POET IN RESIDENCE

Dress code

2012-01-27T09:22:00.008+01:00

dress code

Thousands, perhaps millions of people have died, often accepting torture first, for loyalty to one religion against a scarcely distinguishable alternative - Richard Dawkins

where stands

the soldier

there stands

the priest

in his habit

where stands

the priest

there stands

the child

in his habiliments

haiku

2012-01-27T08:30:00.008+01:00

cat in the kitchen

the fridge has been fed

the pair of them purr

Waves of Glass

2012-01-25T16:52:00.034+01:00

O Israel

they are coming to get you

those dangerous ships overloaded with pacifists

armed with poems and pictures from American children

and middle-aged women with sharpened pencils

Alice Walker is one of their leaders

her color is purple

she's dangerous

you must stop her at Gibraltar

or failing that at Greece

she's Helen of Troy in a wooden boat - things hidden in the decks -

crayons - paints - telephones - cameras - all dangerous things

help! Jesus O God somebody help us - help them -

help everybody - help the Greeks - help the horses on the boats -

sink those ships!

scuttle their ideas!

smash their prows!

send on the g.men!

fire the water cannon - bring on the helicopters - like in VietNam -

where's Ho Chi Minh when we need him?

where's Whitman? Moses? Jesus H Christ where are these people?

Where's the leader?

Take me to the leader. Sit me down with Alice Walker the potential terrorist.

The lady of dangerous lyric! Never mind Clinton. Never mind Bush! Obama!

Jail the poets.

Tear up the the children's pictures.

Wip your asses on their pomes!

Kill James Joyce. O what did I spray? That man's already in Swizzerland. He squats on a rock

like a gnome in a graceyard.

Bomb Tehran- or at least some place around there. Wave the flag. Send in Mossad.

O star of David.

The brightness of thy hope and strength and fame,

like the proud ship that led the fleet so long,

Beseems today a wreck driven a gale, a mastless bulk, and mid

teeming maddened half glad crowds

and Hell at the helm.

Be glad O Is-real

The Book of Revelations is open. The future is waiting. The Berlin Wall has fallen. The Chinese Wall has fallen. The Hadrian's Wall has fallen. The Wall of Jericho is fallen.

I fall on my knees.

I put away my slingshot.

I put away my suicide vest.

I put away my Kalashnikov.

I put away my Enola Gay.

I put away my Little Boy.

I put away my Polaris.

I beseech you O Israel

O United States of Israel.

O Obama.

O JFK.

O MLK.

O John Lennon. I imagine there is a Heaven

in a faraway northern country

in a pastoral region -

O ye composers and mighty maestros where art thou today?

Hail to Barenboim!

Hail to Beethoven!

Hail to Brotherhood!

Hail to Alice Walker the purple terrorist of the children's post office turned back by the coastguard at your borders at Pathos!

Hail to the letters from children embargo!

Hail to the bringers of joy!

Hail to the nuclear submariners!

Hail to the phosphor bombs!

Hail to the drones!

Hail to the poets!

Hail to Israel!

Hail!

Too late the phantom caressed me.

Too late I was there in spirit of peace.

Too late.

Always too late.

O Jesus

why

were you

also

too

late

J. Edgar (Warner Brothers - 2011)

2012-01-24T10:26:00.072+01:00

This Warner Brothers film is an almost monochrome character study, as you might expect from Clint Eastwood. Nevertheless the film presents an illuminating portrait of the FBI's first director J. Edgar Hoover played by Leonardo DiCaprio

Clint Eastwood's technique, the low lighting and the lonesome piano music, is a welcome break from the heroic mayhem and uproar that is Hollywood's standard fare.

Eastwood's G-men in action were presented as black and white cinema newsreel and as comics and cartoons on breakfast cereal packets.

The film concentrated on the three loves of J. Edgar Hoover the first director of the FBI. His first and greatest love was his mother: ". . . the only person I can trust." His second love was the FBI; his FBI. His third love was his same sex partner.

But of course Hoover is better known for his hates than for his loves. His passionate hate being Communism and its undermining of the United States. If he claimed that the United States was his first love that would be false. He had a love-hate relationship with his country. He hated its Presidents. He hated its negroes. He hated Martin Luther King: "He is a communist!"

DiCaprio's J. Edgar is a classic Mutter Söhnchen - an ambitious and sexually frustrated man dominated and overwhelmed by his mother; the pair of them driven and obsessed.

So what happens when such a personality reaches the pinnacle of power? And how does he get there in the first place? These questions are put under the microscope.

The story of J. Edgar Hoover is dictated by himself in his later years for the record as he would have it presented. The film is therefore liberally sprinkled with Hoover's own quotes.

Of course, Hoover's memories are his own slanted versions of events; a mixture of fact and fiction. They are less than the truth. They are his own hero worship and glorification of himself as the greatest of the G-Men. And when he falls he short, as he often does, there is always be someone else to blame. J. Edgar is a fraud; a man unable to face his own failings.

On the other side of the balance sheet there are stories of passionate love, sacrifice and great loyalty. The finale of one of these remarkable stories is revealed shortly after Richard Nixon gains power. Needless to say, the FBI chief seriously hated Nixon; a man not to be trusted: "I saw it in his eyes."

J. Edgar would never release his control of his FBI. He clung in there like a madman possessed, even when desperately ill.

Why such devotion and dedication? Why not hand over the reins of control and enjoy more of those wonderful days at the horse race meetings?

"You can't trust anyone in Washington DC!" is J. Edgar's short answer. They would take over control and he would never allow them to do that.

But the film is about more than J. Edgar Hoover; it touches upon a nation's obsession with its overwhelming sense of insecurity. At the end I couldn't help thinking that Clint Eastwood's J. Edgar was a metaphor for what is going on in America today.

* * * * *

haiku shopping

2012-01-23T21:31:00.012+01:00

the farmers' market

streetwise purveyors of excellence

air-conditioned throughout

haiku shadowed

2012-01-23T14:21:00.013+01:00

"The young man next door;

you'd never have known he was there

he kept much to himself."

image: Jeff Wall's Man with a Rifle (detail)

Signing-up to the Zeitgeist

2012-01-22T21:52:00.035+01:00

the old books

taken off the shelves

and taken away

the new books

brought in

and placed on the shelves

the town square

named after the leader

un-named

the town square

named for the leader

re-named

the monument

to the previous leader

un-erected

a monument

to the new leader

to be erected

people returning

and old friends going

on vacation

their national flags

hauled down

and burned

and trampled in the streets

our national flags

hoisted

into the skies

into the four winds

Pin prick of blood

2012-01-22T19:58:00.016+01:00

The original was something like this.

And at the same time it was nothing like this.

It was carelessly scrawled in genuine longhand.

Laid out that way by a long-haired

fellow with a stout red pen

and a fondness for ale

and alehouse adjectives

slumped in the corner

of a dusty window

by a slow black river.

It was cunningly offered as art.

It was not double spaced

or on paper.

Accepted.

To the background of Mahler's 10th

on the crackly radio

the green buds of poetry

had opened themselves

and with his red-inked nib

he abandoned his verse

onto the white cardboard stiffener

laboriously removed

from the bargain shirt

with too large a collar

and with sleeves too short

- half price due to the recent demise of the octogenarian shirt shop owner

from natural causes it has to be said and the family's 50% off everything sale -

Be that as it may

the point is: Yes!

It is still possible

to pen a passable poem

on a cardboard insert

with a red inked pen

and a pin prick of blood

in such ordinary circumstances.

May it always be so.

haiku television

2012-01-22T11:55:00.003+01:00

to the question

of nothing to watch on TV

put your thinking cap on

graffito

2012-01-21T22:11:00.005+01:00

haiku waltzer

2012-01-20T08:50:00.028+01:00

we dropped

into

the toilet

in the underground passage

and with a coin

we engaged

the herzlich willkommen

noting the tenor

and the decor

we conducted

ourselves

with operatic decorum

took our seats

in a row

and relaxed to the strains

of the blue

danube

waltz

we unrolled

the soft paper

we squished the soft soap

we left

as we found

left our smiles in the mirrors

haiku post

2012-01-20T08:41:00.005+01:00

returned to sender

address unknown -

it was all so long ago

haiku travel

2012-01-19T20:43:00.006+01:00

riding the tram

to the end of line -

pensioners' ticket

haiku concordia

2012-01-19T12:43:00.008+01:00

the man snaps

the view from the bridge

darkness falls

haiku

2012-01-19T09:27:00.002+01:00

encircled by fog

I hear only the stream

of my thoughts

heavenly haiku

2012-01-19T09:07:00.005+01:00

Vatican rocket

fails to reach heaven

falls back to the garden

Alter wise at owl-light

2012-01-18T22:04:00.015+01:00

or a poem written late at night and finished in the morning

why call 9/11 9/11

is something that puzzles me

between moves on the chess board

designed for the blind

in most of the rest of the world

the date that day was 11/9

not 9/11

9/11 was the date

Dylan Thomas died in New York

although at the Chelsea

they would probably say

Dylan died on 11/9

and not 9/11 as it would be said

in Wales

logic tells me

you begin with the smallest

work towards the biggest

first you have the time

then comes the day

then the month

then the year

or am I

simply

nuts

puddled

deranged

and out of my mind

or am I

simply

a simpleton

unlike all the sane

and 9/11 oriented

the 9/11 billions

now it's black's turn to move

Downhill Race

2012-01-18T19:42:00.010+01:00

Having gained the top

of the sheep-cropped hill

we paused

to rest in the bracken

and we gazed at the ocean

below

and then I got to thinking

of God

and creation

a dig in the ribs

from my brother

fetched me round

now up and away

the sentence trailing behind him

let's run like hell to the bottom

o we did laugh

as we ran

tripping over our feet

stumbling and tumbling

we arrived

on the beach

we fell on the sands

and laughed even more

each to each

holding our ribs

which were aching

and sore

o we did laugh

on the beach

each to each

it mattered not

who was first

to that place

pure joy

was the winner

of our downhill race

gw2012/

haiku

2012-01-17T17:56:00.012+01:00

birds on the wall

in an open-air classroom

silence in snowfall

Perfect Babies

2012-01-17T12:01:00.007+01:00

You know how it is with babies

some are born less than perfect

but they say there was a boy long ago

a direct descendant of God himself

born to a virgin. Let's say he was.

He would have been a perfect baby

but truth to tell he must

like this poem

have been less than perfect.

God's only son was less than perfect!

How can that be, you cry!

Fortunately for the baby boy

God's faux pas

was quickly picked up by

the sharp-eyed virgin

and she took him in

for minor surgery.

It was quickly performed.

Alas to arms!

2012-01-15T09:08:00.040+01:00

. . . or a song from his faire Lady

Magniloquent knight

of gentle birth

and nobly bred to arms

my chivalrous

champion servant rides

with short diagonal strides . . .

. . . a

cavalier quixotic

all too fond of Spanish grog

he waves

his trusty sword

at the windmill

in the fog

It's turtles all the way down

2012-01-14T12:22:00.012+01:00

turtle rising from the waves - hand painted by nature

In a Brief History of Time Stephen Hawking tells of an old lady attending an astronomy lecture. After the speaker had described the movements of the stars and planets the old lady stood up and said: "Young man, what you have said is nonsense. The world is on the back of a turtle." "And what is the turtle standing on?" countered the scientist. "It's turtles all the way down!" the old lady informed him.

Don't laugh at the old woman. I found the above stone on a beach at the precise spot where I had found a turtle strangled to death by a plastic sandwich bag the previous day. There were millions of stones on the beach. How this singular stone caught my eye as I was walking along is also a mystery. There were no other illustrated stones to be found. I looked for them. Turned many stones over.

Lahr counters debt in homeopathic doses

2012-01-14T10:48:00.014+01:00

Since 25th May 2009 the Munich artist Christin Lahr has been making daily money transfers of one cent to the German Federal Ministry of Finance.

On the online banking transfer slip there is space for a maximum of 108 characters in the box marked: Reason for Payment.

Each day Lahr copies out the next 108 characters from the 3 volume text of the 39th edition of Karl Marx's "Capital: A Critique of Political Economy and crosses them off in the book. In this way the entire text of the book, approximately 1,696,500 characters, will be transmitted to the FRG over a period of 43 years.

Lahr has calculated that her 'homeopathic' donations could pay off the national debt in 300 years, due to the exponential effects of interest and compound interest, if the national debt could be frozen at the 31st May 2009 figure of € 1,746,599,197,210.

She states: Once a day, the micro-donations upset the state's balance sheet for about the length of one breath. They serve as triggers for debate.

Not included in the above calculations is the required labour and any added value for example through cultural and symbolic capital. It is better to give than to receive.

Olden Tree

2012-01-13T13:43:00.034+01:00

An Emperor

and an Actress

upon a golden Path

where the Woods were thick

with Rocks and Roots

and muddy underfoot

and an endless Rain was falling

its endlessness was falling

and not one silver Cloud to see

from the Hollow

of an olden Tree

Emperor Franz Joseph I and companion

______

gw2012/

LIBRARY BOOKS:

The Fifth Column - Ernest Hemingway

The Proust Screenplay - Harold Pinter

The Complete Stories - Alice Walker

A Henry Miller Reader - Henry Miller (Ed. John Calder)

Poetry 2012

2012-01-12T15:52:00.005+01:00

Following the success of Poetry 2010 I am tempted to offer poets the opportunity to showcase new work at Poetry 2012 (the so-called Year of the Awakening). If there is enough interest out there I will endeavor to edit and produce a printable e-book in similar format to the one at Poetry2010. I shall again be looking for approximately 20 poems (up to maximum of 20 lines each). They can be e-mailed to gwilataondotat. Please include the words Poetry 2012 or Poetry Twenty Twelve in the subject line.

Full guidelines available now at the Poetry 2012 thumbnail.

About these woods

2012-01-12T12:05:00.016+01:00

About

these woods

I belong

with the running stream of song

on a gloved-up winter morn

when I take a note as to its measure

or someone stands upon a stick

that snaps

aside my path with heavy foot

and I turn to listen

to the silence

and a man

unhoods a hawk

and sees it soaring to the sun

above the running stream of song

about these woods where I belong

gw2012/

Clock Reset

2012-01-11T09:17:00.013+01:00

DOOMSDAY CLOCK TIME IS NOW

23:52 23:53 23:54 23:55 23:56 23:57

winter haiku

2012-01-10T14:04:00.006+01:00

the sunny yellow rose petal

and the clinging honeybee

two worlds about to fall

God's War Manual

2012-01-10T08:15:00.034+01:00

Examples of chosen people - 1: the Herrenvolk

As in 1914 and 1938 the World today stands at the edge of the abyss. This time the holocaust will be achieved at arm's length as it were; computer controlled drones and nuclear missiles will clear the way. It will all, as they say, be over by Christmas.

The United States of America-Israel and the Republic of Iran are proudly posturing and parading, flexing their muscles and exercising their disconnected vocal chords. They are brain damaged and mismatched boxers on the scales before the big fight. But this is not a casino in Las Vegas. And there is no referee.

The European Union has joined the foolish crowds at the ringside. The EU's Iranian oil embargo will bring joy to the neo-zealots and the warmongers in the military-industrial-monetary complex; those who work in the dark, those whom 'Ike' and 'JFK' warned us about; those who want to control the world and its resources. It will not bring joy to the nuclear club nations of China, Russia, Pakistan etc..

Madmen and crazed prophets have taken over the asylums and casinos. For them World War III now beckons temptingly. There may be no turning back.

But what does God say? Where does He stand when it comes to this eternal business of War and Conflict in the Middle East, in the region of the so-called Holy Land and His so-called chosen people ?

Let's read from the so-called instruction book.

from God's War Manual

Psalm 60

For the director of music. To the tune of The Lily of the Covenant. A miktam of David. For teaching. When he fought Aram Naharaim and Aram Zobah, and when Joab returned and struck down twelve thousand Edomites in the Valley of Salt.

. . . God has spoken from his sanctuary.

In triumph I will parcel out Shechem

and measure off the Valley of Succoth.

Gilead is mine, and Manasseh is mine.

Ephraim is my helmet,

Judah is my sceptre.

Moab is my washbasin,

upon Edom I toss my sandal;

over Philista I shout in triumph.

. . . With God we shall gain the victory,

and He will trample down our enemies.

Ah yes, now I remember. Bohemia is mine. Austria is mine. Poland is my helmet. Belgium is my washbasin. Upon the Urals I will toss my sandal. Over Abyssinia I shout in triumph. With the Führer we shall gain victory, and he will trample down our enemies for a thousand years . . .

haiku

2012-01-09T12:48:00.003+01:00

in the snowy woods

in the silent rustle of leaves

the edge of my path

haiku intention

2012-01-09T11:16:00.010+01:00

walking with purpose

a man in a deerstalker cap

is carrying a gun

This almost threatening haiku is my first idea of something suitable in response to Prof. David McMurray's request to readers, at Asahi Shimbun, to submit haiku about people returning to work after the holidays. It's an interesting and varied subject to think about.

bullet train driver

his spectacles left at the station

peering into the fog

I wonder what happened to that guy. You may remember that his train was suddenly stopped when he radioed-in that he couldn't see. He'd travelled about 12 miles, picking up speed, with several hundred passengers on board, before he realized he had a problem, as I recall.

Library books:

The Forbidden Tree - Rose Ausländer

Naked Lunch - Williams Burroughs (abandoned - heavy going being too repetitive).

Poetry Rat

2012-01-09T09:18:00.006+01:00

I am delighted that my Poetry Rat e-book is proving popular. It's where I put my own favourite poems. Work goes on at snail's pace, but it does go on. At the time of writing there are 34 poems within the Poetry Rat pages.

You will notice (if you go there) that there is no comment section enabled. Readers of Poetry Rat may leave comments here at Poet-in-Residence if they wish. See, for example, Gerald England's comment two posts below this one.

Poetry Rat, now in its third month, has had over 800 visitors. That may not sound a lot until you consider how many people would, or could, read a conventional poetry book even as its author compiled it? Not too many.

On the subject of statistics I am highly pleased that my Poet-in-Residence blog received more than 50,000* hits during 2011. This is a huge number for this one-man-show, and so my grateful thanks to all my readers. Each and every one of you.

*50,913

Magic Mirror

2012-01-07T14:21:00.024+01:00

"Magic

mirror

the wall

the hatstand

the hall

will

you

reveal

the Truth

to all?"

"The truth

is shown

to all who ask!"

How was it for you?

2012-01-07T13:20:00.023+01:00

Another one over

sighed the thousand-faced god

(and all of them true)

at least for one year

in our time and space 'verse

(how was it for you?

did the rum hold its flavour

in the overnight tumbler?)

and what else did we waste

apart from our time?

Is the best sell-by-date

the one that's not known?

Dragooned

2012-01-07T11:28:00.005+01:00

Dark clouds collect
On the horseman's head
Wind's whistle blows

Jet-black songs
Obscure its opus
Numbers
Echoes
Spots of rain

2 0 1 2 A D

2012-01-06T20:29:00.008+01:00

Another year opens
Pandora's Box
- What sign of Hope ?

The Right of Books to be Safe

2011-12-27T14:45:00.038+01:00

Do books, like people, have the right to be safe from persecution? That is the question. If the answer is 'No', where should we draw the line? And who should be responsible for drawing it?

The Right of Books to be Safe

Macklin's Bible in VII volumes

Butler's Hudibras

F X Kraus's Dante

Douce's Illustrations of Shakspeare

Pinelli's Costumi Antichi

Napoleon III's Histoire de Jules Cesar

Lasserre's Notre-Dame de Lourdes

Benson's Confessions of a Convert

Porson's Tracts and Criticisms

Spencer's Synthetic Philosophy

Pashley's Travels in Crete

Keppel Craven's Excursions in the Abruzzi

J P Uz's Poetische Werke

Gleig's Life of Thomas Munro

and Merejowsky's L'Antechrist

are standing in rows

in wire mesh boxes.

We note the imprints

on their spines.

Their ancient secrets

have escaped us.

Homer and Cato

look on with alarm.

gw2011/

Understanding the purpose of Evil

2011-12-27T09:08:00.010+01:00

Millions of ordinary decent people around the world, people of no particular religious persuasion, are asking themselves: What evil lurks behind the latest Christmas atrocity in Nigeria?

This time last year 80 Christians were murdered as they prayed. This year thanks to the vigilance of the police and public that number was down to 40. It could have been far worse.

Seeing Beyond the Immediate

In the beginning She said:

Let there be Darkness and Light!

for without Darkness we should

never be able to fathom the point.

Light alone would blind us

to the Truth - as She knew.

The top of the tree

2011-12-25T14:39:00.028+01:00

Does the choice of ornament for the top of the Christmas tree say something about the one who put it there?

How would it be if someone photographed and published the tops of the Christmas trees of the world's most famous personalities; those top people who grace the tabloids?

I think it would be jolly Christmas fun to look at the trees decorated by people like Cheyney, Rice, Bush, the Clintons, Rumsfeld, Blair, Rooney, Schwarzenegger, the Beckhams, and Charles and Camilla featured on a double page colour spread. We lesser mortals could try and match the treetops to their rightful owners.

Predicting 2012

2011-12-25T13:22:00.010+01:00

Poet-in-Residence makes bold prediction for 2012 - the Year of the Awakening.

Nice try. No cigar!

Christmas at the old folks home

2011-12-24T13:55:00.014+01:00

The sudden appearance

of light

the afternoon breeze

briefly

stirring

to let through the light of the sun

it moves along the panes

for a spell

a precious few moments

then fades

back to grey

and still

there is nothing to say

______

gw2011/

The property of stones

2011-12-23T17:53:00.087+01:00

The following poem is about the history of my own country of Wales and my own family but it is inspired, if that is the right word, by the deteriorating political situation in Hungary (see George Szirtes' blog). I offer it as encouragement and support to oppressed and subjugated peoples wherever they are.

regarding

the ancient wisdom

of the people

they knew the swim of the salmon

and the swim of the stars

and they knew the power

in the songs of the stones

as in a summer

of mysterious lights

and mysterious sights

and they could tell you

these people

why the stones

would sing

and they could tell you

these people

many another thing

before the time

of the coming

of the crazy people

with their contrary proofs

and their many damnations

as is known to happen

from time to time

and from place to place

in the world

a crazy people

who didn't believe

all the superstitious nonsense

as they called it

a crazy people with too many books

in which someone had written

that everything anyone thought they knew

must be false

and wrong

and evil

and wicked

and a stumbling stone

on the way to redemption

a crazy people come to knock

them

down

as they always had done

everywhere else

before

but somehow

this time

number

held hard to the faith

to the stones

and to the power of the stones

and so it was

that they grew

relentless

and stubborn

just as the stones

that grow

in the fields

gw2011/

Happy New Year

2011-12-23T08:38:00.006+01:00

Winter solstice (Northern Hemisphere) was at 05:30 hrs (UT) on 22nd December 2011*

Darkness retreating

Perihelion approaching

Celebrate NOW!

*data: US Navy

image:gw2011

Christmas Reading Choice

2011-12-22T15:26:00.018+01:00

Regular readers of this blog will not need telling that I won't be getting overly sentimental about Christmas. I'll certainly not be dusting off the Charles Dickens' classic novel about the moneylender Scrooge.

Having said that, I was reminded the other day that I had, some 8 or 9 years ago, written up the tale of Scrooge & co. for a school play. I was shocked. I had completely forgotten about it; but wonder of wonders, according to my informant, it is still being performed every Christmas.

It happened that I had a class of 30 German-speaking youngsters who were learning basic English and as a volunteer teacher (a so-called native speaker) I wanted all the children to have a speaking part in the Christmas play.

I politely declined to 'do' the school's 'official' play, it was the nativity story, for I saw it had speaking parts for only a few of the children; and had the rest of them just standing around. So I wrote my own.

With Scrooge I succeeded in giving each and every child his own voice. And not only that but I exposed them to an another way, to them a new way, of thinking about Christmas. The children and their parents greatly appreciated it.

Today I took myself to the library. I came back with three books which I plan to get stuck into over the so-called festive season that is unfortunately these days a season of unbridled excess designed to keep the wheels of industry, commerce and bankers' bonuses turning.

My books.

Novel: Tropic of Cancer - Henry Miller

Play: Ashes to Ashes - Harold Pinter

Poems: Coney Island of the Mind - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

I'd love to know what books you plan to read or hope to find under your tree if you have one. I expect travel books and books of legend and myth, especially those about Mayan predictions for 2012 will appear on many of Santa's lists. Cookery books too, these are always popular.

Which way will poetry go? Have we moved on? I think translations are the coming thing.

Three cheers for Christmas!

2011-12-22T14:51:00.008+01:00

Cider at home

In an underground station

Winter is a blur

- "We won't be drinking and driving!" -

What's wrong with them?

2011-12-22T10:01:00.016+01:00

I'm worried for them.

I don't want them to go down a path of brutal violence such as Europe went down in the 1940's. They must find the path of peace. They are standing at the crossroads.

Vienna University 70 years ago

Already, on Obama Withdrawal Day plus 1, early reports are coming in of 60 people murdered in Iraq. Why?

In Egypt the violence in Cairo shows no sign of ending. Why?

In Libya unreported atrocities are being committed. Why?

In Syria 230 are killed in one day of bloody violence. Why?

In Yemen, in Bahrain, and in other countries conveniently below the mainstream radar protests are going on or are being subdued . . .

In Saudi Arabia a woman is beheaded as a witch . . .

Elsewhere a woman, a victim of rape, is stoned to death . . .

What is the problem? Is the Arab world now going insane?

Thinking aloud, maybe the problem has something to do with all those straight lines the colonial powers liked to draw in the sand.

Maybe straight lines is not the Arab way. Perhaps they are a caravan serai people. Perhaps they feel they are being fenced in.

There's something evil at the root of all this. Friday, after prayers, is often a very bad day for bloodlust. Tomorrow it is Friday. Shall we see it once more?

Yueltide - as a log on the fire

2011-12-21T12:11:00.026+01:00

as when

the cold and sickly smell

of candles clung too thick

was overlaid and all wrapped up

with scented fog of incense

as when the preacher's band

of singers waxing on

in warm and drowsy

muffle to my ears

was as the icy

dressing

of a cake

with layered marzipan

and chain store fruit within

as when the robin sang

upon a window ledge

"a log on the fire"

gw2011/

The five brothers

2011-12-20T10:36:00.047+01:00

"Isn't this the carpenter's son? Isn't his mother's name Mary, and aren't his brothers

James, Joseph, Simon and Judas . . . aren't all his sisters with us?" - Matthew Ch. 13.

Once, a long time ago, there were five brothers. Their names were Simon, Joseph, James, Judas and Jesus. Perhaps they resembled each other in general appearance. Maybe they even had the same way of walking; the same way of talking; the same general demeanor. It can happen in families. Who can say? It was a long time ago. But it is not totally unlikely with so many brothers in one family that two or three might favour each other. Perhaps Joseph looked liked Jesus. Maybe Simon? Perhaps Judas? Who can say? Someone, probably Jesus*, was nailed to a cross, an infamous Roman torture instrument. He died. Then he came alive again. He walked. He talked. He went to secret meetings. Or maybe it's just possible that this man was one of the brothers? Perhaps it was James; a case of mistaken identity? Or maybe those bloodthirsty Romans and baying Jews had been given a patsy; a fall guy; an impostor? Who can say? It must have been somewhat confusing; five brothers . . . all looking much the same; long curly hair, thick beards, and wrapped-up in cloaks. Who can say? In all the confusion, in the crowded city . . . in those interesting times. I'm not saying it was so. Only that the possibility of error (however remote) exists. That's all. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not discounting miracles. After all there was an earthquake. And the dead did rise from their graves and walk. This is reported in the Gospel of Matthew. Who am I to disagree? I wasn't even there. It was a long time ago.

*Jesus was identified by a kiss. Not by fingerprints or DNA.

A snowman haiku

2011-12-20T08:46:00.010+01:00

the chocolate snowman

in the confectioner's window

looks out at the snow

- Cafe' Zauner, Bad Ischl, Austria 2010 -

This snowman haiku is for artist Kuniharu Shumisu at see haiku here. It was inspired by Kuni's current series of snowmen haiku. In the snowy street I took the photo through the cafe' window from an angle so as to eliminate the glare and reflection of the display lights.

Who was the real father?

2011-12-19T13:01:00.033+01:00

A wise man knows his own father.

"Let there be Light"

As we get ready for the Christmas season with its annual over-the-top birthday party for the Messiah or the Christ it's worth pausing to consider the pertinent point: Who was his real father? There are three candidates.

Here is the ancestral male line of Jesus' genealogy according to Matthew ch. 1 v. 1-16: Abraham - Isaac - Jacob - Judah - Perez - Hezron - Ram - Amminadab - Nahson - Salmon - Boaz - Obed - Jesse - David - Solomon - Rehoboam - Abijah - Asa - Jehoshaphat - Jehoram - Uzziah - Jotham - Ahaz - Hezekiah - Manasseh - Amon - Josiah - Jeconiah - Shealtiel - Zerubbabel - Abiud - Eliakim - Azor - Zadok - Akim - Eliud - Eleazar - Matthan - Jacob - Joseph - Jesus.

Beginning in Luke ch. 3 v. 23 there is a second male line genealogy for Jesus. Note that this one is very different from that given in Matthew ch. 1. Luke takes the trouble to prove to his readership that Jesus is the son of God. Here is how he does it.

God - Adam - Seth - Enosh - Kenan - Mahalalel - Jared - Enoch - Methuselah - Lamech - Noah - Shem - Arphaxad - Cainan - Shelah - Eber - Peleg - Reu - Serug - Nahor - Terah - Abraham - Isaac - Jacob - Judah - Perez - Hezron - Ram - Amminadab - Nahshon - Salmon - Boaz - Obed - Jesse - David - Nathan - Mattatha - Menna - Melea - Eliakim - Jonam - Joseph - Judah - Simeon - Levi - Matthat - Jorim - Eliezer - Joshua - Er - Elmadam - Cosam - Melki - Neri - Shealtiel - Zerubbabel - Rhesa - Joanan - Joda - Josech - Semein - Mattathias - Maath - Naggai - Esli - Nahum - Amos - Mattathias - Joseph - Jannai - Melki - Levi - Matthat - Heli - Joseph - Jesus.

It's as clear as day that Matthew's Joseph and Luke's Joseph are not the same person.

The Joseph referred to in Matthew is the son of Jacob. The Joseph referred to in Luke is the son of Heli. Both these Josephs can trace their ancestors back to King David. But by different routes. That's 40 generations of difference. Matthew's Joseph springs from the line of David's son Solomon. Luke's Joseph from the line of David's son Nathan. And therein lies a Christmas conundrum.

Now we must ask the obvious questions. Was Mary in some way confused? Did she have a problem choosing between her two suitors - the two Josephs? Were both of them graced with her favours? Did she perhaps play one against the other? Which Joseph did she marry eventually?

So then, who was Jesus' real father? Here is a list of the three candidates:

X Joseph (of Matthew's Gospel)

X Joseph (of Luke's Gospel)

X God

You may pick your own cross.

The death of the Euro?

2011-12-19T09:30:00.021+01:00

The big problem with the Euro is that no-one knows the answer. Many at Brussels EU-HQ and EZB* don't even know the question. The right question is: What went wrong?

What went wrong is that the Euro became a party balloon that was blown up too big and too quickly. Happy with their big balloon they tied it up with a complicated knot hoping that all the huff and puff wouldn't seep out.

The answer is quite simple really. Find someone who is good at unravelling knots and let a little air out of the big balloon. Get it back down to normal size. About 20% deflation should do it. Merkozynomics won't fix it.

Euro Totenkopf image:gw2011/

*the European Zentral Bank is an organization with a lot of vice-presidents or 'yes men'. I think it's something like nine. Some of them have next to no idea about what's going on in the real world. They are merely incompetents who enjoy drawing huge salaries and expenses. Some were sent to the EZB by their own countries in order to get them out of the way. Behind it all is an old and corrupt system; basically it's a question of having the right party membership card and knowing the right people.

and finally - the Christmas message haiku

2011-12-17T22:35:00.021+01:00

People of the World

You can only reach the Stars

United in Peace

A modern icon, the Fenix 2 capsule represents the triumph of the human spirit over adversity. It was built by the Chilean Navy to a NASA design and was operated using a specially designed winch controlled by a team of experts from Austria in Europe. In other words people from 3 continents played a vital part in the 69 day rescue of the 33 Chilean miners trapped underground in 2010. Live pictures of the breathtaking and daring rescue were beamed around the whole world. The Fenix 2 rescue demonstrates the true spirit of humankind.

We must rise from the ashes of our warring history. Only then can we reach for the stars.

Fenix 2 image:

gw2011/

Christmas decoration haiku

2011-12-17T12:53:00.003+01:00

the Hand of God

bauble

- its maker unknown

Christmas tree haiku

2011-12-17T10:12:00.011+01:00

remember your present

is bound

to the evergreen

gw2011/

Christmas card haiku

2011-12-16T08:25:00.005+01:00

a boy is born

people flock to see him

- does he look like his father?

gw2011/

Christmas star haiku

2011-12-16T07:55:00.013+01:00

following the star

I came to the place

where it STOPPED!

It is impossible for a heavenly body to remain stationary. All heavenly bodies are perpetually in motion - therefore it could NOT have been a star in the astronomical sense. It can only have been something terrestrial, such as an illuminated model of a star as in my photo.

gw2011/

haiku

2011-12-15T13:39:00.003+01:00

a songbird's high note

the end of a woodland walk

a leaf silently falling

gw2011/

Alfred Hrdlcka's Holocaust Monument pre-Christmas

2011-12-15T08:32:00.017+01:00

Book-

ended

had

nothing

to do with

baby and tree

had

all to do

with death

and suffering

Visting the Hrdlcka Holocaust Monument which is situated in the centre of Vienna a short walk from the famous Vienna State Opera under a steel gray winter sky just a few days before Christmas I wondered how it came about that a nation of Christian people could, in a period of just two decades, be overwhelmed by an almost insatiable appetite for mindless violence towards followers of another faith that is to say the Jews.

But not only the Jews. There were also other peoples such as Gypsies who were victims; not to mention the mentally ill, whose number included the elderly and senile, children in hospitals and psychiatric institutions; in fact any human being of less worth; people who were seen as being a drain on the Reich's almost unlimited resources. And I am the right person to ask these questions since I have no religious corn (or axe) to grind, whichever way you want to look at it.

I left the metaphorical temple early. It was at the age of six when on a Sunday morning in a church I pocketed a silver coin (it was a sixpence) given me by a teacher of religion in exchange for my correct recitation of the Lord's Prayer. I knew then, even at that young age that this silver coin was in the nature of a bribe, and that it was therefore wrong to accept it, let alone to offer it, but I didn't know then why I knew that. I therefore refused to learn the Apostolic Creed in exchange for the next proffered silver coin, one of even higher denomination (a shilling). In spirit I had already left the organization that would have me.

Many years later I made my personal pact with God. I was his servant. He would direct me. The others were merely showmen, opportunists and foot soldiers, followers of little worth. I have been proved right time and again. This brings me back to the Hrdlcka monument, suitably bookended. The contents between the covers are invisible. The invisible contents are the true contents. It is a matter of faith. But it is not a matter of faith in any of the many organized religions with headquarters in the world's major cities. It is the simple faith of one who wonders at the fury of man when aroused. And how easily that arousal is to direct through the power of false prophesy and coin corrupted.

Getting in the mood for the annual birth of Christ celebrations

2011-12-13T13:53:00.020+01:00

phallic

symbolled

tree with stars

and lights and tinsel

seen from afar stands on the

square of every town of pealing bells

and crowded churches steepled all around

where people come to sing and clown and warming

mugs of wine and punch are slowly drunk which is jus' great

in'it

babe

gw2011/

Alan Morrison's Captive Dragons / Shadow Thorns (Concluded)

2011-12-13T05:12:00.100+01:00

the slayer

Canto I, begins:

Here be dragons of the head's uncharted territories

Committed to a hospital of terracotta bricks . . .

Canto 2, goes on to describe the nature of several of the dragons the poet found committed there:

. . . docile as flowerpots

The poet informs us that those whom society perceives as possessed of dragons, for example the drowned shouters of a seawater society, are to become docile through the therapeutic touch of electrodes.

Like Burroughs and Ginsberg with The Yage Letters or Ken Kesey with One Flew over the Cuckoo's Nest, Morrison is a sensitive poet equipped with relevant insider knowledge and consequently he is able to provide a deceptively innocent and/or brutal humour as he feels to be appropriate.

Without the humour we the readers can never hope to face, let alone understand the nature of the dragons; or God's failed experiments as the priest poet R S Thomas labelled society's mentally damaged victims; those most ill-equipped to hack it in our brave cruel world.

In Captive Dragon's the reader will meet every conceivable variety of dragon; ranging from soporific Cheshire Cats / and wing-clipped escapologists . . . to . . . dragons in psychic meltdown . . . supplementing their theraputic electrodes with a Smartie selection of downers: chloropromazine, benzadrine, desmethyltramdol, dihydrocodeine, and dopamine so that most dragons keep returning in screaming tumbrels of ambulances; and all of them ready for their next fix as in Canto XXXV,-

. . . repeat defenders

Of irrefragable fragilities, recrudescent delicacies,

Inconvenient sensitivities conveniently

Misperceived as subversive tendencies, heretical Celtic

Quirks that can't be timetabled to rational Angled targets;

Silent rioters of rogue psychologies scooped out

Of cryptic contexts; psychic jigsaw pieces, riddling

Puzzle-boxes carved with mottled trepidations,

Deep-grooved anxieties and tortoiseshell aversions

To shelved selves; undeliverable parcels nonetheless

By the time the reader arrives at this verse he will be long aware that

Dragon's hatch from shells

of fractured narratives, splinters

of disrupted lives . . .

and that they have their own language. It is called Dragonic. In Canto XII Morrison gives the reader an inkling of its many properties:

A clash of rambling syllables, verbs that burn rubber,

Adjective trips, permissible slips,spoonerisms,

Farm-yard grunts, oral tics; unpronounceable parlance -

If written, like Sanskrit, spidery, tortuous, horizontal,

Or vertical . . .

Twitching sign language of irregular grammar . . .

Thundery arguments muffled in shut bedrooms . . .

For 3 years the Mill View Residency (2008-2011) Poet-in-Residence Alan Morrison, a self-confessed neurotic Doubting Thomas, bravely persevered and struggled on. He devotes several cantos to what he calls Poetry's Opportunity.

Eager to seek something far more rewarding than basket cases put to weaving wicker baskets Morrison eventually succeeds through the medium of poetry, in a Finnegans Wake kind of way, with his neurotic bid to provide a suitable outlet for the subdued fire of his soporific students.

Morrison's book may prove to be one of the poetic wonders of modern psychiatric literature. It is one of the keys to the mysterious world of art brut*. It belongs on the shelf alongside the works of Freud and Jung.

"This is poetry appropriate for the mental health experience, regardless of our own histories and directions," says Nick McMaster of the Sussex Partnership NHS Foundation Trust.

And of course he is right, but that is merely to scratch the dragon's back. With Captive Dragons I think we have a prequel. A work of Joycean proportions may lurk somewhere over the near horizon. Something of it may already be here. It is surely coming.

_____

image:

photo taken by myself

at Venice Biennale 2011

- main pavilion

- artist unknown

*entering the term "art brut" in the blog search box will bring up an explanatory post relating to the pioneering work with the artists of Gugging.

Alan Morrison's Captive Dragons / Shadow Thorns (Part 1)

2011-12-05T20:49:00.032+01:00

teleco-soup*

When I wrote about Alan Morrison's A Tapestry of Absent Sitters on 1st April 2009 I naturally had no inkling that my idea of use of the word 'dragon' would spark an epic 'insider' poem of 2,368 lines.

My copy, signed by Alan Morrison, arrived a few days ago. I have yet to read it.

Captive Dragons is a by-product of Morrison's 3 years of voluntary work in the field of mental health as a weekly Poet-in-Residence at Mill View Hospital, Sussex. The book's publication is supported by Star Wards, Sussex NHS Partnership and the Arts Council of England.

On his 'Acknowledgements' page Morrison wrote: "Thanks also to . . . Barry Tebb . . . and to Gwilym Williams for drawing me towards dragons as a motif through a phrase he used in his review of my previous Waterloo collection . . . to Jeremy Reed . . . Mario Petrucci . . . to Steven O'Brien . . ."

Here's the important stuff:

Captive Dragons / The Shadow Thorns

Poems from the Mill View Residency 2008 - 11

by Alan Morrison

ISBN 978 - 190674239 - 3

first published 2011

by Waterloo Press (Hove)

95 Wick Hall

Furze Hill

Hove BN3 1NG

England

My review will appear here soon. Meanwhile stay cool. Or be bold and read another one .

*Image acknowledgement:

Photo by myself of a scene from the Venice Biennale 2011

presentation 'teleco-soup' by Tabaimo (Japan Pavilion).

Syndic Journal No. 5

2011-12-04T09:49:00.009+01:00

The new issue of Syndic Journal is now online. Regular Poet-in-Residence visitors will certainly enjoy reading it.

One of the poets featured in Syndic Journal No.5 is India's unique R K Singh; a writer whose stimulating work many of us here are already familiar with.

Yuri Taki who lives near a Fukushima 'hot spot' also contributes to no. 5.

It's all a labour of love.

Let's take a look.

From Orizaba 210 Blues

2011-12-03T14:29:00.009+01:00

This poem, what Dominic Rivron describes as a Variation on a theme, is composed using the same technique as the poem immediately below it. It is also a "words by Kerouac" effort. You might try and construct a similar verse for yourself. I'll choose another poet to work with next time.

Call God the Mother

- I almost called these poems -

Who spawned all this God

One was called Boston Kitty

By men and maids

Of heaven-hailward

In the wild bar

Burned out every day

Aint we all?

On Sixth Street near Mission

We booted and we brained

From High Masquerade

Red, white and black and blue

And Lightning Creek morely roared

O me, - gingerale we drank

In the ancient blue Buick

Crrash!

Crash toutes les shows

Buddha pra-teeth torn

Under a headache cross

"Man is here!"

That I could not take

Today is Sunday

Much words has been written about it

Thieves' Markets & imbeciles

In the city of the midnight

See?

The tatata of thusness

With palm and forefinger

Hungry to burn in the candle

And the early spring

One or the other

Who but a Who's Who

He says "Who?" and I says

Never to return

The worst is yet to come

And everything

Routine "Hello Sucker, we

Eat in my drugstore"

Campaign in Buffalo

Tapped me on the arm

Bullshit in the tree

Was imparted to me

Forms and costumes and noses

Wood cracking in the sea

Everything, anything, God

And died all a silent

Dans son tombeau

Ooogh! he upped & come back

On Tenor Saxophone

A Milan

Bent down to the mud

One night

To his arms

And ah -

Jiggling gently in the night

He said and prodded me

The most beautiful sound in the world

Fantasm crazam crazam

For the pretties on the square

Faces green on the benches

Old ladies of shame, the same

Sin

And I don't care?

Who cares? Wha?

What's the moon got but tunes?

All sucks on same air

Ere aye mice Burns

Ah God be merciful

From here to eternity

That's where I'll be

Frisco Blues and Jack Kerouak

2011-12-02T19:17:00.008+01:00

The following poem is by way of an experiment. What I've done here is to take one of Jack Kerouac's long poems, in this case the 80 chorus poem San Francisco Blues, and then to take one line from each chorus (or verse) and assemble these lines together in sequence to create a new Jack Kerouac poem using only Kerouac's own words. Jack, I hope you approve wherever you are,

FRISCO BLUES

I see the backs

you see in black

of a thousand hundred feet

an excited selzerite

taste washed in

to work in dawn

in the milky dawn

of pain

in San Francisco

in the reel of wake up

to buy bananas

to step on it & get some bread

and Acme Beer

hurrying and laughing

breathless

with the battered coat

that's my home

and a red bag hangin

far away.

Don't ask for gold

and death & taxes

marching arm in arm.

Swing yr umbrella

for the world

and death

to happen

on a rainy corner

as a soda truck

at quarter of four

when the dog's let out

Sambati was his name

earnest for deliverance

it was a mournful day

in the calm & peaceful

"Rain on. O cloud!"

bluer than misery

Oh -

what a deal!

Pour me a drink

and sing another song

give me a hiball

or lay down dead

to end up there

to advertise the stone

in the afternoon

in this town

in the hellish street.

And I'm no where

torn and tattered

in some old dream

and unknown

dead

to come on in

on the last & fading hill

that everything

light illuminates

tonight off Toohey's head

on Labor day

when Frisco was a drizzle

falling everywhere

you here see

gelatinous & composed

for funny you.

The tattered awnings flap

the neons redly twangle

- "Switch to Calvert"

sun on down

of shady curtain night

in almost dark

dusk down sky

nevermore to remain

lost in the blue

for sullen brooding boys

bluely

glaring from black eyebrows

who walk alone

and then wearied

absolved of suicide

mourning the Renaissance

call.

See R K Singh at See Haiku Here

2011-12-02T14:12:00.008+01:00

On the blog See Haiku Here there are now appearing some delightful, almost spiritual, haiku from my favourite Indian poet R K Singh. I have no hesitation in recommending a click.

Here's one seasonal 3-liner of my own.

straw on my back

snow in my beard

no holly and ivy in sight

gw2011/

Night Train to the End of the Line

2011-12-01T13:17:00.022+01:00

Heading out of the town

on the underground train

I looked over the others

and worked out the odds.

No conductor in sight.

And now late at night.

Only lights and metallic

announcements.

I made bets with myself:

as to who would get off

and who would remain

on the train.

I was wrong every time.

But still in the end

I collected.

gw2011/

Professor Freud takes the last train to Paris

2011-12-01T10:17:00.032+01:00

He is apparently dangerous.

He knows the dark secrets of their minds.

He will ride on a long train of thought through the night.

He will leave them behind.

He knows they'll not let him down.

He won't lock the door.

gw2011/

Blessed are the Peacemakers

2011-11-29T09:26:00.015+01:00

People are afraid. They do not know what is going to happen in these uncertain times. They fear that the Devil is abroad.

Today's high priests on their golden thrones in their palaces and other places of power are corrupt beyond belief. They have lost sight of the true message and the reason we are here on this Earth. They are only interested in their own narrow spectrum of self-interest. They even have their own banks and their own soldiery. They excuse all manner of violence. They are not the Peacemakers.

I abandoned them when I discovered they had abandoned the path of peace - if they had ever been on it which I doubt. The whole history of the world's 'official' religions is a bloody nightmare. I will have no part of it. Jesus said: If God were your Father you would love me.

The teachers of the Law
brought in a woman.

They said: In the Law

Moses commanded us

to stone such a woman.

And He said: Let him

who is without sin

throw the first stone.

Those who heard this

went away one by one

- only the woman was left.

He said to her: I do not

condemn you. Go now.

_________________

image:

Markus Schinwald

Austrian Pavilion

Venice Biennale 2011

haiku

2011-11-28T14:05:00.004+01:00

snow on the north wind

ducks bobbing in the harbour

last ferry waiting

gw2011/

WWIII Horror Scenario

2011-11-28T09:18:00.016+01:00

On Sunday the Kronen Zeitung, Austria's best selling daily newspaper, included a graphic two-page spread outlining the first moves in what it calls the Israel-Iran Blitzkrieg Horror Scenario! or, if I can put it more bluntly, how World War III could begin tomorrow.

The Middle East stands on the verge of a war that could destroy the whole region. Or even most of the world.

Israel's Netanjahu is preparing a first strike against Iran says the Kronen Zeitung which quotes Netanjahu as saying: "If somebody wants to kill you, you have to kill him first."

This is a clear example of post-Holocaust mentality at its most dangerous.

Here is the Kronen Zeitung scenario:

Israel would attack Iran not only with its air force but with missiles fired from its submarines. Israel's 5 German produced Dolphin-class U-boats are reported to be equipped with nuclear weapons.

The paper goes on to claim that Iran's leader Ahmadinejad, speaking on Lebanon TV said: "Iran has decided that Israel must be extinguished."

The IAEA, with its HQ here in Vienna, has said that it believes that Iran is trying to build a nuclear bomb. Without question this would threaten Israel, says the Kronen Zeitung.

Ex-Mossad boss Meir Dagan warns Israel against attacking Iran. "Such an attack would be stupid. Israel would have to pay a terrible price," he says. Iran would retaliate with its Shahab-III rockets. Hundreds would be killed in Israel . . .

Iran's rockets could also reach parts of Europe. Turkey, Greece, Bulgaria and Rumania are within range.

And that's how Day 1 of WWIII could easily play out.

Day 2 is anybody's guess. Nuclear powers Russia and China have interests in Iran. Pakistan and India have nuclear weapons . . .

The way to stop this potential madness is for President Obama to act immediately and stop the Netanjahu plan before it goes any further.

The Palestinian question must then be seriously addressed by all parties. A just solution must be found.

The future of civilization is on the line. It cannot be allowed to depend on unpredictable events and the whims of various factions in the Middle East. There must be a forum where the region's problems can and will be thrashed out.

We need people with integrity to run this new forum. The usual suspects, those who have failed us before, must not be permitted to take part or to interfere in the process. They have proven time and again that their real interests lie beneath the sands and on the stock markets.

When the process has been completed there will then be no need for Israel to have nuclear weapons or for Iran or any other country to develop more nuclear weapons. There are already more than enough nuclear weapons to completely destroy every major city on the planet and bring on the nuclear winter.

The world's nuclear powers must return to the disarmament table.

"Jaw jaw is better than war war!" as Winston Churchill said.

I come from a lost village

2011-11-27T09:07:00.043+01:00

"The radioactive contamination in the Ukraine makes the children weak and often causes them to be very ill. Poverty makes the situation worse. The children require wholesome food, vitamins and medicines to see them through the winter." Global 2000 leaflet

'Don't think Chernobyl can't happen to you'

A leaflet has arrived. Actually it is not really a leaflet. It's a sheet of 100% recycled A4 printed on both sides and folded over twice.

Accompanying the sheet of paper there is a small square of beeswax which can be rolled like a cigarette and used as a small candle. It's an early Christmas present from Project-Tschernobyl-Kinder and Global 2000.

What does the leaflet say? It says that the Ukraine is divided into zones based on the levels of contamination. It says that there are 3 "very dangerous zones" and 3 "critical zones". These are shown in two shades of red. A small map shows that these 6 zones are to be found not only in the north, where Chernobyl itself is situated, but also in the east and the south-east of Ukraine. They include the cities of Kharkov, Lugansk, Saporozhje, Donetsk, and Dnepropetrovsk. Cities you have probably never heard of. Places you never hear about on the news.

There are 3 other contaminated areas. These are shown in orange and include Zhitomir and Vinnitsa in central Ukraine, and Lutsk in the northwest. Approximately 40% of surface area of Ukraine is contaminated.

At this time 2.3 million Ukrainians live in contaminated areas. This figure includes 500,000 children. Of these children, 80% are sick. That's what the leaflet says. Examples of children's illnesses are given: thyroid cancer, leukemia, bone cancer, muscle and bone atrophy, defective immune system. The 3 main causes for the children being sick are hereditary genetic defects caused by radiation, and contaminated farmland and water.

Several hundred tons of highly radioactive rubbish was removed from Chernobyl. So where is it today? No-one knows exactly but we can be sure that much of it is buried near houses and gardens, in the fields and near wells and springs, and in places where people live.

Over the last 15 years Global 2000 has been responsible for bringing more than 1,700 children to Austria to convalesce or to receive medical treatment they cannot obtain in Ukraine. They have also distributed more than €3,000,000 in direct aid. In addition, in Kharkov a hospital for children has been built, in Lugansk a centre for handicapped children has been constructed and in Antratsit a birth clinic.

Meanwhile, despite protests, a long slow train loaded with plutonium is trundling along from France to Germany.

Don't think Chernobyl can't happen to you.

Fukushima still rages out of control, and some would say conveniently out of the news. It may be our final warning.

Mainichi Daily News update: The odds of a big tsunami on the east coast of Japan during the next 30 years is rated 30%. The 8.5 quake (est.) of 1896 caused a 38.2 meter (125 ft) tsunami.

Energy News update: Fukushima fallout now confirmed in all prefectures in Japan.

Ludwig Hirsch (1946 - 2011) the Last Poet

2011-11-26T17:09:00.032+01:00

It's not every day that the death of a writer is the main headline news on the front page of a national newspaper.

Death of the Last Poet is the headline here.

It appears that Ludwig Hirsch threw himself out of a second floor window of a Vienna hospital. He was being treated for lung cancer. Hirsch was a heavy smoker.

To Austrians he was famous for his 'dark gray songs'. It was with his 1978 album Dunkelgrau Lieder that he made his breakthrough.

He will be remembered for the song Komm großer schwarzer Vogel - Come great black bird - which he penned in 1979.

The words of the song proved to be somewhat premonitory. They will undoubtedly become Hirsch's epitaph. I shall attempt to translate some of them; to make a poetic translation that is. Ludwig Hirsch, may your splendid poetry await you!

Komm großer schwarzer Vogel, komm jetzt!

Schau, das Fenster ist weit offen,

schau, ich hab Zucker aufs Fensterbrett g'straht.

Spann' Deine weiten, sanften Flügel aus

und legs' auf meine Fieberaugen!

Bitte, hol mich weg von da!

Und dann fliegen wir rauf,

mit in Himmel rein . . .

Press' Deinen feuchten, kalten Schnabel

auf meine Wunde, auf meine heiße Stirn!

Jetzt wär's grad günstig!

Die anderen da im Zimmer schlafen fest

und wenn wir ganz leise sind,

hört uns die Schwester nicht!

Come great black bird, come now!

Look, the window is wide open,

Look, sugar is spread on the window-sill.

So spread your wide soft wings

and let them cover my fevered eyes!

Please, take me away from here!

And soon we both shall fly

into the clear sky . . .

Now press your cold damp beak

upon my wound and on my burning brow!

Ah, that was really good! The others

are sound asleep within this room

and if we are very quiet

the sister will not hear us!

trans:

gw2011/

Coluim Wallace (1796 - 1906) the Old Poet

2011-11-26T10:44:00.029+01:00

An Irish poet

of the genuine coin

and stamp

He hailed from

Lettermullen

His head was a trove

of handpicked humour

and farfetched oddments

His songs were

flights and fancies . . .

A barefooted gossoon . . .

he lived through the 'stirring epoch'

as P H Pearse called it

In An Claidheamh Soluis

one time

. . . 'twas the 'stirring epoch'

of the Irish famine

the French at Killala

of O'Connel for Clare

of Waterloo

of Robert Emmet

in Marshallsea Lane

In later years

the poet grew old

and broke

and blind . . .

He entered Oughterhead

Workhouse

And it was there

that he

sang his very last note

and they all agreed

that he'd always

be remembered . . .

as the oldest man

in Connemara!

____

Wallace lived in three centuries:

the 18th, 19th and 20th and when

he died he was 110 years of age.

Notice on a wall at a Rene´Magritte exhibition

2011-11-25T14:58:00.034+01:00

This is not an image of a church window

On the wall by the smallest space in the exhibition is the following notice:

Not suitable for young visitors under 16.

There are works in this room that might

hurt your religious or aesthetic feelings.

I am over 16. I have no official religion. My aesthetic feelings are already all atingle.

After van Gogh, Magritte is my favourite artist. I'm on safe ground here. I enter the cupboard sized room.

The first thing I see is Rene Magritte's painting of a giraffe standing in a tall crystal glass. It's long neck is protruding. There are also pencil sketches or maybe they were pen and ink drawings, I can't remember now.

In one particular picture the organ that the priest or the bishop is playing is clearly not the church organ. You may now imagine what kind of organ it is.

The picture of the priest or bishop at the organ is obviously one of the works referred to on the notice outside the black curtain that I have just passed through.

Judging by the plethora of recent news reports and the amount of compensation paid to victims by the Holy See, it would appear that many thousands of boys, mostly under 16, have already seen the church organ in the flesh.

Many of the boys, now men, are currently receiving psychological counseling. Hard information regarding the fates of the various organ playing priests or bishops is sparse.

I presume they are keeping their heads down; keeping a low profile.

In the first room of the exhibition I was told to put my camera away. In the absence of a giraffe in a glass I give you an illuminated waterfall. I took the photo in Italy from a low angle.

____

at Albertina, Vienna

until February 2012

Monolith, Co. Clare

2011-11-24T17:48:00.046+01:00

When I was in Ireland in 2005 I had a rather unnerving experience next to a monolith. Now going through some old papers I was reminded of it.

When

stood

alone and gazed

deepest

thought

And

in the fog

Before

The Stone

upon the heath

field

of energy

Entered

my space

And

all at once

There

my side

Was

the ghostly

Specter

giant beast

Now

come

to pass

stream

and

having

done so

turned

and

left me

with

plaintive

deep

and

long

'twas

the somber tone

of its great fog-horn

UFOKU!

2011-11-24T16:33:00.005+01:00

Earth - the blue planet

NASA archives hacked!

Top secret photo reveals the truth!

Newton got it wrong!

gw2011/

haiku

2011-11-23T17:27:00.008+01:00

it was only a twig

'til I looked through a lens

and composed myself

gw2011/

Give me some truth

2011-11-22T15:01:00.036+01:00

The above quotation comes from John Lennon. It serves to highlight a major problem in the world today. Politicians of every stripe and colour are unable to give us the truth. And the reason is as clear as the nose on your face.

Corruption.

Corruption in high places has been on the agenda for years. It is now the daily norm. But times, as they say, are changing. Fear is at work.

No-one knows how to handle the demonstrations and protests sweeping the globe. The traditional answer was a military crackdown or another war. But history teaches that these methods cannot succeed in the long run.

Today in the so-called western democracies politicians, fearing economic collapse and anarchy, are using the forces of law and order to shore up their precarious positions.

Peaceful protests are being broken-up by men in Darth Vader gear using tear gas, water cannon, rubber bullets, truncheons and pepper spray.

Intellectuals fear they will soon have no voice, blue collar workers fear they will soon have no jobs, the housewife fears she will soon have no bread to put on the table*, and the students fear they will have to spend the rest of their lives in deep financial debt.

The time has now come for the world's leaders to come clean. The big shake-up is here. It is not going to go away. Corruption in high places must now be exposed.

Those responsible for bringing the world to the edge of the pit must surely be dealt with. Financial meltdown and anarchy are the two sides of their counterfeit coin. War must follow.

Sadly, so far as one can see, nobody is standing up to save us. Not one person in a position of high authority is prepared to grasp the nettle of truth.

It's not looking too good.**

______

gw2011/

*1 in 3 US children reported to be living in poverty

** Mike Gravel (an ex-US senator) paints the following WWIII doomsday scenario: Israel bombs Iran, Iran bombs Israel, Israel nukes Iran, Pakistan nukes..., the US nukes..., China nukes...,

US Poet Laureate faces Darth Vader cops

2011-11-22T14:01:00.019+01:00

In the current online Opinion Section of the New York Times Sunday Review the 70 year old former American Poet Laureate and Professor of Poetics Robert Hass writes about the day he faced a line of "Alamada County deputy sheriffs in Darth Vader gear".

"The description for what I tried to do is 'remonstrate'," explains Hass who saw his wife "knocked down" by a deputy at a recent University of California demonstration.

"I screamed at the deputy, 'You just knocked down my wife for Christ's sake!' " he said.

For voicing his troubles the septuagenarian Professor of Poetics and former Chancellor of the Academy of American Poets was "whacked hard in the ribs twice and once across the forearm".

According to Hass two of his colleagues at the demonstration were also victims of Darth Vader justice.

Celeste Langon, a Wordsworth scholar, was "dragged across the grass by her hair" and poet Geoffrey O'Brien "had a broken rib," said Hass.

The Democracy Now TV link in the sidebar is a convenient way to keep abreast of newsworthy events.

Time to say thank you

2011-11-22T10:26:00.043+01:00

A warm welcome to all my new readers; and, of course, to all my old readers too. Many of you have been visiting here since the start in 2007.

There have been nearly 10,000 visits to Poet-in-Residence during the last 30 days. More than 400 visitors looked first at my short poem The Computer.

If you haven't yet read The Computer and would like to do so simply enter the title of the poem in the 'Four years of wordplay' search box.

I am humbled and at the same time delighted with the way things are going.

As a result of all this enthusiasm and interest I am now going through my many boxes of papers and rediscovering some of my earlier works.

I am revising these poems and placing them, as I go, on my Poetry Rat page which is just one click away. There I hope to assemble, over the next year or so, the best of my work for your pleasure and enjoyment.

Thank you all.

Babylon Revisited in haiku building blocks

2011-11-21T14:03:00.027+01:00

Inspired by an email from blogger Jim Murdoch at The Truth About Lies, I wondered if Babylon Revisited, the F. Scott Fitzgerald booklet of three short stories (free with The Daily Telegraph) would provide a stimulating haiku or two for my amusement. Or maybe three. In the event it was five. So I thought I'd share them with you.

My eyes almost glazed over when I saw the final paragraph of the final story of the three, The Lost Decade. There, at first glance, was a gem to be found.

then he reached out

his thumb against the granite

the building by his side

I then turned to the middle story, The Cut Glass Bowl. Fitzgerald, as we know, can round a circle. Even two circles simultaneously. Sure signs of a good writer.

a rough stone age

and a smooth stone age

and a cut-glass age

bonbon dishes

and after the wedding

the punch-bowls

The struggle for existence is one of the important themes here. If we went on in similar vein we would eventually come to the toothbrush holder and the other shabby genteels on the bathroom shelf. And these we could also use to good effect to reflect and describe the way that our protagonist's life is unfolding; and that is in the manner that Fitzgerald's character Mrs Roger Fairboalt describes as quite artistic.

In the title story Babylon Revisited once we get past the initial exchange of trivia between Charlie and Mr Wales, we can select and adapt a block of text that is equally quite artistic or even, dare I say it, strangely poetic.

Strangely also, the absent waiter is called Paul. But that's another story.

stillness in the Ritz bar

a single pair of eyes fluttering up

from a newspaper

And at the end, 34 pages later, we may round off the tale in appropriate manner.

no more he said

the whisky glass empty

not young anymore

When you have a few minutes to spare why not choose a favourite book and try the exercise for yourself? You may even find it stimulating.

haiku

2011-11-21T10:22:00.005+01:00

by the gray sea

in the cold onshore wind

two friends at play

gw2011/

Trains of thought

2011-11-20T11:34:00.038+01:00

Whatever it is you're looking for you won't find it here.

- Raymond Pettibon

Ray's trains of thought

Begin in Oklahoma

One place I've never been

Except in sleep.

To shut your eyes is

Like to travel.

His trains of thought

Have worn the tracks

Where they roar through many

An idle or curious mind.

And out the other side.

But now Ray's iron chariot

Has steamed into

This walking library:

A poet drunk on ink

And HB pencils

Pockets stuffed with papers clipped

Scraps with phrases underlined

Linguistic chaff

And leitmotifs

Homologies

And old delirium.

"Pages

that hold the truth

are blank!"

Ray clips my ticket

It leaves me waiting.

_____

gw2011/

H is for Hospital. V is for Victim.

2011-11-12T10:40:00.008+01:00

hospital: n. formerly, a charitable institution for the old or destitute, or for the reception (and education) of the needy young: an institution for treatment of sick or injured: a building for any of these purposes.

Here is a small selection of the victims of Am Steinhof a Vienna hospital run by the Nazis.

These people have one thing in common. They were all murdered.

victim: n. a living being offered as a sacrifice: one subjected to death, suffering or ill-treatment: a prey: a sufferer

Pictures at an exhibition...Part 5

2011-11-11T19:05:00.014+01:00

There were those who risked their lives to bring the dark secrets of Am Steinhof to the world. Anyone caught taking a photograph of a suspicious column of smoke would face interrogation and torture by the Gestapo and certain death.

Many clergymen, like the Bishop of Münster, refused to be silenced. His outspoken words were printed and distributed from the air by the Royal Air Force. Hundreds of courageous Austrian priests who spoke out against Nazi atrocities, or who were members of secret resistance groups, were murdered by the Nazis.

School teachers were drafted into the Nazi military machine, and were replaced in schools by Nazi instructors sometimes known as brown sisters. Young children were brainwashed by these Reich-appointed educators. Older children were instructed to eavesdrop on their parents and report overheard conversations to their new teachers. They were also made to write poems in praise of Adolf Hitler for their homework assignments.

One of the 800 children who perished at Am Steinhof was a member of Adolf Hitler's family. Insane.

Pictures at an exhibition...Part 4

2011-11-11T18:35:00.010+01:00

The man in the centre is Doctor Heinrich Gross, the head of Am Steinhof. He was never convicted of his crimes.

Example of Nazi Propoganda...>>>

One Jewish doctor decided that the Vienna of 1938 was not a healthy place for him to remain. The photograph (left) shows Dr Sigmund Freud looking out of a train window in Paris. He is on his way to London. The illustration on the right is from a children's comic of the time. It shows a blonde Aryan girl facing a lecherous Jewish doctor.

Pictures at an exhibition. . .Part 3

2011-11-11T17:56:00.012+01:00

The pursuit of phrenology at Am Steinhof involved measuring the size and shape of the head. From the measurements it could be deduced that a patient suffered from a mental abnormality and also in some cases the nature of the mental disease could be recorded: e.g. Mongoloid. The brains of many patients were stored in glass jars in the cellars to await post mortem analysis and further scientific investigation.

In Am Steinhof the colour of an individual's eyes could be a factor in determining his fate. Doctor's used glass marbles such as these for comparison. Your chances of survival were doubtless better if you had blue eyes.

On the left a chair where a patient would sit to be measured. Note the angular strip of wood used to separate the buttocks. Symmetry, or lack of it, may have been a factor in diagnosing mental illness. On the right a machine for giving electric shock treatment. These kinds of devices are still used to treat schizophrenics. At Am Steinhof the large pads would be affixed to a patient's temples and a sudden jolt of electricity would be transmitted through them which would subdue an excited or aggressive individual. Or maybe result in his death.

(to be continued...)

Pictures at an exhibition. . .Part 2

2011-11-11T17:09:00.009+01:00

Professors of eugenics and their ilk produced complicated maps and wall-charts such as the one below claiming to show the spread of different racial groups throughout Europe. These maps were used to support the Nazi's Herrenvolk theory; the idea that there was a superior race of blonde-haired blue-eyed people. This superior race was to be found only in the areas of the map coloured red.

The Poet-in-Residence has red hair and green eyes and was born in Wales (a blue coloured area). Obviously a threat to Herrenvolk theory!

Any potential slave-worker transported to Vienna from the Nazi-occupied lands to the east of Austria would be measured, photographed, fingerprinted and issued with identity papers. Any person being deemed, by reason of racial origin, unsuitable for producing offspring for the Reich would be sterilized on the orders of an appropriate doctor at Am Steinhof.

(to be continued...)

Pictures at an exhibition...Part 1

2011-11-11T14:06:00.015+01:00

The Narrenturm

The Fools Tower was Vienna's first mental institution. The building was erected during the reign of Emperor Joseph II. Here the fools were shackled and chained and ruled over by men with bullwhips. The screams could be heard far away. At night the sound was said to terrifying.

Am Steinhof

Today I went to Am Steinhof.

It was from there, as part of the Nazi Euthenasia Programme known as Aktion T4, that 3,200 patients, considered to be a burden on the Reich, were taken away to be murdered. In addition, some 800 sick or handicapped children were murdered on the spot and 3,500 other so-called patients were systematically starved to death or left to die from infections.

Slave labour from Russia and other Eastern states was an important, if not a vital tool, of the Nazi Empire. It was at Am Steinhof that many of these imported workers were forcibly sterlized. Under the Nazi Racial Laws these people were considered unfit to breed.

One of the first exhibits to catch the eye on entering the permanent exhibition on the ground floor of Building V (Social Medicine Centre) at the Otto Wagner Hospital, Baumgartner Höhe, Vienna, is a glass case containing books, and one of them bearing a photograph of the author is more prominent than the rest.

The Exhibition is titled: Der Krieg Gegen Die Minderwertigen (The War Against People of Less Worth).

(to be continued...)

Prince Charles takes the reins at WWF ... and a poem for Padraic Colum*

2011-11-09T12:20:00.054+01:00

a pot-bellied piglet in a local park

As most readers will be aware by now Prince Charles has taken over as president of the World Wildlife Fund.

I mention this because the annual barrage of charity material is already peppering the world's letter boxes.

The WWF thanks me for saving the snow leopard from extinction (I didn't know I had) and informs me that this particular big cat has never killed a human being. My reward is an advent calendar.

Recalling that Jesus himself is said to have driven evil spirits into a herd of pigs thereby forcing them to commit mass suicide, I sadly fail to make the connections between the manic hype of the Christmas season and the sorry and dreadful plight of the world's endangered species - of which Man, living ever more precariously and with the increasing threat of nuclear holocaust, could soon be one. UNSTABLE MINDS ARE RUNNING OUR AFFAIRS.

Perhaps the WWF deal is that animals deserve a Happy Christmas too?

Try entering 'Prince Charles in Galapagos Islands' in this blog's search box if you need some light relief.

Or below, an after hours poem for Padraic Colum*:-

The grunting of pigs

The grunting of pigs

waxes over your sleep

the moon climbs high

3 o'clock you wake up

people pass by

laughing

shouting

and coughing

the moon climbs high

a cellar door slams.

The squealing of pigs

waxes over your sleep

6 o'clock you wake up

people pass by

the jingling

of harness

the rolling of barrels

a cellar door slams

the moon falls down.

______

gw2011/

*Colum assisted James Joyce with the transcription of Finnegans Wake

The Cross

2011-11-08T19:52:00.008+01:00

We the Creator

are in the here and the now

for

Always

and all ways

Our Creation is this Time and Space

with its two endless Lines

Lines with no beginnings and no ends

and

Where the Lines cross

Is where We are

to be found at this very moment

that is already now past

Our centre is fixed

and yet always moving

On that cross

on your neck

and in your rearview mirror

It is

And It is not

gw2011/

The Poet-in-Residence group photo

2011-11-08T13:22:00.026+01:00

opened a window

onto the world -

the crash of the glass!

George Szirtes reported on his blog about a singular need we have, which is to take instant photographs of ourselves as if to prove that we have been somewhere or other, or simply in order to admire ourselves.

Like George Szirtes I must confess that I also enjoy taking my photographic self-portrait in front of a mirror or other reflecting surface. But it isn't vanity. I think it's more a desire to see ourselves as others see us, as the poet Robbie Burns put it.

But maybe we are also subconsciously aware of some invisible Other beyond our vision - the heavenly voyeur, as I would term him. Or her. And so, equipped with an instant camera, we react accordingly.

I'll openly admit that I enjoy looking at photos taken by myself and of my self usually engaged in some mild nonsense or other.

As to the photos the news media wants me to pore over I have to say that I detest group photos featuring EU politicians lined up like recalcitrant schoolboys. Does anybody ever look at them? I can't bear too. The hypocrisy of it all almost makes me almost want to puke!

mushrooms growing in a garden

2011-11-07T12:46:00.019+01:00

"The ethical expression for what Abraham did is that he was willing to murder Isaac."

- Søren Kierkegaard

Before the evening falls to mushroom glow

and the cloud sets free the deadly spore

beg your craftsman make an ark against the ruin

and store the poetry books behind its doors

Aurelius wrote who spoke the truth

and held the glow of first love in his pen

he was from heaven at only one remove

mark well his words and attitude to men

gw2011/

Poems by Peter Newton

2011-11-04T05:07:00.006+01:00

These two lovely poems, submitted by Peter Newton, arrive here from Poetry Rat, where it was intended to collect some poems for children during 2011.

At Poetry Rat there was a limited response of sufficient standard, unlike the Poetry 2010 Project when I was almost overwhelmed with many excellent contributions (perhaps I set the Poetry Rat bar too high or maybe there is insufficient interest in the idea of bringing modern poetry to the attention of younger readers).

Poetry Rat will now to be used for another project which is to 'collect' my own poetry in bulk.

The first poem was originally published in Atlanta Review and the second in The Adirodack Review.

The Hummingbird

At once, a rage of wings

and emerald stillness

hanging from the fuchsia,

here to repair the flowers,

tinkering

until each bloom

is a bell again

Red-Winged Blackbird

I hear your Morse this morning -

dash dot dot dash

sung, of course, to make it beautiful.

I know what you're saying

because I'm saying the same thing.

Your species and mine are prone

to calling out to our own -

me here here me

_______

c) 2011 - Peter Newton

Collaterally damaged?

2011-11-03T14:44:00.018+01:00

On the busy shopping street pavement

Near the 3rd take-away

And the 5th Christmas tree

I suddenly see a man with no legs

Sitting alone with a small paper cup

Positioned between

Where his legs should have been

He is singing a comical song

In a language that is foreign to me

And now when he sees me

Halt in mid-stride

He suddenly stops

And falls silent

As fog

He looks up to me

The twinkle in his eye

He wears a bright smile

His stumps are encased in red socks

I take the coin from my pocket

He raises the cup

With his arm

And it's then that I see

That he has but one arm

I place the coin in the cup

And feel the look of his eye

An eye that sees deep

It touches my soul

gw2011/

Mind your own business

2011-11-01T18:33:00.024+01:00

Two heads are better than one they say, whoever they are, but that's untrue for it all depends on whose heads they are.

Two heads currently worth listening to are those of Stacy Herbert and Max Keiser. They can be found by clicking on MAX KEISER in my A-Z Links or via my RT News Link.

haiku

2011-11-01T12:50:00.005+01:00

there before

and standing by the door

my shadow

It is an owl

2011-11-01T08:49:00.019+01:00

you

who

rest without remorse

and sleep

too light

should ever wonder

who

or what

it is

it is an owl

who turned

to you

and softly laughed

upon your tree

of dreams

gw2011/

A poem for blogger

'Owl Who Laughs'

because she's beautiful

2011-10-31T17:40:00.005+01:00

You look down. She's looking at you.

You look away.

You look again.

She's still looking.

Don't stare because she's beautiful

but because you're lost in thought.

Every moment counts.

________________________

text: Tim Love 'Love at first sight'

image: Gwilym Williams

muse: Jim Murdoch

A review of Tim Love's latest collection can be found at The Truth About Lies - see blog update links >>>

Hatyooselves argh happyhallooooooe'en

2011-10-31T16:51:00.010+01:00

Many thanks to all my readers for your 7,713 visits to this blog during the month of October.

Next month this Poet-in-Residence blog, which began life in mid-November 2007, will celebrate its 4th birthday. During November I shall take a little time out to plan the way forward for the blog. One thing you can be sure of is that I will continue to not take adverts, a policy which is important to retain the blog's irresponsible independence and its free spirit.

Meanwhile back to the pumpkins. Enjoy yours!