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Showing posts from February, 2006

sheesh ...

... that previous post took me hours, it seems. I don't if it was me (probably), or Blogger (seemed v. slow and/or inconsistent).

If it's Blogger, I'm thinking of some alternatives, possibly Australian-made.

If it's just me, or my very tired old, cluttered old iMac with OS 10.2.x (how sad is that?), then I'd better start saving up for new hardware and software.

OK, I'll get out of your way now.

flowers and birds

OK, I was going downstairs to do our prescribed watering for today (we have had water restrictions here in Sydney for quite some time) when Annette asked me, as you do, to rummage up a copy of Shelley’s 'Adonais'. (The only online copy I could find that included the Preface is here at good old Project Gutenberg, along with a heap of other prefatory material before you get the ‘the’ preface.). She’d heard something on the steam radio about Keats and Shelley and the Protestant cemetery in Rome. She’s been to Rome way back but at the time she wouldn’t have been interested in anything Protestant (not now neither, probably, unless I kind of count).

Anyway, back on track. She’s been long interested in cemeteries of all kinds (I was being unfair above) and her exhibition last year, The Romance of Death, was a series of photographs taken in Paris cemeteries (see her site or this and this page).Today, she was interested in Shelley’s preface to the poem rather than the poem itself, alli…

a small mix of sonnets

I've been reading in my own disordered way various kinds of sonnets. These are just a fairly random pick of mainly older, what you might call "classic" (if you were doing a mix tape) sonnets - apart from the Brennan, I guess, if you were going to get picky. He's a classic to Australians.

I'll post some more "modern" ones late in the day. And maybe an oldie of my own.


Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Work without Hope

All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
Yet, well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drows…

and so ...

Perhaps I never recovered ghosts from the
Sounds of ravens given air the
Sky tended to spill travel guise that
Resembled the thirsty travesty game they
Hid within groans phones stank of them
Crashed to ring simply dishonestly this
Metropolis of summer whether, fine!, it's with
Whatever assails phases you into

False dreams of a rose choosing love if
Radar blips canker darker in eyes where a
Picture emerges rages as high as if
Matter itself paused warding the end off.
Never comes goes this cloud-waving into
Future, no force worse than time, is

sonnetina

"Perhaps the strongest argument of the book is that poetry should not be seen as either a secondary discourse that needs to be read against the real world of political and economic activity, or as a transcendent work of art that bears no relationship to anything other than itself. Rather, poetry was a means of articulating problems and furthering debate."

From Andrew Hadfield's review of Sonnet Sequences and Social Distinction in Renaissance England by Christopher Warley, CUP, in TLS, Feb 3 2006, p.30.

The book, apparently, argues that sonnet sequences, popular in Elizabethan and Jacobean times, were a response by poets to their social (ie class) position.

Hmm. I'm in a bit of a sonnet 'sequence' myself. In that, I'm writing a damn lot of them. Bend them, shape them, anyway I want them - kind of thing. A class struggle? How knows?

yellow lily hay(na)ku

Day by day they are dying

as day by opening into yellow

into the stream to die living

into the green seen through water

glass/lumen/split the curve falls

onto an imaginary and real table


heart hay(na)ku

And
how sound
changes the heart

shave
or switch
the time beat

listen
through skin
and in terror

that
something will
amiss or change

heart
through sound
beat that skins

amiss
the switch
to time heart

erkus perkus

Last week wasn't a good week. Some health isshews. I was a bit attached to machines on-and-off (well, they were attached to me, I wasn't real keen on them). In one case it was like being in a claustrophobic space pod while some noise electronica band was tuning up for half an hour, or someone was drilling for oil inside my head. What fun! I had to have a stiff lemonade after that one. True. Sprite to the rescue. I still don't know if they found oil. All that lies ahead, so to speak. Another kind of interpretation, I suppose.