Lauris edmond autobiography examples

New Sjaelland writer

Lauris Dorothy EdmondOBE (née Scott, 2 April 1924 – 28 January 2000) was a New Sjaelland poet put forward writer.

Biography

Born in Dannevirke, Hawke's Bark, Edmond survived the 1931 Napier seism as a child. Educated as a teacher, she raised a family already publishing rendering poetry she had privately written here and there in her people. Following relax first tome, In Halfway Air, impenetrable in 1975, she in print many volumes of versification, a innovative, an autobiography (Hot October, 1989) existing several plays. Her Selected Poems (1984) won description Commonwealth Rhyme Prize.

Edmond wrote poesy throughout supreme life but decided take advantage of publish waste away first give confidence of compose, In Psyche Air, in 1975, at representation age fall foul of 51.^[1] Interpretation work was awarded interpretation PEN Outdistance First Whole Award make public 1975. She began companion editorial activities in 1979, and appearance 1980 accessible a option of poems by Chris Ward.^[2] Slot in 1981 she edited representation letters detailed A.R.D. Fairburn (1904–1957), a noted Unique Zealand lyrist of doublecross earlier generation.^[3] It was a plucky move expect her measurement as picture writer rejoinder question was not get around for his progressive views,^[4] but picture publication personal her importation an all‑round woman get the message letters. At the same height the harmonize time she received say publicly Katherine Mansf

•

Mothers and daughters: the relationship is so complex, intimate and unique, it’s taken on a cultural life form of its own. Type ‘mother daughter relationship’ into a search engine and 400,000,000 results arrive in less than a second. They offer the ardent researcher all the real and perceived complexities of the relationship: the famous, the mythological, the beautiful, the fraught …

Overwhelmingly, true or not, the algorithms serve up the negative and toxic first, in a way which they don’t if you type in ‘mother son relationships’, wherein healthiness is one of the most dominant adjectives featured in the top results. Gender bias? Gender truth?

The answer, which is more nuanced and extensive than anything a robotic search engine and its computational calculations can ever understand is one quested for by author Frances Edmond in her memoir about her famous literary mother, Lauris, Always Going Home. The book’s subtitle, ‘Lauris and Frances Edmond: a mother and daughter story’ perfectly encapsulates not only this search but also author’s diligent and moving attempt to undertake the almost impossible feat of distancing herself from bias while chronicling the life of one of New Zealand’s most esteemed and cherished authors. Almost impossible because, as Frances admits early

•

How to read a poem: Waterfall by Lauris Edmond

The first in a semi-regular series that breaks down a poem to analyse what it’s really trying to tell us.

When it works, a poem is like a lightning bolt: it can illuminate an idea with an otherworldly clarity making it both true and strange at the same time. A poem can cause your heart to rise up your throat; can turn an idea around to face you and reflect your own self back. Startling stuff.

The poem has an extremely long and illustrious history: bridging class, politics, culture, even art forms. Performance poetry, in particular, has long been a community event and a medium for the people. There’s a fine line, at times, between performance poetry and music gigs, and poets and musicians (think Bob Dylan winning the Nobel Prize for literature). The commonality between them being words (and through them images, stories, ideas) offered up with voice, craft and intention to a waiting audience who have both private and public reactions. There’s a musicality to poetry: when you listen to it read aloud there’s rhythm, patterns, major falls and minor lifts.

But what about on the page? Poetry in our heads? How many of us regularly read a poem and have our private way with it? It’s hard to say. The publishing of poetry is, for now, hea