Saturday, March 01, 2025

Tristan Corbière (1845-1875) died on this day 1st Match.

So en francais below / courtesy of the machine / with a few tweaks, my French is old now, but in another life I was never here but there..

Se souvenir d'un révolutionnaire poétique



Remembering a Poetic Revolutionary

March 1, 2025 marked the 150th anniversary of the death of Tristan Corbière, one of the most innovative French poets of the 19th century. Born Édouard-Joachim Corbière in Morlaix, Brittany, in 1845, he lived just 29 years but his voice continues to resonate a century and a half later.

Corbière's only published collection, "Les Amours jaunes" (1873), initially went largely unnoticed. It wasn't until Paul Verlaine included him in "Les Poètes maudits" (1884) that his work began to receive the recognition it deserved. Today, he is recognized as a precursor to modernism and surrealism, influencing poets from T.S. Eliot to Allen Ginsberg.

As it happens a celebratory A3 and book were published by Francoise Livinec in 2013, the story is most fascinating since all the work was considered lost. The material was traced to Scotland where it was held by a sister* of Jean Moulin, Jean - a prominent member of the French Resistance. 

* = actually I need to determine that this is correct and elaborate.. 

https://francoiselivinec.com/en/editions/catalogue/873/tristan-corbiere

Editions Françoise Livinec then published the previously unpublished manuscript by Tristan Corbière, (saved for all by the resistance fighter Jean Moulin). Entitled Roscoff, this unpublished album contains 30 pages of texts and paintings created by the poet at the end of the 1860s. A work as modern as it is humorous and which depicts the contemporaries of the man of letters from Finistère, whether they are sailors, beggars, wreck looters, police officers, tourists and other passing merchants.

The rediscovery of Tristan Corbière's manuscript, "Roscoff," was credited to Benoît Houzé, a doctoral candidate in French literature. Houzé embarked on a meticulous search for the long-lost album, which had been missing since 1875. His investigation led him to Scotland, where he successfully traced and recovered the manuscript.

https://ncfs-journal.org/heather-williams/williams-corbiere-2012

On his overall works a highly rated translation by Christopher Pilling is available here as a pdf or Epub https://universitypress.whiterose.ac.uk/site/books/m/10.22599/Corbiere/

On his single publication in his lifetime "Les Amours Jaunes" the late Christopher Pilling also produced a the version entitled: "These Jaundiced Loves". Again this translation to English is highly rated.

A Poet Between Languages

What makes Corbière particularly fascinating is his unique linguistic approach. Moving between standard French and Breton expressions, maritime terminology and colloquial speech, he created a multilayered poetry that defied the conventions of his time. His work embodies the cultural and linguistic tensions of Brittany – a French region with its own distinct Celtic heritage.

In poems like "Le Bossu Bitor" and "Paysage mauvais," Corbière employs maritime vocabulary, Breton dialect and dramatic shifts in register to create a poetry that feels startlingly modern even today. His technique of juxtaposing different linguistic registers anticipated poetic developments that wouldn't become mainstream until decades later.

Even today there is much debate on 'translations' given the difficulty of Breton to French / Breton / French to English.

Selected Quotations

"Moi qui suis - Le poète qui ne fut pas - Et que jamais ne serai - Qui n'est pas né."

"I who am - The poet who never was - And never will be - Who was not born."

This famous self-description from "Le Poète Contumace" captures Corbière's sense of being outside traditional poetic identity.

"Bâtard de Créole et Breton, / Moi, je suis un poète, né / Pour n'être rien."

"Bastard of Creole and Breton, / I am a poet, born / To be nothing."

Here Corbière acknowledges his mixed cultural identity and outsider status.

"J'ai vu le soleil dur contre les falaises / Fermer l'oeil, aveuglé de ces grandes fournaises..."

"I've seen the harsh sun against the cliffs / Close its eye, blinded by these great furnaces..."

This vivid maritime imagery from "Paysage mauvais" demonstrates his ability to transform landscape into emotional terrain.

Why Corbière Matters Today

His bilingual experimentation feels particularly relevant from an Irish perspective where language boundaries try to blur. His irony, self-deprecation and examination of outsider identity resonate with contemporary sensibilities. I see this / read this and look at many contemporaries strutting.   

The fact that major critics cannot agree on his work and major poets reference it is enough; Verlaine, TS Eliot, Ezra Pound - all were drawn to the work of Corbière.

As a poet who refused to stay within prescribed boundaries – of language, of style, of subject matter – Corbière anticipated the complexity of modern identity. His work reminds me that innovation often exists at the margins, in the spaces between languages and traditions and often after death.

I pay homage to him as a historical figure and I recognize a poet who spoke important words in his own time that still echo into our own future.

For any who make their way to Morlaix:

Directions to the grave:

Saint-Augustin Cemetery, 2 Rue des Réservoirs. To locate the grave precisely:

Enter via Rue Saint Augustin

Go up about two thirds of the way to the small chapel

To the right of the path, behind the chapel, is another miniature chapel / crypt.

Corbière's grave is there, recognizable by its Celtic-style cross, its wrought iron and its large book-shaped stone.







En Francais

Le 1er mars 2025 marque le 150ème anniversaire de la mort de Tristan Corbière, l'un des poètes français les plus innovants du XIXe siècle. Né Édouard-Joachim Corbière à Morlaix, en Bretagne, en 1845, il n'a vécu que 29 ans, mais sa voix continue de résonner un siècle et demi plus tard.

L'unique recueil publié de Corbière, "Les Amours jaunes" (1873), est initialement passé largement inaperçu. Ce n'est que lorsque Paul Verlaine l'a inclus dans "Les Poètes maudits" (1884) que son œuvre a commencé à recevoir la reconnaissance qu'elle méritait. Aujourd'hui, il est reconnu comme un précurseur du modernisme et du surréalisme, influençant des poètes de T.S. Eliot à Allen Ginsberg.

Il se trouve qu'un ouvrage commémoratif A3 et un livre ont été publiés par Françoise Livinec en 2013, l'histoire est des plus fascinantes car tout le travail était considéré comme perdu. Le matériel a été retrouvé en Écosse où il était détenu par une sœur de Jean Moulin, membre important de la Résistance française.

https://francoiselivinec.com/en/editions/catalogue/873/tristan-corbiere

Les Éditions Françoise Livinec ont alors publié le manuscrit inédit de Tristan Corbière, qui appartenait au résistant Jean Moulin. Intitulé Roscoff, cet album inédit contient 30 pages de textes et de peintures créés par le poète à la fin des années 1860. Une œuvre aussi moderne qu'humoristique et qui dépeint les contemporains de l'homme de lettres finistérien, qu'ils soient marins, mendiants, pilleurs d'épaves, gendarmes, touristes et autres marchands de passage.

"La redécouverte du manuscrit de Tristan Corbière, "Roscoff," a été attribuée à **Benoît Houzé**, doctorant en littérature française. Houzé s'est lancé dans une recherche méticuleuse de l'album longtemps perdu, qui avait disparu depuis 1875. Son enquête l'a conduit en Écosse, où il a réussi à retrouver et récupérer le manuscrit."

https://ncfs-journal.org/heather-williams/williams-corbiere-2012

Concernant l'ensemble de ses œuvres, une traduction très appréciée est celle de Christopher Pilling, disponible ici en pdf ou Epub https://universitypress.whiterose.ac.uk/site/books/m/10.22599/Corbiere/

Sur son unique publication de son vivant "Les Amours Jaunes", le regretté Christopher Pilling a également produit une version intitulée: "These Jaundiced Loves". Cette traduction en anglais est également très estimée.

Un poète entre les langues

Ce qui rend Corbière particulièrement fascinant est son approche linguistique unique. Se déplaçant entre le français standard et les expressions bretonnes, la terminologie maritime et le langage familier, il a créé une poésie multicouche qui défiait les conventions de son époque. Son œuvre incarne les tensions culturelles et linguistiques de la Bretagne – une région française avec son propre héritage celtique distinct.

Dans des poèmes comme "Le Bossu Bitor" et "Paysage mauvais", Corbière emploie le vocabulaire maritime, le dialecte breton et des changements dramatiques de registre pour créer une poésie qui semble étonnamment moderne même aujourd'hui. Sa technique de juxtaposition de différents registres linguistiques a anticipé des développements poétiques qui ne deviendraient courants que des décennies plus tard.

Même aujourd'hui, il y a beaucoup de débats sur les 'traductions' étant donné la difficulté du breton au français / breton / français à l'anglais.

Citations choisies

"Moi qui suis - Le poète qui ne fut pas - Et que jamais ne serai - Qui n'est pas né."

"I who am - The poet who never was - And never will be - Who was not born."

Cette célèbre auto-description tirée de "Le Poète Contumace" capture le sentiment de Corbière d'être en dehors de l'identité poétique traditionnelle.

"Bâtard de Créole et Breton, / Moi, je suis un poète, né / Pour n'être rien."

"Bastard of Creole and Breton, / I am a poet, born / To be nothing."

Ici, Corbière reconnaît son identité culturelle mixte et son statut d'outsider.

"J'ai vu le soleil dur contre les falaises / Fermer l'oeil, aveuglé de ces grandes fournaises..."

"I've seen the harsh sun against the cliffs / Close its eye, blinded by these great furnaces..."

Ces images maritimes vivantes tirées de "Paysage mauvais" démontrent sa capacité à transformer le paysage en terrain émotionnel.

Pourquoi Corbière compte aujourd'hui

Son expérimentation bilingue semble particulièrement pertinente d'un point de vue irlandais où les frontières linguistiques tentent de s'estomper. Son ironie, son autodérision et son examen de l'identité marginale résonnent avec les sensibilités contemporaines. Je vois cela / lis cela et je regarde les contemporains qui paradent?

Le fait que les grands critiques ne parviennent pas à s'accorder sur son œuvre et que les grands poètes y font référence est suffisant; Verlaine, TS Eliot, Ezra Pound - tous ont été attirés par l'œuvre de Corbière.

En tant que poète qui a refusé de rester dans les limites prescrites – de la langue, du style, du sujet – Corbière a anticipé la complexité de l'identité moderne. Son œuvre me rappelle que l'innovation existe souvent aux marges, dans les espaces entre les langues et les traditions et souvent après la mort.

Je lui rends hommage en tant que personnage historique et je reconnais un poète qui a prononcé des mots importants à son époque qui résonnent encore dans notre propre avenir.

Nous avons besoin des Corbière de ce monde plus que jamais...

Pour ceux qui se rendent à Morlaix:

Directions vers la tombe: Cimetière Saint-Augustin, 2 Rue des Réservoirs. Pour localiser précisément la tombe:

Entrez par la Rue Saint Augustin Montez environ deux tiers du chemin jusqu'à la petite chapelle À droite du chemin, derrière la chapelle, se trouve une autre chapelle miniature La tombe de Corbière s'y trouve, reconnaissable à sa croix de style celtique, sa grille en fer forgé et sa grande pierre en forme de livre.

--


Wednesday, April 17, 2024

International Haiku Day



 



fleeting life blossoms

tell of falling tomorrows

love but the moment







.

Monday, April 15, 2024

Poet - Paul Valéry

 Paul Valéry

"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned; and this abandonment, whether to the flames or to the public (and which is the result of weariness or an obligation to deliver) is a kind of an accident to them, like the breaking off of a reflection, which fatigue, irritation, or something similar has made worthless."  

~Paul Valéry.

[Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eux n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné ; et cet abandon, qui le livre aux flammes ou au public (et qu’il soit l’effet de la lassitude ou de l’obligation de livrer) est une sorte d’accident, comparable à la rupture d’une réflexion, que la fatigue, le fâcheux ou quelque sensation viennent rendre nulle.]

Paul Valéry (1871-1945) French poet, critic, author, polymath

Whilst this translation above is one possible version the current - shall we say verbatim (via google translation) is;-

"In the eyes of these lovers of uneasiness and perfection, a work is never finished – a word which for them has no meaning – but abandoned; and this abandonment, which delivers it to the flames or to the public (and whether it is the effect of lassitude or of the obligation to deliver) is a sort of accident, comparable to the rupture of a reflection, which the fatigue, the unfortunate or some sensation come to nullify"

..if a French reader would care to correct this 'raw version' I would be honoured.

afaik..
In March 1933 Paul Valéry published an essay in “La Nouvelle Revue Française” (“The New French Review”) about his poem “Le Cimetière marin” (“The Cemetery by the sea”) and this quote emerged from there.

=

New Criterion had a great article a few years back (imho)
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2020/4/the-cemetery-by-the-sea

FYI:
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line.

The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandrine

Whilst somewhat reluctant to start a poetry war it would be most interesting to examine the form in the context of the scope of the rigours and how one might port them to our time and language.

I may have to temper this with Pindar's advice;-

"Do not, my soul, strive for the life of the immortals,
but exhaust the practical means at your disposal."


Tuesday, February 06, 2024

Poem - Old Shoes

Keeping my old shoes

to wear them again for a final performance

walking nowhere, just stepping on stuff

the detritus crunching underfoot

the resonance almost refreshing

memory dust blowing off to somewhere safe

all the broken things rendered unassailable

the piecing together of fragments forgotten

or vice versa

catharsis an overrated oversold event


Thursday, November 30, 2023

Poem - Soviet Doors

 

Soft Soviet doors
button padded exterior
and interior
a slice of steel in between
muffling the sound
of dragging feet
the whining
of tired elevators
a harsh bulb
waiting
and watching



--

In the early 1990's I worked in Russia a lot - I cannot accept any critisicm of Russians as a people. I did stay in a Soviet style apartment and travelled out to the dacha weekends. The doors were as they were and are real.

Tuesday, August 08, 2023

Focus / Flow (for poets perhaps)

In the context of the work by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi was a renowned psychologist known for his work on flow, a state of optimal experience where individuals are fully immersed and focused in an activity, feeling energized and in control. His research has significant implications when discussing the rate of information processing in the context of increasing it.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mihaly_Csikszentmihalyi

Csikszentmihalyi emphasised the importance of attention and focus in achieving flow. To enter a flow state, individuals must concentrate fully on the task at hand, filtering out distractions and irrelevant information. By enhancing these cognitive skills, individuals can process information more efficiently, even within the limitations of conscious processing.

I would posit that any increase is ones brain bit rate / sec processing is to be welcomed.

But, did you ever have some idiot come to the door when you were writing a poem.?

Feckin plonker from Porlock.. ;-)

"On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 'reflecting' on his composition of the poem Kubla Khan in 1797. 

As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said:

"A creation of importance can only be produced when its author isolates himself, it is a child of solitude."

In this context poets may wish to refer to Sheryl Crow 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ikjmz_SlGhg

- "A Change Would Do You Good" and the optimum line / message: imho..

"Hello it's me, I'm not at home. If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone"

Whilst this may be perceived as somewhat negative in the context of engagement with the human race, what has that got to do with poetry... ;-)


Friday, May 12, 2023

Poet - Paul Valéry - The Cemetery by the Sea

Paul Valéry’s unique poem “Le Cimetière Marin” (“The Cemetery by the Sea”). The Cemetery is in the French town of Sète, Valéry’s poem was published in 1920.

Perhaps in about another X years of reading it and studying French I will return to this again. In the meantime I would recommend Derek Mahons' translation. Regrettably I cannot reproduce it here.

As we now all know at this stage ;-)
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line. The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break).

As you may have surmised I am a big Paul Valéry fan.

if you would care to listen to a rendition in French then:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5Hv5C3JGNw
or an analysis in French then
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDEqibrg4i4


Le Cimetière Marin

Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,
Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;
Midi le juste y compose de feux
La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee
O récompense après une pensée
Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux!

Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume
Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume,
Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!
Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose,
Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause,
Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.

Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,
Masse de calme, et visible réserve,
Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi
Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,
O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame,
Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!

Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume,
À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume,
Tout entouré de mon regard marin;
Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,
La scintillation sereine sème
Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain.

Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,
Comme en délice il change son absence
Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,
Je hume ici ma future fumée,
Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée
Le changement des rives en rumeur.

Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!
Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange
Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,
Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace,
Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe
Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.

L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice,
Je te soutiens, admirable justice
De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!
Je te tends pure à ta place première,
Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière
Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié.

O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,
Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème,
Entre le vide et l'événement pur,
J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne,
Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,
Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur!

Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,
Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,
Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,
Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,
Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse?
Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.

Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière,
Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,
Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,
Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres,
Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres;
La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!

Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre!
Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,
Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,
Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,
Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,
Les songes vains, les anges curieux!

Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse.
L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse;
Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air
A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .
La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence,
Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair.

Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre
Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.
Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement
En soi se pense et convient à soi-même
Tête complète et parfait diadème,
Je suis en toi le secret changement.

Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!
Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes
Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .
Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,
Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres
A pris déjà ton parti lentement.

Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,
L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,
Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!
Où sont des morts les phrases familières,
L'art personnel, les âmes singulières?
La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.

Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,
Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,
Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,
Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,
Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,
Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!

Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe
Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge
Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici?
Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?
Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,
La sainte impatience meurt aussi!

Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,
Consolatrice affreusement laurée,
Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,
Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!
Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,
Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!

Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,
Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,
Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,
Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable
N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,
Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!

Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?
Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine
Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!
Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!
Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,
À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir!

Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Élée!
M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée
Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!
Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue!
Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue
Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!

Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive!
Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!
Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!
Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,
Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!
Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant.

Oui! grande mer de delires douée,
Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,
De mille et mille idoles du soleil,
Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,
Qui te remords l'étincelante queue
Dans un tumulte au silence pareil

Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!
L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,
La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!
Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!
Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies
Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

Saturday, April 01, 2023

Gaps in the oeuvre

Readers have asked me why are there such gaps in your work and well there ain't.. ;-)

I track the poems I have written - although I am behind right now, good years and bad years. I am in the process of addressing this and at the least will post up a few poems for the missing years. I am very appreciative of the nudges in this regard.

An issue here is prior publication. It is often the case that one cannot submit when the poem has been previously 'published' on one's own website / blog. Whilst I can appreciate the sentiment / rationale from a publishing perspective it does seem counter indicative - one holds / hoards the 'allegedly' good poems for submission. 

Whilst the merit of a poem is totally subjective nonetheless one is contrained by the 'rule' - in my opinion. Comparing this with other creative endeavours would seem to confirm this, how might a painter sell or exhibit work without showing work?

I track when and where, the year, the title, the date, the location and well about 10 other metrics. Yeah I know, I'd be better to try and focus on poetry. (or vice versa). I only write in pencil and in longhand and only add poems to the spreadsheet after they have been transcribed into a Doc. I tend to cycle through no punctuation or some punctuation, perhaps even full punctuation. I think the cadence / the inflection one hears in the mind makes or breaks the poem, irregardless to punctuation or lack thereof.

It's not over since then the process of drafts, the bad and the ugly are easy - one leaves them alone. The good however iterate themselves.

Back to Paul Valéry;-

"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned;.."





Thursday, March 24, 2022

Censorship is Wrong

It pains me to report gross infringement of my rights as an individual to access whatsoever I want.

I abhor thought police.

To be clear this is in response to the COUNCIL REGULATION (EU) 2022/350 of 1 March 2022
amending Regulation (EU) No 833/2014 concerning restrictive measures in view of Russia's actions destabilising the situation in Ukraine

https://eur-lex.europa.eu/legal-content/EN/TXT/HTML/?uri=CELEX:32022R0350&from=EN

Please stand up now to insist that the individual must be able to read all internet and other sources freely and without hindrance / censorship.

I would suggest Michael Hudson for an educated / insightful view of this highly manipulated / designed / orchestrated crisis.

https://michael-hudson.com/



Saturday, June 12, 2021

Congratulations to William Wall

Mega congratulations to William Wall on his appointment as the Cork poet laureate, an initiative of the Munster Literature Centre... (funded by Cork City Council). 

The laureateship runs for ten months from May 2021. The laureate will publish a new poem at the end of each month.
 
https://www.munsterlit.ie/
Read more... https://www.munsterlit.ie/cork_poet_laureate.html
William Wall's website http://www.williamwall.net/
On Wikepedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wall_(writer)

William's first poem is... 

Hometown Blues 


Listen to William Wall reading here...
https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsandculture/arid-40308719.html

In memory of the late great Rory Gallagher, I remember being at a Rory Gallagher concert in the Stadium in Dublin and as William says... "the whole floor a drum" for those not familiar with Rory Gallagher please search for Going To My Hometown (1972)... I know, we are all ancient, how else can you survive... ;-)