I spent this evening at the Penguin Bloggers’ Night, which I’ll write about properly next week – lovely to see the old guard (as Kim described us on Twitter!) and to meet some new faces – and, of course, to hear the authors read extracts from their forthcoming books. More on’t that soon.
|The writers mural at Barter Books, Alnwick|
What I’m writing today, instead, is somewhat fanciful… on the train home, I started to craft little poems about authors. Some sincere, but mostly frivolous. I thought you might enjoy reading them – and that, hopefully, they’ll inspire you to follow suit (either in the comments here, or on your own blogs.) Here are the four I made up on the train journey! Do have a go; it’s fun, and makes you feel a bit like you might be Dorothy Parker’s new best friend.
George Eliot; or, Asking for Eliot in a Bookshop
Who’d have guessed, dear Mary Anne,
Your efforts to be thought a man
Would lead, in the next century,
To: “Sorry, sir, T.S. or G.?”
The Angels of the House you slew,
And buried in decorous graves,
Leaving (with arched eyebrow) you:
The common reader who made waves.
Philip Larkin’s Legacy
Oh Larkin, yes, you swore; that’s fine.
But no-one knows the second line.
What’s troublin’ ya?
I am glum; something’s marred me.
Life is hard; I am Hardy.