A little bit of Paradis

The Soul of a Poet

William Wordsworth

Paradis | November 28, 2009

William Wordsworth was born on April 17, 1770 in Cockermouth, Cumberland, in the Lake District. His father, John, was a lawyer, and he encouraged his 5 children to pursue learning. When Wordsworth’s mother Anne died in 1778, young William was sent to attend grammar school away from home, five years later he lost his father too.

The domestic problems separated Wordsworth from his beloved and neurotic sister Dorothy, who was a very important person in his life. With the help of his two uncles, Wordsworth entered a local school and continued his studies at Cambridge University. Wordsworth made his debut as a writer in 1787, when he published a sonnet in The European Magazine.

Wordsworth’s financial situation became better in 1795 when he received a legacy and was able to settle at Racedown, Dorset, with his sister Dorothy. Wordsworth spent the winter of 1798-99 with his sister and Coleridge in Germany, where he wrote several poems, including the enigmatic ‘Lucy’ poems. After return he moved Dove Cottage, Grasmere, and in 1802 married Mary Hutchinson. They cared for Wordsworth’s sister Dorothy for the last 20 years of her life. Wordsworth’s happy home life turned to tragedy when two of his four children died within a year.

In 1843 he succeeded Robert Southey (1774-1843) as England’s poet laureate. Wordsworth died on April 23, 1850.

Dorothy Wordsworth

English prose writer, the younger sister of poet William Wordsworth, famous for her diaries and ‘recollections’. Several of Dorothy Wordsworth’s own poems or notes in her journal were included in various editions of her brother’s poetical works. She published nothing during her lifetime, and spent the last twenty five years struggling against physical and mental illness.

I am a Rock

Paradis | November 28, 2009

I have my books
And my poetry to protect me;
I am shielded in my armor,
Hiding in my room, safe within my womb.
I touch no one and no one touches me.

I am a rock,
I am an island.

And a rock feels no pain;
And an island never cries.

Simon & Garfunkel

Haiku by Paradis

Paradis | November 25, 2009

Looking at Haiku is like looking at a painting on a wall.

You focus on the painting, and see nothing else around you, just lost in that moment. We are all too often, caught up in our own little world, we neglect to see the obvious, the simple, the plain things around us. As poets, we are tasked with bringing those simplistic things to the fore.

If you read a book, the author will have created the world in which you will explore and see, in Haiku however, the poet points a finger to where your journey begins, and you must find the way yourself, making your own discoveries.

Only the reader will know when he or she is too tired to continue. Only the reader can listen to the spaces between the words. Only the reader can hear those purposeful silences, left in just the right places.

Alabaster walls
unseen – until
I hang a Van Gogh

Paradis

A few plot notes from some of Dickens’ books

Paradis | November 25, 2009

JustĀ  a few plot notes on some of Dickens’ books:

David Copperfield

Dickens always considered David Copperfield his best work, and his favourite.
David Copperfield concerns the growing-up of a boy, who, orphaned at an early age, experiences considerable hardship. He is ill-treated by his stepfather, Mr. Murdstone, then forced to work under appalling conditions in a London warehouse. This is a marked contrast to his idyllic early childhood, before the re-marriage and death of his gentle mother.

David’s life improves greatly when he runs away from his job to seek out his Aunt, Betsey Trotwood. She sends him to school and arranges for him to board with kindly lawyer, Mr. Wickfield, whose daughter, Agnes, proves to be a good friend to David. Once his education is completed, David is articled in law and meets Dora, whom he loves passionately and marries.

The main action of the plot concerns Mr. Wickfield’s clerk, Uriah Heep, who is both ambitious and malicious. Heep secretly plots his employer’s riun. Once his wicked schemes are exposed, it only remains for David, now an accomplished writer, to find true fulfilment. When Dora dies, David turns to Agnes for comfort. She has quietly loved him all along and, by the end of the book, David has matured enough to return her love.


A Christmas Carol

Scrooge sits in his counting house ignoring the sounds of Christmas Eve. His nephew Fred invites him to Christmas dinner, but Scrooge rudely refuses. Christmas is humbug, he declares. He even begrudges giving his clerk, Bob Cratchet, the day off.

Back at home Scrooge sits by a meagre fire. The ghost of Scrooge’s long-dead partner, Marley, appears to warn him of the dreadful life after death. Three spirits will visit, says Marley, and offer Scrooge a chance to avoid eternal wandering. Marley departs and the first spirit, the Ghost of Christmas Past, arrives. Scrooge is transported back to his youth, when he enjoyed Christmas to the full. Scrooge’s old heart begins to soften.

Scrooge then meets to Ghost of Christmas Present who takes him to the Cratchits, who are celebrating despite their poverty, then onto his nephew Fred, who is making merry, and then to festivities across the globe. Now comes Scrooge’s third visitor: Christmas Yet To Come. It shows Scrooge his unlamented end, his death a blessing to his debtors.

Scrooge awakes on Christmas morning and, having fully repented of his past life, he rushes to make amends: he sends the Cratchits a turkey, goes to Fred’s party and next day raises Bob Cratchit’s salary.

Great Expectations

Pip, an orphan, is being brought up by his sister and her husband, Joe, a blacksmith. They live on the Kent marches. with prison ships nearby. One night Pip meets Magwitch, an escaped convict, who coerces him into bringing him food and a file. The next day, soldiers come in search of Magwitch, find him fighting with another escapee and recapture them both.

Soon after a strange recluse, Miss Havisham, invites Pip to play with her young ward, Estella. Pip falls in love with Estella who scorns him. When a lawyer, Jaggers, tells Pip that he has “great expectations” as a secret benefactor is to pay for him to become a gentleman, Pip thinks the benefactor is Miss Havisham. He goes off to London ignoring Joe and the maid Biddy who have both been devoted to him.

Many years later when Pip is a man of 23, Magwitch suddenly appears again. As a convict in Australia he made his fortune, and risks his life in returning to see Pip. Magwitch reveals that it is he who is the provider of Pip’s wealth, in gratitude for Pip’s help on the marshes so many years before. Pip tries to organise Magwitch’s escape, but in vain, and Magwitch dies in prison. Pip learns that Estella is Magwitch’s daughter and that the second convict on the marshes was Compeyson, the man who deserted Miss Havisham so long ago.

Joe marries Biddy and Pip goes abroad. Later he meets Estella whose life is in ruins. Pip and Estella are both wiser, but their future, together or apart, is left a mystery.


Oliver Twist

Orphaned at birth, Oliver must endure the cruelties of workhouse life before being apprenticed to an undertaker. Here, he is treated little better than a slave and so runs away to the city, where he is adopted by the evil Fagin and his family of pickpockets.

Oliver is soon arrested, although innocent, and is taken in by kind Mr. Brownlow, only to recaptured by Nancy, the lover of housebreaker Bill Sikes. When Oliver assists Sikes in a robbery, he is shot in the arm. Again he is rescued from the streets – this time by the compassionate Rose and Mrs. Maylie.

Despite living in the country, Oliver is hunted down by Fagin and a tall, gaunt stranger called Monks, who later turns out to be Oliver’s half-brother. But Nancy betrays their plotting and is murdered by Sikes.

The net then closes in on Sikes and Fagin. The rest of the book unravels the mystery of Oliver’s birth: he is found to be related to his benefactor, Mr. Brownlow. No longer a pauper and an orphan, Oliver lives happily ever after.


The Mystery of Edwin Drood

The unfinished novel Dickens was working on when he died The Mystery of Edwin Drood was the fifteenth novel of Charles Dickens. Dickens was only halfway finished with the book when he died leaving it to become the biggest mystery ever.

Possible Endings
There is much speculation about how The Mystery of Edwin Drood was to have ended. Dickens didn’t leave any notes so no one will ever really know what he intended.

One of the most popular beliefs is that John Jasper, Edwin’s uncle, is the murderer. Jasper lead the double life of a choirmaster and opium addict. He was also in love with Rosa Bud, the woman his nephew was to marry.
Conversations Dickens had before he died support this theory. Dickens good friend, John Forester, said Dickens told him that Jasper had indeed murdered Drood. Dickens’s son, Charley, also stated that his father told him Drood really was dead.

Some people speculate that Edwin Drood, like John Harmon in Our Mutual Friend, wasn’t really dead. The fact that Edwin’s body was never found adds weight to this theory.

Paradis

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 25, 2009

A year ago, it was all so different.

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 25, 2009

Reaching towards the sky, palms flapping in the breeze.

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 25, 2009

Curiosity killed the cat.

Haiku by Paradis

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Writing
unspoken words -
A new pen

Paradis

Sacre Coeur

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Abadie, a man inspired,
offers us the grace of
The Sacred Heart Basilica of Montmartre.

The parisienne skyline, dominated
by a Byzantine jewel,
in the city of romance.

Joan of Arc and St.Louis,
stunned by it’s bleached beauty,
stand in awe.

Mosaics twinkle like stars
as pilgrims stare silently -
Savoyarde, play your music.

Paradis

Ghosts

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Ghosts
fade with the dawn -
light.

Clouds
on invisible horizons -
dance.

Fooled
by soothing words -
lies.

Nestling
in corners -
darkness.

Paradis

Tanka by Paradis

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Spiders weaving webs,
their gossamer tapestries
silently shimmer.
Sparkling dewdrops silently
reflecting the moonlight above.

Paradis

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Stained glass windows.

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Because it feels so right.

Charles John Huffam Dickens

Paradis | November 9, 2009

Ralph Waldo Emerson attended one of Dickens’ public readings in Boston during Dickens’ American tour. Emerson said, ‘he was afraid that Dickens possessed too much talent for his genius; it is a fearful locomotive to which he is bound and can never be free from it nor set to rest. . . He daunts me! I have not the key.

Charles John Huffam Dickens was born in Landport, Hampshire, during the new industrial age, which created misery for the class of low-paid workers and gave birth to theories of Karl Marx. His father was a clerk in the navy pay office he was well paid but often ended in financial troubles.

In 1814 Dickens moved to London, and then to Chatham, where he received some education. He worked in a blacking factory, Hungerford Market, London, while his family was in Marshalea debtor’s prison in 1824. The years as a journalist left Dickens with lasting affection for journalism and suspicious attitude towards unjust laws.

His sharp ear for conversation helped him reveal characters through their own words. Dickens’s career as a writer of fiction started in 1833 when his short stories and essays to appeared in periodical. His Sketches by Boz and The Pickwick papers were published in 1836.

In the same year he married the daughter of his friend George Hogarth, Catherine Hogart. Though, some people suspected that he was more fond of her sister, Mary, who moved into their house and died in 1837. Dickens requested that he be buried next to her when he died and wore Mary’s ring all his life.

Another of Catherine’s sisters, Georgiana, moved in with the Dickenses, and the novelist fell in love with her. Dickens had 10 children with Catherine but they were separated in 1858.
Dickens died in 1870 and is buried in Poets corner in Westminster Abbey.

Ellen Ternan

Dickens had a long liaison with the actress, Ellen Ternan, whom he had met by the late 1850s. The Ternan family comprised Frances Eleanor Ternan (nee Jarman, 1803-1873) and her three daughters, Frances Eleanor Ternan (1835-1914); Ellen Lawless Ternan (1839-1914); and Maria Susannah Ternan. Their brother, Thomas Ternan, died young. All four members of the family made their early careers as actresses in London. The eldest daughter Frances went as a governess to the family of Thomas Augustus Trollope (1810-1892), and subsequently married him. She wrote numerous novels, articles and translations.

Ellen Ternan met Charles Dickens in 1857 whilst she and her mother and sister were acting in a charity production of The frozen deep, and was his mistress until his death in 1870.
She later took 14 years off her age and married a schoolmaster, the Rev George Wharton Robinson, with whom she had two children and ran a school and nursery garden. Maria Ternan married a brewery manager named Taylor, left him, and spent the rest of her life travelling the world and writing articles.

His Epitaph

Paradis | November 3, 2009

There was an old guy, that lived on the corner,
who shook his fist if you walked on his grass verge,
with it’s neat little edges all trimmed with scissors,
that he spent several hours each day on his knees for.

He sat on the porch in a rocker, every moment
that he wasn’t trimming that verge,
protecting it from footprints and rubber bike tyres.

And kids being kids, how they would tease him,
by speeding their bikes as they neared the verge,
and they would whoosh right across it,
the old guy following swiftly behind -
Well, swiftly for an old un anyways.

I remember my father leaning on the old guy’s porch rail
as the sun went down, late in the Summer,
sharing a bottle of something firey -
Knowing my father, something quite strong.

I saw once, a glimmer of a smile
trace round the edge of the old guys lips,
and I remember thinking, in my infinite wisdom
that maybe, just maybe, there was a human inside him.

My father seemed to think the old guy was ok,
just lonely, he said, since he lost his wife.
At eight, I didn’t understand what he meant back then,
if he lost his wife, why couldn’t he look for her?
It couldn’t be hard in a town so small.

I think as kids we gave him a hard time
and made things worse for him, than they needed to be.
But of course, as an eight year old kid on a bike,
all you saw was the fun it would be
to ride over his lawn when he’d just finished trimming.

And with all the other kids doing the same,
he shouted and cussed all manner of foul words,
and we giggled and clapped and cheered him for more.
It’s kinda sad how we treated him so bad
when all he wanted was to admire that patch
that he worked so hard on, day after day.

When he was no longer able to manage
to live on his own, to cook and to shop,
when his mind left his body – they took him away
from his grass, and gave him a room
in a home full of people just like himself.

A nursing home on the North side of town -
He didn’t last too long after that.
The old guy passed away on Tuesday,
sometime around noon.
They found him on the nursing home verge
with a pair of scissors clutched in his hand.

Later that week, they errected a plaque by the gate…
‘keep off the grass’ it proudly read.
A fitting epitaph for the old guy don’t you think?

Paradis

Darkness descends

Paradis | November 3, 2009

The night falls and the sun is slain,
The light for which you lust,
flares once more, then dies,
swallowed by the velvet dark.
Your soul thrives no more.
How could you not understand?
Spirits surround us, crying,
We have lost our light.

Paradis

Silence

Paradis | November 3, 2009

Silence is written on your breath
as you lead me through the moonless night
past the centuries old architecture,
through all the temptations
hiding in the shadows.

There, is a place where vague words and truths
are eager to break free, and watch
your very last dream suddenly vanish
as the power we feel becomes eternal,
not just a reflection.

Paradis

Photographs

Paradis | November 3, 2009

Faded sepia photographs
in tarnished silver frames
lined up side by side,
serve as memories -
all that’s left of generations long gone.

Paradis

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 3, 2009

A bit of common sense.

Writing Prompts

Paradis | November 3, 2009

Anagrams and telegrams.