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Articles by Ruth Sharman
Poem Of The Week: Among The Talk And The Laughter By Norman MacCaig (1910-1996)
arts Among the Talk and the Laughter Why does he fall silent? Why does that terrible, sad look tell he has gone away? He has died too often. And something has been said that makes him aware of the bodies floating face downwards in his mind. Norman MacCaig's haunted poem occupies a space between conversation and abstraction: temporarily losing sight of his surroundings, the narrator's gaze is drawn to the poem's subject, whose mien suggests an existential vacancy occasioned by terrible experience.
Understanding The Stone: The Green Parcel By John Challis
arts Visiting a medieval country church whose bells were forged during the reign of Elizabeth I, and whose tones must have tolled the passing of the Civil War and the Napoleonic dead, we were reminded of another form of commemoration, in the numberless wedding celebrants who also passed this way over the intervening centuries.
Poem Of The Week: Soirée By Peter Reading (1946-2011)
arts Soirée One funny thing about loving someone is how much you'll put up with - her parents' conversazione for example, or being sweet to these fools she works with who smoke inferior cigars and think it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink inadequately and long past my bedtime, and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff. And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter, what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
Poem Of The Week: Soirée By Peter Reading (1946-2011)
arts Soirée One funny thing about loving someone is how much you'll put up with - her parents' conversazione for example, or being sweet to these fools she works with who smoke inferior cigars and think it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink inadequately and long past my bedtime, and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff. And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter, what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
Poem Of The Week: Soirée By Peter Reading (1946-2011)
arts Soirée One funny thing about loving someone is how much you'll put up with - her parents' conversazione for example, or being sweet to these fools she works with who smoke inferior cigars and think it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink inadequately and long past my bedtime, and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff. And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter, what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
Poem Of The Week: Soirée By Peter Reading (1946-2011)
arts Soirée One funny thing about loving someone is how much you'll put up with - her parents' conversazione for example, or being sweet to these fools she works with who smoke inferior cigars and think it's savoir vivre, and drag me back to drink inadequately and long past my bedtime, and put on records (God!) stuff like Ray Conniff. And all their damn fool questions 'tell me Peter, what do you write about?' (cunts like you mate).
Children's Poem Of The Week: Catamaran Smile By Carmella de Keyser
family Catamaran Smile As the rope is drawn away from the anchor, As the captain concentrates and charts his course, As the coast shrinks into glassy, shaken water, As the percussion of waves evolve into an engine’s hum, As the boats wood begins to creak, As the propeller turns and bites the sea, As the golden sunset glows then sinks into orange jelly.
From Ukraine To Kilimanjaro: Diana's Journey
travel One might infer, in Diana Fedorenko’s recent successful ascent of the highest mountain in Africa, a metaphor for personal experience. For the nineteen year old Edinburgh University student’s trajectory, from the war-torn Eastern margin of Ukraine, to England and the Yorkshire Dales, to an outstanding career at Giggleswick school, is little short of astonishing, considering the unpromising nature of her earlier circumstances. But Diana is not given to metaphor.
Poem Of The Week: A Winter Night By William Barnes (1801-1886)
arts A Winter Night It was a chilly winter's night; And frost was glittering on the ground, And evening stars were twinkling bright; And from the gloomy plain around Came no sound, But where, within the wood-girt tow'r, The churchbell slowly struck the hour; As if that all of human birth Had risen to the final day, And soaring from the worn-out earth Were called in hurry and dismay, Far away ; And I alone of all mankind Were left in loneliness behind.
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