I wrote and directed a short film about two women, called Pull.
Here it is for you to view.
Pull – from Eleanor Capaldi on Vimeo.
Author: emcletters
Eat Your Words
A new story inspired by this postsecret postcard. The message reads: “Whenever I finish a good book I eat the last page”.
By Eleanor Capaldi
It started as a test – if you could eat it, you were accepted, approved, like a pending loan application.
Small, crumpled and fairly flat, the scrunched up bit of paper sat in between my thumb and forefinger. The tips of my nails making a chipped polish frame. Stray indecipherable text rippled round it. Rotating my index finger, it lay there like a seed for an expectant bird. I scrunched my eyes up too, as if it were on a slide under a microscope and I was angling for a revelation. I popped my head forward and took it, fishing it up tongue first.
The anti-climax in the room was palpable. The entertainment to be had was in the goading, in seeing the concertinaed lips of nervous first years.
That first bite came from a stray corner of a magazine page, slightly glossy. One thing led to…
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Two Poems
Trapped
Hemmed in
If I could just
Take the deepest breath
And burst the stretch of my skin.
Too full of life,
But there is no buckle
Only my toes poking out of my shoes
Picking up dirt and rain from the puddles
Squeezed onto the ground earlier that day.
If I’m not careful, I’ll start to sniffle.
Loving, pure instinct
Does what it does
Unclipped, unfixed, lives.
Rainbow cape
=/≠ (delete applicable)
shroud of shame.
Playing catch up
From the start,
The finishing line is the same
But our field is full of plot holes.
EMC
Picture: Creative Commons
New Poem: Cloud Bound
The hills puff up kettle steam,
the loch is one big mug of tea.
My train rattles round
making noises like
a spoon tapping
along the banks,
clink clink.
The denser weather
closing in,
someone’s pulling the drawstrings.
Tissue paper torn and laid together,
waves where the sticky tape
doesn’t hold;
A flimsy fan in the face of a mere breeze .
Pressure funnels
air up
we head into a tunnel of mountain cloud,
darker now,
resembling a smoker’s exhaled breath
on a cold day.
EMC
Loch Lomond, Gustave Doré
Hidden Sculptures in Glasgow – the Fab Four
Now the weather is getting bright it’s time for more walks and wanders. If you find yourself at a loose end in the city why not take a tour and stop by some of these hidden sculptural gems.
The Hunterian at The University of Glasgow
The Hunterian, soon to turn 300 years old, has its very own sculpture garden adjacent to the Art Gallery off University Avenue. This little haven is a sun trap in the summer and is mostly discovered accidentally. A lovely spot for lunch.
Top of Lantern, 1901, Mackintosh, pic courtesy Hunterian
Maggie’s Centre
Cross through the University campus and make your way towards the far end of Argyle Street. Maggie’s Cancer Care Centre hosts a DNA spiral which you can see in passing from street level. It was created by co-founder of Maggie’s Cancer Care Centres Charles Jencks, also responsible for the one day a year wonder, the Garden of Cosmic Speculation.
Maggie’s Centre Glasgow, DNA seat with twisted
waveform, Charles Jencks, 2002-2003
Renfrew Street
We’re off to the City Centre now. Hope on a bus or take a stroll to Charing Cross. Once there, look up, and say hello to Beethoven. On Renfrew Street (the other side of Sauchiehall Street) a Beethoven bust looks out from this B-listed building upon the locals. Above what used to be a former piano shop, T A Ewing’s Piano and Harmonium Emporium, it was sculpted by the owner’s brother, James Alexander Ewing.
Beethoven, James Alexander Ewing, circa 1897 pic Geograph.org
Merchant City
Continue down and while familiar to University of Strathclyde students if you’re not a resident of the area you’re in for a treat. Rottenrow Gardens used to be the location of a former maternity hospital, The Rottenrow, opened 1834. Now demolished, the archways remain and in tribute a metal sculpture of a giant safety pin. So the story goes, pregnant women were walked up and down the steep hill to stimulate labour – and it worked!
Monument to Maternity/Mhtpothta, George Wylie, 2004
There are many wonderful sculptures distributed across the city, what others are your favourites?
Thaw
Icy polish drips
From frozen finger tips
Blushing rooftops reappear
Cheeky circles in the clear
At first
New old surfaces
Unexpected colour burst
Stepping out from hiding
Under the shelter of the white
A seamless camouflage unrelenting
United snow and sky
It’s like the artist took their brush
And smudged all of the lines
Hollow howl runs empty
Nothing left to carry
The bluster of waning winter
Dusting round the corner
EC
Photo used under creative commons license
Sand and Snow
“Today it snowed on the beach. Weighty hefts of white fell, politely asking the sand to make way for their arrival. It was a sunshine kind of sand, golden from a distance, but when you got up close, when you scooped the grains out of your pocket, and shook them from your shoes, different colours started to appear.
The frozen air saw the flakes gather for warmth before they would soon melt back into the earth. Their unique patterns lay hidden to outside eyes, reflected only by a twinkling.
Under thickly splashed lines, grit and shell and seabed by turns fragmented and whole, buffed and shimmering, met the finest points of infinite stars fallen from the skies.”
EMC
Photo author’s own
New Story: Light Through a Lens
Head over to The Skinned Knee Collective to read my latest short story, on the theme of Metamorphosis.
Art work by Sarah Lutz sarahlutzart.com
http://www.theskinnedkneecollective.com/vol-iv-metamorphosis/2018/1/12/light-through-a-lens
Home from Home
Colourful and calling
Out in conversation,
what language, a
Sing song along
I’ve never heard before.
Not dull or dank or grey
To merge into Scottish summer skies
or nearby brae
Instead rainbow feathers rush
A pink and yellow blur
Like drumstick lollies
Sweeties
For the lovebirds.
I hear that you’ve escaped,
originate
in a garden, penned
in an aviary too small for your ambition
And flair
Lighting up the trees and sky with warmth,
Softening the edges of brutal buildings
Edged with barbs, hard.
Like the population have learnt to do.
Painting the town,
A floating feather mural,
Leaving smiles in soggy footprints,
“Did you see those birds?”
Far from but quite at home.
E. Capaldi
This was written in response to a call for work about birds in city environments.
picture used under Creative Commons license
Halloween 🎃
What Are You Going to Be?
Scooby doo, and a crocodile
Nod hi when catching
Each other’s eye on the 9.45 into town
As you smooth down your Daenerys dress
In this sudden uncharacteristic moment, you… express yourself.
What would be fun,
What’s not been too done
What am I going to be…
Angels, devils
Jokes or efforts
Some go hell for leather
Could be youtube experts.
Or it’s a costume out the packet
Or somewhere in between
Bits and bobs bought from specialist shops,
Dust off moths from
Clothes at the backs of wardrobes.
What would be fun,
What’s not been too done
What am I going to be…
Confuse the ghouls,
Surprise the spectres
So they don’t mistakes us for kindred spirits,
But what they don’t realise
In the paints and masks
the covers the facades,
Are who we are,
Or part of us, an element,
something underneath.
Our superhero costumes are usually under shirt
As we do what we must to get through trials at home or work.
But for one night, we get a spin of the phone box,
And emerge.
There’s a witch at the bus stop
A pirate on the till
A unicorn in the toilet queue,
While the ring master waits for a free cubicle.
Pop art girls wave their goodbyes, walking Lichtensteins
Two legged spider friends go to dance
A wonderland rabbit running late,
hops quick past,
Dorothy’s plaits twist,
A Stormtrooper’s pissed
Men are women
And women are men
And people are characters
Rules transcend.
When immersed in a night of undress
What you put on uncovers the rest
Who we are, who we want to be.
Who would you be if you could be…
It’s all mixed up, what we want each other to see,
the signals we send, tapped,
to be mapped,
requiring translation,
From the subtle to the blatant.
The morning after
The 1st of November
goth eyeliner down your face,
Braving the walk of shame. Jaws is waiting for the station gates to open,
tomato sauce in their morning roll,
Spell broken.
Every day can hold more scares;
Than beleaguered die or a talking bottle of beer,
Day to day affairs
Can be infinitely more absurd,
Than merely dressing up.
Maybe a costume’s just a costume,
Nothing more nothing less
But the day still begs the question;
What are you going to be?
EMC
E l e a n o r C a p a l d i 