tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-35434511096688318082024-03-12T20:36:29.456-07:00poemsonpoetsThis is a feed from pomesonpoets, which is the name of the original blog. I called it "pomes" after the Pomes Penny Each of James Joyce. The aim of the blog is to capture moments with poets real or imaginary. I will continue to post on "pomes" and transfer the content here for those who may have searched for "poems". Thank you for visiting.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.comBlogger70125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-86560828384161389402013-08-21T04:45:00.001-07:002013-08-21T04:48:06.187-07:00Perspectives<br />
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Perspectives on a Lake<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">On that shore small people move,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">walk tiny dogs, sit on small benches;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">on this shore birds patrol their grove,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">slow and long-legged under green branches</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">that etch the unrelenting rays</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">in bars of complicated shade.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Stretched thin out there the sunshine plays</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">easily on tree, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>colonnade</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">and path. Perspective grinds them down</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">to semblance on a tapestry,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">a distant likeness of the town,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">pastiche of inches, lacquered sky.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">Whilst here, an insensible curved rat –</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";">still wet from the swim that made her great.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Bookman Old Style","serif";"><o:p> </o:p></span></div>
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Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-39460326313419576202011-01-16T14:14:00.000-08:002011-01-16T14:14:14.948-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OtcXFFvx2lk4CSlxIJOgoLuHx8UofCE9w90sR9GRSakuVcA0lGeeB5q8iktKmldjSkN9D4zSeEdTR05W3tQymBKF1pWJETR8k062wBSOjeq6YnUczL42PEpWGlG3uy4dXrnYO5mQL4Y/s1600/Jimmy%2527s22for+blog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" n4="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-OtcXFFvx2lk4CSlxIJOgoLuHx8UofCE9w90sR9GRSakuVcA0lGeeB5q8iktKmldjSkN9D4zSeEdTR05W3tQymBKF1pWJETR8k062wBSOjeq6YnUczL42PEpWGlG3uy4dXrnYO5mQL4Y/s320/Jimmy%2527s22for+blog.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Leicester Square Puddle Image</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt; text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">I see myself in Leicester Square</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">which is a kind of overcoat</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">loose and comfortable to wear,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">with bars and diamonds</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">and tree motifs,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">and the weave itself</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">made up of tiny laughter</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">and griefs.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Walking through mile-high drizzle</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">the people here</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">are dressed to dazzle:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">there goes a giant eye,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">here comes the Planet Mars.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Some are dressed</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">as teen-age gangs,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">a few as cinemas.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">A woman smiles at me,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">her gown a shimmering clock</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">that strikes on the second.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">The carousel has run amok;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">you can’t see the old grey-beard</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">who thinks it’s Derby Day;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">the clouds fly past him,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Hitchcock’s Birds are coming.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>Now that</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> weird:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">I know that girl </span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In the mini-dress –</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">I remember her corduroyness.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">A ghost steps out</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-tab-count: 3;"> </span>of a Silver Ghost,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">a crowd of masked lone rangers gathers</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">gasps. Someone whispers, “Diamond!” or</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">“diamonds…” Is it Legs</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">Or Neil or that man Bond?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">I tighten my belt</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>as erically as I can</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">and amble on: it’s my coat that wanders</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">out of the lime-light</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">into the night, no cares</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';">but The Care of Time.*</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif'; font-size: 9pt; line-height: 115%;">The Care of Time was Eric Ambler’s last novel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;"><span style="font-family: 'Cambria','serif';"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-14864539337904575722009-06-10T15:07:00.000-07:002009-06-10T15:18:10.878-07:00Alan Ginsberg Dream <br /><br /><br /> <br /><br />29/07/07<br /><br />Alan: I decided to write down those memories I recall from the non-ego memory e.g,<br /><br /> When I was so little<br /> I was barely a weight<br /> in my mother’s hand…..<br /><br />Then, I see in my dream, the reader has a choice between hyperlinks to reach the end of the poem. The hyperlinks become feely bags you can reach into and pull out the poems. Some of the bags are shaped like Teddies. Joyce knows some of the poems – she comes in as I am pulling out the one above. I wake up.<br /><br />1946<br /><br />When I was so little<br />I was barely a weight<br />in my mother’s hand<br /><br />knitted shoes<br />the size<br />of her thumb<br /><br />the beating <br />of her heart<br />was my Paris<br /><br />the conversation<br />of strangers<br />London’s mighty roar.<br /><br /><br /><br />1956<br /><br />Being on the river<br />with my mother when<br />she was still young<br />enough to fall<br />on the pavement, pick<br />herself up & carry on –<br />luckily her glasses<br />not broken.<br /><br />Tall just up to her<br />shoulder, sitting together<br />on the wood-slat, <br />cracked varnish seats<br />and reading the names<br />on the sides of barges<br />yachts & launches and she<br />knowing I am short-sighted,<br /> saying: “You may<br />need glasses some day.”<br /><br /><br /><br />196-<br /><br />From the Summer<br />of being fucked up what did I learn?<br />That people we don’t know<br />are just as important as people we do,<br />and other people’s mothers and fathers and best friends.<br /><br />That night I travelled up the Northern Line<br />thinking to sleep at my Auntie’s house:<br />all locked up and silent, forgot she’s<br />away the weekend – stalled me - I travelled way down<br />the Northern line to Oval, Cleaver Square<br />to tell Martin about my girlfriend<br />and having nowhere to sleep –<br />and chanting Martin, Martin to no effect, no<br />window slung open in reply –<br /><br />Up the Northern line, back up again –<br />in Pond square I found a<br />parked car – the replica of Martin’s<br />black 1950’s Morris his parents ‘d bought him<br />second hand – knowing it’s not Martin’s car<br />I get in and find there’s a neatly <br />folded blanket on the front <br />seat – curl up that summer night<br />in door-mouse comfort, feeling<br />like a Camembert in a picnic basket<br />sleeping until 6.0 am, when I<br /><br /><br /><br />stealthily slip the handle up & roll out<br />onto well-worn tarmac under green Highgate Trees,<br />remembering to refold the blanket<br /><br /><br />thankful for this unlocked car<br />in the morning when Ginsberg was<br />king of Czechoslovakia <br />and the May – headed back past Highgate Cemetary to<br />Achway, and Mum and Dad in Brighton<br />for the weekend, saying I<br />spent the night with a friend.<br /><br /> +++Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-13415474298930476092009-05-08T14:06:00.000-07:002009-05-08T14:08:25.865-07:00MallarmeTo a Woman Dreaming <br /><br />O woman in the act of dreaming,<br />with your sweet misnomers, understand<br />how I can plunge into roadless bliss.<br />Keep my wing safe in your hand.<br /><br />The freshness of evening light<br />fans you with the passing of each beat,<br />with a force so delicate<br />it pushes the horizon back,<br /><br />quivering vertiginous. See<br />how space is like a vast embrace<br />which, sick of being born for no-one,<br />can’t pour itself out or calm down.<br /><br />Couldn’t you feel the paradise<br />begin like a concealed laugh,<br />and flow from the corner of your mouth<br />to the depth of your one white throat!<br /><br />Aegis of red sand beaches,<br />stuck in golden evenings – this is it!<br />This whiteness of closed flight you place<br />against the fire of a bracelet. <br /><br />From the French of Stephane MallarmeLucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-17260618240106846722009-04-10T14:16:00.001-07:002009-04-10T14:18:29.765-07:00From-here-to-there Portal<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpZi4gzMLxDOKXj88HIIhFygeMQzVdXfpIDfKSPyPGQ9vdD1L8q80iOVz6o0cYWPgoFGliJy7OMGHn40ZcLTI_Aazy3u4yZubQdBi6-YX2BFRzioto0HCCJtr3DZPW3Bu2K3EbZhdEH4/s1600-h/Fuji+Park+003.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJpZi4gzMLxDOKXj88HIIhFygeMQzVdXfpIDfKSPyPGQ9vdD1L8q80iOVz6o0cYWPgoFGliJy7OMGHn40ZcLTI_Aazy3u4yZubQdBi6-YX2BFRzioto0HCCJtr3DZPW3Bu2K3EbZhdEH4/s320/Fuji+Park+003.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5323175125641065506" /></a><br />From-here-to-there Portal<br /><br />Not without its own history, this Park<br />where no one just now goes walking;<br />once the travellers had their site<br />underneath its railway arch,<br /><br />their caravans and washing lines<br />squeezed into the little space.<br />No place to run or play, Summer<br />or Winter when the windows steamed up:<br /><br />the dogs barked; the fences got trampled;<br />the Council moved them on - only<br />July sun bore down on bare gravel.<br />Beneath the arches, events to be started:<br /><br />a Mind Body fair was staged -<br />organic food stalls, herbal remedies<br />and rain sticks with their tinkling shells.<br />With idle curiosity I wandered there<br /><br />amongst the mentors and magicians,<br />each with a secret to impart:<br />the ginseng-free tonic, the Healing Ray.<br />I was a good listener then, as now.<br /><br />There's grass now, shrubs and daffodils,<br />and a path swept quite recently,<br />a straight line to the old brick arch<br />that's built as sternly as a portal.<br /><br />A new wrought iron gate half open,<br />inviting someone to venture in,<br />with March or April's wanderlust,<br />in cool sunlight or tingling rain:<br /><br />There's no one there to meet or talk to,<br />no one there to impose<br />their presence on my reverie.<br />The lingering moment draws me on,<br /><br />and by the path that's still vacant,<br />why is it that the Spring flowers seem<br />like bits of the world refocusing<br />when the brain wakes from an anaesthetic?Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-7255187438162410032009-02-15T07:14:00.000-08:002009-02-15T07:15:46.213-08:00Peppermint Aero Chutney<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqmMBx8JNOKrogCGn_nz7o9NZl6bQA9xTW_-iXDJhyphenhyphene0zJAYdC4hChabZ4CGWN14995vPGjQ4HsaVVkCeuDi701rvgtVZmam1CBy_PtTrSVlGYVj0Of_YAcLL8kdx_vwHcnWBH-yho4U/s1600-h/DSC_00700001.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5303043074934561458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 302px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivqmMBx8JNOKrogCGn_nz7o9NZl6bQA9xTW_-iXDJhyphenhyphene0zJAYdC4hChabZ4CGWN14995vPGjQ4HsaVVkCeuDi701rvgtVZmam1CBy_PtTrSVlGYVj0Of_YAcLL8kdx_vwHcnWBH-yho4U/s320/DSC_00700001.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />Peppermint Aero Chutney<br /><br />It was a fortunate misreading<br />the kind that over-rides the first<br />dull meaning in a magazine:<br /><br />four tigers in a frame.<br />I see them painted by Rousseau.<br />One gate at least hangs open:<br /><br />There's a barrier, ten foot tall,<br />of dull wood painted green,<br />where the flowers and pathways were.<br /><br />The overwriting hand is poised.<br />I think of William Blake,<br />his birthplace up the concrete steps.<br /><br />There's an old VW convertible<br />that often parks round there,<br />yellow as a plastic bee.<br /><br />No shop front that I pass<br />and pass again is ever the same:<br />blue as surreal ceramic.<br /><br />Why does latte come out black?<br />With spikes up close, they look<br />bigger than church steeples.<br /><br />A lemon nestles among the apples.<br />Being very sorry, or just being...<br />Acting up or just acting...</div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-4728584401775896612009-02-01T08:01:00.001-08:002009-02-01T08:02:40.108-08:00Soho Side<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YmLmZKrdMp9PioeI6a4w6Gs6K8lhv1-7YCRVXa21tWr79-CG2z4V_lEg9-XLgPJWaqaZl2w5t6tkRJEvuX31u9k_mU9M-KLawUWiBGLr6GwJCafegrmUyJnb5s9-IKB_8VU3QlybXNI/s1600-h/gatelock.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5297859907862213618" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 314px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7YmLmZKrdMp9PioeI6a4w6Gs6K8lhv1-7YCRVXa21tWr79-CG2z4V_lEg9-XLgPJWaqaZl2w5t6tkRJEvuX31u9k_mU9M-KLawUWiBGLr6GwJCafegrmUyJnb5s9-IKB_8VU3QlybXNI/s320/gatelock.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div>Soho Side<br /><br />Walking the Soho side of Soho Square<br />I stop and stare: “Who locked the gate on us<br />in broad January day light?” I enquire<br />silently, where two girls chat and share. I suss<br />that they don’t care, don’t notice me; the gate<br />was never open for these sleek women,<br />whose English sounds quite confident and bright.<br />Staring on past them through the gate, it’s plain<br />to me: Summer has been padlocked away<br />by the cool giant who wants to ban our pleasure<br />of lying on worn grass in idle array<br />until there isn’t any grass – a measure<br />of potential, in one part of the melee,<br />for talking up a rapid urban culture.</div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-27171016267160842552009-01-19T12:25:00.000-08:002009-01-19T13:29:13.971-08:00Rangoon<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw_JUzFGL4y71wuNAYBzTQE5CNvtOZWy16-izuFZqC7w0DE-tGzzVxVCii52Ag2j7aRvq9nY1_zIxmPCJ-sxqYq5yF9Bvpx0QEDQsEcutB9R_oIRX6SAF4Dp0d2iqb0Qoj1mupMR-h00/s1600-h/DSCN0709.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293118378197953186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 197px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAw_JUzFGL4y71wuNAYBzTQE5CNvtOZWy16-izuFZqC7w0DE-tGzzVxVCii52Ag2j7aRvq9nY1_zIxmPCJ-sxqYq5yF9Bvpx0QEDQsEcutB9R_oIRX6SAF4Dp0d2iqb0Qoj1mupMR-h00/s320/DSCN0709.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0x-X4Gs4mnL1WV03WmjzPBUETrAOwxLou6ZX1-ajOnm-QxZhV4bohaRv5VOW-o7YsQQJQiQ-5gwDGBD1ZfI5LPw_bdqUycJrZqhBC1zKnoJYCuA2Quv0w4qFbYMDGEEzVK8GjDANDb8/s1600-h/JohnB&W.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293118374002310146" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS0x-X4Gs4mnL1WV03WmjzPBUETrAOwxLou6ZX1-ajOnm-QxZhV4bohaRv5VOW-o7YsQQJQiQ-5gwDGBD1ZfI5LPw_bdqUycJrZqhBC1zKnoJYCuA2Quv0w4qFbYMDGEEzVK8GjDANDb8/s320/JohnB&W.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMT3UrU9O0MkzbkC5HCqPmKdaJk6v_wE8NFlWpXn_pReJshEKbVF2VV5_zs5_uoHAsvEsopS6Ybnt3kOf57KcMLiyvefCYsnkLcLPhCylKdV742yjYZGoSbf7TyBfvXyVC6NFnJDYZsA/s1600-h/DSCN0700.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293118366534061506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYMT3UrU9O0MkzbkC5HCqPmKdaJk6v_wE8NFlWpXn_pReJshEKbVF2VV5_zs5_uoHAsvEsopS6Ybnt3kOf57KcMLiyvefCYsnkLcLPhCylKdV742yjYZGoSbf7TyBfvXyVC6NFnJDYZsA/s320/DSCN0700.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezkVNeQ-jMiS3McAFUkR3LTrm08LT_r4KWMAQS1nVUScIsvRJYUUi5kFOThSfGV9P_RtTidSG_POdJ4vgoaQmWndA7OrJJMnkfozuHTW073ybk61_JDUc5RN-m2QP0vhIr3z8KbQCBAo/s1600-h/DSCN0699.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5293117647303564434" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 240px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgezkVNeQ-jMiS3McAFUkR3LTrm08LT_r4KWMAQS1nVUScIsvRJYUUi5kFOThSfGV9P_RtTidSG_POdJ4vgoaQmWndA7OrJJMnkfozuHTW073ybk61_JDUc5RN-m2QP0vhIr3z8KbQCBAo/s320/DSCN0699.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=69863052">http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=69863052</a><br /><br /><div>Rangoon<br /><br />The Dignity: 11.0, Sunday night,<br />Rangoon in full tilt, speakers<br />on high stands. The amp is tube.<br /><br />They play in front of the pub’s<br />oil painting, a woman’s face<br />in red, the height of a man.<br /><br />A light is trained towards them,<br />and the drinkers are tuning in:<br />some begin to dance. There’s<br /><br />nothing out there, some shops,<br />a road that needs maintaining,<br />electric rails the trains follow<br /><br />out in the open this far North –<br />only this Rocking rhythm and words<br />that link us to the rights and wrongs<br />of men and women, Burmese monks<br />with cotton sails, riding against tanks.<br />Another pint: stand further back.<br /><br />Curved planes continue through the amp and mike<br />across the road and into space.<br />Watch them playing: their eyes lock -<br /><br />the music follows distant streets,<br />licks into shadows like a liquorice tongue,<br />goes blind down midnights steps.<br /><br />The bassist has a 6.0 start;<br />A leaf curls round; a waist sways.<br />In the narrow space between the bar<br /><br />and the stage, couples are making<br />each moment count. The bar’s<br />a rose open for last orders. Soon<br /><br />last tubes will trundle back, and<br />in silence engulfed by black light<br />Rangoon’ll dissolve like sherbet dust.<br /><br />+++ </div></div></div></div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-52815941908511973292009-01-09T14:16:00.000-08:002009-01-09T14:17:18.272-08:00PoetryPivotal 3Midnight Steps<br /><br />Something is moving through a tunnel<br />a tunnel of silence and of brick,<br />and as it moves further and further away<br />the sense of the sound does not diminish.<br /><br />It is born of a mechanism with many parts,<br />moves on the edge of what can't be heard;<br />perhaps it's below me or a few streets South<br />where the railway goes under the road. <br /><br />The night is not entirely dark or silent:<br />the sudden creak of a footstep<br />in an upstairs flat. Three a.m: a cat sits<br />and looks out, as if seeing the shape<br /><br />of something that's there, I can't see.<br />There's a bridge near Jeffreys Street,<br />where the nuclear waste in steel wagons<br />rattles on by, at least three a week<br /><br />and a side alley leading West, down<br />seventy feet underneath the line. I sleep<br />with three storeys above me and three beneath;<br />the walls are thick, and the River, almost black,<br /><br />flows under us through hidden arches<br />from Parliament Hill to Anglers Lane,<br />a sealed light that can't be seen<br />clusters on the surface, unexplained.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-31600388130426144292009-01-01T14:29:00.000-08:002009-01-11T13:25:45.914-08:00Some more of Eugene Atget's famous images<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKEOfzIPi8MEMKcAl9DRNhKcJXmzgYmeuth-NDBV1OyfVkTMGylWzmULCc_BGirzuRKB-dT-4W2FGAbGj7yIZZPCgoVazQac0HkOc-fTBGNommoYKeG93b7vSxZTK0XpePHgoDZv89-Q/s1600-h/CT_1984_194A_lg.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheKEOfzIPi8MEMKcAl9DRNhKcJXmzgYmeuth-NDBV1OyfVkTMGylWzmULCc_BGirzuRKB-dT-4W2FGAbGj7yIZZPCgoVazQac0HkOc-fTBGNommoYKeG93b7vSxZTK0XpePHgoDZv89-Q/s320/CT_1984_194A_lg.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286456320675588178" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OO0N5Dlum2lRpscgFSq1CFbSajLtpCV8TQPzK8vl8ZV5Gf0dtmz-6lsUxP-aj-pwsmbX2IOcSlQZDmmwKlljD2taq0ASw8F9NAd8tPkDMb10HRvUNa5-fzhV2KxpZmNa-iSMmiYgWec/s1600-h/atgmont2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-OO0N5Dlum2lRpscgFSq1CFbSajLtpCV8TQPzK8vl8ZV5Gf0dtmz-6lsUxP-aj-pwsmbX2IOcSlQZDmmwKlljD2taq0ASw8F9NAd8tPkDMb10HRvUNa5-fzhV2KxpZmNa-iSMmiYgWec/s320/atgmont2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286456318225861954" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiniOirrLm3fhOQlctuLn5Ts0J9G6vn5KVDlLUI9jibK8VrlaIfBDnoOB55jFfrCprRtnwTogSAXgO0lKyucSL25EEnbADk9uAhzPRW8Ej3DrpNr4XdzFcGQPFNQww7a9lRBKrvdMob4w/s1600-h/atget_tree_sceaux.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 244px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiniOirrLm3fhOQlctuLn5Ts0J9G6vn5KVDlLUI9jibK8VrlaIfBDnoOB55jFfrCprRtnwTogSAXgO0lKyucSL25EEnbADk9uAhzPRW8Ej3DrpNr4XdzFcGQPFNQww7a9lRBKrvdMob4w/s320/atget_tree_sceaux.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286456317306578498" /></a>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-72605070070011158412009-01-01T14:27:00.000-08:002009-01-01T14:29:00.441-08:00Some of Eugene Atget's famous images<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1kQuV6e0y2zYO20Xfagrjycf7rCAbbxizQitHpCC7_0JC7AWFvY4W_q_391yJpC_2joKrCZFb-2JtVRNVV2D_pRFM1lsmCH7UCFWwAdr4bSsAr4yipnSWcssvHIdvqryD7qsPH5tn6U/s1600-h/atget1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 236px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhU1kQuV6e0y2zYO20Xfagrjycf7rCAbbxizQitHpCC7_0JC7AWFvY4W_q_391yJpC_2joKrCZFb-2JtVRNVV2D_pRFM1lsmCH7UCFWwAdr4bSsAr4yipnSWcssvHIdvqryD7qsPH5tn6U/s320/atget1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286455838432098882" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-7kvMCFSAaDXMquEC54D2s3noWIm3Qb7klXNG8jL8wzSEMoug_Sp6Hjy5po_LuXbT8p1bIpYNUdiFz0MPmNuxpahKk5awuPH2X8dUTrUw2y8eky5-H6l9-jqcbIa1iztQQQ5mK4Q_pM/s1600-h/394040851_354acae3c5.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 248px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiC-7kvMCFSAaDXMquEC54D2s3noWIm3Qb7klXNG8jL8wzSEMoug_Sp6Hjy5po_LuXbT8p1bIpYNUdiFz0MPmNuxpahKk5awuPH2X8dUTrUw2y8eky5-H6l9-jqcbIa1iztQQQ5mK4Q_pM/s320/394040851_354acae3c5.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286455838458217410" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVRby1PEKpHZNR0SFCDhnQzO3MXmu1jF8ch7NlYPNzLjXFIeHj8DYUvD2my9Ia_jw4UJGGG7AwIJEHBuSQBz4jAX-HHC1xcUW1rVshaVZq_PrfM4jOkmbgGDBcPd5g4putC6F_li4arg/s1600-h/13322-004-66E56A9B.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 249px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRVRby1PEKpHZNR0SFCDhnQzO3MXmu1jF8ch7NlYPNzLjXFIeHj8DYUvD2my9Ia_jw4UJGGG7AwIJEHBuSQBz4jAX-HHC1xcUW1rVshaVZq_PrfM4jOkmbgGDBcPd5g4putC6F_li4arg/s320/13322-004-66E56A9B.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286455833180002082" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUGbqQf86gN2NpCvU-ZCgd8S5b7cjJKlTtgW3XJ5SaznRZ2xeGTQAkcWe4L-SkrKfnhWygFpW5QcqSbHX7UQ2W4m8gccpomLaYnJqBlyr8flKEQrmuz9B_t7pObcPs2dnqDCcaTQrLHm4/s1600-h/340x.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 257px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUGbqQf86gN2NpCvU-ZCgd8S5b7cjJKlTtgW3XJ5SaznRZ2xeGTQAkcWe4L-SkrKfnhWygFpW5QcqSbHX7UQ2W4m8gccpomLaYnJqBlyr8flKEQrmuz9B_t7pObcPs2dnqDCcaTQrLHm4/s320/340x.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286455832177174658" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocp5apEhf349Avjc9xwLLTX14i2v_YtX6CFy93Q7I-kaxPYAfJ1z4BNBgHLwKyuwP5cDLaGI8FXE02cUguOdUv1htbKX1Rzad4nQq1lnVGBCM3I13FDfymJOZiKlAlaHS3QtwBXLvjow/s1600-h/00152.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 252px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjocp5apEhf349Avjc9xwLLTX14i2v_YtX6CFy93Q7I-kaxPYAfJ1z4BNBgHLwKyuwP5cDLaGI8FXE02cUguOdUv1htbKX1Rzad4nQq1lnVGBCM3I13FDfymJOZiKlAlaHS3QtwBXLvjow/s320/00152.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5286455819677222338" /></a>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-68831043193409110322008-12-12T11:19:00.001-08:002008-12-27T16:01:09.568-08:00Eugene<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfRVHBt7h58jwUZZSxfthS3uYJOcg7Hbm4suW8lszad8Y9I1qlhqRENYZVLfWEwllLRQqa2xFUQuRTN0CsPpmQExszOilT7UHZjVAzHNJxDAV4porZFzur_k13YzPJzw4lQ8kmJ0UPDTf/s1600-h/caplio29+001.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibfRVHBt7h58jwUZZSxfthS3uYJOcg7Hbm4suW8lszad8Y9I1qlhqRENYZVLfWEwllLRQqa2xFUQuRTN0CsPpmQExszOilT7UHZjVAzHNJxDAV4porZFzur_k13YzPJzw4lQ8kmJ0UPDTf/s320/caplio29+001.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5278985922476123938" /></a><br /><br /><br />http://www.temple.edu/photo/photographers/atget/index.html<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />EUGENE<br /> (i) <br />My streets are empty<br />because I go out early<br />and take photographs.<br /><br />My plates are too late,<br />mere things; what has happened<br />has left its mark.<br /><br />Some mornings alone<br />I set up my camera<br />and just keep waiting<br /><br />for the mist to rise,<br />for the vacancy to be<br />a few metres clear:<br /><br />a cobbled concourse<br />leading to the Moulin Rouge<br />where dampness glistens.<br /><br />Someone said I do<br />crime scenes, bleached and swept;<br />if so, the cops aren’t interested.<br /><br />For artists - who else? -<br />these silver nitride traces,<br />instalment stories<br /><br />where no shots ring out,<br />and there is no embrace, since<br />the world has ended.<br /><br />These are documents<br />and nothing else. I know Man <br />Ray – he talks of a journal,<br /><br />new existences.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />EUGENE<br /> (ii)<br /><br />Sometimes, mornings I’m alone,<br />passing the Metro, and stop,<br />set up my camera in vain<br />for the faces emerging<br />and disappearing to greet<br />the soul that inhabits life:<br /><br />the soul which was there<br />in the Luxembourg Gardens,<br />in the mist across water.<br /><br />I record stone thoroughfares,<br />entrances machines will block,<br />the shops they’ll demolish.<br /><br />My horizon is noisy,<br />limited by offices.<br /><br />What can’t be repaired:<br />the stairs between walls,<br />full of entry points,<br /><br />entrances for artists.<br /><br /><br /> +++<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Eugene (iii)<br /><br />I took you still in your trades,<br />as you presented yourselves to me,<br />a set of prints from the streets<br />that you cross every day and re-cross,<br />imprinting yourselves at the heart<br />of the streets that you yourselves<br />create: baker, porter and tart,<br />peddler and hurdy gurdy man.<br />I made these pictures of you, and<br />with you, for you, as you were<br />each standing on your bit of street,<br />I with my tripod, as I presented<br />myself to you, fellow Parisian, graduate<br />of the School of Hard Knocks; we<br />were daybreakers on the gymnasium floor.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-44166654398941072282008-11-28T11:47:00.001-08:002008-12-27T16:01:09.568-08:00New Second-Hand<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoiaL7ImzhxoB5yktZzdNg3zWGmf7sUH7fC4SYhwjhUyxSQOhnNyyB4Ai1KpPeSSWyOXaRq_GeCLmF8EGuWgoJf4vho417W5N34hjBJIw14RsKPEOoC17fTBNbEWqn2n1FNcOJ4FX5p5W/s1600-h/Soho+Church.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoiaL7ImzhxoB5yktZzdNg3zWGmf7sUH7fC4SYhwjhUyxSQOhnNyyB4Ai1KpPeSSWyOXaRq_GeCLmF8EGuWgoJf4vho417W5N34hjBJIw14RsKPEOoC17fTBNbEWqn2n1FNcOJ4FX5p5W/s320/Soho+Church.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5273798330264152002" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Poetry Pivotal 2 - New Second-Hand<br /><br /><br />Walking through Soho in dry light,<br />top stories splashed in yellow sun,<br />difficult for digital these Winter days<br />in life-on-earth shadow of streets,<br /><br />grave stone of Hazlitt in the church<br />garden, backs of Old Compton Street,<br />their bricks and windows; one, piled high<br />with books, is glinting high up.<br /><br />The tomb, in splendid isolation<br />lies flat on the grass, a clean cut<br />oblong, could be a book on its side,<br />a tome, Libor Amoris at rest.<br /><br />While I photograph I’m watched<br />by a gardener who’s almost invisible<br />amongst leaves, brooms and wheel barrows.<br />Once in the Summer, with a new second-hand,<br /><br />I was trying to get the spire<br />in, crouching and pointing the lens<br />up through foliage at the sky,<br />and fell over backwards, rolled<br /><br />laughing in the grass, while<br />sitters on the church-yard benches,<br />my public, kept their pose.<br />Now, it’s the man working and me.<br /><br /><br /> +++++Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-3604071773332242242008-11-16T03:11:00.001-08:002008-12-27T16:01:09.569-08:00Documents for Poets<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCxYyToEWSwKbR1UNlE8lEMExsCuDWApFMvt5wFQ0D6WP9c0AYS39lPouDBO70xN3NIIXtjtFnaXf3OhjlZ_Zp3JS2TQofJ5qflJzaH50zXsgCo4hwtcxm3WGjdtEbObw7i4yIbzZoEbI/s1600-h/Bridge+Blue.jpg"><img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 212px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyCxYyToEWSwKbR1UNlE8lEMExsCuDWApFMvt5wFQ0D6WP9c0AYS39lPouDBO70xN3NIIXtjtFnaXf3OhjlZ_Zp3JS2TQofJ5qflJzaH50zXsgCo4hwtcxm3WGjdtEbObw7i4yIbzZoEbI/s320/Bridge+Blue.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269219698217603858" /></a><br /><br />Eugene <br /><br />http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eugene_Atget<br /><br />I call my current series: “Documents for Poets”: after consideration I decided for this, because it obliquely touches on the achievements of a famous photographer, who has been an inspiration to many. <br />The title is borrowed from the celebrated turn of the century Parisian photographer Eugene Atget whose images included Parisian precincts and suburbs where he sought and found relics and preserved masterpieces of a world that was disappearing rapidly. Much of what he depicted focused on the ordinary and everyday, which through his lens was mysteriously transformed to become dreamlike & iconic.<br />He referred to his photographs as “documents for artists.”<br />I therefore retrospectively dedicate my “Poetry Pivotal: documents for poets” to Eugene – a title I think he would have understood and tolerated.<br /><br /><br />Poetry Pivotal 1<br /><br />(i)<br /><br />In the window a canal,<br />bars spill out on the street;<br />no longer Summer, green September.<br /><br />There are caravans of ants<br />on the pavement, trees, rooftops<br />and the bridge whose angles<br />pick up the sheen of grass;<br />pink dark glasses in the day<br />and glasses to drink from<br />at night. The motorway’s<br /><br />curved boomerang shape;<br />a perfectly formed film star,<br />in an evening gown, steps<br />from a cracked walnut;<br /><br />looking into the canal<br />her window glimmers.<br /><br /><br />(ii)<br /><br />Overarching the concrete and glass<br />of the station’s restaurants and shops,<br />Paddington’s still girders –<br />like elongated yellow bees<br />the trains reach for clover<br />and the barley fields.<br />Once this station was an actor<br />young and handsome in the Age of Steam.<br /><br />The past is still doing<br />its double act with now:<br />up and down the escalators,<br />customers who were once passengers<br />alight at different levels,<br /><br />and, ranged in a semicircle,<br />the Station Orchestra is amply playing<br />the music of the brass, as if<br />breasting a river somewhere deep,<br />where, each with its candle glowing,<br />ride tiny boats across the stream.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-61973772632550592562008-10-31T15:44:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.570-08:00A Poem by Phil CrickThis poem is quoted from <strong>Treble Poets 3</strong> Chatto & Windus 1977. <br /><br /><strong>Quiberon</strong> by Phil Crick<br /><br />"A ten-ton man<br />in a suit of stone<br />dozes face down<br />on the edge of France.<br /><br />His green jaws nudge<br />the immaculate beach<br />and the low waves lance<br />a rift in his bone.<br /><br />All ropes unreel<br />in his waterlogged heart.<br />He sways on his bed.<br />His vertebrae moan.<br /><br />And he floats a long cry<br />down through the sand<br />that even the stars<br />and the quasars own.<br /><br />Its echo shatters<br />the sky off Belle-Ile.<br />At sunset, too,<br />sea-owls murmur."Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-38610734309512530622008-10-12T09:38:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.570-08:00Night Exercise"About Phil Crick<br />Philip Crick (1918-1992) was born in the Isle of Wight and grew up in Ramsgate and Broadstairs, Kent. He served in the army in World War Two, first as a Second Lieutenant, and later as a Captain in the Intelligence Corps with the British Rhine Army. After demobilisation, he trained as a teacher and worked in various primary schools and colleges of higher education. He ended his teaching career as a Senior Lecturer at the Garnett College of Education in London. <br />From the early 1950s until the early 1990s, his poems appeared regularly in a large number of British and American magazines, along with critical essays and reviews of films and books, and articles on aesthetics. His essay on the work of Gustaf Sobin, later published by Shearsman as a slim chapbook, was the first extended assessment of Sobin's poetry." - quoted from the Shearsman website http://www.shearsman.com/pages/magazine/home.html<br /><br /><br /><br />Night Exercise<br /><br /><br /><br />Desk of strange juxtapositions, a typewriter<br />next to a set of teeth cast in plaster<br />a wind harp, a Larkin; his face was fine-lined<br />with the ravages of emotional time,<br />miscreant against the linear spectrum,<br />poet rated for searching mind,<br />the ear and its nuances.<br /> In Kingston-Upon-Thames<br />once in the night, above the cosmic hum,<br />he heard a distant faint voice crying –<br />or was it Jill who heard it first?<br />Help, help…. again, Help. Genuine or games,<br />madman or victim of a crime? Trying<br />to work out where, they went out bent on tracing<br />walking towards it, stopping…. listening….pacing.<br /><br />Pacing through streets, they heard the voice get louder<br />while all around suburban households slept –<br />he told this story as a true reflector<br />of life’s strangeness and atmospheres, adept<br />at leaving out – not shouting,<br />where others might have, of good actions or<br />deeds. It was what they discovered, came to<br />there at the gates of Richmond Park –<br />that the story captured eerily:<br />in the Moon’s shadow, tied by the feet, suspended,<br />a frightened human plumb line they cut free,<br />these rescuers in the dark;<br /> their foray ended<br />with folded penknife, human decency. <br /><br /><br /><br />+++Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-26477266480793947242008-09-06T14:36:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.571-08:00Heine TranslationsThe following quotation from an old Peter Porter essay seems peculiarly relevant to my recent endeavour. <br /><br />“Too many translators (and I include myself) are ill-acquainted with the tongues they translate from and know very little about the prosody and traditions of other languages. You can achieve useful results from this ignorance but that is not what translation is supposed to be about.” (quoted by Jon Silkin in the Introduction to his Poetry of the Committed Individual – A Stand Anthology of Poetry – Penguin 1973)<br /><br /> Poems Read in the Dual Language “Songs of Love and Grief“ selected and translated by Walter W.Arndt, North Western University Press Illinois 1995.<br />Walter.W.Arndt is a renowned scholar, poet and translator. <br />My versions are my own versions – translated from the ground up by me with the help of my Collins dictionary, yet guided and no doubt influenced by Arndt’s excellent and enjoyable translations. I have also been helped by the biographical essay in “Heinrich Heine: Poems and Ballads” translated by Emma Lazarus – Hartsdale House New York 1947. Without Arndt, I would not of course have had access to a selection of poems drawn from all the periods of Heine’s poetry. This selection highlights the many levels and complexities of Heine’s work. He comes over as very modern, not so much the achingly romantic lyricist the Liede composers latched onto. The poems in Arndt’s selection amount to a volume that has affinities with Baudelaire and the Symbolists. <br />Why on Earth with my rusty O level German have I taken the step of re-translating these poems? My only motive for producing translations of my own is the enjoyment it produces, the struggle and search for getting it right feels worth while – I imagine as an aspiring piano player struggles to get to grips with a Schubert sonata and gets a buzz when a few bars come out. I hope my “playing” of Heine does not upset the neighbours!<br />I also hope the results may be useful to someone else as well as me.<br /><br />***<br /><br />Wir fuhren allein im dunkeln (Sorry, can’t manage the umlauts in Word)<br /><br />In the dimly lit coach<br />We travelled alone through the night;<br />We pillowed our heads and laughed<br />On each other’s hearts.<br /><br />Then, as the morning light appeared,<br />My sweet, how silent we were:<br />Between us a new passenger,<br />The blind one, Love.<br /><br /><br /><br />Wir haben viel fur einander gefuhlt<br /><br />We felt a lot for each other<br />and got on perfectly well;<br />we often played husbands and wives,<br />only we didn’t bite each other’s heads off.<br /><br />We hugged and cuddled a lot –<br />we kissed each other as well,<br />and then, on a childlike whim,<br />we started to play hide and seek,<br /><br /><br />and we hid from each other<br />so well and elaborately, we hid<br />that never on this sorrowful Earth<br />have we found each other again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Sie haben mich gequalet<br /><br />They egged me on<br />And cut me up:<br />One with love’s hot brew,<br />the other with hate’s cold cup.<br /><br />They put poison in my drink<br />And brought me poisoned bread;<br />The one with warmest love, the other<br />With hate left me for dead;<br /><br />Yet she who hurt me the most<br />And strafed my flesh with grit – <br />She never hated me at all<br />And loved me not one bit.<br /><br /><br />Gaben mir Rat and gute Leben<br /><br />They lectured me and gave me good advice;<br />They showered me with faint praise,<br />And said that if I would only wait<br />They’d put in a good word for me.<br /><br />Well – for all their good words<br />I could have wasted away from hunger,<br />If there had not appeared a more decent man<br />Who took it upon himself to fight my corner.<br /><br />A much more decent man, he stopped me from going hungry;<br />Him, I will never, ever forget!<br />What a shame I can’t kiss the guy,<br />For I myself am this decent man.<br /><br /> ***<br /><br /><br />Wie Schandlich du gehandelt<br /><br />I’ve never told anyone<br />How shabbily you behaved;<br />I went far out to sea<br />And told the fish instead.<br /><br />So, I have preserved your reputation,<br />At least on dry land,<br />While all over the ocean<br />I’ve branded you with shame.<br /><br /><br />Es ragt ins Meer der Runenstein<br /><br />On a rock covered with runic signs,<br />I sit dreaming above the sea;<br />The wind whistles and the sea gull cries,<br />The wandering waves and the foam.<br /><br />I used to love the travelling men<br />And all those beautiful girls:<br />I wonder what happened to them.<br /><br />The wind whistles,<br />The foam and the wandering waves.<br /><br /><br />Meinen schonsten Liebesantrag<br /><br />You earnestly claim<br />To know nothing about<br />My beautiful love note<br />That bore your name.<br />Tell me then, sweet dame,<br />Are you turning me down?<br />Ah! Oh dear - She’s crying…<br /><br />Me, I hardly ever<br />Resort to prayer;<br />Then, please listen<br />To this request:<br />Dear Lord come to this<br />Girl-for-hire’s breast,<br />Shedder of sweet tears.<br />Make her better!<br /><br /><br />Wenn Ich an deinen Hause<br /><br />When I happened to be passing<br />Your house this morning,<br />I was so glad to see you<br />At the window with your<br /><br />Almost black eyes, sweet little girl,<br />And you looked so searchingly at me<br />As if to question, “Well, who are you?<br />And what’s your problem, strange, ill man?”<br /><br />“I am a German poet,” I answer<br />“Well known throughout the German lands;<br />Where people drop the best names<br />There also my name appears,<br /><br />And my problem, little girl,<br />Is shared by many in Germany;<br />Where the worst sufferings are listed<br />There also my name appears.<br /><br />(It would be well worth {any one’s} while checking out Tony Harrison’s excellent film poem about what happened to Heine’s statue, after Heine died in the 1850s, to get another perspective on this theme! I have read the script and would love to see the film.)<br /><br /><br />Philister in Sonntagsrocklein<br /><br />Worthy townsfolk in Sunday dress<br />Go walking through woods and meadows;<br />They shout and leap about<br />Like bucks to greet the Spring.<br /><br />They see with misty eyes<br />How Romantic everything is;<br />The flowers, the sparrow’s song,<br />They suck it all in.<br /><br />I, however, pull down the blinds<br />Of my room and make it black;<br />My ghostly personal friends<br />Pay me a daytime visit.<br /><br />Stepping out from death’s kingdom<br />My old girlfriend appears;<br />She sits beside me and cries<br />And melts my heart to wax.<br /><br /><br />Ich hatte einst ein schones Vaterland<br /><br />I had a fatherland:<br />There, the beautiful oak tree thrusts so high,<br />The bluebells nod peacefully.<br />It was a dream.<br /><br />I was kissed in German,<br />German I spoke –<br />You can scarcely believe<br />How good that sounded:<br />The words, “Ich liebe dich.”<br />It was a dream.<br /><br /><br />Die Lorelei: Ich weiss nicht, was sol es bedeuten<br /><br />There’s a story that is timeless;<br />I don’t know what it means;<br />I can’t get it out of my mind<br />It fills me with such sadness.<br /><br />As dusk falls the air is cool<br />And peaceful over the Rhein,<br />Flowing between far mountains<br />Whose peaks still catch the sun.<br /><br />A beautiful young woman<br />Mysteriously appears;<br />Her jewellery reflects the light;<br />She’s combing her golden hair.<br /><br />Even her comb is golden,<br />And she sings enchantingly,<br />Such a sweet melodious chant<br />It’s wonderful to hear.<br /><br />The sailor in his little vessel<br />Is overcome with grief;<br />He’s not looking at the jagged reef,<br />Instead he looks up to the heavens.<br /><br />I think the waves will get involved<br />With this sailor and his boat:<br />A finale that, with her singing,<br />The Lorelei has brought about.<br /><br /><br />Diese Damen, sie verstehan<br /><br />These women know just how to<br />Applaud my poetic genius;<br />They put on a special lunch<br />For me – and it of course.<br /><br />Ah! The soup was delectable<br />And the wine livened me up;<br />The chicken was fit for the gods,<br />And the hare was definitely jugged.<br /><br />I think there was some talk of po-<br />etry – at last, quite satiated,<br />I thanked them for having treated<br />And bestowed such honours on me.<br /><br /><br />Anno 1829<br /><br />So that I can bleed<br />Conveniently to death<br />Give me a wide, white field.<br />Let me not suffocate<br />In commerce’s closed-in Colloseum.<br /><br />They wine and dine so well here;<br />They cram their mouths on prosperity,<br />And their generosity is as wide<br />As the alms-box flap!<br /><br />They deal in spices<br />From around the world,<br />Yet behind all the fragrant essences,<br />You can’t help noticing their souls<br />Smell of rotten shrimps.<br /><br />Oh! That I were witnessing a great<br />Profanity: full of ritzy wickedness –<br />Not this insipid virtue<br />And morality of the counting house.<br /><br />They walk with cigars<br />Stuck out of their mouths,<br />And hands thrust deep<br />In their trouser pockets.<br />Their digestion is so good -<br /> Who? Oh, who can digest them?<br /><br />You clouds up there, take me with you.<br />It doesn’t matter into which far distance –<br />To Lapland or to Africa<br />Or it could be Pomorania,<br />As long as it’s away, away.<br /><br />Oh, take me with you… They didn’t hear;<br />The clouds up there are far too wise;<br />They climb higher when they cross this city,<br />And anxiously speed up their flight.<br /><br /><br />Es kommt zu spat was du mir lachelst<br /><br />Whatever smiles<br />you were smiling<br />they came too late;<br />whatever sighs<br />you sighed too late –<br />long-since deceased<br />the tender feelings<br />in cruelty rejected!<br /><br />The love you returned<br />returned too late –<br />it fell onto my old heart<br />like rays of sunshine<br />on a sarcophagus.<br /><br />Only, I would<br />like to know<br />what happens to<br />our souls when we are dead.<br />Where does<br />the extinguished fire go?<br />And the air<br />that fanned it –<br />where to that? <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Die Flaschen sind leer, das Fruhstuck war gut<br /><br />The bottles are empty, the bacon sizzling,<br />The girls’ cheeks hot with rosy pinkness;<br />Hems going up, chemises falling,<br />They’ve started, it seems, to get undressed.<br /><br />How white the bare shoulders; the breasts how pretty!<br />My heart stops, arrested in mid-beat;<br />Now they’re flinging themselves onto the bed<br />And parcelling themselves up with the sheets.<br /><br />They’ve even managed to draw the curtain<br />And begin snoring in unison.<br />Like a lonely tower th’embarrassed poet,<br />In his room, surveys his slept-in bed! <br /><br /><br />Neuer Fruhling<br /><br />Through the window<br />of this morning’s first<br />awakening, floats<br />the lovely carillon<br /><br />sweet song<br />sweet little song<br />of spring –<br />ring out, little song<br /><br />go far out<br />into the distance<br />ring far away -<br />you’ll come across<br /><br />the house<br />where flowers are<br />just beginning<br />to appear<br /><br />and when<br />you have found<br />a rose<br />tell it “Hello” from me.<br /><br />Translated April 2008Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-4671253960303918752008-08-11T04:21:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.571-08:00Sea AirOne moon, many shapes<br />nightly changing through August<br />many moons, one self.<br /><br />The holiday air<br />is cool, like flasked juice - I walk<br />the sea-wall again:<br /><br />gulls on warm air-drafts<br />glide still in stretch-winged ballet,<br />banner trailing plane.<br /><br />Headlines in black and white, news -<br />a rasped flute happening -<br /><br />the thermal cameras needed<br />for hidden earthquake victims.<br /><br />***<br /><br />This writing, a phase,<br />waxing lyrical, waning,<br />breathing in and out -<br /><br />a tin-whistle player flauts<br />for copper and silver coins;<br />his breath makes music.<br /><br />The miniature railway<br />is a great way to travel.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-61390385426866210802008-08-06T14:02:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.572-08:00Camera Trouble<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-33-rg2H92RNcJsruhZcMkMxcXpkN6t48rHm9aE7Mqoh2AgXmNw_I3R82rIxnRG_BYiOCX5kDFOHQo8nUGeWO0WVIq27D4ZHyQE67r95YLto-y0z8asi0Adw9Mh-DZvjj-Q2g-NnTx-79/s1600-h/DSCF0004.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-33-rg2H92RNcJsruhZcMkMxcXpkN6t48rHm9aE7Mqoh2AgXmNw_I3R82rIxnRG_BYiOCX5kDFOHQo8nUGeWO0WVIq27D4ZHyQE67r95YLto-y0z8asi0Adw9Mh-DZvjj-Q2g-NnTx-79/s320/DSCF0004.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5231513404159770258" /></a><br /><br /><br /> Camera Trouble<br /><br />It was a piece of plastic heaven,<br />My Kodak Brownie 127,<br />A ten-year-old’s quite grown-up toy<br />To bring delight and to annoy.<br />I loved to hold it, point and shoot<br />At everything from head to boot.<br />It was my I-pod and my air-guitar,<br />Without a film, I could click thin air.<br /><br />And then one day I pointed it<br />Towards a stranger’s open door,<br />As we climbed the little seaside street.<br />Exploding like a keg of powder,<br />Out came the outraged occupant<br />With every right to rage and rant.<br />My father joined in to tell me off:<br />The opposite of Muzzeltov!<br /><br />I’d stumbled at a tender age<br />On danger. Though all the rage,<br />The tempting trinkets of technology,<br />Seeming the perfect boredom remedy –<br />Those natty things will do you harm<br />Unless you stay completely calm:<br />No quicker way to burst your bubble<br />Than get yourself in camera trouble!<br /><br /> ***Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-37375134780189675922008-07-07T13:48:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.572-08:00Pussy-PawsPussy-Paws<br />Dreamt 02 - 3/07/08<br /><br /><br /><br />In this flat that I do not own<br />yet feel at home in nonetheless<br />with a garden whose sound and scents<br />the old sash cords unveil,<br /><br />She dives in from the night,<br />Skids on the window-seat;<br />fur: colour of the black<br />window thrust up to night.<br /><br />She pirouettes and jive-arches,<br />turns, all tale and neck:<br />I stroke her from the neck back<br />in the way I know she likes.<br /><br />All quick, sudden and pulsating,<br />with the energy of night life,<br />in a living room that’s better<br />than the one from the life I know,<br /><br />taller and swishier, creamier,<br />with this one fine-tuned cat.<br />What can this mean?<br />What can it, save –<br /><br />Pussy-Paws loves you.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-71031494236616272532008-06-06T09:59:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.573-08:00SYPHON<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvrHXRrQtOUZCFnsSESFc9Orz6WggO0rt2mfFIB3CO8L72zwrxEhHUpcgObxMGm9NqXm_4pG2v5z5PtEFfDCbKfwug-IHeFXAjsiALGa6vYGfwdSYpOGhFR9jW2UM8_XMflY-NRqWmCUtH/s1600-h/DSCN0492.JPG"><br /><br /> <img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5208814546006158130" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvrHXRrQtOUZCFnsSESFc9Orz6WggO0rt2mfFIB3CO8L72zwrxEhHUpcgObxMGm9NqXm_4pG2v5z5PtEFfDCbKfwug-IHeFXAjsiALGa6vYGfwdSYpOGhFR9jW2UM8_XMflY-NRqWmCUtH/s320/DSCN0492.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br /><br />SYPHON<br /><br /><br />Long-ago, through<br />night and day<br />linked to now,<br />film-frame by frame:<br /><br />a car door slams,<br />an engine runs,<br />sometimes there are voices,<br />sometimes none,<br /><br />the long rumbling<br />of a train,<br />the almost-no-noise<br />of a drawer opening.<br /><br />Silence like water-drops<br />suspended through walls<br />or ceilings, a click,<br />a throat cleared.<br /><br />Summer is staying awake,<br />nightly responding;<br />Summer is opening<br />the lens of your eyes.<br /><br />Second by second,<br />where rail-yards meet<br />the estates and part-buys,<br />the city’s pulse fades fast:<br /><br />light is beginning<br />all over again<br />in a kiss, an embrace<br />that never stops.<br /><br /><br /> </div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-75192126286740886832008-05-24T14:01:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.574-08:00Ballad of Lost Objects 2<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUWzFHmw596C3lYNBfMwe5_zSWiuxDiyLyna241cS1Jwas_l3IRfjxibbduYtZc_vnrjr1LjU6U-RnSgaO7KCoruKwQNA0IdGp_-F2mKpnc_GjAdWIhr3APJIN2FnLUkL632CLGpLfXF6/s1600-h/DSCF0001.JPG"><br /><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5204052907718702530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; CURSOR: hand; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLUWzFHmw596C3lYNBfMwe5_zSWiuxDiyLyna241cS1Jwas_l3IRfjxibbduYtZc_vnrjr1LjU6U-RnSgaO7KCoruKwQNA0IdGp_-F2mKpnc_GjAdWIhr3APJIN2FnLUkL632CLGpLfXF6/s320/DSCF0001.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><div><br />Ballads of lost objects<br />(ii)<br /><br />With a roll of Kodak Tri-X in my Praktika,<br />camera concealed and disguised in canvas rucksack,<br />I came to the Café Nero on that Autumn day<br />When the sun drenched the plate glass window in light and heat.<br />We talked of illnesses and work and what retirement<br />could mean with low spending, Arts, London and Freedom Pass.<br />We stopped with the coffee drinkers and newspaper readers<br />for less than an hour, walked up towards the Tube,<br />the young fashion-wearers in their old high heels looking good,<br />and parted on the corner of Flask Walk, to walk<br />further into the fine day, I to shoot my roll of film.<br /><br />Gingerly at first, framing the shops and then the Flask,<br />my shoot got bolder, quicker, aiming for contrast and shape.<br />Go for the cool word “Ginsberg” on the name of a close,<br />get down close to the cobbles for texture, low f-number.<br />Walk up, turn left, circle back to the Tube and fire off<br />the rest of the film at the branches of dusty trees<br />by the bus shelter; “ride” the 46 back home.<br /><br />Rewinding on the couch with curtains drawn, there’s a snag:<br />Tri-X is ASA 400 – I’d forgotten<br />about the ISO settings, so used to automatic!<br />Back in the’70s you had to set the beast.<br />I’m 4 stops out and, disgusted, bin the film:<br />those bleached out prints would be money down the<br />drain.<br />Later, the nagging thought appears and won’t go away –<br />Those 4 stops out could well have been the key, a door opening..<br /><br />+++<br /><br />N.B. Kodak Tri-X is a black and white film still favoured by some photographers over digital. Some great B&W photos have succeeded precisely because of their high contrast “burned in” through aberrant exposures. </div>Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-91695922470130996042008-04-26T04:32:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.574-08:00German PoemGerman Poem<br /><br /><br />Recently I came across this German poem. It was printed on an end-of-term exam paper from 40 years ago, in that type-written Roneo system, that made 25-30 copies before the copies became so faint they were of no further use.<br /><br />There is no title and it seems to be identified by its first line which is underlined. The exam question asked us to read the poem and offer a prose translation of it. I vaguely remember that someone in our class foolishly and facetiously translated “grungolden”(umlaut on “u”) as Golders Green. The German teacher was not amused.<br /><br />I can’t imagine why I kept this old paper. Perhaps the poem moved me in a way I did not grasp fully at the time. Or perhaps it is just my archaeological filing system which preserves and conceals at the same time. Now, re-reading it after the long interval, I hope the translation I offer - with the help of my Collins German Dictionary - is better than the one I did for the exam.<br /><br />The name at the bottom of the poem is H.Heinze, which I assume is a typo for Heine. I’m not sure. There is a Helmut Heinze, who wrote novels and plays – perhaps it is him.<br /><br /><br />Grungolden und goldfarben leuchten die Blitzen auf…<br /><br /><br />Green-yellow, yellow-green<br />The lightening flashes<br />Suddenly across the sky:<br /><br />I can’t be sure<br />Whether that’s you across the street,<br />As out of a charged cloud,<br />Heavy rain splashes down.<br /><br />The heavy rain<br />Makes people run for cover –<br />Anywhere to find<br />An awning or a doorway.<br /><br />While, I stand stock still<br />Alone on the pavement,<br />My Summer shirt stuck close,<br />The rivulets washing my back.<br /><br />I saw you there,<br />From two Summers ago:<br />The love I lost.<br /><br />I saw you<br />With your dark blue eyes<br />And pale smooth skin,<br />As the lightening flashed<br />Yellow-green, green-yellow,<br /><br />And the rain,<br />In rivulets, anoints me<br />With your blessings<br />From two Summers ago.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-36335386301947410412008-04-26T04:32:00.000-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.575-08:00German PoemGerman Poem<br /><br /><br />Recently I came across this German poem. It was printed on an end-of-term exam paper from 40 years ago, in that type-written Roneo system, that made 25-30 copies before the copies became so faint they were of no further use.<br /><br />There is no title and it seems to be identified by its first line which is underlined. The exam question asked us to read the poem and offer a prose translation of it. I vaguely remember that someone in our class foolishly and facetiously translated “grungolden”(umlaut on “u”) as Golders Green. The German teacher was not amused.<br /><br />I can’t imagine why I kept this old paper. Perhaps the poem moved me in a way I did not grasp fully at the time. Or perhaps it is just my archaeological filing system which preserves and conceals at the same time. Now, re-reading it after the long interval, I hope the translation I offer - with the help of my Collins German Dictionary - is better than the one I did for the exam.<br /><br />The name at the bottom of the poem is H.Heinze, which I assume is a typo for Heine. I’m not sure. There is a Helmut Heinze, who wrote novels and plays – perhaps it is him.<br /><br /><br />Grungolden und goldfarben leuchten die Blitzen auf…<br /><br /><br />Green-yellow, yellow-green<br />The lightening flashes<br />Suddenly across the sky:<br /><br />I can’t be sure<br />Whether that’s you across the street,<br />As out of a charged cloud,<br />Heavy rain splashes down.<br /><br />The heavy rain<br />Makes people run for cover –<br />Anywhere to find<br />An awning or a doorway.<br /><br />While, I stand stock still<br />Alone on the pavement,<br />My Summer shirt stuck close,<br />The rivulets washing my back.<br /><br />I saw you there,<br />From two Summers ago:<br />The love I lost.<br /><br />I saw you<br />With your dark blue eyes<br />And pale smooth skin,<br />As the lightening flashed<br />Yellow-green, green-yellow,<br /><br />And the rain,<br />In rivulets, anoints me<br />With your blessings<br />From two Summers ago.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3543451109668831808.post-4829841983166560102008-04-19T14:08:00.001-07:002008-12-27T16:01:09.575-08:00PicnicHistory Society Picnic with Arthur Cubit<br /><br />The celery dipped in salt,<br />no pepper, and the wine<br />chilled in the river, not<br />from the fridge. Sticking<br />to documented foibles we<br />laid the patchwork cloth<br />on the short grass, sloping<br />with the sun undulating in<br />and out across the Downs.<br /><br />These moments feeling right,<br />we praised the books we knew<br />he loved, and his own re-<br />examination of Auden, in the Star;<br />and it seemed the atmosphere<br />pleased our distinguished guest.<br /> <em>Someone</em> derisively<br />cracked a joke about his old<br />adversaries, the second Phalanx –<br />the first splinter of<br />the Socialist Collective.<br />Laughter spread through<br />the occasion from those<br />who could not see his face,<br />his eyes darkening; then<br /><br />he spoke: “Is that meant to be funny?<br />What gives you the right<br />to mock the heroic, my<br />companions in struggle –<br />insult to the Working Class.”<br />Silence arrested our flow;<br />from behind me came<br />the scrunching of a plastic cup;<br />clouds undulated<br />across the Downs, like sheep<br />entering a pen.<br /><br />I was glad I’d asked<br />Cubit to sign his poems<br />in the pub before the picnic,<br />in the safely atmospheric<br />wood and glass interior<br />where we have our<br />Saturday morning meetings<br />every other week.Lucashttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07642126053527835870noreply@blogger.com0