Art is an important part of life. Friday was the anniversary of the death of Carlo Carra, the Italian Futurist painter, who tried to imbue his panting with movement and life.
At their best his pictures literally glow on the canvas,, he stated off in life as an anarchist, though unfortunately by the end of his life he had drifted far away from this pulse and had swapped it for an ideology of coldness and reactionary political views, but his art I can't really disagree with, and it is this that lives on.
Sometimes you wake up, and theirs nothing one can do, but grin and bear it, let the mind drift, expand, relax, wait. This morning, I felt the flame of indecision, it must have been the grass, but among the tangle of tendrils and foliage, I asked why does our world have to be so splintered, behind us a riot of protection.
Changing the subject Samuel Taylor Coleridge like the other romantics, worshiped nature,and recognised poetry's capacity to describe the beauty of the natural world. Nearly all of Coleridge's poems express a respect for and delight in natural beauty. Close observations, great attention to detail, and precise descriptions demonstrate Coleridge's respect and delight with the 'immortal' joy of nature. I will end my musings with a poem from him that deftly illustrates this.
A Sunset
Upon the mountain''s edge all light resting,
There a brief while the globe of splendour sits
And seems a creature of the earth, but soon
More changeful than the moon,
To wane fantastic his great orb submits,
A distant hill of fire, till sinking slowly
Even to a star at length he lessens wholly.
Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk!
A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood.
The boughs, the sprays have stood
As motionless as stands the ancient trunk!
But every leaf through all the forest flutters
And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.
American, Poet...... her work was much influenced by the poetry of Chrisina Rossetti. She spent a lot pf her short life in ill health, and despite several men falling in love with her, she died after an overdose of sleeping pills. The following poem is from her 1920 collection, 'Flame and Shadow' which inspired and featured in a famous short story of the same name by the Science Fiction writer, Ray Bradbury. Bradbury published his story in the 'Martian Chronicles' in 1951, with the title 'August 2026: There Will Be Soft Rains' written in an era, like today when many people were concerned about the devastaing effects of nuclear weapons, the story depicts a world in which human beings have been destroyed by nuclear force. A cationary tale that followed the recent bombings in Agust 1945, of Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
There Will Come Soft Rains.
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground
And swallows calling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild-plum trees in tremulous white;
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.
Russian animated film, from 1987 based on Ray Bradbury's story -Budet Leskovy Dozhd Director - Nazim Tylyakhozayev
They're closing our libraries, taking apart our N.H.S, taxing our elderly, causing fuel panic, giving bungs to the police, snooping on our e.mails and phone calls, attack the poor and generally stealing the future from our kids, and they expect us to throw a party for some old parasite. They really are taking the Mickey !!!
More wonderful stuff over here. http://anarchistmedia.wordpress.com/
Thom Gunn, I like his stuff a lot, we share a birthday. Borm in Britan, after moving to America, he became associated with San Francisco and the excesses of American bohemianism and all its primal urges. He wrote about violence and rebellion, love and decline, a life spent living on the edge, walking on the wild side. In his poems, as in his life he liked to take risks..... a life of studied abandon, he became known as a gay poet, who wrote in both traditional poetic forms and free verse, about the dispossessed, the marginalised where themes of love and lust interwined. Yet his themes also included the ordinary, the mundane, and was particularly good when tackling the 'sniff of the real'. One of lifes bright things, sadly departed, another one of those poets that I keep on returning to. The following poem I find beautiful, delicate in its flow. Enjoy.
Considering the Snail
The snail pushes through a green
night, for the grass is heavy
with water and meets over
the bright path he makes, where rain
has darkened the earth's dark. He
moves in a wood of desire,
pale antlers barely stirring
as he hunts, I cannot tell
what power is at work, drenched there
with purpose, knowing nothing.
What is a snail's fury? All
I think is that if later
I parted the blades above
the tunnel and saw the thin
trail of broken white across
litter, I would never have
umagined the slow passion
to that deliberate progress.
Reprinted from Collected Poems Faber and Faber 1993
Yep..... we're all in it together these days. Don't panic carry on regardless! But lets face it, it's the poorest who seem to be getting hit the hardest, while 5 million pensioners were being robbed of their pensions, did not see Millibandy or Cleggy causing to much of a fuss.
All part of the same heierarchy that seems to want to tell us what to consume and when to consume it, what to think and where to think it, what to dream and when to dream it, giving alienation new and dreadful dimensions. And as for the worker who is actually conscious of being alienated, of being exploited, who dares on insisting on their right to strike , well not under the Labour Party, the Conservatives or the Liberals you wont..
All the mainstream parties have to offer is the absurdity of living under capitalism, same old social layers, that treat people as disposable fodder.
Guess theirs a lot of anger in the air at the moment, but room for optimism too, a need for change, it was demonstrated in Bradford last week, the people are fed up with the same old same olds. At the moment, unfortunately I think its going to get a whole lot worse before it starts getting any better, and Cameon and his ilk keep on playing the blame game, but blaming the victims instead of the financial institutions who caused this economic crisis in the first place. And if you happen to be mentally ill, do not for God sake go out dancing, your not allowed to look as if your actually having a good time, they'll stop your benefits, their aim to keep us afraid. Well some of us aren't anymore, simply tired and had enough.
Oh look at the politicians on parade, hey love the olympics, fawn at the Queen, support pointless wars, well a lot of us don't support any of that little lot, clearly in a time of austerity, if you scrapped that little lot their would be a huge amount of money to spend, on things of far more importance. Their answers to put up the price of cheap lager, and the price of Moet and Chandon Champagne remains unaffected, kill of our N.H.S, privatise essential services.. All in it together, I think not.
Soon I hope their complaceny will be shaken, the potential for an awakening is thir, we have to say no to apathy......we have to rage, against their machine, be resiliant, keep saying no to their capitalist domination, escape from their status quo........ show them all the contempt they deserve, so as Eostre approaches, time to take stock..... we must not let them crush our expectations, we must remain free to dream, I really believe that their common thread can be defeated by a common united opposition. So Happy Eostore all...
Solidarity hey its such a lovely word....... a change is imperative, a faith in a future not based on their old formulas. The future could be very beautiful or it could continue as it is...... why do Milliband, Cameron and Clegg all seem to operate from the same thread, because all of them are afraid of the latent power of us all, they need one another in order to control us, and hey it does not need to be this
way
The American poet Adrienne Rich passed away last week at her home in Santa Cruz, California. Born in Baltimore, Maryland, the elder of 2 daughters of Arnold Rich a doctor and Helen Jones Reed, a gifted pianist and composer.
She married in 1953 and bore 3 sons, at a time when she was still struggling with conflicts over the prescribed roles of womanhood verses that of artistry. But as time moved forward she confirmed her identity as a lesbian, which radicalised her fusion of political commitment and poetic artistry.
She first published a volume of poetry in 1951, which earned praise from W.H Auden .Her poems were ones of defiance and fury, against convention, and as a force for change, which also revealed a tenderness and warmth, with moments of uncertainty and self questioning. She is considered to be one of the most influential poets of the late twentieth century. There is scarcly an anthology of feminist verse that does not contain her work or engage with her ideas. She is credited with bringing the oppression of women and lesbians to the forefront of poetic discourse.
Her concerns also included questions of language and history, the denial and claiming of power, the action of poetic imagination in change, a politics of place and of struggle.
In one of her uncompromising essays she wrote 'All human life on the planet is born of a woman. The one unifying, incontrovertible experience shared by all women and men is that months - long period we spend unfolding in a women's body.'
Her pamphlet ' Twenty one Love Poems' 1977 which was incorporated into the following years 'Dreams of a common language.' marked one of the first direct treatments of lesbian desire and sexuality, a theme which she continued with throughout her work.
As well as using words as a force for change, she attended rallies against the vietnam war, organised poetry reading for peace and marched for womens rights, fundraised for the Black Panthers, and was a supporter of the progressive Jewish movement New Jewish agenda. In 1997 during the Clinton administration she rejected the National Medal of the Arts, because of Clintons anti-arts policies. writing ' There is no simple formula for the relationship of art to justice. But I do know that art- in my own case the art of poetry - means nothing if it simply decorated the dinner table of power which holds it hostage. The radical disparities of wealth and power in America are widening at a devastating rate. A President cannot meaningfully honor certain token artists while the people at large are so dishonoured.' and as late as 2002 with painful arthritis marched against the Iraq War, she was also a supporter of Palestinian liberation.
She despised oppression of every kind and hurled against it. Throughout her life she spun words from a revolutionary tongue, pointed the direction while embodying the essence of the destination, with declarations of love and war. She said ' The poem arrives at itself with the immediacy of sunlight stinging glass.'
Long may her spirit be remembered. R.I.P.
Adrienne Rich - What kind of Times are these
There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill
and the old revolutionary road breaks of into shadows
near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted
who dissapeared into those shadows.
I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread,
but don't be fooled this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,
our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,
it's own ways of making people dissapear.
I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods
meeting the unmarked strip of light -
ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:
I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it dissapear.
And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you anything?
Because you still listen, because in times like these
to have you listen at all, it's necessary
to talk about trees.
Adrienne Rich at a glance.
WAIT (2006)
In paradise every
the desrt wind is rising
third thought
in hell there are no thoughts
is of earth
sand screams against your government
issued tent hell's noise
in your nostrils crawl
into your ear-shell
wrap yourself in no-thought
wait no place for the little lyric
wedding-ring glint the reason why
on earth
they never told you
WOMEN
My three sisters are sitting
on rocks of black obsidian.
For the first time, in this light, in this light, I can see who they are
My first sister is sewing her costume for the procession.
She is going as the Transparent lady
and all her nerves will be visible
Ny second sister is also sewing,
at the seam over her heart which has never healed
ebtirely,
At last, she hopes, this tightness in her chest will ease.
Ny third sister is gazing
at a dark-red crust spreading westward far out on the
sea
Her stocking are torn but she is beautiful.
1968
PROSPECTIVE IMMIGRANTS PLEASE NOTE
Either you will
go through this door
or you will not go through.
If you go through
there is always the risk
of remembering your name.
Things looks at you doubly
and you must look back
and let them happen.
If you do not go through
it is possible
to live worthily
to maintain your attitudes
to hold your position
to die bravely
but much will blind you,
much will evade you,
at what cost who knows?
The door itself
makes no promises
Is is only a door.
THE ART OF TRANSLATION
1
To have seen you exactly, once:
red hair over cold cheeks fresh from the freeway
your lingo, your daunting and dautless
eyes. But then to lift towards home, mile upon
mile
back when they'd barely heard your name
- neither as terrorist nor as genius would they
detain you-
to wing itback to my country bearing
your war-flecked protocols-
that was a mission, surely my art's pouch
crammed with your bristling juices
sweet dark drops of your spirit
that streaked the pouch, the shirt I wore
and the bench on which I leaned.
2
It's only a branch like any other
green with the flare of life in it
and ifI hold this end, you the other
that means it's broken
broken between us, broken despite us
broken and therfore dying
broken by force, broken by lying
green, with the flare of life in it
3
But say we're crouching on the ground like children
over a mess of marbles, soda caps, folil, old foreign coins
- the first truly precious objests. Rusty hooks,glass.
Say I saw the earrings first but you wanted it.
Then you wanted the words I'd found. I'd give you
the earrings, crushed lapis if it were,
I would look long at the beach glass and the sharded shelf
of the lightbulb. Long I'd look into your hand
at the obsolete copper profile, the cat's eye, the Lapis.
Like a thief I would deny the words, deny they ever
existed, were spoken, or could be spoken,
like a thief I'd bury them and remember where.
4
The trade mames follow trade
the translators stopped at passport control: Occupation: no such designation- Journalist, maybe spy?
That the books are for personal use
only -could I swear it?
That not a word of them
is contaband - how could I prove it?
1995
DEDICATIONS
I know you are reading this poem
late, before leaving your office
of the one intense yellow lamp-spot and the darkening window
in the lassitude of a building faded to be quiet
long after rush-hour. I know you are reading this poem
standing up in a bookstore far from the ocean
on a grey day of early spring, faint flakes driven
across the plain's enormous spaces around you
I know you are reading this poem
in a room where too much has happened for you to bear
where the bedclothes lie in stagnant coils on the bed
and the open valise speaks of flight
but you cannot leave yet. I know you are reading this poem
as the underground train loses momentum and before running
up the stairs
toward a new kind of love
your life has never allowed
I know you are reading this poem by the light
of the television screen where soundless images jerk and slide
while you wait for the newscast from the intifada.
I know you are reading this poem in a waiting-room
of eyes met and unmeeting, of idetity with strangers.
i know you are reading this poem by fluorescent light
in the boredom and fatique of the young who are counted out,
count themselves out, at too early an age. I know
you are reading this poem through your failing sight, the thick
lens enlarging these letters beyond all meaning yet you read on
because even the alphabet is precious
I know you are reading this poem as you pace beside the stove
warming milk, a crying child on your shoulder, a book in your hand
because life is short and you too are thirsty
I know you are reading this poem which is not your language
guessing at some words while others keep you reading
and I want to know which words they are.
I know you are reading this poem listening to somethiing, torn
between bitterness and hope
turning back once again to the task you cannot refuse.
I know you are reading this poem because there is nothing else
left to read
there where you have landed, stripped as you are.
A REVOLUTIONARY POEM
A revolutionary poem
will not tell you who or
when to kill, what and
when to burn, or even
how to theorize. It
reminds you . . . where and
when and how you are
living and might live, it is
a wick of desire
Selected works
Selected Poems. Chatto & Hogarth P Windus 1967
Twent-one Love Poems. Effies press. 1976
Selected Poems, 1950-1995.Salmon Pub 1996
Dark Fields of the Republic : Poems 1991-1995.W.W Norton 1995
Tonight No Poetry Will Serve: Poems 2007-2010
Diving into the Wreck. W. W. Norton 1975
A wild Patience Has Taken Me This Far: Poems 1978-1981. W.W Norton 1982.
Further to my post earlier this week, on the 43rd day of her hunger strike, Israel has supposedly made a compromise. They have decided to co-exile her to 7 years to the Gaza Strip. I am glad that she has survived her ordeal and that she will not now join the ranks of the Palestinian martyrs. But technically she will still be denied her freedom, banished to the open prison which is Gaza. Far away from her home village Burqin in the northern part of the West Bank and far away from her family. A woman I add who has never had any formal charge laid against her. Still the abusive practice of Administation continues, with more than 300 Palestinian prisoners still being held in these circumstances. Also the growing use of hunger strikes amongst other prisoners will continue to cause major hiccups for Israel in the long run.
The people of Palestine will not forget Hana Shalibi's courage and the stuggle for justice, reform and liberation for Palestine and the Palestinian peope will continue.
And today ( incidentally the day after Palestinian Land Day) and tomorrow, the international community will continue to protest and demonstrate, campaign for boycotts, divestment and sanctions will go on, until Israel complies with International law and stops responding with blind indifference.
Viva Palestine.
The Conservative Party's policies deeply unpopular at the moment. Aren't they always. As for their leader, well ! ! ! Here's a lovely song that sums up the general feeling, that I can see being sung up and down the country, that will be guarateed to wipe away the smug smiles of many a tory.
So it's farewell to the NHS
Legal aid and pensions
Working for your dole
When employmen's in a hole
And not to fuckin mention
Tax cuts for the richest
Benefit cuts for the richest
Can you please explain to me
Why we should tolerate your shit anymore?
Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
But you don't have the depth or charm
And if we should ever meet
You'll also meet my bailing arm.
Cameron, I would call you a cunt
But the usefulness and beauty are amiss
And if we should ever meet
I'll be giving you a Glascow kiss.
It's a bit wierd getting your jollies
From inreasing our risk of dying
Or can you just not get it up
Without the thought of poor folks crying?
You punch tables, victorious
Each time you whack another coffin nail in
While I punch pictures of your face
Man, my hate for you is unfailing..
Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
But you don't have the depth or charm
And if we should ever meet
You'll also meet my bailing arm.
Cameron, I would call you a cunt
But the usefulness and beauty are amiss
And if we should ever meet
I'll be giving you a Glasgow kiss.
You murder what we breathed life in to for years
Rape the state born from our blood, sweat and tears
Abuse our children with all these unnecessary cuts
If we ever meet, may your god help your nuts..
Cameron, I would call you a cunt,
But you don't have the depth or charm
And if we should ever meet
You'll also meet my bailing arm.
Cameron, I will call you a cunt
As you are very good at pissing
down on those living hand to mouth
Let's hook up for some Glasgow kissing
