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.

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