Salome

I was reading Carol Ann Duffy's 'The World's Wife; and was reacquainted with Salome. I was struck by the contrasting perceptions of her in Duffy's poem, and two films: The Gospel According to St. Matthew, and Salome (which is based on Oscar Wilde's presentation of the same). I wonder which Salome you'll believe in?

Consumption (only a working title)

Delicate skeins of saliva
Forming on loose purple lips.
Silverware, crockery, glasses.
A soggy mauve smile as he sips.
Pausing to breathe but not stopping
Lips smack brutish blows on the feast
Man shall not give in and be conquered:
This buffet is "All You Can Eat".

The Ruin

This is a poem from the Exeter Book, which was originally written in Anglo-Saxon. Different translations exist and it's nice to read a couple of them, so you can really get the poem. The poem is supposedly written about the remains of the Roman Aquae Sulis, which is modern Bath. I've included a a photograph which I took in bath, just for atmosphere.

	Splendid this rampart is, though fate destroyed it, The city buildings fell apart, the works Of giants crumble. Tumbled are the towers, Ruined the roofs, and broken the barred gate, Frost in the plaster, all the ceilings gape, Torn and collapsed and eaten up by age. And grit holds in its grip, the hard embrace Of earth, the dead departed master-builders, Until a hundred generations now Of people have passed by. Often this wall Stained red and grey with lichen has stood by Surviving storms while kingdoms rose and fell. And now the high curved wall itself has fallen. ............................................ The heart inspired, incited to swift action. Resolute masons, skilled in rounded building Wondrously linked the framework with iron bonds. The public halls were bright, with lofty gables, Bath-houses many; great the cheerful noise, And many mead-halls filled with human pleasures, Till mighty fate brought change upon it all. Slaughter was widespread, pestilence was rife, And death took all those valiant men away. The martial halls became deserted places, The city crumbled, its repairers fell, Its armies to the earth. And so these halls Are empty, and this red curved roof now sheds Its tiles, decay has brought it to the ground, Smashed it to piles of rubble, where long since A host of heroes, glorious, gold-adorned, Gleaming in splendour, proud and flushed with wine, Shone in their armour, gazed on gems and treasure, On silver, riches, wealth and jewellery, On this bright city with its wide domains. Stone buildings stood, and the hot stream cast forth Wide sprays of water, which a wall enclosed In its bright compass, where convenient Stood hot baths ready for them at the centre. Hot streams poured forth over the clear grey stone, To the round pool and down into the baths. Translation courtesy of: http://colecizj.easyvserver.com/pohamrui.htm

Reflections on Ice-Breaking, Ogden Nash

Candy

Is dandy,

But liquor

Is quicker.

Disappointment

Disappointment sulking in the shadows of my brain
It stumbles forward when I wait.
Seeps through when there is rain.

Grumpiness and petulance are at the sulker's side
And when they are unbearable,
I read and think and hide.

Disappointment stamps his foot and ruins all that's true,
And stomps all over happiness,
There's nothing I can do.

The dreams of the blind

In the lead up to the anniversary of Armistice day, I thought it would be appropriate to mention Isaac Rosenberg, whose poem, Returning, We Hear the Larks, I have been reading:

Returning, We Hear the Larks

Sombre the night is.
And though we have our lives, we know
What sinister threat lurks there.

Dragging these anguished limbs, we only know
This poison-blasted track opens on our camp-
On a little safe sleep.

But hark! joy-joy-strange joy.
Lo! heights of night ringing with unseen larks
Music showering on our upturned list'ning faces.

Death could drop from the dark
As easily as song-
But song only dropped,
Like a blind man's dreams on the sand
By dangerous tides,
Like a girl's dark hair for she dreams no ruin lies there,
Or her kisses where a serpent hides.

When reading the poem, my mind went off on a slight tangent, because of the line 'Like a blind man's dreams on the sand'. I began to wonder, and thought that you might like to read this article about an investigation into the dreams of blind people in comparison to the dreams of sighted people. I have no idea whether the article gives us an accurate interpretation of people's dreams, but I found it fascinating to read.

Dusk

The sad blue night
And the scratched white moon,
As the day is burned
In its clouded tomb.

Swimming man

Sparse wet hairs age his foetal form,
Suspended in liquid
A metamorphic man-baby.
Swimming.

Words

I paint a picture with words,
The colours stir and splash.
A thick line and a thin one,
A dot, a ragged dash
Syllables, blue consonants,
Come pouring from my pen,
A textured vowel, an open 'o',
Sibilance, and then,
The poem seems to peter out.
The flow of words has ebbed.
As we will meet our maker soon,
Each 'a' will meet its 'z'.

Hampton Court Palace


I found some photographs, which I took two summers ago, of the resplendent Hampton Court Palace. I think they do it some justice. These reminded me of a poem I've studied, a mock-epic by Alexander Pope, called 'The Rape of the Lock', in which the Palace is described:

'Close by those meads, for ever crown'd with flow'rs,

Where Thames with pride surveys his rising tow'rs,

There stands a structure of majestic frame,

Which from the neighb'ring Hampton takes its name.

Here Britain's statesmen oft the fall foredoom

Of foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;

Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,

Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.'

Tiny

A person so tiny and shriveled and small,

That their clothes seem to flap around nothing at all.

My favourite poem in the world. 


Celia Celia


When I am sad and weary, 
When I think all hope has gone, 
When I walk along High Holborn
I think of you with nothing on.


Adrian Mitchell

I've been reading 'Foulsham's Fortune Teller and Guide and Success', and it's full of superstitions and beliefs which I find fascinating. It tells the reader how to interpret a personality through hand-writing, and even has sections on palmistry and crystal-gazing. What I thought I'd share, though, was these talismans for good luck. Whether or not they're effective, the graphics are so lovely.

Story?


An interesting thing just occurred;
A tow truck just drove past,
Two burnt-out police cars perched
On its great big back as it lurched,
Riding to repairs, or to the Krushinator,
There's a story there
But no narrator.


Phoebe

Gap years


Sunburnt, sweaty teamwork,
Meat and drinking beer, 
Boasting to your friends about
The views in Tanzania


Wearing a bikini,
And jumping off a pier.
And everybody tells you 
its a boost to your career.


Watching people suffering,
But smiling right on through, 
In their situation,
You don't know what you'd do.


Showing all your snapshots,
And grinning ear to ear,
No thanks mate, I think I'll pass,
I don't want a gap year.


Phoebe

There's been a lot of hype around the Yayoi Kusama exhibition at the Tate Modern. Understandably so, her work is engaging, exciting and weird. So inspired am I that I've been polka-dotting all weekend. It is obviously very repetitive, which could drive you dotty (what a joke). Here are the results of my labour, most of them are actually pretty ugly, which is a pity. But at least I had a 'productive' weekend.

Top image courtesy of:  http://theredlist.fr/wiki-2-351-382-1160-1284-view-japan-profile-kusama-yayoi.html