Dita von Tea

I have no reason for that title other than it amused me greatly and if my burlesque name wasn’t already Kate Astrophe I would totally be using it. I have visions of doing Dita’s Martini act in a teacup.

This teacup, which I bought Up North –

Tea & Miss Ju not included

and have immediately used for today’s tea, which is Irish Breakfast. This is a very strong Assam and much preferred to English Breakfast, at least by me. It is Proper Builders’ Orange in hue, too. Hurrah. (Actually, technically that cup is a mug not a teacup, before any outraged tea fascists write in and complain. Perhaps said Dita dance should be in a proper cup and saucer or something.)

I spent last week in Hull with the Best Friend and her Small People. In the words of Bill and Ted, whom I watched last night, it was a Totally Excellent Adventure (station). I’ve increased my animal magnetism – well, my general magnetism at least – by having my eyebrow pierced, and can recommend the lovely Raphael at Extreme Needle in Leicester Square for said hole-pokery. I appear to have returned home with the Smallest Small Person’s icky cold, which has settled in my head and therefore makes me feel like my brain is made of straw and cotton wool, rather like Fiyero.

Maybe I’m brainless, maybe I’m wise…

Any excuse to play the Wicked soundtrack, quite frankly. I’ve recently learned that Adam Lambert (the poster child for guyliner and manscara) played Fiyero, which I wish I’d seen.

Everwalker decided to take it upon herself to show me another fabulous Adam this weekend. Adam Cooper. Known for incredible balletic antics, serious lurking menace, bringing riding crops to the world of dance and a bum that could floor our friend Zoe at a hundred paces, he played the Swan in Matthew Bourne’s Swan Lake, which we watched on Friday. I can’t put across how utterly amazing this was, so go and either watch the whole thing yourself or see his sheer feathery wonderfulness on youtube. I have since learned that the character we were calling the ‘Black Swan’ is actually the Private Secretary’s son, known for his leather pants and ability to dance in said leather pants. Impressive. Both Swan and Son are played by Mr Cooper.

Adam, bringing a whole new meaning to ‘Defying Gravity’

I originally posted this entire thing in a blog I don’t even have any more, by mistake. Clearly having a rubbish cold disagrees with my internet capabilities and writerly skills. I should not be allowed near technology when I am ill. Bleh.

This week’s poetic form is a rondeau.

The rondeau makes use of refrains, repeated according to a certain stylized pattern. It was often a challenge to arrange for these refrains to contribute to the meaning of the poem in as succinct and poignant a manner as possible. The rondeau consists of thirteen lines of eight syllables, plus two refrains (which are half lines, each of four syllables), employing, altogether, only three rhymes. It has three stanzas and its rhyme scheme is as follows:

(1) A A B B A

(2) A A B with refrain C

(3) A A B B A with concluding refrain C.

The refrain must be identical with the beginning of the first line. I shall post up the rondeau later on.

One of the best known rondeaus is John McCrae’s beautiful wartime poem:

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies grow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the dead; short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe!
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high!
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Until next time,

Miss Ju

Read Full Post »

Politically Correct 09:97

I wonder who you’ll be today; won’t fall this time.
A hundred months plus sixty-two’s a small lifetime.

Clad in black holes, vanilla-scented, I will dance
in boots where soldiers stood. I’m standing tall this time.

In Demdike’s steps I followed closely once, and now
I walk Alizon’s path. A city mauled by time.

We move in secret through the shadows of our past
revisiting graffiti that we’ve scrawled on time.

Four walls, all white; the windowpane that faced me down,
so washed by harmonies of waterfall that time.

Your letters typed still echo with the voice I knew.
In air and glass reflected, I’m appalled by time.

No virtue bright to light my head, no ties that bind,
no silence held in half-forgotten halls this time.

Donatien writes no more, but now his quills are yours.
His book is in your hands. I fear I’ll crawl this time.

Your fingers are my bracelets; round my throat, my name
lies heavily – and at my back, a wall, this time.

Your strength burns like the sun, and I remember still
when bruises wrapped my shoulders like a shawl that time.

New chapters, pages turned, corrected. Bound beneath
le beau jeune homme sans merci, I’m in thrall this time.

Among the cotton reels, I’ll wait. Merlot for two;
vanilla fades upon me after all, this time.

September turns to March, and fifteen juries die;
I wonder who you are now, after all this time.

Read Full Post »

Villainelle (a villanelle)

I should have seen the script would end like this.

Delusions filmed in widescreen, I could fly

believing stories told inside a kiss.

It’s not enough, this little armistice;

our trust formed out of dreams had forged a lie –

I should have seen the script would end like this.

Aesthetics stood in for analysis;

no barriers, and three times you’d deny

believing stories told inside a kiss.

Standing on Moriarty’s precipice

we stumbled, and the falls were much too high –

I should have seen the script would end like this,

with secret scattered beads. I was remiss

for my beliefs, and still I justify

believing stories told inside a kiss

from lips that never spoke their cowardice.

Breathing in three point one four two: goodbye.

I should have seen the script would end like this,

believing stories told inside a kiss.

Read Full Post »