THE SONGLINES

SONGLINES

 

Labyrinth of impossible pathways

Meandering across Australia

Singing the Aborigines home

Singing out the names of every

Bird, bee and tree

Singing rook and river

Singing you and me

Singing all the world

Into being.

 

A dreaming track

A path across the land

Or sometimes the sky

Creator-Beings dreaming

Songs, stories, dances, paintings

Petrosomatoglyphs on the land

Leaving huge footprints behind

Navigating vast distances

Through the parched interior

Language no barrier

Melodic contours in song

Passing over the land

Rhythmically beating out the jives

Where the spirits of unborn children

Sing to keep the land alive

 

Chatwin tells us how it was

The songlines stretching across the eons

People singing their lives into existence

Following signs their ancestors

Had tuned to perfection.

Their roads invisible to us

No traces we could follow

No marks we could discern

No bulldozer dented this terrain

No tarmac spread for others gain

 No buildings stacked with pure disdain

To leave wrecked nature in their wake

The lines were left to all for free

If our blinkered eyes could only see.

 

Yarralin, Walujapi

Black-Headed Python

Rainbow Serpent

Native Cat Dreaming

Arranda, Kaititja, Kukaja

Unmatjera, Ilpara

Ley-di-ley-di-ley

Long lines

Ley-di-ley-di-ley

Songlines

 

 

 

BAD POETS SOCIETY

 

Wordsworth wrote The Prelude

And it was all right

But it was a prelude

To a load of s***e

(Kingsley Amis)

Amis clearly wasn’t a fan of Wordsworth! Is writing bad poetry easier than writing good poetry? Probably not – and it’s just as time-consuming. William McGonagall could probably confirm that!

William Topaz McGonagall  was a Scottish weaver, poet and actor. He won notoriety as an extremely bad poet who seemingly couldn’t care less of his peers’ opinions of his work.

He wrote about 200 poems, including his notorious “The Tay Bridge Disaster”, which are widely regarded as some of the worst in English literature. Groups throughout Scotland engaged him to make recitations from his work and contemporary descriptions of these performances indicate that many listeners were appreciating McGonagall’s skill as a comic music hall character. Collections of his verse remain popular, with several volumes available today.

McGonagall has been acclaimed as the worst poet in British history. The chief criticisms are that he is deaf to poetic metaphor and unable to scan correctly. In the hands of lesser artists, this might generate dull, uninspiring verse. McGonagall’s fame stems from the humorous effects these shortcomings generate. The inappropriate rhythms, weak vocabulary and imagery combine to make his work amongst the most unintentionally amusing poetry in the English language. His work is in a long tradition of narrative ballads and verse written and published about great events and tragedies, and widely circulated among the local population as handbills. In an age before radio and television, their voice was one way of communicating important news to an avid public.

He died penniless in 1902 and was buried in an unmarked grave in Greyfriars Kirkyard in Edinburgh.

The Tay Bridge Disaster

Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv’ry Tay!/ Alas! I am very sorry to say /That ninety lives have been taken away/ On the last Sabbath day/ of 1879/, Which will be remember’d for a very long time/.’Twas about seven o’clock at night,/And the wind it blew with all its might,/ And the rain came pouring down/, And the dark clouds seem’d to frown/, And the Demon of the air seem’d to say-“/I’ll blow down the Bridge of Tay /-

There’s more – a lot more – unfortunately!

William McGonagall.jpg 

FRIGHTENING THE CROWS

 

            FRIGHTENING THE CROWS

            I once knew a man

            Who frightened crows for a living.

            In between, he brewed cheap beer

            And stole old books.

            He cycled the universe

            Looking for answers;

            All he found was a cold grave

            When he was thirty nine.

         

my new collection of poetry is now available @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

JACK REACHER IS NUMBER ONE!

 

I love serial character in books; you know, Inspector Wexford, Rebus, George Smiley, Kay Scarpetta etc

My favourite though has to be JACK REACHER, the eponymous hero – or is it anti-hero – of the books written by LEE CHILD,

Jack is a drifter, a loner, travelling across the USA, finding trouble without looking for it wherever he goes. I don’t know how many books there are to date – probably around 20 –  but I have read most of them; ECHO BURNING, PERSUADER, THE ENEMY, ONE SHOT, GONE TOMORROW, 61 HOURS to name a few, and I am always amazed at how gripping  and addictive they are.

A former Major in the United States Army Military Police Corps, JACK quit at age 36, and roams the United States taking odd jobs and investigating suspicious and frequently dangerous situations. The paradox of JACK is that he is both a big bear of a fighter , and a thinker, whose mission appears to be to right wrongs and defend the weak.

JACK always uses an alias when checking into a hotel. In earlier stories, this was usually the name of a lesser known ex-president. In later stories, he more often used baseball players’ names.

Since leaving the Army, JACK has been a drifter. He wanders throughout the US because he was accustomed to being told where to go, when to go and what to do for every day of his life from military childhood to military adulthood. He also felt he never got to know his own country, having spent much of his youth living overseas on military bases and at West Point. He usually travels by hitchiking or bus. As a drifter, the only possessions he carries are money, a foldable toothbrush and, after 9/11, an expired passport and an ATM debit card

JACK has the uncanny ability to know what time it is, at any time of the day, without referring to a clock. He often uses his internal clock as an alarm, enabling him to wake up at any time he chooses. He is a skilled marksman, and is highly skilled at fighting, enhanced by in-depth technical and military knowledge.

All in all JACK REACHER is the perfect all-round hero

THE DANCE OF THE CRANES

THE DANCE OF THE CRANES

 Long-necked and longer-legged

They shimmer among the reeds

Crazy-dancing in the breeze                                             

High-stepping, wing-flapping

Bouncing high in springy leaps

Then  a pause

To step lightly here,

 Tread gaily there

Duets in the sun

Heads bowed.

Balletically symmetric

It ends in a crescendo

That is electric

 

It is love they are dancing about

This joyful abundance

Knowing no bounds

Feeling no pain

You and I, my love

Shall soon learn

To dance like the cranes

 

see all my books & plays @   http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent

 

 

 

 

 

WRITERS AND THE CHELSEA HOTEL

dylan thomas poet Dylan Thomas

Bob Dylan, Sid and Nancy, Leonard Cohen, Andy Warhol, Janis Joplin were among a long list of artists and musician who stayed at the Chelsea Hotel NY at one time, adding to its reputation as a decidedly bohemian enclave. Musicians and artists dominated the headlines through the 13 decades since the Chelsea’s construction in 1884. But the grand hotel-for-the-arts on New York’s West 23rd Street has inspired literary works as well, and often it was the writers who shaped the narratives on which artists working in other disciplines based their work. 

Below are a few of the writers who stayed there:

DYLAN THOMAS  “Excuse me,” Dylan Thomas apologized, following a terrible fit of coughing and retching into his rusty Chelsea hotel sink. He suffered from a medical condition, he explained. “I think it’s called cirrhosis of the liver.” The popular Welsh poet drank too heavily to produce much of literary merit during his numerous stays at the Chelsea Hotel.

BRENDAN BEHAN  Alcoholism had not only gotten the Irish playwright and novelist Brendan Behan kicked out of Algonquin and Bristol Hotels by 1963, it had also destroyed his ability to hold a pen. At the Chelsea, though, the choreographer Katherine Dunham and her dancers were able to nurse him back to health. At the Chelsea, the writer dictated Brendan Behan’s New York, a lyrical tribute to his favorite city, into a tape recorder when not singing Israeli songs with the poet Allen Ginsberg, dancing in the halls with Communist leader Elizabeth Gurley Flynn, befriending Eugene O’Neill’s ex-wife Agnes Boulton, or carrying on affairs with male and female lovers while managing visits from his long-suffering wife as well.
Learning from Roger Ebert through Brendan Behan Brendan Behan

 

JACK KEROUAC  It was one of those nights of “metropolitan excitements,” Kerouac wrote of the night in 1953 when he and William Burroughs encountered Gore Vidal at the San Remo bar. Already drunk with joy over the publication of Burroughs’s Junkie, the two writers eagerly incorporated Vidal into the night’s revelries. But as the drinking progressed, Burroughs peeled off–leaving Kerouac and his handsome fellow writer to muddle-headedly resolve to pay tribute to their predecessors Thomas Wolfe and Dylan Thomas by consummating their friendship at the Chelsea Hotel.

jack kerouac Jack Kerouac

THOMAS WOLFE  “The desire for it All comes from an evil gluttony in me,” confessed Thomas Wolfe, who had moved into the Chelsea on Edgar Lee Masters’s recommendation and whose rumbling, Southern-accented voice permeated the corridors as he paced the floor each night dictating scenes for a novel. To Masters, who invited Wolfe down for a nightcap occasionally, the writer seemed a force of nature, loudly decrying the changes he saw in his countrymen in the wake of the Depression. America had lost its way, Wolfe insisted.

ARTHUR MILLAR  Arthur Miller came to the Chelsea in 1962 to escape his disastrous marriage to Marilyn Monroe, but once he started writing, he found he couldn’t duck his history quite so easily. His new play, After the Fall, was meant to explore, in this post-Nazi era, the individual’s responsibility for the fate of a fellow human, but it soon became clear that Miller was also exploring his role in Monroe’s self-destruction. Even after the announcement of Monroe’s suicide, Miller denied the true identity of his play’s female protagonist.

arthur miller playwrightArthur Millar

ARTHUR C CLARKE In 1965, long-time Chelsea veteran Arthur C. Clarke checked in for a stint at the hotel, pounding out 2,000 words a day on a novel-length accompaniment to 2001: A Space Odyssey, his collaboration with filmmaker Stanley Kubrick. Kubrick had tried to work with Clarke at his own office in Manhattan, but after one day’s work the writer returned to the Chelsea to draw on conversations with William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Arthur Miller and others for inspiration for his work. 

WILLIAM BOROUGHS  William Burroughs and his close friend, the Canadian artist Brion Gysin, arrived at the Chelsea Hotel in 1965 to market a new invention, the Dream Machine, a contraption consisting of a spinning paper cylinder with slitted sides and a light bulb inside whose purpose was to create a psychedelic experience for the viewer without the use of drugs. When it failed to make them rich, the pair turned to a new collaboration equally in tune with the Chelsea Hotel zeitgeist: The Third Mind, a exploration of the synergetic power of creative collaboration. 

LOOK, NO HANDS!

 

LOOK, NO HANDS!

 Even if I had no hands

I would be ambidextrous

Ac-dc in a strange sort of way

Though women would still be kings

Or should that be queens?

 

Even if I had no legs

I would still walk tall

Play legless football

If the fancy took me,

Roller-skate differently, that’s all

 

Even if I had no mouth

I would still speak out

Words would continue to pour forth

I would not be silenced

I would speak from the heart

 

Even if I had no eyes

I would still see plenty

Believing would be seeing

And if only in my mind’s eye

My vision would still be twenty-twenty

 

 

 

SAVING THE BEST FOR LAST.

NO BLACKS, NO DOGS, NO POLES – Pentameters Theatre, London.

The quaint Pentameters Theatre of Hampstead is an ideal setting for director Jesse Cooper’s charming and intimate production of Tom O Brien’s No Blacks, No Dogs, No Poles. The play weaves a rich tapestry of cultural perspectives on the Irish diaspora, racism and immigration using the central storyline of the Kennedy family and their social dilemmas as a conduit. The use of space vividly reflects the claustrophobia of both the small minded views frequently depicted within the play as well as the closeness of the complicated relationships which play out on stage.

Having said this, despite the underlying tensions seen both in the tense relationships and strong socio-political opinions; there is great warmth in all of the actor’s performances. The combination of a very funny script and some larger than life performances allow the audience to feel like we have been invited into this Irish household free of airs and graces. The result is a lively and homely political dialogue full of both cliche and insight depending on which character is speaking. A script laden with Irish in jokes, music and family banter is thoroughly entertaining. Meanwhile, clever direction allows the audience to see through the comedic defence mechanisms key characters husband and wife Con and Marion Kennedy employ throughout to disguise their true feelings of despondency in an unhappy marriage.

The theme of home is juxtaposed throughout the plot as despite the deep rooted hatred Con (played by Matthew Ward) expresses about the English oppression of the Irish, his wife Marion ultimately feels that England is her true home. Similarly, the return of son Michael to this household where he no longer feels at home having lived abroad reveals the small minded opinions of his father. As Con shows prejudice towards Michael’s Australian black wife (beautifully played by Rachel Summers), the irony in his previous arguments about the English prejudices towards the Irish is exposed. Sam Turrell gives a brilliant performance as Michael; adopting with ease the measured diplomatic liberalism his character needed to show throughout to contrast the seemingly old fashioned views of his family and their friends. His apparent disgust and embarrassment at his Father’s prejudice and Jimmy’s aggression as well as his genuine attempts to protect his wife from it, seemingly represent a more modern take on ethnicity and immigration.

As well as the catalysts of Michael’s return, and the revealing of an ex-marital affair on the part of Marion, we then have the plot turn full circle as Con’s bisexuality is exposed by Jimmy. The fact that Con finally seeks emotional refuge in his homosexual relationship with a local black construction worker is the ironic icing on the cake so to speak! All in all, the play emphasizes some very relevant disputes about immigration today in a carefully crafted display of love and hate at their most extreme.

– – – – – – – – – –

Reviewed 07/06/14

By Emily Mae Winters
@emilymaewinters

20th May- 7th June 2014
Pentameters Theatre, London, NW3.

BUT THERE’S MORE!  MY NEXT PLAY – BRENDAN BEHAN’S WOMEN – ALSO OPENS AT PENTAMETERS NEXT MONTH. 1st – 20th JULY.  DON’T MISS IT!

ACCOSTED BY JESUS

 

 

ACCOSTED BY JESUS

They form a fluid line

Near the entrance to Specsavers

Suited, polished, hair slicked to neatness

Smiling gravely as I approach.

One is proselytising,

Before alternating with another

Who steps smartly to the fore.

Yet another, partially hidden,

Goose-steps almost jauntily

Into my space

And proffers me an offering of words,

Printed of course,

Trying to catch my eye.

Avoiding him is momentarily difficult,

His hand hovering hopefully.

Then I swerve deftly by him

Leaving Jesus still firmly in his grasp.

my latest poetry collection ’67 is now available @  http://www.tinhuttalespublishers.co.uk/67/

 

WORMWOOD

WORMWOOD

Wormwood isn’t here

The sign said, rather waspishly.

It wasn’t the Wormwood I remembered;

Scrubs Lane on a wet Sunday

The outback in West London

No buses, no cars, no people

Just limp grass, acres of the stuff

And, oh yes, the finest redbrick edifice

Victoria’s henchmen could construct.

No rotting bodies in here, my friend.

Not Newgate, not by a long shot

Though debts must still be paid

And some may still get laid

 

Lord Alfred Douglas lay here,

As did Charles Bronson,

Keith Richards, Leslie Grantham

And  George Blake

Scurrying along in his traitor’s gait

Till the day he pole-vaulted to freedom

More or less

Before waving goodbye

To his English life,

 His liberty and his wife

And all those Wormwood scrubbers.

http://www.amazon.co.uk/Tom-OBrien/e/B0034OIGOQ/ref=sr_tc_2_0?qid=1388083522&sr=1-2-ent