blue labour

              

we look     from pig to man     the iron
ice he     has melty has     war to jaw
hard-boiled     little eyes     can see    

the living     haunt the dead     see
this other world     the zone     intra
locuted     a big man     for small

government     off centre     off colour
off white     right here     oral compass
at the lip     the edge     what we say

is speaky     the verb to     be centred
be inert     simply be and     lying
down as in     calmer     as in chains

here     on the nose     to be sniffed
over     to be afraid     to be responsible
abstracted     like i do not     like

 

.

Keith  Jebb

 

.

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Ma Yongbo Poetry Road Trip — Summer Tour 2025 volume 5

 

Photo: Ma Yongbo standing in front of Giant Wild Goose Pagoda, Xian, China,

 

“In Ma Yongbo’s poetry, one can feel an insatiable hunger for exploring the true essence of existence—no trace of luck, no longing for redemption.— “The Secret of Polyphony—An Analysis of Ma Yongbo’s Poetic Art Through Multiple Perspectives” (Huang Liang, Poet, Critic, Taiwan)

 

the nonsense of vertigo—for Yongbo 眩晕的胡话——致永波

 

—standing in a photograph, arms folded, in a black dragon t shirt,
 in front of the Great Wild Goose Pagoda, after 3 weeks on the road

 

the poet’s hair is visibly becoming a black shaking storm,
the rising waves shaping themselves about his ears;
his hair hears the blank song of wild geese.

In revisiting height there are the stages
of both climbing and toppling.
The great wild goose pagoda is flying above him,
it has no feet. What constitutes for wings
are extending stone shoulders stretching sideways,
each corner leads a pale smile across stone.

Although standing at the bottom
he could quite easily be at the top
looking down, seeing himself through wings
of stone, rising without feet. Turning the wings
into inverted skirts, hems to drag the earth,
lift upwards in strong thermals, their strong bright
distance growing; leaning forwards
as if falling does not exist

 

14th May 2025

 

Response Poetry by Helen Pletts 海伦·普莱茨

 

Response Poetry Translated by Ma Yongbo  马永波

 

眩晕的胡话——致永波 the nonsense of vertigo—for Yongbo

 

——站在一张照片里,双臂交叉,穿着黑色龙纹T恤,
在大雁塔前,历经三周旅途之后

诗人的头发显然在变成一场黑色震颤的风暴,
涌起的波浪在他耳际塑成形状;
他的头发听见大雁空洞的歌声。

重访高度时存在着
攀登与倾覆的双重阶段。
大雁塔在他上方飞翔,
它没有双足。构成翅膀的
是向两侧延展的石质肩膀,
每个角落都在石头上牵引出苍白微笑。

尽管站在底部
他却很容易置身顶端,俯瞰,
透过石翼看见自己,无脚攀升。
将翅膀化作倒置的裙摆,下摆拖曳着大地,
在强烈的热气流中升腾,明亮的远方
不断延展;身体前倾
仿佛坠落从未存在

 

2025年5月14日

海伦·普莱茨 

 

 

Helen Pletts海伦·普莱茨 : (www.helenpletts.com) Shortlisted 5 times for Bridport Prize, twice longlisted for The Rialto Nature & Place, longlisted for the Ginkgo Prize, longlisted for The National Poetry Competition. 2nd prize Plaza Prose Poetry 2022-23. Shortlisted Plaza Prose Poetry 2023-24. English co-translator of Ma Yongbo. Ma Yongbo is listed among the 100 famous contemporary Chinese poets since the 1920s. He is the main poet-translator of Western postmodern poetry on the mainland, including Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. Helen’s poetry is translated into Chinese (by Ma Yongbo), Greek, Vietnamese, Serbian and Italian.

 

Photo by Ma Yongbo: Small Wild Geese Pagoda, Xi’an, China

 

 

The Wheat in Central Plains is Ripe

 

The wheat in Central Plains is ripe, short and with yellowish stalks
in every field stand lonely graves
each grave clings to a small green tree
like desperate children, fearing to be uprooted by howling winds
beneath, ancestors like wheat bran cling to fragile roots, swaying

The wheat in Central Plains is ripe, parched this year
next year’s hope is dim; people’s faces share the same sallow hue
Yellow dust rises from the northern loess plateau
blocked by the Qinling Mountains in the south, it lingers in the sky
forming clouds, sparse raindrops of muddy yellow fall
repainting the wind chimes on the eaves of Big and Small Wild Goose Pagodas
On the horizon, a team of wheat harvesters’ shadow puppets, thin as paper
dragged by the horizon, they drift away, vanishing without a trace

The wheat in Central Plains is ripe, at night
someone always stands long in the field with a lantern
crushing an ear of wheat in reddened palms
tasting the aroma of lean, hard grains and yellow earth
then, leaning against ancestral graves
counting stars as sparse as hope in the sky

 

Written on the train from Luoyang to Shangqiu, May 22, 2025 

By Ma Yongbo  马永波

 

Translated by Ma Yongbo  马永波

 

First Published Primelore 3rd June 2025

 

中原的麦子熟了

 

中原的麦子熟了,矮小,头发枯黄
每一块田地里都有一些孤零零的坟墓
每一座坟墓都紧紧抱着一棵绿色的小树
像是绝望的孩子,生怕被大风连根拔起
下面,麦麸一般的祖宗们抱住细弱的根须,打提溜

中原的麦子熟了,今年缺水
明年也难说,人们的脸色同样发黄
来自城北土塬的黄尘,升腾起来
被城南的秦岭挡住,在空中徘徊
形成云层,黄泥色的雨点稀稀拉拉
给大小雁塔檐角的风铎重新刷漆
天边,一队薄如纸片的麦客的皮影
被地平线牵引着,渐行渐远,不知所终

中原的麦子熟了,夜里
总有人打着灯笼在麦地里长久伫立
用通红的掌心搓碎一支麦穗
品尝到瘦硬麦粒和黄土的芳香
然后,倚靠着先人的坟墓坐下
数着天上同样稀疏的星辰

2025年5月22号于洛阳赴商丘火车上,马永波

NASIR AIJAZ, Editor of Sindh Courier interviews Poet MA YONGBO

Photo: Nasir Aijaz copyright © Nasir Aijaz

 

Nasir Aijaz – Sindh, Pakistan

Journalist, Author, Researcher and Poet

Nasir Aijaz, based in Karachi, the capital of Sindh province of Pakistan, is basically a journalist and researcher having spent half a century in the field of journalism. He won Sindh Governor’s Gold Medal and All Pakistan Newspapers Society (APNS) Award for best reporting in 1988 and 1989. He has worked in key positions of editor for newspapers and news agencies. He also worked as a TV Anchor (For Pakistan Television) for over a decade and conducted some 400 programs from 1982 to 1992 besides appearing as analyst in several programs on private TV channels. He also did dozens of programs on Radio Pakistan and some other private Radio channels. He is author of ten books on history, language, literature, travelogue and biography. One of his books ‘Hur – The Freedom Fighter’, a research work on war against the British colonial forces, also won second prize, awarded by Endowment Fund Trust (EFT) of Sindh government. Around a dozen other books are unpublished. Further, he translated a poetry book of Egyptian poet Ashraf Aboul Yazid, into Sindhi language, which was published in Egypt. Very recently, he translated a novel ‘Maharaja Dahir’ from English to Sindhi language, which originally was authored in Bengali by Debasree Chakraborti, a renowned novelist of Kolkata, India, which proved a bestselling book in Sindh. Besides, he has written around 500 articles in English, Urdu and Sindhi, the native language of Sindh. He is editor of Sindh Courier, an online magazine and represents The AsiaN, an online news service of South Korea with regular contribution for eleven years. His articles have also been translated in Arabic and Korean languages. Some of his English articles were published in Singapore, India and Nigeria and Egypt. He started writing poetry in his native language Sindhi, and English very late. Some of his poems have been translated in Odiya, Bengali, Hindi, Telugu, and Albanian, Italian, Arabic and Greek languages. Arabic translation has been published in Egypt, Iraq, and Abu Dhabi. His English poems have been published in Albania, Bangladesh, Kosovo, Serbia, USA, UK, Tajikistan, Greece, Italy, Germany, and some other countries. Recently, the Odiya translation of his poetry has been published in a literary magazine ‘Mahuri’ of Bhubaneswar, Odisha, India. His interviews have been published in Kenya, Italy, Albania, and Azerbaijan. He has received certificates of recognition for his role in promoting global literature, from international organisations of India and other countries.  

Nasir Aijaz is one of the founding members of Korea-based Asia Journalists Association AJA. He has visited some ten Asian countries including Afghanistan (2 Times), Nepal (3 times), Bangladesh, India, Maldives, Cambodia, Sri Lanka, South Korea (7 Times) etc. and attended international seminars and conferences. Email: [email protected]

 

INTERVIEW LINK  https://sindhcourier.com/chinese-scholar-ma-yongbo-says-global-trends-dominate-chinese-literature/

 

Nasir Aijar to Ma Yongbo : Tell Me About Your Personal Literary Work  

 

  1. What inspired you to become a writer/poet? What themes do you explore most often in your work?

A perplexity about the meaning of life. At six years old, I became intensely fascinated—even obsessed—with questions of life and death, constantly trying to understand their essence. Most people, as they age and mature rationally, set aside these ultimate inquiries and become what Heidegger called “average beings”—alienated and fallen. I have been fortunate never to become such an “ordinary person.” The exploration of life’s ultimate questions has permeated my entire existence without a moment’s respite. Of course, this has brought profound suffering that few can comprehend.  

My themes are broad but can generally be categorised as: the soul’s HOME, self-alienation, the relationship between humanity and nature, social critique, and reflections on the creative labor process itself.  

 

  1. How do your personal experiences influence your writing?

Writing material stems from genuine emotions and experiences. Indirect experiences (such as inspiration from reading) must merge with direct experiences. Some of my poetry records real-life events in the plainest language, stripped of literary embellishments like symbolism, metaphor, tension, or irony. Instead, I confront facts nakedly, preserving the raw texture of life through objective documentation. Personal experiences always reflect the broader era and society. Overly rhetorical poetry distorts and abstracts reality.  

 

  1. Can you tell us about your latest work? What message do you hope readers take from it?

My recent works in 2023 include response or same-title poems with British poetess Helen Pletts. These may not fully represent my poetic ideals—there’s an element of friendship—but their significance lies in reviving the ancient Chinese tradition of poetic exchanges, albeit through modern and postmodern techniques. These poems are rainbow bridges between poets of different languages, proving poetry’s power to transcend the Tower of Babel and achieve human unity and peace—a meaning that surpasses poetry itself.  

Meanwhile, I’ve been working on a cross-genre book titled POUND CANTOS or VITA NUOVA. It remains an attempt to overcome cultural barriers and facilitate East-West dialogue, blending Chinese and Western poetic forms, dramatic fragments, philosophical meditations, and autobiography. It defies categorisation—traditional line poetry can no longer contain my materials and ideas.  

 

  1. Do you feel that your writing reflects modern China, or do you take a more historical or abstract approach?

 

My writing is undeniably tied to contemporary Chinese society, sometimes directly, sometimes hidden within complex structures and imagery. I am not a poet parallel to my era but one entangled fiercely with it. I reject abstract, detached perspective of writing—where the poet’s subject is severed from their lived experience. Theme-first conceptual writing is fundamentally unpoetic, yet many Chinese poets still practice this. In my work, subject and self are inseparable: I am all things, and everything is me, akin to the Buddhist notion that “green bamboos are Dharma bodies; yellow flowers are Prajna.” Abstract poetry, like abstract virtue, holds little meaning.  

Broadly, I see myself as a modern Tao Yuanming—not in skill but in spirit. Tao was obscure in his lifetime (The Grading of Poetry ranked him as “mid-tier, lower”), yet posthumously, his literary status surpassed even Wang Wei and Li Bai.  

 

  1. What is your writing process like? Do you follow a routine, or is it more spontaneous?

The writing process remains mystical. Even if we emphasise its “working” nature, as Baudelaire and Rilke did—rejecting reliance on inspiration as “secret orders from hidden mouths”—inspiration remains essential. The “craftsman spirit” in poetry is more an ethical stance. I write short poems swiftly, like Li Bai composing “on horseback,” but my epics take decades. Poetry demands transcendent revelation. spontaneity, improvisation, and reason coexist.  

 

  1. Do you see your poetry as a form of social commentary, or is it more personal and introspective?

My poetry merges social commentary, personal reflection, and introspection—they cannot be strictly separated.  

 

  1. What is the biggest challenge you have faced as a writer in China?

Let me answer with a poem:  

How to Be a Poet in China  

Those poets who publish frequently,  
treading government offices like their own homes  
Those poets who publish books endlessly,  
waving iridescent water-sprays  
Those poets stepping off one stage onto another,  
wearing floral coats, feigning solemnity  
Those poets winning awards quietly,  
bestowing prizes upon one another  

Those lonely poets pulling down their hats,  
flashing through crowds  
then vanishing like revolutionaries  
Those poets who speak rarely,  
their voices rusty from long silence—  
like mourners pushing open palace gates  
where gods have long departed  
Those poets surfacing from the ocean of creation,  
breathing briefly, raising solitary spouts—  
giant whales  

Those occasional poets  

December 20, 2022, morning  

 

  1. How do you see your work fitting into the broader tradition of Chinese literature? Do you draw inspiration from classical Chinese poetry or more contemporary influences?

Classical Chinese poetry’s tradition is lyricism and expression of ideals. At my core, I remain a lyrical poet, but lyricism alone cannot address modern complexities. Thus, I pioneered a revolutionary shift in Chinese: from subjective lyricism to objective presentation—not self-expression but revealing things as they are. This “objective poetics” aligns with the highest realm of Chinese philosophy and aesthetics: unity of heaven and humanity. Classical poetry achieved this through juxtaposed imagery and hidden subjectivity (e.g., “A light rain, paired swallows fly; / Fallen blossoms, a lone figure stands”). But modern Chinese differ utterly from Tang-Song predecessors—we need new methods to observe a changed world. My work reaches this sublime realm through entirely modern techniques.  

 

About the Literary Scene in China  

  1. How would you describe the current literary landscape in China? What major themes or trends do you see emerging?

I lack the vision to assess whole contemporary Chinese literature—perhaps only God could. I’ll focus on poetry’s flaws. The greatest ill is its cynicism and flatness.  

The 1990s’ “personalised writing” dismantled grand narratives, returning poetry to the individual self rather than collective representation. This corrected the Misty Poetry paradigm but bred dangerous trends: poets wallow in trivial self-indulgences, abandoning moral responsibility for universal human conditions. The exploratory vigour of the 1980s has stagnated, with little progress in form or spirit.  

In the internet age, avant-garde poetry grows reactionary. Established poets cling to stale rhetoric, disconnected from the times; others revel in petty-bourgeois vulgarity or crudely mimic classical language without reflection. Many write detached, objectified poetry devoid of lived pain. Contemporary Chinese poetry is a wasteland of carnivalesque desolation—grand voices silenced, individual souls barren and self-alienated, oblivious to suffering, masking reality with bourgeois sentiment. Since the 2000s, I’ve championed “difficulty writing” to restore purity.  

 

  1. Do you think Chinese literature today is more influenced by traditional culture or by global literary trends?

Global trends dominate. Since the early 20th century, Chinese poetry severed ties with tradition, turning westward. Few poets aspire to create a Chinese poetic tradition. Avant-garde poets superficially adopt Western techniques while missing their essence. These techniques mask spiritual poverty, becoming harmful disguises. I say with slight pride: most postmodern experiments in Chinese poetry relate to my translations or writings. If Chinese poetry is stuck in a mire, I am its architect—my greatest sin. I introduced Anglo-American postmodern poetry to China, broadening horizons. Yet, due to poets’ intellectual poverty, they mimic what Americans abandoned in the 1950s as novelties. For instance, many imitate John Ashbery—but they’re imitating me, not him.  

 

  1. What are the challenges faced by writers and poets in China today? Are there any limitations or other issues that affect creativity?

Satirical and socially critical poetry is nearly extinct. Official publications only carry bland, inconsequential verses. Thus, I urge poets to write the unpublishable—poems few would embrace.  

 

  1. How has digital media and the internet changed the way literature is produced and consumed in China?

Self-publishing platforms democratise and diversify poetry but also foster fast-food writing. Young poets care little for official print media; online platforms suffice.  

 

  1. Is poetry still widely read and appreciated in China? How does it fit into modern Chinese society?

Outstanding Chinese poetry (though rare) remains the nation’s deepest inner voice, accompanying China’s modernisation as its truest historical record. Even two or three such poets are enough.  

 

  1. How do Chinese writers navigate the balance between state ideology and artistic freedom?

This complex, vital question demands reference to Eastern European poets like Miłosz. Personally, I balance epochal mandates and aesthetic pleasure, safeguarding language’s dignity. Poets work in the realm of souls, not streets. Overstepping brings dire consequences—Ezra Pound exemplifies this.  

 

  1. What role does translation play in bringing Chinese literature to the global stage? Do you think Western audiences truly understand Chinese literature?

I recall someone saying (though I’ve forgotten who), “National literature is written by authors, while world literature is written by translators.” As both a writer and translator, I find great joy in being a humble swift that carries messages between cultures, delivering tidings across their divide.

As for the second part of your question—whether Western readers can truly understand Chinese poetry—my answer is no, or at least not easily. I am deeply perplexed by the phenomenon of certain authors, who haven’t even gained basic recognition within the Chinese literary sphere, managing to publish prolifically, secure awards, and thrive in the English-speaking world. No matter how vast the aesthetic differences may be, a good poem remains a good poem, and mediocrity remains mediocrity, regardless of the language in which it is written. Aesthetic divergence should never serve as an excuse to lower critical standards. Thus, I believe Western poets cannot truly grasp Chinese poetry. They also fail to distinguish between good and bad Chinese poets—a situation I find both bizarre and fascinating. Often, I cannot help but laugh.”

 

  1. Are there any contemporary Chinese writers or poets you admire and recommend to international readers?

I do have poets I personally admire, but they largely remain in underground circles. Those already known to the English-speaking world, I shall refrain from naming. Within Chinese avant-garde poetry, not a single poet has achieved broad consensus—even Mo Yan, despite his Nobel Prize, remains contentious in Chinese literary circles. Poets face even greater disparity: judgments about any poet vary drastically between readers and experts, with no one’s verdict holding absolute authority. My primary identity is that of a literature professor and theoretician of poetics. Having served five consecutive years as a judge for a prestigious poetry award, I dare assert that all poetry scholars engage in soliloquies. None commands the universal recognition of figures like Harold Bloom, Helen Vendler, or Marjorie Perloff. It’s all cliquish games—nothing more.

Thank you for your questions, dear friend. They’ve prompted me to rethink.  

March 13, 2025  

 

 

答巴基斯坦《信德信使》访谈:问题的另一面

 

访谈人:纳西尔·艾贾兹(NASIR AIJAZ),巴基斯坦记者、作家、研究员与诗人,《信德信使》主编

纳西尔·艾贾兹现居巴基斯坦信德省首府卡拉奇,是一位拥有48年新闻从业经验的资深记者与研究员。他曾于1988年和1989年凭借最佳报道分别荣获金牌奖及另一项殊荣。职业生涯中,他曾在多家报纸和通讯社担任要职编辑,并作为巴基斯坦电视台的电视主播逾十年,主持了400余档节目(1982-1992年),同时还在多个私营电视频道担任评论员。此外,他为巴基斯坦广播电台及其他私营电台制作了数十档节目。  

艾贾兹著有10部著作,涵盖历史、语言、文学、游记及传记等领域。其中,《赫尔——自由战士》一书以研究英国殖民统治时期的战争为主题,曾获奖项肯定。另有五六部作品尚未出版。他还将埃及诗人阿什拉夫·阿布·亚齐德(Ashraf Aboul Yazid)的诗集翻译为信德语,并在埃及出版。近期,他又将孟加拉国作家德巴舍里·查克拉博蒂(Debasree Chakraborti)的英文小说《玛哈拉贾·迪希尔》译为信德语出版(原作为孟加拉语创作)。  

除上述成就外,艾贾兹用英语、乌尔都语和信德语(其母语)撰写了约500篇文章,现任《信德信使》在线杂志主编,并为韩国在线新闻平台《亚洲新闻》(The AsiaN)供稿十一年。他的文章曾被译为阿拉伯语和韩语,并发表于新加坡、印度、尼日利亚等多国媒体。

在诗歌创作领域,艾贾兹自幼以信德语和英语写作,部分作品已译为奥里雅语、阿尔巴尼亚语、意大利语、阿拉伯语和希腊语。其中阿拉伯语译本在埃及、伊拉克和阿布扎比出版,英文诗作则见于阿尔巴尼亚、孟加拉国、科索沃、美国、英国、塔吉克斯坦、希腊、意大利等国。近期,其奥里雅语诗歌选集更在印度奥里萨邦布巴内斯瓦尔市的《玛胡里》(Mahuri)文学杂志上发表。  

作为亚洲记者协会(AJA)的创始成员之一,艾贾兹曾访问十余个亚洲国家,并积极参与国际学术研讨会,持续推动跨文化交流与新闻事业的发展。

第1部分 关于个人文学创作

  1. 何种契机促使您成为作家/诗人?作品中常探讨哪些主题?

对生命意义的困惑。我六岁时开始对生与死发生了强烈的兴趣,甚至一种迷恋,我总想弄明白它们到底怎么回事。普通人随着年龄增长、理性成熟,就会将这些终极追问搁置,而成为海德格尔所说的“平均数的人”,也就是异化沉沦状态。我有幸始终不是“普通人”,对人生终极问题的探索贯穿我的一生,片刻没有放松过。当然,这带来了很难为人所理解的痛苦。

我的主题比较宽泛,但大致可以划分为灵魂归宿、自我异化、人与自然关系、社会批判、对创造性劳动过程本身的反思等。

 

2.个人经历如何影响您的创作?

写作的材料来自于真情实感,间接经验(如来自阅读的灵感)需要与直接经验融合。我有一部分诗歌是以最朴素的语言记录自己的真实生活经历,抛开了所谓文学语言的装饰,如象征、隐喻、张力、反讽等等手段,而是直接赤裸裸地面对事实本身,加以客观化的记录,以不变形来保持原汁原味的生活实感,因为个人的经历永远是整个时代和社会的反映。过度修辞化的诗歌会使事物失真和抽象化。

 

3.能否谈谈最新作品?希望传递何种讯息?

最近的作品,2023年迄今,有一些和英国诗人海伦·普莱茨的呼应诗或同题诗,挺有趣,它们不一定能代表我真正的诗学追求,有友谊的成分,但它的意义在于,恢复了中国古代诗人互相唱和的传统,但手段上依然是具有现代性和后现代性的。这些诗是两个不同语种诗人共同搭建的彩虹桥,它证明了诗歌有助于克服语言巴别塔,实现世界大同与人类和平。这个意义可能超越了诗歌本身。

而我这几年在重点建设一部跨文类的书,名为《庞德诗章》或《新生》。它依然是一种克服文化障碍、东西互鉴的尝试,里面有各种中西诗体、戏剧片段、大段的哲学沉思以及个人传记。很难归类的一部书。单纯的分行形式已经不足以容纳我的材料和思想。

 

4.您的创作是否反映当代中国?偏向历史还是抽象视角?

我的写作肯定与中国当代社会的现实有密切的关联,有的直接,有的藏在复杂的结构和意象内部,我不是与时代平行的诗人,而是与时代激烈纠缠在一起的诗人。抽象的超然的视角和对象化的写作,我已经予以否定了。什么意思呢?就是诗人所写的对象本身和诗人自己的生命体验是分离的,比如主题先行的观念写作,本质上这种诗不是诗,但很多汉语诗人依然在这么干。而我的诗歌里面,对象和我难分难解,互为表里,我就是万物,万物也无一不是我,类似于佛家所云,苍苍翠竹皆是法身,郁郁黄花无非般若。抽象的诗歌就像抽象的善,没有太大意义。

 

大体上来看,我把自己视作当代的陶渊明,不是说我有他那么高的造诣,而是在精神气质上的相似。陶渊明在世的时候,名气并不大,《诗品》里只把他评价为“中品偏下”,但是他死后的文学史地位极其崇高,甚至超越了王维和李白。

 

5.您的创作过程有何特点?遵循规律还是即兴发挥?

写作过程永远是神秘的,即便我们像波德莱尔和里尔克那样强调写作的“工作”性质,不依赖于灵感那“暗中的嘴巴的指令”,可实际过程中,依然需要灵感。诗歌写作的“工匠精神”更多的是一种伦理态度。我写诗很快,像李白那样“倚马可待”,但这指的是短诗,我的长诗的写作非常缓慢,有的需要二十年之久。小说写作可以遵循常规,比如每天写个几千字,但诗歌不行,诗歌需要超越人类的启示,坐在书桌前硬写,东拼西凑、胡编乱造一些句子,这很荒谬。自发、即兴和理性并不矛盾。

 

6.您的诗歌属于社会批判还是个人内省?

社会批判与个人内省在我的诗学中浑然一体,不可割裂。

 

  1. 在中国创作面临的最大挑战?

这个问题我想用一首诗来回答——

 

《在中国如何做诗人》

 

那些频频发表、把衙门

走得像自己家的诗人

那些频频出版、挥舞虹彩水浪花的诗人

那些下了这个舞台又上了那个舞台

穿花格外衣煞有介事的诗人

那些频频获奖、互相颁奖且不动声色的诗人

 

那些寂寞的拉低帽檐

偶尔在人群中一闪

便再也寻他不见的

革命党一样的诗人

那些偶尔发声

仿佛因长久的沉默而声音滞涩

像推开众神已逝的宫殿大门的守灵人一样的诗人

那些在创造的大洋深处

偶尔浮出来透口气升起孤零零水柱的巨鲸

 

那些偶尔的诗人

2022.12.20晨

 

 

8.您的创作如何承袭中国文学传统?受古典诗还是现代派影响?

中国古典诗歌的传统是抒情言志,我骨子里依然是个抒情性很强的诗人,但仅仅有抒情不足以应对当代社会人生的复杂经验,所以,我率先取得了汉语里的革命性突破,从主观抒情转向客观呈现,不是表达自我,而是呈现事物的本真——客观化诗学。这是我对传统的贡献,因为客观化诗学的目标正是中国古典哲学和诗学的最高境界——天人合一。从以我观物转到以物观物,物我不分,物我两忘。我的诗歌已经基本抵达这个无上胜境,但所用技巧与古典截然不同。古典诗歌是通过物象并置和隐藏主体来实现的,比如“微雨燕双飞,落花人独立”。但是我们现当代的中国人和唐宋时代的人完全是两回事,我们不能再因袭祖宗的方法,我们要以新的方法去观照世界,因为,方法变了,世界也变了。有了新的观照之法,我们会看到不同的世界——世界随观照方法而变化。

 

第二部分 关于中国文坛现状

 

1.如何评价当前中国文学景观?涌现哪些趋势?

我没有那么广阔的视野来评价整个当代中国文学,当然,任何学者可能同样没有这个能耐,除非是上帝才能做到。我比较熟悉的还是诗歌。这里只说缺陷。一个最大的弊端是当代诗歌的犬儒化和平面化。

1990年代的所谓个人化写作,对于消解宏大叙事当然有其贡献,它使得写作真正回到个体自我,而非代言人式的集体性自我,将写作的本然还给自身应在的位置,这是对朦胧诗写作范式的重大反拨和纠偏,但它同时也带来了一种危险的趋势,诗写者往往流于一己的个人情致,丧失了对人类普遍处境的关怀和道德担当,沉迷于琐碎之物的把玩和迷恋,同时,八十年代生机勃发的探索精神似乎也失去了动力,普遍陷于庸常,语言形式和更重要的诗歌精神两方面都没有大的进展。

到了新世纪网络时代,先锋诗歌进一步后卫化,成名者故步自封,鲜有在精神和技艺持续掘进的勇者。或是继续修辞性静态书写,和时代脱节和平行;或是以庸俗的小市民意识形态为乐,在泥坑里打滚,泼溅杂色的浪花;或是在根本没有对古典诗学的前提和存在的自然与社会文化条件进行谨慎反思的情况下,便消化不良地化用(误用)古典语汇,来将自己并不典雅的自我装修得金碧辉煌;或是对诗进行对象化的有距离的书写,没有个人生命体验的渗透和彻骨之痛,有的只是词语层面的姿态。

另一个弊端是诗人(包括所有的人文知识分子)无法知行合一,说一套做一套,在诗歌里把自己打扮得非常高尚,但在现实中却极其猥琐和庸俗,这种分裂导致了人格上的矮化,最终导致其诗歌成为虚伪的词语组合,后面并没有一个伟大的人格作为支撑。

当代汉诗,一片荒芜又狂欢的景象。大音希声,黄钟毁弃。个体心灵的大面积荒芜而不自知,自我的普遍异化腐化和主动犬儒化,对现实苦难视而不见,甚至以小布尔乔亚的廉价温情来涂抹和遮挡苦难之实存,对人类共同体何去何从的命运漠然无知,对无处不在渗透到毛细血管的恐惧和谎言知而不言……凡此种种皆为诗的耻辱,外在的苦难和内在的真实在能指滑动的书写中均告遗忘和消失,代之以歌舞升平的颂歌,和不疼不痒的自我抚摸。

所以,我从世纪初开始倡导“难度写作”,这是纯正汉语诗歌精神的最重要的运动。

 

 

2.当代中国文学更受传统还是全球影响?

后者的影响更大,因为从20世纪初期,汉诗已与传统决裂,只能向外来的尤其是西方传统取经。有雄心创造中华诗学的诗人非常少。在先锋诗歌这个领域,更多的是迅速将五花八门的西方诗歌的技巧拿过来使用,而基本领会不到西方诗歌的精神本质。所以,这些技巧反倒掩盖了汉语诗人精神和内心的苍白,成了一种伪装,其害处已经大于益处。这里我可以稍微有点骄傲地说,当代汉语诗歌的种种后现代实验和流派,或者与我的翻译有关,或者与我的写作有关。如果说汉语写作陷入了一个泥潭,那么,这个泥潭的始作俑者就是我,我罪莫大焉。是我最早将英美的后现代诗歌翻译引进到汉语里,填补了空白,它们为汉语诗人打开了眼界,但同时,由于汉语诗人主体精神的贫乏,他们只能猎奇一般将美国诗人五十年代就玩腻歪了的东西拿到汉语里来实践,并且如获至宝。我有时觉得他们很可怜。比如,有众多的人模仿约翰·阿什贝利,我真想大喝一声:你们模仿的不是他,而是我。

 

3.当今中国的作家和诗人面临着哪些挑战?是否存在任何限制或其他影响创造力的问题?

 

讽刺诗和批判社会现实丑恶的诗歌,基本绝种了。官方刊物只发表不疼不痒、可有可无的诗歌。所以,我一直在强调,要写不能发表的诗,写没有人喜欢的诗,或者,喜欢的人越少越好。

 

4.数字媒体和互联网如何改变了中国文学的生产和消费方式?

自媒体促进了诗歌的民主化和多元化,但同时也造成了写作和阅读的快餐化,有利有弊。年轻诗人大多不在乎在官方纸媒体上发表,有网络自媒体交流就足够了。

 

5.诗歌在中国还被广泛阅读和欣赏吗?它如何适应现代中国社会?

优秀的汉语诗歌(很少)依然是中华民族最深切的内心声音,它始终伴随着中国现代化的进程,是最真实可靠的历史记录。尽管这样的诗人很少,但只要还有那么两三个,就够了。

 

6.中国作家如何调节意识形态与艺术自由之间的平衡?

这个话题比较复杂,也意义重大。我更想提示朋友们,参考东欧诗人,如波兰米沃什,爱尔兰谢默斯·希尼,看看他们是怎么处理这个问题的。具体到个人,我比较倾向于在时代律令和审美愉悦之间保持平衡,以守护语言本身来维护审美的尊严,而不是把自己变成宣传家、革命家,诗人就是诗人,诗人在人类灵魂的领域工作,而不是走上街头。越界的可怕后果已经有了,比如艾兹拉·庞德。

 

7.翻译在中国文学国际化中的作用?西方读者真懂中国文学吗?

国别文学要成为世界文学的一部分,自然离不开翻译。若泽·萨拉马戈有言:“民族文学由作家创造,世界文学靠译者成就。”作为作者和译者,我觉得在不同文化之间做一只谦逊的雨燕,在两者之间传递福音,是很幸福的事情。

这个问题的第二部分,西方读者能否真正理解中国诗歌,我认为,不能,或很难。因为我观察到,在汉语里连入门都没有的有些作者,居然能在英语世界大量发表、出版甚至获奖,这让我极其困惑。无论审美差异有多么大,但好诗就是好诗,平庸的诗就是平庸,无论它是什么语言写的。审美差异绝不应该成为降低审美标准的借口。所以,我认为西方诗人读不懂汉语诗歌。也分不清汉语诗人中谁的诗歌好,谁的诗歌不好。这非常奇妙和怪异。我往往忍俊不禁。

 

8.你有没有欣赏并推荐给国际读者的中国当代作家或诗人?

我当然有自己赞赏的诗人,但他们基本处于地下状态,目前为英语世界所知者恕不提名。汉语先锋诗歌中,迄今没有一个诗人得到公认,甚至莫言得了诺奖,在汉语里依然争议不断。诗人更是如此,任何一个诗人,读者和专家对他的判断,都是大相径庭,谁也不能说谁的判断就是真理。我自己的本质工作是文学教授,我的专业身份是诗学理论家,我也曾连续五年担任某个很有影响的诗歌奖的评委,我敢于说,所有的诗歌学者都是自说自话,没有任何一个能像布鲁姆、海伦·文德勒和玛乔瑞·珀洛夫那样得到公认,成为权威。都是小圈子的游戏,如此而已。

感谢提问,亲爱的朋友,促使我重新思考。

2025年3月13日

 

All images of Ma Yongbo and China copyright ©  poet Ma Yongbo

 

 

 

 

 

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FALLING TOWERS

 

The other night tucked away on Channel 5 of all places;
A talking heads treatise threatening the Cleese and Booth
Gift, which they call ‘The Cancellation of Fawlty Towers;’

Time’s test in the gaze of post teens and long past their delivery
Date Baby boomers, gratingly placed before respectively,
A bar bound mounted mobile and vintage sofa set and stale

Papered wall. Who was best? Hard to say, as both in the test
Conceded to expectation. The aged defending old choices,
Backed by Sir Trevor MacDonald’s somewhat strained gravitas, 

While the young looked bemused by lines and attitudes
Far beyond them, as well as before them, as if, odour rising
There was  a sell-by date on the past. But perhaps that was

The point of this trite and somewhat trivial programme,
Blessed by a Steven Berkoff voiceover, and his theatrical
Tone’s caustic rise. Different worlds colliding of course,

And off course too as I watched them, with the series
Making it through by lapping laughter as it has always been
Sit-com’s prize. The ‘sit’ as important to it as the ‘com’

As even the Hotel is funny, with its chipboard walls,
Moose and people as close to collapse as its stairs,
And its ineptness writ large, this place of falling dreams

Cartoons violence, Basil lashing out at car, wife and waiter
As a means to explicate his despair. For Fawlty Towers,
While real, transmogrifying its Donald Sinclair inspiration

Was a comment too on backwaters so often found
On dry land, in which strange and strained creatures grow,
Seeking either the light of acceptance or the form of dark

Which grants cover to the very thing that unseats us
And for which at the end of the day we can’t stand. Failure.
To grow up, or back down, or to face our commitments.

To change beside seasons, or to provide properly. Hotels
Should be homes for however long you stay in them. Or better
Than home. Fawlty Towers, will from their first storey

Always serve the soup of sense sloppily. As a form of uncare
Home for those carelessly caught within it, from Ballard Berkeley’s
Major, to Gilly Flower and Renee Roberts Mrs Tibbs and Gatsby;

To Andrew Sach’s brave Manuel, tripped and trapped, or Connie
Booth’s Princess Polly, the guiding force, who like Prunella Scales’
Sybil remained Cleese’s captives of course, never free. Perhaps

Basil’s grip was too tight as the towers toppled around them,
And it is that desperation and the then Cleeses joint writing skill
Which provides the reason why this 50 year old oak remains

The top comedy tree in the forest that these Producer Lumberjacks,
Hay, Donkin and Levi have been commissioned to find fit for felling.
Subject to scrutiny here, what’s compelling is how discernment

Remains unapplied. Everything is now about what’s preferred
By the deferred generation. Or whatever controls them.
Nothing is known, only shared now.  But, I wonder how did PC

First modem the modern from the ash of the old? What has died?
At one point in this show, they echo the Cleese and Two Ronnies
Class sketch, with a Generation Z on her smart-alice-phone

As next to her the bad shirted middle aged man looks askew.
It made me feel sick, this cheap trick, a form of so called virtue
As voucher. To be traded in for opinion and for the reasons why

Each age has its view. There are lines in Fawlty Towers
Whose words are naturally of their time. Yet they’re heightened.
In a manic state of depression, or bewilderment long trod tropes

Still surmount, both reason and rhyme, not to mention ancient
Marmalade labels, but parodies about people and what
They have become our accounts, reportage, and need no ignorant

Edit. It is not the word, but its useage. Lenny Bruce died for that.
In cutting language up when we text, or bowel-like, when we pass
An emoji for emotion, speech, spiel is shat on and will stick

In the teeth to be spat.  We are not progressing at all when we use
This word cancel. We preserve, protect nothing, because the debate
Has been dulled. The two times fail to talk. Lessons remain unlearned

So now students afford the culture’s teachers detentions
When comedy is corralled and brought close enough to be culled.
In the Channel 5 show pundits react to a line or scene
For fast judgement. Flowery Twats is not On the Buses,
Or Love Thy Neighbour, or Alf Garnet’s frequent overspill,
Yet he was a figure of ridiculed fun, what we might call

The best of the bigots. But look now, Kids, we elect them.
So which turn of phrase should we kill? Perhaps Johnny Speight
Wrote too well, and overegged his prose pudding. But stare

Into the screen and the mirror of where and what people are
Shimmers through. We need a branch between trees in that
Fifty year forest, which looked at the decades before it

And what they had reared and ripped down to be true
About the issues all face. And about the strains life engenders.
Basil balances bigots, whether at the Reception desk, bar

Or Stoop.  Be it through Mrs Richards’ Hearing Aids, or Sybil’s
Discontent at O’Reilly, we cannot in clear conscience wipe
Everything away in one swoop. It is not all the same.

There is a fight and force to what’s truly funny.  As it dares us
To question what motivates our own hearts. Not to mention
Our minds, as scorched and subject to strain as they are also

To sunlight. Charlie Chaplin loved young girls. So what do
We do with his Art? You set each day in its frame.
Call it a cage if you have to. But keep it up there and mounted

So that those to come quantify what is right, what is left
And from what source taste finds season. It is if nothing else
For this reason that Cleese and Booth brought us laughter
And craft for some future sailing, for if Basil Fawlty fails
Dodo’s fly, over a wrecked river and sea of polluted perception.
There are some who would make it extinct: that’s discernment!

Those are who we all should be judging, be they politicians,
Trendsetters, or those who want to make the bitter seem better. 
So, I say to you leaves: learn together and in all weather

Know the full difference between what something is and its why.

 

 

 

 

                                                                            David Erdos 1/6/25  

 

 

 

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From Mundane Daily Routine to the Multidimensional Dynamic of Creation

 

 

As ‘universal beings’ we are not separate from any activity anywhere in the universe. The totality of existence exists within our psyche and is imprinted in our unconscious.

Our ability – or inability – to experience the multidimensional levels of existence within which we knowingly – or unknowingly – participate on a daily basis, governs the degrees to which we are able to embrace Life, or simply operate within a two dimensional plain of non awareness: non-life.

Look at it this way: you are standing in your kitchen making a cup of tea – and at that very same moment thousands of new stars are bursting into life at far distant parts of the universe; a shoal of krill is on the verge of being swallowed by a hungry dolphin; a serene faced human baby is just emerging from its mother’s womb; a giant sun flare is penetrating deep into surrounding space;
a spider is latching onto a fly caught in its intricate web; around five thousand cells in your own body are dying while others are springing into life; a tropical downpour is soaking the ground in parched Rajasthan; a mouse has been spotted by the sharp eyes of a wheeling sparrow hawk. A rising wind is rustling the leaves of a tree outside your kitchen window.

All this, while you are making yourself ‘a nice cuppa’

Of course this is only a tiny fanciful fragment of a few of the billions of dynamic events in mid-flow at any one moment of time, to give you the sense of the interconnected dynamic of the perpetual fluctuations of the force of nature and the universe.

We are part of this vast/infinite drama that was set in motion at some dot point in the infinite past.

We are both affected by and in turn affect the course of all these events. Even our thoughts take on material form at the subtlest levels of existence.

Within this energetic, ever evolving quantum field, the multiplicity of nature’s dance is centred around a singular Supreme Nucleus. Every thing that has ever been created moves around this absolute omega point of Supreme Consciousness.

Without this omnipotent central nucleus, all order would break down and the great electromagnetic holding force that keeps stars and planets in their perennial perfectly spaced orbits – would never come to be. There would be nothing, as maybe there once was.

Our largely mundane, materialistic existence appears to operate on a different plain/dimension to this universal theatre. There are not many who sense the importance of the roles they are playing in this great drama.

Most will regard its field of manifestation as separate from their dominant perception of life as an essentially flat and largely predictable materialistic chain of events, with emotional ups and downs as the main variants. Most ‘nine to fivers’ lives centre around fulfilling the needs and patterns of domestic and career centred daily routines.

But that’s because we have been indoctrinated to value the material and the mundane as far more important than the quantum. When it should be the other way around.

We are, in essence, children of the universe – equally at one with the quantum dynamic as with the necessary mundane tasks involved in managing our daily lives.

They are not separate experiences, but they are ‘different points of focus’ and this can give the impression of separation.

Everything that has gone off course in mankind’s adventure on this planet, is due to the overwhelming emphasis placed on the mundane, to the almost total exclusion of the quantum.

That’s why ‘we the people’ so often feel bottled-up and agitated, without being able to identify the cause. It’s our continued state of mental imprisonment within a place where we do not belong.

Powerful forces of division and repression long ago settled for a three dimensional exclusivity to be the chains used to control humanity’s development, recognising the potential for the separation of the quantum and the mundane. Making them appear to be at odds with each other.

These early architects of control then established themselves as ‘authorities’ as to what one can and cannot have access to, in their strictly edited version of the true quantum state.

They invented rules and dogmas that sought to confine mankind’s evolution, to a tiny fragment of full human consciousness.

They taught us not to have ‘false notions’ of our true capacities. Not to ‘sin’ by going against the authority of their ‘order’.

They worked at narrowing our imagination concerning the true nature of life and death – and then parasited our resulting denatured emotions of fear, anxiety, uncertainty and pain for the sustenance of their own dark ends.

While in the modern era some institutions of repression have toned-down their rhetoric so as to appear less demagogic, their practices still carry exactly the same hallmark of division, power and control.

Their aim remains to stop humanity emerging out of its mind, body, spirit prison so as to breathe the sweet unpolluted air of freedom and emancipation.

Now the chief tool of their choice for completing this job is the rolling out of artificial intelligence (AI) and information technology (IT) as the prime traps by which to hook mankind into complete submission.

But although on the surface things look grim – and mostly are – there is an energy shift underway that cannot be contained by the dark cult who press on with their goal to falsify reality to the maximum extent.

This ‘energetic shift’ is essentially an expansion of awareness and consciousness. However, it is also likely to manifest on a material plain, bringing significant upheavals in all areas of life: physical, environmental, social and not least economic.

There is an indivisible connection between mental and physical actions and reactions.
A tragic element one comes up against when working for positive change, is the ‘refusal of consciousness’ that so many erect as a barrier to their own self liberation. Preferring the false security of slavery to the effort required to bring about a transformation in the affairs of man and lasting world peace.

The refusal of consciousness is not a top down sickness, it is a voluntary act of submission to the relentless bullying which is the hallmark of the deep state status quo. That anti-life intent, which if unchecked, leads to a totalitarian take over.

But by opening ourselves up to the rudimental multidimensionality of life outside the neutered and digitalised matrix, we come back to our real selves, linked up with the underlying dynamic of existence and the boundless vastness of the infinite.

Here is where our true selves find their real homes, purpose and equilibrium. Our soul’s awakening amongst the omniscient forces of nature and the cosmos.

Our life on earth must be deeply infused with this greater quality, for it is this that will completely overcome the absurd abstractions of the current addictive obsession with AI/IT and the supposed bringing into being of the tortured transhuman aberration.

That is the challenge we all face; drawing inspiration and courage from the knowledge that the prize that lies on the other side – is fundamental redirection, rejuvenation and transformation – and the intense joy of coming out victorious!

 

Julian Rose

 

 

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer, international activist and broadcaster. See website www.julianrose.info for information about Julian’s acclaimed book Overcoming the Robotic Mind and other works. Books can be purchased by contacting Julian direct: see ‘contact author’ under ‘reviews’. 

 

 

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Marcus Aurelius At The Theatre

 

Each poor human delusion
Amplified by the actor’s mask

I’d sooner stay at home
Sipping espresso e aqua
In my corner pavement café
Though this is not a bolt-hole
From the theatre   –

These passers-by
Surely they are extras
From sword and sandal epics   –
Always clad in Armani
They stroll about in a bubble
Of self-regarding soap

When did the world
Become like this
A playground
For the narcissist?

Self-publicists
Outweigh good sense
Preening on the Internet

Then from a corner of your home
Reality T.V.
Distracts you from reality

If they should make me Caesar
I will not become ‘a Caesar’
But elude the dipping in purple dye
That amplifies all character
Then like an actor’s mask
Inflates the smallest defect

I’ll keep my rough Greek cloak
And reject the duck-down pallet
When I choose to sleep on the floor

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Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

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THE OLD BOYS RETURN

 


On Dr. Tim Dowley’s The Worst School in England: The Rise and fall
of Hackney Downs – ‘the Jewish Eton’

 

Dr. Tim Dowley’s new tome is an end of all of the lost years
Report and an exercise book full of magic, as he bids back
Place and pupils, including Alexander Baron, Berkoff, Pinter
Sir Michael Caine, and the times from the 1876 founding stone

As lain by the worshipful Company of Grocers,
Through the 1963 fire and on, as Hackney Downs School
Becomes legend through detail and detention and through
Evocations scribbled now on the blackboards which seem

To shimmer through dust at each line. It was a remarkable school
As this study shows us, giving rise to great writers and artists
And achievers of course in all fields, from my heroes above
Via eminent scientists and politicians, to Duncan Grant,

The Olympic High Jumper, this Dr. D has now conjured
How from paper and brick time builds shields within which
Old air is preserved, as inhaled by an age which seems
So much richer than the type that we’re breathing,

As despite its working class background, what is foregrounded
Here is the glare of Education as was, in which even the teachers
Learned something and were not just bound by statistics,
Or by multiple choice class roulette. And so Tim Dowley

Conveys by chapters formed around past Headteachers
How the training ground for time’s thinkers had its own
Elysian  field. Don’t forget! From Lord Palmerston’s
First reform to Gladstone’s 1869 School Act, the grimoire

Within Grammar was sought to be dispelled. In its place
A new Paradise, believe it not, borne in Hackney, which
Was once abound with green, with the Lea river making it
Idyllic almost, lit with  grace. From such greenery

The Grocer’s Company sought to nourish not only the mouths
And minds of the children of the surrounding earth but the state
Of both progression and change as Hackney Wick and Road
Swelled with people; an experiment in education, as if one

With fruit and vegetables springing, could also of course
Garden fate. Under Herbert Courthope Bowen, first hopes
Sprang with a curriculum brim with riches. These bulb-like
Boys would be fattened on a surrounding soil full of worth;

From Cockneys, real kings of stage and screen, and the theatres
From which wounds are watered and where scalpel or pen
Induce birth.  The second Headmaster Charles Gull bit back
On Bowen’s reforms but loved music. And as the choirboys sang

Unchastened, the school was settling still in its nest.
Gull’s replacement William Jenkyn Thomas pressed on
With a progressive conservatism Dowley tell us,
And his homework is impressive as it is as if he were there

At all points, passing tests while researching reactions,
Reports, Governmental attitudes and LCC action.
Hackney Downs in its bubbling became a laboratory
For all schools, from class-size to style of approach

And uniform, all’s encompassed, from the half camel/steed
School badge on the cover, to the ‘jew-boys and riff-raff’
Divisions marking both teacher and child seem like fools.
Thomas Balk weathered the war and would have seen

Maurice Mickelwhite, Henry Woolf and Harold Pinter
Shine through splinters, and the esteemed teacher
Joe Brearley who gathered up those bright boys
To dazzle afresh under him, despite the bomblasts

Before them. Balk would have had to cope with evacuations,
Inspections, and the need to restore learning’s joy, just as
These teens at 15 came to understand what had happened.
For by 1945 the full horror of the Holocaust was made clear,

Forming Pinter and Woolf and the rage and rise which enabled
Fresh forms of expression and the birth of everything Tim and I
Hold most dear.  All schools which beget successful boys
And girls hold that promise. But in Dowley’s book

The impression of something almost mythic here ‘camelots’
A Grammar school into something close to King Arthur’s
Lost mounted castle, and while the nearby Mare Street’s
No mountain, it forms an urban moat for star sailors

Who became land matelots. Vernon Barkway Pye
Would have been Steven Berkoff’s Headmaster. Under him,
School duration leading to a better job was the point.
As well as a true mixing at last between goy and boys
Of religions that were at once European, with equal time
Given for both strains to anoint their own efforts
With trips like never before to new countries, from which
Horizons were widened and where the Jewish boys

At least could touch roots from which their grandparents
Sprang. This must have brought bright revelation.
Berkoff writes of his school days in his books Free
Association, and Memoirs of a Juvenile Delinquent;

Making moot too much hope. As the strangely named
Pye was baked bitter. Stiff and austere,  critics claimed
Him as far from ideal. But at least the richness still stemmed
Even if it took time to flower. And Dowley details all that

Happened with a ruminative eye on time’s feast,
Built on the bones of the boys, some of who remain
With us. But as other ghosts gather, we see the school
Standing firm as a place of belief until under Alexander

Williams fire ruined. And yet from fires the phoenix
If the need is strong enough sees air learn about what is
Required to rise and so the school’s epic journey continued.
You will witness this now by reading this Amazon hardback.

On trust. It is the ultimate pet project released into
The wilderness we now witness, where education leads
Nowhere, or to the feet of Trump, Besoz, Musk. And at a time
When the past still has so much to teach us. In Dickens’ day

They scratched learning onto Moses like flint; now dawns
Dusk as things move too fast and the phone replaces
The pencil. Laptops are shields now for students
To protect them from words which might grace.
So, I bid you to return to a time and a test which was made

To make the brain bolster. Learn to discern. In these details
Tim Dowley dares you to witness and strive across shadow
To write your own lines in a kind of Angel’s detention.
The Old Boys in returning have things to share with you.

So, hold the book up and listen to the photographs
Of each face.

 

 

                                                                         David Erdos 5/6/25

 

 

 

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DOES HER FAR BEAUTY KNOW

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

without her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

 

squatting in enclosed fields

of remote wheat and barley

around told feudal cities and towns-

to talk

to fate and how it feels

to be emptied entirely

of hopes sounds-

 

these evolutions

fill rich men’s purses

and revolutions

are poor universes

that try to bend

the unequal

to be equal

without end.

 

does her

far beauty know

where my thoughts go

with her

when i walk

in lush rain lashing down-

 

soaked in moments come to this

paradise and precipice

belonging

bonding

thoughts

serendipitous

blowing into us-

 

gives shelter to the self

of us and other else-

unlike bare rooms we rent

to leave behind

when change moves us to fit

into it-

with only our echo and scent

of passion and mind.

 

 

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Strider Marcus Jones
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including:  Poppy Road Review; International Times Magazine; The Galway Review;  The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

 

 

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And with you

And with you went the local trains carrying
the passengers like cattle.

And with you gone the summer sun shining
on the yellow hibiscus.

And with you went all those male pigeons
offering seeds to the females.

And with you gone the sound of the guitar
tuning modern songs.

And with you gone the silver moon that
touched my skin, my spine, my iris.

And with you went the one I was, that caressed
joyful moments even in the pitch dark.

And with you, went all the days, weeks, months
and days that waited for you.

 

 

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Gopal Lahiri
@gopallahiri
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Short-Bio

Gopal Lahiri is a bilingual poet, critic, editor, writer and translator with 31 books published, including eight solo/jointly edited books. His poetry and prose are published across more than one hundred journals and anthologies globally His poems are translated in 18 languages and published in 19 countries. He has been nominated for Pushcart Prize for poetry in 2021.

 

 

 

 

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MOURNING

You’ve seen millions of them, haven’t you?
Or thousands, at least,maybe
tens of thousands -bees & cats
&dogs & clouds & trees & butterflies
& flowers & sheep & cattle
& leaves & blades of grass
Other things
Tens of thousands, at least

Yet there’s one, sometimes,that
allures your eye for longer
than usual; maybe it’s the light,
the mood you’re in,but
there’s something about that robin
in the Y of the branch,about
that cat, asleep on the lean-to roof
about that pine-cone, a
grenade against the blue

You look longer
You gaze. You
Study.

Well,energy must be transferred;
carbon is only ever rearranged.
That floating dandelion seed,flaxen &
white & electric – I saw it last
on my grandmother’s head.
And the stain on the moths wing,
the maroon stain, it’s
exactly the same shade
as the blood caught beneath
my granddad’s fingernail
from where the anvil caught his hand
in a factory. Ten
thousand times
you’ve seen these things,ten
thousand times at least

 

 

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Niall Griffiths
Picture Nick Victor

 

Liverpool born (1966) author Niall Griffiths is in my opinion one of the most talented contemporary writers in Great Britain at the present time.

Consistently excellent since his groundbreaking debut novel ‘Grits’ in 2000, Niall has carried on delivering some of the most innovative, daring and uncompromising fiction in what is often a stuffy/tame UK literary scene.

His last book ‘Of Talons and Teeth’ (2023) was no exception to a long list of exemplary works including ‘Sheepshagger’, ‘Stump‘, ‘Wreckage’, ’Runt‘, ‘Grits’ and the iconic ‘Kelly and Victor‘, which was turned into a successful film directed by Kieran Evans in 2000.

In 2015 Niall Griffiths published ‘ Red Roar: Twenty Years of Words’.

A bumper collection of Poems Niall had written alongside his novels over two decades.

Following my interview with Niall Griffiths published April 2025 in International Times

I approached Niall again with a view to getting some of his excellent poems into future issues of International Times l- something IT said it would be happy to do.

Neill replied to my request to go ahead with selection- in his usual ‘ let’s go for it,and get the next round in ‘ style.

“And as for the poetry, Jeez yes, share them with International Times. Would you choose a handful to send them? I trust your judgement, brother.”

NG

 

 

 

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Less is More

Ship of Fools (The Island Albums), John Cale

John Cale was basically kicked out of the Velvet Underground in 1968 but by the early 1970s found himself recording solo albums for Island Records having already been a producer for albums by Nico and Nick Drake and released a couple of solo albums. This new 3 CD anthology gathers up three albums, Fear, Slow Dazzle and Helen of Troy, with a few stray bonus tracks.

Fear is an astonishing album, but like its two accomplice albums, it is awkward sounding and doesn’t evidence the strength of its songs. Cale is at his best when solo, accompanying himself on keyboard or guitar, his strong Welsh voice declaiming his lyrics. On the Island albums the songs are subject to the whims of the likes of Eno and Phil Manzanera – both credited as ‘Executive Producer’ – and regular Island session musicians such as Chris Spedding, along with Phil Collins on Helen…, who all detract from the songs’ own trajectories.

The slow stuttering fade out of ‘Fear is a Man’s best Friend’ may be genius, but in the main Cale is actually a composer of songs. Of tunes and the words to go with them. Of intriguing lyrics and the music to accompany them. Although ‘Experiment Number One’ on the later album Caribbean Sunset is an astonishing experiment in immediacy and studio improvisation, and the New York No Wave albums Sabotage/Live and John Cale Comes Alive are raw and exciting, it is studio albums such as the pared back Music for a New Society and solo live albums that show Cale at his best.

These are where Cale lets the songs, not clever arrangements or studio trickery, do the talking. The three albums on Ship of Fools are fantastic, clever and seductive, but ultimately they are of their time, the smartarse 70s before punk arrived to ask a whole bunch of questions and provoke both a paring back and energetic rethink. Less would become more.

Songs such as ‘Cable Hogue’, ‘I Keep a Close Watch’, ‘Guts’, ‘You Know More Than I Know’ and his visceral dismemberment of Elvis Presley’s ‘Heartbreak Hotel’* would remain in Cale’s live set for decades, but here they feel restrained and caged within their arrangements and overproduction. These albums are full of astonishing songs but ones that are waiting to burst out and fly free.

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

(*Elvis Presley sang the song but did not write it, although he was given a part-writing credit to help encourage him to record it.)


John Cale performs ‘Heartbreak Hotel’, 1983

 

 

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IN EVIDENCE

{the photographs
of William Eggleston

While we were trying to make sense
of Donald Trump’s election victory

and what it meant
for the Middle East, Gaza
in particular

Lesbians, Gays, and all those others

a Tennessee police officer, sent
to check on the welfare of dogs
that had been reported as being
maltreated by their owners

who hadn’t even voted

shot every single one of them
with his sidearm, and then got back
into his cruiser, told the despatcher,

who often came to work
in house slippers, wool-lined tartan

that all was fine and dandy, switched
off his lights and the woo-woo noise,
drove back into town for breakfast

a coffee and a croissant, surprisingly

 

 

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 Steven Taylor

 

 

 

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Buckland – Dover 1961.

Somebody – a friend – asked me ‘what do you remember before the age of seven?’

In 1961 I was four years old.
We lived in a rundown part of Dover – Buckland.
My mother owned a small corner shop.
One day my father came home drunk
packed a bag, left and never came back.
We all hated him
The bastard.

After the Luftwaffe bombed Dover flat
It was mostly ash underfoot and the smell of burnt half demolished buildings
husks which ended their days on antidepressants as if that were possible.

Nowadays they would remind you of people in Philadelphia petrified in motion by Fentanyl.
As if frozen in time when the music stopped
Except black and empty and full of obsolete moons and stars that bring to mind toy sheriff’s badges not a million silver iotas in the night sky.

In a bombed out building I found a tin hat and a gas mask.
Tutenkarman had nothing on that find.
I got a dog for my fourth birthday,
it bit me and I’ve never liked dogs since.
Two doors from our shop was a Chinese restaurant.
Out the back they kept a chicken tied on a bit
of string
It rarely lasted until the end of the evening.
I guess chickens understand fate as well.
Once we dug a big hole at the back of the cinema
somebody told us there was a ‘Woolly Mammoth‘ buried there.
Like most things they told us back then it wasn’t true.
I saw a ghost in the attic where the previous owner had stored religious artefacts.
They sent a priest to question me.
He reckoned I was probably telling the truth.
But nothing more was said
My brother got arrested for stealing lead from old
buildings.
He was too young to be locked up for life.
So they let him go.
My mother was kind to gypsies and served them in our shop
They said my mother would be ’lucky‘.
She wasn’t and always loved men who got drunk and beat her up until the day she died.
I actually remember a lot before the age of seven.

Anselmo Keifer is undoubtedly the greatest artist
of the Twenty-First century.

“Anselm Kiefer frequently incorporates burnt materials into his art, using them to symbolize loss, destruction, and the cyclical nature of history. He often incorporates burnt wood, straw, and charred paper into his paintings and sculptures, layering them with other materials like paint, ash, and lead. These materials are not just aesthetically chosen but serve a symbolic purpose, reflecting themes of memory, history, and the destructive power of war.”

Anselmo Keifer would have loved Post War Dover
I could have shown him around the bomb sites.
We could have taken a charred stick and written on the wall of a derelict factory in his German language, the words of his beloved poet Paul Celan in ‘Todes Fugue’:

Schwarze Milch der Frühe wir trinken dich nachts
wir trinken dich mittags der Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland
wir trinken dich abends und morgens wir trinken und trinken
er Tod ist ein Meister aus Deutschland sein Auge ist blau.*

Or as TS Eliot wrote in ‘Rhapsody on a Wintery Night’.

“Twelve o’clock.
Along the reaches of the street
Held in a lunar synthesis,
Whispering lunar incantations
Dissolve the floors of memory
And all its clear relations,
Its divisions and precisions”.

“The last twist of the knife”

So it’s back to Dover bombs and what you remember.
An attic full of dumbstruck Virgin Marys
A piece of waste ground empty spread out
like a scorched sheet to catch the falling bombs.
A kid found a grenade in a cellar and it rained like forever in 1961.
Or so it seemed.

Before the age of seven.
What do we remember?
And where do we go from there?

 

 

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Malcolm Paul
Picture Anselmo Keifer

*“Black milk of dawn we drink you at night
we drink you at noon death is a master from Deutschland
we drink you evenings and mornings we drink and drink
death is a master from Deutschland his eye is blue”

 

 

 

 

 

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Pit Village

The dark of morning, silent still the hooter,
The town sleeps on beneath the lowering headgear.
Only a slight creak of opening doors
Allows the escape of crackling fresh hearth smoke
Drifting crisply down clog-clattered cobbles
With miners’ hushed but gently muscular voices.

As they near the pit now chattering are the voices
And one booms out, you’d swear he was the hooter
The brick-paved yard displaces homely cobbles
As men await their start beneath the headgear
Cadging half a tab for one last smoke
Before they mount the cage and close the doors.

Head lamps reveal the paddies through the air doors 
And men are marshalled by the drivers voices
Tobacco chews are shared instead of smoke
Which they can’t do again until the hooter
Relieves them and uplifted by the headgear
They clatter once again across the cobbles. 

The milkman rattles over lazy cobbles
 And housewives rustle curtains by the doors. 
The sun has risen now behind the headgear
And streets are filled with scrambling children’s voices
Whose fathers toil down deep until the hooter
Sounds the day shift’s end to streets of smoke. 

And now across the valley rolls the smog smoke
Gathering as dust between the cobbles 
Echoing at last to shift-end’s hooter
And soon the opening of the lift-shaft doors. 
Across the yard resound the gleeful voices
And baths dissolve the dirt, beneath the headgear. 

And with each dwindling year are fewer headgear
And miners jobs are blown away like smoke
And fewer, fewer, sound the laughing voices. 
They found a hypodermic on the cobbles
So no child plays unless behind closed doors, 
And no-one knows how to repair the hooter. 

Now silenced coughing voices, gone the headgear, 
And rusted is the hooter, cleared the smoke. 
Deserted cobbles reflect “executive” doors. 

 

 

 

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 Stephen A. Linstead 

 

 

 

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From the near distance


From the near distance
of illusory realities,
through the fragile fortress of dreams,
deep in oblivion 
of the memories,
all the way to infinity 
at a sharp angle
of the vicious circle,
with diamond precision sometimes,
but always slightly distracted,
love fills all the senses,
until reason surrenders
and love wins …

 

 

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Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

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Sounding the Roar of Presence

The bass speaks – 193CD (2025), Uroboro (Discus Music)

The poet and jazz musician Keith Jafrate is a prolific creator: he has books to his name going back to the 1980s (one that often gets a mention is Songs for Eurydice from 2004). He has also created and appeared on numerous albums. In recent years, he’s been part of Matt Webster’s Signia Alpha, alongside poet Nick Toczek.

Uroboro is Italian for Ouroboros, the Greek symbol that depicts a snake devouring its own tail. The band started life as a trio, brought together by Jafrate to play his own compositions, comprising of himself plus Anton and Johnny Hunter, who he met through the Noise Upstairs, a monthly improvisation event held at the Golden Lion in Todmorden. As time went on, it expanded into the larger collective enterprise we see here. the bass speaks is the second album they’ve made to be released by Discus Music (you can buy them both together as a bundle).

the bass speaks started life as a series of poems, written in response to a humorous suggestion by Uroboro’s bass player, John Pope. As Jafrate says, he ‘suggested … that i should write a pamphlet entitled how to write a bassline, because he liked playing the basslines i’d written. i thought that was a lovely thing to say, even though it was tongue-in-cheek, and we all laughed about it and moved on. but the idea stuck in my mind, and i began writing poems that addressed it, though not in any practical way…..’

The initial idea might’ve been tongue-in-cheek, but the end result was a sequence of thirty-seven serious – though playful – poems entitled the bass speaks or how to write a bassline. It led to Jafrate composing a suite incorporating four of the poems (although the album comes with a copy of the whole sequence – it’s an album and a poetry book in one). As he says in his notes on the album: ‘all the poems are music. i see no separation between the two media, never have.’  And indeed, immersing yourself in the poetry and the music, it’s hard even to tell where the two end and the world itself begins: he talks, for example, of ‘the green oak’s improv’, trees reaching for the light the way an improvising musician reaches for the next thing to do. Throughout both the poems and the music, you get the feeling that everything is interconnected and may indeed be only one thing: I could say that the words and the music move through time as a river flows to the sea, but to connect them with a simile – or metaphor, for that matter – feels inadequate (rivers are frequently referenced in these poems).  As he says, in one of the poems, ‘I sound the roar of presence’. And the ‘roar of presence’ is everything. We live in ‘the wide land of the embodied song’, in which ‘ the shape of melody’ and ‘the melody of shape’ are one and the same thing. And as for how we fit into it all, as he says: ‘i dreamt my body was itself a dream’ (an idea which connects, in a way, with the name of the band). His vision, however is not passive. As he says:

     we will make change
     as certain as the slender ready yellow-dipped yellow-tipped
     missiles of the daffodil will burst’
                     [poem 35]

Reading that, and not for the first or only time while reading the sequence, I found myself thinking of Dylan Thomas. (If only he’d been a jazz musician. He did inspire an album by the Stan Tracey Quartet, but that’s another story). And on the subject of resonances with other artists, you could say Jafrate looks to inner space the way Sun Ra looked to outer space. To borrow a line from Sun Ra, space, in both cases, is the place.

The music itself lives up to the promise of the poetry. Jafrate’s compositions, as performed by Uroboro, pull off the trick of sounding mellow and serious at the same time (it might help explain what I mean when I say Silvie Rose’s vocals in the third track immediate set me thinking of the Vienna Art Orchestra. Elsewhere there are echoes of Bjork). The tracks tend to be long – they’re all over ten minutes – as this is music that takes time to grow and develop in a way that’s always absorbing. You could use it merely as a soundtrack for the coming summer if you want, but, to do it justice, you’ll also want to immerse yourself in it, free of distractions.

Interestingly, the bass itself isn’t given the sort of prominence in the music the album title might lead one to expect. As Jafrate says, ‘only after we’d finished recording did it occur to me that at no point in the compositions had i left space specifically for a bass solo! but the suite is not about the bass in that sense, instead it tries to show how the bass … leads not by being in the foreground but by making a path for the whole ensemble to follow, by making a craft for the whole ensemble to sail in.’ Nevertheless, John Pope gets to play some great duet passages with Sylvie Rose’s flute and Faith Brackenbury’s violin. The bass plays a prominent role, too, at the beginning of track 5, ‘I can do no wrong’, which builds up into an absorbing, slow-moving counterpoint involving voices, sax and arco bass with the piano weaving figures in and out of the legato lines (the slow release, contrapuntal climax is a common strategy on this album and it works every time).

the bass speaks is an enchanting album. It’s not only well worth a listen, it’s also well worth buying as, as I said, it comes with the poetry that led to its making. In addition, it comes with the mandala-like images created by Luca Jafrate that go so well with the poems used on the album.

 

 

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Dominic Rivron

LINKS

the bass speaks: https://discusmusic.bandcamp.com/album/the-bass-speaks-193cd-2025

 

 

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Waiting for Mary

Pere Ubu

Pere Ubu is an American rock group formed in Cleveland, Ohio, in 1975. The band had a variety of long-term and recurring band members, with singer David Thomas being the only member staying throughout the band’s lifetime. They released their debut album The Modern Dance in 1978 and followed with several more LPs before disbanding in 1982. Thomas reformed the group in 1987, continuing to record and tour.

Describing their sound as “avant-garage”, Pere Ubu’s work drew inspiration from sources such as musique concrète, 60s rock, performance art, and the industrial environments of the American Midwest. While the band achieved little commercial success, they have exerted a wide influence on subsequent underground music.

WAITING FOR MARY

Welcome to Mars! It’s open all hours
“What are we doing here?”
Bill’s in the back and Fred’s on the phone, sayin’
“What are we doing here?” (Oh, he was sayin’ that?)
You are never alone in the Twilight Zone
“What are we doing here?”

Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Oh

I oughta know but my memory is goin’
“What are we doing here?”
As bad as it seems, maybe we’re dreamin’
“What are we doing here?”
Don’t mind the stares we’ve paid for these chairs
“What are we doing here?”
And keep up that smile, it might be awhile
“What are we doing here?”

Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Oh

Oh, I
Wonder why
She can’t be
On time
Ever?

What do you know, it had to be snowing!
“What are we doing here?”
I’m down on my knees, I’m begging you please
“What are we doing here?”
Oh, what do you see? Why, it had to be me!
“What are we doing here?” (Sayin’… I was sayin’… What?)
Now, one at a time or all in a line, say it:
“What are we doing here?”

Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary
Oh

What are we doing here?
What are we doing here?
What are we doing here?
What are we doing here?
Waiting. For. Mary
Waiting. For. Mary

 

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An evening with the Purple Heart Parade and Lines of Silence

 

Alan Dearling

Last evening was a double-header band night upstairs at the Golden Lion in Todmorden. Another Dark Matter Promotion. First on stage, Kraut-electronica with a psych-tinge, from the live version of Lines of Silence. David Little is the common denominator in each and every version of Lines of Silence. Tonight, he was accompanied by Andrea on percussion and second guitar.  A half hour of shimmerings and glimmerings of sound. I kind of heard echoes of the Sounds of the Sirens. But, I’m weird, I guess!

Lines of Silence are an ever evolving experimental krautrock band.  They say of themselves: “We use digital electronics, motorik beats, improvisation, dub and drone rock guitar explosions to create an immersive, expansive and contemporary take on psychedelia.”  At this live gig, they introduced a number of tracks not yet on any of their albums. And there was one track including vocals, which seems to have been a first for them. These tracks were: Wolf, which has been part of their live set list for some time, and Lines in Opposition and Kinetic, both new compositions. David explained that they are working towards their fourth album.

The set ended with the Lines of Silence title track from their third album, ‘The Long Way Home’. In the publicity for the gig, it explains that: “The lead track of the same name was remixed by kraut-legends FaUSt’s Amaury Cambuzat (also of Ulan Bator) who the band met on an experimental music retreat in the Pyrenees in 2023. Electronic Sound described the album as ‘a work that is both wholly unpredictable and also oddly comforting.’ And  Moonbuilding Magazine called it ‘great stuff, a proper record that should be listened to from start to finish’.”

A Dirty Sunbeams video from the mesmeric Golden Lion LoS set: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1LRVP_v75Fc

The Purple Heart Parade were billed as shoegaze. Proponents of a wall of burgeoning sound with wailing, reverb-laden vocals from the telegenic front-man. Lots of visual evidence too…Peter, their singer, is very much in the Iggy sort of mould. As David Little from Lines of Silence told me after the gig: “Yeah totally! I loved their set.” And Catherine Moore wrote on her Facebook feed: “As a friend just said, their records are ‘sublime’. I’m so happy to have seen them playing live again – a wonderful set and Peter Cowap’s voice gave me goosebumps throughout!”

The Purple Heart Parade is a psychedelic rock band that like to create epic landscapes of sound. It’s very immersive, engulfing the audience in the sonic attack, and the lyrics, which they say, offer: “themes of personal experiences and real-life situations.”

There are hints of the Stone Roses and the Black Angels, but it is front-man, Peter who holds the attention with his physical gyrations and his unusual high-pitched, oft-distorted, vocal delivery. The band have featured on a wide range of festivals including Liverpool Psych Fest, Reverence Festival (Portugal), Kendal Calling and have supported many notable bands including The Ghost of a Saber Tooth Tiger, Puressence, Six By Seven, Swervedriver, Temples, Toy, The Horrors amongst others, with notable allies in peers, including Si Jones & Nick McCabe (The Verve), Mark Gardener (Ride), Simone Butler (Primal Scream), and Sean Lennon – as well as a cult following on a global scale, apparently with South America in particular taking a shine to the band’s engulfing sea of feedback and effortless instrumentation.

‘Petrichor’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qYf-SMi6yJc

And, here is another Dirty Sunbeams video, this one of Purple Heart Parade from the Todmorden gig. Tinkling guitars and Peter’s breathy, warbling vocals: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L55HE4EL_Bk

 

 

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Newcastle Ewan Brown Anarchist Bookfair

 

Sat 7 June, Star and Shadow Cinema

Tickets: Free

2025 will mark the 4th annual Newcastle Ewan Brown Anarchist Bookfair, an event celebrating the life of Ewan and the radical past, present and future of the North-East.

Stalls, workshops, live music, art and film 10am – 5pm.

More information here

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The Edge of Chaos

I

Scream, scream to the wind
and cry. Batter closed doors
and cry.

The innocent sold for silver,
the needy for a pair of sandals.
The heads of the poor trampled
and justice denied to the oppressed.

Your wealthy are full of violence;
your inhabitants speak lies,
with tongues of deceit in their mouths.
Rulers give judgement for a bribe,
priests teach for a price,
prophets give oracles for money.

Enacting unjust statutes,
writing oppressive decrees,
depriving the needy of judgment,
robbing the poor of justice,
making widows their plunder,
and orphans their prey!

They covet fields, and seize them;
houses, and take them away;
they oppress householder and house,
people and their inheritance.
Vineyards eaten up,
the plunder of the poor in your own houses,
the people crushed
the faces of the poor ground in the dust.

You who hate the good and love the evil –
who tear the skin off people,
and the flesh off their bones;
who eat the flesh of people,
flay their skin off them,
break their bones in pieces,
and chop them up like meat in a kettle,
like flesh in a cauldron –
should you not know justice?

Like cages full of birds,
your houses are full of deceit;
you have become rich and powerful
and have grown fat and sleek.
Your evil deeds have no limit;
you turn justice into wormwood
and cast righteousness to the ground
because you tax the destitute
and exact from them levies of grain.
You do not promote
the case of the fatherless,
do not defend the just cause,
the cause of the poor,
the cause of the just.

Scream to the wind
and cry.

II

Hello! We are the shallow people,
reflections of our fitness ratings,
shining the surface of our existence,
selling our lives to seek significance.

OK! we are on heat, on fire,
hyper cool, yet full of desire.
Bad and wicked are terms of approval.
Bums and tums are there for removal.

Narcissus is our role model;
made in Chelsea, such a fit young man, 
lightly tanned and with a wicked four pack,
we know that he is Essex!

We are pissed off, falling over,
stumbling in the dark.
Drunk on celebrity chardonnay,
technology sated, intoxicated.

We think we are such foxy ladies
sexy, sultry sods.
We are hung over, hearing voices,
kissing the porcelain god.

We are off our heads,
out of our skulls,
out of our minds,
we decline.

III

Today the ‘Daily Star’ proclaimed its three stills
and a story from a Disney film
printed week by week as a comic strip ‘historic’.

I wonder who will remember
their histrionic hyperbole
in another year
or after next week’s bag of chips.

We wildly fling words like some crazed mudslinger
desperately hoping that some will stick.

Today we mix Reagan and breasts, Beirut and divorce.
Princess Di with a famine, the IRA with a horse.
Babs breaks a marriage and makes front page news,
her friend takes the money as the truth must be sold.

Our words are exaggerated, emotive, declamatory;
words that are angry, words that are sad,
words that are loopy, words that are mad.

The charge was verbal manslaughter,
the defendant admitted rape.
The judge, an illustrated dictionary
said the case would have to wait.
The conscience of the Nation
was still asleep in bed
as the defendant went scot-free
and his circulation spread.

This poem’s a libel
and self-destructs like a bomb.

We shadow the bags under our eyes,
cover our paleness with rouge,
enliven our lips with another shade
and sew up our sagging breasts.

We are society as a matter of course.
On a matter we matter of course,
on a matter we curse,
onomatopoeia.

IV

We live on the edge of chaos,
Everyone we know is two-faced.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Everything we have found has been misplaced.
We live on the edge of chaos,
All we have believed has been a mistake.
We live on the edge of chaos.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Avoidance of pain is the name of our game.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Insulation from life is our aim.
We live on the edge of chaos,
We feel fragile, we feel maimed.
We live on the edge of chaos.
           
We live on the edge of chaos,
Our homes are our prisons.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Our lives are television.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Our relationships are divisions.
We live on the edge of chaos.

We live on the edge of chaos,
Only therapy holds us back.
We live on the edge of chaos,
With spiritual hunger, an aching lack.
We live on the edge of chaos,
With no means of changing tack.
We live on the edge of chaos.
           
We live on the edge of chaos,
Every day we balance on the wire.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Every day we flirt with fire.
We live on the edge of chaos,
Any act could ignite our funeral pyre.
We live on the edge of chaos.

V

Convicted, conflicted, the beast slouches
full of passionate intensity, leopard body,
ten horns and the seven heads of a man,
orange complexion and yellowing slicked-back
hat hair, a gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
slow thighs moving roughly.

Oligarch loving, elect deceiving,
fathering lies, fostering newspeak,
the art of failure, fired apprentice
uttering haughty and blasphemous words,
lion mouth, worshipped as Big Brother,
bearing a healed death-blow to the head.

Authority over tribes, peoples, languages
and nations, making war on the saints, conquering.
Who is like him? Who can fight against him?
For a time and time let those who have an ear hear.
If taken captive, go. If killed, know it is fated.
Chaos loosed, anarchy invoked, innocence drowned.

VI

I see the bare chest and bone idol
resting as he crosses from the garden to the grave.
I see the rest sleeping in life
and waking in death.

I see the passage of years as a river’s run.
I see the traffic flow driven
along the Embankment to Blackfriars and across.

I see the flow with no ebb.
I see the sweep of the bay,
the rush of the wave
and no barrier operating.

VII

In the smoke-filled splendour
of a now empty restaurant
lit by dwindling candles,
at a small table
in a shaded corner
with his head in his hands
bowed to an empty wineglass
sat man.

VIII

We are the survivors of the accident.
We who arrived after the damage was done.
We silently circled the butt end of the crashed car
seeing the grey suited man, car door open,
one foot on the ground,
motionless as a model in a police reconstruction,
relentlessly staring glass.
The other man in the other car
head bowed in a religious attitude, unreal.

No one had arrived.
The police had not arrived.
The ambulance had not arrived.
The crowd of spectators had not arrived.
The two cars had arrived and met.
We had arrived and left.

Passing telephone boxes,
confident in the knowledge
that someone would have phoned,
we arrived, we saw, we left.
The scene was still.
No sirens sounded.
The police had not arrived.
No crowd of spectators had gathered.

We are the survivors of the accident.
We who are still alive.

IX

Our wound beyond our understanding.
Our flesh requiring healing.
No doctor with an answer can be found.

Our lovers turn away disgusted.
Having used us they abuse us.
Desire evaporates as morning light
reveals our hideous bruising.

Our pressure groups and charities
that held us in the public eye
have dropped us, their hands burning.
No one to plead our cause.

Our sins are piled like mountains,
smelling thick like slurry on a breeze.
They choke the nostrils, bring bile to the throat.

Now will I come, even now, without stinting.
Take you in my arms with surgeon skill
to scrape, clean and heal, closing impossible wounds.

Great weals of prayer like shots of lightening
ripping, riving darkened sky
and light shines through gaps and cracks
and rips and tears prepared by prayer.

X

She screamed
with the intensity of silence.
Her body pounded.
Her face contorted
from the inner turmoil.
She screamed.

Nothing moved.
Nothing answered.

Still.
Peace.
Rest.
She writhed.

No time to think,
react.
No time to relax,
react.
No time to reflect,
react.

No time to react

No time

No movement

No voices

No pressure

No schedule

She screamed.
She could not cope.
In the silence she heard
God.

 

 

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Jonathan Evens
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Things to Make and Do

Raucous Invention: the Joy of Making, Mark Hearld (Thames & Hudson)

Mark Hearld’s house makes mine look tidy. I may have books on the floor and paintings leant against the walls, but Hearld has bits and bobs and trinkets, shells and cards, and corn dollies, figurines, ceramics, old toys and things on every level surface. Or that’s what it looks like in the photos in this new, revised and enlarged edition of his book.

I first came across Hearld’s work, or at least clocked his name, when York Art Gallery reopened after a refurbishment a few years ago. He had been commissioned to curate ‘The Lumber Room’, and he duly filled it with a cornucopia of material from various museums, galleries and their store rooms in York, accompanied by wallpaper, sculpture, images, scrapbooks and models he had produced.

These, like his home collection all feed into the illustrative collages which appear to be the root of much of his work. Offcuts, textures and silhouettes – often animals or birds – are arranged and layered up to produce exquisite images. Owls in flight against deep blue, waders on a beach with a modernist building behind, swallows swooping, dogs dancing, hares leaping, intertwining flowers and plants. Think 1930s prints from the likes of Eric Ravilious meeting Eric Carle’s The Hungry Caterpillar and a visit from John Piper’s 1930s experimental collages on the beach phase. Think big bold colours, impressionistic landscape backgrounds and fluid ink drawing.

They are beautiful pictures in themselves but these images can be applied elsewhere, using Hearld’s own but also others’ skills. Wallpapers can be printed as can fabrics for shirts or scarves; there are editions of letterpress cards too. Collages can be turned into free-standing three-dimensional card sculptures or become steel weathervanes, and Hearld is adept at adapting his designs for ceramic tiles, plates and platters.

You name it and Hearld has probably done it or had his work reproduced in or on it. The market is flooded with affordable postcards and fold-out birds. (We have two hanging in our lounge.) Hearld is an exuberant collector and maker whose scrapbooks and shelves cannot contain his interests and influences. This glorious hardback book is almost as unruly, a treasure trove of colour, movement, ideas and images. Handwritten lists of influences and works jostle with loads of full-page photos and illustrations along with brief informative texts. Section by section, we are drawn into Hearld’s joyful kaleidoscope of creation and invention. Take a deep breath and dive in.

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

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FOLLOW

 

Jacob Cullum

 

 

Sounds: “Heavy breathing off mic loop” by bevangoldswain, “Thriller Ambient” by unfa, “Scream 43” by erh.

 

More at jacobcullum.com

 

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Love This And Love That

The letters you wrote but didn’t find
perfect enough to post when paper 
used to be the medium 
make a range and the summits, create
the topography once famous for curing 
difficult lungs diseases.

Between two crumpled lines about 
the territories love owns and a vague 
threat you made to weaponize your lips
now you ride in a battered Jeep, and 
your guide shows you a monastery –
the best for the selfies.

There you find God during one spin
of a prayer cylinder and lose him again 
as if he is the word you needed 
for the completion of belles-lettres. 

 

 

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

 

 

 

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The No-ones of the Old House

 

 

 

The uncle’s son who pours 
water on the head of anyone 
passing below comes downstairs 
to fight about the right of the window.

The weather reported by the birds
schedules a shower soon. I tell him
that he may take some rest. 

The birds deliver some news about 
the mice rotting in our basement.
Our noses already know the same.

I often dream about my mother reborn
as a mouse seeking for happiness 
one grain at a time.

“Please leave.” I tell the words. “Rest.”
I tell the hands to know the pleasure 
of pouring darkness on the innocent.

Rain calls my umbrella. I have nowhere 
to go but the umbrella needs a bath,
and I have been its negligent guardian.

 

 

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Kushal Poddar

Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

 

 

 

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The Iterative Perspective

 

The one thing we learn from History is the art of the sequence, from the crazy voice dismissed as a joke, to the bodies buried in unmarked pits. It’s a line I can – and do – draw in my sleep, and then I wake up to identify any twisted face I may still recognise. Family, friends, celebrities, work colleagues, and local shop assistants with whom I’ve occasionally exchanged pleasantries, though I struggle to place them when I encounter them out of context. Though quantum theory queers the concept of causality, History holds the cards in a neat fan, and lays them, face-up, one by one. It’s a pack like those that sailors used to carry, with pin-ups winking shocking promises, though these are leering men in suits, lying through their gleaming teeth. We’re somewhere round the Jack of blood diamonds, and we know it won’t be long until the self-appointed king trumps the lot. And then it starts again: ace, two, thee, four – we’ve seen and heard it all before, and will laugh at the bland predictability of it all, until familiar faces start to disappear, and we realise, once again, that no one is joking.

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Oz Hardwick
picture Nick Victor

 

 

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To See What I Seek

I wrote what I wanted to
I never thought it was poetry.

The dancing steps of rhyme got away.
The wind blew in every corner
Of my city, and music kissed the ears
Of jolly children at play.

I wrote my heart out.
I hear the mood swings.

It was just a word more.
It was just a piece of soulful dime
Exchanged for concrete words.

I exchanged laughter
I exchanged greetings
And the sad heart
Felt the beat.

I wrote what I have to
Went a little ahead
Behind the blind horizon
To see what I seek.

Meaning is what happens
When life responds.

 

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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HOT FRUIT MIX – MAY 2025

The HOT FRUIT MIX is a monthly guest mix hosted by Alice Platt and featured on James Endeacotts’s Morning Glory show on Soho Radio.
Each mix contains 13 songs chosen by Platt, facts about the songs/artist and a monthly sponsor. This mix is sponsored by Smiling Cow Beef Flavoured Toothpaste
Producer – Colin Gibson

 

 

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The Cigar Flaunting  Chicken 

Folks , do you know of a dandy chicken 
Who went berserk in a swanky kitchen ?
In a three piece suit ,  a sight to behold
From his neck , hung a necklace of gold . 

He walked with a strut and a swagger . 
Once, the poor fellow did almost stagger,
When a creepy crawly tried to encroach 
into his space – it was a dapper cockroach! 

With incredible flair,  he flaunted a cigar
Also nibbled greedily on a chocolate bar .
The dandy chicken was fond of brandy .
How he loved  the taste of  sweet candy !

He crinkled his nose at the bland cornflakes 
Salivating at the sight of cookies and cakes.  
Puffing stylishly at his costly, branded pipe 
this narcissistic type started to crib and gripe

when cock- eyed , he eyed a delicacy cooked . 
On the smell , the dandy chicken was hooked. Never the one to stay away from temptation . Unaware of an imminent fiery annihilation, 

the chicken  gave vent to a lingering sigh 
In a burst of spunk, he jumped three feet high 
And fell into the boiling cauldron- the poor guy! 
Now , the talk of the town is this chicken fry ! 

 

 

 

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Santosh Bakaya 
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Ma Yongbo Poetry Road Trip — Summer Tour 2025 volume 4

 


 

information is colour—for Yongbo 致永波:信息即色彩

 in response to an image of him standing by a graffiti wall in CIQKOU, Ancient Town, North Song Dynasty 回应他站在北宋古镇磁器口涂鸦墙旁的一张照片 

 

information is colour.

 

Information in scrawl
is like a series of red bolts
holding the wall together,
lines interconnecting,
like edifices swallowing trains.
Whole phrases merge
with built up dynamics.

Flat becomes a thru-path,
letters stack
in the shortage of space,
like squashed up houses
on a tilted urban hillside;
green lost voice between the grey.

We are living in all the spaces,
they are all slowly turning red;
green is a slowly shrinking silence.

The poet is a thought-battery
charging on daylight,
descriptors of energy
flow through him,
then back into the wall
like a red beam

 

11th May 2025

 

Response Poetry By Helen Pletts 海伦·普莱茨

 

Response Poetry Translated by Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

 

致永波:信息即色彩 information is colour—for Yongbo

 

回应他站在北宋古镇磁器口涂鸦墙旁的一张照片 in response to an image of him standing by a graffiti wall in CIQKOU, Ancient Town, North Song Dynasty

 

信息即色彩。
潦草的文字信息
如一道道红色闪电
将墙体维系在一起,
线条相互交织,
仿佛楼宇吞噬着列车。
完整的语句
与累积的动感融合。

平面化作通透的路径,
字母在空间的匮乏中堆叠,
如同倾斜的城市山坡上
挤作一团的房屋;
灰色之间,绿色失去了声音。

我们栖居于所有空间,
它们全都在慢慢变红;
绿色是一片缓缓收缩的寂静。

诗人是思想的电池
在日光下充电,
能量的描述符流经他,
随后返回墙中
如一道红光

 

2025年5月11日

Helen Pletts海伦·普莱茨 : (www.helenpletts.com) Shortlisted 5 times for Bridport Prize, twice longlisted for The Rialto Nature & Place, longlisted for the Ginkgo Prize, longlisted for The National Poetry Competition. 2nd prize Plaza Prose Poetry 2022-23. Shortlisted Plaza Prose Poetry 2023-24. English co-translator of Ma Yongbo. Ma Yongbo is listed among the 100 famous contemporary Chinese poets since the 1920s. He is the main poet-translator of Western postmodern poetry on the mainland, including Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery.

 

Ciqikou Ancient Town – As the largest ancient town in Chongqing’s urban area, Ciqikou best preserves the traditional Bayu-style architecture, folk customs, and cultural heritage. Both ancient and vibrant, Ciqikou boasts a thousand-year history.

Short video footage:
3aa6f26b-8aa8-464b-ab07-69dea7b6c7e7

 

 

The man in red is reading 红衣人读书

 

The leaves are falling,
the man in red is reading,
he knows that the leaves will fall faster and faster.
Occasionally, he looks up from the page
and looks around blankly.

As long as he reads,
the leaves will continue to fall,
in the surrounding messy background
the streets, benches and buildings will gradually emerge,
unifying all their minute differences with brown.

He keeps reading,
he keeps growing taller and bigger like a mountain.
He keeps reading until all the leaves fall,
until the snow starts to fall,
and if you pat his shoulder at this time,
he will melt like a snowflake.

 

2000

 

By Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

Translated by Ma Yongbo 19th December 2024

 

 

 

红衣人读书 The man in red is reading 马永波

 

树叶在落
红衣人在读书
他知道树叶会越来越快
他时而从书页上抬头
茫然四顾

而只要他阅读
树叶就会继续落下
周围凌乱的背景中
就会逐渐呈现出街道、长椅、建筑
用褐色统一起种种微小的差异

他一直在阅读
他像不断长高的山越来越巨大了
他一直读到树叶落光
一直到雪开始落下
而如果这时你拍拍他的肩膀
他就会雪花一样融化

 

2000

 

 

Introducing Ma Yongbo 马永波   interview by Pat Nolan

 

PHOTO: Ma Yongbo, Nanjing, 2008

 

Poet Ma Yongbo   was born in 1964 in Heilongjiang Province, China. As a poet, he is representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry. He is also a leading scholar in Anglo-American postmodernist poetry. Since 1986 Ma has published over eighty original works and translations. He is a professor in the Faculty of Arts and Literature, Nanjing University of Science and Technology. His studies center around Chinese and Western modern poetics, post-modern literature, and eco-criticism. His translations from English include works by Walt Whitman, Emily Dickinson, Ezra Pound, Wallace Stevens, William Carlos Williams, John Ashbery, Henry James, Herman Melville, and May Sarton among others. Notably one of Professor Ma’s early projects was the translation of Up Late, American Poetry Since 1970 (1987) edited by Andrei Codrescu.

 

What first drew your interest to literature, poetry in particular? (Were you introduced to it in school or through recommendations from friends?)

My interest in literature probably has several origins. In elementary school, one of the books from my father, who was a colonel, left the deepest impression on me—it was the Philosophical Dictionary compiled by the Soviet scholar Rosenthal Yudin. Then there was a box of classic foreign literary works that my eldest brother Yongping (also a poet) brought back when he left the army. There were also the literary magazines subscribed to by my elder sister, who was a middle school Chinese teacher. These were my earliest enlightenment. In the third year of middle school, my Chinese teacher transcribed my essay on the blackboard with chalk, constantly encouraging me. From then on, I became the best student in the school, and by high school, I was the best in my grade, especially in Chinese and English. In the first year of high school, I started writing novels, plays, and poems, receiving further encouragement from my Chinese teacher. When I took the college entrance exam, my essay received a perfect score—a rarity. In 1981, I was admitted to Xi’an Jiaotong University, ranking first among the 25 students the university recruited from Heilongjiang Province that year. However, after entering university, I wasn’t very interested in my computer software major, so I picked up my love for writing poetry again, essentially trying to find a pillar for my sense of self-worth. In my university English class, I translated several African American poems as an exercise and received encouragement from a beautiful female teacher (if she hadn’t been beautiful, things might have been different). This planted another seed of curiosity about the world. During university, I was fortunate to find a community—I joined the “Sparks” literary society on campus and met a group of campus poets, some of whom became lifelong friends. One such friend is the poet Tong Xiaofeng, who later concentrated on film screenwriting, directing, and production in the 1990s. He is the  compiler of my four-volume Complete Collection of Poems.

These seem to be external reasons. The internal reason, as I now look back, should be the intense confusion about life and death that I felt around the age of six. These ultimate questions have been at the core of my thinking throughout my life. At the age of 11, I had an experience of “spiritual vision” that is difficult to explain in words. I suddenly found myself within the “totality of existence,” directly perceiving the entire universe. The linear separation of time no longer existed, and everything from the past, present, and future appeared simultaneously. Such a mystical experience rarely occurs in the Chinese language, and those few seconds were indescribable in words. It was similar to Gary Snyder’s realisation of the interconnectedness of all things when he returned a book to the shelf in a Kyoto library, or Mary Austin’s childhood “encounter with God” under a chestnut tree… I believe that all my literary and intellectual pursuits to this day have been an attempt to return to that Edenic state of unity with all things that I experienced at 11. From the beginning, my goal has been not just the pursuit of literature itself, but something intimately connected with transcendent existence—though I didn’t even rationally realise this myself until I was in my thirties.

 

At what age did you seriously consider writing poetry? (Who were your influences?)

 

I started writing poetry in the first year of high school, in 1980, when I was 16 years old. At that time, I also began to submit my work to publications, but none were accepted until 1986, when I was about to graduate from university. That was when my so-called “debut work” was published—a long poem. I still remember that the payment I received for it was equivalent to two months of living expenses. Starting in 1981, when I entered university, I devoted myself entirely to writing poetry. The reason was that I encountered some setbacks in my studies. I had been the top student in middle school, but in university, my grades only ranked in the middle, which was a bit disheartening. So, I turned to writing poetry. After all, one has to find a path in life, and at that time, I had a vague sense that if I couldn’t become a poet, I wouldn’t be able to accomplish anything else. It seems that Borges had a similar feeling.

When I first entered university, I voraciously read Tang and Song poetry, transcribing and memorising them, competing with fellow poetry enthusiasts to see who could remember the most Tang poems. I memorised the Lì Wēng Duì Yùn and other classical poetic forms, and I even wrote verses following the set structures of traditional Chinese poetry. Though these classical poems were full of clichés, I filled up two notebooks with them. Once, in a moment of impulse, I gave those notebooks to a girl. As it turns out, I can’t even remember her name now.

 

When were you exposed to Western poetry? (And which authors? And were they only English language?)

 

In middle school, I mainly liked Byron, Shelley, Goethe, Pushkin, Tagore, and Gibran, among others. In university, I encountered poets like Yesenin, Mayakovsky, Neruda, Reverdy, Apollinaire, Rimbaud, Keats, Wordsworth, Dickinson, Whitman, Eliot, Dylan Thomas, Ginsberg, and more in the library… It’s impossible to list them all. Here, I can highlight a few poets I particularly liked during my university years: Neruda’s The Heights of Machu Picchu, Mayakovsky’s A Cloud in Trousers, Keats’s Bright Star, and Ginsberg’s Howl.

Aside from poetry, Indian philosophy also had a significant impact on me during my university days, especially the Upanishads and The Life Divine. I consider them to be truly great poetry. These poets and works fundamentally changed my perception of the world and led me down the path of modernism, moving away from the traditions of romanticism and realism. Around 1983, I began to delve into the heart of modern poetry. This is a steep and narrow path, but as Dante said, it is the “right road,” and I consider myself fortunate to have found it.

 

What led you to specialise in US poetry?

 

Although I read a lot of American poetry during my university years—Longfellow, Dickinson, Whitman, and others—I don’t know why, despite recognising their greatness, they didn’t truly resonate with me at the time. Reading Dickinson made me feel stifled, as if I were trapped in a narrow berth on a ship; reading Whitman, on the other hand, left me overly excited, unable to sleep, so I read him less. It wasn’t until after I graduated from university, as I grew older, that I gradually began to understand them. Eventually, I even translated and studied their works, publishing two books of Dickinson translations: a bilingual poetry selection and a collection of her poems and writings. As for Whitman, I published a small poetry collection for children, which was just over 40 pages, and the most comprehensive collection of his prose currently available in Chinese. Some experiences only occur after reaching a certain age. Similarly, a deeper and more accurate understanding of certain poets only comes with age and the corresponding life experiences.

In 1985, Fredric Jameson came to China to give lectures, and his lecture notes were published in Chinese in 1986 under the title Postmodernism and Cultural Theory. This coincided with my university graduation. His book was quite popular in the reading circles of the 1980s. At that time, Chinese cultural and intellectual thought was still largely rooted in the Enlightenment tradition inherited from the May Fourth Movement, immersed in the admiration of modernity. But Jameson suddenly introduced a group of postmodern theorists like Foucault, Hassan and Lacan, bringing postmodern theory to the forefront. This book had an impact on me, but due to the scarcity of translations of postmodern works, especially poetry, in Chinese at that time, I could only get glimpses through the fragments quoted in theoretical articles. In the early 1990s, due to limited resources, it was difficult for me to obtain original English poetry collections. I need to photocopy them from libraries or had them mailed from the United States. A poetry friend from my university days, Gu Yifan, who was studying in the U.S., sent me The Collected Poems of W. H. Auden, an English Bible, and The Contemporary American Poets:American Poetry Since 1940 edited by Mark Strand. By the early 1990s, there were quite a few translations of postmodern theory and novels in China, but still no entire collections of postmodern poetry.

Starting in 1990, I began extensively reading and translating British and American poetry, along with some novels, and I’ve almost never stopped. It’s been about 35 years now, and I’ve published or I am awaiting the publication of around a hundred translations. Among those published relating to American poetry are The Contemporary American Poets:American Poetry Since 1940 (511 pages), The American Poetry Since 1950:Innovators and outsiders (744 pages), The American Poetry Since 1970:Up Late (717 pages), The Sellected Poems and Letters of Emily Dickinson (395 pages), The Selected Poems and Essays of Ezra Pound (1218 pages), The Selected Poems and Prose of Wallace Stevens (407 pages), Paterson by William Carlos Williams (402 pages), Selected Poems of Amy Lowell (410 pages) and The Selected Poems of John Ashbery (a three-volume bilingual edition totalling 831 pages). Among these, I spent eight years translating Contemporary American Poets:American Poetry Since 1940 and The American Poetry Since 1970:Up Late, which were the first anthologies titled “Postmodern Poetry Selections” in Chinese. These anthologies are primary influences on postmodern Chinese poetry. Besides introducing these large anthologies in whole book-length, I have conducted specialised studies on several major American poets from modernism onward—Whitman, Dickinson, Stevens, Pound, Williams, Bishop, Ashbery, and others. Next year, I plan to translate Charles Olson.

Why am I so obsessed with American poetry? Initially, it was mainly out of curiosity. I wanted to understand what postmodern poetry was really like. It’s undeniable that America is the birthplace of postmodern poetry. As I delved deeper, I became drawn to the strong experimental spirit of contemporary American poetry, its broad absorption of experiences, and its tremendous vitality born from heterogeneous mixtures. Compared to the elegance and refinement of European poetry, I prefer the openness and inclusiveness of American poetry. It seems that anything can be written into a poem, as if Whitman’s democratic ideals have given birth to a truly diverse and unconstrained aesthetic community in American poetry—something I don’t see in Chinese poetry.

 

Were there any other modern movements that caught your interest? (Surrealism, structuralism, Dada?)

 

My interests are quite broad, encompassing the various currents of the overall modernist movement, such as Symbolism, Imagism, Futurism, French Surrealism, German Expressionism, and Latin American Magical Realism. Dadaist art, in particular, tends to captivate people’s interest. Despite many Chinese poets having been exposed to Dadaist and Surrealist poetry, it’s curious that these movements did not give rise to a Surrealist school within Chinese poetry. Surrealist elements in Chinese poetry are often diffused throughout individual works rather than forming a cohesive movement or group. This is similar to the fate of New Criticism in Chinese literature, which is largely confined to university classrooms and the writings of so-called academic critics, with most poets and readers not adopting this method of reading poetry. I speculate that Surrealism did not take root in Chinese literature due to the constraints of the Chinese literary tradition, whose two most powerful traditions are lyrical expression and moral sentiment, roughly corresponding to Romanticism and Realism, both deeply entrenched. While Chinese poetry has absorbed the Surrealist exploration of the unconscious, its “exquisite corpse” and automatic writing have never really taken root in Chinese.

I’m also interested in the various schools of American poetry after World War II—the Middle Generation, the Confessional poets, the Beats, the New York School, the Black Mountain poets, Neo-Surrealism, Language Poetry, Performance Poetry, and some unclassifiable poets. Among these, the Confessional poets, the New York School, and Neo-Surrealism have had the most significant impact on contemporary Chinese poetry. For instance, Plath’s influence on Chinese feminist poetry, Ashbery’s impact on intellectual writing, and Neo-Surrealism’s influence on Southern poets. The Beats’ rebellious stance attracted the attention of many Chinese poets, but due to cultural constraints, the spirit and attitude of the Beats—marked by a disregard for convention—are hard to find in Chinese poetry, just as the openness of the Black Mountain poets and the broad inclusiveness of Pound are lacking. Neo-Surrealist poets like Bly and Wright are popular in China because their works often relate to nature, elevating images and thoughts from the context, which resonates with the unity of heaven and man in classical Chinese poetry. Their poetry is refined and comfortable to read, so it’s more widely appreciated.

The spirit of the Beats and the Black Mountain poets, however, is not easily transplanted into Chinese poetry, as the cultural environment doesn’t nurture it. Even if some individual poets are drawn to these movements, they find it difficult to gain momentum and become mainstream. Chinese poetry tends to favour and embrace works that are gentle, elegant, and moderate, avoiding extremes. The core of Chinese culture is the doctrine of the mean—balance and impartiality—which leads to a rejection or disregard for anything radical, experimental, or exploratory. Personally, I believe that the lack of grand, vigorous, and dynamic poets in Chinese literature, akin to Whitman, Pound, Williams (the Williams of Paterson, not the Williams of The Red Wheelbarrow), Ginsberg, Olson, or Jerome Rothenberg, is why the avant-garde spirit in Chinese poetry has struggled to establish itself. Even in the new century, in the era of internet poetry, the exploratory spirit of the 1980s and 1990s has severely declined and become lethargic. What Chinese poetry lacks is not refinement and elegance, but the vitality of life and the pioneering spirit of bold experimentation.

 

Tell me something about contemporary trends in Chinese poetry (And it’s relation to a “pan-poetics” of world literature).

 

It is very difficult to summarise the overall trends in contemporary Chinese poetry, as each poet may have their own perceived trends and directions. However, I am still willing to take the risk of offering my personal summary: objectification. Since the era of Tang and Song poetry, there has been an overwhelming tradition in Chinese poetry—lyricism. The vernacular language revolution of the New Culture Movement severed Chinese New Poetry from the classical poetry that adhered to fixed patterns, which is similar to how English modern and contemporary poetry abandoned the constraints of meter. From the mid-1980s to the present, I believe the greatest advancement in Chinese poetry has been the strengthening of narrative elements, using experiential poetics to correct the overly dominant lyricism. However, poetry has not abandoned lyricism; rather, it expresses lyricism through narrative. The stance of the lyrical subject has shifted from the traditional solipsistic self-expression to a voice that identifies the subject as an ordinary member of the universe. To draw an analogy, the previous form of lyricism was akin to the relationship between an actor on stage and the audience below, whereas now, the actor and the audience are mixed together, the stage has disappeared, and the consciousness of the speaker in the poem is merely one of many subjectivities, similar to Bakhtin’s concept of the “polyphonic novel.” I am not sure if this description conveys my meaning. If I were to use a more precise term, it would be that contemporary Chinese poetry places more emphasis on intersubjectivity rather than the old human-centred subjectivity. This is clearly related to concerns of ecological holism and also to the phenomenological “return to the life-world.” Chinese poetry, long known for its subjectivity, is now turning towards objectification, shifting from expressing the self to presenting things.

The history of Chinese vernacular poetry is just over a hundred years old, beginning with Hu Shi’s The First Collection of Experiments in 1920, and its development has always been inseparable from the catalysis and nourishment of European and American influences. Various “isms” have been adopted to serve the real situation of Chinese culture. I cannot elaborate on the specific influences of various schools of thought here, so I will only briefly mention a few: the influence of Romanticism on Guo Moruo, the influence of Existentialism on Feng Zhi, the influence of Anglo-American Modernism on Mu Dan and others, the influence of Russian Silver Age poetry on the Misty Poets, the influence of various contemporary American poetic schools on the Chinese Third Generation poets to which I belong, and even the clear traces of specific influences in the works of many important poets.

So, here a sharp question arises: where is the originality of contemporary Chinese poetry? This question has always troubled me. Classical Chinese poetry inspired the Imagism of Ezra Pound and Amy Lowell, and Chinese Zen Buddhism influenced some American poets. But when I read the works of these American poets,  I feel a sense of familiarity and can appreciate them, but when I translated Pound and Amy, I didn’t translate Cathay or Fir-Flower Tablets. What interests me in American poetry is not its Chinese elements or perhaps the fictional “Chinese imagery” (which may be just a fantasy), but those aspects that are lacking in the Chinese language. Conversely, I have never been able to fully understand what aspects of contemporary Chinese poetry interests American poets. Perhaps what is effective in Chinese becomes ineffective in English? I don’t know. Perhaps true poetry can withstand the test of translation—what is excellent in Chinese can still be seen as excellent when translated into English—but this, too, I cannot be sure of.

 

 

As a scholar, you have specialised primarily in US literature (North American English), what are the most difficult aspects of translating an idiom rich language that relies so much on the vernacular?

 

Cultural differences do pose a significant challenge in translation, especially when I was translating contemporary English and American poetry in the 1990s without access to the internet. Reference materials were scarce, and I was always living and working in non-English environments, which made the task incredibly difficult. The translations of American Poetry Since 1940 and American Poetry Since 1970 were truly laborious endeavours, navigating through uncharted territory and overcoming numerous obstacles. After the advent of the internet in 1999, things improved considerably; much of what I didn’t understand could be looked up online. So, most of the cultural barriers can be overcome.Another challenge is translating puns, which often lack equivalent expressions with the same meanings in Chinese.

I was the first to translate John Ashbery into Chinese, and to date, I started translating his work in 1990, and it wasn’t until 2003 that they were published. His poetry is inherently obscure, and there were no annotations available. At that time, the lack of resources was a major issue; since I was the one introducing his work into Chinese, there was no one else I could discuss it with. Nowadays, the problem of reference materials is largely resolved—there’s an abundance of e-books available.

Another interesting aspect is the use of verb tenses in English, which doesn’t exist in Chinese. So, concepts that require complex expressions with various tenses in English become very simple and concise in Chinese. The word count ratio between English and Chinese texts is about 3:1, meaning that 3,000 words in English translate to about 1,000 words in Chinese. As a result, what would be a several-hundred-page tome in English becomes just a slim little book of around a hundred pages in Chinese.

 

Also, because of the range of US poets you have translated, what trends or themes do you find in US poetry that surprise you or disturb you?

 

I have indeed read a substantial amount of American poetry. In fact, the reason I have worked so diligently to translate these works is that I wanted to gain a deep understanding of them. Translation is close reading—no one reads a poem more carefully than the translator. If I don’t record in Chinese what the original English poem is saying, I would forget it after reading it. So, I refer to my translations as “recording” the poems in Chinese. However, to be honest, there are many poets I haven’t had the time to study in depth—my energy is limited. The poets I’ve made an effort to research thoroughly are generally those I’ve translated. I’m accustomed to translating by hand, and through this process, I experience a certain imagined joy of intellectual exchange by reading the voices of minds from a distant land, though of course, it’s a one-way communication. To compensate for the limitations of my personal energy and interests, I came up with a more efficient method to understand American poetry: conducting a series of interviews with American poets. Through their responses, I can quickly grasp their ideas, poetic journeys, and the key achievements and focal points of their poetics. I am also planning to conduct an interview with you and am currently preparing the outline.

What surprises me about American poetry? One thing, for example, is the mixed evaluation of Ashbery. There are quite a few accomplished American poets who have reservations about his “deliberate ambiguity.” In fact, I’ve grown a bit weary of him myself. Reading too much of his poetry can become tiresome—it’s enjoyable to read a few poems occasionally, but too many at once can be overwhelming. Another aspect that unsettles me is the excessive colloquialism in some American poetry, such as that of O’Hara and Bukowski. I can appreciate their work, but I can’t truly love it, even though I’ve translated several of their poems. Colloquialism, while it has its appeal and can incorporate a wide range of everyday, mundane subjects into poetry—even to the point where “nothing is unfit for poetry”—can easily result in a lack of depth and a superficiality, much like Andy Warhol’s diamond dust shoes. In contrast, Van Gogh’s “A Pair of Shoes” is more captivating to me—it carries behind it a vast, meaningful world, just as Heidegger once analysed.

Since last year, I have gradually developed an interest in new narrative and new formalist poetry in American literature, which had previously received little attention from Chinese poets and scholars. For instance, I translated a selection of poems by Rosanna Warren, who doesn’t seem to belong to any postmodern school. Her poetry has a strong narrative element, which bears some resemblance to my own practices in Chinese poetry.

Another phenomenon that perplexes me is the sheer number of poetry awards in the United States. Apart from a few, it’s hard to distinguish which ones are truly authoritative. What’s more, I’ve noticed that some poet laureates and award winners produce work that isn’t as strong as that of poets who haven’t received any major titles or awards. Am I misunderstanding poetry, or is the evaluation system for American poetry, like that in China, plagued by serious issues? I honestly don’t know. In China, for a true poet, receiving an official poetry award is not an honour but a disgrace.

 

What aspects of US poetry, formally or stylistically, affect your own poetry in Chinese?

 

I respect all forms of artistic experimentation, but I am not very interested in extreme formal experiments like visual poetry or concrete poetry. To be honest, there is no space in Chinese for such extreme experiments. Official publications always feature uninspired and inconsequential poetry, while underground publications have a very limited reach, circulating only among a few friends. As for stylistic influences, it’s hard for me to pinpoint because Chinese and English are fundamentally different languages. I have invested effort in translating the works of Ashbery and Bishop, with Bishop’s collection translated at the beginning of the century, but it still hasn’t been published. Their work has had a potential impact on my poetic ideas. For example, Ashbery’s meta-poetry and Bishop’s painterly attention to detail have both been inspiring. My primary interest lies in the poetic philosophies of American poets. I have never imitated anyone’s specific language style, nor could I, as we are working with two different languages. What I study are their ideas and techniques, which help me address my own Chinese experiences. Despite my fondness for foreign poetry, I am fundamentally Chinese. I believe that my poetic form and philosophy grow from my concrete life experiences. This is not to deny the importance of foreign influences, but rather to say that if foreign influences remain at a technical level without being organically integrated with one’s own awareness and experiences, the outcome might not be positive and could even be detrimental.

 

Tell me how you learned of UP LATE and what led you to translate that particular anthology of late 20th century US poetry?

 

In the early 1990s, I made a copy of this poetry collection, edited by Andrei, from the Xi’an woman poet Zhao Qiong and cherished it dearly! At that time, Chinese literature primarily introduced postmodern theories and novels, with figures like Jameson, Roland Barthes, Lyotard, Nabokov, and Borges. Before I began translating American postmodern poetry, there were certainly other collections of American poetry available, but none were explicitly focused on “postmodernism.” My translation of American Poetry Since 1970 was driven mainly by curiosity. At the time, I was just a computer software engineer at a century-old railway vehicle factory, with no university background in English or Chinese education. By chance, I began a journey that I couldn’t stop, and as a result, I have been translating for over thirty years! This book was published in the late 1990s, a turning point in the transformation of Chinese poetry. Objectively speaking, it provided fresh material that was rare at that time, and various postmodern experiments in Chinese poetry are more or less related to it. Unfortunately, due to limited conditions, I was unable to obtain the poetry collections of the poets included in this book, so I couldn’t continue my in-depth research.

In the spring of 2023, I had a sudden idea and tried to contact these outstanding poets I translated when I was a young poet under 30. As a result, I spent that year immersed in a kind of blissful state. I was able to get their poetry collections and even chat with them occasionally!

 

Introducing Ma Yongbowas first published on the 6th September 2024 by Pat Nolan at The New Black Bart Poetry Society

 

https://thenewblackbartpoetrysociety.wordpress.com/2024/09/06/introducing-ma-yongbo/

 

CHINESE version here 中文版在这里

https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/1_I7GpSaNQEuY2LeEh1Clg

 

 

Photo : PAT NOLAN

 

PAT NOLAN was born in Montreal, Canada in 1943, but has lived most of his adult life along the Russian River in Northern California. He is a poet, translator, editor, and publisher. His poetry and prose have been published in numerous magazines, among them Rolling Stone, The Paris Review, Big Bridge, New Magazine, The American Book Review, Otolith, and Exquisite Corpse as well as in literary magazines in Europe and Asia. His work has also appeared in various anthologies including UP LATE, Thus Spake The Corpse, Out Of This World, and More Poetry Comics.The Random House Book of Twentieth Century French Poetry and Poems for The Millennium, Vol. I, include his translations from the French Surrealist poet Philippe Soupault. Pygmy Forest Press published a selection of his translations of Soupault’s early work entitled Where The Four Winds Blow in 1993. He was also the editor and publisher of The End, a 70’s literary mimeo magazine. He was the founder of The Black Bart Poetry Society, and co-editor and publisher of its newsletter, Life Of Crime in the 80’s. Poltroon Press issued the collected newsletters of The Black Bart Poetry Society, Life Of Crime, Documents In The Guerilla War Against Language Poetry, in the fall of 2009.

 

All images of Ma Yongbo and China copyright ©  poet Ma Yongbo

 

 

 

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A Father

 

He watched her dust blond hair reflected on her sallow face, her rheumy eyes that once could mesmerize show early wear. He felt her mother fall into their daughter’s life, eroding the magnetic gift. He tried once in the car alone with her to say that life cannot be a celebration all the time. He watched her not hear him, and for a change, say nothing. He was always half afraid of her. So like him, she was the only one who stood up to him and disagreed to his face. He knew she could earn anything she set her mind to. Had already aced a succession of milestones. He saw her mother’s stalled eyes. The shared approach to lifting away. Constantly choosing that liquid getaway to blear. His daughter, his hope. But that gene. He had to watch her reach for distance and find a simple way. He still believed. Hoped what he saw would go away.

 

 

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Sheila E. Murphy

 

 

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Prescript

Aftereffects of emotional impasto keep us
edgy; accruing excess is the enemy. Dew-
drops arrive via the recall card, ushering
frisson and its familiarity. Bowing to its
brunt is a thank-you note to oneself.

A happenstance moves in uncertain ways,
forging us to believe in the powerlessness
of mortals. In the energy of unknown
eddies, high-handedness expels its heat. No
outside agency holds the brief to break in.

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

Sanjeev Sethi is an award-winning poet who has authored eight poetry books. His poems have been published in over thirty-five countries and appear in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He edited Dreich Planet # India, an anthology for Hybriddreich, Scotland, in December 2022. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He was highly commended in the erbacce prize, UK, May 2025. He lives in Mumbai, India.

X @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems ||  

 

 

 

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blue labour

              

the hide     the state apparatus     edges
the moat     as roger deakin     breast
strokes     amongst weeds     moorhens

dead     in suffolk fields     on course
dead centre     as he centres     but flat
rolls to     the horizon     muscles

rippling     english landscape     rhythm
and catch     turn     i roger deakin
i john piper     i paul nash     i know

what i like     in your     landed entry
and clear     to hear     bird calls
spring already     and snowdrops     and

raw nerves     the weather     warms
and light     thins     in the mirror
colours     washed out     my face

 

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Keith Jebb

 

 

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DARK DRAWN MAN

 

dark drawn man

in two – legged sedan,

Diogenes least

the more i am.

a worn down crease-

opens

like blotched butterfly wings,

that drop in tokens

on imaginings-

lost, but living

through drought and giving.

 

dark drawn man

of wiccan, glam

rock and folk-

who likes a smoke;

hermit and ham,

sometimes a dam

for the waterfall

of it all-

bohemian and gothic,

romantic, hypnotic,

un-photographic

hates cam.

 

dark drawn man

whose thought beats flam

on sticks

of words

his focus and blurs

without tricks

of prussian blue

and cadmium red

the way Modigliani drew

his mistress on his bed.

 

Sophocles was right!

the darkest days, catch chinks of light-

running out of Ram,

but love is who i am.

 

 

 

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Strider Marcus Jones
Picture William Skilling

 

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Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including:  Poppy Road Review; International Times Magazine; The Galway Review;  The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

 

 

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dead Venus

an unspoken agreement
an unspoken arrangement

I have often been accused of poetry

folded + unfolded

there’s the protester, arrested for attesting
jokers throwing bacardi bottles
they really know how to throw

and the school house crumbling
and the teachers crumbling

the sailors stationed in the dark corners
of a boardgame (roll the dice, roll those dice)

here in the dirge of the voting booth
formula driven plot
reality now a show, sold out
and the Chappelle is now the stage
the legion’s all turned around
   for their visa to Benidorm

dead empire – dead

revolting socialist
turned middle-aged and middle class

dead Venus – dead
Venus in retrograde – unspoken

 

 

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Thom Boulton

 

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Graphology Causality 19: trade deficits

Accentuated ‘originality’ to shift protest
into ‘selfishness’, ‘opposition’ into removal.

I don’t get it, I really don’t, and insist
this is no ploy. Out of the streets to chase

tariffs, the irony being that the tariffed
penguins of Heard Island and McDonald

Islands are everyone’s whipping posts.
Yes, it got to this because of: oceanic

complacency, air-greed, morality jumping
around the dictionary, retrograding

human and animal rights, the desire
for energy storage, a hatred of forests;

oh, magnates and influencers. I have read
Sinclair Lewis for years, so there. And that’s

the spite of the nyah nyah nyah, the ‘told
you so’, and anger management when

challenged at border crossings because
so many of you/us still want to sample

the wares. Don’t we? And it’s the white-tailed
tropic birds of the Cocos (Keeling) islands

whose vulnerability I most sense: I’ve been on West
Island as a super-charged sun has followed

their tail-lights over the horizon, and know
(for sure) that commerce means nest failure.

 

 

.
John Kinsella

 

 

.

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Daniel Hartlaub and musical friends

 At the Electro Studios,  St. Leonards.16th -18th May.

Daniel Hartlaub is a familiar artist to Hastings, having appeared here in group or solo shows over the last few years, typically in the company of equally familiar musicians around the town. His 2025 visit had the added attraction of work by his uncle Felix Hartlaub, who died in the last three days of World War 2 in Germany, I should have added that Daniel practices mainly in Frankfurt. Felix’s work had been set as what we might now call a graphic novel, projected continuously, each page merging in and out to the next. Drawn at the age of 13, in the expressionist style favoured in Germany in the mid-1920s, it is effectively a journey through life; think Frans Masereel. Felix, a civil servant, disappeared after being called up in, as I said, the last three days of the European war, officially so at least. If their Reich could not last 1000 years, the Nazis were determined to have Ragnarôk instead.

The darkness of the tale mirrors Daniel’s own work, some of which was indeed created for book illustration, linking us back to Nazi Germany as it happens. Historian Petra Bonavita writes on the German resistance to the Nazis. Surprisingly, as it may seem, there were many within the German police force opposed to Hitler some taking part in the ill-fated Operation Valkyrie; so far as I am aware this work is only published in German. However, whilst Hartlaub chooses to work in black and white for his print work, some of it is of a much lighter nature; his Fencer is particularly fine. The exhibition was curated by Katrin Kobberger.

Aside from Felix’s graphic novel, other projections overlaid the various musical escapades accompanying the show, some by Hartlaub, others by Mr. Exploding Cinema, Duncan Reekie.

There was a family feel to these as musicians from various ensembles regrouped. On Friday 16th we started with what might be a core Necessary Animals, Amanda Thompson and Keith Rodway, joined by Kath Allsopp, violin and Hutch Demouilpied, trumpet, playing new music for the event including a duet with medium wave radio. They were followed by Simon and the Pope, (Simon Charterton, percussion and John Pope guitar) accompanied by Demouilpied, to get the feet moving.

On Saturday 17th a reconfiguration; A.K.A. Anthony Moore joined Rodway and Thompson playing pieces from Moore’s songbook; Coralie and The Pilgrim, from Slapp Happy days, and Hymn to Despair, an ode to Southern Water, which I think, was premiered at The Beacon last year, and Hymn to Love, to lift the evening up again. Rodway was then joined by percussionist Simon Charterton and sonic experimentalist Nick Weekes for a long freeform session under the name of Jury Service; watch out for those names to brighten your lives in coming months. The Underground is alive and well in Hastings.

 

 

.

Stewart Rayment

 

 

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Foretold

aspen nested

omens & auguries

ancient ginkgo

scattered gold

sea thistle

sea glass

along the shore

unchartered waters

 

 

.

 

TERRENCE SYKES

 

 

.

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SAUSAGE 323

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which thinks that taxidermy is the new tattooing

 

MYSELF: What’s that you’re doing, the crossword?

READER: Yes, and I’m stuck.

MYSELF: You surprise me. 

READER: I mean look at this, 4 across: type of bat, 7 letters C-R, something something something, E-T….

MYSELF: Cricket? 

READER: Is that the best you can do? Not to put too fine a point on it, there are many varieties of the leathery flying mammal (Chiroptera), but the Cricket is not amongst them.

MYSELF: You mean you’ve never heard of a cricket bat?

READER: Move over Einstein. I think you’ll find that the cricket (Gryllus Gryllus) is not a type of bat. Specifically, it is a type of insect, perhaps known better as the character of Jiminy Cricket, the animated conscience with the top hat that featured in Walt Disney’s Pinnochio (1937). Smart boy wanted!

MYSELF: Crosswords were never my strong point.

MORAL VICTORY FOR UK IN EUROVISION TRAVESTY
In the 69th Eurovision Song Contest, which this year took place in Brazil, Spain’s winning entry La-La La-La Deedy-Deedy Bum-Bum Bum by the acrobatic troupe Los Pantalones Descendentes  has become mired in controversy after it was disclosed that lead trampolinist José Bombero, was miming as he swung through the air on an invisible wire during their enthusiastic performance. As the rest of the group splashed barefoot through flaming horse manure playing brass instruments, José, wearing only a pink tutu, flew over them allegedly playing the accordion, an instrument his close friends say he is totally unfamiliar with.
SNOW BUSINESS
As Rio’s vast Estadio Dominante was plunged into darkness, the hushed crowd suddenly erupted into wild applause as the lights went up and a life-size igloo was lowered from the ceiling, from which emerged Alaskan outfit Blubber. The ten-piece boy band tore into the bombastic self-penned No No Nanook based on a traditional Eskimo folk song which they performed in an obscure Innuit dialect. The audience joined in joyfully with the chorus as the boys performed complex dance moves accompanied by trained penguins and scantily clad go-go dancers before expertly skinning a seal.
NUL & VOID
The UK entry Tattoo Me There, performed by all-girl band Ditzy Bimbo, received Nul Points, a score which has lately become something of a tradition. Bravely fighting off tears as she punched holes in the dressing room wall, Hermione Dildor, the group’s choreographer, told us, “It’s so unfair! If only Terry Wogan was still here, he could have made us look really ironic.”
The Chinese entry Poverty is Wealth featuring coal-powered giant pandas, paper dragons and AI-generated slave children manufacturing cheap shoes scored third lowest, just ahead of Israel’s explosive Death-Metal anthem Get Off Your Land.

THE BIGLY SLEEP
AI technology will enable Trump to watch his own lying-in-state
Fake News the genial ex-president might say as he watches his solid gold virtual casket, draped in a MAGA flag being carried by fifty AI-generated dancing girls to the Walt Disney Chapel of Fun in Hollywood Boulevard where, overlooked by a giant statue of Tinkerbell the feisty fairy in Peter Pan, Trump will lie in state, as he did so often in life. Thanks to Silicon Valley’s advances in Artificial Intelligence, this is now set to be a virtual reality.
Millions of dewy-eyed amnesiacs will pay $15.99 to file past for a chat with the President’s virtual body. Using sophisticated AI techniques it will be possible to choose from a series of questions they can ask the ‘dead’ president.
After depositing a coin, the visitor will see the lifelike eyes crinkle as the big orange neck revolves and he appears to respond with famous presidential replies such as China? What do the Chinese know about walls? Nothing. Walls were invented by the British in Victorian times, to keep the Scots out of their gardens. Losers.
or: I’m now more dead than any other president in history ever – I’m up in heaven now and there’s no one else here except me and my friend God. Great guy. Very powerful guy.
Finally Trump’s corpulent cadaver will be loaded on to Airforce One and flown to his Mar a Lago resort where along with the vast presidential horde of TrumpCoins, it will be interred on the eighteenth green of its magnificent golf course (now renamed Golf of America) located in a secret burial chamber inside a full size copy of the famous replica of the Great Pyramid of Cheops in Las Vegas. The Trump Pyramid is thought to contain seventy three en-suite bedrooms, a casino and its own branch of McDonalds.

 

Book review
THE ESSENTYAL ALMANAC OF GUDE MANNERS & SOCIAL GRACES by Arnold Smollett (Burke & Hair £15.99)
This fascinating tome, although sometimes difficult to read in the original Pickwickian English, reveals the complicated web of rules and social mores which the populace of the period were required to negotiate, much of which will be familiar to today’s middle class dinner party set. Take this example from chapter 5, entitled Maintayning Good Taybel.
     “Certayne persons, whose good intercourse hath ceased to flowe wythe the partayking of wine, may seek, by incontynent conversation, to cause an atmosphere inconsystant wythe the dyning rules of the house. It is permissible under such circumstance for the host to cause hys shavyng instruments to be brought to the tayble, and after stropping hys rayzor on the unruly guest’s braces (or in the case of a lady, her bustle-strap), he may proceede to plunge his shavyng brush into hys or her soupe, gravye, or coustarde, (depending upon whych course the offendyng behaviours were deemed to have taken place), and procede to lather the offender’s face wyth it. Should the guest prove as thykke skynned as a Rhodesian rhynocerous, and insist on remayning seated even after the host hath applied hot towels, the hostess may be encouraged to approache the guest from behynde and, after placing a duelling pistol adjaycent to the temple, to gentlye squeeze the trygger.
In order to preserve the host and hostesse’s social position, care should be taken to avoid any collateral damage or injury to the other guests.

NEWS: NO SMOKE WITHOUT FUHRER
Regarding his policy on tobacco, Nigel Farage, absentee MP and deputy leader of the Reform Party said today that when he is given the keys to number 10, his government will radically reverse the previous administrations’ ban on indoor smoking in pubs. Mr Farage’s party maintains that smoking is a harmless pastime which gives many people great pleasure and that it has many health benefits, particularly in the area of lung cancer, which it is thought to cure. Asked why he had chosen to ignore the findings of the Surgeon General, Mr Farage replied;
“It is not in anyone’s interests to kowtow to the whims of the Woke Brigade, particularly in the controversial area of tobacco sales, where confusion and hyperbole often collaborate to form a smokescreen, no pun intended, of misleading and contradictory advice. The so-called Surgeon General should quite frankly keep his large over-sensitive nose out of politics and concentrate on the job he is vastly overpaid to do, ie conduct expensive time-consuming research into public health using highly paid scientists and teams of professional researchers in order to publish huge multi-volume reports which, quite frankly, no one ever has enough time to read. I myself smoke 200 untipped cigarettes per day and can still down eighteen pints of subsidised beer in one of the 24-hour Westminster Bars on a Friday night before driving home to wherever my constituency is” 

 

 

Sausage Life!

 

 

ATTENZIONE!
‘Watching Paint Die’ EP by Girl Bites Dog is out now and available wherever you rip off your music.
Made entirely without the assistance of AI, each listen is guaranteed to eliminate hair loss, cure gluten intolerance and stop your cat from pissing in next door’s garden.
Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)

 

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



SAY GOODBYE TO IRONING MISERY!
When added to your weekly wash, new formula Botoxydol, with Botulinim Toxin A, will guarantee youthful, wrinkle-free clothes.
Take years off your smalls with Botoxydol!
CAUTION
MAY CAUSE SMILEY FACE T-SHIRTS TO LOOK
INSINCERE

 

SPONSORED ADVERTISEMENT
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SUPERCALIFUCKINGFRAGIFUCKINGLISTICEXPIALIFUCKINGDOCIOUS

 

 

By Colin Gibson

 

 

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‘After Words’ at The Grolier Club Tells of a Revolution

 

If anybody had said to me that the shaggy “mimeo revolution” of little magazines begun in the 1960s would be the subject of an exhibition as elegant as this one, and in as venerable a setting, I wouldn’t have believed it. During that period I played a small part in what was happening as an editor of a little mag myself. I thought we were participants in a rebellion more than a revolution. But the breadth and depth of it — as captured these many years later by After Words: Visual and Experimental Poetry in Little Magazines and Small Presses, Post-1960 — is more than persuasive. It’s revelatory.


Visual and Experimental Poetry in Little Magazines and small Presses (1960-2025).
Catalogue published by Granary Books.

‘After Words’ bannered at The Grolier Club.

“Poetry underwent a profound re-conception post-World War II, as poets experimented not only with techniques such as projective verse, but also with the verbal and visual qualities of poetic language. Known variously as visual, concrete, and sound poetry, these practices reached new heights of innovation in the 1960s and beyond sustained by the mimeograph revolution and the proliferation of small independent presses. [The exhibition] curated by Steve Clay and Grolier Club member M.C. Kinniburgh explores the decentering and re-imagining of language from the perspective of visual poetics, and the varieties of ways these ideas took published form. The exhibition presents a wide range of international works with approximately 150 publications.”Granary Books

The exhibition is on view through July 26, 2025. Admission is free. Several free events are scheduled between now and then.

  • On May 22, Thursday, from 6 pm to 7:30 pm, there will be a “Roundtable on Visual Poetry,” co-sponsored by NYU Special Collections and the Bibliographical Society of America, featuring Lisa Pearson (Siglio Press), Charlotte Priddle (Special Collections, New York University), Amelia Grounds (The Bancroft Library at University of Berkeley), Antonio Sergio Bessa (emeritus, The Bronx Museum of the Arts), and Alison Fraser (The Poetry Collection, University at Buffalo), moderated by M.C. Kinniburgh and Conley Lowrance.
  • On June 12, at 1 pm, there will be a tour of the exhibition with the curators Steve Clay and M.C. Kinniburgh.
  • On June 26, from 6 to 7:30 pm, there will be a live taping of a discussion featuring Clay and Kinniburgh for the podcast Person, Place Thing, hosted by Randy Cohen. RSVP HERE.
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Ma Yongbo Poetry Road Trip — Summer Tour 2025 volume 3

Photo: (right to left) poet Ma Yongbo with poet and filmmaker Tong Xiaofeng, the poetry road trip wound up making a surprise visit to Xiaofeng, in Xi’an, who plans to make a film called ‘Travelling in Words’ about Ma Yongbo and his poetry.

                        

Video: Ma Yongbo, reading poetry during a meal with his long term poet and best friend Tong Xiaofeng and other poetry friends

 

 

 

Ma Yongbo, Tong Xiaofeng (his best friend from all the way back to university days), reunion with poetry friends from Xi’an Jiaotong University where Ma Yongbo studied in 1981.

 

 

Waking Up in Early Summer in Chang’an  在长安的初夏醒来

 

Waking up in early summer when locust trees line the streets of Chang’an
In an inn called “Imperial City Post”
No couriers, no horses for relay
Not even a bony, knife-sharp donkey
No misty rain that soaks the clothes

I wander alone, trying to recall
The name of a certain street. Children
Wear uniform blue-and-white school uniforms, heavy schoolbags on their backs
Only they no longer recite my poems
Nor is there a white screen wall for me to write verses
Regardless of drunk poet friends who once splashed ink upon it

This ancient capital where I spent four years of bitter youth
Has completely erased my memories
Like footprints in water
Swarms of mayflies gather and disperse on the water’s surface
Who was I, and who was once me?

If I keep walking, out of any city gate
I will meet my 18-year-old self
With tangled hair, clutching a flattened wine flask
Perhaps, a scroll of blurry poems hidden in my sleeve
Just awakened from a embrace that has grown cold

Written in the morning of May 13, 2025, in Xi’an (ancient name: Chang’an)

 

By Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

Translated by Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

 

在长安的初夏醒来 Waking Up in Early Summer in Chang’an 马永波

 

在长安满街槐树的初夏醒来
在一座叫做”皇城驿”的旅馆
没有驿卒,没有可供替换的马匹
甚至没有瘦骨棱棱锋利如刀的蹇驴
没有沾衣欲湿的雨

我独自游荡,试图回忆起
某条街道的名字。孩子们
穿着统一的蓝白校服,书包沉重
只是他们不再朗读我的诗
也没有一处白色影壁让我题诗
毫不顾忌有哪些醉酒的诗友曾经泼墨于上

这座我度过四年苦涩青春的古都
竟已把我的记忆彻底消灭
如同水中的脚印
大群蜉蝣在水面时聚时散
我曾是谁,谁又曾经是我?

如果一直走,走出任何一座城门
我就会遇见十八岁的自己
乱发纠结,怀揣一只压扁的酒壶
也许,袖子里还藏着一卷字迹模糊的诗
刚刚从某个已经变冷的怀抱中醒来

2025年5月13日晨于西安,西安古称长安,马永波

 

 

Chinese link here https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/uIXWWlKIYGSTuQzRK_ShIg

 

Helen Pletts www.helenpletts.com responded with a poem for Ma Yongbo to celebrate his reunion with his university friends:

Helen Pletts works closely with Ma Yongbo on bilingual poetry translation and response poetry. Her poetry has been translated into Chinese (by Ma Yongbo), Greek, Vietnamese, Bangla and Italian.

 

meeting friends in a golden light—for Yongbo 与友相聚于金光之中——致永波

 

evening breeze beside the inn,
resting in the warm blush of a red lantern,
has found grace
in its own reflection.
And laughter rises in a golden spiral,
the breeze is too unhurried to untangle.

 

13th May 2025

 

by Helen Pletts 海伦·普莱茨

 

 

 

Response Poetry translated by Ma Yongbo 马永波

与友相聚于金光之中——致永波 meeting friends in a golden light—for Yongbo

 

客栈旁的晚风,
憩息于红灯笼温暖的红晕里,
在自身的倒影中
寻得恩泽。
而笑声升起金色的螺旋,
风太过从容,无法解开。

 

海伦·普莱茨 2025年5月13日

 

Ma Yongbo was born in 1964,Ph.D, 马永波 @mayongbopoetry https://mayongbopoetry.wordpress.com/ ,representative of Chinese avant-garde poetry, and a leading scholar in Anglo-American poetry.He has published over eighty original works and translations since 1986 included 7 poetry collections.He focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1178 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.He is the editor-in-chief of the “Chinese Regional Poetry Yearbook” and the “Northeast Three Provinces Poetry Yearbook”.

Baidu Encyclopedia entry,”Ma Yongbo has greatly promoted the postmodern transformation of Chinese poetic language in his creative practice, and has long been committed to the translation and research of modern and contemporary British and American literature. He is the main poet-translator of Western postmodern poetry on the mainland, filling the gap in the research of British and American postmodern poetry, and was the first to translate Ashbery, the most famous American poet after Eliot, into China.”(https://baike.baidu.com/item/永波/10787276)

Baidu Encyclopedia entry on the history of the development of modern Chinese poetry,Ma Yongbo ranks among the top three poets of the 1990s(https://baike.baidu.com/item/展史?fromModule=lemma_search-box)

Baidu Encyclopedia entry on outstanding contemporary poets, Ma Yongbo is listed among the 100 famous contemporary Chinese poets since the 1920s(https://baike.baidu.com/item/当代杰出诗人/14719125?fr=aladdin)

Read his full Bio in Chinese here https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/ozCYBwEEyGeJ5wRbL6Sdow

 

 

Ma Yongbo

Art and literature department
Nanjing University Of Science & Technology
Xiaolingwei 200#
Nanjing, Jiangsu Province
China

Email:[email protected]

 

 

Poetry Collection:

 

Red Bird (Hong Kong Wen Guang Publishing House, 1991)

Summer Played at Two Speeds (Tangshan Publishing House, Taiwan, 1999)

Journey in Words (Huacheng Publishing House, 2015)

Geography of the Self (Zhejiang Gongshang University Press, 2018)

Untied Boat (China International Broadcasting Press,2024)

Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre,2024)

 

 

Essays:

 

Desolate White Paper (Beijing University of Technology Press, 2012)

Snow on the Hedges (Commercial Press, 2013)

 

Academic Monographs:

 

The Nine-Leaf Poetry School and Western Modernism (Eastern Publishing Center, 2010)

Exploring the Origins of Chinese and Western Poetics (Eastern Publishing Center,2024)

 

Translations:

 

Contemporary American Poets: American Poetry Since 1940;

American Poetry Since 1950:Innovators and Outsiders;

American Poetry Since 1970:Up Late;

The Selected Contemporary English Poems;

The Selected Poems By John Ashbery (two volumes)

The Selected Poems By John Ashbery (billingual,three volumes);

Poets on Painters;

The Selected Prose of Walt Whitman;

The Selected Poems & letters By Emily Dickinson;

The Selected Poetry and Prose of Wallace Stevens;

Moby Dick(Sales have exceeded 500,000 copies);

Gulliver’s Travels;

A Little Tour in France By Henry James;

Italian Hours By Henry James;

Glimpses of Unfamiliar Japan By Patrick Lafcadio Hearn;

Recovering &After the Stroke By May Sarton;

Chopin In Paris;

The Habit of Being By Flannery O’Connor;

A Wonder-Book By Nathaniel Hawthorne; 

Tanglewood Tales By Nathaniel Hawthorne;

Blue Bird By Maurice Maeterlinck;

The Treasure of the Humble By Maurice Maeterlinck; 

Wake Robin By John Burroughs;

Signs and Seasons By John Burroughs;

Ways of Nature By John Burroughs;

Riverby By John Burroughs;

Pepacton By John Burroughs;

Lost Borders By Mary Austin;

The Land of Journeys’ Ending By Mary Austin;

The Mountains of California By John Muir;

The Story of My Boyhood and Youth By John Muir;

Travels in Alaska By John Muir;

The Bible According to Einstein By Jupiter Scientific; 

Palestinian Walks By Raja Shehadeh;

The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft By George Gissing;

The Medici:Godfathers of the Renaissance By Paul Strathern;

A Moveable Feast By Ernest Hemingway;

The Selected Prose By Pasternak;

The Selected Prose By Rudyard Kipling;

Paterson By William Carlos Williams;

The Selected Poems and Essays By Ezra Pound;

The Selected Poems By Amy Lowell;

The Selected Poems  By Rosanna Warren;

Reading Poetry with Children;

The Selected Poems  By TR Hummer;

 

etc.

 

 

Editor-in-Chief

 

Annual Anthology of Poems Most Suitable for Middle School Students (2008, 2010)

Northeast Three Provinces Poetry Yearbook (2005 Edition, 2006-2007 Edition, 2008-2009 Edition, 2015-2017 Edition)

Chinese Regional Poetry Yearbook (Shanghai Oriental Publishing Center, 2017 Edition)

21st Century Chinese Classic Poetry Series (Zhejiang Gongshang University Press, 2018 Edition)

 

 

 

Titles and Awards

In 2018, awarded the First Prize of the Translation Award at the 5th China Contemporary Poetry Prize. In the same year, elected President of the Xi’an Jiaotong University Alumni Literary Association.

The China Contemporary Poetry Prize is a large-scale award organised by the editorial committee of Introduction to Contemporary Chinese Poetry, the International Poetry Translation Research Centre, and the World Poets magazine in hybrid language. Established in 2010, the event has received active participation, support, and attention from millions of online readers, as well as poets, critics, translators, and scholars. The citation for the award reads: “Ma Yongbo is dedicated to both poetry creation and translation, and his translations complete the transformation of poetry across different cultural contexts and languages. In his own poetry, he speaks for himself, and as a translator, he speaks through others, thus enriching the texture and voice of his poetry, between the two banks of the river of language. He states that his goal is to be a dutiful ferryman.”

In 2012, elected Vice President of the Jiangsu Province Chinese Poetics Research Association.

In 2004, his translated work Kiss and Confession won the Third Prize for Outstanding Social Science Research Achievements in Heilongjiang Province.

In 2002, his translated work Contemporary American Poets: American Poetry Since 1940 won the First Prize for Outstanding Translation Achievements from the Heilongjiang Province Translators Association.

In 2001, he won the First Prize in the Poetry Forest magazine’s “The Heavenly Questions” Poetry Award.

In 1998, won the First Prize at the 6th China Railway Literature Awards.

 

Poets and scholars’ evaluations of Ma Yongbo’s poetry

Writing a few good poems in a lifetime is not difficult; what is difficult is dedicating all one’s days to writing poetry. Yongbo’s steadfast devotion to contemporary Chinese poetry, akin to martyrdom, has elevated him to a unique spiritual pinnacle. Both of us have once staked everything on poetry, defying the tides of the mundane world, but reaching the shore is clearly beyond human effort, let alone claiming the high ground. I have come to believe that a higher spiritual essence, beyond human comprehension, has chosen Yongbo, enabling him to consistently create unique texts that the ordinary world cannot construct—what we call “Ma Yongbo’s Poetry.”

— Gu Yifan (Founder of Blue Ocean Television, Poet, Ph.D., Professor)

From being confined to fixed positions (ideological centrism, enlightenment, deconstruction) to constructing a poetry oriented toward the essence of things, this marks the most significant turning point in contemporary Chinese poetry. As a representative figure driving this transformation, Ma Yongbo’s greatest contribution to Chinese poetry is his use of diverse linguistic experiments to create complex structures, leading the traditionally simplistic Chinese language toward self-reference and self-reflection. This enables Chinese poetry to not only articulate the world but also introspect. This revolution in Chinese language, driven by the revolution in Chinese poetry, will inevitably alter the way Chinese people think.

“Poetry Oriented Toward the Essence of Things” (Wang Xiaohua, Ph.D., Professor)

From the distant northeast comes a resonant, dark, cold, and unrestrained chime, echoing in all directions. Ma Yongbo’s poetry stands in stark contrast to the cultural styles of regions like Qi and Lu, Jing and Chu, Ba and Shu, Wu and Yue, and Taiwan and Fujian, carving out a unique and distinct path.In Ma Yongbo’s poetry, one can feel an insatiable hunger for exploring the true essence of existence—no trace of luck, no longing for redemption. The harsh reality of life without room for alteration has forged in Ma Yongbo the courage and determination to confront existence head-on. Through layers of revelation and internal and external reflection, his polyphonic writing penetrates darkness and silence, illuminating both death and life, all while exuding an incomparable, bone-chilling coldness.His poetry is austere and magnanimous, with a robust spiritual presence and a vast magnetic field, imbued with the crisp and clear essence of the northern cold lands. It has opened up an immeasurable and mysterious poetic realm for Chinese poetry.

“The Secret of Polyphony—An Analysis of Ma Yongbo’s Poetic Art Through Multiple Perspectives” (Huang Liang, Poet, Critic, Taiwan)

 

 

All images copyright ©  poet Ma Yongbo

 

 
   

 

 

 

 

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Wild Words – A Nature Poetry Project

Wild Words Plymouth was a nature poetry project facilitated and produced by Heidi Stephenson at Plymouth Central Library, supported using public funding by the National Lottery through Arts Council England, with support in kind from the library. 12 poets participated in 8 workshops, learning how to write nature and eco poetry, celebrating wild Plymouth and advocating for wild and marine life, including the critically endangered Horrid Ground Weaver spiders who are now only found, globally, in two limestone quarry sites in Plymouth – both under threat of “development.”  This is a sample of the 40 poems which became the Wild Words Plymouth show.

“Bugs” by Rhianna Berthoud

 

 

“We want Plymouth’s City Centre to come alive” by Laura Quigley

 

When you ask me what I think about your plans,
When you ask me what I think about the trees,
When you ask me what I think about your intentions,
Your actions, castrations,
Your civic annihilations –
You do not wait to hear my answer.

Instead, you say: “The restoration will be civilised.
In the valleys of reinforced steel, we’ll channel
Rivers of rubber piping. We’re trunking
Electric storms into acoustic shielding, regurgitating
Sewage through plastic straws.” You say,
“Eye protection must be worn”, to avoid
Me see you burying my money
In the septic tank behind the swarm of hoardings.
“Just sit and drink your coffee,” you say,
“By the cement pool, on the plastic chairs provided.”

I watch the caterpillar tracking
Smash the daffodils.
There are dead flies in your netting.
It’s raining plastic buckets and
Beggar magpies
Chew on polystyrene cups. The sign says,
“Wildlife visitors must wear PPE in line with policy,”
Is that bird song? No, 
It’s a karaoke machine, singing
“There’s a fire starting in my heart”
But the hoardings are flame retardant and
Images are recorded for crime prevention…
So say the signs.

Ocean City Plymouth.
Come seek the city centre.
Meet the concrete monster.
It’s alive.

 

 

https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-england-devon-64961358

 

 

 

Chainsaw Massacre by Kate Meyer-Currey

 

The corpse lay where it was felled, 
hacked to death by killers who knew 
their anatomy. A sneaky attack, at 
the dead of night, when the victim
was undefended. Who could imagine 
their long life of service, like a security
guard, a centurion on duty in this breach 
of ancient wall, could be cut down in its 
prime, in an execution style murder?
That their toppled head would inflict 
blunt force trauma on piled stone?
A landmark uprooted, cut off at the 
knees by an unprovoked assault, with
malice aforethought. In scant minutes, 
a life of many centuries was brutally 
destroyed. To consider victimology, it
was popular, loved by locals, known 
worldwide . It was joint enterprise. Both
perpetrators have profiles typical of 
serial offenders, hating or fearing their 
victim’s kind. They are local, know the 
dump site. The corpse was left to rot with 
no regard for dignity post-mortem, with 
limbs splayed, found by shocked walkers 
and wardens the next day. The nature of 
the cuts suggests the chain saw blade
 with some skill. This outrage was 
filmed like some snuff movie. A trophy
 taken from the scene in the iconic MO of
 or Jack the Ripper. In the aftermath of the kill, 
the assailants inserted themselves into online
 speculation about the nature of those guilty.
They have left a gap in the environment with
 deep roots to fill. Ego drove their knowing
 comments on how the murder unfolded, 
showed insider knowledge not in the public
 domain. Every contact leaves a trace, they 
say. What lies in the DNA of such people,
we might ask ourselves? Maybe they got off 
on felling an individual with both girth and
circumference, of a stature they could never equal?
 Maybe they haven’t been hugged enough? Who
knows? Analyse their would-be macho incel
blustering on the presumed weakness of cowardly
 killers. As the saying goes, the weak will not inherit
the earth but they sap the strength of the courageous and
the brave. All culpability denied. If justice was served
they would swing from its branches for all the world to
see on Tik Tok, X, Insta and Facebook. Come back Swampy
your community needs you. If you’d been there, 
they would never have got away with it. 

 

 

We Fell Asleep. An Obituary to the Fallen Trees by Hannah Govan

 

We slept like the dead last night,
And we woke up.
My love,
I woke to find your creature as a corpse.

Your limbs are sliced from their sockets,
Defenceless against the motorised maw.
I chastise myself for not being a surgeon or a sewer;
They had tissue and thread – all I have is your stump.

Daffodils pray to your body instead of the sun;
I dread there isn’t a coffin for them to embrace,
The same way poppies once softened the soil
For soldiers lying in shrapnel and snow.

I used to chase after the sun you could reach,
Now, I’d rather break my fallen knees than meet your level;
Dig myself a grave to bury the barbarism,
And bless the blood and sawdust you were left to rot in.

I yearn for your songbirds’ snoring,
So I can believe you’re breathing sweet slumbers,
Not silent severance.
But believing is a wish your heart breaks.
My God! I’m sorry,
I’m too fleshy to hold your frigid form,
To plunge your roots back into pillowy mud,
To tuck you in and sing our lullaby;
The mourning organ rings hollow,
Because the birds are gone.

A sun shielder
A muddy soldier,
And the shoulders
for songbirds,
have fallen.

My love,
I’m sorry we failed you
and fell asleep.
Please wake up.

 

 

Nature’s Storehouse by Chloe Camille

 

Ok, Left at the pasty shop, Subway across
Tree on the corner covered in moss
That’s alright, the next direction Doesn’t make sense
Two benches sit in the shade of a tree, immense
With twisted bark shaped like a flower
Marking the spot, I left food for winter’s dark hour.

I find a nearby rat to ask it for tips
They don’t store food, they make countless trips.
It laughs at me bitterly, I can’t help you survive
There’s barely food in the bin to keep, just me, alive.

Next, I spot pigeons milling about in stress
I pose my question which they answer, restless
“Tomorrow is Friday with any luck,
A lady might throw us some scraps in the muck.”

With none of my friends left to ask now,
I take a moment to look around
I slink with much caution,
Towards some humans eating their portion.

No sooner am I visible, I feel naked
I hope against hope, my breath bated
Instead eyed with immediate disdain
Maybe a crumb dropped if they deign.

 

https://www.nhm.ac.uk/discover/urban-wildlife.html

 

 

Unlikely Companions by Sue Claremont

 

Through drifts of daffodils 
A gull in the park 
Takes flight 
And lands on a mound   
starred with dandelions and daisies 

No fish, molluscs, or waves 
No seabirds. 

In a flash of black and white – 
green and blue  
A magpie settles on a tree trunk. 

Breast feathers ruffled 
They consider each other 
Cock their heads in greeting 

The magpie flutters down. 

They search verdant blades.  

No crustaceans, instead 
Rich with insects,
Worms, seeds and berries 

Side by side,
They forage.  

 

 

Squirrel – Beaumont Park by Catherine Edwards

 

This way, that way
Hither and yon, hither and yon
Leaping, listening
My legs as powerful as a kangaroos
But—
Fancier britches twitch, flick
Land, stand
Up
Hands together
Parson pursed
One up, one down
Think, blink, look, sniff — ah
The wind tickles my tendrilous tail
Reminding me
Which way
I — am— GOING
Fag butt, fly, twig, leaf, earth
Big leaf, human thing – empty
Downy feather, fag butt, leaf, twig, glass
Here, yes here, maybe, no
YES
Dig, dig, oh – it’s gone
Swivel my half a black universe eyes
Up, past
Spider’s silk tight rope waving
Slack slung on flimsy fence
To see
Humans —
Drawn out by
Early, incubating warmth
Extracting garlic funk
Watching me —
Now leaping
Undulating through
Shadow light, shadow light
Onto the old beech
And round and round
Winding, weaving
Up and up
My aged mother’s
Elephantine trunk
Whose limbs crease, sag
In knotty knarls.
At fork high up
Where rain creates
My dark drinking pool
I pause —
Think, blink, look, sniff —ah
Safe.

 

 

 

Cryptosporidium Coast  by Mahrey Berthoud

 

The tourist board tells us to visit
Our beaches with sand of gold;
To play in the safe, clean waters,
Pleasure for all, young and old.

But, bacteria, viruses, parasites
Pop up when your kids dig the sand;
A bucket and spade of E.coli,
Explosive diarrhoea unplanned.

Where oestrogen and penicillin,
Splash with you on your sea dip,
Valium, diazepam, Prozac,
A cocktail you won’t want to sip.

Where insecticides, oil and asbestos,
Mercury, cadmium, lead,
Blend with P.O.P.s, D.D.T., dioxins, 
forever chemicals mankind has spread.

There are tampons, used loo roll and wet wipes,
Water sporters had better watch out,
Don’t get them wound round your snorkels
And hold your breath when you wipe out!

Raw sewage and run off and slurry
Turn sea water glorious brown,
Where pig poo and human poo mingle,
Make sure you don’t swallow it down.

“It’s not our fault” the water boss tells us;
“The rainwater shares the same drain
As the stuff that you flush down your toilet
– it’s too much for us to contain” 

“We don’t want your bathrooms to backup,
We don’t want a stink in your street,
We don’t want you wading through sewage,
So, we pop it all into the sea!”

 

https://www.sas.org.uk/water-quality/

 

 

 

Blue washing by Simon Yung

 

Ahoy me hearties!
Feast at Black Beards Seafood
Bar & Grill floating restaurant

Celebrate Britain’s Ocean City
‘First-of-its-kind’ national
‘greenwash’ marine park

A commemorative set meal
Fresh from the Sound’s hood
Food to warm your cockles
a four-course dinner that includes:

APPETIZER
Captain Bottom’s Blowhole Sinker
Ocean broiled shucked less hellfish –
lam, ussel, callop, rab, rawn

SLOUP OF THE DAY
Heave-Ho lobster risqué
Soaked in factory raw sewage
And human affluence 

POISSON OF THE DAY
Harbour Keel mullet stuffed with
micro-plastic pellets
marinated in grade A tanker fuel
sprinkled with harbour debris

SEAFOOD SPECIAL
Poseidon’s fluvial nightmare
(Not for weak stomachs)
Carbon dioxide choked dolphin,
protein deficient with immune system failure

SIGNATURE DESERT
Mermaid sweet abyss kiss
Coral crumble, crab stick brittle,
topped with yellow oozing octopus 

(Please inform your server of any allergy – the establishment can take no responsibility for the long-term survival of their guests).

The Plymouth Sound hijacked by commercial pirates
Bent on an ocean haven of slow burning kitchens –
Marine life stewing (inclusive of VAT).
Seafood grill doing a roaring trade.
Waiters tipped, cash registers clatter

 

 

https://plymouthsoundnationalmarinepark.com/11-6m-heritage-fund-grant-for-uks-first-national-marine-park-in-plymouth/

 

 

 

Where Fishes Can Dream by Lesley Lees

 

High up on the Hoe,  
Plymouth Sound is on show, 
from the Plym to the Tamar 
to the border of the breakwater 
and beyond 
still waters reflect the blue sky. 

Down and down the steep sloping steps 
receding tide reveals 
stranded water 
in small rock pools, with limpets, 
bountiful species of barnacles 
and a kelp covering softening  
the harsh grey stone. 

The salt and the seaweed 
fragrance the air, 
we breathe a balm of calm, 
gentle lapping  
on the shingle of the foreshore, 
sea gazing, blue grazing 
a sense of self restored. 

In the deep, deep waters 
meadows of life saving 
sea grasses grow, 
capturing carbon, 
cooling the ocean, 
an aquatic playground for fishy friends, 

 A temple for species unseen, 
where fishes dream 
of a net free life, 
in this ocean  
of marine restoration. 

 

 

https://www.national-aquarium.co.uk/explore/conservation-projects/seagrass-restoration/

https://www.plymouth.ac.uk/news/overfishing-in-the-english-channel-leaves-fisherman-scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel

 

 

 

Truths by Guy Paulley

 

Hell, no!
Are we not family
peas in the proverbial pod!
Truths aplenty I say . . .
My words.

The beginning:
canvas, blue
there, vast and deep,
sapphire hue
emerald sleep,
mirror bright
reflecting skies
where sunbeams kiss
and slowly rise.
NO MORE.

Seas – I for one –
canvas that I am,
custodian to those
there dwell herein
my playground
where wet delights
there, satiate.

Treat me with respect
I plead. For

Those self-centred ones,
gratifiers of quick fix,
be warned. The last say
will be mine.

Happening:
entrails, swirling entrails
drag you down
deep to your death
bed among contaminants,
chemicals, levelling
Catsharks, Cuckoos ghostly
shadows of their former selves.

Drake’s Island (good friend)
steeped in history’s past,
sheds tears, salty toward
times ahead, But
now, high priests
laud cruel endeavours
under the maxim:
Tourism Trumps the People.

The Future.
What future I say.
Visions, all of the roasting,
toasting kind. And
not just for me; those
welly wet friends of mine
whom have no voice.
I will speak up for them.

Today:
I’m gurgling
With much glee
For I have found my voice
O holy moly me
I feel alive
I am alive
For now,
Just. And
you, high priest,
I’m coming after you. 

I’m conundrum
vision, dream
embraced by colour
a world that sees,
likening the weather
where wavelets wax
then wane
flattering to deceive.

Truth will win
In the end.

 

 

Invasive Species by Kate Wing

 

Blooming biodiversity bringing all the foreigners.
Spanish bluebells mingling with our drooping native flowers
producing scentless hybrids.

Shame on you, three cornered leek,
No room for our own wild garlic since you got here.

Don’t get me started on those grey squirrels,
Coming here from America with their squirrel pox,
Killing all our British reds.

What about you Periwinkle? Are you Greater or Lesser?
Are you small and naturalised or large and invasive?
You’ve been here four hundred years?

Tell that to those cooing pigeons,
Strutting around with their puffed-up breasts.
I blame the Romans and their rock doves,
Bringing them here for meat and eggs.

And round the park the traffic rumbles,
Motorbikes growl and roar,
While grey buildings peer boldly over the walls
At the small patch of nature humans allow.

What belongs here?  What can stay?
And who decides?

 

 

the happy-go-lucky spied spinner by Jane Alana Ross

 

hallo dear hapstance rad-don’t-mind-me
i’m tiny!  bitsy lit thing just
tip-tipping pad
minding my lot

oh, what?  can’t lug
the tap?  ah well no hap
am pleased to make your enormous acquaintance
and you actu’ly catch me at lunch!
done me sheet weaving for the wink,
time now in to tuck
to a good ole staple springtail

au, where me manners?  amn’t
many us around
so no wonder you blunder
see, i be the kindly horrid
(means hairied)
ground weaver
top to tail millimetes i length a whole half and two

and do
you dig my stylish orange?
o i hope you find us cute
on this earth
so we can keep of it
all’s we need’s space, so like ’oot worry
we currently exist in three, no
scratch that, two
on-earth quarry

o i’m sure it looks busy
to you dear, but you’re a gargant!
time crawl so sluvvy slouh
so you may’ve not e’n notice we scant
but you notice me now
and we crawl so ticky quick
so well met

hey, say that your den?
then i’d best gen ot
we don’t live plural years, thus cheers
in advance
depending your behaviour
and i’ll just keep to my dance
on the whim of a would-be saviour

 

https://www.buglife.org.uk/projects/horrid-ground-weaver/

 

 

 

 

 
 
 
 
 
 
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Amsterdam ‘25. Dream Poem

It’s May 2025
I’ve shaved off all my hair
And dreamed aloud 
In my hotel room.
Just off the Stationsplein.
I ate fruit and read Dante 

 “O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore a little wind dost thou so fall?”

I crossed the Dam and I think I spotted the ghost of a 17 year old me sat on the steps of the National Monument smoking a joint.
Long hair.
Beat up clothes.
Hesse’s ‘ Steppenwolf’ in my back pocket.
I was a kite of freedom pitched up in the sky.
The design was a dragon and a flower.
Like the twin roles the young me was rehearsing in that year -1974.
Unsure of everything/certain of too much.
I was Zen bones and a koan sleight of hand.
Sure to be a one boy/man revolution.
My own personal Vietnam and 68 French riots.
I was an anti-psychiatrist in a padded cell.
A Rock & Roll bird hopping from note to note.
If I knew love it was it was like a homemade plane
that wouldn’t get off the ground
Crashed and snubbing the earth with a crumpled plywood nose.
Like Chet crumpled blooded and broken beneath the balcony of his 3rd floor room in 
the Hotel Prins Hendrik a few hundred yards from where I stand
Gone at 58 in 1988 ’cool’ trumpet playing Icarus.
Never learned to fly.
Back then I dreamed with the brakes off.
In free fall In psychedelic colours ‘tripping’ through the galaxy.
Wearing the universe like a multi coloured Zoot suit.
A kaftan dipped in a rainbow.
My image imported from India and Morocco.
Mayakovsky had ‘ clouds in his pockets’.
I had nebulae,constellations and starbursts.
Now I’m old and dream in autumn colours.
A winter chill strokes my cheek and my days are numbered
in an old fashioned way I never could have imagined. 
Fifty years ago, sat in the Dam feeling free.

“The heavens call to you, and circle about you, displaying to you their eternal splendors, and your eye gazes only to earth”

 

.

Malcolm Paul

 

 

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Waiting at the Hospital

I am waiting at the hospital
to get a Video X-ray.
No waiting token has been handed
like a lucky coin.
Time passes for nothing.
It seems no turn is waiting for me.
I would have been a flower seed
and blossomed already.
I am waiting for the morning
without the sun, it seems.
Many moons later
I wish to be healed.

 

 

 

© Sushant Thapa
Biratnagar-13, Nepal
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Interrupted Communication

 

No one’s listening because the noise is so great. Distorted syllables, fragmented images, the contortion of color and shape, a face in the wind, a body on the rocks, trucks and trains, airplanes and the single-file procession of cars on the highway. Invented sequences, the plunge of war and destruction, fibers of sweetness spread over the cracked earth. No one’s listening anymore because the noise is deafening. Someone put out the streetlights, tore off the signs, stripped the billboards. Humming, murmuring, whispering out on the edges. No one’s there anymore, no one’s watching the colors streak by, the voices plummet, the sea rise. Tiny rectangles tilted towards the sun, flashing, glowing, growing darker and darker. The grid is down and no one notices the steady progression of snow and ice, the return to a child’s book when the year slips and slides and great orange bears stand by the bedside, speaking and singing, and no one comprehends that penguins have come back, and owls stand guard at the upper windows, a fleecy silence calmly over all.

.

 

Andrea Moorhead
Picture Kushal Poddar

 

 

 

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Staying on the earthquake

Dear readers of IT, if you ever feel the need to stiffen the sinews and summon up the blood I recommend you read Diane Di Prima. Di Prima (1934-2020) was an American poet/artist/activist and part of The Beat Generation with which she strongly identified. Her book Revolutionary Letters urges you – directly or indirectly – to (wo)man the barricades. Before my 2007 paperback edition (160pp) was published by Last Gasp of San Francisco, Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s City Lights had also published four editions and all have been continuously updated. I don’t know how or where I got my edition; Better Books and Compendium Bookshop had closed by then so maybe it was a gift?

The first poem in RLs is not a numbered revolutionary letter but a preface I suppose and is April fool birthday poem for Grandpa. Her grandpa was an Italian anarchist ‘who read me Dante at the age of four & named my mother after Emma Goldman’. The book is dedicated ‘to Bob Dylan and to my grandfather Domenico Mallozzi’. It’s a lovely poem which talks of ‘young men with light in their faces/at my table talking love talking revolution/which is love spelled backwards….we do it for/the stars over the Bronx/that they may look on earth/and not be ashamed’.

Revolutionary Letters are just that. Di Prima’s urge to make non-violent revolution inform nearly every letter-poem though sometimes  – from despair? – she seems to advocate violent revolution as well.  In Revolutionary letter # 14 she writes of the need to

     cross the Canadian border with a child
     so that the three of you/look like one family no questions asked
     or fewer to stash letters guns or bombs
     forget about them
     till they are called for….’

As far as I can tell her Revolutionary Letters were first published in book form in 1971 though a number were written in the 1960s.

Some, most perhaps, are angry some are beautiful and some fuse together in the same poem. In the following prescient letter – or is it just resigned to capitalism’s determination to spread The American Way of Life across continents? – Di Prima has. written a great poem for our times and it’s worth printing in full:

     REVOLUTIONARY LETTER #76

     ANOTHER REVOLUTIONARY LETTER, 1988 
      (Gestapo Poem)

     Where is gestapo, where
     does it end? Where 
     is it? Soweto, it is. Where
     does it end? Not
     Oakland it doesn’t 
     not B’nai Brith.

     Where 
     is it? Gaza, it is. Where 
     is it? San Quentin, it is. Where?
     Peru. Where? Paris. Where? in Bonn
     & Prague & Beijing, it is 
     in Yellow River Valley. Where 
     is it? Afghan, Guatemala, Rio,
     Alaska, Tierra del Fuego, the
     wasted taiga, it is 
     where is it?
     & where 
     does it end.
                        Not in
     Oakland it doesn’t, 
     not in London. Not in the Mission.
     Don’t end in Brooklyn
     or Rome. Atlanta. Where?
     Morocco, gestapo is 
     Sudan (& death)
     Where end? not Canada sold to
     Nazi USA 
     not Mexico, Kenya, Australia
     it don’t, not end 
     Jamaica, Haiti, Mozambique 
     not end. Maybe
     someplace it isn’t maybe 
     some place it ends 
     some hills maybe 
     still free 
                   but hungry 
                                    (eyes 
     blaze
             over ancient guns

I’ve always found Diane Di Prima’s work challenging inspirational and full of fire and brimstone and she’s very well served by this excellent Last Gasp Of San Francisco edition. Unfortunately I’ve no idea where you can obtain a copy now but it’s worth tracking down.* In any case I think it fitting to leave the last word to her…

     REVOLUTIONARY LETTER #84

     FEBRUARY 14, 2001

     someone 
     put out a flag for 
     Valentine’s day, as if 
     the domain of the heart 
     could belong 
     to this heartbroken nation—

 

.

Jeff Cloves

diane di prima reads revolutionary letters #29 & #19

*NOTE
A PDF version of the Last Gasp of San Francisco 2025 edition is available here.
The Anarchist Library has a PDF of the City Lights edition here.
A 2021 edition, with 15 new poems, was published by Silver Press.

 

 

 

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Jack Frost: ‘As Seen on TV’ triple box set

 

Some musings on this reissue from Alan Dearling

This combines new re-masters of the two original Jack Frost albums (from Grant McLennan of The Go-Betweens and Steve Kilbey of The Church), together with live recordings and bonus tracks. These Australian musicians only worked together on ‘Jack Frost’ (1990) and ‘Snow Job’ (1995).

These guys really never created a coherent musical identity. But, the albums do contain lots of musical gemstones. There are examples of many different style of music from heavyish riffing, through a lot of jangling guitar tunes, many wordy songs, frequently quite romantic ballads.  Plenty of ear-worm lyrics, a rich variety of thinking person’s pop. Sometimes it gets a bit over-blown, a tad too lush, but the guys are great song-writers at their fairly awesome best, as with ‘Civil War Lament’ from their first album. It’s a haunting piece, elegiac and somehow it tugs at the heart-strings.

‘Civil War Lament’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pusk9POhMdw

Lots of tracks remind me of so many other songs and tunes from before the 2000s. Plenty of Byrdsy’ jangling guitars: ‘Providence ‘ is one of their best-known numbers and gives a hint of a nod to Dylan and ‘Chimes of Freedom’. ‘Didn’t know where I was’ turns up twice live on the third CD, though it comes from the original ‘Jack Frost’ album. A clever tale of being dislocated from time and space and of a tattoo in prison! Intriguing. For me, the original album is a bit too poppy, rather too much of the ‘soft rock’ feel, with the voices a bit too prominent in the mix. And there’s bucketloads of sad angst, even on the rather lovely acoustic led track, ‘Ramble’.  A lot of ‘Snow Job’ is rather more varied in terms of production and mixing. ‘Jack Frost Blues’ is fuzzed-up, with a rougher sound and more of a mix of instruments, with voices sinking into the mixture. It’s grungier, as at times with ‘Shakedown’, moving into heavier musical territory, a more wilful vocal delivery, but sadly it’s rather brief. I do really love ‘Little Song’. A flight of whimsical fantasy, with an acoustic guitar riff to die for. A ridiculously catchy tune and song.

‘Little Song’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AyROtWQ8le0

‘Angela Carter’ is the boys’ ‘Eleanor Rigby’, with author Angela, having an “army of lovers” but “she lives in her own worlds.”  ‘Haze’ is another excursion into a new musical direction. Almost Turkish in style, with drones, and a trippy feel.

So in all, it’s smorgasbord. Something for everyone perhaps. One of the well-loved songs, ‘Every Hour God Sends’ with its layers of bass, waves of sounds and vocals could even be Sisters of Mercy joining forces with early Pink Floyd to set the controls for the heart of the sun! Some fabulous moments of sheer beauty…and many are the perfect soundtrack for a doomed love affair!

Jack Frost live on US Cable TV from 1991 with this rather lovely song: ‘Thought that I was over you’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V9qCjnbFQTg

 

 

 

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Sustaining the Stream

 


Aurora,
Sarost (Jazz in Britain)
LLIFT #10
, various artists (Recordiau Dukes)
From a Broom Cupboard in Marseille, Jumble Hole Clough (Jumble Hole Clough)

Aurora is the first album by the new trio Sarost, a coming together of veteran free jazz/improv musicians Mark Sanders (drums), Larry Stabbins (saxophones) and Paul Rogers (bass). It was recorded in a single session the day after their performance at the 2025 Bath Jazz Weekend. Whoever wrote the notes quite rightly flags up Paul Rogers’ seven string bass: it’s a thing of wonder which makes it sound as if the man has seven fingers. Naming-checking Keith Tippett as an influence is helpful, too. all three members of Sarost played regularly with Tippett, back in the day. It’s a useful pointer to where their work lies on the jazz-improv spectrum. What else can one say? What these three musicians do, when they come together, is simply make endlessly imaginative jazz and, as someone once said, writing about music is like dancing about architecture.  What stands out to me, though, listening to the album, is the lyricism all three bring to the music, while at the same time sustaining the energy and sense of movement that needs to go with the genre. Sanders, while providing the necessary powerhouse to drive the music along, even makes the drums sound lyrical. And I loved Stabbins’ solo at the start of the third track, ‘North’.

Two of the outfits that regularly catch my attention are also among the most prolific. It’s not long since I was writing about  LLiFT and Jumble Hole Clough. Nevertheless, they’ve both recently put out new albums and they’re both  well worthy of attention. The great thing about LLiFT #10, the latest in the series that documents the activities of the North Wales LLiFT project, is that, ten albums in, the core group – joined at each session by newcomers and/or occasional visitors – are still making music that’s full of vitality and developing in new directions. As I’ve said in previous reviews, theirs is the kind of project which it would be great to see springing up in communities everywhere. 

The whole album’s a great listen, although I can see why they made the third, ‘Sliding Downhill’ the featured track. It includes a spoken text, although, as is almost always the case with text and music, you can’t distinguish every word. There’s something in there about applying brakes and sliding downhill, among other things. I’m curious not only because it sounds interesting, but because something like it happened to me once, in North Wales, on a C-road just outside Dolgellau, which was just too steep for the brakes to work on the car. Like listening to LliFT, it was an exhilarating experience. Unlike LLiFT, it was not one I’d wish to repeat.

What LLiFT do is right up to speed with the possibilities of technology these days: I’m sure people will continue to create and think of albums the way people have over the decades, but, with digital recording and editing and the possibilities of online streaming, you can simply put music out there more-or-less as you play it – less a potential  milestone in the work of an ensemble and more simply an opportunity for listeners to eavesdrop on what a particular musician or group is doing at a particular time. Also, the aura and iconic status of some albums in the past has to do not only with the quality of the music on them, but also with the massive – and expensive – technological and organisational effort required to produce and distribute them, not to mention with them having performed the feat of getting past the gatekeepers of the arts and entertainment industry. It’s a system that has become easier and easier to bypass over the years and, these days, if you  record what you play, rustle up some album art and upload the result, you’ve got an album! LLiFT seem to me to epitomise this approach, while at the same  time, I should add, maintaining the highest standards in recording quality and sound balance. And it’s great that, ten albums in, they’re still producing work that sounds fresh and exciting and that leaves us wondering what they’ll come up with next. Roll on LLiFT #11.

Which leads us on to Colin Robinson (aka Jumble Hole Clough)’s podcast from a broom cupboard in Marseille. Having recently put out an album of music which experimented with longer forms (JHC album tracks often tend to be short), he’s now turned his attention back to producing an instrumental album, one in his series, ‘music for imaginary puppet shows’.

The first track hits us with a barrage of relentless electronic strings reminiscent, I thought, of John Adams. And it works! It’s a classic JHC hard-hitting opening track. JHC – as I’ve written about here in the past – describes itself as a project ‘influenced by the landscape, industrial remains and experiences around Hebden Bridge in West Yorkshire’ and, if there’s a Calder Valley Symphony Orchestra, someone should arrange ‘Mars the Harbinger of Diabetes’ for them.

The second track, ‘Are we not running?’ put me immediately in mind of the world of writer (and master of the ‘New Weird’) M John Harrison. Using a combination of conventional electronic resources and field recordings, Robinson creates an unsettling atmosphere, punctuated by birdsong, a passing lorry and (and this is what put me in mind of Harrison) a couple out jogging, one of whom says ‘are we not running?’ (including fragments of overheard conversation is a Harrison trademark). In the notes that go with the album, Robinson says film-makers are free to use tracks from the album so long as they credit him. I’d say anyone thinking of making a film of  Harrison’s recent(-ish) novel The Sunken Land Begins to Rise Again, should get in touch with Robinson. (Come to think of it, that title could almost be that of a JHC album).

There are twelve more tracks where these two came from. I’ll leave you to explore them for yourself. As with the musicians of both Sarost and LLiFT, I’m left wondering how Robinson manages to sustain his seemingly inexhaustible stream of creative energy.

 

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Dominic Rivron

LINKS

Aurora: https://jazzinbritain1.bandcamp.com/album/aurora

LliFT #10: https://recordiaudukes.bandcamp.com/album/llift-10

From a Broom Cupboard in Marseille – music for an imaginary puppet show volume 4:
https://jumbleholeclough.bandcamp.com/album/from-a-broom-cupboard-in-marseille-music-for-imaginary-puppet-shows-volume-4

 

 

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Electro Dude

Henry Fothergill

Electrodude is a piece all set in the bleary-eyed, early morn haze of the city. The secret pre-dawn club of workers up before the commuters come. The transient city, taking inspiration from London, Tokyo, Cardiff, Berlin, Chicago and more besides. There’s a camaraderie between the dawn wakers, but also the isolation of urban loneliness.

Electrodude is wrapped up in his music, deaf to the world around him. Taking this thread, the characters that follow do so out of a connection or inspiration to his music, and a curiosity. They’re broken from their reverie and, in-turn, help Electrodude himself when he’s put in danger.

Music composed by Morgan Bryan

 

 

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Room for the Viewer


John Walker: Touch, Catherine Lampert (Thames & Hudson)

In 1985, John Walker’s art was everywhere. He had a major exhibition of paintings at the Hayward Gallery and across the river at what is now Tate Britain a retrospective print exhibition, the inaugural show of their new print gallery. Both were accompanied by catalogues. The same year saw some work of his included in an exhibition of ‘Contemporary Drawings’ at Manchester’s Castlefield Gallery, and in late 1978 an exhibition of drawings at Nigel Greenwood. The little catalogue from that show was an eye-opener, showing how Walker made drawings from and not just for his paintings, an active way for an artist to understand what they have created.

And then Walker seemed to disappear. I found some old catalogues over the next couple of decades but saw no paintings in the flesh until the 2000s, when on a visit to Boston with a friend, a small gallery had some small blobby landscapes by John Walker on show. I wasn’t convinced it was the same artist but of course it was, I just hadn’t got a context for the work, had no idea Walker had visited or moved to Australia or America, couldn’t connect the paintings he had made that were 20 or 30 years apart.

There was an exhibition of his collage work in New York in 2005, that juxtaposed work from the 70s – huge, bold collaged canvasses – with more recent works on paper and in 2008 there was ‘A Survey: 1970-2008’ in Boston that showed the directions Walker had travelled in: from abstracts to figurative(ish) forms to skull-headed characters and the inclusion of text, to sometimes muddy seashore paintings. The small landscapes I’d been surprised by were painted on Bingo cards that Walker had found, the subject matter was a creek nearby, a place where land and tide and detritus collided. Some of the paintings seemed like close-ups of the mud and rubbish, others evocative moonlit scenes, and others seemed intent on recreating the swirl and flow of the water itself.

What has been missing, of course, was a monograph, something that Thames & Hudson have now put right. This handsome 300+ page hardback makes clear the long-term development of Walker’s art and offers readers useful biographical information and critical insight. But the book makes clear it is the art that matters; it opens with 10 full page reproductions of work, followed by a black and white studio shot of Walker painting.

After a brief introduction, we are told the bare bones of Walker’s youth in Birmingham, and by the end of less than a page column of text he is, at sixteen, off to Birmingham School of Art. There are brief descriptions of the artist’s engagement with work by Francis Bacon, Munch and Kenneth Noland and then we are witness to perhaps the first important paintings, which feature depictions of a cut and folded square of paper against a glitched all-over grid pattern. By the end of the 60s Walker was exhibiting shaped canvasses (mostly parallelograms or truncated triangles, a kind of wooden gym horse shape) in major galleries, including the Hayward, and some of the parallelogram shapes had transferred onto regular rectangular canvasses along with a new shape, a kind of lozenge or pill, often on long, thin paintings that were impossible to see all at once.

Walker then landed a two year fellowship in the USA, traveling widely, making connections, seeing many important museum and gallery collections, and – of course –painting. And in 1972 he showed at the Venice Biennale and in a number of important group exhibitions. In 1974, he made a series of paintings, all titled Durham, with a number following, that used the lozenge shape again, along with rough outlines of rectangles and squares to make a small tower, bottom right of each canvas, against a textured, colourful background. To me, these are related to works by the likes of John Hoyland, exploring the dynamics of shape, colour and form, finding out how to energise large flat areas.


Ostraca II, 1977 (Courtesy of The Phillips Collection)

One way of doing this, was collage, with dynamic physical shapes reacting against each other, highlighting even more the surface of a painting. Although collage would remain part of Walker’s available toolkit, by the end of the 70s, he was concentrating on a motif he called ‘Alba’, an abstract geometric rendering of the human form, also reminiscent of standing stones or megaliths. The artist and his work also had to process and assimilate a residency in Australia: the vast landscape, the desert, the sense of space and perhaps most importantly, Aboriginal art that he was allowed to see and their relationship with and understanding of the land. Paintings such as ‘For T. Summerfield’ clearly show a change of palette in response, whilst others such as ‘Cultures Oceania VII’ grapple with ideas of colonialism, with a skull on a stick beside an Alba shape covered with handprints. Totems and words (spells? incantations? poetry?) also started to appear, although by the 90s, Walker was struggling to clarify his work, seeking a directness he had found in Aboriginal drawing yet unable to resolve his paintings; indeed, feeling unable to paint for long stretches of time.

The anguish partly stemmed from emotional as much as painterly reasons. Catherine Lampert gamely tries to unravel the knots that tie Walker’s father, trench warfare, death, creek mud and a story involving a sheep’s skull, but to no avail. I find this work cluttered, weighed down by words painted on the canvasses and perhaps also by the rather obvious symbolism of the skull. It’s a world away from the thin washes and weightless colours that Richard Diebenkorn used in his Ocean Park series, yet Lampert reveals that Walker would sometimes stop, en route to Australia, to visit Diebenkorn in Los Angeles, intrigued by the relationship between abstraction and a sense of place, order and nature. This, along with visits to Maine meant that having previously bought a house there in 1989, he could challenge himself to draw and paint out in the landscape.

Enter the horizon line, across the top of several paintings, along with depictions of mud and what is buried in it, the pattern of marks left by clammers, shadows, smoke, water and cloud. There is still a sense of struggle in many of these paintings, they were not made easily; the paint is dense and layered, any imagery unclear. Perhaps the strongest work from ‘the dirty cove’ are the more monochrome work such as ‘Sea Cake, Winter No. IV’, where black erupts towards a starry sky and full moon; or ‘Clammer’s Moon’, a work that uses oil and mixed media to good effect, the paint bubbling, bleeding and blurring from the mix of materials.


Move, 2017 (courtesy of Alexandre Gallery)

Something changed in the 2010s. Colour clarified, shapes resolved into formal patterns and many of the paintings become simpler and less cluttered. Stripes and dots and forms are freely painted, with a sense of looseness, perhaps even joy rather than struggle. I am reminded of Roger Hilton’s exuberant work, of cartoon colours and capers, and occasionally of the work of Frank Stella, yet not as sombre or hard edged. Walker is now able to draw on a whole lifetime of shapes and techniques and forms and colour. His lozenge shape reappears in ‘Move’ and possibly ‘Bridge’ and ‘Shift’, as do the meanders and pools of his creek. There are acres of blue and white, patterns abutting one another, lines interrupting themselves and each other. Lampert suggests (about a specific painting but I think it more generally applicable) ‘There is so much space and air in the work, nevertheless it has a different kind of depth, as if all is feeling far away, lost in the firmament.’

Alex Bacon, in a short piece of writing which ends the book, puts it another way, suggesting that Walker ‘shows how to leave room for the viewer to reflect on themselves in the act of coming to terms with the cacophony of complex moves the artist has made, with all their provocative ambiguity and open-endedness.’ The double-page studio shot which closes the book shows clearly that the (absent) artist continues to explore possibilities. The walls and floor are covered with drawings and paintings, ideas and work in progress. This book quite rightly celebrates John Walker and is a glorious and extensive survey of his work.

 

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

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The lunar-bride

The racing grey clouds

shepherding the incandescent, circular, bright moon 

in the sky

as if a coy, bedecked bride,

covered with a silvery veil

being sashayed in a wooden palanquin

by the rolling, cloud-bearers.

 

Or a bride in all resplendence being taken to the altar

by her giggling, playful muckers

The lone stars,

like twinkling confetti,

celebrate the celestial connubiality

Gentle wisps of winds witness this spectacle

from the fringes as ethereal attendees

 

The overcast sky wrapped up in a velvety,

cloudy cloak – a contrasting coulisse,

emphasize the lunar bride’s supremacy

 in the grandeur heavenly.

 

 

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Sangeeta Sharma
Picture Sandeep Kumar Mishra

 

 

Author’s Bio: 

Sangeeta Sharma, a Toronto-based academic, is the senior editor of Setu, a bilingual, international peer-reviewed journal and former head, English, in a
degree college affiliated to the University of Mumbai.
She has authored a book on Arthur Miller, three collection of poems, edited seven anthologies on poetry, fiction and criticism (solo and joint) and two workbooks on communication.

A nemophilist at heart, writing poetry as a Romanticist exalts her.

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I have loved

                                      For Jill

 

Not until I was grown up could I use the word love, could I say “I love you”

But I have learned to love and learned that I loved throughout my life

I have loved almost a hundred women. Some for a night, some for a month. Some for a year. One for 55 years and I love her still.

I have loved to see our children grow and become the wonderful human beings that they are, and love them for who they are

I have loved Bach, Beatles, Bob, Beefheart, Blues and they still weave joy in me with their patterns, melodies, harmonies and words

I have loved drugs and the ecstacy and golden visions they granted me, but had to give them up when they drove me, inexorably, towards madness, oblivion and death

I have loved the ocean and all the denizens of the deep from the pink pygmy seahorse to the star-studded ridge-backed whale shark

I have loved gliding through coral swim-throughs and marvelling at the fractal beauty of brightly coloured soft corals shimmying in the current

In almost a thousand dives I have loved to swim with the mysterious creatures of the deep from manta rays to man-eating sharks. Most of all I have loved the oceanic feeling of oneness, swimming inside a school of a thousand fish

I have loved a score of close friends all my life and sadly lived to see some drop off like leaves from a tree in autumn

I have loved teaching children, teens and mostly adults and seeing the spark of understanding and the fire of enthusiasm ignite in the eyes of some, just a few

I have loved talking with friends, colleagues and strangers, sharing memories, chasing down concepts and stretching my understandings

I have loved the diamantine beauty of mathematics, with its great arcs of crystalline stars stretching from here to infinity and beyond

I have loved pursuing the problems of the philosophy of mathematics and penning my own answers to the perennial questions of What is number? What is mathematics? Is it discovered or invented?

I have loved for four-score years and learned that love is more important than anything. It is love that binds all living creatures together in a common cause, together with the Earth, and which offers us the hope of any future at all.

I have loved, I have been loved, and I am blessed.

 

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Paul Ernest

 

 

 

 

 

 

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For Our Own Good

 

Tower blocks are falling like the Great Leonid Meteor Shower of 1833, initiating a new approach to natural phenomena. There are wall charts in the daily papers, and we can download an app to chart their descending patterns against the turbulent sky. Everyone’s a barroom expert in structural engineering and the neo-mystical fad of architectology, and we read immediate futures in cracked concrete and asbestos. The auguries, it must be said, are less than propitious. Tomorrow will be the haruspicy of smashed glass, and the day after will be the phrenology of rubble. Then, there will come a tall, dark stranger, with a coat the colour of crows. In one hand he will hold a carbide lamp, in the other a rolled-up plan to fill the sky.

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

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For the record, this is off the record

Gossip sticks like old sweat
That blossoms sourly 
In the renewed heat
Of attention 
As a name is mentioned.

And sure as a clock strikes hourly
The patterned rhythm of the lies
Paradiddles shocks and sighs
Scandal and scorn
Like that shabby gaberdine
Waiting in the closet unseen
To be dustily reworn.

The nothing at all that everyone knows
Dissimulates its invisible prose
And though you were never its destination
It returns to you as reputation.

 

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Stephen A. Linstead
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Vacation, Vocation 

‘The distant, close to the moon, as we are. They build. 
They build the cliff, where
the wandering breaks, 
they build
further:
with light foam and spraying wave.’

From Paul Celan’s “White and Light”, translated by Stephen Cole 

They build darkness 
so that we discern the shapes
of the hills, night, end  lips.

Sun, still briny from its deep dip,
distributes the flyers of vacation,
albeit for a kaput relationship 
arrived here for a little Kintsugi 
vacation is vocation.

He wipes the sky, puts the glasses
back on his wife’s eyes,
says that they should eat 
a kebab platter, and lunch 

 

 

 

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

 

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Drinking like a fish

This place is unfamiliar
                     dark    and    churning
                                                               with hunters lurking
                                                                out of view.

                                I’m hooked through
                                               the mouth            with drink
                                               the gills               with smoke
                                               the eye                 with flashing lights.

My fight is dulled:
the current pulls me down.

                                                    The crowd bobs       offbeat
                                                                                     as the DJ casts
                                                                                                droning bass
                                                                                                and stinging snares
                                that reel me in
                                until I’m          caught
                                                        with the others

                                in a polluted haze,     waiting for the net
                                                                             to trawl           forward,
                                                                             to scoop us up
                                                                             into a floundering dance that baits
                                                                             and slowly suffocates.

                                The air doesn’t hydrate enough
                                           so I slug more

                                                                but my body doesn’t take
                                                                this foreign form of oxygen.

                                           I can’t leave the swarm
                                can’t weave through flailing bodies
                      can’t break the net of limbs
            that tows me upward.

                                The sharks are watching me
                                           but it’s the fishermen that
                                                                grab my sequin scales

                                                                finding imperfections that they created
                                                                and deeming me unworthy for the catch.

                                By some twisted fate, I’m released
                                           but it’s too late:

                                I sink to the sea bed
                      watching a shimmering rainbow
            spread high above me
then vanish as the lights go dark.

 

 

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Megan Wade

 

 

 

 

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Check it Out


Bright Lights, 1974-1983, After the Fire (6CD box set, Cherry Red)

The first time I saw After the Fire, in the mid 1970s it was a mistake. My mistake, I mean. I dragged a friend along to what I thought was another band’s gig, having not quite got the name right. Thankfully, this gig at the black hole that was The Marquee back then was fantastic.

If I say progrock you may recoil in horror, but the Sex Pistols and co. were hardly headline news by then, and keyboards and big drum kits were still de rigeur. The gig opened with a fast-paced widdly-diddly instrumental that focussed on the keyboards, before we got a set of extended songs, friendly in-between-songs banter and a general sense of musical energy and fun.

My friends and I started to see the band more often as they worked the London circuit, playing The Marquee, The Music Machine, Fulham’s Golden Lion, The Rock Garden and Dingwalls; and occasionally travelled further afield as they presented their music to the college circuit, which was how it was done back in those days. Sometimes we’d end up helping load gear after the gig. I still have nightmares about helping manhandle a Hammond organ and a mixing desk through the beer cellar hatch at The Hope and Anchor in Islington.

Although the band came close to being signed up by record companies several times, they ended up releasing the Signs of Change album on their own indie label in 1978, selling out four pressings via mail order and gig sales, attracting bigger and bigger audiences and more word-of-mouth acclaim.

But star-patched jeans and banks of keyboards were not things that rock bands were supposed to have after punk had arrived, and even the exuberant young bass player Nick Battle and demented drummer Ivor Twydell could not disguise the fact that the band’s music was rooted in genres that punk claimed to hate and reject. (Although it is still unclear why Johnny Rotten owned a Pink Floyd t-shirt in the first place that he could deface.) And the band’s self-confessed christianity didn’t help, not because they preached or anything, but because back then faith and spirituality were off topic in a decade of nihilism, rejection, strikes and poverty. DJs at various venues would regularly heckle and disparage the band, lining up tracks like Black Widow’s ‘Come to the Sabbat’ and Black Sabbath songs to play before they arrived onstage.

Nick Battle deciding to leave (he immediately joined another London band, Writz, a much artier band with wacky vocals and onstage visuals) seemed to prompt a rethink for the band. They ditched just about every song (I think ‘Psalm’, the opening instrumental, and ‘Signs of Change’ both remained for a while) and wrote a whole new set of new wave (or power pop as journalist John Gill called it) songs and returned to live action as a trio only a few months later.

Gone were Peter Banks’ Hammond and string synthesizer, in were some snazzy polyphonic synths on a new stand; front man Andy Piercy ditched the starred jeans and had bought a doubleneck bass/guitar combo; only Ivor Twydell remained the same, though his drum kit had shrunk and the music’s tempo had increased. The trio version of After the Fire rocked but only a low-fi bootleg of them playing live remains. Although, Piercy says that it was ‘exhilarating on stage for the sheer energy of carrying the music in such an exposed line-up’ and that ‘there was simply nowhere to hide and it felt like every part of every song totally relied on each of us at every moment’, the band decided to recruit a guitarist to help add musical colour and backing vocals and allow Piercy to concentrate on his lead singing and bass playing, not guitar as well!

So, enter John Russell, who had previously worked with Banks in an earlier band, Narnia, and enter CBS, who signed the band. With the arrival of post-punk bands such as XTC, Simple Minds and Magazine on the music scene it was clear that not only were keyboards allowed again but that After the Fire were right on target with their new songs. Their singles ‘One Rule for You’ and ‘Laser Love’ both flirted with the UK charts, and in 1979 their album Laser Love was released. Whilst it didn’t quite catch the live energy, and suffered from multiple producers, it was an original, quirky mainstream arrival.

They also played on BBC’s Live in Concert and The Old Grey Whistle Test, as well as selling out The Rainbow at the end of the year. A triumphant year but there were problems behind the scenes: CBS had rejected the band’s second album and insisted upon it being re-recorded, and in addition Twydell has resigned from the band’s drum seat to – according to who you believed – become a buddhist, join the police force, recover from an onstage heart attack that no-one had witnessed, or become a rock star in his own right. (He did record a couple of solo albums.)

After a couple of short-lived drummers, Peter King, who had worked with Coventry band The Flys, was chosen for the band. He brought a crisp new dynamic to After the Fire’s sound, which was present and correct on the final version of the band’s second LP 80-F (a bad pun on the band’s abbreviated name) although it was somewhat hidden in the dense, slick overproduction by Mack who was probably best known at the time for his work with ELO. In hindsight it’s hard to hear why the original version of the album couldn’t have been polished up a bit and released as it was.

Anyway, following the album’s release in October 1980, the band played live on The Peter Powell Show on Radio 1 and for Rock Goes to College, a gig broadcast in Spring 1981. The second half of that year was quiet on the live front – although they did perform for BBC Radio 1 in Concert with U2, a band you may have heard of – presumably because they were recording their third album, Batteries Not Included, again produced (this time more sympathetically) by Mack and released in March 1982.

There was no rest for the band in 1982. They did a European tour supporting ELO, then their own gigs in Germany and Spain, before supporting Queen in Europe and then Van Halen in America, with a few UK and US gigs in their own name. By the end of the year, Banks recalls (in the box set booklet) that the band were ‘completely shattered and utterly broke financially. A realistic chance of a re-negotiated record deal fell through and we could see no way out of the hole we had landed in…’.

So, on the 3rd December 1982, onstage at London’s Dominion Theatre, the band announced that they were breaking up. Fate, however had other ideas, and the track ‘Der Kommisar’ which the band had already recorded was climbing up the charts in several other countries. Piercy chose to carry on, rerecording some songs that were released in the USA as ATF and eventually getting a solo record contract that would come to naught (you can hear the unreleased album if you search hard online), although he did do lots of production work. CBS would try to cash in with a compilation album called ATF; Russell was in the short-lived band Press Any Key; whilst Banks and King would form Zipcodes, playing together until King’s untimely death in 1987.

There have been compilation albums, illegal and legal reissues of Signs of Change, the latter including some earlier demos, and a low key release live album (Radio Sessions 1979-1981). There was a reformation of sorts for a while, as ATF2, which involved Banks and Russell but no new songs; and in 2005 Edsel released Der Kommisar: The CBS Recordings, a two CD compilation. But the recent announcement of a 6CD box set was a surprise. ‘Does anyone need six CDs of After the Fire?’ asked one of my friends when he heard the news.

The answer is yes, we do. Although there are only a few tracks here I haven’t already got in my collection, it’s good to have a complete gathering-up of official, semi-official, live and demo recordings. So here from the CBS vaults are some early demos of tracks that should have been on the Laser Love album instead of either never having been released or hidden away on the B-sides of singles. Here is part of the original unreleased version of 80-F, and here are some live tracks only ever issued as a promotional EP, progrock demos, alternative versions, re-recordings, different mixes and remixes, and a couple of absolute gems: a live version of ‘Psalm’, taken (I think) from my 1978 bootleg tape recording and cleaned up, and an awkward and unsettling version of The Beatles’ ‘Help!’ (here listed as ‘Beatles Medley/Help!’) which used to be a highlight of the band’s early concerts.

Of course, the official releases are all here too. In retrospect, After the Fire live played a noisy, high speed new wave pop that never quite translated to record, although at times it came close. Clearly there was a desire for commercial success at play, courtesy CBS/Epic, Mack and some band members, but also room for a genuine place in the rock world, as evidenced by the positive response from Van Halen and their fans. If the sometimes questionable fashions the band at times adopted or the sustained interest in space travel as a metaphor reveals the music’s age, the songs on show here are quirky, energetic and inventive, keyboard or guitar led music that can proudly hold its head up alongside its musical neighbours from the time. The bright lights might have eluded the band, but now we can all hear what we missed out on at the time.

 

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Rupert Loydell   (i.m. Richard Hogben)

 

 

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Wire Cutters


Jack Anderson

A chance encounter proves fateful for 2 robots mining on a desolate planet.

Created By: Jack Anderson
Original Score By: Cody Bursch
Sound Design By: Jackie! Zhou
Additional Animation: Jen Re, Erica Robinson, Hunter Schmidt, Justine Stewart, Jacqueline Yee
Additional FX: Danny Corona, Matthew Robillard, Tim Trankle
Cloud FX: Chase Levin
Colorist: Bryan Smaller
Rigging: Katelyn Roland
Advisor: Bill Kroyer

 

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Household Management

 


 

Not like that, like this.

How to make pastry, how to tie a tie.

(Both of which defeat me.)

My mother always said she would have liked to be a

housekeeper

and she seemed most relaxed   

organizing the world.

Her way was the way, whatever Buddha said.

Pain was buried under piles of laundry

and a problem solved was a problem ironed.

I learned it was pointless talking:

feelings were foreign, like particle physics

and best left to the professionals.

Tears were private and quickly got over 

and if you loved someone, you polished their shoes.

*

The last time she visited my flat – God couldn’t have stopped her –  

she cleaned my windows.

Then: – wham! 

Is there anything you want to ask me?

No, Mum. No. Nothing at all.

 

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Tanya Parker

 

Tanya won the Yorkshire Open Poetry Competition in 2008 and the Rydale Competition in 2013.  She was Reviews Editor for Dream Catcher Magazine for five years and has poetry published in Orbis Acumen, Other Poetry and Poetry Nottingham, amongst others. She appeared as guest writer on Helen Burke’s radio show ‘Word Salad’ for East Leeds FM (twice) and has performed in International Women’s Week with Real People Theatre. Tanya performed with Rose Drew in ‘She’s the Cultured One’ at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2011, at the Galtres Festival in July 2013 and a specially-commissioned show at the Keats Shelley House in Rome in May 2014.Her first full-length poetry collection ‘The Problem with Beauty’ appeared with Stairwell Books in September 2015. She is currently working on an M.A in Creative Writing with Leeds Trinity University.  

 

 

 

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CLOUDS OF CHAOTIC CROWDS

 

Smitten-

Bitten

Like Faustus-

Leave the house dust

With fool’s gold

Unsold.

This conveyor belt lair

A castle in the air

For Dante’s dreams of doubt

To wander about

In, with voices that pretend

To be a different friend-

Oh my, what a frame,

Too big to blame

And beyond a simple say

To save and stay-

So, close the dungeon door

To be what you were before

And walk away

Into the clouds

Of chaotic crowds

Falling as rain

On sterile plain.

 

 

 

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Strider Marcus Jones
Picture Nick Victor

 

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Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including:  Poppy Road Review; International Times Magazine; The Galway Review;  The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

 

 

 

 

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These Aren’t the Poems I Mean to Write

Give me sparrows, not gunfire.
Give me long forest walks, sweeping prayer-like vistas.
What sin, what god has brought this hammer down,
ringing again and again as our hearts become steel,
when there is sky enough to dream,
when there are countless wheeling stars?
 
There were raindrops on tulips
in the garden where I grew.
Unheard of then, what is now routine.
It takes a body count to make the news.
Our leaders of no use at all.
 
Our distinguishing gift to the world, this:
that terror happens anywhere,
so go about your life. Raise your children
in the din of innocent blood.
Raise the flag, but only halfway.

 

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Al Fournier
 

 

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Mind-Set

 

I seek the winch of good thought that propels and
parks me to the right-minded gait, where sparklers
inform me of my goal. In exchange, let well-being
exude its essence.
 
If chemistry between the disparate is a sandwich,
karma is between the slices. If the qualification
to belong to a coalition of concepts is to loathe
those blackballed by it, I’m happy as a nonmember.

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi

 

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi is an award-winning poet who has authored eight poetry books. His poems have been published in over thirty-five countries and appear in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He edited Dreich Planet # India, an anthology for Hybriddreich, Scotland, in December 2022. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by the Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. He was highly commended in the first A Proper Poetry Book Full Collection by the Hedgehog Poetry Press in December 2024 and in the erbacce prize, UK, May 2025. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

X @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems ||  

 

 

 

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Unasking

 
Traffic trundling
Laughter on the path
Planes score the sky
Jets tear the air
Traffic like a working sea
Chatter on the street
Human birdsong
As the crows percuss
The pigeons fuss
The squirrels freeze
The drills suddenly relieve
Builders banter
A cheeky fox canters
In the brazen sunshine
The drill resumes
The traffic waves roll on
Like a subtle ocean
The banter blags on
The scaffolders toll for thee
The bells of their poles
Clattering metalically
The jilted task
Unasking for a moment I am free
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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Roddy McDevitt
Picture Louise McNaught
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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The Line Between the Light and Flesh

From the pink flesh 
to the light’s gracious sadness
he evolves.

All memory, all papers 
those cracked at the creases 
and yet not quite dust, 
tell about the news 
no longer scalds him.

Light, this night, blurs the line
between the opaque,
transparent and translucent,

between the smoke from 
the distant chimney, mirror 
he has seen his flesh and skin in,
and the water filled with 
the cacophony of flickering sky.

 

 

 

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Kushal Poddar

Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

 

 

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apartheid apartments open in doncaster + other news

 

 

Apartheid Apartments now open in Doncaster!

 

APARTHEID APARTMENTS

 

 

I’ve opened my first shop-based art installation since Pocket Money Loans, up in Doncaster at the Art Bomb Hub. The show runs from the 17th May-2nd July and is viewable 24 hours a day. I’ll post more photos and details on my website here.

   

   

 

The exhibition is an attempt to draw attention to Israel’s long-term policy of ethnic cleansing which has had material and diplomatic support from successive UK governments.

Israel’s genocide in Gaza is beyond horrifying but its important to place it in the context of an ongoing attempt by Israel to wipe Palestinians off the map. I put all these horrific crimes into the mundane form of an estate agent to try and show the banality of evil at work, how things as dull as planning permission and property rights are all part of an attempt to systematically eradicate an entire people.

Below is the video that plays on a loop in the exhibition, which was a collaboration with an old friend and brilliant artist Michelle Tylicki.

 

 


SHOP SALE TO RAISE FUNDS

   

 

 

I went £4000 over budget on the Apartheid Apartments project and put it all on my credit card which comes out of my account on the 25th, so if you ever wanted anything from my shop, now would be a great time! I’m doing a 10% sale in my shop until then, just use the code PANICSELLING.

ORDER HERE

 

 

GLASTONBURY

 

 

The Hell Bus is coming back to Glastonbury, but moving to Greenpeace field and with some extra new work I’ll be building over the next few weeks.

 

MORE EVENTS

 

I’ll be doing a stall at WIDE AWAKE festival which is today, just in case you’re reading this on the way there, and here’s some of the upcoming events/exhibitions I’m doing over the next couple of months:

Cursed Objects Live Podcast
Birkbeck Cinema – London
28th May 2025

I’m going to be one of the guests on the Cursed Objects podcast live show in London, 28th May. Tickets are free but you have to book: https://www.cursedobjects.co.uk/events/millennium-tat-new-labour-and-the-neoliberal-gift-shop

 

 

Rewrite the Future
Wardlaw Museum – St Andrews
31st May – 28th September 2025

 

Showing several pieces about advertising in this group show.

 

 

 

Time of the Signs
Atom Gallery – London
6th-27th June 2025
 

Group show of artist made or modified street signs

 

 

 

Hell Bus @ Lambeth Country Show
Brockwell Park – London
7th-8th June 2025

 

 

 

 

Hell Bus @ Green Man
Green Man Festival – Bannau Brycheiniog (Brecon Beacons)
14th – 17th August 2025

The Hell Bus will be open in Einstein’s Garden at Green Man 2025

The Hell Bus returns to the wonderful Lambeth Country Show,
a free two day family-friendly festival in Brockwell Park.

 

 

 

US EMPIRE MAP

 

 

My US Empire Map has had a great reaction and lots of prints have gone out so far. If you’d like one, you can order one here.

 

 

2024 + 2023 ZINES

 

As a thanks to my Patreon backers I send them all an exclusive annual zine documenting all the work this support has helped me make through the year.

If you’d like a copy, just sign up for £3.50+ a month on my Patreon, and I’ll send you a copy of my 2024 AND 2023 zine (while stocks last!)

Patreon is the only way to get these zines. But there’s no minimum subscription, you can cancel anytime!

Get your copy here

 

 

 

 

This update is public and shareable so please feel free to pass it on.
If you’re not on my mailing list but would like to be you can sign up here.

Thanks for reading!

 

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Reverie

 
 
 

 

 Relaxed, I lie back

 Your voice echoes softly

 And I sink into reverie

 

 Contrasts. Hanging strands

 I am drifting…

 Over the edge, sliding

 

 Sticky, syrup mouth 

 Your words trapped

 Into slow motion

 

 I look around the room

 Bright shadows lean

 Across your arms and legs

 

 Words are speckled dust

 Suspended in the light

 Then gently falling.

 

 I return

 Remember I’m with you

 Listening again

 

 But I will never know

 Where you were

 What you said

 

 I forget the moment.

 

 And still…still……still……..

 You are warm beside me

 

 

 

© Christopher

 

 

 

 

 

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THE PIANO HAS BEEN THINKING

On Oddfellow Casino’s Maison Mouton Sessions, Volume 1. (Nightjar Records)

 

With his man’s voice he sings but it is the sweet sounding
Boy within who beguiles you; from under a haunted moustache
And through Brighton and all of its blazing ocean wave,

Song cuts through as La Maison Mouton becomes the ideal
Home exhibition for these Doncastrian dreams and a music
That in being remade sees souls saved. David Bramwell

Is my favourite Band. The Oddfellow Casino’s no gamble,
On both red and black you find beauty beneath every breath,
Or behind as songs from his oeuvre are earthed in and around

A God-thumbed piano, which replaces the uplift of, say,
Land of the Cuckoo with a call from far forests, and an English
Eden perhaps of the mind. This album was made two years ago

And he’ll have moved on. Bramwell does that. (Polymaths
Populate quickly as he breaches the gap between Alan Moore
And Ron Geesin, esoterica energizing all this David ever

Seeks or looks still to find.) And yet just a few seconds in
There it is: beauty burning. “Whistle and I will run/
Through Desert rains and Winter sun/With a bruised heart, 

I’ll come/And lay me down in the earth, undone..”
If there have ever been sweeter lines, then in that time
Air was sugar. The piano spills through his fingers

As a bubbling brook, glistening. You can even hear
How a hymn can be secular sourced as he’s singing;
He is not as holy as Hollis, but is Sylvian sacred,

Another David who illuminates listening. Ameland
Is the land that I’d like to live in, full of starlings
And sorrow and lonely piers where hope swells.

While We will Be Here intones and gently rouses
Hearth and heart for a present in which what was lost
And what’s to come start to gell. Stone Riders revives

That sense of myth in cold country.  From Alan Garner’s
Gain to your border, the past’s precious prizes
Will, in making mist order air into a new frequency

From which we discern scent and shadow,
As a viable presence which is telling us all to beware.
“The silent tears of standing stones” says it all,

As Bramwell reverse chronicles chaos, soothing
The soil with his singing, which douses the dark,
Door ajar. As Nightjar Records return these breaths

From cranes and birds beside language, communing
As chorus in your ear and heart, near or far. If you put
The bird to sleep the dream dies, alongside flight’s

Aspirations; If you do not have your own ethos,
Your own emblems too, all is lost. Bramell stands like
Captain Britain’s Brian Braddock, time tailed too,

In those old Marvel UK comic reprints, while below
The Black Knight and Steve Parkhouse bridge
The ancient Earths at our cost. Winter in a Strange Town

Surrounds the contemporary tragedy we’re all facing,
But if braced by Bramwell we could fortell with this sheen
We might in time warm and return the heat of old fires

That would scorch the scum across oceans
Who in misleading us all deter dreams. Soaring strings
Singe the path, beatific brass hones and honours,

These midnight missives which in each attempt,
Swallow day. Camping on the Moon guitar blasts,
Before the thoughtful keys start unlocking those doors

In air, sense and landscape that only brilliant melody
Can convey. And this Oddfellow, self named evens out
All perception, he makes mask and mountain

From wound, or scar, curse or kiss. His songs stir,
They allay, each unease and disruption. If you feel despair
He’ll care for you, in just a handful of notes, body bliss

As we become as one with the song, as if all along
We all sang it. In this way, time is tincture, is curative,
Even spell. As Bramwell becomes magus-like,

Even while Astronaut glamping.  He calls for the Quiet Man
Deep within him who resounds through his throat
And compels. Steve Moore’s spirit on Shooters Hill

Brothers Blake in Watling Street’s stately reading,
As the guitar chime on Oh, Sealand is replaced
By Piano, the goosebumping skin flowers up,

As transfiguration took place, which is perhaps the aim
Of all music, and this version (sans Alan) is a careful
Church where the cup of wine is not blood, but connected

To something more vital; something more restorative,
With more flavour for those of all faiths than Christ’s sup.
And David B. is a drink from a bottomless chalice.

He is King Arthur’s glass, and the vessel from which Penda’s
Fen is refreshed. The Lighthouse Keeper reminds
And returns and watches over the soundwaves of a singer,

Songwriter and sung angel on land who charms flesh.
If you haven’t heard it, attend, this and all of Oddfellow
Casino’s spun stories. They are small symphonies,

Odes and ditties and sitting pretty too on love’s crest.

    

 

 

                                                                          David Erdos 23/5/25

 

Source: Oddfellow’s Casino & David Bramwell
https://share.google/zvYAjqfE8xacNt9jK

 

 

 

 

 

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Just north of Sunderland Point, 21st March 2025

 

A Deep Meaningful Conversation on Lancaster Station While Waiting for the Train to Leeds

 

Except that we didn’t have one:

“Is 27 minutes long enough to get going?”

“You start.”

“No. You!” (laughter).

Time and departures try to force the day

literal measures which finally won’t count 

something will always persist of memory and love

an unbreakable link between now and then and what will be . . .

and despite that after the train left

then being stuck too long in Asda, turned the sky grey,

out near the Lune’s end by Sambo’s Grave

even the low tide reaches of marsh and mud

appeared profound in a positive way.

Unless a kind of overdrive caused by falling off the bike, expanded the day?

The front wheel took the brunt – totally buckled it was,

old handlebars askew

pain from guilt, an angry sense that all was lost.

Yet bent back against a road salt box,

the bike ran as good as new –  

despair turned to freedom

as if there was a spell or charm working for us.

 

 

Now, staring out towards an invisible sea,

the only sounds are of sandpiper, curlew and the wind

and some tiny scrap of litter that

cannot decide which way to blow.

 

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Lawrence Freiesleben

 

 

 

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TALES

The former boxer, bouncer at Madam Jo-Jo’s
who sweeps our street on Fridays (Tuesdays,
sometimes) stops and tells me stories, what
he witnessed, famous people doing all sorts.
The unexpected.
When he wasn’t talking
he’d listen to music on his headphones.
I expected Whitesnake, Anthrax, Death
Thrash Metal. Something scuzzy.
But he told me it was the Carpenters
Karen and Richard, sister and brother.
Everyone has their demons, Steven

 

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Steven Taylor
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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Marcus Aurelius Pastimes

 

 

Are you living in the past
Because ‘Great Art’ insists you must
In order to make art?

Then does the immediate world
Disappoint as not enough?
It is too omnipresent for so many

And the Method School essentially
Dictates that you re-cycle pleasure-pain
(Re-cycled air in buildings leads to malaise)

I take my Vespa for a spin to Spagna
Its many mirrors mainly are for show   –
My past is present risk-assessment now

‘I’ also am a vehicle from the past
Through this means I maintain
Nostalgia for the future   –

When all who emulate the Great Creator
Beckoned at the end of time
Into timeless paradise…

Are invited to install their works of art
To animate them with a breath of life   –   but find
An origami bluebird fails to fly

Our literature is so much origami
Composed within Snow Country
From the valley to the peak

All we see are fragments of the whole

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Bernard Saint
Illustration: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

 

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Tarquin Fails To Throw Light Upon The Matter

Sometimes he would sit with his back against the trunk of a tree, draw his feet up, take his legs in his arms and rest his chin on his knee. Even in this posture he could throw no light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would stand, place the palm of each hand on the top of his head, lift one foot from the ground and place it against the knee of the other leg. Still he could throw no light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would for an instant see the woman coming and going. Then she closed the curtains and it became apparent that the universe was not shrinking but expanding at an ever-increasing rate, but those new binoculars were already proving to be well worth the money although he could not, as yet, throw light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would kneel as if in supplication to a deity, place his forehead on the tiles, clasp his hands together behind his back and imagine handcuffs binding him. Yet he could throw no light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would stretch out upon his back on the lawn, having first made sure the grass was dry with no hint of dampness, and raise both straightened legs as high as he could manage, holding the position until the pain became too much to bear, and at the same time he would rapidly flex the fingers of each hand as if to overcome a stiffness in the knuckles, even though no such stiffness existed. But he could not throw light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would lay on his stomach, arms out to the side in the manner of aircraft wings, then he would lower his undercarriage and imagine he was coming in to land. Even positioned thus he could throw no light upon the matter.

Sometimes she did not close the curtains, and if he had one regret it was that his eyesight

was failing. Actually he had another regret, which was that he could throw no light upon the matter.

Sometimes he would push the boat out and remove his head and place it on the garden seat next to him, and stroll down to the pond, where he would dip his toes into the icy freezy-cold water. But still he could throw no light upon the matter.

He knew it would probably turn out to be nothing at all, but he took some pleasure in imagining a future together. But loneliness had never been something that needed to be overcome: one always had the comfort of a darkened room.

 

 

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Conrad Titmuss
Picture Dave Cooper

 

 

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blue labour

       

decisions will be     difficult     iffy
to have the     courage     to lack
the courage     all     convictions

cold     in the park’s     green waste
abandoned sofa     egret     flushed
from suburban     chalk stream     or the

pocket park’s     fibreglass     flamin
goes pink     ghosts     the concrete
curled turfs     cheese slices     sweated

hard     the new you     on the street
no harm     not here     the clear
line-of-sight     this warm     murmur

as one’s     desire lines     fenced off    
the heart     suspended     decisions    
will be     difficult     to excuse

 

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Keith Jebb

 

 

 

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Zephyr Sounds Sunday Sermon No. 226

Steam Stock

Tracklist:
Ennio Morricone – The Strong
Beck – Paper Tiger
The East St. Louis Gosplettes – Have Mercy on Me
Gene Harris – Love for Sale
The Style Council – You’re the Best Thing
Slowdive – Slomo
Primal Scream – Shine Like Stars
Ariel Pink’s Haunted Graffiti feat. DamFunk – Baby
Air – Le Soleil Est Près De Moi
Bibio – Jealous of Roses
Steeleye Span – Gower Wassail
The Beatles – I’m So Tired
Thom Yorke and Mark Prichard – The Spirit
Spiritualized – Lord Can You Hear Me

 

 

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SAUSAGE Life 322

Bird Guano’s
SAUSAGE LIFE
The column which thinks that tangerine is the new orange

READER: Are you back from holiday yet?

MYSELF: No, the French air traffic controllers are on strike.

READER: Not again. What are they demanding this time?

MYSELF: They want white gloves, like magicians, more stylish trousers and a one-day-week. I’m glad in a way, because it means I finally get to visit a real French bullring.

READER: French Bullfighting? Non! Is there such a thing?

MYSELF: Mais oui. It’s exactly the same as the Spanish version, except they use a cow instead of a bull and when the tormented creature eventually gets angry enough to have a go, le matador, with a neat side-step, a flourish of his tricolour cape and a triumphant cry of au lait! whacks it over the head with a baguette and milks it.

READER: French. It’s like a whole different language.

MYSELF: Exactement. And of course to the unsuspecting British holidaymaker, the phrase I’m so hungry I could eat a horse may result in an entirely unexpected outcome. 

 

WARRIORS RELEGATION WOES – BALACLAVA’S VERDICT 
Nobby Balaclava, Hastings & St Leonards FC’s midfield enforcer has spoken about his part in the tragic 8-0 playoff defeat to Herstmonceaux Cannibals which resulted in the club’s relegation to the Hobson’s Denture Fixative League (South).
“Yes, I’m gutted. I’m not making excuses but the sun was in my eyes and I had a problem with my boots which were the wrong size and kept chafing,” he told us from the Turkish Delight Men’s Hairdresser & Nail Bar which he co-owns with local rapper MC Squaird, “and the referee kept giving me a funny look every time I got the ball, which put me off. The new manager is very strict and wouldn’t let me wear my lucky astrological mood ring, so I didn’t even know what mood I was in.  Our Bosnian centre forward Glaxo Zog’s 93rd minute goal was good even though the referee said it wasn’t, which meant we would have won easily if we’d scored another eight. Our trainer made us go for a run in the morning and it was raining, which aggravated Craig Cattermole’s asthma. Someone from the Herstmonceaux catering staff put laxatives in our pre-match tea and we all had to clench our buttocks, which prevented us from running very fast. The match ball was too round and kept rolling towards our goal. Also The Cannibals cynical game plan was to deliberately kick it to each other and not give it to us. The worst thing was they all wore maroon shirts which is normally our colour, so some of the lads kept accidentally passing the ball to them by mistake. To cap it all, Tim Smegma our goalkeeper has a phobia about scorpions and their German centre forward had one in a matchbox which he kept opening in front of him when the referee wasn’t looking.”

 

New feature
FAMOUS PEOPLE OF UPPER DICKER
Celebrating the personalities that put the Sussex town on the map

WINSTON CHURCHILL the great statesman and wartime prime minister smoked big cigars from Cuba, very probably imported into England through the port of Dover, which is just along the coast from Hastings and very near Upper Dicker.

BOBBY DAVRO, the blue-rinse piano icon, once got an amusing postcard
featuring the Upper Dicker Museum of Hosiery from his aunty Margaret, who enjoyed regular holidays in the Sussex town, despite a lifelong allergy to peanuts.

RAMSEY MACDONALD, the former Labour Party leader, was not in any
way related to Ronald McDonald the lardy-faced buffoon who represents the unacceptable face of McDonald’s, the multinational junk food chain which now has a drive-thru branch in Upper Dicker. McDonald’s stocks a narrow range of food-style refreshment and employs cheap Chinese toys and tooth-destroying sugary beverages to lure unsuspecting children, as well as juvenile gambling opportunities to distract their gullible parents.

BOBBY CHARLTON the heroic World Cup-winning footballer was offered the
chance of a trial with Upper Dicker Macaroons FC whilst still a schoolboy. He turned it down in favour of Manchester United.

RUPERT MURDOCH famous press baron and social commentator, was born
in Australia, and has never actually visited Upper Dicker in his life. His Grandfather Popiladou Aristosthines, a professional wrestler from Cyprus, performed as The Upper Dicker Strangler, a name he spotted in a Victorian newspaper lining a trunk, which he later adopted by deed poll.

HANS AND LOTTE HASSE the ground breaking underwater explorers were
washed up on a beach 20 miles from Upper Dicker in 1954, after the sophisticated navigation equipment on their miniature submarine became clogged up with condoms off the coast of Venezuela.

EDWARD VII the English Monarch whose last words were allegedly Bugger
Bognor
, a phrase which refers to a small coastal town not dissimilar to Upper Dicker except for its marine proximity and preponderance of fish.

ELVIS PRESLEY the world famous elastic-hipped rock ‘n roll pioneer was recently spotted at the Upper Dicker branch of Poundstretchers buying a 6 pack of highlighter pens and a snap-on mobile phone cover, over 40 years after his alleged “death” on his gold plated toilet.

ERROL FLYNN (the athlete not the famous Hollywood film star), was born and bred in Upper Dicker. A legendary sprinter with the Upper Dicker Harriers, Flynn’s 100-metre record for tall men between 1947 and 1953 seemed unassailable until he slipped on a sausage skin during an Olympic qualifier and was forced to become a painter & decorator. He overcame a chronic drug and alcohol addiction to lead the town council from 1956 until 1958, when he famously sold the Upper Dicker Suspension Bridge to a Texas gambler and was forced to resign. A broken man, Flynn emigrated to Australia and tragically, in 1961, he committed suicide by making faces at a Great White Shark in Boffin Bay.

Sausage Life!

 

 

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Photo credit: Alice’s Dad (circa 2000)

 

 

JACK POUND: JESUS WANTS ME FOR A SUN READER aka PASS THE INSTANT YOGA

CHEMTRAILS ON MY MIND
MORT J SPOONBENDER

On September 11th 1958, José Popacatapetl, a retired tree psychologist who’s father was head gardener for the CIA during the cold war, was hitchiking through the Alberqueque desert when he was picked up by a black sedan driven by J Edgar Hoover’s ex-boyfriend André Pfaff head of FBI underhand operations and extra-terrestrial banking who once worked as a quantum mechanic for the KGB under the direct orders of the zombie reincarnation of Josef Stalin whose mummified corpse was kept in a secret underhand bunker in the basement of the Vatican.

 



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By Colin Gibson

 

 

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Staring into the eyes of those who commit science fiction

Colourfields: Writing About Writing About Science Fiction, Paul Kincaid (Briardene Books)
Ultrazone, Mark Terrill & Francis Poole (Verse Chorus Press)

Nope, that isn’t a typo, this is a book about other writing which takes science fiction as its subject; a critical survey of other books about science fiction. If that sounds too niche then I urge you to put your concerns aside and enjoy the contents, which are a gathering up of short, individual reviews and essays, as ripe for dipping into as consuming from the book’s start to its finish.

Kincaid lays out his stall in his Foreword, stating that (in his opinion) ‘The job of a literary critic is simply to be a reader.’ And that reader will most likely have a different response to any book than any other reader; so Kincaid’s is a personal, albeit informed, take. He notes that he does ‘not suppose. that you can draw a single, coherent view of science fiction’ from this book, partly because ‘Science fiction is, as much as anything, what we bring to our reading (or viewing, or listening, or role-playing, or whatever).’

There is, however, little in Colourfields that many will dispute under the umbrella term of science fiction. There is a short diversion to discuss ‘The great comic book scare and how it changed America’, and some – me included – might question the inclusion of Peter Ackroyd and Alasdair Gray in the final section of the book, ‘Authors’, but mostly it is mainstream sci-fi writing that is considered, albeit sometimes though the lenses of Marxism, Colonialism or ‘Prehistoric fiction’ which the books being reviewed utilise. In fact, my main complaint about the book is that there is so little experimental science fiction discussed; only M. John Harrison receives consideration on his own. J.G. Ballard gets a couple of brief mentions, as does China Mieville (who is also here as an editor of an anthology of ‘Marxism and Science Fiction) but where are the cyberpunk novels, William Burroughs’ crazed cut-up nightmares such as Nova Express, Frank Herbert’s Dune trilogy, or the interlocked and intersecting worlds of Michael Moorcock’s Multiverse? To me these authors are key ones.

But we can hardly blame Kincaid for what is in or not in the books he reviews. The first section considers various ‘Histories’, opening with a very personal take on Brian Aldiss, then moving on to discussions of Adam Roberts’ definitive The History of Science Fiction, The Routledge Concise History…, The Cambridge History… and The Big Book of Science Fiction. Then we step back to Edwardian times to read about Political Future Fiction then swiftly move forward to consider Modernism and Science Fiction. Kincaid is at his best here, summarising, paraphrasing, refuting some arguments and suggesting other possibilities, all in a very clearheaded and reasonable manner. I find him less convincing in his own essay on ‘The New Elizabethans’, where he links post-war society and the Cold War with the novels of John Wyndham and Arthur C. Clarke. The causes and effects he posits seems rather tenuous.

The ‘Histories’ section finishes with discussions of books about comics, ‘The Golden Age of Science Fiction’ (a debatable sub-title for a book that includes Ron Hubbard alongside Campbell, Asimov and Heinlein) and a history of sci-fi magazines. Then we move on to the second section where books which consider ‘Topics’ are the focus of Kincaid’s attention. This is a wide-ranging, thought-provoking and entertaining selection, with topics such as Science Fiction Criticism, Genre Fiction, The Science of Fiction and the Fiction of Science (which is also about ‘storytelling and the Gnostic Imagination’) proving to be standout reviews, along with a piece about Samuel Delaney’s ‘Notes on the Language of Science Fiction’.

Rather confusingly, Kincaid ends ‘Topics’ with an essay ‘What Does Not Exist’ that reiterates his point that no single history of science fiction exists and, under the guise of reviewing The Oxford Book of Science Fiction, revisits some of the other books in part 1 and some of the topics of part 2.

Part 3 is all about ‘Authors’, where Kincaid says he wants ‘to come right up close, close enough to stare into the eyes of those who commit science fiction’, to engage with ‘their tics and quivers and evasions’. What this means in practice are short reviews or biographical and bibliographical summaries and overviews. The trouble is that I am really not interested in most of the authors here: Margaret Atwood, Peter Ackroyd (whose non-fiction is much better than his pastiche fiction), John Brunner, Thomas M. Disch, Alasdair Gray, Bob Shaw & James White and Cordwainer Smith can, as far as I am concerned, be put to one side; and Kincaid does nothing to persuade me to reconsider. The piece on Joanna Russ is interesting (although Kincaid finds her work more important than likeable) and the three reviews of books about H.G. Wells are some of the best writing in Colourfields.

My favourites, however, are the two essays about M. John Harrison, particularly the essay on his Kefahuchi Tract trilogy where Kincaid declares (quite rightly in my opinion) that the trilogy ‘is the most significant work of science fiction to have appeared so far this century’, although I might want Paul McAuley’s pair of Jackaroo novels alongside them. And the personal response to Harrison’s anti-memoir is appropriately diffuse and impressionistic, a review of sorts that also participates in what Kincaid sees as ‘a book about writing that tells us only to ignore any advice about writing. It is a book about the fantastic that despises the fantastic. It is a book that reveals by misdirection, by allusion, but read it right and it will tell you everything you need to know.’

I can’t say Colourfields told me everything I wanted or needed to know, but it’s a good read, although it’s clear my idea of science fiction strays further into slipstream and experiment and less into mainstream fiction than Kincaid’s does. I do, however, wish there was a bibliography as well as an index, especially as there are brief mentions of many books, some of which – Russell Hoban’s Riddley Walker, for one – deserve essays of their own. I don’t normally read, let alone review ebooks, so I don’t know if this is the usual way of digital books, but hyperlinks from the index to the page, rather than page numbers, are bloody annoying.

I expected to enjoy Mark Terrill & Francis Poole’s collaborative novel Ultrazone way more than I did. Its groovy cover and the notion of the restless ghost of William Burroughs roaming Tangiers and trying to stop the Ugly Spirit, made me think the book would be right up my street, as did effusive praise from Alan Moore, Jim Jarmusch and Kevin Ring of Beat Scene. I was expecting delirious, dark comedy, exploded language, scenes and experiences fading in and out of themselves but the writing is actually straightforward, rather dull, prose. We may be in a surreal world where ghosts in limbo, witches and sorcerers frequent graveyards and hold lengthy discussions in an attempt to stop the word virus take over the world, but it reads as conversations in the corner shop.

There’s a weird disjunct here between content and form, story and style. Yes, the fictional Burroughs here cackles his way around Tangiers, helped by his old chums Paul Bowles, Brion Gysin and Brian Jones and a questionable taxi driver; and yes, there is a cat, Burroughs favourite animal, too. And monkeys. And a magic carpet. But it’s hard to read the book as the ‘slapstick horror-fantasy romp’ Alan Moore describes it as. I found it a bit of a struggle to finish, truth be told. The danger of the lost manuscript’s word virus never seemed a threat, whilst the graveyard scenes, the warren of Tangiers are conjured well enough but not in a particularly vivid or original way. The whole thing seems flat and one-dimensional, lacking Burroughs’ startling ability to subvert and reinvent language through crazed ‘routines’, mutant characters, strange addictions, collage and sexuality. I will be sticking to the Interzone and not the Ultrazone myself.

 

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

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the main thing is

An erasure poem derived from
The Life & Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman
by Laurence Sterne

we shall have all to begin over again
we must go some other way

we run equal risques
we find the things that are before us

we make free
in this land of liberty

we can conceal nothing           though
we never can comprehend infinity

rising up                      his fingers
delighted in                 each word

the sense and meaning of them
changed quite to another

the colour of whispering

 

.

Dominic Rivron

 

.

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Ma Yongbo Poetry Road Trip — Summer Tour 2025 volume 2

Painting by Xie Changyong from Leshan Normal University

 

Ma Yongbo and other poets and painters went to see the Giant Leshan Buddha, which is very close to Meizou, poet Su Dongpo’s hometown, who Ma Yongbo also met in volume 1 of his Poetry Road Trip. 5th May saw the official start of summer  立夏 Li Xia, the 7th Solar Term of the Chinese Solar calendar, there are 24 solar terms in total.  Photo: Ma Yongbo with Gong Gaixiong and painter Xie Changyong.

Ancient people carved the Giant Leshan Buddha here on the mountain, at the confluence of three rivers, where it often flooded, in an attempt to suppress the floods.

The Leshan Giant Buddha, also known as Lingyun Giant Buddha, is located on the east bank of the Minjiang River in the south of Leshan City, Sichuan Province, next to Lingyun Temple, near the confluence of the Dadu River, Qingyi River and Minjiang River. The Buddha is a seated statue of Maitreya Buddha, 71 meters high, and is the largest cliff-carved statue in China.

The Leshan Giant Buddha was carved in the first year of Kaiyuan in the Tang Dynasty (713) and completed in the nineteenth year of Zhenyuan (803), which took about ninety years. The scenic area consists of Lingyun Mountain, Mahaoyan Tomb, Wuyou Mountain, and the giant reclining Buddha, with a sightseeing area of ​​about 8 square kilometers. The scenic area gathers the essence of Leshan’s landscape and humanities. It belongs to the Emeishan National Scenic Area. It is a well-known scenic tourist destination and a part of the world cultural and natural dual heritage Emeishan-Leshan Giant Buddha.

 

Chinese link:

https://baike.weixin.qq.com/v8025.htm?scene_id=3&sid=15945851692699833642&ch=s1s

 

 

 

 

 

You Are Your Own Distance 你是你自己的远方

For many people, you are the distance,
they believe you have already arrived,
in a world with scenery they can’t imagine,
but you are always in your own body.
The green mountains, clear waters, deserts and clouds you’ve seen
all become distant places you can never reach again
even if you return there
they still cannot become real,
like a sailboat, going farther and farther on the vast sea
yet it seems to be slowly sinking
you are the distant place you cannot reach
you live in a place where you are not
you travel motionlessly, like an empty seat,
neither can you reach any external things
they are just tides, not belonging to any reefs
also, you cannot go deeper inside yourself
or wear the weather inside out like an old sweater.
You don’t exist in yourself,
you are everything you experience
the night storms, the clear sky in the distance
you call, and the one who answers you
is always a strange neighbour
you are a door without a door frame or hinges,
opening and closing with a distant slam
you exist between here and far away,
like a soft measuring tape,
continuously measuring, folding, and shortening,
but you can never compress the distance into a pinecone,
a withered, dark yellow universe, rolling into the distance,
your own emptiness amidst the fallen leaves.

28 September 2016,

by Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

Translated by Ma Yongbo 马永波  and Helen Pletts 海伦·普莱茨 2024

 

 

你是你自己的 you are your own distance 马永波

对于很多人,你就是远方
他们以为你已经抵达了
他们无法想象的世界和风景
而你始终在自己的身体里
你见过的青山碧水大漠云天
都成了你再也抵达不了的远方
哪怕你再一次去到那里
它们依然无法变得真实
就像一艘帆船,在茫茫海上
越来越远,却好像在慢慢沉没
你是你抵达不了的远方
你在你所不在的地方生活
你一动不动地旅行,像一个空座位
你既抵达不了任何外在的事物
它们只是潮水,不属于礁石
你也无法深入自己的内部
把里面的天气,像旧毛衣反穿起来
你本身并不存在
你是你所经历的一切
入夜的风雨,远方的晴空
你呼唤,回答你的
总是一个陌生的邻居
你是没有门框和枢轴的门
你打开,你关闭,远方都会砰然一响
你在此地和远方之间
如同一根松软的卷尺
不停地丈量,折叠和缩短
但永远无法将距离压缩成一个球果
一个枯萎的暗黄色的宇宙,在落叶中
向远方和你自己的虚空滚去

2016.9.28

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

quietness in stone faces—for Yongbo —after watching footage taken by Yongbo at Leshan Giant Buddha 

the warm red stone is holding our heads
in the red day of an open seam,
our steadying bodies are swallowed by the red cliffs.

Our heads resembling serious black insects 
weaving through stone corridors
nodding, checking foot holds. The rock acknowledges us,
trying to untie its stoney heart through the gaps
of a carved zig zagging path,

if we are chiselling at rock it will defeat the oncoming waves.
Absolute faith is the busy pre-occupation of a spinning world;
here a blade becomes a new belief.

The confluence of three rivers creates massive energy, 
three great minds thinking at once; connecting hands tie in.
A small boat is subjected to three different ideas at once;
left travelling between their decisions,
silence in water is unwritten.

7th May 2025 

 

Response Poetry By Helen Pletts  海伦·普莱茨

Response Poetry Translated by Ma Yongbo 马永波

 

《石头面孔中的静谧》
——观永波于乐山大佛所摄影像有感 马永波 译

 

温热的红石托着我们的头颅
在裂隙张开的赤色白昼里
我们沉稳的身躯被红色崖壁吞噬

头颅有如严肃的黑色昆虫
我们穿梭于石廊之间
颔首,审视脚下的立足点。
岩石回应着我们
试图通过凿出的之字形狭径
解开它石质的心结

若我们凿击岩石,它将击退袭来的浪潮
绝对的信仰是旋转世界忙碌的执念
这里,一把刻刀将成为新的信念

三江汇流激荡出磅礴的能量
三颗伟大的心灵同时思索;
手与手紧紧相连
一叶小舟同时受制于三种不同的意志
在它们的决断之间漂流
而水中的寂静尚未书写。

 

2025年5月7日

海伦·普莱茨(Helen Pletts

www.helenpletts.com

Working closely with Ma Yongbo on translation, poetry and their unique response poetry since February 2024

During his road trip, Ma Yongbo regularly sends footage, photographs and updates to Helen.

 

Photo: Poets and Painters drinking tea on the riverbank taken by Ma Yongbo at Leshan

 

Ma Yongbo 马永波 was born in 1964.

https://mayongbopoetry.wordpress.com/

Since the age of 27 he has published 7 poetry collections: Red Bird (Hong Kong Wen Guang Publishing House, 1991), Summer Played at Two Speeds (Tangshan Publishing House, Taiwan, 1999), Journey in Words (Huacheng Publishing House, 2015),Geography of the Self (Zhejiang Gongshang University Press, 2018),Untied Boat (China International Broadcasting Press, 2024),A Grateful Ode to Eternity (Long poetry collection, Sichuan Literature and Art Publishing House, 2024). He is a Chinese scholar focused on translating and teaching Anglo-American poetry and prose including the work of Dickinson, Whitman, Stevens, Pound, Williams and Ashbery. He recently published a complete translation of Moby Dick, which has sold over half a million copies. He teaches at Nanjing University of Science and Technology. The Collected Poems of Ma Yongbo (four volumes, Eastern Publishing Centre, 2024) comprising 1600 poems, celebrate 40 years of writing poetry.

马永波出生于1964年。自27岁起,他已出版了7本诗集:《红鸟》(香港文光出版社,1991年)、《以两种速度播放的夏天》(台湾唐山出版社,1999年)、《词语中的旅行》(花城出版社,2015年)、《自我的地理学》(浙江工商大学出版社,2018年)、《不系之舟》(中国国际广播出版社,2024年)、《致永恒的答谢词》(长诗集,四川文艺出版社,2024年)。他是一位专注于翻译和教授英美诗歌和散文的中国学者,包括狄金森、惠特曼、史蒂文斯、庞德、威廉斯和阿什贝利的作品。他最近出版了《白鲸》的全译本,销量已超过50万册。他在南京理工大学任教。《马永波诗歌总集》(四卷本,东方出版中心,2024年)共收录1600首诗,庆祝他诗学探索40周年。

 

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We Must Choose Our Words Carefully

We’re doing this again,

are we, watching the bodies

wrapped in the white sheets, the large,

the little, which must be held

with care in the backs of carts

rocking between bombed buildings

by whoever’s, randomly,

left, a dazed man

or keening woman,

but we must choose our words

with care too, calibrate

our response, because

we wouldn’t want anyone

to think badly of us

or accuse of us something

that simply isn’t true,

so we must pretend

we’re fine with it and smile

and choose our words

as carefully as they handle the dead.

 

 

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Mark Kirkbride
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

Mark Kirkbride is the author of The Plot Against HeavenGame Changers of the Apocalypse and Satan’s Fan Club, published by Crossroad Press. Game Changers of the Apocalypse was a semi-finalist in the Kindle Book Awards 2019. His short stories have appeared in Under the BedSci Phi JournalDisclaimer MagazineFlash Fiction Magazine and So It Goes: The Literary Journal of the Kurt Vonnegut Memorial Library. Poetry credits include Neon, the London Reader, the Big Issue, the Morning Star, the Daily MirrorSein und Werden, and Horror Writers Association chapbooks. https://markkirkbride.com/

 

 

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Censorship Part 2

If there are trapdoors in the clouds
Let me climb to freedom.
If I can prise apart the shafts of sunlight
I will slip through into an open field a free
man –
Run rejoicing with every stride.

My poems will be shackled to the walls of every prison.
While darkness prevails until we dip our pen in light and sign away the locked doors and bars.

If we have a voice it’s a megaphone booming out loud.
If we have a choir of resistance it will sing
until the locked doors spring open.

A pill to take away the pain as the electric current tearing our body apart showers our screams with sparks

I know that I can be broken like a human stick snapped across the torturer’s knee.
But a spirit cannot be hosed away like spilt blood in a courtyard.

Or tears swept away and sprinkled with quick lime until they dissolve.

My plea for help will fall and crash against
the floor of the cell.

Until I’m just a speechles bundle more dead than alive.

They can burn us with cigarettes and pour petrol on our manifestos of freedom and joy –
hold a flame to our dreams but we will fly undefeated through the gates to liberty.

 

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Malcolm Paul
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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Glances Are Grounded 

 
 
My life is a secret bloom
I cannot reveal the layers. 
 
I cannot promise a future.  
My conscience hurts and
I battle the unseen. 
 
I seem jolly 
But the glances are grounded. 
 
You walk like flowering beauty 
Am I able to be the beholder? 
 
 
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© Sushant Thapa 
Biratnagar-13, Nepal 
Picture Nick Victor
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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REMINDER

I was born to strangers
in this strangeness, random

nameless, at that moment

without a given language
or compelling destination
beyond the requirements
of a kindness

from someone other
other than myself
who had no reason
except the basics
of humanity to hold me

as the latest example of something

fragile and external. Breathing, blind
and vulnerable. I was made separate
and welcomed. Largely undetermined

Anonymous (to a purpose)

Faith came with me into being

 

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Steven Taylor
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Floxus

Link to Video
Floxus v4 – Small

 

 

Allen Fisher

 

 

 

 

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THE PORTAL IN THE WOODS

Seeing somnambulist sunrise

Through open window

Touch your face

After love rides

On moon tides

In ebb and flow

At tantric pace-

Love resides

Tasted

No asides

Wasted

Spices of the flesh

Soaking rooms in Marrakesh

How I ate your truffle in Zanzibar

While you smoked my long cigar.

 

Back home-

Tribes of bloods

And druids roam

Seeking out the overgrown

Portal in the woods

Where we handfast

In this present of the past

Dance chanting

In stone bone circles

Like ooparts

Practicing

Magical arts

Settling

What chaos hurtles-

Reconnecting rhythms

In living and dead

To those algorithms

In natures head.

 

We are rustic-

Romantic

In land and sky

The  air  fire  water

To warriors who slaughter

If Us or Them must die.

We wake

For clambake

Pleasure

In a cauldron lake

Of limbs together

Then cut sods of peat

From the bog under our feet

Exposing the pasts

That never last.

 

 

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Strider Marcus Jones
Artwork by Paola Minelli

 

Strider Marcus Jones – is a poet, law graduate and former civil servant from Salford, England with proud Celtic roots in Ireland and Wales. He is the editor and publisher of Lothlorien Poetry Journal https://lothlorienpoetryjournal.blogspot.com/. A member of The Poetry Society, nominated for the Pushcart Prize x3 and Best of the Net x3, his five published books of poetry  https://stridermarcusjonespoetry.wordpress.com/ reveal a maverick, moving between cities, playing his saxophone in smoky rooms.  

His poetry has been published in numerous publications including:  Poppy Road Review; International Times Magazine; The Galway Review;  The Huffington Post USA; The Stray Branch Literary Magazine; Crack The Spine Literary Magazine; The Lampeter Review; Panoplyzine  Poetry Magazine and Dissident Voice.

 

 

 

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A kind of Psych-Fest!

Cameras at the ready, Alan Dearling shares some of the musical vibes and images…

What a wonderfully varied musical showcase organised by Dark Matter Promotions at the Golden Lion in Todmorden. Kicking off was WYSE, a lady offering an array of strong songs and powerful guitar riffs. Then, Ben Tangle – a modern day folk troubadour with added shruti box! And rounding off this complementary show, Toby Hay on acoustic 6 and 12 string guitars with Aidan Thorne on double bass. Cascades of guitar notes. Indeed, a murmeration of sound from this talented duo.

And outside on the local Rochdale Canal, the UFO glitter ball provided a totally appropriate backdrop for the event!

WYSE

WYSE at times reminded me of Sinead O’Connor. Uncompromising, a tad confrontational, or, as ‘Loud Women’ proclaimed: “Fierce, emotion-packed.”  The advance publicity suggested that:

“If Radiohead, Bjork and The Cranberries had a gaybie, they would sound a bit like Wyse.”

From the get-go, WYSE made connections with the audience, sharing her own personal journey into accepting and then embracing being gay. It was very intense emotionally and musically. She was performing solo, without her band, who are based down south. She herself is now based in Yorkshire, but she is still billed as an alternative artist/producer from Portsmouth in Hampshire. She utilised an array of her band recordings, loops and sounds to create a layered, sonic wall. She is an original talent, powerful, assertive, versatile. Her electric guitar solos are searing, edgy events – it’s in yerr face, it’s a performance-art, but also engaging. Very impressive, and her acoustic ‘Wedding Day’ song was a show-stopper. And she had everyone singing along too: “Get your shoes off, boy!”  As an opening act, it left a considerable, and very positive lasting impression: Punk folk from a lady on a mission. WYSE riff (you need to sign into Facebook): https://www.facebook.com/reel/1606749783573804

“Immensely talented.” Janice Long, BBC Radio Wales

Ben Tangle is a natural performer with a ‘back-to-the-land, back-to-the-garden’ vibe about him. His smile and personality are a significant part of his rustic charm. To look at, there’s a lot of George Harrison about him, but musically he’s more of a blend of ISB (Incredible String Band) and early Donovan at his hippy-est!

Here’s what the promoters said about him:

“A Dark Matter favourite, Ben delivers Earth treading cloud staring river side folk music from a boat dwelling dreamer. Ben Tangle is a psych-folk minstrel conjuring rich soundscapes with guitar, flute, bodhrán, and shruti box. His immersive live shows blend storytelling, surrealism, and 60s-inspired mysticism—offering a strange and hopeful escape from the everyday.”

Ben and his music and muses live amongst fields of mushrooms. Pastoral scenes, kaleidoscopic psychedelic skies, a lyrical world with plenty of naïve wonderments. “You are the river, You are the sky.” Imagine yourself surrounded by pixies, elves, goblins and unicorns. That is Ben’s world!

https://bentangle.bandcamp.com/ 

 

Billed as a “Formidable duo of guitar player and composer Toby Hay and electric and acoustic bass player Aidan Thorne will be playing their album live.”  And so it came to pass…

Album link – https://cambrianrecords.bandcamp.com/album/after-a-pause

This was a master-class in instrumental dexterity. Instrumental interplay of the highest order. A weaving of soundscapes, mostly gleaned from their album, ‘After a Pause’, but with some new material like ‘Helibor’ added into the intense mix. Their combination of guitars and double-bass is totally integrated, waterfalls and cascades of sound.

“What Davy Graham and Danny Thompson might have got up to if they were both in their prime in the 2020s.” – Richard Williams

“Toby Hay’s mid-Wales cottage industry of gorgeous, largely instrumental folk music reaches its highest peak yet with After a Pause (Cambrian), a record he made himself over three summer days with double bassist Aidan Thorne. Tracks like Bard flow like warm waterfalls, Hay’s cascading arpeggios landing on the soft supportive bedrock provided by Thorne’s supple strings.” Jude Rogers, The Guardian

This longish commentary on the music of Toby Hay’s compositions and the playing of Toby with Aidan Thorne, comes from writer and landscape environmentalist, Robert Macfarlane.

 “The tracks of this album – quick-fingered, deep-felt – open landscapes in the mind’s eye. It feels, listening to them, as if they have a little of the power – the power that linguists call ‘illocutionary’ and magicians call ‘conjuring’ – to summon things into being, or bring pasts briefly back to life. It came as no surprise to learn that Toby has sometimes hoped that the playing of ‘Starlings’ (in which the notes teem and swoop and swarm) might one day call up an actual murmuration. Place, memory, nature, loss and dreamed-of geographies are the subjects of this beautiful music: that gathering of feelings that go by the untranslatable Welsh word hiraeth. There is a sadness at what has gone here, but not a nostalgia. The world’s dew gleams on this music, but the world’s dust swirls through it too.”

 

 

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Braunau

Pastel houses, neat as sweets,
the town hall like a fun house on a pier,
all pointed arches, pitched roofs, spires,
everything covered.
And that inn, where there was room,
but no sign anywhere, until you look
to the line on the pavement:
Lest we forget.
At the front, in the shop, a young man with Downs
hands out cards.
I make these, he says.
I live here.

 

 

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Tanya Parker

 

Tanya won the Yorkshire Open Poetry Competition in 2008 and the Rydale Competition in 2013.  She was Reviews Editor for Dream Catcher Magazine for five years and has poetry published in Orbis Acumen, Other Poetry and Poetry Nottingham, amongst others. She appeared as guest writer on Helen Burke’s radio show ‘Word Salad’ for East Leeds FM (twice) and has performed in International Women’s Week with Real People Theatre. Tanya performed with Rose Drew in ‘She’s the Cultured One’ at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2011, at the Galtres Festival in July 2013 and a specially-commissioned show at the Keats Shelley House in Rome in May 2014.Her first full-length poetry collection ‘The Problem with Beauty’ appeared with Stairwell Books in September 2015. She is currently working on an M.A in Creative Writing with Leeds Trinity University.  

 

 

 

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This is a Fake

 

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Mike Ferguson

 

 

 

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Cupid is in the Village

Who is this half – naked kid gone berserk ?
Is he some  noble avatar or a young Turk ? 
Oh no ! He  flaunts a quiver full of arrows ! 
Is he a reincarnation of one of the pharaohs? “

Said a  smug boy , fresh from the university. 
A  pretty village belle broke into a love ditty.
When the chubby Cherub shot an arrow 
at the belle , whose escape was narrow !  

Shyly , she looked at the smug , educated guy 
Bashfully blinking , the belle blurted a ‘ Hi ‘
“Hay Bhagwan yeh Kaun hai  nanga ladka ?”*
Screamed the dadi “Kya yeh hai bilkul Kadka? “•

Cupid winked and at the old woman smiled . 
By his chubby charm , She was beguiled.  
She raced towards him and took him in a hug !
Soon , the village was bitten by the love bug

*Who is this naked boy ? 

*Is she absolutely penurious ? 

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Santosh Bakaya 
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

 

 

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Greatest Hits of the War

 

Side A 

To Biswajit Chattopadhyay 

Ceasefire, the dead fathers 
trudge back home. Life has been 
bled out of them and so they 
keep staring at their progeny 
and their doormats in the same way.
All day they compensate 
for waking up from their cold quietus.

The region suffers a bad insomnia.
One such father salvages some words
and writes to his daughter that
death feels like a departure from 
his disorders. We disregard his letter,
mark it as a symptom of his ailment.
At night, he fires his service gun 
and rediscovers resurrection,
so it is a relief arrives a call, war resumes.

Side B

To Nabina 

Ours is a country of poets who pen about war.
One bard told me once that nobody reads them.
I haven’t yet, and I remember him because 
on the pavement lies the heart of the rain
removed from the firmament, pierced 
with the shards and shrapnel of some yellow flowers.
A long intestine of the clouds hangs loose
in the blue. The pariah of the lane barks and howls.
I cast some crumbs at it. I have been carrying those
for long. Those have gone stale. The dog refuses.
A squadron of pigeons startle me. I turn and see
the heart’s evaporated. I breathe the heart.
I open my mouth and let it flow inside.

 

 

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

 

 

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I AM THIS (AND ALSO THAT)

I am charming. Do you think I am
charming? I am not ugly. Do you think
I am ugly? I am afraid of water if it’s
deep water and if I have been invited
to compete in a swimming competition,
and also at all other times. Do you think
I should embrace water, or stick to
my guns? I am keen, although I do not
always appear so. Do you think I am
keen? No, I do not mean ‘keen’ as
in ‘sharp’, I mean ‘keen’ as in ‘eager’.
I am alert, except when I am sleeping
or not paying attention. Do you think
that to pay attention is one’s duty? Or
can one do it just on a voluntary basis?
I am thoughtful. Do you think I am
thoughtful, or its unattractive opposite,
self-centred? The polls seem to be
inclining to the latter, apparently. I am
sharp, as in smart and quick-witted.
Do you think I am sharp? No, I do not
mean ‘sharp’ as in ‘sharp as a knife’,
I mean ‘sharp’ as in smart and quick-
witted. I am patient. Do you think
I am patient? Well, do you? Do you?

 

 

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Martin Stannard
Picture Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Perspective

 

Stewart Storrer

“It is not what you look at that matters, it is what you see.”
     ­­­– Henry David Thoreau

 

The second experimental short film ‘Perspective’ from Scottish Filmmaker and writer Stewart Storrar. This short film aims to focus on the visual aspects of the world around us and how we view the world around us. The video was produced using the Nikon D3300 and aims to bring an experimental look of the world around us using various videography and cinematography techniques, shots and filming styles – as well as various different editing techniques using Sony Vegas, Adobe Premiere Pro and Adobe After Effects.

The short film was shot / filmed using a Nikon D3300 camera and a basic 18-55mm kit lens at 1080p, 24 fps.

Ultimately, what do you see and feel in this experimental short film, Perspective? What do you get from it and what do you think it is trying to say to you as a person?

After all, it is all about your own perspective. Not mine.

 

 

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SUSSEX INK PAPER & PRINT FAIR

 

Lewes Town Hall – The Corn Exchange

SATURDAY 24 MAY, 2025, 10.30 AM – 4.30 PM

Prints, small press publishers, collages, mulled wine, patterned paper, music, paintings, wooden folk art, ceramics & much more…

Ink Paper + Print is a platform for the best new makers, illustrators and designers working in contemporary graphic arts and design. We celebrate the legacy of 20th Century printmaking, illustration and visual arts through Fairs, Talks and Events across the UK.

 

 

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Problems in Contemporary Palaeography

We spend the weekend washing down the walls, but still the words are visible. If anything, they’re clearer, standing out like the top line of an eye chart, or like secrets written in lemon juice and held to a flame. It’s not clear who painted them there, or why. It could have been the kids in hoodies who come on their monkey bikes, wheelieing in the flickering security lights: or it could be the angry men – it’s always men – in their surplus combats, their heads wound in grubby keffiyehs. Or, of course, it could be any of the Banksy wannabes waging guerilla war on collapsing capitalism since the art school was sold off for a pop-up prison. Why do they do it? We’re miles and miles away across the mythical wounded land, anonymous hermits in a forgotten romance fragment, where neither the police nor the most committed codicologist will come to look. And what does is say, anyway? For all our detergent and elbow grease, the words are stark as fire or blood, but in all this futile labour, we’ve forgotten how to read.

 

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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The Pale Fountains

““The repetition was almost frightening…” You know it’s been forty years, but I was thinking about that line again the other day. And then out of the blue my friend John wrote me a note about those old movies we used to love. It was all there. The evenings when we would sit up and watch those Noir features, and the old kitchen sink stuff. “Remember Arthur Seaton said he won’t be beaten”. Rachel Roberts and Gloria Grahame, ‘The Big Heat’ and ‘In A Lonely Place’. All that.” I glanced over at Chris, looking for some acknowledgment that she was listening. Sometimes it was impossible to tell what world she was really inhabiting. Her eyes would glisten suddenly and fade away, so it seemed like she was caught in some trap, but she would always smile and nod and eventually come back with an answer.

This time she was on the same wavelength because she rejoined immediately with ““and you said jokingly, my new name was repetition.”” Her smile lit up the room. Again.

Forty years. It is surprising the things that you can forget and then suddenly remember in a flash. Like that line. Like ‘Jean’s Not Happening’.

“We had that record on all the time that summer. It was a bloody awful summer. Rain every day.”
She was right. 1985 was a terrible year to be 16. A wonderful time to be alive and in love. Maybe.
“We pretty much camped out in your father’s barn, like Peter and David at Seven White Gates, listening to the rain on the roof.”
“There were some great records to discover though. The Go-Betweens. Felt. Hurrah! and especially The Pale Fountains.”
She was right about that. We were obsessed with those groups, and played them all the time on an ancient portable mono tape recorder. Plus The Lovin’ Spoonful, early Dylan and The Mamas and The Papas from her dad’s collection. All the records sounded as tinny as that barn roof.
“All those kids in school who thought they were so cool were droning on about Morrissey though. Remember how they all ganged up on us because we had matching haircuts and refused to sign their ‘meat is murder’ petition to make the school canteen meat free?”
“And they all rode their ponies at the weekend and came to school in their parents’ Landrovers that were covered in cow shit.”

We really did hate everyone in those days. Things change and stay the same. Always.

I have a photo of the two of us in our school uniforms that year. We are on the wall beside the bus stop in the village. The old rectory is behind us, barely visible through the overgrown hedge. The blackthorn is out so it would be May and on my lapel is a tiny circle of pale colour, a Pale Fountains badge, though you could never tell from the picture. It could be a falling blossom. Chris has the same.

Our ties are done up neatly, shirts buttoned to the top. All the other kids thought it was rebellious to have their shirts undone and their ties all ragged and pulled aside. They would turn their collars up and roll their sleeves to the elbows, imagining themselves in some John Hughes movie. They all looked a state.

We on the other hand would be meticulously neat and smart. Just because we lived in the country didn’t mean we had to dress like the fucking Wurzels. And anyway, we would look in the music press and see pictures of groups from the cities who looked like the hippies that the farmers kept kicking off their fields, so where was the logic in anything?

And we really did get our hair cut the same. It started off as a Jean Seberg thing, or maybe a Michael Head thing which might be different sides of the same. Then Chris read ‘The Garden of Eden’, and that was that. In our dreams we drove around in an open top sports car and the landscape in our heads was the Cote D’Azur. Even so, the reality of boneshaker bikes and a myriad of Devon lanes to get lost in was not so bad. Even in the rain.

“And there was one tape, it had ‘Jean’s Not Happening’, ‘Hip Hip’, ‘Do You Believe In Magic’ and ‘Thank You’ on it, in one sweet sequence. We took it everywhere we went. Those songs became our summer.” I glanced over at Chris. She was flicking through some papers on my desk. Notes for a book that wouldn’t be written. Another attempt abandoned in a slow ebb of energy. Because nothing was ever the same again. So many things happened during that summer in the spaces between the rain. Ghosts from the past cast themselves in shining new guises and re-established old ways of being, whilst the pure brightness of hope disappeared in ashes scattered from Lawrence Tower. The old ways out were suddenly the new ways in.

We never did get to meet in September and there there are no more photographs to spoil my illusions. Sometimes the things that once propped up our worlds can just as surely puncture them. And whilst for years I could not listen to those Pale Fountains records, the idea of letting the past softly seep back into the present can be so overwhelmingly appealing that it would be churlish not to give in.

Forty years and I’m giving in. Letting ghosts inhabit my soul. Again.

 

 

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Alistair Fitchett.

The Pale Fountains’ ‘Complete Virgin Years’  4CD boxset, including the albums ‘Pacific Street’ (1984) and ‘Across The Kitchen Table’ (1985) plus previously unreleased material from the Virgin vaults is released on May 30th by Cherry Red Records.

 

 

 

 

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Let the Day Begin

The Call

The Call were an American rock band formed in California in 1980. The main lineup consisted of members Michael Been, Scott Musick, Tom Ferrier, and Jim Goodwin. The band released nine studio albums over the next two decades before disbanding in 2000. The band also achieved significant success in 1989 with “Let the Day Begin”, which reached No. 1 on the Billboard U.S. Mainstream Rock chart.

LET THE DAY BEGIN

Here’s to the babies in a brand new world
Here’s to the beauty of the stars
Here’s to the travelers on the open road
Here’s to the dreamers in the bars
Here’s to the teachers in the crowded rooms
Here’s to the workers in the fields
Here’s to the preachers of the sacred words
Here’s to the drivers at the wheel

Here’s to you, my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin
Here’s to you, my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin, let the day begin

Here’s to the winners of the human race
Here’s to the losers in the game
Here’s to the soldiers of the bitter war
Here’s to the wall that bears their names

Here’s to you, my little loves
With blessings from above
Now let the day begin
Here’s to you, my little loves
With blessings from above
Let the day begin, let the day begin
Let the day start

 

 

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Transgender, Transgenic, Transhuman – Techo-Obsessive Agenda of the Less Than Human

 

The techno-obsessive trend of this time is the new pandemic, designed like its predecessor, to derail the human race.

It’s about promoting non biological life forms as ‘more advanced’ than the evolutionary biological life forms that constitute the infinite diversity of our living planet – including we humans.

This grand technology centred deception is the carefully constructed master plan of an elite cult that has learned to imitate the behaviour of humans while not actually belonging to the family of man.

They are clever, however, and have recognised that to redesign life to be a ‘smart’ mechanised subversion of its biological origins one must set about it in incremental stages, with each stage appearing to be ‘an improvement’ on the original.

The techno-digital agenda of today – is sold as being a more ‘efficient’, ‘smarter’ and ‘faster’ way of realising the desired end goal. It must be a fully controllable and predictable means to this end. An end which the 21st century deep state has declared to be “saving the planet.”

What it actually intends, is to distort, sterilise and ultimately delete the biological heart beat of planetary life.

So firstly, the public has to be made to believe in the cult’s ‘save the world’ deception – and then – that the radical re-engineering of biological life is the only way to achieve it. Taking a scalpel to the very gene pool of life.

The deep state’s aim of getting the public to believe in its ‘save the plant’ rhetoric, has largely been achieved. The secondary factor – that the only way to do this is via genetically engineering the biological DNA of planetary life – has not. But that’s what they are working on.

Explained in this way to the citizens of the world, the typical response might have been “You’re never going to sell that one to we the people!”

However, once the task of convincing was spread over a period of forty or so years – voices of assent to this diabolical concept started emerging.

Once the original message became tied-down to a single specific cause – “Stop Global Warming – end anthropological generated sources of CO2!” expounded by global governments, pseudo scientists and the world media, the brainless chant started rolling “We must all work together to achieve Net Zero by 2050!”

Never mind that no one understood what ‘net zero’ meant. It was enough to be told that CO2 is an evil pollutant and that only by getting complete control over it can the world be saved from being cooked.

Then, having successfully installed this particular virtual reality illusion in the neocortex of the masses, the way was cleared for a further raft of deceptions to be added to the witches brew.

I have picked out three interconnected non biological life distortions to show how the continuing push to dehumanise the human race increasingly became covered by the use of the word ‘Trans’: Transgenic, Transgender, Transhuman.

The ultimate purpose being the liquidation of our true evolutionary nature via removing it from its direct connection with the Supreme Source of (our) existence.

The ‘Transgender’ virus was sewn as a divisive way of undermining human procreation and thereby reducing the world population.

Consider the sinister forces at play that have led to young people (children) believing they can defy nature’s biological laws in order to be technically doctored into some entity which denies the fundamental reality of male and female sexuality.

Consider how quickly the ‘trans’ cause became a political football, with the socially engineered rise of ‘defenders of the freedom to choose’ standing behind the LGBT cause and claiming discrimination was being used by any who addressed trans individuals using the pronoun he/she.

And before you know it, supposedly responsible medical professionals started offering their services to mutilate the sexual organs of these tragic youngsters whose development as adult human beings hadn’t even started.

With the advance of puberty and the vulnerable condition that comes with it, how could a young person be expected to make an assured decision about something that would deeply affect the rest of their lives?

The sick architects of The Great Reset/New World Order could no doubt gloat over the chaos they engendered through this darkly devious socio-psychological operation. An operation to destroy the two most fundamental pillars of existence without which no natural procreation can take place. Only life brought about by laboratory controlled artificial insemination and/or genetic engineering.

In the rare case of a court system being on the side of truth, in April 2025, the UK High Court declared for the inviolable biological reality of man and woman and the illegality of transsexuals claiming the rights of those of normal gender.

We can only hope that this spark of sanity will prevail. But the anti-life brigade will no doubt continue its efforts to enshrine the transgender distortion as ‘a human right’. Its not – it’s an inhuman right, if its any right at all.

Which brings us to ‘Transgenic’. From the same deep state school of mutation engineering as that responsible for promoting the transgender ‘fashion’, come the transgene proponents. The designers and sellers of genetically modified organisms.

The dictionary definition of transgenic is “A branch of biotechnology concerned with production of transgenic plants, animals and foods.”

The scientists who engage in tampering with the genes of the plant and animal kingdom, claim to do so in order to short-cut the time taken to arrive at a desired end. They have no concept of whether that ‘desired end’ improves or retards the evolution of life on earth. Or how it might affect surrounding plant and animal life.

Just as the misguided attempt to achieve ‘Net Zero’ requires a tunnel vision, blinkered mindset that never asks the question “Do we actually want a world in which vital CO2 resources are severely depleted?”

So too the transgenic proponents never ask the question “To what end do we want to irrevocably alter the DNA of biological life?”

The deep state doesn’t want any such questions asked about its blueprint for a transgenic brave new world. It only recruits those who accept that the job they undertake is a step up the career ladder approved by the status quo. No questions asked.

The transgenic movement – just like the transgender movement – is a deliberate attempt to side track the God motivated evolutionary passage of humanity. The progression from an unconscious state to one of conscious self awareness. The point at which our as yet unrealised potential becomes fully realised.

However, the IT techno-vision expressed so forcefully by World Economic Forum advisor Yuval Noah Harari, completely shuns the spiritual route to salvation: “We will do better than God”, he states.

The agribusiness model that has adopted this vision pushes GMO (genetically modified organisms) as the way to ensure that the desertification of the planet caused by the ubiquitous growth of its agrichemically created monocultures, can be offset by altering the genes of plants – and animals – to be able to tolerate such degraded conditions.

Instead of ceasing the toxic denaturing of the natural environment, they take its polluted state as a fait accompli, then further distort the genetic seed pool to try to make it adapt to mineral deficient desertification.

In the process, the genetically modified seeds cross contaminate conventional seeds through wind blown pollen, insects and other activities in the fields.

Once gene editing and genetic engineering became dominant – as they are in the USA – the entire food chain becomes victimised. And contrary to what the GM industry tries to convince us, the agrichemicals used on GM crop regimes are more, rather than less, toxic than their predecessors causing natural plant diversity to be reduced to zero.

This is all part of the World Economic Forum’s ‘Green New Deal’ and ‘Fourth Industrial Revolution’ pushed by the now ‘retired’ Klaus Schwab and fellow Davos deceivers.

The gene modification process includes farm animals being genetically modified to produce more milk or more meat while physically suffering the subsequent imbalances produced in their bodies.
This is aside from the chemicals and antibiotics that form a continuous part of their ‘health care.’

The omega point of this transgenic activity is the petri-dish laboratory production of synthetic foods which the Davos elite assure us are specifically designed to aid the cause of ‘stop global warming’.

Cows give off methane and methane causes global warming, declare the fake green masters of spin.
So no more cows, milk or other dairy products. Instead, we are being extolled to enjoy the pleasures of the transgenic synthetic chemical version. “There’s no difference” we are informed.

You see how, step by step, a largely sleeping and passive mankind is being transformed into an IT designed cyborg.

The third of the toxic ‘Trans’ sterilisation programs has become the crown jewels of the Silicon Valley and WEF death cult’s techno-fascist ideals: the Transhuman.

There’s nothing much left of the original species (the human) once this point is reached. But it won’t be, provided humanity turns up the speed of its current awakening – and ceases accepting hacking into the sacredness of life as some form of ‘progress.’

The Transhuman is supposed to be about achieving cybernetic immortality. A techno-digital form of eternal life. Except that ‘life ‘ – it is not. It is a suspended form of existence that lacks any qualifications of what real life actually Is.

While transhumanism claims to advance physical, intellectual and emotional characteristics, thereby producing a more ‘advanced’ form of human; in actuality it is a reductionist vision, involving the editing/deleting of natural emotional patterns to the point where it becomes a complete falsification of what it means to be human.

The speed at which ‘smart’ algorithms and digital dependency are being incorporated into daily life means electromagnetic microwave frequencies now dominate human communications.

The 4, 5 and 6G pulsed microwave radiation frequencies penetrate the cells and neurons of the human body and brain. This already starts the dehumanising process going, eventuality becoming a form of addiction in frequent users of WiFi based microwave technologies.

Just extend this according to the predicted progression of AI – and in come cybernetics and robotics.

At this point the human is lost. The technological deviant has subsumed the multifaceted human creative expressions that mirror the omniscient Supreme Source of Universal Life.

Transhumanism reveals itself to be an ideology of death. The human brain becoming a computer based information receptacal, devoid of any link to the heart and spirit essence which keeps humanity for ever linked to the omnipotent sacred source of life.

Non believers and atheists do not necessarily succumb to this cyborgian version of the future. If there is warmth in the heart and a prevailing feeling of love, humanity cannot be drawn into this demonic reversal of the mysterious and exhilarating life adventure that is every individual’s birth right.

We are humanity. We are ‘for Life’. We have barely started the great journey of discovery that will ultimately reveal what Life Really Is. Don’t let any form of ‘tech’ divert you from this path.

 

Julian Rose

Julian Rose is an early pioneer of UK organic farming, a writer, international activist and broadcaster. See website www.julianrose.info for information about Julian’s acclaimed book Overcoming the Robotic Mind and other works. Books can be purchased by contacting Julian direct: see ‘contact author’ under ‘reviews’. 

 

 

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Religious Tourism

Don’t Forget We’re Here Forever, Lamorna Ash (Bloomsbury)

This isn’t really about ‘A New Generation’s Search for Religion’ – the book’s subtitle, it’s about Lamorna Ash’s search for religion, for life’s meaning and a place that will accept her. She dresses this up as ‘research’, visiting lots of different sorts of churches and going on several retreats, recording conversations and observations, gradually finding people and a couple of places she can relate to.

One of these is a quaker meeting house, the other a welcoming and liberal C of E, both in London where she lives. She welcomes the chance to sit in silence with people at the quakers, and although she sometimes struggles with the lack of contributions (quakers wait until ‘led’ to speak and share something), she also appreciates the fact there is no doctrine or set of rules to follow, and that atheists, agnostics and believers can gather together in a spiritual environment.

Don’t Forget… is a strange read. Although ostensibly about others, the book feels self-obsessed: Ash is always worried about what people will think about her, how she feels, wants to find a place that will not challenge her polysexuality or way of life, wants to find rituals and messages that will educate and inform rather than move or change her. She dips into the Bible and a few mystics’ writings, such as Julian of Norwich’s Revelations of Divine Love. She also seems to be drawn towards but ultimately sceptical of the mystical, several times reporting how others use the idea of ‘a thin place’ to describe locations (such as Iona) where heaven and earth appear to be closer together.

Thankfully, Ash very quickly decides that she will avoid evangelical, happy-clappy christianity, and is wary of indivduals and churches who evidence censorious and right-wing attitudes and morals, believing they have the right to interfere with others’ lives. I have to be honest and say I’m intrigued and puzzled by the fact that she doesn’t consider any other forms of faith or spirituality in the UK but immediately engages with mostly obvious versions of western christianity, quickly glossing over institutional problems such as abuse, control and sexism. (Although they all get a mention.)

The book is full of stories and conversations with others, yet everything is filtered through the mind of the author, who is desperately trying to make sense of her place in the world. There’s an intellectual and rather British reserve at work here; in no way does Ash wish to be swept up in anything or accept any grand metanarrative that attempts to explain everything. She prefers occasional forays into (sometimes torturous) asides about Marianism, sex and gender roles and ponders the relationship between Jesus and the institutionalised church.

Whilst the last thing in the world I would want to read about is some conversion or magical religious experience, the author’s general reserve and distance is off-putting. There is an over-riding feeling of somebody wanting to make use of something for herself rather than genuinely risking anything. Ash is not in search of religious experience let alone spiritual faith, truth or belief, she is making use of others’ stories and ideas and writing a book about it. It feels like religious tourism to me.

 

 

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

 

 

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Leftovers


 
In the province of pleasure, haptic cues are in gear,
disclosing more than any decree on the social charts.
I trace my energy to meagreness. You are relentless
in carving your reach. Saints melt to touch; I’m me.
As the intake picks up, the fun quotient, a.k.a make
whoopie, perks up. The following morning, excess
issues a raft of regrets as it releases its report.

 

 

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Sanjeev Sethi
Picture Nick Victor

 

Sanjeev Sethi has authored eight books of poetry. Legato Without a Lisp is his latest (CLASSIX, New Delhi, September 2024). His poetry has been published in over thirty-five countries and has appeared in more than 500 journals, anthologies, and online literary venues. He edited Dreich Planet # 1 India, an anthology for Hybriddreich, Scotland, in December 2022. He is the joint winner of the Full Fat Collection Competition-Deux, organized by Hedgehog Poetry Press, UK. In 2023, he won the First Prize in a Poetry Competition by the National Defence Academy, Pune. He was conferred the 2023 Setu Award for Excellence. He lives in Mumbai, India.

 

X @sanjeevpoems3 || Instagram sanjeevsethipoems ||  

 

 

 

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After

There was a hole in her heart.
Sadness hung thick and heavy

as the William Morris drapes.
She felt lost –
adrift on the battered old sofa.

Loneliness pulled at her ankles,
following her from room to room.
With her husband out at work,
the silence was suffocating.
Routine unravelled.
Conversation – one-sided.
She daren’t step into the garden,
nor face the familiar faces outside —
no longer part of the pack.
Meals were eaten alone,
without interruption,
without the scraping of scraps —
or those eyes …

Nights lost their warmth —
that steady breath, that familiar scent,
at the foot of the bed — the indent —
she daren’t look.

She had been blessed with a few more weeks:
knowing, preparing,
making each day the best it could be.
And she did.
And they were.

Through the agony,
through the tears —
a quiet joy —
before the time finally came.

And when it did,
her world shattered.
Her absence, insufferable.

After a short spell,
she smiled,
hesitantly and announced:
“I’ve got another one.
She will help mend my broken heart.”

 

 

“There is sorrow enough in the natural way
From men and women to fill our day;
But when we are certain that dogs have souls,
How can we not feel the deep holes
That are left in our hearts when they go?”

“The Power of the Dog” by Rudyard Kipling 1902

 

 

©emmalumsden 28/04/25

 

 

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Keywords


Lawrence’s keyword in his scandalous novel

Wasn’t fuck, or cunt, or anything else
A censorious public imagined
Outragedly twittering over their Darjeeling
Or fumbling a grubby well-thumbed copy behind the bike-sheds.
His revolutionary word that dissolved the pretensions of class
Was the the purposeless human touch of inarticulate tenderness.
More than the much-gossiped rustling among mud and leaves
The urge also silkenly sartorial Forster’s to only connect
To heal and save, alive in the moment.
In hospitals in Gaza
No leafy canopy protects.
Burning children’s limbs scatter in self defence
And bulldozers prepare tabula rasa.
When evil connects evil, human tenderness is disconnected
And victim selves are mere pretence.  

 

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Stephen Linstead

Painting: Egon Shiele

 

 

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WHAT SINCLAIR SAVES

On Gifts Returned by the River ed. Iain Sinclair (Swedenborg Press, 2025)

 

Iain edits and lo, more forts for thought are lain open.
The Downriverman is bequeathing fresh surfaces from the stream.
Thanks to Michael Moorcock and M(o)ore, such as the catalyst like
Catling, all of Sinclairs’s special saints reach alignments

As they document dare and dream. From Iain Christlike, with crow
Thanks to Anonymous Bosch’s first photo, to another sublime
Introduction linking a line through his books, Sinclair curates
What has come from the Albion Island Vortex Exhibition

In ghost-glazed Whitechapel, where surely, even Hawksmoor
Himself came to look. In his usual panorama of prose, we move
From his Ginsberg gape Ah! Sunflower, behind Radon’s daughters
And across the nape of John Clare, to shake mist with Tafler

And Bass – (would Wolf Mankowitz be their Beatrice?) And on,
To Catling’s would be Blake for Ray Winstone, though perhaps
Toby Jones has more flair. But just as Catling corrals, so too
Does this introduction. These Swedenborgian songs of freedom

And of experience too soundtrack all that we might imagine
And want in Alan Moore’s forthcoming Long London, or any city,
Where in Nighthampton or not, spent suns fall. Renchi Bicknell
And Sinclair both have form as rakers of the surburban soil

And land-lifters; and what they first unearthed in the 60s
Has remained with them still, staining their souls and their hands,
Which clip at climes; elemental, as if these grass-swept priests
In communing with how the river runs foot the bill

For what we have carved from the clay, as the Vortex in which
We live vouches for us. As it proves in this conclave of confessors,
And companions too as they write through both image and word
As this titanic tome totals for us, the sum of what we all owe

To magic, and the point at which the day’s convergence
With dream feels like flight. Whether made by Merlin or Moore,
It is there in Catling’s Vorhh, and in his Hollow, alongside Renchi
Bicknell’s haiku hauntings, firing Carol Williams’ Pole Hill

Painting, and then Allen Fisher’s B. Catling cuts, in which
The artist’s absences energise this epistle themed epic,
As he makes crossbows from lovers and disembowels Daemons,
By extricating the angel from deep within gargoyle guts.

Delight makes desert as Victor Rees espouses Kazuo Ishiguro’s
The Gourmet, a TV play I saw as a teen and have never fully
Forgotten; and while the Penda’s Fen blu-ray now blazes
This special stew is flambe’d in time’s sauce, or a glaze

In which the taste of ghosts taint the river, flowing as it always has
Rich within us, as the hunger for the other world is conveyed.
The river it seems touches all, as Swedenborg Canutes,
While canoeing on dry land, his magus like muse making magic

From ripple and ream as we ride from one experience to the next,
As each writer echoes another; Rees cites The Gourmet’s
St. George-in-the-East’s locale and Rodinsky, as the circles
Align as eye-tides, and a community of Sailors emerge
From such whirlpooling word-water; Gareth Evans acts as
Alchemic guide to Whitechapel, by quoting from both
A Delilo review and Jeff Wayne. Or Gary Osborne, of course,
In a fascinating word ramble. The phrase ‘Justin Hayward’

In a book like this helps sustain the scope and size of the gifts
That these artists offer, as instead of Martians its migrants
And the markings they make which enflame each reader’s
Full interest, as this collection dares dams and breaches

Banks to burst borders. As the city becomes ‘a crucible of constant
Change’ with creative tension arising from ‘adjacent temporal zones’
What’s to gain? More facts. More tracts. And far richer futures
If we can tame the tides sent to stain us and reclaim

These points as prize from the page. For which Jurgen Ghebrezgiabiher
Pilgrims with the ghost of Blake sifting Sussex, for just as the river
Reflects former ruins it also catches those to come at each stage.
Topographies take time’s test and serve only to set their own questions.

For just as parts of Whitechapel stay ancient, it appears that even
High-rising earth understands. As much of it keeps its skin
Under which angels itch, misbegotten by both Blake and Catherine,
To be soothed at source by the river as these special sailors swim,

Linking hands, as Ghebrezgiabiher cites Bicknell, and their sage,
Sinclair, who John Rogers films along with Stephen McNeilly,
Beside the forgotten Fleet river’s ghost gurgle and Wilton’s
Music Hall, Death’s plotlands contain Swedenborg’s home

And then grave. The river is ink, and inferno; as their lunch
And lurch, the church glowers, a pylon which pierces
Both sky and belief; each step’s brave. McNeilly Estate Agents
The home of the founding source for these waters,

In the House of Swedenborg we find both safety and secrets
Powered and dealt by Lud Heat. The Albion Island Vortex
From which this book has sprung, totemises, as if all rivers
Wrought rapture at this ruptured time of defeat. So as you read

Realise that you are in pursuit of time’s soldiers, as these
Artists and writers, and these photographer’s too, coalesce,
Falling in line and in special step with each other. They write
For and about themselves and each other, and so the sparks

They strike effervesce. As Louis Petit’s paintings do,
By alchemising his struggles. The vibrancy versed within them
As they move from Schiele to Kitaj  soon astounds. To have
Such surety set at the start of his 20s is to reveal how the future

No matter how strained can rebound from the rejection of fact
And onto a new form for lovers, as hallucinations through seizure
Can redefine private pain and inspire us all; his fresh work here
Equals elders, who entertain now each other as A. Moore both shadows

And lights Iain’s claim. Filmed by John Rogers they roam all along
The line of Long London, both at an age in which dotage is updated
And dared by art’s scheme. The Great When has arrived and if this is
The smoke, what’s on fire? Quite simply, these two, the titans

Who walk as Merlin might across time,  or down Steve Moore’s
Ghost-grown Shooters Hill; acts that Javier Calvo itemises.
As a Sinclairian satellite, his admiration and desire to combine
With IS echoes mine. As I was with IS. I too walked. Just not

As far as I’d liked to. Here Calvo expresses and details
How IS has so often bibled road signs in an extensive report;
An erudite piece of fan-faction, as the Histories and Hauntings
Here gathered take in the Sinclairian section, in which 

‘the unquiet object, an ominous sword of primitive design’
Arthurs all. Held in Brian Catling’s dream kiln, Anya Reeve
Sets a story of priestly quest for this object which could
Cut and carve sign and squall. As  a village son smiths the blade,

Brian’s Jack stomps the surviving ground it now covers,
Summoning in these Whitechapel preachings, not only
His father’s skill as a writer, but as communant with traditions
Of what once was and will be; disappearing acts soon reclaimed,

Through monochrome, pen or pixel: this book and its spine
Exhibition are fulcrums for blindness from which we can all
Learn to see. The ‘repetitive tenements’ hum  with the sound
Of all those old hours and of the new ones bound now

Before them, awaiting these sparks to unveil, secret cinemas,
Dreams and the stomachs of lost, ransacked theatres. What was past
Can still happen. And as the young man prowls he sees snatches
Of what could be Satan’s tail. Victor Rees; triptych for Ghosts

Is a tale of stone spirits, before the magus like Michael Moorcock
Returns by charting his life by dead swans. From the Gresham
Street pub of two to the many New Worlds he helped fashion,
His time-trip is soon tracking from Ladbroke Grove to Alsacia,

To the Edge of Time; surely all writers should tug not just their
Forelocks, but for all he given, any and all hanging fronds.  
His wounded Albion extract delights. Swedenborg’s spells
Spruce all artists, and for those that don’t follow, this curation

Collects modern Gods moving in time with the myths,
Which have enchanted them all across aeons; they are all
Jerry and Catherine Cornelius tripping as they traipse the London
Lyme. No-one plods. Renchi Bicknell stories stone in his epic poem.

He is due in a parallel world any moment to share his prehistoric
Avebury. After BC’s Sunken Nightfall, more stone, scooped by
Matthew Shaw, Brian’s pilgrim, as we move from Dorset to Oxford
Via more arcane tenancy. From The Court of Miracles’ craft, to a film

Of Shirley Collins as seen at Soho’s The Curzon, what we shape
From stone, be it novel, poem or mask is kiln-film; magic made
By bare hands, covered in ancient dust or black pudding; as ever
Immaculately suited and booted, this word wizard fries breakfasts

While reality too, has been grilled. So what the river returns
To those featured within is achievement, to the extent that all
Of these legends are lucky to have lived and found all they’ve gained
And which has served to set them apart; they have made

Their own histories from these hauntings, and beyond Blake
And Machen, or the Wayland Smithery, each attains a summit
To scale in this and all cities. Sinclair has truly listened to London
And passed its vast shell now to Moore. Who blows his blaze back,
Illuminating fresh fragments, splitting stone, twinning Merlin
With Moorcock too. So adore what you will read and see in this book.
It is Swedenborg stream and stone singing at us. It is star, spark
And fire, firmament and soul-scratch. Alice Albinia moves

From circling water spirits and stone, to the Kings Cross lain
Calthorpe Gardens; Brian Catling tree-poems, as Ben Wickey
And IS walk for Poe. The river runs all the while, offering ‘mesmeric
revelation’, flowing beside and within, its wild water, the stuff of steps

And sweat as they go. Everyone peers through the prose to catch
A glimpse of Valdemar’s Mirror; ‘Poe is upturned.’ Chat is congress.
Silence swims. Dream-skeins flow. Catling picks up the tale
Of M. Valdemar’s scholarship and publications. And so these

Eye-essays, so successfully scribed gather up, the ones before those
Who stir each step in the stream of invention, to make deeper ripples
And a headier brew for dream’s cup. For this a truly magical book,
Alongside Alan and Steve Moore’s long-sought bright bumper,

As it both archives inspiration to be found on any path we’d seek
And each view that we do not even know how to scale. You will find
Sufficient calipers here; in these haunted hands ghost-transcribing
And translating too in our language the murmurings of the few

Who changed time and tide through their special understanding
Of water. And what it is: earth emotion, or the stain of stars
While they weep across climate and cloud. Even a white sky shines
On these walkers. On these Smiths and sifters who through

A poem’s pan see truth seep. Adolfo Barbera Del Rosal cares
With crow as he appreciates Iain’s early films and B. Catling.
He is the next Greek like Chorus, even if he does perhaps come
From Spain, to single out and define these gifts of art; each a sigil,

Of what art should be. And so in which direction may the prize of gold
And ghost now be gained? The former Maggot Street Exhibition extends
To the Albion Island Vortex in Whitechapel. Where muse and magic
And each secular star renames Faith, as Exploration, or Art,

Or Summoning, poem, sculpture. Or Film. For a camera afterall makes
A cyclops looking in light for a Wraith. Sinclair concludes with a stunning
30 page essay, summing up prophet poets, and as Richard Harris once posed,
Tramps who shine, as he catalogues the full gifts bestowed and returned

By the river, be it sunken or streaming or linking all of us to all times.
This book is wet as you read. It is soaked with sun, soul and spirit.
It acts as near biblical introduction to a Babel like tower in which
Everyone shares the same tongue with which to describe miracles

And to say the sort of things which makes Masters of both
Art and of magic. As the waters rise, fate’s undone. Instead, the book Arks.
And sets sail for borders; new lands which are equal and as mighty in myth
As Moorcock’s; places where Alan Moore walks and Catling reconfigures.

Sinclair, their Aguirre, their Columbus too forged the Dock, for dream
And word-scheme and the machines that men, women and they make
Within them. These manufacture bright borders and countries
And far better doors to unlock. So, set sail until the end of this world,

Or to the end of time for that matter. Traipse and trail.  Walk by water.
And cleanse by stream the struck stone, that may have passed
From the mount, or sent from space to bookmark us.
These are the gift’s Sinclairs sharing. He leaves as Pinter once said

Of Beckett: ‘no maggot lonely.’ In Gifts Returned by the River,
Each word is flesh on old bone.

 

 

 

                                                                                                           David Erdos 14/5/25  

 

  

https://mailchi.mp/c1e04fa475d3/hereaftersimonmoretti-16554994?e=4910b7c200

 

 

 

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Ecstasy comes as a bird! 

The two-parted notes
outside
an open window,
unlock a sepia-tinted instant,

a voice, soft, frail, pleads:

“Baby, I need your loving (I really need you)”; 
 
—What a beautiful song!

The hall, where they daily assemble
hoping for some mini family gathering, some
reels of quick arrivals and farewells
for
social media consumption later on,

the inmates spiritedly chorus the vintage of 1964,
startling the staff for its fresh appeal.

The trilling sounds from the treetop
release 
a volcano dormant,

emotions surge, burn the screen; the verse finished
by
a feverish mind, seeking lucidity on a stormy afternoon; 

the raw scarlets, browns, blacks combine
in a flitting figure,
blur, then come back, and
drop straight

onto a large canvas, finish
the pastoral scene, left half-complete:
the winged visitor over a white cottage;
sun-lit deck; woodland; an uncoiling river, where the Otter families
once swam with the Canada geese, on scented mornings, kissed
by
the shivering shadows of firs and pines, before the advent of the
condos that flattened sanctuaries for human encroachments;

Northern Cardinal!
Dear friend, the crested inspiration,
in
joyous flights of freedom,

your songs and colours follow wherever you go
revive
dead tissues and soils, like the vernal rains. 

 

 

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Sunil Sharma
Picture Kushal Poddar

Bio: Sunil Sharma
A humble word-worshipper: catcher of elusive sounds, meanings, images.
Published 28 creative and critical books— joint and solo.

Winner, among others, of the Panorama Golden Globe Award-2023, and, Nissim Award for Excellence-2022 for the political novel Minotaur.

Poems included in the UN project: Happiness: The Delight-Tree: An Anthology of Contemporary International Poetry, 2015.

He is the managing editor of Setu bilingual journal (English) that has more than 5-million views so far:
https://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html

 

Academic |Writer | Critic | Editor | Freelance Journalist | Reviewer | Literary InterviewerEditor: Setu: http://www.setumag.com/p/setu-home.html
Website:https://sunil-sharma.com
Twitter:https://twitter.com/drsunilsharma
Instagram:https://www.instagram.com/drsunilsharma/
LinkedIn:http://in.linkedin.com/in/drsharmasunil/
Pinterest: https://in.pinterest.com/
Amazon-author link: https://www.amazon.com/author/sunilsharma

 

 

 

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Graphology Causality 14: listening to Syd Barrett’s Abbey Road Studios Recording Session 12th August 1974

 

‘Final recording’ is the catchphrase
from which no producer
           can take away a marketable
           set of ‘tunes’ song-structure
compliant; no shifts that shape
a song of evocation
           and durability, not even
            ‘jam’ to prompt others
into making a show of it.
After the ‘boogies’, I am
           back to where I started
           with Syd in the late 70s —
‘If You Go’ when you’ve
never arrived, the vocals
           lapsing silent, unspoken
           between strings stretched
to surface a muddy puddle
in Wandlebury Woods,
           and the ‘Ballad Unfinished’
           is why voices emerge
from the mixing desk,
a slide from neo-romanticism
           into neurodivergence.
           But vocabulary doesn’t
have to be time-sensitive,
and I see robins from Wandlebury
           hedgerows almost as I hear
the effects of red-capped robins
locally in a revelation that can’t be;
            ‘If You Go’ back
           for a second
reckoning of sap splash
to paint the floor
           of a wooded area,
           resonant between branches,
flexed by wind in the crowns.
Here the songs forming,
           the quotes and variations,
           motifs and counterpoints,
caught behind the bars.
Praise John Lee Hooker!
           But can I be there where
           you are everywhere,
and so were they
whose going
           ended the delay,
           the hopes of reverb.
But fast or slow,
birds know they are safe
           in the head, a wave
           across the sound-
box lilt crying
wah-wah, wah-wah.

 

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John Kinsella

 

 

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DEPARDONE?

 


When film stars fall, skies, such as they are, rip and rupture,
Whether it is Gene Hackman dying in Altzheimic shock at rat germs
That claimed his wife, or James Dean, still stained by his secrets,
Or now, Gerard Depardieu’s groping and two sentence

Suspended assaults, each confirm that to place our faith
In the dark which smears us all seems foolhardy. What we must
Prize is the work truth can’t alter, no matter how marred
Makers are. For if Woody Allen trips snared by  a 30 year old

Accusation and Depardieu’s latest movie is the film of his fall,
Should the star become a black and cancelled hole, folding
In on themselves in our cosmos? Or should the glow and glare
And the beauty of what they have brought to the screen

Now be dulled? Gerard’s appetite filled the frame,
In latter years to the edges, but it was always his skill
And charisma that bested most. Now its culled. Film actors
Cast images, bright burns in light, photocopies, which can be

Pushed past the pixel, or stripped from celluloid to make art.
And he is an artist to last, through what he leased from his darkness.
As a socio-moral hunchback Jean De Florette will still break
Your heart. Or Green Card amuse. It is what makes Buffet Froid,  

Les Valseuses, or his Cyrano so beguiling. It flows from the same
Stream in which Kevin Spacey has been allowed to rinse recently.
It cannot cleanse the sin, but it can cast reflected glow on the gargoyles,
Who while once acting badly can attempt to do so now, decently.
Arnie Hammer’s handsome face seemed obscene at the time
Of his defamations. Spacey too seemed to bridle as Guy Pearce
Spilled the beans across reputation and rip from a firmament
Now in tatters. Whereas former Popstars degrade, for film actors

Their slate will never again click while clean. I cannot equate
Depardieu to Paul Gadd, or to the ones with whom Guiffre settled.
But I have not talked to the women who had to endure Gerard’s
Clutch. Whether desperate, or declared; whether fucked by fame

Or entitled, how do we group the gropers and damn those like GD
And DLT? By how much? Some just bewilder and stun.
Harris and Hall. Gary Glitter.  Jimmy Savile and Epstein are in
A league of their own, fire fed.  But this isn’t that. GD’s appetites

Just grew gruesome. So how do we lessen legends in whatever
Form if not dead? There is now it seems no-one left to truly trust
And believe in. Admiration’s been archived and possibly lost
Frequency. So if we dispense with their work, from the fleshly full

To the wooden, we will also lose the last culture, if there is no chance
To claim clemency. Louis CK fucked himself, in more ways than one.
What a talent. Now Graham Linehan also is in a cell of sorts
Built by calls. So what awaits now the men who have forced

The flesh to fail and expose it as the desperate umbrella for urges
That even rain should spike as it falls? Men are an endangered species,
At last and as a consequence lash at women. These are acts
Of urgency and abandon, premeditated too, at some point.

Perhaps it is the price paid for fame, removing you from the real
All too quickly. What should he do? And us, watching; must we forget
Each film we loved an anoint someone else in his place.
Which of you now would watch Seven? Or 1492, or Manhattan,

Or 1900, or dare I say Modern Times. Chaplin favoured the young.
Who mars the lines? Who slits silence? Each and every accuser.
As the guilty are gathered they are the film stars now.

Skin as sign. 

 

 

 

                                                                   David Erdos 14/5/25

 

 

 

 

 

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Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

 

 

The things they carried were largely determined by necessity…. In addition to the three standard
weapons—the M-60, M-16, and M-79—they carried… whatever seemed appropriate as a means of
killing or staying alive. They carried catch-as-catch-can…. They carried ghosts. When dark came, they
would move out single file across the meadows and paddies…. They carried lice and ringworm and
leeches and paddy algae and various rots and molds. They carried the land itself… the soil—a powdery
orange-red dust…. They carried the sky…

 

 

They carried out “war as an extension of prose by other means”

They lugged Ledig’s soldier poem impaled ’n blown to smithereens

 

They carried signified & signifier as a wonderful sign from God

They haunt the dark & when they cut yr service they mean it, you sod

 

They carried ghosts low, host lice on ice appropriate to stayin’ alive

They bombarded da bards & said kill me now or later, no jive

 

They carried M&Ms weapons soiled in powdery orange-red dust

They mugged down in the tranny for a dire date selfie or bust

 

They carried ringworm in paddies as a means of killing

They sunk poetry in its non-standard tracks for chilling

 

They carried lots for rots & molds, bidden in their breeches

They hunted sweet-smelling hacks & snacked on their leeeches

 

They carried sky to land on the wrong side d’grass

They grossed out on algae singin’ it’s a gas-gas-gas

 

They carried Nam on the lamb & dodged drafts south to Alaska

They move out catchy as Ketchikan, rasslin’ Picabia’s half-baked pasta

 

They carried single file “war as never having to say you’re sorry”

They took off when 4chan rivalry made it ah so hunky-dory

 

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Stephen Bett
Picture: Claire Palmer

 

 

 

Notes

The opening & closing stanza quotes are from Charles Bernstein’s “War Stories” (see Broken Glosa, p. 17)

Taken from Novel Lines 101: 101 alphabetical poems. Through 101 novels and metafictions, each poem in this collection riffs, literally, on its subject texts’ opening line(s)

An innovative, sassy, but deadly and pointedly serious tour through late 20th and early 21st centuries’ fiction from the Americas and from Western, Central and Eastern Europe. A mash-up of signifiers and signifieds, numerological flakiness, and PoWorld’s bland, Mega-church hegemonies—all encountering, in the midst of our present day cocktail-hour capitalism, some of the truly great novelists of our times.

 

Website: StephenBett.com  

 

 

 

 

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Openings

Between sidewalk cracks, insistent sprigs
rise toward homemade sky the miniscule
petals match. Blooms break through with what appears
intention. Breaks in the sidewalk appear uneven
as silk stockings in film noir. Women straightened
their seams and tapped their way across bright streets
crowded with strangers. Strangers as moments
of life in common. People with nothing
in common hold private thoughts about belonging,
as flowers reach for kindred hues in sky.

 

 

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Sheila E. Murphy

 

 

 

 

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Censorship

You can staple/ sew/ bolt my lips together.
I will still cry out to deafen the world outside the bars of my prison.
You can nail my sentences of resistance in a box and ship them to a Gulag, but they will resurrect as skywriting above cities and inflame the people below to rebel.
I will hurl words at your prison guards and torturers. 
Smuggle poems out taped under the wings of every passing bird-tucked in the pocket of a breeze.
You can put me before the firing squad.
Introduce me to the hooded hangman but you cannot stop the protest song from scaling the walls of your most secure jail and leaping to place of safety.
Machine gun the verses as they make a dash for the open gate toward the sanctuary of the trees metres away.
But they will still run zig-zagging into the dusk.
If we lose our freedom and the tyrants manacle and torture our bodies we will become unbreakable instruments on which a tune of freedom can be played.
We will not be silenced anymore than you can bottle the raging storm or cork a vast ocean.
If we talk in whispers it will be build up to a hurricane scattering the army and the secret police before it.
Surrender is not an option,condemning us to silence will never happen, the poem and the song will roar louder than the jet plane and our words will dynamite the forces that try and fail to crush us.

 

 

Malcolm Paul

Alexi Navalny died in prison February 16th 2024.

 

 

 

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WE COULD HAVE

It’s become true even if it isn’t

That on VE day the Princesses
Elizabeth and Margaret slipped
Out of the Royal Palace
And mingled with the Masses

It was the equivalent
Of becoming Communists
Or being hippies

Smoking marijuana
And playing in a jazz band
In a basement club in Soho

But imagine if
While they were out
Having a knees-up
Their places had been taken
By poets. Nina Cassian

The Romanian, Akhmatova
The Russian
We could have been ruled
By our imaginations
Once King George
Had popped his clogs

No longer subjects
But free citizens

It is possible, trust me

 

 

 

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Steven Taylor

 

 

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Volcanic Odyssey

Stars were falling from the sky
and crashing into the mountains,
merciless sparks were blazing from the craters,
flows of lava were flowing, never stopping.
The trees were hissing,
turning black,
turning to ash,
dying.
The path of fire was spreading
and the village was not far below.
And people were running away screaming

Animals were howling in pain.
The noise was black,
hissing like a flock of vipers,
and deafened the night over the valley.
So piercing,
that God heard from above.
A holy rain fell.

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Dessy Tsvetkova
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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The parable of the wise and foolish virgins

Is it surprising if, after all this time, we’re sceptical he’s ever going to come? I mean, what sort of bridegroom would turn up this late for his own wedding celebration? As for those pious frumps in the corner, no one in their right mind would take them to a party. A wedding feast with those ninnies present would be more like a wake, they’re so serious. I visit the poor as often as them, and give the parish orphans gifts at Christmas. Just because I like to play the spinet doesn’t make me immoral. What’s wrong with having a good time? We have to do something to amuse ourselves while we’re waiting.

 

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Simon Collings
Painting by Hieronymus Franken II (1578-1623)

 

 

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Adventures in Neurophysiotherapy 

 

I am twelve or thereabouts,

standing in shorts and top

in a hospital physio room

wide as an open mouth.

Six white coats in training

troop in, take notes:                

She is…she has…

Walk forwards. Now stand straight.

You can see she has a flexed gait.

I am a classic example, apparently,

but I hadn’t revised for this exam

and my name is left blank.      

 

Thirty years on or thereabouts.

Another hospital physio room.

Will I be able to walk again without my sticks?

No – falls to the floor. I leave it there. 

At the edge of my vision an older man

takes tiny steps. He turns to the right, proudly.

It has taken him six weeks.

Turning left is harder. He wants to keep going.

This is his last session.

His wife takes him home.      

 

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Tanya Parker
Picture Nick Victor

 

Tanya won the Yorkshire Open Poetry Competition in 2008 and the Rydale Competition in 2013.  She was Reviews Editor for Dream Catcher Magazine for five years and has poetry published in Orbis, Acumen, Other Poetry and Poetry Nottingham, amongst others. She appeared as guest writer on Helen Burke’s radio show ‘Word Salad’ for East Leeds FM (twice) and has performed in International Women’s Week with Real People Theatre. Tanya performed with Rose Drew in ‘She’s the Cultured One’ at the Edinburgh Fringe in 2011, at the Galtres Festival in July 2013 and a specially-commissioned show at the Keats Shelley House in Rome in May 2014. Her first full-length poetry collection ‘The Problem with Beauty’ appeared with Stairwell Books in September 2015. She is currently working on an M.A in Creative Writing with Leeds Trinity University.           

 

 

 

 

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Folk on the Street and other StreetNoise!

A weekend musical journey…with Alan Dearling

May Day – Maypole – Todmorden Folk Festival Saturday. Lively on the streets. Colourful folk everywhere. Lots of men and women all called ‘Morris’! I made a contribution (I hope) by encouraging people, especially non-musicians, in the park, in bars and on the streets to have a ‘play’ with one of my hang and steel-tongued drums. Then, on the rather fabulous, Korg Kaossilator Pro (an electronic piece of weirdness, with over 200 sounds, controlled with fingertips on a touch screen), and my timberharp, designed by Thomas Freer, from down in Worthing on the south coast of England. That is a drop-dead gorgeous plank of Plain wood, embedded with sounds controlled by reed-switches – sounds ranging from a harp through sitar to choir-like bands of angels.

Most punters seemed to have a lot of fun…(MSFN forever, as Spiral Tribe used to proclaim: Make Some Fxxxing Noise!) Enjoy the pics! Feel free to spread the vibes! Keep on Keeping Om! I think my bits of musical anarchy were in keeping with the long history of folk music as part of street-music, as the people’s music.

 

Sunday was the finale of the Ninth Todmorden Folk Fest. Plenty more ladies called Morris. More clogs, bells, accordians. Some characterful characters everywhere abouts.

It was a tad cold in the afternoon, but it was still a good turnout for the Oxford Road Stage event. I’d had a bimble around town earlier, and some nice trad cider in the Market Tavern. Sounds of sea shanties and the tinkle of bells in the air as the Morris teams danced (and drank) their way around the town.

I continued with my personal mission to encourage non-musicians to ‘have-a-go’ playing different instruments. It was a little gourd percussion instrument on the Sunday. It possibly came from West Africa where it is known as a balafon, or, possibly even be Polynesian.  I remember similar ethnic percussion from my times living in Australia. Not sure.

Sunday afternoon is traditionally the free event afternoon. And on the Oxford Road stage, Adam Carr and then Soma provided the musical entertainment.

Adam has an amazing voice and an incredible repertoire of material. Steve from Soma spoke to me after the Folk Stage gig saying that Adam appears to have the total 60s image and presence – a complete reincarnation, a throw-back to that previous time.  Soma are a special blend of Hungarian folk and jazz traditions, with visual and sonic hints of world music. Vocal perfection, with ancient and modern twist and turns!

 

Adam Holden, Soma and the Todmorden Oxford Road Stage

My weekend was on the streets and in the pub venues. Todmorden Folk Festival presented lots of other paid venues…but my weekend was all about StreetNoise!

Plenty of applause and appreciation from the crowd.

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And here is a liitle selection of pics from my scrapbook from my Musical Noise Sessions (MSFN).  I started them on streets and at festivals in Amsterdam, Copenhagen, OZORA (Hungary) and Boom (Portugal) festivals, in the Scottish borders, around the Pennines, the Magick Gathering festi in Lithuania and in the free republic of Uzupis, in Vilnius, Lithuania.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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On The Fifth Birthday 

I

One by one four birds
leave the house. The fifth
tidies up the nest in the skylight 
as per its choice, adds a twig
of love where a gale has hit.
The change it brings changes
everything as if the puzzle 
my daughter, you, and I 
have been assembling finds
a face or an eye that will see
with the clarity only 
possessed by innocence.

II

The moon dangles from a corner.
The morning sky excites my daughter.
Her birthday excites my daughter.
My waking up excites her. We sit
on the bench in the flat rectangle 
of our roof and watch the fall of the moon.

My daughter believes in unicorns,
peace and in a land where ladybugs
help her find the memories she loses,
and yet she cannot remember 
the first expressions her mother and I
wore on our tired faces. 

I inhale this smokey morning. She unpacks
the day. We both know what lies inside,
and yet we express surprise with bold
exclamation marks sprawling across
the line that divides belief and faith.

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

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Everything, Everywhere

There’s Everything to Play For: the Poetry of Peter Finch, Andrew Taylor (Seren)

When I reviewed Peter Finch’s Collected Poems One and Collected Poems Two back in 2022, I could not help but discuss Finch’s presence in the small press publishing world from the early 1980s, when I became part of that with my Stride magazine and imprint. Finch was an enabler, a facilitator, an encourager and contributor; he was everywhere you turned in the poetry world. In my earlier 2020 review of his book The Machineries of Joy, I noted that ‘Finch shows no sign of reining in his eccentricities’ and titled that review ‘A Life-time of Astonishment’, which referred to Finch’s lifetime, not mine, although I continue to be astonished by the poet’s work.

Having edited those Collected Poems, Andrew Taylor has gone on to now publish a hybrid biography and critical study of Finch, thankfully concentrating on the latter as a way to facilitate the former. So, only events, activities and associations which have fed in to and influenced Finch’s editing, writing, performing and publishing, are mentioned; there is no nonsense here about the colour of wallpaper, girlfriends or the makes of cars purchased. It is all about poetry and his relationship to it.

For those of you who switch off at the word poetry, please don’t. Finch embraced underground, countercultural publishing early on and stuck with it. In a similar manner he situated his work within the different, often warring, areas of sound-experiment, comedy, performance art, visual poetry and the mainstream. He was never a weirdy-beardy mumbling in the corner, never an arselicker or cringing academic, never a self-centred ego-tripper, but he could get funding, persuade both avant-garde and major publishers to take his books, talk poetics and critical theory, sweet talk and upset others as and when required, and hold his own against those who dismissed his prolific output.

His knowledge of the history of sound- and performance-writing was second-to-none, and he embraced the boundaries where it blurred into improvisation, out-jazz, or speaking in tongues. He learnt Welsh and critiqued England’s colonial inclinations towards its neighbour; he used psychogeography, flânerie and landscape writing to explore Cardiff and its environs; he shared with, taught and challenged would-be and experienced writers; and also managed to keep up with contemporary issues of digital poetics, AI, sampling and remix. (Taylor suggests this is not new: ‘Finch’s use of technology has always been present in the work.’)

Taylor surmises that Finch’s poetry has changed, perhaps even mellowed, over time (something I might dispute; he just disguises it better), suggesting that ‘a typical late-period Finch poem’ contains ‘nostalgic reflection, usually focussed on a key memory’ where ‘the level of detail is remarkable’ and not ‘resorting to the bland anecdotal which is so commonplace in mainstream poetry’. Elsewhere he suggests that ‘Peter Finch has always been seen as “other”‘ and is ‘notoriously difficult to categorise’, this perhaps leading to an element of critical indifference and mainstream rejection.

And yet Finch was a poet who charmed those who met him and/or heard him read. His stage presence was of a friendly and well-mannered eccentric, not an arty-farty weirdo. As this book at times make clear, he could do provocation and rebellion when required, but mostly he wanted to get his work read and listened to and found numerous ways to do so. Finch understood rhyme, syncopation and rhythm, knew how to keep an audience amused, shocked and entertained. He was part of international networks of writers and artists and an avid reader, listener and consumer of new and newly-discovered writers. He read to understand what language could and might do, whether as decomposed text on the page, political manifesto, comic absurdism, surreal chant or seemingly personal confession.

Taylor gets all this. His 200 page book is as thorough, reasoned and generous as Finch’s own books. His critical engagement with Finch’s writing is astute but highly readable, as are his contextual discussions where he notes influences, mentors, examples and inspirations. As Taylor notes at the close of the book, ‘Though nothing is assured, what we can be certain of is that Peter Finch will continue to write poetry, innovate, walk Wales and push language to extremes.’ I really do hope so.

 

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Rupert Loydell

 

(An earlier version of this review was first published in Tears in the Fence)

 

 

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AND NOW THE RAIN

 

 

 

 

 

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Mission Statement

Brows furrowed, The Committee returns from closed session to repaint the dicta on the old barn door. It’s mostly a matter of Thou shalt not, because that’s just how they roll, so there’ll be no gods before breakfast, no gravy images, no taking the name of the Lord in a van, and on, and on, and, quite frankly no one will read to the end of the list. You see, it’s not about the reading, or the prohibition of acts that no one ever even contemplated: we just need to acknowledge the fresh paint, white on green, and the fruity plastic tang of volatile organic compounds tainting what would otherwise be a fair-to-middling morning. As tradition demands, The Committee sits silent on the best chairs, dragged outside for the occasion, available for Q&A. But, of course, no one speaks, as we silently honour the feathers and moths in our fluttering breasts and, besides, our mouths are painted shut

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Oz Hardwick
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

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The Scent of The Shadow

I lean against the window
grab the shadow
of the Spring time,
sniff and throw at the roof.
Its slow rolling equals
the growth of the tree.

It leaves my palms scented.
You cannot smell it. “Why?”
You ask. Perhaps because
you too were born with this odor,
and therefore
cannot distinguish between
the self and the shadow.

 

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Kushal Poddar
Picture Nick Victor

 

Kushal Poddar lives in Kolkata, India
amazon.com/author/kushalpoddar_thepoet
Author Facebook- https://www.facebook.com/KushalTheWriter/
Twitter- https://twitter.com/Kushalpoe

 

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TV

Flying Lizards

The Flying Lizards were an experimental English new wave band, formed and led by record producer David Cunningham. The group were a loose collective of avant-garde and freely improvising musicians.

‘TV’ is from their eponymous first album, which Simon Reynolds called “an exercise in pop absurdism”, and Mark Deming said contained “dub -style audio experiments” and “bent interpretations of pop music constructs.”

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Alan’s New & Old Music

Another mash-up of reviews of music from around the globe

Wardruna: Birna

Fiercely tribal music, from noble purveyors of Norse Culture. Think: Gruff voiced vocals, ethereal voices, chants. You can just imagine this music accompanying dancing around the fire-pit. ‘Hertan’opens the proceedings – there’s one hell of a lot going on. It’s definitely not a light-weight listen. In fact, by the time of ‘Birna’, the title track, it’s actually a tad oppressive. For people of a certain age, it is somewhat reminiscent of Magma, the late-60s/early 70s French outfit who sang and chanted in their own fictional Slavic language, Kobian.

Birna official video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pLqNSAZEFjU

Wardruna apparently means ‘the guardian of secrets’ and ‘she who whispers’. So, it’s full of Runic rites, ethnic instruments – an intensity of sound. At times it feels more like a religious rites ceremony. Sonorous. Complex. Unnerving. ‘Dvaledraumar’ is quieter, more meditative, offering repetition through bands of sonic waves. Also, it had me thinking of a Black Mass-funeral. Indeed, there’s more than an element of menace and threat in the midst of much of the music. Shades of Viking pillage and plunder as in ‘Skuggehesten’. Certainly with this album, you either like it or you don’t!

BaBa ZuLa: Istanbul Sokaklari

Full of atmospheric street sounds. This new album from the Turkish psychonauts, BaBa ZuLa is epic. The tension builds up even before the music kicks off. Train announcements, you are about to board the Istanbul Express to Munich. There’s much use of ‘taksim’ – drone notes. ‘Arsiz Saksagan’ is a chant-like song (about the cheeky magpie), hypnotic, propelling forwards with guitar and saz notes to the fore. It’s Turkish, but also a fascinating electronic enchantment, echoes of ghosts, hints of North American natives chanting, with added psych-bass notes, maybe some Indian Krishna recitations. Who knows?

‘Murat Etal’ is a melange of theremin, saz, field recordings, and drives slowly, inexorably onwards. Esma Ertal whispers witchy words to the Eastern mysticism. Umit Adakale provides darbuka and percussion. Then we have a full-on psychedelic feast with ‘Yok Haddi Yok Hesabi’. Wonderfully creepy. It adds up to a crescendo of sound and then almost a train crash. And finally, winds down, drones and quiet saz plucked towards an enchanted oblivion.

 Yok Haddi Yok Hesabi’ video (nice graphics too): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hpAYan01GIM

 

SRC: Scot Richard Case

A Detroit band who were a headline act in their own area, but never made it into the big time. And were almost unheard of in the UK. Something of a missing-link in US rock psychedelia.

‘Bolero’ from the re-formed original line-up of SRC: LIVE at Whites in Saginaw in 2011.

Scott Richardson-vocals, Glen Quackenbush-Keyboard, Gary Quackenbush-guitar, Ray Goodman-guitar/vocals, Steve Lyman-guitar/vocals, with Ralph McKee-bass, and Pete Woodman-drums: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E30u0OIACpc

‘I’m So Glad’ from 1967: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLkwyWrNomU

‘Up all night’ from ‘Milestones: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6CyoYSlL-M

P.A.I.N. : Crisis Time

Late in 2024, the Propaganda And Information Network released their first new album in about 25 years. It was aptly entitled, ‘Crisis Time’. It starts off with snippets of news items, protests, conflicts, then it’s into the music. Catchy, dub-wise, ‘Smoking’ is like an old, familiar friend. Some lovely, almost Shadows’s guitar: “All that you need is a fat bag of weed”. ‘Grow more weed’ is their 2024 Manifesto, but is well-known to the P.A.I.N. and RDF fans, and there are many of them. This is a band that was birthed in the same Traveller worlds as RDF (Radical Dance Faction), Rinky-Dink, Chumbawamba, Reality Attack and perhaps even Jah Wobble. ‘SC’ offers an almost metal-riff, providing an accompaniment to some instrumental anarchy.  There’s a searing, sneering ‘Scum of the Earth’ – a Mister Rotten moment.

Actually there’s a lot of sensitive musicianship and on tracks like ‘You Know’, complex instrumental arrangements. ‘Revenge Warfare’ takes us into Slits’ territory, and ‘Dirty Bomb’ provides plenty of guitar hooks. But it is important to reflect that, “words will always retain their power”. ‘Retribution Dub’ suggests echoes of RDF’s ‘Surplus People’ to my ears. Good Old Traveller sounds and sentiments. Plenty to get up and bounce to!

P.A.I.N. live 2018: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k5YaOXQGVnI

JeanClaude Vannier est son orchestre de mandolins

I wanted to like and enjoy this album more than I did. There’s just too much Vincent Beer-Demander and his myriad mandolins. I have really enjoyed Vannier’s work with Serge Gainsbourg in past decades. This is all very Parisienne. Romantic and even austere at times. But then, there’s another lurch into humour and caterwauling mandolins! The first couple of tracks have the feel of surreal takes from the ‘Third Man’ film, or, some low-budget black and white sci-fi film. It’s quirky, odd and a bit disquieting. I was waiting for Bela Lugosi to flap into sight as a second-rate, bat!

‘Lost in the City’, like many of the other tracks is essentially a dance tune, even a waltz, a drift into ballet. And it sounds as if is being played from a fairground ride. It’s all very filmic and eccentric. ‘There were elephants’ and ‘Swimsuit Dance’ produce a bit more verve and energy. There are some evocative film and song titles, such as, ‘A photo shoot under the arches’. It seems by the conclusion, ‘endless’.

A little video about the making of the album: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t0Eoc4rwvCs

‘Lost in the City’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GmeBpZEJJn4

Songhoy Blues: Héritage


This album is described by the Malian band as: “represent(ing) the sound of us reconnecting with the spirit of our Malian culture.”  In the past I would have described them as essentially a guitar band.  They certainly mostly produce up-beat, happy music.  However, this is a quieter, more nuanced affair with poly-rhythms and an array of traditional African instruments on display. ‘Toukambela’ offers less than usual guitar sounds and a flute-style lead and lots of inter-twined, layered voices. ‘Dagbi’ is lovely, a complex call and response piece.

Overall, it is a clean, clearly produced album. Easy on the ear. No incendiary guitar duels. It’s mostly an acoustic affair. There are perhaps less standout tracks, but I like ‘Issa’ – it even reminds me of Captain Beefheart’s  ‘Sure ‘nuff and yes I do’.

‘Issa’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O0TMRxAh5w4

Jan Garbarek

Jan is probably my favourite saxophone player of all time. I was lucky to be on the guest list when he performed in Edinburgh as part of the Jazz & Blues festival. It was stunning. A performance spanning ECM-style jazz from Norwegian, Jan, with Indian/Pakistani percussion. There’s nothing new appearing on the musical landscape from Jan Garbarek, but I can thoroughly recommend checking out his prestigious collection of musical output. Amongst my own personal favourites are:

The strangely eerie and haunting, ‘Dis’ with Ralph Towner (1976): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8EJfEjZESY

Gregorian chants with added sax, ‘Officium’ with the Hilliard Ensemble (1994): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8lA4MgFJ-GI

And, world music as high-end musical art, ‘Ragas and Sagas’ with Ustad Fateh Ali Khan (1992): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lWUUIzLdqTk

  

Gianni Tbay’s Blues Against Youth

This is very much a fun-time, up-beat album. Plenty of bluesy guitar, strong beats and rhythms and sing-along choruses. ‘Lost and Sound’ kicks off the collection of songs. A Cowboy Captain Beefheart, perhaps, whilst out searching from shrooms? Definitely, ‘Getting Lost and Sound’! Deep, gruff singing, ‘Learn this Right’ gets into a nice good times groove. Shades of Mungo Jerry’s ‘In the Summertime’. ‘Goin’ to California’ is really bluesy, with lots of bottle-neck slide guitar. It even has some yodelling in tribute to the song’s writer, Jimmie Rodgers.

Yet more good time rockin’ blues with a cover of John Lee Hooker’s version of ‘How can you do it?’ – taken at a fast and furious pace. ‘Snake Away’ offers country-tinged blues harp in a nice shuffling instrumental. And it all finishes up in ‘Emissions’ which offers the listener a fuller, deeper, soundscape.  

Here’s the Bandcamp link: https://thebluesagainstyouth.bandcamp.com/album/gianni-tbays-blues-against-youth

Silk Road Ensemble with Rhiannon Giddens: American Railroad

This is a very evocative album offering syncopations of chain-gangs building railroads. Oodles of string-plucking, Old-time hoedowns on ‘Steel driving Man/Swannanoa Tunnel’, but with added tabla-style of drums. Rhiannon is often a plaintive voice above Eastern instruments. It’s an experimental World Sound Clash. Despite the album title, the overall sound is more Chinese or Mongol than US of A. Though there are hints of native Americans and their shamen in some lamentations.

‘Far Down’ is almost Scottish or Irish with shades of ‘River Dance’ rhythms. There is an epic, wide-screen sound on the lengthy, ‘Tramping Song’, with plenty of Eastern chanting and whoops of tabla. It’s call and response time in ‘Have you seen my man?’and  is much more indicative of USA railroads. ‘Shout’ is the ensemble celebration at the conclusion of the cross-cultural melting pot of an album. It seems to be very long railroad journey.

Website: https://www.silkroad.org/american-railroad

 

 

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Alan Dearling

 

 

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DichotomY

 

Colin valeK

 

 

 

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Lights All Awry in the Sky at Electro Studios

“Lights All Awry in the Sky” brings together works by artist and film-maker Daniel
Hartlaub from Frankfurt and musician Keith Rodway from Hastings. The centrepiece
of the exhibition at Electro Studios is “Vanished, The Curious Life and Death of Felix
Hartlaub”, inspired by Daniel’s late uncle, with animated drawings and videos by
Daniel, and live music.

In May 1945, three days before the end of WW2, Felix Hartlaub, a 31 year old
draughtsman and writer, was recalled for duty and boarded a train to Spandau. He
was never seen again, cutting tragically short a promising literary career.
Since 1940 Hartlaub had lived in occupied Paris on archival work for the German
Ministry of Foreign Affairs. He chronicled daily life in the French capital as ‘word
etchings’ with a painter’s eye for detail. He was only too aware of his presence as an
unwelcome intruder, visible through meticulous sketches of the city’s skyline and its
people: civilians and soldiers in cafés and half-seen trysts during blackout hours, and
not least an ever-looming threat marked with swastika flags distressed by the wind.
His book Clouds Over Paris is a unique testament to the persistence of ordinary life
overshadowed by a calamitous backdrop.

The mystery and strangeness which surrounded Felix Hartlaub’s life are reflected in
his work, shaped by tumultuous times – an uncertain world in danger of destroying
itself.

These fragmentary impressions give us a glimpse of an artistic and literary career
that never was. “With the film ‘Vanished’”, explains Daniel Hartlaub, “I hope to find
some answers about an uncle I never met, and subsequently about the barbarous
times he lived in and the parallels to today.”

Hartlaub and Rodway lay open these parallels and leave the viewer to ponder
whether history is in danger of repeating itself.

Electro Studios, Seaside Road, Saint Leonards-on-Sea TN38 0AL

Friday 16 May
5.30pm Necessary Animals with music specially written for the show, plus Simon and
the Pope

Saturday 17 May
11am – 5pm gallery open
7.30pm AKA with Anthony Moore and Jury Service

Sunday 18 May
11am – 4pm gallery open

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By Judy Parkinson

 

 

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Of Zones and Long Shadows

 

IDCV, Isidora Edwards / Dimos Vryzas, (Scatter Archive)
Antibes ’62
, The Tubby Hayes Quintet (Jazz in Britain)

I was immediately drawn to IDCV, a collaboration between cellist Isidora Edwards and violinist Dimos Vryzas by something it said in the album notes, which described the music as ‘a sound trace of two voices learning how to exist together’. It seemed to sum up a whole approach to improvisation: one cannot simply rely on preconceived gestures to get you through, you have to find your way into the zone and see what you discover. And that, by the sound of it, is exactly what Edwards and Vryas do. I’ll resist the temptation to fill in any background: as, again, it says in the notes, ‘Don’t show me your ID / Don’t show me your CV’. All we know is that these two musicians set off like sonic stalkers into the zone is search of sonic artefacts. What they find is out of this world: sounds fall into orbit around other sounds, scribbled sounds become almost repeated patterns, or drift off in new directions. There is a marked physicality about it: even though we can’t see what’s happening, we’re constantly aware of the hand and finger movements that go into making the music, just as we are of the instruments themselves. Out of this world, but, at the same time, intensely human.

Jazz in Britain have just released a recently unearthed recording of Tubby Hayes and his quintet playing live at the Antibes Jazz Festival in 1962. Hayes, who’d turned professional on leaving school aged 16, had been touring with his own band since the mid-50s. As he said, looking back on his development, ‘I did not really intend becoming a tenor player, though I always liked tenor. I think maybe Dizzy influenced me more than Parker because he was sort of more accessible, he caught your attention more. As far as my influences over the years are concerned, Getz was it at one stage in the proceedings, and later Rollins, Coltrane, Hank Mobley and, to a lesser degree, even Zoot [US saxophonist Zoot Sims].’ The year before Antibes, he’d been signed up by Fontana Records and had been playing in the States.

Not long before the Antibes gig, the Hayes’ quintet had undergone something of a shake-up. A row over pay had led to him seeking new blood and he poached pianist Gordon Beck, bass player Freddy Logan and drummer Allan Ganley from  Vic Ash’s band. Beck had turned professional only two years earlier, in 1960. What he lacked in experience, he made up for with talent. As Guardian jazz critic John Fordham said: ‘he hardly ever played a cliche; … his solos developed in constantly changing phrase lengths and rhythms that never sounded glib or routine’. Logan’s career had begun years earlier, in 1949, when he joined pianist/singer Pia Beck’s trio. He’d been working in Australia and had recently made two albums with the short-lived Australian trio, The Three Out. Ganley, a one-time member of Johnny Dankworth’s band, went on to be house drummer at Ronnie Scott’s. They were joined by another Dankworth band veteran, trumpeter Jimmy Deuchar.

Prior to the Antibes gig, they’d recorded two albums together for Fontana, Down in the Village and Late Spot at Scott’s. Their playing is tight and creative and they make music you can place in time simply by listening to it. It’s everything you’d expect from a band  of which Melody Maker said: ‘Tubby’s Quintet may be Britain’s greatest ever’ (an opinion echoed by Ronnie Scott). And it really is a snapshot of a moment in time, as, not long after, Beck was to leave (he was to go on to lead his own bands, including, from 1968, the trio Gyroscope, which featured drummer Tony Oxley).

The album comes with a 28-page booklet written by award-winning Hayes biographer Simon Spillett, whose biography of Hayes, The Long Shadow of the Little Giant, came out in 2015. It fills in a lot detail as to the members of the band and the circumstances of the gig. It’s great that these recordings have finally come to light.

 

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Dominic Rivron

LINKS

IDCV:, https://scatterarchive.bandcamp.com/album/idcv

Antibes ’62:, https://jazzinbritain1.bandcamp.com/album/antibes-62

 

 

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Spring on New Street

Beyond Cineworld

There’s a point of aspiration

A spike of hope stretching

For its slice of sky.

To its left a pile of pink

Victoriana seems to rest upon

Its own future,

A strip of street-level charity shops

Forming its foundations.

 

And everywhere Spring elbows its way in.

A junkie shuffles to Morrisons to beg

From shoppers with a fresh lightness in his step.

A couple in mobility scooters

Stop to exchange a kiss

Outside the denture repair shop

Just as they did in those smoky

Years when Atlee made

Such palates public property.

 

Two council workers bright in orange

Overalls silently signal

Danger, but their caution is casual.

A young lad regrets his lack of a classical education

When his first tattoo – “Mam: In Memoriam”

Gets him a skelped ear’ole

From a mother who remains aggressively alive.

 

Across the car park where the burned down clocktower

Once commanded imperious sprawling Co-op City,

A pigeon plops a pat of its philosophy on the hubris of a Porsche,

Then flaps a desultory wing over the vape shop

Curving away towards the pole-priapic gentlemen’s lounge.

 

Eggs and bacon blend with the Chinese herbalist’s mysteries

On the raw breeze,

Whilst vagabonds of scant repair

Hustle in and out of Wilkos

To spruce and polish winter away

With all the sad dust of those they lost in the dark.

 

 

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Stephen Linstead
Picture Nick Victor

 

 

 

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