Here I am on the brink of thirty and still, at least every few months, I have one of those weeks (or two) where I simply cannot adult. I am struck with a sudden incapacity to prepare a meal, put away the washing or water the plants and the feeling of failure that follows lulls me into a rut.
Yes, a little later than might be expected, forgive me, I have no idea what I’ve been doing with myself. The month of May was rather jam-packed between a ramble to Lisbon for Eurovision, Liverpool Light Night and flat viewings pretty much every weekend. Thankfully I did manage to get some reading done, mostly on planes.
When it came to choosing a poem for the month of May I wondered if I should seek out something Portuguese to compliment the ramble to Lisbon, and I did spend quite some time pondering over a bilingual collection of poetry in Ler Devagar, an utterly wonderful bookshop to be found in Lisbon’s LX Factory.
There are some 460 pages in Yuval Noah Harari’s masterpiece Sapiens. That means I’ve probably read something in the region of 130,000 words over the past few weeks buried beneath it’s covers. Well I’ve emerged, brimming with knowledge that I’m desperate to share and have thankfully managed to contain my enthusiasm to a mere 3000 odd words… but first, Dark Days.
This month’s poem came into my hands on World Book Night. As part of the celebrations we were giving away copies of Jo Bell’s wonderful collection Kith through work and I’ve been tucking into it all week.
As anyone who follows my Instagram Stories will know, I’ve been reading Yuval Noah Harari’s Sapiens for some time now. Rumour has it in fact, since the beginning of time itself. This beast of a book weighs in at 466 glorious pages detailing the History of Humankind, but it is not quite as Brief as Harari’s title jocosely suggests.
This month I’ve been slowly but surely chipping away at the non-fiction beast that is Sapiens A Brief History of Humankind but I also managed to finish off two slightly more compact books, both of which happen to be rooted in the kitchen.
Every now and then in my weekly raid of the poetry collections at work I come across a poem which absolutely nails something. Whether it’s a feeling I’v been having of late, something that connects with the chapter we’re reading that week, or just the general mood brought on by seasonal change or current affairs. This poem nailed it on several accounts.
A short month, but a healthy read pile for February. Admittedly, 80% of reading was done during one long return train journey to and from Bristol for a work trip right at the beginning of the month, but Eleanor Oliphant kept me well entertained for the remained for the rest of February.
When I heard the news of Jenny Joseph’s death last month I had to pick up her poem Warning again. She was 85 when she passed away, but only 28 when she wrote this poem, the age I was when she died.