Friday 28 January 2011

3 wise men - in support of freedom!

the 3 wise men

used 3 systems

the pyramid system
~ the king stayed at the top
and everyone was under him

the wheel system
~ the king was in the centre
and everyone was at a relative distance

the mushroom system
~ the king kept the people
in the dark
______
gw2011

poem for Henry Miller

O glorious world now chewed to a frazzle - 'Black Spring'

After 30 years

the cop in the street
the ugly dirty street
with soot-covered walls
and factory chimneys
and good for nothing air
full of sun and shit and oaths
as when the priest
walked down the street
and the street was purged of sin
as in reflections in wet pavements
the liquid mirrors of the street
where you were never whole
but lived in fragments knows
what human being really means
______
gw2011

Thursday 27 January 2011

The tol-loll tenor

The tol-loll tenor

With his tarra-diddle
and tarra-fiddle
takes away my tankard tears

Except
for the old ones
here on my vest

He's a tantarabos
from Boston town
with a thirst for a tolerable song

Till the bitch
gets up
and bites him in the head

Now he takes
three draws
to the spit

_____
gw2011

key:
'a tantarabos' (a devil) is here meant in a kindly way
and 'takes three draws...' refers to smoking a cigarette
'the bitch gets up...' means he gets drunk on songs (not to mention the grog!)
image: Lute Player by Frans Hals

Wednesday 26 January 2011

Beeemergency!


Then God said, "I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground - everything that has the breath of life in it - I give every green plant for food."And it was so. - Genesis 1, 29-30.

Only two things are infinite, the universe and human stupidity, and I'm not sure about the former. - Albert Einstein.

Beeemergency!

Some say Einstein didn't say
What others say he said
About the bees so I will say
It in his stead and that is this
That when the bees are gone
It won't be long
Till man is also gone from here
God's message couldn't be more clear
Mind the bees
And nature's law
There's no place else
For bees to go.
gw2011

Tuesday 25 January 2011

haiku

I wait at the bus stop -
it has lots of windows
that last bus going by...



______
gw2011

Monday 24 January 2011

Happy Birthday Rabbie Burns

It's always a memorable day for any boy lucky enough to get a bicycle for his birthday. He'll recall the day for the rest of his life. But he'd better look after his new machine.



Yes, it's here again. Tomorrow is poet Robert Burns' birthday and it goes without saying that any Scot worth his haggis and tatties will be out there celebrating, or at least having a wee after-dinner nip. With a little help from the Bard of Avon the party goers have taken to their bicycles. Who says there's no cross-border culture! Have a good one. Och aye!




The new bike

When bicycles crash in the wall,
And Ed from Airdrie breaks his chain,
And dog chases Tam into the hole,
And Rab comes limping home so pale,
The new Rudge chipped, and makes his howl,
Mam rightly swings the bloody towel,
He spits,
But what! a molar out,
While sister Joan fills up the bath.

When sorry boys to bathroom go,
And roughly frown on bruises raw,
And dog sits dribbling from the jaw,
And Mary strokes his head and paw,
Chain smoking Dad spits in the coal,
Mam rightly swings the bloody towel,
He spits,
But what! a molar out,
While sister Joan fills up the bath.
_____
gw2011

haiku

[MAN'S FUTURE LIES]
[IN BANKERS BONUS]
[INGOTS WE TRUST$]
_____
gw2011

Sunday 23 January 2011

haiku


my walls are now empty
° except for the holes °
where hooks used to be



gw2011
inspired by Zaina Anwar to whom my thanks

Saturday 22 January 2011

Poetry Monthly scuppered

After running the ship on the reserve tank for some time Martin Holryod has finally pulled the plug. Poetry Monthly and Poetry Monthly Press are to close forthwith. The last edition, a PDF file, is online.

Martin Holroyd was captain, first mate and bottle washer and provided myself and others with a forum and some much needed encouragement over the years. I chose Martin to be my publisher because I knew I could depend on him to navigate me through my first book and together we won 1st prize in the 2008 Purple Patch Small Press Awards for Best Individual Collection.

Several well-known poets, household names such as Geoff Stevens, were also to be found publishing their work at Poetry Monthly.

I suspect that what finally knocked the wind out of Martin Holroyd's bardic sail was not any of the reasons he has put forward in his last editorial. Martin you are made of sterner stuff! But it is I think something more personal.

The death in July 2009 of Dylan Thomas's daughter, Aeronwy Thomas, also a Poetry Monthly Press poet, and a co-organiser of the Laugharne Festival was a blow. She was more than a contributor for Martin Holroyd. She was a personal friend too. I think Martin never really recovered the enthusiasm for 'the job' that he lost at that time.

Good luck Martin with whatever you turn your hand to next!

Watching the clowns

for E H with thanks

"Hear the clowns' music!"
"The sensation of ages!"

"How they juggle the rings!"
"The sensation of being!"

"How they fall in formation!"
"The reflex of senses!"

All clowns want to play
More than a fiddle of notes

But they play what they can
Having regard to the Zeitgeist;

Those clocks on their chains
Are the locks on their cages

And the lions
are waiting outside.
_____
gw2011

blue shifted


a few
hundred million years
and the spiral arms of andromeda
will reach out to embrace the milky way
not everything is red shifted
blue danube waltz at 100 kilometers per second
and the gap closing
you have been warned!
_____
.gw2011
image:nasa

Friday 21 January 2011

About a birth

from The Book of Songs

The mother had fulfilled her months,
And her first-born came like a lamb
With no bursting or rending,
With no hurt or harm.
To make manifest His magic power
God on high gave her ease.
So blessed were her sacrifice and prayer
That easily she bore her child.
They put it in a narrow lane;
But oxen and sheep tenderly cherished it.

c.900 B.C.
from Origin Legend of the Chou Tribe.
trans: A Waley: Chinese Poems (Unwin Paperbacks)

So what's behind this 3,000 year old story? Well, the woman's name was Chaing Yüan and she was a pious woman who worried that she might be childless. She sacrificed and prayed. One day she trod on the big toe of God's footprint. She was accepted. She got what she desired. Deserved.
In reverence and awe she became with child. The child's name was Hou Chi.

Were there any angels involved? Not angels exactly, but once it happened that the child was placed on some ice by a woodcutter and many birds came and warmed the child with their wings.

Hou Chi grew fat and tall. He had a loud voice. He was heard far and wide. He went to live in T'ai; the area where his mother came from. There he planted many seeds. The grain grew thick and sprouted ears. It was firm and good. Far and wide Hou Chi's seeds were planted and harvested. God on high was pleased.
.
wiki-image: Persian miniature - mother with baby Isa

The downfall of Gnome

Gnome presents an inflated girth
His belly wobbles with jolly mirth
And the sun bakes the bread in the earth.

Gnome sends a man for the Silver Cloud
The classic car of which he is proud
A thin brown boy is wrapped in a shroud.

Gnome in the Roller - increases the rents
Tenants fall behind - irregular payments
And the rain - it falls in ceaseless torrents.

Gnome sets sail for a Cayman port
His luxury yacht is his liebling sport
The glacier melts in the ski resort.

Gnome builds a massive ark for the flood
Farsightedness is in Gnome's blood
Millions drown in a sea of mud.

Gnome rescues ten or twelve bars of gold
Locks them in the strongbox in the ark's hold
And the sea level rises as it was foretold.

Gnome and the family sit down to the feast
Under the table some crumbs of hard cheese
Millions go hungry to the south and the east.

A thin brown rat crawls under Gnome's door
And runs to the cheese it sees on the floor
- The ark tips up and Gnome is no more.

_____
gw2011

Tuesday 18 January 2011

melting glacier

the last tree
will be writ in ink
and roll down
to the sea
to
s
i
n
k
into the the plastic drink


gw2011

cut me and my blood is red

5 species share
the same
4
groups
:
A
B
O
AB
;
go
rilla
man
orang-
utang
gibbon
chim
pan
zee
.
_____
gw2011

haiku

in the golden cage

the tormented parrot

speaks the truth


gw2011

Monday 17 January 2011

poem for Jean Cocteau (1889-1963)

The Inner Thing

"When I was a Parisian dandy
I took my youth for audacity
My wit I took for profundity
And my poetry I took for amusement

"But something other
Was in me;
An inner something
I knew not what...

"It started at Stravinsky's Le Sacre...
With five she-devils of terrible aspect;
I determined then I should come to the arts
As a monk goes to monastic orders

"It was then I believe
I became possessed
By some ferocious inner thing;
A thing that has remained unknown to me.

"Was that fierce thing an inner being
Or an unknown form of memory?
What was that thing? Ideas came
And I hurried myself to write them down:

"The mathematical calculation
The language
The content
The apparent simplicity -

"All were there to serve that thing
Which was a thing
With a subtle and secret mechanism;

"How came those words
To send those poems
Into the sky?

"That inner thing,
What is it?"
_____
gw2011

Friday 14 January 2011

poem for Ernst Jandl (1925-2000)



Jazz was banned in that part of Europe under Nazi control. In later years the Austrian poet Ernst Jandl appeared at London's Royal Albert Hall with the likes of Allen Ginsberg.
Jandl referred to the English language as Europe's language of freedom. He wrote in English as well as German and submitted poetry to Hamilton Finlay's Wild Hawthorn Press at Ardgay, Ross-shire, for the poetry magazine Poor Old Tired Horse.


5 o'clock in the morning song

Jazz me if you can
Sang Jandl Ernst; and so I shall
For language-freedom's sake -
Though not in spreaky vocalstump
Foldsold to blood or concrete sound
Of schtzngrmm
Or 'Deutschland Deutschland Ãœber Alles'
Earwitnessed by the poet
In Heldenplatz in '38.
One voice sang free; and it seemed
To me that it was jazz
That sang above Mein Kampf and
A hundred thousand arms aslant
As a winter driven rain.
______
gw2011
There were underground cabaret and burlesque clubs in secret cellars if you knew where to find them. You can still visit one or two. Schmalzbrot (bread spread with lard) and rough red wine, candles, a hard seat, and no air. I expect the jazz was very quietly played. But played it would be - at great personal risk. The Gestapo's spies were everywhere.
It is very common in Austria to refer to an individual by using his surname first, hence Jandl Ernst.

Thursday 13 January 2011

Early shift

My olfactory bulb picks up
an unseen fact
- the coffee pot has boiled.

I reach for the radio's
on/off control
- hear morning blues
with Muddy Waters.

There's breaking news -

Old Red is trailing the convict
broke out from our local jail
- he strains on his leash
and drags the boys along.

I grip the remote.
TV is there.

Now mark this fact
that canine snuffler does not sniff the mist
for sweat or snot on scrap of rag
- with a runaway slave you'd have seen it so.

This tracker's nose
seeks other signatures
- blades and beetles crushed underfoot.

And where that trail doth lead
this half-blind hound will go
until the sheriff yells 'Stop or I shoot!'
and draws his bead
- that scene in the films
at least was true.

I rise from the bunk
and reach for the star.

The Hoochie Coochie Man is here.
_____
gw2011

Monday 10 January 2011

This insect

This insect and the Lakeland poet
beheld nature's colours fair enhanced;

The rose he gave the girl was black
as black as blood from prick of thorn.


"And the host of golden daffodils
with heads that danced upon his glance?"


Red as primrose in winter's hand; the
hawthorn's flowers are this insect's gold.


______
gw2011

We tend to make the mistake of thinking that flowers are there in nature for us to admire their beauty, but of course flowers are really there for the world's insects; and to the insects the colours of the flowers are completely different from what we humans imagine. A flower's pattern may not only be a different colour but in some cases may even be invisible to the human eye. In the above poem, to illustrate the point, I have taken the liberty of lumping Burns together with Wordsworth to create a universal Lakeland poet, although Burns was of course on the other side of Hadrian's Wall. But it's only his "red red rose..." I really take.

As we have recently 'discovered' (using the metaphors of the robin and the squirrel) there are no 'real' colours 'out there' in the natural world, the so-called universe.

Sunday 9 January 2011

Squirrel in snow (2)

The colors are not out there in the world (as classical theory held) nor an automatic correlate of wavelength - Oliver Sacks

When the squirrel ran away
From the tree in the snow
With sonance of the fall

As vibration of air in her ear
Did this lessen
And then fade away?

Or was it as when
She turned to look back
And saw that the snow

Had covered her steps;
And that she, the snow
And the tree were now black?
______
gw2011

Saturday 8 January 2011

Over the top

The Somme was a pointless battle in a pointless war begun by the royal houses of Europe, all of whom are closely related. It was one of the cruelest tricks in recorded history. To say it was 'over the top' is an understatment. Many who witnessed it were driven mad by the unprecedented horror.

Over the top

I will not sing from sorrow
I will not cry more tears

Though every night and morrow
Death is yawning dear

I will not sing and loudly cheer
I will not glorify those times

When pals and other glorious chaps
Died honourably in lines

I will not sing to pay the rent
I will not sing the hymns of battle

Now hear the piper's sad lament
Now hear the preacher's prattle

______
gw2011

Emergency Verse at South Bank

I was unable to attend and read my poem at the recent standing room only launch of the printed edition of Emergency Verse at London's South Bank Centre. The event appears to have passed off most successfully.

There were more than twenty poets including Michael Horowitz, Jeremy Reed and Brenda Williams (no relation) on hand to read their allotted three minutes of poetry in defence of the welfare state. Sales of the emergency anthology went well. There is now talk of a reprint.

I already have a contributor's electronic edition of Emergency Verse but there's nothing like having the real thing in your hands. And so it is with great eagerness that I look forward to receiving the published copy.

Alan Morrison has worked like a proverbial Trojan to get this 368-page illustrated book featuring poetry from more than 120 poets into the public domain. You can follow progress of the whole Emergency Verse saga and order a printed copy via the Emergency Verse page at the Recusant (see A-Z LINKS >>>).

A reporter from The Guardian was spotted at the event; so something worth reading may appear there. Review copies are already winging their way to the usual suspects.

My humble contribution to Emergency Verse is my poem Between port and cigars. I am pleased to have played a small part in this important enterprise. My thanks, and maybe one day the thanks of a nation, to those involved behind the scenes and of course to editor and instigator Alan Morrison.

Gwilym Williams

Friday 7 January 2011

Squirrel in snow

to the ground
there was only a darkness
- a time before poetry



When the tree fell in the forest
the squirrel ran away through the snow
with the crash
of the fall of the tree.

The crash of the tree, the fall of the tree,
was carried away
by the squirrel
who ran with disturbance of snow.

An airy vibration was in her fine ear;
perception
of something amiss,
she had sensed.
______
gw2011

Thursday 6 January 2011

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich - yes, richer than a king -
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without meat and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.
______
Edwin Arlington Robinson
(1897)
The poem Richard Cory was suggested as a sequel to my poem Cornered (below) by Susan at Art Spark Theater. Thank you Susan.

Cornered

I've never envied those who are expected to follow in family footsteps. Often there's a choice to be made. In the following poem I try to imagine the torment of the son of a wealthy businessman faced with such a dilemma.

Cornered

From the chaise longue the young man frowns
at the full-length portrait
of Archibald Corner riding to hounds

This founder of the Corner Estates
whose textiles bought him whole towns
is stiff and strict beyond measure.

The young man holds a locket he treasures
a picture of a woman he knows
their love has a worth beyond measure.

Today the heirlooms are lying askew
the gold plated ink stand tipped over
and the grandfather clock whose pendulum ticks

Down the minutes to go
increases the weight of the mix
of the drinks in their hands.

Age Quod Agis (engraved)

On the hunter now handed down
and chained to the side of his heart,
handed to him with the family's renown.

The print in the locket stays locked.
______
gw2011
Age Quod Agis - attend to what you are about
image: Wikipedia

Wednesday 5 January 2011

The observers


It was a partial eclipse
and the three observers
stood in the corner

and looked
through their safety binoculars
(on sale in selected emporia)

at the white boat
in the black sea
and they thought

about how it must be
to be able to see
all of the boats

and to see
them all
all of the time
______
gw2011
image: Wikipedia

Tuesday 4 January 2011

Reflections on a tram ride

"...the colors are not out there in the world nor (as classical theory held) an automatic correlate of wavelength..." - Oliver Sacks - The Case of the Colorblind Painter.

We rode on the tram to the town
through the grit and the night
wrapped up in our spacious black coats;
a few of us yawned
and three of us read the free papers.

The tram rattled on through the night
until it stopped near a man who was selling kebabs;
the doors opened and closed
and the sweet smell of meat seeped swiftly inside;
brief halts were announced by mechanical voice.

I gazed at shadows and lights changing places
the face in the window was distant and dark.
_______
gw2011

Sunday 2 January 2011

Why she opened the presents

When the robin stopped singing
In the candleberry tree
The song had not gone. It
Was the bird that had flown.
He had left there the song.

She fastened the window.
She pulled down the blind
Would the song come to mind?
Would the song of the robin
Come now to her mind?

She opened the presents
Wrapped up in new ribbons.
______
gw2011

Saturday 1 January 2011

Why the robin stopped singing

She opened the blind.
She saw the light.
She threw open the window.
She let in the New Year.
It was really a breeze.

The clouds paced along
As if to a pressing
Engagement somewhere.
The clock on the church
Said a minute to twelve.

In the candleberry tree
The robin stopped singing.
______
gw2011