Horace and Me by Harry Eyres: Review in The Telegraph

Horace: a poet of the middle age

I seem to have forgotten to put up a link to my review of Harry Eyres' book, Horace and Me, an amiable reflection on the poet Horace and his own life. I did it for the Telegraph, donchaknow: here's the link.

At university I must admit to not really liking Horace as much as I loved Ovid, Virgil, Propertius, Lucretius et. al., but Eyres has persuaded me to have another look at him. Another book on the pile of things to be looked at again, or read for the first time... Currently I want to read Jane Austen again; Samuel Richardson's Pamela (for the first time), finish Pepys' Diaries; and that's not to mention the 100 odd books I have on my "To Be Read" pile, still less the children's books I've got going for the Costa Book Award... Oh, and there's Ford Madox Ford, as well. And I'm trying to catch up on Hilary Mantel and Don DeLillo's backlists. Wish me luck...

Hunger: A poem

 I was running a creative writing workshop yesterday. I usually take part in the exercises, for kicks. Here's a poem that came out of it:

HUNGER
There he is again.
So tiny, to start with.
Flipping a coin, he smirks in the sun.

Under the cracks he creeps,
Tipping his hat, so ruefully,
Brushing the dust off his sleeve.
He squats in the fridge,
Nibbling the potatoes,
Sticking his thumb in the cream.

I let him dance on my table,
Too lazy to banish him.
He uses my fork as a cane.

He’s bigger now: as tall as a
Candle. He yammers, and
Blows out his cheeks.

I put on some toast.
He flickers his tongue.
To end him, you’d have to be dead.