David Bowie's new video

Now this I like. I don't often do music promotion, but 'Sue (Or In A Season Of Crime)', the new single from David Bowie's upcoming greatest hits album, 'Nothing has Changed', is my idea of class. 

Have a listen; it's definitely not targeted at the commercial end, but  the video and musical arrangement are fantastic, and I think the air and words, as he sings it, lodge in the corners of the brain, like a particularly successful poem .

http://www.entertainmentwise.com/news/161952/1/David-Bowie-Unveils-The-Video-For-New-Track-Sue-Or-In-A-Season-Of-Crime

 

Did you dress up for Halloween

 

My answer is  always no. It must go back to my childhood, maybe Halloween scares; I’ve never been fond of fancy dress and masks. They make me uneasy, and I don’t particularly like not being able to see faces.

The poems below are from ‘Felos aínda serra’ (AMASTRA-N-GALAR, 2004), and were inspired by photographs of felos ,  carnaval maskers ,taken by Emilio Araúxo in Galicia.

The chapbook, with wonderful illustrations by Charlie Cullen,is one of a series penned by poets from around the world. It consists of 10 short poems translated into Galician, my English originals are  below each. The whole publication can be viewed at  http://issuu.com/felosdemaceda/docs/felos_ainda_serra ; the others in the series are also available for viewing, see http://www.blogoteca.com/felosdemaceda/index.php?cat=13440 . Great credit and congratulations are due to Emilio for publishing these very attractive booklets, and making them available to all.

 

 

 

 

 

8.

“There.

  There.

  In the holes.

  Eyes watching you.” 

“Yes.

  Yes.

  I see them.

  In the holes.

  Watching

  me.”

 10.

He lifted his hand to his mask;

his hand: skin and knuckles and frailty. 

Someone humorously put frailty into the face;

The hand magnifies it.

The Language of Love: Tips from Old Masters

It’s fair to say they don’t write poems like they used to, love poems in particular. The days of unfazed openness in regard to sexuality are well gone. Who now would write a poem entitled ‘Upon The Nipples Of Julia's Breast’?

The 17^th century poet, Robert Herrick, was a clergy-man and bachelor who said a lot more than his prayers.  

Upon The Nipples Of Julia's Breast 
 

Have ye beheld (with much delight)

A red rose peeping through a white?

Or else a cherry (double graced)

Within a lily? Centre placed?

Or ever marked the pretty beam

A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?

Or seen rich rubies blushing through

A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?

So like to this, nay all the rest,

Is each neat niplet of her breast.  

John Donne, one of the greatest English poets, matches Herrick with this title

"On a Flea on his Mistress’s Bosom", and starts,  

“MADAM, that flea which crept between your breasts 

I envied, that there he should make his rest; 

The little creature’s fortune was so good 

That angels feed not on so precious food.”

 

I particularly  like his poetic take on the modern ‘get your kit off’;
 

from  "Elegies XX. To his Mistress Going to Bed" 

“ Off with that girdle, like heaven’s zone glittering,

But a far fairer world encompassing. 

Unpin that spangled breast-plate, which you wear,
 

That th’ eyes of busy fools may be stopp’d there. 

Unlace yourself…………………………….”

 

and from  “Elegy XVIII: Love’s Progress”: 

"Her swelling lips; to which when we are come,

 We anchor there, and think ourselves at home,

 For they seem all: there sirens’ songs, and there

 Wise Delphic oracles do fill the ear;

 There in a creek where chosen pearls do swell,

 The remora, her cleaving tongue doth dwell.

 These, and the glorious promontory, her chin

 O’erpast; and the strait Hellespont between

 The Sestos and Abydos of her breasts,

 (Not of two lovers, but two loves the nests)

 Succeeds a boundless sea, but that thine eye

 Some island moles may scattered there descry;

 And sailing towards her India, in that way

 Shall at her fair Atlantic navel stay;

 Though thence the current be thy pilot made,

 Yet ere thou be where thou wouldst be embayed,

 Thou shalt upon another forest set,

 Where some do shipwreck, and no further get.

 When thou art there, consider what this chase

 Misspent by thy beginning at the face."

 

Holy moly!

Street Man

Wind-sharpened,

rain-carved,

frost-forged face.

 

Glacier-blue, 

mica-bright,

tarn-deep eyes. 

 

Water-fall,

mountain-tumbled,

bog-cotton hair.

 

Thunder-tongued,

squall-mouthed,

hail-shower man.

Loughcrew

 Loughcrew, Co Meath

 

While Newgrange understandably draws  thousands of tourists from Dublin, I would highly recommend a one-day circuit that many visitors might not have heard too much about.

For a great mix of archaeology, history, scenic beauty and a little bit of magic too, I would suggest heading to Trim, to see the castle and take the wonderfully presented river walk; onward to Fore, a real hidden gem in the Irish countryside; come  back via Loughcrew, and if there's still light in the day, have a stroll up the Hill of Tara.

 

The Cairns at Sliabh na Caillí (Loughcrew)

 

It was weather that carried the Cailleach onto the hills,

a swirl of graphite anger from above the plains of Westmeath. 

Once over the summit of Carnbane West, she opened her apron to the earth

and all about resounded to the tumbling of tipped boulders; 

then again at Carnbane East and Sliabh Rua too. At the fourth hill,

she turned a moment towards me, and as her glance flashed she slipped. 

I saw brilliant trails from the whites of her eyes as she plummeted;

the instant she hit earth, her body was a smouldering oak.

Chomsky at the U.N.

If political systems weren't, somehow, above the law; there would be a lot of politicians completing their circles in prison yards.

Noam Chomsky explains clearly how the U.S. breaks its own laws openly and repeatedly;  and, well, a lot of people die. It's the old story, if you commit crimes on a large enough scale, there's no sanction.

 http://www.democracynow.org/2014/10/22/in_un_speech_noam_chomsky_blasts

Linda Tirado

So here we are. “The richest one percent of the world’s population now controls 48.2 percent of global wealth, up from 46 percent last year, according to the most recent global wealth report issued by Credit Suisse, the Swiss-based financial services company.” Apparently, if this level of growth continues the 1% will own all the wealth in 23 years.

So here we are, with our burgeoning knowledge and education, declarations of human rights, constitutions, our politicians working assiduously, day and night, for the common good. This, along with walking on the moon and splitting the atom, is our achievement.

How extraordinary it is that we have underachieved to such a spectacular extent.

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Listening to an interview on radio today, I was highly impressed with Linda Tirado’s clear-sighted analysis of the United States’ treatment of its poor (an analysis that applies universally, I would say).  Having direct experience of what she’s talking about, she cut quickly through shit to the reality, and with deft articulateness swept away common perceptions of the comfortable middle-classes (myself included). There was nothing new in what she said, but her clarity made me stop; I will have to reassess my own perceptions of those poorer than myself, and it is well past time for governments to intercede for the impossible situations the impoverished find themselves in.  

The piece that brought Linda Tirado to public attention: http://killermartinis.kinja.com/why-i-make-terrible-decisions-or-poverty-thoughts-1450123558

Today’s interview on ‘The Marian Finucane Show’ on RTE Radio 1: http://www.rte.ie/radio/utils/radioplayer/rteradioweb.html#!rii=9%3A20667519%3A70%3A18%2D10%2D2014%3A

Final Breath

Final Breath

      in memory of  Pearse Hutchinson

In that last moment your breath halted in your mouth;
the air teetered on  your tongue; on last taste perhaps.

Death flew across the room, your eyes followed it,
leaving us, exiting through then walls.

Vivaldi played on, 
emerged from behind your troubled breathing.

For that few moments,
baroque splendour was your breath condensing around us.

She Leaves

 

She leaves

a country of mountain tops,

pencil points in nothing

and crosses on current arrows

to where the sun shines on a space.

 

Angels

look over the rails,

cheering ferries on the sea

 

of her worries  ̶̶̶

for that is where she bobs  ̶
among all the sparklets
on the sea-top.
And fears
scratch their fingernails
down the glass

 

she has left;

not left,
left,
not left.

Reading, but not seeing

This Banksy mural was in the news this week after the local council at Clacton-on-Sea in Essex had it removed because of  “offensive and racist remarks”.
(Report found on www.theguardian.com ).
If I was Banksy I would be bewildered; obviously any satirical comment not spelled out, (literally), needs accompanying notes.

Some tips for writing poetry

I have amassed a sizable collection of notes and files from various workshops/creative writing classes I've given. Here are five tips for people new to writing poetry. 

 

1. Be careful of lines you really like in your poems. If they appear to be outstanding, there’s a real possibility they do stand out too strongly in the poem.

2. One lazy line/word is enough to ruin a whole poem.

3. Speak your lines out loud to test the rhythm and find those clumsy-sounding words.

4. Keep all drafts of poems; constant reworking can result in losing your way, or, on the plus side, you may find you are developing a different poem altogether

5. Check out lines/phrases from unsuccessful poems. They can often be recombined in ways that  are fresh and successful.

Death and the Student

My grandmother and I were  the best of friends. However when her final illness dragged on, I, a student at the time, didn't have the time to spend with her. I think it's not unusual for young people at that age to be too self-centred, but that selfishness has rankled ever since.

Before the End

 

The bedside lamp shone

in the pool of her eye;

it made her teeth translucent,

runnelled her face.

 

Daylight and I were reluctant visitors;

the  room smelling of trapped breath,

sickness and decay made me anxious

that I might inhale her disease;

 

and all I loved gone,

all dwindled down to duty.

 

Private Companies Looking After Us?

I clearly remember the politicians stating that speed cameras would be located at accident-prone locations on the roads; their function being to minimise fatalities due to road accidents. I often pass one of these vans parked at a location where there is no obvious purpose other than making money.

How long will it be before Irish Water is putting profit before its raison d'etre of preventing wastage of water?

The brink

Once the wrong word said, I’m gone crazy ─

my smile snapped;

her ribbons & wheel & steel in my head whirring,

whirlicue;

a sick spinning,

nauseous flight. 

She sets off explosions; no punches spared,

nor tanks nor guns; pulls no punches.

Nor when I stop

is she stopped,

but pistons and steam chunnelling

to distraction.

 If peace is an option, I don’t think she’ll

take it,

but lobbing spanners in,

ignition flaming,

she likes to go to the brink;

like brinking is sex.

Spiritual Growth

Women, meat, all jaws, Hughie feared;

Church-fed fear.

Pruned Hughie rattling inside himself,

no rattling outside,

but bloated sensationless, bone-dry tinder.

 

All pray: feed the soul; Hughie feeds the soul

 ‘til his soul is ballooning  out of his body,

 and he giving thanks for spiritual growth.

 

Concrete-heavy Hughie, all aching,

walking the earth like a space thing.