Ink, Sweat & Tears' Charles Christian will be appearing in Sherry Weaver's Speakeasy along with Martin Dockery, Gautam Borgohai, Tracy Roland, Mathew Mercier and James Braby at the Cornelia Street Cafe´ (corner 6th Avenue) on Tuesday 3rd February at 8.30pm. Admission $10 plus one drink.
The event True Stories Told By Real People is subtitled Stories From The Back Room. More details, poster, phone number etc., on the Ink, Sweat & Tears website via Poet-in-Residence's alphabetical LINK in sidebar.
The first Ink, Sweat & Tears chapbook anthology of poetry, prose and haiga, titled Ink, Sweat & Years 2008 (ISBN 978-1-907043-00-0), is now available via the IS&T bookshop or from Amazon.
The publication contains a broad selection of the work featured on IS&T during 2008 (including that of your humble scribe). Other contributors, mentioned here at random, are Geoff Stevens, Mike Montreuil, Ron Koertge, Marguerite O'Callaghan, Will Collins and Ken Head. The full list of contributing poets, plus details of price, how to order etc. can be found on IS&T.
Friday, 30 January 2009
More haikutrio (4)
Another challenge with the haikutrio form is to use the same keyword in all three haiku. Today's subject is once again the Poet-in-Residence run. Incidentally, the pink pig sometimes seen on the morning run has rapidly grown a hairy grey overcoat. Only his nose remains pink. No sign of black pig, but faint squeals have been heard from the hut. Piglets? Could be.
pass an indian
braving austrian snow
in jack wolfskin
avoid ice
and deep snow
pass on caterpillar track
stop for dog to pass
to wipe his nose
on my thigh
pass an indian
braving austrian snow
in jack wolfskin
avoid ice
and deep snow
pass on caterpillar track
stop for dog to pass
to wipe his nose
on my thigh
Thursday, 29 January 2009
Note on a glimpse of Bob Dylan
The following poem was quickly scribbled en-passant onto page 13 of John McDonald's collection of haiku The Throu-Gaun Chiel, a book that Poet-in-Residence carries around, and uses not only as a source of inspiration, but as a workbook, as a place to make notes.
John's haiku are not destroyed by the scribbled blue and red scrawls adorning the pages, but in a way they are enhanced. It's difficult to explain why; but try it for yourself and you will soon see that it is like that. It's a kind of contemporary way of reading and of writing and of using all of one's resources.
a short note
on a marine band harmonica
and he slipped like an eel
through the crowd
and onto the train,
and hung a strap near me
somewhere between eire
and russia
going around
the old beltway line
well, he was younger
than I had remembered
his curly black hair
and his thin red lips
his guitar in the bag on his back
the wide leather belt
girdling the hips
and I was gonna say
hey, Mr Dylan how's it going, ok?
but just then he was suddenly gone
lost from my view
and without his new song
___________
gw2009/2010
John's haiku are not destroyed by the scribbled blue and red scrawls adorning the pages, but in a way they are enhanced. It's difficult to explain why; but try it for yourself and you will soon see that it is like that. It's a kind of contemporary way of reading and of writing and of using all of one's resources.
a short note
on a marine band harmonica
and he slipped like an eel
through the crowd
and onto the train,
and hung a strap near me
somewhere between eire
and russia
going around
the old beltway line
well, he was younger
than I had remembered
his curly black hair
and his thin red lips
his guitar in the bag on his back
the wide leather belt
girdling the hips
and I was gonna say
hey, Mr Dylan how's it going, ok?
but just then he was suddenly gone
lost from my view
and without his new song
___________
gw2009/2010
Tuesday, 27 January 2009
A play for today, Arthur Miller's The Price
The Price by Arthur Miller
Vienna's English Theatre
Josefgasse 12, 1080 Vienna
from 26 Jan 09 to 6 Mar 09
One of Arthur Miller's most famous plays is The Price. In Vienna it is currently being performed in memory of the play's director Robert Prosky who died unexpectedly, on 8th December 2008, aged 78.
Robert Prosky's production opened in the summer of 2005 in Cape May, New Jersey, where it broke all box office records and received standing ovations every night. It was then transferred to the USA's oldest playhouse, Philadelphia's Walnut Street Theatre and from there to Washington DC's Theater J.
Of the Miller canon, which includes such masterpieces as The Crucible, A View From the Bridge and Death of a Salesman, Prosky claimed that The Price was second only to Death of a Salesman. If yesterday's edge-of-the-seat performance is anything to go by, he's probably right.
This poignant family drama opens in 1967 with the pensionable-age cop Victor Franz, a man with 28-years loyal service in the Force, mooching around in the attic of his dead father's 130-year old house, an old house scheduled for demolition. A modern New York building will soon replace it. Victor, mentally scarred and always one-step away from a psychiatrist's couch, is played with remarkable conviction by Andy Prosky, the late director's son.
Enter Ray Reinhardt, wonderfully philosophical and wise, in the role of the 89-year old second-hand dealer Gregory Solomon come to buy the house contents.
"So what have you got against money?" Solomon demands to know of the self-sacrificing, guilt-riven Victor, a man haunted by the suspicion that he has thrown the best years of his life away, as they haggle over the price.
"Have you got a licence?" counters Victor, always suspicious, always the cop.
"I'm registered, vaccinated and licensed," replies Solomon, "The only thing you can do today without a licence is to go up the elevator and jump out of the window."
"It took me 14 years to get my stripes," grumbles the cop, "Cos I wouldn't kiss ass."
As the exchanges continue old Gregory Solomon tries, in difficult circumstances, to remain philosophical, "The car, the furniture, the wife, the children; everything is disposable today," he tells Victor who demands a fair price for an ugly black dining table that Solomon can't possibly sell.
"What is salvation?" asks Solomon, "Go shopping," he answers himself. "I pick up the pieces," is how he defines his own role.
"You'll not walk away with the gravy and leave me with the bones," worries Victor, eyes growing ever darker, ever narrower.
"Every time I open my mouth you practically call me a thief," Solomon patters on, "The price of used furniture is nothing but a viewpoint. The chairs is worth something," he says, ignoring for now, the valuable piece in the corner.
It's the family heirloom, the golden harp, that Solomon is really after; the harp with the crack in the sounding-board, as he will keep reminding Victor and Victor's wife Esther (Leisa Mather), now back from the dry-cleaner's with Victor's best suit. To begin with, the long-suffering Esther is impressed by Solomon; she pats her new hair-do, smooths down her new twin-set and glances at her new shoes. She tells of her new ambitions for Victor, of the new direction his life must take. Victor panics, threatens to unravel. Solomon smiles benevolently, attempts to normalise the situation.
But then towards the end of the first act Victor's brother Walter (Gary Sloan), the wealthy doctor in the camel coat, suddenly arrives; and immediately the tension is ratched-up another two notches. The second half must produce a furious confrontation, one that will reveal the price the brothers must pay when they confront their past and their relationships to each other and to their father, or so we anticipate. And we are not to be disappointed.
Vienna's English Theatre is the ideal venue. Set designer Fred Kinney (Califorina State University) has taken Arthur Miller's claustrophobic attic, filled it with junk and one or two treasures and crammed it all onto the small English Theatre stage. It's exactly right. The family squabble, to put it mildly, as the second act builds to its climax cannot be escaped from. You are there. You are part of the whole damned and wonderful crisis-ridden experience.
It's the Wisdom of Solomon. It's the Wall Street Crash. It's the American Way of Life. It's the family skeleton. And it's the thing that goes bump in the attic. And right now, today, as millions of American families are suddenly thrown into their own particular family or financial crisis, Arthur Miller's play The Price is as relevant as ever.
Vienna's English Theatre
Josefgasse 12, 1080 Vienna
from 26 Jan 09 to 6 Mar 09
One of Arthur Miller's most famous plays is The Price. In Vienna it is currently being performed in memory of the play's director Robert Prosky who died unexpectedly, on 8th December 2008, aged 78.
Robert Prosky's production opened in the summer of 2005 in Cape May, New Jersey, where it broke all box office records and received standing ovations every night. It was then transferred to the USA's oldest playhouse, Philadelphia's Walnut Street Theatre and from there to Washington DC's Theater J.
Of the Miller canon, which includes such masterpieces as The Crucible, A View From the Bridge and Death of a Salesman, Prosky claimed that The Price was second only to Death of a Salesman. If yesterday's edge-of-the-seat performance is anything to go by, he's probably right.
This poignant family drama opens in 1967 with the pensionable-age cop Victor Franz, a man with 28-years loyal service in the Force, mooching around in the attic of his dead father's 130-year old house, an old house scheduled for demolition. A modern New York building will soon replace it. Victor, mentally scarred and always one-step away from a psychiatrist's couch, is played with remarkable conviction by Andy Prosky, the late director's son.
Enter Ray Reinhardt, wonderfully philosophical and wise, in the role of the 89-year old second-hand dealer Gregory Solomon come to buy the house contents.
"So what have you got against money?" Solomon demands to know of the self-sacrificing, guilt-riven Victor, a man haunted by the suspicion that he has thrown the best years of his life away, as they haggle over the price.
"Have you got a licence?" counters Victor, always suspicious, always the cop.
"I'm registered, vaccinated and licensed," replies Solomon, "The only thing you can do today without a licence is to go up the elevator and jump out of the window."
"It took me 14 years to get my stripes," grumbles the cop, "Cos I wouldn't kiss ass."
As the exchanges continue old Gregory Solomon tries, in difficult circumstances, to remain philosophical, "The car, the furniture, the wife, the children; everything is disposable today," he tells Victor who demands a fair price for an ugly black dining table that Solomon can't possibly sell.
"What is salvation?" asks Solomon, "Go shopping," he answers himself. "I pick up the pieces," is how he defines his own role.
"You'll not walk away with the gravy and leave me with the bones," worries Victor, eyes growing ever darker, ever narrower.
"Every time I open my mouth you practically call me a thief," Solomon patters on, "The price of used furniture is nothing but a viewpoint. The chairs is worth something," he says, ignoring for now, the valuable piece in the corner.
It's the family heirloom, the golden harp, that Solomon is really after; the harp with the crack in the sounding-board, as he will keep reminding Victor and Victor's wife Esther (Leisa Mather), now back from the dry-cleaner's with Victor's best suit. To begin with, the long-suffering Esther is impressed by Solomon; she pats her new hair-do, smooths down her new twin-set and glances at her new shoes. She tells of her new ambitions for Victor, of the new direction his life must take. Victor panics, threatens to unravel. Solomon smiles benevolently, attempts to normalise the situation.
But then towards the end of the first act Victor's brother Walter (Gary Sloan), the wealthy doctor in the camel coat, suddenly arrives; and immediately the tension is ratched-up another two notches. The second half must produce a furious confrontation, one that will reveal the price the brothers must pay when they confront their past and their relationships to each other and to their father, or so we anticipate. And we are not to be disappointed.
Vienna's English Theatre is the ideal venue. Set designer Fred Kinney (Califorina State University) has taken Arthur Miller's claustrophobic attic, filled it with junk and one or two treasures and crammed it all onto the small English Theatre stage. It's exactly right. The family squabble, to put it mildly, as the second act builds to its climax cannot be escaped from. You are there. You are part of the whole damned and wonderful crisis-ridden experience.
It's the Wisdom of Solomon. It's the Wall Street Crash. It's the American Way of Life. It's the family skeleton. And it's the thing that goes bump in the attic. And right now, today, as millions of American families are suddenly thrown into their own particular family or financial crisis, Arthur Miller's play The Price is as relevant as ever.
Monday, 26 January 2009
haiku moments (13) and 3rd haikutrio
Today was a bright, fresh, welcoming day and therefore ideal for some outdoor exercise. The following haikutrio describes the poet's run: slow start to gradually warm the muscles; faster bit in the middle; and then the gradual slowing down near the end of the run, near a small car park where walkers set off and return, where paths converge and one returns to 'civilisation' as it were. Today's route was about 8 kms.
early runner
on woodland trail
drawn out by sunshine
rock 'n roll beat
through the walkman
the tempo runner
end of the trail
bootprints pattern dried-up mud
assortment of soles
early runner
on woodland trail
drawn out by sunshine
rock 'n roll beat
through the walkman
the tempo runner
end of the trail
bootprints pattern dried-up mud
assortment of soles
Sunday, 25 January 2009
250th birthday haiku for Robert Burns
A Poet-in-Residence haiku to mark the 250th birthday of the world famous poet and songwriter Robert Burns, born in Alloway in the County of Ayrshire, Scotland, on the 25th day of January 1759. Here's to auld lang syne, dear Robbie!
reverentially remove cap
pour the spirit into the clean glass
consume the firewater
Take a look at ROBERT BURNS / LETTERS on line until 2010
(PiR's alphabetical sidebar LINKS)
reverentially remove cap
pour the spirit into the clean glass
consume the firewater
Take a look at ROBERT BURNS / LETTERS on line until 2010
(PiR's alphabetical sidebar LINKS)
Saturday, 24 January 2009
Gert Voss reads Thomas Bernhard's Meine Preise
Yesterday Vienna's Burgtheater played host to Suhrkamp Verlag's sold-out book presentation of Thomas Bernhard's newest work Meine Preise (My Prizes). Burgtheater actor Gert Voss was on hand to read three chapters from the book. These were Der Julius-Campe-Preis, Der Grillparzerpreis and that jaw-breaking tongue twister Die Ehrengabe des Kulturkreises des Bundesverbandes der Deutschen Industrie prize.
What these prizes are called, or known as, is more or less by the way. What is more important about the book are the insider details that the author reveals about the business of prize giving and receiving; what his jaundiced and penetrating eye perceives to be the reality behind the gloss of literary back-scratching.
During his all too short career this thorn-in-the-flesh, this nest-soiler, this at-odds-with-the-catholic-fascist-political-establishment, this Austrian James Joyce, this multi-talented satirist, playwright, novelist, poet and master of the German written word received thirteen literary awards, and in Meine Preise he writes about nine of them.
Thomas Bernhard died after a long and troublesome illness at his home in Ohlsdorf, a small village in the Austrian Lake District, in February 1989. He left behind amongst his papers a typescript for Meine Preise on the front sheet of which was the scribbled note: 9 prizes from 12 or 13. And this is the book, marking the twentieth year of his passing, that is now published. It may generate controversy and it may open old wounds. It is an entertaining and informative document and it will surely be, in Austria and Germany, a best-seller.
The prizes are not listed in chronological order but rather in the way that artists place certain colours next to each other to enhance contrasts and bring out the desired quality in the colour; this arrangement gives much to the book as one prize-giving is contrasted with the next in the reader's mind.
The first story, Der Grillparzerpreis tells how Bernhard, who always went about in his trademark pullover and slacks, decided to buy a charcoal grey suit, a shirt, a tie and a pair of socks from Sir Anthony for the ceremony only two hours before the ceremony and how he took his old clothes and his old aunt to the ceremony and the subsequent chaos that resulted because nobody recognized him.
Bernhard brings the tale with great humour and skill to the point, and the point as in many of Bernhard's works is not always where you'd expect to find it. For instance the story of the Austrian State Prize for Literature is tucked away in the middle of the book. This prize giving caused uproar and outrage; politicians, VIP's, and invited guests stormed out of the auditorium during Bernhard's acceptance speech. The scandal, as it came to be called, made front page headlines in the national newspapers.
In Der Grillparzerpreis following the presentation of the award for the play Ein Fest für Boris (A Party for Boris) and the playing of closing music by the Vienna Philharmonic the following took place:
After a time the minister looked around and asked with inimitable arrogance and stupidity in her voice: yes, so where is our little poet then? I was standing quite near to her, but I didn't venture to identify myself. I took my aunt and we left the auditorium, unhindered and without anyone noticing [...] outside our friends were waiting for us. With these friends we went to eat at the so-called Gösser Bierklinik. A philosopher, an architect, their wives and my brother. Loud and jolly people.
The twentieth anniversary of Thomas Bernhard's death is being marked in Vienna with a series of performances and readings at the Burgtheater, and at two smaller theatres, the Vestibül and the Kasino.
What these prizes are called, or known as, is more or less by the way. What is more important about the book are the insider details that the author reveals about the business of prize giving and receiving; what his jaundiced and penetrating eye perceives to be the reality behind the gloss of literary back-scratching.
During his all too short career this thorn-in-the-flesh, this nest-soiler, this at-odds-with-the-catholic-fascist-political-establishment, this Austrian James Joyce, this multi-talented satirist, playwright, novelist, poet and master of the German written word received thirteen literary awards, and in Meine Preise he writes about nine of them.
Thomas Bernhard died after a long and troublesome illness at his home in Ohlsdorf, a small village in the Austrian Lake District, in February 1989. He left behind amongst his papers a typescript for Meine Preise on the front sheet of which was the scribbled note: 9 prizes from 12 or 13. And this is the book, marking the twentieth year of his passing, that is now published. It may generate controversy and it may open old wounds. It is an entertaining and informative document and it will surely be, in Austria and Germany, a best-seller.
The prizes are not listed in chronological order but rather in the way that artists place certain colours next to each other to enhance contrasts and bring out the desired quality in the colour; this arrangement gives much to the book as one prize-giving is contrasted with the next in the reader's mind.
The first story, Der Grillparzerpreis tells how Bernhard, who always went about in his trademark pullover and slacks, decided to buy a charcoal grey suit, a shirt, a tie and a pair of socks from Sir Anthony for the ceremony only two hours before the ceremony and how he took his old clothes and his old aunt to the ceremony and the subsequent chaos that resulted because nobody recognized him.
Bernhard brings the tale with great humour and skill to the point, and the point as in many of Bernhard's works is not always where you'd expect to find it. For instance the story of the Austrian State Prize for Literature is tucked away in the middle of the book. This prize giving caused uproar and outrage; politicians, VIP's, and invited guests stormed out of the auditorium during Bernhard's acceptance speech. The scandal, as it came to be called, made front page headlines in the national newspapers.
In Der Grillparzerpreis following the presentation of the award for the play Ein Fest für Boris (A Party for Boris) and the playing of closing music by the Vienna Philharmonic the following took place:
After a time the minister looked around and asked with inimitable arrogance and stupidity in her voice: yes, so where is our little poet then? I was standing quite near to her, but I didn't venture to identify myself. I took my aunt and we left the auditorium, unhindered and without anyone noticing [...] outside our friends were waiting for us. With these friends we went to eat at the so-called Gösser Bierklinik. A philosopher, an architect, their wives and my brother. Loud and jolly people.
The twentieth anniversary of Thomas Bernhard's death is being marked in Vienna with a series of performances and readings at the Burgtheater, and at two smaller theatres, the Vestibül and the Kasino.
Friday, 23 January 2009
Red Byrd sings Purcell & co.
Red Byrd consists of songsters John Potter and Richard Wistreich, violinists Sharon Lindo and Naomi Rogers, guitarist Robin Jeffrey, and Jon Banks on cembalo. Last night they were in the Mozart Saal at the Vienna Konzerthaus as part of the annual Resonanzen week. 17th century songs and poems addressing this year's themes of love, lust and damnation were on the musical menu.
Love
As Amoret and Thirsis lay;
Melting the hours in gentle play;
Joyning Faces; mingling Kisses,
And exchanging harmless Blisses:
He trembling cry'd with eager hast;
Let me Feed; oh! as well as Tast;
I die if I'm not wholly Blest.
(William Congreve 1670-1729)
Lust
When Celia was learning on the Spinnet to play,
her Tutor stood by her to show her the way,
She shook not the Note, which anger'd him much,
And made him cry Zounds! 'tis a long prick'd Note you touch,
Surpriz'd was the Lady to hear him complain,
And said I will shake it when I come to't again.
John Isham (1680-1726)
and Damnation
Poor Celia once was very fair,
A quick bewitching Eye she had;
Most neatly look'd her braided Hair,
Her dainty Cheek would make you mad;
Upon her Lips did all the Graces play
And on her Breasts ten Thousand Cupids lay.
Then many a doting Lover came
From Seventeen till Twenty one;
Each told her of his mighty flame,
But She, forsooth, affected none:
One was not Handsome, th'other was not Fine;
this of Tobacco smelt, and that of Wine.
But t'other day it was my fate
To walk along that way alone;
I saw no Coach before her gate,
But at her door I heard her moan:
She dropped a Tear, and sighing seemed to say,
Young Ladies, Marry, Marry while you may.
(Roger Hill 16??-1674)
and bardic bacchanalia from Henry Purcell -
Since the pox or the plague of inconstancy reigns
In most of the women o' the town,
What ridiculous fop would trouble his brains,
To make the lewd devils lie down.
No more in dull rhyme, or some heavier strain,
Will I of the jades or their jilting complain,
My court I will make to things more divine;
The pleasures of friendship, freedom and wine.
We'll Venus adore for a goddess no more,
No more we'll adore; that old Lady whore.
But Bacchus we'll court, who doth drinking support;
Let the world sink or swim,
Sirrah! fill to the brim!
Bacchus is a pow'r divine,
For he no sooner fills my head
with mighty wine, but all my cares resign,
And droop, then sink down dead.
Then the pleasing thoughts begin,
And I in riches flow, at least I fancy so.
And without thought of want I sing,
Stretch'd on the earth, my head all around
With flowers weav'd into a garland crown'd
Then I begin to live,
And scorn of what the world can show or give.
Let the brave fools that fondly think of honour
And delight to make a noise and fight,
Go seek out war, whilst I seek peace and drink.
Then fill my glass, fill it high,
Some perhaps think it fit to fall and die,
But when the bottles rang'd make war with me,
The fighting fools shall see, when I am sunk,
The diff'rence to lie dead, and lie dead drunk.
(Henry Purcell 1659-1695)
Love
As Amoret and Thirsis lay;
Melting the hours in gentle play;
Joyning Faces; mingling Kisses,
And exchanging harmless Blisses:
He trembling cry'd with eager hast;
Let me Feed; oh! as well as Tast;
I die if I'm not wholly Blest.
(William Congreve 1670-1729)
Lust
When Celia was learning on the Spinnet to play,
her Tutor stood by her to show her the way,
She shook not the Note, which anger'd him much,
And made him cry Zounds! 'tis a long prick'd Note you touch,
Surpriz'd was the Lady to hear him complain,
And said I will shake it when I come to't again.
John Isham (1680-1726)
and Damnation
Poor Celia once was very fair,
A quick bewitching Eye she had;
Most neatly look'd her braided Hair,
Her dainty Cheek would make you mad;
Upon her Lips did all the Graces play
And on her Breasts ten Thousand Cupids lay.
Then many a doting Lover came
From Seventeen till Twenty one;
Each told her of his mighty flame,
But She, forsooth, affected none:
One was not Handsome, th'other was not Fine;
this of Tobacco smelt, and that of Wine.
But t'other day it was my fate
To walk along that way alone;
I saw no Coach before her gate,
But at her door I heard her moan:
She dropped a Tear, and sighing seemed to say,
Young Ladies, Marry, Marry while you may.
(Roger Hill 16??-1674)
and bardic bacchanalia from Henry Purcell -
Since the pox or the plague of inconstancy reigns
In most of the women o' the town,
What ridiculous fop would trouble his brains,
To make the lewd devils lie down.
No more in dull rhyme, or some heavier strain,
Will I of the jades or their jilting complain,
My court I will make to things more divine;
The pleasures of friendship, freedom and wine.
We'll Venus adore for a goddess no more,
No more we'll adore; that old Lady whore.
But Bacchus we'll court, who doth drinking support;
Let the world sink or swim,
Sirrah! fill to the brim!
Bacchus is a pow'r divine,
For he no sooner fills my head
with mighty wine, but all my cares resign,
And droop, then sink down dead.
Then the pleasing thoughts begin,
And I in riches flow, at least I fancy so.
And without thought of want I sing,
Stretch'd on the earth, my head all around
With flowers weav'd into a garland crown'd
Then I begin to live,
And scorn of what the world can show or give.
Let the brave fools that fondly think of honour
And delight to make a noise and fight,
Go seek out war, whilst I seek peace and drink.
Then fill my glass, fill it high,
Some perhaps think it fit to fall and die,
But when the bottles rang'd make war with me,
The fighting fools shall see, when I am sunk,
The diff'rence to lie dead, and lie dead drunk.
(Henry Purcell 1659-1695)
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