There is so much to love
That they don’t tell you
In the films
‘Everyday loves’
…
There is so much to love
That they don’t tell you
In the films
‘Everyday loves’
…
‘How was work’
– It was just a normal day
Sometimes a normal day is a good day
Because it is sat between two bad days
And sometimes a normal day is just that
Completely average
Nothing worthy of note
But sometimes a normal day
Is the last thing you need
Sometimes you are expecting something extraordinary
And have to settle
For ‘normal’
Do you understand how tough that can be?
I don’t often recognise references or allusions in novels. I think I gloss over a lot and miss much of what makes a book special. But, when reading ‘The Golden House’ by Salman Rushdie, something stood out. It was a line at the end of a piece of prose, poetry? The line read, ‘…is this what you meant? Or this? Is this what you meant at all?’. It was the rhythm that caught me. Made me stop. I turned to my phone as it was closer than the book and googled ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’. Now, looking back and knowing more, I see so many clearer links to the poem. For instance the reference to the narrator being ‘prufrocked’ and the almost direct quotation, ‘I have see her like a yellow dog rubbing her back against, rubbing her muzzle upon, shall I say, licking her tongue into the corners of his evening?’. Nonetheless, it was the rhythm that caught me.
Let me explain.
When I was in second year of university going through a rough spot. Rough? Maybe it was more weathered, or stormed? Anyway, I found it harder and harder to fall asleep. I tried all sorts of remedies but nothing worked. And as always when stuck in an unsure moment with no one to turn to ( or maybe someone but oh god not them) I averted my gaze and found myself looking at poetry. The one thing that seemed to make a slight difference was listening to T S Eliot reading his poem ‘The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock’ each night. The 7.52min recital mimicked lullaby. The ups and downs, peaks and troughs, cadence of his voice sent my body into as close to sleep as I could muster. It became a ritual. I’d lie and let Eliot sing to me. I’ve always believed poetry should be heard not read and this poem proves that precisely. It is a joy to listen to. Makes reading seem unsubstantial and pointless. Makes my eyes redundant and my ears gold again.
I listened to it again after my recent early evening revelations and my body went into an almost paralysis, a lucid state. I was hypnotised by a familiar voice who had tried many times before to knock me out. But this time, although my mind was preparing to shut down, I wasn’t. I was still revelling at my newfound knowledge. Insider knowledge. Like I said, I never make the links. I can never cut as deep as others into the many facets that make up and inspire a novel. I’d struck gold and it felt amazing. And so, as cliche would want it, I couldn’t sleep that night. My head full of things I wanted to share. And so I share it with you. Below is the discussed extract from the novel ‘The Golden House’ by Salman Rushdie which I recommend no one reads but everyone to have read.
“The first night and the second night, the first two nights of the new year, she demonstrates her wares, let’s him see the quality of what’s on offer, not only physically but emotionally. She…and here I rear back and half myself, ashamed, prufrocked into a sudden pudeur, for, after all, how should I presume? Shall I say, I have known them all, I have seen her like a yellow dog rubbing her back against, rubbing her muzzle upon, shall I say, licking her tongue into the corners of his evening? Do I dare, and do I dare? And who am I, after all? I am not the prince. An attendant lord, deferential, glad to be of use. Almost, at times, the Fool…But, setting aside poetry, I’m too deeply in to stop now. I am imagining her already. Perhaps kneeling beside him on the bed. Yes, kneeling, I think. Asking, is this what you meant? Or this? Is this what you meant at all?” (p.78)
I want to get home before you
And make dinner
Tidy and clean
And make my home feel like mine
I want you to walk in and kiss me
Not me to you
Because I haven’t spent a moment alone
Until now
Walking lonely in London
With so many other lonely people
And I thought about staying on the bus
Till the end of the line
Or getting off three stops early
So I can walk with myself
Hand in hand
And learn my body again
She opens her eyes
as if for the first time
to her own tears
and doesn’t know how
or why
she is crying
and moments later
she wakes again
to her confused reality
and sobs slowly
She waits for him
to dry her tears
so she can forget again
I’ve spent two weeks
In a city of millions
Every centimetre filled
With another hot coffee to go
And deadlines
Looming, always
Each step on the stairs
Occupied
With him and her
And assistant and CEO
Waiting for the same tick
Of the clock
This city contortionist
Makes Mary Poppins wheeze
A jealous sigh
Or release?
Not knowing how or why
But after two weeks
Of hurried cries
I’ve found a love
For this smoky town
Tied up and contained
In obtuse shapes
Sky high 9-5
And cityscapes
Hello!
My latest blog post is up on The Model so if you’re interested in fashion and the representation of black models on the runway then go over and have a read.
Ailish x
Hello!
This is not a poem, but just a little note to say I’ve started writing weekly blog posts for a new blog called ‘The Model’.
My first post is up on the site now and you can find it here.
I hope you enjoy xx