Saturday 9 April 2011

John Giorna (b.1936) - Life is a killer



John Giorna was the star of the Andy Warhol movie Sleep (1963). He  has became known as a leader in the development of poetry as a performance and entertainment medium.He has done through his own performances and also with his Giorna Poetry Systems, which have bought him international audiences. Giorno poetry Systems is now a widely distributed spoken word record label, and subsequently Dial-A-Poem which he created in 1968 extends poetry into the medium of mass communication.
When composing his poetry, Giorno  imagines an audience in front of him. "Spoken word " he wrote. " using breath and heat, pitch and volume, and the melodies inherent in the language, risking technology and music, and a deep connection with the audience, is te fulfillment of a poem. It's the entertainment industry ( you got to sweeten the deal) - transmitting an awareness of ordinary mind. As someone said to me after a performance, 'I hate poetry. But I love poets who sweat.' For me performing poetry is sustained sexual activity in a golden age of promiscuity, You can never be too generous."
His books include The American book of the Dead (1964),Balling Bhudda (1970), Cancer in My Left Ball (1973), and You Got to Burn to Shine: Selected Poetry and Prose  (1993).
His record albums and CDs include Biting off the Tongueof a Corpse (1975) and ( A Diamond Hidden in the Mouth of a Corpse ( 1985). He performs solo and with the John Giorno Band.
A pervading macabre sense of humour underlies his work and a strong outsider Queer sensibility.A collaborator with Mr William Burroughs himself, his confontational work and his energy has been an influence on other  performance poets since and rock bands have been quenched and influenced by his ideas. He has also been a long time practitioner of the Nyingma tradition of Tibetan Bhuddism. In the last 20 years or so he has been active in the AIDS Treatment project, which gives cash grants to poets and artists with the disease, He lives in New York City.Recenty he has collaborated with the Spanish rock singer Jarvier Colis.

Life is a Killer

Everyone says
What they do
is right
and money is
a good
thing
it can be
wonderful.

Road
drinking
driving
around
drinking beer,
they need me
more than
I need them,
where are you guys from,
stumbling off
into the night
thinking
about it
stiumbling off into the night
thinking about it.

When I was
15 years old
I knew everything
there was
to know,
and now that I'm old,
it was true.

I got dragged
along on
this one
by my foot,
if I wasn't so
tired
I would have
a good
time
If I Wasn't so tired
I'd have a good time
If I wasn't so tired I'd have
a good time.

Tossing
and turning,
cause there's
a nest
of wasps
coursing
through your
bloodstream
cause there's a nest of wasps
coursing through your bloodsream.

If you think
about it
how could
it have come
to this
if you think about it
how could it have come to this,
it's coming
down the road
the red
lights,
and it's
there
and it's there
and it's there
and it's there.

Try your
best
and think
you're good,
that's what
I want
being inside you
that's what i want
being inside you
that's what I want being besides you,
endless
thresholds,
and you hope
you're doing
it right.

How are you
feeling good
how are you
feeling
good
how are
you feeling
good
how are you feeling
good
how are you feeling good,
you need
national
attention.

Cause essentially
all you
ever accomplshed
was snort
some smack
and sit
on a zafu
watching
your breath.

How the hell
did I end
up doing
this
how the hell did
I end up doing this
for a job?

I can't say
I don't need
anybody
cause I need
the Bhuddas,
and there's nothing
I can say
about them.

Everyone is at
a complete
disadvantage,
you're being taken
to dinner
at La Coter Basque
and youre eating
9 lives
liver,
and drinking
wine,
the women
they are taking
prisoners.
I'm not going
nowhere, I rippefd up
my suitcases
I ripped up my suitcases.

Crank me
up
and keep me
open
crank me up
and keep me open
and keep me open
crank me up and keep me open,
nothing
recedes
like success.

Whatever
happens
it will seem
the way
it seems
now,
it doesn't matter
what you
feel,
how perfectly
correct
or amazing
the clarity,
everything
you think
is deluded
eveything you think
is deluded
eveything you think is deluded,
life
is a killer.

1982

Quotes from ' You Got to Burn to Shine: Selected Poetry and Prose,
New York, 1993.

Thursday 7 April 2011

HEDGEHOGS OF THE WORLD UNITE!

Hedgehogs again active after winter hibernation.

' The hedgehog's meat is apple, worms and grapes: when he findeth them upon the earth, he rolleth on them until he hath fylled up all his prickles, and then carrieth them home to his den...and so forth he goeth, making a noise like a cart wheel. The prickly thorns on their backs will not suffer them to have copulation like Dogs or Swine, and for this cause they are a very little while in copulatiion, because they cannot stand long belly to belly upon their hind legs. With the same skin flayed off, and the prickles, brushes are made for garments, so that they complain ill which affirm that there is no good nor profit from this beast.'

Edward Topsell History of Four-footed Beasts 1607

' For a lunatic, Take a hedge-hog and make broth of him, and let the patient eat of the broth and flesh.'

Fairfax Household Brook. 17th/18th century.

That's allright then, but be careful how you go, remember do not trust the tories or their partners in crime. Let us not forget, we are still led, if not by a loser, then by a politician who has no trophy to show, no winners badge to wear, no mandate of the kind that gave Margaret Thatcher, Tony Blair and  even John Major an immediate bond with the electorate. Then again none of that lot were much good either. Oh dear, what matters to me in this moment in time is the fact that the tories are liars, as a hedgehog pointed out to me earlier it was their friends the bankers whose greed for bonuses eventually bought the whole current edifice down about our ears. The hedgehogs are not going to take this lying down and neither should we. United we must fight the cuts and kick out the Tories now.

Tuesday 5 April 2011

PROJECTIVE EQUILIBRATIONS.... a kind of manifesto



Resist the order
celebrate diversity
shake rattle and roll
and all that jazz.
Tremble
through the night
toss the closed heart
through smashed windows.
Make rythyms
from recycled howls
join the dots
that until now have been
closed.
Follow whimper
the bark of the moon
disentangle
from the straight path
leave reason alone,
it will find you
if it must.
Swallow oblivion
inhale poison,
run wild
catch fire.
Slip from the sky
false gods,
false starts
become your own paradise
strangle power.
Abandon all positions
echoe the resonance,
liberate every enemy
renounce war.
Let every light be
for all,
applaud tolerance
messages filled with hope
decrie the battles
against mankind.
Nurse the spirit
that does not divide
speak and listen
to those who have the time.
Tear poems into pieces
recreant confusion,
drift into world's dimension
enjoy the breeze.
Plant away
shadows
for others to seek
do not by silence confess
your guilt.
Hold on
stretch beyond
conformity,
every direction shifts.
May illusion
shift through language,
through space
through time,
become profane, imperceivable
look for a sign
then rearrange,
infiltrate disingeuous links
never stop learning.
Consume integrity
dance with desire,
do not rekindle regret
pass it on.

Saturday 2 April 2011

Robert Desnos. (4/7/00 - 8/6/45) - Some Poems.


AWAKENINGS


It's strange how you wake sometimes in the middle of the night in the
middle of sleep someone has knocked on a door and in the extraordinary
city of midnight of half- waking
and half-memory heavy gates clang from street to street

Who is this nocturnal visitor with an unknown face
what does he seek what does he spy
Is he a poor man demanding bread and shelter
Is he a thief is he a bird
Is he a reflection of ourselves in the mirror
Back from a transparent abyss
Trying to re-enter us

Then he realizes that we've changed
that the key no longer turns in the lock
Of the mysterious door of bodies
Even if he's only left us for a few minutes
at the troublesome moment when we put out the light

What does he become then
Where does he wander? Does he suffer?
Is this the origin of ghosts?
the origin of dreams?
the birth of regrets?

No longer knock at my door visitor
There's no room on my hearth or in my heart
For the old images of myself
Perhaps you recognise me
I'll never know how do you recognise yourself.




GOOD DAY GOOD EVENING

Its night be the flame
And the red that colours the clouds
Good day sir Good evening madam
You don't look your age

What does it matter if your embraces
Make the twin stars bleed
What does it matter if your face is painted
if hoarsfrost glitters on the branches

Of granite or marble
Your age will show
And the shade of the great trees
will walk on your graves.



PARABOLA (2)



Parabola my nurse...
A parabola was bored in its cage
A parabbola wanted to land on the branch
The branch is too low
The sun too high
I watch the flight of birds
They fall then climb again
The branch is too low
The sun too high
There are some strange birds
Their nest is somewhere
Quite far from the earth
The branch is too low
The sun too high.



MY SIREN


My siren is blue as the veins where she swims
For the moment she sleeps on mother-of-pearl
And on the ocean I create for her
She can visit the magic grottoes of preposterous isles
There some very foolih birds
converse with crocodiles who never finish up
And the very foolish birds fly above the blue siren
The crocodiles return to their drink
And the island doesn't come back
doesn't come back from where it's placed
where my siren and I have forgotten it
My siren has some very beautiful stars in her sky
Blonde stars with black eyes
Red haired stars with sparkling teeth
and dark stars with beautiful breasts
Each night three by three
altenating the color of their hair
These stars visit my siren
This makes for lots of comings and goings in the sky
But my siren has seven boats on her ocean
Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday
Saturday and Sunday
Some with steam and others with sails
Some rapid the others slow
But all beautiful all charming
with sailors who know their craft.

My siren has soaps in all shapes and colors
To wash her lovely skin
My siren has many soaps
One for her hands
Another for her feet
One for yesterday
One for tomorrow
One for each eye
And that one for her scaly tail
And this other one for her tail
And this other one for her hair
And another one for her belly
And another one for her back.

My siren sings for no one but me
I tell my friends to listen to her in vain
No one ever hears her
Except one, only one
But though his air is sincere
I mistrust him, he might be a liar.

TRANSLATED BY AMY LEVIN
FROM :-
EAT IT ALIVE, published by the University of Colorado
Boulder Creative Writing programme,
Volume 3, Issue 5,
December 1981

Paris born surrealist, founder of the Literary Surrealist movement, died at the age of 45 from typhoid, after the Red Army liberated Terezin, a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia.

.http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_Desnos 

 Last known photo of Robert Desnos, Theresienstadt concentration camp, 1945

Thursday 31 March 2011

Pause 11 Aberporth UAV event cancelled / An expensive Folly!

http://www.bepj.org.uk/

 The Aberporth UAV event planned for July 2011 has been cancelled. The Pause 11 website states.

West Wales Airport Ltd regrets to announce that due to circumstances beyond their control the PUSE 11 exhibition and UAS demonstation planned for 6 and 7 of July will no longer be taking place.

Every effort will be made to convene an annual unmanned systems event at West Wales Airport from 2012 when it is hoped the UAS market will be better placed to both participate and gain benefit.

The organisers extend their sincere thanks and apologies to all who have expressed interest thus far and hope they will look forward to participating in next year's event.

Judging by previous events held in Europe, Pause 11 was expected to be dominated by the military and was already gaining the attention of peace and anti-militaisation groups from Wales and the Uk. Protests and events by these groups seemed likely.



With one of the empty office units at Parc Aberporth already being put on the open market for rent the dream of a UAV "centre of excellence" seems to have turned into an expensive nightmare.

The Welsh Assemby Government reveals £17 million pounds has already been spent on the project, not including money spent by Ceredigion County Council on the roundabout at the entrance to Parc Aberporth, and the realignment of the B4333 road.

There are currently 37 people employed in the units at Parc Aberporth, but the WAG cannot provide information on whether they are full or part-time jobs or whether the jobs are taken by people  with local addresses.

Thanks again to Bro Emlyn Peace and Justice Group for the above information.Link to their site at top of article.


Right I'm off for a little drinky to celebrate.

Octavia Paz (31/3/14 -19/4/98) - Poetry and History


Octavia Paz was born Octavio Paz Lozano in Mixcoac, Mexico, then a small town, but today part of Mexico City on this day 31 March 1914. His parents were Octavio Paz Solorzano and Josefina Lozano. His maternal grandparents immigrated to Mexico from Spain.
The Paz family was a prominent family and part of the Mexican elite. His father and grandfather were active supporters of the Emilio Zapata revolution against President Porfirio Diaz's regime. His father was instrumental in the agrarian uprisings against the Mexican government and so was not around much during Paz's youth. 
Paz was raised by his mother, aunt and paternal grandfather, Ireneo Paz, a liberal, intellectual novelist and publisher.
His grandfather was noted for having written the first Mexican novel with an indigenous Indian theme. Both his father and grandfather were part of the progressive / leftist intelligensia of Mexico at the time.
When Zapata was assassinated, the family fled to Los Angeles, California for about a year until the situation cooled off when Paz was five years old.
Growing up, Paz was introduced to literature early in life through his grandfathers immense library filled with classic Mexican and European literature. He read from a young age and these books influenced his later poems and essays. His formal education was at Colegio Williams that he attended until graduation.
During the 1920s, Paz was mostly influenced by Spanish poets, Gerardo Diego, Juan Ramon Jimenez and Antonio Machado in his readings and writings of poetry. 
He first published poems as a teenager in 1931 and was greatly influenced by D. H. Lawrence. Two years later, at nineteen years of age, he published Luna Silvestre (Wild Moon) a collection of his poetry. He went on to publish many more collections of poetry, including “Piedra de sol” (Sunstone), which is considered one of his greatest works.
In 1932, he founded his first literary review magazine, Barandal.
After graduating from the Colegio Williams went on to study law, but abandoned his law studies in 1937 because as a young Marxist  he preferred to teach the sons of peasants and workers in the city of Merida in the Yucatan Peninsula. He was following in the progressive and leftist influences of his father and grandfather.
It was here in Merida that he began working on the first of his long, ambitious poems, Entre la piedra y la flor (Between the Stone and the Flower) which was published in 1941. These poems described the situation of the Mexican peasant under the thumb of the greedy landlords of the day. These poems were greatly influenced by poet, T.S. Eliot.
At the invitation of Pablo Neruda, Paz traveled to Valencia, Spain in 1937 to join the Second International Congress of Anti-Fascist Writers during that country's brutal civil war. Here Paz's writings and sympathies were with the Republican side of the war and against Franco and fascism. He spent a year there before going to Paris, where he advocated for the Spanish Republic. He met poets W.H. Auden, Stephen Spender, Antonio Machado, Tristan Tzara, and of course Neruda. The civil war steered his poetry into a short-lived social realist mode, perhaps his first attempt to join words and action. “Elegy for a Friend Dead at the Front in Aragon” and “Ode to Spain” stand out as examples of this effort; the former addresses Paz’s “comrade” and finds brief moments of felicity in the psychology of grief and loss, asking, “What fields will grow that you won’t harvest? / What blood will run without your heirs? / What word will we say that doesn’t say / your name, your silence, / the quiet pain of not having you?” Paz also became known for “No Pasaran,” or “They Will Not Pass,” a call to arms in verse that caused a minor sensation. 
When he returned to Mexico in 1938, Paz co-founded another literary journal, Taller (Workshop) and wrote for this journal until 1941. This journal highlighted the emergence of a new generation of writers in Mexico along with a new literary sensibility.
Then, Paz received a Guggenheim Fellowship to study in the U.S. at the University of California at Berkley. Here he became immersed in Anglo-American modernist poetry.
When he returned to Mexico two years later, he joined the Mexican diplomatic service, working in New York City for a while. He remained in diplomatic service for Mexico for the next twenty years as he wrote his poetry and essays. 
In 1945 he was sent to Paris to work as a diplomat and here wrote his definitive and great book length essay, El Laberinto de la Soledad (The Labyrinth of Solitude) (1950) This book was an intense look and analysis of modern Mexico and the Mexican personality.
In addition to his poetry, Paz was a prolific essayist, writing on a wide range of topics including politics, culture, and art. His essays are known for their insight and originality, and he was a leading intellectual in Mexico and the Spanish-speaking world. 
Paz’s work was deeply influenced by his experiences as a diplomat. He served as Mexico’s ambassador to India from 1962 to 1968, and his time in India had a profound impact on his writing, inspiring many of his most famous works. 
He made contrary marks on history. Acting against the excesses of his own government in 1968, at the time of the Olympic Massacre in Mexico City, he renounced his ambassadorship in New Delhi and became a focus of opposition. Twenty years before, he published and analysed news of the Soviet labour camps, turning left-leaning Latin American writers virulently against him. Although his critics described him as a neoliberal or conservative thinker, Paz's roots were on the left, and he maintained a strong attachment to socialist ideals until the very end of his life.
When Octavio Paz died on 19 April 1998 in Mexico City, Mexico of cancer of the spine in 1998 his passing was mourned as the end of an era in Mexico. Paz's literary career helped to define modern poetry and the Mexican personality. When Octavio Paz died  Mexico lost a tribe of writers. He was many poets, from  being the surrealist disciple of André Breton to the admiring imitator of Alexander Pope, alongside being an autobiographer and confessional writer. A social critic, a philosopher, translator, essayist and a brilliant editor, urgently alive in and to his time. 
Octavio Paz’s literary contributions have earned him numerous awards and honors, as well as a lasting legacy. In addition to the Nobel Prize  in Literature, which he was awarded in 1990 Paz received many other awards and honors throughout his career. He was awarded the Cervantes Prize, the highest literary honor in the Spanish-speaking world, and the Neustadt International Prize for Literature, among others.
Paz’s legacy as a writer, poet, and intellectual is marked by his profound influence on Mexican and Spanish-language literature, as well as his impact on global literary culture. His  writing celebrated for its beauty, complexity, and depth continues to inspire writers and readers around the world, and his ideas and insights into culture, politics, and the human condition remain relevant and important today. He is important because his writings appeal to readers of diverse backgrounds.
Paz considered himself first and foremost a poet. He lived during an era where his early poetry was influenced by Marxism, surrealism, existentialism, Buddhism and HInduism. His later poetry dealt with love, eroticism, the nature of time and Buddhism.
As a poet, Paz was of the belief that poetry constituted "the secret religion of the modern age" and for Paz it was "the revolution of the word is the revolution of the world and that both cannot exist without the revolution of the body . . . "
His poetry has been collected in two great collections: Poemas 1935-1975 (1980) and Collected Poems 1957-1987 (1987). I will end this post with the following brilliant essay by him.

Poetry and History - Octavia Paz

Every poem is an attempt to reconcile history and poetry for the benefit of poetry. The poet always seeks to elude the tyranny of history even when he identifies himself with the society in which he lives, and when he participates in what is called ' the current of the age' - an extreme case which is becoming less and less imaginable in the modern world. All great poetic experiments - from the magic formula and the epic poem to automatic writing - claim to use the poem as a melting-pot for history and poetry, fact and myth, colloquialism and imagery, the date which can never be repeated and the festivity, a date which is alive and endowed with a secret fertility, ever returning to inaugurate a new period. The nature of a poem is analogous to that of a Fiesta which, besides being a date in the calender, is also a break in the sequence of time and the irruption of a present which periodically returns without yesterday or tomorrow. Every poem is a Fiesta, a precipitate of pure time.
The relationship between men and history is one of slavery and dependence. For if we are the only protaganists of history, we are also its raw material and its victims: it can only be fulfilled at our expense. Poetry radically transforms this relationship; it can only find fulfilment at the expense pf history. All its products - the hero, the assassin, the lover,the allegory, the fragmentary inscription, the refrain, the other; the involuntarily exclamation on the lips of the child at play, the condemned criminal, the girl making love for the first time; the phrase borne of the wind, the shred of a cry - all these, together with archaism, neologism, and quotation, will never resign themselves to dying, or to be battered against the wall. They are bent on attaining to the end, on existing on the utmost. They extricate themselves from cause and effect. They wait for the poem which will rescue them and make them what they are. There can be no poetry without history, but poetry has no other mission than to transmute history. And therefore the only true revolutionary poetry is apocalyptic poetry.
Poetry is made of the very substance of history and society - language. But it seeks to re-create language in accordance with laws other than those which govern conversation and logical discourse. This poetic transmutation occurs in the innermost recesses of the language. The phrase- and not the isolated world- is the cell, the simplest element of  language. A word cannot exist without there words, a phrase without other phrases.
That is to say, every sentence always contains an implicit reference to another, and is susceptible of explanation by another. Every phrase constitutes a 'wish to say' something, referring explicitly to something beyond it. Language is a combination of mobile and interchangeable symbols, each indicating 'towards' what it is going. In this way both meaning and communication are based on the 'intentionality' of words. But no sooner does poetry touch them that they are changed into rhythmic units or into images; they stand on their own and are sufficient unto themselves. Words suddenly lose their mobility, there are various ways of saying a thing in prose, there is only one in poetry. The poetical word has no substitute. It is not a wish to say something, but is something irrevocably said. Or alternatively, it is not a 'going towards' something, nor a 'speaking' of this or tat. The poet does not speak of horror or of love: he shows them. Irrevocable and irreplaceable, the words of poetry become inexplicable except in tears of themselves. Their meaning is no longer beyond, but within tem; the image is 'in' the meaning.
The proper function of the poetic image is to resolve into a unity realities which appear to us conflicting and irreducible. And this operation takes pace without removing or sacrificing the conflicts and antagonisms between the entities which it evokes and re-creates. That is why the poetic image is inexplicable in the strict sense of the term. Now poetic language partakes of the ambiguity with which reality reveals itself to us. In transmuting the language, the image not only opens the door to realty, it also, as it were, strips realty bare and shows it to us in its final unity. The phrase becomes an image. The poem is is a single image, or an indivisible constellaion of images. The void left by the dissapearance of what we call reality is peopled with a crowd of heteroeneous or conflicting visions, inevitably seeking to resolve their discord into a solar system of allusions - the poem: a universe of opaque, corruptible words which can yet light up and burn whenever their are lis to touch them. At certain times, in the mouths of some speakers, the phrase-mill becomes a source of evident truths requiring no demonstration. Then we are transported into the fullness of time. By exploiting language to the utmost the poet transcends it. By emphasising history, he lays it bare and shows it for what it is - time.
When history allows us to suspect that it is perhaps no more than  ghostly procession, without meaning or end, ambiguity of language becomes more marked and prevents any genuine dialogue. Words lose their meaning,and thereby their powers to communicate. The degradation of histpry into a mere sequence of events involve the degradation of language, too, into a collection of lifeless symbols. All men use the same words, but they do not understand one another. And it is useless for men to try to 'reach an agreement' on the meanings of words. Language is not convention, but a dimension from which man cannot be seperated. Every verbal adventure is total; a man stakes his whole self and life on a single word. The poet is a man whose very being becomes one with his words. Therefore, nly the poet can make possible a new dialoque. The destiny of the poet, particularly in a period such as ours, is 'donner un sens plus pur aux mots de la tribu.' This implies that words are rooted out of the common language and brought to birth in a poem. What is called hermeticiism of modern poetry spins from that fact. But works as inseperable from men. Consequently, poetic activity cannot take place outside the poet, in the magic object represented by the poem; rather does it take man himself, not in the poem alone. The two are inseperable. The poems of Rimbaud are Rimbaud himself, the adolescent fencing with shining blasphemies, despite all attempts to convert him into a kind of brute upon whom the word descended. No, poet and his word are one. Such has been, during the past hundred years the motto of the greatest movement of the century - surrealism - been any different. The grandeur of these attempts - to which no poet worthy of the name can be indifferent - lies in their endeavour to destroy once and for all, and in desperation, the dualism which tears us asunder. Poetry leaps into the unknown, or it is nothing.
In present circumstances, it may seem ludicrous to the extravagent claims of poetry. Never has the domination of history been greater than now, never has the pressure of events' become so suffocating. In proportion as the tyranny of 'what to do next' becomes more and more intolerable - since our consent has not been asked for the doing, and since it is almost always directed towards man's destruction- so does poetic activity become more secret, isolated, and rare. Only yesterday, to write a poem or to fall in love were subversive activities, compromising the social order by exposing its double character. Today, the very notion of order has disappeared, and its place has been taken by a combination of forces, masses, and resistances. Reality has cast disguises and contemporary society is seen for what it is: a hetegeneous collection of things 'homogenized' by the whip or by propaganda, directed by groups distinguishable from one another only by their degrees of brutality. In these circumstances, poetic creation goes into hiding. If a poem is a Fiesta, it is one held out of season, in unfrequented places - an underground festivity.
But poetic activity is rediscovering all its ancient subversive powers by this very secrecy, impregnated with eroticism and the occult, a challenge to an interdict not less condemnatory for not being explicitly formulated..
Poetry, which yesterday was required to breath the free air of universal communion, continues to be an exorcism for preserving us from the sorcery of force and its numbers. It has been said that poetry is one of the means by which modern man can say No  to all those powers which, not content with disposing of our lives, also want to rule our consciences. But this negation carries within it a Yes which is greater than itself.


Reprinted from
Anthology of Mexican Poetry
Grove Press 1994

originally published , in an edition
by Thames and Hudson, 1959.