One of the poems that children had to learn by heart in the English school system when Poet-in-Residence was a mere sprog and whippersnapper was Cargoes, penned in 1902 by John Masefield whose 130th birthday it will be tomorrow, 1st June 2008.
As a child Masefield learnt poetry by heart before he could even read. One of the first poems to make an impression on him was The Dying Swan by Tennyson. At the age of 13 Masefield was sent away to sea but returned from Chile with a mysterious illness. Later he spent some time tramping around America. In 1930 he was appointed Poet Laureate ahead of some of big names being touted for the post - De La Mare, Housman, Kipling, Yeats. The Times commented that it was good to have a non-university man who touched the beauty in the plain speech of everyday life.
Cargoes
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
Stately Spanish galleon coming from the Isthmus,
Dipping through the Tropics by palm-green shores,
With a cargo of diamonds,
Emeralds, amethysts,
Topazes, and cinnamon, and gold moidores.
Dirty British coaster with a salt-caked smoke stack
Butting through the Channel in the mad March days,
With a cargo of Tyne coal,
Road-rail, pig-lead,
Firewood, iron-ware, and cheap tin trays.
-------------
An Epilogue
I have seen flowers come in stony places
And kind things done by men with ugly faces,
And the gold cup won by the worst horse at the races,
So I trust, too.
John Masefield
(1st June 1878 - 12th May 1967)
Saturday 31 May 2008
Wednesday 28 May 2008
Cheng Pan-ch'iao's Tao-ch'ing Songs
The poet, painter, critic and calligrapher Cheng Hsieh (1693-1765), or as he was commonly known Cheng Pan-ch'iao lived in imperial China. A comprehensive and solid introduction to the work of Cheng, his life and his prediliction for deep and gentle poetry is 'Cheng Pan-ch'iao' by Karl-Heinz Pohl (Steyler Verlag / Monumenta Serica Monograph Series - XXI). The 300-page book contains numerous footnotes and a large bibliography section - both useful for those wishing to check the facts or pursue the matter further.
From the chapter 'Ten Tao-ch'ing Songs' Poet-in-Residence is delighted to present for study a selection of five songs and an extract from Cheng Pan-ch'iao's prologue to them.
from Prologue
Maple-leaves, reed flowers, a visitor's boat -
River mist and waves make me sad.
Let's down one more cup of wine -
For yesterday's youths are today's silver heads.
1
The old fisher,
A rod in his hand,
Near the cliffs
At the side of the bay -
His boat drifts back and forth, unrestrained.
Seagulls dancing up and down like dots on the distant waves;
From the reed-grown banks the sighing wind soughs - a
cold day;
With high voice he begins a song by the light of the sinking
sun.
For an instant the glow quivers like gleaming gold over the
waves,
And when suddenly he lifts his head, the moon is rising over
the eastern mountains.
2
The old woodgatherer,
Chopping wood, alone,
Bundles blue-green pine
And carries light-green ash wood -
Nothing but wild grass across the autumnal mountains.
The once luxuriant tomb - forgotten and desolate,
Ancient monuments, a thousand feet tall, lie in the emerald
moss;
The stone horse is worn from whetting knives.
Why not spend that spare money on some wine?
Drunk he returns along the mountain trail.
3
The old monk
In his ancient temple,
Alone he burns incense,
Alone he sounds the bell -
Sunflowers and rye are presented as offerings.
The gate to the monastery hangs ajar, the lock is broken.
The light of the sinking sun lies somberly on the scattered
pines,
While autumn stars faintly twinkle through cracks in the
wall.
When it grows dark, he sits on his cushion to meditate;
Only the red embers under the teakettle glow in the dark of
the night.
4
The old Taoist,
His motley frock patched like paddy-fields,
On his back a gourd,
On his head a kerchief -
Shoes of straw and cotton socks to match.
He fixes zithers and sells herbal remedies,
Exorcises spirits and banishes demons.
White clouds and red leaves accompany him along the
mountain path.
I have heard that he built his hut at the edge of a
precipice -
Where should people seek him out?
5
The old scholar
In his plain house
Likes to talk about legendary emperors
And the ancient virtues -
Many a former pupil has passed the state exams.
In front of their doors, their retinue - proud and strong like
tigers;
Flags on the street, waving like dragons -
But one morning their power is gone like a fleeting dream in
spring.
Is it not better to live humbly in a by-lane
And instruct ignorant children?
From the chapter 'Ten Tao-ch'ing Songs' Poet-in-Residence is delighted to present for study a selection of five songs and an extract from Cheng Pan-ch'iao's prologue to them.
from Prologue
Maple-leaves, reed flowers, a visitor's boat -
River mist and waves make me sad.
Let's down one more cup of wine -
For yesterday's youths are today's silver heads.
1
The old fisher,
A rod in his hand,
Near the cliffs
At the side of the bay -
His boat drifts back and forth, unrestrained.
Seagulls dancing up and down like dots on the distant waves;
From the reed-grown banks the sighing wind soughs - a
cold day;
With high voice he begins a song by the light of the sinking
sun.
For an instant the glow quivers like gleaming gold over the
waves,
And when suddenly he lifts his head, the moon is rising over
the eastern mountains.
2
The old woodgatherer,
Chopping wood, alone,
Bundles blue-green pine
And carries light-green ash wood -
Nothing but wild grass across the autumnal mountains.
The once luxuriant tomb - forgotten and desolate,
Ancient monuments, a thousand feet tall, lie in the emerald
moss;
The stone horse is worn from whetting knives.
Why not spend that spare money on some wine?
Drunk he returns along the mountain trail.
3
The old monk
In his ancient temple,
Alone he burns incense,
Alone he sounds the bell -
Sunflowers and rye are presented as offerings.
The gate to the monastery hangs ajar, the lock is broken.
The light of the sinking sun lies somberly on the scattered
pines,
While autumn stars faintly twinkle through cracks in the
wall.
When it grows dark, he sits on his cushion to meditate;
Only the red embers under the teakettle glow in the dark of
the night.
4
The old Taoist,
His motley frock patched like paddy-fields,
On his back a gourd,
On his head a kerchief -
Shoes of straw and cotton socks to match.
He fixes zithers and sells herbal remedies,
Exorcises spirits and banishes demons.
White clouds and red leaves accompany him along the
mountain path.
I have heard that he built his hut at the edge of a
precipice -
Where should people seek him out?
5
The old scholar
In his plain house
Likes to talk about legendary emperors
And the ancient virtues -
Many a former pupil has passed the state exams.
In front of their doors, their retinue - proud and strong like
tigers;
Flags on the street, waving like dragons -
But one morning their power is gone like a fleeting dream in
spring.
Is it not better to live humbly in a by-lane
And instruct ignorant children?
Monday 26 May 2008
NEW OPPORTUNITY! Poet-in-Residence Book Reviews
Calling all poets. Starting in June (2008), for an experimental period, there will be an opportunity here on P-i-R to have your latest (or currently available) poetry book reviewed by an experienced reviewer.
If you would like to particpate as an author, and risk the wrath (or otherwise) of Poet-in-Residence, you should in the first instance e-mail gwil@aon.at with your contact e-mail address. Instructions as to when and where to send your book will then be forwarded to you by e-mail. Please allow 14 days for a reply.
There will be no charge for this service, other than your postage. Following the review your book will be donated to the Australian organization 'Book Crossing' which has a pick-up and drop-off point at Poet-in-Residence's local Irish theme pub in Vienna, Austria.
If you would like to particpate as an author, and risk the wrath (or otherwise) of Poet-in-Residence, you should in the first instance e-mail gwil@aon.at with your contact e-mail address. Instructions as to when and where to send your book will then be forwarded to you by e-mail. Please allow 14 days for a reply.
There will be no charge for this service, other than your postage. Following the review your book will be donated to the Australian organization 'Book Crossing' which has a pick-up and drop-off point at Poet-in-Residence's local Irish theme pub in Vienna, Austria.
Michael Newman wins annual Pulsar poetry contest
Poet-in-Residence is delighted to find the name of the Cheltenham poet, Michael Newman at the top of the recently released Pulsar Poetry Competition results. In a letter to Poet-in-Residence earlier this year Newman observed: "...it is difficult in this consumer age to write poetry that stands apart...".
Poet-in-Residence offers his sincere congratulations on a splendid achievement! The well-crafted and perceptive prize-winning poem certainly does stand apart!
Poet-in-Residence offers his sincere congratulations on a splendid achievement! The well-crafted and perceptive prize-winning poem certainly does stand apart!
To jig or not to jig, that is the question...
In The Independent on Sunday (11 May 2008) the following from clickmusic.com appears on 'The Critics' pages: "Mechanical Bride's rejig of the best pop song of the year is a masterpiece of gentle piano work, hushed breath and whispering pleading..." and from reviewer Sonia Zhuravlyova on the same page "Mechanical Bride...specialises in experimental, dreamy electro-folk..." (bold caps from P-i-R). The reason that Poet-in-Residence mentions the above reviews is that he wishes to justify his own use and selection of the word rejig in a poetry book review he did about 18 months ago. Working to a strict word limit P-i-R then remarked or implied that the poet __ ___ had come to notice by rejigging 'Under Milk Wood' to much acclaim and that this poet's new book was of an equally high and significant quality and standard. Harmless stuff you might suspect. But no so. A storm in a teacup is brewing.
True, P-i-R ought to have explained himself more fully in the following or similar terms: The poet __ ___ who resurrected and took forward the play for voices idea behind Dylan Thomas's inspirational and reverential work 'Under Milk Wood' .... (and so on). But, P-i-R didn't do so. He assumed, wrongly it appears, that the word rejig implied in this day and age a positive, ground-breaking and artistic quality as with the Mechanical Bride review mentioned above.
In Poet-in-Residence's mind a jig, as well as being a dance and other things, is a sail on a boat. And as Dylan Thomas often wrote of fishing boats lounging on the mud flats in Laugharne this choice of the word rejig came along quite naturally. But now, thinking deeply about all this, and the fact that the ball that the young Dylan Thomas threw in the park has not come down (as he rightly predicted) it seems to Poet-in-Residence we are all re-jiggers in a sense. The best we can do is pick up the ball and run with it. And see where we get to.
True, P-i-R ought to have explained himself more fully in the following or similar terms: The poet __ ___ who resurrected and took forward the play for voices idea behind Dylan Thomas's inspirational and reverential work 'Under Milk Wood' .... (and so on). But, P-i-R didn't do so. He assumed, wrongly it appears, that the word rejig implied in this day and age a positive, ground-breaking and artistic quality as with the Mechanical Bride review mentioned above.
In Poet-in-Residence's mind a jig, as well as being a dance and other things, is a sail on a boat. And as Dylan Thomas often wrote of fishing boats lounging on the mud flats in Laugharne this choice of the word rejig came along quite naturally. But now, thinking deeply about all this, and the fact that the ball that the young Dylan Thomas threw in the park has not come down (as he rightly predicted) it seems to Poet-in-Residence we are all re-jiggers in a sense. The best we can do is pick up the ball and run with it. And see where we get to.
Monday 19 May 2008
Poetry Monthly's magazine to close but internet site gets a boost
In only five issues time, with issue 150, editor and publisher Martin Holroyd will finally cease printing his popular poetry journal Poetry Monthly. Increased postal charges and advances in computer and internet technology have forced the issue to this crunch point. Many disappointed readers have already written letters expressing their profound disappointment. But as Martin Holroyd is quick to explain there is nothing to stop them printing-off copies of Poetry Monthly (now know as poetrymonthly.com) at their local library or internet cafe´. As as an extra service that would obviously be advantageous to those who live in remote areas, perhaps where no libraries or internet cafes exist, copies of the paper version of the magazine may still be ordered from Nottingham on a month by month basis.
The current issue of poetrymonthly.com (May 2008) features poetry from Michael Newman (a P-i-R featured poet), R. D. Coleman, Wendy Webb, Patrick B Osada and others, as well as a lengthy and detailed article from Radcliff Gregory titled Polyverse: The DIY Poetry Festival (Friday 24th-Sunday 26th July 2009).
New publications on offer from Poetry Monthly Press include 'Away with Words' an anthology featuring Aeronwy Thomas, Frances White, Annie Taylor and Beryl Myers.
P-i-R featured poet Geoff Stevens's collection 'Absinth on Your Icecream' is also available from this publisher.
Poet-in-Residence's own collection is currently at the last nail-biting stage before publication. The duo Saitenwind (Eva Stangler / block flute and Barbara Sambor / classical guitar) have offered to lend musical support for the Vienna launch.
The current issue of poetrymonthly.com (May 2008) features poetry from Michael Newman (a P-i-R featured poet), R. D. Coleman, Wendy Webb, Patrick B Osada and others, as well as a lengthy and detailed article from Radcliff Gregory titled Polyverse: The DIY Poetry Festival (Friday 24th-Sunday 26th July 2009).
New publications on offer from Poetry Monthly Press include 'Away with Words' an anthology featuring Aeronwy Thomas, Frances White, Annie Taylor and Beryl Myers.
P-i-R featured poet Geoff Stevens's collection 'Absinth on Your Icecream' is also available from this publisher.
Poet-in-Residence's own collection is currently at the last nail-biting stage before publication. The duo Saitenwind (Eva Stangler / block flute and Barbara Sambor / classical guitar) have offered to lend musical support for the Vienna launch.
Remembering John Betjeman
On David Pike's deliciously crammed with allsorts Pulsar Poetry website (see P-i-R's handy link in sidebar) there is amongst all the paraphernalia a photograph of John Betjeman's gravestone. We may look at this today and pay our respects, for it's exactly 24 years since the son of a Dutch-descended manufacturer of household objects (as Nicholas Albery described him) kicked the proverbial bucket.
William Plomer summed-up JB this way: "His lifelong affair with Edwardian England included old churches, old railways, old gaslit streets, old country-towns, old dons, and old invalids...[gave] him a distaste for much of what is supposed to represent progress."
Poet-in-Residence considers there is no better way to mark the day than to turn once again to Betjeman's famous and oft quoted poem:
Slough
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk,
tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town -
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half-a-crown
For twenty years,
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washed his repulsive skin
in women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
John Betjeman (1906-1984)
William Plomer summed-up JB this way: "His lifelong affair with Edwardian England included old churches, old railways, old gaslit streets, old country-towns, old dons, and old invalids...[gave] him a distaste for much of what is supposed to represent progress."
Poet-in-Residence considers there is no better way to mark the day than to turn once again to Betjeman's famous and oft quoted poem:
Slough
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
It isn't fit for humans now,
There isn't grass to graze a cow
Swarm over, Death!
Come, bombs, and blow to smithereens
Those air-conditioned, bright canteens,
Tinned fruit, tinned meat, tinned milk,
tinned beans
Tinned minds, tinned breath.
Mess up the mess they call a town -
A house for ninety-seven down
And once a week a half-a-crown
For twenty years,
And get that man with double chin
Who'll always cheat and always win,
Who washed his repulsive skin
in women's tears,
And smash his desk of polished oak
And smash his hands so used to stroke
And stop his boring dirty joke
And make him yell.
But spare the bald young clerks who add
The profits of the stinking cad;
It's not their fault that they are mad,
They've tasted Hell.
It's not their fault they do not know
The birdsong from the radio,
It's not their fault they often go
To Maidenhead
And talk of sports and makes of cars
In various bogus Tudor bars
And daren't look up and see the stars
But belch instead.
In labour-saving homes, with care
Their wives frizz out peroxide hair
And dry it in synthetic air
And paint their nails.
Come, friendly bombs, and fall on Slough
To get it ready for the plough.
The cabbages are coming now;
The earth exhales.
John Betjeman (1906-1984)
The Devil's Dictionary by Ambrose Bierce
Ambrose Bierce's sardonic preface to the 'Devil's Dictionary' of 1911 bemoans the fact that he had not the power to prevent the original 1906 edition from being titled 'The Cynic's Word Book'. The more reverent title was forced upon him by the religious scruples of a newspaper in which a part of the work had appeared. In those days there were so many books and pamphlets titled The Cynic's...this, that and the other, that the very word cynic was in bad repute. 'The Cynic's Word Book' joined the list. The change of title in 1911 possibly saved it from obscurity.
As well as word definitions 'The Devil's Dictionary' contains much humorous verse including the following -
Goose
A critic who all day had railed
Against a poem which had failed
To please him, as the sun went down
Stopped cursing and forgot to frown.
A goose, which, sitting near, had heard
In silence each censorious word,
Now solemnly exclaimed: 'My friend
I've heard you calmly to the end,
Unwilling to disturb you, though
I smarted at each bitter blow.'
'Pray what have my remarks to do'
The critic cried, 'with such as you?'
'With me, indeed! That serves to show
How little critics care to know
About the object of their curses;
I grew the pen which wrote the verses!'
Clergyman
The clergyman to Tom, one day,
Said: 'Work is worthy of its pay;
You to your body did attend,
But I your soul did ever mend.'
Said Tom: 'I recognize the debt,
And pay it thus.' A coin he set
Before the parson's eyes awhile,
Then pocketed it with a smile,
Remarking: 'Since the thing you mend
Is unsubstantial, pious friend,
It clearly seems the fitting way
In unsubstantial coin to pay:'
Ambrose Bierce (1842-1913?)*
*In 1913 Bierce set off for the Mexican Revolution and was never seen again.
His life was a tissue of facts embroidered with legend.
As well as word definitions 'The Devil's Dictionary' contains much humorous verse including the following -
Goose
A critic who all day had railed
Against a poem which had failed
To please him, as the sun went down
Stopped cursing and forgot to frown.
A goose, which, sitting near, had heard
In silence each censorious word,
Now solemnly exclaimed: 'My friend
I've heard you calmly to the end,
Unwilling to disturb you, though
I smarted at each bitter blow.'
'Pray what have my remarks to do'
The critic cried, 'with such as you?'
'With me, indeed! That serves to show
How little critics care to know
About the object of their curses;
I grew the pen which wrote the verses!'
Clergyman
The clergyman to Tom, one day,
Said: 'Work is worthy of its pay;
You to your body did attend,
But I your soul did ever mend.'
Said Tom: 'I recognize the debt,
And pay it thus.' A coin he set
Before the parson's eyes awhile,
Then pocketed it with a smile,
Remarking: 'Since the thing you mend
Is unsubstantial, pious friend,
It clearly seems the fitting way
In unsubstantial coin to pay:'
Ambrose Bierce (1842-1913?)*
*In 1913 Bierce set off for the Mexican Revolution and was never seen again.
His life was a tissue of facts embroidered with legend.
Sunday 18 May 2008
New editorial team at iota
After six hard but happy years in the saddle, the editorial team of Bob Mee (sports journalist and author) and Janet Murch are handing over the reins at iota poetry magazine. Iota is an established quarterly journal, now approaching 82 issues, in which Poet-in-Residence has been delighted to have his poetry appear from time to time.
The new editorial team will judge submissions anonymously and up to 6 poems may be submitted by e-mail. Details of all this and more may be found via Poet-in-Residence's handy link to iota in the left margin.
Bob Mee and Janet Murch will doutbless continue with their poetry publishing enterprise Ragged Raven Press and their afternoon poetry courses down on the farm in Stratford Upon Avon. Poet-in-Residence wishes them much luck and good fortune.
The new editorial team will judge submissions anonymously and up to 6 poems may be submitted by e-mail. Details of all this and more may be found via Poet-in-Residence's handy link to iota in the left margin.
Bob Mee and Janet Murch will doutbless continue with their poetry publishing enterprise Ragged Raven Press and their afternoon poetry courses down on the farm in Stratford Upon Avon. Poet-in-Residence wishes them much luck and good fortune.
P-i-R's (imaginary!) South Sea Cruise
South Sea Cruise
somewhere the shelf breaks and tumbles
like a scoop of croutons
tossed into a bowl of borsch
the women suck on strawberries
in slowest motion
reluctant to separate
at first
the great blue blocks
stir and slip away
and sip their gins and tonics
blue gold drifts apart
to wander free
to melt
dissolve
in salty soup of sea
tip the friendly waiter
pepper clouds have clumped
and it begins to rain
and blow
on shore beyond the harbour
flush and wash their hands
where husbands play a round
of golf
glare at the sky
and shrug
and frown,-
and back on board
the band smooths on...
c)-2008 Gwilym Williams
somewhere the shelf breaks and tumbles
like a scoop of croutons
tossed into a bowl of borsch
the women suck on strawberries
in slowest motion
reluctant to separate
at first
the great blue blocks
stir and slip away
and sip their gins and tonics
blue gold drifts apart
to wander free
to melt
dissolve
in salty soup of sea
tip the friendly waiter
pepper clouds have clumped
and it begins to rain
and blow
on shore beyond the harbour
flush and wash their hands
where husbands play a round
of golf
glare at the sky
and shrug
and frown,-
and back on board
the band smooths on...
c)-2008 Gwilym Williams
Saturday 17 May 2008
A kind of poetry ambassador...but what's that?
Poet-in-Residence has recently been informed by the world's no.1 poetry website, a website boasting a membership of 6,000,000 poets, that he has been elevated to the status or rank of 'poetry ambassador'. This follows hard on the heels of the recent ILP bronze medal award. What duties, if any, this impressive bardic position will hold for P-i-R is less than clear.
As usual with these things, P-i-R declines to part with any of his hard, yes hard, earned lucre and awaits further communications from vanity poetry hq. Watch this space as the Martian said to the UFOlogist.
NEWSFLASH - Poet-in-Residence has taken his impressive new title of poetry ambassador at face value and duly opened an haiku blogspot titled THE POETRY AMBASSADOR - simply click on 'THE POETRY AMBASSADOR' in P-i-R's left sidebar!
As usual with these things, P-i-R declines to part with any of his hard, yes hard, earned lucre and awaits further communications from vanity poetry hq. Watch this space as the Martian said to the UFOlogist.
NEWSFLASH - Poet-in-Residence has taken his impressive new title of poetry ambassador at face value and duly opened an haiku blogspot titled THE POETRY AMBASSADOR - simply click on 'THE POETRY AMBASSADOR' in P-i-R's left sidebar!
Friday 16 May 2008
How NOT to win a Strokestown poetry contest...at any price!
At the outset Poet-in-Residence must say that he holds the poet George Szirtes in high regard. He must also admit to having won (and also not having won) a poetry contest and having been (and not having been) a final-stage judge in a poetry contest. He can therefore consider the 'how NOT to win a Strokestown poetry contest...' scenario from all sides.
But this item is not really about what it claims to be about. It's rather about the unfair cost of entries in the recently judged Strokestown 2008 Poetry Competition.
What drew P-i-R's attention to the Strokestown competition leaflet, made it stand out from the others, when it arrived at the P-i-R residence was the fact that George Szirtes was highlighted as the main judge. Now, George Szirtes is nothing if he is not scrupulously honest. In this respect he is the dream candidate for the position of chief judge in a major international poetry contest such as the Strokestown. This fact, and this fact alone, persuaded P-i-R to read the whole of the entry leaflet.
What struck P-i-R as curious were the entry-fee details. A UK entrant had to fork out 4 pounds (equal to almost $8) whilst a USA poet had to pay only $5(equal to 2.50p) per poem. In other words the UK entrant had to pay nearly twice as much as his USA rival to get a poem onto the judging table. Or to put it another way, the USA entrant could submit twice as many poems for the same price!
But that wasn't all. The Eurozone entrant (including George Szirtes' fellow citizens in Hungary) had to pay €5 per entry - also significantly much higher than the USA entrant. And bear in mind that wages in Hungary are significantly lower than in the USA and the UK.
Poet-in-Residence decided to bring all this blatant unfairness to the attention of the judges and any other interested parties by means of a spoof poem. The poem would highlight not only the absurdity of the Strokestown entry fee structure but also allude, with a sprinkling of German words, to the subjugated Hungarian spirit kept down by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and almost destroyed by the Third Reich but ending with, hopefully a wry smile on the honest face of George Szirtes when he reads that Austrians and Germans now flock to Hungary on free buses to have their teeth done. And reads that the author is facing a Hungarian dentist armed with a drill.
The following sycophantic spoof poem was duly written and entered in the contest. It goes without saying that it didn't make it to the short list. To read the poems that did make it, visit the handy Strokestown link in the Poet-in-Residence sidebar at left.
Dentistry in Mosonmagyarova
You'll not be getting many Strokestown poems
from Ungarn*
not this year George
not with the price of free bus dentistry
being tied to the €urozone
in orts* like Mosonmagyarova
just think of all those bad teeth George
and the price of a couplet in the Strokestown
sent prioritaire* from the €ast €uropean €urozone
you know exactly what it takes George
a man of your calibre
a man with your canon
what it takes to make a measly $ollar or measly €uro
in a place like Buda
the exchange rate George
know what I mean pal, buddy, mate, amigo,
chum
now if my Ungarn* crony Tibor* was a spangle-heeled Yank
or just an average sort of oil sheik
wheeling and dealing in barrels of oil $ollars
things would be a lot different
a mere klax
he'd offer you ten at cut price
he tells me
poems that is
not teeth George
to oil the wheels of the canon
know what I mean George
or maybe it has recently escaped your notice
that they're out on the streets again these days
blocking up the chain bridge*
smashing up the parliament
it's the rate of exchange for the old landsleute* George
it's that business with Strokestown sticking its financial oar in
you know what I mean George
all that Strokestown financial clout
all those nest eggs in brown paper bags
all those common cormorants and shags
all that bad maths
all that reckoning up
and reckoning down
so how do you reckon it George pal, buddy, mate, amigo
chum
reckon 5 greenbacks in DC
gets you 5 measley €uro in Pest
and while you're chewing on that one George
I'm facing the guy with the drill.
c)- 2008
*Ungarn - German for Hungary
*orts - German for places, generally villages or small towns
*Tibor - Tibor Fischer, Hungarian author of 'Under the Frog' (humorous novel about survival in the face of oppression - contains wonderful dialogue such as 'I'm just going to shake the snake' - one which you might like to try at your next cocktail party!)
*prioritaire - 1st class post or air mail
*chain bridge - a Budapest landmark where students and workers recently demonstrated
against the government which they claim won the election by telling lies
*landsleute - German for fellow-citizens or people having a common nationality
But this item is not really about what it claims to be about. It's rather about the unfair cost of entries in the recently judged Strokestown 2008 Poetry Competition.
What drew P-i-R's attention to the Strokestown competition leaflet, made it stand out from the others, when it arrived at the P-i-R residence was the fact that George Szirtes was highlighted as the main judge. Now, George Szirtes is nothing if he is not scrupulously honest. In this respect he is the dream candidate for the position of chief judge in a major international poetry contest such as the Strokestown. This fact, and this fact alone, persuaded P-i-R to read the whole of the entry leaflet.
What struck P-i-R as curious were the entry-fee details. A UK entrant had to fork out 4 pounds (equal to almost $8) whilst a USA poet had to pay only $5(equal to 2.50p) per poem. In other words the UK entrant had to pay nearly twice as much as his USA rival to get a poem onto the judging table. Or to put it another way, the USA entrant could submit twice as many poems for the same price!
But that wasn't all. The Eurozone entrant (including George Szirtes' fellow citizens in Hungary) had to pay €5 per entry - also significantly much higher than the USA entrant. And bear in mind that wages in Hungary are significantly lower than in the USA and the UK.
Poet-in-Residence decided to bring all this blatant unfairness to the attention of the judges and any other interested parties by means of a spoof poem. The poem would highlight not only the absurdity of the Strokestown entry fee structure but also allude, with a sprinkling of German words, to the subjugated Hungarian spirit kept down by the Austro-Hungarian Empire and almost destroyed by the Third Reich but ending with, hopefully a wry smile on the honest face of George Szirtes when he reads that Austrians and Germans now flock to Hungary on free buses to have their teeth done. And reads that the author is facing a Hungarian dentist armed with a drill.
The following sycophantic spoof poem was duly written and entered in the contest. It goes without saying that it didn't make it to the short list. To read the poems that did make it, visit the handy Strokestown link in the Poet-in-Residence sidebar at left.
Dentistry in Mosonmagyarova
You'll not be getting many Strokestown poems
from Ungarn*
not this year George
not with the price of free bus dentistry
being tied to the €urozone
in orts* like Mosonmagyarova
just think of all those bad teeth George
and the price of a couplet in the Strokestown
sent prioritaire* from the €ast €uropean €urozone
you know exactly what it takes George
a man of your calibre
a man with your canon
what it takes to make a measly $ollar or measly €uro
in a place like Buda
the exchange rate George
know what I mean pal, buddy, mate, amigo,
chum
now if my Ungarn* crony Tibor* was a spangle-heeled Yank
or just an average sort of oil sheik
wheeling and dealing in barrels of oil $ollars
things would be a lot different
a mere klax
he'd offer you ten at cut price
he tells me
poems that is
not teeth George
to oil the wheels of the canon
know what I mean George
or maybe it has recently escaped your notice
that they're out on the streets again these days
blocking up the chain bridge*
smashing up the parliament
it's the rate of exchange for the old landsleute* George
it's that business with Strokestown sticking its financial oar in
you know what I mean George
all that Strokestown financial clout
all those nest eggs in brown paper bags
all those common cormorants and shags
all that bad maths
all that reckoning up
and reckoning down
so how do you reckon it George pal, buddy, mate, amigo
chum
reckon 5 greenbacks in DC
gets you 5 measley €uro in Pest
and while you're chewing on that one George
I'm facing the guy with the drill.
c)- 2008
*Ungarn - German for Hungary
*orts - German for places, generally villages or small towns
*Tibor - Tibor Fischer, Hungarian author of 'Under the Frog' (humorous novel about survival in the face of oppression - contains wonderful dialogue such as 'I'm just going to shake the snake' - one which you might like to try at your next cocktail party!)
*prioritaire - 1st class post or air mail
*chain bridge - a Budapest landmark where students and workers recently demonstrated
against the government which they claim won the election by telling lies
*landsleute - German for fellow-citizens or people having a common nationality
Poet-in-Residence's Poem of the Month (May 2008)
In his introduction to 'W.B.Yeats The Poems' Daniel Albright quotes a bit of blarney from Ezra Pound:
Neath Ben Bulben's buttoks lies
Bill Yeats, a poet twoice the soize
of William Shakespear, as they say
Down Ballykillywuchlin way.
Any poet reckond to be twice the size of the Bard of Avon must certainly be worthy of inclusion in Poet-in-Residence's Poem of the Month Series. From 'The Winding Stair and Other Poems' comes the following, dated 1928:
Mohini Chatterjee
I asked if I should pray,
But the Brahmin said,
'Pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
"I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything,
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain."'
That he might set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these words, or word like these.
I add in commentary,
'Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied -
Grave is heaped upon grave
That they be satisfied -
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped upon birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.
Neath Ben Bulben's buttoks lies
Bill Yeats, a poet twoice the soize
of William Shakespear, as they say
Down Ballykillywuchlin way.
Any poet reckond to be twice the size of the Bard of Avon must certainly be worthy of inclusion in Poet-in-Residence's Poem of the Month Series. From 'The Winding Stair and Other Poems' comes the following, dated 1928:
Mohini Chatterjee
I asked if I should pray,
But the Brahmin said,
'Pray for nothing, say
Every night in bed,
"I have been a king,
I have been a slave,
Nor is there anything,
Fool, rascal, knave,
That I have not been,
And yet upon my breast
A myriad heads have lain."'
That he might set at rest
A boy's turbulent days
Mohini Chatterjee
Spoke these words, or word like these.
I add in commentary,
'Old lovers yet may have
All that time denied -
Grave is heaped upon grave
That they be satisfied -
Over the blackened earth
The old troops parade,
Birth is heaped upon birth
That such cannonade
May thunder time away,
Birth-hour and death-hour meet,
Or, as great sages say,
Men dance on deathless feet.
Poet-in-Residence's Book of the Month (May 2008)
In 2000 the University of Wales Press and The Western Mail (Pocket Guide Series) got together with James A. Davies, senior lecturer in English at the University of Wales, to produce a guide to Dylan Thomas and the three places that were most important to him . Poet-in-Residence's copy of Dylan Thomas's Swansea, Gower and Laugharne was obtained recently at no less a location than the Boat House in Laugharne (see below).
The handy (it really is pocket size!) 132 page book contains a dozen colour plates, a collection of black and white snapshots and a street map or two which together with the fact-filled text give a real snooper's eye view of the life of Swansea's favourite son. It's an ideal introduction to the life and work of the great poet.
Mentioned in the front of the book, presumably for anyone wishing to glean further information about this and other books in the Pocket Guide Series, is the following website:- www.wales.ac.uk/press
A process in the weather of the heart
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled* land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down.
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pools down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
From 18 Poems by Dylan Thomas
*unfished
The handy (it really is pocket size!) 132 page book contains a dozen colour plates, a collection of black and white snapshots and a street map or two which together with the fact-filled text give a real snooper's eye view of the life of Swansea's favourite son. It's an ideal introduction to the life and work of the great poet.
Mentioned in the front of the book, presumably for anyone wishing to glean further information about this and other books in the Pocket Guide Series, is the following website:- www.wales.ac.uk/press
A process in the weather of the heart
A process in the weather of the heart
Turns damp to dry; the golden shot
Storms in the freezing tomb.
A weather in the quarter of the veins
Turns night to day; blood in their suns
Lights up the living worm.
A process in the eye forwarns
The bones of blindness; and the womb
Drives in a death as life leaks out.
A darkness in the weather of the eye
Is half its light; the fathomed sea
Breaks on unangled* land.
The seed that makes a forest of the loin
Forks half its fruit; and half drops down.
Slow in a sleeping wind.
A weather in the flesh and bone
Is damp and dry; the quick and dead
Move like two ghosts before the eye.
A process in the weather of the world
Turns ghost to ghost; each mothered child
Sits in their double shade.
A process blows the moon into the sun,
Pools down the shabby curtains of the skin;
And the heart gives up its dead.
From 18 Poems by Dylan Thomas
*unfished
Tuesday 13 May 2008
In search of Dylan Thomas
The first time that Poet-in-Residence visited the Boat House home of the late Dylan Thomas, the Welsh poet, was the time, many years ago, when Dylan's Irish wife Caitlin, then married to an Italian nobleman, passed away in distant Italy. Her last will & testament left instructions, surprising to the family of the noble Italian (but not to the poetic Welsh) that she be united with her poet-husband in the gentle sloping graveyard on the hillside at Laugharne in Wales. A small wooden cross marks the grave; his name on one side and her name on the other; together like two kippers in a box.
During P-i-R's first visit to the Boat House a curious poltergeist incident took place; a high rail holding up a tapestry suddenly flung itself to the ground, batting the wall as it went down. There were 8 or so witnesses to this incident. It happened during the TV showing of a video about the life of Dylan Thomas in an upstairs room.
P-i-R's recent 3rd visit found watercolour paintings 'for sale' on the walls of that upstairs room. No sign of the ghostly pole or tapestry! So did P-i-R, as he hoped to do, once again detect the spirit of Dylan Thomas?
The answer is probably in the affirmative. Strolling up the hill on a May morning from the graveside, through the sapling trees, onto the farmland overlooking the estuary in a singsong of birds, each reciting its own poem, P-i-R felt that Dylan Thomas was somehow there, somehow alive and singing. The sun shone brightly , the birds sang like heroes and the herons stood like statues. There in that place, on that small hill, this researcher found and was certainly touched by something; possibly the force that drives the green fuse or in other words that something that inspired the poetry of Dylan Thomas...the poet for whom death shall have no dominion.
from Poem on his Birthday
In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
herons spire and spear.
Under and round him go
Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails,
Doing what they are told,
Curlews aloud in the congered waves
Work at their ways to death,
And the rhymer in the long tongued room,
Who tolls his birthday bell,
Toils towards the ambush of his wounds;
Herons, steeple stemmed, bless.
. . .
I hear the bouncing hills
Grow larked and greener at berry brown
Fall and the dew larks sing
Taller this thunderclap spring, and how
More spanned with angels ride
The mansouled fiery islands! oh,
Holier then their eyes,
And my shining men no more alone
As I sail out to die.
During P-i-R's first visit to the Boat House a curious poltergeist incident took place; a high rail holding up a tapestry suddenly flung itself to the ground, batting the wall as it went down. There were 8 or so witnesses to this incident. It happened during the TV showing of a video about the life of Dylan Thomas in an upstairs room.
P-i-R's recent 3rd visit found watercolour paintings 'for sale' on the walls of that upstairs room. No sign of the ghostly pole or tapestry! So did P-i-R, as he hoped to do, once again detect the spirit of Dylan Thomas?
The answer is probably in the affirmative. Strolling up the hill on a May morning from the graveside, through the sapling trees, onto the farmland overlooking the estuary in a singsong of birds, each reciting its own poem, P-i-R felt that Dylan Thomas was somehow there, somehow alive and singing. The sun shone brightly , the birds sang like heroes and the herons stood like statues. There in that place, on that small hill, this researcher found and was certainly touched by something; possibly the force that drives the green fuse or in other words that something that inspired the poetry of Dylan Thomas...the poet for whom death shall have no dominion.
from Poem on his Birthday
In the mustardseed sun,
By full tilt river and switchback sea
Where the cormorants scud,
In his house on stilts high among beaks
And palavers of birds
This sandgrain day in the bent bay's grave
He celebrates and spurns
His driftwood thirty-fifth wind turned age;
herons spire and spear.
Under and round him go
Flounders, gulls, on their cold, dying trails,
Doing what they are told,
Curlews aloud in the congered waves
Work at their ways to death,
And the rhymer in the long tongued room,
Who tolls his birthday bell,
Toils towards the ambush of his wounds;
Herons, steeple stemmed, bless.
. . .
I hear the bouncing hills
Grow larked and greener at berry brown
Fall and the dew larks sing
Taller this thunderclap spring, and how
More spanned with angels ride
The mansouled fiery islands! oh,
Holier then their eyes,
And my shining men no more alone
As I sail out to die.
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