i can’t think what to write about. So er a place. I like going to Blackpool, it provides difference. Neon, the sea which is always close unlike Southport or Morecombe Bay. The golden mile of amusment arcades, nightclubs, shows.
There is a lot of poverty. A large young population attracted by cheap, basic accomodation. I’d describe it as a mix between the shoddy and divine. The hedonistic go there at weekends for the nightlife. Others to see shows, comedies, music. Others to the pleasure beach with its rollercoaster. Very few even dare to swim in the summer.
In going there very occasionally i am repeating the trip made in the victorian era by steam train of my ancestors. Britains- tacky Coney Island. With a one third the size Eiffel Tower- Blackpool Tower. And the illuminations in October. I’ve written many poems about Blackpool, perhaps i should write about Cannes, the Almafi coast, Buenos Aires, Marthas Vineyard. Could you call the shore “the north west riviera”. But amongst the shoddy and divine i like to stand in the dark on one of the three piers and gaze out at the never blue, grey- black, Irish Sea.
Many older people still go there for there annual holiday staying in one of the numerous B and B’s. And if the Irish Sea is grey not blue so be it. It is still the frontier sea.
Blood on Mars – Explorer
First there is no oxygen
But you walk with the last breath, you took in the landing craft
Then there is no gravity
But you cling by violent ravid faith to the planet rock
The suns radiation blisters your skin
Splits it open and flesh burns like a fragmentation bullet
Shot at by your brother, with an AK he kept hidden under the bed
You like the aloneness of Mars
You like the red dust and rock/ softer red than human blood
You chuckle- “Martians not here”
Then you lie on the ground
As the flesh squirms, through your disapearing skin
You turn on the I pod
A Priests sentimentality at death
And listen to “nothing else matters” by Metallica
And this sun which they lied about and said was life giving
The decrepid hypocritical incas, and debauched celts, and deluded indians
Melts your eyes in marriage
The most beautiful and real moments of your entire existance.
i think there’s something timeless about Greek myth and the golden age of the Greek city states generally. As there’s a lot of myth from various sources, i’ve just looked at Greek Olympians
Hera was goddess of the hearth and marriage. Often depicted with a pomegranate as a symbol of fertile blood and death. The lion and peacock where sacred to her. Daughter of Chronus and Rhea, one of three sisters of Zeus. Festivals where held in her honour and flames kept lit in Greek city states
Dionysius was the god of revellry, wine, the arts, fertility. He is the only one of the Olympians to have mortal mother. Is seen as an outsider or foreigner “the god that arrives”there where diverse greek cults associated with him
Artemis was the goddess of the harvest of the wild, virginity and child birth. She is usually depicted in a forest with an bow and arrow, in consort with forest nymphs. The deer and cypress where sacred to her
There are twelve olympians, only three depicted here. There is an actual mount Olympus roughly in central greece which can be climbed and is reasonbly high. It is a testemant to this line of enquiry that Hilda Doolittle and numerous modern poets refer. There revenance seems to me to increase with three millenia. The above is very scant information.
Artemis Mount Olympus Dionysius
Trying to write themed poetry pamphlets on micosoft office word. But still need to put in a lot of editing if say four are going to be publihed before 31/12/16- in progress in some sense “myth”, “politics” at moment past British prime ministers. “explorers” “industrial revolution” drawing a lot on memories of my grandparents and research on web. “Israel”
I dont think there is a right and wrong way, but it seems a good idea at the moment for poetry to be about something concrete, and other narratives can play in or not. They still need months of work
Read Katrina Porteous- Two Countries, Jean Spackland-Hard Water, John Burnide- All One Breath, Ted Berrigan- Sonnets, Xavier Villaurrutia- Nostalgia For Death. Had poem in Dawntreader- Indigo Dreams, Dial 174, Dandelion Arts Magaine
picture of Marrakech where i’ve never been
So the British people have spoken. Or at least half of Britain the leave camp who are in a gross generalisation anti technology/ computers, anti cosmopolitan, anti other countries, non outward looking, anti globalisation
These ludites have jeapodised the union jeapodised the economy which is needed to help people who need financial and other support. The poiticians except for Jeremy Corbyn who is too inadequate to be regared as a politician- are wholy out of there depth. And as extreme right wing nationalism consumes Britain
America and urbane sophisticated Europe seeing clearly what the British apparantly can’t. I feel ashamed to be British. I love europe i have spent about four years there. and can only hope ardenly for a reversal, second referendum and reintegration with our geological neighbours and the rest of the world.
Went to poem and a pint in grenodd ulverstone lake district on Saturday. J O Morgan was the headline act. He read from his accomplished book “interference patterns” in different accents which made his poems interesting and enjoyable to listen to. Met the lovely Kim Moore who published “the art of falling” to much well deserved acclaim
Attended wire writers warrington on Friday where we did a well formulated exersise.And two new? members and i read out works in progress.
Looking forward to seeing Anne and Peter Sampson read at the brewery in Kendal. But after a two hour drive realized its next week not ie today! So looking forward to seeing them next week. Booked ticket to see Sarah James at Ledbury poetry festival in early July. And thats all the news on the last week of poetry events. I think actually writing is more important than poetry events. But its nice to go somewhere particularly in summer.
lake district picture
The arctic and the antarctic hold an allure. The tops of fir trees in the cold sky. Clear forceful rivers. The film the Reverend catches these poetic moments well. It could also be a place of death, even if not, the extremes could be dangerous. Perhaps it Siberia Lapland Greenland Svarlbard are rooted deep in our mind as a place of travel or a journey towards
Lean wild Otters Snow owls Musk Ox Wolfs Wolverines Bears Polar Bears Lynx Caribou. Add one man in the misdt of flurrying snow treading through danger and seering beauty to where? Is the man lost?
Just “signed off” three poetry pamphlets, which i have been working on since August. So now waiting for over 100 copies of each.
Homes is about er homes. The first two sections are bleak delibaratley so. The third section is hopeful and optomistic. There is a lot of understated humour in first two sections. And as poems go on the reader is supposed to be entertained
Narratives is an entire book of poetry containing questions and replies. The first section is dark, but with humour. The second section attempts to address the main events- birth, marriage, old age, death. Which is done in an abstract way. And again more hopeful joyess poems in the final section “some cathedrals”. I think i did quite well to stick to the format
The Love Songs of James Dyer comprises, of i hope five plausible characters. That i hope i know. And is quirky. Hopully the characters are interesting and the poems about.
If when they arrive i can arrange pay pal they may be available for sale. I might possibly employ a wholesaler. So there not on amazon as “currently unavailable” Although as is common knowledge poetry books dont sell well. I think i should congratulate myself. I guess now i’ll have to find new things to do. Or if i can brave it write some more. I found it easier working on three at once than one at a time.
Maria Barranda was born in 1962 in Mexico city. Her poems have been translated by Joshua Edwaeds and Paul Hoover. She is part of a vital tradition of hispanic poetry from eg Vincente Huidobro to Octavio Paz to Xavier Villaurrutia to Homero Aridjis of the early and mid 20th century. And new hispanic poetry from Mercedes Roffe to Elsa Cross. Her book Ficticia is publshed by Sheasman in English translation. Wherefrom some quotes.
The book is in narratives divided into ficticia/ letters to Robinson/ then the Sea.
Who will endure their heavy burden- from 1
where fish throb with the calmness/ of a heart that’s on its own- from 1
of someone getting up to take shelter in madness/ in the middle of the night- from 6
the voices of your ancestors was a single word:/ home- from 9
I am not mistaken when i say that the word grace/ incites laughter in lonesome men- from 13 (5) letters to Robinson
That is vertigo: to stand alone and survey/ a paradise at the edge of memory 13 (6) letters to Robinson
I can lick the blood/ of a broken statue in a foggy wasteland 16 (4) Sky cycle
I will have to enlighten myself with a black tear 16 (4) Sky cycle
The century, this century, has already abandoned us./ It has renounced us 16 (5) Sky cycle
those furrows where your history/ always departs as a disasterous ordeal- 17
Round up of my year in poetry. Plus one last post before 2016, so i’ll have done 12, one a month
Thanks to my 19 followers. I only had 17 poems published this year including The Coffee House magazine which pleases me and one short story in Carillon. That’s the worst yearly total for five years. Probably due to moving house. I’m pleased with my new house.
So hopefully do better next year, via more submissions. And to magazines more likely to publish me. Been to a lot of writers groups and open mics in Lancashire which I enjoyed
Got two poetry pamphlets “homes” about homes. And “narratives” at first proof stage and sent files for second proofs. And “the love songs of James Dyer” is sent to first proof. So hopefully all will be self published with printers early next year
Started painting watercolours (not very good) I have no expertise!
Hope the readers new years will be prosperpous. In the words of the editor of Pulsar magazine in Swindon “poetry is all there is.” Will see what can be achieved poetry wise next year. I still havn’t found a regular format for this blog.
kidsty pike? lake district