two poems - drunk and dusting

Two poems l can relate to, although l can't remember where l got the top one from.

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bob dylan's nobel prize for literature, plus idiot wind, hurricane and it's alright ma (l'm only bleeding)

Although l do think that novels, poems and songs are different, l also think that Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel prize in literature today is well deserved, not just for the amount of outstanding and influential work he has produced, but for the amount of people around the world he would have turned on to lyrics, books, prose and poetry, as well as activism and political thought (including me). Some of Dylan's output, especially in the early years, was staggeringly good, and he sure knew how to construct strong images and stories with only a few words (and often many, many more). But (and there's always a but), as far as literature in book form goes, although entertaining, Tarantula was not exactly earth shattering, and his Chronicles autobiography has been shown to be pilfered or 'inspired by' old obscure sources in many places, with no credits being given. There's an excellent and informative article about the book and Dylan's apparent plagiarism here, but l'm more than forgiving as far as Dylan is concerned (hence my collection of his later works), so hearty congratulations to him.
Praise him now while he still alive - if anyone warrants it, he does, and l am just thankful that l saw him while he was still producing the goods live.







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the dylan quiz

Think you know your Bob Dylan from your Dylan Thomas?
Try the Dylan quiz
Here's my result, which l must admit l was disappointed with.
                                         
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poetry in bootle

When l was reading about the early career of Peter Hooton, (from The Farm and the magazine 'The End') l came across this statement.
As l child of 1970's Bootle, l can certainly believe it.



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jb barrington - woodchip anaglypta and nicotined artex ceilings

JB Barrington is still on tour and still has his poetry collection 'Woodchip Anaglypta and Nicotined Artex Ceilings' available.
Buy it here

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sleaford mods - the duchess, york march 5 2015

 

Filmed by JB Barrington (the support act) from the back of the stage, the magnificent aural onslaught that is The Sleaford Mods at The Duchess, York, at the start of the month.
I certainly enjoyed The Sleaford Mods, who lived up to my prior high expectations, but was also chuffed that JB Barrington was on first, a modern day bard of Salford, following in the footsteps of John Cooper Clarke. He was also great, and an unexpected surprise. As his favourite book is Robert Tressell's 'The Ragged Trousered Philanthropist, plus the fact that he was good enough to sign my copy of his poems, l will even overlook the fact that he is a ciddy fan. As they say at the end of  'Some Like it Hot' "Nobody's perfect".
A top night all round




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more bleeding poetry - life 2

More bleeding poetry!
I think l need to get out more.

LIFE 2

THE STARS SHONE BRIGHT THE HEAVENS SMILED
THE WATERS DEEP THE WEATHER MILD
THE PROMISED LAND WAS INVITING, NEAR
FILLED WITH JOY I HELD NO FEAR

BUT WHO MAY SAY WHAT THE FUTURE BRINGS
EVEN A CAGED BIRD SOMETIMES SINGS
AS THE SKY TURNS DARK AND THE WIND BLOWS COLD
THE STARS MAY GLISTEN BUT ARE NOT GOLD

ONLY NEPTUNE KNOWS WHICH DICE ARE THROWN
THE MASTER OF ALL THE TEMPEST WILD
HE RAISED HIS TRIPOD AND HE PITIED ME
AN ALBATROSS LANDED ON THE GOLDEN CHILD

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charles baudelaire, mathew arnold, and my good self

I've recently been reading some poetry by Charles Baudelaire (The Flowers of Evil / Les Fleurs Du Mal) and Mathew Arnold (Selected poems, but mainly 'The Scholar Gypsy'), and of course this inspired me to put fingers to keyboard, and produce something myself.Hence the semi autobiographical self pitying effort below.I'm still not 100% happy with it, but l've been messing around with it on and off for a week or so, and it's starting to get on my nerves, so this is as good as it's going to get for now.

Enjoy!

Life
Dec 2013

I once set off with inflated lungs
The master of the planet pale
Knowing every song that’s sung
And thankful for a glass of ale

The air was calm and the water clear
And full of hope l led the way
The mirrored surface held no fear
And the sun embraced me every day

But searching for my lovers eyes
I ache and struggle to set my sail
Fearful of the lowering skies
And hiding from the howling gale

I pine for sleep, l crave for rest
And still the howling winds do wail
If there is a God, this must be a test
I cower beneath the shadows veil 

I feel the anguish within me rise
Captured under a ceiling of mist
My body and soul crave for a caress
And I’m pining for a lovers kiss

The frothing waters tell no lies
I’m lost at sea and in distress
So I must free myself from all these ties
And find myself a place to rest

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felix dennis in leeds

Off to Leeds with Rocker yesterday to see Felix Dennis reading his poetry, accompanied with all the free wine you can drink.  I thought there might be a catch (apart from the train tickets costing £22.70), but the waiters kept coming to our table and dropping off new bottles whenever there was the slightest hint that we (or the others on the table) were running out.  The reading of the poetry was a lot better than l expected, and Felix also told some brief tales about people he has had dealings with, such as John Lennon and Germaine Greer. We hit The Stone Roses bar afterwards, then a taxi to my brothers to crash out there.  He couldn't come and meet us as he was working till 11pm, but we managed to entertain ourselves, especially talking to people from Batley in The Ship pub on Briggate beforehand (cheap, noisy, rough and cheerful - and that was just us). Rocker had earlier driven to Northallerton, as we thought we would get a return train ticket each so we could hit the centre of Leeds straight away when we got there. A wise (but expensive) move. I have since had a soak in the bath to rid myself of the Leeds grime, and am especially pleased l decided to take today off work, so l could lounge around and chill out.  Stone me - what a life.




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more of 'nasty' nicks poems and dylan thomas reading 'do not go gentle into that good night'

I take my time, but eventually get round to doing things.  Here's some more of 'Nasty' Nicks poems.
I scanned them because if l have to type them out, they wouldn't have got posted anytime in the foreseeable future.
For the original post about him and them, look here.

For a classic poem, read by it's author, look no further than Dylan Thomas reading 'Do not go gentle into that good night', although l would recommend Richard Burton's readings of Dylan Thomas' poems and 'Under Milk Wood' as his voice suits the poetry perfectly. All available on youtube.
Modern life and easy access to everything - it's great.



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the poems of nasty nick

A couple of poems by 'Nasty' Nick (D.C Nicholson), 'The Woods At Rollencourt' and 'Dole'. He's a fellow l have known for a few years in the pub, and trust me - he's the last person you would expect to be writing poems. However, l got to talking to him about poetry ages ago (as you do) and he gave me some of his that l said l would put up on my blog at some stage.  It's only taken me about two years to get around to it, and there are more to follow, which l will try not to leave so long before sticking them up.

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bitter sweet (the life and death of apollinaire) - christopher daybell

When l was in Dublin over 20 years ago, l bought this self made, poorly printed and slim poetry leaflet from Christopher Daybell himself, who was selling them in the middle of the street.  I like a bit of poetry myself, and as l also admire anyone who follows their muse and stands on the street to publicise and promote their calling, old Christopher couldn't go far wrong when l approached him.  Talking to him, it turned out he had packed in his job to produce poetry works and follow his calling, and trust me, as he was no spring chicken at the time, it must have been one hell of a serious calling.  I don't know much about him, but l am aware that he produced a fair amount of work over the years, but died in about 2000.  Dublin has lost one of its characters with his passing (and my absence!).

Here's one of his other works

Marcus Aurelius

Report this post to the editors
I, the Emperor Marcus Aurelius,
Have seen with my two eyes,
Know in this head on which the helmet weighs,
That there is nothing new under the sun.
As a man and a stoic I am of the universe,
But since I am Antoninus I am Rome.
According to the mask I wear
I could build A temple reflecting blood or mercy,
But blood flows and has always flowed.
I have decreed that gladiators use blunted swords,
But this new sect who have the symbol of the fish
Are dangerous to the state, so I feed them to lions.
I follow the strictest personal rules:
When a man drops a false construction in his speech
I will never correct him to his face,
But I repeat the proper phrasing afterwards.
During these endless frontier wars
As I sit in my tent at night writing
These meditations no one will read,
I am not happy.
I was not called For happiness when Antoninus adopted me,
A simple life on a farm would please me more.
But the skeins of my life were ravelled Before my birth,
and I follow them to my death.

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the bluebird - charles bukowski

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out

but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay in there,
I'm not going to let anybody see you.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I pour whiskey on him
and inhale cigarette smoke
and the whores and the bartenders and the grocery clerks
never know that he's in there.

there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too tough for him,
I say, stay down,
do you want to mess me up?
 you want to screw up the works?
you want to blow my book sales in Europe?

 there's a bluebird in my heart that wants to get out
but I'm too clever,
 I only let him out at night sometimes when everybody's asleep.
I say, I know that you're there,
so don't be sad.
then I put him back,

but he's singing a little in there,
I haven't quite let him die
and we sleep together like that
with our secret pact
and it's nice enough to make a man weep,
but I don't weep,
do you?


 Another classic from the mighty pen of Charles Bukowski.
From in The Last Night of the Earth Poems and The Pleasure of The Damned.

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rock minuet by lou reed narrated by julian schnabel

Paralysed by hatred

and a piss ugly soul

if he murdered his father,

he thought he'd become whole

While listening at night to an old radio

where they danced to the rock minuet.

In the gay bars

in the back of the bar

he consummated hatred

on a cold sawdust floor

While the jukebox played backbeats,

he sniffed coke off a jar

while they danced to a rock minuet.

School was a waste,

he was meant for the street

but school was the only way,

the army could be beat

Two whores sucked his nipples

'til he came on their feet

as they danced to the rock minuet.

He dreamt that his father

was sunk to his knees

his leather belt tied so tight

that it was hard to breathe

And the studs from his jacket

were as cold as a breeze

as he danced to a rock minuet.

He pictured the bedroom

where he heard the first cry

his mother on all fours,

ah, with his father behind

And her yell hurt so much,

he had wished he'd gone blind

and rocked to a rock minuet.

In the back of the warehouse

were a couple of guys

they had tied someone up

and sewn up their eyes

And he got so excited

he came on his thighs

when they danced to the rock minuet.

On Avenue B,

someone cruised him one night

he took him in an alley

and then pulled a knife

And thought of his father,

as he cut his windpipe

and finally

danced to the rock minuet.

In the curse of the alley,

the thrill of the street

on the bitter cold docks

where the outlaws all meet

In euphoria drug

in euphoria heat

you could dance to the rock minuet.

In the thrill of the needle and anonymous sex

you could dance to the rock minuet

Lou Reed is not just a great songwriter, his songs are often poetry themselves. Rock Minuet is from his (often overlooked) Ecstasy album from 2000, and Julian Schnabel , the artist who also did the film 'The Diving Bell and The Butterfly') does a good narration of it while appearing with Lou on the Spectacle - Elvis Costello with... show (but l can't find it on You Tube, so you'll have to take my word for it).

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pumpkin bottom

I am not the sort of person to make a pumpkin carving for Halloween, but if l was, something like this would be just the ticket.

"I can tell you this

When the female hand

She contours you

And you're like the sand

And you'll never guess

You were in so deep

And you try to walk

But you just can't creep

Well she takes her time

But she arrives

With her candle stub

And her carving knives

Like a pumpkin head

You'll be lit within

As she severs you with a six inch grin"

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catcher in the rye - j.d salinger

Still with the Majorca stuff, this is a book that gets some bad publicity, and with good reason. It's protagonist, Holden Caulfield, is one winging spoilt (yet intelligent) kid who is on a downward spiral and who whines about everything, especially the people and things he deems to be ''phony'. After being expelled from school, he returns to New York, stays in a hotel, and gets in trouble. He visits his family home to see Phoebe (his younger sister) and wants to preserve her innocence (he worships and admires her, as she does with him). He eventually realises he cannot save children from running through the rye and falling off a cliff, (the catcher in the rye bit). This is through mishearing Robert Burns' Comin' Through the Rye . Holden realises he is sick and ends up in some kind of institute, although he states that he is to start school again. This was a lot better when l read it as a teenager, and l can see why someone disturbed such as Mark Chapman (who shot John Lennon) could take it at face value and act disproportionally, but reading it as an older person, you just want to slap him (Holdon). OK, l know he is ill and all that, but still....

Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Comin' Through The Rye

O, Jenny's a' weet,^[A] poor body,
Jenny's seldom dry:
She draigl't^[B] a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!

Chorus:
Comin thro' the rye, poor body,
Comin thro' the rye,
She draigl't a' her petticoatie,
Comin thro' the rye!

Gin^[C] a body meet a body
Comin thro' the rye,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need a body cry?

(chorus)

Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the glen,
Gin a body kiss a body,
Need the warl'^[D] ken?^[E]

(chorus)

Gin a body meet a body
Comin thro' the grain;
Gin a body kiss a body,
The thing's a body's ain.

(chorus)

Ev'ry Lassie has her laddie,
Nane, they say, have I,
Yet all the lads they smile on me,
When comin' thro' the rye.

• ^A weet - wet
• ^B draigl't - draggled
• ^C gin - if, should
• ^D warl - world
• ^E ken - know

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muhammed ali - attica state prison poem and the lighting of the olympic torch

What a handsome, cool, hard, funny and intelligent guy he was.

It bought a tear to my eye seeing him carrying the Olympic torch in 1996.

Still cheated 'Our 'Enry' out of a title though.

And another thing......... People can be crazy. Here's a post on You Tube after an Ali clip.

@dudetube911 He is a great human being, and I believe God loves Ali so much that he made Ali suffer from the disease so all his sins could be burnt away and so Ali can go to heaven as a pure soul because he deserves it.

WavinFlag92 1 week ago

So, if l have understood this right, the good people that God loves the most are the ones who he makes suffer the most to burn away sins. Hasn't he heard of repenting for your sins?. Idiot.

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robert burns - to a mouse

To a Mouse (1785)

English version

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

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last day off before work .. spring is here...

The remaining idiot rabbit in the garden yesterday

The remaining idiot of a cat

The food for Ken's (sick boys) birthday at Stockton

The back of Dazzer's pants - they look a bit suspicious

Rather sadly, this is my last day off before heading back into work tomorrow, no doubt to a shed load of work and problems to be solved.

I have been off since last Tuesday afternoon (last Wednesday was my first day off), and it seems like ages ago, although (of course) it also seems to have flown by and l now have work entering my tiny little mind again.

Myself and the FPO have been out and about (to visit the family for a birthday do, off to watch a post grunge band at JT's, round Richmond castle etc), but most of the time we have been at home relaxing and generally chilling out.

She was back to work on Tuesday, so l have had some time by myself to read, play music, watch TV and doss about (the usual stuff).

I have managed to cut the bloody grass again (two bin fulls packed tight), but no decorating has been done (what a surprise!).

It's my last night of freedom tonight before the toil continues, but at least l have just had a phone call to meet old Joe down the pub at 4.45pm, so l suppose that will top off the holiday (to go with Manchester United's reserves beating Shalke 04 last night).

Ah well, forget about tomorrow and enjoy the rest of today while l can. The sun is shining, the weather is sweet (but windy).

As Tom Lahrer would say..

Spring is here, a-suh-puh-ring is here.

Life is skittles and life is beer.

I think the loveliest time of the year

Is the spring! I do - Don't you? 'Course you do.

but there's one thing that makes spring complete for me

and makes every Sunday a treat for me

All the world seems in tune

On a spring afternoon

When we're poisoning pigeons in the park

toodle pip.

badr shakir al- sayyab (rain song)

Because l am a very sad man, l have been reading some poetry tonight (most of which was shite)

But l did like these lines from

Badr Shakir al-Sayyab (Rain song)

Do you know how gutters weep when it pours down?

Do you know how lost a solitary person feels in the rain?

Each to their own l guess. Maybe l should just start having a life and get into snogging Tubbs more ( l know it's what he wants).

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