I am a snow bunny, an unashamed snow bunny (imagine this sung to the tune of An Englishman in New York). Admittedly, at times the memory of skiing is much sweeter when you are safely nestled beside a toasty fire, sipping mulled wine and reading a favourite book. I won’t be skiing this year, but I have plenty of wonderful memories…
And after the effort and the cold, relax the Savoyard or Swiss way, with a raclette in front of the fireplace.
For Kelly’s last appearance at the dVerse Poets Pub (as a bartender, I mean, we hope to see her as a participant every now and then), she has asked us to write a narrative poem. That is quite a challenge for me, as I tend to be introverted and elliptic in my poetry. So here is my attempt.
We left the chalet that evening,
my lover, my best friend and me.
We’d imbibed mulled wine to warm up,
we’d joked about improving our slalom under the influence.
We thought we could see in the dark
with the fire of our youth and hearts to guide us.
The full moon shone brazen above the trees
and had us howling at it, in-between singing ‘Stand by Me’.
No one but us on the pistes,
nothing but the swish of our magical skis in parallel,
then the faint catch-up glide of my friend.
More singing, more racing,
burning thighs and tired knees forgotten in the turquoise fire of his eyes.
‘Let me jump over that ramp!’
‘Don’t be crazy!’ we protested but he was macho among the girls,
a professional among amateurs, aiming to impress.
We made our way to the end of the piste to see his arrival.
We heard his yell,
we saw him flying,
we felt the ground shudder at his landing.
His face pocked by fine gravel, I wiped his blood
with snow and tissues.
I kissed his wounds
until I felt
a bitter smell,
a putrid glance.
My friend’s eyes burning patches in the snow,
her jealousy darting ice on my cheeks.
Her love placed on his altar in offering.
My friend no longer.
Nothing beats a cosy chalet at the foot of the ski pistes, with an open fireplace, good food, old friends and excellent books to surround you! The snow is not quite enough for skiing yet, the chalet remains to be booked (or paid for) but I do feel I have friends and books, so thank you all so much.
Brigid Schulte: Overwhelmed: Work, Love and Play When No One Has The Time
Although this book does feel culturally specific (US working culture and time-poverty mindset is perhaps the most extreme example in the world), there was much here I could relate to: the confetti of minuscule leisure time slots, the mind pollution of endless to-do-lists that do not allow us to get into the flow, the ideal worker vs. the ideal mother, competitive parenting, gender division of labour. The author backs up her thesis with both research findings and personal anecdotes. This book deserves a review of its own, especially given that it is the ‘theme’ (if there is one) of my blog: not finding time to write.
2 foreign books:
Fuminori Nakamura: The Thief
Another book that deserves its own review. I found it moving, nuanced, slightly disturbing and surprisingly lyrical, given the subject matter.
Daniel Bardet: Le Boche (first 5 volumes of BD – graphic novel)
Fascinating insight into war-time France, from the perspective of an Alsatian man, hounded everywhere because he is neither German nor French enough.
I was looking for a change of pace this month and I got it with this novel: charmingly old-fashioned, with most of the action taking place ‘off-stage’ and being disclosed to Hilary Tamar and his/her team of barristers via letters. It’s a nice set puzzle, and there is plenty of witty dialogue and banter to liven things up, but I can see how this book might be accused of elitism, it does feel like an extended Oxbridge joke.
I started this latest Mo Hayder on Saturday, not really expecting it to make it into this month’s reading. But I had to finish it overnight, it was so compelling (after a rather slow start, admittedly). A family being held hostage in their holiday home, a psychopathic killer who may or may not have been released from prison and Jack Caffery trying to figure out what a tiny message on a lost dog could possibly mean. Hayder’s trademark creepiness and nearly unbearable suspense, very chilling, completely mesmerising. Not for the faint of heart!
Endless purgatorial descent,
I burn and twist and stop again.
No silent bliss here, no chase of thrills.
The pleasing swish is watered down.
Nothing effortless about this glide:
My feet disgraced in strange contortions.
I will them left and they swing right.
I merely linger through the motions.
An older poem today, as I’ve been busy all week skiing with my children during the half-term holidays. Intense, hard work (on all sides), but ultimately I hope it will have been worth it!
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?’