This is a short note on the Petition, Twitter and Facebook Campaign4Arts .
* The Group hope to have 10,000 Signatures by the 27/11/09 = 10K/ 27.11.09*
So I am adding in here a link to the (i)Facebook Campaign, to the (ii) Twitter Address
(iii) A Politics.ie reminder note.
(i): National Campaign For the Arts.
(ii): NCFA.ie on Twitter.
(iii) P.ie Reminder on the Campaign.
'After Possession' by the Great Leonard Baskin
Abundance by C Murray (poethead).
Those images I had trashed sing now their separation
I.
An Arch forms beneath the new Forsythia leaf
enter the moorhen in her emerald stockings,
She shakes away the water drops.
II.
A wood-pigeon lumbers through egg-laden,
she threads a path through wet grasses
veined in blue weed, these mesmerise me.
III.
My daisy-chain is a fragmented treasure,
that primrose is lone,
Lit against her iron post,
IV.
She dreams of banked loam,
inky mountain scenes.
False Backdrop! But she is sweeter for her dreams.
C Murray
The Leonard Baskin image is from his collection of Women images:
This is related to a prose piece about finding the golden net of poetry in a noisy
school room aged 15. I have not the guts to publish that one….
It's like a really bad Bullock movie
Everyone on the Politics site has to login in freshly due to a
technical change or glitch But my access refuses to recognise
my Dot account and instead provides me with a username that I
never used.
Effectively due to technical problems I have lost access to
my blog, my social groups, my account and my writing.
I don’t think this is either responsible or fair.
Thus I am adding in here my blog links (that I cannot access)
and my data page too, I love living in Ireland sometimes where
everything is so conveniently lackadaisical. I expect that the
situation is not irretrievable; but it’s wrong and frankly quite
upsetting:
This wee poem (one of 17 from Eithne Strong’s book, Sarah in Passing)
is one of my favourites, thus I am publishing it today in my Book of Days. The
book is published via Dolmen Press 1974, I found it on a book stall in George’s
Street Arcade some few years ago; and along with Mark My Words,by Eilís
Ní Dhuibhne (Illustrated by Alice Maher), it’s one of my favourite poetic
and illustrative collaborations:
Regeneration
“Let me out. I’m rising out of death’s skull.
Aha, old devil’s dower I have victoried.
I leave you in the morning: it deals
with every death and spring defeats the catafalque.
You see I must believe in resurrection.
This is it. Now. I was dead and am alive.
Hello eternity. I can die no more horrific
death than I have died. No hell beyond
the horrors of myself that murdered
every life; saw death in every pregnancy
of dog and nut and man. Found death
the ever death. Come bomb,come
my most killing hate, life lives outside
the blasting skull. Computer is not final.
I cannot give you proof of course,
I merely have arisen.”
Regeneration, from Sarah in Passing, by Eithne Strong, Dolmen Press 1974, illustrated by John Hodge.
Mirjam Tuominen was a writer of prose and of poetry:
‘The decisive event had now taken place. For so many years she had
committed adultery and fornicated with spirits, demons, men
not personified but for precisely that reason in his and perhaps
also her imagination all the more real”.
These lines are taken from a prose work by Mirjam Tuominen, a Finnish
writer of poems and prose. She very succintly describes the end of a
marriage- and of course how the adventures in writing can alienate
a partner or husband.
It is taken from:’Theme With Variations’ (1952): from ‘The Selected Writings of Mirjam Tuominen’,
trans, David Mc Duff.
Bloodaxe Books.
I will publish some of her poems as part of The *Saturday Woman Poet* series.
Comes Somebody
from faraway
with a language
which perhaps locks
the sounds
with the neighing of the mare
or the chirping
of the little blackbird
or even as a screeching saw
that cuts up all that is near-
————————–
Comes somebody
from faraway
with the movements of a dog
or
perhaps a rat
and it is winter
so clothe him warmly-
it may be
that he has fire under his soles
(maybe he rode on a meteor)
so do not reproach him
if your perforated carpet screams-
——————————-
A stranger always carries
his home in his arms
like an orphaned child
for which he perhaps
only seeks a grave.
——————————-
Nelly Sachs. 1891-1970. Trans, Marianne Agren Mc Elroy.
“Paired with my guardian angel
we were only couples boarding the ark
and we lived through the curse and we came ashore
in that ancient country
where the people place their wishes
in the entrails of birds
and in the land as seeds.
……………………………………………….
There you brought me secretly sparrows’ eggs
for my meal in the morning
and cuckoo’s milk in the evening
and joy for all my life
and one intense grief
because it could not last
until old age.
……………………………………………..
All passed in a great secret
we woke and the quince had flowered overnight
the sparrows never knew when you stole their eggs
we did not know the hawks had hatched their brood
on our roof, we rejoiced
in the land where we had come ashore
and the sky under which we waited.”
…………………………………………………………………….
I met Ileana briefly at the Unitarian Church in St Stephen’s Green where
she read from ‘After the Raising of Lazarus’ , in the company of other
women poets to celebrate International Women’s Day. (in April due to
a rogue Vernal equinox-which had pushed St Patrick’s Day into
easter week celebrations, leaving little calendar time to Organise
a traditional Women’s day gathering (March 8th).
saw some Picasso last week- his drawings are very light
and full of wry humour.
(It was of course the day that the Taoiseach announced his intention to resign…
and a nice way to spend that evening…)
……………………………………………………………<img class=”alignright size-medium wp-image-72″ src=”http://poethead.files.wordpress.com/2008/05/pp7_small.jpg?w=94″ alt=”White Faun, Picasso.”
“Don’t say, don’t say there is no water
to solace the dryness at our hearts.
I have seen
The fountain springing out of the rock wall
and you drinking there. And I too
before your eyes
found footholds and climbed
to drink the cool water.
The woman of that place, shading her eyes,
frowned as she watched-but not because
she grudged the water,
only because she was waiting
to see we drank our fill and were
refreshed.
Don’t say, don’t say there is no water.
The fountain is there among it’s scalloped
grey and green stones,
it is still there and always there
with it’s quiet song and strange power
to spring in us,
up and out through the rock.”
This poem was sent via Chaikhana, their link is on the right hand column.
One of my favourite poems is ‘Your Childhood in Menton’, by Federico Garcia
Lorca- published in ‘Poet in New York’
: ‘Your Childhood, fable of fountains now’
Info on Denise Levertov in the Right hand column.
Wiki Satellite
In Memory of Wittgenstein at Rosroe.
A solitary invalid in a fuschia garden
Where time’s rain eroded the root since Eden,
He became for a tenebrous epoch the stone.
Here wisdom surrendered the don’s gown
Choosing for Cambridge, two deck chairs,
A kitchen table, undiluted sun.
He clipped with Feburary shears the dead
Metaphysical foliage. Old , in fieldfares
fantasies rebelled though annihilated.
He was haunted by gulls beyond omega shade,
His nerve tormented by terrified knots
In Pin -feathered flesh. But all folly repeats
Is worth one snared robin his fingers untied.
he broke prisons, beginning with words,
And at last tamed, by talking, wild birds.
Through accident of place, now by belief
I follow his love which bird-handled thoughts
to grasp growth’s terror or death’s leaf.
He last on this savage promontory shored
His logical weapon. Genius stirred
A soaring intolerance to teach a blackbird.
So before alpha you may still hear sing
In the leaf-dark dusk some descended young
Who exalt the evening to a wordless song.
His wisdom widens: he becomes worlds
Where thoughts are wings. But at Rosroe hordes
of village cats have massacred his birds.
(Wittgenstein’s seat is marked by a small plaque in the National Botanic
Gardens and generally inhabited by a lazy ginger Tom). The area of Rosroe,
at Killary is discussed briefly in the blog under ‘The Brightest Jewel’.
It is a wild and beautiful place, with a hostel ( sited now where he had
stayed briefly) adorned on it’s periphery by Fuschia Hedges and looking
onto the small harbour at Killary.
from: Selected Poems by Richard Murphy.
Poetry
“I too , dislike it: there are things that are important beyond all this fiddle.
Reading it, however, with a perfect contempt for it, one discovers that there is in
it afterall, a place for the genuine.”
The original Poetry had 29 lines which Marianne Moore excised, retaining
only the first three lines. These three lines are taken from the Faber Collected
Marianne Moore
'You Forgot to Kiss my Soul', Tracey Emin.
‘Angels of the Love affair, do you know that other,
the dark one, that other me?’
1.Angel of Fire and Genitals.
Angel of fire and genitals, do you know slime,
that green mam who forced me to sing,
who put me first in the latrine, that pantomime
of brown, where I was beggar and she was king?
I said ‘The devil is down that festering hole’.
Then he bit me in the buttocks and took over my soul.
Fire woman, you of the ancient flame, you
of the bunsen burner, you of the candle,
you of the blast furnace, you of the barbecue,
you of the fierce solar energy, Madamemoiselle
take some ice, take some snow, take a month of rain
and you would gutter in the dark, cracking up your brain.
Mother of fire, let me stand at your devouring gate
as the sun dies in your arms and you loosen it’s terrible weight.
Baskin
In response to a war in summer 2006 I had used a small piece on Dispossession
voiced by Inanna. I remember the veracity of the words for the specific reasons that
they appear in the mouths of others throughout History. They may be found in the exilic
lament in Anglo-Saxon poetry (such as The Wanderer or The Wife’s lament)
through Antigone or the laments of the Island women, so beautifully enunciated
by Mary lavin in The Green Grave, The Black Grave or indeed in my own writing
of laments- though I consider them inadequate mostly.
One book I return to again and again is an Dunaire , The Poems of
the Dispossessed , the poems date 1600-1900 and revolve round the theme
of lament and exilic condition, something in this mad technological rush to lebensraum
and democracy (on which mostly the unwilling do not have a chance to dialogue,
civil society groups always among the first to be repressed) has led to homelessness ,
Camps and gentrification : a global hidden exilic condition grounded in greed.
Language is twisted from it’s unity with image and symbol and boardroom talk replaces
intimacy. Indeed language is become a tool to hide a multitude of ills and inability to
confront the huge wave of poverty and desperation that we pretend to ignore.
The Image is Man of Peace by Leonard Baskin, a man who spent a lifetime
drawing and sculpting in the Post-Holocaust period and coming to terms with his identity.
The Poems of Dispossession include this one:
Ochón ! A Dhonnacha (excerpted)
‘The moon is dark and I cannot sleep.
All ease has left me.
The candid Gaelic seems harsh and gloomy
- an evil omen.
I hate the time that I pass with friends,
their wit torments me.
Since the day I saw you on the sands so lifeless
no sun has shone.’
dedicated to Viola and Christina, two Roma girls who died from drowning ,
Images of their bodies were published in the world press as they lay dead
on an italian beach
Hamlet [By Mirjam Tuominen]
“You want to go behind the realm of the forehead.
You want your inner realm.
Behind the forehead is the realm of dreams.
But your forehead bears the seal of peace.
Where you lean your forehead
in the moon’s reversed sign
O Prince of Denmark!
in the moon’s transforming radiance
in the pellucid night
there the realm of peace is mirrored.”
[Excerpt from Hamlet].
Mirjam Tuominen appears on the blog a couple of times, a short poem in the War
Category and Fornicating with Demons . The excerpted Hamlet comes
from The Selected Writings, Trans , David Mc Duff and Published by Bloodaxe.
I had started a minor critique/appreciation of Mirjam’s poetry on google docs, because
she is woefully under-rated as a writer and I hope to upload it in a few weeks.
Two of her books were bequeathed to me (along with many others) by the daughter
of Marianne Agren Mc Elroy (RIP), who also translated Nelly Sachs .
Marianne’s translation of Comes Somebody is also on the blog,
categorised in 25 Pins in a Packet and More Women Poets
Let Go Of My Hand
“Let Go of My Hand you idle grasp!
Here no human hand can help
Neither father nor mother
Neither brother nor sister.
Neither Husband nor wife
Neither doctor’s advice
nor doctor’s knife.
A child has known what you know.
Do not fear
The fall, the deep one!
Vertigo
Only takes the one who is afraid.
Be silent!
Go forward!”
[Mirjam Tuominen -Under the Earth Sank. 1954].
Agnes was born in Budapest in 1922 . She died in 1998. The two poems that I am excerpting
here go no way toward illuminating her skill and mastery of word and image.
The book Between was gifted to me from the estate of Marianne
Agren Mc Elroy (Translator and Artist). Two of Marianne’s translations are on the site
and most of the European women poets come from collections that comprised the gift or
from my own reading in Women’s Literature.
Between was jointly published by Dedalus in Dublin and Corvina Press in Budapest .
I would recommend that anyone who is interested in women’s poetry get the book
which is translated by Hugh Maxton . The imagery that Nagy used is masterful.
Simile
” The one who has been rowing while the storm
Approaches near , who strains with every limb
Against the trusty footboard’s rigid form
And finds a sudden absence from the rim
Of the broken oar, weightless hand, and
Falling propulsion , falling
With the loosened, dropping shaft and
Whose whole body sags-
He knows what I know.”
This is the third verse of Winter Angel:
” Dreadful wind that March
There was a windy red sky clinkers
he landed before sunset
And he was enormous
His bristling , Hawkshade wing
Couldn’t fit in the cottage
Half his cloak stayed out
And the ring round his eye
Was a predator’s
How the place shook
He pierced door and window
he perched on roof and wall
In the mortar between bricks
Wrapped in the windbreak
Boxing the compass.”
from: Between, Agnes Nemes Nagy, Trans , Hugh Maxton.
Dedalus Press Dublin and Corvina Press Budapest.
I had put a link url on the Threads post on this blog with my
review of Between, there is also a link to the review in the blogroll which is on the
Poetry Ireland reviews page. There is a related post on Poethead about Julian of Norwich
and Margaret Atwood, regarding Midwifery and the birth of images through
the breaking of forms and the creation of precise imagist descriptions by women writers.
Julian termed her visions her ‘Shewings’, both can be accessed through the
search engine on the right hand side of this page.
Mary Lavin is probably my favourite author, I possess an autographed book of
hers which I have to return to its rightful owner … (My mother).
Anyway, If I were to choose a story that for me represents Mary Lavin, it would
have to be The Chamois Gloves. It took me years to understand
how such a pretty name can be pronounced in such a manner and its relation to
window shammys (!) How and ever , this story is a must read for anyone who adores
Lavin’s lightness of touch and her series of stories about the Islands.
I cannot even at this point remember the heroine’s name in The Glove Story but
I do remember the milieu ; and strange as it seems for many people who live happily
in Post-Catholic and increasingly secular Ireland.., The Reverend Mother is very
recognisable to those of us whom were educated in the convent schools. The
story opens with the mild hysteria of the Reverend mother as she bemoans
the lack of culture of the families of her new postulants. She is to give a lunch
and there are no grapefruit spoons.
Indeed, the woman likes nothing better than to go through the dowry offerings
and silverware in the vain hope that someone (anyone) will have the breeding to
have used and subsequently donated the spoons to the convent. One can smell the
floor polish and the linens soaking at this point..
The story is so beautifully written that it usually brings the tears, its about friendship,
sisters and their intimacy. The cold rinsing of the Chamois gloves and the memories that
this action provokes are absolutely pure, unadulterated and magnificent Lavin.
It’s small mourning for womanhood, childhood and friendship writ on a monumental scale
and hence the title of this small piece.
Women took with them to the marriage bed, the convent and the islands: trunks.
Within the trunks were linens, ribbons, laces, negligees, inserts, recycled wedding
gowns and the mending box. A lifetime of wear could be had from the trunk ;and of
course engagements would be long to ensure that the trousseau was adequately
completed. Cos they married Island men, their Religious Christ or the future husband
in much the same manner as is delineated in the Lorca Plays. The trunks, the plate
and the trinkets have always intrigued me, largely because of my feminism and the
idea of Ownership.
A woman would walk into a marriage (often the marriage was arranged) with her
tinpotchattels and linens, and from this trunk would emerge the christening robes
and unwinding sheets that would cover her family until her death.
She would give up her name too
I am going to excerpt a small section of The Chamois Gloves in the comments
section. It’s awful to romanticise the social customs of the past when one realises
the things that were hidden by the idea of marriage including high Infant mortality rates
and the usual human gamut of domestic battles/triumphs and disasters.
Chaplet (2003) Lambda Print, courtesy of Alice Maher and the Green on Red Gallery, Dublin.
1. Chaplet
I am become aware that it is time for this to cease..,
A mead of daisies whiten on the windward side of a grove of trees
They’re blown white ‘neath a Silver Beech.
Their hues balance.
And If I step at once from the shelter of this close bower,
Will it hold?
The image is one of my favourites by Alice Maher who let me use it for the blog:
it is entitled Chaplet and is a Lambda Print, courtesy of both Alice Maher and
The Green On Red gallery in Dublin. There are two Bower Poems and a series called
The Eamon Ceannt Park Cycle based round the small grove of trees in
that particular Park Walk.
Everyone who looks at art reacts to it in a particular way. This image , which is not
wholly done justice by its reproduction online is a three-quarter self-portrait of
Alice Maher, the ground is probably the blackest black I have seen. The image is reminiscent
of some Botticelli images; but it’s perspective is wholly female. When I was first
confronted with it, it reminded me of our experience of time and how it can be shaped by
a range of issues including the experiences of grief and or of Birth. Mapping these
experiences is one of the jobs that we undertake when we attempt to create images
visually or poetically. There is a link to Alice Maher’s site on the blogroll to the righthand side
of this page. There are also images on Poethead of
The Night Garden. There is another poem on the blog entitled [Air] which comes, I suppose
from a similar period and is included in the now finished little mss : Names for Trees.
Degas: Fan with Dancers 1879 .From the Tacoma Art Museum. Priv Collection.
Sylvia Plath’s return to the United States as a teacher at Smith College was dominated
by fear, its evident from her diaries and from her utter helplessness. I had thought to publish
this morning ,without comment two of her poems: Mary’s Song from Winter Trees and The Magi
from The Collected Plath.
It is Autumn here (despite the sunshine ),there is both a significant temperature drop
and a filigree of copper on pavements and grasses ,thus I got to thinking about winter
pallettes and warm clothing.
I read the Diaries in the last years and remember wondering at Plath’s connectedness
to her intimate objects, how bemused she was at the amelioration of her condition
of cold by the wearing of a pair of red silk stockings and how it alleviated her mood
of intense depression. She disliked abstract art and had told a painter friend that
she adored the “Thinginess of Things”.
In the last few days I had published a small piece on the Island women and
the Trousseau, in relation to both Mary Lavin and plays by Federico Garcia Lorca.
I also thought about the issues of women’s homelessness (abodelessness) as a
result of War; and those little knick-knacks and mementoes that are to many people
Valueless .
The amount of young women on the streets of Dublin in this condition of abodelessness
has increased significantly. Thus the value of small and intimate things has
decreased in the face of oncoming winter and the struggle for survival. I watched people
literally walk over a young girl and infant the other day in their own struggle and fear of
ending up like her and it worried me. And what would ameliorate her condition and
that of the infant?
In many statements against war and ecological destruction I have published words
on the value of objects and trinkets. How , on my bookshelf there is a small clay
snail painted in gold; and made by the hand of a small child who in learning about
colour had underpainted the snail in red and left the imprint of his small fingers upon it.
How, when he got older and copped onto the issue of preservation, he had lacquered
the little snail with PVA in order to preserve the red-gold and give the shell a glossy sheen.
To anyone else the process of creation from a simple pallete and the indented fingerprints
would suggest a simple child’s play and not a process of working out and creation that
progressed, it seemed, over many weeks.
I am happy that I have a shelf to put the troublesome snail onto.
Mary’s Song
“The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity….
A window, holy gold
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the Jews.
Their thick palls float
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burn-out
Germany.
They do not die.
Grey Birds obsess my heart,
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
Precipice.
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
It is a heart,
This holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat .”
From Winter Trees Faber and Faber, London, 1971.
In Europe, a member of the Far-Right Neo-Nazi Movement has died violently.
The revisionism amongst those who refuse to accept the Shoah as it was ( and as it
continuesto be) is indicated in Media coverage and Eulogising. The problems associated
with people who foment violence and incite against Migrancy is covered up in Europe.
The issue of camps, and of governments who wish to re-educate indigenous communities
through linguistic programmes are practically invisible due to non-funding of advocacy
groups in Civil Society Protest ;and the continuing media dominance of special interest
parliamentary groups. Particular incitements have gone unchallenged in Italy against the
Romani community, wherein frontline soft-security innovations have allowed political
representatives to label that community as a ‘wave of evil’ and to finger-print children.
Pogrom and violence has led to a wave of migration.
There is a shameless play on migrancy which sees political groupings use
hate-speech and incitement to brutalise peoples. This has garnered in the last two weeks
a 29% vote share amongst the fomenters of violence (in Austria) and their celebration in
places like Ireland as brave.
Cultural enrichment and multi-culturalism is sacrificed to a holocaust of media-dominance
and under the table political deals that receive minimal coverage. One independent
media-site in Ireland has just again censored a Romani advocacy group
The Everyone Group, the editorial attachment delineating the refusal to publish :
Serial Spammers ,
The report detailed the removal of coverings from Roma people who sleep rough and
was considered insufficent for an Irish Newswire.
That report is available on the Indymedia UK site which does not exhibit such
paternalistic delicacy regarding people’s ability to decide for themselves what constitutes
a news story.
A -Mazed (d).
” I have long forgotten the name of that author of a scarlet-clad Encyclopaedia, but
the alphabetical references marked upon each volume have remained for me an indelible
and magical word :
Aphbicéladiggalhymaroidphorebstevanzy “.
[Excerpt] My Mother’s House and Sido, by Colette. Originally :La Maison de Claudine , 1992 . Sido , 1929
Leighton
” I was ordered to live in a nest of leaves,
in an earthen cave under an oak.
I writhe with longing in this ancient hole;
The valleys seem leaden, the hills reared aloft,
And the bitter towns all bramble patches
of empty pleasure. The memory of parting
Rips at my heart. my friends are out there,
Savoring their lives, secure in their beds,
While at dawn, alone, I crawl miserably down
Under the oak growing out of my cave.
There I must squat the summer-long day,
There I can water the earth with weeping
For exile and sorrow, for sadness that can never
Find rest from grief nor from the famished
Desires that leap at unquenched life.”
This translation of an Old English Elegy is by Burton Raffel and comes from the book:
Poems and Prose from the Old English, it is edited by Burton Raffel and
Alexandra H Olsen.
The condition of the woman’s exile is left unexplained but it can be gleaned that she
was a Leaving, an unwanted wife in exile. She may have been replaced or
she may have been an adulteress.The imagery is fascinating as it calls to mind both
the Antigone and the Apocryphal tales of the Magdaleane in her earth cave. The images
of the long -haired Magdaleane seemed to have left the artistic imagination , though
some can be still viewed in galleries round the globe. Of course the Antigone of legend
along with other Women in the Wall or women figures in fertility stories
and rites are common to all cultures. The story of Antigone is treated also in Egyptian
terms and that story may have provided the basis for the Greek. The condition of women
has hardly improved , thus the lament and the tales of exile have new voices and songs.
I have referred over and over to the theme of the woman in waiting throughout this blog,
so I shall just add in the book details and mention my Favorites:
The Penelopiad, by Margaret Atwood.
Julian of Norwich
The tales from The Ebony Tower, by John Fowles.
This extract is from :Poems and Prose from the Old English, trans , Burton Raffel,
Published; Yale University Press/New Haven and London 1998.
An Evie Hone Window, The Voyage of Brendan.
Words, Wide night .
” Somewhere on the other side of this wide night
And the distance between us, I am thinking of you.
The room is turning slowly away from the moon.
This is pleasurable. or shall I cross that out and say
it is sad? In one of the tenses I singing
an impossible song of desire that you cannot hear.
La lala la. See? I close my eyes and imagine the dark hills I would have to
cross
to reach you. For I am in love with you
and this is what it is like or what it is like in words”.
~
The image is an Evie Hone Window. It is from Tirrane Church near Blacksod.
Info on Evie Hone and Carol Ann Duffy can be referenced from the net
A good overview of Modern Irish Art and the places of Mainie Jellet
and Evie Hone within that schema can also be sourced from :
A Concise History of Irish Art by Bruce Arnold.
I also Mentioned Mainie Jellet whose painting ; I Trod the Winepress Alone , I
had wanted to publish with this poem but I could not locate a good enough copy.
There is a small independent media article on some of the issues effecting Irish Art
on an independent media site that I am adding the link for here:
Most of the issues effecting Irish art from foundation of the state to current political
morass were those of overt political interference in what should be viewed in the galleries,
there was appalling under-funding. Many of our artists decided to set up cooperatives
and fund-raising committees to import art for us to see. The Hugh Lane Debacle would
be familiar to many Irish readers. The Irish exhibition of Living Art, The White Stag Group
and the Friends of Irish Art fought long and hard against underfunding and censorship
which became focussed on rows regarding images by Roualt, amongst others. We have a wonderful
gallery system that owes much to the integrity and enterprise of artists like Hone and Jellet,
which is why I have categorised the above both Women’s Work and
How Words play
“Beyond the seven mountains
the seven valleys
the seven rapid torrents
the seventy-seven nights
the seventy-seven days
the seven hundred-hundred-and-seventy-seven days and nights
the seven thousand and seventy-seven paradise years
shut up in the mountain
beyond the valleys
beyond the rapids
beyond the nights and days
the days-and-nights
the paradise years
inferno years purgatory years
inside shut in
outside shut out
I cry: Awake!
Come Back!
Why did you abandon me?
A whole is more than a half.
A Half cannot live as a whole.
Awake awake awake!
Go back the long way
the hard way
over the seven mountains
through the seven long valleys
soar float plunge
over through
the violent currents
the dangerous whirlpools!
See:
I look like a human being
and am a semblance
a hollow shell
without you.
You say that you are dead.
I say that you are asleep.
I call you back.
I cry out for you
I beg I appeal:
come
The darkness takes me
fear screams
shrilly with a bird’s voice.
Fear O fear fear
you gave me life.
Give me back
set me free
the chains rattle
I weep
there is blood where I walk.
Fences grilles barriers
the birds are eating from my eyes
those cruel birds with strong beaks
and averted gaze
O birds birds birds
harbringers chosen ones shimmering white deep-black
you
not those cruel ones, not the eagles
but you
mortal harbringers
you that travel with messages from death
take me on your wings
fetch me back
birds birds birds
sorrow-swan black swan lonely swan
I call upon you I cry out I beg
wild swan
you that do not exist
gentle swan:
Fetch me back
give me back
my living entrails
out there outside
insuide shut in!
Give me
grant me
Fetch me!
Sorrow-swan black swan
harbringer from death’s kingdom
together we must plunge
soar float
the veils of the water are soft
the sky without weight.
It is easy to soar
hard to walk.
Breathe breathe breathe
like the bird
when it floats.
I want to travel the long way
there
return again
here.”
I find this a most difficult and traumatic poem to read, but Mirjam never lost the tension
nor the thread of her voice through it. She sustains it’s monumental impact right through
to the elegiac section at the end. and sure thats what we call Composition.
Invocation by Mirjam Tuominen, from Selected Writings
of Mirjam Tuominen Translated by David mac Duff. Bloodaxe Books. Publ.
1994. For bio please google and read Tuominen, she was a fascinating writer on
fear and loathing. She was also consummate at composition though difficult to read.
Max Ernst
This image is one of 19 Max Ernst images that grace René Crevel’s Bayblon,
the book is published by Quartet Encounters (1988) and originally
published in French as Babylone (1927). The Quartet Translation is
provided by Kay Boyle. I am taking the book away with me on a train today
because it is a while since I read it and I remember it as Lit.
The most persistent symbol therein being that of the Grandmother applying a
clyster to a rose and the child’s wonder at such an exercise.
Each chapter is illustrated by the Ernst prints which are food for the eyes.
Other collaborations mentioned on Poethead include : Alice Maher and Eilis Ní
Dhuibhne , Leonard Baskin and T. Hughes.
In terms of illustration and writing, the work of RB Kitaj throughout
The First Diasporist Manifesto perfectly illustrates how an artist combines
a strong visual ability and a need to communicate in words their experience of creating symbol
that we fully recognise. Many of these above named collaborations are based in dialogue that
attempts to make sense of the appalling political situation in Europe in the period
between two World Wars. Dadaism and Surrealism were attempts by persons of
great personal integrity to resist the mass-movement of totalitarianism.
Crevel died by his own hand as he witnessed the spiralling violence that
people must react to and resist even today. His words are printed at the back
of the book and are pertinent to anyone who refuses to accept that there is no
thread of Facism apparent in modern politics:
“The Mind turned outward for a change and reason folded under.
A long time ago I wrote something about Reason creating so many
mindless divisions, such as Mind,body,spirit/flesh, real/unreal, sane/insane,
dream/action that Mind was obliged to declare war on reason.
Then I asked myself, Well, if consciousness is the thesis and unconsciousness
the antithesis, when does the synthesis come about?” :
“I think it comes about in a fusion that is absolute love. That love is different
from the everyday article because it implies total honesty, while conventional
morality and customs declarations are alike in that both make people cheat.”
The excellent translation by Kay Boyle and illustrations by Ernst make
this a beautiful volume to read. For info on Dadaism and Surrealism , use google.
How and ever many natural surrealists declined the honour of joining the
varied groups of clever types including Frida Kahlo but don’t let that put ye
off reading about Art and image. Another Surrealist book that I’d recommend is
The Story of the Eye by Georges Bataille, though I have not time to
go into the imagery at the moment.
Angela Carter has written on that particular one in Expletives Deleted.
Separated as I am from my library of women’s voices and essays, it has been an interesting
visit. The scaffolding that had clamped Westport House is gone . It looked like a huge hangar
or insect from across at Roman Island. The weather is awful with not one hope of even
climbing the lower section of the Reek, but it’s nice to have black dark nights and
to awaken at first light- it beats the clatter of the city. The Rare and Interesting
Bookshop has extended the range and had some good books, including the few
small ones I bought, one being an uncorrected proof of Julian by Gore Vidal.
It’s a novel about Julian the apostate, which I have not gotten my teeth into yet. He
also had a copy of Mosada by Yeats, whose waxen doppelganger inhabits
the Westport Library section during the Tourist season. I am reading some complex stuff
in Metaphysics and wondering if its possible to get out and walk without a complete soaking.
The ducks have taken to sitting in small lakes within flooded fields. We shall be missing
the Education Protests in Dublin tonight, which is unfortunate. I am pretty sure that there
will be many more, given the seriousness of the issue of providing education to our kids:
who deserve the best. Meanwhile learning to live without telly and surrounded by excellent
books and music seems to be good for one of them at least. Back to the Saturday Woman
Poet at the weekend. I have discovered up here a small voulme of poems written in
1945 (and self-published) which I hope to transcribe and put on the site. Interestingly the
publisher’s address is given along with these words :Duration Address
” Night is whispering
In the
Reeds.
The waters are dark
And Eerie,
And the weeds
Have turned to silver.
Hark!
There is a sudden
Flutter of
Wings,
And a mallard rises
Into the dusk.
The shattered silence rings
With its squak,
And the hush of husk of night
Has descended.”
The Road to the Point
” Curling between the mountains and raced by streams
That dance along beside you, silently you go,
Pondering, and the marble on your surface gleams
In the sunlight. the misty clouds are drifting low
Above you, while at your edges, ferns and heather
Blend their beauty with the lonely bog and the sky-
The heart of a dreamy island. And together,
As we wander to the sea, the gulls above us cry.”
These poems by Sonia Kelly (nee Mc Mullin) were written during WW2.
For information on the areas round Cartron lake and Mayo environs google maps
and the Irish Ordinance Survey are excellent. Sonia is still writing and has just published
another book ,Doris: Ecstasy for the Elderly, Sonia Kelly, 2008,
Authorhouse.
The two poems that I have just published come from a small book of poetry published
by Arthur H Stockwell Limited. Elms Court, Ilfracombe, N. Devon…Duration Address.
I was delighted to see the small book of poems and to read them whilst in Mayo. Another
piece on this blog entitled ;The Philosopher and the Birds discusses in the
briefest way possible the relation of Wittgenstein to the area of Rossroe. The Poet
Richard Murphy’s relation to the area is described in his book: The Kick.
I suppose that the only workable link to the wonderful Murphy poem on Wittgenstein
in available through using the search engine on the right. I enjoy Murphy’s ability to
encapsulate the geography and quality of light (and silence) in the areas of Mayo that
have become both familiar and intoxicating to me anyhow.
Sophie Tauber Composition- 1935
The image is by Sophie Tauber-Arp and is to be found in the NMWA*. The day began with
Dada and I suppose it shall end thusly. I hope to include the link to the Women’s Art Museum
on the blogroll when I have a little more time to do so. In the meantime Dada
and it’s place in the linear art-historical (or academic approach to Art History) is encapsulated
quite beautifully in a book by Hans Richter : Dada, Art and Anti- Art, by Hans Richter,
Trans, David Britt. Thames and Hudson 1997.
The Dada relation to Surrealism is abysmally discussed in the small piece : Babylon,
Art and Image , which is further down this blog. That particular piece was about
the excellent collaboration between René Crevel and Max Ernst in shaping the Book
Babylon, Quartet Publications, Trans, Kay Boyle. I am sorely tempted
to include some Hans Arp or Kurt Schwitters Poetry (maybe later..,)
* National Museum of Women in the Arts is now linked onto the blogroll in the righthand
column.
” Telescope tree tell me the truth
of why and what for
I stand at the door
not the one before
but the floor is the ceiling
and the window the floor
but I made the game
which lost the key to the door.”
from:- Views from the Windy House, the Rob Smith Notebooks. Publ, The Irish Museum
Of Modern Art. 1994.
I just published this because it is an interesting exemplar of the marriage between image
and poetics; and also because the pragmatism displayed in Rob’s chosen divisions is very
like Colum’s approach to the work of the poet in The Poet’s Circuits.
Unfortunately I have not imported my links to other pieces I have written on Colum
onto this site yet. I have decided to include my archive at Poetry Ireland Forum in the
righthand colum (blogroll) which includes some small pieces on Nagy, Ginsburg and Colum.
I am a great admirer of a pragmatic approach to artistic communication and thus organise
all my bits into colour-coded online folders in google docs- that way I can avoid the
in progress headache of some prose (completely) and work through the painful
blocks.
Note: I have just linked in my archive to Poetry Ireland discussions and contributions on the blogroll,
it sits beneath the Tara petition and Feis notices.
This poem was first published in protest against the First Gulf War. It
was re-published on Feburary the 14th 2003. It is by the magnificent
anti-war writer and poet Tony Harrison. Books that everyone should
get hold of by Harrison (whom I met briefly) , include:
V
The Selected Tony Harrison
Theatre Works Harrison.
The Shadow of Hiroshima and other Film Works, Publ. Bloodaxe.
The Mysteries
This morning I am hoping that other routes to global understanding are sought.
It feels like a whole generation of kids have been effected by War, by Propaganda,
by violent and intolerant language. The included poem (above) is also linked in the
blogroll on the righthand side of this page. I have decided not to excerpt it here
but would encourage anyone who is interested in the realities of war to read. Tony
visited the frontline and is a deeply political poet of great integrity. The last book
mentioned in the little list is my personal favourite by the author.
Man of Peace by Leonard Baskin
The little Thumbnail is entitled ‘man of Peace’ and is by Leonard Baskin.
I have used it on this site before in another post :
‘An Dunaire- Poems of the Dispossessed’.
Theres so many word and images but I am on the wrong end of a two-week long block, thus:
1. I enjoyed the little translation sign on the frontpage of the Nomadics
site and wonder if it is copyleft?
2. I apologise to Redbiddy for thinking him a woman, Omigod. So much for
increasing women’s poetry profiles online (giggle)… If I go into any more explanations, I
shalt dig a bigger hole for myself.
3. Thanks to Sonia Kelly for the lovely note and inclusion of poems which will go into
the Saturday Woman Poet list (when I get a few quiet minutes to read ‘em)
There are numerous sites open and available to Women Writers. From Gnu/FLOSS systems
through online blogs such as WordPress/Piratebay/blogspots.
Cool.
Back to the Saturday Woman Poet Tomorrow, which was of course initiated because many
newspapers tend to have a problem with Women’s Visibility and the % majority of Saturday
Poet Sections or Series has a very low contribution rate from women writers.
Thanks to Desmond Swords for the link which I have printed out and will read this
evening! It’s called the Cauldron of Poesy . Cheered me up for the day now!!!!!!!!!
This Book Of Marianne Moore’s Prose is entitled The poetry of Engagement
and is edited by Grace Schulman, University of Illinois Press 1986. I have printed one
other piece by Moore on this blog (The Saturday Woman Poet Section is searchable through
the engine to the right of this small piece). I tend to ignore critique except to contextualise
the social and historical life of the poet- the movements that brought the writer to
settle into her voice.., and yet there is a resonance in Moore’s Poetry that is hooking,
despite the best efforts of someone like Hughes in underrating her contribution, or
whatever it was that provoked the nasty little Moore Poem in Birthday Letters
So I am adding in this little excerpt along with the title of the book in the hope that
more readers will come to look at women writers:
“There never was a war that was
not inward; I must
fight till I have conquered in myself what
causes war, but I would not believe it.
I inwardly did nothing.”
The image is by Spero who does tremendous work in exploring gender issues through
her art of paint and print. When I read Birthday Letters , long before I had
read anything by Moore- I must confess that the imagery that Hughes used to talk
of the woman put me right off wanting to read her. The issue emanated from a particular
episode in which he accused her of putting shards of glass into an acerbic note she
sent Plath but also the image of her in her hat looking for the grave on which to
lay her little wreath. It irritates me beyond belief that such power in writing can be
used in such a wholly provocative manner and be celebrated by other poets
including Heaney.
For me , a writer of prose and a poet, the issue has always been about engagement
with themes and symbols that evolve over time, but that somehow retain their
shape and essence no matter what. I am still trying to understand how a voice
as strong as Hughes is capable of honing those particular traumas so artfully
decades indeed after the episode. Thats Poetic Engagement and
can give reviewers the equivalent of the bends; and yet effect another writer’s
historical place in our consciousness by sleight of hand.
(!)
” The woman singeth at her spinning- wheel
A pleasant chant, ballad or barcarolle;
She thinketh of her song, upon the whole,
Far more than of her flax; and yet the reel
is full, and artfully her fingers feel
With quick adjustment, provident control.
The lines, too subtly twisted to unroll,
Out to a perfect thread. I hence appeal
To the dear Christian Church, that we may do
Our Father’s business in these temple’s Mirk,
Thus swift and steadfast ; thus, intent and strong:
While, thus, apart from toil, our souls pursue
Some high, calm, spheric tune, and prove our work
The better for the sweetness of our song.”
This is a good evening, it rains (it pours) but political change is in the air
and I am glad for that.. cos sometimes it seems that Women’s Work is
ignored (and it is often hard)
The above is by Elizabeth Barrett Browning, one of my favourite writers.
http://www.ann-madden.com/leBPages/individual.html
” The lady in the portico of Santa Maria del Mar
upholds her cup at end of out-stretched wrist
and the coins slip from my purse.
My heart is splitting with my leaving
As I walk within that dream church.
An angel with forehead aflame has dissolved and kept your room,
He constructs about me the green carpet of my own hallway
The grandmother clock is tocking above a fat golden buddha
Time to go, time to leave.
The angel of leaving occupies her niche at the Hotel Suisse
Theres a cross jutting from her crown
She points to where you dream.
A roll of names is reeling amongst the flames
of the votive candles
And every crown or halo is a crescent moon.
A man stands in the gloom half-lit by the sunshine in the court
nearby the Catalan eternal flame,
I begin to weave the remembered streets.
The tobacconist sits in her cage of butterflies
and fans dispensing her dry wit to a queue of women
in the art district.
And in your hallway a lady in grey
Asks me where I am staying?
‘En atico, soy Irlandesa’.
The only words in Spanish to drop from my lips-
I count the one hundred and seven steps to your high nest.
The image of those indelible blue numbers on a pale wrist
accompanying my steps.”
I have included information on the Celtic Head by Louis Le Brocquy in the blogroll
under Celtic Head. The essay is from the Ann Madden Pages whose link is also in the blogroll
and has been there for some time. The essay is a must read , please also look at the series
of images that are on the opening pages. The issue of light in Le Brocquy is something
that has always fascinated me- along with the image of the head which comes up again
and again in writing by Plath, By Cronin and visually in Le Brocquy. I chose one that
reminded me of the tatooed woman who appears outside of the Catalunyan Church
In Santa Maria del Mar. Her wrist was translucent and upon the front
of it were numbers in indigo or very dark blue..,
she did not seem that old- seventies maybe, which means she cannot have been
very old when she had indelible numbers tatooed onto the frontal section of her wrist/hand.
Reporting a Lunar eclipse in Babylonia.
With You by Mehri Rahmani
Your tender revolt
Contained by the illicit apple
Pounds in red
And your eye’s shattered diamond
A woman in seclusion
Revolves into a star
With you
On the surface of water
I am thirsty
Place the skies in your eyes
Blaze out the star
So that I can see you
The sea is peaceful
Silent…
from : The Seven Valleys of Love, trans Sheema Kalbasi Poet ,
A Bilingual Anthology Of Women Poets from Middle Ages Persia to Present
Today I was reading more of Farideh Mostavi who features on the blog in two sections,
her poetry can be accessed by using the search engine to the right of this post.
The issue of Translation has been a part of this site since I started it up, Including
the works of Mostavi, Tess Gallagher, the translators of Nagy and of Ursu. The
sympathetic work of the translator being grossly undervalued in terms of what
is actually available for people to purchase in bookshops. The IPWWC and translators
committees have done tremendous work in funding and bringing to the reader
some of our most incredible women writers. In Ireland there is a wonderful tradition of
writers and poets translating works; and bringing them to an interested readership.
There is a small post somewhere on the blog of a Marianne Agren Mc Elroy translation
of Comes Somebody , by Nelly Sachs, it had fallen out of a Paul
Celan book which I was casually mooching at a friend’s house. It was one of three
small and old pieces from a now defunct Irish newspaper. It really is an excellent poem, thus
I am going to stick it beneath this post on the blog if I can. (the tech occassionally
mystifies).
Luxemburg Gardens, Monument to Chopin. Rousseau.
Poem with a Griffin, a Pike and Peacocks.
I am reading a poem while it rains.
The day blinks
through windows guarded by a griffin; its talons
flex, its tail switches.
~
Do you remember those summer showers high in the mountains?
The dull pop of a toadstool beneath your bare foot
in the dew-covered grass?
~
Under a crytal bell jar, the still life- fleshy ripe bananas,
cherries, lemons and the silver knife you bargained for in the bazaar
as the Bhosphorus sparkled at the feet of the one you loved.
On the wobbly kitchen table, with that very knife,
you slit open a pike.
~
And the hunting rifle, propped against stuffed peacocks-
has it turned into a lapdog
licking the other woman’s hands
as she weighs my pearls….?
~
In the Forest
I wrote the essential poem on an oar
just before setting out.
Perhaps long ago it’s been erased
or maybe the sea
knows it now
by feel.
~
Like the woman in Rousseau’s painting
I shudder
at the sound of footsteps
-when the fear comes on too strong.
~
The path I follow
is a knife blade.
maybe this is why
the sky behind the forest
is now so red.
~
I wrote the essential poem on an oar
just before setting out.
~
These two poems are taken from the Bloodaxe Published Book, The Sky Behind the Forest
by Poet Liliana Ursu. it is translated by Tess Gallagher and Adam Sorkin.
I really like the book, but I always make one suggestion when recommending it;
and that is to read and absorb the beautiful writing before reading the
introductory and translators essays.The essays are highly important in establishing
the appalling context of censorship under which the poet suffered , but one can feel
it also in the powerful writing.
The Sky Behind the Forest, Liliana Ursu. Trans, Liliana Ursu, Tess Gallagher,
Adam J Sorkin. Bloodaxe Books. 1997.
Anon Manuscript
I thought I would put a small excerpt from Cennini’s excellent
Il Libro dell’ Arte on the blog today:
“You would have occasion in the service of young ladies,
especially those of Tuscany to display certain colours to which
they take a fancy. And they are in the habit of beautifying
themselves with certain waters. But since the Paduan women
do not do so; and so as not to give them occasion to reproach
me; and likewise because it is contrary to the Will of God and
Our Lady; because of all this I shall keep silence. But I will tell
you that if you wish to keep your complexion for a long time;
you must take a practice of washing in water-spring or well
or river: warning you that if you adopt any artificial preparation
your countenance soon becomes withered, and your teeth black;
and in the end ladies grow old before the course of time; they
come out the most hideous old women imaginable. And this
will have to be enough discussion of the matter.”
(!)
Quite reminds me of my grandmother’s woe at freckles. Il Libro
Dell’ Arte is still studied for its excellence in technique in painting,
from grinding colours through creating fresco. If one can ignore
the jaundiced approach to women… its always best to keep
in mind the artistic instruction books were written soley
for the benefit of young men hoping to be apprenticed to masters.
But he does some pretty good facial and cosmetics advice therein.
The Craftsman’s Handbook , ” Il Libro dell’ Arte “. Cennino d’Andrea
Cennini, Trans, Daniel V. Thompson Jr. Dover. 1960
” Round his left shoulder, as he got up slowly
every day’s muscle gathered in agony
His death was flayed off him like a gauze.
Because second-birth has such harsh laws.”
From: Between by Agnes Nemes Nagy.Trans, Hugh Maxton.
Dedalus Press , Dublin and Corvina Press, Budapest.
Put Agnes Nemes Nagy through the search engine at the top of this page.
There are unfortunately many, many bad online translations of Nagy. This
High Maxton one is one that I recommend because it comes closest
in spirit and sound to the poems- and is the best that I have read.
Yoku Go No Onna : from the Chester Beatty Library. Dublin.
Duel
Both earth and sky are greenesses,
Greens that explode and expand:
Shoes flash like fish as I tread the seas
And hang like fish when I stand,
And happiness swims in the shadow of trees
As the light blade hangs from my hand.
~
Moonlight and Jellyfish
I swim in the moonlight, swim to snare
Jellyfish swarming, flocks of phlegm.
My hands stream out, forgoing me:
Further and further they extend
Among those moving mirrors where,
Coiling, the seaweeds cumber them;
Where, in the mooned alembic sea,
My flesh turns glassy, glassily.
A thing transparent, a chilly thing,
Flows in the water, knows no end…
My soul near frozen, shivering,
Sinks in the sea, is almost drowned,
Drowned in its very trance of prayer
While swarming everywhere around,
Swarming round me everywhere,
The jellyfish in trembles of pure blue
Swim out, swim through
That moonlight they are turning to….
I shall have to balance these excerpts from The Face at the Bottom of the World
with a woman poet, when I get two minutes. In the meantime the edition I read these
in is from the UNESCO Collection, Published by Charles E Tuttle and Company 1969.
here, In Ireland our jellyfish are small and brown with electric blue veins in the top.
I made a Poem about a whole lot of them beached and rotting In Irishtown a number
of years ago.There were hundreds lining the beach after a wild storm.
I am publishing this in Images, tagged with Visions.
Looking for Mother
I ransack her room. Loot and pillage.
I root in her trunk. Crack open
the tightly sprung boxes of satin
and plush. Pierce my breast with her butterfly
brooch. I pose in her hats,
French berets, mantillas of lace,
the veil that falls over her face,
the boa she wraps round her neck.
I try on her shoes. her slippers
are mules. I can’t walk in her callipered
boots. I break into her wardrobe.
Hands grope in the dark. Faded bats,
like umbrellas, are humming inside.
Stoles of fox-fur and mink : tiny claws,
precise nails. Lips clamped in the rictus
of death. I’m hot on the scent
of oestrus, umbilicus, afterbirth,
eau-de-cologne, I fling myself
down on the bed that she made
of dirt from the Catacombs, blood
of the saints. Under the counterpane,
nettles, goose-feathers, a tore.
from : The New Irish Poets, edited by Selina Guinness Bloodaxe 2004.
I remember well those fox-furs, my own mother was bequeathed
a pair and I too delved into the huge old wardrobe, bringing out
the fur stoles complete with little curled feet and a golden
chain effect that operated as a clasp. The wardrobe revelation
is part of most girl’s growing, though only that it were a peaceful
thing. There is so much fear for some young girls. I will add in the
UN links on campaigning to end violences against women and girls
when I correct the widgetry. In the meantime, there is a
small piece on the trousseau, inheritance and the Island Women
on the blog (somewhere). I quite remember being unable to zip the
zipper of my mother’s wedding dress confection onto me at
twelve- nor indeed being able to squeeze my toes into her
minute satin winkle-pickers !
The Irish Arts Council is struggling with the yearly budget arrangements; and well
the mainstay of support for Writers has been cut out of the Budget. This small
preoccupation has many (many) reasons for me; but I shall refer in brief to two:
1.In 2003 , the Then Minister for Arts and Tourism decided to commit a major error
and introduce legislation (for the second time only in the history of the Irish State)
that ties Artistic Funding quite closely to the organs and instruments of Government.
An extremely bad and idiotic idea; but we have been struggling with a Government
for ten years that thinks Art is a business, thus removing the Arts portfolio from it’s
natural place with Heritage/The Islands to a profit-creating sector.
2. The man who has been appointed to the Arts Portfolio has been directly responsible
(also in 2003) for abolishing the Heritage Agency (Dúchas). So it all fits together
with inevitable alacrity. We have no legislative provisions nor Statutory Implements
for the preservation of our heritage. Thus Tara. The links to the ongoing Tara campaign,
which discuss more fully this remiss are on the right side-bar.
Thats my protest registered. I am disgusted at how our state maintains both interference
in our expression; and has no functional application in protections -go figure!
http://www.writerscentre.ie
A Saturday Woman Poet
The Soul’s Expression by EBB
With Stammering lips and insufficent sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
With dream and thought and feeling interwound,
and inly answering all the senses round
with octaves of a mysitc depth and height
which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground!
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
and utter all myself into the air.
But If I did it,- as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning.
Love the usage of the words ‘inly’ and ‘outbear’; but then I adore
the work of Ms Browning anyway
Poethead uses OpenID
Mainie Jellett Figuarative Composition.
O well, I lost my avatar so have included an image of guimel, after attempting a braille V;
and a semaphore download. I am unsure as to the of why the original Chartres image going.
Today I went to the National library and got maybe five minutes of quiet time in a Christmas
rush that involves me doing all the cooking. (Thus ingredient buying).
The Yeats exhibit is still there and will be showing during the Christmas period on the 29th
of the month until 4.45pm. The National library is having a facelift at the moment,
so people should follow the scaffolds and signs. The last twice I saw the Yeats
were excellent, at this point I just decide what room to enter before I go in and
try to ignore the rest.[Tantalising as it is]. Today I went into the little darkened
office-space, wherein two fake candles (insurance reasons). The last time I was
in there the angel of the Apocalypse fell off the stand and I banged my head. This
is not the thing to do in the hushed rooms of the National Library Collection. Anyway,
I highly recommend the exhibition to those who are familiar with Yeats; and to those
who might get a kick out of the Metaphysics and occult aspect of the exhibition.
There’s also a book-sale ongoing in the shop (which is why I had gone in to be honest).
The weather is glowy yellow and town (Dublin City Centre) is buzzing beautifully.
My shoes were too loud and I did not have enough time to really enjoy; but it
is excellently curated and a break from the glitzy tinsel so beloved of our shops.
Merry Christmas to all whom read Poethead. Pity Politics.ie has been hacked and the site is
down. I hope it comes back soon !
From the Maria Llopis Website
Maria llopis has been working a while in Film, Philosophy, Art and Porn. One of
her projectswas the Girlswholikeporno site, which I must admit wasn’t really
My cup of T.
A lovely friend sent me the original link and when I went in there to have a look, I
saw the projecthad ended and Maria had gone out on her own. Her new site is excellent
and bi-lingual in places,which helps those (me) who are often linguistically challenged.
I was responding to a disagreement on a huge European website which cost billions and
had broken down, by pointing out that European Porn (by Women, for Everyone) is both a
good thing and need not cost millions of Euros. So take a look at the site.
I have only checked out some of it and culled this image from it, which is truly beautiful.
I am including a link into maria llopis site on the sidebar on the right hand side.
Thus, this would be adult content for readers of the bloggie. I am assuming most
visitors to the bloggie are adult anyway.
This morning’s Newspapers announce the death of Nobel Winner and Playwright Harold Pinter.
Rest in Peace. I toddled up to the corner shop to get fags and saw that one of the the UK
papers was carrying a huge black and white image of the author. He was a frequent visitor
to Dublin, indeed, we have been lucky enough to have some excellent Pinter Seasons in
the Gate Theatre; and that is where we saw him breezing through. His plays were gems
of created tension and violence include The Homecoming, The Room,
the most formative one for me was (and is) The Dumb Waiter; but
it was always about more that the plays or his life. There was also his opposition
to George Bush,his abrasiveness and his intellectual integrity. It will be missed.
The London Independent which is online carries the appreciation and Obits for those
interested in the Great Man.
I was unimpressed by Betrayal, but everyone has their own Pinter
Resonance. The images in the Papers belie his commitment to fighting the regime that
has brought intolerable suffering to our world, he spoke out against the Gulf War
again and Again. He used his profile and relationship with the Press to oppose this
Disgraceful subversion of International Arbitration bodies , including the UN. Along
with Tony Harrison the poet, he became a strong and enduring voice against the
media silence on this great suffering and for that we must be thankful.
“The Crimes of the US throughout the world have been systematic, constant, clinical,
remorseless and fully documented but no-body talks about them”.
Would that there were more with his courage and bravery in the face of a relentless
and idiotic media, that both ignores and spins this period that we have lived and raised
our children through : When war and abuse became fodder for mass consumption.
RIP Harold Pinter: 1930-2008.
“Odysseus rested on his oar, and saw
The ruffled foreheads of the waves
Crocodiling and mincing past; he rammed
The oar between their jaws, and looked down
In the simmering sea, where scribbles of weeds defined
Uncertain depth, and the slim fishes progressed
In fatal formation, and thought
If there was a single
Streak of decency in those waves now, they’d be ridged,
Pocked and dented with the battering they’d had
And we could name them as Adam named the beasts
Saluting a fresh one with dismay, or a notorious one
With admiration; they’d notice us passing
And rejoice at our destruction, but these
Have less Character than sheep and need more patience.
I know what I’ll do he said,
I’ll park my ship in the crook of a long pier
(And I’ll take you with me, he said to the oar)
I’ll face the rising ground, and climb away
From tidal waters, up river-beds
Where herons parcel out the miles of stream,
Over the gaps in the hills, through warm
Silent valleys, and when I meet a farmer
Bold enough to look me in the eye
With ‘Where are you off to with that long
Winnowing fan over your shoulder?’
There I will stand still,
And I’ll plant you as a gatepost or a hitching-post
And leave you for a tidemark. I can go back
And organise my house then.
But the profound
Unfenced valleys of the ocean still held him;
he had only the oar to make them keep their distance;
The sea was still frying under the ship’s side.
He considered the water-lilies, and thought about fountains
Spraying as wide as willows in empty squares;
The sugarstick of water clattering into the kettle;
The flat lakes bisecting the rushes. He remembered spiders and
frogs
Housekeeping at the wayside in brown trickles floored with
mud,
Horsetroughs, the black canal with pale swans at dark;
His face grew damp with tears that tasted
Like his own sweat or the insults of the sea. “
My Fadas do not work, thus The poets name is minus three
accents. This poem is culled from The Penguin Book of Irish Verse.
It was edited by Poet Brendan Kennelly and published in 1970.
Both poets have collections, translations and ongoing works.
There has been a European Under-Current in Indoctrinated and ugly Neo-Nazism,
Imdeed it turned up on a political site where I sometimes hang out to do my bickering.
One of the methodologies of indoctrinating young angry and violent men
is to utilise the cultivation of ignorance as a tool, this is usually known as applying
The Imprimatur, wherein one’s individuation and desire for knowledge
is channelled into the creation of violence. There have been shootings
of the Jewish community in Denmark. One Irish site had a person
encouraging the soft-targetting and murder of Jews from the Diaspora.
They are thus encouraged to cripple their humanity and carry out
the evil of older more experienced and twisted men; and yet
this brand of race violence is failed, will fail and continues to
create violence and inequality.
We must condemn all violence that of war; and that hidden within
and behind the words of sociopathic reason/unreason/race contempt.
The books I recommend are:
The Book of Imaginary Beasts, by Jorge Luis Borges,
(My copy reappeared on Christmas Day, after a period of loss)
Labyrinths, also by Borges, in Particular ‘ The Garden of Forking Paths.
The reference to Pierre Joris is to the Nomadics site which has an interesting
Edward Said Essay Link. I am away from my Library; but wish to publish
an excerpt from The First Diasporist Manifesto soon (ish): The Almond Tree
Kitaj’s Discussion on Artifical Diasporas and the violences of the
Middle East are grounded in his exile and understanding of the
issues- and unlike the twisted violence so recently reared up onto Irish
Bulletin/Discussion Boards actually tries to discuss and contextualise the issues.
The incendiary and objectionable incitement has largely been removed from
Irish political Discussion Site.
Nomadics wherein essays, links, discussions on global issues of rights.
Whilst in Mayo on holidays a conversation occurred regarding accessing written
materials by Artist and Seer George Russell (AE). The only book obtainable from
the library was The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries, by W.Y Evans Wentz,
there are a few pages of unidentified interview with AE within the book (Colin Smythe,
Humanities Press, 1911). The name of Bax also emerged; (but unfortunately upon my
leaving), thus it appears that the LP’s will be played for me at a later stage. Bax
was an accquaintance of my host, who had some interesting stories on Bax’s Irish
sojurn and eventual death to impart. There is, as far as I can make out nothing
on You Tube- so I must await the pleasure of hearing the music.. described within
the sleeve notes as ” The Garden of the Fand is the sea…in the earlier portion
of the work the composer seeks to create the atmosphere of an enchanted Atlantic..
Upon the surface floats a small ship… the little craft is borne on beneath a sky of pearl
and Ameythst until on the crest of an immense wave it is tossed onto the shore of
Fand’s miraculous island. Here is the inhuman revelry, and the voyagers are caught
away unresisting into the maze of the dance. A pause comes and Fand sings her
song of immortal love.. the dancing begins again, and finally the sea rising suddenly
overwhelms the whole island…twilight falls, the sea subsides, and Fand’s
garden fades out of sight..”
Text mentioned: The Fairy Faith in Celtic Countries by, W.Y. Evans
Wentz. Colin Symthe : Humanities Press 1911.
My contact on where to access info on Bax in
Ireland.
: Some Arnold Bax Music
on you-tube.
I put a post up on the site in very recent times regarding the severe funding cuts
to the Irish Writer’s centre in Parnell Square. The Centre will recieve 0% funding in the
period 2008-2009.
Last evening I got a petition form from a group of artists and writers involved in bringing
literature and Literacy to the West of Ireland. They called for re-instatement of Funding
to the Western Writer’s Centre: WWC has been involved in organising book publishing,
competitions, innovative readings for some period now. One of its founders Fred Johnson
was a founder member of the excellent Cúirt Literary Festival which gave us college
kids a chance to meet Luminaries such as Tony Harrison and Allen Ginsberg. They started
many a poet on their road. It was with great offence on behalf of Johnson who I
spoke to by email today that I am printing up this notice :
I feel like saying Fie , an irregular enough occurence .
I will update this post with links into the Cúirt Festival Programmes
which are (as mentioned, historical). There was a Magic triangle occurring between
the small hotels, Kenny’s Bookshop and Charlie Byrne’s which brought people
from all over the globe into little pubs to talk about poetry ,
friends and enemies were made for life. I am sending this little link to Fred cos
he has to know how his work changed lives for many writers.
Tog go bog é, a chara (and sure I hardly know him, save for the odd mail and gossip!)
The petitions forms and information on the utterly contemptible cuts to arts innovators
are now on a few sites and the forms have been sent to people in the community,
if you wish to sign please do.
Dot’s Spot Bloggie, linked to Poethead
IWC Funding Cuts by the Newly appointed Irish Art’s Council.
Western Writers @ IMC
Western Writers @Poetry Ireland.
I have also excerpted some gmail accounts of the ongoing row into my documents page.
In Conclusion, Fred Johnston has made this public statement, but sure
I leaked that already :
Join Date: Jan 2009
Posts: 1
Fred Johnston is on a distinguished road
Default Western Writers’ Centre Arts Council funding cuts
I write here in a personal capacity. I am immensely grateful for the fact that the recent funding cuts to the Western Writers’ Centre – Ionad Scribhneoiri Chaitlin Maude – Galway are up on site and being discussed and that people have taken the time to sign our petition. The generosity of both pocket and spirit shown by writers in the past fortnight has been stunning. ‘The Forge at Gort’ festival will continue on March 27th as a result.
Deeply shaken by the cuts, I was further shaken to read how this decision had been arrived at. The removal of funding from the Irish Writers’ Centre in Dublin is appalling and perhaps the two events are not entirely unrelated. The Council appear to me to have retreated to an old view (using the recession as a cover) of institutionalising the arts: there is no room, in such a view, for new things. Clearly the Western Writers’ Centre is viewed by some as a threat to a comforting and comfortable status quo where everything could be managed safely: hence every innovation, every award or prize we won, was perceived as a threat, not something to be lauded.
At the same time, criticism of the arts in Galway, for instance, is frowned upon and seen as ‘divisive’ – clippings of letters I had published in local papers critical of the arts in Galway were sent to the Arts Council by a concerned citizen. I found this particularly disturbing, an Orwellian view of the nature of free speech. Documents attempting to deride the Western Writers’ Centre and even undermine me personally have been sent anonymously to the Arts Council before now.
There is a politics being played out here and it remains to be seen whether the Council will consider it the wisest thing. Removing funding from two of the only three writers’ centres in the country will contribute to, not prevent, divisiveness or ‘fracture,’ a Tony Soprano word the Council seems fond of; it will contribute greatly to triumphalism among some and dejection and resentment among others. There is true divisiveness amongs arts’ groups in Galway city (this posting is already being sent to the Arts Council!) but the Arts Council will not or cannot investigate it. Their reluctance is curious. Interestingly, the media seem very reluctant to discuss the implications of withdrawal of funds from these two organisations.
Clearly the Council view the messenger and not the message as the most dangerous thing. Finding a scapegoat rather than examining why and how bad things happen is clearly a happier choice at Merrion Square.
Culture and Community @Politics.ie
Poets think in Images/Politicians think in words.
Some girls have hair on their heads
Artful girls have hares in their hearts
Cailín óg álainn is ea mé anois
Ach ní fhada na blianta ag sleamhú thart
Agus ansin beidh buanna eile uaim
Seachas an fholt ógra, an béilín binn.
Is ansin a thiocaidh mo ghiorra i gcabhair orm
an lá úd a déanfar cailleach den gcailín.
Agus rachaimid amach, an beirt againn,
Maidin Bealtine ag breachadh an lae
Ag crú an uachtair ós na bá sna páirceanna,
Ag crú na greinne, ag crú na bláthanna
Ag crú an samhraidh, agus na samhlaíochta.
(Le Eilis Ní Dhuihne)
This Poem accompanied an exhibition by Alice Maher which showed in
the RHA Gallery in Ely Place last year. The top floor of The Night Garden
exhibition was a series of wall art based in Imagery inspired by The medieval
Bestiary and The Garden of Earthly Delights. The book of Poems and collaborative
Art by Maher and Dhuibhne is entitled The Night Garden, Mark my Words
The accompanying art work is based in the women’s collaboration and is
in pen and ink; and charcoal. I got mine when I attended and am unaware
if the poems have been published for a book-buying market. I should hope
they have ‘cos they are really good.
The Night Garden, Images by Alice Maher and Poems
“Mark my Words”, by Eilis Ní Dhuibhne.
Alice Maher’s Chaplet Image.
Bonnard's Almond Tree in Blossom.
Mary’s Song
The Sunday lamb cracks in its fat.
The fat
Sacrifices its opacity….
-
A window , holy gold.
The fire makes it precious,
The same fire
-
Melting the tallow heretics,
Ousting the jews.
Their thick palls float
-
Over the cicatrix of Poland, burnt out
Germany.
They do not die.
-
Grey birds obsess my heart
Mouth-ash, ash of eye.
They settle. On the high
-
Precipice
That emptied one man into space
The ovens glowed like heavens, incandescent.
-
It is a heart,
This Holocaust I walk in,
O golden child the world will kill and eat.
From Winter trees , 1971. Publ. Faber and Faber.
I am working on it !
a) You need a notebook or set thereof.
b) A room of one’s own is not too much to ask.
c) A goodish pen, this is problematic if the only you have possessed for many
years has been stolen/lost/misplaced. Ensuring an adequate replacement of the
implement means a ready supply of good accessible Cartridge refills.
d) On the subject of typewriters (as Opposed to easy keyboards), It’s nigh impossible
to get ribbon and correction tape replacements in shops. There is one supplier
of these articles in Dublin and he’s not always in his shop.
e)Read a lot on your subject. It helps if you are a bibliophile.
f) Be always aware that the visibility of women writers in any language is
part of a huge struggle in multimedia and News Media.
Sarah, In Passing
A Pair of bockety
legs went up
the street below county
tweed and haystack
hat, the waddling brains
inside.
‘Aren’t they most awfully
rich?’ the shaky Anglo
voice inquired.
‘O no,’ he said,
straight leg and cavalry
crease
suffering her infirmity,
slow pace
for pace.
‘Her father was
but she, she
lost it all.’
-
.
Words in the morning.
-
.
Sarah passed
ingesting scene and situation;
imagining , assimilating;
seeing much she did
not see,
interpreting what she did
not hear:
( Short Excerpted piece from what Sarah saw or did not see)
Girl on her Lover
Like some god
too dark to live
upon the earth.
All beautiful , all evil,
all powerful over
me. No rest nor sever
from the dark hard tie”.
-
.
Sarah, in Passing. The Dolmen Press. 1974.
Baskin Bird:http://hoodmuseum.dartmouth.edu/images/200695detail.jpg
We do not often get real sticky wet and slippy snow in Ireland…
Our older people (we will all be elderly soon enough) are
carrying themselves with incredible delicacy. The paths present a patchwork
of half-hearted sand thrown down and a web of glassy ice , the
puddles make a satisfying crack when breached; but bones are delicate..,
. – .
This is an excerpt from The Book of Imaginary Beings by Jorge Luis Borges..
( I found it again, it keeps losing itself in my shelves)
” before becoming a monster and then turned into rocks,
Scylla was a nymph with whom Glacus, one of the sea gods, had
fallen in love. In order to win her, Glacus sought the help of Circe
whose knowledge of herbs and incantations was well known. But
Circe became attached to Glacus on sight, only she was unable to
get him to forget Scylla, and to punish her rival she poured the juice
of poisonous herbs into the fountain where the nymph bathed”
. – .
( Borges then excerpts the Metamorphoses of Ovid, which btw
are given a contemporary gloss and translation by the late
Ted Hughes and Published by Faber.)
So poor Scylla becometh a rock and well our nod to certain
difficulties and words in common useage do include the phrase:
“Between a rock and a hard place”, though I suppose that since our education system
is more based in manual labour and globalisation the provenance
of such cliched phrases or truisms gets lost in the translation.
I witter on : Jorge Luis Borges The Book of Imaginary Beings Penguin 1967.
It sounds really good in Spanish in a storm, my favourite shall always be the Banshee
cos that’s what I look like when the sticky heat gets into my hair.
This is just a brief note, given my current interest in our
small bird population and this year’s lack of snowdrops
in my own garden. Indeed it is related somewhat to another
entry on Poethead . (cf bottom of this post for linkie)
~
Every year we wander to the NBG to take a look at the snowdrops in the
rockery, this is utterly convenient because the rockery comprises a
playground for the burgeoning and largely tame squirrel population; but
I digress.. I bought the book for my mother in her early widowhood because
she adores climbers, roses and scented stock. Our beautiful Sumac came
down in a storm and though I only visit with her , its become obvious
that the straggling offspring do not carry the same impact for the local
birds or indeed aesthetically.
Thus this evening I am bringing home In Your garden by
Sackville West to re-read and Faber’s Collected Marina Carr Plays.
In Your Garden by Vita Sackville-West, Frances Lincoln.
Original text 1951.
Marina Carr Plays incl. The Mai. Faber and Faber 1999
~
The Brightest Jewel by E Charles Nelson and Dr Eileen Mc Cracken
Musicians in the Orchestra a Wiki image- Degas
In preparing for a campaign and celebration a group
of Unmanageable women (and Me) decided to get lots
of petticoats and dye them red. One of the images
that persisted from that campaign was of a blue sky,
a washing line fluttering with varieties of red petticoats
and how weirdly certain types of modern material take
a standard machine dye…
~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~
This small post is about the chorus line and in keeping with the tone of the blog can include
both the unhinged (and hung): The Maidens from Atwood’s Penelopiad and
the solo singer who creates the most wonderful antiphons from her weird isolation and
tithing to the Church: Hildegard of Bingen. I shall include links to both at the end of this post.
For days now I have been rooting through my books to find Murder in the Cathedral by
TS Eliot. The chorus therein is composed of the poor women of Canterbury who both
delineate the action and act as witnesses to disaster. They are the voices of the dispossessed as much as the women of the islands in their keening or the voices of women poets who are marginalised in Irish academia (at least) and the reason why I initiated this blog in the first place. The hits have surprised me and I would like to thank those who regularly read. I would also enjoy developing outward; but have no plans in that direction at the moment.
I shall paste the First Page into my Ephemera Section when I have
five minutes but in the meantime I have just started Tweeting and
can see the possibilities of application already:
a Moorhen with Emerald Stockings.
Leonard Baskin Woodcut.
Stanza 7
” Pinned on the fieldpark
stand saplings stark,
their boughs drawing the eye skywards
to find, then, night has not come
yet, sky is still green, edged in chrome,
the bare branches outling
unknown ebony letters
and between above in sliced green
the evening star glitters.
*
And a Bunch of tulips inside.
Stanza 8
“Weathered like a traveller
so battered they are
these sweaty envoys
mumbling the lost lines
of their message made flesh:
their beauty launches- (through the slash
of the knife the knife that cut them
through the hand that bought and washed
the shop that sold them
through unbreachable mesh
of a cordon the heart’s startled cries
and hands’ hand’s-off clutch)-
their beauty launches the sizzling
thunderbolt into water, into my eyes.
From Between , by Agnes Nemes nagy, Trans Hugh Maxton.
Publ. Corvina Press Budapest and Dedalus Press, Dublin.
” Above me stand, worn from their ancient use,
The King’s, the Bishop’s, and the Warrior’s house,
Quiet as folds upon a grassy knoll:
Stark-grey they stand. wall joined to ancient wall,
Chapel, and Castle, and Cathedral.
It is not they are old, but stone by stone
Into another lifetime they have grown,
The life of memories an old man has:
They dream upon what things have come to pass,
And know that stones grow friendly with the grass.
The name has crumbled-cashel that has come
from conqueror-challenging Castellum-
Walls in a name ! No citadel is here,
Now a fane the empty walls uprear
Where green and greener grass spreads far and near.”
The Poet’s Circuits, Collected Poems of Ireland. Padraic Colum.
Dolmen Press. 1981 , Centenary Edition. Introduction by Benedict Kiely.
I have decided to build a small site that will be related to Poethead ;
but will be based solely in the Vision writing of Women Poets and Visionaries.
The build will take some time and the design will be more involved, thus I do
not envisage launching it for a short time.
~
I have started the design today and will announce here when it is fit to visit.
I hope to bring Poethead into the site as a link and to continue here with the ongoing
themes of Women’s Visibility and Song over the next period.
~
The new site will be single-themed and therefore solely dedicated
to the evolution of an operating Vademecum in Women’s Vision
and Song-Making.
No Charges in the murder of a Writer.
The Anna Politkovskaya Murder trial has ended in accquital. Ms Politkovskaya was shot on October the 7th 2006. RIP.
The Chorus Line : A Rope-Jumping Rhyme
“we are the maids
the ones you killed
the ones you failed
we danced in air
our bare feet twitched
it was not fair
with every goddess, queen , and bitch
from there to here
you scratched your itch
we did much less
than what you did
you judged us bad
you had the spear
you had the word
at your command
we scrubbed the blood
of our dead
paramours from floors, from chairs
from stairs, from doors,
we knelt in water
while you stared
at our bare feet
it was not fair
you licked our fear
it gave you pleasure
you raised your hand
you watched us fall
we danced on air
the ones you failed
the ones you killed.”
Taken from The Penelopiad 2005, Canongate.
The maids were of course the young girls who helped Penelope spin
her endless threads, the abused, raped and disenfranchised women
of Odysseus’ court. Well they got hung in a line. Atwood is very good
on mythos.
awaiting the name...,
Thanx
O! and Pierre Joris hath switched to WordPress for Nomadics:
one of my favourite sites on Literature/poetry and politics :
I shall have an International Women’s Day List and Poem this weekend : Women’s Day 8th March 2009.
Charlotte Salomon : 'Boek'
Maybe It Isn’t Him.
“I found your body stilettoed from behind,
It would have been much harder otherwise
I pull the blade out terrified and wipe
Its gold handle on my breast and side
Lord, I cry, maybe it isn’t him,
Maybe it’s his earthen shape
Maybe the blood is not actual blood
Maybe his soul is singing across the plain.
Maybe the birds are listening to his song,
And that’s why over the plain they are all
Silent, maybe they too are made of clay
And their one use is magical.
Maybe it is death barely now arrived
That hunts the mystery of your sacred being
After whose form we were made,
Maybe the eternal bird is singing.”
From :After the Raising of Lazarus, Trans, Eiléan Ní Chuilleanáin.
Southward 2005.
Beautiful exhibition of Quilting in the National Botanic Gardens Dublin today and
running until March the 15th : Hands Across the Border, the image I
would have selected is not available at the Irish Patchwork Society Webpage; but
I am including a link to both the Society and to the National Botanic Gardens at end of this
post.
The Northern Irish patchwork Guild and The Irish patchwork Society are a friendly
crew who like small kids and were able to tell the stories of whichever quilt was chosen for
query. The work varied from the hand-dyed artistic to the tale of a life in quilt and
embroidery, with a stunning one telling of the Shackleton Antarctic Expedition. There was
a small patchwork christening robe adorned with the names of babies in gold simple lettering,
by Breege Watson and Elizabeth Mc Cartney’s Hand Dyed Picnics in Ravensdale Woods.
Best of all was the raffle for a hamper of Patchwork doings, and the visitor’s book adorned with
the scrawls of kids and the very intelligent writing of grown-ups.
The Making of An American Quilt, by Angela Carter (from ‘Burning Your Boats’)
is on the recommended list.
19th Century Pomegranate Embroidery from the Americas
:A Saturday Woman Poet Amy Lowell used the Pomegranate Embroidery as Illustration.
Caoineadh, Le Máire Nic Mhaoláin
Ní ceist orm gur éagais
Ach gur céasadh dom
Cumhracht mormónta
Féileacán bán ar phraiseach
Féileacán breac ar marigolds
Agus do lamha a bheith fuar.
‘Gus Haiku
sean-neadacha
i ngéaga ardchrainn giúise-
lámh fhuar um an tua.
as Haikúnna, le Máire Nic Mhaoláin, ‘gus Caoineadh, le Nic Mhaoláin :
Fíliocht Uladh 1960-1985, Gréagóir ó Dúill, a chuir in eagar. Coiscéim 1986
Kells letter
Necessity
The Cycle of days in the deserted sky turning
In silence watched by mortal eyes
Gaping mouth here below, where each hour is burning
So many cruel and beseeching cries;
All the stars slow in the steps of their dance,
The only fixed dance, mute brilliance on high,
In spite of us formless, nameless without cadence.
Too perfect, no fault to belie;
Toward them , suspended , our anger is vain.
Quench our thirst, if you must break our hearts.
Clamouring and desiring, their circle draws us in their train;
Our brilliant masters were forever victors.
Tear flesh apart, chains of pure clarity.
Nailed without a cry to the fixed point of the North,
Naked soul exposed to all injury,
May be obey you unto death.
Notebooks (OC 6:2:147-148)
Poetry and Poetics, Simone Weil : Thinking Poetically. Joan
dargan, State University of New York Press. 1999.
Magnus Rosendahl: Frost on a Spruce Branch.
Forms (A Sampler)
for C.M
What would they have said
had you heard the whisper
slip ravenous up the avenue
on fat and awkward dialect
towards the parlour comfort
of an army of the wizened
faces of their mother, who
settled in her embroideries
internalising the potential
of an inclusive act, to fuse
the eschatological omission,
confined in insurrection
to the vortices of daylight,
silently, symbolically laced?
By Jo kerr
The Three of Birds: 16th Century by Master of the Playing Cards.
Bridie is on Her way to Prayer
Past the purple bells that grace the wall
They will not be still
Raising their arms up to the breeze
That blows in from the Mountain.
Idol, A View of Croagh Patrick From Bofara
Beneath me I feel the wind-coarsened grass
The hollowing bedrock
A flame stirred by the mixing air plays
Through my skin.
That is no pagan view
This mountain is older than holy
I see-
I am his idol, a place
For elements to play.
Lilies of the Field
Plump nipple blossoms more like
Neatly sewn onto a blue bodice
Virgin surprise! One wink and
They’re blown confetti on wet ground.
A Flame is an orange meadow flower that grows in great bunches, mostly
on the West Coast of Ireland.
Tatú, le Ni Chonchúir : Arlen House.
Ina luí idir
do chosa, magairlín, ag
leathnú, díbholgadh.”
An dán seo as Tatú le Nuala Ní Chonchúir.I decided to leave it
as Gaeilge for the minute because I like the
sounds and they are not too hard to make (unlike the
poor orchis that wilts in Stanza II).
~
Irish women Writers are really good at fish and flower sexual
images – it may be that we have evolved a language due to
Catholic Repression, or it may just be that its part of our
linguistic inheritance : images of beauty and sometimes terror .
Tatú
“Is pailmseist mo chorp
faoi do lámha,
paipír arsa,
scrollaithe fút,
ag tnúth le do rian.
Glanaim mo chraiceann,
sciúraim siar e
go par báiteach
ionas go bpúchfaidh
do lamh mar
dhúch tatuála,
ag liniocht thar
linte dofheicthe
gach fir eile.
Níl faic ach tusa
scrábáilte ar mo chorp. “
Tatú , Le Nuala Ní Chonchúir. Arlen House 2007.
I have been reading the Simone Weil Critique Thinking Poetically for the
last few weeks, interspersed it seems with other activities and work.
In many ways it has prevented me from posting up here because
the subject matter is so imperative to the creation of her poetry; and yet and the Poet/Philosopher’s experiences in Vichy as a woman writer are neither subtle nor intriguing.
Her writing is sometimes painful to read. At the end of this brief
post I shall include the link to Weil’s poem Necessity which I had
published in recognition of the 2009 International Women’s Day.
One of the themes of this site is ‘of waiting’, or to put it more succintly: the writing of
women who are entrapped (intellectually and spiritually) by the prisons their time has brought
them to: many of them , Miriam Tuojimen, Liliana Ursu, Nelly Sachs and Weil were writers that knew the shape of their prisons and created from them the most amazing poetic structures.
The other main theme is visibility of women critics and writers in our society. (always a problem).
There are strong sympathetic links in how prose is constructed between Porete and
Weil, between Julian of Norwich and Weil and I suppose ‘heard in the antiphons of Hildegard of
Bingen. I do not have time to elaborate on the themes, so I thought It would suffice to add
in the Porete links and the link to Necessity and that I would complete this in second part
with some brief notebook excerpts in the coming days.
Thinking Poetically Joan Dargan, State University of New York Press.1999
: Necessity, by Simone Weil.
: Barbro Karlen
: Excerpts from Marguerite Porete.
To George Sand
A Recognition
“True genius, but true woman! dost deny
Thy woman’s nature with manly scorn,
And break away the gauds and amulets worn
By weaker women in captivity?
Ah, vain denial! That revolted cry
is sobbed in by a woman’s voice for
-lorn!–
Thy woman’s hair, my sister, all unshorn,
Floats back dishevelled strength in agony,
Disproving thy man’s name! and while
before
The world thou burnest in a poet-fire,
We see the woman heart beat evermore
Through the large flame. Beat purer,
heart, and higher,
Till God unsex thee on the heavenly
shore,
Where unincarnate spirits purely aspire.”
The Soul’s Expression
With stammering lips and insufficent
sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature day and night
With dream and thought and feeling
interwound,
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and
height
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual
ground!
This song of soul I struggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime
and whole,
And utter all myself into the air.
But if I did it-as the thunder-roll
breaks its own cloud, my flesh would
perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.”
I highly recommend that young women who like poetry get into Mrs Barrett
Browning.
Aluine’s Garden’s Draft II
Before the house
behind the sea,
a garden.
Before the Mountain
behind the house,
a circuit of trees.
Before the small house
behind the grey sea,
a strip of mown lawn enclosed with box.
Before the tall mountain
behind these six white walls of house,
rows of young alders a circuit make.
Before the house of three steps up
behind the rocky strand down to the beach,
a wild field conceals her garden’s bloom.
Before the purple Reek
behind the house surrounded by fields,
a sheltered bench within a circuit of trees.
II.
Before that shadow the Reek casts onto green fields
behind the grass rolling and tumbling to rocky beach,
the lawn encloses varieties of bees.
Before Croagh Patrick
beyond the flatroof of the house,
a mazed world wherein shadows flit.
Before the house where grass tumbles to rocky shore
behind the sound where gather gulls,
a small ingress, a light step to rose’s bloom, lawn of green.
Before the cloud-shrouded reek
behind the house with fish in the window,
There is a forest of trees, a flitting child.
Before this small house where wind’s flute and bassoon
mocks the squake of gulls,
a strip of lawn entrances to where butterflies play.
Before the sheltering reek
and behind the small house of gardens,
a simple circuit of trees, birds sing there.
A recapitulation of what is seid and how it is shewid to hir generally for all
“And as Longe as I saw this sight of the plentiuos bleding of
the hede I might never stinte of these words ; ‘Benedicite domine!’
In which the sheweing I understode vi things : the first is the
toknys of the blissid passion and the plentious sheddyng of
his pretious blode; the iid is the maiden that is his derworthy
moder; the iid is the blissful Godhede that ever was, is and
ever shal bene, al mighty, al wisdam, al love; the iiiith is althing
that he hath made; for wele I wete that hevyn and erth and
all that is made is mekil and large, fair and gode, but the cause
why it is shewid so litil to my sight was for I saw it in the
presence of him that is the maker of all thing, for a
soule that seith the maker of all, all that is made semith full
litil, the vth is that he made all things for love; be the same
love it is kept and shall be withoute end, the vith is that God
is all thing that is gode, as to my sight, and the godeness that
al thing hath, it is he; and al these our lord shewid me in the
first sight with time and space to beholden it. And the bodily
sight stinted and the ghostly sight dwellid in myne understondying.
And I abode with reverent drede ioyand in that I saw. And
I desired as I durst to se more , if it were his will, or ell lenger
time the same. In all this I was mekil sterid in charite to mine even
cristen, that their might seen and knowyn the same that I saw;
for I would it were comfort to they, for al this sight was shewid
general. Than said I to them that were aboute me ‘It is today
domysday with me’. And this I seid for I went a deid, for that day
a man deith he is demyd as he shal be without end , as to
my understondying. This I seid for I would their love Gode the better,
for to make hem to have mende that this life is shorte as thei
might se in example: for in al this time I went have deid and that
was mervil to me and sweeme in partie, for methowte this
vision was shewd for hem that should leven. And that I say of me
I sey in the person of al mine even cristen, for I am lerned
in the gostly shewing of our lord God that he menyth so;
and therefore I pray you al for God’s sake and counsel you
for your own profitt that ye levyn the beholding of a wretch
that it was shewid to, and mightily, wisely and mekely
behold God, that of his curtes love and endless godeness
wolde shewyn it generally in comfort of us al; for it is God’s will
that ye take it with gret ioy and likyng as Iesus had shewid it on to
you al”.
That was awful to type from a book; but I like visionary women writers,
be they religious or secular. I am about to tap in the related links
on Julian, Marguerite and Hildegard (momentarily).
Julian of Norwich, a Revelation of Love, ed
Marion Glascoe. University of Exeter Press 1976.
I like poetry and I like talking about poets; but mostly I am blocked and
get ill in the stomach when I attempt to open up my poetry folders.
Thus I spend lots of time reading, walking, looking and trying to
keep my feet firmly on the ground.
I started two blogs recently that are pretty much like Poethead, one
of which is in the Daily Telegraph and the Other in the Politics.ie
site (though I must admit neglecting that one in favour of using the
lists to discuss Art and Culture rather more).
This is the fledgling Telegraph Blog:
From :Afeast for the Eyes Site.
Goldfriend
(After The Wanderer, Anglo-Saxon)
Oak black
Rich with age
The floor is rich
As the glints
The jewel-encrusted
Brocades give,
Tapestries glint
In the shadows
Of this hall
Where I have
Come to look for you
My lord,
Goldfriend
I go to your hand
For forgiveness
Maybe.
Ah but there is nothing
For you to forgive,
Just me
Just me
Or because you knew
I would come.
C Murray 2008, previously published P.I
A Compass rose for St Jordi's Day
I love this little bit of writing from a very good friend who doesn’t
like censorship and likes to tell stories, so I sent him a rose (image).
Samson’s Hair
Delilah did her job,
Samson’s head lay on her knees
As on a dish
And his hair was cut and his strength
Was gone without his knowledge.
When he woke up and tried to break
The ropes that bound him it was too late,
But the story could not be finished
As long as Samson was still alive.
The world knows only how his strength was taken
But I remember also what came later
And in the immense hall I feel afraid
Standing beside those two golden pillars
As I wait for Samson’s hair to grow.
Ileana came to Dublin and she signed my book!
This poem is taken from After the Raising of Lazarus
trans, Eilean ni Chuilleanain (I don’t have fadas today 
)
2005 Southward Editions.
“I feel witness
to unchangingness
as well as to change.
If I incline to
Leave unmirrored
political moil, it is because
the human composition,
person to private person,
is my sphere, my particular
theme. In brief:
the things of state-
bland blue suit smile,
smooth shirt doubledo
(we beg true blue but
have them shot by dark)
Lobbying;
feather-nesting; high inflate
of rigmarole; vigilant spite
that splits the nose
to spoil the party face-
all these things I have to see
as but reflections
in macro of doings round
the micro centre. As people
pattern in private
so, unchangingly, will they
project in their public scale.
The central attitude
is inexorable; there is no
escape ; life demands encounter
with figures like
fathers, brothers, lovers,
rivals, mistresses, mothers, wives.
Inevitably, national
and international are but larger
shapes of interpersonal procedures:
appetites and checks
that flux around the swallowing
demand of predatory devouring ‘Me’
large happenings
in the state wear secondary
coverings. My bent is primary.
Credo, by Eithne Strong. ‘Sarah in Passing’, The Dolmen Press,
1974
“Poems are also gifts-gifts to the attentive”.
I am unsure of the provenance of the quote above, I found it
within the pages of my constant companion book :
Simone Weill, Thinking Poetically, Joan Dargan, State University of New York Press. 1999
On the recommended reading list:
Alain Bosquet, “Stances Perdue” and “Fathomsuns and Benighted”, by Paul Celan.
To a Cuckoo at Coolanlough
For Peter Fallon
Driving the perfect length of Ireland,
Like a worn fold in a newspaper,
All my deep, country feelings
Wished I could have hypnotized myself
into going back for the cherry-market
at Borris-in-Ossory.
But all I could think of was the fountain
Where Shelly wrote his ‘Ode to the west Wind’
Nesting like a train-fever or combing jacket
Over the town.
A child will only sleep so long, and I wonder
If he is an artist, or have the six
Muscles round his eye forgotten colour,
And look it up, that Saturn-red, wild smudging,
In a dream-book ?
And I wonder, after the three-minute
News, if you remember
The bits of road that I do ?
from : On Ballycastle Beach, Medbh Mc Guckian, Gallery Books,
1988/1995.
In Memory of David Marcus who died today, editor, translator,
writer and Friend of Irish literature
I published this is the My Telegraph blog and like it
so much that I am publishing it here in advance
of the usual Saturday Woman Writer bit…
Irish, by Paul Celan
“Grant me the right of way
over the cornstair to your sleep,
right of way
over the path of sleep,
the right to cut turf
on the shelf of the heart,
come morning”.
Irish, by Paul Celan. from ‘Fathomsuns and Benighted’,
trans Ian Fairley. Carcanet Books, 2001.
no earthly estate.
I am recommending, today a book called * No Earthly Estate:
*God and Patrick Kavanagh an Anthology, ed Tom Stack, Columba
Press 2004.
I just this morning published a poem from it in *My Telegraph blog;
and have been perusing it ever since, though I have no substantial
critique to offer at the minute.
Thus, a Link to the Telegraph Poem and to the *Columba Press,
from who (strangely enough) I possess maybe three excellent
Publications.
: Cruci-fiction, the fictive crucifixion of the artist’s word by a Minister for Government
These risible and wholly unecessary measures have made me break my apolitical rule on
Poethead, thus causing agitation for a whole 24 hours…,
Stories and opinions at links provided above.
The law mentioned in the quotes above has been amended still retaining the
criminalisation aspects : : Ahern’s Amendment.
Once
I heard him
he was washing the world,
unseen, nightlong,real.
One and infinite,
annihilated,
ied.
Light was. Salvation.
From : Fatomsuns and Benighted,Paul Celan, trans, Ian Fairley. 1991. Carcanet Books.
The annual Cúirt festival of Literature occurred recently, indeed it
has been mentioned before in a series of pieces relating to Current
Irish Arts Council Policy which has mitigated against two of three
writers organisations in this country. I have temporarily put away
those links because this particular blog design does not support
Widgetry.
Anyway, I used attend the Cúirt Festival of Literature up in Galway,
it was for me an annual treat and in many ways Life-changing
because it’s always good to hear the poet, or indeed
to see him/her. I met Tony Harrison at one particular reading
and it was round the time that he had published his Mysteries.
I lost one copy, then replaced it, re-found and loaned one to a friend in
Barcelona, indeed we read bits of it on a particularly stormy night
which I will never forget (but, I digress)
The Mysteries were instigated by the Guilds system to bring fundamental
truths to communities, thus Butchers, bakers, candlestickmakers became
the Passionistas of Religious communication, before such jolly ideas
as a created Apocrypha or Imprimatur descended into the too rational
brains of those who sometime detested the very words that make
bibles. (gosh! two digressions)
“A man is like a rusty wheel
On a rusty cart.
He sings his song as he rattles along
And then he falls apart.
And we sing allelujah
At the turning of the year
And we work all day in the old-fashioned way
Till the shining star appears.
A man is like a bramble briar
Covers himself with thorns
He laughs like a clown when his fortunes are down
and his clothes are ragged and torn.”
I won’t go on at the moment, I was rather hoping to include
some Mary Magdalean who is a physical/spiritual lover in
the bookie. Thus I will end with a recommendation :
Tony Harrison: the Shadow of Hiroshima and other
Film Poems, Faber.
: Desperate Funding Cuts
The island is silence,
Though there is the tide
Breaking there on the shore.
O Mother the sea!
And the birds are lighting the grass
With their song, alighting in the blue.
Maybe the island is not silent.
C Murray
This wee poem is one of two set on the sound at Achill Island,
both are previously published within the member’s area of Poetry
Ireland and the above is published in my Telegraph Blog:
; dot@ My
Telegraph.
(for Michael Longley)
In a dream he fled the house
At the Y of three streets
To where a roof of bloom lay hidden
In the affectation of the night,
As only the future can be. Very tightly,
Like a seam, she nursed the gradients
Of his poetry in her head;
She got used to its movements like
A glass bell being struck
With a padded hammer.
It was her own fogs and fragrances
That crawled into verse, the
Impression of cold braids finding
Radiant escape, as if each stanza
Were a lamp that burned between
Their beds, or they were writing
The poems in a place of birth together.
Quietened by drought, his breathing
Just became audible where a little
Silk-mill emptied impetuously into it
Some word that grew with him as a child’s
Arm or leg. If she stood up (easy,
Easy) it was the warmth that finally
leaves the golden pippin for the
Cider, or the sunshine of fallen trees.
from: On Ballycastle Beach, by Medbh Mc Guckian,
Published the Gallery Press 1995
” Each creature holds an insular point in
space;
Yet what man stirs a finger, breathes
a sound,
But all the multidinous beings round
In all the countless worlds, with time
and place
For their conditions, down to the central base,
Thrill, haply , in vibration and rebound;
Life answering life across the vast
profound,
In full antiphony, by a common grace?
I think this sudden joyaunce which
illumes
A child’s mouth sleeping, unaware may
run
From some new soul newly loosened from
earth’s tombs.
I think this passionate sigh, which
half-begun
I stifle back may reach and stir the
plumes
Of God’s calm angel standing in the sun.”
From Elizabeth Barret Browning’s Sonnets
“In the hush of my father’s house,
before dusk rustles over the horizon,
I take off the dress my mother made
-it’s as ruby red as St Michael’s cloak-
and with a stitch of linen, bind my breasts.
By the greasy light of a candle,
I shear my hair to the style of a boy,
in the looking glass I see my girlhood
swallowed up in a tunic and pants,
I lace them tightly to safeguard myself.
My soldiers call me ‘Pucelle’, maiden,
they cleave the suit of armour to my body,
and know when following my banner
over ramparts into Orléans, that
there will only ever be one like me.
When the pyre flames fly up my legs,
I do not think of the Dauphin,
or my trial as a heretical pretender,
but see my mother, head bent low,
sewing a red dress for her daughter to wear.”
Tatoo: Tatú, le Nuala Ní Chonchuir,
Arlen House, 2007.
Poetry Ireland
This post comprises a small acknowledgement of the work
of Poetry Ireland both online and in the real world , as well
a space to collate some of the useful links which might
interest those who amongst us who do poetics.
In recent times I had written a small tribute to David Marcus who
had died and whilst mining for information to add to the scant bit
that I knew both as a reader and writer I noted that he was instrumental
in setting up the precursor to Poetry Ireland which has developed
imho into an incredible literary resource , thus I thought it would
be really nice to discuss the site online in Poethead which has a
strong connection to the site through the Poetry Ireland Forum,
the Tangled Web and even a review page on Agnes Nemes Nagy.
There follows at the end of this short paragraph links in bold to the site ,
which I have decided is the best way to present anything, those who may
be interested in exploring further can get a taster of how it is all put together;
and thus divine what joy it gives to those amongst us who like the idea
of both utilising the site and contributing therein.
Apart from the category How Words Play, I suppose that I like to
publish on the theme of Women’s Work within the 25 Pins in
a Packet category most. I decided that I would publish the archive
link in here along with a short note on the category itself.
I like unusual books, not specifically those that are rare or antique but books full
of interest especially when the author is passionate about his theme, in many ways
I consider myself fortunate to live amongst bibliophiles and collectors because
there is always something in the library , the books proliferate at an alarming pace,
be it through gift , loan or purchase. The Kerlie in discussion herein is a hard cover
book on the theme of walking the religious sites in France, prinicpally in the Alsace
Lorraine region and they take in a wide variety of history to boot.
Unfortunately I do not have the book to hand and cannot find its isbn, publication
date or full tile and will thus add it into the comment section here when I can take
the necessary notes. The actual 25 pins in a Packet were a prize given by the
abbesses at Remiremont (founded in 620 by Romaric ) which boasted all sorts of
interesting theological curiousities but uppermost were some hairs purporting to
be from the Virgin Mary, each year the Abbesses held a singing contest during
an annual celebratory fete in which the prize was indeed the aforementioned pins.
The pins were treasured items but they are also symbolic of the work of women,
which is often hard and sometimes not so good- I thought to explore this theme
through the conceit of Penelope, Arachne, the women of the harem and the women
of enclosed communities, right down to the Anchorite who is the ultimate soloist.
Poethead is scattered with women’s work which in the grand scheme of things is
often not honoured and not very well rewarded.
I am republishing here Jo kerr’s Poem, A Sampler.
Archive for 25 Pins in a Packets
Shrines in Alsace-Lorraine, E Marianne H M’Kerlie, Sands and Company 1918
Companion
Slip ashore, show
you how to gather
pollen, simple breath,
music wishing
to be born
loops the page,
a red sea-rod
knows every fish
wise in the lap
of your ninth wave,
wave in waiting
shy to the west,
it’s long past noon,
the night comes one,
down to the water,
child of nature,
down to the water,
play me home.
A Glance will tell you A dream confirm, Tom Mc Intyre, Dedalus Press, 1994
I am moving rather slowly through the Poetry Book Society recommended
Translation ofThe Georgics of Virgil by Peter Fallon, published
Gallery Press, 2004. Thus the opening verse:
” What tickles the corn to laugh in rows, and by what star
to steer the plow, and how to train the vine to elms,
good management of flocks and herds, the expertise
bees need
to thrive- my lord, Maecenas, such are the makings of
the song
I take upon myself to sing.”
Both these books are longtime favourites which are sorely neglected in
the daily grind of work.
Firstly I am adding in a review that I did a while ago, along
with one or two Nagy poems, I am really leaving this open
ended in terms of discussing Nagy and Maxton’s collaboration
and would hope that it becomes a series on Poetic Prose,
collaboration and translation. Thus I will add in the International
Pen Links at the bottom of this post also.
Agnes Nemes Nagy : Between
“I have no serious doubt,” observed George Szirtes in his Introduction to The Night of Akhenaton, a selection of her poetry, “that Ágnes Nemes Nagy is one of the great indispensable poets of the twentieth century.” Agnes Nemes Nagy (1922-1991) was a Hungarian poet, author, political writer and activist, whose life, as for so many of her generation, was defined by the Second World War, and particularly by the friends she knew who died in Auschwitz. Between by Agnes Nemes Nagy and translated by Hugh Maxton comprises the largest translated collection of Nagy’s work into English, and is published by Dedalus in Dublin and Corvina in Budapest.
Angels are always terrifying in Nagy and often allied to tree and branch symbols. Her imagery in general is often ‘off-centre’; she wrote about the process of writing as “I think it is the duty of the poet to obtain citizenship for an increasing horde of nameless emotions”.
I Carried Statues
“On board ship carried Statues,
Huge faces unrecognised
On board ship carried statues
To stand on the island.
Between nose and ears
Perfect right angle
Otherwise blank.
On board ship carried statues
And so I sank.”
Terraced Landscape is a prose piece which visually describes movement through time through the poem’s 34 separate planes or terraces:
Zero Plane.
“Now nothing is visible.Yet something continues
To sound, in a fragmentary fashion, breaking down,
Swelling. Do you hear it? Up there somewhere,
Towering little domes like the roofing of a city, unknown bells inside”
Zero Plane is the poem’s introduction, while the overall structure is cyclical, so that the white noise at the end of Level 34 seques back to the beginning, Zero Plane. Not all the levels are described, yet all things acquire depth and shape, everyday objects swell and become, they lose their flatness. This reminds me of Sylvia Plath’s ‘I love the thingness of things’, and of how familiar objects become so alien or so intimate to the observer that they acquire a symbolic importance.
The poem ‘Lazarus’ –
‘Round his left shoulder, as he got up slowly
Every day’s Muscle gathered in agony
His death was flayed off him like a gauze
Because second birth has such harsh laws’.
- recalls Leonard Baskin’s Hanged Man’, a lithograph from the Fifties
of the Hanged man from the Tarot deck, an image not only of
torture but also a warning that the poet and artist must consistently engage with the world whatever the cost.
Between is divided into short poems and cycles, two essays and some prose, with Nagy herself contributing the foreword. Hugh Maxton talks of the translation / collaboration process at the back of the book, but between intro and postscript the images and words create, for this reader, visual monuments, portals into a mythos and an often sublime awareness.
Agnes Nemes Nagy, Between, Dedalus Press,
Dublin and Corvina Press , Budapest. Trans, Hugh Maxton
:This is the P.I Review which I have adjusted
in minor terms re the Italics and Bolds.
Baskin Mosquito.
From ‘Leaf-Stalks’
“Yet I would not dismiss the nonentities. The things that nearly are
not. Journey of woodbine, ampelopsis on the ancient walls (of garden
and its house), clutch of tendrils and trailing plants, the shuffling of
their minute paws, with pads of suction for terminals of their thread-like
minute fingers, and claws, green zig-zag path of lizards this way and that,
climbing always higher until, until there are masterpieces of space-fillment.
No question of it: indeed we bathe our faces in the roistering fire of
some noted blooms, therby healing up our remoteness. But what of
the props and supports? Candle-stick under the candle’s flame, the stalks,
the vegetable scales, thorny pronged candelabras. And the floating wicks,
nightlights of a provisional kind, shoepolish tins in times of siege..”
Night-Stalks, from ‘Between’ by Agnes Nemes Nagy
In a brief afterword attached to this Volume of Between by Nagy,
Hugh Maxton discusses his approach to collaborative translation, along with a
brief description of the history and political situation in Hungary in terms of
Linguistic revival and conservation. It’s well worth the read, I shall be looking for
an online link to add in here.In my last piece on translation , I alluded to the appalling
translations of Nagy that I found online whilst searching for material by the writer
and In brief to the importance of linguistic heritage, (though I am no expert in the
field ), it’s actually easy enough to identify a terrible translation into English.
The Nagy/Maxton collaboration is a triumph in sensitivity and awareness, thus his
approach to the project is something I would recommend to people who are
interested in the area of disseminating literature either online or in publication.
I also like Gallagher’s translations of Ursu and some scraps of Agren Mc Elroy’s
work on Nelly Sachs, both of whom I have mentioned on Poethead before now.
Between, The Selected Poems of Agnes Nemes Nagy, trans High Maxton,
Corvina Press Budapest, Dedalus Press, Dublin, 1988
Leonard Baskin Woodcuts.
This post includes a link which leads to a short explanatory of the
Irish Exhibition of living Art, the reason being twofold:
i) The current Irish government has no idea of the importance of
cultural expression nor indeed of Irish heritage, this exemplified
in the Tara debacle, the cutting of funds to the IWC and the WWC
and the current blasphemy debacle. ii). The depts that are up for
downgrade or cutting are the Arts Dept and the one charged with
Culture and Gaelteacht.
The Link to the IELA from IAR is at the bottom of this piece.
Having no idea therefore of the historical role of government in the Irish Arts,
I thought to include this blast from the past because some people in this country
do have an idea of the importance of cultural and artistic expression, despite
erosion after erosion through funding removals, legislations that corrode the
the importance of arts; and infrastructure projects that do not take account
of preservation within EU and International Directives . The Arts and heritage
of cultural and community memory have always be entrusted to those who
who respect the dialogue between artist and community.
The FF/Green government will be introducing a Blasphemy amendment to the
Defamation Bill 2006 which is expected to pass into Irish law on July 10th 2009
under time constraint or guillotine. This risible bit of jiggery pokery is enabled
by the overt attack on the independence of the arts by Seán O Donoghue (FF)
TD, who in 2003 introduced the Arts Act thereby allowing government interference
in the appointment of the Irish Art’s Council Board and in funding decision , which had
already dealt the first blow to Irish Arts. In 2004 Martin Cullen introduced the NMA*
which allowed the destruction of National Monuments and he abolished Dúchas
the Heritage Agency leaving Ireland without an implementation body or
statutory agency to ensure preservation of architectural or built heritage.
There has been a subversive and acultural element in the current government
since its 12 year reign of power began that is at variance to best practice
in terms of protection and conservation. The link below is a reminder of how artists
engaged the community with their cultural heritage despite the government’s
inability to understand the importance of cultural expression and critique within
the state at its foundation.
Unfortunately Irish governments are more concerned in projecting a national
stance or image in what they consider to be the best bits of our
character as a nation and not recognising the importance of growth and dialogue
in the arts, thus creating a fetished ossification of any green shoots that deign to
appear or that attempt to confront a national image. This means that those
who drive policy do not have a sense of the most basic rudiments of history
of cultural expression; but indeed tend to foist their jaundiced and silly
fetishes onto an unsuspecting public who will turn out in droves to whatever
Hollywood crud is put on in whatever convention centre funded to the hilt
by a buddy or crone of a cabinet Minister. It’s pretty shaming to witness that
corrosiveness in terms of the destruction of Tara or the fund cuts to two of three
writer’s centres but as the link herein shows its pretty much par for the course
to have a bunch of shop-keepers and teachers driving national policy in culturally
sensitive areas.
: The Irish Exhibition of Living Art.
Save Tara Campaign.
* National Monuments Act 2004.
Irish Arts Act 2003.
Harry Clarke Links at bottom of Poem .
Blue Moon
The blue moon, the blue moon
low strung and the late roses.
It was either Marc Chagall or Harry Clarke for the heartbreaking blues,
thus Clarke :
The Pics on this new Clarke site are indicative of his Blues
Firstly this is limited to an event’s Calendar link, although
I have put up a thread on Politics.ie and on my Twitter.
I shall add in the event Calendar link to the Poetry Ireland
Events Calendar at the end of this small notice.
The Google Book Settlement and the Future of Digital
Publishing:
Seminar Occurring in the Cheyne Theatre, Royal College of Surgeons,
York St Entrance, D2. 20/07/09 at 11am.
Speakers: ; Seamus Cashman (CBI), Sam Holman
(ICLA) and Oisín Mc Gann (author and CBI).
Tel: 01 4789974
Mail: Info@poetryireland.ie (RSVP)
I am adding in here the link to the Event Notice and the thread that
I published yesterday in P.ie.
The Google Library and Partnership projects: barely covered by the Irish Times.
I attended the Google Book Settlement Seminar at the RCSI this morning to get
an overview of the case to date: Which I must emphasise is not settled yet,
thus making the dates/issues/cases and general agitation by Google whose
advisors and lawyers have created what is essentially an entirely arbitrary set
of obfuscating circumstances to define book digitalisation.
I think it’s called Corporate avant-gardeism (cos it sure ain’t intellectual).
Google Book Settlement Meet : Digitalisation
A Brief overview of the GBS:
i). Google has redefined what comprises Commercial availability.
ii). Through the Berne Convention (Which is covered by GBS) Irish Authors and Publishers have ‘A US Copyright interest:
Berne Convention for the Protection of Literary and Artistic Works – Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
iii). Google (for the moment one assumes) is excluding personal papers,
sheet music, periodicals, public domain and governmental publications from
the GBS.
* Oxford and Harvard have agreed with Goggle to digitalise their collections.
*2005: The Author’s Guild and Mc Graw Hill sue Google for copyright infringement.
* +7 Million books have been digitalised of which 5 million were copyright protected.
(This means that they went ahead and infringed legal copyrights and decided to
fight the legal point at a later date)
* 2008: The Google Book settlement is achieved: http://www.googlebooksettlement.com
All info on the settlement will be available on a special Author’s help page:
Poetry Ireland , inquiries to info@poetryireland.ie
Legal, timeline and other info : Irish Copyright Licensing Agency:: ICLA | Frontpage
Google Settlement info: Google Book Search Settlement Notice to Rights-holders – Books & Inserts Registry
The only IT article was hidden in the financial pages : In short – The Irish Times – Fri, Jul 10, 2009
The European Commission is meeting on this on the 07/09/09 to look at anti-trust
elements which are also brewing in the US (the speaker indicated that this is generally
part of a class action in the US).
because a number of cheap US authors thought to support the Goliath, the issues
has spread virally into the EU whereby anti-trus meeting and Berne Convention
will directly impinge on Irish Publishers and Authors. The US Library
of Congress is not supporting the Google library or Partnership projects.
Berne Convention.
ICLA.
Poetry Ireland Mainpage
The Google Book Settlement.
Author’s Guild.
Anyone who reads this site (and lots do) will note that there
are titles *Ephemera I-VI*.
I did not start an Ephemera Category , nor do I much feel
like developing one. It’s mostly direct C+P without operating
links from email leakage or indeed from one or other site
that I happen to contribute on. I have published them also
into a group in Linkedin because I strongly believe that
*everything should be filed somewhere*.
( makes things easier to find, even if they are rough and ready.)
The Six Poethead Ephemera Links are now added into this post:
Ephemera # 1.
Ephemera # II.
Ephemera # III.
Ephemera # iv.
Ephemera # IV (a)
Ephemera # V; Knickers to Google.
GBS : Ephemera # VI.
It’s great when your government ministers do not recognise
their own traditions of blasphemy, thats mostly because they
have little in the way of time to read a book- though one hopes
when they are fcked out next election that they will increase
their literacy level…
Ireland has a wonderful tradition of blasphemic utterance, in poetry,
in fiction and in literature, mostly we are a people that refuse to take
ourselves so seriously:
I feel that Dermot Ahern has not one iota of intellection in this issue.
What a sad and expedient little man he has proven himself to be.
I hope many people submit as govt consistently erases cultural
memory in pursuit of what gain? Cheap and tawdry idiotic family
members pretending they can write books, or good tailoring- who
knows what attracts the witless bureaucrat to a position of power
therein to laud their ignorance as if it were somehow commensurate
with actually having a brain >?
Poets and Blasphemy via ‘Over the Edge’, Submissions Notice.
Sophie Taueber-Arp image from MOMA.
“Last night you passed by
As slow as the shadows,
And your thoughts were all drenched
With dreams of her promise.
But my window was laced with tears
At your passing
And you never came in
And my heart on you fasting.
And you never came in
And the weary night waiting.
But my heart is as deep
As the grass of her grazing.
O count up her fat cows
My soul feeds on tears.
But lonely tonight waits
And Lonely the years.”
by Constance Madden.
A wee tale: I found this poem in a small book of Irish Writing
found yesterday in Howth; and edited indeed by the Late David Marcus.
I will add in David’s Obit at the base of this piece. The volume number
is 13 and the cost being 6/6.
I found a Simone Weill book of essays, after my grumpy bookseller
had absolutely denied that there was anything in print and had sent
me rattling off to the interweb to seek out her essays. So after a
day of to-ing and fro-ing (movie and liquid lunch, doesn’t happen
quite often enough) I found the book. This evening will be dedicated
to beginning the book, which I hope to review (isbn ‘n all)
over the coming weeks.
I also got a Bataille, though my Story of the Eye is in BCN
being carefully kept for me, that one generated some sculptures
which were exhibited in the Hugh Lane back when I cut stone for a
living and which I miss doing everyday-
Off then to the books and new notebooks, though I seem to be
extending fitfully into prose at the moment.
Writers are this year celebrating the centenary of
Simone Weill’s birth, sure if we did not have dedicated
women’s departments where would we be?
A proliferation of books,essays and critiques are promised for
this year, oft times women of great vision and expression
disappeared under the weight of history only to re-surface
with the creative effort of forensic archivists and dedicated
communicators. I have just completed reading Waiting for God
by Ms Weill and have a small book of her writings in a SUNY publication.
It *will* be great to be able to access more of her writing.
I shall add in here at the base of this small post the few Poethead links to
Simone Weill’s work and I hope to have another piece available
over the next few days.
International Women’s Day,’ Necessity‘ by Simone Weill.
I have before mentioned the two small book-fairs that
occupy Howth village each Sunday afternoon, mostly its
where treasures can be found and indeed regular customers
get spoiled with first options on new boxes of books.
This time of year is when the gulls are encouraging the young
to leave their nests and head out to sea, the boiling humidity
and swirling grey closeness make the creche loud and dramatic.
Sea-birds run through Yeats and Joyce as tropes and images,
specially Yeats whose doomed desire for Gonne was represented
often by the squaking gulls up at Howth head where they
walked out.
I cannot think of a Yeats’ poem off the top of my head
to publish here (now) unfortunately but I am so glad that
the National Library exhibit is continuing for I was able to
bring the little one in to show her the Lapis and sword of Sato
this last week.
soleil d'Or rose, though not a winter bloom.
“The presence of nature in my winter room
With curtains drawn across the clouds and stars,
lakes, fells, and green sweet meadows far away
Is fire, older and more wild than they.
Fire will outlast them all and take them all
For into fire the autumn woods must fall.
Spring blossoming is the slow combustion of the tree,
The phoenix fire that burns bird beast and flower away.
Once Troy and Dido’s Carthaginian pyre
And Baldur’s ship, and fabulous London burning,
Robes, wooden walls and crystal palaces
In their apotheosis were such flames as these.
Flames more fluent than water of a mountain stream,
Flames more delicate and swift than air,
Flames more impassable than walls of stone,
destructive and irrevocable as time.
Essential fire is the unhindered spirit
That, laid upon the lips of prophecy
Frees all the shining elements of the soul;
Whose buring teaches love the way to die
And selves to undergo their ultimate destruction
Upon those flaming ramparts of the world
That rise between our fate, and the lost garden.”
Kathleen Raine : from Modern Verse 1900-1950
Oxford University Press (OUP), ed Phyllis M Jones.
I am publishing here the Poetry Ireland GBS (Google Book Settlement)
pages, replete as they are with interesting factoids and links regarding
how it effects authors. There is already a searchable quantity of links
on Poethead regarding this issue which will be updated soon enough
after the European Commission meets on the possible anti-trust elements
on the 07/09/09.
Poetry Ireland Resource, Factoid and Link page.
Politics report on the story to date.
Poethead
Ephemera on copyright,statute, funding and GBS.
Since buying Waiting for God in the last month
and indeed in the centenary year of Ms Weil’s birth I have been
fairly ensconsed with her philosophical writings which part of me
rejects because of the strength of her writing. She continues to
intrigue however with her strong likeness to Meister Eckhart, to
images in the poetry of Paul Celan and to Marguerite Porete the
beguine who found her death during the French Inquistion. All
the above named authors are searchable in Poethead with a
special emphasis on Paul Celan whose work features so little here,
save in two small pieces.
This then is the Google doc note:
[ A brief note on Simone Weil's Notebooks ].
I had published Necessity on the Poethead blog to
acknowledge and celebrate International Women’s day,
which as everyone knows occurs annually on March
the Eight.
I shall add in the link to that poem at the end of this
note. I have taken to carrying round the Joan Dargan
book “Thinking Poetically“, because my time is carved
into segments of day in which certain functions and
duties must occur. These largely revolve around the
children, thus the luxury of reading has evolved into
a certain office time which I have claimed totally for
myself- or indeed in moments of utter frustration
books are packed into a bag with the hope of a
coffee shop, a traffic jam or a warm park.
“Even to let the imagination linger over certain things
as possible (which is completely different from clearly
conceiving a possibility, a thing essential to virtue) is
already to commit oneself. Curiousity is the cause
of this. To forbid (not from conceiving but from
lingering over) certain thoughts; not to think about.
People believe that thought does not commit one,
but it alone does commit one, and the licence of
thought imprisons all freedoms. Not to think about,
supreme faculty. Purity, negative virtue.
“** if what is supreme can be expressed in our language
only by means of negation, in the same way we can
imitate it only by means of negation**”.
* Simone Weil , Thinking Poetically, ed, Joan Dargan
state University of NY press. 1999.
I am adding in the links to the other small pieces re Weil
at the end of this post, along with the hope that when I have
thoroughly finished the two books on my desk that I shall go
beyond aphorism and discuss the works more intimately. The above note
includes her ideas on negation which are more completely expressed
in her essays on Catholicism which are manifestly not written by a theist,
indeed she was unbaptised at her death, though she seemed to possess a
catholic consciousness and philosophy that owes a lot to Aquinas and
indeed to the tradition of Isacc Luria (She was an agnostic Jew in her upbringing).
Wikipedia on Weil
The Centenary of Ms Weil’s Birth.
Necessity.
Once by Paul Celan.
Paul Celan and Heidegger, ‘translation at the mountain of death’
Hot on the heels of the Google Library project and GBS (Google
Book Settlement), three tech giants have formed the Open
Book Alliance. Good to see that the scanning project, which
to date has scanned/digitised 7,000,000 books,( 5,000,000 of
those were copyright protected) is being challenged.
In the meantime I shall add in the links on the GBS at the end
of this piece, point the reader to the Pages link in the righthand
column and update as info regarding the European Commission
Anti-trust meeting (07/09/09) becomes available.
Open Book Alliance.
GBS Links.
The Ephemera Links
Elisaveta Bagyrana (Wiki Image)
Poetry
“If my glance were not blest-
with you, inside. Open-eyed to penetrate the darkness,
and to make it fly and dance for me,
grafting wings to it,
to teach it how to see the flower,
to see the future fruit in the a branch still bare,
and to land with an interstellar craft
on a star that twinkles there-
how could my eyes, deprived of such joy
last,
if you did not exist ?
If you had not pitched my ear-
so that in stillness I can hear
those words, someone whispers to enlist for me
words, that bring both care and cheer,
with nearby or distant voice,
from outer space or next door’s fence,
that reach me when full of remorse,-
all that powerful richness of sense
my life would miss,
if you did not exist.
If you had not possessed my heart
from youth until this very hour,
poured all your song and thought in me-
so I might feel my sister’s hand
when I was helpless and alone,
so that your furnace could transmute
sorrow to a spark, into joyous-tones.”
Elisaveta Bagyrana, Penelope of the Twentieth Century, trans, Brenda Walker,
with Valentine Borrisov and Belin Tonchev Forest Books 1993.
Fountain in the generalife Palace, Alhambra.
I thought to do a note on some poems by Federico Garcia Lorca,
though the images he conjures seemed to have thwarted that
and instead I found myself ensconsed in a book I found years
ago in Charlie Byrne’s bookshop up in Galway City.
The poetry of Lorca has run like a thread through my visual
and intellectual life since I was nineteen, though it seems an
age ago when I discovered his writing- it really is not that long.
Thus I was unsure whether a poem or two would suffice to
capture this greatness; and indeed had prevented me thus far
from publishing anything by the man. The line at the
top of this post is by Jorge Guillén , Lorca uses it to begin his
Poem Your Childhood in Menton , when he had found
himself transplanted into the Americas as a student; and away
from the very soil that made his songs, be it bleached by
the sun or drenched in blood. Thus I am going to publish here
an excerpt from the poem along with an exhoration to read
Lorca, to listen (if at all possible) to the music of the Deep Song;
and to recommend from amongst the Biographies of FGL that
of Ian Gibson.
Your Childhood in Menton.
love, love, love. The childhood of the ocean.
Your lukewarm soul which is without you and does
not understand you.
Love, love the roe’s flight
over the endless breast of white.
And your childhood, love, and your childhood.
The train and the woman who fills the sky.
Nor air nor leaves nor you nor I.
Yes your childhood fable of fountains now.
The above excerpt is taken from a series of published lectures
by Federico Garcia Lorca, entitled: Deep Song and Other Prose,
Ed and Trans Christopher Maurer. Publ. Marion Boyars 1954.
The Deep Song lectures are collated from a series that the poet gave in Spain and the Americas.
The Poem published above was published in Un poeta en Nueva York.
I believe my bilingual edition is also translated by Christopher Maurer
but have not it to hand at the moment. I heartily recommend chapters , which
are essentially speeches from these lecture series on The Duende and Lullabies
for the new reader to familiarise him/herself with Lorca’s intimate tone
and Poet in New York for a good introduction to some of his later poetry.
Lorca, a Life by Ian Gibson.
Poeta en Nueva York
Deep Song
Lorca Wiki
Paul Henry : The Blasket Island.
This small book was a gift, I am excerpting two wee pieces from
it because Autumn is coming in, thus my trips to my Place
in the west will be not as frequent. The words contain almost a hunger
to describe the island, the sea and the west of Ireland in it’s storm
damaged reality. Some of the images remind me of a view from Roman
Island in Mayo and some indeed remind me of the Arnold Bax
Composition The Island of the Fand
Across the Sound
The horizon is a mess of mizzle
Like gathered stage-curtains
Behind which the world is
Constantly trying to slip.
Across the Sound
Seven-night gales had been
Known to rip sheer rocks
From these bird-shocked cliffs.
As if the island had been
Offered up by the mainland,
An inhabited storm-wall
As if the island had been
Jettisoned, a large block of
Night heaved into the sea.
Across the Sound, Shards from the history of an island , Daragh Breen, November Press. 2003
Wiki image of Maurice Ascalon Art deco.
Pretty useless things by Poethead.
A Summer’s evening, its gray raining.
The flames of five candles are dancing gay.
As counterpoint, your little lamp is straining
her low glow across the space between us.
And you give me pretty useless things,
these symbols of light;
A golden bowl figured in silver round,
red-glazed, a red not in nature found.
This poem published in the Poetry Ireland Forum members area
is from an MSS provisionally titled Names for Trees
Some of the broadsheets, though mostly UK based have had positive blogs on the
Google Book Settlement, comparing it to a huge library of accessible knowledge,
indeed an exercise in democracy. I would differ there, given the issues that
are *not* discussed and that I have linked to before on Poethead.
Google Inc has no Robust Privacy policy in relation to Data:
Independent UK
Electronic Frontier Foundation on GBS with dinky contact email addie for Eric Schmidt.
My Blog on Politics.ie re the GBS.
The Open Book Alliance
Poetry Ireland GBS Pages
A Bonnard Blossom tree.
Snapshot of an Orchard in Port Angeles
(for Mrs Georgia Bond and Stanley Kunitz)
” The woman worked all her youth on Lost Mountain
marking trees to be cut,
and gave birth to five children.
Now, old and a widow, she takes care
of her orchard,
When her daughter brought the poet from Provincetown to visit,
the old woman was proud to show him
her oldest tree : pinus aristata- the one never marked
for cutting- that is, the deathless one- she added.
The poet doubted this; ‘I am afraid you are mistaken.
The oldest tree in the world is metasequoia
glyptostroboides- (also known as the Dawn Redwood)
and it has more lives to live. Well, what do you think?
Which one of us is right, madam?’
She answered: ‘A man lives as long as his life, mister,
but a poet lives as long as your tree with a strange name.’
He liked her answer so much that on her birthday
he sent by telegram to a nursery, then by truck
to her doorstep, his own tree, the Dawn Redwood,
and a card : ‘May this tree grow near yours.
Let their shadows annul each other reciprocally
so in your orchard
light will grow free forever’. “
I have mentioned Liliana Ursu’s book The Sky Behind the Forest before, it is translated by Tess Gallagher
and Adam Sorkin. Bloodaxe 1997.
I refer in short to the Google Book Settlement as the GBS throughout this series of posts,
the links of which I will include at the base of this short piece.
Yesterday there was a meeting of the European Commission (07/09/09)
re the GBS which yielded what Irish Media refer to as concessions
to European authors and publishing houses.
How Big of Google to recognise that the GBS is an irritant encompassing:
i). Breach of copyright.
ii).No robust data privacy rules and the use of deposit library relationships to advance
the GBS above the heads of authors.
The Telegraph referred to the meeting as out for European authors
and betwixt the two lies a truth. The manipulation of the Berne Convention
to subvert intellectual property rights law in an era wherein governments
(such as In China) can proscribe forms and words that they disprove of
incl. the utilisation of search engine terms (such as in the Green Dam youth
filtering software) would point to Google vying for a market dominance without
the requisite ethical approach to Freedom of Information and data privacy.
if you can make a word vanish in China you can remove books from
the digitisation project at the behest of government, not to
mind that the GBS scanning omits pictorials and forewords.
I am adding in here the two P.ie posts on the issue:
EC Meeting of 07/09/09
GBS links
Reports on the EC Meeting:
Telegraph 08/09/09
GBS and Privacy.
GBS Facts Pages for Authors and publishers
Electronic Frontier Foundation on data privacy
The Berne Convention from Wiki.
Panorama of BCN via Wiki .
I spent this early morning at the funeral mass of a neighbour
and have not had time to think about what poem I would like
to publish today. Yesterday, whilst looking for some paperwork
and files I found a small handbound book of poems that I had made
in Barcelona last year. It’s provisionally titled The Archivum,
partly because I found myself at least twice in the Cathedral of Pi
(Gothic quarter) and therein is a small courtyard with railed in trees,
the paving slabs are endowed with varieties of images and symbols,
mostly skull and X-bones. Before one gets to the courtyard, there
are two coffins on a shelf bearing crosses, that, my friend assures me
quivered and rocked about during the Cathedral occupation;
and then a sign Archivum. For some reason the little book
contains two finished poems and voulmes of notes/drafts , all
foreworded by a quote from The Unnameable by JP Lovecraft
I have said it here before, Lovecraft is creepy; but not really scary.
The poems are in Irish and describe Loch Lein and Catalunya breezes.
I am unsure whether to publish them in full or excerpt , as they are
more draft than poems. I thought I had lost them in my endless
files and am glad they are recovered. I also came across a blue
Craftsman’s Notebook , which is chockfull of images (they all start as image)
that never quite made it into poems but does show my intense
preoccupations at that time. It’s blue bound with a small elastic
holding it together. I did not study it too closely but intend to later
on today.
There is a poem on Poethead entitled Santa Maria del Mar
which I am adding in at the base of the piece. I am interested in
conservation and apocrypha, thus can only assume that the two
small books were filed together in an odd place for later
finding.
Between the GBS (Google Book Settlement), the new term at school
and attendant inability to actually sit at a desk and read anything…..
I have had little time to compose, though I have started submitting
again and have a list of retypings to achieve. The problem with that
is that I use an electric typewriter and I have no correction ribbon.
There is only one supplier of Brother products in the City and though
I am well stocked with black ribbon, I neglected to stock white; and
I ain’t going to order online.
Thus Irish Blogs is where ramblings and musings from Poethead
end up, along with a variety of other sites including tangled webs,
+poetry concerns in both parts of this island. I am publishing here
a link to the Poethead Page and a link to the Irish Blogs main page.
The I am going to find the poem that I wished publish today
The Mystery by Douglas Hyde. It sounds really good in Spanish.
small blue flowers.
San Aer
Amuigh,
d’fhán mé noiméad ar na gaoithe
’s í ag teacht tirim ón bhfarraige
ós chionn an locha, an tsrutháin.
’s í ag séid, gus ag feitheamnh,
ag sugradh, ’s á mhuirnigh
’s í á chaoineadh’gus ag caint im chlusa.
‘gus an cheoil i a d’impríodh
thar no mblaithí goirme
iad ag fás ar thaobh thiar no locha.
’s í ag séid, gus ag feitheamh
ag sugradh, ’s á mhuirnigh
ag chaoineadh ’s ag caint im chlusa.
D’fhag me an chathair tamallín
an rhaic gus an fhuaim
d’fhág mé na cathrach tamallín
chun í á fheitheamh:
’s a cheoil bhuí á thógáil í scornach éin.
I don’t feel like adding a translation, the poem is about the wind
playing in Barcelona whilst I sat on the steps of a wee atico and listened
to the sounds of the city. The playfulness of the breeze reminded me of
how it used shiver over small forget- me- nots on the edges of a southern
lake in Ireland:
Colours in the poem:
mblathaí goirme = blue flowers,
Cheoil buí = yellow music.
Poetry Ireland at the Unitarian Church
Last year’s Dublin Culture night, wherein mostly all dublin venues are
open to everyone and include galleries, museums, film and readings
was fantastic, especially the Poetry Ireland Open Mic sessions down
at the Unitarian Church on St Stephen’s Green. The church is often
used as a PI venue, indeed I visited to hear the belated International
Women’s Day celebrations in 2008 also.
The evening begins at 6pm and goes through until 11pm; and once
the poets are signed in for their allotted seven minutes they can come
and go as they please. Last year slammers, irish poets and new poets
vyed on the pulpit memorably, with Ulick O Connor followed by an
LA slammer 
(t’was hilarious). Ulick colour codes his pieces and
had a sheaf of original material nested beneath his arm as he ascended
to read. I highly recommend the evening and shall leave an info link
at the base of this small piece. I heard that Parnell Square had good
writers doing the readings and talk also. When I locate the Twitter
addie for the culture night I shall add it in too, wherein links to
maps, timetables and evening programmes for all the family and
pals too.
Poetry Ireland Open Mic evening, Unitarian Church, St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2. 6pm-11pm 2009.
I am looking forward to it, though have to do an intricate plan by
mapping the evening. This is to do with my guests who are smaller
than the average person and not used to being up late.
So the evening will involve drop-ins to their and my chosen venues.
And a wee bite to eat along the route.
The main thread on the night is just below this post, that includes
the main link to maps and cities involved in this year’s celebrations.
As I said there , Poetry Ireland will be reviving their wonderful
Open Mic night at the Unitarian Church on St Stephen’s Green.
Other recommendations include Charlie Byrne’s bookshop
evening up in Galway which will be chaired by Michael O Loughlin
and anywhere where poets do gather = look at the maps.
The cities will be lit up with venues open that normally do not
open at night; and as I said before the best way to do it, is by
using the feet and planning well in advance. Taxis are for the
time-constrained.
The Mystery, by Douglas Hyde*
I am the wind which breathes upon the sea,
I am the wave of the ocean,
I am the murmur of the billows,
I am the ox of the seven combats,
I am the vulture upon the rocks,
I am the beam of the sun,
I am the fairest of the plants,
I am the wild boar in valour,
I am the salmon in the water,
I am a lake in the plain,
I am a word of science,
I am the point of the lance in battle,
I am the god who created in the head, the fire,
Who is it who throws light into the meeting on the mountain ?
Who announces the ages of the moon?
Who touches the place where couches the sun
(if not I)
* I do not have a book for this one, it’s transcribed from a bilingual
Spanish edition in the keeping of my wonderful friend, I will of course
ask him to send me the details so i can publish it here. it’s a beautiful
poem by Douglas Hyde.
From Skywriting, by Dennis O Driscoll
On midwinter day, sun excavates
the entrances of passage tombs,
surveys their corbelled vaults, revives
their spirits with light touch.
And slabs of weather-beaten stone-
wedged on heathery mountain tops
that offer panoramas of five fertile counties-
carry boulders like the weight
of the world on granite shoulders
receive a warm overspill of light,
as do these giant incisors- a ring of
standing stones- which form a sun trap.
I highly recommend ‘Skywriting’ by the way, it is taken from Reality Check
by Dennis O Driscoll, publ. Anvil 2007, sure I know – was at the launch
in RCSI on the Green.
I have published a small excerpt from Tula before this on Poethead.
Leo Tolstoy: Essays from Tula, with an introduction by Nicolas Berdyaev.
London, Sheppard Press, 1948.
i). Bethink Yourselves.
ii). The Slavery of our times.
iii) An Appeal to Social reformers.
iv)True criticism.
v). I cannot be Silent.
vi).Thou Shalt Kill No One.
vii). A Letter to the Peace Conference.
viii).The End of the Age.
ix). Love one Another.
Foreword by Nicholas Berdyaev
The book has an interesting tale, it came to me via my favourite wee private book collection
in Westport where the borrowing involves making a note of Essay/book/monograph, author
and ISBN (if any). The borrowing can be long term , unlike the public libraries which tend toward
a three week limit and a fining system… That collection (in Mayo) is also good for transcribing
portions of poetry books and books that are no longer in circulation and is in the way of
discipline regarding what one wishes to access. Interestingly a small group of books that
are in my possession have been requested by someone who the owner judged not to
be ready to request (as yet)..that will change with time. It’s funny that often the books
we would disregard at certain stages gather potence and relevance as we get a bit more
life-experienced (or indeed world weary).
Thats life!
Here’s some Tolstoy for a Monday morning in Dublin city:
” Yet a religion which answers to the demands of our time does exist and is known
to all men, and in a latent state lives in the hearts of men of the Christian world.
Therefore that this religion should become evident to and binding upon all men it is only
necessary firstly that educated men, the leaders of the masses, should understand
that religion is necessary to man. That without religion man cannot live a good life,
and that what they call science cannot replace religion; and secondly that those
in power and support the old empty forms of religion should understand that what they
support and preach under the form of religion is not only not religion
but is the chief obstacle to men’s appropriating the true religion which they already
know, and which alone can deliver men from their calamities”.
I have indeed published this in excerpt before now on this very blog. Thats probably
because it is imperative to understanding the concept of evolutionary development
in human philosophies and wisdom. Theres a huge apocrypha which goes ignored
and unconserved in our drive to modernism which really does leave the best bits
of our philosophies out. I am not into theorising on why theocracies indulge the
most totalitarian aspects of collectivism or why dogma is anti-intellectual: sure thats
all been done before. I would simply say that each individual will take something
different from a book they are reading be it poetry, theology, politics, philosophy
and that to have that chance is important to everyone and not to the guardians of
dogmatism who in many ways have failed quite simply to engage people at any level
of understanding saving the overtly materialistic.
I’d highly recommend the writings of Simone Weill to those who wish study how
anti-intellectualism makes many of us outsiders to a shared heritage and how close
we come to totalitarianism by arrogantly accepting dogma with blind obedience.
I will add in the Weill links at the base of this small post.
Leo Tolstoy’s Essays from Tula with an introduction by Nicolas Berdyaev
London, Sheppard Press 1948.
wiki image by Tatyana Zelenskaya
Anna Politkovskaya 30/08/48 to 07/10/06
I will add in a few blog posts and information pages at
the end of this post which is in the manner of remembering
the importance of this woman writer politically and
acknowledging the work she did in Chechyna.
Light is Speech, by Marianne Moore (excerpt)
“One can say more of sunlight
than of speech; but speech
and light, each
aiding each- when French-
have not disgraced that still
unextirpated adjective.
Yes, light is speech. free frank
impartial sunlight, moonlight,
starlight, lighthouse light,
are language. The Creach’h
d’Ouessant light-
house on its defenceless dot of
rock, is the descendant of Voltaire.”
RIP Anna Politkovskaya (1948-2006)
Here are some links to information about Politkovskaya via
The International Women in Media Foundation, My Blog and
Politics.ie:
Anna’a Page at IWMF.
International Women’s day ‘Remembering Politkovskaya’
dot’s blog
Letter of Protest to Putin.
from Fathomsuns and Benighted, Trans Ian Fairley.
.
“White Noise, bundled,
beam-
tracks
cross the table,
with the bottle-mail.”
.
[from: Fathomsuns and Benighted, Trans Ian Fairley.
Carcanet 2001. Fadensonnen and Eingedunkelt
Introduction by Ian Fairley (trans)]
.
“White Noise, bundled,
beam-
tracks
cross the table,
with the bottle-mail.
(which sounds itself,sounds
an ocean,drinks it
in, unmasks
the gangwealed
mouths.)
The one Arcanum
passes forever into the Word.
(Apostates roll
beneath the tree without leaf.)
Every
shadowclasp
on every
shadowhinge,
in and out of hearing,
all now report.”
I do like Paul Celan, indeed theres a wee poem by him on Poethead
entitled Irish, Use the search engine at the top right of
the page to access Celan.
In the meantime the book is: Paul Celan Fathomsuns and Benighted, Trans Ian Fairley.
Carcanet 2001.
.
Early Irish Literature by Muireann Ní Bhrolcháin
This is a wee link to Dr Ní Bhrolcháin’s book on early Irish literature
which I shall go to the trouble of buying before I review it, rather than
begging for a free copy (which isn’t a nice thing to do).
As the blurb says this book is suited to both the serious student and
to the general reader with an interest in the area. I shall put a link
in here at the base of the small piece and a huge congragulation
to Muireann on the publication in what have been incredibly difficult
times. The latter part of the statement alludes to her years of
commitment to the Tara campaign and unlike ex-Taoiseach Bertie
Ahern she really is well worth the read. She wrote it herself…
Put it on the Christmas stocking list:
An Introduction to Early Irish Literature , Muireann Ni Bhrolcháin,
Four Courts Press 2009.
A Wiki Iris.
Bridie is on her her way to prayer,
Past the purple bells that grace the wall
-They will not be still
Raising their arms up to the breeze
That blows in from the mountain.
I shall be linking to an internet link to this poem at the end of the piece:
Verse the second: “A prayer for My daughter”.
“I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.”
~
There really is nowhere in Ireland for a storm to Play better than the
exposed North-Western sea-board. Down here in Dublin we experience
storms as bad weather and if we are lucky enough to live near a
park or field then we can see the patterns of crazy that the rain makes.
There are times when I do not appreciate Yeats’ power and again
there are times that I do; and find myself going back into the books
to read him again. Last week this poem had the most powerful
significance for me as we lay battered by high winds and incessant
rain. I could not leave the house because of a very ill child who
is now mostly recovered. Nature seemed to reflect the helpless.
Thanks to my pals who wrote and sent wishes. I found myself saying
the poem (with gaps) , I never learned the whole thing by heart.
I am looking forward to the weather up in the North-West over the
next few days: When it’s dark , it is completely wildly dark and when
it storms…. it’s good to have the house round you as you listen to
the wild and fraught winds wreaking their havoc outside.
It’s Monday and it’s cold in Dublin, am so glad I got a new all-weather
but mostly Mountain-climbing Jacket on the Mayo Sojourn (Post-flu
and dental recovery). Since I am unpacked and having done the school
run where the little one was welcomed back with much happiness, I
thought to publish some Bronte (Brunty) poems and whilst adoring
Emily’s amazing poetry , I think Anne mostly neglected. Poethead
is about women writers , the whole idea of the blog was sited in the
Penelopiad , the woman in exile and the community of women who are
sometimes nodded to in serious writer’s chorus’, choruslines or indeed
hymn sheets, though most of the time critique is poetry and
weekend supplements tends to the male voice and academic fields.
I still have not learnt how to do an Umlaut,{ apologies}:
The North Wind
That wind is from the North: I know it well;
No other breeze could have so wild a swell.
Now deep and loud it thunders round my cell,
The faintly dies, and softly sighs,
And moans and murmurs mournfully.
I know it’s language: thus it speaks to me:
‘I have passed over thy own mountains dear,
Thy northern mountains, and they still are free;
still lonely, wild, majestic,bleak and drear,
And stern, and lovely , as they used to be
‘When thou a young enthusiast,
As wild and free as they,
O’er rocks and glens, and snowy heights,
Didst thou love to stray.
‘I’ve blown the pure, untrodden snows
in whirling eddies from their brows;
And I have howled in cavern’s wild,
Where thou, a joyous mountain-child,
didst dearly love to be.
The sweet world is not changed, but thou
art pining in a dungeon now,
Where thou must ever be.
‘No voice but mine can reach thy ear,
And heaven has kindly sent me here
to mourn and sigh with thee,
And tell thee of the cherished land
of thy nativity.’
Blow on wild wind; thy solemn voice,
However sad and drear,
is nothing to the gloomy silence
I have had to bear.
Hot tears are streaming from my eyes,
But these are better far
Than that dull, gnawing , tearless time,
The stupor of despair.
Confined and hopeless as I am,
Oh, speak of liberty!
Oh, tell me of my mountain home,
And I will welcome thee!
The edition the Poem was taken from is an Everyman: Everyman : Selected Poems, The Brontes, Ed, Juliet RV Barker, 1993 .
I have discussed here on Poethead before now the effects of a bad
approach to arts, indeed compared this current Government’s paucity
in funding to the first government in this state which underfunded,
censored and failed at every level in arts development , leading to
the evolution of such groups as The Irish exhibition of Living Art, The
White Stag group, the friends of the Hugh Lane Gallery and many more.
Most of these comments are noted in the threads about Blasphemy
and the funding cuts to the Irish and Western Writer’s Centres.
I spent a considerable amount of time listening to similar stories
in Music development in Mayo (theres a facebook going there too).
I expect that it is a lack of cultural understanding about how art
develops that plagues this government, not to mention a sense
of propiety which belies an almost lunatic ignorance (which most of
the growing Irish generation has witnessed in the approach to
the destruction of Tara by Dick Roche, John Gormley and Bertie
Ahern). Ireland needs a viable Art’s Council and a Minister capable
of intellectual integrity .:. Sign the Petition here ‘:’
I am placing herein a link to the Index page of the Irish Writer’s Centre
in Parnell Square who have been running a series of Benefit evenings
to increase core funding as a result of cutting by The Irish Arts Council,
(along with fund cutting to the Western Writer’s Centre). The Cuts
occurred just after the Minister Martin Cullen appointed a New Irish
Art’s Council Board (Linked at base of this piece/Politics.ie).
The Benefits have been running Oct > Dec 2009 and are chaired by
Nuala Ní Dhomhnaill and John F Deane, I hope to get out to one
or two of them also. The Index page of the IWC is here:
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