaine.

All so my lustfull leafe is drye and sere,
My timely buds with wayling all are wasted:
The blossome, which my braunch of youth did beare,
With breathed sighes is blowne away, & blasted,
And from mine eyes the drizling teares descend,
As on your boughes the ysicles depend.

-- Edmund Spenser (From 'January')

Winter here doesn't look quite so miserable. The epic amounts of snow are wonderful! Though perhaps inconvenient. Brugge was the most beautiful place, very romantic, but very very cold. Due to the snow, however, we were trapped in Brussels-Midi station - the most terrifying place, but we just about managed to find a hotel at 10pm. But that didn't put too much of a damper on things. It was an adventure. :) And thanks to the ridiculous amount of time I've spent on trains this week, I'm almost half way through 'Tom Jones' - which is AMAZING! Even better than 'Tristram Shandy'. If I'm not careful I might end up choosing it as a module for finals! (But what could replace my beloved Victorian and Art?). It's a fanastic book, with all (if not more) of the humour and generic interest of TS, but with a much more easy to follow style and an interesting plot. TS is much more out there with it's devices, but Henry Fielding prevides constant mini-essays on genre, which will no doubt prove very helpful for the term ahead.

The time in Brugge also inspired much of my artistic inners - I'm now determined to create a travel scrap book, in the style I used to make my art work collages at college. I collected all the little things that can remind me of the wonderful (and eventful) times, and I'll try and do this for future trips. If only I'd done this for Italy! That would have been a wonderful record. The week also made me even more desperate for a good SLR camera, I took so many snaps on my shitty digital one. I'll buy one this year for sure.

Well, I'm back off to uni tomorrow. Have a dilemma over how to buy a new clarinet - found out the cheapest/best place is actually in the village my boyfriend lives in, which I will annoyingly not be frequenting for a few months till term's over. He could go and buy it for me tomorrow (I know which one I want) - but that's a lot of money to spend on something I can't try out first. Hmm. Decisions. :(

Well, of to la pub.

Scaffolding.

Masons, when they start upon a building,
Are careful to test out the scaffolding;

Make sure that planks won’t slip at busy points,
Secure all ladders, tighten bolted joints.

And yet all this comes down when the job’s done
Showing off walls of sure and solid stone.

So if, my dear, there sometimes seem to be
Old bridges breaking between you and me

Never fear. We may let the scaffolds fall
Confident that we have built our wall.

-- Seamus Heaney


Today was a shockingly epic fail. 2000 words of dissertation have amounted to 0. I spent the entire day (after waking up at 12) at the pub discussing virginity (for a friend's sociology dissertation), and have now packed for Bruges. I will now attempt the challenge of writing the entire 5000 words on friday evening. (I am not bothering to pretend to myself that the Milton essay has any chance of appearing). So yes, moan about work over.

I read a little Wendy Cope today. The Bridget Jones of the poetry world. I'm enjoying it muchly - perhaps the biggest variation from Hardy possible. (To An Unborn Pauper Child - "Breathe not, hid heart: cease silently" - hmmm). To summarize - wonderfully witty rhymes and wicked man mocking. Fabulous.

At lunchtime I bought a huge orange
The size of it made us all laugh.
I peeled it and shared it with Robert and Dave
They got quarters and I had a half.
And that orange, it made me so happy,
As ordinary things often do
Just lately. The shopping. A walk in the park.
This is peace and contentment. It's new.
The rest of the day was quite easy.
I did all the jobs on my list
And enjoyed them and had some time over.
I love you. I'm glad I exist.

I do admittedly prefer the heart pourings of Duffy mingled with the wit, but it's lighthearted and fun. And oh shit - I should definately leave for Bruges now. Woops. I'm taking Fielding's 'Tom Jones' with me, fingers crossed for another hilarious eighteenth century shocker.

Out.

Pad, Pad.

I always remember your beautiful flowers
And the beautiful kimono you wore
When you sat on the couch
With that tigerish crouch
And told me you loved me no more.

What I cannot remember is how I felt when you were unkind
All I know is, if you were unkind now I should not mind.
Ah me, the power to feel exaggerated, angry and sad
The years have taken from me. Softly I go now, pad pad.

-- Stevie Smith.

I'm wearing too much make up at 2.05 am.
I've decided to keep a pretentious literary blog of beautiful words that I like. (For instance - salmon). But words preferably arranged in a beautiful fashion:

Immune savagery - dashed
Springs
Crowned. Sudden fear anaesthetizes
This
diptych of disregard.

These are words arguably not organized in a beautiful fashion. These are actually words arranged in a dadaist fashion (generated randomly from my dictionary). I happen to think this process is beautiful within itself, regardless of the final result.

I'm currently reading some Thomas Hardy (I'm treating myself and holding of the 18th century lit for a while) (although Tristram Shandy was mint: "What is all this story about? - A Cock and a Bull"). Current thoughts - don't read if feeling depressed, unless encouragement of suicide is desired. There are beautiful lines, but so far I'm finding the rhythm jolting and halting. Immediate impression is that it seems trapped between conventional structure and freedom - sometimes it seems to conform to a gait, and then stumbles sometimes. Some poems do seem to escape it entirely, and these seem the better for it. Not sure how I feel, having only read a few.

Well. I should try and draft my dissertation tomorrow. I'm failing miserably at work this holiday. I'll aim for 2000 words tomorrow. In the evening I'm off though - Bruges. :) Should be most beautiful.

Goodnight world.