On Friday May 20, the Official Top Ten Night charity organisation will host its first ever Top Ten Books Night, proudly supporting Suicide Prevention Australia.
In the event you’ve never heard of Top Ten Nights, here is Stephen Fry discussing the initiative:
The very fabulous Berkelouw Books, Paddington, will host this inaugural event. I am one of four authors – the others: Adam Schwartz, Rebecca Poulson and Samantha Little – who will be reading excerpts from our own work about suicide; I will, of course, be reading from The Eclipse: A Memoir of Suicide (available through Amazon and, in paperback, on the night).
We will also be discussing how we survived bereavement, and taking questions from the audience, who may, in turn, read passages about loss from their own favourite works.
It promises to be a wonderful night and one in aid of a very worthy cause, so do come; if you can’t, email this post to someone you feel would benefit. Tickets are extremely limited, so you will need to book quickly.
For all the mothers who read this, and for all the mothers of mothers,
For all the mothers of children, grown and new,
For all the women who mother others, whether human, winged or clawed,
For all the women who give of themselves in the service of love:
Happy Mothers’ Day.
When you were small, your cupped palms
each held a candleworth under the skin, enough light to begin,
and as you grew,
light gathered in you, two clear raindrops
in your eyes,
warm pearls, shy,
in the lobes of your ears, even always
the light of a smile after your tears.
Your kissed feet glowed in my one hand,
or I’d enter a room to see the corner you played in
lit like a stage set,
the crown of your bowed head spotlit.
When language came, it glittered like a river,
silver, clever with fish,
and you slept
with the whole moon held in your arms for a night light
where I knelt watching.
Light gatherer. You fell from a star
into my lap, the soft lamp at the bedside
mirrored in you,
and now you shine like a snowgirl,
a buttercup under a chin, the wide blue yonder
you squeal at and fly in,
like a jewelled cave,
turquoise and diamond and gold, opening out
at the end of a tunnel of years.