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The Sheltering Sky

September 3, 2009



Well, I’m happy to see that you’ve all remained as skillful as ever. We’ve done streams, now let’s do what’s so often reflected in them: sky.

I want acrostic poems on the subject of the sky, like this:

No Other Place

Because there was no other place
to flee to
Anne Sexton, Flee On Your Donkey

Call a cab and hit the road
Leave this city’s leaden sky
Overhead, a heavy load;
Under it, we act the lie:
Damned to live and doomed to die.

Course is plotted, sunward bound
On the swallow’s trail we fix
Via train, we cover ground
Engaging with the usual mix:
Remittance men both young and old
Slipping south away from cold.

Lower now, the sun’s blush shows
On silver olive and the peach;
Nearer now to sand than snows’
Down the map, towards a beach
Over harsh hills burned and seer,
Nearing where the sky grows clear.

  1. September 3, 2009 1:28 PM

    Blue sky’s the thing but here’s a thing
    An observation to make out loud,
    Grey skies make me want to sing
    A celebration of grey cloud.
    A grey cloud heavy with future rain
    Thunderclaps its electric refrain.

    Sun on trees, grey clouds behind
    Remind us all ‘s subject to change.
    The trick is not to let it mind
    Tne range of change is not shortchange.
    Sunlight squeezed out like lemon juice
    The clouds like some foreboding noose.

  2. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 3, 2009 2:01 PM


    Above us the woven bands of grey cloud,
    Layered to keep the night at bay awhile,
    Till the starlings have carried their liquid
    Oval of grouped imaginings downwards,
    Skywards, inwards, that loose moon-shape of starlings
    Tumbling in and out of themselves, their stressed
    Remains now a black rag, now once
    Again a vibrant ball of feathered
    Trickery, their high-pitched reinvention
    Underpinning their wilful urge to move
    Sky into sky under starling motion.

    Jack Brae Curtingstall

  3. HenryLloydMoon permalink
    September 3, 2009 2:02 PM

    Sugar High

    Horizons are the litmus of our day.
    Empyreal indigos, royal blues
    And reddish stars announce the Milky Way.
    Violet streaks — carob Aztec tattoos
    Enrobe the murky Galaxies of night;
    Negate diurnal programming: I yield,
    Sparked by the daily dimming of the light
    To vacillate in Mars’ magnetic field,
    Obeying 50 cents and Eminems.
    But yellow dawns the day; and with it hope
    Eternal of a Red Sun. Starburst gems?
    Tangerine Skittles? Smoking too much dope.
    Step outside, take a deep breath; gaze skywards,
    Yomp clear across the misty dunes, homewards.

  4. mishari permalink*
    September 3, 2009 2:33 PM

    Great stuff, campers…Al, I love the line ‘…sunlight squeezed out like lemon juice…’ but I’m fucked if I can see the acrostic. Am I just being dense (no new thing) ?

  5. September 3, 2009 2:43 PM

    You mean Bagaat Srttst doesn’t mean anything? Not even in Linear 8?

  6. Daisy permalink
    September 3, 2009 2:51 PM

    Care is abandonded in the warm sand and grit
    Overhead, the sun burns through the city’s haze
    Nathan’s hot dogs, celery tonic, other good shit
    Elate and sustain us on this day of days
    You’re right there in New York’s people pit.

    I know this place from early youth
    Sand and noise and beer and sea
    Loud with rough plebian truth
    And thousands sunburned, just like me
    Near naked and happy, this septic isle
    Defines a class, a time, a style.

  7. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 3, 2009 3:25 PM

    Upset not the Gods of Mount Olympus
    Preening their beards of Cumulonimbus

  8. Daisy permalink
    September 3, 2009 3:48 PM

    Thanks, Polly, Melton and mishari for the kind encouragement on the last thread.

  9. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 4:10 PM

    On the Breaking Tide

    Coming home, where the sky divides
    Here, where we are. There, where we were
    Inside where the echoes hide.
    Now; the breaking tide
    Of promise whispers warmer air
    Over us, of thaws and floods, “Beware my soft
    Adrift, a life on the winds, a breath the
    Rhythms of beginnings, forever
    Coming home, where the sky divides
    Here, where we are. There, where we were alive.

  10. Daisy permalink
    September 3, 2009 4:19 PM

    Beautiful, file. I know there’s a kind of salmon called Chinook and I believe that the Chinook are a native American people (Canadian, I think?), but is there something called the Chinook Arch? And if so, what is it? Or are you creating a phrase?

    I’m not going to google it because I’m beginning to suspect that google is the death of conversation.

  11. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 4:37 PM

    thank you Daisy, Coney Island (in your hands at least!) is lovely too, very evocative. The Chinook winds here bring huge jumps in temperature (up to 25°) in a few hours and they often slide in on a stark cloud frontier:

    Yes, google can be the death of conversation can’t it? YouTube too in the wrong hands!

  12. mishari permalink*
    September 3, 2009 5:04 PM

    Lovely, Daisy…I remember Nathan’s Famous Franks well (still going strong, I believe). There used to be (in the 70s) a big Nathan’s billboard by the railway line on the way to Coney Island. It dated from WW II. Much faded, it read ‘Send A Salami To Your Boy In The Army’. Long gone but it used to cheer me up for days.

    Lovely poem, file. I remember hearing of the wind called the Chinook, (like one of those Italian winds–the Bora, the Khamsin [which means ’50’ in Arabic-apparently the number of days the wind blows], the Ghibli and the Mistral, that all became models of Maserati).

    There are others–the Fjorn (I think it’s called), the Harmattan, the Zonda (also appropriated for an expensive sports car); in Jamaica, there’s a wind called The Doctor’s Wind, so called for its healing, soothing properties, coming, as it does, after a long spell of oppressive, humid doldrums and its opposite The Undertaker’s Wind, which does what it says on the tin.

    In Britain, it’s just ‘wind’…

  13. pinkroom permalink
    September 3, 2009 5:38 PM

    Atlantic air two thousand miles of
    Clouds; neck ricking, titan cycles, towering
    High, black though to blind-eyed white; pierced upon the Bills.
    It’s only a little rip, a little rip, but tearing up, bowed back, rip.
    Ladders, ripped to Heaven.
    Ladders ripped to Heaven.

  14. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 5:39 PM

    thanks Mish, yes I’ve heard a few people say Britain suffers from wind. All the better for the occasional rosy Zephyrine then.

  15. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 3, 2009 7:25 PM


    Night is the time we open the sky
    indigo fruit of fermented day
    gu-wek our word that draws us to fly
    heathland and common our common way
    taking the silvering moth off the moon
    jaws churring harshly the song of flight
    a raiment like leaf-mould, deceptive gown
    rumour our presence, stealth our light

    Jack Brae Curtingstall

  16. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 8:33 PM

    Dance of the Northern Veils

    By flitting lights that dance the night
    Our knittedness, the naked sky
    Revealed, concealed by silken kites
    Emitting lights that dance the night
    Aurora over us ignites
    Loves flame is bright in northern eyes
    In flitting lights that dance the night
    Soft knittedness, the naked sky

  17. September 3, 2009 8:38 PM

    File you have a whizzy new avatar. Is it a shield?

  18. September 3, 2009 8:49 PM

    Pointlessly depressing, but:

    I awake and find it is now cold,
    And that the air’s ever-present chill
    Makes the memory of a summer only days ago
    Gradually seem fantastic.
    Each time, when I sense the seasons changing,
    These days I find I can’t help dwelling on
    The time when I will no longer be I.

  19. HenryLloydMoon permalink
    September 3, 2009 8:50 PM

    “You wear bright objects on your chest.”

    “Yes. I do.”

    “Are you proud?”

    “Achievement is its own reward. Pride obscures it.

  20. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 8:51 PM

    yes, it could be Polly (put the kettle on) though it used to be a sonar screen! Just tried to change it but it doesn’t seem to have worked. I’ve been fiddling because I don’t get the email alerts to the urgent posts from here for some reason, I think Mish is trying to ban me :(

  21. freep permalink
    September 3, 2009 9:41 PM

    Life in a Dirty Nebula

    ‘Cough? Again? You look too often at the sky.
    Otis did that, and now, observe – he’s dead.
    Someone ought to find a reason why.
    Men used to astronomise from their beds,
    Inspecting moons and planets all night long.
    Can’t now. There’s plainly something wrong.’

    ‘Dogs who bay at the haunted moon,
    Eagles who skim up close to the sun –
    Buggered. Among those corpses read the runes:
    Rockets, planes, skyjunk’s bad for everyone.
    It’s late. Best turn your eyes down, try to be strong;
    Sky’s in a mess. Just whistle a cheery song.’

  22. mishari permalink*
    September 3, 2009 10:23 PM

    Great stuff, PR, Jack, file…

    HLM, you’ve become gnomic.

    ‘I am grett’? Is that some sort of arcane vernacular current amongst you high-powered bookworms, obooki?

    freep, I believe you’ve moved Chicken Licken into the 21st century. Wonderful, as always.

    file, I checked my settings and I can’t see any reason why email alerts shouldn’t work. I think the problem must be at your end (at the risk of insulting your intelligence, they haven’t gone to your junk mail/spam folder?).

  23. September 3, 2009 10:29 PM

    muscular and aggressive, this wind,
    it roars down the great river valley
    slamming doors and breaking shutters
    taking tiles off roofs (and roofers too)
    reducing residents to nervous wrecks
    after three days its rage subsiding
    leaves behind a clear clean azure sky

    That’s the best-known one, but the southern French have as many names for winds as the Inuit have for snow. Sadly indeed, we Brits don’t have interesting names for winds like tramontane or sirocco but in coastal areas the mere point of the compass can acquire a sinister implication, as in “There’s a south-westerly blowing up.”

  24. mishari permalink*
    September 3, 2009 10:34 PM

    Yes, Zeph…I can see Mowbray squinting at the sky over the Solent, removing his pipe from his mouth, spitting and saying, ‘…ohhh arrr, the wind be out o’ the south…you’ll lose some roof-tiles tonight, young feller, mark my words…(hawk, spit)…arrr…doan moind if’n I do..a pint o’ best…thank ‘ee…’

  25. file permalink
    September 3, 2009 10:57 PM

    “muscular and aggressive” is a great description of the Mistral Zeph.

    I understand that in parts of the Southern Rhone that “the Mistral was blowing” is still a valid legal defence for committing those crimes of passion the French so enjoy. Per’aps Henri La Lune can confirm?

    You can’t insult what isn’t there Mishari, they’re not going to my spam box but you’re wise to suggest the bleedin’ obvious where I’m concerned, it’ll be something complex and ‘orrible.

  26. mishari permalink*
    September 3, 2009 11:06 PM

    The Santa Ana Wind:

    “Those hot dry winds that come down through the mountain passes and curl your hair and make your nerves jump and your skin itch. On nights like that every booze party ends in a fight. Meek little wives feel the edge of the carving knife and study their husbands’ necks. Anything can happen. ”

    —Raymond Chandler, “Red Wind”

    “ Los Angeles weather is the weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse, and, just as the reliably long and bitter winters of New England determine the way life is lived there, so the violence and the unpredictability of the Santa Ana affect the entire quality of life in Los Angeles, accentuate its impermanence, its unreliability. The wind shows us how close to the edge we are. ”

    —Joan Didion, “Los Angeles Notebook”

    “ The township itself was twenty miles (32 km) west of the Santa Ana Mountains, where the infamous winds came from. Time to time they blew in, dry, warm, steady, and they sent the whole of LA crazy. Reacher had seen their effects a couple of times. Once he had been in town after liaising with the jarheads at Camp Pendleton. Once he had been on a weekend pass from Fort Irwin. He had seen minor barroom brawls end up as first-degree homicides. He had seen burnt toast end up in wife-beating and prison and divorce. He had seen a guy get bludgeoned to the ground for walking too slow on the sidewalk. ”

    —Lee Child, “Bad Luck and Trouble”

    This just in…

    Miyuki Hatoyama, wife of Japan’s Prime Minister-elect, Yukio Hatoyama, is a lifestyle guru, a macrobiotics enthusiast, an author of cookery books, a retired actress, a divorcee, and a fearless clothes horse for garments of her own creation, including a skirt made from Hawaiian coffee sacks. And she was once abducted by aliens.

    The 62-year-old also knew Tom Cruise in a former incarnation – when he was Japanese – and is now looking forward to making a Hollywood movie with him. But it is her claim in a book entitled “Very Strange Things I’ve Encountered” that she was abducted by aliens while she slept one night 20 years ago, that has suddenly drawn attention following last Sunday’s poll.

    “While my body was asleep, I think my soul rode on a triangular-shaped UFO and went to Venus,” she explains in the tome she published last year. “It was a very beautiful place, and it was very green.”

    –from The Independent, today

    Actually, if THIS is anything to go by, the beautiful green planet Mrs. Hatoyama visited was certainly not Venus. I suspect it was in another galaxy altogether. I wonder if Tom Cruise was as bat-shit crazy when he was Japanese as he is now? And as short?

  27. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 12:24 PM

    Rough-arsed offspring of privilege,
    Underlord of tit and bummery,
    Patriot whose loyal pledge
    Evolves with each change of country,
    Royal critic whose own empire
    Typifies a monarchy,
    Monster of the media world,
    Unctuous friend to spiv and liar,
    Retailer of dishonesty,
    Destroyer of clique and cabal
    Of character and reputation
    Conservative and radical,
    Hustler, whore and pimp all in one.

  28. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 12:26 PM

    Crap, but there you go.

    2 root canals and a crown yesterday afternoon. My head is still vibrating.

  29. freep permalink
    September 4, 2009 1:55 PM

    I think Rupe would be rather flattered, MM. Nice one. Root canals is no fun; make the most of the crown, the nearest most of us get to Royalty.
    Still trying to grasp file’s version of the sky’s knittedness. Wonderfully weird.

  30. September 4, 2009 2:35 PM


    Lovely subject, this skypoem challenge.

    How many entries per candidate?

    I’ll offer three if it’s not improper: first:

    “Like musical instruments…”

    And here is a nano-skypoem:

    Even the most beautiful parachutes
    travel away from heaven as they move through the sky

    And having made that jump, one watches the sky for searchlights, if one’s a bit paranoid:

    For Delmore Schwartz

  31. mishari permalink*
    September 4, 2009 2:36 PM

    Sorry to hear about your tooth trauma. Excellent poem, BTW, and certainly more than that unspeakable scumbag Murdoch deserves…

    As many as you care to, Tom, as usual. I’m a firm believer in the dictum that ‘too much is just about enough’ or as Blake would have it ‘the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.’

  32. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 3:37 PM

    DVDs have arrived: thanks. I can put away the books again. Just read Child 44. Rubbish.

    Murdoch is invulnerable. Sky is his broadcasting organisation in the UK, overseas persons, so I am within the challenge’s parameters.

    I caught a bit of a documentary last night with some barmy woman visiting Saudi Arabia. Is she going to Kuwait?

  33. mishari permalink*
    September 4, 2009 5:28 PM

    I suspect you saw a bit of a program about the frankincense trail. I watched 5 minutes of it but found the woman (who used to front a gardening prgram or something, I think) too vapid to be endured.

    Pity. It’s an interesting subject. She was refused a visa for Kuwait. I made sure of that…

  34. obooki permalink
    September 4, 2009 5:43 PM

    I believe my poem does turn out to be an acrostic when read carefully enough. It is not about the sky, however – for some reason I thought you said weather in general.

    Dentistry is fun. Last year I had 11 fillings, 2 root canals, 2 crowns and 1 wisdom tooth extraction. (And I didn’t even need anything done; I did it just for a laugh!). To be honest, I prefer root canals to those ghastly deep fillings on the molars of one’s lower jaws.

  35. September 4, 2009 6:45 PM

    Ha they said I needed a root canal and a crown and mentioned hundreds of pounds, so I said how much for extraction? £7.00 – great. I’ve had no trouble with it since and the others have heeded the warning too. Don’t reward petulence with crowns of gold, teach them who’s boss!

  36. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 8:19 PM

    It’s position I’ve taken, Polly. The last two I had extracted, less on account of the £800 they would have cost me than, as I explained to the dentist, that it seems uneconomic considering that I am unlikely to last beyond the next ten years. One of the extractions ended up costing me £100 anyway since it took the hamfisted Boer tackling it an hour and a half to remove. However, I’ve been under pressure not to have any more out on the grounds that it will make me look even older than I do now. Cheek collapse is not a pretty sight. Well worth it for youths such as yourself and obooki.

    Yes, it was the frankincense trail. What was a surprise were the legions of lovely ladies apparelled in Western gear in what I took to be a fundamentalist country. Things are always more complicated than you imagine…

    I was having a blood test today when I noticed a sign on the wall of the clinic:

    Staff will not bleed patients who are abusive or violent.

  37. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 8:23 PM

    Not cheek collapse. Having crowns.

  38. file permalink
    September 4, 2009 9:58 PM

    thanks for finding a bit of space for the ‘wonderfully’ free-polo!

    hate dentists with a passion (present company excepted of course), mine at the moment is called Dr. Love (which association makes me twitch and hiccup every time I think him, but proves this old and iffy poem of mine somehow prescient)

    Another Filling, Another Failure

    we were both bleeding from the gums
    when we met
    malnourished neglected amateur experts
    solitary technicians with bad reputations
    unsanitary practices and stuffed filing cabinets
    inflamed with infected
    bloody case histories
    of traumatized ex-patients

    anaesthetized and ethereal
    we did what we knew
    what we thought we had to do
    the internal probing of each others tissue
    for live nerves in latex gloves
    with sharp metal instruments
    extracting wisdom, detritus
    and drilling for goodness
    sake in crimson caves

    we wore headlamps on our foreheads
    because we cared
    we shared our padded vinyl reclining chairs
    that fit snug stuck
    to our clammy forms
    for oral audit both aware
    of all the tense fingers that had
    clutched clinched there
    before us, in fear, the others like us
    that had clamped shut their eyes
    and opened wide
    and hoped in aching desperation for relief inside

    another filling another failure
    dental records never lie
    we worked hard on our smiles
    with laughing gas by rank canals
    on bridges in decay
    but our ether embrace
    hid the grace
    ness of our pain
    we lost the whiteness that defined us
    in the unwinnable
    war against stains

    deniable accountability
    in luminous braces
    time and patience past
    started missing appointments
    hope stopped payments
    our rosy dreams lay caked
    at the bottom of our glasses

    we took to meeting
    in the waiting room
    between Hello! and Home and Garden
    gnashing grinding
    second-hand false teeth
    felt crammed in didn’t fit
    malocclusion wince

  39. HenryLloydMoon permalink
    September 4, 2009 10:22 PM

    “Don’t get me started on teeth.”

    — Gnome

  40. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 4, 2009 10:44 PM

    Debbie, can you pass me the drill?
    Extending or regular?
    Neither. Or both. I’m not sure.
    The patient seems to be breathing a bit funny.
    Ah. I might have given him too much of that… stuff.
    Perhaps. The print was a bit small.
    Random. He won’t feel much. You’d better start.
    All right. Here goes.
    Cor. You went right through his cheek.
    That wasn’t supposed to happen.
    I never seen that much blood before.
    Call an ambulance.
    Er, what number is it?

  41. September 4, 2009 11:38 PM

    Let us give extraction a try,
    While I’m lying here etherised upon the table
    Like the evening spread out against the sky;
    Let’s try, though certain semi-sunken cheeks
    Will cover up obliques
    Of crooked stumps in rotten concave jaws
    And raw gums stained dark with bloodred sores:
    Teeth that follow like a tedious argument
    Of insidious intent
    To lead you to an overwhelming question…
    Oh, do not ask “What is it?”
    Let us go and make out visit.

  42. pinkroom permalink
    September 4, 2009 11:58 PM

    So to the dentist.
    Pain root to bone; will not pass
    It has bedded in, nerve deep, for the week now
    No let up. Just grey with a blacker edge.
    Terrible. Taking any pain killer to hand.
    Each hour negotiated; my retreat from Moscow.
    Right turn, General? Only a mile now,
    Emperor. To that sinus-shearing smell; hatchet, mask.
    Do your fucking worst.

    Stepping outside, numbed, gum-wadded
    Keys in hand as the abscessed clouds part.
    Yellow pus light sinks down; lanced and sour.

  43. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 5, 2009 2:32 AM


    Yesterday’s gone, slipped through the sky
    On fields of dark and copper rye,
    Under a sponge-and-treacle moon
    Nulled by gravity’s see-through spoon:
    Gone is the day before today.

    Lucy opened a stairway pie,
    Undid an onion, my oh my,
    Castled her king, burst a balloon:
    Yesterday’s gone.

    Mad as light through a peacock’s eye,
    About as high as skylarks fly,
    Dear Lucy Mad Sky spoke too soon,
    Septembered July after June,
    Knew how to laugh and how to cry
    Yesterday’s Gone.

    Jack Brae Curtingstall

  44. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 5, 2009 2:37 AM

    I couldn’t possibly match any of your experiments with teeth, so I wrote an acrostic rondeau instead. Hope that’ll keep me out of the dentist’s chair….

    Jack Brae

  45. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 5, 2009 7:26 PM

    Thanks for making me feel inadequate, Jack.

  46. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 6, 2009 12:18 AM

    Blair we are going to take to Trafalgar Square and hang,
    Lord Mandelson will follow and then the rest of the gang,
    Under the aegis of this new-look administration
    Execution is crucial to re-organisation.
    Some distress is possible when tough choices are made,
    Key is consultation, though no attention will be paid
    If results do not match those which we are now employing:
    Examined in that sense, the last regime is ongoing.
    Some overlap is inevitable.
    This policy is in line with our commitment to disburse
    Hard-hitting, hard-edged punishment to writers of free verse.
    Irish officials have agreed to the extradition
    Nem con of Bono for posing as a musician,
    Katie Price is now being sought all across the country,
    It’s thought her breasts may have to be captured separately,
    Noosed and held in a bra of high-security fabric.
    Gordon Sumner is in custody. Death will be Tantric.

  47. pinkroom permalink
    September 6, 2009 12:46 AM

    splendid work mm… the thought of some joined-up government at last certainly lifts the spirits.

  48. mishari permalink*
    September 6, 2009 1:09 PM

    A strong dental theme seems to have insinuated iself into the thread. Interesting…all grist to the mill.

    Great work, folks.

    MM, your grasp of Blue Sky Thinking (®J. Birt) clearly marks you out for greatness. Return to your garden shed and prepare for office…

  49. HenryLloydMoon permalink
    September 6, 2009 2:41 PM

    Faster, clouds, scudding
    ‘Cross the brittle pane of glass

  50. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 6, 2009 6:57 PM


    As I said in my letter, my old granny’s name
    Before she married my grandfather was Lennon,
    Olive Lennon, so it’s certain we had the same
    Vein of Irish blood (though I was born in London,
    East Ham – vile place). I posted it in ’63.
    Unaccountably, I never got an answer.
    Still, you were busy. But you could have easily
    Ordered someone (Ringo?) to get in touch, I’m sure.
    Now I think how nice life could have been had we met,
    Luxurious houses, lovely women, drugs, booze,
    Yachts and cruise liners, mingling with the Jet Set,
    Sampling all the pleasures of the swinging Sixties,
    Kawasakis and Harleys, perhaps a Porsche…
    Your thoughts on peace would have been good to hear, of course.

  51. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 6, 2009 7:04 PM

    Thanks, pr, HRH.

    Above inspired (or not) by catching a bit of the Fab Four Fest last night. Those lovable moptops do seem the teensiest bit boring nowadays. Who would have predicted that in 1964?

    Also saw Sarah Silverman for the first time (outside Larry Sanders). How does she survive assassination?

  52. September 6, 2009 10:14 PM

    Sarah Silverman is a mystery to me, neither bizarre enough to laugh at nor actually funny. Think I missed something?

    Would recommend the new film Precinct 9, latest from Peter Jackson, but hobbit free…

  53. InvisibleJack permalink
    September 7, 2009 2:08 AM

    Mother, Come Down From That Sky

    Ribbons of clouds to the east, ropes of clouds
    above the house, twisting down like a noose;
    in one ear, out the other, (in tight grey hoods)
    nine crows fly straight through mother’s head, set loose
    bobbins of wound-up thought she’d kept for years –
    owning up to not one single idea –
    wobbling now on her ladder of bright tears.

    Jack Brae Curtingstall

  54. September 7, 2009 10:57 AM

    Oops I meant District 9…

  55. MeltonMowbray permalink
    September 7, 2009 12:34 PM

    Some of Silverman’s jokes were quite funny, though she isn’t very fluent. I usually avoid stand-up comedy – the idea of someone coming on stage in order to make you laugh is immediately alienating – but I’ve read a couple of jokes attributed to her which I liked.

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