WH Auden

I have been slow in coming to Auden, aware of him the light that shines on him, his manner of speech.  Now, poetry I like most is often the poetry which makes me rhyme and so the easiest way in to a poet’s work -  or the most fun, for me - is the declamatory stuff.  Blow winds, crack your cheeks.  etc.


This from The Age of Anxiety,

Well, here I am but how, how, asks the visitor,
Strolling through the strange streets, can I start to discover
The fashionable feminine fret, or the form of insult
Minded most by the men? In what myth do their sages

        Locate the cause of evil?
        How are these people punished?

How, above all, will they end?  By any natural
Fascination of frost or flood, or from the artful
Obliterating bang whereby God’s rebellious image
After thousands of thankless years spent in thinking about it,

        Finally finds a solid
        Proof of its independence?

compadres

Simply for the pleasure of it, this talkative group: Peter, Dominic, Quentin.

The Photo was taken the afternoon before the event below, and is a souvenir of a few days together that week on the East coast.

A happy time with Steak and Kidney pie, Norfolk sausages, Cromer crab, flashes of merriment, occasional seriousness and as much Yeats as anyone else, apart from ourselves of course.

Bicycle Shop, Norwich

Last Wednesday; an evening full of expression underground at the Bicycle Shop, a groovy café bar on Benedicts St, Norwich. It has been some time since Peter, Quentin and Rosie performed together, here, Tista joining the group. Good performances all, and good material.  It's a pity for me Norwich is a long haul from the Cotswolds but Peter's back on form and there should be more to come at the Bicycle Shop, and in Sheringham, well worth the visit.

Bright Scarves 25 May

A happy day for the old brighter scarfers, a reunion with Peter Pegnall in the lead, ready to roll. Watch that man!  There has been a lot of loose bicycle talk the last couple of days, Peter wants to hire more, Quentin doesn't want that whole Butch & Sundance rigmarole.  We're a three gear bunch, or none at all.

After a wordy warm up in Sheringham the boys will meet up with Rosie in Norwich for a fun packed evening of poetic entertainment.  Make your way to the bicycle shop one and all, I don't know if there will be bicycling, but the wheels still in spin.

Wiv'air larndun airs n graces.  Blimey.

Bard of Hawkwood 2016

		Hawkwood College, 02 May Open Day, rain, wind and a busy common room before 5 story tellers, poets, song writers competing at the 2nd Hawkwood Eistedfodd, although Peter is not pictured here he can probably be found on Kevan Manwaring's bardic site - instead, me handing over the applebough, and our gorsedd, Katie, Anthony, Chantelle, yours truly, Steve and Richard about the incoming Bard of Hawkwood. It was a closely fought contest and a well deserved win for Anthony Hentschel with a stirring performance of his own grand, redemptive verse. It might be a good year for the bards, I can offer my sympathies to the runners-up, they should know full well their stuff is winning material, but it was Anthony's day: goose bumps.  & No more live judging for me, I think.  Awen.

the great and the good

The blog is a beast needs feeding.  The other day I found an anthology, Firebox, in a second hand book shop, treasure hunter, and picked it up this evening with half an hour to kill. I was immediately inspired by Heaney.  Gradually I understand what these poets achieve, and daresay I may slowly gain on them, a little.  We all respond to competition, here though,  it wasn't even a case of No hurry worry, since good poetry at the very least encourages. Meanwhile:

I was reading Heaney and Muldoon
though I’m not so keen on Muldoon,
really, but these boys fly:
they fly with thought on words, where I,
I am again the parapenter
too heavy for his rig sometimes taking
giant leaps, great, ungainly bounding steps
on Brecon's boulders;  strange, wild bird,
a goony chick, let all description founder.

Heroes

I see Bowie @ his execution
archly poised, a pointed gun,

his gentleness in isolation
exuberant and fine;

hadn’t heard from him in years,
a loved one, standing  by the wall

The speaker was an angel,
he coughed and shook his crumpled wings

            moved his lips: 
It’s time we should be going.

His song: I’d not be done with Heroes
for all I’ve tried and written,

sadly now when Bowie plays the shadow
turning on a screen, he's gone

I know.  I hear it on the radio,
I feel it in my soul.