Ted Hughes (17/8/30 -28/10/98) - The God

You were like a religious fanatic
Without a god- unable to pray.
You wanted to be a writer.
Wanted to write? What was it within you
Had to tell its tale?
The story that has to be told
Is the writer's God, who calls
Out of sleep, inaudibly: 'Write'.
Write what?
Your heart, mid-Sahara, raged
In its emptiness.
Your dreams were empty.
You bowed at your desk and you wept
Over the story that refused to exist,
As over a prayer
That could not be prayed
To a non-existent God. A dead God
With a terrible voice
You were like those desert ascetics
Who fascinated you,
Parching in such a torturing
Vacuum of God
It sucked goblins out of their finger-ends,
Out of the soft motes of the sun-shafts,
Out of the blank rock face.
The gagged prayer of their sterility
Was a God
So was your panic of emptiness - a God.

You offered him verses. First
Little phials of the emptiness
Into which your panic dropped its tears
That dried and left crystalline spectra.
Crystals of salt from your sleep.
Like the dewy sweat
On some desert stones, after dawn.
Oblations to an abscence.
Little sacrifices. Soon

Your silent howl through the night
Had madeitself a moon, a fiery idol
Of your God
Your crying carried its moon
Like a woman a dead child. Like a woman
Nursing a dead child. bending to cool
Its lips with tear drops on her finger-tip.
So I nursed you, who nursed a moon
That was human but dead, withered and
Burned you like a lump of phosphorus.

Till the child stireed. It's mouth-hole stirred.
Blood oozed at your nipple,
A drip feed of blood. Our happy moment!

The little God flew up into the Elm Tree.
In your sleep, glassy eyed,
You heard its instructions. When you woke
Your hands moved. You watched them in dismay
As they made a new sacrifice .
Two handfuls of blood, your own blood,
And in that blood gobbets of me,
Wrapped in a tissue ofstory that had somehow
Slipped from you. An embryo story.
You could not explain it or who
Ate at your hands.
The little god roared at night in the orchard,
His roar half a laugh.

You fed him by day, under your hair-tent,
Over your desk, in your secret
Sirit-house, you whispered,
You drummed on your thumb with your fingers,
Shook Winthrop shells for their sea voices,
And gave me an effigy - a Salvia
Pressedin a Lutheran Bible.
Youcould not explain it. Sleep had opened.
Darkness poured from it, like perfume.
Your dreams had burst their coffin.
Blinded I struck a light.

And woke upside down in your spirit-house
Moving limbs that were not my limbs,
And telling, in a voice not my voice,
A story of which I knew nothing
Giddy
With the smoke of the fire you tended
Flames I had lit unwitting
That whitened in the oxygen jet
Of your incantaory whisper.

You fed the flames with the myrrh of you mother,
The Frankincense of your father
And your own amber and the tongues
Of fire told their tale. And suddenly
Everybody knew everything.
Your God snuffed up the fatty reek.
His roar was like a basement furnace
In your ears, thunder in the foundations.

Then you wrote in a fury, weeping,
Your joy a trance-dancer
In the smoke in the flames
'God is speaking through me,' you told me
'Don't say that,' I cried. 'Don't say that.
That is horribly unlucky!'
As I sat there with blistering eyes
Watching everything go up
In the flames of your sacrifice
That finally caught you too and you
Vanished exploding
Into the flames
Of thestory of your God
Who embraced yo
And your mummy and your daddy,
Your Aztec, Black Forest
God of the euphenism grief.

Reprinted from

New and Selected Poems 1957-94

Manchester walkabout.

What a lovely thing a movement is
when the currents of unity smell
and voices speak with optimistic roar
side by side, the young and old
shooting out branches to oppose
tory dereliction.
The hiss of collective breath
with hungry eyes
communities dreaming together
swarming with warmth
and much hospitality.
Lover bought an accordian
needs must, we lugged it through the streets
a little indulgence perhaps,
but we are not yet broken.
People grow fierce
learn how to paint the sky
committed though in debt,
we are as strong as tempered steel.
As spirits rised, canal crossed
popped into music stores
to overload senses
already worked overtime.
But long shadows are growing
tory spite charges at Winter's cold blast
disconnected themselves from the people.
They will not kill our spirit
they will not banish our care. 

Idris Davies "Do you remember 1926" Poem animation

lest we forget.

Earlier post on Idris Davies here.

http://teifidancer-teifidancer.blogspot.com/2010/02/idris-davies-poet-of-people.html

All OUT N30

Remember the public sector workers strike will cost economy 1/10th of the royal wedding.
Cameron seems to think people are going to  take what he is doin to this country lying down, well its clear that the people are not,  it is he who is unwilling to compromise, still talking to the public like their idiots, he'd rather spin the media, he critisises the unions when he himself is on a sticky electoral mandate, ordinary people did not make this economic crisis. Up in  the North at moment, joining Manchester's people in their time of struggle.
A total of 29 unions will be walking out across the U.K, the biggest Industrial action in Britain since the 1970's.
The tories protect their own, up to 3 million workers are trying to protect the future.

Solidarity with all those out tomorrow.

United we stand
Divided we fall.

Cecil Collins (23/4/01- 4/6/89) - Fool and Flower

Fool & Flower
(1944)
Private collection

Some whimsy, why not.  Cecil Collins  an artist of transcendent imagination, was born in Plymouth , he became influenced by the Surrealist Movement, he had two paintings exhibited at the Surrealist Exhibition in 1936.He had won a schorship at 15 to the Plymouth School of Art from 1923 -1927 and then onto the Royal College of Art until 1931. He fell in love with a Elizabeth Ramsden  a fellow student who inspired him to create a series of visionary paintings celebrating her beauty.
He departed with surrealism  however and subsequently he said:" I turned my back on it and went into the country and started to think..... and meditate on what I wanted to do."  And this is what most of his subsequent work were about,  they were both  meditative and gentle.
In this picture a fool reaches out to a single flower to a backdrop of an empty sky. A sense of wonder occurs, a moment in time suspended, the earth reaching back , a symbol of unity, a balancing act. The present or the future perhaps offering possibilities providing a link between what is visible and under the ground the roots, that we cannot see. An image of ceremony, an image of ritual beyond mere materialism, a touch of Zenarchy.Connecting us to an aesthetic window. Sometimes what binds us is both outside and in.

More on Cecil Collins here.

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



( For Ervine

space bard

r.i.p )
.

Thanksgiving: A Native American View

Today at a time of poverty, recession, unemployment, occupation and discontentment, a little revisit to the less than benevolent beginnings of the good old  U.S.A.Thanksgiving day a whitewashing of genocide, colonialism and racism is celebrated. Hey ho.
To any American visitors of this blog hope your fox New relatives try not to season too much of  their thanksgiving dinner with to much pepper spray and I thank goodness I'm not a turkey.





More  info
here

http://unsettlingamerica.wordpress.com/

John Trudell - The voices said.

The Workers: Let's Work Together

The workers are a group of 14 public service staff from around the country, who have come together to record the classic song ' Let's work Together ' .Please help get some solidarity in the charts on the day of action on November 30th, by watching the video, buying the song, and spreading the word. On November the 30th millions of workers across the country will be taking action in support of a fair deal on public service pensions. Up the workers, even though I don't at moment, solidarity is the keyword word. Always thought music and politics make healthy bedfellows, depending I guess on which side. Yes charts are rigged, like the economy is rigged, just like banking is rigged, the system and the government used against the interests of the whole, so we have to try out different methods.Power concedes nothing without a demand.

More info on single and campaign
here.

http://action.goingtowork.org.uk/page/share/the-workers

 to download

 http://www.theworkers.org.uk/download-the-single/

Edward Thomas (3/3/1878 - 3/4/17) - November

November's' days are thirty:
November's earth is dirty,
Those thirty days, from first to last;
And the prettiest things on grounds are the paths
With morning and evening hobnails dinted,
With foot and wing-tip overprinted
Or seperately charactered,
Of little beast and little bird.
The fields are mashed by sheep, the roads
Make the worst going, the best the woods
Where dead leaves upwards and downward scatter.
Few care for the mixture of earth and water,
Twig, leaf, flint, thorn,
Straw, feather, all that men scorn,
Pounded up and sodden by flood,
Condemned as mud.

But of all the months when earth is greener
Not one has clean skies that are cleaner.
Clean and clear and sweet and cold,
They shine above the earth so old,
While the after-tempest cloud
Sails over in silence though winds are loud,
Till the full moon in the east
Looks at the planet in the west
And earth os silent as it is black,
Yet not unhappy for its lack.
Up from the dirty  earth men stare:
One imagines a refuge there
Above the mud, in the pure bright
Of the cloudless heavenly light:
Another loves earth and November more dearly
Because without them, he sees clearly
The sky would be nothing more to his eye
Than he, in any case, is to the sky:
He loves even the mud whose dyes
Renounce all brightness to the skies.

Jackie Leven ( 18/6/50 - 14/11/11) Spiritual Soul Warrior R.I.P

It is with great sadness that I found out that the great Jackie Leven had passed away. I feel numb and will try to explain in a bit. I knew the man had been ill,suffering from cancer but thought he'd get through it, like he had got past many other demons.
An idiosyncratic outsider with a magical voice, a poet who saw the world through his rich different eyes, he sang songs fron the heart of lifes deep experiences. If you have never heard of him his songs typically described hard drinking loners and often their lost lovers, with a rich deep resonant voice that used to soothe me, when I too was lost, like a dark chocolate laced with something bad.
His was a wild Scottish spirit redolant of a fire within. Never fashionable or cool but that did not stop him being admired by many.Born to Gypsy Blood in Kirkcaldy, Fife, Scotland with a London Irish father and a Northumbriam mother. A loner in childhood, he led a life of an intinerent wanderer. He found his way to London by the mid 70s forming the band Doll by Doll whose records had a certain rawness but ones I still reach out too.

Doll by Doll - Main Travelled Roads

By 1982, they'd split and in 1983 he was nearly murdered by a group of strangers severely damaging his larynx and unable to play guitar or sing. He sank into a despondent place , cutting himself adrift, finding heroin and alcohol , and so perhaps it might have ended. But he reemerged stonger founding the CORE trust which helped fellow addicts. His songs have rescued me from many a dark hour, soothed me with their raw tenderness. His work took on a soulful, spritual intensity, redemptive , haunted,becomming prolific in his journey, releasing for me a series of staggering dazzling solo records, full of tragedy, but resonating with warmth that somehow I connected to. Other friends of mine, never quite got him, but that did not matter, his records became like certain books, ones to treasure. Live I was lucky to catch him twice he dislayed his honesty, mixed with humour and candour.Always a brooding intensity, you got what you got, what must of us wanted, never an encore and never fake.
Tonight on the way home from the library I'll raise a small miniature bottle of whiskey to the night air. A True original voice has been lost, but some of us will continue to remember him.Such beautiful music, burning vision. Goodnight Jackie, R.I.P


Jackie Leven- Hidden World of She

Jackie Leven- Call Mother a Lonely Field

Jackie Leven - Revenge of Memory

Jackie Levem -  I Say a little Prayer

http://www.coretrust.co.uk/

http://www.jackieleven.co.uk/

Rejected Crumb !

A lot of posts on the net on this subject already, but what the eck.
Famed Cartoonist and someone else whose work I admire, ( don't really do hero's , not enough room in my head) has had a proposed cover for the New Yorker rejected.  They commissioned him, back in 2009 to  do them a cover on the subject of 'gay marriage', so he drew them this. They subsequently rejected it but gave Mr Crumb no reason. The story would possibly have gathered no moss had it not been unearthed at the VeniceArt Biennale recently.
What possible reasons did the magazine come to this descision? It's fairly common knowledge  that Robert Crumb is  known for pushing the boundaries a bit and is not everybody's cup of tea. His work has been attached to the 'underground' and the words 'cult artist' have often been bandied about, so his appeal was never one for the mainstream, what with his repetative style and his obsession with an exaggerated sense of the female form. He has a rather twisted way of looking at certain things. Another possible reason is that the New Yorker is majorly concerned with political correctness, and they must have suddenly realised this work might upset some of their friends, nevermind the artist in question, who has stated he will never work for them again. I for one don't know how it could offend anyone who appreciates  Crumb's  work, it is  kind of to be expected, this one for instance, after all  seems to have been done in all the best possible ( Crumb) taste. If the New Yorker doesn't want it, I would be happy enough to put it up on my living room wall, where it would be lovingly appreciated , I don't suppose it will bother him too much though, he will continue to illustrate the world as he sees it and I believe it's simply too late in the day for his fixations to simply dissapear, and despite criticisms will remain, one of the most important and influential graphic artists of  contemporary America.

More on this story below

http://www.vice.com/read/the-gayest-story-ever-told-0000048-v18n11

Crumb by Crumb