Pinter has died

on Christmas Eve.

 

He was a giant in the theatre; for me there was only Beckett who was better at pure theatre. But Pinter had more to offer.

 

We saw his 'No Man's Land' just a few weeks ago in London: stunning. Literally; that's what happened with his stuff, got you in the stomach.

 

As soon as his death was announced I looked back in my notebooks and remembered that I had written the following poem in his style:

 

You can come in,

  you can come,

    come in.

 

But just; you would be better,

  leave the rest; I said,

    leave the rest there;

      behind you; not

        here.

 

There's so much of it, so much

  did you have to have that,

    so much of that.

 

That is the trouble, it will be

  the trouble, now and to come

    what a stink it will

       make.

 

Well, I'm sorry for you to be it;

  the cause and the glory,

    for ever, as long as ever

      is never.

 

In the sense of this being never ending;

  whether you come in or stayed

    outside you, and all that

      in pertuity.

 

But I had to make you understand

  the impact, the impression, the being

     of being. It is important.

             So see it. It.

 

And if you do, as I'm sure you will,

  then it will be better than

       left outside, like

          baggage.

 

I'll punch you in the gut, with this

  only ever with this, ink stick

     the power of the gob spit,

         fucks more.

 

Bless you dear friend, so fragile, scream

  child, among the sores and blisters

      come through, blessed and

          stronger.

 

This is for you, and only ever after.

  He's gone now, but no never;

      always, ever, with you

         every breathing, living

              moment.

 

Of you, and me, a team, that sings

  above the screams, scream not

       it has gone, you are at peace,

             that is the pace.

 

Sorted, baggage and all. Was that it, then?

  Yes, that was it. Leaving it

       all behind. But at the door.

             If needed.

 

 

He will be missed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Canary Christmas

In the building that was once a landmark, there is no one to mark it. A door yields to the ever incessant attempts to get out or in. It is the same either side: there is no one there.

Except a canary. That flies from shelf to shelf, from the trading room to the accounts department; leaving a self-perpetuating trail of shit. It was ever thus.

But there is a light at the top of the tower. At the top of the pointy tower. There in the distance is a cloud of canaries. A blush of yellow. It is the early engagement of migration. The beginning of new ventures.

In the meantime, the same old canary is stuck in the same old building not knowing where to go. Until a lone security guard comes in and shoots it...some habits never die.

Take the cup

Take the cup

Hold the cup

Drink from the cup:

 

it is cold

and clear.

 

Will it do any good?

Will it channel it's path?

Grind a way unseen.

 

Or will it merely be

some slake to the dry

a mercury dewdrop?

 

Pass me the stick

Come on, pass me the stick.

 

I can't go without it now

even though there is nothing

there.

 

Nothing.

Not an echo when you shout.

A bunch of sticks to rattle.

 

Rattle! Rattle!

Anyone there?

 

Or do I hear a baby cry?

 

Hello. Hello.

 

Can you hear me?

 

I'll take this cup.

 

This empty cup.

And fill it up.

 

Here:

Take the cup.

Hold the cup.

Drink from the cup:

 

there, that's better.

 

Home at last!

Autumn mists & mellow fruitfulness

The sun paints the last of the green,

before the musk sets the scene.

 

And wraps will snug deep

among the chasing feet.

 

Time to squirrel away

kept for another day.

 

Memories made and journeys taken

but some relationships forsaken.

 

Hoarfrost comes and claps its hands

showering crystals in its pans.

 

Where diamonds run around the dirt

and cause a line on the forest skirt.

 

A feral runs through grubber's bore

and mixes up the winter's store.

 

Be ready then for the season's shroud

to make the senses shout out loud.

 

Against the rack of skins unfold

the tales and stories of old.

 

Let it rest among the dross

there's much to make the dreamer's loss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

My nib touches the paper,
cautiously.

It isn't the absence,
much more.

Why am I here, what prompted
the rush?

Among the dreams and shattered
glass.

The pats upon a thousand
shoulders.

The hesitant ink is more
than I can bear.

It is not me, or part of me,
I do not see.

Of that I used to take
some solace.

But now, what, when the lot is no more
than fills a pot.

A place to catch it all, the deritirius
of years gone by.

I dream, another dream, and wish them all
goodbye.

They come to haunt me still,
as if I care.

So let us sleep, that's all I ask,
that's not much.

And elsewhere in this serried land
they try to bang the big bang.

What fools, what stupid, stupid men,
if only they knew.

It's here inside this skull, of mine,
of yours, of everyone.

That quietly there collide, and cause a bang,
of sorts.

And holes too, of that we can be sure,
too many to mention.

It's all the wrong end of the telescope,
held like an upside down syringe.

Poisioning us with nauseous liquid,
someone's bile.

Until we spit back no more,
we've had our fill.

Enough to make us want no more,
but memory more.

Have I said enough, or should I
go on ?

Find the joy and nectar full,
of sweet moments.

That will be an echo chamber
of words well said.

And wash away the plenty
that shouldn't have been said.

A return to the written word

 

Powerful paintings

Our wonderful daughter-in-law has just had early success with her new career as an artist, see: www.katson.blogspot.com.

 

This reminded me of the power of paintings and here is an example with this painting of Ezra Pound, that I bought many years ago. It is in style of the shroud at Turin.

 

Kathy's paintings of people are much warmer and full of humanity; it is as though you can reach out and hug them. One of the first paintings that Kathy has sold shows a man on a road. You don't know where the road is going but seems to be a metaphor for life that has rushed by.

 

Whereas, the man himself, seems to have all life etched on his face. He is not weary, he is simply reflecting on his life, possibly on the life of others. As we look closer, we realise the man is standing on the road itself and yet he is stronger than the road, more powerful in a way that reflects his personality above the swell of life. In the end it may be a question of whether he is there, or not, or more, obviously, an example of reflection.

 

This to me this is the essence of paintings, so much more is there than is initially seen and more that can be discovered each time. And, biased though I am, Kathy's pictures bring this out again and again. A reaffirmation of life, a celebration of life, an example of paintings being more powerful than a snapshot of life.

 

Keep up the good work Kathy!  

 

What a BLAST!

It seems that my return to blogland has produced some confusion. What was I doing in that funny picture?

 

Will, maybe, this picture will explain.

 

You see, I had just been to the Wyndham Lewis exhibition as my blog detailed. But what it didn't make clear was that I had bought a T-shirt there with a reproduction of BLAST, the journal Wyndham Lewis edited in 1914. But I tried to take a picture of the T-shirt, still in its wrapper, because I thought it would look more interesting than just wearing it. Furthermore I wanted to do one of those arms stretched, self-shot pictures that Kathy, our highly talented daughter-in-law, is so good at. Well it all looked a bit odd, to say the least. So I hope this picture clears up the situation, particularly as I am holding a copy of the original BLAST dated June 20th 1914. Maybe I should stick to writing rather than pictures?

 

A BLAST from the past

Yes, I'm back! Did you miss me?

 

I've just started climbing our of a black hole, my cuticles are parallel with my nose; I feel the fresh air on my face. It is good to be here, I think I'll carry on.

 

Mainly inspired by the 'Wyndham Lewis Portraits' exhibition at the National Portrait Gallery that I have just attended. Excellent and proof, if proof were needed, that you can misjudge someone (as the London establishment did of Wyndham Lewis in the 1920s 1930s) and make a mistake that will reverberate for a long time. This exhibition will, in my view, readdress the balance and maintain Wyndham Lewis at the very pinnacle of twentieth century artists.

 

Someone who doesn't need any readdressing is Shakespeare and the Globe Theatre that we went to and saw 'A Mid Summer Night's Dream'. Fantastic (and I don't mind using an overused word, because that's what it was). The performance, the staging, the ambience, the actors (who all seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as we were) came together to give us an experience we will never forget. From now on, the Globe Theatre in London is top of our list of must dos.

 

Whilst queuing for tickets we met a very friendly and interesting American couple from Florida. They wanted to know the origins of Shakespeare's language (did it have Gallic within it); we couldn't answer that, can you?

 

As if that wasn't enough we also saw 'West Side Story' at the Sadler's Wells Theatre. Its story line has a resonance with today and the ease with which people can make a mistake - don't ask!

 

Meanwhile our dear daughter in law is having her first art show at Tiburon in California; we wish her well, go buy her great works of art! Let me know if you want me to carry on with this now I've restarted...

The play's the thing

During a week when the UK has gone through a political sea change, I have been reminded of another change and that is from the excellent literary magazine The London Magazine in which I have appeared. It has had a facelift and will soon launch a new edition, all of which can be discovered at: http://www.thelondonmagazine.net/

Talking of change, I was looking at an unpublished play of mine recently, one which examines the problems of indifference. It seems to stand-up well given the length of time it was written (over 20 years ago).

Here is the start of it:

R U N R I G

The set is a horizon. The actors are really representing wavelengths.

1st enters centre stage. Walks from figure to figure. There is a bishop, actress, an admiral and a prostitute. These figures are unable to see him. Some are walking. Sometimes they make inaudible sounds. The figures bare affinities of lunatics.


1st These people! Quite a collection: admiral, bishop. They must have noticed me. No reaction. What is this place?

(He walks around, approaching several of the figures. He touches the actress's face. She walks on without reacting to this contact).

Are they zombies? I can't figure this out. I don't feel anything. My clothes are still the same but they have a peculiar appearance, almost plastic.

(He takes from his pocket a pack of cigarettes and starts to light one. As he does so another figure enters having the appearance of a builder. 1st approaches).

I suppose he's like the others - a zombie.

(The figure looks round sternly towards 1st).

He looked. Are you able to hear me? What goes on here?

(The figure still looks but doesn't reply. 1st approaches him).

1st Can you hear me? Why won't you speak?

2nd I understand you . (His tone is slow and solemn).

1st Thank God, I've someone to speak to.

2nd I can see no good in our conversing.

1st So I'm to be stuck here without anyone to talk to.

2nd There can be no useful purpose in our talking between ourselves. We have other occupations.

1st What occupations? You all seem to be in a drug stupor.

2nd I don't understand. Don't you know your purpose?

1st Purpose! Do you mean there is a purpose and these people have it?

Let's it here for the Johnsons

I'll end my Johnsonfest with a cheer to Jennifer on her birthday recently. With Olivier giving a welcome cuddle.

And here's a poem from yesteryear to maybe amuse or interest:

Blue-faced boy

Standing with his hands laid
deep within the water of a stone covered
feeder; the boy appears still.

But there are small holes on the other
side, where wings beat incessantly
trying hard to enter and drink.

The figurine upholds its delicate
brushwork and gilded gold, laying definite
lines and aberrations.

His face is blue and the water
has gone into each finger that dances
among the fallen feathers.

Look me in the eye!

The lady here on the left has stars & stripes contact lenses, really weird. You don't know whether to look her in the eye or recognise the flag and salute.Whatever, as my grandson would say, she's a nice lady and I'll salute to that anytime.

Fings ain't whot they used to be!

I travelled all the way to California to meet another Johnson: Roy Johnson at The Di Rosa Collection of Contemporary Art. He was delightful and I soon learnt that Johnsons are as common as Smiths here in the UK. So I told him my line of Johnsons comes from a 350 year history of Suffolk people. It's well worth a trip to Di Rosa to see good art, a wacky house and, most of all, Roy. He'll take you on a trip on his elongated buggy round the collection that includes a car hanging from a tree and another car with a rhino's head on its bonnet.

California here I come

I am going to blog-off for a week or two as we go to San Fran soon, see: www.katson.blogspot.com

This week has had some gems amongst the coal, including meeting Roger Haywood, whose paths have crossed mine on many occasion during the years past. And Desert Island Discs was a real treasure on BBC Radio 4 this week (look it up on www.bbc.co.uk). On top of which The Guardian has been running a great series on poets see: www.guardian.co.uk.

So what can I leave you with? How about this? A piece I wrote to celebrate the eightieth birthday of Ezra Pound (so that means it was 1985). It's not very joyous, but EPs life, particularly at the end was pretty grim.

Taken, until the green fathers die

Stones make cottages and shadows from the sun; young children assemble at the shore, throwing yellow balls from hand to hand. Their eyes squint, too strong is the ray that reflects brightly from moving water. On hills roam sheep, each day free, each night the pen. But beside these animals is a Shepherd, whether it rains or becomes overtly dark, the guardian stays with them. It is to him that the children today play with a yellow ball.

The minister, a chaste man, gives forth his sermon. The sermon for harvest; he deliberates upon the goods for man from seed and earth. Praises the farmers for worthy time and courage against the elements. But alone is his word when the young children watch wielding hands, from the splicing of rope and endurance of storms.

From Stoic, the green fathers arrive, they see that the course of undisputed farming is adhered to. Oppression is their dearest friend; the Shepherd stands upon the hill with his crook guiding the sheep. As they approach him he continues tending and educating the young lambs. One of the animals will not feed its young and so the Shepherd takes milk from the teat and gives it to the lamb. He carries scars, deep creases that set his face as bracken, whatever forces he has tackled, the end has been mostly his. Green fathers arrive and single him out from the community, he is led to an awaiting wagon. Manacles fit his arms and legs, assigning his body to a figure four position.

Prosperous men talk in the darkness of the trees, their conversation is dulled: of the Shepherd who once kept sheep here and was taken away. Taken to be burnt, not to death but slowly limb by limb. Now, they say, he moves from hovel to hovel pursued by friends whom he is now unable to distinguish from enemies. As the light enters and trees move from them, they soften their voices and quickly change the subject. The shore is quiet, people no longer look at the curls of bright water.

 

A Wyndham Lewis original

I thought I would share this with you. It is one of the designs that Wyndham Lewis was commissioned to do for the front cover of the catalogue for the 1915 Vorticist exhibition. The design was never used.


In addition here's a piece of writing that I found in my archive. Can't tell you what it means, but I hope you like it:


Mosaic eye, yellow strains that cross
forever drenching the young veins:
sun crystals, chronicles of blue moon
spirited in presence of transcended hand:
shapeless form lies fallow in the watch.

Can a stool make a piano?

I met a fascinating person this week who has spent his life restoring pianos and making harpsichords and would now like to develop his own unique design of classical piano. To do so he needs to invest time and money in making his prototype that he can launch onto the world's stage (literally). Part of his way to achieve his goal is to design a stool; which having seen it and sat on it, is a piece of creative genius. Ideal for portable use (it breaks down and goes into a nifty carry pack) or to look like a piece of sculpture in your living space, ready for the odd extra guest that may pop-in. Trouble is he needs investment to develop this too and the man can't split himself in two. Where are all the dilettantes, I ask myself? Why can't we not recognise genius and reward it without stifling it in the form filling process? Will his chair make his piano?

 

This reminds me, somewhat, of King Lear and love sought and love lost; no doubt because of the marvelous Melvyn Bragg programme on Radio 4 on Thursday. His subject was Lear and he managed to weave so many themes in and out of the core subject, even though his blog told us that he was suffering from jet lag after filming Gore Vidal in New York. Go to the following link to know more about the best weekly programme there is on subjects that stretch the mind: http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/history/inourtime/.

 

As you know, if you regularly read this blog, I am attempting to show my creative output from my early life up to the present day (although there's more of the former than the latter). That having been said here's two pieces that are kind of interesting. The first is taken from an essay I wrote, which could as easily apply today, but this wasn't today, this was a very long time ago (as the names will reveal):

 

It is unfortunate that, at this time in our civilisation, we should have to consider a fundamental element in the instinctive properties of man; namely, how to live together in reasonable peace. Furthermore the form for this consideration defeats the purpose. From the emotionally involved James Baldwin to the vote-catching President Johnson, there stems far more diverse prejudices which cover the clear thinking needed for this subject. Objective reasoning is more important than subjective involvement. There will soon be few people who can boast of their objectiveness without having incurred some scar or infection in their involvement with the problem, however slight it might be. It is arguable that objective thinking is wrong, for unless one becomes a part of the problem, then there is no grounds for opinions. The ideal line is one of objective thinking after being involved in an objective manner. With this in mind, we can see the problematic aspects of race prejudice.

 

Some things never change. The next little surprise is a poem I found, which I cannot remember writing. Maybe it is from another poet (I have one or two other poet's pieces), or perhaps the muse was at work, without me noticing (Robert Graves where are you?). Either way, I find it quite interesting, and I hope you do too:

 

I had seen the evening's rain

before church's masonry.

 

Fathers walk with purple maidens

drenching the clouds with their water

onto the chipped blocks of stone.

 

This stinging day lays heavy

not needing this much sacrament.

 

To have walked with one

perhaps the mean task of it

allayed the happening.

 

I am alone with my child

softer than the hand of this woman.

 

And men can let the gowns drop

deep upon the dust of roads

dead upon the evening grave.

 

Where to next?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

G & G at a Gallery near you

Catch it if you can, a chance to see Gilbert & George at the de Young Museum in San Francisco until May 18th, then on to Milwaukee and Brooklyn.

 

For those that were first introduced to Wyndham Lewis through this blog, trust me, you must see G & G. They are outstanding image makers of our sad, sick society. Forget whether they are fake or fakery; look at the quantity, look at the quality, look at the novelty.

 

OK, I'm biased. I don't own a G & G but I as good as do. It all started in the mid 1990s. In sunny Norfolk. In August. I was walking my dog at lunch time (oh I do miss him, so much - if you've been paying attention you will know he passed away over a year ago). When along came these incredible looking two guys in smart suits and ties in sweltering August and I just knew it was: Gilbert & George. So I rushed back to my bookshop, rearranged all the windows to show books about them (what a tart I am), called the publican at the local pub and told him to photograph the most photographed artists in the world ("never heard of them" "just do as I say you old bastard"). It worked, they got pictured and they popped into my bookshop/gallery on the way back to civilisation.

 

Well, not only were they so charming, but they actually spent loads of money on my books and invited us to the private view of their next show (which, of course, we attended). So we've seen this retrospective and it is brilliant and so are they and if I was William Draper the third I'd buy one right now.

 

To know more, go here:

 

http://gilbertandgeorge.famsf.org/

 

Apart from which: I have been rattling the cages of my past work and found some of the stuff quite interesting, but that could just be egoistic in a bloggy sort of way. So, I've decided to tempt you with a bit of artistic foreplay. Just to see how you respond.

 

OK, so I start by setting the scene for the seduction: it is a stage. But not just any stage, here's what I said some twenty years ago:  A play where the characters never touch the floor. Netting, or mesh 'floors', at different levels, make-up the set.

 

The play should try to leave the audience with a feeling of 'unease', or questioning. They may even think the play never existed. Certainly the 'meaning' of the production will be difficult to understand, indeed it is better if it is not understood, ever.

 

The characters speak through voice-boxes so we never know who they are. This small group of actors should change clothes between each other as often as possible, and similarly swop make-up and props, to confuse their identity. Three females, three males make-up the cast. Because they will merge together, they, by definition, become ageless.

 

The set is lit with shafts of light that change throughout the play, like Venetian blinds casting light and shade. The positioning and movement of the characters is key to the success of the play, rather like ballet or chess. The characters are nameless, but numbered.

 

Got the picture? Touch of the Theatre of the Absurd with John Gage and Michael Clark thrown in for good measure. But I am a dialogist (if there is such a person) as well. And there I think it suffers a bit, but see what you think:

 

ONE     (Enters at the highest level from the left)

 

              I only have today.

 

TWO    (Enters mid-level from right)

 

             May day. May day.

 

            (Both characters quickly depart and come in again at each other's entry point)

 

ONE    What did you say?

 

TWO    No, what did you say?

 

            (Shafts of light change, ONE and TWO freeze)

 

THREE (enters rolling a hula-hoop)

 

             I still have this to roll. Are you rolling?

 

ONE     No flying.

 

TWO    Where to?

 

THREE  (Moving across the stage)

 

             This way.

 

(ONE and TWO move from their positions to join THREE, placing their hands on the hula-hoop and all face the audience in a mannequin style)

 

ONE, TWO, THREE

 

             In a fashion we are alone. But you are there. On this hoop. And it rolls. (pause) If we push it. (They push it and walk, in unison, off the stage. As they leave the other three enter from the other side              of the stage, dressed the same, with the same hula-hoop)

   

 

So, am I hitting the spot? Probably not. But at least a mobile of G & G hangs over me as I type, one side glowing, one sided faded to nothing: much like life really.

Memories of Andi Emerson

-

This week a dear friend of ours passed away in New York. See:

http://www.dmnews.com/DM-industry-reflects-on-Caples-queen-contributions/article/105288/
>
> http://directmag.com/news/andi_emerson_0214/
>
> http://www.google.com/search?hl=en&q=%22Andi+Emerson%22&btnG=Google+Search


She was compared to Audrey Hepburn to look at and her voice and delivery was on a par with Elaine Stritch.

I first met her back in the 1970s in London, where I had an ad agency. Andi came over from New York to find a partner agency. We clicked right away and a family friendship ensured with us and, latterly, with our son Dominic and his wife Kathy. See: www.katson.blogspot.com

Here are some interesting quotes from the many letters Andi sent to us:

Meanwhile, the rest of the world seems to be going to hell in a handbasket.

I've been teaching Business to Business Direct Mktg at the New York University, at night, to execs for 6 years. After the last class, 2 weeks ago, I got taken out for champagne. They've formed an Emerson Alumni Assoc and are contacting students from prior years to join. Made me feel better about my teaching ability.

And, today, got a 'thank you' note AND a present from the class. Made me cry!

No thanks on your offer of Maggie. We have Bush, and that's too much.

The homeless in NYC alone now number in the hundreds of thousands, crime is out of control, taxes are on a dizzyingly upward spiral, libraries and museums are drastically curtailing their services and there are no signs of an up tick yet in sight.

With much, much love - as always!

Although our association started on a business footing it soon involved our whole lifestyle which meant, for me, Andi became aware of my obsession with Ezra Pound.

To help that along she sent me a well used copy of The Letters of Ezra Pound with some interesting references to her own family, who crossed the literary lines of EP.

Again, a few quotes will give you a flavour:

Henry Adams - 2nd cousin. George Ade - my Godfather (was my father's commanding officer in World War I and wrote the Commendation that earned my Dad the DSC and his 2-terms at Cambridge).

W.H. Davies - a great friend of Aunt Edith (my painter aunt). Geoffrey Faber - great friend of my Great Uncle George. Rabindranath Tagore - close friend of Aunt Gertrude (my writer aunt). Spent weeks every year at Aunt Gertrude & Uncle Bushi's home in the Himalayas - wrote the forward for Aunt G's book 'Voiceless India'.

We were all enriched by knowing Andi.

There will be a memorial at 2:30PM NY time on Thursday 2/28/08 at Church of the Transfiguration (Episcopal) aka: "The little church around the corner."1 east 29th street between Madison and Fifth avenues New York, NY There will be a reception to follow.

Road to nowhere?

Empty ... only the roads.

Everybody has their road.

Passwords in a singular age.

I once wrote a poem which said:

Let the colours be unsaid

for who knows what red is blood

what sea is blue

what grass is green,

if they all suffer from the same name.

But we all have our own names:

names to answer

pins to open.

But what is really there?

Do you know?

Let's play a game:

a simple game.

Guess what this is?

I could go on ... shall

I go on?

That's where I left last week.

But I did come back.

Ambushed by Anne?

It was good, this week, to brush strokes with our old friend David. He spends much of his time travelling the world, the rest of his time looking after the world through the United Nations.

 

He is more used to sending postcards to us from exotic places, rather than blogging, and when I introduced him to this one he promised to ambush it at some time. Instead Anne popped up promising to supply information on Bertram Lloyd (see an earlier entry on this). But I could not reply to Anne; so if you are out there please email me on Lloyd as I'm keen to know more. I'm assured David is not Anne!

 

None of this is central to what I'm going to share with you; it's more a case of lost and found. I have been thinking a great deal about a short story I wrote many, many years ago. It has taken effort beyond the call of duty to search and find this manuscript. But at last I have it and that will be the main part of this blog. Not all of it, but the beginning, at least. I hope you like it, I'm not sure ... by my feelings are too strong to ignore.

 

S C A R E T T A

 

Music rings in the distance; a bell sends taunt emotion through the limbs of Scaretta. She is standing on a hill-top, it is early evening. To her right a stone hut sheltering amid trees and heather. What she is looking for, or listening to, remains within her aura.

 

Alfred Bregan returns from wood stacking. He carries a jug of milk from the farm. Inside a stone hut the metal stove shines from the reflected sun; careful hands have cleaned its complete design of wrought ivy twists. Upon its heating area are several saucepans, brown enamel on the outside and black within. Alfred enters the door and throws a sack to the floor, he leaves the jug on the stone next to the window. Sun is central in the sky and harvest combines are left in the field; men walk to the local Inn for beer with their food. Alfred takes from the sack a freshly killed rabbit and sitting down on the stool, begins to skin it. His large blackened hands have a gentle experienced manner, and lightly skim the grey fur leaving a red, blood dripping, meat. The stone floor seems to consume each red pool that falls upon its surface; a bright midday sun restores a fine lustre to the grey stone walls. Alfred places the skinned rabbit on the table, from the cupboard he brings home-baked bread and churned butter which are placed on the table along with one plate and knife and fork. His hands are now reddened from the blood and this disturbs him enough to halt any moment of indecision. At the outside water butt he immerses each arm full length into the centre, freely splashing and rinsing away the dirt from the skin on arms and face. The water has controlled the thick hair, black upon his arms, so now it lays in neat patterns full and strong. The beard too is more discernable on the brown face, distinct powerful bones around the eyes and cheeks. He walks back into the hut and arranges a few pots upon the stove, in preparation for a meal. His arrangement finished, he stands and surveys with an amount of latent satisfaction. Alfred takes from a hook on the wall a three spiked weapon of unusual and ominous design, with this he walks out of the hut and along the path that runs towards the fields and forest.

 

Shall I continue?

Cracking winter

What's in your basket?

I happened to come across a very wonderful blast from the past this week, when I stumbled upon Michael Mackmin, in a supermarket. When I remarked on the pomegranates in his basket he was able to relate their literary significance:


Proserpina was the daughter of Demeter and was, while picking flowers
in Sicily, carried off to Hades by Dis (king thereof).
As a child I liked the picture of this, for some obscure to me, then,
reason, in the Children's Encyclopaedia - possibly not unrelated to the
swish of thin robes, bare toes etc. Dis knew that he'd only get to
keep her there if he could make her eat. In the end, just before she
was rescued ( and after her mother had wandered up and down the earth
for six months creating sorrow and desolation and winter) she was
persuaded to eat, and managed a meal of six pomegranate seeds. So she
had to be Dis' wife for six months and could return to the upper earth
for the other six. Thus explaining spring.
See also W. Shakespeare, Winter's Tale,

O Proserpina
For the flowers now, that, frighted, thou lett'st fall
From Dis's waggon - daffodils,
That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of Juno's eyes...............


Not surprising, in the slightest, because Michael is the editor of the wonderful poetry magazine in England called The Rialto. See their website: www.therialto.co.uk, better still buy the magazine it is one of the best literary mags in the land (and still financed by The Arts Council). I hope Michael will look kindly on my return to poesy if that is what I achieve this year. The episode in the supermarket made shopping a discovery and gave another spin on this time of the year: from Eliot to Mackmin in one leap. The Ides of March next perhaps, now who can help me on that road to discovery?

Winter in Wells, Norfolk

After the hint of doom and gloom in last week's entry, look at this for an uplighting sight. Yes, the seals have come out in Wells, here in the UK, for a bit of people watching. What you can't see, is the other side of the camera, where an orderly line of people has gathered to see this wonderful sight. Seal mums with their cubs in the milky sunlight. Enough to bring-out the poet in everyone.

This is also the week where Jennifer had an eye op to remove a cyst. Painful, yes, but what a place to test the clarity of vision.

So I declare that Spring is here, and I am moved to write a line or two:

Stretch your finger, cup your hand,

break the mercury in the sand:

each rounded pool of light

lets us determine what is right.

New shoots, new beginnings...

I am reminded, at this time of the year, of spring to come through the crispness of winter. T S Eliot was not too keen on April:

 

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

 

In my first published poem I saw it like this:

 

Father come to me, watch the black stare

of green eyes: falling winter lays dread

upon thought of spring.

 

I think it's all to do with knowing what's coming; but surely the inevitably of life needn't be the dullness of life?

 

As I said in my last blog, I haven't been writing new stuff as much as I should; and this year that is what I want to do. Be a wellspring to myself. Use Pound as my beacon. Why Pound, well he used the process of creativity in writing as a life-long study, mantra and occupation. He couldn't write a letter without seeing that as a creative exercise. No 'Dear....' for him. Here's his opening to Wyndham Lewis:

 

Cher VVwvyndammmn

 

Makes us rethink the email, possibly?

 

As it happens I'm just about to plant some fruit bushes, so whatever, I will see some new beginnings.

 

It is also our granddaughter's birthday tomorrow: she is 5 years old. What a stage in life. To think, Mozart had written his first piece of music but then. No pressure!

 

Let me end, by going back to what I wrote as a biog piece in 1966 when the "Father...' poem was published:

 

Contemporary poetry should be: purity of word with scarcity of evaluation.

 

Until next time: keep planting.

 

 

Happy New Year to you, and you, and you, and you...

Here we go again. A grand start. A run at it with no clothes on. Or the dregs of yesteryear, as a reflux.

 

What say you?  I say; more & better. Well, time is running out, as many a soothsayer has been saying.

 

More writing, for me. Not difficult, seeing as I have had a dose of the block for quite some time. I need an incentive; and not just a special occasion which trumpets words of an echoing kind.

 

No,  real words that get-up the nostrils and make you snort.

 

Don't know if blogs are good enough for that. Far too ethereal. Might have to go back to real words, on real paper, in real books; for someone to realise in later life.

 

But for now, a dinger ling on the bell of life. There, off you go. Wave as you wiz by.