Terry Johnson's Life and Times

Anybody out there?

2011-02-12T08:12:00.001Z

I know, I know, I crawled under a stone and everybody went away with their own business.

But I'm thinking I might come back and carry on with my ramblings...what do you think?

Where did that Year go?

2010-01-02T08:32:00.001Z

On my last post I left out the word Year, but didn't realise it until now! Furthermore I left it out twice, and still didn't notice it!! I even had a kindly response and still the penny didn't drop!!!

Call it a senior moment, call it a gremlin. Call it whatever you like, I lost a year and didn't even notice it. There's not many people that can say that on Jan 2.

Hey, just thought, here's a different spin. You may call it a year, others may call it something else. So whatever your New is, enjoy it.

And it's a Happy New from him and a Happy New from me!

2009-12-31T08:11:00.001Z

Sea gulls dancing in a snowy scene

2009-12-23T16:13:00.000Z

2009-12-19T07:39:00.001Z

A Happy Christmas, and very possibly white Christmas, to everyone

2009-12-19T07:38:00.001Z

2009-11-15T09:32:00.000Z

Man catching mackerel, 1985, Laura Ford

2009-11-15T09:19:00.000Z

On a snowy Saturday morning in 1985 I went to a temporary gallery in Islington, London and bought this pastel drawing by Laura Ford. It was unframed, so I took it to the Brompton Gallery and had a hand painted frame specially made for it. I also bought a sculpture by her partner Andrew Sabin, which, sadly we no longer have.

The point of all of this is that the picture must now be moved from the wall it has adorned for many years. Where will it go? Can we still keep it?

You can't keep a good poet down...

2009-11-15T08:25:00.001Z

Or so the newly published letters of T.S. Eliot seem to show (The Letters of T.S. Eliot Volume 2 1922-1925, published by Faber & Faber). He came under intolerable pressures during this period yet he still managed to write some of the best poetry of the 20th century (not withstanding Ezra Pound who is, in my opinion, the giant among them all). If you are unfamiliar with his work, start with The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock. Here's the first stanza to give you a taste:

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question ...

Oh, do not ask, 'What is it?'

Let us go and make our visit.

And so it goes on beautifully, atmospherically; this, by the way, is the poem that has the famous line:

In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.

Enjoy Eliot, he is proof, if proof were needed, that pleasure comes from pain: in this case our pleasure, his pain!

Happy halloween everyone!

2009-10-31T18:14:00.000Z

2009-10-18T18:42:00.000Z

Wild Thing

2009-10-16T15:29:00.002Z

Great news for fans of great sculpture. At The Royal Academy of Arts, in London, from Oct 24 to Jan 24, is an exhibition called WILD THING featuring Epstein, Gaudier-Brzeska (see example above) and Gill. Can't wait.

If you know me well enough you know that I constantly sing the praises of Henri Gaudier-Brzeska as one of the greatest sculptors of the twentieth century; tragically killed in the 1st World War in his early twenties. If he had lived on he would have towered over his contempories Epstein and Gill; as it is he stands shoulder to shoulder with them; and as you glory at his work remember it was Ezra Pound that made sure the world knew of Henri, another reason why I have greatly admire Pound for what he did for poetry and the arts in general.

Go to this exhibition it will open your eyes like no Hirst or Emin can ever do.

Hilary Mantel - I remember you well

2009-10-10T06:41:00.001Z

Congratulations to Hilary for winning the Man Booker Prize with her book: Wolf Hall.

When we had our bookshop (The Old Butchers Bookshop & Gallery) in Cley, Norfolk, Hilary regularly came in when she was visiting our part of the country. We used to chat and I never felt then that I was in the company of someone with such imagination and writing ability. Her looks and demeanor beguile her enormous talent.

I have enjoyed many of her books and Wolf Hall is one of them, although being such a might tome I am only part way through it. One of her books I can heartily recommend, and is not very often mentioned, is The Giant, O'Brien. A ripping good yarn.

2009-09-06T07:17:00.001Z

Barry Flanagan hare no more

2009-09-06T07:16:00.001Z

I was a great fan of Barry Flanagan who died on 31st August. He was renowned for his hares that graced many a public space. I remember once going into his gallery in London (Waddington in Cork Street) and seeing a very unlike sculpture of his; a marble amorphous shape which rather took my fancy. On enquiring the price I was told it was 3,500 pounds. Some years later I was passing the gallery and thought I'd go in and ask about the piece once more. After much scurrying around they asked me to go down into the dungeons of the building and identify the piece. This I did and found it looking rather sorry for itself but still wonderful in my eyes. Again, I enquired the price: 7,000 pounds they formally said. I think I tried to negotiate but they were having none of it. Unfortunately I didn't give in to my desires, on that occasion. It probably is still in the bowels of the Waddington Gallery; if they read this they can contact me if they want to do a deal.

This last few days saw Barry and Keith Waterhouse depart this mortal world. Both great characters of their generation. Keith was of the write, drink and socialise generation; a wonderful set of characters who used to expend their creative energies all morning and expand their physical girths all afternoon (I remember it well!). Where are the new characters? Out there I hope, if so, let me know.

2009-08-09T07:57:00.001Z

I'm still here...

2009-08-09T07:16:00.001Z

are you still there?

In the time that it takes to brush the cobwebs from the eyes

a world collides.

Images of night, bruises of day.

Peter Blake comes into Holt

on his touring bus;

the sixties have returned.

We enter a sandcastle competition

and create a dreamy landscape of

sand, pebbles, green and brown seaweed;

someone calls it 'the best in the competition'

but we don't win

and the sea washes it all away.

In another room

sounds of laughter

in the covers of warmth

in the sheets of love.

I open the lid

I look in the box:

deep in the darkness

a slight turn produces colour

a further turn sends shapes flying

flying, flying,

into that which is beyond:

dreams, hopes, memories.

Are you still there?

Father's Day

2009-06-21T17:14:00.002Z

It was Father's Day today and time, therefore, to think of my father - did you think of yours?

My father was a mountain, a colossus, a beacon; actually he was none of these, but as more time passes the more he becomes so in my mind.

As he is not here to hug and honour, I need him more and more.

I hope you enjoyed your Father's Day; whatever they are to you, they are you.

Vined sculpture

2009-05-17T10:49:00.001Z

And the vine climbed and caressed the sleeping face
till the face was covered
and the sleep was no more.

Happy birthday Faber & Faber

2009-05-17T08:14:00.001Z

The famous publishing house, that sired such names as Ezra Pound and Ted Hughes, is just about to celebrate its 80th birthday!

Still a privately owned company (50% by T S Eliot's wife), still in the mecca of publishing in Bloomsbury, still maintaining standards of writing that has marked the twentieth century in British publishing as epoch making.

For me, it is a personal kneeling at the altar because I have worshipped, Eliot, Pound, Plath, Auden, Larkin, Heaney, et al since I first worked near Faber & Faber's offices in Russell Square in the 1960s.

If you have not delved into the treasure trove that is F & F, do so. If you, like me, you can't get enough, go to: www.timesonline.co.uk/books

Should I stand for Parliament?

2009-05-16T07:32:00.001Z

What a week it's been.

The great institution we call The Palace of Westminster was mired in scandal the like of which has not been seen for many a year.

So where do we go from here? Austin Mitchell, a well respected Labour MP, admitted that he didn't know; so may I suggest we start all over again?

WANTED. POTENTIAL MPs - NO EXPERIENCE NEEDED!

Hence, I put my hand up.

I've experienced the world of human experience in all it's complexities, but I've never been a politician. Even in the office I was pretty rubbish at telling tales and fiddling the expenses!

So vote for me, I promise to:

Tell it the way it is
Respect the privilege of being voted-in
Represent my constituents on a Twitter basis
Publish all my expense claims on my blog before they are claimed - you approve them, not the institution

Opera's loss is recital's gain

2009-05-08T16:31:00.000Z

See: http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/stage/opera/article6244932.ece

Jose Carreras has today announced in The Times that he is retiring from Opera singing and concentrating on recitals.

We had the privilege in March of listening to Jose at a recital in Marin Arts Centre in California and it was wonderful.

I have today written to The Times sharing my experience of Jose with their readers.

We understand that Jose is soon to receive a lifetime achievement award from the Brits Classics; well deserved we say.

2009-04-19T07:54:00.000Z

Rodin by the roomful

2009-04-19T07:47:00.004Z

San Francisco has a great collection of work by Rodin at the Legion of Honour Museum in the Golden Gate Park. Here's a taster. Check it out if you're in the area.

2009-04-19T07:38:00.000Z

You hum it, I'll sing it

2009-04-19T07:31:00.001Z

These humming birds in California are very tame, very beautiful and very demanding. They seem to drink at the nectar feeder faster than a drunk can open a bottle!

What do you think?

2009-04-16T07:28:00.002Z

I've been made over, scrubbed-up and washed-out thanks to my dear daughter-in-law at www.katson.blogspot.com. I think it looks better, hope you agree?

Here in the US of A...

2009-03-28T18:11:00.001Z

Germaine Greer, Jose Carreras and us are in town, what a great start! More to come.....

2009-03-22T07:26:00.000Z

Gaudier's great!

2009-03-22T07:17:00.002Z

I was routing through my bookcase and what should loom large: Henri. I talk of him in personal terms because I have known of his work for many, many years. In fact I have owned a number of his drawings; sadly none of his sculptures. I have championed his cause before, but I think it is time to buff it up again. If any of you are near to Cambridge here in the UK, go to Kettles Yard; they have the best collection of his work in the world. That's all because the person who started Kettles Yard, Jim Ede, had more of his work than anyone else. I have found a potted biog of Henri which will give you a taster but do try and go deeper, there are few books on him, but the one mentioned is a good start and he crops up in other books about the normal literary coterie (Pound, et al). Better still, if anyone reading this knows more please share it with me, I'm always keen to know more of Henri.

Gaudier-Brzeska, Henri (1891–1915). French sculptor and draughtsman, active in England for most of his very short career and usually considered part of the history of British rather than French art. He was born at St Jean-de-Braye, near Orleans, the son of a carpenter, and was destined for a career in commerce. In 1910 he took up sculpture in Paris without formal training, and in the same year he met Sophie Brzeska, a Polish woman 20 years his senior, with whom he lived from that time, both of them adopting the hyphenated name. In 1911 they moved to London, which Gaudier had visited briefly in 1906 and 1908, and lived for a while in extreme poverty. He became a friend of Wyndham Lewis, Ezra Pound, and other leading literary and artistic figures, and his work was shown in avant-garde exhibitions, such as the Vorticist exhibition of 1915. In 1914 he enlisted in the French army and he was killed in action the following year, aged 23.

Gaudier developed with astonishing rapidity from a modeling style based on Rodin to a highly personal manner of carving in which shapes are radically simplified in a way recalling the work of Brancusi (Red Stone Dancer, Tate Gallery, London, c. 1913). In Britain, only Epstein was producing sculpture as stylistically advanced at this time. Gaudier's work was appreciated by only a small circle during his lifetime, but since his death he has become recognized as one of the outstanding sculptors of his generation and has acquired something of a legendary status as an unfulfilled genius. Sophie Breszka's devotion to his memory bore fruit in a memorial exhibition of his work at the Leicester Galleries, London, in 1918, and biographies of him were written by H. S. Ede (1930) and Horace Brodzky (1933). Ede's biography was originally entitled A Life of Gaudier-Breszka, but when it was reprinted in 1931 it was retitled Savage Messiah in allusion to the demonic intensity and energy of his life; this was also the title of Ken Russell's film on the artist (1972).

Off to the States soon to see our son and daughter-in-law; can't wait. They always spoil us and the people in their part of the world are so friendly and helpful you just want to move in with them. Plus we can catch-up with art States side. The picture above will whet your appetite in that direction. Furthermore Kathy has offered to sprinkle star dust on my blog, from the blog Queen herself! Exciting stuff to come, hang on in there.

2009-03-15T08:02:00.001Z

Spring is Sprung!

2009-03-15T07:59:00.001Z

Spring has been expressed in many ways. Eliot thought it was the cruelest time of the year, as its birth was no more than a prelude to death. In one of my first published poems I alluded to that when I wrote: Father come to me, watch the black stare of green eyes: falling winter lays dread upon thought of spring.

That aside, it really is a time of enormous regeneration, rebirth, renewal; however you like to express it. As I sit here and look at the garden in the early morning sun, there are buds galore; heads rising above the parapet and I know, to my recent discovery, snails ready to emerge for their winter sleepover and eat-up all those new shoots!

So what will come this year? I'm sure there will be more of the self-grown variety of flowers and vegetables; a treat to the health and wealth of the nation. But what else? Maybe a sift away from the single souls society; where we are all doing what I'm doing right now: praying to cyberspace!

Perhaps we will inject a little 'us' into this, so instead of all being viewers a number of us will become involvers. Faint chance eh? Let me know what you think. Right now I can't resist the urge to get out there and start digging, planting and, later, sharing. It's one of the great cycles of the year. Enjoy!

2009-03-15T07:30:00.001Z

What a Relief!

2009-03-15T07:26:00.002Z

Recession, or no recession, it didn't stop people giving to the giant fundraising event this week, that is Comic Relief 2009. Nearly 60 million pounds was pledged, almost twice the figure that was achieved last time around. So well done everyone that gave something and did, like our granddaughter, something Funny for Money!

2009-03-08T07:54:00.001Z

2009-03-08T07:45:00.001Z

2009-03-08T07:41:00.001Z

More Moore

2009-03-08T07:23:00.003Z

There's a very good exhibition at the Norwich Castle Museum & Art Gallery called: Moore/Hepworth/Nicholson: A Nest of Gentle Artists in the 1930s.

It's mainly Henry Moore who towers above the trio, but the fascination is the inspiration behind this show:

In the early 1930s a group of artists including Barbara Hepworth, Henry Moore and Ben Nicholson took working holidays at Happisburg on the Norfolk coast. A Nest of Gentle Artists explores these holidays - the friendships formed, the work produced, and most importantly their subsequent influence on the development of modern art in Britain. A story of regional interest can be seen to have had an impact of international importance.

Evidently the trio's walks along the beach gave them the chance to pick-up pebbles, many of which had natural holes in them. This led Hepworth and Moore to use holes in their work which became the defining features of their sculpture.

Nearby, at the Sainsbury Centre, is a very modern exhibition called: CHINA CHINA CHINA!!! A quote from Zhang Zao, one of the artists, says: 'Art needs to be inspired by Nature externally, and ultimately be fused with the internal artistic ideals of the artist.'

I see a similarity between the trio above and the quote from the Chinese artist, although the work from each could not be further apart. It is good to think that location can give to imagination, and, important I believe, to remember our impact on the location in which we live and work; particularly now when places are closing down and there is the look of despair not beauty. Of loss, not gain. Of giving up, not taking on.

Somehow we need to rise above that. Let's think back to Moore walking the beach at Happisburg, when he picks up a stone with a natural hole in it. Now look at the pictures of his sculpture above. Who needs banks, who needs money, who needs all of that: when all you need is imagination!

What will you stand-up for ?

2009-03-01T07:49:00.001Z

Here's a challenge that we noticed this week:

This summer, sculptor Antony Gormley invites you to help create an astonishing living monument. He is asking the people of the UK to occupy the empty Fourth Plinth in Trafalgar Square in London, a space normally reserved for statues of Kings and Generals, in an image of themselves, and a representation of the whole of humanity.

Every hour, 24 hours a day, for 100 days without a break, different people will make the Plinth their own. If you're selected, you can use your time on the plinth as you like – to demonstrate, to perform, or simply to reflect. One & Other is open to anyone and everyone from any corner of the UK. As long as you're 16 or over and are living, or staying, in the UK, you can apply to be part of this unforgettable artistic experiment. Participants will be picked at random, chosen from the thousands who will enter, to represent the entire population of the UK. The rules are simple: you must stand on the plinth alone, for the whole hour; you can do whatever you want, provided it's legal; and you can take anything with you that you can carry.

So what would you stand-up for? Would you stand-up and criticise the government as Ezra Pound did in 1942 and subsequently get arrested and put in a mental hospital for 13 years, or are things not like that any more?

An item on this week's BBC Radio Four talked about: 'Are Asian women in theatre today the "Angry Young Men" of the 1960s'. From listening to the program they have every right to be angry; so will they stand-up?

Or will bankers take to the plinth and justify their pensions?

What would you do?

I've put my name forward, so I'll let you know if I get selected; but if I do I'm not sure what I shall do. It might be a slot at 3am in the morning when only the waifs and strays will look and listen; or perhaps it will be at 3pm when the tourists of the world will see this country do what its always been good at: a little bit of eccentricity? Better still, Gilbert & George may repeat their legendary singing in the rain living sculpture; that would be fantastic. I could do go on, so any ideas would be welcome, just in case.

Talking of going on, I had an interesting conversation with someone this week about getting noticed, particularly on the web. It seems that good content alone, is not good enough. Instead, you need lots, lots more. Bells & whistles as we used to say. Links and streams; let alone a Twitter or two! So I do apologise if this blog is pretty damn dull, but it is My Life and ... no I wont go down that road. Perhaps I should talk about when I was a communion wafer baker, that would spice things up, or when my son and I spent a day with Vincent Price. Has that got your attention; if so pass this blog on so we may reach a meaningful number of readers, beyond the handful that dedicatedly click-on each week. To which I doff my cap in thanks.

2009-02-22T07:49:00.000Z

A bucket load of Beckett

2009-02-22T07:33:00.001Z

Good news this week; the first volume of The Letters of Samuel Beckett was published. I've always liked Beckett for his ability to turn the absurd into pure poetry. Beckett was also on the fringes of the genre that I have liked (or been obsessed with) all my life i.e. Pound and his cronies. Beckett only popped-up in that group as James Joyce's secretary amongst other things. But he made an impression with Pound.

Here's an amusing story in James Laughlin's book: Pound as Wuz. The time was 1967 and Pound had retreated into his silent period. He was taken to Paris by Olga Rudge for the publication of French translations of some of his books. During the trip he was driven to the chateau of Vaux-le-Vicomte. 'Swinging his cane, Ezra walked briskly through the house and the gardens. No comment whatever. But that evening he uttered. He had been seeing his old friend Sam Beckett, who had taken him to a performance of Fin de Partie (Endgame), the play in which two characters are in garbage cans. Out of the blue he said, "C'etait moi dans la poubelle." (I was the one in the garbage can.)

Evidently Samuel Beckett and James Joyce were also 'addicted to silences' they 'engaged in conversations which consisted often of silences directed toward each other, both suffused with sadness.'

But as for joy, there is a new production of Waiting for Godot in London and the provinces opening soon, starring Ian McKellen and Patrick Stewart. I predict that it will be one of the highlights of the year. Particularly if Pozzo and Lucky are played well. Those two characters, in my opinion, characterise the play. They bring in the absurd; they offer a wider canvas (Pozzo could have been threatened with crucifixion, Lucky could be the mess that the world has got into). Go see this production, it could change your life.

For those that were concerned at the last sentiments in my last blog, fear not. The silence was deafening, but I'm not finished yet. I have much to say and much to do; but it would still be nice to hear from you (someone did say that my 'Time' poem was nice - never a very stirring word that, but I'll take it for what it's worth). To end, let me just say in passing, The Pet Shop Boys were so good at The Brits Awards (my son has just fallen off his chair, because he didn't even know I knew the PSB...but don't worry son it was only a one-off, back to Brahms German Requiem for me).

The Man Who Went Away

2009-02-15T07:35:00.001Z

I am looking for a book published in 1952 (in the States, I believe) by George Paul Solomos called The Man Who Went Away. I've tried AbeBooks again and again, but no luck. Pass the word around please; I really would like to find this book that I read many years ago and the author who was a friend and mentor in my early writing life.

Talking of publishing I met a very interesting small publishing company this week called: the Gatehouse Press, see: www.gatehousepress.com. They publish some fine authors (like George Szirtes and Jo Kjaer) and are run by an author and charming man: Tom Corbett. For those who live in my neck of the woods, or who hanker after our corner of the word go buy Shuck, Hick, Tiffey! written by George Szirtes. It's three Norfolk libretti which evoke a life as interesting as the environment it celebrates. If you do nothing this week go to Gatehouse, its website is a bit rusty but its output is well worth collecting.

Talking of nothing in particular I came across a lovely poem by Hilaire Belloc called The Garden Party, in a beautiful book called England from Eland Publishing. The first verse is:

The Rich arrive in pairs
And also in Rolls Royces;
They talked of their affairs
In loud and strident voices.

I thought that today, the equivalent might be:

The Celebs arrived alone
And also in Lamborghinis
They talked of Sylvester Stallone
In between drinking bellinis.

Back to basics of an amazing kind; another encounter on my travels was with a company that is surviving in these difficult times, and long may it do so. Based here in North Norfolk it is the epitome of a cottage industry. Everything is made by hand, by local people, in sheds and bolt holes, using strong and lasting materials. Whilst I was with these wonderful people (you'll see the extended 'family' on the website) one of the cats (named fidget for obvious reasons) would not leave me alone, chickens ran everywhere (would you like some they said, just help yourself) and the place exuded old world charm and individuality. May it never go the way of China, or much worse. Enjoy: www.carriercompany.co.uk.

This ragbag this week, is brought about by the desire to reach out, to connect. I know I have a small following, but I would like to think it could be more. So pass on my blog address to all that you think might benefit from literary ramblings and other bits & bobs that come out of my head from time to time. Clearly, me in my small corner, and you in yours, is not reaching out to a wider world out there. Or perhaps they have opened the door, looked inside, realised it's an old and musty gut bucket and moved on. Don't blame them, I only keep one essential site that I look at every day: www.katson.blogspot.com. But it would be good to know that these ramblings are of some interest, or should I just turn the light out and pull the duvet over my head?

Artists reject banks as source of income...

2009-02-08T08:10:00.001Z

...it was ever thus.

Here's a quote from a circular that Ezra Pound and other artists put together in 1922 to try and stop T S Eliot having to work at a bank to earn a living. Note the figures quoted and realise how far we have come from then and how much greed has taken over:

In order that T S Eliot may leave his work in Lloyd's Bank and devote his whole time to literature, we are raising a fund, to be 300 pounds annually; this being in our opinion the minimum possible for this purpose. Method, 10 pounds, fifty dollars...payable yearly by 30 subscribers.

This appeal went on, in a way you would expect from Pound, but was, ultimately, successful in getting Eliot out of banking and into full-time literature.

The world would have been poorer without Eliot's richness of poetry. Whilst, I'm sure he would have continued to write, to work in business and to write in private does not work. I've have tried it over the years and you have seen the manifestations. Try as I may (and I remember my long suffering wife putting up with me writing until the early hours, whilst she was in bed, or feeding our new born children, before I got up early in the morning and stumbled off to work) mammon has been the pull, in place of the muse.

But now; well the chance to share my writings and ramblings with you, if there is anyone listening? As well as the chance to celebrate the writers I grew up on. So let me end with some memorable lines from Eliot's Prufrock:

Let us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table

Now if that isn't worth walking out of a bank for, then nothing is.

Show Me The Bird For Killing (a scrap from the archives)

2009-02-01T07:24:00.000Z

Recollection: frail Father place the nocturne before you.

Leave eyes molten and touch my hand, I wish to feel the

old brown skin with its cracks and festerments.

Swan-walk, the rifle nestling beneath your winter coat;

enough time to crack a few chestnuts and send running the

young boys who quietly fish. This silence you can beat,

knock the hell from it and bring this remoteness back to

its place beside the High Street. Show me the bird for killing;

will it be fat and worth eating or should I not ask until it is

dead? Over at the green cricket - the barb catches wool and pulls

me back - the green burns. It is not only chestnuts on the

floor, there are feathers with dry blood upon the quill, so fill

the bags with more and we will clean the leaves and droppings.

After which we shall go and watch the Sunday game, Father is

walking with a large shadow - onward to the refreshment hut.

The clean whites are attractive by the side of wrought tables,

we could sit and drink tea. These crates of empty bottles are

not so good as the trays of tea; you seem to like them Father

though they have no more juice, like the boy who drinks it.

Crease each stare do I, my eyes watch the red covered bottle.

Is this nothing but a slumdog?

2009-01-25T07:40:00.000Z

We've just seen the film Slumdog Millionaire. It is an epic. It has outstanding performances. It is shot with in-your-face colours and compositions. It will clean-up at the Oscars. But I would have thought twice, if I had known what it was like.

Must life be like this? Incredibly cruel. Selfish to the core. Totally driven by money. Them and us, rich and poor. All for the sake of....

In the end love won over everything, but at what price? OK, it is only a story, it is only a film; but I'm naive enough to think that life is like that in places all around the world.

I will clap and cheer with everyone, when the director and actor gets their gongs, but I hope they will have collecting boxes for the heroes that have survived, or are at the moment surviving, what this film portrays in angonising detail.

In the beginning ...

2009-01-18T07:57:00.002Z

How many times have we said that?
But is this the time?

The time to hang-up our prejudices.
Time to start anew?

Time to fix what's broken
time to grab a pew.

And when we find that time
will we give it the time it's due?

Time to once more see a smile
upon their timeless faces.

Time to accept and renew
without calling in anytime dues.

So who's saying time on time?
Not you or you. Not this time.

He eats like us, he talks like us.....

2009-01-11T07:36:00.004Z

Following on from my earlier email, the BBC News is here showing a clip of President-Elect Obama eating a burger in amongst the other diners.

What impressed me was his willingness to be among the people; he even joked that he was left alone with his minder when he was far happier mixing it with everyone else.

That's unusual, normally the great and the good pose for a photo call and then disappear; not this Pres.

Can't wait for Jan 20; talking of which:

Why is the US the only country that waits so long from electing a new administration to them taking over? Here in the UK we do it the very next day and I think that is pretty much the same throughout the world.

So, Mr. President-Elect, on taking office please change the handover period to the next day, or, if you guys need a bit more time, call it a week, not the present drawn-out system. In the time it's taken to bring in President Obama, we've had a war, if anyone has noticed.

Mr. President-Elect we need you NOW!

I am crying for the future

2009-01-01T07:48:00.000Z

because of Barack Obama.

I was given his book, Dreams From My Father, for Christmas and I am reading, and pinching myself, that this man is the President-Elect of America.

I am hardly into the book and my heart is bursting with respect for a man who is not yet a teenager but has tasted life that most of us can only look at from a distance.

Because we know where he is now, it only makes us more excited about the future.

When he sees injustice, he has lived it.

When he talks about hope, he has needed it.

In the book, the man in the magazine photo many years ago, that looked like the blood had been drained from him, was a black man wanting to be a white man; but the result was wrong, the hope was gone.

And now the future is his to share with us all.

I cry because of the great expectations, the great destiny within him and, therefore within us all.

It could be the happiest new year ever!

Pinter has died

2008-12-26T08:08:00.001Z

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

2008-11-30T08:18:00.002Z

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

2008-11-12T11:21:00.001Z

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

2008-09-22T15:27:00.001Z

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.

2008-09-13T08:17:00.002Z

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

2008-09-13T08:14:00.001Z

Powerful paintings

2008-09-06T07:48:00.001Z

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!

2008-08-30T20:08:00.001Z

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

2008-08-25T07:43:00.001Z

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

2008-05-06T19:30:00.002Z

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

2008-04-13T07:29:00.001Z

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!

2008-04-13T06:59:00.001Z

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!

2008-04-13T06:48:00.002Z

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

2008-03-16T08:20:00.001Z

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.

2008-03-09T07:30:00.000Z

A Wyndham Lewis original

2008-03-09T07:10:00.004Z

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?

2008-03-02T07:21:00.001Z

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?

2008-03-02T07:15:00.000Z

G & G at a Gallery near you

2008-02-24T07:36:00.001Z

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

2008-02-17T08:34:00.001Z

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?

2008-02-11T14:41:00.000Z

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?

2008-02-03T08:44:00.001Z

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

2008-02-03T07:27:00.000Z

What's in your basket?

2008-01-27T08:07:00.001Z

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

2008-01-20T07:51:00.000Z

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...

2008-01-13T09:02:00.001Z

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...

2008-01-06T07:29:00.001Z

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.

When I'm 64

2007-12-28T08:18:00.000Z

When I get older, losing my hair, many years from now,
will you still be sending me a valentine, birthday greeting, bottle of wine?
If I'd been out till quarter to three, would you lock the door?
Will you still need me? Will you still feed me? When I'm sixty-four.

It's Happy Christmas from me and it's Happy Christmas from him

2007-12-23T09:37:00.000Z

Wyndham Lewis, not quite forgotten

2007-12-16T12:27:00.001Z

If you haven't heard of Wyndham Lewis, or not seen his work for a while, please take time out to acquaint yourself. This year is 50 years since he died and his old school put on an exhibition of his work. The following is a quote from Rugby School:

After primary schooling in Bedford and Ealing, Lewis entered Rugby School at the age of fourteen and appears to have enjoyed its tough, sporting ethos: 'Quite unlike most who write about their Public Schools . . . I am unable to say I had a disagreeable time.' Academically his time at the school was undistinguished, however, and he came bottom of his class of 28. Fifty years after his death, our culture still does not know what to make of the art and writing of one of the most talented, intelligent and vital of its twentieth century creators.

Hear, hear is what I say to their last comment. I have greatly admired Wyndham Lewis's work for years and have all of his books and two of his drawings. It is beyond my belief to see this year pass by and only his school has shown his work. Surely one of the public galleries should have recognised this great man who, work wise, stood head & shoulders above most of the others of his time. Look at the fine portraits. Stand back and gasp at the draftsmanship. Remember when all this was being done: almost a hundred years ago.

I refer to Lewis's art, but let's not forget his novels, poetry and polemics; as strident as his pencil on paper. Time, perhaps, for me to quote one of my poems from way back, that refers to WL, James Joyce, Eliot & Pound. It was published in CORE magazine:

Eye corners, eye corners

always eye corners.

Now, just as then, askance

at userers and usury.

Gone banker to right from drudgery

or bog eyed stupefier.

Just a botched civilisation

gone in the tooth

for a few Sunflowers let loose.

Where then, worse now,

and unCantoed.

A pound of this a pound of that

is just a pound of anything

and not a pound of Poundian.

So, as this year passes, let's remember the good guys, the good gals, the great dogs and the wonderful things to come. Christmas approaches and that brings joy to most people; so whoever you are, wherever you are: enjoy the moment and be in the moment. Always.

Wyndham Lewis, Nude, 1938

2007-12-16T12:18:00.000Z

2007-12-02T20:50:00.000Z

Here's looking at St Pancras Station

2007-12-02T20:17:00.001Z

It's a great place to visit or to travel to or from. Scattered throughout the concourse are poetry plaques with lines from many of the great and good. Plus a sculpture of John Betjeman and a bar named after him too! So here's a pic of JB and a huge bronze of two people in a 'brief encounter'. Go there and enjoy.

2007-12-02T20:01:00.000Z

Here's me, Jennifer & Stuart at Joe Allen's in London after a great lunch and just before we went off to see Chicago. Happy days!

Stuart's photo to come

2007-12-02T08:29:00.000Z

Sorry I have not been able to show you the photo I mentioned below. I'm having slight technical problems!!!

Kind hearts and coronets

2007-11-29T16:49:00.001Z

A number of interesting coincidences happened to me recently which brought the past into the present and, hopefully, the future.

Firstly the service at Westminster Abbey for the Queen and her husband organised by our dear friend Stuart Holmes who you will see in the photo later on with Jennifer, my wife. As always Stuart, and all those at Westminster Abbey, represent the finest English tradition, with pomp & ceremony in good order. I've known Stuart for at least 25 years and he just gets better and better. He recently returned from the Great Wall of China where he walked for charity to the impressive tune of ten thousand pounds. Luckily we were able to meet-up at Joe Allen's in Covent Garden, London. What a great time we had, followed by Chicago the musical which is now in its 10th year in London. That was a real show stopper - no wonder Stuart has seen it 8 times!

Then we stumbled across Antonio Carluccio standing in Neal Street looking at what used to be his pasta emporium; now sadly gone because greedy landlords have forced him out of the place where he first started and clearly still loves. The property is being given over to American Apparel: do you call that progress?

None of this is to do with what this blog is supposed to be about, namely my writing over the years. So I've looked through my archives and tried to find a piece that is more of a diary note than a poem or play. More appropriate for a blog.

As it happens it describes another great city: Prague:

Running through the dark cobbled streets we catch sight of the Kafka Cafe. The quick cuts of the shifting black rectangles: disturbed. We stopped. The sound of a violin echoed towards us. It was sweet but piercing. Haunting. The sound came from an unlit archway. Such beauty in such a place. The setting, the melody. Indescribable beauty and romance. We had hurried from an opera and now seemed to be a part of an opera.

Memories, quick cuts. Life in a collage. I hope yours is a wonderful kaleidoscope.

Yin Yang and Bertram Lloyd

2007-11-18T08:31:00.001Z

Delving back over my archives and looking to the future is turning out to be a bit of a Yin and Yang. What's good about it is the way you can compare and contrast. The swinging sixties of yesteryear and the more focused techno life of today (you talk to the world, you talk to yourself). Back then I used to do poetry collages, now I just rummage through my past creative ramblings and pull out a gem or two; like:

I was once complimented on a title I gave to a story I wrote: 'The man who drank his socks.' Titles can be important, unfortunately the story that followed was not. This next piece of prose I found has no title, other than the fact that it came from a chance remake my daughter made. After all these years later it still has a resonance of sorts:

Those moments of complete peace; a high note as the flute reaches the edge of the horizon and transcends into the purest, colourless sky.

It was remarked that I was always likely to put a loose head into a landscape, such was my fascination with faces.

So I cupped my hand and rocked the mercury water: its landscape of reflected sky winked in the kink of the uneven rock.

I threw it to my face and silver jewellery hung from my ears and hair. I was a harlequin now dancing to fluted music.

Excuse me Mrs Pankquery, do you have a spinning disc on your toe, you carousel so well I feel I have reached the music box.

And so it went on, a certain charm amongst the nonsense. None of that with Kevin Spacey, all gems no nonsense. He is shortly to be the subject here of a major TV documentary on the work he has done and so much of that, recently, is to do with the Old Vic theatre which he has breathed life into. That was a challenge and a half when he took that on (in the steps some time ago of Lord Olivier). But he has done remarkably well. Staying true to his principles and giving us some great theatre. Not long ago we went to see The Entertainer at the Old Vic, a revival of the classic that Laurence Olivier starred in 50 years ago. Robert Lindsay took the lead this time around. A moment in the theatre that was unforgettable. The whole ensemble were brilliant. I believe it then went to Broadway...catch it if you can.

I ramble. Back to the past while looking at the future developing in the orched leaves of this Autumn. A season, a year, that seems to keep slapping us around our complacent faces. A flood here, a fire there; natural disasters everywhere. No so much natural as truly of our own making. I visited an old airfield this week, where there was a hangar filled from floor to ceiling, with thousands and thousands of boxes filled with old empty printer cartridges, destined for land-fill until this company came into existence to recycle every single part (including the unused toner, which will be send to Canada!). A timely reminder that we need to be a bit faster off the ground.

But what of Bertram Lloyd? For those that know me, or have read this blog, you will be aware of my life-long interest in Ezra Pound. Well, one of the items I have associated with him is a first edition of The Faming Terrapin by Roy Campbell published by Jonathan Cape in 1924. There is an inscription on the fly-leaf in ink by Ezra Pound, that says:

Bertram Lloyd

from EP

With a line underneath and what looks like a 2.

So, the question is, who was Bertram Lloyd? I've looked through the many, many books I have by and about Pound and can find no clue. In the days I am referring to authors did not willy nilly sign books (especially Pound, where signed items are very rare) so I assume Bertram Lloyd had some special significance. If you can help me understand the connection I will be more than grateful.

I am unsure as to whether I am grateful to Norman Mailer whose life was celebrated recently. Great writer no doubt, but a bit too good. His last known book was 'The Castle in the Forest' which was published this year. A book attempting to explore the evil of Adolf Hitler. So good was it that I found it very disturbing. Forget the nightmares, this gave me daymares too. Trouble was it only went as far as the subject's adolescence. Did Norman complete the trilogy? Do I really want to know the rest?

Now, I must return to the present, and consider the future. A walk along the sea sounds good, before the bluster of Autumn slaps us in the face once more.

Anybody there?

2007-11-11T15:32:00.001Z

It's been a long while since I blogged, sorry if you missed me but I think in the end you're only as good as your last blog and, more importantly, I think blogs are better in the NOW than THEN. So a change of direction from what was to what is. I'm not abandoning the whole idea of reviewing my past but, I want to add in some reflections about now to give a rich flavour and more to chew on.

I take the lead on all of this from my daughter-in-law's blog: www.katson.blogspot.com . It is, in my opinion, one of the best blogs that you'll come across. There again, another good one is Melvyn Bragg's weekly blog (which you can reach via the BBC website). So, with those two as torches in the world of blogs, let me go on into the realm of exploration. Come with me on the journey, let me know you're there. It's going to be good ...

Bounce. Wow that was a long nap. It's all dingy in here, with lots of cobwebs everywhere. But it is beginning to clear. Trouble is, when I left you I had just celebrated the publication of my poem about Ezra Pound; the result of ten years in the making. A milestone. Now where? Well that was in the early part of the 21st century and I had to concentrate on other things than writing (a mistake I know, but I had sold my soul to mammon long ago). But when I could find time, I found that my creative impulses were turning away from just poetry to fiction. I will give some examples later but, for now, here's a musing from my notebook:

As you listen to the fortune

of the wind

and understand the creaks

of the bark

Play me now

I am unto you.

And have always been.

It is a mark I carry

as a symbol

a cast from the rest.

We are joined

but individual

a band

of criers.

I am, but many

that kiss the stone

and pats the hand

upon my shoulder.

Hang on, I said I would be in the now and not just the then: so how about Stephen Poliakoff? Last night there was a celebration of his work on BBC2. Magnificent. Such an imagination. Poetry for the eye. The man claims he makes films for television because he has complete control. Film industry: give him complete control. We need his work on the big screen. NOW. I know what makes him great, it's because he's a writer, as well as a director. That's why he needs complete control so he can take us into his mind and show us his creations. I have always seen the mind as a spiral staircase with landings containing collections that we discover on our way to seeing...well I haven't got to the top yet, so I cannot tell you what's there, but on the way the light holes get bigger, you can see further, and the clatter of that that is down below becomes less and less.

So, I'm back, hope you'll want to stay with me. If you do, what do I offer: weekly musings, a mix of stuff on the style of Kathy's blog. Most importantly, it would be good to have a dialogue. I met some great people on a recent trip to San Francisco to see my son and daughter-in-law: if this blog gets passed on like a round robin; greetings to you all, I so much enjoyed being in your company.

Until the next time, keep climbing your own staircase: I'll wave to you from my peep-holes.

YouPlay

2007-01-26T13:24:00.000Z

I interrupt this diatribe to bring you my latest idea:

YouPlay

A virtual theatre, that will today receive it's World Premiere.

Being as good as its contributors, I'll start, you carry on:

The scene is a busy street, in a busy city. From the crowd two people come to the front of the stage, a young man and a young woman.

GIRL: Hey, don't I know you from somewhere?

BOY: Could be, where do you hangout?

GIRL: The internet, where else?

BOY: Don't get clever with me. I'm real, remember that?

GIRL: The strange thing is, I don't remember it.

(The stage clears completely. Down comes a giant screen. The next reply to this, goes on that screen. Come, let's play: YouPlay)

Ten years in the making

2007-01-21T08:10:00.000Z

So, here it is, my major poem. It is in ten stanzas and took from 1993 to 2003 to complete. Notice the part that could have foretold 9/11.

Pound's Oysters

I

And, in the spirit of others before
a great journey was to unfold.

Being in the eye of the mind
it had a splendour of its own.
More than that;
but how to show it.
How to describe such a majesty:

you'll have to trust what I say
in describing it to you,
as though you were the lids of my eyes
opening up to what I see.

But because it is only between us
there will be the need
of some interpretative signs,
save others may stumble upon this
and the beauty be bountiful.

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.

It must be a new experience
sepulchral in its importance
for that is what Pound saw
by opening the ancient oyster shell
and finding a pearl where there was no pearl.

On such a deity will this be fixed
for if you look you see
and if you don't you have not;
it is a colour of a different kind.

II

Time itself, was not to be as slow
measured in men's muscles
and death's most often. Not now.
Of that there were many oysters
we had cracked in newness filled.

Each was a capsule of memories
conveniently skimming waves
leaving the wrecks of their crafts
as fascinating rafts, if needed.

Lifting the lid shows a journey
of another hue.
Pure paste, eye wash -
hardly enough to warrant
such a description.

Sure there were some small islands,
not a levant among them
more of a turmoil from within,
a spur kicked to sea
their people left to mercy.

But this was no fossil turn
and for that the journey was shallow,
unworthy of Circe's craft
or another oyster shell.
But more would come.

III

When my Father croaked
a last gasp of breath
he was in the death position:
Pound dozed off, one eye closed
one eye deeply, sapphirically blue
remained open.

Eyes looking at the world
eyes looking from the world.

Their journeys crossing
in the night of the day.
That last gasp intrigues,
although we are less like a snail
more of a bird between seasons
flying against the turbulence of the wind,
throwing salt into the air
that can eat away at oil,
absorbing us into the wave
and the depths below.

It seemed like that now -
grave news threatened the West
and all the gentle rocks on two legs
came down with a shudder,
in villages and valleys
well above the sea line.

It was a time that death pondered;
addressing itself with some contempt
a mere chastisement was not enough
there was going to be a sea change
and almost everyone was into it:
at best a new journey was beginning.

IV

When history provides a sacrifice
it's a notch on the time scale.
That you can rant and rave
was for poetry a sacrifice of sorts,
what you left behind in verse
you gave in influence.

The wranglings and communication
of you and Eliot al
were stirrings of a melting pot
that laid to rest the sterility
of Georgian poetry and worse.

But now is a scene of another time
a poet takes the podium as President,
elsewhere broadcasts, such as those
in Rome, are common place.
Now prisoners walk with presidents
or become presidents themselves.

Ever moving closer if not in time
in the scales that cover the body,
leaving the edges exposed
and the whole not covered.
It's a position without design
unlikely to sustain history.

Over on the sea a net was cast
crossing the surface quicker than reflections
but coming back breaking with fish,
so small only the mass stopped escape
their number pressed hard upon them
running off the deck quicker than sea.

V

Will man establish man in this?
Surely not one held on an altar!

Immense times, a bumper harvest
of proportions truly not seen before.
Masses able to go, and to stop,
almost at the click of a finger.
Communication held the key to this.
If there was a time to come
this was it. A void formed.
A powerful platform of opportunity.

Before such an encounter could be joined
masses were regrouping.
And, as with the sea eel, mass was needed
to hold them together.
Without it they slipped away
unable to hold onto anything.

Here Pound came into his own
for one could hear him cry:
Make it New! Make It New!
They ran with great speed at that
like Moses' masses.
Although awe inspiring it was frightening
it could change as with the tide.

What journey was this before us?
It was difficult to read the signs
or choose which direction:
rabbit holes or prehistoric caves
there was a temptation
to imagine it was not happening.

VI

A mere happen-stance
a weakening of the earth's crust,
to explain this more was needed
than simply recitation.

Arrow-sharpeners had arrived
and were needed more than usual,
there was going to be much of this
before the treaties had been signed.

It seemed that blood would out
and if the ground wasn't marked
there was no territory to be had.
Simple stuff to understand
but it made you look over your shoulder
and run for your birth certificate.

In that empty space inside the head
people were running in all directions,
unsure of themselves and their position
it was a hawk to a yard of chickens.

Here was where the journey came unstuck,
floundered on the rocks
tied-up in its own nets of uncertainty,
caught out by the freshness of it all.

The historians slept quietly
and left the commentators to run the show,
people were queuing up to see the spectacle
it was a new style Roman arena.

VII

So to bind themselves they chose
singular steel about their heads and minds,
sweat bands against ideas
each with a palm upstretched, an invisible wall.

No more Rapallos maketh Rome,
ideas bounced around the globe,
the boxed-in new bother boys
from this botched-up world

would see to that, O yes.
Screen-in, screed-out. A new turn
of an old handle of opportunity.

Until the opportunities played-out
leaving an untapped intelligence,
an unstoppable virus
snapping-back, faster than we dare think.

VIII

The old man was nearly played-out too,
too many beatings about his feet
pulling at his waisted gut
expecting him to spin his yarn.

Well there's a whole lot more,
in saying nothing than saying something
you could almost hear him say,
damn right too, you could answer.

What's in an oyster?
Hold it in your hand
and spin it to the sea,
it will not change what's inside.

The rough times, the rough surface
the sweet within, none more lyrical,
try getting a knife in that
you could hurt yourself more than you know.

IX

The world that wouldn't listen
fell silent,
a crack opened-up in the crust
big enough to take us all.

The knife was in position
it had found a soft target,
and everyone opened their mouths
in disbelief.

What now, you could hear them say
as the soothsayers dusted their books
and people polished their mantras.
If so familiar, why such surprise?

Old Uncle Ez knew,
he knew so damn much
he knew he knew nothing
so he became the voice of silence.

X

Tap, tap, anyone there,
as he lay a trail in the dust
and birds that once sung
now choked in the choking fall.

I am the word of the past,
and the past that is
the beginning, the life hereafter.
Amen.

Look me in the eye:
it ain't that bad, really.
Just listen next time, OK.
I said, it's not such a bad place after all.

Go find the nacre in yourself,
as you see in the shimmering surface
him, you, and the world around us:
careful most are chalk, not pearls.

So there you have it. My major work. My homage to Ez. I hope you liked it, or found something within it. If so, please do let me know.

Until next time.....

Who's that with my wife? Why it's Gilbert & George!

2007-01-16T07:58:00.000Z

It all happened one sultry summer morning...there was I walking my dog along the seabank at Cley, when, there before me, was the totally unmistakable image of Gilbert & George walking towards me. If you know anything about Gilbert & George, you will know that they are 'living sculptures'. Always immaculate, always in suits/shirt/tie - even on a sweltering day in August. So they did kind of stand out.

I was thrilled to see them and rushed back to my bookshop/gallery to put some G & G books in the window (what a tart, I am). It worked. The door bell tinged and in they came. Perfect gentlemen they were. We chatted away. They signed the books I had about them. And, better still, they shared their 'Wants List' with me and I was running around like a man possessed to get them their books.

What a day; and it got better. We exchanged addresses and in a few weeks we received an invitation to the private view of a show they were having at a new gallery in Milton Keynes, here in the UK. Hence this picture. I'm hoping we may get another invite to their major retrospective this year at the Tate Modern. It promises to be a mega show. So, as I look at the Rubik's Cube I have of G & G and the mobile of their multi images, I remember that day in the back of beyond in Norfolk. I guess you could say that where ever you are, you should always be ready to expect the unexpected!

This is a poetry-free entry on the blog, because I want you to get ready for my major work next time. This is what Sebastian Barker, editor of The London Magazine, said about it:

"You have steeped yourself so deeply in Pound, you have written something out of his school but very definitely your own. For me, the poem ends on what I repeat is a remarkable note ... You are saying something which has not been said before and you are saying it about Ezra Pound. This is done by the use of several metaphors which give to airy mysteries a local habitation."

Intrigued? I hope so. I will reveal all, next time, for the first time.

2007-01-16T07:55:00.000Z

The Play's the thing

2007-01-06T07:25:00.000Z

I said I would illustrate my diversity in my writing at the time we were in Norfolk, running a bookshop & art gallery. So here goes:

A play that I wrote for a local theatre production company. It is set in the Norfolk landscape, amongst the reed beds of Cley-Next-the-Sea. I called it: 'FLIP and it's ...' but I'm not happy with that title and would sooner call it 'Marshland War'. Whatever it is/was called, the production never went ahead as the production company folded.

So, I'm still waiting for the world premiere, if anyone is interested. Meanwhile, here's a taster:

Setting: Seabank with reeds on lower side

Time: All within the same day

Characters: Reedman; dressed in waders, jeans and old tartan shirt

Two tourists, dressed as such, or as twitchers

Woman; not seen, only heard, singing lamentably, from off-stage

Woman singing: Cutting on the banks of life
(off stage) as they fall the cries of strife.
Here they come and make their mark
in the passages of dark.
You will see and so will I
that this is not the way to die.
Watch with me and cut to quick
the way we learn to see their trick.

Lights-up

Reedman: Oh no, here they come again. (bends down as though ducking from missiles). Over the hill. Here they come. It's always the same. Whether (amongst reeds) they come or go. It's always the same.

I'm here, among the reeds, but I might just as well not be here.

1st tourist: Hang on a minute - look there's a man over there (pointing) cutting the reeds.
(on seabank)

2nd tourist: How d'you know he's cutting the reeds - he could just be hiding?

1st tourist: But you can see the reeds move as he cuts them. Anyway, why else would he be there?

2nd tourist: That could just be the swathe as he walks through the reeds.

1st tourist: But why would he be down there walking through the reeds?

2nd tourist: (excitedly) I reckon he's murdered someone and this is his way of escaping. He's on the run!

1st tourist: Don't be so bloody stupid. There are times when I think you have too much imagination for your own good.

Lights black-out. Shaft of blue light, horizontally. Long note on a flute.

Woman singing: What you see and what you know
doesn't always tell or show.
In the same enduring light
as a passage of the night.
Clowns may come and clowns may go
even in a simple show.
But I will share with you
there is more than just these few.

Lights-up. Reedman on top of the seabank with a bundle of reeds.

Reedman: (in a low voice) What was that? I thought I heard something, what was it. Were they coming again? No. Nothing! It was nothing. That was all it was. Just me. And this.

That's why (pause).

That's why ... (anxiously) I sometimes get so fed-up with this, I could kill the next person that comes along.

Same black-out sequence.

Woman singing: You heard it then, you'll hear it now
the visions that will sap their power.
Each finds a statue at the door
without which there'll be no more.
But as they find their place alone
the journey is for them a tome.

Lights up. Set as at beginning. With just the tourists on the bank.

2nd: You may be right. I've always had too much imagination, but what's wrong with that? I've sometimes had to have more imagination. You wouldn't know. You just wouldn't know. There're times you need it, there're times you don't. (looking around) Apart from which, I see things differently to you. For instance, look at these reeds (points) they have a hypnotic quality. It's the way they move in the wind, gently swaying, noiseless and timeless.

Like fingers (demonstrates) beckoning you forward: "Come here. Come here." It's pure poetry. (pause) And anyway, if you had just gone mad and killed somebody, you might fill like running amok among the reeds. Lashing out and all sorts. Knowing you were seen but hoping nobody would notice. Understanding enough about the area to know that there (points) would be the last place anyone would deliberately look. It's a sacred place. An historic place (points again in an erect, almost a salute, position). HIS PLACE!

I could go on, but I think you've got the flavour of the piece.The place was getting to me - but in a positive way? Well we'll see, because, at the same time, I was writing Pound's Oysters and that was going to turn out to be very important.

Plus Gilbert & George turned-up in our lives. all of that next time.

Now Norfolk ... after London it's Snorfolk!

2006-12-29T12:20:00.000Z

Quite a change of pace this. We leave London, and the busy world of business, to resettle on the North Norfolk coast and establish a Bookshop and Art Gallery. Everyone's dream, and for a while it was.

We were welcomed by the locals, loved by the visitors and, eventually, became a tourist landmark in Cley.

For me, I could indulge my joint passions of buying books and pictures. Specifically I topped-up my Ezra Pound and Wyndham Lewis collections and even got to buy Julian Symons's library with many Lewis first editions, reviews of same and related ephemera. I got to talk through my interests with book people and soon became a bit of a scholar on the subject of Pound (more of that later).

Perhaps, at this stage, it would be a good idea to give a few lines from Pound so that you can get a taste of my obsession. Let's start with a few lines from Lustra, one of his early books:

And the days are not full enough

And the nights are not full enough

And life slips by like a field mouse

Not shaking the grass.

Now let's look at some lines of his that I, at one time, wanted on my gravestone:

What thou lovest well remains,

the rest is dross

What thou lovest well shall not be reft from thee

What thou lovest well is thy true heritage.

And a description of his that grips the meaning & understanding in a way that few writers have been able to equal:

When a creative personality falls into their clutches

... like chickens in the shadow of the hawk's wing.

That gives you a feel for what in Pound interests me ... the use of language in a way that cannot, in my opinion, be equaled. Forget the politics of Pound. Forget the prejudices of Pound. Appreciate the man as he always wanted to be: a Poet.

For me, my writing was beginning to blossom. It was, at this time, that I started my 10 year Pound epic poem (more of that later) and other works, like plays and another novel. It would be difficult to follow the work of Pound with mine, so, at this stage, I will rest on Pound's laurels. But next time, I will show you my diversity, and tell you how Gilbert & George happened by the bookshop.

Mother me!

2006-12-21T07:32:00.000Z

A quick recap: the 1960s, for me, was a period of creative exploration with glimpses of a world of bohemia that lit my imagination. But I blew out the flame and took to a life of business; in advertising initially. Then in Government, which is where I left the last but one blog, where I became the Deputy Head of Communications at the National Economic Development Office. But, sitting in my office on the 33rd floor of the Milbank Tower in London, I still hankered after the writer's life.

A few demons had gathered too, which needed dealing with. As always, I used poetry to take them on. Here's me doing just that, with a poem that was published in the March 1987 edition of Psychopoetica from the University of Hull:

CONFRONTATION

Footsteps on swinging bridges
black below, even dank
like drowning kittens in a sack.

Why, why, why
but my memory would not answer such a thing
so the bank burst and I cried.

In a half waking, half sleeping,
sad interlude I imagined
what I would do if I saw

no, seeing wasn't the word
confronting, admitting, yes blaming.

I tried.

The place was familiar; of today,
modern, existing; no Samuel Beckett this.

Did I knock, or just enter?
It matters little, I was standing
on the carpet
and she was in a bloody wheelchair.

You cheat, I thought
I can't hit you like that.

That worried me, the thought of hitting,
although I needn't have worried long.

From her frail self, all skin,
hanging loose, like Oxfam clothes,
she struck out at me
with a walking stick
the one in the cupboard
the one with the snake's head.

Furious striking, making crosses
criss cross patterns in the air.

They never touched or marked
furious striking to prove a point.

You, you, you: I hate you
it seemed to say
a fair reply
to why, why, why.

I'm glad it wasn't real
not a real confrontation
especially as I wasn't sure
what next.

Having got that out of the way, I joined the International PEN Club, hob nobbed with the likes of Harold Pinter and set about another change of life. To the country dear boy, to pursue country pursuits and bury my head in books. Another rich turn in the mosaic that is/was my life. Come back and see me again, soon.

The giving of life, the taking of life

2006-12-10T12:19:00.000Z

On 26th June 1992 something significant happened in my life: the birth of what was to become my dearly beloved dog and friend: Todd.

Last Monday 4th December 2006 Todd was put to sleep and something left my life that can never be replaced.

Whatever I wrote, or created from 1992 was influenced by him being with me and giving total love to me.

Now onwards is going to be very different: at the moment it just seems empty.

But it will be full again because I am determined to remember him through what I do with the rest of my life.

If I make a mark again, it will be because of Todd, if I become a better person, it will be because of Todd, if I help others, it will be because of Todd.

Todd was the life giver and I want to give to life because of his life to me and others.

We will never forget Todd and because I know he will always be with me that is why I can be confident that life will be full in the future: with him, through him. Forever.

To Russia with love

2006-12-05T07:46:00.000Z

To Russia with love

2006-12-03T17:57:00.000Z

Looking backwards, as I'm doing in this blog, allows you the opportunity to reflect on times in your life that were significant. And there was one such time that I can share with you, and in sharing marvel at the difference between then and now. It was November 9th 1985. Up until this point I had been working very hard at trying to run a business, with some success. We had also been providing for our son's education, with even greater success. At this point he had reached the stage where he had qualified for University and was about to embark on studying for a law degree. The first person in our family to had reached that pinnacle. Clearly we were proud and offered him a gift. He didn't want a gift, as such, he wanted to go to Russia. Delighted with the thought, I went with him too. Naturally I couldn't let the occasion slip by without writing about our experience and what follows is the first part of:

A Russian journey of myself and my son Dominic.

Started well. On time and grey November weather, enough to want to escape. Nearly didn't. Bomb scare at Gatwick. Checking-in area cleared. But we still managed to leave on time - good old British efficiency. Russia is 3 hours ahead of us. We approached it at around 2.30pm our time and the sky started to go black. From bright sunshine we seemed to be entering the start of a bottomless pit. It got worse. I said to Dominic, jokingly, we are approaching the end of the world. I now look out of the window and it is pitch dark. We haven't landed yet!

Touched down at Moscow without problems. So much for our dark entry. First impression, the bare trunks of silver birch stretching out of the earth, tightly packed. In the dark they looked like boney fingers from the old men of the earth.

Walking down the steps of the aircraft we see the first visible signs of well known Russia - the fur hats worn by the soldiers. They look so smart!

Weather quite tolerable. Dry and rather cold - but no snow. All the early warning signs we were given prepared us for a long haul in the customs area, but not so. After some nifty footwork we managed to get through customs in almost jig time. Then, whilst waiting to transfer to the bus, we could observe our new found surroundings. Generally everything is very clean. People go about their business in an orderly fashion, but the one thing that strikes you is the preponderance of military personnel. They are everywhere. Not that that should worry you, in many respects it is very comforting. Perhaps it's just that it is different!

Journey to the hotel was uneventful with less than welcome propaganda talk by the Russian courier. Still, it is interesting to know that Russia is the third most populated country in the world with 270m people, it is called the Soviet Union, not Russia, as it is the Union of 15 separate states of which Russia is but one, and that no one owns a house in Moscow, they all rent from the State.

So we started a 7 day trip to Moscow & Leningrad (as it then was) and a diary of that special time which captures every moment of our journey. Here follows some pictures to give you a flavour of Russia in the 1980s.

My life, on return, was about to enter another stage. From successful businessman to the dole, from no writing to a resurgence. I even started a play which, on reflection, was probably symptomatic of what was going on in my head. Here's the introduction to it:

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 the 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 identity. Three females, three male make-up the cast. Because they will merge together, they, by definition become ageless.

This may seem like a meaningless mosaic but out of this I was to climb to new heights, namely the 33rd floor of Milbank Tower in London. More of that next time my life takes another turn.

"Terry, what are you doing here ..."

Meet the mother-in-law

2006-11-26T19:10:00.000Z

Not mine, Ezra's. Yes, this is Olivia Shakespear, Dorothy's mother and a fine sketch from that much underrated British twentieth century artist: Wyndham Lewis. OK, I know he upset the establishment but really Nick Serota, isn't it time the Tate did the right thing by this artist, writer, poet and all-round genius. Or are you still carrying Roger Fry's flame, Nick?

This is part of the seed change that I was going through, back in the 1970s. The change from adolescent to entrepreneur. I may had stopped creating in the real sense, but in some respects I was taking on more and doing more. Collecting works of art (like this Wyndham Lewis sketch), buying books and making a difference in the business world.

This entry is going to be different from the rest because it will not end-up with a poem. Indeed this marked the end of my writing for some years. You could say I sold out to commerce but, as you will see later, the output afterwards was better than before. It was like my squirrel-time. During that period I was accepted as an Associate Member of the International P.E.N. Club, became a freeman of the City of London and a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts. Not bad for someone that left school with no qualifications.

When I return I would have come out of this commercial conclave and entered a new phase where rejection gave me a mixture of good and bad. I shortened Waiting for Godot for my son, collected early editions of Joyce's Ulysses, welcomed Gilbert & George and returned to Pound with more than a pound of Poundian.

2006-11-26T18:38:00.000Z

Ezra Pound

2006-11-19T18:43:00.000Z

Hello Uncle Ez

2006-11-19T18:12:00.000Z

I've arrived. In London. Ready to carve out a career. Not true, just playing the game. Truth is, was, I had to bring up a wife and 2 children...and we all know poetry doesn't pay the rent. So, instead, I got as near as I could with advertising. Another untruth. I was still a dreamer, and yet I seemed to drift into the jobs I got. Now, I don't intend to use this blog to tell you of my chequered career. This is a literary based blog. Suffice to say I made it. But at a price. For many years I gave-up writing and concentrated on making a career. But all that time my creative wellspring was filling-up, ready to cultivate a new spring.

Along the way I picked-up Ezra Pound. Not exclusively, my literary taste was, and is, wide. Why Ez? Well he is a giant and his influence touched many people. I then looked at those people and the journey began.

I started this blog with the first stanza of a poem about Ez, I will end it with the complete poem. But right now let me drop in a piece of juvenilia that was published in the international poetry magazine, CORE:

Looking back to Pound

Eye corners, eye corners
always eye corners.

Now, just as then, askance
at usurers and usury.

Gone banker to right from drudgery
or bog eyed stupefier.

Just a botched civilisation
gone in the touch

for a few Sunflowers let loose.

Where then, worse now,
and unCantoed.

A pound of this a pound of that
is just a pound of anything
and not a Pound of Poundian.

He became an important part of my life. He still is. I've been where he lived, where he is buried, where he was feted. I think I have most of the books by him and most of those about him. And yet I only know what I can learn by studying him. That's what fascinates me about him. To know him is to know so much and I am still scratching the surface. Will I ever reach the summit; unlikely. But the effort is worth it because it shows us a great deal about the human condition and our condition.

Meanwhile another poem from that time that was short listed for a prize:

ANNUNCIATION

Into the field, every day
a man walks into the field.

Tell me why, there's a man
in the field tell me why?

Messages to bring, each day
he's got messages to bring.

Who sends them, the messages
he carries who sends them?

People they say, thoughts
from the people they say.

None from us, he carries
thoughts but none from us.

Like to know, the people's
thoughts I'd like to know.

Never ask it, what bones
their deeds never ask it.

Let us leave, we have seen
and know now let us leave.

He'll be back, we can watch
when we need to he'll be back.

So an ad man, a father, an erstwhile poet soon to swing the cape of good fortune across many years. Where will it leave me then? I'll tell you next time.