Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 6 months ago
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Love by Edwin Morgan Love rules. Love laughs. Love marches. Love is the wolf that guards the gate. Love is the food of music, art, poetry. It fills us and fuels us and fires us to create. Love is terror. Love is sweat. Love is bashed pillow, crumpled sheet, unenviable fate. Love is the honour that kills and saves and nothing will ever let that high ambiguity abate. Love is the crushed ice that tingles and shivers and clinks fidgin-fain for the sugar-drenched absinthe to fall on it and alter its state. With love you send a probe So far from the globe No one can name the shoals the voids the belts the zones the drags the flares it signals all to leave all and to navigate.
Chip Butty boosted
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Chip Butty boosted
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Chip Butty boosted
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Real and Not Real: Naomi Mitchison’s Philosophy of the Historical Novel June 15, 2015 by Rob Hardy, Carleton College In a long and varied career as a writer and activist, Naomi Mitchison (1897-1999) wrote novels, poetry, and memoirs; helped establish the first birth control clinics in London; toured the Soviet Union with Doris Lessing; proofread The Fellowship of the Ring; and was adopted as the member of an African tribe. But it was as a historical novelist that she established her reputation in the 1920s and 30s. Focusing on The Corn King and the Spring Queen, her 1931 novel set in the world of Hellenistic Greece, this essay explores Mitchison’s concept of the historical novel as a vehicle for promoting social change.
Real and Not Real: Naomi Mitchison’s Philosophy of the Historical Novel June 15, 2015 by Rob Hardy, Carleton College In a long and varied career as a writer and activist, Naomi Mitchison (1897-1999) wrote novels, poetry, and memoirs; helped establish the first birth control clinics in London; toured the Soviet Union with Doris Lessing; proofread The Fellowship of the Ring; and was adopted as the member of an African tribe. But it was as a historical novelist that she established her reputation in the 1920s and 30s. Focusing on The Corn King and the Spring Queen, her 1931 novel set in the world of Hellenistic Greece, this essay explores Mitchison’s concept of the historical novel as a vehicle for promoting social change.
Real and Not Real: Naomi Mitchison’s Philosophy of the Historical Novel June 15, 2015 by Rob Hardy, Carleton College In a long and varied career as a writer and activist, Naomi Mitchison (1897-1999) wrote novels, poetry, and memoirs; helped establish the first birth control clinics in London; toured the Soviet Union with Doris Lessing; proofread The Fellowship of the Ring; and was adopted as the member of an African tribe. But it was as a historical novelist that she established her reputation in the 1920s and 30s. Focusing on The Corn King and the Spring Queen, her 1931 novel set in the world of Hellenistic Greece, this essay explores Mitchison’s concept of the historical novel as a vehicle for promoting social change.
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
The tractor is ill to start, a great heaving and jerking, The gear lever jars through palm and bone, But I saw in a film the Russian women working On the land they had made their own, And so, and so, Said the farm woman: And I bruise easy. Never tell the men, they will only laugh and say What use would a woman be! But I read the war news through, every day; It means my honour to me, Making the crops to grow. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy.
The tractor is ill to start, a great heaving and jerking, The gear lever jars through palm and bone, But I saw in a film the Russian women working On the land they had made their own, And so, and so, Said the farm woman: And I bruise easy. Never tell the men, they will only laugh and say What use would a woman be! But I read the war news through, every day; It means my honour to me, Making the crops to grow. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy.
The tractor is ill to start, a great heaving and jerking, The gear lever jars through palm and bone, But I saw in a film the Russian women working On the land they had made their own, And so, and so, Said the farm woman: And I bruise easy. Never tell the men, they will only laugh and say What use would a woman be! But I read the war news through, every day; It means my honour to me, Making the crops to grow. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy.
Naomi Mitchison The Farm Woman: 1942 Why the blue bruises high up on your thigh, On your right breast and both knees? Did you get them in the hay in a sweet smother of cries, Did he tease you and at last please, With all he had to show? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. Why the scratched hand, was it too sharp a grip, Buckle or badge or maybe nail, From one coming quick from camp or ship, Kissing as hard as hail That pits deep the soft snow? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. There was nothing, my sorrow, nothing that need be hidden, But the heavy dung fork slipped in my hand, I fell against the half-filled cart at the midden; We were going out to the land. Nobody had to know. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: For I bruise easy.
Naomi Mitchison The Farm Woman: 1942 Why the blue bruises high up on your thigh, On your right breast and both knees? Did you get them in the hay in a sweet smother of cries, Did he tease you and at last please, With all he had to show? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. Why the scratched hand, was it too sharp a grip, Buckle or badge or maybe nail, From one coming quick from camp or ship, Kissing as hard as hail That pits deep the soft snow? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. There was nothing, my sorrow, nothing that need be hidden, But the heavy dung fork slipped in my hand, I fell against the half-filled cart at the midden; We were going out to the land. Nobody had to know. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: For I bruise easy.
Naomi Mitchison The Farm Woman: 1942 Why the blue bruises high up on your thigh, On your right breast and both knees? Did you get them in the hay in a sweet smother of cries, Did he tease you and at last please, With all he had to show? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. Why the scratched hand, was it too sharp a grip, Buckle or badge or maybe nail, From one coming quick from camp or ship, Kissing as hard as hail That pits deep the soft snow? Oh no, oh no, Said the farm woman: But I bruise easy. There was nothing, my sorrow, nothing that need be hidden, But the heavy dung fork slipped in my hand, I fell against the half-filled cart at the midden; We were going out to the land. Nobody had to know. And so, and so, Said the farm woman: For I bruise easy.
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
Assoc for Scottish Literature
@scotlit@mastodon.scot  ·  activity timestamp 3 weeks ago
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Assoc for Scottish Literature
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Assoc for Scottish Literature
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