Love "flagrant blue room". Off to devour. Many thanks.

I haven't seen Hanna. I scowled through Pride Ampersand Prejudice and bits of Atonement, though. I think that he is instrumental in my visceral loathing of La Knightley, as well.

For cat people, a little trifle (no, it's NOT from the Possum book of Practical Cats):

Joe Wright? Oh dear. Unless this is a very, very different novel from the rest of Gaiman's oeuvre. 

Also. But there's something about the raptness of 139 that strikes me as beautiful and terrifying.

Heh. Oo, oo, contemporary poetry recommendations please. Barring the occasional Duffy or Atwood, my education here is woefully wanting.

Not uncool at all. That poem has such gorgeous visuals.

I must assume that someone has already mentioned the Songs of Solomon. Or the marvellously creepy Psalm 139. 

Is that so awful? Language is considerably older than fifty years. Older verse vastly outnumbers newer. It's not a referendum on modern poetry for more older verse to crop up in "favourites" lists.

Hee.

Which instantly makes me think of Jacques's "lean and slippered pantaloon" with "[h]is youthful hose, well saved, a world too wideFor his shrunk shank".Nobody's quoted "All the World's a Stage" yet, eh?

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes

Ah, I wish I'd thought of this. This, right here, was the moment that I knew that I was in love with that watchful, eerie pebble of a thing, Hal.

Goddammit I was JUST going to mention Rilke! Heartily second this recommendation, and- well, I'm dithering between "Premonition", "Evening" and "the Neighbour".

@avclub-13fe89c480b613c311c35d43b9006ffb:disqus , ha! what can I say? Carroll makes it past the defences of the most infinitely prolonged.

It's not a favourite precisely, but there's something about the lush physicality of "Goblin Market" that just does it for me:

Marvellous. Marvellousmarvellousmarvellous.

Ah, Ms Parker.

If Marriage is Duel at Ten Paces (Traci Brimhall):

It is, isn't it? Bless Baudelaire for that wonderful dandyesque romanticism- and his deft skewering of the same.