Here I am after a month of silence that can only be explained as a sort of lull. I suppose there are times I just don’t feel I have anything to say. But Billy Collins has brought me back to words; we’ve been reading his Nine Horses for inspiration, and I thought I’d share one I love:

Elk River Falls

is where the Elk River falls
from a rocky and considerable height,
turning pale with trepidation at the lip
(it seemed from where I stood below)
before it is unbuckled from itself
and plummets, shredded, through the air
into the shadows of a frigid pool,
so calm around the edges, a place
for water to recover from the shock
of falling apart and coming back together
before it picks up its song again,
goes sliding around the massive rocks
and past some islands overgrown with weeds
then flattens out and slips around a bend
and continues on its winding course,
according to this camper’s guide,
then joins the Clearwater at its northern fork,
which must in time find the sea
where this and every other stream
mistakes the monster for itself,
sings its name one final time
then feels the sudden sting of salt.

There’s something about Billy Collins that reminds me why I love to study literature. It seems sometimes as though what I’m doing isn’t that at all, but the endless monotony of analysis upon criticism upon analysis of something that no longer has the original value of text. Although I have never been a poetry person—apart from half-hearted A-Level attempts to analyse the “Six Women Poets” anthology in exchange for an A-grade—I think the very reason I love Billy Collins is the way he has been able to revive a love of words and language in me that I thought had blown dry—a skeletal thing left over from an original wish, at age 17, to study English instead of anything else. I can read that poem again and once again, each time finding something new in its simplicity that I notice but don’t need to name.

unbuckled from itself

plummets, shredded, through the air

the shock
of falling apart and coming back together

mistakes the monster for itself

the sudden sting of salt

There is no need to think too much about what it is in these words that I love. It’s those old GCSE-learnt English school phrases—alliteration, personification, sibilance—brought to life without the need for naming or even giving thought to them. I remember wondering at school why we needed to know what alliteration was. As I racked up points noticing it at work in the stock set of poetry we were given to analyse like machines, I didn’t give much thought to the sounds—the way the words melt away from the page and the images take over, the sounds—onomatopoeia (correct)—give life to words, transforming black and white to rainbows. There is no need to know the terms—it’s all there.

The absence of days since I last wrote is not, to be truthful, due to any lack of material to write about. Just last week I met Jann Arden and Carol Drinkwater, drove around Cornwall, and had dinner with a friend. Jann was incredible. Seeing her up close (and I mean up close—I could see the colour of the thread on her jeans) made me realise how strange it is to listen to someone for so many years and then suddenly see a person, a real human being, who sounds exactly like the sound that comes out of your speakers or your headphones. Only, in this case, the real thing is much more amusing—she’s quite hilarious. We hung around afterwards to talk to her and get a CD signed—not Happy?, my favourite, since that cover is in the States, but Blood Red Cherry. She’s a little person, very attractive up close, very real. Playing to under 300 people seemed quite a change from the usual shows in Canada, but I’m so glad she came to England, if only for a night. She said she may play festivals next year, but I suppose I don’t even know where I’ll be next year… *sigh* Not something to dwell on right now.

Work…? It’s going better now. I suppose one of the reasons I haven’t wanted to write has been a general feeling of guilt at having put off work so terribly. Almost a month into my dissertation and I haven’t really got anything done. Until now, that is. The last two weeks have been much better. I’m reading my second Fanny Burney novel (and that’s no doddle; this one’s 835 pages), I’ve been through a stack of critical books, made a comprehensive bibliography of what I need to read, located each book at various libraries throughout the country, downloaded journal articles and sent requests off to USM for document delivery on hard-to-find ones (thank God for USM’s alumni services!), started an ideas journal to keep track of my research, and generally got cracking on things. I still have a “to-read” list the length of the M25, but at least I’ve got a few check marks on there already.

This weekend I’m off home to Greenways to see Mum, Dad, Dave, Phil, CJ, and the children – a full house, which will be quite a shock after so much quiet. Mum told me she made a Chocolate Roularde (Sandy's Chocolate Roularde, to give it it's full and proper title), though, so I’ll be driving even faster tomorrow! Then next weekend it’s Wales for the Hay-on-Wye literary festival and a date with Vickram Seth.

Today the rain finally stopped, and we were able to go for another long walk, followed by about an hour sitting outside reading my brick of a Fanny Burney novel, The Wanderer, in the sunshine. There was a blackbird perched up on the chimney at the top of the apartment block, singing its black little heart out—one of those sounds I unmistakably associate with England and the cool English summertime. It’s such a pity they’re such plain little birds; when you hear them singing you imagine a vibrantly colourful feathered creature.

I have a curry on the stovetop simmering away, and it’s about time for the rice.