Thursday, May 19, 2016

Joyess Modernism. The Nightingale You Love.

Spontaneous speculative linguistically innovative response to and commentary on Guardian year ten series Poem of the week no. 448: To a Nightingale by RF Langley.

Thanks very much to our Guardian curator, custodian, virtual goddess, keeper and poet-steward safe at the critical top of Her online Potw free for all barouche, caisson, wagon, receptacle and cutting-edge contemporary and experimental literary tree composed of comments from the Anonymous and identifiable colleagues, frenemies, friends, trolls, and cutting-edge linguistically innovative freedom fighters in the war on darkness, ignorance and fear of all that is different and unknown.


There is much well-woven alliterative, assonantal, and consonantal mouth-music in this week's offering. Subtly stitched into perfectly superlative super-short lines the words of which demand to be heard spoken to convey their full effect. And when they are, awe and dazzle our Reader's outer ear experiencing a merry-go-round of sounds and meaning.

Tho some of the words will send the general reader straight to a dictionary, and it takes a number of close-readings before we grasp the semantics and what exactly Langley's visual picture is; the overriding impression one is left with after first encountering this poem, read aloud, is a very striking sonic felicity in the arrangement of sounds the spoken words make, and the impressive quality of acoustic aptness and concordance their combined union create.

Tho i didn't know the meaning of a handful of specialist entomological words in the poem, the dizzying orality of these words combined transcend, or at least, equal, i think, the sum of their individual meanings, and cohere in a greater multi-formed spoken poem, that is, perhaps, a very definition of what the poetic voice should sound like in our external ear.

What struck me also are the very consciously placed periods appearing playfully in the middle of short haiku-length lines. Unlike the also superlative use of them three weeks ago, by Sarah Howe. Who deployed them in a similarly-shaped poem also made up of haiku-length spoken units; but only at the end of those short and more visually hygienic lines. Something I didn't consciously note at the time.

Though perhaps counter-intuitive to the mainstream eye of a more literary serious and poetically sombre contemporary middle-aged post-Movement editor whose critical outlook and opinions were formed in the shadow and sway of Seamus Heaney's global dominance as the most visibly eminent and officially ennobled laureate of a once very modern yet also very formal lyric verse; the assured and witty way with which Langley 'breaks the rules' of the old school, by not keeping subtly hidden the periods, and separating the units of speech by capitalising them as new sentences in the middle of slim laconic lines, because of the sheer ostentatious sound and musicality the poem makes, this full stop-go puncuational strategy enhanced rather than attenuated the whole effect of reading the poem for the first time. Aloud.

Speaking a mix of the exact scientific words most of us have to consult a dictionary to understand the meaning of, and the clacky-clicky makey-uppy sounds from nature that have no formal names, combined into a poem of the Nightingale that lead us by the ear to a bridge along the very metrically sophisticated and assured road that is a thematic centre of this free-verse that is anything but.

A contemporary lyric formality and metrically couth, laid back and refined framework hidden in plain sight disguised as a poem from the avant-garde modernist wing broadcasting a sophisticated effect caused by this yoking together of seemingly disparate sounds and meaning one must stare very closely at for a concentrated period of time, before one appreciates the finely created whole of this week's text.

One for the more aristocratically discerning Reader prepared to dig and listen and learn out loud how well-chosen the words and immaculately crafted are the welds in the arrangement of them. How metrical their divisions and distances, hearing from one sound to another this week's richly rewarding modernist song of spoken music made by a mouth alone.

And as the poet hopefully wills to reflect in print when s/he is in the throes of a half-inspired half-ecstatic state of cerebrally dependent composition all seek, tho most without a comprehensive bardic education or knowledge, in English translation, of the appropriate texts and technical triestes, that begin, the student Irish poet learned, for forty generations of their former courtly and aristocratic tradition: 'with the languages from abroad, every obscure sound that existed in every speech and in every language was put into Gaelic so that for this reason it is more comprehensive than any language.'

This pseudo-historical accounting for B-L-F-S-N and the Ogham alphabet in the Medieval poet-training manual published in English as the Scholar's Primer, that defined a strict twelve year course of studies, the purpose of which inculcated into the student poets a subtle appreciation of imbas forosnai and the spirit of divine illumination that creates all superlative poems and their parallel occult shadow text hidden within the very language of the poem as its ghostly aural silent voice that, as A.E. Houseman believed, went through one like a spiritually silent spear when in the presence of it.

Heard in the inner aural ear where the purest poetry exists, and that cannot be done justice when poets:

   ... address themselves frankly and almost exclusively to what may be called the external ear. This, in different ways and by different methods, they fill and delight: it is a pleasure to hear them, a pleasure to read them aloud. But there, in that very fact, you can tell that their music is only of the second order. To read aloud poets whose music is of the first, poets so much unlike one another as Milton and Blake, is not a pleasure but an embarrassment, because no reader can hope to do them justice. Their melody is addressed to the inner chambers of the sense of hearing, to the junction between the ear and the brain; and you should either hire an angel from heaven to read them to you, or let them read themselves in silence.

This point of potential contemporary contention appears in his breath-takingly ruthless posthumous critical assassination of Swinburne in the year after he died, claiming the silent aural ear is a superior poetic instrument than the spoken one.

And of course, in one sense, he is correct in claiming. But Houseman was also without any bardic learning, and exhibits a fatal sense of, perhaps, wrong assumptions, superiority, and a tone of gentlemanly entitlement common in that peculiarly Edwardian Anglophone voice at which Yeats excelled and was first in the class speaking.

At the point it was coming into the full of its capacity and attainment of his poetic, political, and mature theatrical literary power, at the height of speech as the pre-Dublin Rising and Anglophone poetry world's pre-eminent voice of eloquent poetic civility.

The spoken ear that Houseman demotes in his writing exercise of a literary strategist with one goal of repeatedly wellying a contemporary Edwardian boot into the freshly dead poet founder of a Victorian Decadent old school, by elevating to primacy and privilege this aural sense-blender, chamber, and divider of five simultaneously experienced physiological perceptions which meld into a wholly alternative non-physical inward path, and picture of reality, that is, perhaps, borne of personal bitterness, or critical perspicuity, depending on where in the spectrum of competing positions one decides to make a rhetorical stand and concur with or contest.

Adopt for the theoretical craic and a theatrical purpose common in those lucky to have got a way into painting and rendering closest to the contours of their own unique thought-process, a living inner prayer, poem, and the incarnate human spirit conjured to being by the unfathomable magic of Creation itself.

That is but briefly here and can potentially be harnessed to sing in spoken song and light ahead our spiritual road and make exist that ear within each and every one-off member of our eight billion strong species and race of humanity, that, in the greater context, are ourselves, singularly for three score and ten, and collectively for a quarter of a million years, but a brief breath of time in something far more perceptive and eloquent than what our quotidian words stack up and amount to on the page of one singular human life.

Itself but briefly drawing breath, disappears with the human spirit passing above, around, away, below, beside, down from, up over and beyond back into Creation flowing toward the light, and, in this poem, leaving in both one's external spoken and silently heard inner aural ear a rarely balanced frolicking and joyous playful spiritual mouth-music elevating to overt notice the usually unrevealed making and markings of that poem appear visually less formal. By the very clever and not insubstantial mental device and practice of stylistic deconstruction, and by example highlighting the nuts and bolts of a fixed metrical position, in such a way that challenges, confronts and invites a literary Reader to question the rigid poetic perspectives and conventions of formal lyric verse.

Spiritually enriched and morally clarified by the experience of pressing forward in the entirely counter-intuitive witnessing of a linguistically innovative poetry composed at the very creatively upper and most superlative intellectual heights.

And a manifestation of the knowledge which illuminates a poetic way across and through life's floors and doors of intuition drawn in the abundance of ways and paths across the bed of the noble streams only one in a hundred will get you across.

Desmond Swords

Thursday, May 12, 2016

Director of Slam's Tenth Annual Address.

All Ireland Poetry Slam. Facebook. Dublin. 

Thanks very much for all the birthday best wishes and gestures of virtual support for the AIPS on Facebook.

It was nine years ago today, six organisers brought first an all island slam music to happen and play in the mouth of the sandbanks, at the inaugural Ulster final in McHugh's boozer, Belfast.

A hastily arranged and supremely successful, minimal-fuss organisational effort, won for Connacht by Liverpool poet Brendan Murphy.

Who'd only begun writing and competing in the live poetry Slam form months before, and so had a whirlwind journey from the beginning to an early summit of the creative and emotionally dizzying all-island champion-ness all seventy-two provincial and nine on our All Ireland winners' roster have experienced over the decade of this now very well established seasonal Samhain fixture and annual series of competitive live poetry events.

One that has gifted context, cash, and a potentially lucrative All Ireland live poetry title to many of our contemporary slam stalwarts, who began getting invited to join in at the top-table of literary Ireland after the post-economic Crash and shift in cultural mood from a whatever you say say nothing poetic, and quiet school of ersatz certitude, where every narrator of a pre-2008 Irish poem was a native Trinity speaker, situated in a Tuscany villa stiltedly musing on arcane and abstruse topics in a uniformly timorous literary tone of the minor personal epiphany popular at that time of incredibly delusional ostentation and excess - to a wider and more socially inclusive, less culturally crass, formal, mundane or corporately manufactured bardic band of less quiet and more vocally insistent bravely outspoken linguistically innovative working-class voices representing the come all ye and let it hang out wave and wing of autodidactic Ireland.

That gained entry to the citadel of mythic literary Tuatha De Danann dream-music on their own merit and distinction, but were unified and drawing a primary context - during the early (2007-12) formative years - from the slam form and poetic that established itself organisationally as a fully democratic and successfully operating minimally costed culturally ennobling fixture that has been a faithfully nurturing supportive, and transparently fair vehicle free for all the practitioners of this oral re-connection, with which many now superlative poets have been blessed, served by and journeyed in to the upper floors and delivered gift-wrapped and gratis, ennobled as our all island live bardic slam champions, to the doors, desks and reception nodes of official Ireland poetry.

Now firmly elevated, emerged and fully embraced in the arc of reality that began as an idea in the mind of one man, a democrat republican from Dublin Palmerstown, Gerry MacNamara, founder of the seminal penultimate pre-Facebook, Glór, Monday Echo and Circle Sessions weekly underground Dublin poetry open-mic, Write and Recite (2004-8), advertised solely by handbill flyer and word of mouth, and at which there were no featured poet slots, and all those who put their name on a first come first on list, got the same amount of minutes at the mic.

The Slam birth in Belfast nine years ago today was wholly against the then very exclusive insular ultra-conservative self-serious cultural grain, and was reliant on little more than no money whatsoever, and a brilliantly creative idea implemented to perfection by the intellectual genius of the first final's lead organiser, Belfast poet Mark Madden.

Who retired from this voluntary role some years ago, and nominated as his replacement the very able, and now very experienced Tyrone poet, Colin Dardis.

Though condescendingly considered by more snooty, subsidised latte-sipping cluelessly simpering and timidly huddled non-speculative silently disengaged posers on the official Ireland arts bodies' circuit at the time as a debased and meaningless mongrel form of AIPS competition and slanguage that contained no literary merit, a cashless oafic assembly of professionally depressed nerdowells and outcasts; this lazy, visionless phantasmagorical projection and deliberately mis-characterised perspective was poetically swept swiftly aside by a 2008/9 Cleena wave knocking culturally off their perch and displacing a suddenly irrelevant school of state-sponsored crony-poet lovers gorging uninterrupted in quietude for decades at the official literary arts trough.

By unleashing to public prominence a wholly new and Rising tide of linguistically innovative slam radicals, and lifting to their stations a next generation of live poetry voices in what is now a well established and ongoing social-media driven vehicle for re-connection with the oral bardic culture.

Speaking in a style of metrically rendered folk voice presenting on its own merit this hitherto unfashionable free-form of multi-various rhythm and oral poetry, in a form of spoken song with which -- as an English outsider and mature post-graduate fourth year student barely at bardic grade one (of seven) and a focloc beginner arriving in the deepest depths of Ireland's most recent collective cultural delusion at the height of the economic boom, with nothing but a newly acquired Edge Hill BA in Writing Studies and Drama, and eagerly launching oneself into the live poetry Dublin scenes in July 2004, experiencing the cultural and personal joyousness common with returning English plazzies -- I created this competition eighteen months after first arriving and marvelling with comedic un-containment at the bonkersness of the poetry folk here.

At the very point I became the local live WaR poetry scene's loony-in-chief of boozy cultural disruptiveness, in which this competition was conceived, in the belly of drunken social shame and moral mortification, as a personally created gift and apology to Gerry MacNamara, and vehicle with which I was hoping to wheedle a way back into his open-mic poetry and weekly WaR event, that one's alcoholic rendition of Come Out Ye Black and Tans had got barred from the Duke pub in Dublin five weeks into what Gerry was expecting to become a permanent weekly residency; eighteen months into Write and Recite's four year verbal brawl round some of Dublin's most iconic pre- and post-crash literary drinking establishments.

This is the datum and base from which the idea of an all island slam was created and could only rise above. And has continued to do so successfully over the previous crazee decade of poetic triumph and debacle, belief and despair, hope and faith in this one mad idea born in the pit of a personal sorrow this annual public roller-coaster emerged out from and resolved in a light of self-lit poetic positivity that is now ten years on from its first incarnation.

A dream and idea turned into living reality and truth by this guardian bardic bore (Kevin Desmond), AIPS creator, and lore-steward custoding the Poetic Tradition of the All Ireland Poetry Slam's Senchus Mór.

In which a slam poem is primarily the spoken cultural object rendered in any of the dizzying myriad yet unmistakably Irish spoken forms of Cuchulainary verbal magic taught from the Tuatha Dé Danann tongues of such mighty oaks as all those that have wore and won the annual crown of this eminently authentic live prestigious poetry process and organisational lesson-maker with which many of our finest and most successful younger live poets have created and found their own spoken song.

And out from, within, and with which, as the late great Padraic Fallon translated the otherworldly words of blind 18C Connacht slam-poet equivalent, and last of the wandering bards, the autodidact Mayo poet, Anthony Raftery: 'one can find the well by their wet footprints, and make one's soul!'

(pipes by Joanie Madden)

Wednesday, May 11, 2016

To Walt Whitman in America

Send but a song oversea for us,
Heart of their hearts who are free,
Heart of their singer, to be for us
More than our singing can be;
Ours, in the tempest at error,
With no light but the twilight of terror;
Send us a song oversea!

Sweet-smelling of pine-leaves and grasses,
And blown as a tree through and through
With the winds of the keen mountain-passes,
And tender as sun-smitten dew;
Sharp-tongued as the winter that shakes
The wastes of your limitless lakes,
Wide-eyed as the sea-line's blue.

O strong-winged soul with prophetic
Lips hot with the bloodheats of song,
With tremor of heartstrings magnetic,
With thoughts as thunders in throng,
With consonant ardours of chords
That pierce men's souls as with swords
And hale them hearing along,
Make us too music, to be with us
As a word from a world's heart warm,
To sail the dark as a sea with us,
Full-sailed, outsinging the storm,

With the sea-steeds footless and frantic,
White myriads for death to bestride
In the charge of the ruining Atlantic
Where deaths by regiments ride,
With clouds and clamours of waters,
With a long note shriller than slaughter's
On the furrowless fields world-wide,

For a continent bloodless with travail
Here toils and brawls as it can,
And the web of it who shall unravel
Of all that peer on the plan;
Would fain grow men, but they grow not,
And fain be free, but they know not
One name for freedom and man?

One name, not twain for division;
One thing, not twain, from the birth;
Spirit and substance and vision,
Worth more than worship is worth;
Unbeheld, unadored, undivined,
The cause, the centre, the mind,
The secret and sense of the earth.

God is buried and dead to us,
Even the spirit of earth,
Freedom; so have they said to us,
Some with mocking and mirth,
Some with heartbreak and tears;
And a God without eyes, without ears,
Who shall sing of him, dead in the birth?

The earth-god Freedom, the lonely
Face lightening, the footprint unshod,
Not as one man crucified only
Nor scourged with but one life's rod;
The soul that is substance of nations,
Reincarnate with fresh generations;
The great god Man, which is God.

But in weariest of years and obscurest
Doth it live not at heart of all things,
The one God and one spirit, a purest
Life, fed from unstanchable springs?

Within love, within hatred it is,
And its seed in the stripe as the kiss,
And in slaves is the germ, and in kings.
Freedom we call it, for holier
Name of the soul's there is none;
Surelier it labours if slowlier,
Than the metres of star or of sun;
Slowlier than life into breath,
Surelier than time into death,
It moves till its labour be done.

Till the motion be done and the measure
Circling through season and clime,
Slumber and sorrow and pleasure,
Vision of virtue and crime;
Till consummate with conquering eyes,
A soul disembodied, it rise
From the body transfigured of time.

Till it rise and remain and take station
With the stars of the worlds that rejoice;
Till the voice of its heart's exultation
Be as theirs an invariable voice;
By no discord of evil estranged,
By no pause, by no breach in it changed,
By no clash in the chord of its choice.

It is one with the world's generations,
With the spirit, the star, and the sod;
With the kingless and king-stricken nations,
With the cross, and the chain, and the rod;
The most high, the most secret, most lonely,
The earth-soul Freedom, that only
Lives, and that only is God.

Algernon Charles Swinburne.

Wednesday, May 04, 2016

Earthly voice

Hush dark dusk the evening
light is fading now

in the spirit it is all
we have, and warm tonight

memories come fill within
us as the day ends

murmuring otherworldly
in a singing voice
that fills the void

still and soft
with the silent breath
of you my love.

Jennifer Maher

Sunday, May 01, 2016


I step from the airplane
my hair melts dead air
I walk quickly, click-clunk
click-clunk, click-clunk.

Barbara Jordan, bronze
and sober, glasses poised,
the last like myself I'll see
for three more days
and three more days

forever. Outside I slow
the click-clunk to a three
sound crawl; click,
click-clunk, click, click-clunk.

I am a woolly mammoth
stuffed into a cab. I bear
the long silence
of my extinction through
the rear view, my head
on the back seat,
horns akimbo. I melt dead air.

Humans shoulder blame
for the loss
of large mammals like me
a new study finds.

The cabby is my cousin.
My cousin carts my husk
to my Diarama.
The radio says; the tide
is high. The radio says

I'm gonna be your number one.


Samiya Bashir

Saturday, April 09, 2016

Wodiz ih wid tha Nu Yoikez?

Fullness from fullness comes.

Upanishads & Vedas.


'What is it with the New Yorker and horseshit poetry? And really, how on earth could that title do anyone any favors?' 

Vuong was buffeted by English long before he could use it—his family was illiterate, and he didn’t learn to read until he was eleven.| 
By Daniel Wenger

 Quincy Lehr


It's Aul Plumdoon, he should be hounded out of that job by the Clandestine Insurgent Rebel Clown Army.

Kevin Desmond

Two fuck ups trading our best war stories

Sean Patrick Mulroy


I've received a handful of rejections in fourteen years as a practicing doggerelist, who stopped in 2008/9 submitting anywhere after two significant events of poetic discovery and cerebral self-affirmation occurred within a couple of years of one another five/seven years after I'd begun on the path to here and now.

And without a doubt one's most uplifting rejection --unless a rejection by one of the rotating hi-poetic Magma editors counts-- came in 2007 from a Moy man I recently began joshing is called, 'Sir' Paul Muldoon.

And it perfected my week, just receiving a swift reply from 'himself'. Who I had briefly handed a pen to once at a packed Dublin reading of him and His top literary drawer Royal He-Me-Mates of the globally renowned literary Dublin poetypoo pals and veteran witterary gangstawz, that come up every time with the spirtual goods when reading from their pages in the Homeland.

Muldoon, in the Unitarian church on Stephen's Green, reading his Immram poem, from what many Muldoony boppaz consider one of his finest, third, collections, Why Brownlee Left - the updated version of an original 7C text and Immram / Journey tale of a monk with the same name as Muldoon --"Immram Mael Duin"-- the reading of which by this Moy mage was one of the most cerebrally otherworldly experiences ever in one's own imagination, that happened a couple of years after coming to Dublin, ticking off, one by one, all the great poets from Ireland and across the world who read at the Unitarian Church.

Muldoon was the last big fish landed from that long-list, and soon after i drifted away from the weekly Poetry Ireland literary-event scene, having felt i'd sonically, socially, and visually, learned as much as one needed to be able to productively continue in one's studies as a self-supported speculative doggerel practitioner; in the spiritual sense, no longer drawn to running around a corner to Stephens Green to learn at every event as one did on first landing t/here to watch and learn at packed-out boom-days Unitarian church readings.

So, that, after a while, the regular attendees and full-time audience members became the ones seeing with most clarity the reality of what goes on behind y/our curtain that s/he the Poet learns how to air the music of what happens through by meeting, hearing, seeing, studying, watching and listening in silence to the Anglophone and Irish greats at the very top of an audience tree in Dublin's Royal College of Surgeons' readings and literary soirees.

This whilst reading also oneself at a weekly poetry open-mic, Write and Recite, in Brogan pub's basement, every Tuesday, WaR on Dame Street, 2004/5; till it moved on after eighteen months to pastures new, over a short-lived series of pub-hopping, until settling, for another year, at the Left Bank bar in St. John Gogarty's Temple Bar mega-tourist pub, every Wednesday; before ending up, again, every Tuesday, on Westmoreland Street, the first floor of the Westmoreland Bar (now Cassidy's), and after a year there finally dissolving, at the start of the Crash, in 2008.

At which point the old boozy aesthetic ground was cleared of the alcoholic dead-wud argh cudda shudda old timers; and the nu-scene shot Phoenix-like straight-up and swiftly became the wildly successful New Post-Tiger Dublin live-literature and poetry scene.

Composed of young attractive wide-eyed passionate politically connected and politely correct social-media savvy nu yung ppl waking at the start of a Rising live-poetry explosion that one of Ireland's finest newly emerged live poets, Stephen James Smith, created with his Glór Sessions, that exploded and birthed in 2008 the new poetic live energy and imbas every Monday in the basement of the International bar on Wicklow Street.

Where much of what is now the newly culturally emerged and established, Live, Performance & Slam scene, first flowered as the music of what happens-woven flourishing into the historical record of Dublin's live literature and spoken word, performance, and an All Ireland Live Poetry and Slam scene of multi-contemporary poetic labels that are casually Anglo-American enough to lure, inspire and coax first time would be poets in Ireland to get up and have a go at doing what s/he may be reticent exhibiting such 'notions' about emanating --the great and the greater superlative Poet Mór in their homeland-- but fall in love with it after a first time out reciting successfully live poetry in public.

The new post-boom cultural mood successfully crashed shifting into a social-art vehicle Stephen J. Smith created and expertly steered to a secure and audibly correct music of what culturally happens at the significant and visibly positive destinations on the shores of poetic peace and stability Smith and the Glór Sessions' throng ended up creating, arriving on and experiencing for two or three years in the weekly packed-out basement at the International bar.

An iconic venue where this post-Crash New song-and-live-literature format was most recently re-birthed in the Circle Sessions, that replaced what followed first in Glór's wake, and ran for longer than it, Aidan Murphy's equally successful vehicle that now occurs in Mvp on Clanbrassil Street, Monday Echo.

The new 2008-? live, performance and slam poetic of a live Dublin throng collectively expressed what we in the previous WaR scene had dreamed and dreamt-worked towards attracting for the weekly Write and Recite Dublin WaR Poetry Movement we envisaged when seized in the throes of a four-year live-poetry dream lasting without interruption from 2004-8.

As long as we arrogantly assumed we were creating it, and believing that the business of writing and reciting every week in Dublin was the scene of a live-poetry WaR-dream come true, during the heady opening months of it's first iteration at Brogan's basement, every Tuesday, 2004/5.

WaR On Dame Street.

Bono just might walk in and sit t/here, listening to y/our recital of a poem, or the then teeshok prime-minster and all round professional Dublin crazee Taoiseach Bertie Ahern, with his boozed up bubbalin pals, may have snuk down a rickety stair-case and Poped up drunkenly grinning and listening as y/our words and physical-self bathed in the cultural glow of something that was a weekly live Poetry Dublin 2004/5 scene.

That, in one's own mind, if nobody else's, is analogous to the London Cheshire Cheese pub gathering of the Rhymers' Club at the end of the eighteen-nineties' Aesthetic arts for arts sake movement,  socio-cultural pose, and live-poetry scene that had briefly burst into spoken being and birthed to literate life a poseur poetic that has been the common stock of all young patriarchal groups and literary gatherings throughout history and into this current uncertain and fearful age.

A Rhymers' Club, that, like WaR, was a wholly aesthetically alcoholic scene of garrulous conversational gambits reliant for the chaotic craic fizzing their music of what happens, on four years of budget ale cans smuggled into the pubs where our WaR, with booze, was the true music of what happened, as we partook and indulged in the heady poetic Tiger excess everyone now feigns s/he never did.

That might as well never have happened, because few wish a decade after the fact to be heard owning up to wallowing in it at the time of this vastly ostentatious aesthetic of material excess coupled with irresponsible financial management, that the collective we at the time delusionally imagined to be an age of eternal prosperity delivered by a golden goose laying only for Ireland because of the blessed special Irish folk--US!

After 2008, like the Rhymers' Club in 1898, the De Danann stilts and poetic pretensions of WaR got packed away, and the high-wire romantic twaddle of an early Yeatsean delusion gave way to the Nu Ezra act.

Nu Yike, Nu Yark.

Based on the wording of the New Yorker submissions note about 'the high volume of submissions', and 'two to six months' before a wannabe Muldoon-published powid can start thinking about it (again) coming true; coupled with one's several year experience during the pre-Crash height of two distinctly different, professional and amateur live poetries at WaR- --and the oft staid and occasionally rickety Poetry Ireland Page-scene at the Royal Surgeons and Unitarian Church, where one encountered similarly 'hi'-profile Irish poets in the mythic Homeland-- -I was not expecting any acknowledgement from the Ard Ollamh ov tha Nu Yawkih, for a long time - if at all.

Muldoon's rejection --pathetic, sad and tragic as it is or may seem-- at the time - honestly - floored me. And i vividly remember it lifting one's mood on seeing THE name, 'Paul Muldoon', in MY! inbox.

Then opening it with trepidation. And then diving into an exciting unknown. Then Reading the 'rejection' that was experienced as acceptance.

That was felt, received and experienced, more like winning a lottery from That Tuatha De Danann opposite loving faeryland studying hard all hours had wrought to be, and in which one was a gaga wee wafting one spontaneously trolling mad dog-shite from s/he of, at, across, above, behind, below, beside, and back beneath then; six years into a grand swim and two years playing a submit-reject-accept version of the literary game, that - one has evidence - going on how little is written of the post-contemporary state of continual corporate Rejection - a majority of professionally poetic fook experience as y/our submit-accept-Reject (knotty) game.

Which one s/he can either fall into a trap of playing in reality, or creatively and intellectually side-step, and by doing so play only in the cerebral and intellectual exercise at, of, in, and with the s/he Self wholly mind that a basic bardic intelligent lore-course composed of ancient texts a continual twelve year study self-teaches one how to learn in the Tuatha De Danann wholly human spiritual Art of s/he airing the music of what happens.

The absence of which creates --among a majority not practising it-- that post-contemporary collective grim resignation and y/our shared experience of profashnil poertreh expressed in an often unintentionally comedic and unintelligible madly depressive-lingo more associated with real cultural, human, social and spiritual Troubles, battles and Rejection, than the permanent cerebral state of a doggerlist collective for whom y/our joy in weaving lingo into poetry comes from being only one of a hand-fulla Nu-Yoika poedz and fokizd common dán Trolls in a joyously invigorating weekly Write and Recite WaR of perfected shouting the artfully linguistic post-modern ironies, that Aul Plumdoon noos-alaboo, isalmsayin.

Rejection. Yes. Pain. Yes. Lots of it. Yes. The entire process of poetry experienced at its brilliantly fizzy most loving and approachable best, twisted out of all recognition as the truth gets wholly obscured by a collective racket and moan emanating from s/he who will never end up in the Amen corner accepted in a rejection by Muldoon, never mind becoming a non i'm us Nu Yoyka poetypoos paw X-ellawnz.

It felt like, and was experienced, spiritually; as happily as a big fat joyous and emotional American Acceptance from this hitherto outsider not in my inbox, whose wise witty and warm words s/he wrought a massive injection of long-term faith with that flew into one's own mind. A blessing from the soul-song sista singing.

This is the reality i thought it was, experienced it as, and felt it was an acceptance in bearla filidh, 'language of the poets', and nothing at all like a real 'rejection' by Mister Muldoon.

The experience is / was / worth more to me at the time- -(as a wierdo with no interest in putting effort and time into seeing one's better doggerel re-printed and 'published' elsewhere after the joy of writing it has worn off)- -than permanent residency on the pages of Magma, or the collective  acceptance of other Magma-level mixed-quality robotically starched upper-stiffened and closed lip saying nowt rags that I have never tried cracking.

Between the tediously pompous covers of which, to paraphrase the famous words of Fintan O'Higgins, writing about live poetry in an original Shit Creek Review piece, Dublin Poetry; that discovering a top-drawer poem in Mugmeh, as with all magazines like it, and at most open-mics, is 'like finding a raisin in a bowl full of rabbit droppings'.

Victory to those who struggle.

With the gift of the poem itself already one's own, the published text is the same whether it exists on one home-printed piece of A4 locked in a drawer someplace with only the doggerelist's unpoetic eye ever read it, or twenty billion internet pages, as it is now.

'The United Snakes of America.'

The Last Poets

All desire joyously disappeared after reading a piece of prose and a reprinted poem of mine published on the Galway Arts Centre website in 2007; a year or two after discovering the Erynn Rowan Laurie translation of the Amergin attributed prose mixed with roscanna Cauldron of Poesy text of 120 lines first translated into English in 1978 by the late (2005) Galwegian academic PL Henry (RIP).

The real cause of why one has submitted a half-hearted handful of spontaneous times over the last eight years I have happily not been submitting my better doggerel anywhere. And that changed one's entire perception of poetic reality.

At 120 lines, split into four parts; two rosc lists of dense riddling Old Irish words, written at the birth of the literary Gaelic 'Selected Language'; and two 7C prose commentaries on them; it is three times longer than the other three, very short, riddling druidic spells in the rosc form attributed to this mythic founding bard of the contemporary Milesian Gaels and the Yeatsean Anglo-Irish poetic s/he birthed via Him. Early Modern Coole Silly Sligo Dublin Willy London Butler Y'ates


~ 08 December 2007 18:22:55 ~

'Dear Desmond Swords, Many thanks for letting us have a look at the poems. Not quite for us, alas. I do hope all goes well for you. Yours, Paul Muldoon.'


Dear Paul Muldoon.

Thank you very much for replying. You have made my day.

Foolishly, i had not read the Mew Yorker prior to sending in the long stuff that stood no chance, due to length, as it was only after sending in, shortly after, i got an accurate sense of what poetry is in the magazine, which i admit had me absorbed for a good day-long read, spread over several intense periods.

The billionaire stories and surface coal-tar mining in canada, the first time i'd read it, so i saw the poetry and the scales adjusted.

But three poets, who really are at the peak of their game live, and touring the island, and beyond, constantly, are three Derry women who are really very good. Pamela Brown, Jenni Doherty and Abbey Oliveira.


Desmond Swords

Obviously the Mew is a mistake.

Saturday, March 26, 2016

Does poetry transcend its alphabet?

The text below is a spontaneous response to the above question, posed---and replied to by the All Ireland Poetry Slam account---on her Facebook, by Carrie Etter, an Illinois, Normal poet, and English professor at Bath University.


The very first subject introduced to a Foclo, the first grade of trainee Fili poet in the old Gaelic literary order that turned out forty generations of poets from 5-17C; was the Ogham alphabet, and the very specific tho highly convoluted tale of how it came to be invented by its creator, Fénius Farsaid. 

We learn the tale in the Medieval poet-training manual, Auraicept na n-Éces, Scholars Primer, a 12C compilation of four books: 

... unique among medieval grammatical works in that it represents the earliest vernacular tradition in Europe. Its earliest ('canonical') parts date as far back as the 7th century. In its present form, it contains much ancient material relating to the Latin and Ogham alphabets, the nature of Old Irish and Latin gender, comparison, and declension.

The first of them, The Book of Fénius Farsaid, tells the foundation myth of the Irish language, and goes into great detail about Ogham.

His and the other Auraicept na n-Éces texts were decanted from the Book of Lecan, Book of Ballymote, and the text of the Trefhocul from the Book of Leinster, into English in 1917 by George Calder, under the title The Scholars Primer.'

Calder labelled it Handbook of the Learned, but a more literal translation of Auraicept na n-Éces - I was told by a senior Irish speaker at a Poetry Ireland / Éigse Éireann event in Dublin -
would be something along the lines of 'the system/working methods of poetry/knowledge'.

The word Éces being one of the most ancient Gaelic words for Knowledge/Poetry. Root of the name of Finn Eces/Finnegas ('bright knowledge') , the druid who taught a young Fionn mac Cumhaill.

Forty generations of Gaelic poets began their seven-grade trek to becoming an Ollamh 'poetry professor' ---and contender for the Ollamh Érenn 'poetry professor of Ireland' top spot occupied by such learned (and forgotten) figures as Gofraidh Fionn Ó Dálaigh, poet to Maurice FitzGerald, 1st Earl of Desmond--- learning that Fenius created the Gaelic language on the plain of Shinar in Babylon (modern day Iraq), three decades after Babel's collapse, when the 72 dialects of humanity's shared languages were scattered, until being retrieved by seventy-two (named) scholars, under the co-ordination of Fenius, who spent a decade retrieving them.

From which he then created, experimentally deciphered or back-engineered Hebrew, Greek, Latin, and, finally, perfected all language into the Ogham form, and the earliest recorded alphabet that the Gaelic language and its subsequent 1200 year literate Fili tradition found itself on.

We are told by the 7C author of the Book of Fenius in the Auraicept na n-Éces, that the seventy-two named scholars who'd done the donkey work collecting the scattered languages from which he created Hebrew, Greek and Latin, asked that Fenius, 'select for them out of the many languages, a language that no-one else should have but which might belong to them alone. Wherefore on that account was invented for them the (Gaelic) Selected Language (bérla tóbaide) with its (five) superadditions.'

1 - Bearla na Feine, the language or dialect of fenechas law. A high level language of the educated that the system of entirely civil law was preserved in and used by Brehon lawyers and Filidh poets for official business like law, ritual and ceremony. Also the language in which Auraicept na n-Éces is written, as well as Táin Bó Cúailnge.

2 - Iarmberla - Glossed as 'the additional language' by Calder, but commonly called the Iron Language.

3 - Bearla an Eaderscartha, the separative language or dialect; The Language Parted among the trees. This is the famous Ogham, a language used for encryption and memory lists. There are numerous Ogham tables in the Book of Ballymote, all with different names and uses.

4 - Béarla Filidh - 'language of the poets'. The Secret Language of the Poets, the 7C text states 'sometimes known as the 'Dark Speech' because it obscures meaning through the use of kennings and metaphors. 'The Poets used this language to converse among themselves, in tests and initiations, in producing chants, invocations and satires, especially when they wanted to reserve their meanings to the learned only.'

5 - Gnaithbhearla, the customary colloquial language and dialect of the illiterate majority. The common language that serves everyone and what became Old and Middle Irish, and eventually Modern Irish.

Obviously of interest to the poets is Béarla Filidh, which a 13C Brehon lawyer explains to his pupils:

'The literary language whose thrust is not self-evident or superficial
and the noble reading aloud—for ardent judges and bards, they
are the keys which release locks.'

It was a cipher language in which a skilled poet could communicate with other poetry professors and poet-lawyers above the heads of everyone but themselves. Where every letter was measured and elegant as sun-polished blackthorn blossom, their text communicating a multiplicity of meanings, the truest of which could be hidden in plain sight in words carefully selected and wrought to form the abstruse stream of Béarla Filidh, where every connection ---as John Minahane points out, quoting from a Latin Grammarian, in his groundbreaking work of scholarship and innovation: The Christian Druids: On the Filid Or Philosopher-poets of Ireland--- reveals 'knowledge of a thing (that) will die unless you know its name.'

Kevn Desmond

Monday, March 21, 2016

The Three Requirements of a Poet

When I was first in Ireland, 2004-10 was spent banging my head on all the mythology, and the site of the stone idol of Crom Cruach got mentioned in an unfinished/abandoned poem on the final O'Neill Mór, and second earl, Hugh O'Neill, Earl of Tyrone.

Magh Slécht, the 'plain of prostrations', is in Cavan. Named after the act of lying prostrate in front of the stone idol of Crom Cruach, and where there was human sacrifice going on until Patrick put a stop to it.

his tribe in tatters on a Plain of Prostrations
facing the presence of the Lord, he surrendered

in one short celestial act of ineffable burlesque
tragic slap-stick on a stone floor, where he found

his island wholly ghost, mimed his submission
at history’s pointed tip.

Patrick is also reputed in various texts to have condemned the spontaneous druidic compositional practice of Imbas forosnai, 'inspired illumination', and one of its two sub-strands, Tenm láida, 'illumination of song'. In Whitley Stokes translation of the Life, Patrick declares 'that no one who shall do that shall belong to heaven or earth, for it is a denial of baptism.'

Two of the three highest compositional poetic forms similar to the Frostean notion of a poem 'beginning in delight and ending in wisdom'. Not knowing what is going to happen on the page until - at its best - the poem is spontaneously written; and with the author merely a stenographer of the spirit in letters and Ogma's plaything.

The other sub-strand "Dichetal do chennaib, extempore incantation, however, that was left, in right of art, for it is science that causes it, and no offering to devils is necessary, but a declaration from the ends of his bones at once."

All three were introduced in a technical capacity to the Filidh poets on the eighth year of their twelve year poet-training curriculum, that in the English translation of Rudolf Thurneysen's German translation of an 8C monastic classic, “Mittelirische Verslehren.” In Irische Texte, are cited by Joseph Nagy, in his 1986 Overview of Orality in Medieval Irish Narrative, as "the “wisdom-tokens” of the Fili:

... that is, the elements of language, the clethchor choem (“fair palisade,” a type of poem and/or meter), the reicne roscadach (“poetic rhapsody,” another metrical genre), and laíde (a third type); that is, the teinm laída (“chewing of the pith”), imbas forosnai (“great wisdom that enlightens”), and díchetal do chennaib na tuaithe (“incantation from heads of the tribe”)".

John Carey makes an absorbing case for Patrick not having banned the apical practice of Imbas Forosnai and its Tenm láida sub-strand, in a (by Irish poetry standards) recent Ériu article, The Three Things Required of a Poet, vol. 48 (1997), pp. 41-58, that in Irish poetry are traditionally cited as being Imbas forosnai, tenm láida, and
dichetal do chennaib.

Citing Pádraig Breatnach's 'discussion of Macgnímartha Find as whole', and using as theoretical footings the original wording in the 8C Uraicecht Becc, 'Small Primer' legal tract defining the many strictly divided grades of social class and the associated lóg n-enech - honour-price - of each grade of person in the civil law - literally 'face-price' - the price damages were calculated in suits when you 'lost face' in the legal process; Carey builds a compelling case that the Patrician banning of the highest form of druidic practice and one of its sub-strands, were a later interpolation by early Medieval clerics seeking to make everything pious, holy and sacred. The David Ickes of their day.

Which I would agree with; should a discussion on the pointless and all but forgotten pages, places and purposes of the earliest native poetic order of these brilliant British and Oiwish oyls ootbwake or awise, ye 'unna.

And one of the joys of writing to learn is the unexpected results, finding new contributions in the discussion. The Nemed, Uraicecht Becc and early Irish Governance, Sydney University 2013. Julianna Grigg.

Saturday, March 19, 2016

Post-Patrick's Day Dindsenchas

Much of the long, rambling, acutely self-absorbed and boring writing that makes up this barely read blog, begins as comment made first on a variety of other social-media platforms, taking shape elsewhere, and formed initially as a spontaneous response to other texts, moving and static images, and recorded sounds from the post-modern global poetry network we are all lumped in together as sentient beings with an internet connection having an earthly experience in an increasingly connected world mediated and navigated by most of us in the era of IT, via Facebook, Grindr, Tinder, Twitter, and all the other pan-global corporate social-media sites there to sell us stuff.

And make obscene amounts of money for a handful of contemporary wild-west robber-barons of the information technology era, whose corporations are more powerful than any national government, and pay little to no tax on their mind-mindbogglingly large profits created by digitising, monetising and trading the electronic data of us individuals making up the billions of individual social-media users' accounts at Facebook, Guardian, Jiscmail, Pinterest, Skype, Twitter, Youtube, and countless other data-collection platforms, points and electronic dumps across an ever expanding form and mass of social-media creation.

This post came out as a short and more focussed comment and response to a public Tweet and private Facebook update of a fellow Anglo-Irish 'friend' on social-media, who I have never met and do not know, whose names are legion and fictional voices always witty, sparkling and wise, and whose recently published eighth collection of poems, The Blind Road-Maker, is a must get for all who seek to hear eloquence and learn of beauty when listening to a song.
"17th March, most over-rated bloody day of the year" muttered Crom Cruach to himself.
From this fourteen word tweet flowed an instantaneous response and disposable comment on a post-modern social-media platform we are all by now seasoned hands on, but which at one time was inchoate and new. 

What Yeats labelled when appearing in the vast amounts of pre-1916 prose agitation during his early long-winded vatic moments, as a cultural hot wax.

Not unlike the inner lyrical light of 'inspired illumination' that inspired, drove and lit the Coole-Dublin-Sligo-London sage to wax hot himself in poetry and prose before, during and after the Rising; and that occurs with a meeting and making of the literary voice from Segais Well, fishing for a salmon of spiritual wisdom that drop by tortuous drop, comes to them grinding away at the nuts of knowledge in a mill by the mind's apical compositional form of imbas forosnai.

The 'inspired illumination' and 'spontaneous manifestation of knowledge', that is cited throughout the Irish annals as one of the 'three things required' of the highest grade of ollamh 'poetry-professor' in a golden circle of ollúna.

When first in the throes of this cultural hot wax of a prophetic literary impulse, or any other original urge to stretch out one's hand and draw some rational pattern from the universe and speak in its song  what is clearly being prophesied, can seem as IT once seemed to us - as much younger people - the theoretically exciting revolutionary future that was so satisfying because we then were young and IT was so far away and off in a very distant nirvana. 

Certainly this was the case when the poetics of the internet were first articulated at the start of it, by New York poet Charles Bernstein, in his seminal 1994 document prophetically delineating the architecture and trajectory of what the post-millennial trolls' internet became.

Beginning I Don't Take Voice Mail: The Object of Art in the Age of Electronic Technology with an observation and statement that the passing of twenty-two years has proved to be accurate. Eminently and entirely true now as it was then.

Just as today's art world is dominated by marketing, sales, and promotion, so the object of art in the age of electronic technology will continue to be profit; and the values most typically promoted by the art world will continue to be governed by market, rather than aesthetic, formal, philosophical, or ethical, values.

Though we are reading this with 20/20 hindsight, coupled with a ubiquitous, pointlessly prevalent and present post-modern condition of cultural cynicism; at the time when Bernstein wrote this, as a 44 year old David Gray Professor of Poetry and Letters teaching at the University at Buffalo, co-founding the numerous programmes and poetic legacies we are left with today; Clinton was just revving up his artful administration, there were two billion less in our race, and life on our small planet was a lot rosier in the world generally for most of us - much younger people - under the global administration of this one person that changes every four to eight years. 

Whose time in office was blessed by numerous outbreaks of peace, and his public record - at that time - was marred only by a personally embarrassing gawdy spectacle of being the world's most theoretically powerful person cheating on their spouse in public. 

And as the world becomes evermore integrated and the boundaries between virtual and existential reality blur and shrink as a previously inaccessible and vast source of poetic knowledge reaches adulthood in the IT era, and becomes reliable, stable and provably true - so too the significance of the American presidential race has inversely expanded into the consciousness of every concerned and thinking person practicing silly fictional voices in print across multiple social-media accounts and platforms.

Oh what we would give for that kind of young and innocently naive pre-9/11, pre-billionaire Clinton world culture now Trump's evil specter is rising, for all the wrong reasons, hitting all the wrong notes portentous of doom, that human history repeatedly plays but few have heard before at such misanthropic pitch in our privileged white European culture of continual and utterly pointless war until The Emergency of WW2 ended seventy-one years ago.

In a world riven by the hateful rhetoric angrily compelling to crawl out from the shadows a racist voice articulating a doctrine of economic slavery, for the first time in post-Auschwitz history there has appeared a very loud and loutish global social-media demagogue and American internet troll most people in the English speaking world would not trust to tell us the right time of day.

Who we the majority in this peaceful world are fearful of because of his extremely banal thuggish rhetoric peddling a pure untruth relying for its success on the perpetration of mass-deception, falsehood, racism, smear, mockery, goading, outrage, and, most evil of all - the anger of a boastful billionaire capitalist prince and corporate potentate threatening to 'make America great, again', by returning it to a pre-Jim Crow era of kleptocratic, oligarchical white supremacy.

Promising to extort vast sums from larger world economies and their governments, all backed up in the loud and boastful threat of US military intervention anywhere on our shared globe that this megalomaniac decides, owe him. The capitalist scion from America's first and most privileged order and socio-economic class of aristocratic carpetbaggers, a troubled tearaway son of a proudly unabashed racist, drawing to him like flies to BS the wealthy ruthless opportunists jostling for space to co-operate with him in creating this uniquely pre-post-modern brand of trash-talk.

That draws out from the silence and shadows a large audience of uneducated and disaffected poor white, deluded and latently unreconstructed racist folk that previously rarely engaged in the political process of voting to make up a majority electing any of the former acutely dangerous anti-intellectual con men of recent American history who corrupted democracy first by seizing control of its levers and instruments in rhetorical campaigns that begin and end with one vile and wealthy man from an elite kelptocratic class of grifter glibly denouncing billions of different people, races and religions, as inferior to their crassly privileged and wealthy white elite one self, in angry shouted 'lemme tell ya folks' slogans proclaiming a disturbingly sectarian 'greatness'.

The very stuff of perpetual calamity and discord, proudly eviscerating the most passionate and repugnant cheer-leading supporters and dumbo-cretin victims of it. 'Trust me', says a voice of the dictator, fooling enough people some of the time to get his signing hand within reach of billions of dollars that his entire campaign, if 'successful', claims it is going to build an under-budget 80 billion dollar wall with, using his own corporation. 

What could possibly go wrong? 

The frighteningly banal Bush years and plundering of the White House for personal profit by slimeballs and spiritual failures, reached obscene levels of moral corruption, decay and bankruptcy under the last Donald and Dick to ramp up debt in the name of American exceptionalism, and making it 'great', again for themselves and the Military Industrial Complex, Cheney and Rumsfeld, Halliburton, and some significantly well rewarded duplicitous others in on the Bush/Blair illegal war scam.

A handful of people persuading the rest with fabrication, spin, and outright spoofs, to pledge allegiance and die for a handful of rich white Anglo-American racist capitalists who created the global lies that led to the mess we are not out of  yet. Concocted by two men, world leaders who profited handsomely from the mass-murder they unleashed and that curses still the cultures, societies and millions of people that the Bush/Blair illegal war business physically and spiritually destroyed. The nation-states and those millions in them made homeless as a direct consequence of their whopper lies and existentially bankrupt policy of naked human greed, cloaked in a nauseatingly delusional faux moral piety, backstabbing and double-cross, at the ongoing heart of all the Blair/Bush global wrong-doing. 


And though the now one degree of separation between us all who are instantly connected is a commonplace reality, at the time he first spoke on the object of art in a future electronic age, Bernstein's idea of what the future internet would become, how everyone and anyone in the world will be sitting remotely on top of virtually all of history, and most of it's published voices at our fingertips, the idea of us all remotely communicating with every and anyone else's eye on the planet, reachable in print; was at the time a very radical and wholly authentic post-modern poetic vision.

Bernstein was one of the first contemporary poets, I can think of, to accurately grasp, understand, predict and delineate in print the essential game-changing element; of finding ourselves for the very first time in our shared and recorded history, European and American, with an equality of access to education, information, and the means of contributing as one of the first web-based Facebook comment class of social-media students that the digital information age ushered in, schooled, and then sent abroad into a world of ordinary folk and global media elites, winners and losers, every single person with a social-media account and the will to listen to the trolls' most deluded twaddle, who now all instantly qualify as a potential inheritor of the twin-bore literary impulse that is all Yeatsean hot wax, Joycean shite and onions, and erudite Beckettian waffle.

A desire for the hyper-ironic post-modern self-awareness and self-restraint, inculcated by falling into a positive model of moral secret-society Resistance and rising; the technology of the intellect, writing, mixed with the quintessentially Dublin urge to go on at length about shite, at the knuckled-edge of poe-loyt langwij, lyrical spontaneity, double-entendres, and an eventual sink from the cut-glass narrative clarity heard clearly-spoken in Dubliners, for the very first time, and via the worst excesses of Ulysses, wind its way into the erudite gobbledygook cited in our own imitations of one of the world's most literary challenging and unread post-modern phonetic bukes. Fannegins Weak.

All of us potential inheritors of all that is tediously long, erudite, and perfected spoken-music in the  less-learned ears of sparse pretenders in rival South-Dublin societies of secret sages in golden D4 circles of complaining ollúna, a horde of D8 experts in failing better every time, from the Liberties and Ballsbridge emerging wrought out in one fluid wind-like vatic voice containing three elementary figures of speech: one a homeless migrant's entire cast of Lancastrian humanity, and both the two Dublins in its twanging Anglo-Irish tone spoken in the more general literary English voice than a potential fifty million perfected literary English versions of ourselves.  

Published online after speaking it on April 16 1994, at a symposium, sponsored by the Parsons School of Design and organized by Lenore Malen, on "The Art Object in the Age of Electronic Technology", in the New School for Social Research, New York, where Bernstein delivered his prophetic prose outlining a series of fundamental poetic truths, with the immense precision, natural grace, wit, and timeless post-modern American voice that takes creative delight in documenting the ever changing moment to moment reality of art and life.

Speaking in a powerfully entertaining and enlightening series of voice/s in continually experimental hybrid forms of forward-edged writing that is cute, clever, tricksy, critically fearless, actively embracing and employing the psychological Beckettian principle and trick of wry self-ironising and supreme post-modern awareness. Writing well by consistently engaging at all times in the creatively intellectual act of failing better every time letters get put together in print on a page and screen. By the eternal neophyte and life-long learners that all eight billion of us human beings are.

What twenty-two years ago was real only in the very original mind of one experimental post-modern American poet leading the way in cutting edge critical prose, is now every and anyone's quotidian social-media reality. We have all undergone our own prose journeys as newly self-created, self-publishing autodidacts, committed and participatory academic commentators, concerned social-media netizens expressing our right to free speech and hoping that in the process some vague, or perhaps with time, clear position and poetic, will have made itself apparent in what it is we do in letters. The arrangers of sounds, inventor of words, mixer of fictions in factual lines and straight sentences that sing out from a lyric impulse, or do not, the music of what happens. And by doing so remake in our own vision the world:

The most radical characteristic of the internet as a medium is its interconnectivity. At every point receivers are also transmitters. It is a medium defined by exchange rather than delivery; the medium is interactive and dialogic rather than unidirectional or monologic.

Bernstein was the first practitioner of post-modern poetics, that I am aware of, to guess correctly in print and get right what eventually came to pass as the common literary post-modern social-media experience, that he played a principle part in punctuating, leading and marking the way to what is and where now in it we are; when he posted as his first link to this, then recently published piece, on the Buffalo Poetics list; the forerunner of all contemporary poetry forums, that ran for 21 years before being retired and archived in late January 2014. That Bernstein created as a project in his capacity as director of an experimental digital Poetics Program and the Regan Chair of the English Dept. of the University of Pennsylvania, and Editor of SUNY-Buffalo's Electronic PoetryCenter.

Where the voices of a few enlightened post-modernists exhibiting a knack for and interest in the most ancient, archaic and original poetic forms and topics, that succeed in getting through because of a clear signal to noise ratio detectable on ultra avant-garde social-media poetry platforms; that is very easy to discern because the back-drop to all social-media being a continual bombardment of us by corporate propaganda - an original voice of the s/he that needs not naming, drawn to talking of a sidhe muse, stands out from the less critically engaged, quieter poetry lovers without much appetite for exercising in casual social-media prose talk, an interest in the feet on the ground phonetics this slow art of finding phonetic faery sidhe, shee; and the technical and concrete aspects of Tuatha De Danann art, etymology, and all the other acoustic s/he play at the hazel source your faery-ring round Segais Well equivalent - inculcates over many years of reading, study, and writing for fun in the child-like source of wholly absorbed actory play, and being as close to delusional as one can be when in phonetic faer speaking of the fairy art.