Filming the big cats
the fat cats
in the Land Rovers
ride the Serengeti
Hemingway knew it
the difference
between the big cats
and the fat cats
facing extinction
the big cats
look to the fat cats
_______
gw 2009
Friday, 18 September 2009
Thursday, 17 September 2009
POETS
Poets
I have reared a monument more enduring than bronze - Horace
Awaiting an editio princeps
one assumed an air of indifference
and a way of speaking; lounged
in the square
in the heat of the day;
feverish after the furor scribendi
the scribbled poem
by which others may judge the rest.
Another gave himself up to the sea
and a monument
more lasting than bronze.
Abroad the others
were men with sparkling eyes;
Arcadians;
reclining fellows of rustic stamp
giving weight to smoke
and distinction to ancestral honour.
We, in our turn, opened bottles
at breakneck speed
greedy for the company
of unfaithful friendships.
Others crossed the seas
and changed their skies
became an irritable pack
of doubtful travellers
eyed to the walls
by sleep-stirred dogs.
They lived mouth to hand
with dirge and lament
in cities of white-robed fortune.
-------
gw 2009
I have reared a monument more enduring than bronze - Horace
Awaiting an editio princeps
one assumed an air of indifference
and a way of speaking; lounged
in the square
in the heat of the day;
feverish after the furor scribendi
the scribbled poem
by which others may judge the rest.
Another gave himself up to the sea
and a monument
more lasting than bronze.
Abroad the others
were men with sparkling eyes;
Arcadians;
reclining fellows of rustic stamp
giving weight to smoke
and distinction to ancestral honour.
We, in our turn, opened bottles
at breakneck speed
greedy for the company
of unfaithful friendships.
Others crossed the seas
and changed their skies
became an irritable pack
of doubtful travellers
eyed to the walls
by sleep-stirred dogs.
They lived mouth to hand
with dirge and lament
in cities of white-robed fortune.
-------
gw 2009
No Man's Land
NO MAN'S LAND
lies patient
beyond revetments
and we wait
in the dark
in the sandbagged trench
footsoles on firestep
somewhere between parados
and the parapet.
The others
wait too
some crouch like rats
trembling in funk holes.
In silence
we all wait.
Some people dream
of the cupped flame,
of the last letter,
some scratch their lice,
others observe the scurry of rats.
Wait for the order.
The signal to go
over the top
ATTACK! in the accepted manner.
Come on, lads! up and over!
onward to the poppy fields!
The bullets
whistle
the old familiar song.
Nothing new in the west.
------
gw2009
*Nothing New in the West is the correct English translation of the title of Remarque's war story commonly known as All Quiet on the Western Front
lies patient
beyond revetments
and we wait
in the dark
in the sandbagged trench
footsoles on firestep
somewhere between parados
and the parapet.
The others
wait too
some crouch like rats
trembling in funk holes.
In silence
we all wait.
Some people dream
of the cupped flame,
of the last letter,
some scratch their lice,
others observe the scurry of rats.
Wait for the order.
The signal to go
over the top
ATTACK! in the accepted manner.
Come on, lads! up and over!
onward to the poppy fields!
The bullets
whistle
the old familiar song.
Nothing new in the west.
------
gw2009
*Nothing New in the West is the correct English translation of the title of Remarque's war story commonly known as All Quiet on the Western Front
Tuesday, 15 September 2009
ONE MORE WINDMILL
One More Windmill*
Don Quixote and Pancho
men of iron
in winter's iron grip
stationary
and stopped
before the Windmill
of Retz
the tale to tell
pickaxe footed
with an old gate shield
on a mountain of pipework
and milk churns
angled iron
screws
nuts and bolts
boiler wheels
chains
a shovel
and a spade
a smooth brass doorknob
and a worn out shoe
the latter
from a worn out carthorse
out of Moravia
where the travellers now gaze on the plain
in the whistling wind from the Steppes
two horsemen
blankly looking
into the lore and lie of language
close by the river
that is merely a convenience
and a border
for the insecure
secure in the knowledge that knowing where they are in time
and space
like moths on their flights to the stars
is the be
and
end of all
witness the Plough
that signpost
circling the faint North Star
or the Big Dipper's directors
aside the dim Polaris
(in another way of saying it)
ten miles above the frozen landmark
of Retz
the sky was more than once too wide
and the space beneath
was always going to be too small
for man
_______
gw 2009
*the Retz Windmill, these days a prominent landmark, stopped work in 1924
Don Quixote and Pancho
men of iron
in winter's iron grip
stationary
and stopped
before the Windmill
of Retz
the tale to tell
pickaxe footed
with an old gate shield
on a mountain of pipework
and milk churns
angled iron
screws
nuts and bolts
boiler wheels
chains
a shovel
and a spade
a smooth brass doorknob
and a worn out shoe
the latter
from a worn out carthorse
out of Moravia
where the travellers now gaze on the plain
in the whistling wind from the Steppes
two horsemen
blankly looking
into the lore and lie of language
close by the river
that is merely a convenience
and a border
for the insecure
secure in the knowledge that knowing where they are in time
and space
like moths on their flights to the stars
is the be
and
end of all
witness the Plough
that signpost
circling the faint North Star
or the Big Dipper's directors
aside the dim Polaris
(in another way of saying it)
ten miles above the frozen landmark
of Retz
the sky was more than once too wide
and the space beneath
was always going to be too small
for man
_______
gw 2009
*the Retz Windmill, these days a prominent landmark, stopped work in 1924
Monday, 14 September 2009
IOTA
With Iota 83/84, the new team at Matlock, Derbyshire (UK) took over the publication of the much respected poetry journal.
Iota's Niccolo Luparello, in a covering letter to Iota 85, asks that the Iota International Poetry Competition be publicised. As one who cut his second set of bardic teeth on quarterly mags such as Iota and Pulsar (see Pulsar 52 post below) Poet-in-Residence is more than eager to oblige!
Entry fees: various - but 4 poems for 10 pounds is the best on offer
Closing date: 30th November 2009
Style: any
Length: maximum 80 lines
Judge: Tim Turnbull
Prizes: 1st 2,000 GBP, 2nd 1,000 GBP, 3rd 500 GBP, (plus 10 x 50 GBP supplementary prizes). All winning poems to be published in Iota.
The new Iota website where much more information concerning the poetry competition, subscription offers, and other bardic matters is at www.iotamagzine.co.uk - simply click on IOTA in the P-i-R Links sidebar --->>>
ps - interesting interview with George Szirtes in Iota 85 plus a trio of quality poems from his new collection Burning the Books (Bloodaxe).
Iota's Niccolo Luparello, in a covering letter to Iota 85, asks that the Iota International Poetry Competition be publicised. As one who cut his second set of bardic teeth on quarterly mags such as Iota and Pulsar (see Pulsar 52 post below) Poet-in-Residence is more than eager to oblige!
Entry fees: various - but 4 poems for 10 pounds is the best on offer
Closing date: 30th November 2009
Style: any
Length: maximum 80 lines
Judge: Tim Turnbull
Prizes: 1st 2,000 GBP, 2nd 1,000 GBP, 3rd 500 GBP, (plus 10 x 50 GBP supplementary prizes). All winning poems to be published in Iota.
The new Iota website where much more information concerning the poetry competition, subscription offers, and other bardic matters is at www.iotamagzine.co.uk - simply click on IOTA in the P-i-R Links sidebar --->>>
ps - interesting interview with George Szirtes in Iota 85 plus a trio of quality poems from his new collection Burning the Books (Bloodaxe).
Saturday, 5 September 2009
PULSAR 52
The latest edition (no.52/September 2009) of the Ligden Poetry Society's poetry journal Pulsar is the last printed edition, at least for a while, says editor David Pike.
From now on Pulsar will appear as a quarterly web-zine. The printed edition of Pulsar ran for 15 years and found its way into many corners of the globe: copies went to Mr P Chaudhuri at Poetry Today in Calcutta; to Marion Stocking, Beloit Poetry Journal, Lamoine, USA; to Peter Finch, The Academi Agency, Cardiff; and yet another to Neil Astley at Bloodaxe Books; a copy to Joe Woods at Poetry Ireland and so on. It must have cost a pretty penny in postage, not to mention the hours of work involved for editor David Pike and assistant Jill Pike.
And so 'from now on' I shall click on PULSAR in the Poet in Residence sidebar --->>> and enjoy the poetry I find there!
From now on Pulsar will appear as a quarterly web-zine. The printed edition of Pulsar ran for 15 years and found its way into many corners of the globe: copies went to Mr P Chaudhuri at Poetry Today in Calcutta; to Marion Stocking, Beloit Poetry Journal, Lamoine, USA; to Peter Finch, The Academi Agency, Cardiff; and yet another to Neil Astley at Bloodaxe Books; a copy to Joe Woods at Poetry Ireland and so on. It must have cost a pretty penny in postage, not to mention the hours of work involved for editor David Pike and assistant Jill Pike.
And so 'from now on' I shall click on PULSAR in the Poet in Residence sidebar --->>> and enjoy the poetry I find there!
Thursday, 3 September 2009
70 years on from World War II (Georg Trakl)
Molotov, Dulles and the poet at the end of the war
Bloggers like Weaver of Grass are remembering that it's exactly 70 years today since Neville Chamberlain announced that Britain was at war with Germany.
The poem chosen to mark this date is one from the so-called Great War and is by the Austrian poet Georg Trakl who died following a complete nervous breakdown on witnessing the terrible scenes on the eastern front as a medical orderly.
In the following translation I've taken a few liberties to make the English version of the poem stronger than it would otherwise be. Trakl held back. A sensitive man, I feel he knew the breakdown was imminent.
In the East
Wild organs in the winter storm,
the dark pains of the people,
the purple surge of battle,
the fallen leaves and stars.
Broken browed and silver armed
night hauls the dying soldiers.
In the shadow of the autumn ash
the deafeated spirit sighs.
Thorny wildness grips the town.
On bleeding steps the moon
pursues the frightened woman.
Wild wolves break down the doors.
Georg Trakl (1887-1914)
______
(translation / gw 3 Sept 2009)
______
Im Osten
Den wilden Orgeln des Wintersturms
Gleicht des Volkes finstrer Zorn,
Die purpurne Woge der Schlacht,
Entlaubter Sterne.
Mit zerbrochnen Brauen, silbernen Armen
Winkt sterbenden Soldaten die Nacht.
Im Schatten der herbstlichen Esche
Seufzen die Geister der Erschlagenen.
Dornige Wildnis umgürtet die Stadt.
Von blutenden Stufen jagt der Mond
Die erschrockenen Frauen.
Wilde Wölfe brachen durchs Tor.
Sunday, 30 August 2009
Aberystwyth
Aberystwyth, the seaside town in Wales, is more than a fishing village. Aberystwyth is a way of life. The very name Aberystwyth, the sound of it, is the touchstone for the exiled Welshman (or woman). Damn it, the place even has a promenade, a post office and a shop selling bara lawr (or laverbread).
Aberystwyth
abroad with fantasies and airport fictions
retro futurism and kitsch aesthetics
not to mention the homeland literati
poring over poetics
in bardic magazines
arriving monthly in the post
I tended to think I was out of touch
with something
that's claimed to lie in the phantasmagorical
stubbornly defying wisdom and logic
something that's not available on postal subscription
but is free on an everyday basis
to the few
they say it's found
in the whistling of the wind through the drystone wall
and in the rumble of the early morning milk train
this raindrenched evening found me squelching
under Cadwallader's dragon
limply hanging
from the promenade flagpole
with the local bardic outpourings
stuffed in my raincoat pockets
in an everyday kind of way
there was a sad politness
about it all
pilgrim-ing my pious wanderings
and Hiraeth
around the old ancestral beat
splashing around
in massage-comfort shoes
stumbling over that ancient folk-rock activist
outpouring her lucid deliriums
in the bar of the Red Dragon pub
so tell me cariad -
how's things in Aberystwyth?
solicited between sets / passing over the tongue loosener
frothy fragments
bursting forth
into my reconciliation zone
and suddenly it was all over
the bardic dreams
the airport-polished shoes
_____________
gw 2009, 2008
Aberystwyth
abroad with fantasies and airport fictions
retro futurism and kitsch aesthetics
not to mention the homeland literati
poring over poetics
in bardic magazines
arriving monthly in the post
I tended to think I was out of touch
with something
that's claimed to lie in the phantasmagorical
stubbornly defying wisdom and logic
something that's not available on postal subscription
but is free on an everyday basis
to the few
they say it's found
in the whistling of the wind through the drystone wall
and in the rumble of the early morning milk train
this raindrenched evening found me squelching
under Cadwallader's dragon
limply hanging
from the promenade flagpole
with the local bardic outpourings
stuffed in my raincoat pockets
in an everyday kind of way
there was a sad politness
about it all
pilgrim-ing my pious wanderings
and Hiraeth
around the old ancestral beat
splashing around
in massage-comfort shoes
stumbling over that ancient folk-rock activist
outpouring her lucid deliriums
in the bar of the Red Dragon pub
so tell me cariad -
how's things in Aberystwyth?
solicited between sets / passing over the tongue loosener
frothy fragments
bursting forth
into my reconciliation zone
and suddenly it was all over
the bardic dreams
the airport-polished shoes
_____________
gw 2009, 2008
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)