#lachlan mackinnon Tumblr posts

  • NYCC Panel of ‘A Discovery of Witches’ Season 2
    Saturday October 10th at 9:15 AM LA/ 12:15 PM NYC/ 5:15 PM London

    Take a journey to the fascinating and treacherous world of Elizabethan London as Sky original drama A Discovery of Witches returns with Series Two. Enjoy a sneak peek at the new series 2, adapted by Bad Wolf from Deborah Harkness’s bestselling All Souls trilogy, including an introduction by Deborah herself and Bad Wolf Executive Producer Lachlan MacKinnon, as well as a Q&A with key cast Matthew Goode, Teresa Palmer, Ed Bluemel, Adelle Leonce and Steven Cree who will gather from the set of the infamous Congregation - in Wolf Studios Wales -  where witches, daemons and vampires meet and where they are also filming Series 3. (via NYCC on YouTube)

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    BREAKING: NYCC x MCM Metaverse (October 8-11)

    Join Deborah Harkness & Lachlan MacKinnon as they introduce Matthew Goode, Teresa Palmer, Edward Bluemel, Adelle Leonce & Steven Cree as they gather from the set of the Congregation for an exclusive Q&A and a sneak-peak at series 2.

    (via ADiscoveryOfWitchesTV on Instagram & Twitter)

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  • #this is just LOVELY #lachlan mackinnon#poetry #also 'abstracted competitive gloom' really describes my adolescence
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  • Today’s poem is “Pigeon” by Lachlan Mackinnon. It stems from what is likely one of the few universal experiences remaining: annoying birds.

    —-

    Pigeon

    Any time I happen to open my front door
    a pigeon batters out the bay-tree opposite and stumbles
    into flight as implausibly as a jumbo.
                                                                         At night, more
    ominously, when the garden gate goes, it shambles
    loudly off through the same shaken, protesting tree,
    having slept, as it must, on its nerves. The bay-leaves
    subside, and my own jumpy heart, before my key
    goes home.
                           The pigeon’s world is no better than it believes
    but I have sometimes known acts of kindness make me weep
    for shame.
                           Most nights, most people are not afraid to sleep.

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  • Canute
    Lachlan Mackinnon 

    They’ll get it all wrong – pretty quickly, here,
    from what I learn of tavern-talk and gossip;
    they say I told the sea that it must stop
    inching up shingle to my throne’s four legs.
    That was my point. I did, and it did not.

    Imagine setting up a throne on shingle
    to prove the king’s a man like other men,
    the waste of time spent ordering the grey
    dead waters to obey my windswept voice.
    It was a flat grey light in which I sat,
    the sea curdling a small way out, then running
    free at its last breath up the sliding pebbles,
    gasping and falling back my sandalled feet
    and I’d had it with telling it to stop,
    shaking my sceptre, telling it again.

    I got up, gathered in my robe and left.
    The disappointed flatterers didn’t follow, not straight away.
    The servants brought the throne.
    No, being king confers no special powers.
    And yet one wonders. Yes, of course one wonders.

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  • from The Book of Emma

    I

         She was brilliant. I was highly able. I understood this without ever being told or hearing it. Such were the terms in which we judged one another in our first competitive sizings-up of those with whom we would live then there. We were reading English. At the end of our first year we had Mods. She borrowed my essays on Yeats to use for revision. She got a First. I got a Second. Two summers later we sat Schools. The positions were reversed.
         The first time I met her I was taken by a friend. It was a coldish night. A high wall on the other side of the road concealed everything except the black pinpricked sky. I felt the infinite crowding in.
         We arrived. My friend remembered something elsewhere. He scarcely tried to be credible. So there we were. I and Emma.
         She was housed in a modern block. Her room seemed very small compared to my own. It was warm and I think comfortable. She had her legs up under her in the armchair where she sat. I sat in the opposite chair. We may have had coffee or wine or we may have had nothing. The latter would feel more true to how we were. Awkward and fencing conversation.
         She had slightly wiry hazel hair that curled. Even in flat shoes she was a little taller than I. She wore skirts or dresses. I have no memory of her in trousers. She was not quite beautiful but utterly haunting. Too many people thought we should meet for us not to have done. I wonder whether they meant us to become lovers. I wondered then. We did not.
         Often she had a faraway abstracted look. She had read. I did not know that night whether I liked her or not. I walked back to my own college considering it.

    Lachlan Mackinnon

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