Who is on the plum tree?
Great new Editor’s Corner from Shawn MacKenzie. Growing up, I was so influenced by the Anglo-Irish writers, Joyce’s spirit still pervaded Dublin, which was caught in a time-warp. Would-be poetic earnest young men wrote poems to women as par for the course of seduction. Poets made eloquent speeches in pubs, as part of the craic and were as belligerent as possible in their Joycean hats and glasses. The Catholic intellectual angst over sex was raunchy and rude – as Irish men were still mother dominated and desperate for a ‘bit!’ I think they sought sexual liberation through words alone. Some made it as far as the guilty grope but women were animals, unfathomable creatures fey, witches/bitches/virgin mothers/whores that haunted Irish men and always eluded understanding. To this we owe Joyce’s stream of consciousness in the form of Molly Bloom’s speech.
I love flowers Id love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven theres nothing like nature the wild mountains then the sea and waves rushing then the beautiful country with the fields of oats and wheat and all kinds of things and all the fine cattle going about that would do your heart good to see rivers and lakes and flowers all sorts of shapes and smells and colours…
So, I picked up Ulysses the other day – as one is wont to do – and dove into the roiling river which is Molly Bloom’s beautifully, rudely fecund tale at book’s end. With my mind groping towards a subject for today, I read not only for the jaw-dropping poetry of the words tumbling across the page, but also for their precise, artful construction.
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