How to train your dragon (film review)

Saw this over the weekend with the young (i.e. ten years old) friend whom I already saw Coraline and Up with. (Watching movies intended for children with children you know is additional fun.) We both loved it - as skywaterblue put it, it makes your inner eight-years-old go "woo hoo!" - and were both completely unspoiled, having no idea what it would be about and going on reccommendation alone. The only thing I regretted was that due to the age of my companion it had to be the dubbed version, so there was no Unexpected!David Tennant for me. The German voice actors did a nice job, however, and I was amused that everyone adopted a vaguely North German/Hamburgian accent. (Fitting for Vikings?)

( A few more detailed impressions )

Daffodils by Ted Hughes

This is one of the Birthday Letters poems, which Ted Hughes wrote about Sylvia Plath through the decades and only published a little more than a year before his own death. Leaving the biographical background completely aside, this is also my favourite poem about daffodils (of which the English language offers several), or April in England (pace, Browning). Death and life, and memory, and those daffodils, which Hughes the naturalist brings to life like no one's business...


Daffodils

Remember how we picked the daffodils?
Nobody else remembers, but I remember.
Your daughter came with her armfuls, eager and happy,
Helping the harvest. She has forgotten.
She cannot even remember you. And we sold them.
It sounds like sacrilege, but we sold them.
Were we so poor? Old Stoneman, the grocer,
Boss-eyed, his blood-pressure purpling to beetroot
It was his last chance,
He would die in the same great freeze as you),
He persuaded us. Every Spring
He always bought them, sevenpence a dozen,
'A custom of the house'.

Besdes, we still weren't sure we wanted to own
Anything. Mainly we were hungry
To convert anything to profit.
Still nomads - still strangers
To our whole possession. The daffodils
Were incidental gilding of the deeds,
Treasure trove. They simply came,
And they kept on coming.
As if not from the sod but falling from heaven.
OUr lives were still a raid on our own good luck.
We knew we'd live for ever. We had not learned
What a fleeting glance of the everlasting
Daffodils are. Never identified
The nuptial flight of the rarest ephemera -
Our own days!
We thought they were a windfall.
Never guessed they were a last blessing.
So we sold them. We worked on selling them
As if employed on somebody else's
Flower-farm. You bent at it
In the rain of that April - your last April.
We bent there together, among the soft shrieks
Of their jostled stems, the wet shocks shaken
Of their girlish dance-frocks -
Fresh-opened dragonflies, wet and flimsy,
Opened too early.

We piled their frailty lights on a carpenter's bench,
Distributed leaves among the dozens -
Buckling blade-leaves, limber, groping for air, zinc-silvered -
Propped their raw butts in bucket water,
Their oval, meaty butts,
And sold them, sevenpence a bunch -

Wind-wounds, spasms from the dark earth,
With their odourless metals,
A flamy purification of the deep grave's stony cold
As if ice had a breath -

We sold them, to wither.
The crop thickened faster than we could thin it.
Finally, we were overwhelmed
And we lost our wedding-present scissors.

Every March since they have lifted again
Out of the same bulbs, the same
Baby-cries from the thaw,
Ballerinas too early for music, shiverers
In the draughty wings of the year.
On that same groundswell of memory, fluttering
They return to forget you stooping there
Behind the rainy curtains of a dark April,
Snipping their stems.

But somewhere your scissors remember. Wherever they are.
Here somewhere, blades wide open,
April by April
Sinking deeper
Through the sod - an anchor, a cross of rust.