Friday, 27 November 2009

A BOOK FOR CHRISTMAS


Richard Askwith's book Feet in the Clouds - a tale of fell-running and obsession - Aurum Press ISBN 1-84513-082-0 at 8.99p is the Poet in Residence - Bard on the Run book tip for the winter fireside. It's what it says on the box but it's also more. It's an insight into the human psyche. A study of what makes mountain top fanatics, in this case those craggy athletes the fell-runners, really tick. And what keeps them ticking. What's the motivation? Why the obsession? It's certainly nothing to do with money, as in most other sports. Richard Askwith shakes the nuts in the box. Takes off the lid.

Until 20-odd years ago several great fell-running champions were ostracized for winning twenty pounds here and there and were deemed professionals. At the same time doped-up gladiators known as track sprinters were running all over the globe as AAA amateurs and earning millions.

What others say:
A minor masterpiece - Sunday Times; One of the best books about the extremes of sporting endeavour that you will ever read - Independent on Sunday; A truly superb book - Westmorland Gazette; A wonderful, funny and surprisingly moving tale - Daily Telegraph; A book to stir the spirit - Independent; A book you don't want to put down - Conserving Lakeland.



If Feet in the Clouds is much too energetic for your post-lunch fireside armchair there's always this: Genteel Messages by Gwilym Williams ISBN 978-1-906357-17-7 (5.25p plus 2.00p&p via Poetry Monthly Link with PayPal). The 2008 Purple Patch Awards Best Individual Collection and now 12 months in the Poetry Monthly Best Seller List.

Can't decide? Then why not try both? I found my copy of Feet in the Clouds at Borders. And why did I buy it? Because it was there.

_________
°the top picture (courtesy of Clayton-le-Moors Harriers) shows runners descending Ingleborough in the annual 3-Peaks of Yorkshire Fell Race.

Thursday, 26 November 2009

Brief History of Welsh Slate

A new Poet-in-Residence poem with something to say Brief History of Welsh Slate (Gwilym Williams) and a selection of poems by other poets may be found at the latest edition of Pulsar Poetry, now a quarterly webzine (you can go there via PiR's sidebar A-Z LINKS >>>).
There's high praise for Gwilym Williams' one and only poetry book Genteel Messages on the Pulsar Poetry website too. Click on the 'Book Reviews..' section.

[Normal service now resumed]

Sadly, I lost sight of Ernest (see post below). Yes, Hemingway it was that I was following in my imaginary first sentence of my imaginary mystery novel. If you guessed correctly what I was up to you can award yourself a gold star.

Wednesday, 18 November 2009

A Novel Idea


And so, an end to cogitation and dither. Finally I'm up for it. Like an Italian approaching a nun I gently salute my cojones. Purely for luck. Shall we now march into the church of pharisaical insanity? Ernest, I'm on your heel ...




[image: courtesy Wikipedia]

Monday, 16 November 2009

running along

Quite often on a winter's evening the only companion of the trail runner is the Moon. The runner's shoes striking the path and his own breath may be the only sounds. Not even the owl is abroad. A good runner can catch the Moon.



running along
and the moon runs with me

the cold clear night
and the moon runs with me

over the hill
and down through the trees

over the hill
no cloud in sight

along the path
and the leaves in rime

along the path
and the moon is mine

[...to be continued when time permits]
_______
gw 2009
image: courtesy nasa

Sunday, 15 November 2009

Gu Cheng's darkness of the night

The M57 cylinder is 4,000 light years away in the musical constellation of Lyra. See also Poet-in-Residence's poem Eye of God or Ring Nebula Deep Field (via blog searchbox).

Darkness of the night gave me black eyes
I used it to search for light
_______________
image: Hubble
poem: Gu Cheng

Autochthonous Art


The following poem is a first Poet-in-Residence attempt at composing art brut poetry (see the post immediately below this). The poem is dedicated to Vincent van Gogh.


Autochthonous Art

springs out of the soil
and germinates

to generate
in the Earth's
magnetic field:

paint a spring-heeled crow
in a winter forest
or a field of wheat
.

Attraction (and repulsion)
begins
with the spinning
of the planet

and
the unseen
spin
of
the
atomic
part
-ic
l-
-e
fizzling
invisible lightning
into the mind's
cavern.

Dream material
settles deeply in a pool
with hidden chambers

where sinewy stalagtites
grow aureate ears
and eyes.

On gnarled and twisted trees
you may place your doctor's stethoscope
and on the knots
auscultate;

lend your ears
to the trickles of their hearts
and calculate

how
many
gene-
ratio-
n-
-s

________
gw 2009
*image: Wheatfield in Auvers
courtesy of BBC.

Saturday, 14 November 2009

Art Brut in Gugging


A poem expresses what comes from the heart by way of the intellect, according to the poet R S Thomas. But what if the intellect is badly damaged? Does that make the poetry, or any work of art for that matter, any less valid?

Pablo Picasso, went further than Thomas. Picasso said that the artist must not seek but find - finding is a letting go and falling into a state beyond intellectual choices. Adolf Wölfi° filled 25,000 sheets of paper with drawings and writings during his 35 years at the Waldau Lunatic Asylum in Switzerland. Artist or madman?

Art is born in the unconscious. The poet's inner ear is open to his inner voice. He doesn't over-employ the intellect but he uses it, to bring order to his work, in almost the same way that a bricklayer uses a string, a trowel and a spirit-level.

Truly original artists are the few not touched by convention. They belong to no school. They are as Michel Thevoz says: masters of the unstable, traitors to the guild, intellectual slaves to truth, brilliant bootleggers and double agents.

These then are the art brut artists. And whatever such an artist produces is bound to be autochthonous. The work stems completely from himself. He owes his creation to nobody. You cannot teach him what is taught in your guild. It is pointless. He will ignore it. He is instructed only by his subconscious. By his own letting go.

Jean Dubuffet who coined the term art brut describes the art brut artists and their friends the primitives as being driven by inner forces which draw upon a true source. The artists of the Occident have lost touch with their roots. It might be possible for us to learn something from these so-called savages. It might be that the refinement, spirituality and emotional depth are with them, Dubuffet says.

Johann Feilacher, who regards himself as an artists' assistant, at Gugging Artists reckons that the work of art brut artists such as August Walla (All Kinds of Many Gods) is on the same level as that of household names like Miro, Warhol, Kokoschka and Klee. Art world trends are immune from compassion, he points out. By purchasing works like Net of Roses and Red Zebra museums were admitting that the works were of equal value to those of Miro & co.

In the early 1940's Central Europe's psychiatric wards were cleared out by the Nazis and the patients systematically murdered. After the war the same wards were replenished with greater numbers. By the 1950's conditions were catastrophic.

At Vienna's Gugging Sanatorium there was for a time only one doctor for 1,500 patients. Things gradually improved to a more managable 2 doctors with 500 patients each. One of these doctors was Leo Navratil, a pioneer of diagnostic drawing tests. Conducting the tests he soon recognized a specific symbolism at work and in 1965 he published his Schizophrenia & Art. This and other of his publications exploring the psychological link between artistic creativity and pathological conditions became known as signposts.

At Gugging the focus is on the patients artistic strengths rather than their illnesses. In the Gugging House of Artists each of the 14 artists finds himself a place, a table, a corner, where he can be creative. Some do this of their own accord. Others like a second person to be present when they work. There is no time pressure and no pressure to succeed. Every artist invited to live in the House of Artists is allowed all the time in the world.

Sadly, there have been some recent instances of faked art brut being sold as originals. Gugging art, I was told, is sold on a contract and commission basis. The artist receives 70% of the sale price. The remaining 30% goes to Atelier Gugging and the Gugging Artists' Gallery.

The Blue Star - the society's journal is published twice yearly.

________
°In 1921 Walter Morgenthaler wrote Adolf Wölfi - insane man as artist. Morgenthaler was the first to dare call an insane person an artist.
*The above painting is a Poet-in-Residence attempt at art brut. It's a bird.

Thursday, 12 November 2009

Happy Birthday Poet in Residence

The Poet in Residence blog-spot is two this month. How does a blog celebrate its second birthday? The poem below, Sunday Interlude, is an allegory for a birthday. The reader can go there. It will suffice. It may do more.

The philosophy behind the young and upcoming Poet in Residence blog has all to do with the role of the individual as artist. Poet in Residence belongs to no school of poetry. He sub-scribes to and for no palliative. He feels no need or requirement or urgent need to do so. Like Josef Haydn, Dylan Thomas, and Vincent van Gogh, the first three names to spring to mind, the Poet in Residence ploughs his own furrow. Sometimes the furrows cross. But no matter.

That's a way, but it's always the way in which progress is made in the arts. Schools of art or poetry sometimes serve to stint one's progress or stop it altogether.

Naturally schooling is important. Nobody would deny that. After all, it is where foundations are laid. But once the foundations are firm you can almost forget about them. It will take an earthquake to move you.

We can now build our towers. Poet in Residence has just completed the second storey of his. There's a long way to go. But the work has begun.

For the statistically minded:
2 years old (or is it young?)
500 postings (or approaching!)
500 visitors° per week (on average)
°includes visits by universities and educational establishments with more than one computer.

Sunday interlude

Sunday interlude

There is a man
brown as bread

And a woman
black as olives

Or maybe white
as bones

Strolling in a garden
sitting in an arbour

And they are eating fresh fruit
from a bowl

Perhaps a terracotta bowl

And musing
on music
and how many children

The bread brown man
and the olive black woman
or maybe the bone white woman

Are wearing their Sunday best
smiles
in their eyes

The bread brown man is plucking the lyre
it is not a new song

The olive black or maybe bone white woman is plucking an eyebrow
she hums an old song

A little but wrong




_______
gw 2009

Wednesday, 11 November 2009

11th November - Poppy Day


In a few moments I will switch on the TV and watch the BBC's Remembrance Day programme. Angela Merkel°, the German Bundeskanzler will be attending a memorial service in France. This will be the first time that a German leader will be there. The year is 2009. It's been a long time coming.

Perhaps now we can put World War I (1914-1918) behind us; finally bury it in the archives along with the Napoleonic wars, the Boer War, the Franco-Prussian War, the War of American Independence, and all the cannon-fodder wars that our various ancestors have been privileged to witness.

In 1916 both my grandfathers found themselves in the trenches at the Battle of the Somme. This crucial battle, as it was called, cost both sides dearly. It is estimated that more than 600,000 men on each side perished. Both grandfathers survived by the skin of their teeth. But neither man could ever bring himself to say very much about the horror of it all. They preferred to bury the memory. And we must respect their right to do so.

However there is one part of the whole business, for World War I was nothing if it was not a business, that still mystifies me. And it comes to my mind every 11th November or whenever I wander around the remote villages in the Snowdonia mountains, where one of my grandfathers was born and raised, and see the many war memorials with their engraved lists of names, almost every young man in almost every village killed or missing in France. I still have to ask what were they doing in France in the first place?

What was such a naif young man, not much more than a boy really, who lived in a huddled pile of wet slates with just one door and two windows, with no electricity, with no running water, and with hardly any education to his name, a boy who was forced to go to the Methodist chapel in the next village several miles away three times every Sunday, what was such a youth doing in France running around with a .303 rifle in his hands shooting at Germans, or shooting at anybody else for that matter?

Your Country Needs You! lied one side's poster. Your Emperor Needs You! lied the other side's. Lest we forget, the ten million dead could easily have been twenty million if the German Navy had not gone on strike and brought the nonsense to end.

Such is the fog of war; the yellow fog in which the vainglorious generals, the short-sighted politicians, the greedy financiers and their industrialist friends, the press barons and their fogbound editors, the dictators, the various other madmen with too much power, the religious fanatics, the stay-at-home crusaders, the brainwashed mega-multitude, the so-called war criminals, and all the world's two-legged rapacious monsters, nearly all of us that is except for the common soldier and his family, shall safely and conveniently hide and have our being.

Unless mankind finds a safer way to settle disputes and territorial squabbles the war to end all wars will really happen. It will be called World War III.

There will be no need for a World War IV.

________

°"We should rise above the pain of the past"
- Angela Merkel - today in Paris

________

The Poet-in-Residence commemorative poem this year is W B Yeats' poem An Irish Airman Forsees His Death and it is two posts below this one.