Monthly Archives: November 2017

Song of the Cherry Tomato

The Song of the Cherry Tomato

Welcome me, greet me;
it’s so easy to eat me.

Smell me, feel me,
admire my compact shape.

Then pluck me from my vine,
just as you would a grape.

Stroke me, preen me;
the best way to clean me.

Place me, with my friends,
in a plain, white bowl.

The colours, the arrangements,
are good for the soul.

Paint me, write poems to me,
if such art is your goal.

Or just pop me in your mouth,
and devour me, whole.

While eating some cherry tomatoes recently, I suddenly got the urge to write a poem about them.  I had previously written a poem about tomatoes in general, and it hadn’t worked out  particularly well, but this time I was inspired by the beauty and simplicity of these tomatoes – and how ridiculously easy it was to eat them.  I started out with some ideas about how easy it is for us these days, compared to our ancestors having to hunt, kill, and labour with their hands to provide food for their families.  But the whole thing started to become over-elaborate, until I suddenly got the idea to write it in the “voice” of the tomato.  After that, the poem flowed along quite easily.

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Books do Furnish a Room

Books do Furnish a Room

Penelope Lively borrowed
the above quote from Anthony Powell,
to write about her “relatively meagre”
personal library of 3,300 books.

Of course, she is an eminent,
prize-winning author. She is not
living in my tiny, one-bedroom flat,
where my personal library of 1,100 books
seems far from “relatively meagre”.

I look at my thirty-three bookshelves
– I don’t have any option;
there isn’t much else to look at,
in my tiny, one-bedroom flat.

Those ramshackle, odd-looking shelves,
that I bought “for easy self-assembly”,
that took me half a day to assemble,
and I still ended up screwing the shelves
in the wrong way round.

Those huge, handsome, blonde
shelves I got from the charity shop,
that I thought were so capacious
I would never fill them in my lifetime:
now they are overflowing.

I can’t help thinking that too much of my life
has been consumed in populating these shelves;
that too much of my life has been spent in reading,
instead of the life I should have been leading.

But it’s not the fault of the books,
or the shelves. I don’t want to be unkind;
for, as well as my tiny, one-bedroom flat,
these books have furnished my mind.

In my last post, about second-hand bookshops, I mentioned that I had recently completed two contrasting poems about bookshops.  After those two poems, I liked the idea of writing a third poem, to complete a trilogy of poems about books, and I thought I could write the next poem about my own books and bookshelves.  This was fine in theory, but I then had a few problems in trying to find a starting-point for the poem.  I was familiar with the phrase “Books do Furnish a Room”, and thought I could use that as the title of the poem.  I then looked the phrase up on the internet.  It confirmed that the quotation was from one of Anthony Powell’s novels, but I then came across an article by Penelope Lively, in which she used the quotation to write about her own “personal library”.  As soon as I started reading her article, and saw her description of her collection as “relatively meagre”, I immediately got the idea for the above poem.

 

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Second-Hand Bookshops

Second-Hand Bookshops

For a browser, like me, such bookshops should be
of a size to investigate thoroughly,
in an hour or so; any longer, I know
all sense of self, of meaning, will go.
A feeling of unease turns into fear;
I begin to question what I am doing here.
So many shelves searched, and so many more;
but what, exactly, am I looking for?
Books have always formed my identity,
the act of reading is a necessity,
but I drift, I flounder, in a surging sea;
how shallow my interests appear to be,
as the ocean of books cascades around me.
Don’t know what I want; don’t know what I’ve read.
The waves converge, and cover my head.

Books, and reading, have always been a pivotal part of my life, as have bookshops and libraries.  In my student days at Cambridge, there used to be Brown’s Bookshop, only a few minutes’ walk away from the college.  It was a fairly small bookshop, which used to sell both new and second-hand books.  The second-hand section was at the back of the shop, and I used to relish browsing through it, looking for my next “find”.  It must have been Brown’s Bookshop that turned me into a lover of second-hand bookshops, but I’ve had a few chastening experiences in such shops in recent years.  I visited a friend in Carlisle, who took me to the largest second-hand bookshop in the country, and I found the experience completely alienating and unsettling.  It resulted in generating two contrasting poems, the first of which is the one above.

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