So I am packing up to leave Bath...

and here's an apt poem commemorating a year in my precious tiny luminous slice of Georgian architecture. And all the baths I've had here.
Mainly because the shower doesn't work.
Farewell big windows!
Farewell 2am shouty drunkards!
Farewell fucking seagulls!

I will miss you.


Winter Trilogy by Sudesh Mishra

the lion-footed bathtub
is a beast
with the cloudy head
of a human being
-a sphinx, no less,
with a soul of clear water
or what passes for clear water.
thus when the divine portion
rejects the torso,
despite its sublime brutishness,
as the woman,
(we behold her now)
haunted by towels,
desquamates,
stepping out of her improbable loins,
into another,
more exalted afterlife,
the soul
(more water than soul)
exulting in baser things,
retreats further
into what's primal, mud-sullied,
and unfinished.

Food for thought: Nothing Twice by Wislawa Szymborska

Nothing Twice

by Wisława Szymborska   
(translated by Clare Cavanagh and Stanislaw Baranczak)


Nothing can ever happen twice.
In consequence, the sorry fact is
that we arrive here improvised
and leave without the chance to practice.

Even if there is no one dumber,
if you're the planet's biggest dunce,
you can't repeat the class in summer:
this course is only offered once.

No day copies yesterday,
no two nights will teach what bliss is
in precisely the same way,
with precisely the same kisses.

One day, perhaps some idle tongue
mentions your name by accident:
I feel as if a rose were flung
into the room, all hue and scent.

The next day, though you're here with me,
I can't help looking at the clock:
A rose? A rose? What could that be?
Is it a flower or a rock?

Why do we treat the fleeting day
with so much needless fear and sorrow?
It's in its nature not to stay:
Today is always gone tomorrow.

With smiles and kisses, we prefer
to seek accord beneath our star,
although we're different (we concur)
just as two drops of water are.

Most of the time

This is a very good cover of the Bob Dylan song I mentioned before.
Tenderly insightful. 
 

It might be the most intimate song I know.

"Most Of The Time"

Most of the time
I'm clear focused all around
Most of the time
I can keep both feet on the ground
I can follow the path
I can read the sign
Stay right with it when the road unwinds
I can handle whatever
I stumble upon
I don't even notice she's gone
Most of the time.

Most of the time it's well understood
Most of the time I wouldn't change it if I could
I can make it all match up
I can hold my own
I can deal with the situation right down to the bone
I can survive and I can endure
And I don't even think about her
Most of the time.

Most of the time my head is on straight
Most of the time I'm strong enough not to hate
I don't build up illusion 'til it makes me sick
I ain't afraid of confusion no matter how thick
I can smile in the face of mankind
Don't even remember what her lips felt like on mine
Most of the time.

Most of the time she ain't even in my mind
I wouldn't know her if I saw her
She's that far behind
Most of the time I can even be sure
If she was ever with me
Or if I was ever with her
Most of the time I'm halfway content
Most of the time I know exactly where it went
I don't cheat on myself I don't run and hide
Hide from the feelings that are buried inside
I don't compromise and I don't pretend
I don't even care if I ever see her again
Most of the time.

Bob Dylan

Down where the Dream Woman dwells

I am preparing for tomorrow's poetry book club but cherry-picking poems to share with other human beings is harder than I thought. So many distractions! So much choice!
For example I just found this beautiful piece by the american poet Paul Laurence Dunbar. The little riddle is enigmatically entitled The Paradox and it... feels as delicate as a glass christmas tree ornament and as cold as dirty ice.
Totally a keeper.
Here, see for yourself:

I AM the mother of sorrows,
          I am the ender of grief;
I am the bud and the blossom,
          I am the late-falling leaf.

I am thy priest and thy poet,
          I am thy serf and thy king;
I cure the tears of the heartsick,
          When I come near they shall sing.

White are my hands as the snowdrop;
          Swart are my fingers as clay;
Dark is my frown as the midnight,
          Fair is my brow as the day.

Battle and war are my minions,
          Doing my will as divine;
I am the calmer of passions,
          Peace is a nursling of mine.

Speak to me gently or curse me,
          Seek me or fly from my sight;
I am thy fool in the morning,
          Thou art my slave in the night.

Down to the grave will I take thee,
          Out from the noise of the strife;
Then shalt thou see me and know me--
          Death, then, no longer, but life.

Then shalt thou sing at my coming,
          Kiss me with passionate breath,
Clasp me and smile to have thought me
          Aught save the foeman of Death.

Come to me, brother, when weary,
          Come when thy lonely heart swells;
I'll guide thy footsteps and lead thee
          Down where the Dream Woman dwells.

by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Dunbar circa 1890

click here for more about the author

Fridge poetry

Inspired by pictures of fridge poetry found on the net! 

via: you know jack

via: deeply asleep and profoundly awake

 via: omwoods

 via: sweet as green apples

via: the awakened heart

via: sandbox

via: letters to my editor

Thanks to the authors!
Incidental and spontaneous yet... so good! Clearly everyone needs a poetry fridge magnet set...

Shakespeare tidbit

'Our revels now are ended'

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,

As I foretold you, were all spirits and

Are melted into air, into thin air:

And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,

The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff

As dreams are made on, and our little life

Is rounded with a sleep.

William Shakespeare

From The Tempest, Act 4 Scene 1

This is such a lovely bit of verse I couldn't resist...
I once heard it read by a very beautiful voice and I
wish I knew who that recording was of... Magical.

Pablo Neruda: The Light Wraps You

The Light Wraps You

The light wraps you in its mortal flame.
Abstracted pale mourner, standing that way
against the old propellers of the twilight
that revolves around you.

Speechless, my friend,
alone in the loneliness of this hour of the dead
and filled with the lives of fire,
pure heir of the ruined day.

A bough of fruit falls from the sun on your dark garment.
The great roots of night
grow suddenly from your soul,
and the things that hide in you come out again
so that a blue and pallid people,
your newly born, takes nourishment.

Oh magnificent and fecund and magnetic slave
of the circle that moves in turn through black and gold:
rise, lead and possess a creation
so rich in life that its flowers perish
and it is full of sadness.

- Pablo Neruda

Bleezer's Ice Cream

Natalie Merchant's take on Jack Prelutsky's poem :)

I need some sorbet... mmm...

Poem of note

Do not stand at my grave and weep by Mary Elizabeth Frye
reads beautifully, don't you think?

Black Swan

Where do I start? Well, first of all: my praises! It is a great movie, and I recomend catching it on the big screen.
A powerful and engaging performance on many levels: it is a thriller, a ballet, a meditation on life, a tale of a sexual awakening, a dream, an allegory, a story of rise and downfall. Black Swan is deeply and deliciously symbolical with fascinating dichotomy in characters and decorations. In the end it is whatever you want it to be... No wonder there are so many mirror scenes in the movie, huh?;)
It skillfully intertwines cultural references and studies the universal, raw human nature. Black and white sets and costumes visually drew me towards the Eastern notions of yin and yang. The ballet art form and Vincent Cassel's French accent ties in with the "old world" and European sensibilities, while the modern New York setting makes the story current and cosmopolitan.
The main character's progression and development gracefully dances down the theoretical line between painful existential transformation and psychotic breakdown. Through a medically-tinted lens you may pick up specific symptoms: paranoia, illusions, delusions, hallucinations, and progressive loss of insight. But all these negative changes are mixed in with positive ones as the character gains more energy, success, strength, determination, self-worth, discovers the pleasure of sexual expression, frees herself from her protracted childhood and rebels against her controlling suffocating parent figure. She wins and looses. Holds on and lets go. Perishes and becomes. But which is which?
When you watch this movie, will you see a story of a life broken down under pressure, or of a struggle for freedom and self-realisation? Once the credits roll out, will you have had seen a happy ending, or not?
Perhaps your reaction can tell you a bit about what your own white to black swan ratio is...
Go see it and gain a taste for growing a few black feathers!;)

Here's a poem to match:




The monkey is reaching
For the moon in the water.
Until death overtakes him
He'll never give up.
If he'd let go the branch and
Disappear in the deep pool,
The whole world would shine
With dazzling pureness.

Hakuin

poem

My feelings
are born deformed
with brittle bones
and cataracts
and holes in the heart

with tiny sharp teeth
they burrow under my skin for warmth
and tremble
when you walk past

Sometimes they get into my eyes
make them itch
make them follow your crumbs
your dandruff
like dirty starving pigeons

grabbing
your hand disappearing round the corner
turning
the back of your head in a crowded room

my eyes
the city sky rats
spreading fleas and madness
and this radioactive dust




so tell me

how are you
and how
are you
still here

longafter
I asked you to give me
a nuclear end of the world?

poem by a wild creature

photos: found here

Tom Waits: Come on up to the house

Well the moon is broken
And the sky is cracked
Come on up to the house
The only things that you can see
Is all that you lack
Come on up to the house

All your cryin don't do no good
Come on up to the house
Come down off the cross
We can use the wood
Come on up to the house

Come on up to the house
Come on up to the house
The world is not my home
I'm just a passin thru
Come on up to the house

There's no light in the tunnel
No irons in the fire
Come on up to the house
And your singin lead soprano
In a junkman's choir
You gotta come on up to the house

Does life seem nasty, brutish and short
Come on up to the house
The seas are stormy
And you can't find no port
Come on up to the house

(Chorus)
there's nothin in the world
that you can do
you gotta come on up to the house
and you been whipped by the forces
that are inside you
come on up to the house
well you're high on top
of your mountain of woe
come on up to the house
well you know you should surrender
but you can't let go
you gotta come on up to the house
(Chorus)

Poetry & Barns!

I definately am a firm believer in giving poetry a physical space in our busy modern world. I always though of urban areas first, but why not the countryside?

"Bill Dunlap is doing a series of murals on barns across Maryland. Each mural will be a text and image piece featuring poetry. The project is organized by the University of Maryland Art Gallery in College Park, and is called "Poetic Aesthetic in Rural Maryland".
He just completed the first mural on a barn near Gaithersburg, MD. The painting is 10 ft tall and about 43 ft long. He used the poem "Lost" by David Wagoner."

I think it would be wonderfull if we allowed visual art and poetry in to our everyday life without so much public outcry and repercussions. It has the potential to inspire us, to amuse and amaze us. I never quite understood people who perceive forms of street art so negatively, as a threat, as an insult. They are after all, a statement to the human imagination which is powerfull and rich and has the power to transfor something drab and dull into a point of reflection and learning. It has the power to brighten up and soften our existence. Poetry has so much to offer, and yet it is an art so often misperceived as "elitist" and overlooked. This does not need to be the case. We can fight to introduce poems into any human environment. Not as a tool for success or direct enhancement, but simply for the pleasure of cultivating in us that which makes us human.

found via the lovely My Love For You Is A Stampede Of Horses blog

Poem at 2 A.M.

"Rock Painting"
by Jack Pope

A leather-skinned wrinkled old man
old hunter yellow as the stones
from the rock he hears the rain talk
hyena cracking bones

A song with five words has a sway
the lion sees its head in the river
a song is a flame in the thorn-fire
the story is forever

Five words shuffle in the dance ring
five dancers whose feet never tire
they sing of the great grey cat
his tail caught on fire

What is the shadow dance saying
to the hunter? he will not forget
a rain-woman talked in the firelight
the small moon set

The eland is standing just so
thorns in the fireplace piled
the word is an arrow without death
song a sleeping child

Listen to the cough at the waterhole
mantis marks a shadow on the stone
the story is a hunter returning
who does not come alone

His trail is through the stars forever
white ash thrown in the sky
they know, the fire and the dancers
do they know he will die?

********************************

This is one of the poems from a recent second-hand bookshop find: "The Paperbook of South African English Poetry". I opened it randomly tonight on this captivating verse. It was just what I was looking for: a universal reflection, a mythical sketch. I am not a religious person at all, but I still get some spiritual and magical cravings. Often it is then poetry which leads me through the world of shadows till I touch something raw, till I wrap all my loose incongruous noises back around my core. I centre myself.
This poem made me think of the "story" motif in Terry Gilliam's "Imaginarium of Doctor Parnassus" - especially this beautiful idea about the monks who chant the song of the universe without which the world would seize to exist. When the monk's faith is tested by the devil he realises the story can never be stopped because once told it is released and travels freely on others' lips. Therefore you can never prove it is silenced.
Of course there are layers of meanings here but isn't it just nice to taste this thought: that there have ever been perhaps only a few stories with extremely fierce survival instincts and more incarnations than all the gods put together?

^_^
I think I will go to sleep now...

They say that nothing is wasted

Charles Bukowski on a San Franciso street.
This picture made my day:)

The Cave

You know when you come across a song that is so well in sync with your insides, it's freaky? This is it for me at the moment...

Mumford & Sons 'The Cave' from Ben Magahy on Vimeo.

Lyrics:

It's empty in the valley of your heart
The sun, it rises slowly as you walk
Away from all the fears
And all the faults you've left behind

The harvest left no food for you to eat
You cannibal, you meat-eater, you see
But I have seen the same
I know the shame in your defeat

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

Cause I have other things to fill my time
You take what is yours and I'll take mine
Now let me at the truth
Which will refresh my broken mind

So tie me to a post and block my ears
I can see widows and orphans through my tears
I know my call despite my faults
And despite my growing fears

But I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker's hand

So make your siren's call
And sing all you want
I will not hear what you have to say

Cause I need freedom now
And I need to know how
To live my life as it's meant to be

And I will hold on hope
And I won't let you choke
On the noose around your neck

And I'll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I'll know my name as it's called again

...

Since you've been gone
My name is Atlantis

nose full of sea foam
mouth dry from coughing

I'm drowning

behind my eyes
there's just the sand
and ants
and their fucking little labyrinths

Since you've been gone
I glued my fingers together
to catch more goldfish

I try not to be greedy:
one wish at a time

but all I get is the few cruel seconds
just after I wake up
before I roll over

to touch you

My name is Atlantis
the burned down stump of knowledge
the last living proof of our civilisation
up to my fears in water

holding on to my last breath
and little else

My name is Atlantis
Once I was the map of the world
but I peeled off

My name is Atlantis
the maiden, the lover, the crone
and now I'm gone

poem by a wild creature

photo by Gareth Stead found here

Book hunt!

Here are my trophies from a recent visit to Clarendon Books - my 2nd favourite used book store in Leicester. I hanged out there for about half an hour, perched in a narrow spilt between two dusty towering shelves, picking through the good, the bad and the mouldy, amused by the sounds of a little girl 's (pink tutu and a plastic crown in place) heated dispute with her toy poodle on the subject of their upcoming marriage engagement:)

Item 1:

The Adventures of the Black Girl in her search of God
written by George Bernard Shaw, 1st edition, 1932
designed and engraved by John Farleigh
£4.50

Chosen for its amazing illustrations, and soon appreciated for the story itself: a thoughtfull funny fable based around the good old journey motif. Quote:
"The black girl, a fine creature, whose satin skin and shining muscles made the white missionary folk seem like ashen ghosts by contrast, was an interesting but unsatisfactory convert; for instead of taking Christianity with sweet docility exactly as it was administered to her, she met it with unexpected interrogative reactions which forced her teacher to improvise doctrinal replies and invent evidence on the spur of the moment to such an extent that at last she could not conceal from herself that the life of Christ, as she narrated it, had accreted so many circumstantial details and such a body of home made doctrine that the Evangelists would have been amazed and confounded if they had been alive to hear it all put forward on their authority. Indeed the missionary's choice of a specially remote station, which had been at first an act of devotion, very soon became a necessity, as the appearance of a rival missionary would have led to the discovery that though some of the finest plums in the gospel pudding concocted by her had been picked out of the Bible, and the scenery and dramatis personae borrowed from it, yet the resultant religion was, in spite of this element of compilation, really a product of the missionary 's own direct inspiration. Only as a solitary pioneer could she be her own Church and determine its canon without fear of being excommunicated as a heretic."

Item 2:

Omens - Poetry Magazine,
Volume 8, Numbers 1&2, December 1978,
£3.95

bought immediately after finding this poem in it:

"The silence of a candle"

(Jazz Suite, no.9, after R. Towner)

unbroken in the growing motion of
this finite room.

Outside, somewhere
children divide up
pieces of the moon.

Here you chew on the roulette wheel
an old woman holds between her teeth.

There are blocks of ice in your bed,
& you wager on which will melt first.

Noisy as an eskimo
taking apart the snow

you are speaking in light.

You are the light

I wet my fingers

to extinguish.

- Michael Carlson

Item 3:

The Ghost in the Machine by Arthur Koestler
£1.80

bought for a) the title, b) this juxtaposition of cathedrals and gargoyles:
"The creativity and pathology of the human mind are, after all, two sides of the same medal coined in the evolutionary mint. The first is responsible for the splendour of our cathedrals, the second for the gargoyles that decorate them to remind us that the world is full of monsters, devils and succubi. They reflect the streak of insanity which runs through the history of our species, and which indicates that somewhere along the line of its ascent to prominence something has gone wrong.":)
and c) for these quotes opening chapters XI and XIII:

"When you don't know where a road leads, it sure as hell will take you there"

- Leo Rosten

"We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars"

- Oscar Wilde

Item 4:

the Book Fair flyer
for its awesome design


totally going up on my wall:)

Item 5:

Travels in the Interior of Africa, by Mungo Park
£5.95

Chosen for the illustrations, the time-space background of political incorrectness, and this insight into the origins of the expression "Mambo Jumbo":

"I arrived at Kolor, a considerable town, near the entrance into which I bserved, hanging upon a tree, a sort of masquerade habit, made of the bark of trees, which I was told on inquiry belonged to Mumbo Jumbo. This is a strange bugbear, common to all the Mandingo towns, and much employed by the pagan natives in keeping their women in subjection; for as the kafirs are not restricted in the number of their wives, every one marries as many as he can conveniently maintain; and as it frequently happens that the ladies disagree among themselves, family quarrels sometimes rise to such a height that the authority of the husband can no longer preserve peace in his household. In such cases, the interposition of Mumbo Jumbo is called in, and is always decisive.
This strange minister of justice (who is supposed to be either the husband himself, or some person instructed by him), disguised in the dress that has been mentioned, and armed with the rod of public authority, announces his coming (whenever his services are required) by loud and dismal screams in the woods near the town. He begins the pantomime at the approach of night; and as soon as it is dark he enters the town, and proceeds to the bentang, at which all inhabitants immediately assemble.
It may be easily be supposed thet this exhibition is not much relished by the women; for as the person in disguise is entirely unknown to them, every married female suspects the the visit may possibly be intended for herself; but they dare not refuse to appear when they are summoned; and the ceremony commences with songs and dances, which continue till midnight, about which time Mumbo Jumbo fixes on the offender. This unfortunate victim being thereupon immediately seized, is stripped naked, tied to a post, and severely scourged with Mumbo's rod, amidst the shouts and derision of the whole assembly; and it is remarkable that the rest of the women are the loudest in their exclamations on this occasion against their unhappy sister. Daylight puts and end to this indecent and unmanly revel."