Recently I've had three of my poems published by the online literary magazine Hypnopomp. One of these poems is the Ode to W. B. Yeats (see below), along with Child, and Sweetheart covering unsurprisingly the topic of childbirth, and the strong platonic love you can feel for a great friend.
If you'd like to have a look the link is: https://hypnopompblog.wordpress.com/2017/08/24/3-poems-by-megan-mcmanus/ I would recommend exploring the rest of the website too - there are some really interesting pieces of prose and visual artwork as well as poetry which are well worth a look.
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Hopefully I will begin to update the blog more regularly now after a bit of a hiatus. Here is a small poem to kick off proceedings, dedicated to one of my ultimate literary heroes William Butler Yeats. (If you haven't read 'He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven' read it now!!)
Languid yellow stars falling through blank staircases of meridian blue flute my dreams within their plummet as their metallic tinnitus sounds above an atmosphere of grey evaporation and glitter fluid tides. They fall further next to me they land and to him I said "tread softly because you tread on my dreams". Several days ago I completed reading Mary Shelley's most famous novel: ‘Frankenstein; or The Modern Prometheus’.
Before starting the book, I felt somewhat reluctant to begin. Although I generally enjoy the Gothic genre more than any other, every stereotype pointed towards it being a rather grim and depressing tale, with a macabre tone overriding any finer qualities relating to plot and narrative. To my surprise and pleasure however, my initial judgements on the book were disproved almost as soon as I began to read. So this week I finally began my English Literature course at Newcastle Uni. I'm really looking forward to getting into the creative writing module I chose, hoping it'll help with both this blog and my writing in general. Due to it being freshers week last week I've been really busy so haven't had time to sit down and write much on here, so in absence of a new piece, I'm uploading a small poem I wrote a while ago about that problem so universal: not being able to get to sleep. I want to sleep, yet I cannot -
there is too much to do. My heavy lids have had their lot, but this is nothing new. I cannot think, I cannot write, yet soldier on I must, the best of thoughts occur at night- I shan’t let them turn to dust. The land of slumber beckons me, I protest: “just one more verse!” Soon off to doze I’ll blithely go, Though I’ll do some thinking first. M.M Being an avid Brontë fan, this was really more of a pilgrimage than a visit, and not my first either. Haworth itself is what I suppose many people would expect from a Yorkshire village in the rolling hills of Northern England; it is quaint, pretty and holds a variety of craft shops and cafes to cater for the large tourist population that passes through every summer. Much more than this however, Haworth housed three of the most talented, influential and innovative writers of the 19th century - Charlotte, Emily and Anne Brontë. Walking around the Brontë Parsonage Museum, the home of my heroines, it struck me how ordinary the house was. Yes, it was obviously beautiful, but what I felt most was a prevailing sense of how real the family were - I could picture the sisters deliberating over their writing table, or Patrick despairing over Branwell's unhealthy lifestyle, preparing to walk down to the pub and fetch his troubled son. From this conjecture, I drew several conclusions. The most important, I think, was the realisation that the Brontë family were (within reason) normal people, with aspirations and issues just like the rest of us. What set the sisters apart was their ability to take an ordinary life, primarily lived in an ordinary house in an ordinary village, and from it, produce works that are truly phenomenal. I realised that above all, the most vital thing in writing is imagination, and this conviction was further strengthened on climbing the winding stairs. My favourite room upstairs will always be the children's play room. With mysterious characters pencilled on the walls by the children themselves, and a view of the parsonage garden, the small room soon becomes a chamber of endless possibility for creativity and adventure. Again, it became evident that the children transformed the mundane into the remarkable; looking out of the window as the family must have done many times I could not help wondering what they saw. Somehow I think it was a lot more than grass and trees: was this view part of what inspired the formation of the Kingdom of Angria and the brilliant tales resulting from this? My reverence and awe in relation to the play room was only increased on entering the final exhibition, containing mostly personal items of the family. These included letters, school medals and keepsake boxes, as well as the famous apostle wardrobe, immortalised in Charlotte's Jane Eyre. What struck me most, however, were the tiny magazines and books produced by the children, chronicling tales of Angria and the adventures of Charlotte's particular hero, the Duke of Wellington. There was something unmistakably poignant about the minute handwriting and delicacy of these tiny volumes, and juvenile as they are, they really did nourish my ever growing respect for the Brontës. To conclude the trip, we (me and my mam), walked down into Haworth itself. Although on this trip we didn't get to visit the Church (which is lovely, I would recommend), we were able to go to the Black Bull and have a drink. As I sipped my vodka and coke at 12:10pm (I know, scandalous), my thoughts drifted to one Brontë in particular.Of course, Branwell. For all of the talent of his sisters, I do often feel that Branwell is somewhat underrated, especially in his artwork, and I think it is also important to acknowledge the role that his alcoholism played in his life, and that of his family members. Once more, the reality of the Brontës as a family battling universal issues becomes apparent, and it is here, surrounded by red carpet, wooden tables and antique paintings that I realise experience plays a role just as important as imagination in the creation of literature. If we have not experienced emotions and events, then how can we imagine new ones, or how our characters might react in such situations?Reflecting upon the lives and early childhood of the siblings, I am convinced further that the traumatic experiences of the death of their mother, then two elder sisters are partly responsible for the frank and relatable emotive tone found in much Brontë literature. On entering Haworth and the Brontë Parsonage for a second time, I didn't think there was much more I could learn. I'd read the novels, the poetry, the biographies. I'd visited before, I'd watched documentaries and film adaptations. Yet how wrong I was. Only now have I begun to understand the importance of experience, reflection upon this, and imagination as a consequence. And the beauty of this realisation, I think, comes from the fact that I learned this by experiencing it myself. My experience, reflection, and imaginings from this visit have brought me closer to the Brontës in a way I could never have anticipated, and I appreciate them all the more for it too.
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