I came across this quite unexpectedly. And I really liked it.

The Seed-Shop

Here in a quiet and dusty room they lie,

Faded as crumbled stone or shifting sand,

Forlorn as ashes, shrivelled, scentless, dry -

Meadows and gardens running through my hand.

In this brown husk a dale of hawthorn dreams;

A cedar in this narrow cell is thrust

That will drink deeply of a century's streams;

These lilies shall make summer on my dust.

Here in their safe and simple house of death,

Sealed in their shells, a million roses leap;

Here I can blow a garden with my breath,

And in my hand a forest lies asleep.

Muriel Stuart

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten

the plums

that were in

the icebox

and which

you were probably

saving

for breakfast.

Forgive me

they were delicious

so sweet

and so cold.

-- William Carlos Williams

On Reading Howards End

Since I had already studied 'A Passage to India' for Elective English at school, 'Howards End' (all and complete chapters provided by the link) was not my introduction to Forster. But yet again, I'm struck by this man's ability to put the abstract into words. Correction. Comprehensible words.

When I read Forster, I feel like he just reaches into my head and with ease, lays out all my thoughts on his pages. And all of a sudden, the thoughts become much much more coherent, significant, and even poetic. I feel that this newfound and positively startling clarity, is not the result of scrutiny or analysis. What he does, is much more beautiful than pedantic deconstruction. What he does, is express our thoughts in terms of language. No matter how much we say we're confused, most of the time we know how we feel. Every ebb and flow of our emotions, every inner pulse and tremor, all send some kind of alert that shoots into our consciousness. We can detect in our heads, parallel strands of contradictory feelings. We can perceive distinctly the waves of alternating thought that wash over us. The only reason why these emotions appear to be a tangled heap, is because we can't represent them in terms of known objects. Forster can. In this case, the 'known objects' are words.

And the structure of his novels are fascinating too. Our so called 'spiritual' world- not to be confused with the religious or the supernatural- is captured in all it's spontaneity and ephemeralness. It isn't compartmentalized into neat, brown-paper-wrapped boxes, all for the sake of creating a tight, wholesome plot. Yet, the contradictions aren't confusing, and the impulses and whims of the characters are engaging rather than ridiculous. When a character does something unexpected, it seems more of an astounding quirk rather than a jarring element. Each word adds layers, and each layer adds richness. And together, the layers call out to us, to unravel them and widen our view on the world. Not once do these layers weigh down on us, restricting our vision.

But interestingly, the plot IS tight and wholesome. Little events at the opening tie up to major incidents in the end. Unobtrusive details gently speak as symbols for overwhelming themes. The tension and shock are present just to the right degree- they stir without stifling. And the flux and abstractions finally build up to a firm, satisfying conclusion, which allows peace and catharsis without being overly tidy.

And then there is the subtle satire, the sharp and sparkling wit, the omniscient voice of the narrator that cajoles you into reading between the lines while making you feel YOUR fine-tuned perception has triumphed in doing so.

All this makes Howards End seem quite heavy. And it could be, it could easily be. But there's one thing that stops it from being so-- charm. It's got that twinkle in the eye that stops you from hating the dusty old lecturer. It's got that mellow note of warmth that stops you from hating the sterilized old dentist. The sense of history, mood and atmosphere is captivating. You can hear the chink of crystal, the clink of fork against china plate, the boom and tinkle of a piano. And you can hear the more uplifting sounds of nature- the breathing of the river, the whispers in the field, the laughter of the stars.

There is a widely acclaimed movie on this book, featuring Anthony Hopkins, Vanessa Redgrave, Emma Thompson and Helena Bonham Carter, among others.

Wow, right? Quite. And it's a well-made movie. It's just that Forster novels shouldn't be made into movies. Or rather, people should NEVER watch a movie on a Forster novel if they've already read the source. If my review has made any sense, you should understand why.

A still from The Wall (movie.) Always scares me.

Thank You, Shalmi...

.... for passing on the love.

This poem made MY day too.

W.H. Auden - The More Loving One

---

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total darkness sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

One Cigarette

No smoke without you, my fire. After you left, your cigarette glowed on in my ashtray and sent up a long thread of such quiet grey I smiled to wonder who would believe its signal of so much love. One cigarette in the non-smoker's tray. As the last spire trembles up, a sudden draught blows it winding into my face. Is it smell, is it taste? You are here again, and I am drunk on your tobacco lips. Out with the light. Let the smoke lie back in the dark. Till I hear the very ash sigh down among the flowers of brass I'll breathe, and long past midnight, your last kiss. Edwin Morgan When I read this, I forget all about going -'Eww no. What do you mean you want a fag?'

Sill I Rise

Some Black women are very cool. Aretha's one. Maya Angelou's another.

Still I Rise

 

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may trod me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

I rise. 

Maya Angelou