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?