The talk at the latter part of this week, has been about the removal of a poem by an education examining board of a poem by Carol Ann Duffy OBE, whose career has been built on controversy.
She was born in Scotland and moved to Staffordshire, before starting a relationship with the now deceased Tranmere - Birkenhead - Wirral born poet Adrian Henri, when he was 39 and she sixteen.
Henri was born in 1932 and moved to Prestatyn in North Wales when he was six, studied at St Asaphs grammar school and took part in the Rhyl arts scene, before going to Durham to study fine art and in 1955, relocating to Preston, Lancashire, for a one year teaching job, where he met his first wife - Joyce Wilson - in a jazz club.
His summer job in Rhyl, brought him into contact with people from the Liverpool scene and he opted to go there, marrying in 1957, two years after Duffy's birth. He had his first exhibitions in 1958 and 59 at the Bluecoat in the city, and he held a variety of jobs, starting as a scenic artist in the Liverpool Playhouse and then teaching jobs in Manchester (1961-4) andLiverpool colleges of art (1964-8).
He and McGough met in 1960 at the Streates coffee bar on May Street Mount Pleasant and the rest is history, as he became part of a trinity of Liverpool poets whose work came to prominence caught in the slipstream of the global phenomena of John Paul George and Ringo.
Everything in Liverpool became cool overnight and half the planets young girls collectively fell in love with their chosen poster boy, four to choose from, and like pop stars now, these crushes as much about vicarious expression of their personalities in the social groups young girls cluster in, as any real affair of the heart.
Their work brought an idiom previously unheard to prominence in the UK as the working classes had their first artistic flowering, but unfortunately, much of it has not stood up to the test of time, and now its inherent weaknesses ioverlooked in the first flowering, glare at us unsophisticated and naff, as only the dated does.
The whole notion of being a working class poet, was a brand new concept, and there being no precedents, a DIY extemporisation, a pose, a mish match of the French Symbolists, obscure verse writers and home grown names all mixed in at the first attempt by men more in tune with chasing women and boozing, than applying themself to any tradition. A jazz riff and make it up as they went along'ness, which time has exposed as weaker than what the cheerleaders of the time blindly loyal and championing it as the birth of some anti-nazi, all inclusive third reich of UK poetry, next school run by and for the prolateriat mass from the anonymous estates of post war Britain and facing a thousand yrs advance on the untested and tried strength of two mop top jazzed up scousers and a woolyback from Presatyn.
And it was to this artist, Duffy decided to set her sixteen year old cap, by all accounts a girl who knew she wanted to be a poet at fifteen, independant, a steely will and as Henri said, appearing fully formed in Liverpool, seeking out her male muse.
Sunday, September 07, 2008
Friday, September 05, 2008
Pestford Wives
Now I’ve experienced McCain's daughter at her blogette and seen the photos of the lovely tee shirts, simple designer duds and gee, really cool stuff.
She’s in a car, with a phone, smiling, and it says soo much about how we can all be quick to judge others based not on lipstick and fighting dogs, but on the character of their content, and i realised i was wrong to instinctively judge Sarah as a shallow self centred and hollow hockey mom who Anne Kilkenny, from Super Sars home city of Wassila, Alaska (pop 6-9000), a close fellow mom who says horrid, horrid things about her time as mayor in this vast megatropolis of; what may be only 6000 people, but home to the billion make up artist of make up artists, happy wishes, kisses and straight up canine makeup shops, beauty parlours and not like Michelle, who has been surgically re-sculptured by Barry Manilow's personal magician; in an e mail of blatant lies based on nothing but jealousy and which found it's way to the local rag the Anchorage Daily News .
she is not a true believer in the holy power of God and dutiful Christian who doth not judge on the colour of her dress, but on the content of the blog John’s daughter keeps, which i understand now i have found the power of the Lord our Holy Father, Buddha, Krishna and Allah, who i know God is a little pissed off with, and especially the Russians threatening the security of Sarah’s family with their illegal behaviour going into OMG..it’s Frankia, right?
Yah, radical offspring, who i know could be a real friend to me and all my friends, and if that Obama just stopped trying to kid us; actually said what he is for, and stop attacking blogettes dad, and Sarah (i think her husband soo much more dishier, don’t you) came up with his own ideas, instead of just running round after John, imitating his strategy, of saving the planet by eradicting the fraudulant spongers in the third world using their new found economic wealth, like with all the overtime they are getting, like all the easy unfair trade deals they do with UN-AMERICAN terrorist groups masquarading as underwear companies, soft porn retail outlets, abortion clinics selling DIY Devil worship kits and using back-engineered bad-alien Grey technoligies to harm AMERICAN business, health care taxes, adding to the welfare budget, lazing around all day, sponging off AMERICA, taking our oil in Russian, being ANTI-AMERICA and taking advantage of US the AMERICAN people, closing our factories, stealing our jobs, AMERICAN jobs, which ppl like John went to Vietnam as a Freedom fighter dropping napalm to clear the drug crops, to protect, fight for fair play, create new energy resources, to harness, protect, spread democracy in places where terrorists had in a stranglehold, using fear and scare tactics, trying to intimidate US, the billions of us American loving peacable ppl, who never seek war, but sure as heck aint afraid of standing up to those who would blatantly seek to spread terror to the very soul of the country i love, the land of the brave, home of the oldest democracy in the history of the universe.
An ancient noble land John died for several times at the hands of Russian and Chinese torturers, but who God brought back to life, to save us from the lunatics threatening our every waking move, following Sarah, looking at her inappropriately, Obama, coming on to her daughter disguised as Obama Bin Laden, hiding in the bat cave, trying to corrupt Bruce Wayne, stealing the first ladies underwear, and with the oil industry and big business in his pocket, covering it all up, Blogette is here exposing the hypocrisy, using her brains, and not her looks, to save AMERICA, to stop the madness of rougue dictatorships, like Venuzala, Amerstam, Germany, France, Sweeden and undermine the democratically elected alien governemnts of Mercury, Saturn, Pluto and Disneyworld, who seeks to undermine the elected government of Zimbabwe and our good friend mister Mugabe, who is stopping the African continent from descending into anarchy.
GOD BLESS Bloggete, please donate what you can to the hugely imporatnt work, help the John McCain save the Moon for US fund.
The Russians as we speak are plotting to seize territorial control of Mars, an American colony our future generations will colonise, build new businesses, hosptitals for our poor and sick, bring new prosperity to our citizens on welfare, give second chances to the disadvantaged, ppl who never got a break under the last Democratic president Obama, who invaded Poland and spent all the federal budget on shoipping for his wife.
Please, please, don’t fall for their slick lies.
While there are some who go to washington for themselves and ask, what can America do for the environent, it takes a brave honest man like John to ask, what can the environment do for US the American ppl, the cleverest, oldest culture to have ever existed, and for this we thank God that his son, John McCain, died for us ten times and walked on water, to break the new water walking speed record, for you, selflessly for US the American people.
And Remeber, a vote for a convicted underwear thief, is a vote for reason and peace.
She’s in a car, with a phone, smiling, and it says soo much about how we can all be quick to judge others based not on lipstick and fighting dogs, but on the character of their content, and i realised i was wrong to instinctively judge Sarah as a shallow self centred and hollow hockey mom who Anne Kilkenny, from Super Sars home city of Wassila, Alaska (pop 6-9000), a close fellow mom who says horrid, horrid things about her time as mayor in this vast megatropolis of; what may be only 6000 people, but home to the billion make up artist of make up artists, happy wishes, kisses and straight up canine makeup shops, beauty parlours and not like Michelle, who has been surgically re-sculptured by Barry Manilow's personal magician; in an e mail of blatant lies based on nothing but jealousy and which found it's way to the local rag the Anchorage Daily News .
she is not a true believer in the holy power of God and dutiful Christian who doth not judge on the colour of her dress, but on the content of the blog John’s daughter keeps, which i understand now i have found the power of the Lord our Holy Father, Buddha, Krishna and Allah, who i know God is a little pissed off with, and especially the Russians threatening the security of Sarah’s family with their illegal behaviour going into OMG..it’s Frankia, right?
Yah, radical offspring, who i know could be a real friend to me and all my friends, and if that Obama just stopped trying to kid us; actually said what he is for, and stop attacking blogettes dad, and Sarah (i think her husband soo much more dishier, don’t you) came up with his own ideas, instead of just running round after John, imitating his strategy, of saving the planet by eradicting the fraudulant spongers in the third world using their new found economic wealth, like with all the overtime they are getting, like all the easy unfair trade deals they do with UN-AMERICAN terrorist groups masquarading as underwear companies, soft porn retail outlets, abortion clinics selling DIY Devil worship kits and using back-engineered bad-alien Grey technoligies to harm AMERICAN business, health care taxes, adding to the welfare budget, lazing around all day, sponging off AMERICA, taking our oil in Russian, being ANTI-AMERICA and taking advantage of US the AMERICAN people, closing our factories, stealing our jobs, AMERICAN jobs, which ppl like John went to Vietnam as a Freedom fighter dropping napalm to clear the drug crops, to protect, fight for fair play, create new energy resources, to harness, protect, spread democracy in places where terrorists had in a stranglehold, using fear and scare tactics, trying to intimidate US, the billions of us American loving peacable ppl, who never seek war, but sure as heck aint afraid of standing up to those who would blatantly seek to spread terror to the very soul of the country i love, the land of the brave, home of the oldest democracy in the history of the universe.
An ancient noble land John died for several times at the hands of Russian and Chinese torturers, but who God brought back to life, to save us from the lunatics threatening our every waking move, following Sarah, looking at her inappropriately, Obama, coming on to her daughter disguised as Obama Bin Laden, hiding in the bat cave, trying to corrupt Bruce Wayne, stealing the first ladies underwear, and with the oil industry and big business in his pocket, covering it all up, Blogette is here exposing the hypocrisy, using her brains, and not her looks, to save AMERICA, to stop the madness of rougue dictatorships, like Venuzala, Amerstam, Germany, France, Sweeden and undermine the democratically elected alien governemnts of Mercury, Saturn, Pluto and Disneyworld, who seeks to undermine the elected government of Zimbabwe and our good friend mister Mugabe, who is stopping the African continent from descending into anarchy.
GOD BLESS Bloggete, please donate what you can to the hugely imporatnt work, help the John McCain save the Moon for US fund.
The Russians as we speak are plotting to seize territorial control of Mars, an American colony our future generations will colonise, build new businesses, hosptitals for our poor and sick, bring new prosperity to our citizens on welfare, give second chances to the disadvantaged, ppl who never got a break under the last Democratic president Obama, who invaded Poland and spent all the federal budget on shoipping for his wife.
Please, please, don’t fall for their slick lies.
While there are some who go to washington for themselves and ask, what can America do for the environent, it takes a brave honest man like John to ask, what can the environment do for US the American ppl, the cleverest, oldest culture to have ever existed, and for this we thank God that his son, John McCain, died for us ten times and walked on water, to break the new water walking speed record, for you, selflessly for US the American people.
And Remeber, a vote for a convicted underwear thief, is a vote for reason and peace.
Saturday, August 30, 2008
Simple Vidz
During the final weeks of university four years ago, i purchased a video camera after seeing a show at the National Student Drama Festival in Scarborough (which won best show) that used pre-recorded footage the two performers interacted with, flawlessly.
Ian Shuttleworth the theatre critic said it was easily the best of its kind he had witnessed and this was a spur for me, seeing the possibilities. I got the camera but hocked it to raise the ferry fare, because money was tight and I only thought it would be for a short time. And now after 48 months, i got it back and have finally arrived at the point i intended to four years ago.
Soon after coming to Dublin, I saw Seamus Heaney deliver a lecture on Patrick Kavanagh, the central thrust of which was the Kavanagh idea of a Poet's journey being the way "from the simplicity of going away to simplicity of return"; which has been a consistent and central critical plank in Heaney's own poetic.
He said that the development of a poetic soul is one whereby we start out knowing little and after a few years, rack up a lode of knowledge and reach a point where we think we are a bit handy on the poetry lark, and then, as we cast out into deeper intellectual pools, certainty deserts us as our learning increases and we realise that, in the grander scheme, the sureness we thought we were heading toward is merely an illusion and we know little.
And once this is accepted, there is a return, another cycle of learning with the simplicity of knowing we can never know it all. And eventually
"In the final simplicity we don't care whether we appear foolish or not" as Kavanagh said.
This is what we work towards, to follow our own star and dance as if no one is looking, like an actor in the magic circle who blots out the audience and behaves with a child-like simplicty.
And poetry being as it is, with nothing ever forced into the frame by a person's will -- indeed the more we try to engineer a poetic career with the resolve and style of a banker or careerist, the less likely it is to happen; so we trust what will be will happen and if it's meant to be, so be it, and now after four years delay, the gods delivered and the next space is ready. Live poetry on the vidz. Have a gander here
Ian Shuttleworth the theatre critic said it was easily the best of its kind he had witnessed and this was a spur for me, seeing the possibilities. I got the camera but hocked it to raise the ferry fare, because money was tight and I only thought it would be for a short time. And now after 48 months, i got it back and have finally arrived at the point i intended to four years ago.
Soon after coming to Dublin, I saw Seamus Heaney deliver a lecture on Patrick Kavanagh, the central thrust of which was the Kavanagh idea of a Poet's journey being the way "from the simplicity of going away to simplicity of return"; which has been a consistent and central critical plank in Heaney's own poetic.
He said that the development of a poetic soul is one whereby we start out knowing little and after a few years, rack up a lode of knowledge and reach a point where we think we are a bit handy on the poetry lark, and then, as we cast out into deeper intellectual pools, certainty deserts us as our learning increases and we realise that, in the grander scheme, the sureness we thought we were heading toward is merely an illusion and we know little.
And once this is accepted, there is a return, another cycle of learning with the simplicity of knowing we can never know it all. And eventually
"In the final simplicity we don't care whether we appear foolish or not" as Kavanagh said.
This is what we work towards, to follow our own star and dance as if no one is looking, like an actor in the magic circle who blots out the audience and behaves with a child-like simplicty.
And poetry being as it is, with nothing ever forced into the frame by a person's will -- indeed the more we try to engineer a poetic career with the resolve and style of a banker or careerist, the less likely it is to happen; so we trust what will be will happen and if it's meant to be, so be it, and now after four years delay, the gods delivered and the next space is ready. Live poetry on the vidz. Have a gander here
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Ulick O'Combover
Thursday 28 August 23.52
Hi M.
No probs if this is not the sort of caper appropriate for yr page, but we have just got a new computer and the camera purchased four years ago before we came to Dublin and which i hocked for the ferry fare, has returned and, thus this new direction on-stage here in the guttered back-lit glow of a dark Augustian soul hamming it up.
The days of spamming high on legal head shop hash are gone now, and spamming legit again after 18 months interruption, in a final five year push into that ollamh zone gods above, below and there, beyond the tube that place we'll never go, may ho ho ho for us, has thus begun.
The next five year study-jag jangling in free-play at the intellectual arena within, came after ten freakin novels worth of text took us there, 95 percent of our output we wrote last year was the worthless write-off Yeats did when he was high on blow and donuts dipped in opium, back in the golden days of our beginnings, and remember, as this is just an attempt to detach,
peel back the pith of light
as a s/he mind/intellect closing in on what god-head we have as the sidhe split gender God i read has just been located in the earliest Torah texts, as genderless s/he..
WARNING HIGHLY EXPERIMENTAL PROSE
LROVSE
was the name of a poem you wrote in the third yr, after a session with BS the Sheppard of verse, in Ormskirk, after a class where we had to use the Edmund Waller poem
Go Rose
as the piece impelling our response.
We all wrote parodies, of course, as voicing our deepest thoughts on the eternal theme from four to five on a Friday afternoon, in a small class of six or so, five young people and a man nearing fifty with a full head of grey and a broken potential long since gone south, was not really gonna happen.
LROVSE
You will always live
buried in a deep beyond
and beckoning to me...
this was the first of it and from that day, a standard in the canon from a course of which well, i do not know, but there some sidhe bell rhymes explorative still in what stood-chance rough pledged, and a stolen part imitation, part half yearning to sing, stitching itself inward and learning to trust
spoke of rhyme
wheeled throughout a throat and made it onto our page
Dear married M
I think i have fallen in (out of?) love with your imagination, due to quitting drugs, for which i wish to sincerely re-apologise and ask a big ask of you and yr very important colleagues over there on the NE seaboard where superbly synthetic united fakes faffing about with my head, smother me here in Kilmainham.
Please can i have my talent back?
I know you stole it in Cork the night of PC's fortieth. I conferenced with him at Dumb Leary festival of World couture in Seapoint last Sunday, the first and only day of summer here in the place i know you think i stole from under yr nose, but you had re-located by then ms M.
Do you remember the days far gone and the life we had?
The extemporised rants into the ollamh zone with Amergin Bergin shaman of the sally oak grove gardens where AE had the visions and WB spoke of then, later, much later, after he and M fell out over John Mac B, dearest cipher.
Hear too modest for a simple sum, innovatively singing the score of what may be when Sean MacBride comes back, back, from the grave of postmodernity dearest MG, managing director delivering us:
AE MB 3:1 DS WB 18:17?
Do you remember the time we made love in the goal here? The night before they took you out and shot me for ripping off Fat Frankie the Drimnagh drug lord under contract by dissident Ruskies, for depriving them of a stash his accidental labours wrought to insignificance by acts of de-cap latte, huddling in cloves and behoven to trouve for mystic trove on Eustace Street, Focus for the one euro fifty dinner the day s/he became homeless, invisible above us with sidhe gods complictly winging their wee way through air to the Gweedore and Donegal Daniel crooning of it all, mythologising eternity and a chap down and out in the jiggers of Temple Bar, Maud?
You lived a well ordered life with barley fed horses to sport with, in far flung revolutionary days back when George and Bill rustled through the night high on hash pills, armed and dangerous intelligentsia to the old leary faux fools and slow druidical silence saying it all, dearest M, let us love again.
Hi M.
No probs if this is not the sort of caper appropriate for yr page, but we have just got a new computer and the camera purchased four years ago before we came to Dublin and which i hocked for the ferry fare, has returned and, thus this new direction on-stage here in the guttered back-lit glow of a dark Augustian soul hamming it up.
The days of spamming high on legal head shop hash are gone now, and spamming legit again after 18 months interruption, in a final five year push into that ollamh zone gods above, below and there, beyond the tube that place we'll never go, may ho ho ho for us, has thus begun.
The next five year study-jag jangling in free-play at the intellectual arena within, came after ten freakin novels worth of text took us there, 95 percent of our output we wrote last year was the worthless write-off Yeats did when he was high on blow and donuts dipped in opium, back in the golden days of our beginnings, and remember, as this is just an attempt to detach,
peel back the pith of light
as a s/he mind/intellect closing in on what god-head we have as the sidhe split gender God i read has just been located in the earliest Torah texts, as genderless s/he..
WARNING HIGHLY EXPERIMENTAL PROSE
LROVSE
was the name of a poem you wrote in the third yr, after a session with BS the Sheppard of verse, in Ormskirk, after a class where we had to use the Edmund Waller poem
Go Rose
as the piece impelling our response.
We all wrote parodies, of course, as voicing our deepest thoughts on the eternal theme from four to five on a Friday afternoon, in a small class of six or so, five young people and a man nearing fifty with a full head of grey and a broken potential long since gone south, was not really gonna happen.
LROVSE
You will always live
buried in a deep beyond
and beckoning to me...
this was the first of it and from that day, a standard in the canon from a course of which well, i do not know, but there some sidhe bell rhymes explorative still in what stood-chance rough pledged, and a stolen part imitation, part half yearning to sing, stitching itself inward and learning to trust
spoke of rhyme
wheeled throughout a throat and made it onto our page
Dear married M
I think i have fallen in (out of?) love with your imagination, due to quitting drugs, for which i wish to sincerely re-apologise and ask a big ask of you and yr very important colleagues over there on the NE seaboard where superbly synthetic united fakes faffing about with my head, smother me here in Kilmainham.
Please can i have my talent back?
I know you stole it in Cork the night of PC's fortieth. I conferenced with him at Dumb Leary festival of World couture in Seapoint last Sunday, the first and only day of summer here in the place i know you think i stole from under yr nose, but you had re-located by then ms M.
Do you remember the days far gone and the life we had?
The extemporised rants into the ollamh zone with Amergin Bergin shaman of the sally oak grove gardens where AE had the visions and WB spoke of then, later, much later, after he and M fell out over John Mac B, dearest cipher.
Hear too modest for a simple sum, innovatively singing the score of what may be when Sean MacBride comes back, back, from the grave of postmodernity dearest MG, managing director delivering us:
AE MB 3:1 DS WB 18:17?
Do you remember the time we made love in the goal here? The night before they took you out and shot me for ripping off Fat Frankie the Drimnagh drug lord under contract by dissident Ruskies, for depriving them of a stash his accidental labours wrought to insignificance by acts of de-cap latte, huddling in cloves and behoven to trouve for mystic trove on Eustace Street, Focus for the one euro fifty dinner the day s/he became homeless, invisible above us with sidhe gods complictly winging their wee way through air to the Gweedore and Donegal Daniel crooning of it all, mythologising eternity and a chap down and out in the jiggers of Temple Bar, Maud?
You lived a well ordered life with barley fed horses to sport with, in far flung revolutionary days back when George and Bill rustled through the night high on hash pills, armed and dangerous intelligentsia to the old leary faux fools and slow druidical silence saying it all, dearest M, let us love again.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Gavin Turner Video Diary
Please turn the volume right up to hear the sound on the video below.
It was made in the final days of my time at Edge Hill College (now university) in my home town of Ormskirk Lancashire, but I only managed to get my camera out of hock a few weeks back after going to the Ledbury poetry festival and meeting Neil Astley and Michael Schmidt at an orgy of the imagination and receiving a sixty euro advance after a bidding war (for me to not send them stuff) ensued at the Prince of Wales open mic slam on the final night; in which I came last.
It was made in the final days of my time at Edge Hill College (now university) in my home town of Ormskirk Lancashire, but I only managed to get my camera out of hock a few weeks back after going to the Ledbury poetry festival and meeting Neil Astley and Michael Schmidt at an orgy of the imagination and receiving a sixty euro advance after a bidding war (for me to not send them stuff) ensued at the Prince of Wales open mic slam on the final night; in which I came last.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
just thought i'd deposit a stream of consciousness.
Frostean ice melting in warmth, stipulating what alliterative rivets
course back a shell, recovering behind the fire behind an eye
behind the hand behind a man behind the *I* inveigling consciousness
syntax flipped back, reversing one and zero, fed through gozzy eyed
optical data bits fluidly distancing an eye hung detached behind a door
upon a hook the six coloured tungen cloak shifts in short gasping jabs.
Rote memorised french existentialist philosophy aired in the wisdom
through friendship driving alan bennet and ginsie, jack and all the chaps,
bent hungering beneath the finest intellectuals a generation hunkered
down to clasp, truth-streaming human form and what came out. Closed
the NE seaboard in a mother load of visual transmission, impelling
Humanity to course through this waxed orbit of Icarus, sun driven, rose
winged into an air pool and dropped
dropped
onto a hill which never cometh racked in shredded shade and crepe lift,
mister bono, good sir Edge and Larry who Ardoyne hurt into poetry.
They too knew even you few as intimate with the gods of sound and
stone, are fixed in the frequency of silence rocked, beating forth and back,
back and forth toward laws of language contained in the locked box
beneath an academe oak grove of the bohemian paranoiac dress,
coaxed up the fair moaning wind wound in mummy tower and daddy Gia
stretching red rocked to ask -- what more in the name of us breathe
placebo and cipher; elevate in the flood and love they who carried
the phoneme of furniture genetically, bio-teched our kids lunch pack
and believe three towers collapsed uncontrolled, fell from phoenix dust,
and all the evidence spirited away, all the papers from building seven
smote to a no-trail of dust, new word ordering this American Century
of roaming imperialism dressed by Neitzean priests elevating
the observation Darwin made, into a geo-con sleight of hand backers
pulling strings of president and kings administer in sound gone,
striking out of kilter and the sky above bog
bless still America?
Frostean ice melting in warmth, stipulating what alliterative rivets
course back a shell, recovering behind the fire behind an eye
behind the hand behind a man behind the *I* inveigling consciousness
syntax flipped back, reversing one and zero, fed through gozzy eyed
optical data bits fluidly distancing an eye hung detached behind a door
upon a hook the six coloured tungen cloak shifts in short gasping jabs.
Rote memorised french existentialist philosophy aired in the wisdom
through friendship driving alan bennet and ginsie, jack and all the chaps,
bent hungering beneath the finest intellectuals a generation hunkered
down to clasp, truth-streaming human form and what came out. Closed
the NE seaboard in a mother load of visual transmission, impelling
Humanity to course through this waxed orbit of Icarus, sun driven, rose
winged into an air pool and dropped
dropped
onto a hill which never cometh racked in shredded shade and crepe lift,
mister bono, good sir Edge and Larry who Ardoyne hurt into poetry.
They too knew even you few as intimate with the gods of sound and
stone, are fixed in the frequency of silence rocked, beating forth and back,
back and forth toward laws of language contained in the locked box
beneath an academe oak grove of the bohemian paranoiac dress,
coaxed up the fair moaning wind wound in mummy tower and daddy Gia
stretching red rocked to ask -- what more in the name of us breathe
placebo and cipher; elevate in the flood and love they who carried
the phoneme of furniture genetically, bio-teched our kids lunch pack
and believe three towers collapsed uncontrolled, fell from phoenix dust,
and all the evidence spirited away, all the papers from building seven
smote to a no-trail of dust, new word ordering this American Century
of roaming imperialism dressed by Neitzean priests elevating
the observation Darwin made, into a geo-con sleight of hand backers
pulling strings of president and kings administer in sound gone,
striking out of kilter and the sky above bog
bless still America?
Thursday, August 14, 2008
M&M -- Ledbury Melton Mowbray XI report.
"Your Soul
Your soul has three names;
the mirror, the holdall, the word
you dare not read.
.....(further)...
A poem might be said to save the world by preserving something -- an insight, narrative, or historical moment. I write poems partly as an attempt to gain understanding of what I don't know or have only a vague sense of. I then hope that other people have had similar feelings and questions and can relate to the poems because of that."
Rob Mackenzie
~
Mackenzie is a Glaswegian poet in Edinburgh for the last four years (i think) and has a blog Surroundings
In a recent post, Rob deposited a poem by Italian Gabriel d'Annunzio, who was a mentor of Mussolini's and a rival intellectual combatant, one of the few who could play this dictators' game by using a gift for Decadent writing gripping Europe in the 1930's - to elevate himself a position with a mass to care about him, to ask questions and defend him, if his leader decided on a whim, to turn from friend to foe.
He is one of the many who wrote then, and d'Anunnzio's work is clouded now by the taint of his Fascist associations, but who can deliver a morally binding judgment --- with an accuracy we believe possible to clearly detect in the principle actors -- inhabiting this darkest time - upon bestial we, you us me or him, dear hearts?
d'Anunnzio was a Futurist poet - and artist whose Movement ultimately doomed itself. Hung from a scaffold erected with hot air nihilism brought on, when the first wave of modern mass technologies aimed at what - until then - had been the illiterate mass of sub-class and simple God fearing yoe-people, we the mass of peasantry where targeted with and by it, shaped into dangerous hate filled micro-cosmic compact mobs whose binary cultural philosophies the mass media print revolution and brand new form of Journalism, New-writing, formed.
Thus the base now resting on a genderless s/he-goddess race of gods, in neutral force who good and bad, light and dark within Creation, within each soul, most of whom just wanna have fun; but when on; divide Humanity into the pyramid of language lost and opportunities of finding one's inner Civilisation language-act in this language known as much about now as the poem d'Annunzio wrote in --
L'Ala sul Mare - which Rob translated and I used as a primer, along with the Italian original, to compose a very loose re-rendering of a (re-rendered) translation. But before we reach the revealing of a current piece, what immediately struck me, and detonating reason impelling this exercise --
The Wing in the Sea
Ardi, in the sea’s haze a wing,
cast adrift, shudders like a wreck.
The feathers, severed and scattered,
ripple in the air’s uneven breath.
Ardi, I see wax, the wing of Icarus!
When its creator served the king’s court
he built a hollow, wooden cow –
...are the first two stanzas (scot-gaelic bardic tradition - rann) . The first stanza, it is my contention to contest, reveal across the four lines creating it, the opening stanza's hypnotic sonic underlay and overly palpable design on drawing us to be impressed ---- nest in the waves being Happy, and this rann as the verbal machine enacting what self-remembrance writ its purpose to exist on a plane of Reality via fiction and make-believe, some poetic pretense by the poet, which doesn't fool the author who created it, but does our collective eyes, works the first stanza into a phonologic power immediately, in the opening first of these four lines, imposing itself upon us -- because phonemes acting collectively, as the very sophisticated whole - exercise in phonotactic constraint displayed - in what reads as --- an effortless acoustic groove, running both within each line and pattern of sophisticated metrical complexity, such as to be suggestive of perfect balance, or the Art Straight (dan direach) approximation (in my mind) and effortlessly interlocking a wholly linguistic made, most delicate and yet truly, (and i mean this sincerely) fulfilling the laws of flawless flight perfectly poised.
The first line
Ardi, in the sea’s haze a wing,
Clashes the image in, deceptively. Being the first line, we have nothing to constrast it with, but they beneath it, we are unaware of the first time we read it.
The three masculine stresses, act as an opening bell ring, ee ee ay. Because three of the eight syllables are held together by a fairly central and solid spondee - sea haze - which with the dee of Ardi (in this reading) contrast starkly with the twenty three feminine syllables following the eight clangorous first eight above them, below which
cast adrift, shudders like a wreck.
The feathers, severed and scattered,
ripple in the air’s uneven breath
...the feminine dash sounding far more fluid in swift swallow water wing movement conjuring a sense of acoustic descent, fleeing the arresting first three masculine stresses the first line creates, as a surface splash, acoustically heralding itself, some bell beneath which the meat and veg of -- not in yer face verse - but what as words beneath the sonic surface, and a verbal object - changing immediately as it sinks to flight and (apart from *like* in the second line) into a regular softly stressed - and what could equally be - a rising or descending zero quality of balance this work of invisible silence, weights in the twenty three feminine syllables that appear -- and twenty four beats down from a key masculine stressed image *sea haze) - the stressed *ee*in uneven revealing the underlying sonic architecture to be that of a bell jar or ski-jump top- (or bottom) of a heavy weight and within it -- as zero gravity, above/below - the object floats, finding its note of English language balancing, descended reflection through water or air; vacillating rooted weight-stress beginning to detonate in rising or falling flesh, flashed after the propulsive force release - into fluidity a word as sound and meaning caught in equipoise between intellect and imagination.
An interesting balance, the arresting images of this object i ask; as if some instinctual linguistic Belief or faith in O delivers to one, an unconscious zero cipher placebo of intelligence and creation made visible in that measurement of flight; crated interchangeable and the mind alone eying neutral, a s/he The Critic balanced and eyed i which declare a pen we the US all possess, hones a balanced listing or too fluent, slipping clumsily stumbling -
-- flourishing and perishing text that unlocks first within art, the Poet brain a there our S/as if ---- in four coded fineries honor and need to read --- wished thrice upon the response thus -- privilege what share the self-enobling craft of language brings, expressing outer as eye-sun and reflection affording the intellectual soul-jahs' decor in such gravity, balance of its brains and beauty in effect -- is noted and The object its measure, unit, phoneme and human breath enough to get worked up about declare (in the post-poetic completion high of state of the wholly inner religious self), affirmation by gods of chance trained instinctual our whimsy
Dear Reader/s
...only can willing, these lines into perfection propel, a telepathic ship of rules crossing translation and desire -- fulfilled into our eye mastered being proof alone it careers the Frostean ice upon a stove of life, messers leonard cohen, robert lennon, all the greats, appear here heard and as ones' Friend of the Intellect Ninius knew, mister and miss.
And funny it is Dubliner Billy Mills, Mackenzie's Guardian blokes blog colleague with the weekly Friday free for all workshop -- mentioned Icarus - within days of this friend/rival robber on his call for a poem written in response to some rigorous visual art flagged twice in short succession, and in the outer beat return this occurence of an object correlation of the hill and mountain to a sky-riven bardic gasser on the one true Craft tuned to freedom B tones of free hug me at a hub across molten, what wax of ewe and birch fettered ask a poet return them,
ask to take us back
breath, and breathing beckon
forward in halting call, grievances
s/he begged, pleaded to be spared
and knew the sacking none relish;
returning no call, silent chains
fettered to make within a prison
provision for synonym and letter
(scripted live each act a folly)
Whether this deliberate act of Idea theft occurred, only as two fictional protagonists in this object drama imagination creates and life re-ran -- or as two only they who answer canned what force creation wrought together upon pages far, far away, so lit time all forgotten that a head weighted luna orb pitted by the base sun, sitting there with a cat and spoon, three times fifty otter-skin suitcases and Funny, funny how Mills also mentioned two other topics which up the telekinesis quota of evidential measure -- sorrow's natural clowns Mackenzie, Mills and i must in some three way tangle of perfect psychic balance be - of what until the beginning of last month, was a near specious guild -- happy poet AND visual artist.
the visual artist Poet i admit to holding a fairly vicious prejudice toward as a cowardly human being capable of acting totally childish where Art questions occur, because the first famous one i met, overwhelmingly more viz than bhard, dressing as s/he did, in all sorts of cloak and garbled raiments, had no tungen but one from do you know who i am (not) cut ups mashed thrift and throwaway, nor link to a definable source beyond some vibey academic source of their island within where all alone, all alone our free winds moan o'er the i that hadn't met the eye of a visual artist and poet in that 50/50 balance so clearly and genuine; that until having the very great honor of meeting another happy one, he were only the second i've met, befittingly at the poetry evening of Ledbury Scribes, on Monday 7 July last, at Black Pepper restaurant, where it was created such a species do clearly exist and flourishing in the first bloom of the second wind youth deliver our future artist-intellectual striving to attain some faith in something within us alone as an individual member; a human collective rest of us alone, all art pieces divisible and yet All source Thing all around within and without us, our eyes decipher reality in a realm of five (sixth?) senses Instinct and i we all are living it, second to minute, forth and back beat the we oscillate collectively vocalising Creation's want for us to create who reveal his name is Roland MacMurran, a young chap who exited from academe with a first, several weeks before our lives collided in the heady mix that magical Herefordshire town concots.
Unaware of Herefordshire's local strong ciders, it was a pleasant bonus to discover Henry Westons Vintage Special Reserve, two seventy (pounds) and eight percent local cider and three of these a night, over short run, was the magical brew which possessed and fostered an Englishness about the Horshoe pub (integral inn at the top of Homend) that is not greatly urbanised and a very attractive allure for city dwellers. If only everywhere in England was as balanced as the finest ciders, its culture would be perfectly balanced. And it is easy to see why Ledbury poetry festival reflects that.
A third synchronism Mills mentioned, is Elizabeth Browning (nee Barrett), whose family owned slave-run plantations (though she wrote against this and for many political emancipation causes all her life) and who was also Ledbury native, reared in Homend, which is the very center of Ledbury town life, and where MacMurran and I attended the Homend Poets poetry event on Tuesday 8, in Ice-Bytes internet cafe, which charges a very reasonable two quid for half an hour.
Roland and I recited a selection of our work there, and bought The Homend Poets' anthology, with poets like Mike Andrews, Julie Louise Jones, Guy Malkerson, Med Snookes, Dave Turner, Charles Eden and Nick Halligan -- very committed poet and retired teacher who carved a way into our guild of eloquence, at the coal face of secondary education, and whose lines -
"A ship in a bottle, a black ash-tray owl,
A barrel for spills and bent copper bowl.
Everything worthless, yet all have a place
A friendly reminder, the familiar face "
..affected me Live, in a way which brought goodness and a sense of the communal, us, the Ledbury Scribes, the Homend Poets and the three other events Roland and I as poets in residence of the open-mic series, in which numerous local poets from Herefordshire and beyond, came together and celebrated the verbal art, shared our songs and took an active role in our communities of average working poetry lovers attending the work-shops.
And the fourth and final connection the very human blogs of these two men, caused and immediate association with, a visual object, viewing through the triple lens, the likeness in which we attempt to import and link with an original sonic heft of what original essence (as I discern it) third hand, is very beneficial for any practice; offers the opportunity of working in a way which allow all access to the one store in which --
Far god cast off above the sea,
feathers drift, an airless evening
And the rippling wings of Icarus
severed with a single breath
hollow light above the sky he sought
to go beyond, his flight sun-courage
driving waxed wings high above
a lone sphere, glow Too hot beyond
His normal orbit and attempting
to reach and reunite, raise feathers
in our greater mind
to write; into the whirlpool Icarus
dropped
thank you very very much for the honor of sharing and learning messers M&M.
Your soul has three names;
the mirror, the holdall, the word
you dare not read.
.....(further)...
A poem might be said to save the world by preserving something -- an insight, narrative, or historical moment. I write poems partly as an attempt to gain understanding of what I don't know or have only a vague sense of. I then hope that other people have had similar feelings and questions and can relate to the poems because of that."
Rob Mackenzie
~
Mackenzie is a Glaswegian poet in Edinburgh for the last four years (i think) and has a blog Surroundings
In a recent post, Rob deposited a poem by Italian Gabriel d'Annunzio, who was a mentor of Mussolini's and a rival intellectual combatant, one of the few who could play this dictators' game by using a gift for Decadent writing gripping Europe in the 1930's - to elevate himself a position with a mass to care about him, to ask questions and defend him, if his leader decided on a whim, to turn from friend to foe.
He is one of the many who wrote then, and d'Anunnzio's work is clouded now by the taint of his Fascist associations, but who can deliver a morally binding judgment --- with an accuracy we believe possible to clearly detect in the principle actors -- inhabiting this darkest time - upon bestial we, you us me or him, dear hearts?
d'Anunnzio was a Futurist poet - and artist whose Movement ultimately doomed itself. Hung from a scaffold erected with hot air nihilism brought on, when the first wave of modern mass technologies aimed at what - until then - had been the illiterate mass of sub-class and simple God fearing yoe-people, we the mass of peasantry where targeted with and by it, shaped into dangerous hate filled micro-cosmic compact mobs whose binary cultural philosophies the mass media print revolution and brand new form of Journalism, New-writing, formed.
Thus the base now resting on a genderless s/he-goddess race of gods, in neutral force who good and bad, light and dark within Creation, within each soul, most of whom just wanna have fun; but when on; divide Humanity into the pyramid of language lost and opportunities of finding one's inner Civilisation language-act in this language known as much about now as the poem d'Annunzio wrote in --
L'Ala sul Mare - which Rob translated and I used as a primer, along with the Italian original, to compose a very loose re-rendering of a (re-rendered) translation. But before we reach the revealing of a current piece, what immediately struck me, and detonating reason impelling this exercise --
The Wing in the Sea
Ardi, in the sea’s haze a wing,
cast adrift, shudders like a wreck.
The feathers, severed and scattered,
ripple in the air’s uneven breath.
Ardi, I see wax, the wing of Icarus!
When its creator served the king’s court
he built a hollow, wooden cow –
...are the first two stanzas (scot-gaelic bardic tradition - rann) . The first stanza, it is my contention to contest, reveal across the four lines creating it, the opening stanza's hypnotic sonic underlay and overly palpable design on drawing us to be impressed ---- nest in the waves being Happy, and this rann as the verbal machine enacting what self-remembrance writ its purpose to exist on a plane of Reality via fiction and make-believe, some poetic pretense by the poet, which doesn't fool the author who created it, but does our collective eyes, works the first stanza into a phonologic power immediately, in the opening first of these four lines, imposing itself upon us -- because phonemes acting collectively, as the very sophisticated whole - exercise in phonotactic constraint displayed - in what reads as --- an effortless acoustic groove, running both within each line and pattern of sophisticated metrical complexity, such as to be suggestive of perfect balance, or the Art Straight (dan direach) approximation (in my mind) and effortlessly interlocking a wholly linguistic made, most delicate and yet truly, (and i mean this sincerely) fulfilling the laws of flawless flight perfectly poised.
The first line
Ardi, in the sea’s haze a wing,
Clashes the image in, deceptively. Being the first line, we have nothing to constrast it with, but they beneath it, we are unaware of the first time we read it.
The three masculine stresses, act as an opening bell ring, ee ee ay. Because three of the eight syllables are held together by a fairly central and solid spondee - sea haze - which with the dee of Ardi (in this reading) contrast starkly with the twenty three feminine syllables following the eight clangorous first eight above them, below which
cast adrift, shudders like a wreck.
The feathers, severed and scattered,
ripple in the air’s uneven breath
...the feminine dash sounding far more fluid in swift swallow water wing movement conjuring a sense of acoustic descent, fleeing the arresting first three masculine stresses the first line creates, as a surface splash, acoustically heralding itself, some bell beneath which the meat and veg of -- not in yer face verse - but what as words beneath the sonic surface, and a verbal object - changing immediately as it sinks to flight and (apart from *like* in the second line) into a regular softly stressed - and what could equally be - a rising or descending zero quality of balance this work of invisible silence, weights in the twenty three feminine syllables that appear -- and twenty four beats down from a key masculine stressed image *sea haze) - the stressed *ee*in uneven revealing the underlying sonic architecture to be that of a bell jar or ski-jump top- (or bottom) of a heavy weight and within it -- as zero gravity, above/below - the object floats, finding its note of English language balancing, descended reflection through water or air; vacillating rooted weight-stress beginning to detonate in rising or falling flesh, flashed after the propulsive force release - into fluidity a word as sound and meaning caught in equipoise between intellect and imagination.
An interesting balance, the arresting images of this object i ask; as if some instinctual linguistic Belief or faith in O delivers to one, an unconscious zero cipher placebo of intelligence and creation made visible in that measurement of flight; crated interchangeable and the mind alone eying neutral, a s/he The Critic balanced and eyed i which declare a pen we the US all possess, hones a balanced listing or too fluent, slipping clumsily stumbling -
-- flourishing and perishing text that unlocks first within art, the Poet brain a there our S/as if ---- in four coded fineries honor and need to read --- wished thrice upon the response thus -- privilege what share the self-enobling craft of language brings, expressing outer as eye-sun and reflection affording the intellectual soul-jahs' decor in such gravity, balance of its brains and beauty in effect -- is noted and The object its measure, unit, phoneme and human breath enough to get worked up about declare (in the post-poetic completion high of state of the wholly inner religious self), affirmation by gods of chance trained instinctual our whimsy
Dear Reader/s
...only can willing, these lines into perfection propel, a telepathic ship of rules crossing translation and desire -- fulfilled into our eye mastered being proof alone it careers the Frostean ice upon a stove of life, messers leonard cohen, robert lennon, all the greats, appear here heard and as ones' Friend of the Intellect Ninius knew, mister and miss.
And funny it is Dubliner Billy Mills, Mackenzie's Guardian blokes blog colleague with the weekly Friday free for all workshop -- mentioned Icarus - within days of this friend/rival robber on his call for a poem written in response to some rigorous visual art flagged twice in short succession, and in the outer beat return this occurence of an object correlation of the hill and mountain to a sky-riven bardic gasser on the one true Craft tuned to freedom B tones of free hug me at a hub across molten, what wax of ewe and birch fettered ask a poet return them,
ask to take us back
breath, and breathing beckon
forward in halting call, grievances
s/he begged, pleaded to be spared
and knew the sacking none relish;
returning no call, silent chains
fettered to make within a prison
provision for synonym and letter
(scripted live each act a folly)
Whether this deliberate act of Idea theft occurred, only as two fictional protagonists in this object drama imagination creates and life re-ran -- or as two only they who answer canned what force creation wrought together upon pages far, far away, so lit time all forgotten that a head weighted luna orb pitted by the base sun, sitting there with a cat and spoon, three times fifty otter-skin suitcases and Funny, funny how Mills also mentioned two other topics which up the telekinesis quota of evidential measure -- sorrow's natural clowns Mackenzie, Mills and i must in some three way tangle of perfect psychic balance be - of what until the beginning of last month, was a near specious guild -- happy poet AND visual artist.
the visual artist Poet i admit to holding a fairly vicious prejudice toward as a cowardly human being capable of acting totally childish where Art questions occur, because the first famous one i met, overwhelmingly more viz than bhard, dressing as s/he did, in all sorts of cloak and garbled raiments, had no tungen but one from do you know who i am (not) cut ups mashed thrift and throwaway, nor link to a definable source beyond some vibey academic source of their island within where all alone, all alone our free winds moan o'er the i that hadn't met the eye of a visual artist and poet in that 50/50 balance so clearly and genuine; that until having the very great honor of meeting another happy one, he were only the second i've met, befittingly at the poetry evening of Ledbury Scribes, on Monday 7 July last, at Black Pepper restaurant, where it was created such a species do clearly exist and flourishing in the first bloom of the second wind youth deliver our future artist-intellectual striving to attain some faith in something within us alone as an individual member; a human collective rest of us alone, all art pieces divisible and yet All source Thing all around within and without us, our eyes decipher reality in a realm of five (sixth?) senses Instinct and i we all are living it, second to minute, forth and back beat the we oscillate collectively vocalising Creation's want for us to create who reveal his name is Roland MacMurran, a young chap who exited from academe with a first, several weeks before our lives collided in the heady mix that magical Herefordshire town concots.
Unaware of Herefordshire's local strong ciders, it was a pleasant bonus to discover Henry Westons Vintage Special Reserve, two seventy (pounds) and eight percent local cider and three of these a night, over short run, was the magical brew which possessed and fostered an Englishness about the Horshoe pub (integral inn at the top of Homend) that is not greatly urbanised and a very attractive allure for city dwellers. If only everywhere in England was as balanced as the finest ciders, its culture would be perfectly balanced. And it is easy to see why Ledbury poetry festival reflects that.
A third synchronism Mills mentioned, is Elizabeth Browning (nee Barrett), whose family owned slave-run plantations (though she wrote against this and for many political emancipation causes all her life) and who was also Ledbury native, reared in Homend, which is the very center of Ledbury town life, and where MacMurran and I attended the Homend Poets poetry event on Tuesday 8, in Ice-Bytes internet cafe, which charges a very reasonable two quid for half an hour.
Roland and I recited a selection of our work there, and bought The Homend Poets' anthology, with poets like Mike Andrews, Julie Louise Jones, Guy Malkerson, Med Snookes, Dave Turner, Charles Eden and Nick Halligan -- very committed poet and retired teacher who carved a way into our guild of eloquence, at the coal face of secondary education, and whose lines -
"A ship in a bottle, a black ash-tray owl,
A barrel for spills and bent copper bowl.
Everything worthless, yet all have a place
A friendly reminder, the familiar face "
..affected me Live, in a way which brought goodness and a sense of the communal, us, the Ledbury Scribes, the Homend Poets and the three other events Roland and I as poets in residence of the open-mic series, in which numerous local poets from Herefordshire and beyond, came together and celebrated the verbal art, shared our songs and took an active role in our communities of average working poetry lovers attending the work-shops.
And the fourth and final connection the very human blogs of these two men, caused and immediate association with, a visual object, viewing through the triple lens, the likeness in which we attempt to import and link with an original sonic heft of what original essence (as I discern it) third hand, is very beneficial for any practice; offers the opportunity of working in a way which allow all access to the one store in which --
Far god cast off above the sea,
feathers drift, an airless evening
And the rippling wings of Icarus
severed with a single breath
hollow light above the sky he sought
to go beyond, his flight sun-courage
driving waxed wings high above
a lone sphere, glow Too hot beyond
His normal orbit and attempting
to reach and reunite, raise feathers
in our greater mind
to write; into the whirlpool Icarus
dropped
thank you very very much for the honor of sharing and learning messers M&M.
Monday, August 11, 2008
An empty ice-box emits its guttural buzz,
sparking light at twenty five past one
onto a kitchen clock. Nothing came out straight.
A cupboard; stale bread, chickpeas,
can of Guinness; and beyond a window,
the garden seemed to unravel - patterning
wheat (no milk) two cigarettes
and last to feel regal under striplight,
a cellophane reflection glowing awake -
swimming in the lone dark vat of night,
pitching a planet last to walk -
a light into the door of a UFO.
~
The above text came out of a *write-through* exercise, which is the natural evolution of the cut-up method Burroughs made popular. Working with the word-processing mouse technology, we can move electronic-text about so much faster than with scissors and paper.
This means that the standard unit to work with in this form, rather than being a line of text, we are thinking and working at word-level, shuffling them about on the screen with space-age fluidity.
The PC has revolutionised how we can work with text, and this form comes under many names, the latest being *mash-up*, and now there are Poem softwares which we can feed text into, and it returns a computer poem, thus cutting out the middle person of our mind.
The software applications are really a novelty, and it will be a while yet before we can purchase technology which will recreate in poetry, the Human experience.
The source text for the above is here.
sparking light at twenty five past one
onto a kitchen clock. Nothing came out straight.
A cupboard; stale bread, chickpeas,
can of Guinness; and beyond a window,
the garden seemed to unravel - patterning
wheat (no milk) two cigarettes
and last to feel regal under striplight,
a cellophane reflection glowing awake -
swimming in the lone dark vat of night,
pitching a planet last to walk -
a light into the door of a UFO.
~
The above text came out of a *write-through* exercise, which is the natural evolution of the cut-up method Burroughs made popular. Working with the word-processing mouse technology, we can move electronic-text about so much faster than with scissors and paper.
This means that the standard unit to work with in this form, rather than being a line of text, we are thinking and working at word-level, shuffling them about on the screen with space-age fluidity.
The PC has revolutionised how we can work with text, and this form comes under many names, the latest being *mash-up*, and now there are Poem softwares which we can feed text into, and it returns a computer poem, thus cutting out the middle person of our mind.
The software applications are really a novelty, and it will be a while yet before we can purchase technology which will recreate in poetry, the Human experience.
The source text for the above is here.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Derek Hines
One of the most instructive recorded readings i have heard -- and by far the book of poetry which affected me most since arriving in Dublin to continue my research - is Derek Hines, reciting his tour de force re-rendering of the ancient Sumerian myth
Monday, June 30, 2008
Wendy Howe
Presence
A string of dust drops
from the corner of the ceiling
in to the small room below ---
first still, then stirred softly
into motion
by a woman's breath.
Her respiration is warm
thickening with sorrow
while the white thread glistens.
Floss untwisted from the fine tatting
of a spider's craft,
it swings back and forth
widening the square pocket of air...
Wendy Howe
~
I began this as an extemporised riff as a result of responding to *how did the Susan Howe day go?* inquiry by Geraldine Monk on the British Irish poets list, and got
"the day began with an address by s/he to the many gender neutral minds,constructed with thought alone, there to direct their celebratory and affirmational force, toward the work of this wonderfully well known guild member, who lets face it, when the sheep and goats get sorted in latter times by the children of our childrens childrens children in the next century..."
and it struck me to speak of a far less known, yet equally worthy poet who also shares Susan Howe's surname:
Wendy Howe.
Wendy Howe is a NY state english teacher and computer teacher who i first came across around the time i discovered GM's work, and impressed me equally. There was a site with about 60 or so poems of hers there (though i think she has since removed it) and i spent two days reading them, feeling i had found a true trove of classy verbal gear, and what struck me was the simple lyric Horacean construction.
I wrote to her she told me she had been writing since she was 15, so -- 30 yrs at it -- and far ahead of my eye in experience.
What clinched it critically, that this was poetry of a proof in the top 10 percent of contemporary practitioners, was that the site of these poems, wasa bit like the old BBC Get Writing one, and as each poem was added, timed and dated (the sixty were posted over three or four yrs i think) it drew what were cleartly sincere comments from ppl who were not poets and just simple appreciators of this deft evocative lyric voice.
We had a brief exchange of e mails over a few weeks and she sent me her six point Poetic outlining how she approaches the art of writing verse..
~
Though Elizabeth's Bishop and Dickenson, are seperated by two or three poetgenerations (D dying 25 yrs before B was born in 1911), these are the two the mind yokes into an Image underlining a metaphor of two career trajectories: one (Bishop) conducted at the time with lots of chatter, interest, awards and wide recognition, such as Howe, Susan has...whilst Wendy Howe, is the emily dickinson parallel, and below is her six point composition poetic..
~
*Thank you so much for the time and consideration you
have invested in reading and contemplating my poetry.
I was very touched by the beautiful poem you write
about my verse on your Blog site. What lovely words
and imagery.
And I am most grateful for you bringing
my work to the attention of others, especially other
blog sites and some editors. I am a very modest person
who feels that my poetry has substantial, artistic
merit; Yet, I am always striving to perfect and hone
my skills. It's an on-going process and my poetry
(writing styles, voice, technique) evolves as I evolve
intellectually and spiritually.
....your courage in journeying to Ireland to become a full time poet: I
think takes a lot of determination and love of the craft, itself.
Ireland is a place that inspires and fosters poets and their work. I think
it draws people to its artistic and scenic climate because of the
myth, the song, and the struggle that has defined the history of Ireland.
Perhaps, that's why poets may be able to thrive in Dublin and receive the
audience, respect and recognition they deserve.*
(obviously wendy doesn't practice in the warm pool of crocodiles, as JP Dunleavy
terms it here)
*You asked me about technique or a method of sanity to
my writing. I have been composing poetry for over 27
years. Presently, I am 42. I started writing verse in
my early adolescence. At that point, it was all about
me and my struggle to understand life and my place in
the universe. However, as I aged and became a
teacher and mature poet, I developed some values that
have always guided my work and defined its thematic
essence.
(1) I always write with the reader or the observer in
mind. I try to make my images, my allusions and my
messages accessible to people's sense of familiarity.
In other words, I strive to employ words, metaphors
and ideas that people have experienced or encountered
in everyday life. For example, I would not use
references to tv shows, personalities, brand names
that are typically American and only understood by an
American audience. I want to be understood by all readers.
(2) I try never to weigh down my sentences with
multisyllabic words. I simplify my verse and use the
smaller words. Also, I avoid placing too many modifiers
in front of my nouns. Too many adjectives clutter the idea,
take away from the clean lines of the poetic symmetry.
(3) I always wait for inspiration to come to me
randomly. A poem (for me) must happen spontaneously
or it sounds too contrived. I go through periods of writer's
block because of this concept but it's worth waiting
for a good idea to come in the end.
(4) Sometimes, a glimpse of nature, a scrap of conversation
with a friend, a headline in the newspaper or reading
another line from a poem, sparks an idea, an image.
I always write these quick flashes of inspiration down
in a notebook. They can be developed into poems sometime
in the future.
(5) I am not afraid to leave a poem unfinished.
Sometimes I will start a poem and struggle with it for
days. At this point, I leave it and come back when I
feel I am equipped to complete it. And by length of
abandonment, I mean anywhere from a week to even a
year. There are three poems I have left up in the air
for a year each and then returned in another year to
complete them. Some people say how can this be done
when the writer loses her continuity of thought or
original intent over a prolonged absence from the text.
I feel the poet can bring new perspective and insight
especially if he or she has been away from the
troublesome verse for awhile. A break always gives
the mind a chance to rest and re-invests its frame of
reference with new energy and stimuli. Those traits
can help to re-shape a half-finished poem and perhaps,
lead it in a stronger direction.
(6) Always trust your gut instincts and imagination. I
have learned to be myself and trust what sounds right
to me. After all who knows my own self or thought
process better than I do.
I am sorry if this sounds too didactic but I tend to
define my methods in list form. And yet, I must say
have no perfect or set formula for writing a poem. I
mostly follow an idea and develop it into a storyline
or an observation.
I always try to keep my details and images unified. If I start with sea
imagery, I stay within that context. If I use a bird, fire or water as my
main source of meaning, my images and actions feed of that idea. I also
love history and often find creative inspiration in the situations and
challenges of people who faced great adversity or achieved something of
worth in the past. It's hard to define how I write but I work at it with
perseverance and imaginative diversity.
Below are two links that describe my poetic working habits better. The first
is an in...
----
Well, for now I have rambled on far too long. Again,
Kevin, thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and
kindness. I deeply appreciate it. I hope I have
answered your question about my writing habits to a
satisfactory degree. You know it's difficult for
writers, artists or even musicians I think to define
their own work and the impact it has. At least, it's
difficult for me and I probably should not speak for
anyone else.
I do have to run but hope this has helped you
understand my technique as a writer and my approach to
poetry. And I agree, Baraka is stunning. His work is
intense and powerful. I came across him in graduate
school and found his work riveting and unique. I
enjoyed reading that link to the interview. Thanks for
sharing it.
Best regards
Wendy
~
this is a link to two of her poems
A string of dust drops
from the corner of the ceiling
in to the small room below ---
first still, then stirred softly
into motion
by a woman's breath.
Her respiration is warm
thickening with sorrow
while the white thread glistens.
Floss untwisted from the fine tatting
of a spider's craft,
it swings back and forth
widening the square pocket of air...
Wendy Howe
~
I began this as an extemporised riff as a result of responding to *how did the Susan Howe day go?* inquiry by Geraldine Monk on the British Irish poets list, and got
"the day began with an address by s/he to the many gender neutral minds,constructed with thought alone, there to direct their celebratory and affirmational force, toward the work of this wonderfully well known guild member, who lets face it, when the sheep and goats get sorted in latter times by the children of our childrens childrens children in the next century..."
and it struck me to speak of a far less known, yet equally worthy poet who also shares Susan Howe's surname:
Wendy Howe.
Wendy Howe is a NY state english teacher and computer teacher who i first came across around the time i discovered GM's work, and impressed me equally. There was a site with about 60 or so poems of hers there (though i think she has since removed it) and i spent two days reading them, feeling i had found a true trove of classy verbal gear, and what struck me was the simple lyric Horacean construction.
I wrote to her she told me she had been writing since she was 15, so -- 30 yrs at it -- and far ahead of my eye in experience.
What clinched it critically, that this was poetry of a proof in the top 10 percent of contemporary practitioners, was that the site of these poems, wasa bit like the old BBC Get Writing one, and as each poem was added, timed and dated (the sixty were posted over three or four yrs i think) it drew what were cleartly sincere comments from ppl who were not poets and just simple appreciators of this deft evocative lyric voice.
We had a brief exchange of e mails over a few weeks and she sent me her six point Poetic outlining how she approaches the art of writing verse..
~
Though Elizabeth's Bishop and Dickenson, are seperated by two or three poetgenerations (D dying 25 yrs before B was born in 1911), these are the two the mind yokes into an Image underlining a metaphor of two career trajectories: one (Bishop) conducted at the time with lots of chatter, interest, awards and wide recognition, such as Howe, Susan has...whilst Wendy Howe, is the emily dickinson parallel, and below is her six point composition poetic..
~
*Thank you so much for the time and consideration you
have invested in reading and contemplating my poetry.
I was very touched by the beautiful poem you write
about my verse on your Blog site. What lovely words
and imagery.
And I am most grateful for you bringing
my work to the attention of others, especially other
blog sites and some editors. I am a very modest person
who feels that my poetry has substantial, artistic
merit; Yet, I am always striving to perfect and hone
my skills. It's an on-going process and my poetry
(writing styles, voice, technique) evolves as I evolve
intellectually and spiritually.
....your courage in journeying to Ireland to become a full time poet: I
think takes a lot of determination and love of the craft, itself.
Ireland is a place that inspires and fosters poets and their work. I think
it draws people to its artistic and scenic climate because of the
myth, the song, and the struggle that has defined the history of Ireland.
Perhaps, that's why poets may be able to thrive in Dublin and receive the
audience, respect and recognition they deserve.*
(obviously wendy doesn't practice in the warm pool of crocodiles, as JP Dunleavy
terms it here)
*You asked me about technique or a method of sanity to
my writing. I have been composing poetry for over 27
years. Presently, I am 42. I started writing verse in
my early adolescence. At that point, it was all about
me and my struggle to understand life and my place in
the universe. However, as I aged and became a
teacher and mature poet, I developed some values that
have always guided my work and defined its thematic
essence.
(1) I always write with the reader or the observer in
mind. I try to make my images, my allusions and my
messages accessible to people's sense of familiarity.
In other words, I strive to employ words, metaphors
and ideas that people have experienced or encountered
in everyday life. For example, I would not use
references to tv shows, personalities, brand names
that are typically American and only understood by an
American audience. I want to be understood by all readers.
(2) I try never to weigh down my sentences with
multisyllabic words. I simplify my verse and use the
smaller words. Also, I avoid placing too many modifiers
in front of my nouns. Too many adjectives clutter the idea,
take away from the clean lines of the poetic symmetry.
(3) I always wait for inspiration to come to me
randomly. A poem (for me) must happen spontaneously
or it sounds too contrived. I go through periods of writer's
block because of this concept but it's worth waiting
for a good idea to come in the end.
(4) Sometimes, a glimpse of nature, a scrap of conversation
with a friend, a headline in the newspaper or reading
another line from a poem, sparks an idea, an image.
I always write these quick flashes of inspiration down
in a notebook. They can be developed into poems sometime
in the future.
(5) I am not afraid to leave a poem unfinished.
Sometimes I will start a poem and struggle with it for
days. At this point, I leave it and come back when I
feel I am equipped to complete it. And by length of
abandonment, I mean anywhere from a week to even a
year. There are three poems I have left up in the air
for a year each and then returned in another year to
complete them. Some people say how can this be done
when the writer loses her continuity of thought or
original intent over a prolonged absence from the text.
I feel the poet can bring new perspective and insight
especially if he or she has been away from the
troublesome verse for awhile. A break always gives
the mind a chance to rest and re-invests its frame of
reference with new energy and stimuli. Those traits
can help to re-shape a half-finished poem and perhaps,
lead it in a stronger direction.
(6) Always trust your gut instincts and imagination. I
have learned to be myself and trust what sounds right
to me. After all who knows my own self or thought
process better than I do.
I am sorry if this sounds too didactic but I tend to
define my methods in list form. And yet, I must say
have no perfect or set formula for writing a poem. I
mostly follow an idea and develop it into a storyline
or an observation.
I always try to keep my details and images unified. If I start with sea
imagery, I stay within that context. If I use a bird, fire or water as my
main source of meaning, my images and actions feed of that idea. I also
love history and often find creative inspiration in the situations and
challenges of people who faced great adversity or achieved something of
worth in the past. It's hard to define how I write but I work at it with
perseverance and imaginative diversity.
Below are two links that describe my poetic working habits better. The first
is an in...
----
Well, for now I have rambled on far too long. Again,
Kevin, thank you so much for all your enthusiasm and
kindness. I deeply appreciate it. I hope I have
answered your question about my writing habits to a
satisfactory degree. You know it's difficult for
writers, artists or even musicians I think to define
their own work and the impact it has. At least, it's
difficult for me and I probably should not speak for
anyone else.
I do have to run but hope this has helped you
understand my technique as a writer and my approach to
poetry. And I agree, Baraka is stunning. His work is
intense and powerful. I came across him in graduate
school and found his work riveting and unique. I
enjoyed reading that link to the interview. Thanks for
sharing it.
Best regards
Wendy
~
this is a link to two of her poems
a mice slate ard ri: literary dogging and BB
Hacks being appalled at the Taste their rivals display, was de rigeur online last week, and guardian books bloke editor...brave chief literary dogger Claire Armistead, a deluded mother of two, gave a heartfelt plea and plammy dressing down to all the anonymous ppl who say appalling things, trying to convince this misty fictional bunch paranoia creates, to change their ways, and stop saying stuff they
...know in their heart of hearts they shouldn't"
her neo communist convictions and brave handling of a persecution complex, affiliating in plastic tenors with -- what used to be called -- the working Class: and this is the dizzy moo'er and intellectual demonstrating her tragically genuine proofs of not being the brightest; not like yah..like if
"you're a number on a Home Office deportation list it isn't. Not if you're waiting to be allocated a council house." like me yah, or rather, my cleaner who i am basing my next volume of poems around, speaking, if not her voice, using the experience of being privileged enough to have Magztanyah working for me...and when i say working, that makes it sound as if i am a typical lower to mid middle Class, status, pecking order, rep, slot and Honour, award, prize, Judge obsessed grader of others not *we* Royal wannabes more than creative writer, and mother expectant of bauble, cbe, and oh, not having any real exciting mental activity going on in my own head, go for the second hand approach, of speaking up on behalf of the oppressed people, for you my Public audience.
Before i started working on the blokes bog, in sacred pooh HQ, for the GU lagtic federation of untalented fabstazi broods of foaming vixens, who speak up on behalf of they who need humanitarian and civilising verbal assistance in order to make me feel good about myself -- in the absence of real Intellectual fireworks and any long term Poetic critical construction, framework on, from and within which a writer can pontificate, appalled at the Taste of others...
...recently Armistead revealed she targeted an anonymous writer who contributed to an in house (failed) publication on the hell of being a mum to teenagers, by checking what info she had against maps of and narrowing down the mother of nightmare teens the Guardian love to fpcus on so the leader writers can strike the fuax marxist pose in print, detach for a day of ranting the world to rights...and the literary editor armistead, set about trying to physically locate her, wanting only to speak to this total stranger (who it turned out had made up her diary, sensationalised her account) face to face...which in another context, fellow doggers at the lamp post, can contextualise, as stalking -- appallingly tacky and seemingly ignorant of all irony her Taste displays --- and with no fundamental grasp of reality, this trash lit bore's never gonna staple on...i fear.
Read yah, her type of finkin, their commentator's truth, adepts in a Higher intellectual Artistic stazi of disgruntled rich idlers,
"..you know, it is all very well and good ranting, on what one perceives as injustices -- in the case of this lightweight thinker's immensely convoluted metaphors reliant on ephemeral knowledge of fleeting pointless fellow colleague-ranters' names, pointless fellow shoe ins on the bb, from common room to idle dogging on the blogg, as part of a brave new deluded class of pretend Intellectuals, who are only truly interesting, when not competing in the good aul jolly dogging.
Shirley Dent, Toynbee, Fiona Looney, Carol Malone, Anne Robinson, Hell Clinton, all Woman i do not need to read to know, are overpaid gobs spouting negative bollix, and after yrs of daily practice telling their silent void what is good for it, the polly Public which exists in one hack head alone, and prior to the net, not a voice of reason, but a singular human being, with an opinion on everything, often vicious, like the two H's younger and elder, both horrid, whingey gits, what do they do? are they fortune tellers, what's their track record as a prophet?
Public, thats Us ppl, each Unique and the gift of the net, one can learn in a way unique and in which one need not sacrifice the s/he principle, that We are all single Minds, alone and it is Hope which leads to optimism, which leads to confidence, which leads to belief, freedom democracy, all the Good civilisation...
...but ranting away as this, is a self fulfilling prophecy. If a writer only ever moans in print, after a few yrs, well, peter hitch, any number of vicious vixens, the Malones, the horrid totally bad natured cackler in the irish (yah) daily Mail whose mugshot alone tells us she revels in being a vicious, trully disgruntled professional Mum, dogging trash lit Opinion, bunches of ppl who all have good jobs that pay very well and take expensive jaunts, travel around the place in nice motors, and moan about everything in their life..
i live in a bedsit and am very very happy, on state bens, and i do not moan with the bile and bitterness these broomstick users hagging in print do...it's dead easy, write unhappy, stay unhappy, write happy, get happier until you are so far above the whiner/s one can but dance in comedic light and Human warmth, the quality s/he can aim for, as equal as s/he can go for the absence of it, fifty fifty, our Will controls what appears in print and if it is always about how Bad the world is coz some middle aged looks obsessed dreary Woman as professional construct
s/he trapped in female flesh, rants how some millionaire younger rival in the physical appearance dept, should be gassed and tortured for setting the wrong example to the bitter old bags parish of *young* ppl, as if s/he the Looney, Fiona doing all but showing her nickers and stripping off in rage, is the worlds foremost expert on everything from celebrity shopping and regular first class travel and holidaying advice, to going totally green in that particular kind of hack way, which says, do as i say, not as i do, as i am more humanly Important than ooh yah you, graded intellectually by an overpaid droning blokey pro career Woman in psychic drag...
utter trolls,
gra agus Pax dans siochainn
...know in their heart of hearts they shouldn't"
her neo communist convictions and brave handling of a persecution complex, affiliating in plastic tenors with -- what used to be called -- the working Class: and this is the dizzy moo'er and intellectual demonstrating her tragically genuine proofs of not being the brightest; not like yah..like if
"you're a number on a Home Office deportation list it isn't. Not if you're waiting to be allocated a council house." like me yah, or rather, my cleaner who i am basing my next volume of poems around, speaking, if not her voice, using the experience of being privileged enough to have Magztanyah working for me...and when i say working, that makes it sound as if i am a typical lower to mid middle Class, status, pecking order, rep, slot and Honour, award, prize, Judge obsessed grader of others not *we* Royal wannabes more than creative writer, and mother expectant of bauble, cbe, and oh, not having any real exciting mental activity going on in my own head, go for the second hand approach, of speaking up on behalf of the oppressed people, for you my Public audience.
Before i started working on the blokes bog, in sacred pooh HQ, for the GU lagtic federation of untalented fabstazi broods of foaming vixens, who speak up on behalf of they who need humanitarian and civilising verbal assistance in order to make me feel good about myself -- in the absence of real Intellectual fireworks and any long term Poetic critical construction, framework on, from and within which a writer can pontificate, appalled at the Taste of others...
...recently Armistead revealed she targeted an anonymous writer who contributed to an in house (failed) publication on the hell of being a mum to teenagers, by checking what info she had against maps of and narrowing down the mother of nightmare teens the Guardian love to fpcus on so the leader writers can strike the fuax marxist pose in print, detach for a day of ranting the world to rights...and the literary editor armistead, set about trying to physically locate her, wanting only to speak to this total stranger (who it turned out had made up her diary, sensationalised her account) face to face...which in another context, fellow doggers at the lamp post, can contextualise, as stalking -- appallingly tacky and seemingly ignorant of all irony her Taste displays --- and with no fundamental grasp of reality, this trash lit bore's never gonna staple on...i fear.
Read yah, her type of finkin, their commentator's truth, adepts in a Higher intellectual Artistic stazi of disgruntled rich idlers,
"..you know, it is all very well and good ranting, on what one perceives as injustices -- in the case of this lightweight thinker's immensely convoluted metaphors reliant on ephemeral knowledge of fleeting pointless fellow colleague-ranters' names, pointless fellow shoe ins on the bb, from common room to idle dogging on the blogg, as part of a brave new deluded class of pretend Intellectuals, who are only truly interesting, when not competing in the good aul jolly dogging.
Shirley Dent, Toynbee, Fiona Looney, Carol Malone, Anne Robinson, Hell Clinton, all Woman i do not need to read to know, are overpaid gobs spouting negative bollix, and after yrs of daily practice telling their silent void what is good for it, the polly Public which exists in one hack head alone, and prior to the net, not a voice of reason, but a singular human being, with an opinion on everything, often vicious, like the two H's younger and elder, both horrid, whingey gits, what do they do? are they fortune tellers, what's their track record as a prophet?
Public, thats Us ppl, each Unique and the gift of the net, one can learn in a way unique and in which one need not sacrifice the s/he principle, that We are all single Minds, alone and it is Hope which leads to optimism, which leads to confidence, which leads to belief, freedom democracy, all the Good civilisation...
...but ranting away as this, is a self fulfilling prophecy. If a writer only ever moans in print, after a few yrs, well, peter hitch, any number of vicious vixens, the Malones, the horrid totally bad natured cackler in the irish (yah) daily Mail whose mugshot alone tells us she revels in being a vicious, trully disgruntled professional Mum, dogging trash lit Opinion, bunches of ppl who all have good jobs that pay very well and take expensive jaunts, travel around the place in nice motors, and moan about everything in their life..
i live in a bedsit and am very very happy, on state bens, and i do not moan with the bile and bitterness these broomstick users hagging in print do...it's dead easy, write unhappy, stay unhappy, write happy, get happier until you are so far above the whiner/s one can but dance in comedic light and Human warmth, the quality s/he can aim for, as equal as s/he can go for the absence of it, fifty fifty, our Will controls what appears in print and if it is always about how Bad the world is coz some middle aged looks obsessed dreary Woman as professional construct
s/he trapped in female flesh, rants how some millionaire younger rival in the physical appearance dept, should be gassed and tortured for setting the wrong example to the bitter old bags parish of *young* ppl, as if s/he the Looney, Fiona doing all but showing her nickers and stripping off in rage, is the worlds foremost expert on everything from celebrity shopping and regular first class travel and holidaying advice, to going totally green in that particular kind of hack way, which says, do as i say, not as i do, as i am more humanly Important than ooh yah you, graded intellectually by an overpaid droning blokey pro career Woman in psychic drag...
utter trolls,
gra agus Pax dans siochainn
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Hell Joan DNA
Blood and the Moon
---
Blessed be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A bloody, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
Half dead at the top.
~
This is the opening part I of VI in the fifth poem of a 1933 volume: The Winding Stair and Other Poems, by the daddy of the lot, mister BY liam of the ancient race of mask made oath bound guild citizens of a sacred and profane that comes from our s/he of the me and U2, the Mind -- all of us, bono fawns gamboling through Time: *rhyming and timing* -- as founding godfather slam poet from the unique Mulligan school of Marty: marty muligan from Mullingar, puts the biz of being Live at work.
The three other parts, are an eloquent rant about how the then contemporary poets of the Yeat's generation, were -- half dead at the top -- and pine for a totally fictitious state from this noted sidhe seeker, mister BY doing the faeries' work.
~
When he wrote it, he was in his last decade of life, and a lifetime of mystical exploration and self-making on the supernatural plane/s where he sought for evidence of God, had been distilled into his book, *The Vision*, in which the learning of 50 yrs had been decanted.
Liam Yeats was the son of a man whose own father was a priest, and who trained as a barrister before opting to go with his heart, Painting.
He rebelled against his own father (wby's grandad), rejecting the absolutism Men of the cloth often preach, and though he was not commercially successful, he was happier painting than prosecuting and defending for far more cash than his creative Self could compete with.
So mister Yeats's himself was reared by a man who'd rebelled against his own upbringing by a priest; and thus - if John Yeats's, the father of by far our most bardic trained of all 20C poet's - if his own father couldn't persuade him the god of the church of ireland was all around us, this indicates ...what?
~
Liam Y: was just a mad head who wasn't messing about his faery lover/s -- the sidhe of s/he in you, me, everybody, the Mind, intelligence, we all have one, and no one is better than any other, we are all human first, the rest is just speculation, conjecture and conversation positing theories whose Truth cannot be ascertained, as the truth is, s/he is all around us in the airs of John B and a keen goodness in the faeries of Yeats contemplation,
..golden dawn initiate who made their own masque and knew what manque scop plastic tank tops, went abba fabtastic in the wholly here and yah...yah, R culture, Concrete poetry, it is according to Liam slotting in triskle and triad --- The wisdom of Trinities and tuatha de danann ghosts, sidhe troop hosts and shadows in caves drawing fear from the natives loving Fodhla within their spiritual culture bestowed by the s/he of a unique pool of ppl, expressing the individuals right to believe in whatever God/s spiritual exploration leads a faith to found itself
upon... oh yah..never will the ship of Majesty steer to mister Stearns like boors, plastic English ppl's devoid of Life idea of hell, the s/he of a tic toc mocking veneer at high alters of the faith unworked, natural not, no sidhe in the you of me Us and at you 2, yah --- again..
the highest lingo bearla filidh singing, s/he and We the poet ppl sing in, our Mind the goddess queen of memory, two state/s of you, us, we and them a minority in the geo-physical theatre/s of State and Mind/s, suffrage and masons, worn leathered tan light weathered in orange glow, their capo drawn shades an eye, balding gentlemen, large bloke/s bashing for cash: comment is free in the Union of one another, our dream of unity, of being top con, only the poetical space between each moment to moment sequentially passing from the here to then: tells of what oath bound sworn Lovers of the sidhe there know of Abraham, Amergin and Don's triad, Eber and Eremon, four of twenty four bro's: took it from Pythagorean druids of the Tuatha De Danann..
...all unreal, unknown human connection to God states of mind man makes to justify penal rhetoric: for the punishing of native/s being themself...God around all on the planet differs from place to place, the Earth itself one stone holding all the waves of time and occurence that ever broke, washed lightly in Brython or bullying tudor english, the era of english linguistic Genius, and periods of bloodletting -- shelter, and One light after the last collaps of a European empire stacked with expensively educated and well payed leaders of a two speed trough. The Irish saints and scholars untouched by imperial cons not Connacta, Uliad nor An Mhuman.
And the scapegoaters wanting to blame us, for what? a Truth being happier, clever and eloquent rather than angry, ranting and really, moan in print and stay unhappy, outface the position of the protagonist opposite andenjoy distilling higher proofs of clear reason, poetry, what is it good for, absolutely nothing but to be remembered after the authors have signed off inhaling the air that powers verbal objects of eloquent beauty, a biographical score card of full honest innings, no bending to the faux cheps and gels, in our memory..
And it matters not if we are stephen Hawkings or GW deniers loving mister B's wars for all the nightly reasons of feeling safe with an Image, a mask and imagination, the wit to use it for the sidhe gods and Noh theatrical traditions, which never surrender to plassies without real bhard training..
gra agus siochainn..
---
Blessed be this place,
More blessed still this tower;
A bloody, arrogant power
Rose out of the race
Uttering, mastering it,
Rose like these walls from these
Storm-beaten cottages --
In mockery I have set
A powerful emblem up,
And sing it rhyme upon rhyme
In mockery of a time
Half dead at the top.
~
This is the opening part I of VI in the fifth poem of a 1933 volume: The Winding Stair and Other Poems, by the daddy of the lot, mister BY liam of the ancient race of mask made oath bound guild citizens of a sacred and profane that comes from our s/he of the me and U2, the Mind -- all of us, bono fawns gamboling through Time: *rhyming and timing* -- as founding godfather slam poet from the unique Mulligan school of Marty: marty muligan from Mullingar, puts the biz of being Live at work.
The three other parts, are an eloquent rant about how the then contemporary poets of the Yeat's generation, were -- half dead at the top -- and pine for a totally fictitious state from this noted sidhe seeker, mister BY doing the faeries' work.
~
When he wrote it, he was in his last decade of life, and a lifetime of mystical exploration and self-making on the supernatural plane/s where he sought for evidence of God, had been distilled into his book, *The Vision*, in which the learning of 50 yrs had been decanted.
Liam Yeats was the son of a man whose own father was a priest, and who trained as a barrister before opting to go with his heart, Painting.
He rebelled against his own father (wby's grandad), rejecting the absolutism Men of the cloth often preach, and though he was not commercially successful, he was happier painting than prosecuting and defending for far more cash than his creative Self could compete with.
So mister Yeats's himself was reared by a man who'd rebelled against his own upbringing by a priest; and thus - if John Yeats's, the father of by far our most bardic trained of all 20C poet's - if his own father couldn't persuade him the god of the church of ireland was all around us, this indicates ...what?
~
Liam Y: was just a mad head who wasn't messing about his faery lover/s -- the sidhe of s/he in you, me, everybody, the Mind, intelligence, we all have one, and no one is better than any other, we are all human first, the rest is just speculation, conjecture and conversation positing theories whose Truth cannot be ascertained, as the truth is, s/he is all around us in the airs of John B and a keen goodness in the faeries of Yeats contemplation,
..golden dawn initiate who made their own masque and knew what manque scop plastic tank tops, went abba fabtastic in the wholly here and yah...yah, R culture, Concrete poetry, it is according to Liam slotting in triskle and triad --- The wisdom of Trinities and tuatha de danann ghosts, sidhe troop hosts and shadows in caves drawing fear from the natives loving Fodhla within their spiritual culture bestowed by the s/he of a unique pool of ppl, expressing the individuals right to believe in whatever God/s spiritual exploration leads a faith to found itself
upon... oh yah..never will the ship of Majesty steer to mister Stearns like boors, plastic English ppl's devoid of Life idea of hell, the s/he of a tic toc mocking veneer at high alters of the faith unworked, natural not, no sidhe in the you of me Us and at you 2, yah --- again..
the highest lingo bearla filidh singing, s/he and We the poet ppl sing in, our Mind the goddess queen of memory, two state/s of you, us, we and them a minority in the geo-physical theatre/s of State and Mind/s, suffrage and masons, worn leathered tan light weathered in orange glow, their capo drawn shades an eye, balding gentlemen, large bloke/s bashing for cash: comment is free in the Union of one another, our dream of unity, of being top con, only the poetical space between each moment to moment sequentially passing from the here to then: tells of what oath bound sworn Lovers of the sidhe there know of Abraham, Amergin and Don's triad, Eber and Eremon, four of twenty four bro's: took it from Pythagorean druids of the Tuatha De Danann..
...all unreal, unknown human connection to God states of mind man makes to justify penal rhetoric: for the punishing of native/s being themself...God around all on the planet differs from place to place, the Earth itself one stone holding all the waves of time and occurence that ever broke, washed lightly in Brython or bullying tudor english, the era of english linguistic Genius, and periods of bloodletting -- shelter, and One light after the last collaps of a European empire stacked with expensively educated and well payed leaders of a two speed trough. The Irish saints and scholars untouched by imperial cons not Connacta, Uliad nor An Mhuman.
And the scapegoaters wanting to blame us, for what? a Truth being happier, clever and eloquent rather than angry, ranting and really, moan in print and stay unhappy, outface the position of the protagonist opposite andenjoy distilling higher proofs of clear reason, poetry, what is it good for, absolutely nothing but to be remembered after the authors have signed off inhaling the air that powers verbal objects of eloquent beauty, a biographical score card of full honest innings, no bending to the faux cheps and gels, in our memory..
And it matters not if we are stephen Hawkings or GW deniers loving mister B's wars for all the nightly reasons of feeling safe with an Image, a mask and imagination, the wit to use it for the sidhe gods and Noh theatrical traditions, which never surrender to plassies without real bhard training..
gra agus siochainn..
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Yewah
At the core of this blog, is a very perplexing question, asked in a language that challenges any potential responder to the full.
If the person holding strong faith in God, wishing to share it here; how far could they articulate before their religious views were deemed too dangerous for the reader/s?
Is it possible to speak of God in all but the most superficial sense online?
~
I have donned the name of God, in order to assist in the search for greater coherency on this eternal psychological state.
Some say now, God is dead, that we are just a collection of flesh, blood and bone and consciousness a bio-technical electrical state, pointing to the metaphor of the computer.
The material state of our body itself, based on a binary system of directional logic that progresses forward, through either-or gates, and a brain itself, the Intelligence where woman is man and vice versa, fifty fifty: the Mind god edging toward artificial intelligence, programmed by our own natural, cosmic, God given one.
Thus, if a person from 1500, through some glitch in the fabric of time and eternity, through unknown reasons of how, ended up 508 years ahead in the future, wandering down the Strand in central London, or times square NY say: surely they would believe the very devils of magic were all around them, and throwing him or herself into a state of total mental disintegration perhaps, begging God to make it all stop.
How could one begin to explain that the moving pictures drenching them, surrounding the natives, unaware of how the tv and advertising Images control our behavior and all but living ghosts to the Tudor time traveler, whose mind would need more than a lifetime to make purchase on the realities behind these, are simple, plain truths of the physical IT world.
One in which IT defines us, a society reliant on information and quantum technologies and which would collapse as the time traveler's Mind, in their tentative first exploration into this, lets face it, almost as to be effectively, unanswerable conundrum on the reality of God.
And in the opposite direction, if we were to enter a lift in the Pentagon, and exiting find ourself in 1500, facing a placid Piscataway tribe citizen, 146 years behind the first imperial proprietor of the District of Columbia, Cecilius Calvert, --- private owner of a stretch of real estate inhabited for thousands of yrs the English king Charles one, decided to allow call be Maryland (as a colony for catholics, currently under the spiritual squeeze from puritans, quakers and trad prodestant faiths) --- and knowing the only chance of taking it single handedly is to whip out the gizmos and gadgets that are part and parcel of global existence today, the locals would consider them magical objects; not the simple logical things they are.
Faith.
i think this is the basis of the fabric of reality, and God is like the binary state/s, of being a singular duality, something which is alone and with its opposite, both at once. A time dependent state of continual choices, either or, at all levels of life. From molecular to global, from the emptiest of heads filled only with hate, mass murders on the hands, conscience, both or none, maybe i am over reaching, after all, this is only a simple blog piece and not the object for one's deepest musings in print, on the subject of God.
God, in the few religions i know very little of, it seems, is a state of being, an order of fate, which the believers know through the words of the men (it was 99% men) who God spoke directly to, telling them to write down whatever it was they did; just like God is talking to me (only joking) ....prophets or charlatans, it doesn't really matter now, as the exact texts the many religions are founded on, are more weapons in games of rhetoric between interested parties, concerned enough to bring us the words of whatever God they claim to speak for, the one true one, naturally.
~
We are told by the publically religious, what God wants us to do and why, with varying degrees in the sincerity of belief, depending on what impulses a preacher to talk, usually a lot and at length, in their vocational career of spreading a Word via spiritual tenets of the God they claim to speak for.
Love and peace
traditionally.
If the person holding strong faith in God, wishing to share it here; how far could they articulate before their religious views were deemed too dangerous for the reader/s?
Is it possible to speak of God in all but the most superficial sense online?
~
I have donned the name of God, in order to assist in the search for greater coherency on this eternal psychological state.
Some say now, God is dead, that we are just a collection of flesh, blood and bone and consciousness a bio-technical electrical state, pointing to the metaphor of the computer.
The material state of our body itself, based on a binary system of directional logic that progresses forward, through either-or gates, and a brain itself, the Intelligence where woman is man and vice versa, fifty fifty: the Mind god edging toward artificial intelligence, programmed by our own natural, cosmic, God given one.
Thus, if a person from 1500, through some glitch in the fabric of time and eternity, through unknown reasons of how, ended up 508 years ahead in the future, wandering down the Strand in central London, or times square NY say: surely they would believe the very devils of magic were all around them, and throwing him or herself into a state of total mental disintegration perhaps, begging God to make it all stop.
How could one begin to explain that the moving pictures drenching them, surrounding the natives, unaware of how the tv and advertising Images control our behavior and all but living ghosts to the Tudor time traveler, whose mind would need more than a lifetime to make purchase on the realities behind these, are simple, plain truths of the physical IT world.
One in which IT defines us, a society reliant on information and quantum technologies and which would collapse as the time traveler's Mind, in their tentative first exploration into this, lets face it, almost as to be effectively, unanswerable conundrum on the reality of God.
And in the opposite direction, if we were to enter a lift in the Pentagon, and exiting find ourself in 1500, facing a placid Piscataway tribe citizen, 146 years behind the first imperial proprietor of the District of Columbia, Cecilius Calvert, --- private owner of a stretch of real estate inhabited for thousands of yrs the English king Charles one, decided to allow call be Maryland (as a colony for catholics, currently under the spiritual squeeze from puritans, quakers and trad prodestant faiths) --- and knowing the only chance of taking it single handedly is to whip out the gizmos and gadgets that are part and parcel of global existence today, the locals would consider them magical objects; not the simple logical things they are.
Faith.
i think this is the basis of the fabric of reality, and God is like the binary state/s, of being a singular duality, something which is alone and with its opposite, both at once. A time dependent state of continual choices, either or, at all levels of life. From molecular to global, from the emptiest of heads filled only with hate, mass murders on the hands, conscience, both or none, maybe i am over reaching, after all, this is only a simple blog piece and not the object for one's deepest musings in print, on the subject of God.
God, in the few religions i know very little of, it seems, is a state of being, an order of fate, which the believers know through the words of the men (it was 99% men) who God spoke directly to, telling them to write down whatever it was they did; just like God is talking to me (only joking) ....prophets or charlatans, it doesn't really matter now, as the exact texts the many religions are founded on, are more weapons in games of rhetoric between interested parties, concerned enough to bring us the words of whatever God they claim to speak for, the one true one, naturally.
~
We are told by the publically religious, what God wants us to do and why, with varying degrees in the sincerity of belief, depending on what impulses a preacher to talk, usually a lot and at length, in their vocational career of spreading a Word via spiritual tenets of the God they claim to speak for.
Love and peace
traditionally.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Even non-bardic heads buried sand-like and ignorant - the straw wo/men of our bunch - stubbornly count time within; spell a game between what was behind, in front and yet to come, somewhere between these three states of imagination, where a truth of letters and two linguistic realities lie.
Few aware of the filidh/poets tradition -- though all filidh when bardcraft was practiced -- know as solidly as do not the hordes of contemporary practitioners, the fully nuanced particulars of this ancient verbal craft.
The twelve hundred centuries in which the art of this tradition existed in print, composed by numberless bardic poets whose base level of training (in comparison to today) is - to all but a handful - entirely unknown; contain keys to unlocking this fascinating verbal system, based on a sophisticated, intuited set of principles divined by speculatively casting into mirrored pools, for a poetic knowledge, returned via reflecting the essence of reality, in textual attempts which bear the imprimatur of oneself.
Communicating effectively in print and person on bardic matters, is a complex and entirely speculative discourse from which we lead ourself into a unique web of self-made literate sensibility and process, with which the poet practices blind - in effect - attempting to mark out his and her datums, constructing what level plane s/he can project onto, slowly at first, the stuff of our mental doings, and if lucky, decant some real strain of ourself into verse, on a printed page
But before we have our plane a sheened smooth surface of reflection at the well of Self, musing on whatever our instinct lead us to, we must first launch headlong into the unknown, as a total fraud, imitating what fake it is we think we should be to enter a fictional citadel of Literature and literacy an absence of intellectual self-worth and paranoia creates.
At first we are fearful of a poetic grading device imagined others calibrate our minuscule measure of natural ability with. And devoid of experience, we look to the mind/s of these imagined others constructed from a questioning, self-testing force within, and our placebo-hacker against whom one pits and measures what it is we do, forms before us.
Failure on a grander scale than what amounts to the imagined rival/s who puncture our dream and rent one's confidence asunder. The practicing cynics whose game is donning a clever mask of poet troll manqué, devoted to issuing solemn, sombre sermons in tones of high gravitas and hieratic airs woven to bluff the poorer scholar/s with a sharper wit.
Adopt a pose in which the pretended position -- that intellectual inheritance is a question of birth and not the democratic application -- advocates our intelligence and the imagination, creating with instinct alone, print in this ultra-conservative tradition of druidic precedent and principles ordered by a society's entirely civil legal system, in a way even our most skillful would need several lifetimes to fully crack and understand, in the original and ultimate impulsing idiolect and pattern of things our sworn source adheres upon.
Few contemporary poets emerge from this tradition (ultimately rooting in the Ogham alphabet), to reconnect and practice the somewhat incomprehensible rules which - for all but a few members in the guild - appear odd and illogical.
The writers ludicrously attached to this form -- offering scant return to our lovers and trolls competing in the contemporary quick thrust poetic tank of virtual bruisers (on the surface) -- attempt to compose a plea wrought wholly from love, measuring our progress in the challenge-of-self-against Self, yielding in a demonstrable process whose charted arc of knowledge, in a hopefully straightforward and logical narrative; course into the pave of forms and potential proofs proven (or in a state of proving) speculatively - to oneself - and provide perceptions within that convey one's inner-provincial strain to the exterior, universal audience, in the sense of one's poetic sounding the manner of our own essential note.
The rhyming period of always fifty 50 splits, eternity's second minute, hour ad infintum makes until re-waking, births again in any measure the key intelligence time creates, armed with only forgotten doors into modernism of yore today and now; beacons the tomorrow of our collective will our thought being in the fabric reality, can spell...
Few aware of the filidh/poets tradition -- though all filidh when bardcraft was practiced -- know as solidly as do not the hordes of contemporary practitioners, the fully nuanced particulars of this ancient verbal craft.
The twelve hundred centuries in which the art of this tradition existed in print, composed by numberless bardic poets whose base level of training (in comparison to today) is - to all but a handful - entirely unknown; contain keys to unlocking this fascinating verbal system, based on a sophisticated, intuited set of principles divined by speculatively casting into mirrored pools, for a poetic knowledge, returned via reflecting the essence of reality, in textual attempts which bear the imprimatur of oneself.
Communicating effectively in print and person on bardic matters, is a complex and entirely speculative discourse from which we lead ourself into a unique web of self-made literate sensibility and process, with which the poet practices blind - in effect - attempting to mark out his and her datums, constructing what level plane s/he can project onto, slowly at first, the stuff of our mental doings, and if lucky, decant some real strain of ourself into verse, on a printed page
But before we have our plane a sheened smooth surface of reflection at the well of Self, musing on whatever our instinct lead us to, we must first launch headlong into the unknown, as a total fraud, imitating what fake it is we think we should be to enter a fictional citadel of Literature and literacy an absence of intellectual self-worth and paranoia creates.
At first we are fearful of a poetic grading device imagined others calibrate our minuscule measure of natural ability with. And devoid of experience, we look to the mind/s of these imagined others constructed from a questioning, self-testing force within, and our placebo-hacker against whom one pits and measures what it is we do, forms before us.
Failure on a grander scale than what amounts to the imagined rival/s who puncture our dream and rent one's confidence asunder. The practicing cynics whose game is donning a clever mask of poet troll manqué, devoted to issuing solemn, sombre sermons in tones of high gravitas and hieratic airs woven to bluff the poorer scholar/s with a sharper wit.
Adopt a pose in which the pretended position -- that intellectual inheritance is a question of birth and not the democratic application -- advocates our intelligence and the imagination, creating with instinct alone, print in this ultra-conservative tradition of druidic precedent and principles ordered by a society's entirely civil legal system, in a way even our most skillful would need several lifetimes to fully crack and understand, in the original and ultimate impulsing idiolect and pattern of things our sworn source adheres upon.
Few contemporary poets emerge from this tradition (ultimately rooting in the Ogham alphabet), to reconnect and practice the somewhat incomprehensible rules which - for all but a few members in the guild - appear odd and illogical.
The writers ludicrously attached to this form -- offering scant return to our lovers and trolls competing in the contemporary quick thrust poetic tank of virtual bruisers (on the surface) -- attempt to compose a plea wrought wholly from love, measuring our progress in the challenge-of-self-against Self, yielding in a demonstrable process whose charted arc of knowledge, in a hopefully straightforward and logical narrative; course into the pave of forms and potential proofs proven (or in a state of proving) speculatively - to oneself - and provide perceptions within that convey one's inner-provincial strain to the exterior, universal audience, in the sense of one's poetic sounding the manner of our own essential note.
The rhyming period of always fifty 50 splits, eternity's second minute, hour ad infintum makes until re-waking, births again in any measure the key intelligence time creates, armed with only forgotten doors into modernism of yore today and now; beacons the tomorrow of our collective will our thought being in the fabric reality, can spell...
Trams heaving up West Street. The extra weight of an ice-cream
Bank Holiday and flecks of blood
Bubbling from the night before
Like some petulant brolly-less kid
Caught in a downpour, stalling
Invisibly at the Swim Inn awning
A bus door opened as the breeze
Hurried past and began to move
At last again the sudden fleeing
Head against a single pulsing blur
Quick begins to move and traffic
Against the shop window glass
Streaming past into distant streets
Like rain sputtered routes, gathered
Watching spent under a step-rest
A sun pulling as the bus trundles
blessing a journey without ticket
Marlboro and the Zippo cloud
End round a cup, hands for cover.
Bank Holiday and flecks of blood
Bubbling from the night before
Like some petulant brolly-less kid
Caught in a downpour, stalling
Invisibly at the Swim Inn awning
A bus door opened as the breeze
Hurried past and began to move
At last again the sudden fleeing
Head against a single pulsing blur
Quick begins to move and traffic
Against the shop window glass
Streaming past into distant streets
Like rain sputtered routes, gathered
Watching spent under a step-rest
A sun pulling as the bus trundles
blessing a journey without ticket
Marlboro and the Zippo cloud
End round a cup, hands for cover.
Friday, May 09, 2008
S/he
A bardic return to ignorance - after a while in the woods hunting for clues to the poetic art - has left empty a scabbard-skein within, sheathing some analytical instrument which calibrates every step took as we make our way along whatever path life and love delivers us.
The nuts and bolts of language are…to paraphrase a secluded device upon which the finite balance resting hidden, staying even, remotely arranging the cross-wires fading meshed and one's connection to...
“An exterior source of four joys, whose cause is interior meaning”
...teasing itself out on the mirror within, delineating reflection/s and leading light to a singular template, armed with only the one, split to two halves; then held behind an object to replicate an infinite number spiraling back perhaps - or in a straight line; the glass tilted just so and an eye measured 'n smiling at the show of it - a shifting linguistic count of painting and picture, sifting through the invisible state.
Reality, half unreal, half a yearn for cash, and spirituality's guerdon, the recompense for effort poured into bringing before our eyes, a creative proof.
The he and she from cricket begat a cracked venture of crockery and two paths leading into neologism spun through the dream machine of sleep last night, and nights past, ever captured, in the most sensible of linguistic arithmetic experienced; dreaming just before sleep ended 'n consciousness calling; awoke wisdom of the vanishing-only trace of what remaining -- like a self made machine assembled by study and nature -- strung sophisticated and delivering keys to the divination which uncovers a core nut of knowledge, the artist of jumbled bunch letters, collapsed into a heap of meaningless phenome and verbal bites.
Whatever the rites to attainment the mind makes up, the god/s he and she (perhaps – perhaps not)
Shed empty and turned inside out
By a rational process of time
The play-pen and pal lapping around the borders of our own conundrum, puzzle of what is this 50/50, one to one ratio humanity forever builds the edifice he and she, all of us, each blade or leaf, stalk and stem, fish, fowl, plant and inanimate being, s/he the world itself a grain and globe on which animal man and woman; spool out doing whatever it is that fill our days..
Move away from the diatribes of bile and distress we visit on others in print, and seek to create stability of mind, the equilibrium and neutrality of thought a specter of the other/s mind raised to face our own, asked or unwanted interplay of stranger/s (never as cut and dried as the two sides think) coincidence and the naming of God.
The nuts and bolts of language are…to paraphrase a secluded device upon which the finite balance resting hidden, staying even, remotely arranging the cross-wires fading meshed and one's connection to...
“An exterior source of four joys, whose cause is interior meaning”
...teasing itself out on the mirror within, delineating reflection/s and leading light to a singular template, armed with only the one, split to two halves; then held behind an object to replicate an infinite number spiraling back perhaps - or in a straight line; the glass tilted just so and an eye measured 'n smiling at the show of it - a shifting linguistic count of painting and picture, sifting through the invisible state.
Reality, half unreal, half a yearn for cash, and spirituality's guerdon, the recompense for effort poured into bringing before our eyes, a creative proof.
The he and she from cricket begat a cracked venture of crockery and two paths leading into neologism spun through the dream machine of sleep last night, and nights past, ever captured, in the most sensible of linguistic arithmetic experienced; dreaming just before sleep ended 'n consciousness calling; awoke wisdom of the vanishing-only trace of what remaining -- like a self made machine assembled by study and nature -- strung sophisticated and delivering keys to the divination which uncovers a core nut of knowledge, the artist of jumbled bunch letters, collapsed into a heap of meaningless phenome and verbal bites.
Whatever the rites to attainment the mind makes up, the god/s he and she (perhaps – perhaps not)
Shed empty and turned inside out
By a rational process of time
The play-pen and pal lapping around the borders of our own conundrum, puzzle of what is this 50/50, one to one ratio humanity forever builds the edifice he and she, all of us, each blade or leaf, stalk and stem, fish, fowl, plant and inanimate being, s/he the world itself a grain and globe on which animal man and woman; spool out doing whatever it is that fill our days..
Some are lucky, others less so, many, not at all, but we who are literate and can read, afford to believe our life a burden for the vastness of choice; should try and touch the hem of god/s he and she.
Move away from the diatribes of bile and distress we visit on others in print, and seek to create stability of mind, the equilibrium and neutrality of thought a specter of the other/s mind raised to face our own, asked or unwanted interplay of stranger/s (never as cut and dried as the two sides think) coincidence and the naming of God.
Friday, May 02, 2008
Rustling farm dig sniff
utterly iambic, trochee
sea/s lipped and DG kip
L hair bee gad verily
it's wand, go'er open r
elm of a fictional pie
crawling to a science,
Bohm sear st. eve n's
nuts and bolts, believe
and thus, the knowing o
hems tune, see wy into
an Ogham alphabet, per
Oxcam and ford Un i-vers
it yoidelic Galphabet cl
assed telling Q-Celt, ohm
B L F(v)S N
H D T C Q
M G Ng(v)Z R.
A O U E I
...the strange sight above is a very boring area of re-search, yet very rewarding for the driven, addicted or plain person holding a some times tattered dream with which to cheer one's Leader/s he and she,
strange a yeats or ovid could come good when the bearla filidh sound came and drew a noo sé gower editorial proof/s of the (s) yah, in flue of a beh 'ad eel of some
....so the bearla filidh means...language of the poets. bearla language, filidh plural of fili -- poet -- quo raw sat ewe versing wonderfully X yiz ir landed bow, cohm, diddlee 'ed fools ghost/s here i jack klaxon liambical moon nee ow poetry id is the 50/50 question of whom one is 'n not the hilarity of free hugs and vacuous emoticohm, cool, doon does my mils ey yah pupil ranting at the rails of in-just ice, nawn warm blod fitz school of noo droll trolly throttling massive bulls on the oink for jippers, R 'otto-wailer soil under bumming thriambickle crace craw of summat aw rarver
Feda (let ter)
Y in the above sez
NY
GN
NG
what this meant was a bit complicated to the rayl ale king/s he and she prolled in yah ha ka ka kan not doo, they say
now over ovid, love a flue of images
.
The Ogham (Ohm) alphabet, written originally
along the centerline a star vid ever tically
bottom op pot pically yal gon a den oo stave
warked with am line central The consonantal
corresponding, fifteen letters, to letters
B.L.F(V).S.N.
H.D.T.C.Q.
M.G.Ng(Y).Z.R.
A.O.U.E.I.
diphthongs
AO.OI.UI.IO.AE.
originally consisted of 20 letters, as Q-Celtic Ogham, and later expanded to 25 per Macalister; Ogham ollamh and classic alphabet used by Goidels, on mainland Eu rope how i-grated from the alin and tos mout heast erritain, bout 200 ears priory tot, Gaul Belgic invasion/s introduced a revved up P-Celt, noo a ha ha ka ka klaxonic blakean eliotic rev of verb and re-heard, herded thralls and all welcome, dear readers, let the lead be roc tee h'alpha bet, come forv fourth century bc
(400 -- 600bc alphabet Brynmor-Jones and Rhys
F feda: voiced fricative
F stands for V, whereas
the double-letter FF
ands stfor het vuno iced
consonantal Ogham bet alf
irc as/is reserved pin
sever al-tones inscription
wound found North, in wail
South whale attack gossip
Wales totty tacked, racket
stacking completely island
Isle of Man, Scotland delic
i-ogam alphabet, the hoany
moo gossip rumour: Sun-face
alphabet as the reflection
rarver fetching blue print
pure unadulterated fun kid/s
playing in the chime, stage,
hooked on vidz, rhyming marn,
totally indo videz of roodz
'n feck full time future/s h
ah skill hUath ka ka kah shee
lamb contendor for a contrary
mob full of time custom airing
number consuming scam, life lap
yap ay pay up, lap at my pulpit
coz the planet of sea marn, sun
o'er and... like i know whorra
iamb actually feckin duz yah,
like am i effin rung and rit in
as in do cop me doc spook er, o'
er the directoary arl bored
sci-fi wattage Walt dear chap,
old chum, bummies, aint sin yiz,
fan the fat target/s he and she
lube roanin a rim and git fist
fingz King, ho ho ha ha, demon
strafe *you* whorl first, fore
most that is..ho hu ha no no,
erm, a flippin wummin, if yer
must noo, i came from outer
planetary rhyme zoos, crowded
overt rant and whinge-free peo
please, wonderfully in tune
chime and for the death of mils,
ta, sound lah, did yer sea,
swelling ebb and flowing tide,
natural the occurence if an eye
st. evens gets right as per cert
i aint a specific location, LA
say marhm, yoh, droodz, we lohmm
to Nem e-ton, a take your clothes
hands, wake up in a puddle, wake
up in a ruddy bluddy fight yah..
cozzer, coz 'as, coss o she were
hurin foh her moh 'n yah, suckin
sum one ooh dunt giv a foggy coz
thaze too biz like living dreams
readers, mates, the wen waze
will their be freedom to appear
deeper, in a shallow air, oh i
lurve the smell when i'm a troll
king wiv jamus, nowt fun is-as
missus doh, the failed clown,
and thus failing greaves
and breathing moves
to make beleive
eternally verse is lit living
by the ghost/s imilarity odds
for even/s and odd he and she
we, met in 'orn..
50/50 soh, pro the am iz ooh
we is yah, ow yay ow yah ooh
yum, heading off the folk move
away, ilk off moo, moany et tu
do, a comment is free pit of L
absent and the tallaght plague
ground like heath, the ghost
tipped comment, free is/as
it owned a while the strobe
on the waltzers, of course,
before the fictional science
cohm on 'n i escape into dead
droolidiotic ficker; trendy
the gaffes and gap gaps one
wore indoors, occasionaly,
as the nerdy type and have
known far more pointless bores
than my very failed safe self,
an utter outrageous person
practices exile and on DLA,
moany cash, yo ladeez, line
up and bendy boy, cohm, cohm
fecking cohm lard on Zen list
opined i am big and bickle
trochee the core fork off
the éigse star aged rant
of a PoF took one over the line,
and the whole edifice collapse,
due to one single provable point
of neo metrical significance
only officially interesting
squares who troll detached
and have mastered the mistress
Art thou me of feck off firing toe path
nah -- feck off the poetry stage, i am
a bore wiv a proven record of gerrin
talked a boot mah parish, which is all
noo, as i am justly making up, shh...it
is the result of a seven year one way
train of studious slog and now, i am
the worlds foremost AS stress is,
a living lore, as it was Merlin apppy,
my ate fair Sir making me suck and be
scum, until i tuv-waxy droll froogle
minded dozzers, but not you lam a score
ing ad lang raw choppings of it off WaR
WaR Oh what a horrid WaR, lurve, lurve,
Emit-o con the stupid English it's hit
hit and naw 500 yrs later, Kilcolman
cast le mown hay eye, yah, a dream
eight nomens, and fair playa at comment
s free, spinning loser-top, the failure
versed success; reverse in between toss
the airs of lying graces, spacey racy
fab, yer noo, intow letcher boo ho ho ho
ka ka kah..alphabetic addictional in-sane
brained to lurve Benders/s mate/s all
rarver, ooh fow sand dans le and dan eces,
poetry is the super natural decapitation,
of the final head in one today, F in sea,
English, that's me, Bohola, may o'er three
master sons, squat, able bothie dwellers,
in scarisbrick fields on the west lancs
dead eye plain straight spud, swede, beet
root muckers, mate/s he and she air through
the vwee leader/s and of gab, end of Fab?
utterly iambic, trochee
sea/s lipped and DG kip
L hair bee gad verily
it's wand, go'er open r
elm of a fictional pie
crawling to a science,
Bohm sear st. eve n's
nuts and bolts, believe
and thus, the knowing o
hems tune, see wy into
an Ogham alphabet, per
Oxcam and ford Un i-vers
it yoidelic Galphabet cl
assed telling Q-Celt, ohm
B L F(v)S N
H D T C Q
M G Ng(v)Z R.
A O U E I
...the strange sight above is a very boring area of re-search, yet very rewarding for the driven, addicted or plain person holding a some times tattered dream with which to cheer one's Leader/s he and she,
strange a yeats or ovid could come good when the bearla filidh sound came and drew a noo sé gower editorial proof/s of the (s) yah, in flue of a beh 'ad eel of some
....so the bearla filidh means...language of the poets. bearla language, filidh plural of fili -- poet -- quo raw sat ewe versing wonderfully X yiz ir landed bow, cohm, diddlee 'ed fools ghost/s here i jack klaxon liambical moon nee ow poetry id is the 50/50 question of whom one is 'n not the hilarity of free hugs and vacuous emoticohm, cool, doon does my mils ey yah pupil ranting at the rails of in-just ice, nawn warm blod fitz school of noo droll trolly throttling massive bulls on the oink for jippers, R 'otto-wailer soil under bumming thriambickle crace craw of summat aw rarver
Feda (let ter)
Y in the above sez
NY
GN
NG
what this meant was a bit complicated to the rayl ale king/s he and she prolled in yah ha ka ka kan not doo, they say
now over ovid, love a flue of images
.
The Ogham (Ohm) alphabet, written originally
along the centerline a star vid ever tically
bottom op pot pically yal gon a den oo stave
warked with am line central The consonantal
corresponding, fifteen letters, to letters
B.L.F(V).S.N.
H.D.T.C.Q.
M.G.Ng(Y).Z.R.
A.O.U.E.I.
diphthongs
AO.OI.UI.IO.AE.
originally consisted of 20 letters, as Q-Celtic Ogham, and later expanded to 25 per Macalister; Ogham ollamh and classic alphabet used by Goidels, on mainland Eu rope how i-grated from the alin and tos mout heast erritain, bout 200 ears priory tot, Gaul Belgic invasion/s introduced a revved up P-Celt, noo a ha ha ka ka klaxonic blakean eliotic rev of verb and re-heard, herded thralls and all welcome, dear readers, let the lead be roc tee h'alpha bet, come forv fourth century bc
(400 -- 600bc alphabet Brynmor-Jones and Rhys
F feda: voiced fricative
F stands for V, whereas
the double-letter FF
ands stfor het vuno iced
consonantal Ogham bet alf
irc as/is reserved pin
sever al-tones inscription
wound found North, in wail
South whale attack gossip
Wales totty tacked, racket
stacking completely island
Isle of Man, Scotland delic
i-ogam alphabet, the hoany
moo gossip rumour: Sun-face
alphabet as the reflection
rarver fetching blue print
pure unadulterated fun kid/s
playing in the chime, stage,
hooked on vidz, rhyming marn,
totally indo videz of roodz
'n feck full time future/s h
ah skill hUath ka ka kah shee
lamb contendor for a contrary
mob full of time custom airing
number consuming scam, life lap
yap ay pay up, lap at my pulpit
coz the planet of sea marn, sun
o'er and... like i know whorra
iamb actually feckin duz yah,
like am i effin rung and rit in
as in do cop me doc spook er, o'
er the directoary arl bored
sci-fi wattage Walt dear chap,
old chum, bummies, aint sin yiz,
fan the fat target/s he and she
lube roanin a rim and git fist
fingz King, ho ho ha ha, demon
strafe *you* whorl first, fore
most that is..ho hu ha no no,
erm, a flippin wummin, if yer
must noo, i came from outer
planetary rhyme zoos, crowded
overt rant and whinge-free peo
please, wonderfully in tune
chime and for the death of mils,
ta, sound lah, did yer sea,
swelling ebb and flowing tide,
natural the occurence if an eye
st. evens gets right as per cert
i aint a specific location, LA
say marhm, yoh, droodz, we lohmm
to Nem e-ton, a take your clothes
hands, wake up in a puddle, wake
up in a ruddy bluddy fight yah..
cozzer, coz 'as, coss o she were
hurin foh her moh 'n yah, suckin
sum one ooh dunt giv a foggy coz
thaze too biz like living dreams
readers, mates, the wen waze
will their be freedom to appear
deeper, in a shallow air, oh i
lurve the smell when i'm a troll
king wiv jamus, nowt fun is-as
missus doh, the failed clown,
and thus failing greaves
and breathing moves
to make beleive
eternally verse is lit living
by the ghost/s imilarity odds
for even/s and odd he and she
we, met in 'orn..
50/50 soh, pro the am iz ooh
we is yah, ow yay ow yah ooh
yum, heading off the folk move
away, ilk off moo, moany et tu
do, a comment is free pit of L
absent and the tallaght plague
ground like heath, the ghost
tipped comment, free is/as
it owned a while the strobe
on the waltzers, of course,
before the fictional science
cohm on 'n i escape into dead
droolidiotic ficker; trendy
the gaffes and gap gaps one
wore indoors, occasionaly,
as the nerdy type and have
known far more pointless bores
than my very failed safe self,
an utter outrageous person
practices exile and on DLA,
moany cash, yo ladeez, line
up and bendy boy, cohm, cohm
fecking cohm lard on Zen list
opined i am big and bickle
trochee the core fork off
the éigse star aged rant
of a PoF took one over the line,
and the whole edifice collapse,
due to one single provable point
of neo metrical significance
only officially interesting
squares who troll detached
and have mastered the mistress
Art thou me of feck off firing toe path
nah -- feck off the poetry stage, i am
a bore wiv a proven record of gerrin
talked a boot mah parish, which is all
noo, as i am justly making up, shh...it
is the result of a seven year one way
train of studious slog and now, i am
the worlds foremost AS stress is,
a living lore, as it was Merlin apppy,
my ate fair Sir making me suck and be
scum, until i tuv-waxy droll froogle
minded dozzers, but not you lam a score
ing ad lang raw choppings of it off WaR
WaR Oh what a horrid WaR, lurve, lurve,
Emit-o con the stupid English it's hit
hit and naw 500 yrs later, Kilcolman
cast le mown hay eye, yah, a dream
eight nomens, and fair playa at comment
s free, spinning loser-top, the failure
versed success; reverse in between toss
the airs of lying graces, spacey racy
fab, yer noo, intow letcher boo ho ho ho
ka ka kah..alphabetic addictional in-sane
brained to lurve Benders/s mate/s all
rarver, ooh fow sand dans le and dan eces,
poetry is the super natural decapitation,
of the final head in one today, F in sea,
English, that's me, Bohola, may o'er three
master sons, squat, able bothie dwellers,
in scarisbrick fields on the west lancs
dead eye plain straight spud, swede, beet
root muckers, mate/s he and she air through
the vwee leader/s and of gab, end of Fab?
Sunday, April 27, 2008
MY GARDEN
I thought it a summer twilight,
this green pool of light,
flowers brightly swimming
and all alight, a snail kiss
the skin caught dipping,
some day-curved tripper
worn muddy, who made nudists
frolic in a frog-dipped oasis
bees dizzy in a hum spinning
a broken twig for a drum
noised drone in trusty tune
and perfumed herbs
from potted moons.
No charge for bird-bath covered
gatecrashing parties of sparrows
mid-flight, and fighting mynahs
incredible cackle
an incredible waffle.
~~
It may not have been Goa
nor the garden gate
where birdling caterers
- with tasty insect crates
here in the arabian oasis,
where a shy hedgehog hides
as sly as i spy and pry -
wait
~
A Certain Garden Spoke
"Strange it is how a fountain
of images, like the rush of a comet.
rocket from the bottom of our
imagination, as if never it lay
burrowed; but were having us on
as a lark."
~~
And then like children
into a garden, we ran
forgotten in its lost
golden sand and search
for toy, book, or friend
where once we missed
the straggly end
of a tired meadow below:
this show suddenly still.
pretty and hoping
for darkness to shroud
its talons around us
like a curtain of mist
and graciously surrender
that which we shoulder
in tearaway affection.
~~
Blissful our garden
as you follow its echo
"Come in, come in",
our garden says
"Back to your honeyed
days and all raisin-ed
for a party.."
..where already, our
hands wait to catch
the rusted knob once
more: will remember how
to bow light-sorrow, dust
from the hollow of a vast
sea of many books looking
safe as yummy tea and
pluck a sad flower-stalk
rooting beneath the bower
oak. ~
Susan Abraham
I thought it a summer twilight,
this green pool of light,
flowers brightly swimming
and all alight, a snail kiss
the skin caught dipping,
some day-curved tripper
worn muddy, who made nudists
frolic in a frog-dipped oasis
bees dizzy in a hum spinning
a broken twig for a drum
noised drone in trusty tune
and perfumed herbs
from potted moons.
No charge for bird-bath covered
gatecrashing parties of sparrows
mid-flight, and fighting mynahs
incredible cackle
an incredible waffle.
~~
It may not have been Goa
nor the garden gate
where birdling caterers
- with tasty insect crates
here in the arabian oasis,
where a shy hedgehog hides
as sly as i spy and pry -
wait
~
A Certain Garden Spoke
"Strange it is how a fountain
of images, like the rush of a comet.
rocket from the bottom of our
imagination, as if never it lay
burrowed; but were having us on
as a lark."
~~
And then like children
into a garden, we ran
forgotten in its lost
golden sand and search
for toy, book, or friend
where once we missed
the straggly end
of a tired meadow below:
this show suddenly still.
pretty and hoping
for darkness to shroud
its talons around us
like a curtain of mist
and graciously surrender
that which we shoulder
in tearaway affection.
~~
Blissful our garden
as you follow its echo
"Come in, come in",
our garden says
"Back to your honeyed
days and all raisin-ed
for a party.."
..where already, our
hands wait to catch
the rusted knob once
more: will remember how
to bow light-sorrow, dust
from the hollow of a vast
sea of many books looking
safe as yummy tea and
pluck a sad flower-stalk
rooting beneath the bower
oak. ~
Susan Abraham
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
HON. N. JOAKS
O Amergin swirl:
Tír na nÓg: all
knowing power: otherworldly force:
Segias: grind hazel nuts to knowledge: swill
pour in the cauldron straight sound: verse Noaks: switch
wit: light up the cast of love as night falls -
Joy
Albard, Dawn and John – they who all
comedy tossers yearning to score
bulls-eye every arrow throw straight for. Light
of craic, twinkle; glitter in the well: find
what joke will laugh Blue Peter real, arrive
unannounced
weave art
work
and cut this daft dream
in a cloth of one liner: stitch the breeze
quip; nail John’s breath on paper to breathe
consciously at titter, jape or guffaw
gushing with free flow in the debacle.
Froth an episode, brim over and fall
the way wind blows when a turtle dove
cooing flies from the mind of a bard,
shifts shape to a circus clown tamer and bawls
"Hey you
funny farm gob slops
light-heart bores
free druid-pawns and playthings of love: wish
only for permanent triples on boards
your sticks hit giggling bulls and thud in
double top all day long to tickle love
from the stream of gags flowing between you".
Come lah
bull minstrel clown, mimic speech through
scrumping fruit beyond the comedic eye
where flow master of ceremonies - Noaks
fellow and one time action man show
babbles:
"When it was Blue Peter,
not like it is now
with kids
who don’t know what they're doing".
Circus slop swishing spray tame sea
motion smooth a stir of whirling liquid
through splatter massed splodges of telly:
tilt the lingo; flutter dovely music
flap, ruffle, spread your wings and limbs
crawl, soar free and jangle from his dome
"...with real papier mache; not like it
is now, the microwave stuff you scramble to life through
radiation".
Whack out licks
that lived then
and live now:
"...I was jumping out of a plane one week
sticking empty bog rolls together the next
dashing round the studio after elephant waste
and mucking in. Star of the whole hoo ha..."
John
before kids replaced you
and juiced up the models
"..you can’t put a price on..."
from buckaroo centres where tiddley-winks
still hold, reckoning their toggable taggle
and balancing laughter you and your colleagues
had when at giggle
peck this needle from the shiny gutter
commune with our entourage of party fawns
living le joi de vie.
Dove
become a pigeon
suggest,
hint of a scuffle at heaven’s gate.
Tír na nÓg: all
knowing power: otherworldly force:
Segias: grind hazel nuts to knowledge: swill
pour in the cauldron straight sound: verse Noaks: switch
wit: light up the cast of love as night falls -
Joy
Albard, Dawn and John – they who all
comedy tossers yearning to score
bulls-eye every arrow throw straight for. Light
of craic, twinkle; glitter in the well: find
what joke will laugh Blue Peter real, arrive
unannounced
weave art
work
and cut this daft dream
in a cloth of one liner: stitch the breeze
quip; nail John’s breath on paper to breathe
consciously at titter, jape or guffaw
gushing with free flow in the debacle.
Froth an episode, brim over and fall
the way wind blows when a turtle dove
cooing flies from the mind of a bard,
shifts shape to a circus clown tamer and bawls
"Hey you
funny farm gob slops
light-heart bores
free druid-pawns and playthings of love: wish
only for permanent triples on boards
your sticks hit giggling bulls and thud in
double top all day long to tickle love
from the stream of gags flowing between you".
Come lah
bull minstrel clown, mimic speech through
scrumping fruit beyond the comedic eye
where flow master of ceremonies - Noaks
fellow and one time action man show
babbles:
"When it was Blue Peter,
not like it is now
with kids
who don’t know what they're doing".
Circus slop swishing spray tame sea
motion smooth a stir of whirling liquid
through splatter massed splodges of telly:
tilt the lingo; flutter dovely music
flap, ruffle, spread your wings and limbs
crawl, soar free and jangle from his dome
"...with real papier mache; not like it
is now, the microwave stuff you scramble to life through
radiation".
Whack out licks
that lived then
and live now:
"...I was jumping out of a plane one week
sticking empty bog rolls together the next
dashing round the studio after elephant waste
and mucking in. Star of the whole hoo ha..."
John
before kids replaced you
and juiced up the models
"..you can’t put a price on..."
from buckaroo centres where tiddley-winks
still hold, reckoning their toggable taggle
and balancing laughter you and your colleagues
had when at giggle
peck this needle from the shiny gutter
commune with our entourage of party fawns
living le joi de vie.
Dove
become a pigeon
suggest,
hint of a scuffle at heaven’s gate.
Monday, April 07, 2008
GABHAIL IV
The constant rolling dice that never fall
stack up the chips of our existence
and some days we’re so lucky
- the search seeming easy with reward
with blessings in abundance -
we forget the golden rule
that everything’s decided in between
the heartbeat of the moment.
That reality is one long gamble
with final odds fixed by divine order
of old gods;
and seizing for knowledge one will
never fully grasp, yields understanding
like those clocks ticking in the heavens
yield an understanding
of when the time is right to wake us
for a brief spell by their measured call
before dissolving as if by magic
in the blinking of an eye
the constant rolling dice that never fall
Saturday, March 29, 2008
POV OTD XXI C - MMVIII Weather Rex
Sprung from Rome via France, we came
to Kernow first. The foot of Prydain
Fawr, a frozen island of twenty four
Pretani Brython speaking pre-literate
kingdoms there, before the great penal
Claudian army came with Atrebates'
King Verica who fled from Silchester
àfter Catuvellauni Epaticcus took
his tribal land Ver's father seized
when Julius Ceaser's mind fooled
itself in a wind Mark Anthony sped
under: slapped the cliff and shed
crocodile tears beneath when green
sea lapped; and facing an imploding
red roman tide of imperial death
to the East: papered on spring-wed
blows, a pot of hospitality all those
racing, writing and reciting, WaR-ring
sideboard-strategist know-alls knew
a tent
flapping the jealousy of Epaticcus
venting icy raging blasts - star struck
Hypoborean island mixtured sleet
and ice:
always it has been flappy: two, three
generations and all returns to same
the framing utterly unchanged, quo
irrevocable - grandchildren wedded
to inventions and inversed soul, green
non-existent foundation-fluxed lingo
springing lies to accumulate and thaw
in learning to ignore a throw of fictional
faith and tantrums Roman thinkers
looking westward for hearing their
there lore as truth arisen throw
as if the ghost (s/he speaking through
us with a honey-kissing tongue moving
our mouth-streams to the original
boundary of fictional beauty-recoquo)
who arose arias and still does:
spring the English American freedom
of being bezzie pals conquering
the world of all its ills and, the great
rat-egg double feckin luvin it Larhn
den hand-gum being cool, wiggly
on da rood of a god given verse god/s
give and we got: extemporisation
living lingo, freedom s/he controls in us,
each unique quotidian speech - all four
seasons in a single vista when farthest
West - unbelievable in the mind of a lamb
Alba ba ionic wind and invisible weather
shee women return: to all who travel
under ground and move through ether
as wind airing breath springing eternal,
blue-shirted daily mail good aul Ossie
mosleying mostly to Jordan's unfortunate
dream being born a pink pony princess,
sounding trill proselytizer/s who arose
in eenie meanie miney mo
Mister Authorial Dough Boob
rose under the dawning thing under
water
a can and branches barely
glowing floating bloody cultural chains
cherisher/s of nothing we neither hear
nor heed, but act and talk: horrifically
of what s/he wore criminally trivial
and/or reasonably mortal belief s/he is
answering prayer of flowers returned
in a well of time at the foot of Flower
Mouth-rock profusely woven silver
strands of Clonakilty dreamers, three
quarter Connacht's words spamming
at work in early unfair 20C springs:
spying a post no eye deleted before
- ice completely depleted, we air -
from forum to forum , over-spy eyed
in the sharp clip of clarity caught over
here
when shiva is there
Shiva is here;
everywhere far beneath jumping
into space apportioning Moirae
space reversed
space spare
spare space freeing forward weaving
back and weft : into returning air
earth
and everywhere a tick in equine locks
the wind whipped turf in creels of bog
s/he is and we have been: are hosting
boasting moderator/s posting carved
air etched good - ordered springing
in a current along one electric seer
logged in - seered and surfaced
the end-name talisman of this shade's
edifice
who lives in the other world beyond
consciousness or ken of many; and most
know not her brand of words leave
shimmering , bob fixed and turn psychic
air: extracting from space the sheer self
trick of ghostly desires lulled, floating
through an open thought-door straight
struck, spliced mainline in softly
- some say non-existent -
pictures plucked from Tír na nÓg
cormarant perched on the foundation
base of O'Connell Street bridge pulling
fish from green water as neon-struck
rust-cans float by:
come escape and stomp sodden belief
underfoot; web in frozen crushed fish
towering above trout, let gut-logic
mangle in a looking glass, then conjure
woman married four times who cured
gout-limp in Clare's bleak mid-winter.
. white witch herbalist living in Feakle
piston-sleek mind unhindered wrapped
weighted and who read an empty blue
bottle reflecting light: our minds will
steer absurdly straight this track
sense depicted, and you will
- twenty yards from the Q Bar
ten feet below the Liffey tide-mark -
reveal a world lit by Faha's Biddy Early.
. unopen the door again, is ajar Artless
maze imagined through which we your
dream - what are we here to host - flit
from form to ingenious form quick
& beautifully seizing a basket drained
full with petals held by a womb above
the day below instinct carelessly
scattered, faint honed mourning
thinning away, the thought before us.
to Kernow first. The foot of Prydain
Fawr, a frozen island of twenty four
Pretani Brython speaking pre-literate
kingdoms there, before the great penal
Claudian army came with Atrebates'
King Verica who fled from Silchester
àfter Catuvellauni Epaticcus took
his tribal land Ver's father seized
when Julius Ceaser's mind fooled
itself in a wind Mark Anthony sped
under: slapped the cliff and shed
crocodile tears beneath when green
sea lapped; and facing an imploding
red roman tide of imperial death
to the East: papered on spring-wed
blows, a pot of hospitality all those
racing, writing and reciting, WaR-ring
sideboard-strategist know-alls knew
a tent
flapping the jealousy of Epaticcus
venting icy raging blasts - star struck
Hypoborean island mixtured sleet
and ice:
always it has been flappy: two, three
generations and all returns to same
the framing utterly unchanged, quo
irrevocable - grandchildren wedded
to inventions and inversed soul, green
non-existent foundation-fluxed lingo
springing lies to accumulate and thaw
in learning to ignore a throw of fictional
faith and tantrums Roman thinkers
looking westward for hearing their
there lore as truth arisen throw
as if the ghost (s/he speaking through
us with a honey-kissing tongue moving
our mouth-streams to the original
boundary of fictional beauty-recoquo)
who arose arias and still does:
spring the English American freedom
of being bezzie pals conquering
the world of all its ills and, the great
rat-egg double feckin luvin it Larhn
den hand-gum being cool, wiggly
on da rood of a god given verse god/s
give and we got: extemporisation
living lingo, freedom s/he controls in us,
each unique quotidian speech - all four
seasons in a single vista when farthest
West - unbelievable in the mind of a lamb
Alba ba ionic wind and invisible weather
shee women return: to all who travel
under ground and move through ether
as wind airing breath springing eternal,
blue-shirted daily mail good aul Ossie
mosleying mostly to Jordan's unfortunate
dream being born a pink pony princess,
sounding trill proselytizer/s who arose
in eenie meanie miney mo
Mister Authorial Dough Boob
rose under the dawning thing under
water
a can and branches barely
glowing floating bloody cultural chains
cherisher/s of nothing we neither hear
nor heed, but act and talk: horrifically
of what s/he wore criminally trivial
and/or reasonably mortal belief s/he is
answering prayer of flowers returned
in a well of time at the foot of Flower
Mouth-rock profusely woven silver
strands of Clonakilty dreamers, three
quarter Connacht's words spamming
at work in early unfair 20C springs:
spying a post no eye deleted before
- ice completely depleted, we air -
from forum to forum , over-spy eyed
in the sharp clip of clarity caught over
here
when shiva is there
Shiva is here;
everywhere far beneath jumping
into space apportioning Moirae
space reversed
space spare
spare space freeing forward weaving
back and weft : into returning air
earth
and everywhere a tick in equine locks
the wind whipped turf in creels of bog
s/he is and we have been: are hosting
boasting moderator/s posting carved
air etched good - ordered springing
in a current along one electric seer
logged in - seered and surfaced
the end-name talisman of this shade's
edifice
who lives in the other world beyond
consciousness or ken of many; and most
know not her brand of words leave
shimmering , bob fixed and turn psychic
air: extracting from space the sheer self
trick of ghostly desires lulled, floating
through an open thought-door straight
struck, spliced mainline in softly
- some say non-existent -
pictures plucked from Tír na nÓg
cormarant perched on the foundation
base of O'Connell Street bridge pulling
fish from green water as neon-struck
rust-cans float by:
come escape and stomp sodden belief
underfoot; web in frozen crushed fish
towering above trout, let gut-logic
mangle in a looking glass, then conjure
woman married four times who cured
gout-limp in Clare's bleak mid-winter.
. white witch herbalist living in Feakle
piston-sleek mind unhindered wrapped
weighted and who read an empty blue
bottle reflecting light: our minds will
steer absurdly straight this track
sense depicted, and you will
- twenty yards from the Q Bar
ten feet below the Liffey tide-mark -
reveal a world lit by Faha's Biddy Early.
. unopen the door again, is ajar Artless
maze imagined through which we your
dream - what are we here to host - flit
from form to ingenious form quick
& beautifully seizing a basket drained
full with petals held by a womb above
the day below instinct carelessly
scattered, faint honed mourning
thinning away, the thought before us.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
The video below won the best political video in the youtube awards, and has had one and three quarter million views.
In this multi-media visual and textually poetic: Clash of the Civilisations, which illuminates by highlighting the similarities between humanity, the juxtopistion of images, combined with text, works very well, and demonstrates the power of the individual to effect change armed with only intelligence and compassion, which on this of all days, is one we could well ponder on believing as the creed and dogma of love and peace..
In this multi-media visual and textually poetic: Clash of the Civilisations, which illuminates by highlighting the similarities between humanity, the juxtopistion of images, combined with text, works very well, and demonstrates the power of the individual to effect change armed with only intelligence and compassion, which on this of all days, is one we could well ponder on believing as the creed and dogma of love and peace..
..draw a rational pattern, make sense of the mindless realties s/he assembles by media driven, sales and pitch, one liner hooks, no trick to low, to stuck up, posh, scum, scanger and nun, all of us in it together, from beginning to boundaries end, life leading us eventually to a cross-road across one more maxim from the mouth of a mersey ó bhéal, s/he detached in enobling airs and inward grace/s manifesting bloom of a goodness expressed in person and print.
grá agus síocháin.Monday, March 17, 2008
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