and time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions, before the taking of a toast and tea.

A lot of people say that studying poetry at GCSE takes all the joy out of it, and I suppose I agree. But for me, the problem lies in studying a poem I really can't stand and over analysing it until it becomes even more unlikeable. I think that's what people are getting at and I completely understand. Last year for example, we were forced to reckon with the melancholy of Thomas Hardy's seemingly endless verse. His work was all basically an embodiment of his grief. He mourned the death of his wife, the simplicity of mankind, the (rubbish) century. This guy never stopped complaining and I was put off poetry for life. At least this is what I told myself. Then we moved on to Auden. And I fell in love.

The thing with Auden is that you can not just love his poems, but also be fascinated with his life. He married a lesbian to prevent her from being deported, was a massive lefty and had a somewhat exciting love life. He once wrote "If equal affection cannot be / Let the more loving one be me". So yes, I am a bit in love. Too bad he is both gay and dead. I sure know how to pick 'em...

This poem got me full marks in my English exam last year (shameless, I know). It's kind of sad. On second thoughts, don't read it.

I'm not very good with poetry. With the exception of 'The Love Song Of J. Alfred. Prufrock', they have to rhyme to keep me entertained. They have to mean at least something without months of study, and they have to have a story behind them.

If I could tell you

Time will say nothing but I told you so,
Time only knows the price we have to pay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,
If we should stumble when musicians play,
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,
Because I love you more than I can say,
If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,
There must be reasons why the leaves decay;
Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,
The vision seriously intends to stay;
If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,
And all the brooks and soldiers run away;
Will Time say nothing but I told you so?
If I could tell you I would let you know.

W. H. Auden (1907 - 73)

When watching 'My life in Verse' with Robert Webb, I also discovered T.S. Eliot. I have written about him before and will no doubt mention him again, so I won't bore you right now.

Poetry doesn't have to be fancy. It doesn't have to have critical acclaim. It doesn't even have to be all that good to mean something to someone. I love this poem a little bit, especially when he reads it.

Raindrops on roses and big Green Peace sit-ins...

Julie Andrews seems to dig pointlessly listing her favourite things in an effort to cheer herself up (particularly during savage thunderstorms). I am already in a good mood, and it is merely drizzling, yet it's important to be positive amidst all the cynicism and despair in the world. Now, I am aware that I am usually responsible for much of this cynicism, but just for today, I'm going to put this aside. This is utterly random and so I apologise, but it suits my odd mood.




These are a few of Maria's favourite things...

rain, whiskers, kettles, mittens, packages, horses, pies, bells, german cuisine, nocturnal geese, fancy girls, the cold, more cold...

These are a few of my favourite things, the things that truly cheer me up "when the dog bites, when the bee stings", etc...

• James McAvoy - In Starter for Ten. Atonement would not cheer Julie Andrews up on a dreary day.
  
• Tea - White. No sugar. Nice mug. Sorted.
  
• Duvets
• TS Eliot - (I refuse to blog about poetry because it so easily becomes pretentious and there are thousands of people who have much more original, interesting ideas than I do. However, 'The Lovesong of J Alfred Prufrock' is the best thing I have ever read. It is just phenomenal. This doesn't count as writing about poetry. It is in brackets...)
• The Guardian - I used to want to be Hadley Freeman so much. Then I decided she was a bit too try hard. Now I want to be Jess Cartner-Morley (though of course I would never do the double barrelled thing)
• Juno - Teen pregnancy aside, she is pretty much my idol. She has a wicked turn of phrase, has a really good soundtrack AND bags Michael Cera. There aren't many girls, fictional or otherwise who can to that...
  
• Paris - I can trace this back to my obsession with Anastasia when I was little. This also lead to a slightly unhealthy obsession with the Romanovs. Anyway, Paris is just brilliant. The clothes, the cafes, the museums. Bahhh I love it...
• This
• Your face.

I am aware that even the best writers in the world probably couldn't write a hit anti-Nazi musical with these things as its basis. Maria and I don't appear to have all that much in common. She probably wouldn't make those children sing about James McAvoy, for example, but these are the little things that put a smile on my face. Apart from Paris. Paris is quite big...