the clock strikes midnight -
the passing traveller halts
before the door
Saturday 31 October 2009
Happy Hallowe'en to all my readers
the clock strikes midnight -
the passing traveller halts
before the door
Friday 30 October 2009
don't send your poem anywhere else
Having read the 3 posts directly below this one and having decided that you don't give a monkey's toss if the next millennium's BBC listeners are still voting Kipling's If as the nation's favourite poem and that the nation's favourite poems are poems of the dead and that they will always outnumber those of the living by 91 to 9 and for some crazy reason you still have an uncontrollable and unquenchable burning desire to write, or as Bukowski says "It comes bursting out of you!, what should you do next?
First thing to do is to read a selection of contemporary poetry magazines or at least take a look at some poetry websites and bookmark those which publish poems you enjoy reading. Then select the publisher you like the best. The one you feel an affinity with (or is it to). Target the editor of your chosen publication with a batch of original and unpublished poems. The standard rule, which is two rules in one, is that the sweat of your brow should not have been previously published and is not currently being offered elsewhere.
But be realistic. The high peaks of the blue mountains are almost unassailable to the common man without a rope and a guide. I recall that Dylan Thomas, to make the point, once sent T S Eliot a two-line contribution which was basically a two-finger reply to TSE's begging note requesting a contribution to a TSE-edited anthology. Needless to say, DT's so-called submission was never published.
Unless you're atop the blue peak and skiing through the poetic stratosphere and drawing folding money for your work, the copyright will remain with you as the author. Some poetry journals impose a mild condition upon the author; a one year time limit before publication of the item elsewhere for example.
Having accepted one of your efforts, since there was nothing better, the editor is entitled to some respect. He or she dislikes nothing more than suddenly seeing your poem glaring back at him from the pristine pages of a rival publication or a blog. The editor, if he survives the shock, will feel sick to the core. It's as if his/her nether region has been violated. Certainly the editorial in-tray has.
One publication that poets, from blue peak mountaineers to street corner bards, might consider submitting work to is the established and reliable broadsheet Poetry Scotland (website www.poetryscotland.co.uk/). I enjoy the fact that the website is regularly updated and I like editor Sally Evans' criteria: she will keep your poem for possible publication if she likes it. That's the bar. No need for doubles all round in a Callander pub nor any name-dropping required at the local poetry mic.
In 2007 I had the pleasure of reviewing Poetry Scotland nos. 43 and 44 for Gerald England at New Hope International. In no.43 I found good work from Ian Crockatt, Irene Brown, Allyson Kiddle and Judith Taylor and in no.44, a special issue dedicated to the late Derek Jarman, I was impressed by Lesley Harrison's collection of poems Mare Marginis especially Pytheas and his Journey North°.
°Pytheas - Greek navigator who sailed to Iceland in 4BC.
First thing to do is to read a selection of contemporary poetry magazines or at least take a look at some poetry websites and bookmark those which publish poems you enjoy reading. Then select the publisher you like the best. The one you feel an affinity with (or is it to). Target the editor of your chosen publication with a batch of original and unpublished poems. The standard rule, which is two rules in one, is that the sweat of your brow should not have been previously published and is not currently being offered elsewhere.
But be realistic. The high peaks of the blue mountains are almost unassailable to the common man without a rope and a guide. I recall that Dylan Thomas, to make the point, once sent T S Eliot a two-line contribution which was basically a two-finger reply to TSE's begging note requesting a contribution to a TSE-edited anthology. Needless to say, DT's so-called submission was never published.
Unless you're atop the blue peak and skiing through the poetic stratosphere and drawing folding money for your work, the copyright will remain with you as the author. Some poetry journals impose a mild condition upon the author; a one year time limit before publication of the item elsewhere for example.
Having accepted one of your efforts, since there was nothing better, the editor is entitled to some respect. He or she dislikes nothing more than suddenly seeing your poem glaring back at him from the pristine pages of a rival publication or a blog. The editor, if he survives the shock, will feel sick to the core. It's as if his/her nether region has been violated. Certainly the editorial in-tray has.
One publication that poets, from blue peak mountaineers to street corner bards, might consider submitting work to is the established and reliable broadsheet Poetry Scotland (website www.poetryscotland.co.uk/). I enjoy the fact that the website is regularly updated and I like editor Sally Evans' criteria: she will keep your poem for possible publication if she likes it. That's the bar. No need for doubles all round in a Callander pub nor any name-dropping required at the local poetry mic.
In 2007 I had the pleasure of reviewing Poetry Scotland nos. 43 and 44 for Gerald England at New Hope International. In no.43 I found good work from Ian Crockatt, Irene Brown, Allyson Kiddle and Judith Taylor and in no.44, a special issue dedicated to the late Derek Jarman, I was impressed by Lesley Harrison's collection of poems Mare Marginis especially Pytheas and his Journey North°.
°Pytheas - Greek navigator who sailed to Iceland in 4BC.
Is copyright killing poetry?
This post is subsequent and apropos to the two Poet-in-Residence posts immediately below. These are: Is poetry alive and kicking? and The British poetry graveyard.
The BBC's anthology The Nation's Favourite Poems does not address the issue it raises. In establishing the causes and reasons for the sad state of affairs - 91 poems in the top 100 chosen by listeners to the BBC's The Bookworm programme were by members of what we may call a dead poets society. To put it in percentage terms - In the year 1995 only 9% of the poems the British public selected as their 100 favourites were written by living writers
The copyright law in Britain
Copyright in the European Union, of which Britain is a member, lasts for the lifetime of the author and for a further 70 years from the end of the year of death. This means that if I were to live for another 21 years, a total period of 91 years would have to elapse before the copyright on my published works expired.
The above is a ridiculous state of affairs. Why? Because by the year 2100 with next to nobody reading my poems in the meantime (for the simple reason that nobody dare publish the poems for the fear of legal proceedings) I and my poetry, such as it is, will be completely forgotten.
The BBC's listeners and the schoolchildren in the Britain of 2100 will in all probability be reading and studying the same ancient poets in the current BBC's nation's favourites list. And why? For the simple reason that the work of these poets is not covered by copyright. Which of course makes it very cheap, very easy to copy and it all comes without any potential legal problems.
Potential legal problems? Yes. And there are many. Barrister Amanda L. Michaels requires no less than 10 pages of text in my Writers' & Artists' Yearbook to explain the legal minefield. The paragraph sub-headings in Michaels' article will serve give you some idea of the legal complexities involved:
British copyright law
Changes to the law since 1989
Continuing relevance of old law
Copyright protections of works
Definitions under the Act
Originality
Qualification
Ownership
Duration of copyright
Dealing with copyright works
Assignments
Licensing
Infringement
Secondary infringements
Exceptions to infringement
Remedies for infringements
Design right
Moral rights
But of course there are global copyright laws, so those 10 pages with all their sub-headings and definitions are not the end of the matter. They are only the beginning. What happens when your poetry book is published in India, Bangladesh, Brazil or even the USA?
In his introduction, also in the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, barrister Gavin McFarlane writes: When authors [...] take their work overseas, the complex subject of copyright can become even more daunting. McFarlane even speaks of possible $250,000 fines and prison sentences of between 5 and 10 years for copyright infringements. But that's enough. You've now got the picture.
And so Poet-in-Residence comes back to the question: Is copyright killing contemporary poetry?
In the next post I will look at the don't send your poem anywhere else 'rule'.
The BBC's anthology The Nation's Favourite Poems does not address the issue it raises. In establishing the causes and reasons for the sad state of affairs - 91 poems in the top 100 chosen by listeners to the BBC's The Bookworm programme were by members of what we may call a dead poets society. To put it in percentage terms - In the year 1995 only 9% of the poems the British public selected as their 100 favourites were written by living writers
The copyright law in Britain
Copyright in the European Union, of which Britain is a member, lasts for the lifetime of the author and for a further 70 years from the end of the year of death. This means that if I were to live for another 21 years, a total period of 91 years would have to elapse before the copyright on my published works expired.
The above is a ridiculous state of affairs. Why? Because by the year 2100 with next to nobody reading my poems in the meantime (for the simple reason that nobody dare publish the poems for the fear of legal proceedings) I and my poetry, such as it is, will be completely forgotten.
The BBC's listeners and the schoolchildren in the Britain of 2100 will in all probability be reading and studying the same ancient poets in the current BBC's nation's favourites list. And why? For the simple reason that the work of these poets is not covered by copyright. Which of course makes it very cheap, very easy to copy and it all comes without any potential legal problems.
Potential legal problems? Yes. And there are many. Barrister Amanda L. Michaels requires no less than 10 pages of text in my Writers' & Artists' Yearbook to explain the legal minefield. The paragraph sub-headings in Michaels' article will serve give you some idea of the legal complexities involved:
British copyright law
Changes to the law since 1989
Continuing relevance of old law
Copyright protections of works
Definitions under the Act
Originality
Qualification
Ownership
Duration of copyright
Dealing with copyright works
Assignments
Licensing
Infringement
Secondary infringements
Exceptions to infringement
Remedies for infringements
Design right
Moral rights
But of course there are global copyright laws, so those 10 pages with all their sub-headings and definitions are not the end of the matter. They are only the beginning. What happens when your poetry book is published in India, Bangladesh, Brazil or even the USA?
In his introduction, also in the Writers' and Artists' Yearbook, barrister Gavin McFarlane writes: When authors [...] take their work overseas, the complex subject of copyright can become even more daunting. McFarlane even speaks of possible $250,000 fines and prison sentences of between 5 and 10 years for copyright infringements. But that's enough. You've now got the picture.
And so Poet-in-Residence comes back to the question: Is copyright killing contemporary poetry?
In the next post I will look at the don't send your poem anywhere else 'rule'.
Thursday 29 October 2009
Is poetry alive and kicking?
This post follows-on from the post below.
...I then made a random list of living contemporary poets. That is, poets writing in English, or being translated into English, who were still alive, if not actually kicking, in 1995 when the BBC's The Bookworm poll was conducted.
Earle Birney
Gavin Ewart
Alan Beam
Richard Wilbur
Irina Ratushinskaya
X J Kennedy
Christopher Logue
Laurence Ferlinghetti
Maya Angelou
Dick Davis
C H Sisson
James Fenton
Kathleen Jamie
Michele Roberts
Robert Creeley
Simon Armitage
Theo Dorgan
Viknam Seth
Elizabeth Jennings
John McGrath
Aidan Carl Mathews
Robert Bly
Laurie Lee
Thom Gunn
Duncan Forbes
Anne Ridler
Leonard Cohen
Elaine Feinstein
Michael Young
Jonathan Steffen
Charles Madge
Philip Gross
Timothy Leary
Denise Levertov
Sharon Olds
Stephen Spender
Craig Raine
Adam Thorpe
Judith Wright
Charles Causley
The above 40 poets are, as stated, selected at random. There is no pecking-order here. I could equally have compiled a list containing 40 other names. The nation's favorite poems are written by the poets in the graveyard list below and not by, for example, the poets in my list above. Again the question arises. Why? Why is there nothing by Simon Armitage, Viknam Seth, Craig Raine & co. in the BBC's list? Why is the great British public so addicted to poetry from the grave. Is it a matter of education? Is it a copyright problem? What, for heaven's sake, is the problem I have to ask again!
...I then made a random list of living contemporary poets. That is, poets writing in English, or being translated into English, who were still alive, if not actually kicking, in 1995 when the BBC's The Bookworm poll was conducted.
Earle Birney
Gavin Ewart
Alan Beam
Richard Wilbur
Irina Ratushinskaya
X J Kennedy
Christopher Logue
Laurence Ferlinghetti
Maya Angelou
Dick Davis
C H Sisson
James Fenton
Kathleen Jamie
Michele Roberts
Robert Creeley
Simon Armitage
Theo Dorgan
Viknam Seth
Elizabeth Jennings
John McGrath
Aidan Carl Mathews
Robert Bly
Laurie Lee
Thom Gunn
Duncan Forbes
Anne Ridler
Leonard Cohen
Elaine Feinstein
Michael Young
Jonathan Steffen
Charles Madge
Philip Gross
Timothy Leary
Denise Levertov
Sharon Olds
Stephen Spender
Craig Raine
Adam Thorpe
Judith Wright
Charles Causley
The above 40 poets are, as stated, selected at random. There is no pecking-order here. I could equally have compiled a list containing 40 other names. The nation's favorite poems are written by the poets in the graveyard list below and not by, for example, the poets in my list above. Again the question arises. Why? Why is there nothing by Simon Armitage, Viknam Seth, Craig Raine & co. in the BBC's list? Why is the great British public so addicted to poetry from the grave. Is it a matter of education? Is it a copyright problem? What, for heaven's sake, is the problem I have to ask again!
Wednesday 28 October 2009
The British poetry graveyard
In 1996 the BBC published a poetry anthology containing 100 poems voted as the nation's favourites by listeners to the nation's favourite book programme, The Bookworm. The BBC book was imaginatively titled, you've guessed it, The Nation's Favourite Poems. One of the nation's favourite comedians, Griff Rhys Jones, composed the foreword. Jones said: the nation's preferred one hundred poems seem a reasonably balanced and representative selection of the best of English verse.
THE RESULT: We (and here I include myself as the proud author of one humble poetry book) the living poets, are in big trouble. Very big trouble. The dead outnumber us 52 to 9. Their poems outnumber ours 91 to 9. And significantly no living poet managed to get more than a single poem into the list.
The Nation's Favourite Poems turns out to be a bardic graveyard.
Here are the dates on the gravestones:
Matthew Arnold 1822-88
W H Auden 1907-73
John Betjeman 1906-84
William Blake 1757-1827
Rupert Brooke 1887-1915
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61
Robert Browning 1812-89
Robert Burns 1759-96
Lord Byron 1788-1824
Lewis Carroll 1832-98
G K Chesterton 1874-1936
John Clare 1793-1864
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-1834
W H Davies 1871-1940
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956
John Donne 1572-1631
T S Eliot 1885-1965
Robert Frost 1874-1963
Thomas Gray 1716-71
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928
F W Harvey 1840-1957
George Herbert 1593-1633
Thomas Hood 1799-1845
Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844-89
A E Housman 1859-1936
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
John Keats 1795-1821
Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936
Philip Larkin 1922-80
D H Lawrence 1885-1930
Edward Lear 1812-88
H W Longfellow 1807-82
John Gillespie Magee 1922-41
Louis MacNeice 1907-63
Christopher Marlowe 1564-93
Andrew Marvell 1621-78
John Masefield 1878-1967
Alfred Noyes 1880-1959
Wilfred Owen 1893-1918
Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49
Henry Reed 1914-86
Christina Rossetti 1830-94
Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822
Stevie Smith 1903-71
Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-92
Dylan Thomas 1914-53
Edward Thomas 1878-1917
Francis Thompson 1859-1907
Oscar Wilde 1854-1900
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
For the record, here are the few, those who were living when the poll took place, and made it onto the list. And it is a few. A worrying few.
Allan Ahlberg
Wendy Cope
Carol Duffy
Seamus Heaney
Ted Hughes
Jenny Joseph
Roger McGough
Michael Rosen
Hugo Williams
So where do we go from here? That is the burning question. Never have there been so many poets writing. From all walks of life and from all corners of the globe poets are turning out poems in the thousands, nay the millions and yet...and yet, in Britain at least, according to the BBC's The Bookworm poll they appear to be, apart from a few, basically unknown, unloved, unread, and most tragically - unpopular.
THE RESULT: We (and here I include myself as the proud author of one humble poetry book) the living poets, are in big trouble. Very big trouble. The dead outnumber us 52 to 9. Their poems outnumber ours 91 to 9. And significantly no living poet managed to get more than a single poem into the list.
The Nation's Favourite Poems turns out to be a bardic graveyard.
Here are the dates on the gravestones:
Matthew Arnold 1822-88
W H Auden 1907-73
John Betjeman 1906-84
William Blake 1757-1827
Rupert Brooke 1887-1915
Elizabeth Barrett Browning 1806-61
Robert Browning 1812-89
Robert Burns 1759-96
Lord Byron 1788-1824
Lewis Carroll 1832-98
G K Chesterton 1874-1936
John Clare 1793-1864
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 1772-1834
W H Davies 1871-1940
Walter de la Mare 1873-1956
John Donne 1572-1631
T S Eliot 1885-1965
Robert Frost 1874-1963
Thomas Gray 1716-71
Thomas Hardy 1840-1928
F W Harvey 1840-1957
George Herbert 1593-1633
Thomas Hood 1799-1845
Gerard Manley Hopkins 1844-89
A E Housman 1859-1936
Leigh Hunt 1784-1859
John Keats 1795-1821
Rudyard Kipling 1865-1936
Philip Larkin 1922-80
D H Lawrence 1885-1930
Edward Lear 1812-88
H W Longfellow 1807-82
John Gillespie Magee 1922-41
Louis MacNeice 1907-63
Christopher Marlowe 1564-93
Andrew Marvell 1621-78
John Masefield 1878-1967
Alfred Noyes 1880-1959
Wilfred Owen 1893-1918
Edgar Allan Poe 1809-49
Henry Reed 1914-86
Christina Rossetti 1830-94
Siegfried Sassoon 1886-1967
William Shakespeare 1564-1616
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792-1822
Stevie Smith 1903-71
Alfred Lord Tennyson 1809-92
Dylan Thomas 1914-53
Edward Thomas 1878-1917
Francis Thompson 1859-1907
Oscar Wilde 1854-1900
William Wordsworth 1770-1850
William Butler Yeats 1865-1939
For the record, here are the few, those who were living when the poll took place, and made it onto the list. And it is a few. A worrying few.
Allan Ahlberg
Wendy Cope
Carol Duffy
Seamus Heaney
Ted Hughes
Jenny Joseph
Roger McGough
Michael Rosen
Hugo Williams
So where do we go from here? That is the burning question. Never have there been so many poets writing. From all walks of life and from all corners of the globe poets are turning out poems in the thousands, nay the millions and yet...and yet, in Britain at least, according to the BBC's The Bookworm poll they appear to be, apart from a few, basically unknown, unloved, unread, and most tragically - unpopular.
Come in, the water's lovely!
Come in, the water's lovely!
was what they said
and in I went
up to my knees at first
oh! how the water sparkled in the sun
and we played and splashed
and someone playfully dunked me
happy and free I slowly stroked
through shoals of gently darting fish
past the shadowed pike in the reeds
and the calling coots and other ducks
- the stately glide-along swan looked on
from under the shade of the twittering trees
below the gently sloping farms
- a piece of heaven in a lake!
when out of the blue the horse fly bit me
that sudden sharp and painful burn
I squashed her with a slap of my palm
- baptism of fire!
When I dried myself off
with the big fluffy towel
the invisible mosquito drilled my cheek
below my eye
and a second tickled my nape
and stung -
again by the female
my blood was raped!
- the male takes
only sweet nectar.
______
gw2009
was what they said
and in I went
up to my knees at first
oh! how the water sparkled in the sun
and we played and splashed
and someone playfully dunked me
happy and free I slowly stroked
through shoals of gently darting fish
past the shadowed pike in the reeds
and the calling coots and other ducks
- the stately glide-along swan looked on
from under the shade of the twittering trees
below the gently sloping farms
- a piece of heaven in a lake!
when out of the blue the horse fly bit me
that sudden sharp and painful burn
I squashed her with a slap of my palm
- baptism of fire!
When I dried myself off
with the big fluffy towel
the invisible mosquito drilled my cheek
below my eye
and a second tickled my nape
and stung -
again by the female
my blood was raped!
- the male takes
only sweet nectar.
______
gw2009
Tuesday 27 October 2009
moth at rest
moth at rest
at dusk the resting moth
for it is a moth at rest
is almost white
and with her angels-wings outspread
is more delicate than fancy lace
or porcelain
and finer than the finest
fine embroidery
she is resting now
on the painted
urine-yellow ceiling
in the woodland-park's pissoir
and we know that's how it has to be
ofttimes
for moths and other nighttime things
now buttoning-up
we glance toward the ceiling
and leave ourselves
like creatures of the night
_______
gw 2009
at dusk the resting moth
for it is a moth at rest
is almost white
and with her angels-wings outspread
is more delicate than fancy lace
or porcelain
and finer than the finest
fine embroidery
she is resting now
on the painted
urine-yellow ceiling
in the woodland-park's pissoir
and we know that's how it has to be
ofttimes
for moths and other nighttime things
now buttoning-up
we glance toward the ceiling
and leave ourselves
like creatures of the night
_______
gw 2009
Seeing is believing
Seeing is believing
Two friends went to Paris
travelled to see the sights
lovers in love
to the Notre-Dame
on the left bank at Montparnasse
to the Latin Quarter
to the University in Sorbonne
and on the right bank
to the Palais du Louvre
and there to view the Mona Lisa
oh! the wonderful smile ... oh! the wonderful eyes
and finally to the glorious tower itself
the tower of 1889
the tower
of Alexander-Gustav Eiffel
standing foursquare
984 feet high
looking out over the city
looking like the highest building in the world
which it was
until overtaken in 1930
but still today the greatest Parisian landmark
of them all
and there the two lovers stood
and they said
seeing is really believing
and I looked
at them
at her and him
the blind leading the blind
... an undertaking
not to be lightly undertaken
not seeing
may be
what believing is
_______
gw 2009
Sunday 25 October 2009
Ant Attack
Ant Attack
I know they are there
but not where exactly
in their nests
behind the boards
up against the hot water pipes
and the electric cables
sensitive
in their clumps of grey matter
waiting for spring
waiting to march up and down the walls
waiting for summer
waiting to take over the world
with their flying queens
and their invasions
battling the hoover's drone
and suction power
spraying their scent
on the curtains
I know one day
I shall have to give way
and go
to live in the woods
with the green woodpecker
for my neighbour
*´´:',."*'-..,: . . . . .
______
gw2009
I know they are there
but not where exactly
in their nests
behind the boards
up against the hot water pipes
and the electric cables
sensitive
in their clumps of grey matter
waiting for spring
waiting to march up and down the walls
waiting for summer
waiting to take over the world
with their flying queens
and their invasions
battling the hoover's drone
and suction power
spraying their scent
on the curtains
I know one day
I shall have to give way
and go
to live in the woods
with the green woodpecker
for my neighbour
*´´:',."*'-..,: . . . . .
______
gw2009
Friday 23 October 2009
Frequently Asked Questions
Q: Who is Poet in Residence?
A: Gwilym Williams
Q: Who appointed Williams as Poet in Residence?
A: He appointed himself.
Q: Wasn't that presumptious of him, taking a prestige title like Poet in Residence?
A: Not really since there was no other blogger blogging under the banner of Poet in Residence. Williams was the first poet to think of the idea.
Q: Who then gave him the authority to be Poet in Residence?
A: Blogger gave him the authority and also the space to do it.
Q: Why did Williams decide to call himself Poet in Residence?
A: The world is full of Poets in Residences. Some are better and some are worse than Williams. Williams resides in a residence. He is an original and investigative bard curious about the world in which we move and have our being. It would appear that he has the ideal qualifications.
Q: Does Williams get paid for being Poet in Residence?
A: No.
Q: So why does Williams do it?
A: If I really knew the answer to that one you may be sure I'd tell you.
Thursday 22 October 2009
Horizons near
The following poem is dedicated to the memory of Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) most famously known as the author of Treasure Island. The Tusitala° spent the last 5 years of his life in Western Samoa. When he died he was carried to the top of a mountain and laid to rest. His near horizon the Pacific Ocean. His far horizon - who knows? Astronomers tell us that 96% of our 13.7 billion years Universe consists of invisible dark matter.
Stevenson's grandfather invented the flashing light used in lighthouses and was himself involved in the design and building of no less than 27 lighthouses. A series of lighthouse pictures will appear at the foot of the Poet in Residence pages for the next few weeks.
Horizons near
and far
surround my bones
no matter
where and how I move
or go
and also where
and how I stay
too silent
still in truth
or lie.
In and of the centre
then
my levered being moves
and always
through
the days and nights
that are never for the time
horizon
-less.
And yet
I know the other
flying on the dark ship's black
and billowed sail;
fluttering
light before the dawn
the death head's
white and outward
flying face.
The horizon crossed
now serves
to give
my levered moving
meaning.
°the story teller
_____
gw2009
Stevenson's grandfather invented the flashing light used in lighthouses and was himself involved in the design and building of no less than 27 lighthouses. A series of lighthouse pictures will appear at the foot of the Poet in Residence pages for the next few weeks.
Horizons near
and far
surround my bones
no matter
where and how I move
or go
and also where
and how I stay
too silent
still in truth
or lie.
In and of the centre
then
my levered being moves
and always
through
the days and nights
that are never for the time
horizon
-less.
And yet
I know the other
flying on the dark ship's black
and billowed sail;
fluttering
light before the dawn
the death head's
white and outward
flying face.
The horizon crossed
now serves
to give
my levered moving
meaning.
°the story teller
_____
gw2009
Friday 9 October 2009
SEE HAIKU HERE 50 WORD CHALLENGE
Kuni san at SEE HAIKU HERE (see A-Z LINKS >>>) is currently introducing his followers to a form of haiku which involves writing a 50-word self-contained story as a kind of hook for the related haiku (and on SEE HAIKU HERE an illustration).
Impressed by the master, Poet-in-Residence was tempted to follow suit.-
Story
IN THE MORNINGS as I am about to begin to shave the strange man in the bathroom mirror takes a disposable razor in his left hand and places its cutting edge gently but firmly against my soaped neck. Some mornings when the mirror is foggy we wave to each other.
haiku
foggy morning
over the volcano
birds flying high
When I reflect on the above attempt I see that it owes something to at least four thoughts or ideas, and probably many more, which have mysteriously linked themselves together to produce a chain of thought with an end result. These are: a memory of Larkin's famous poem Mr Bleaney; Kuni san's wonderfully drawn Japanese images; a remark by George Szirtes concerning duty; a world full of cheap plastic products.
Impressed by the master, Poet-in-Residence was tempted to follow suit.-
Story
IN THE MORNINGS as I am about to begin to shave the strange man in the bathroom mirror takes a disposable razor in his left hand and places its cutting edge gently but firmly against my soaped neck. Some mornings when the mirror is foggy we wave to each other.
haiku
foggy morning
over the volcano
birds flying high
When I reflect on the above attempt I see that it owes something to at least four thoughts or ideas, and probably many more, which have mysteriously linked themselves together to produce a chain of thought with an end result. These are: a memory of Larkin's famous poem Mr Bleaney; Kuni san's wonderfully drawn Japanese images; a remark by George Szirtes concerning duty; a world full of cheap plastic products.
Wednesday 7 October 2009
R K SINGH'S TOO SMALL
The TOO SMALL poem that follows is the second shortie to preempt the UK's National Poetry Day on this blog. The first, a few posts below is D H Lawrence's GREEN.
I remember as a child being enchanted by the illusions printed in children's comics. The most common illusion was a variant of the following:
Which line is longer 'A' or 'B' -
A) <----> B) >----<
The illusion I was asked to accept was that line 'B' looked longer than line 'A'. I no longer suffer from this particular illusion I must hasten to add.
The reason for all this conjuration is that R K Singh, an exotic poet several times featured on the Poet-in-Residence blog, can also be an illusory poet when the mood takes him. I note from the content and time stamp on his e-mail that his TOO SMALL poem was possibly composed shortly after the night of the full moon. Maybe on that particular night it was dreamed up. Who can say? Not even R K Singh himself would know.
R K Singh is like many an accomplished poet not averse to using the rope tricks of language to make his points. One might at times, for he can appear obtuse and frustrating to those not familiar with his works, be tempted to call him an Edvard Munch° of contemporary Indian poetry. Or one might not.
TOO SMALL
Humility
with pride and arrogance
stalls expression:
self-illusions aren't
aesthetic adjustments
nor is poet
larger than himself
when he says
he's too small.
______________
R K Singh 2009
Why not visit R K Singh's website? Go there via the PiR A-Z LINKS >>>
°Edvard Munch's iconic painting is of course 'Scream!'; a painting which notably features a lonely figure with a horror-struck gibbous moon face.
I remember as a child being enchanted by the illusions printed in children's comics. The most common illusion was a variant of the following:
Which line is longer 'A' or 'B' -
A) <----> B) >----<
The illusion I was asked to accept was that line 'B' looked longer than line 'A'. I no longer suffer from this particular illusion I must hasten to add.
The reason for all this conjuration is that R K Singh, an exotic poet several times featured on the Poet-in-Residence blog, can also be an illusory poet when the mood takes him. I note from the content and time stamp on his e-mail that his TOO SMALL poem was possibly composed shortly after the night of the full moon. Maybe on that particular night it was dreamed up. Who can say? Not even R K Singh himself would know.
R K Singh is like many an accomplished poet not averse to using the rope tricks of language to make his points. One might at times, for he can appear obtuse and frustrating to those not familiar with his works, be tempted to call him an Edvard Munch° of contemporary Indian poetry. Or one might not.
TOO SMALL
Humility
with pride and arrogance
stalls expression:
self-illusions aren't
aesthetic adjustments
nor is poet
larger than himself
when he says
he's too small.
______________
R K Singh 2009
Why not visit R K Singh's website? Go there via the PiR A-Z LINKS >>>
°Edvard Munch's iconic painting is of course 'Scream!'; a painting which notably features a lonely figure with a horror-struck gibbous moon face.
Tuesday 6 October 2009
Tommy the Cat
The poet who understands cats has I think not yet been born. All I know for certain about cats is that they don't like the wind in the trees. And I don't even know that for an absolute certainty. But today it is windless. So why is Tommy the Cat spending the day here? No, I've no idea either. His nose is slightly scabbed as if he's been involved in a scuffle or perhaps caught himself up in a bramble. His ginger and white coat is a tad duller than I remember. But then that's only to be expected for like all of us he's getting a little older by the day...
Tommy the Cat
The first time Tommy came
it was to say goodbye
for someone in the bed upstairs
had breathed her final sigh.
4.30 in the morning 'twas
when Tommy slipped through the door
and trotted up the stair
to stand beside her door.
Since then he comes 'bout once a year
or maybe sometimes twice
he calls to check on how we are
and perhaps to look for mice.
He braves the crow that flies at him
and braves the winter snows
plodding round the neighbourhood
when lonely he patrols.
But now he's here and in my chair
and he won't go away
he's been here since the crack of dawn
and looks as if he'll stay
Till night at least or maybe longer
for who knows what's going on
behind those curtained eyes of green
and in the purring of his song.
______
gw2009
Tommy the Cat
The first time Tommy came
it was to say goodbye
for someone in the bed upstairs
had breathed her final sigh.
4.30 in the morning 'twas
when Tommy slipped through the door
and trotted up the stair
to stand beside her door.
Since then he comes 'bout once a year
or maybe sometimes twice
he calls to check on how we are
and perhaps to look for mice.
He braves the crow that flies at him
and braves the winter snows
plodding round the neighbourhood
when lonely he patrols.
But now he's here and in my chair
and he won't go away
he's been here since the crack of dawn
and looks as if he'll stay
Till night at least or maybe longer
for who knows what's going on
behind those curtained eyes of green
and in the purring of his song.
______
gw2009
George and the Dog
The following bit of doggerel is for my blogging friend George Szirtes who once hinted at the possibility of a canine companion, but quickly came to his senses.
George and the Dog
The dog's name is Rollo
for he rolls on his back
and spins his long tail
and threatens
to split his sides laughing
at George
or anyone else who might cross his path
and this includes cats.
Rollo was born and bred in the East
but he is no Pekingese and no Chow
he's more Genovese in his style
and his looks and he always obeys
the strictest normatives
as George will come to expect
of a dog
which eats batteries
three at a time.
George removed Rollo gently from packaging
and fed him his alkaline bones. Some mechanism
noise can be heard said George. This is normal
replied Rollo's box.
George had pulled back the fur so orange and white
to expose the stomach of his new canine friend
and unscrewed the battery compartment. Then closed it again.
Screwed it tight.
He clicked on the switch labelled ON. He heeded the warnings
that came with his pet like do not make it fall down
and poor lighting condition may affect its function.
Rollo is an unsuitable pet for a child under 3 due to the danger
of swallowing small parts. And yes, he has a moving mouth.
But George is 60 and larger than life,-
Real beer, Reel book and real cat.
______
gw2009
George and the Dog
The dog's name is Rollo
for he rolls on his back
and spins his long tail
and threatens
to split his sides laughing
at George
or anyone else who might cross his path
and this includes cats.
Rollo was born and bred in the East
but he is no Pekingese and no Chow
he's more Genovese in his style
and his looks and he always obeys
the strictest normatives
as George will come to expect
of a dog
which eats batteries
three at a time.
George removed Rollo gently from packaging
and fed him his alkaline bones. Some mechanism
noise can be heard said George. This is normal
replied Rollo's box.
George had pulled back the fur so orange and white
to expose the stomach of his new canine friend
and unscrewed the battery compartment. Then closed it again.
Screwed it tight.
He clicked on the switch labelled ON. He heeded the warnings
that came with his pet like do not make it fall down
and poor lighting condition may affect its function.
Rollo is an unsuitable pet for a child under 3 due to the danger
of swallowing small parts. And yes, he has a moving mouth.
But George is 60 and larger than life,-
Real beer, Reel book and real cat.
______
gw2009
EGGS
The following poem harks back to the days before cholesterol and salmonella.
Eggs
I was a boy in Wales
when they gave me eggs
with Lions Rampant
on the shells.
Those eggs came down
on the freight at night
from somewhere to the north
of the Snowdon range. In England
it was.
White as doves unblemished
and almost as fresh as mountain air
they were -
Better buy a dozen dear!
Mum boiled them to eat
with Mother's Pride
bread and a mash
of Indian tea.
Now that was a meal
to start the day.
Tapped the tops with the teaspoons
or sliced them
with the knives
and ate them slowly with heaps of salt.
On Sundays they were fried and
served with bacon
and slices of bread
from the bacon greased.
And fresh they were too,
until the local farmer
spilled his beans: Eggs is eggs. But these eggs
is 3 days older
than was the case
when they was laid unstamped
and sold right here.
A Lion has pride.
A Lion can't lie.
I've always eaten eggs.
I'll eat them till I die.
_______
gw 2009
Eggs
I was a boy in Wales
when they gave me eggs
with Lions Rampant
on the shells.
Those eggs came down
on the freight at night
from somewhere to the north
of the Snowdon range. In England
it was.
White as doves unblemished
and almost as fresh as mountain air
they were -
Better buy a dozen dear!
Mum boiled them to eat
with Mother's Pride
bread and a mash
of Indian tea.
Now that was a meal
to start the day.
Tapped the tops with the teaspoons
or sliced them
with the knives
and ate them slowly with heaps of salt.
On Sundays they were fried and
served with bacon
and slices of bread
from the bacon greased.
And fresh they were too,
until the local farmer
spilled his beans: Eggs is eggs. But these eggs
is 3 days older
than was the case
when they was laid unstamped
and sold right here.
A Lion has pride.
A Lion can't lie.
I've always eaten eggs.
I'll eat them till I die.
_______
gw 2009
Monday 5 October 2009
D H LAWRENCE SEES GREEN
The poem GREEN by D H Lawrence is posted here to mark the UK's National Poetry Day which is to be held on 8th October. One small poem for mankind.
GREEN
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
D H Lawrence (1885 - 1930)
GREEN
The dawn was apple-green,
The sky was green wine held up in the sun,
The moon was a golden petal between.
She opened her eyes, and green
They shone, clear like flowers undone
For the first time, now for the first time seen.
D H Lawrence (1885 - 1930)
Poetry Kit Newsletter
Like a Liverpool chip shop on a Friday night the latest Poetry Kit newsletter is brimming over with sizzling hot from the microwave titbits of information, and steaming with a jumbo selection of poetry related links. It's a bardic batter that's guaranteed to get even the blandest pie 'n gravy bard a-salivating.
As Britain approaches National Poetry Day (8th October) Poetry Kit publishes a fistfull of details of many Poetry Readings, Festivals, and much more. From Ilkley to Chester to Liverpool and yes even in Tunbridge Wells there's something bardic and brilliant going on at a suitable crowded and chaotic venue near you.
And not only something going on. There are also poetry competitions with street-cred for the budding Wordsworth to enter. The Big Issue Competition in the North is just one such contest worth supporting. For the run of the mill and the rip-off contests you'll have to queue elsewhere.
Consider yourself more of a reader than a versifier? A potential poetry book critic perhaps? Or maybe you're the undiscovered poet the world has been waiting for? Then why not e-mail Jim Bennett at Poetry Kit? He's waiting for you with sharpened hooks and mended nets.
Poetry Kit LINKS A-Z SIDEBAR >>>
As Britain approaches National Poetry Day (8th October) Poetry Kit publishes a fistfull of details of many Poetry Readings, Festivals, and much more. From Ilkley to Chester to Liverpool and yes even in Tunbridge Wells there's something bardic and brilliant going on at a suitable crowded and chaotic venue near you.
And not only something going on. There are also poetry competitions with street-cred for the budding Wordsworth to enter. The Big Issue Competition in the North is just one such contest worth supporting. For the run of the mill and the rip-off contests you'll have to queue elsewhere.
Consider yourself more of a reader than a versifier? A potential poetry book critic perhaps? Or maybe you're the undiscovered poet the world has been waiting for? Then why not e-mail Jim Bennett at Poetry Kit? He's waiting for you with sharpened hooks and mended nets.
Poetry Kit LINKS A-Z SIDEBAR >>>
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