findingtimetowrite

Thinking, writing, thinking about writing…

Archive for the tag “fun”

A Few of My Favourite Things

Now for something completely different at the weekend. Here are a few of my Favourite Things (in the John Coltrane version):

snowboarding-skiing-moutain-snowThe mountains in winter…

New ways to store books, while having them close to hand…

Chiffonier Labarere

Chiffonier Labarere, westwing.fr

Quirky furniture…

Flowering BushThe eternal promise of summer (with a glimpse of my favourite little car behind it)…

Ice Caves Spooky ice caves…

Stretching Cat

Sleeping cat

And a certain very agile cat, whose beauty I haven’t quite learnt how to capture yet…

Friday Fun with a Valentine Twist: Stromae

For those who prefer their Valentine’s Day with a bit of humour and bite, here is a fun single about men and women by that Belgian genius Stromae. Thanks to my children, who brought him to my attention, although his lyrics are maybe a bit too grown-up and cynical for their age-group. The voice of his generation (he is in his 20s, although he sometimes looks about 15), he has a very wise head on his shoulders, and manages to temper his cynicism and despair with humour and compassion. And not afraid to make fun of both sexes in this battle song à la Stromae:

Quick translation: ‘You men are all the same…/ a band of wimpish philanderers/ so predictable…  I’m not sure you deserve me/ You’re lucky that we love you/ You should thank me.

Easy to say that I’m too whiny/and that I like too much blablabla/ but no, no, what you call my moods are important/ life is for having children/ but it’s never the right time/ of course you’re there for making them/ but for raising them you’re all absent…

When I’m no longer beautiful/ or at least, not naturally so/ oh, stop, I know you’re lying/only Kate Moss is eternal./Ugly or stupid, it’s never good (enough)./Stupid or beautiful, it’s never good./Beautiful or me, it’s never good./ Her or me, that’s never good.

Fun at Ski School: 5 Sentence Fiction Challenge

Not fictional enough, but a story that haunts me still…

‘Not more snow!’ moaned the littlest bear.
We moved to this snow-filled country for Daddy’s work: Mummy loves the winter sports, your brother the food. But you, the smallest and most curious of bears, the one who makes friends as easily as others make mistakes, you the smiley human bouncing-ball, you hate the cold and the white stuff.

Drunk and dizzied by the gleam of the sun on the slopes, I strap on your boots and nudge you into ski school. You nurse your frozen paws, slide miserably through puerile hoops, and ask yourself: ‘Why?’

Crime Fiction Fan

On the page she strides boldly

through gore, spattered, flung

arms dramatic, brain sharpishly screwed on.

No suspect is spared, no plotline too raw,

she ventures where others gasp, look away.

And she knows at least sixty ways

to dispose of a lover.

 

Yet the glimpse of a needle

makes her gibber to nurses.

She watches crime on TV through

chinked fingers and wine,

she dithers at shadows, jumps at

rustles in the road. A floorboard

creaking in the night sends her diving.

 

Scurry, scurry, little paws,

the horror of that nib on paper!

 

 

http://www.freedigitalphotos.net

Song Lyrics Poem

As a bit of a change from my usual rather intense and depressing poetry, I decided to have some fun today with song lyrics.  It works a bit like the book spine poetry which Breathing Space  or Bettina Forget  or DP Bowman do so well. Except that you choose song lyrics (rather than just titles) and, in my case, I stuck to David Bowie exclusively this time round.  Not quite as good when the music is missing, but I happen to think there is some great poetry in these songs too.  See if you can spot which songs they are from…

‘Can you hear me, Major Tom?’

‘Oh, no, not again!’

‘I thought you died alone, a long, long time ago…’

‘I never did good things, I never did bad things,

I never did anything out of the blue.’

‘Maybe we’re lying -

then you’d better not stay!’

This is ourselves under pressure:

the return of the Thin White Duke

throwing darts in lovers’ eyes…

It’s a godawful small affair to the girl with the mousy hair,

she’s lived it ten times or more.

And the planet is glowing…

Let the children use it,

let the children lose it

like some cat from Japan,

like a leper messiah

Up every evening, bout half-eight or nine.

She says:

‘Time may change me

But I can’t trace time,

So I will sit right down ,

waiting for the gift of sound and vision,

drifting into my solitude, over my head.’

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