Why Gatsby is So Great

Nearly everyone names The Great Gatsby as one of their all-time favourite books. Even people who have never read it have at least heard of it. 

Then there's those who know it from the well-known 1970s film version with Robert Redford. And those who are being swept away at the moment with the latest reinvention from Baz Luhrmann. Indeed, it's sparked a kind of Gatsby mania.

So what is it about it that is so great?  What makes it feature on everyone's list of favourite books?

Well it's a classic and one that lives on long in readers imaginations after they've read it. It currently sells half a million copies each year in the U.S! It never leaves literature teaching curriculums. Seems the story of a man who makes it big, chases down the American dream, with all the blessings and trappings that come with it, in an attempt to win back his true love, is one that never gets old. It's the kind of book that you go back to again and again and everytime, find something new in it. Like one reviewer said -  the book sparkles like a multi-faceted diamond revealing some new colour on every new reading.

It's a story that everyone can relate to, in some shape or form. It's a story in which the characters are not merely characters but archetypes, metaphors, shadows and symbols. It's a book that you'll come away from stunned. For all its dressings of superficiality, it will move you and affect you like no other. 

Anyway, after thinking about it for a long time (I love the book so much I was afraid that in writing about it,  I would fail to capture its brilliance!), I came up with ten reasons (narrowed down!) why I think it's such a great book. Here they are, in no particular order:

(*Spoiler alerts* for those of you yet to read/see it!)

1. Relevance:

Even though The Great Gatsby is set in the 1920s (and was written in 1925), it never feels out-dated or redundant. Quite the opposite infact. Maybe why it is trending again today is its relevance to our economic position - i.e. the recession. Gatsby was set in America of the roaring 1920s, Long Island, New York, to be exact, with all its glitz and wealth, the country finding its (dancing) feet again after the Great War. After the war was a time of wealth and excess - a time almost equal to our own previous boom time, with both being followed by a grand economic collapse. The Great Depression of 1929 was to put an end to all the excesses as ours did. The novel is famed for offering a kind of prophetic warning that this kind of revelry couldn't last; that the bubble would eventually burst just as Gatsby's did. A good story is always timeless and The Great Gatsby is as timeless as they come.

2. Jazz Age Setting:

Gatsby is set in the legendary 1920s, or the 'Jazz Age' as it was better known by. It was the era of live-it-up hysteria and excess which came in the wake of World War I. People were reckless and risk-takers and money was for lavishing around. The story revolves around the rich of New York and the extravagance of their lifestyles. Gatsby throws elaborate parties (which would rival any today!) that attract guests from far and wide around the city to indulge in an array of comforts - orchestras and champagne and celebrities to name but  a few. Modern symbols of this wealth and status can be seen in the Baz Luhrmann film to great effect - for instance, the giant Moet bottle of champagne at one party, the Ladureé macaroons Gatsby brings to tea for Daisy, the decadent diamond-clad flapper dresses by Prada and the hip-hop/rap music soundtrack.  

The glitz and glamour of the '20s is a heady attraction for a wide spectrum of people: fashion-lovers, music-lovers, money enthuses, party animals, culture vultures. It's the golden period of history, one that we would all love to return to and sample ourselves. It's such a big attraction in The Great Gatsby. Just look at the Gatsby mania now created by the recent film. Fshion labels are going crazy for flapper again, even Tiffanys of New York have jumped onboard with a new Gatsby inspired line of decadent 1920s style jewellery. It's a period that never tires.
 

3. The character of Gatsby:

A major draw of the book is the character of Gatsby himself. He's mysterious, aloof and wrapped in an aura of mystique when we first meet him. Then he becomes endearing and admirable. Despite his dodgy dealings to gain his money, we can't help but be bowled over by the tenacity of his ambition and the devotion to his dream of making it big and winning back Daisy. Nick remarks of him affectionately at the beginning that he had 'an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which is likely I shall ever find again.' He is awed by Gatsby's persistence in obtaining his dream, his hope that he will be reunited with his first love, Daisy.

Not just that, but Gatsby is a man with a dream, an idealist - in a fake and fickle world. It is this which draws Nick to him, and us too. At the end of the novel, just before Gatsby's death, Nick tells him that 'he's worth the whole damn bunch (Daisy and Tom and Jordan) put together' and it's true. He's not like the callous careless Buchanans or the rest of the moneyed elite. He stands out as a good man in the midst of unsavoury characters and we come to feel that he shouldn't be in this world at all.

Gatsby embodies the ultimate story of rags-to-riches transformation and we applaud him for this, even, admittedly, when we find out of his unseamly connections. He has impeccable manners (as some of his guests will attest to), conducts himself as a gentleman ('old sport') and is unselfish and noble to the end. He even appears vulnerable and child-like in comparison to the other characters who are shrewd and cynical.In a word, he truly is 'great.' Great as in the affable host of so many amazing parties, great to have built himself up from nothing, great in his ambitions and success; but also, great as in  a good guy, one of the best, despite the circumstances that surround him.  We finish the book with great admiration for Gatsby and an even greater sense of sympathy.

4. It's a tragic love story*:  

Ever since finding out that Gatsby has reinvented himself from the poor penniless young officer 'Jay Gatz' in order to win back the love of his life, Daisy Buchanan, we hold high hopes of this happy ending, but soon see it won't work out like that.  Gatsby is a dreamer, an idealist, a romantic - Daisy is not. We discover just before Gatsby that his affections in Daisy are misplaced; that she is not as glorious as he thinks of her, far from it. When Nick remarks to him, before the fated trip to New York, that she has a strange-sounding voice, Gatsby replies that it is the sound of 'money.' And that's when the tale turns and our opinions too.
 

When the truth finally is outed to Tom about Daisy and Gatsby's love for each other, Daisy fails miserably to support Gatsby and crawls pathetically back to Tom. It becomes clear to us that she has abandoned all ideas of having a life with Gatsby. We watch as her character disintegrates further when she lets Gatsby take the blame for the ensuing car accident, which inevitably leads to his death.  Most despicable of all is how she doesn't even acknowledge the fact that he is dead, a man she claimed to have loved, she just leaves without even as much as a flower or a phone call as Nick remarks. How could she be so cruel? It is then that we feel the full pang of sympathy for Gatsby and realise that this is not truly a tragic love story, but just a tragedy. A tragedy of a good man led astray. And what hooks us readers better than a tragedy?

 

 

5. The narrator:  

The book uses the device of a narrator, an innocent onlooking bystander in the person of the affable Nick Carraway. Nick is our eyes and ears in the book - everything we know comes through him, the impartial observer. He mirrors our own thoughts and feelings and puts into eloquent articulate words, what they are. Through Nick we come to understand the characters and especially gain insight into them and their world. Nick corroborates our theories and notions. He navigates us through this world with admiration, curiosity and awe as well as repulsion and condemnation: 'I was within and without, simultaneously enchanted and repelled by the inexhaustible variety of life.' We share in his affection for Gatsby and feel that he is the only one, as well as Gatsby, among these people who is worth anything. He is our tether to morality and normality as the story evolves, the gauge by which we measure the goings-on of the world of the novel. Without Nick, the story wouldn't feel as intimate or exacting.

6. The language: 

The Great Gatsby has been described as a 'poetic' novel. One friend once described it as eating a very rich dark chocolate - you want to savour it one piece at a time. And it is like that. You pore over the words and find yourself re-reading passages until they become whole pages. Everything about it is exquisite. Fitzgerald has a way of describing things that is beautifully and heartbreakingly apt. His descriptions are revealing and revelatory, as in this instance when Nick first meets Gatsby:  'He smiled understandingly - much more than understandingly. It was one of those rare smiles with a quality of eternal reassurance in it, that you come across four or five times in life. It faced - or seemed to face - the whole eternal world for an instant, and then concentrated on you with an irresistible prejudice in your favour. It understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood, believed in you as you would like to believe in yourself, and assured you that it had precisely the impression of you that, at your best, you hoped to convey.'

F. Scott Fitzgerald was a dab hand at feather-light prose.  He describes the events of Gatsby parties as 'where he dispensed starlight to casual moths'. (And I love how in the Baz Luhrmann film the words float around Tobey Maguire's Nick in a magical touch). When talking of Gatsby's love for Daisy, the language is invested with a sparkling romanticism: 'So he waited, listening for a moment longer to the tuning-fork that had been struck upon a star. Then he kissed her. At his lips' touch she blossomed for him like a flower and the incarnation was complete.'

And perhaps the most memorable descriptions in the novel are those of the parties -
'There was music from my neighbour's house through the summer nights. In his blue gardens men and girls came and went like  moths among the whisperings and the champagne and the stars...The lights grow brighter as the earth lurches away from the sun, and now the orchestra is playing yellow cocktail music, and the opera of voices pitches  a key higher.' The poetic prose adds to the delicacy of the story and fine-tunes its inherent beauty to maximum effect.   

 

7. An exploration of the American Dream (and dreams)*:

Gatsby's story is one of successful reinvention. All throughout his childhood and formative years, he dreamed of being more. He wanted what every American (and everyone) wants - to better himself, to achieve things, to matter, to count, to be someone. His parents were poor and at the end of the novel we find out from Gatsby's father just how determined he was to improve himself when he was a boy - setting out study and work timetables and rules for himself to abide by. And he achieved his dream. But by ambivalent means. The novel as such makes a commentary on the American dream, both a positive and a negative one.
 

It could be argued that Gatsby's illegal associations and role as a 'bootlegger' inevitably lead to his tragic end. Or that he  is so obsessed with achieving his dream that it blinded him and as such, led to his death. But on the other hand, Gatsby's fierce and admirable pursuit of his dream was what kept him pure in a sense. It was a noble pursuit and more than a passion - it was his whole existence and as hinted, a means to redemption, with Nick noting that the dream of Daisy had gone 'beyond her, beyond everything' and goes on to add with a sense of awe and pity, that 'no amount of fire or freshness can challenge what a man can store up in his ghostly heart.' 

Dreams, including the American dream, may be 'incorruptible' in the dreamer's eyes, but not in reality. The novel issues a kind of warning in this respect: pursue your dream, they can and do come true, but make sure you pursue the right dream, and more importantly, in the right way. What's more, it's more important to have a dream in your heart, a green light to pursue, than to achieve your dream and have it fall to pieces in your hands. Dreams guide us, dreams give us a fierce resoluteness, they sustain us, but some dreams, like Gatsby's, can get dashed on reality's shores.

8. A comment on American society/Past Vs Present Theme*: 

The Great Gatsby is, in many respects, an American novel. Leading Fitzgerald scholar James L. W calls The Great Gatsby "a national scripture. It embodies the American spirit, the American will to reinvent oneself."

 

Not only that, but the novel also makes a comment on the state of American society at the time.  Post-war America was an uncertain place, one that swung precariously between the nostalgic past before the war and the uncertain future, much like Gatsby himself. When Nick cops on that Gatsby's pursuit of Daisy is more to do with recreating the past he says to him that you can't repeat the past. Gatsby answers: 'Can't repeat the past? Why of course you can!' This is Gatsby's tragic flaw, his clinging belief and nostalgia for the past over the future. He disregards Daisy's present status as wife and mother, so enwrapped is he in his past love with her.  The green light at the end of Daisy's dock across the water from him, which is a motif of hope for him, also represents the green glow of the future, which he could not reach. Gatsby's tragedy lay in the fact that he believed his past to be his future.

 

 

At the end of the novel, Nick realises this as he comments: 'I thought of Gatsby's wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy's dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn, and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city,  where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.' 

 

He then goes on to equate Gatsby's dilemma with each of our own as well as America's - will it be able to proceed into the future confidently that 'year by year recedes us'? We failed before - 'it eluded us then' - but he continues hopefully, 'but that's no matter - tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms further... And one fine morning - ' until he interjects - 'So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past' - in one of the most infamous last lines in fiction. Yes, America will continue to fight the past and reach for the future, but like Gatsby, and like us, will keep being drawn back to it like a boat in a current. 

So we finish the novel with the question in our mind - are we condemned to be controlled by the past? Is it our fate? Or can we beat on, to reach the 'orgastic future'? That is the question, isn't it? Great novels pose great questions and this is one of the most pondersome. Plus, is there any line more evocative, more beautiful and heartbreakingly sad as this last one? It echoes in your mind like a bobbing boat, rippling the surface, threading experience into meaning and emotion into a high swell.

9. It's based on real-life:

F. Scott Fitzgerald just didn't pluck the idea for Gatsby out of thin air. No, the book is loosely based on his own experiences in trying to woo his wife Zelda, a rich and pretty socialite, when he was just a penniless writer. Some critics even see it as a thinly-veiled autobiography. Fitzgerald and Zelda went on to be the party animals of the 20s - living it up in Paris, drinking and dancing, partying and holidaying, gaining the reputation of 'crazy' by many of their contemporaries.

Also, the fate of Gatsby when it was first published almost mirrors that of the lead character himself - it was a flop on first publication, failing to alight the interests of readers and critics. alike. Unfortunately, Fitzgerald died (at the young age of forty-four) before he could see it claim any of its great success. Now, as I already mentioned, it sells half a million copies in the U.S. each year and is listed as one of the greatest books of all time.

10. A prism story:

And finally, what makes Gatsby so great is the fact that it's not just a story, but a prism of a story - that is, within its one story, there are many stories. In other words, the novel, like Gatsby's eponymous smile - offers to us, each and every reader, what we want to take from it, what we need from it in a certain time and place - 'it understood you just as far as you wanted to be understood'. It is ever-shifting, like the diamond that reviewer spoke of. Perhaps we identify with Gatsby in his doomed quest, his unfettered idealism, his conviction? Or with Daisy, trapped by circumstances? Or with Nick, confused and perturbed at whatever new world we find ourselves in? The novel can be many different things to different people ('with an irresistible prejudice in your favour...') It is universal but deeply personal. It can be both a tale of hope and a cautionary tale of woe, a green light and a red light. A story of winning and losing, tragedy and beauty. It's never static, never stuck, always moving with us, like those boats in the current. It's this quality which makes it a book we re-read over and over, many times in a lifetime and see something different in it each time. For it is a story which deals with 'the unreality of reality', an idea that is always entrancing.  And that's what I think makes it such a great book, one of the greatest.

Hmmm, and apart from all that, it's really short! The fact you can read it in a day (only over a hundred pages!) is definitely a plus point for the book. (Coincidentally, Hemingway, a friend and contemporary of Fitzgerald's, read it in one afternoon sitting!) And it's particularly good to read in the summer, seeing as it's set then, with the real backdrop of all those moonlit blue nights and music floating on the air around you (swoon). 

How about you? What are your favourite things about Gatsby? Have you seen the new film? Read the book many times? Never read the book? About to read the book? As in love with it as I am??? Let me know why!


~ Siobhán

Cloudy, With a Chance of Poetry

 

"Clouds are all sorts. They are a medium of revelation, through which the gods show themselves. They're a playground for human imagination, where we can see any number of forms and creatures ("Very like a whale!"). They are mood music, the emotional backdrop to a scene. They are complex natural phenomena, which challenge our capacity for accurate observation..." - On Constable's Study of Clouds, The Independent 

I love clouds. They're gaze inspiring. Cumulus, nimbus, cirrus, all of them are fascinating to my sky-trailing eyes. Many's a day can be spent wiled away watching them. Many's a thought has taken on new dimensions in their presence. Many's an imagination that has been carried away into seeing animals and shapes in them.

Yep, clouds are cool. So magnificent and so ordinary, taken for granted, yet marvelled at when we really ponder them. 

On that note then, here are a few poems I was delighted to come across that marvel and wonder and woo, with their witty sentiments on clouds. Especially Billy Collins' offerings, imaginer extraordinaire. 

Enjoy fellow cloud/poetry lovers!

~ Siobhán

(*Previous posts on clouds: Cloud Contemplation)



Student of Clouds - Billy Collins

The emotion is to be found in clouds,
not in the green solids of the sloping hills
or even in the gray signatures of rivers,
according to Constable,who was a student of clouds
and filled shelves of notebooks with their motion,
their lofty gesturing and sudden implication of weather.

Outdoor, he must have looked up thousands of times,
his pencil trying to keep pace with their high voyaging
and the silent commotion of the eddying and flow.
Clouds would move beyond the outlines he would draw
as they moved within themselves, tumbling into their centers
and swirling off at the burning edges in vapors
to dissipate into the universal blue of the sky.

In photographs we can stop all this movement now
long enough to tag them with their Latin names.
Cirrus, nimbus, stratocumulus -
dizzying, romantic, authoritarian -
they bear their titles over the schoolhouses below
where their shapes and meanings are memorized.

High on the soft blue canvases of Constable
they are stuck in pigment but his clouds appear
to be moving still in the wind of his brush,
inching out of England and the nineteenth century
and sailing over these meadows where I am walking,
bareheaded beneath the cupola of motion,
my thoughts arranged like paint on a high blue ceiling.

*(See Constable's study of clouds here and pict above)

Clouds - Christina Rossetti

White sheep, white sheep,
On a blue hill,
When the wind stops
You all stand still
When the wind blows
You walk away slow.
White sheep, white sheep,
Where do you go?





Clouds - Wislawa Szymborska

I’d have to be really quick
to describe clouds -
a split second’s enough
for them to start being something else.

Their trademark:
they don’t repeat a single
shape, shade, pose, arrangement.

Unburdened by memory of any kind,
they float easily over the facts.

What on earth could they bear witness to?
They scatter whenever something happens.

Compared to clouds,
life rests on solid ground,
practically permanent, almost eternal.

Next to clouds
even a stone seems like a brother,
someone you can trust,
while they’re just distant, flighty cousins.

Let people exist if they want,
and then die, one after another:
clouds simply don't care
what they're up to
down there.

And so their haughty fleet
cruises smoothly over your whole life
and mine, still incomplete.

They aren't obliged to vanish when we're gone.
They don't have to be seen while sailing on.

 

The Biography of a Cloud - Billy Collins

It would have been easier to folllow Johnson 
from pub to pub with a notebook and pen
or sift through cardboard boxes
crammed with Trollopiana
than to tell the story of this anonymous mass.

It is hard to say even where it was born
though considering its thick, whipped texture
and its lofty, processional manner,
I have it somewhere over a large warm body of
water,
fathered by heat, mothered by humidity.

We do know this much:
that it billowed white at the mountainous top
and its flat underside was the grey of headstones;
that it slid onto the land and felt its way
over the contours of several western states, 
always moving eastward, from left to right
the way eyes move over print
as if it were reading the earth with its blind shadow. 

Otherwise, it did nothing
but allow itself to be blown through the high cold 
atmosphere,
though it was always changing shapes
and assumed in its lifetime the form
of Australia, the head of an enormous dog,
a sheep on the run, a hippo with its mouth agape, 
and even the camel that passed through the eye of Hamlet. 

As usual, its existence was noted by only a few: 
a workman eating lunch on a girder,
a woman on a terrace watering plants, 
and a large number of people named Riley,
all supine in hammocks or on blankets spread for picnics. 

Ordinarily it travelled in a convoy
or pedalled along with one or two companions,
but early one morning over Arizona
it held the distinction of being the only one in the sky. 

In the end, it died as all clouds do,
in an obscurity befitting one of the minor English poets,
the son of a London hatter or an Essex clergyman,
sent down from Oxford for heresy or gambling, 
soon addicted to laudanum, then the slide into destitution
for their stories, too, begin to sound alike. 

But I would rather track the life of a cloud
than labour over packets of letters
written in a crabbed hand
or explicate the four sorry volumes of verse
he would have left when he died,
gout-ridden on a cot in Wembley. 

I prefer a wayside bench, ensnared by vines,
to the dark aisles of a library,
a place to watch them inch across the sky, 
caravans plying their ancient trade routes. 
I want to train my scholar's eye
on the bright shifting edges
where the weightless tonnes of clouds lick the air.
I want to remove my hat, close my eyes, 
and feel the sun, warm and intermittent, on my face.  

The Fear: Writing and Self-Doubt

 

I haven't posted here in a while. I suppose that's because I haven't written in a while. And why is that? The dreaded block back? No, not at all. Actually, I'm full of ideas. They're rattling round my head on a permanent spin cycle, waiting to be verbalised. It's more the fear.

You know the fear I speak of. The one that plagues all creatives. 

Fear that you're not good enough. Fear that your talents have left you. Fear that you can't do it anymore. So why bother at all? Doubt, to be more precise. Self-doubt. Sylvia Plath was right when she said that 'the worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt.' It is. It is crippling, debilitating. 

It's different from block. Block is more the outward manifestation of a deeper root cause, a malignant source of all stop-and-stutter verbal hesitation.

All writers experience the fear, the doubt. Even though some might come across as utterly confident - even to the point of arrogant. You wouldn't ever suspect that they too were hounded and haunted by self-doubt, but they are. 

The closest career to writers I can think of are trapeze artists (yes, trapeze artists). Of course, you need confidence to pull off those moves, to swing in sky so triumphantly. One ounce of doubt would bring you down. (Like Peter Pan and flying).  And when it happens, when you fall, your bones may hold up, but your faith breaks a little. And it's hard to swallow it down and get back up again. Also as a trapeze artist, you must depend upon your partner to catch you, as in writing, a writer depends upon their inspiration, that second gravity-defying dimension that is not always tangible. 

 I don't know why we doubt but I suspect it is because we work in the realm of creative swells and trickles. Good writing, great writing is never a constant process. For every good sentence produced, there were probably about ten flaky ones that scaffolded it. All our words are not gold. Some are flint. Some are copper. Some are lead. We have to work at it to get it good. We have to work with a heavy hand to make it seem feather-light. Some days, words will flow easily, graciously. We will feel like we are gliding on the crest of a wave. Everything is glittering.  It is so easy to surf this wave of writing. But then other days, it's hard. We can't catch a wave. The ocean is flat and will not rise to our bidding. We splash around a while before calling it a day. It's all highs and lows, ebbs and flows, waheying and worrying. And it's in between these extremes that doubt sneaks in. We begin to doubt our own abilities on the flat days and wonder how we will ever get so high again, and with that, we're soon in the dark territory of fear. We begin to fear the process, fear the taunting of the blank page, the many words that will bleed and die there. We begin to fear that our dream was a delusion all along.  So that's where I've been this past while. And instead of hiding from it any longer I thought, hell, I'll write about it, I'll take the first steps out of the shadows. I know doubt is a part of the creative process, but I didn't know it could be so overpowering at times. What is it that Pi says in Life of Pi when his faith is faltering? - 

“I must say a word about fear. It is life's only true opponent. Only fear can defeat life. It is a clever, treacherous adversary, how well I know. It has no decency, respects no law or convention, shows no mercy. It goes for your weakest spot, which it finds with unnerving ease. It begins in your mind, always ... so you must fight hard to express it. You must fight hard to shine the light of words upon it. Because if you don't, if your fear becomes a wordless darkness that you avoid, perhaps even manage to forget, you open yourself to further ttacks of fear because you never truly fought the opponent who defeated you.” 

So here I am shining the light of words upon it. And maybe it's opening up the darkness just a bit.And a last word on it from Pi, Yann Martel's fictional embodiment of all our human emotions -   “If Christ spent an anguished night in prayer, if He burst out from the Cross, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?' then surely we are also permitted doubt. But we must move on. To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation.”Yep. That's it. Doubt will get you nowhere. We must get over it and move on. Move on. Write on. Besides, it is just a mark of a true artist: ~ Siobhán                    

The Finish Line #NaPoWriMo

Yay, it's over! The 30 day write a poem marathon! And I'm so ecstatic to say that I didn't miss a day! (Which is a first I can tell you! - My commitment to things usually falls flat on its face at the first few hurdles....) 

Anyway, it just goes to show that you don't have to wait around for inspiration to land on you like a magic-wand tap. Nope, it's there and all, ready and waiting to be accessed. If #NaPoWriMo taught me anything, it's this. 

A big congrats to all you bloggers who participated! Some great work was produced! :)

~ Siobhán

NaPoWriMo Finish Line

Well, it’s over now -

I’ve passed the finish-line

of the thirty day poem-a-day

tag yourself some verbal meditation.

Take a bow – the diurnal sacrifice

is done, dusted, the Muse so delighted

that she smiles and throws light

in my general direction.

Ding dong the doubt is dead -

with a hi-yah, ka-boom, take that,

karate sensei chop; go NaPoWriMo! 
daily pom-pom poems flexing

fingers to write without prompt

or pre-meditated occasion.

Now, my medal of knowing how to turn

the straw of ordinary everyday 

into poetry gold. 


© Siobhán Mc Laughlin April 2013