jump to navigation

A Journey Round My Skull June 9, 2010

Posted by astridjohnson in Books, Graphic Design, Poetry.
Tags: , , , , , , , ,
add a comment

Start browsing now.

Well, this is not my skull, but someone’s else. A person called Will.
The blog takes you on a beautiful and fantastical journey through book design and more.

Check it out:

A Journey Round My Skull

And while we are at it, a few poems. My husband brought me a book by Adonis. This is some of the best contemporary poetry. There is very little around with this kind of depth and spirituality. The reason maybe because he draws not on Western tradition but on a much older one. I do hope he gets the Nobel prize for literature soon. So here three poems from “The Pages of Day and Night” by Adonis or Adunis, as he is also known.

And after that a poem I wrote over a week ago during a writer’s workshop, The Rope Maker. The task was to write something with the following beginning: Attached to the Earth by a thread… and something Lovelockian developed.


Adonis (Ali Ahmad Said Asbar)


Choking quietly
with pain,
Adam whispered to me,
“I am not the father
of the world.
I had
no glimpse of paradise.
Take me to God.”


For once,
for the last time,
I dream of falling in space…
I live surrounded by colours,
like any man.
I marry the blind gods
and the gods of vision
for the last time.

A world of magic

Between the lord of days and me –
no hatred, no vendetta.
Everything’s over.
He’s barricaded time
behind a palisade of clouds.

My world goes on as magically
as ever. I contradict
the wind. I scar
the waves before I scurry
from my bottle in the sea.


The Rope Maker

Attached to the Earth by a thread
are thoughts about Gaia as a whole.
As fragile as these threads
is balance, equilibrium, survival
of a life form,
considered superior by many,
and quite foolish by others.

Some consider nothing and threads
would have to be massive ropes.

I am a rope maker.
With thoughts I am weaving a rope,
sturdy and visible from the moon,
looking fragile from a distance.


Barley and Random Bits June 6, 2010

Posted by astridjohnson in Books, Love, Poetry.
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Rich booty during a Manchester second hand book shop trawl. Old loves, like Isaac Bashevis Singer, Colette and Morgenstern and two little gems from the Thinker's Library, published in the 40's.

Ages ago now, a weekend with music and writing, my first wedding anniversary, not surprisingly forgotten by my husband but celebrated with a second hand book shop trawl and more recently a trip to witness my first proper wedding.

Mark’s youngest brother and his partner did the deed with the help of the CoE. Very entertainingly, the vicar and organist were late, I mean the Oh-I-forgot-it-was-at-one-o’clock kind of late and after having been fetched away from his lunch, mentioned for some peculiar reason Post-it® notes in his sermon. He went on to super glue and thus created the most subtle metaphor for enduring love I have ever heard. But the bride was beautiful in a proper white dress and the bridesmaids super sweet, escpecially my step daughter and her two cute cousins. I did cry.

During those days there were talks with Tony, my from Alzheimer’s disease suffering father in law, where I got glimpses of the person he used to be and maybe also the person he was allowed to be… more on this in another post.

And I am still not clear about what I really want to do, professionally I mean – to continue with artwork and design or new adventures… I am jumping over some planned online musings to briefly post this poem I read and liked. It is from Jackie Kay, a gutsy lady who I had the pleasure of meeting today at her book launch for ‘Red Dust Road’.

I stuck the following in my budding collection of Poems I ♥‘. I tasted the barley in my mouth when she was wondering about the name of the small soft bits:


Jackie Kay

Grandpa’s Soup

No one makes soup like my Grandpa’s
with its diced carrots the perfect size
and its diced potatoes the perfect size
and its wee soft bits –
what are their names?
and its big bit of hough,
which rhymes with loch, floating
like a rich island in the middle of the soup sea.

I say, Grandpa, Grandpa, your soup is the best
soup in the whole world.
And Gradpa says, Och,
which rhymes with hough and loch,
Och, Don’t be daft,
because he’s shy about his soup, my Grandpa.
He knows I will grow up and pine for it.
I will fall ill and desperately need it.
I will long for it my whole life after he is gone.
Every soup will become sad and wrong after he is gone.
He knows when I’m older I will avoid soup altogether.
Oh Grandpa, Grandpa, why is your soup so glourious? I say
tucking into my fourth bowl in a day.

Barley! That’s the name of the wee soft bits. Barley.


Pretty bridesmaid Izzy at the wedding.

Mark and his father Tony.

%d bloggers like this: