Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973) - Walking Around.

It so happens I am sick of being a man.
And it happens that I walk into tailorshops and movie houses
dried up, waterproof, like a swan made of felt
steering my way in a water of wombs and ashes.

The smell of barbershops make me break into horse sobs.
The only thing I want is to lie still like stones or wool.
The only thing I want is to see no more stones, no gardens,
no more goods, spectacles, no elevators.

It so happens I am sick of my feet and nails
and my hair and my shadow.
It so happens I am sick of being a man.

Syill it would be marvellous
to terrify a law clerk with a cut lily,
or kill a nun with a blow on the ear.
It would be great
to go through the streets with a green knife
letting out yells until I died in the cold.

I don't want to go on being a root in the dark,
Insecure, stretched out, shivering with sleep,
going on down, into the moist guts of the earth,
taking in and thinking, eating every day.

I don't want so much misery.
I don't want to go on as a root and a tomb,
alone under the ground, a warehouse with corpses,
half frozen, dying of grief.

That's why Monday, when it sees me coming
with my convict face, blaxes up like gasoline,
and it howls on its way like a wounded wheel,
and leaves tracks full of warm blood leading toward the night.

And it pushes me into certain corners, into some moist houses,
into hospitals where the bones fly out the window,
into shoeshops that smell like vinegar,
and certain streets hideous as cracks in the skin.

There are sulphur-colored birds, and hideous intestines
hanging over the doors of houses that I hate,
and there are false teeth forgotten in a coffeepot,
there are mirrors
that ought to have wept from shame and terror,
there are umbrellas everywhere, and venoms, and umbilical cords.

I stroll along srenely, with my eyes, my shoes,
my rage, forgetting everything,
I walk by, going through office buildings and orthopedic shops,
and courtyards with washing hanging from the line:
underwear, towels and shirts from which slow
dirty tears are falling

( Translated from the Spanish by Robert Bly)

AUGUST NATTERER (1868 -1933) - Everything you can imagine is real

World Axis with Hare Around.



August Natterer was a German schizophrenic outsider artist.
The youngest of nine children, Natterer was successful in business and boasted a stable domestic life, but was hospitalized after a failed suicide attempt in 1907, after succumbing to depression and experiencing detailed visual hallucinations. Whilst in hospital he began to construct a marvellously detailed delusional system where he began to complete the task of redemption that for him Christ had left undone from his position in a global hierarchy in which he was the highest authority.
His transformation from an ordinary man who had never painted before was amazing, he had a profound effective epihany where primary hallucinations consisted of celestial stages or screens where ten tousand 'pictures followed one another like lightning', including a vision of God, 'the witch who created world'.

The Witches Head, circa 1915


My eyes in the time of appreciation.

He was to remain hospitalized in several mental asylums for the rest of his life, until he died in an asylum in Rottwei in 1933, he was 28. He left behind an amazing array of drawings and paintings that captured his visions.
His legacy is left perhaps with the Surrealists who were drawn to his work because it embodied in a spontaneous way the metamorphosis of objects and concepts that was central to their work. Their is for me an underlying beauty to his work that stand today as a testement to the richness of his delusions.

Anti- Christ

The Martin Luther King You Don’t See on TV

The Martin Luther King You Don’t See on TV

MARTIN LUTHER KING DAY - His Last speech let us remember

The Euphenisms - Peter Reading

Portrait by Peter Edwards.

Cracker,Potty, Loony, Bonkers,
Nutty, Screwy, Ga-Ga, Dull,
Strange, Do-Lally,Dopey, Silly,
Touched, A Bit M.,Up the Pole,

Zany, Crazy, Dotty, Batty,
Round the Bend, Remedial, Slow,
Cranky, Turned, Moonstruck, Quixotic,
Odd, Beside Oneself, Loco,

Rambling, Giddy, Flighty, Crackbrained,
Soft, Bewildered, Off One's Head,
Wandering, Wild, Bereft of Reason,
Daft, Distracted, Unhinged,

Attributes of Simple Simons,
Asses,Owls, Donkeys, Mules,
Nincompoops, Wiseacres, Boobies,
Noodles, Numbskulls, Gawks, Tomfools,

Addle/Silly/Chuuckle/Dunder/
Sap/Bone/Block/Thick/Muddle/Crack-
Heads, The E.S.N., The Balmy,
Silly Billies,Dunces,Jack-

Asseas, Dullards, Merry Andrews,
Mooncalves, at least one MP,
Vauxhall Workers (and Execs), Clods,
Paisleyites, Twerps, Playd Cymru...

FROM :-
Collected Poems
(Bloodaxe Books, Newcastle, 1995)

Miroslav Valek ( 17/7/27 - 27/1/91) - FROM THE ABSOLUTE DIARY

Valek was born in Trnava in Czechoslovakia where he studied at the Bratilslava School of Economics. He was both a contributor and an editor of varous literary magazines, chief editor of Mlad tvorba and Romboid. He became Secretary and then Chairman of the Slovak Writers Union, and was a State Prize Laureate. In 1968 at the time of the Czechoslovakian uprising he became Vice-Chairman of the Czechoslovak Writers Union, and in January 1969 was made Minister of Culture in the newly created Slovak government following the intoduction of the federal law system in Czechoslovakia until 1988. It was mainly down to him that many writers banned in the 1950s were suddenly rehabilitatated due to a so called normalisation period, where their was a sudden unbanning of proscribed books.He was quoted as saying " that in culture it is not possible to excommunicate. "

Gradually out of the old stalinist ways a new cultural scene and identity arose. He was certainly a contributor to a new positive devolopment of Slovak poetry though still dedicated to the Communist cause. His own poems owed a particular debt to the meataphysical poets.

1

When you find yourself hanging from a wire
With your feet dangling in the wind
You will grasp
That these are only further steps into the void.
So stop your antics now, the fair is over
And you have sold yourself while still alive...
You were always an ass, galloping in a suitcase,
You were always shut in,
Wound up with a key,
And bearing your burden, were yourself borne,
Though in a different direction.
This is the very mechanism of motion,
This is the celebrated scene of the fool
Who makes his entrance to convince himself
That he is not yet here,
And on returning, sees that he has not departed,
And so he sits there weeping on the steps
Crying out in despair in the midst of the roaring laughter of the
theatre:
'For God's sake who am I, where am I hurrying to?'

Time flows like flour from a sack.

You might have made a handsome corpse,
You could have lain in the grass and peeped under the skirt of the
world,
Nursed a cricket in your ear,
Grown golden to music,
You might have been quoted,
They might have named a confectionary after you...
And what are you?
Nothing. A few bones. At best
A thing occassionally needed in anatomy lessons.
You're already falling apart,
You and this old umbrella, forgotten here,
Nothing, but mere skeletons in a dark cupboard...

Nothing! Darkness, dust chalk!

The poplars and weeds reveal themselves gradually, and the
starfish...
The earth is torn apart, the continents draw apart...
And where were you, homo sapiens?

Must we go on with this? Must we keep coating you
With silk and varnish?

O black umbrella,
Loss of memory,
Darkening of the sun,
Sudden blindness!


4

We fall, exhausted runners in a race, we spit out bloodstained
towns,
Abandon them, we strangle ourselves with our own hands,
Expose the sex of a juvenile word
Before the mirror
Willing to sleep out the night with every better poem.
We envy one another, hate one another.
Just as you swallow your beefsteaks, so we gulp down our own
narcotics
In order to behold a butterfly
Fluttering in a bunch of roses.
We write, we write,
The last underskirt of the night is long agocovered with
writing,
And nobody knows what poetry is.
Some people fefine it
As an accepted plan for the termination of virginity,
And others
As theinterrupted intercourse of emotion with reason,
But that's a fatal mistake!
Poetry walks in a chequered shirt
And spits on good form!
From the viewpoint a comet in the head
And a moon under the fingernails
May be quite suitable for a poem,
But poetry issomething else, my masters!
It begins the moment
You become aware that the skeleton in you has stirred
And is reaching into your pocket from inside, probing
Te year, month and day of your birth,
Te colour of your eyes,
Your distinquishing marks...
That is the time of a poem.
Tremble, for there approaches
An embassage at white heat hisses
Everywhere around,
The merry-go-round of the trees whirls and whirls...

Everypoem has its time,
But the time of a poem is shorter than you think.

7

Ah, aquamarines are cold,
Your eyes, orange flames, hurt me!
Your brow, fragrant, sunburned skin,
The rope round your throat. That whiteness, the complexion
Of lilies of the valley, and of knives!

Hush, now, yes, I know it,
You,too, have wept
Into the tresses of salesgirls from a perfumery.

You were rich then,
And they loved you!

Good day, young lady!
The texture of honey gleams about you,
The delirium of saliva,
Purple, fire,
Musk.
And where is the poem?
We have none!
Ah, aquamarines are cold!

9

Poor poet,who robs
Treasuries and churches
The faithful ox dragging the plough of words!
With Andromeda on your lip!
Now and then you will be hissed off the stage,
You'll go to the fire,
All the shames of the world will find their requittal in you,
And the sum of them will be added to your burden.
Your humiliatins will be mustered by the first rank and the
second,
And the first will enter into the second
To complete them, themselves by them completed.

O, tender member!
Your name is seed squandered,
Your pregnancy will never yield to the cry of the new born.
You will be spat upon,
And the woman you have loved will be there to see it,
Her eyes narrowed to slits
That will weep razor-blades under your feet...
This isn't like that time
When, drunk with whatever music of whatever chance flesh,
You vomited into the decolletage of the new moon!
Where is the woman who has not undressed in the pupil of your
eye

Translated by Edith Pargeter

CENSORSHIP AND VIRTUE - Alex Trocchi ( 30/7/25 - 15/4/84)

As we enter a new decade the following article I feel, still has much relevance. Books and images still banned, passions still ignited, because of the power of the word . We have always lived in dangerous times, words have been used and abused since the first scribble. A complex issue, one persons freedom is anothers contradiction . - teifidancer

I myself have heard a birth-control pamphlet condemned as obscene on several grounds one of which was a suggestion that possibly women might enjoy sexual intercourse.Bertrand Russell



The proprietors of the Olympia Press have the firm conviction that Lord Russel, the eminent British philosopher, is not alone in his contempt for the current laws of censorship in English-speaking countries. While such authors as Chaucher, Boccaccio, Shakespeare, and Congreve are available at least in the metropolis because they are 'classics', each modern work, if it treats of sexual matters - and what serious writer can omit a consideration of them? - is subject at once to the indecent whims and narrow moral codes of the County magistrate. A number of years ago some optimists felt confidant that the final vindication of James Joyce's Ulysses an important principle of freedom hd been established. Unfortunately, this was not so. No sooner had the enemies of free thought lost on that ground - well-lost, perhaps, since few people had the patience to read Ulysses - than they burrowed like the good rabbits they are through each and every book that led man in plain language to look inward at his own sexual nature. The principle established by the legal vindication of Ulysses turns out to be a dangerous one. Any book which is courageous and not obscure seems automatically to be branded as obscene without the justification of being of literary value. Mrs Grundy has nothing to fear from the obscure; having given way on that ground she now redoubles her effort in the field of the more outspoken. The book burners are still with us.
In spite of the risk involved , these reasons prompt the Olympia Press to place before the general public complete and integral texts of such banned masters as the Marquis de Sade, Frank Harris, Henry Miller, and Guillaume Apollinaire.
But there is another reason: is this censorship of which we have spoken real? We think not. Up till now many of the above books have been available in deluxe editions beyond the income of the general reader. If they were issued at a popular price, the texts were mutilated and the books abridged. Now , for the first time in history, the works of Sade and Miller, with full unexpurgated texts, in masterly and exciting translations are offered at reasonable prices in handsome book format. We have the coureage of our convictions, hoping that in this way many people - the average man as well as the scholar - will be given the opportunity of reading and testing for themselves the greatness of men hitherto condemned to silence by ambiguous laws that have caused or heads to be buried like the ostrich's at the approach of imaginary danger.
Recently there has been much controversy about the Marquis de Sade. Books have been written about him by such eminent critics and sociologists as Geoffrey Gorer, Mario Praz, and Simone de Beauvoir. Even under their advanced patronage, his works are confined to a few great libraries. Indeed, the rules are confined to a few libraries. Indeed, the rules of the British Museum demand that the Archbishop of Canterbury be present in the room while his books are being read. Furthermore, they are in French - an added barrier to the circulation of ideas which are dangerous only in their suppression. Writers such as Frank Harris, Henry Miller and Jean Genet are condemned without a hearing. Worse, a more cotemporary problem - young writers whose literary efforts include scenes and words, often searching and profound, but offensive to certain ladies and gentlemen for the most part anonymous, can find no outlt for their work.
That the position is beginning to be serious is evident from the recent controversy in the British press. One eminent reporter is reported to have said ' it ammounts to a reign of terror'. There are no hard and fast laws, no ways of knowing beforehand. One fine morning one wakes up like K . in Kafka's The Trial, and theaweful little gentlemen are there in the shape of a letter. Defence is costly and sometimes impracticable . As any lawyer will tell you , there is no unequivocal law. If one commits a murder one knows roughly speaking where one stands. If , on the other hand one releases a book in which the author has subjected to searching analysis those areas of human experience which are still considered by the ignorant to be taboo, one has no idea what consequences will follow. Fame, igominy, even prison - no-one can hazard a guess in advance. The reason for this is not hard to find. Thw whole subject is shrouded in ignorance. Ignorance defends itself by equivocation. The opponents of free thought cannot state their case in clear and simple terms, for the truth is that their driving force is nothing more or less than a fear of knowledge.
Is it virtuous to fear knowledge? Is it wise to build walls against it? How many virtuous men will be broken against those walls? We are dealing here with a subject of vital importance. It is a shorter step than commonly supposed between the rigid suppression of eroticism in literature and the creation of a totalitarian nightmare in which tribal unreason erects its black cremations for the living dead. There is no virtue in ignorance. We need not go back as far as John Milton to meet with the clear truth of the matter, that there is no virtue in the Censor.

REPRINTED FROM :-

A Life in Pieces
Reflections on Alexander Trocchi - edited by Allan Campbell and Tim Niel
Rebel Inc, 1997


For further info on Mr Trocchi
see below where you will find two very interesting pieces in this blogs index.

http://devotionalhooligan.blogspot.com/search/alex%20trocchi

CHRISTMAS LIGHTS IN JANUARY - Patrick Jones

rain beat my soul
empty me in
drizzling distances heart sedated
isolate
and dignify
us
tears
come to signify

a defiance
a shroud
a loss
a dolphinned silence
of unitnterrepted eloquence.

strung out like eyes
cold as worship
bleeding blood colour over sun denied streets
they
watch
they
wait
like Jesus upon Calvary

to be
dragged down
and put away
until
until

another
sense
of
belonging

occurs.


FROM :- THE PTERODACTYL'S WING, Welsh Word Poetry, Parthian 2003
did post on this poet on December the 13th 2009
Happy new year
demand the impossible
another world is ours for the taking

Caradog Evans - Father of Anglo Welsh literature. (31/12/1878- 11/1/1945)

David Caradog Evans was a brilliant short story writer,  playwright and  journalist  from Wales, born  on  the 31st of  December 1878 in Pantycroi,, Llanfihangel-ar-Arth, Carmarthenshire,  the fourth of the five children of William Evans (1849–1882), auctioneer, and his wife, Mary (1848–1934), daughter of William Powell and his wife, Mary. and  was  bought up in in the Welsh speaking community of Rhydlewis, West Wales.

Best known for his savage assault upon the morality of Welsh rural conformism, summed up up by the macabre conclusion of his story " Be this her memorial " which has the heroine, shamefully neglected for her sins by the sanctimonious chapel folk, finally eaten alive by rats in her lonely cottage.
He wrote about poor people in a rural West Walian setting, leading harsh lifes of struggle and quiet intensity, painting pictures of hypocricy, religious dementia and sin. His writings were grounded in local experience and fuelled by a deep personal outrage. He wrote from the heart and great honesty about a conformist totality embracing a whole community. In his book " My People (published in 1915)" he brilliantly satirizes village life with its " mean vignettes of sly, crabbed peasantry " to whom hypocricy was a way of life.Evan's wish to shock worked and he became a pariah on the Welsh literary scene and is considered a father of anglo-Welsh literature. He became an outsider in his own country because what he said about the Welsh was not popular in Wales. The work attracted savage criticism from the press at the time, and they referred to Evans as "the best hated man in Wales".  and there were attemts to suppress " My People " within a fortnight of its publication, bookshops in Wales were quietly told not to stock the book and even Lloyd George " the great Welsh liberal " was quoted as saying about Caradog " Pride of place now belongs to the lowest savage. This man is a renegade." Praise indeed.
Yet his writings were universal in their concerns and appeals. It treats of lapsed humanity, and in a manner wholly original and compelling : in Caradogs imagination and feeling are the more potent for being under the tightest artistic control.His satire attacked not only primitive Calvinism, it cut across the psychic and emotional roots of the Welsh establishment. This very same establishment an all-powerful life of the nation force and still confident of popular support branded Caradog as anti-Welsh. His attack on institutionalised Liberal conformity was an attack on the nation. He even had the cheek to attack the sacred Welsh National Eisteddfod.
He was a writer and wanted his words to be read, a dissident then and because he spoke to the outside world ie, England, he committed the dissidents further crime of speaking to the outside world.
Caradog it must be said did have a political bias, in exchanges to a welsh newspaper " The Western Mail " he proclaims his socialism in various ways, overtly through his championing of the rural poor, " whose bodies are crooked with toil, and whose souls are sterile - labouring all the light hours to keep them ( the chapel leaders ) in comfort " and more obliquely in his support for the public house. " Wales would be brighter and more Christian like if every chapel were burnt to the ground and a public house raised on the ashes thereof." This remark is not that proocative, he believed that the temperence cause was a massive irrelevancy and that those who espoused it so fanatically had no understanding of the conditions of the working man nor any real wish to alleviate them.
Meanwhile Caradog continued to find " in the company of men who drank beer and hurl darts and throw rings for sport ", a democracy of debate quite alien to the chapel, " we know there is no harn in beer, but we are jealous of the pubs because men with theological opinios go there to discuss them... They are weary of sermos about the Red Sea, the Prodigal Son and Locusts. "
Caradog was never subtle and pilloried as he was he had his champions. Throughout his life he continued to write with a burning intensity, using Biblical imagery in his indignations.
A later work " Sapel Sion " was subsequently withdrawn from Welsh bookshops.Perhaps in his need to counter sermonise, some of his words get lost in there own welter of moralistic detail. Nevertheless even passed the age of sixty his writing style did not tame, his writing still cooking imaginative stirrings, immersed with an inner felt emotion and rage. His writing a curious mixture of imagination and fact, a satirists urge to scourge his fellow men, but not under any cloak of anomyninity but with his uncompromising honesty. It is evident that over the years his style became " Stylised ", his passion beginning to dissipate, his earlier rage and fundamental reason for writing becoming more calm. The savage indignation still rising , his urge to purge some deeply felt emotion.

He married romantic novelist Marguerite Hélène in 1933, his first wife Rose Jesse (nee Sewell), whom he had married on Christmas Day 1907, having divorced him in the previous year, and together were involved in theatrical ventures, both in Wales and England. After the outbreak of war in 1939 they went to live in Aberystwyth and eventually settled at New Cross.

Caradoc Evans died of heart failure at Aberystwyth and Cardiganshire General Hospital on 11 January 1945, and was buried on 16 January at Horeb Chapel, next to Brynawelon (‘hill of breezes’), the Evans' home at New Cross. 

During the second half of the twentieth century his critical reputation in Wales improved, and few serious critics would now react to his depiction of Welsh life with the ferocity of his original commentators., 

The following is a list of Caradog's sayings, deliberately manufactured epigramatic sentences, which would then be worked , into his latest stories. They reveal his humour, he could laugh you now.
The original; spelling, punctuation and markings in the sayings that follow have been retained.

You can't have wisdom in your beard before you have grown a beard.

The difference between the saint of the New Testament and the saint of to-day is that the modern saint delivers his pronouncement at a banquet table.

No Welshman talks in Welsh if he knows English.

The only quarrel that exists between the Welsh and the Jews is that the Jews claim to be the Chosen People. They are wrong. The Welsh are the Chosen People. In Biblical Egypt they were the locusts that plaqued the Egyptians.

The Welsh are the only people who are brave enough to tell a lie as if that lie were a tuth.

The Welshman is afraid of only one thing : poverty. That is why he is kind to tramps.

The only person who loves his job is a sheep dog.

Foreigners write good English because they do not know English.

The English are cute. In every business there is a Scotsman as second in command to an Englishman. He is there to cook the accounts and go to prison if need be.

Life is like a perfectly told short story. The last thought is conditioned by everything one has done.

A Jew likes a Welshman in his business, because when the fire happens he can say that it was the Welshman's fault.

It is as indecent as an undertaker attending a funeral in an opera hat.

There has never been a great Welsh criminal. The Welshman at home seells addled eggs and diluted milk; but when he goes abroad he steals money.

There are more scandals hidden in a Wesh town of five thousand people than there are dealt with during a divorce court sessions.

Wales is a place of buried history and lost politics.

The Welsh J.P says sir to the policeman and the policeman says mister to the J.P.

It does not matter what an author sees in his work, it is what the public see in it.

The Welshman is like his scenery, triangular.

The best actors - the most feeling- are the men who conduct mock auctions.

There is nothing that dries sooner than a woman's tears.

Man's worst handicap is a chaste wife.

As dainty as a cow stepping into a stram on a hot day.

Dear me. You talk Welsh. I thought you were a gentleman.

Ducks hatched by a hen go on clacking.

As silly as a parish magazine run by the curate in his vicar's abscence.

The average woman's novel is full of gaps and nooks where lovers can commit adultery.

In all wars the idealist fights fr an imagined golden land, while the practical man gathers a golden harvest at home.

An honest Welshman is not a miracle; the miracle is how he became honest.

The only evil we see in another man is the likeness of our own evil.

The test of culture is that a play deteriorates after the first night.

The clergy believe that uman beings are cabbages inteded for heaven's horticultural show.

Most love children are fine children.

The mecca of a blind democracy is the university.

A kept mistress's consolation is that she is not promiscous.

Love is a carnal passion. If it were not there would be no divorces.

Shed God and you shed nothing; shed respectability and you shed all.

The woman of 45 who dresses as 25 is out for no good.

In these days of uninteresting wives and expensive mistresses, society is becomming celibate; that means that the end of the world is in sight.

Smutty novels are written by women of 60 for girls of 16.

Books don't make converts. Neither "Pilgrims Progress" nor " Dorian Grey " ever made a convert.

Cry agaist the wind and the cry comes back to you.

You may as well try and light a fire at the bottom of a river.

No more rebel sparled more splendidly than Mr. Shaw about 1887. His words blasted the trees in Hyde Park and his breath threw down the railings.

The hardest man at making a bargain is the man who says that he does not understand money.

Earth bound spirits, so some spiritualists say, are unhappy spirits. Anyway they have the privelege of hearing what their enemies say about them.

The test of trust is a blank cheque.

Money is the plain woman's beauty mask.

There are two classes of good people: those whom God made good and those who are rich enough to be good.

Actors and writers are drawn from the middle classes; that is why their appeal is universal. Artists and politicians from the moneyed classes; that is why no one understands their message.

Happily married people can live without kissing.

You set your face like a politician does to people who have come to remind him of a promise.

When bad men become scrupilous it means that Death is hovering in the air.


FURTHER WORKS BY CARADOG EVANS

My neighbours (1919)

Taffy (1923)

Nothing to pay (1930)

Wasps (1933)

Pigrims in a foreign Land (1942)

Morgan Bible (1943)

The Earth cries and takes all (1946)

IOLO MORGANWG ( 1747 -1826 ) - The Poet's Arbour in the Birchwood.

Gloomy am I, opppressed and sad; love is not for me while winter lasts,until May comes to make the hedges green with its green veil over every lovely greenwood. There I have got a merry dwelling-place, a green pride of green leaves, a bright joy to the heart, in the glade of dark green thick-grown pathways, well-rounded and trim, a pleasant paling. Odious men do not come there and make their dwellings, nor any but my deft gracious gentle-hearted love. Delightful is its aspect, snug when the leaves come, the green house on the lawn under its pure mantle. It has a fine porch pf soft bushes; and on the ground geen field clover. There the skilled cuckoo, amorous, entrancing, sings his pure song full of love-longing; and the young thrush in its clear mellow language sings glorious and bright, the gay poet of summer; the merry woodland nightingale plies incessantly in the green leaves its songs of love-making; and with the daybreak the lark's glad singing makes sweet verses in swift outpouring. We shall have every joy of the sweet long day if I can bring you there for a while , my Gwenno.