swithering and winning, swithering and losing...

The word "swithering" has, thanks to Robin Robertson, entered the current poetical lexicon in much the same decisive, all-of-a-sudden way as Seamus Heaney's "snedder" did earlier this year. However, I think I will probably never use a snedder. I just cut my occasional turnips with a knife. But unlike the snedder, "swithering" represents an experience just about anyone (except for, thinking about it, maybe Margaret Thatcher) can have.

Unfortunately, swithering is exactly what I have been doing for two weeks when confronted with his book of the same name. I bought it the day it was announced that it had won the Forward Prize for Best Poetry Collection (as reported previously; I was sitting in the glaucoma clinic at Moorfields when I read the news, and headed straight to Waterstones in the rain). I thought I might do a little mini-review or write some amusing post on the subject, thinking to keep up-to-date, you know. And I did read it, or parts of it, some of which were rather ambitious (to read, and probably to write). There was some spot-on imagery, and lots of Celtic mystery (which shouldn't be a problem to someone who, like me, has been accused - albeit unfairly - of Welsh witchery), and tons of writing, much of it very muscular and manly. I have had it on my mind this whole time, in a must-get-to-grips-with-that way.

However, Ms B is saddened to announce that the book got left over the weekend in the shoulder bag in which she carries papers, files, laptop etc - along with an upside-down, half-drunk blueberry smoothie.

I think you know the rest of that story!

(The laptop was fortunately out of the bag. The book, rinsed off and probably still usable, though as dark blue in its spine area as Violet Beauregard, is currently drying out next to the kitchen sink. As is the bag.)

So I think it is sadly clear to all that this lady IS for swithering. All I need now is a snedder.