Friday 26 February 2010

Three clever ducklings

The poem Three clever ducklings is for our younger readers. Here's one! His name is Arlo.


The ducks have names too, as we shall see.


Three clever ducklings

There were three ducklings
with snow white coats
and pretty hats of brown.
Three plump and happy ducklings.

And the first of them was Ogagack
and the second Wulliwack,
the third of them was Wulliwuck
(she had a lot of pluck).

There came a fox, Herr Frissifrass,
who thought, it would be such a treat
to have those ducks - yes, all the three
with lettuce and an egg to eat!

"Come here," he called, "my Ogagack!
I love you so, my Wulliwack!
And here for Wulliwuck
are delicious sweets to suck!"

Those ducklings knew something was wrong
and said, "Herr Frissifrass,
please excuse us very much -
but we simply don't have time to pass!"

"We must fly now," said Ogagack,
"To great grandmama," said Wulliwack.
"At once!" said Wulliwuck
(she had a lot of pluck).

What should three ducklings do
In the belly of a hungry fox?
For him, they were too smart!

"Enjoy your meal!" called Ogagack.
"Have a good day!" called Wulliwack.
And Wulliwuck called out:
"Bye, bye, you dumb old fox!"

Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ...
_______
At this point in the story the fox stuck out his tongue in anger! The moral, children, is that when you are in the park, or on the bus, or some such place, never - really never - accept presents from strangers; one of them could be a fox.
_______
gw2010 - a free translation, from the German, of a rhyme for children by Peter Hammerschlag (1905-41)
image: freedigitalpictures.com

An Honest Injun

Another one for the lost and found column:

An Honest Injun

Down at Freeman's Quay, and
with an empty jar of corn-juice
and an empty portemonnaie
there sleeps an honest injun
newly come from Liquorpond Way;
come down to light his funker,
and get his back-teeth well afloat;
for the crack-jaw verses
of a patterer, had left his heart
and his head dead broke; and so
he took up his bow and arrows
and went to meet old Mistress Gin; for
an injun beaten by a clack-box
a noggin and a bed is no sin.
______
gw2010

Wednesday 24 February 2010

Shivering James

image: an Aberdeen cutlet


This Poet-in-Residence sonnet is dedicated to those on the roughshod roads of life. For those who missed the Gravesend bus, may the end of winter soon be here.

Shivering James

At the Alderman Lushington
I scraped an acquaintance
with an afternoon farmer;
one airing his heels, and
talking only the gammon;
a Shivering James with
no milk in his nut
and no lard in his pan;
an Aberdeen cutlet
was tucked in his belt.
I caught the wind of his word,
all balductum and quatsch;
an Inspector of Pavements
with nowhere to go...
______
gw2010

Tuesday 23 February 2010

The Poverty God by Alan Morrison

The Poverty God

Poverty's no faith but has its sacraments and rituals
That to the novice onlooker may look like superstitions -
But its character is scraped out from sundry scraps and victuals:
The souping of the sugar, pouring hot water in the bowl
To swill its very dregs to sweeten tea; the slow methodical
Silage-drain of reused tea-bags being bled till fully sapped
Of their spirit-lifting properties; the scouring of old change,
Mostly coppers, those dejected tokens for that rainy day
That's arrived, a thousand times - cleansed, re-minted through
Scrubbing, purified for bagged exchange at quibbling till;
The dissembling meals, minimally nutritious, just enough to keep
The body and mind together, not a scrap left on the plate,
That would be ingratitude; the racked spirit, the salvage
Of scorn, the head's hostelry of bitterness, the soul's storm;
A trembling trinity - in thought-form, a rising whirlpool in the sky
Devouring all but throbbing brow and blunderbussing belly;
All these rituals make up poverty's blasted tapestry,
Together it hangs in tattered rags, and handmade fags -
Rolled to smoke; the choice tobacco, ancient, brittle, cindery,
Lung-dragged in deep asbestos-gasps; these paltry sacraments
Are offered to a poverty god, who doubts that he exists;
Who's conjured through our hunger; Who's present in all absences.

c)Alan Morrison 2010

__________________________________________________
Alan, whose new book Keir Hardie Street has recently been published by Smokestack, has also contributed a new poem to the Poet-in-Residence poetry twentyten project.

P-i-R has a convenient A-Z LINK to Alan Morrison's THE RECUSANT website >>>

Monday 22 February 2010

selections from Watten: a novel by Thomas Bernhard

There is no such thing as a translation. Every translation is a new book. (Thomas Bernhard)

The following work-in-progress is continually under revision, or would be if I had time:

Watten is a card game played mainly in Tirol and Bavaria. It is also the title of a novel by Thomas Bernhard which I am translating in my head so to say. I shall try to make a loose written translation of it, a kind of short story out of it. But I will keep to the style of the original as far as possible, especially with regard to flow and structure. For ease of reading the text will appear in page-size blocks, as in a book. Since the game Watten is virtually unknown in the English-speaking world I shall for the purposes of this exercise call Bernhard's book The Card Players.

The Card Players

At the end of September, following the death of my guardian, I received from the sale of the Oelling Estate half the proceeds, my cousin getting the other half, a considerable sum of money, which I did not have any need of, and which I therefore decided to donate to a good cause, to support and encourage the written work of the mathematician and jurist Undt whose written work is concerned, as it happens, with the inevitable hopeless situation facing newly released prisoners, this was my decision, for this man, not only through his writing but also through his own presence, his personal devotion, provides a service to our society's outcasts, and so it goes without saying that I, in a short letter, offered him the sum I had surprisingly received (...) and on the 13th I received the following reply: Dear Sir, If you are offering me the sum of one-and-a-half-million without any condition other than that it is used for the cause for which I have worked for nearly three decades, and I believe not completely without success, then I will accept the amount. Yours respectfully, F. Undt. On the same day I arranged the transfer of the money to Undt. Two days later the recipient confirmed that he had received the one-and-a-half-million, he wrote: Dear Sir,

the sum, that I have received today, will immediately be used to adapt Thurnau Castle, which is known to you, for I propose to house there before the onset of winter some eighty men released from Suben. Yours respectfully, F. Undt. Two months later, on the 17th November, Undt answered my letter of 13th November (...) He wrote: Dear Sir, my most important works, and I only list these, are: Books / Neglect I, Neglect II, Neglect III, Articles / Damaged by Incarceration, Judgement and Sentence, Essay / Body and Chaos. Excellently Undt. (...) I turned in the chair and used the windowsill, not the writing desk, to rest on and wrote: Dear Sir, On waking up I usually think: why am I alive?, and then: why do I live in a shed?, and people ask me, why do you live in a shed?, and I answer, because I live in the shed, dear sir. On getting up I think, there will be a time when it won't be possible to walk to the quarry anymore, yes, it's a great strain even to walk to the rotten fir tree. With shocking regularity I have walked the same route for the last twenty years: shed, rotten fir tree, quarry, rotten fir tree, shed. Now and then I make a detour to the pond, dear sir. In the middle of the quarry I think of nothing but swallowing air. I breathe deeply in and out. That I have this

habit has saved my life I think. I walk, and when I walk, I count my steps. Four thousand to the rotten fir tree, eight thousand to the quarry. In great heat. In severe cold, dear sir. Now I don't go to the quarry anymore. Not even to the rotten fir tree. And now not even out of the shed. Yesterday: got up, got washed, then dressed, and then Fuhrmann came and asked me why I hadn't been to play cards, and I made the attempt, to explain, why, but I can't explain, why. I say: no, no more cards. (...) you come in here and sit down and stretch out your legs and always ask the same question: why no more cards, doctor? I: would you care for a drink? You say: no no! and you repeat: why no more cards, doctor?, I say: no, no more cards. Today he wore his winter cape, I thought, that means, it is winter. I go to no more cards, I think, I say: Look here, I don't go to the rotten fir tree anymore, never mind to the quarry, let alone to the inn. Naturally, I say, I have tried to go to the inn, but I haven't even been able to get as far as the rotten fir tree. It has no sense to speak to me about it. I say to Fuhrmann: I don't go to play cards anymore, it is impossible. (...) It is always the same, dear sir, he remains sitting and says repeatedly at short intervals, I should again go to play

cards, and I always answer: no, no more cards. When he is gone, I swear, if he comes back I'll not let him in. But I open the door to him again, and he comes in, and the scene repeats itself: why no more cards, doctor? and I: no more cards. Yesterday: the winter cape is from his father, I think. I order my papers, when I also know, that it is pointless, I sort through the mixed-up heaps of papers on the writing desk, notes, letters, bills, old prescriptions, reminders, plans, all on there together. But I also know that chaos only gets greater. When I've already said to you a hundred times, I say, that I don't go to cards, it is nonsense, that you seek me out, to repeat to me, to go to cards, but Fuhrmann does not hear me. Every week you come and waste your time and ruin mine, by repeating yourself to me. He hears nothing. But if I even had the desire to go and play cards, I would go no more. Leave me in peace, I say. Find yourself another man. Everybody plays cards here. I don't play cards anymore. Many are only waiting for someone to ask them to play cards. Why don't you leave me in peace (...)

Finnegans Wake reviewed (part 1)


200 pages gone down and 400 upto go. So what's allabout?

It's the broad sweep of the river of life as Joyce tells us with his EveandAdam hopening time gambit. The roving river is an escape route. Joyce's escaped root. The readingof thetext is the floweroftheriver. The river strumbles, strembles, stropples and oftimes swims in dleap stillwaters. And the funny zounds, sounds, knowsno bounds, knows minstrely swannyriver duck&drake sounds, for the readallowed readaloud leerders rushrushrush hiss like the riveristelf with a kayoptic snaking burbleandgurgle, whirrgle and turgle along thejoyful joycianway via sacra dublintriesteparisandrome and the cleancut land of the ahcurate cuckoothymepieces. JJ porks fum at whimself, at his usleysess, at his idiotsincrusties of whichheisfully whistfullware! Characters floater drown like stixnsteins two trembel and trimbl, crumb and grow, in volarius describesis. It's a rundferfl berolly and burrelly larfaminit smile on yorkipper bit ow'bardic nunsins and trooly a song of joyce!
Sofah
Sogroot!

Saturday 20 February 2010

PiR's Bloodaxe 2010 shortlist

Eric Bloodaxe's New Books & Complete List 2010 came today.

Spooning the chips from the porridge at breakfast; hundreds of poetry books in the booklet's 40 pages; but which will kill the cruggy?; and is anything worth the dimmock? These are Q's requiring A's.

Here, after munch consideration, Poet-in-Residence's 5 from Bloodaxe from which two chews:

1.Arun Kolatkar: Collected Poems in English 400pp 12.00p (pub:Nov 2010)
2.Louis Simpson: Voices in the Distance 176pp 9.95p (pub:Feb 2010)
3.George Szirtes: Fortinbras at the Fishouses 64pp 7.95p (pub:Mar 2010)
4.Marina Tsvetaeva: Eight Essays on Poetry 224pp 9.95p (pub:Apl 2010)
5.Philip Gross: The Water Table 64pp 8.95p (pub:2009)

Outside of the ubiquitous banana bookbox you can't get a lot for your sovereign any more. I'll axe Eric for a deal. He's wielding the hatchet on the Facebook. My final choice?; my tip of the year?; a tie!

And so,
I'm saving for 1&4.

Thursday 18 February 2010

Finnegan & Roddy Doyle? Ha, Ha, Ha!


Accordion to Ruddy Doyle's sinfamous particle über alles James Joyce, a resident of Fluntern Friedhof Zürich, preblushed Graunaidwise some 6 Auld Lang Synes ergo Hugo never got beyond the page tri of the Finnegan. Ha! Ha! Ha! Doylie Rod pull the otherone with the dingdongsong.

The Poet-in-Residence masshedge blesssaid Rude is that ewe sheepish of the Wake take it a baait kerrrnot swerviously. Loosen up yer Oylecan. It's only yer original Ha! Ha! Ha! A Punchintheyellow & Jewdie.

mind your hats goan in!
you prominently connected fellows
of Iro-European ascendances
and welldressed ideas
and mind your boots goan out!

________________
Havvah-ban-Annah
sniffer of the cobwebcrusted corks

Tuesday 16 February 2010

Reading Finnegans Wake

After the recent visit to the grave of James Joyce (see post below this) and the Zürich James Joyce Foundation it is for this Poet-in-Residence a case of now or never.
With a little help from Dominic Rivron I'm to read the book. And so I may be in absinthe from time to time. BUT DON'T PANIC! Leave that to me!
They say it is impossible to read the damned thing. And they say Rivron has read it a hundred times, or at least his mother says so. Forward then I go to Eve and Adam's armed with wallpaper scissors, sheets of cut-your-own bookmarks...and the bold intention to provide progress reports. Any fool can do it!

Monday 15 February 2010

James Joyce in Zürich

From Zürich's busy Central tram station where the blue&white trams crisscross each others tracks the no.6 rushes away up a zigzag hill and rattles on all the way to the end of the line, and almost gasping for breath one feels, halts at the Zoo terminus. The journey takes about 10 minutes, and conveniently brings the passenger to the gates of Fluntern Cemetery.

The passenger now becomes a pedestrian and clutching a piece of paper with a hand drawn map, conveniently supplied by a friendly bearded gentleman at the James Joyce Foundation° in Augustinergasse, makes his way along an avenue of birches to Joyce's last resting place; next to Nora Barnacle-Joyce and close to Elias Canetti.


The bronze statue of gentleman Joyce was done by Milton Hebald and was inaugurated on Bloomsday 1966, the 25th anniversary year of Joyce's death. It shows Joyce reading a book and smoking a cigarette. He casts a glance in the direction of Elias Canetti, or perhaps at his good lady Nora Barnacle-Joyce. This seeker of the resting places of the good and great is not at all sure.

The small sign, bearing the number, is seen in the snow. Genius has an official address:
James Joyce
(2 Feb 1882 - 13 Jan 1941)
Grave no. 80398
Fluntern Friedhof
Zürich
Switzerland

The following untitled Poet-in-Residence pome is dedicated to the memory of James Joyce.-

with slow craft of time
we shall one day arrive
without our histories
and our surplus baggage

the writer's pen moves on
travailing on reflections
for he knows that no-one has
been here for all the time
______
gw2010
°discover more about Joyce
via P-i-R's A-Z LINKS >>>

Sunday 7 February 2010

Othello at the Akademitheater, Vienna


It is in ourselves that we are thus or thus. Our bodies are our gardens to the which our wills are gardeners; so that if we will plant nettles or sow lettuce, set hyssop and weed up thyme, supply it with one gender of herbs or distract it with many, either to have it sterile with idleness or manured with industry - why, the power and corrigible authority of this lies in our wills. Iago

6th February,
Wien

There are some characters left out, Gratiano and Ludovico for example, and there is an absence of opportunists, hangers-on and freeloaders such as one finds on the fringes of society's upper echelons. In Gabriella Bußacker's Othello it matters not, for the stage will be full of debris soon enough.

And soon we, the audience, will be involved too; silent accomplices to Iago. We shall be the lackeys, the clowns, the gossips, the whisperers; and when not these we shall turn a blind eye. That's our part in the tragedy of Othello.

It's a dark night in Venice. The theatre is blacked out. One or two stars twinkle in the heavens. Iago and Roderigo are abroad. There's much shouting. Brabantio (played by Branko Samarovski of the Oscar nominated film The White Ribbon) is disturbed. There comes a nervous cough or two, and a shuffling of feet, there's an adjusting of positions, movement in the dark, a twitching of handbag zippers. The audience is suitably nervous. That's good.

And then suddenly we are in the full glare of the Court of the Duke of Venice. Here Branko Samarovski comes into his own. We note, for instance, his bemused and agitated delivery; its exactness.

No sooner do we partake of the theatrical officialdom of Venice and thereby meet Othello and Desdemona than there comes a great storm which not only sinks the Turkish fleet bound for Cyprus but almost destroys the theatre, or so it seems; with great clanging, and the flying apart of black corrugated metal sheets, a slow toppling of a steel post, and a whirlwind of dust we are magically transported to the island of Cyprus.

And it is in Cyprus that the tale, the tragedy, the inevitable story now unfolds. Iago, a persuasive Edgar Selge, hatches a terrible plot. And much of the scheming, in the Shakespearean manner, is rightly reasoned through by means of nuances and sly innuendos in front of stage aside dialogue. Selge's Iago uses this technique to compelling effect and brings us all along, draws us into the web of his bitter-sweet confidences. We are now silent conspirators.

Othello has conveniently strung up his military hammock to one of the few trees left standing after the great storm. This device presents Felix Dryer (Lights) with the opportunity to create gigantic shadows of the moment we are all waiting for; the evil deed, the naked Othello's murder of his innocent bride Desdemona, will be magnified on the back wall of the stage.

The theatre programme contains the bloodstained handkerchief; the circumstantial evidence of a man's folly. We can take it home and admire its delicate embroidery. And we can reflect on why nothing much has changed since 1604, the year of the premier, and why the colour of a man's skin is always deemed to be of some great importance. Joachim Meyerhoff (Othello) lived the part; he knows the answer.

A tragedy for our times, and for all times.

______
gw2010

Friday 5 February 2010

The Book of Temptations


The following anonymous poem was discovered in a health food outlet some years ago. It was on the reverse of a leaflet outlining 10 reasons for buying healthy bio-produce.

The Book of Temptations

Dietary Genesis

In the beginning God covered the earth with broccoli and
cauliflower and spinach, green and yellow and red vegetables of
all kinds, so Man and Woman would live long and healthy lives.

Then using God's bountiful gifts, Satan created ice cream and
doughnuts. And Satan said, "You want hot fudge with that?" And
Man said "Yes!" and Woman said, "I'll have another with
sprinkles." And they gained 10 pounds.

So God said, "Try my fresh green salad."

And Satan presented crumbled Bleu Cheese dressing and garlic
toast on the side. And Man and Woman unfastened their belts
following the repast.

God then said, "I have sent you heart healthy vegetables and
olive oil in which to lightly saute´ the wholesome vegetables."

And Satan brought forth deep fried coconut shrimp, fried chicken-
steak so big it needed its own platter and chocolate cheesecake
for dessert. And Man's glucose levels spiked through the roof.

God then brought forth running shoes so that his Children might
lose those extra pounds.

And Satan came forth with a cable TV with remote control so Man
would not have to toil changing the channels. And Man and Woman laughed and cried before the flickering light and started wearing stretch jogging suits.

Then God brought forth lean meat so that Man might consume fewer calories and still satisfy his appetite.

And Satan created the 99 cent double cheeseburger, and said
"You want fries with that?" And Man replied, "Yes! And super
size 'em!" And Man went into cardiac arrest.

God sighed and created quadruple bypass surgery.

______
poem: anonymous
image: courtesy BS Report

Words

In the infinite blackness of lights and shining stars
Does the solitary watchman sit
With his brazier burning; warming his hands -
Turning over theologies and the glowing coals...

Or is there perchance some caring nurse doing the rounds;
Going with lighted candle and reassuring words -
Forever with a gentle hand upon the ward...

And maybe too, a brace of jolly policemen on the beat
With friendly nods and timely counsel -
To keep the evil-doer away...

Or is it only squadrons of heavenly riders
Storming ever onwards with their flaming swords -
And no time for foolish sentiment...

Or is it only fireworks?

*

Tonight
In my own black night of light and stars
I sit and softly stroke my dear daft father's pillowed head
And think
Upon the meaning
Of his last and scarcely whispered words...

Jesus is coming

______
gw2005

I find these last words extremely interesting because my father, who lived as a boy and young man in probably the highest house in Wales (on the slopes of Snowdon above the Rhyd Ddu Slate Quarry), was a victim of countless hellfire and damnation chapel sermons about the sins of the flesh. He went to chapel and back in the inevitable rain over the rugged mountainside wearing his sister's boots. He finally escaped on a bicycle he bought with his first week's wages. He always said: When you're dead you're dead. At the end there is only oblivion, is what he meant.

Outboard Motor



In Dwerja° there is a cave
through which a narrow craft can pass
on its journey into the sea
with dark inches to spare.

Through this gloomy elongated space
my craft, the last of the day,
with its lone passenger
was guided by a weathered Gozatian.

He promised me a sunset spectacle.

Under Crocodile Rock
we caught the sunset.

He told me I would remember it
for the rest of my life.

Then we bobbled and scraped our way
back through the cave and away
from the tumbling waves. The key

to the business
was clenched
in his fist.

______
gw2010
°location is Gozo, Malta.

ceci n'est pas une pipe

ceci n'est pas une pipe

this is not a milk jug
this is not the wind
this is not a valise
this is not a bird
this is not a horse
this is not a clock
this is not a smack in the face
of bourgeois understanding

this is not a poem

______
gw2010

One Old Lady

One Old Lady

One old lady all alone
Without a cat or telephone
Sitting in a house that's cold
Doing nothing - growing old

Waiting in her coat and shoes
For dad to come to mend the fuse
Sees the snow outside is deep
And starts to rock herself to sleep

______
gw2010

Thursday 4 February 2010

Detective stories for winter evenings


Due to inclement weather the bardic running shoes are taking their seasonal break. This is better policy than risking a slip by running in the dusk along icy and snowy paths and trails. At this time of year the opportunity is always taken to allow the body a chance to recover from those undetected micro-injuries doubtless sustained in the previous several months of intensive running. Nature must always be given a chance to repair such micro-injuries. A stitch in time saves nine, as the saying goes.

And so what to read in the bardic armchair during the evening is a question that must be addressed. Not much point in ploughing through yet another poetry book when it's the daily fare. Like the body, the overactive brain needs a rest too, or at least a change of literary environment. And so, as far as this reader is concerned, something lighter is definitely called for. Something along the lines of a collection of entertaining detective mysteries.

I have no idea whether or not the book I'm going to mention is still in print. If not it will, I imagine, be available in many a public library, in the UK at least.

My copy of the Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus - his famous cases described by R. Austin Freeman (Hodder & Stoughton) is a 1959 reprint. The book was first published in 1929. It contains the famous cases of Dr. John Thorndyke; no less than thirty-seven of his criminal investigations.

In the preface the author describes how he has divided the stories into two groups which he has named 'inverted' and 'direct' stories. The attraction of the detective story, he explains, is primarily intellectual. The one essential, sine qua non, is a problem, the solution of which shall afford the reader an agreeable exercise in intellectual gymnastics.

Detective stories must conform to three indispensable conditions.-
1. the problem must be susceptible of at least approximate solution by the reader
2. the solution offered must be absolutely conclusive and convincing
3. no material fact must be withheld from the reader

Richard Austin Freeman experimented with the classic format to test his hypothesis that it would be possible to write a detective story in which, from the outset, the reader was taken entirely into the author's confidence, was made an actual witness to the crime and furnished with every fact that could be possibly used in its detection.

The result was the first story in this R. Austin Freeman omnibus - The Case of Oscar Brodski. The usual conditions are reversed. The reader knows everything. The detective knows nothing. The interest is focused on the unexpected significance of trivial circumstance. And so a new genre of detective story was born: the 'inverted' story.

There are six inverted stories in the collection. My favourite, so far, is The Echo of a Mutiny. In this story of three lighthouse keepers one of them is killed by one of the other two. The big clue that finally clinches the case for Dr. Thorndyke, ably assisted by his loyal bag carrier Dr. Jarvis, is to do with the pipe and tobacco found in the pocket of the deceased. It's a kind of Sherlock Holmes with sprinklings of science and homespun philosophy, viz:

Popular belief ascribes to infants and the lower animals certain occult powers of divining disaster denied to the reasoning faculties of the human adult; and is apt to accept their judgement as finally over-riding the pronouncements of mere experience.

Whether this belief rests upon any foundation other than the universal love of paradox it is unnecessary to inquire. It is very generally entertained, especially by ladies of a certain social status; and by Mrs. Thomas Solly it was loyally maintained as an article of faith.
(from The Echo of a Mutiny)

You may now attempt to run down your own copy of R. Austin Freeman's Dr. Thorndyke Omnibus. Leave no stone unturned. And good luck in your quest. The rewards are well worth the chase.

Cats go gently

Here's a Poet-in-Residence poem about cats. It was written many years ago but has never been published. A feline premier, then!

Cats go gently

cats go gently
when they want to
go to someplace
quiet

-ly
without disturbing
you or me
or indeed their symmetry

and once there they curl
and softly settledown
and
stare

at who knows what
but why
they care to do so
baffles me

because so far
as I can tell
it seems to baffle
them as well

______
gw2010

You, friend, listen. Credwch fi!

You, friend, listen.
Credwch fi!

You, friend, listen.
You, who are by the door,
can you hear?
I shall sing a song to the old land.
Believe me.
It is I who nurses the baby.
Is he sleeping, or else resting?
You, who are by the door,
can you hear?

Ti, gyfaill, gwrando!
Chwi, sydd wrth y drws,
a ydych yn clywed?
Mi ganaf gerdd i'r henwlad.
Credwch fi!
Myfi sy'n magu'r baban.
Ai cysgu y mae, ynteu gorffwys?
Chwi, sydd wrth y drws,
a ydych yn clywed?


______
gw2004

The first verse is written in the thin language, as the poet R S Thomas called English. The second verse is Welsh, the oldest living language in Europe.

There are one million speakers of Cymraeg, a Celtic language, in Wales, a land with less than three million souls, and they live mainly in the mountainous North of the country. "It is better to be born with poetry in your soul and music in your heart than a silver spoon in your mouth" is a pertinent Welsh proverb.

The very word Wales is an anomaly. In fact it is an untruth, for it is an English creation and it means the land of 'the foreigners'.

My poem recalls that the Celtic tribes were on British islands long before the English, the Anglo-Saxons. It tasks that the Welsh language, almost extinguished and now reborn, be carefully 'nursed'. It was shortly after WWII that the government in London attempted to outlaw the speaking and teaching of Welsh. In the end, after a lengthy struggle, it was the North Walians who prevailed.

Since 1959 Wales has been allowed to have a national flag. It is the red dragon of the Cadwaladr on a green and white Tudor background. The Tudors are the Welsh family that gave the world Henry VIII and Elizabeth I. They came from the island of Anglesey in North Wales. The Cadwaladr (or Cadwallader) are of ancient and noble Welsh stock and have provided Welsh bishops and princes.

Monday 1 February 2010

Amiable Irish Poets (The Prize)

Charles Christian writes on his blog that serious publishers are not taking any more poetry submissions other than through agents. It appears that there is too much plagiarism going on. Christian reports that a poem of his which won a 1st prize was plagiarised and subsequently appeared in a publication under another author's name.
In the following tongue-in-cheek episode Amiable Irish Poets (The Prize) there is no suggestion that Ireland is a hotbed of plagiarism; quite the contrary.
So, with no agent at one's elbow, what's on offer? Poets can still send their worst poems to the so-called Vanity Press for publication and then resist the temptation to buy the de-luxe coffee table anthology or framed print etc. or even refuse to take advantage of the no-expenses paid special invitation to travel to a ****hotel at the end of the world to claim a prize, perhaps a piece of engraved glassware.
Some years ago Poet-in-Residence tested the Vanity Press waters. A 3rd place bronze medal duly arrived in the post. Yes, it can be done. But, if you have to share your worst poems in an expensively thick anthology with 100's of other people's even worser poems, and believe me they will be even worser, what's the point?

Amiable Irish Poets (The Prize)

"It's himself. Look yonder boys, it's himself."
"Well, so it is. Well, how's he doing?"
"Ask him how he's doing."
"It's been a while."
"Three weeks at least."
"I'll say it has."
"Go on, ask him."

"So how's it going? It's been a while."

"He's very quiet"
"What's that bulge under his arm?"

"What's that under your oxter Sam?"

Me Prize

"His prize me lads."
"It's a flower pot, I'm guessing at."

"And what's it for, this prize of yours?"

Me Original Pome

"His rhyme, his rhyming rhyme has won the prize."

"A flower pot for a prize."
"And what does it say on this dangling card?"
"Let's all see."
"Let's take a gander."

An international prize for a good poem in Las Vegas
is what is on the card.

"Fill them up Old Pat behind the bar."
"Replenish the porter stout bar-fellow thou."

"You've just been over for it, this prize?" says Pat the Elder
softly drawing stout.

I did. I went there and back with Ryan-O'Sky. And what's more I've joined

"Oh my Paddy Kavanagh. He's went and joined me lads."
"What you've went and joined?"
"Two pieces of wood you've joined together?"
"Or was it joined-up writing?"
"It's the dole queue you'll be joining the end off."

It's the Global Rhymester and Publisher Club I've joined -
so it is
...

Silence all round.

The prize, a glass vase, drops to the floor.

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gw2010

Big Top circa 1953

Big Top circa 1953

on the star spangled drums
three lions yawn in turn
- not one can summon a roar

one tail-coated ringmaster
cracks two whips
- summons roars of applause

the three lumber out
half-asleep on their feet
- for the courage he takes a bow

it's the elephants next
or maybe the clowns

______
gw2010