tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83922118339222342722024-03-25T14:07:27.270+00:00Dominic JamesEvent diary and other news on the poetry frontDominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.comBlogger119125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-90285735798323596022024-02-14T15:25:00.006+01:002024-02-14T15:34:56.693+01:00Rom<p><span style="font-size: 12pt;">A great
sadness to hear Nnorom Azuonye has passed away. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Poet and pastor, founder of Sentinel Quarterly
he promoted Nigerian literature for more than 20 years and gave many local poets
an encouraging lift with SQL and his quarterly competitions which
were the model arrangement of such things.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Along the way he published my first submitted poems and then, a few years
later, invited and accepted my first manuscript.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">He put me squarely on the first stepping
stones of my poetry writing. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm88a6NYiMx6Q2VDunA4Rfaopz7c2EwXE9e37X64UqhEsr4aAVpBAQ9N11mLn-EyGzuOz9V0IVZh4rXLvOFr6dV10VAadU9Oh2G6NaTlyY8mbWYIYzcs1d2XvEhyYFxoQGRDv7ve6u9fgv_irUlaDnrWN9RBDd5i-re5Om5WmVgJ2WeBN_zxAyjPHlfI/s400/nnorom.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="298" data-original-width="400" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAm88a6NYiMx6Q2VDunA4Rfaopz7c2EwXE9e37X64UqhEsr4aAVpBAQ9N11mLn-EyGzuOz9V0IVZh4rXLvOFr6dV10VAadU9Oh2G6NaTlyY8mbWYIYzcs1d2XvEhyYFxoQGRDv7ve6u9fgv_irUlaDnrWN9RBDd5i-re5Om5WmVgJ2WeBN_zxAyjPHlfI/s320/nnorom.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">A generous, sympathetic and good man. He could talk alright, and I will miss our conversations.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 17.12px;">Nnorom died on 21 January and leaves behind his wife Thelma and four children whom he loved very much.</span></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-35268651170160537992023-12-31T16:18:00.012+01:002024-02-19T10:35:31.442+01:00The Party Wall<p>Pyramus and Thisbe: prompted by last night's rain, a thought led to the marionettes in the oddly poignant 'Being John Malkovich'. One google string leads to another. The Pyramus and Thisbe Society is a body of surveyors and lawyers and, on special occasions, their spouses.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDX-G95tIEmojezM4t25cCezJyK6lijGDq14mrwIRKBI5mz5ekTc0ZxPwiHvfg0nFbG_QZqEdyXIl2Jt8M68aP-qbhj9hyphenhyphenN_L9GmWq9CB2hjh2BP4iUZok7BxUDGtOFBXCm1X_AREfHXsdw0xlbbjhzs2Dj_s6Ymx1N5pKbTrkCvXaxi5yKXVHi11nx4/s800/The-Wicker-Manbw.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="400" data-original-width="800" height="224" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqDX-G95tIEmojezM4t25cCezJyK6lijGDq14mrwIRKBI5mz5ekTc0ZxPwiHvfg0nFbG_QZqEdyXIl2Jt8M68aP-qbhj9hyphenhyphenN_L9GmWq9CB2hjh2BP4iUZok7BxUDGtOFBXCm1X_AREfHXsdw0xlbbjhzs2Dj_s6Ymx1N5pKbTrkCvXaxi5yKXVHi11nx4/w448-h224/The-Wicker-Manbw.jpg" width="448" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiDweAFSv_qFgOxEDiBMA2clbQ282oSzqIWyIFhTLOFwZEj_c0YvD65YF-xpssz5KRLVgQ-SCjaiWjvx37bJiFODKYFExPLlcF0SgfhZsEV_VxjK9VuiVZZjMrLjV05RRBGOZUwXhvLvyay2R_EfwFt05Lbq15UQwxqd4UhE3ztAARvFf6h0xuX7tTH4/s2857/puppet1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1607" data-original-width="2857" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUiDweAFSv_qFgOxEDiBMA2clbQ282oSzqIWyIFhTLOFwZEj_c0YvD65YF-xpssz5KRLVgQ-SCjaiWjvx37bJiFODKYFExPLlcF0SgfhZsEV_VxjK9VuiVZZjMrLjV05RRBGOZUwXhvLvyay2R_EfwFt05Lbq15UQwxqd4UhE3ztAARvFf6h0xuX7tTH4/w447-h252/puppet1.jpg" width="447" /></a></div><div><h1>Mari...<o:p></o:p></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal">full poem once accepted somewhere maybe </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">...my bones are dead.</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">No cell retains a strand of life</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">to edge me on the infinite...</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;"> a corpse of balsa boxes fixed</span><br style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Tahoma, Helvetica, FreeSans, sans-serif; font-size: 13.2px;">with glue and pin</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">The more i think of it, the more the history of creating the animate comes to mind, from Pygmalion and Galatea to Shakespeare's human statue and Pinocchio, then Shaw's rather awful funny version of improvement, and a thousand cautionary tales current today. Aye, AI. The captured human heart.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8om7QQt-mXL2WJwn5uQxnYgIOaqyal6coOWBeV3m6EqGkYLjvvxEkorJhHUATV11bAY5I-OJWj7B7QjxAhr7qEJge93jKO0o3OjRNR1Ox6R0Ml8QLc7tLeP4Bf0pfo5KWr7fueDcZfr-O4fQDCx4Px7uTeusZV2efOSERzd-6ljpyMxKmsTDxcXwXHM/s2000/cover%20puppet%203sm.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1994" data-original-width="2000" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA8om7QQt-mXL2WJwn5uQxnYgIOaqyal6coOWBeV3m6EqGkYLjvvxEkorJhHUATV11bAY5I-OJWj7B7QjxAhr7qEJge93jKO0o3OjRNR1Ox6R0Ml8QLc7tLeP4Bf0pfo5KWr7fueDcZfr-O4fQDCx4Px7uTeusZV2efOSERzd-6ljpyMxKmsTDxcXwXHM/s320/cover%20puppet%203sm.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /> <p></p><p></p></div>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-60852590013355022892023-11-11T13:13:00.009+01:002023-11-14T11:04:23.711+01:00November 23<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoCDmCp1XV22ukwDVQuIV1NzfpjsG6MepoHJOeNw6ym-NYDWdei4e0-n50k5JldcZAjz6lVuXW5KvnylT7SsT24Q-0CRH1lEIjPinyNylN0psotc8uwOgll8Pd823M5fx1ejmBvrB4nXn_RJiIyye0Zhco_5bXvGnlMs6_VI2wSC1RHLOgHH4nr1wOrQ/s1980/nov23.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1158" data-original-width="1980" height="332" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmoCDmCp1XV22ukwDVQuIV1NzfpjsG6MepoHJOeNw6ym-NYDWdei4e0-n50k5JldcZAjz6lVuXW5KvnylT7SsT24Q-0CRH1lEIjPinyNylN0psotc8uwOgll8Pd823M5fx1ejmBvrB4nXn_RJiIyye0Zhco_5bXvGnlMs6_VI2wSC1RHLOgHH4nr1wOrQ/w560-h332/nov23.jpg" width="560" /></a></div><br /> With other cares aside, appearances and reviews multiply this month, 3rd of 3 city walk poems accepted by S<a href="https://stepawaymagazine.com/">tepaway</a> <i>Outreach</i>, hard on the heels of <i>By Royal Fort</i>, taken for the inaugural edition, i think, of <a href="https://www.engineidling.net/">Engine Idling</a>. <i>Station to Station</i> will be in the Gloucestershire Poetry Prize anthology published sometime over winter. Gee, Glos is a hard nut to crack. The Worst Thing appears in the <a href="https://www.calameo.com/books/004739059bf9232951cd9">Ofi Press</a> #73. And the Raoul Julia Dracula pictured above is the cover of <a href="https://www.thecrankmag.com/issue-9">The Crank #9</a>. <div><p></p><p>This month's <a href="https://www.pulsarpoetry.com/">Pulsar</a> reviews will / i understand they will / include my splutterings on a book of poems by <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/matthias-gritz">Matthias Goritz</a> translated from the German by <a href="https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poets/mary-jo-bang">Mary Jo Bang</a>. I thoroughly recommend it to anyone looking for the current direction in poetry, or for a new direction of their own. And finally,</p><p>ACTIVIST ALPHABET, an exhibition of prints and poems by Christine Felce includes 'A memorable evening of poetry with with <a href="https://www.adamhorovitz.co.uk/">Adam Horovitz</a> <a href="https://www.jlmmorton.com/about">JLM Morton </a>and Dominic James, plus open mic on the theme of climate change (sign up on the night) 7pm, Friday 17 November, <a href="https://museuminthepark.org.uk/">The Museum in the Park</a>, Stroud. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia2aq5HixP36jragimpyeWvjkHEGw3h7Ex0COj20ix0c-S2im3yFnB7fEKICCDB3KyXhJMdvYXy1YhZJwix83ZK3U3uY58h2sqMbV1sIhfi1_Tg4a1TE4V3A5cQaECnTcJqRHqZ-5dZSYEHxW0JYgST5DXPOW0pYjFKhJpNj675iZIZDPpaO274ZtQTeY/s2478/zero%20action%20zero%20change.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2478" data-original-width="1927" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia2aq5HixP36jragimpyeWvjkHEGw3h7Ex0COj20ix0c-S2im3yFnB7fEKICCDB3KyXhJMdvYXy1YhZJwix83ZK3U3uY58h2sqMbV1sIhfi1_Tg4a1TE4V3A5cQaECnTcJqRHqZ-5dZSYEHxW0JYgST5DXPOW0pYjFKhJpNj675iZIZDPpaO274ZtQTeY/w311-h400/zero%20action%20zero%20change.jpg" width="311" /></a></div></div>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-67341996022585798292023-10-20T09:03:00.005+01:002023-10-20T09:07:06.486+01:00The Sergeant<p>As i pick my way through bishops and presbyters of the ancient Christian church: a few lighter thoughts on earlier days of sacrifice and excess bubble to the surface. As a for instance, Alcoholic Husbands is a phrase i hear quite often. Poor men who once were heavy drinkers. </p><p>I have a long picked over, short verse on Achilles - The Sergeant - in this week's <a href="https://dearbooze.com/cocktales/f/the-sergeant">dearbooze.com</a> and the young god of wine will soon recline on his drunken ship in <a href="https://www.thecrankmag.com/ ">The Crank</a>, Back on the Wine Dark Sea. </p><p>Dear Booze eh? This montage includes Bruegel's Tower as i am put in mind of my early and not-unbalanced verse on grog and separation. 'I recall the vaults of Babel, its palm wine jars and mead...' Skol.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlgzOXVgFwEdqHwjuUlnHpFP39V199hUKcBLvUUeg9zhKYDgOxcw3tigS5LwL-F4rrp2sr0l6AmaIVwi12DdDQt_nW5x3rslfBk89xv3qDJjOoFZ43oyRMDS0uA12HRTGaGGL0xg66ctBAQZfIvQUPbP8wk9SOqZU86FU3x7t4Osk7f6skh1rcJuzuI4/s1787/Sick_Bacchus2.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1340" data-original-width="1787" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQlgzOXVgFwEdqHwjuUlnHpFP39V199hUKcBLvUUeg9zhKYDgOxcw3tigS5LwL-F4rrp2sr0l6AmaIVwi12DdDQt_nW5x3rslfBk89xv3qDJjOoFZ43oyRMDS0uA12HRTGaGGL0xg66ctBAQZfIvQUPbP8wk9SOqZU86FU3x7t4Osk7f6skh1rcJuzuI4/w400-h300/Sick_Bacchus2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /> <p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-19043998404713168212023-08-11T08:49:00.003+01:002023-08-11T08:53:35.036+01:00Athelney<p>This week DG Sentinel published <a href="https://dgsentinel.org/elf-counsel/" target="_blank">Elf Counsel</a> unexpected and sweet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>One of five presented
at the inaugural and short-lived Bard of Hawkwood Mayday eisteddfod 2015.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d like to wrastle it into shape, at least
insert a dropped ‘in’ around the middle:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>but I love the photo sourced by Dweebs Global.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It looks
like Saxon pedigree to me, but what I do know? Nuthin.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjsXddMgbuJ4q3loLItSf-p7VVHgJ8LoOT9EGJq4Yg4DZiEvVzrwLx80ru9MkM1rntqhYrZMcNWVSniIfIMD7uyWQ3HGrHXMuvtT-sbQlGkoZFxUcLzIUkhoQ6MTze30bp2IpFAJSnp5B_J8S5yY5wj_WwrIZqk0hy8NXmiAZ6QM-upC5XPv64ZaWhR8/s1536/gigi-ZuPa0DYH1IA-unsplash-1536x1024.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1536" height="374" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEjsXddMgbuJ4q3loLItSf-p7VVHgJ8LoOT9EGJq4Yg4DZiEvVzrwLx80ru9MkM1rntqhYrZMcNWVSniIfIMD7uyWQ3HGrHXMuvtT-sbQlGkoZFxUcLzIUkhoQ6MTze30bp2IpFAJSnp5B_J8S5yY5wj_WwrIZqk0hy8NXmiAZ6QM-upC5XPv64ZaWhR8/w562-h374/gigi-ZuPa0DYH1IA-unsplash-1536x1024.jpg" width="562" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30E_ZFMiFBLykQNimtMvtyc9AUvtQ4C3GptqUsAYQMGmUSElPy9wwInmbqdXEXhKJQRi2ceiO6dUmNrGGuHdKvEZ7-OkiQqkqnnAkbk1q16HAZ85a08vujRLtQmRYsCRM_wGDknVyvtVGObKwX0vvbHif_IlCYfz3RysLFgOecz1yG9xwlZIFnUJ0iII/s994/Bard_dominic_james_2015_cropped.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="994" data-original-width="716" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj30E_ZFMiFBLykQNimtMvtyc9AUvtQ4C3GptqUsAYQMGmUSElPy9wwInmbqdXEXhKJQRi2ceiO6dUmNrGGuHdKvEZ7-OkiQqkqnnAkbk1q16HAZ85a08vujRLtQmRYsCRM_wGDknVyvtVGObKwX0vvbHif_IlCYfz3RysLFgOecz1yG9xwlZIFnUJ0iII/w192-h266/Bard_dominic_james_2015_cropped.jpg" width="192" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">Athelney runs: <br />Riddle/ The Great Army / Brother Rex / Elf
Counsel / Late Home<br />
and starts, with stage direction and intro:<o:p></o:p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><a name="_Hlk142202068"><i>More skald than bard, we-eat
together, <br />I make the same obeisance to the court <br />[show the Roman tonsure] So:<o:p></o:p></i></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: #595959; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 166;">For an eisteddfod,
with rhymes of flood<br />
my bid for bard at Hawkerwood </span><span style="color: #595959; mso-themecolor: text1; mso-themetint: 166;">and should a verse<br />
or two run bad, Speak Out and we’ll move on<br />
through Athelney, that swollen plot of land,<br />
an island, whale-humped on the Levels,<br />
laced about with deep canals, the spot<br />
where Alfred’s cake shop stood. <br />
So pet your nettles & get settled<br />
for a turn on the flood, this river-ish Riddle…</span></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-39072453551554382292023-07-29T08:37:00.016+01:002023-07-29T08:46:45.323+01:00NFTs<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKwU6iA-zK-GvwdHLAGQdj4ti_YTcEwPWA0suenUvaLLMT7gML0jJUPGEv1fADbweDdbyNg2c2IR1gMStfGJXEEUBHoG0EsyxE0trInfA1ZXxR0xwdbix-QL-PL8YNwAuIQxZI1jvVsUWfj7S3R_icrgikqB9bhw2NIDnWv742TXSqZyi2LCGKhZgVJM/s259/DJ%20QR.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="259" height="116" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuKwU6iA-zK-GvwdHLAGQdj4ti_YTcEwPWA0suenUvaLLMT7gML0jJUPGEv1fADbweDdbyNg2c2IR1gMStfGJXEEUBHoG0EsyxE0trInfA1ZXxR0xwdbix-QL-PL8YNwAuIQxZI1jvVsUWfj7S3R_icrgikqB9bhw2NIDnWv742TXSqZyi2LCGKhZgVJM/w116-h116/DJ%20QR.jpg" width="116" /></a></div><p>Prompted by the Summer edition of Rattle; an enthralling interview and its showcase of Non Fungible Tokens Poets, I've spent $25 on Tezos and tried a short poem as the basis for content text on AI artworks. Have you tried the controls, the market? I've hardly got started. </p><p>It's a right "Come all ye". </p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQAtKIFOSibkZzFyXbLXCn3quRtQ-OaMgBD6nD75zlIUeRk4S9TY4sCys9XB4Q8-5H23TP7VHLSFyBH73S8RnPZezzNsT9AiMgsRXQuECk4vwYnYf92H_NdVtFOxpoFVv29j1JecGy-5Cft2t0RX8nP9WYXmiyE59XbSt5u5X60MrF9BcaMFQq32mHi4/s1200/fb%20hp%20ii.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="900" height="384" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicQAtKIFOSibkZzFyXbLXCn3quRtQ-OaMgBD6nD75zlIUeRk4S9TY4sCys9XB4Q8-5H23TP7VHLSFyBH73S8RnPZezzNsT9AiMgsRXQuECk4vwYnYf92H_NdVtFOxpoFVv29j1JecGy-5Cft2t0RX8nP9WYXmiyE59XbSt5u5X60MrF9BcaMFQq32mHi4/w288-h384/fb%20hp%20ii.jpg" width="288" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06-rHYtsp0goIyfYLfCrQestcgKukMo8JfbfFuLG0qXp2Lidd-RmI2WJiNhsl4LrnDqhyOMN_VIdahNoqMY-EqA_Wxa1X558qIIvgoRa073_E07FPrL-OSWTiCySI6aogFH26RBX7-V87KiAswYO7CePE8il28sdap0zurpA7WrszLReohS4wbUEb4nw/s898/fb%20hp%20vi.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="897" data-original-width="898" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg06-rHYtsp0goIyfYLfCrQestcgKukMo8JfbfFuLG0qXp2Lidd-RmI2WJiNhsl4LrnDqhyOMN_VIdahNoqMY-EqA_Wxa1X558qIIvgoRa073_E07FPrL-OSWTiCySI6aogFH26RBX7-V87KiAswYO7CePE8il28sdap0zurpA7WrszLReohS4wbUEb4nw/w290-h290/fb%20hp%20vi.jpg" width="290" /></a></div>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-37223503854020592072023-07-28T12:36:00.012+01:002023-07-29T10:39:42.217+01:00Traffic in Snow<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCTvcFOZhUB3hX8SViceyCUGlS-6LxGSOT4uItGdRma-KxdCnoBAl7iXAcNEBInKwfJ14uvO9g4pkUw6oLxp9t2kao0wnEVra64EkhXI5qSvqCnfAwR8TpavmLtch6FaDrhNwnEiV-6AKdTpQtty6I7Xwta8nsCsXy4mYQjuJGh26q7_AF4p5Q3627DE/s2490/a%20sahara%20of%20snow.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="814" data-original-width="2490" height="185" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNCTvcFOZhUB3hX8SViceyCUGlS-6LxGSOT4uItGdRma-KxdCnoBAl7iXAcNEBInKwfJ14uvO9g4pkUw6oLxp9t2kao0wnEVra64EkhXI5qSvqCnfAwR8TpavmLtch6FaDrhNwnEiV-6AKdTpQtty6I7Xwta8nsCsXy4mYQjuJGh26q7_AF4p5Q3627DE/w563-h185/a%20sahara%20of%20snow.jpg" width="563" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">Finding similarities in first line imagery puts me in mind of borrowing,
not stealing. Much as a poem written entirely in any particular poet's distinctive style has its own root cause, even if it that is tapped-in to what's come before, to be in that manner of delivery, of vocabulary, acknowledges what has come before. </p><p class="MsoNormal">In lyrics and in verse there is scope for an allowable,
a reasonable sort of plagiarism, particularly when successful imagery stands on experience recreated and shared, whether that experience is in real or in fact only, in some manner recognised.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Then, first images/opening stanzas shape the last. In the example below we find Lowell in Mandelstam, today’s <a href="https://thefridaypoem.com/snowday-ian-harker/">The Friday Poem</a>’s verse by <a href="https://ianharker.co.uk/">Ian Harker</a> whether knowingly or not drawing on both. And the last lines loop, return to the start, as is common
practice. It feels right musically, bar by bar, and as the concluding thought or verse echoes its own rationale by leading back to where it starts. </p><p class="MsoNormal">That comes off a bit pat. That is, as in any argument in speech we come full circle, addressing the starting point. Which does not mean opening lines show us so how far we can go but they suggest where we return to finish the verse. In this case, traffic in the
snow. </p><p class="MsoNormal">That might suggest my preference for Mandelstam's poem over Lowell's - i'd hesitate to go so far as to say that. My simple inference and conclusion is Dylan’s line:
If there’s an original idea out there I could use it right now. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Three poem tops, then tails follow.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Petersburg
Lines<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Above the yellow of the government buildings<br />
the murky snowstorm has whirled for a long time<br />
and the jurist settles down again in his sleigh,<br />
with a broad gesture drawing his overcoat tighter.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The ships are hibernating, In the heat of the sun<br />
the thick cabin glass has caught fire.<br />
Leviathan, a battleship in dock,<br />
Russia heavily rests.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">For the Union
Dead <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The old South Boston Aquarium<br />
stands in a Saraha of snow now, Its broken windows are boarded.<br />
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales. <br />
The airy tanks are dry.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Snowday<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The cars are falling with long sighs<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">down Monk Bridge Road, their tanks empty</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">and the beck grinding to a halt</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">beneath the tarmac. This is how it ends: </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">cars slide to a stop in snow that wasn’t forecast </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">or if it was, it wasn’t supposed to stick,</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">vehicle skids into vehicle, voices on speaker </span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">slur with the cold…<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">And conclusions:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The file of motor traffic flies into the mist;<br />
odd-man-out Evgeny, touchy,<br />
mild pedestrian, ashamed of his poverty<br />
breathes in petrol fumes and curses fate.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">& <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Aquarium is gone. Everywhere<br />
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;<br />
a savage servility<br />
slides by on grease.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">&<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">...in the sliding, skittering cars <br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">and there is beauty in the warning lights</span><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; float: none; font-variant-caps: normal; font-variant-ligatures: normal; orphans: 2; text-decoration-color: initial; text-decoration-style: initial; text-decoration-thickness: initial; widows: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">but most of all there is beauty in how you fall.</span><o:p></o:p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-62689247545496017132023-07-25T13:15:00.005+01:002023-07-25T13:31:03.537+01:00a plain dry necklace of dead bees<p>From Osip Mandel'shtam, Selected Poems <br />translated by David McDuff, who wouldn't lose the poetry by emulating its original, stuffed-with rhyme form but tried for the sense and meaning of the work itself. And what touchstone fluid stuff it is. Wonderful. Poor Mandel'shtam: doomed to cross Stalin even trying to placate him. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxq9rp1ZuzkxEQNsAGefOYgV-2GPjj0U1dpgKTrYh5JdTHUCCLOrxHNqsaMXlIfnYRIwNeLJSM8ckc6kYMR3NpoAvsPq0M6B5px6g24r9Iy3zM68r-HChWD9eWtM8E13EpOeI5qQWYF-wrfqPRpOT2XbJzPJQrjQ9QjblnWh4HuGZQGK1ulw5q4eSTc8/s1940/osip.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="1940" height="350" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOxq9rp1ZuzkxEQNsAGefOYgV-2GPjj0U1dpgKTrYh5JdTHUCCLOrxHNqsaMXlIfnYRIwNeLJSM8ckc6kYMR3NpoAvsPq0M6B5px6g24r9Iy3zM68r-HChWD9eWtM8E13EpOeI5qQWYF-wrfqPRpOT2XbJzPJQrjQ9QjblnWh4HuGZQGK1ulw5q4eSTc8/w526-h350/osip.jpg" width="526" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Take for joy from the palms of my hands<br />
fragments of honey and sunlight,<br />
as the bees of Persephone commanded us.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Not to be untied the unmoored vessel,<br />
not to be heard shadow walking on fur,<br />
not to be mastered terror growing in thicketed life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We have only kisses now,<br />
furred like the smallest bees<br />
found dead after their flight from the hive.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Bees rustling in translucency of densest night,<br />
their home the sleepy forest of Taigetos,<br />
their food time, lungwort, mint.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Take then, take for joy my wild gift,<br />
a plain dry necklace of dead bees,<br />
bees that changed honey into sunlight.</p><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-49412840897506359782023-07-10T15:38:00.010+01:002023-08-01T08:12:31.237+01:00Drumshanbo DWW 23<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0q_jh4mAfMVfyhbUd-HzswvEsAWEagzM-WX7c9p7Zk6X-uwSssB5R2Bwpf65yVyDc-Cd_LaNA6skH5YL_NPrhuJN1siiPZz3R9k162hOENn2MMtnaIv1O5rP7QAxxBzpJO1-QTvNusJ_CyTl_JaK0QZLdvbD2eChL0WKyksWUi8N65VuukpvvowSt9Y/s3684/dww23.jpg" style="clear: left; display: inline; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2072" data-original-width="3684" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgb0q_jh4mAfMVfyhbUd-HzswvEsAWEagzM-WX7c9p7Zk6X-uwSssB5R2Bwpf65yVyDc-Cd_LaNA6skH5YL_NPrhuJN1siiPZz3R9k162hOENn2MMtnaIv1O5rP7QAxxBzpJO1-QTvNusJ_CyTl_JaK0QZLdvbD2eChL0WKyksWUi8N65VuukpvvowSt9Y/w569-h320/dww23.jpg" title="Drumsanbo Written Word Festival" width="569" /></a></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqZLVKPmPstjrDxTNajO5rzEBZlGejM-l_b68NJwNgCWPypP7le4i1iJ1fV4PpPNfpIOFnh13fn0nn2sxaTUX-02ez210xFpHZYSf53cbb6LrRqWFItS9HqGI01LKzBHPajXkhj4nwUve08OeU53Db0rqiiSF-Kq4_1KBZmbJ8ix1bux6srDMv1GFXsM/s1168/drumshanbo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1168" data-original-width="1009" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrqZLVKPmPstjrDxTNajO5rzEBZlGejM-l_b68NJwNgCWPypP7le4i1iJ1fV4PpPNfpIOFnh13fn0nn2sxaTUX-02ez210xFpHZYSf53cbb6LrRqWFItS9HqGI01LKzBHPajXkhj4nwUve08OeU53Db0rqiiSF-Kq4_1KBZmbJ8ix1bux6srDMv1GFXsM/w138-h160/drumshanbo.jpg" width="138" /></a></div><a href="https://youtu.be/ebjZlYbz9D4">Four Statues</a> - Pleased to hear Greg's reading from <i>Marples Must Go</i> beside the corresponding sculptures by Sean Henry, in Woking - the film also featuring The Flying Scotsman! - is to be shown at the Mayflower Ballroom on Friday 25 August, at the second, Drumshanbo Written Word Weekend Poetry Film Competition awards. <p></p><p>Feathers in our caps.</p><br /><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-64895803593964292292023-05-20T09:37:00.040+01:002023-07-03T11:51:34.613+01:00CHOPS IV<p><span style="font-size: medium;">Mulling over new direction, this draft of a piece touches on the current world at large, then dives back in to my garden of play. Change will come. </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jPIm0lPJx9rsZ2IRy_aaXz3kgYxMIRbyVUpeJeY1P00H0TNt-4Dg41d_KldBMHXKX3m43lF46rJ5me60l7e6yM7n3Gek6CuL7S-_eYyEYlVU3UCzE0rWdg2HjpVFDErwZWnI3I3wiFZKdRNVTMWzd37EvyZIXEIiKapc-RNNQNtwswxo_dwRYr11/s600/Who-is-Philemon_600-600x587-1.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="587" data-original-width="600" height="270" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5jPIm0lPJx9rsZ2IRy_aaXz3kgYxMIRbyVUpeJeY1P00H0TNt-4Dg41d_KldBMHXKX3m43lF46rJ5me60l7e6yM7n3Gek6CuL7S-_eYyEYlVU3UCzE0rWdg2HjpVFDErwZWnI3I3wiFZKdRNVTMWzd37EvyZIXEIiKapc-RNNQNtwswxo_dwRYr11/w275-h270/Who-is-Philemon_600-600x587-1.jpg" title="Archetypes and the Collective Unconscious" width="275" /></a></div>
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span><b>Sweet Mayhem</b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">The clamour of
sweet mayhem lilts <br />
in hue and cry, the argument <br />
of gender rights kickstarts a chorus <br />
of approval for the pronouns, plural, <br />
drowning out the single soul, itself<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">promotes a Shadow
Song: You are one, <br />
we are legion. Coloured tones<br />
imbued by animus and anima<br />
the dry kingfisher, Philemon <br />
and our mother, Dragon: the whining<br />
of an endless child held in check no more. <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal">The quiet mind, bundled
from a moving car, <br />
thrown from the spinning door of reason:<br />
stoops in shame before AI,<br />
but recovers its organic wisdom –<br />
well-founded on the natural rule –<br />
attests to a chaotic pride, IE<br />
the human will be human.</p><p class="MsoNormal">
Confronted with the currents, the magnetic ebb and flow of a world electric, it won't do to have, as in the scornful words of sound recording, preferring the analogue warmth of voice and cat-gut: <i>Digital</i> as the pejorative diminutive.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3A10c-zykVtQteZx6alYq0LmS-UtQXX_P53NMOIOCPeaWBG1-GhoZtnJGtPrboPtcNZfhEHUlZFupQlgCNDdJh1pJ-MW8u1bhzKLRnwzORL7173Pjx5pik9xAgdePZ5G16spVg3J3zxqdD9uhzN-H2spuqKat-7rWIYsgGM9VsRfE-gBO8atbTM2X/s500/forb.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="376" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3A10c-zykVtQteZx6alYq0LmS-UtQXX_P53NMOIOCPeaWBG1-GhoZtnJGtPrboPtcNZfhEHUlZFupQlgCNDdJh1pJ-MW8u1bhzKLRnwzORL7173Pjx5pik9xAgdePZ5G16spVg3J3zxqdD9uhzN-H2spuqKat-7rWIYsgGM9VsRfE-gBO8atbTM2X/s320/forb.jpg" width="241" /></a></div><br />What is at stake? We got a problem. <br />
Not the grammar, not the devil <br />
dangling his knife and jelly,<br />the binaries of custom, <br />it is not that: it is the <i>real politik</i> <br />bubbles into consciousness. <br />
It might be the collective mind<br />
rears up for our protection,<br />
retaliates against AI:IE<br />
The more than human risen.<o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-9206779104963334852023-05-07T09:46:00.006+01:002023-05-07T09:49:01.338+01:00Poetry with an Escape Plan<p>Longlisted for the Erbacce Prize, short-listed for Exeter Uni, a slot on <a href="https://dodgingtherain.com/2023/05/01/dominic-james-russell-sorgis-suicide-1942/">dodging the rain</a> and another review out shortly on <a href="https://www.pulsarpoetry.com/legal-notice/book-reviews-2016-to-2018/book-reviews-2022-2023/">Pulsar</a>... This is the big event of the day: David and Bethany kindly agreed to read a couple of poems, gladly, i think they said, and I am sorting out my themes. <a href="https://www.facebook.com/events/1265148007461407/">Big Trouble</a> in Rochester. OK then.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfTUPUZL2TGAnjWwKH6Br_Pd9r-MGE_Ax-sB-wKbPi5SlQ6WiFPgG5ht-91mO3zlhBIL0ZA6I-vbMDksYyuOzI0XHERBmeGkdur-bkDwXF074JlaaE7jyA_-ZpjSynenK5-lMyqdC76Xs0YW1kR3Kc17-iLUAtYFOhMzUuAQOGDK7RT41J0a8rD25/s1589/BTRochester.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Big Trouble" border="0" data-original-height="1059" data-original-width="1589" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXfTUPUZL2TGAnjWwKH6Br_Pd9r-MGE_Ax-sB-wKbPi5SlQ6WiFPgG5ht-91mO3zlhBIL0ZA6I-vbMDksYyuOzI0XHERBmeGkdur-bkDwXF074JlaaE7jyA_-ZpjSynenK5-lMyqdC76Xs0YW1kR3Kc17-iLUAtYFOhMzUuAQOGDK7RT41J0a8rD25/w400-h266/BTRochester.jpg" title="Poetry at Rams Micropub 12 Degrees" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-23468773606695824252023-04-07T09:17:00.008+00:002023-05-03T12:50:06.047+01:00Lollards<p>So far as I can tell, this heretic was a follower of John Wycliffe, a reformer of sorts, burnt at the stake, and the term Lollard derives from a mutterer, ie to be found mumbling over the bible. No mumbler here. It is the defamatory names that stick, apparently "Cathar" is a dirty word, and that for a noble cause. I think. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuMX2L-Iw65OksGmoZAcGu0vyifH4naGs7POBr7V1qfLYU5_TqvjRgV9HNEYWlrkR5HxB_wYq_PrZFNMfBFftEReNwzjRla1mRdNlW70pcThaHVMzlhlzBlyl_FHAXQlU69W6nlnrYDTTklv_tUuwVifrT8nQyDzD1chLY3_VoeLlRUWJJZtUocir/s1200/WycliffeYeamesLollards_01.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuMX2L-Iw65OksGmoZAcGu0vyifH4naGs7POBr7V1qfLYU5_TqvjRgV9HNEYWlrkR5HxB_wYq_PrZFNMfBFftEReNwzjRla1mRdNlW70pcThaHVMzlhlzBlyl_FHAXQlU69W6nlnrYDTTklv_tUuwVifrT8nQyDzD1chLY3_VoeLlRUWJJZtUocir/w400-h300/WycliffeYeamesLollards_01.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p><h1><a name="_Hlk129008777">The Heretic
<o:p></o:p></a></h1><p class="MsoNormal"><a name="_Hlk123396009">The times have caught the heretic<br />
who had no truck with bread and blood,<br />
flew in the face of common dogma<br />
ranted on a faith his own.<o:p></o:p></a></p><p class="MsoNormal">A heated cousin to the heckler<br />
objected to gold ornament, <br />
decried the pulpit to the death<br />
to the honour of his soul.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>‘An
herretyke ibrende at the Towre hyll’<br />
</i>William Balowe diced with death, <br />
contested his aggressors, thus: <o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i> ‘no priest had no more power <br />
to hear confession than Jack Hare!<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i>What
means this, Priest? On Goode Fryday<br />
ye fill the sepulchres with gods<br />
but since they cannot rise themselves<br />
at Ester Day you lift them up <br />
and bere them for the, or else they will <br />
lie still in their graves...’<o:p></o:p></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">He can’t be ditched, upended in <br />
the vile pond. The heretic’s no imp<br />
with bifurcated tail, nor whisperer<br />
to bid recant, and every word recorded.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Bowed down in chains before his jailers,<br />
strong hands en-grimed, his eyes dwell on <br />
those fires beside the church outside<br />
whose bells ring out for William.<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Bridling at icons, sure: <br />
as if in mockery of God <br />
to mimic resurrection.</p><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-45260336130102746892023-02-16T10:48:00.001+01:002023-02-18T13:03:46.160+01:00thine own meaning<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Digging down
for the meaning of the thing – my poem! - Edmund Gosse’s touchstone lines from
the Tempest re-occur.</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">An exhortation to self as much as anything, a piece to keep in mind, like a
consequent line in the play on conscience – and where lies that? – I have it by heart. Im</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">perfectly. I tend to confuse the plurals and must tamper with my variations to find the
proper meaning, much as the piece incurs.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Finding the twin principles in my verse, and my Ariel, running through Hyde Park, I am at
the Tempest again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Miranda to Caliban:</span></span></p><div><span style="font-size: 16px;">...I pitied thee.</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-size: 16px;">Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-size: 16px;">One thing or other. When thou didst not, savage,</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-size: 16px;">Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-size: 16px;">Like a thing most brutish, I endowed thy purposes</span><br style="font-size: 16px;" /><span style="font-size: 16px;">With words that made them know…</span></div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvd1XDQoMHllkXkHzAm8bahmoziKW_e7k_0G51IeFiKKEhxaJowitNKvgY4sGp5h25dhM62gXkUvY9HiY7c2zBOJ0qsDqTmyk4VsXfWgukTw45Gy0ntI1cHznkTwUWjFSm0Pjq_t2VgEkRsHdD5Or69m3yPWmgE84KOIRZqEdjzDUOb30_ILZCJ4QA/s1152/tempest.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="600" data-original-width="1152" height="209" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvd1XDQoMHllkXkHzAm8bahmoziKW_e7k_0G51IeFiKKEhxaJowitNKvgY4sGp5h25dhM62gXkUvY9HiY7c2zBOJ0qsDqTmyk4VsXfWgukTw45Gy0ntI1cHznkTwUWjFSm0Pjq_t2VgEkRsHdD5Or69m3yPWmgE84KOIRZqEdjzDUOb30_ILZCJ4QA/w400-h209/tempest.jpg" title="Image from The Bell Shakespeare Company" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div><br /><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: 16px;"><br /></span></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-47917285877268072532023-02-11T12:09:00.008+01:002023-12-31T16:40:08.056+01:00Abenaki Land<p><span style="font-family: georgia; font-size: medium;"><b></b></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm;"><b><span style="color: #222222; font-family: "Georgia",serif; font-size: 13.5pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">This is Abenaki Land </span></b><span face=""Arial",sans-serif" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;"><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Fern bending to the banjo,<br />
voice raised in Appalachian lament<br />
claw-hammering, her songs belong to<br />
backwoods streams, mountain track.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">I saw her playing North Branch River,<br />
our grey heads nodding in the dark<br />
Fern Maddie in her element.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">Stage centre with the house lights down<br />
she looked more like the settlers <br />
she has come from, more the woman <br />
from Vermont, Fern sounded like<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: 115%; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-margin-top-alt: auto;">
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%; mso-fareast-language: EN-GB;">a native singer, crying songs <br />
from the wild mountain forest, <br />
crying songs out of the heart.<o:p></o:p></span></p></div><p class="MsoNormal">
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="280" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/5lxLp7QLMrw" width="344" youtube-src-id="5lxLp7QLMrw"></iframe></div><br /><div>I was taken along to a folk evening in Corsham, not far, a show with three young women, including Fern Maddie, on tour. Good? Yes, i'd say so.</div><div><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbusLpEP9Y5a1NTW1epIk3WlyP5MwUJPruf08zpewfxl1sHQghLxqa9XeE-RuLBxGIobdKRd-iTXFbJ09EgspeEaHGGWHgpYK2xbussHpxmPxGwuZtdUymkqtLLsDFPQGxcCDb-HyyCDh4I3b4dhwn7ciio8DERBj6L0ITMfv6YxrFhYIoWj5pR3dN/s1191/fern.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="801" data-original-width="1191" height="215" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbusLpEP9Y5a1NTW1epIk3WlyP5MwUJPruf08zpewfxl1sHQghLxqa9XeE-RuLBxGIobdKRd-iTXFbJ09EgspeEaHGGWHgpYK2xbussHpxmPxGwuZtdUymkqtLLsDFPQGxcCDb-HyyCDh4I3b4dhwn7ciio8DERBj6L0ITMfv6YxrFhYIoWj5pR3dN/s320/fern.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div><br /></div>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-45477450049119426562023-02-11T12:02:00.004+01:002023-02-11T12:02:35.103+01:00The Great Khan<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjt6ZDDhTtMWbvHAK6uhXP9ufqt0MAwBWHaamA3zlmWnG675KGj279YbFLHtK4OR_8p7641YGNpuJa0m6NQmGqdqEhfaRymg8m7mX1IepCRPE_SCcOpstDZ_r9K0DCdUhDLmXaxo-YgY8noBL6QfF5A_LyenxtudkoL1tgaz9GV9X4xISp5sdPa1ZO/s201/jenghis.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="201" data-original-width="200" height="201" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjt6ZDDhTtMWbvHAK6uhXP9ufqt0MAwBWHaamA3zlmWnG675KGj279YbFLHtK4OR_8p7641YGNpuJa0m6NQmGqdqEhfaRymg8m7mX1IepCRPE_SCcOpstDZ_r9K0DCdUhDLmXaxo-YgY8noBL6QfF5A_LyenxtudkoL1tgaz9GV9X4xISp5sdPa1ZO/s1600/jenghis.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>I find reported only words profound and direct from the
Mongol Leader. And I am inclined to repeat them. This from Basil Bunting’s Collected Poems. He
notes:<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A presumably exact version of Jengiz Khan’s correspondence
with Chang Chun exists in <i>Bretschneider’s Mediaeval Researches from Eastern
Asiatic Sources… &etc</i><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Jengiz to Chang Chun: China<br />
is fat, but I am lean<br />
eating soldier’s food,<br />
lacking learning.<br />
In seven years <br />
I brought most of the world under one law.<br />
The Lords of Cathay<br />
hesitate and fall.<br />
Amidst these disorders<br />
I distrust my talents.<br />
To cross a river<br />
boats and rudders,<br />
to keep the empire in order<br />
poets and sages,<br />
but I have not found nine for a cabinet,<br />
not three.<br />
I have fasted and washed. Come<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Chang: I am old<br />
not wise nor virtuous,<br />
nor likely to be much use.<br />
My appearance is parched, my body weak.<br />
I set out at once.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And to Liu Chung Lu, Jengiz:<br />
Get an escort and a good cart,<br />
and the girls can be sent on<br />
separately if he insists.<o:p></o:p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-46134596126111453332023-01-15T13:18:00.011+01:002023-01-15T13:26:09.178+01:00Prospect<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><br /></div><p></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SpToJmYce-9mYqbb1GiLg80d3KW642iliA-UhfYOt3Ih9dKR65fwlQb0gY8_qYrS7LoS30Y3fvn_DE5_BeF5Gi9hIUsfWy1CMHBaJ6t7-exOYv0-p6Xzx5CVoPjqB-1pRyUnx6t_lldTfTuD6QFp0_gzJQ4043EQ50opjl6d1YP1-AZL3Tw13NwO/s1934/bob%20creeley.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1293" data-original-width="1934" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0SpToJmYce-9mYqbb1GiLg80d3KW642iliA-UhfYOt3Ih9dKR65fwlQb0gY8_qYrS7LoS30Y3fvn_DE5_BeF5Gi9hIUsfWy1CMHBaJ6t7-exOYv0-p6Xzx5CVoPjqB-1pRyUnx6t_lldTfTuD6QFp0_gzJQ4043EQ50opjl6d1YP1-AZL3Tw13NwO/w319-h214/bob%20creeley.jpg" width="319" /></a></div><p></p><p><br /></p><p>Nudged by a random prompt, it happens, i picked up Bob Creeley again. Although not taken with Black Mountain as a whole, I'd held on to Mirrors through the great bookshelf poetry cull of 22. And his poems seem quite new to me now, as if, at first reading, what, 10 years ago? they hadn't touched me at all - poor, slow fool.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXp8FETJeauOSDLkBGligTnw0zyjN9RZwWp9Wc1tHzOSnbA3oc8JXmoY-qScLaRy_adMcTkdx4Sqoeyj8CM4qj0D-MoUsLfSPALES6tabce9Kew-KZYFHeNXGnCD4ZF_ghtEWKs_T2n5oJEjQNusjZ_QFeS4ECT4fONWu6RF5Rxc4oXPHTA6crcXUH/s2006/DSC_1997.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1340" data-original-width="2006" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXp8FETJeauOSDLkBGligTnw0zyjN9RZwWp9Wc1tHzOSnbA3oc8JXmoY-qScLaRy_adMcTkdx4Sqoeyj8CM4qj0D-MoUsLfSPALES6tabce9Kew-KZYFHeNXGnCD4ZF_ghtEWKs_T2n5oJEjQNusjZ_QFeS4ECT4fONWu6RF5Rxc4oXPHTA6crcXUH/s320/DSC_1997.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>PROSPECT</p><p>Green's the predominant color here,<br />but in tones so various, and muted</p><p>by the flatness of sky and water,<br />the oak trunks, the undershade back of the lawns,</p><p>it seems a subtle echo of itself.<br />It is the color of life itself,</p><p>it used to be. Not blood red,<br />or sun yellow - but this green,</p><p>echoing hills, echoing meadows,<br />childhood summer's blowsiness, a youngness</p><p>one remembers hopefully forever.<br />It is thoughtful, provokes here</p><p>quiet reflections, settles the self<br />down to waiting now apart</p><p>from time, which is done,<br />this green space, faintly painful.</p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Robert Creeley</b></span></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-71182339967441084292023-01-11T09:32:00.002+01:002023-02-16T11:56:51.385+01:00Thinking of Jean Rochefort<p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1LHzymqYwWeIRPayt4-CFgcNztdBqM6isZdgNGYzM8ESnPDg0G9Q8UGnHJaL-b0q_fM_3DsDH91NG3ay-ZKqRd8jpp0j3Dw2igJUELiuqTMB320Z3bpZnpmWpG6vtfsmk2mkm6xWrR65yJNbSIyBYo0puAD-bBo49e89XR7hyBDMHUH0OFij4t3e/s1711/MOTT.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="The Man on the Train" border="0" data-original-height="1141" data-original-width="1711" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhH1LHzymqYwWeIRPayt4-CFgcNztdBqM6isZdgNGYzM8ESnPDg0G9Q8UGnHJaL-b0q_fM_3DsDH91NG3ay-ZKqRd8jpp0j3Dw2igJUELiuqTMB320Z3bpZnpmWpG6vtfsmk2mkm6xWrR65yJNbSIyBYo0puAD-bBo49e89XR7hyBDMHUH0OFij4t3e/w320-h213/MOTT.jpg" title="The Man on the Train (2002) Jean Rochefort and Johnny Halliday" width="320" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Man on the Train</h2><h1><o:p></o:p></h1>
<p class="MsoNormal">>>><br />
This is the gate, here is the key,<br />
cellar’s open, larder free:<br />
latter empty, first half-full, <br />
piano more or less in tune<br />
and my remaindered library,<br />
its books like yesterdays’ papers:<br />
black and white and read all over,<br />
like an embarrassed penguin or, <br />
should I say, a bleeding nun?<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><<<<br />
It long has seemed to me<br />
words allow what you let them.<br />
Tell me, do you listen to Schumann?<br />
I like your poetry and, most of all,<br />
the way you have things gently.<br />
Your life, it looks like heaven.<br />
Well, put the gun away,<br />
you’re on platform number seven.</p></div><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-72038735646038241172022-12-26T09:46:00.011+01:002022-12-26T09:47:29.413+01:00In the Physic Garden<p> <span style="font-size: 12pt;">Two poems by
Adam Horovitz without fanfare, pieces for the season in quiet assimilation. The
second brings to my mind Hughes’ Littleblood; grown so wise, grown so terrible,
eating the medical earth. A pleasure to hear Adam read his work.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="308" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/m6dN-U-wHJw" width="520" youtube-src-id="m6dN-U-wHJw"></iframe></div><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-87309750921961882552022-12-06T10:06:00.002+01:002022-12-06T10:11:37.215+01:00Is Poetry the New Rock'n'Roll?<p>To any headline that starts IS and ends with a question the answer is almost certainly NO.</p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KZto43OMEET9Xn-cnyEvI1WigeyCO9XsvU5OdJuQTn5su47xlJOc8Mk1N1WB29DillAGpHqUQI1ouFedh72971iv3COhmN90NFI1wLX-dw1Q2hxJ8iG3RdH_AGHueU3iv6V65m4Toc4GycL4Xt37KsokRVkOvQzx_jofxifST0-eXcb55Ii-hxMi/s1200/fluffypunk.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="773" data-original-width="1200" height="206" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2KZto43OMEET9Xn-cnyEvI1WigeyCO9XsvU5OdJuQTn5su47xlJOc8Mk1N1WB29DillAGpHqUQI1ouFedh72971iv3COhmN90NFI1wLX-dw1Q2hxJ8iG3RdH_AGHueU3iv6V65m4Toc4GycL4Xt37KsokRVkOvQzx_jofxifST0-eXcb55Ii-hxMi/s320/fluffypunk.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Poetry at the <a href="http://www.crownandsceptrestroud.com/" target="_blank">Crown & Sceptre</a> last night, a few open micers, some hits and misses, then mighty Jonny Fluffypunk. Have you not seen him before? I hadn't. I laughed! He set the table on a roar. <p></p><p>And the Crown and Sceptre, a good, proper pub is his local. Stroud rises in my estimation. </p><p>After the show I made my way down to the taxi rank through dry passage of quiet streets, found two lads vomiting copiously, gloriously in a sorrowful clutch and, as they were bundled off to who knows where, had a nice chat with the girl who'd been serving them vile concoctions, with mild concern and regret. And to finish, on the drive home I was put right on Sadaam Hussein's record of domestic social responsibility. Oh. And the evening kicked off with tapas at the <a href="https://www.galgos.co.uk/" target="_blank">Galgoslatino</a>. I must get out more. </p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-26600571458798639362022-08-30T09:22:00.004+01:002022-09-02T09:03:09.499+01:00GMH<p> Poetry came up in conversation with neighbours yesterday - not me, I didn't tip it that way with a nod or a wink or a timely quotation - Mary offered a Gerard Manley Hopkins' kingfisher, remembered from the lessons of an enthusiastic English teacher when she was a girl, how often the way. </p><p>If i had it by heart, which I should, I'd offer this quiet piece by the celebrated Hopkins at any time. And i'm not surprised to be reminded of it at this juncture, at a turning over of books, stones and fond conjecture, looking for inspiration.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; line-height: 107%;"><span style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJt88OixKLPq-s7sEv3Yx0C5rvQDx4xFKRzzc3nNjV-fxNdy2NYt5oygHDyQgpUsLyR4IaezYH2POQsmYfzWscOvllGroFbo1Sjop2O67yDFw-GaJF4DUBRyDpuNertZcav0F9fLxCfgjGgyuNAw-pg42e0KgT28-3Bk1-KKUVCv28aPXvwV6YVyjl/s259/gmh.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="259" data-original-width="195" height="259" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJt88OixKLPq-s7sEv3Yx0C5rvQDx4xFKRzzc3nNjV-fxNdy2NYt5oygHDyQgpUsLyR4IaezYH2POQsmYfzWscOvllGroFbo1Sjop2O67yDFw-GaJF4DUBRyDpuNertZcav0F9fLxCfgjGgyuNAw-pg42e0KgT28-3Bk1-KKUVCv28aPXvwV6YVyjl/s1600/gmh.jpg" width="195" /></a></span></i></div><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><br />Heaven-Haven</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></i><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> (a nun
takes the veil)<br />
I have desired to go<br />
Where springs not fail,<br />
To fields where flies no sharp and sided hail<br />
And a few lilies grow.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"> And I have
asked to be<br />
Where no storms come,<br />
Where the green swell is in the havens dumb,<br /></span><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"> And out of the swing of the sea.</span> </p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-36970026296799485282022-08-28T09:09:00.010+01:002022-08-28T09:35:08.706+01:00Con Brio<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="background: white; color: #050505; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Good poetry and strong performances in #XI of the outdoor voices at <a href="https://www.angrycowpoetry.com/" style="font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;" target="_blank">Angry Cow Poetry</a>. A stand-out is Angie Haze's "Dance for the Seeds" at 1.07.11,
once seen, undodgeable. And if i herd with the quieter ones, there is is urgency, passion and thought
given voice, for the most part, and I was brought up short by the force of these pieces. Next time: Con
brio! Like the man said. <a href="https://youtu.be/2TzjIvijfgQ" target="_blank">YouTube
Link</a></span><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><p></p><p style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC7yX15ST2BAA96bDt7fhATieDIfh36QQd33Cb3M1IKgqV8KfM7vIn3b12aZSKrrigg-bFXJ0eP6dm9_Qgn-x9nVppKZTkXDzn-HuqL_i0XWCqBMEIgfs_YZweREmYXV89GUB7ZUqKfNVWA4aw84oVQddsiCD-7jy6kDDvZeq_ElD6JWcU4QGmY1-/s1918/angie%20haze%20ov%2011.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Angie Haze" border="0" data-original-height="1079" data-original-width="1918" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaC7yX15ST2BAA96bDt7fhATieDIfh36QQd33Cb3M1IKgqV8KfM7vIn3b12aZSKrrigg-bFXJ0eP6dm9_Qgn-x9nVppKZTkXDzn-HuqL_i0XWCqBMEIgfs_YZweREmYXV89GUB7ZUqKfNVWA4aw84oVQddsiCD-7jy6kDDvZeq_ElD6JWcU4QGmY1-/w400-h225/angie%20haze%20ov%2011.jpg" title="Dance for the Seeds" width="400" /></a></p><br /><span face=""Segoe UI Historic", "Segoe UI", Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif" style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-size: 15px; white-space: pre-wrap;"></span><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZGzl-oeMyEvToLT4nsxj9wWROO0o-OClsBHkUlA7ipmtPhpqsOcG5D7HIh5Cpm5pNMQgan09ipbNzB54-PjiBAJ5RVZZqhjJulpFo3yentRyauZy7DsikMKPz4QN9cAOvH6qEWRsCN1TA0joc2Y-1-_AYKYpU8HFuu5Ejl9w7YfiTjqEAL3ab-jA/s1908/stbride%20ov11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Dom" border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="1908" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEZGzl-oeMyEvToLT4nsxj9wWROO0o-OClsBHkUlA7ipmtPhpqsOcG5D7HIh5Cpm5pNMQgan09ipbNzB54-PjiBAJ5RVZZqhjJulpFo3yentRyauZy7DsikMKPz4QN9cAOvH6qEWRsCN1TA0joc2Y-1-_AYKYpU8HFuu5Ejl9w7YfiTjqEAL3ab-jA/w400-h225/stbride%20ov11.jpg" title="St Bride Still" width="400" /></a></div><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-10918490653177871372022-08-12T11:43:00.005+01:002022-08-13T11:03:40.689+01:00Of the wise men<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQPxTgm6k-VvGSBtghQT3Airh-gDsx0DCJp3wO3DpYi3df3p_HmKTX-UfrGdsuj5oU6X32I4Nr2n1g5pC0qvGwXJeY7bMTGrFKo9ZrLKcJn3KWi6YXFqaSxcjeLO_n5zKBjMmxku_aM-l7-SV14IZTiCsfxC3hBDFlUlZbFJnbcjq22Fs8bNgaimH/s1864/devdisc.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="961" data-original-width="1864" height="165" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHQPxTgm6k-VvGSBtghQT3Airh-gDsx0DCJp3wO3DpYi3df3p_HmKTX-UfrGdsuj5oU6X32I4Nr2n1g5pC0qvGwXJeY7bMTGrFKo9ZrLKcJn3KWi6YXFqaSxcjeLO_n5zKBjMmxku_aM-l7-SV14IZTiCsfxC3hBDFlUlZbFJnbcjq22Fs8bNgaimH/s320/devdisc.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">A super essay from Eliot on Lancelot Andrewes: a lesson
in devotion and the discipline needed to write it out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Anyone </span>with an appetite for the best use and lift in writing, clear-sightedness over confusion, might learn from these notes on a stalwart of the early Anglican Church. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Intellect and sensibility were in harmony and
hence arise the particular qualities of his style.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It is beyond me to take Andrewes' work head-on: Latin ungrasped, allusions pitched in knowledge ancient, not familiar. But I perceive a word squeezed for its essence… [as] each new word or phrase represents a new
development, he assimilates his material and advances by means of it, his
quotation is not decoration or irrelevance, but the matter in which he expresses
what he wants to say.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If he repeats, it
is because the repetition has a real force of expression.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Andrewes tried to confine himself to the
elucidation of what he considered essential in the dogma.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> He was </span>drilling down, digging in, “purifying a
disturbed or cryptic lecture-note into lucid profundity.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In this regard, and often with the constructions of his time:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I
am two fools, I know,<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> For
loving, and for saying so<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Garamond, serif;"><span style="font-size: medium;">
In whining poetry;</span><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 15pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0cm; vertical-align: baseline;">he offers more and better than the often vague - if intentionally so - somewhat distracted Donne. As for
the rest of us, Eliot's eye sweeps the auditorium:</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">To persons whose minds are habituated to feed on the vague
jargon of our time, when we have a vocabulary for everything and exact ideas
about nothing – when a word half understood, torn from its place in some alien
or half-formed science… conceals from both writer and reader the
meaninglessness of a statement, when all dogma is in doubt except the dogmas of
science of which we have read in the newspapers, when the language of theology
itself, under the influence of an undisciplined mysticism of popular
philosophy, tends to <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>become a language
of tergiversation – Andrewes may seem pedantic and verbal.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is only when we have saturated ourselves
in his prose, followed the movement of his thought, that we find his
examination of words terminating in the ecstasy of assent…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Andrewes forces a concrete presence upon us.<br />
Of the wise men come from the East:<o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size: medium;">It was no summer progress. A cold coming they had of it at
this time of the year, just the worst time of the year to take a journey, and
specially a long journey in. The ways deep, the weather sharp, the days short,
the sun farthest off, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">solstitio
brumali</i>, ‘the very dead of winter’.</span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And I am prompted to return to Introduction to the Devout Life, by Francois de Sales, first suggested by Aldous Huxley in The Perennial Philosophy, and pick up again that comparable contributor to the discovery of humility's iron.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-85106478668215196512022-07-23T08:34:00.001+01:002022-07-23T08:34:06.021+01:00MIP Stroud<p><span style="background-color: white; color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif; font-size: 11.5pt;">A few photos from the batch, at last Friday's summer reading by Stroud Poets at Museum in the Park. A
good show, with new pamphlets out from the Yew Tree Press, a week's work under
the belt of the Dialect Writers and Alun Hughes reading from Down the Heavens. </span></p><p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcG3DZn6CTA1T4s7FrMSsC2VA9hfsBvzgvWM45gqUdN_ukhW7372yzYpVw-Gh2haywPkeSyxjXfFtRkAjiZA-caoyeTFmSHgkJhX7r2E7TbGIR2IMu8tAoEg2LjWZk6ykbBrrfKuhmWy8ghEG09gYYkkU0xpxFEE_YQBHFAdLXETIlb0B1O5-YSAB/s1200/DSC_3728b.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1200" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLcG3DZn6CTA1T4s7FrMSsC2VA9hfsBvzgvWM45gqUdN_ukhW7372yzYpVw-Gh2haywPkeSyxjXfFtRkAjiZA-caoyeTFmSHgkJhX7r2E7TbGIR2IMu8tAoEg2LjWZk6ykbBrrfKuhmWy8ghEG09gYYkkU0xpxFEE_YQBHFAdLXETIlb0B1O5-YSAB/w320-h222/DSC_3728b.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLlgA6kL7ySKwHTYvXYjmwT8FZqEv2eroKLVFSN6TrRpEJBkSNEcOlJG4qAjKou5w7WH4-p8_EwnJZnsmdr3fSKY7rhpfLedhFTYPk4qeveltWttFaIZfbAYI3CM7CSbeSrz6T6NC7m3A763peE22b4eIRkAaCCuDyWry0n4urQVxRUGK73_sjpk3S/s1200/DSC_3637bl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; 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margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1200" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiV0zE2lODVtz9ha3uXaW7GUTkJzzpCDz4O67LHQQEIOQXW9SgQcZ9jEOLUaqoLySpEn3WTrnHfKLAbC4bxxB0Xy5_JA6Yyvt556ea-Rj91NkaFn5VfyFjgD3W6t7prv6okytXhpnVPn7jQuzqgNKheTG-d-RQ3adVsd6XGdWM0ri33kbwupnM4I8H0/w320-h222/DSC_3626bl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKTgzyjFRmMoOEXuoDHCaVh4J8yePtT-oCYm2tOVSbtUpxNeGytgYn4n7d5pTrxF73PpyyV-e51NqJ-Yv4yZAqJqLAiAmWbFsQkLSO2QVTMOTd_TLgIpgUDeVC2CFHb-K2Nj0yAoAXE8YBnu_Qg3sroHkJt70VjQikPuGVbsVxIv4SF9uJtZH9Zqo/s1200/DSC_3680bl.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="835" data-original-width="1200" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKTgzyjFRmMoOEXuoDHCaVh4J8yePtT-oCYm2tOVSbtUpxNeGytgYn4n7d5pTrxF73PpyyV-e51NqJ-Yv4yZAqJqLAiAmWbFsQkLSO2QVTMOTd_TLgIpgUDeVC2CFHb-K2Nj0yAoAXE8YBnu_Qg3sroHkJt70VjQikPuGVbsVxIv4SF9uJtZH9Zqo/w320-h222/DSC_3680bl.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><i style="color: #050505; font-family: "Segoe UI Historic", sans-serif; font-size: 15.3333px;">f anyone performing hasn't received photos/confirmation they're available, do get in touch - email on the me me page.</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-48910019587474999912022-06-29T09:17:00.007+01:002022-06-29T11:21:39.939+01:00Tradition<p><span>O</span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">n
poetry, TS Eliot explains understanding evolves from the physical effectiveness
of any given poem, how it works on his senses, his emotions. </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">It is from this point, as one gathers or
weighs the components of a piece, the work of intellect starts. And it is
a relief to be reading Eliot again, a confirmation, spelling out what he instinctively knows makes a poem.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">His discussion of plays shines less. Putting the play as a whole over any particular
character Eliot makes the refreshing case that Hamlet is a failure.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Enjoyment of the play might trump this view,
but I accept his conclusion that with Hamlet, frustrated in matching his own intense
feelings to his mother’s passive self, Shakespeare tackled a problem which
proved too much for him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The whole how
or why of it we can never know… we assume it to be an experience which exceeded
the facts. To know why Hamlet was made to tackle problems beyond him we should
have to understand things which Shakespeare did not understand himself. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Q3l59TKooz6BkDXSDbwLTRJyeGIMeH7GrEVk2-va0E9smhf8ZRZkqK_FHF8s1wKeJg9xoyZ1PCNBIAIDOvcmEy5q6BVfCA2RDmg9hIzFdmdKX1uVSUkquw5hJMBShyYV4mJFMWC1UPG_x5kKUyuewuvJd_5_9WJSRQZaMw8xQ7y2vvoyh3aSh9fu/s620/eliot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="372" data-original-width="620" height="192" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6Q3l59TKooz6BkDXSDbwLTRJyeGIMeH7GrEVk2-va0E9smhf8ZRZkqK_FHF8s1wKeJg9xoyZ1PCNBIAIDOvcmEy5q6BVfCA2RDmg9hIzFdmdKX1uVSUkquw5hJMBShyYV4mJFMWC1UPG_x5kKUyuewuvJd_5_9WJSRQZaMw8xQ7y2vvoyh3aSh9fu/s320/eliot.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Less than
madness, more than feigned: with adolescence and psychology turned over and
dismissed: the levity of Hamlet, his repetition of phrase, his puns, are not
part of a deliberate plan to dissimulation, but a form of emotional relief. In
the character it is the buffoonery of an emotion which can find no outlet in
action: in the dramatist it is the buffoonery of an emotion which he cannot
express in art. And as every wit is strained to align the world with
his own experience, Hamlet indeed seems Eliot’s artist, who intensifies the
world to his emotions.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Isn’t it in
that that the prince precisely is, or proves again to be, the mirror of the
age?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Eliot is right to point out Hamlet
is not so young as to unable to keep his emotions unchecked, so disturbed as to
have his ghosts and uncertainties separate him entirely from that upset world
where the play begins. <br />
And I remember there is that renaissance marque of Hamlet and Yorick’s
skull, even by the Elizabethan age we still had a foot entrenched in the middle
ages, close to death in life and etc.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I am content
the anguish, the separation, this unchecked indulgence and lack of conclusion
in Shakespeare’s drawn-up struggle of wits - to the distress of family and
court - is the play itself. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It comes to
mind Arthur Miller, in his autobiography Timebends, records a visit by Robert
Lowell and when the poet made some pronouncement on the determined rules of a playwright,
adding that as Eliot said so it, must be true.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Perhaps unspoken at the time, Miller’s reaction was:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll be the judge of that.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOYp-2XAbBpnz9c172FrSdMnnsxWjgMKccZxIkltGKFZdUTuJaZUrnAKdxtOnwwKKgV1uYGMh_-yigidDIzMb57mA04qabFdD-cSFeDEz3OoZxfxF5wDV2AwkVTNtnzevwH5tujQJPX5p5vemqnla_7yuh4V4c6hcdtWCkT8GAAA8BoCAEmsAMw4K/s1200/trad.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Lowell, Miller and Gertrude" border="0" data-original-height="500" data-original-width="1200" height="166" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPOYp-2XAbBpnz9c172FrSdMnnsxWjgMKccZxIkltGKFZdUTuJaZUrnAKdxtOnwwKKgV1uYGMh_-yigidDIzMb57mA04qabFdD-cSFeDEz3OoZxfxF5wDV2AwkVTNtnzevwH5tujQJPX5p5vemqnla_7yuh4V4c6hcdtWCkT8GAAA8BoCAEmsAMw4K/w400-h166/trad.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Well, I am putting aside Augustine – more patience required – Wallace Stevens – </span><span style="font-size: medium; mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-size: medium;">same – Death of the Poets, by an English pair eminently sortable into type themselves – no – pleased to be back on the trail of the aesthetic and purpose of the poet.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">From Tradition and the Individual Talent</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">“…There are
many people who appreciate the expression of sincere emotion in verse, and
there is a smaller number of people who can appreciate technical excellence.
But very few know when there is an expression of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">significant</i> emotion, emotion which has its life in the poem and not
in the history of the poet.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The emotion
of art is impersonal. And the poet cannot reach this impersonality without
surrendering himself wholly to the work to be done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And he is not likely to know what is to be
done unless he lives in what is not merely the present, but the present moment
of the past, unless he is conscious, not of what is dead, but of what is
already living.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8392211833922234272.post-9347056581565830582022-06-20T10:50:00.011+01:002022-06-20T11:04:47.280+01:00Stroud Poets<p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">A couple more
videos conjured up this week with Stroud poets, Jacqui Stearn and Caroline Shaw. The films were fun to make, and it is always
entertaining to spend time with poets. And room for improvement – keep your
hand in with the bloody gimbal is another note to self – but always something
comes out of it. Caroline’s engaging
poem below.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><iframe allowfullscreen="" class="BLOG_video_class" height="308" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/nUllzRtnMOE" width="477" youtube-src-id="nUllzRtnMOE"></iframe></div><br /><p></p><o:p></o:p><p></p><p></p>Dominic Jameshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00661366061141947867noreply@blogger.com0