In which we find Bec, seized by an un-poetic and unforgiving mood, interrogating a Ralph Waldo Emerson poem, because the sages say boredom is its own excuse for being. The Rhodora In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes, Evocative, but is starting with weather clichéd scene setting? I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods, That's nice, but who … Continue reading Demolishing a Rhodora
Poetry
Skirting the edges
Despite living in the 'city on the bay' I haven't been to any sort of beach for about eight years. Recently though, I had the opportunity to spend a long weekend at Mornington Peninsular. Apart from one day trip to Sorrento, I hadn't visited the area before. I found it had its own special allure, … Continue reading Skirting the edges
Inner promptings vs external stimuli
I went interstate for a bit. There was scenery to look at and memories and feelings. I was inspired. I was going to write about it. But I don't think I will. I may write it or express it somehow, perhaps in some story, perhaps not. But about it seems to corrupt it, or exhaust its … Continue reading Inner promptings vs external stimuli
On not writing (much) about War Horse
Joey Come Home I was going to write an in-depth review of War Horse. But I can't. All I have are these: it's a glowing ode to that familiar genre the Devon Western, complete with a righteous property owner and endearing accents. It's a heart-warming rural family saga, with gigantic close ups of characters' faces, … Continue reading On not writing (much) about War Horse
Writing Bec 