Poetry

[Lat-Literal]

Ah, ferney, we're getting sentimental in our old age. I'm all for it. Spike could hit the spot.

Yes - I agree re Milligan.

Knowing the pub in the Strutton Ground market, Victoria, in its various forms for the best part of 30 years - it has been "Graftons" at least twice and even in its grottier makeovers it mostly retained key pictures of early showbiz types - I always picture Spike living at what was then Jimmy Grafton's place having to be coaxed when necessary to the studios between lengthy periods of not being able to face the world. He was a rare whimsical type, often gloriously madcap, who was much troubled by noise because of the war until his final years.

I entirely comprehend that feeling, especially now, but I probably always did.

[Lat-Literal]

.........but most of these people in history were controversial, not that it was always apparent in their writing:

Tarantella

Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
And the tedding and the spreading
Of the straw for a bedding,
And the fleas that tease in the High Pyrenees,
And the wine that tasted of tar?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
(Under the vine of the dark verandah)?
Do you remember an Inn, Miranda,
Do you remember an Inn?
And the cheers and the jeers of the young muleteers
Who hadn’t got a penny,
And who weren’t paying any,
And the hammer at the doors and the Din?
And the Hip! Hop! Hap!
Of the clap
Of the hands to the twirl and the swirl
Of the girl gone chancing,
Glancing,
Dancing,
Backing and advancing,
Snapping of a clapper to the spin
Out and in —
And the Ting, Tong, Tang, of the Guitar.
Do you remember an Inn,
Miranda?
Do you remember an Inn?
Never more;
Miranda,

Never more.
Only the high peaks hoar:
And Aragon a torrent at the door.
No sound
In the walls of the Halls where falls
The tread
Of the feet of the dead to the ground
No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

Hilaire Belloc

[Padraig]

No sound:
But the boom
Of the far Waterfall like Doom.

Hilaire Belloc

Yes, I remember that inn too.

Here's another to think about.

Meeting the British
Paul Muldoon

We met the British in the dead of winter.
The sky was lavender

and the snow lavender-blue.
I could hear, far below,

the sound of two streams coming together
(both were frozen over)

and, no less strange,
myself calling out in French

across that forest -
clearing. Neither General Jeffrey Amherst

nor Colonel Henry Bouquet
could stomach our willow-tobacco.

As for the unusual
scent when the Colonel shook out his hand-

kerchief: C'est la lavande,
une fleur mauve comme le ciel.

They gave us six fishhooks
and two blankets embroidered with smallpox.

from Meeting the British 1987

http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/uk-northern-ireland-42425168

[ferneyhoughgeliebte]

I didn't get it, Padraig, until I wiki-ed "General Jeffery Amherst" and found this:

One of the most infamous and well documented issues during Pontiac's War was the use of biological warfare against the Native Americans. The suggestion was posed by Amherst himself in letters to Colonel Henry Bouquet.[20] Amherst, having learned that smallpox had broken out among the garrison at Fort Pitt, and after learning of the loss of his forts at Venango, Le Boeuf and Presqu'Isle, wrote to Colonel Bouquet:[21]

Could it not be contrived to send the small pox among the disaffected tribes of Indians? We must on this occasion use every stratagem in our power to reduce them.
Bouquet, who was already marching to relieve Fort Pitt, agreed with this suggestion in a postscript when he responded to Amherst just days later on 13 July 1763:[22]

P.S. I will try to inocculate [sic] the Indians by means of Blankets that may fall in their hands, taking care however not to get the disease myself. As it is pity to oppose good men against them, I wish we could make use of the Spaniard's Method, and hunt them with English Dogs. Supported by Rangers, and some Light Horse, who would I think effectively extirpate or remove that Vermine.
In response, also in a postscript, Amherst replied:[22]

P.S. You will Do well to try to Innoculate [sic] the Indians by means of Blankets, as well as to try Every other method that can serve to Extirpate this Execrable Race. I should be very glad your Scheme for Hunting them Down by Dogs could take Effect, but England is at too great a Distance to think of that at present.
Historians Elizabeth Fenn and Benedict Kiernan have shown, "Fort Pitt had anticipated these orders. Reporting on parleys with Delaware chiefs on June 24, a trader [William Trent] wrote: '[We] gave them two Blankets and an Handkerchief out of the Small Pox Hospital. I hope it will have the desired effect.' The military hospital records confirm that two blankets and handkerchiefs were 'taken from people in the Hospital to Convey the Smallpox to the Indians.' The fort commander paid for these items, which he certified 'were had for the uses above mentioned.' Historian Elizabeth Fenn has documented 'the eruption of epidemic smallpox' among Delaware and Shawnee Indians nearby, about the time the blankets were distributed."

... a sickening moment (one of many) in British Colonial history that somehow never reached any of the History lessons I received at school - nor, before now, in any history article or documentary I'd ever encountered.

[Joseph K]

I like the Muldoon poem. I got the reference to smallpox... but then I do follow 'Crimes of Britain' on facebook. (Yanis Varoufakis also mentions it in his recent book about the history of capitalism.)

[johncorrigan]

I didn't get it, Padraig, until I wiki-ed "General Jeffery Amherst" and found this:



... a sickening moment (one of many) in British Colonial history that somehow never reached any of the History lessons I received at school - nor, before now, in any history article or documentary I'd ever encountered.

Shocking, ferney...thanks for information; and thanks for posting the poem, Padraig.

[Joseph K]

What if the form subverts the poet’s description?
In verse I like to have some kind of structure,
it’s true I like to work within prescription,
ensure the rhythmic system doesn’t butcher
the syntax and make sure the rhyme-scheme’s demands
do not dictate sense, so the poem flows
and every syllable correctly lands
where it should, so it doesn’t sound like prose.
How far is it between what I perceive
and what is said? In verse I like to dabble
and find the distance from what I conceive
and what’s written is well... might turn out babble!
Oh, through these forms I’ll often try to squeeze
my thoughts – it’s not a task of any ease.

[Joseph K]

Spring: a Petrarchan Sonnet

The beauty manifest in verdant meads
envelops all, absorbing, feeding glee -
a jouissance now suffuses all and me.
Assuaging winter's bleakness, hope now heeds,
begetting easement, actualising pleads.
The fulgent splendour vivifying, we
imbue ourselves renewal with the sea,
our weather leaves us free fulfilling needs.
Alas, fugacious feels this heavèd bliss -
anon will flowers cease to grow and bloom.
Portentous fear of hateful abject hours -
tenebrous days indoors, a thought amiss.
Suspire - the air is seen besides the gloom -
I rue, for stopping cold I have no powers.


Downhill: a Triolet

It’s possible to travel further down-
hill, go to lows unknown from where you are.
Forget today, its frail and quondam frown –
it’s possible to travel further down.
I’ve long outstayed my welcome, travelled far
to new nadirs on a chthonic car.
It’s possible to travel further down-
hill, go to lows unknown from where you are.

[Padraig]

Clerihew for J.K.

Joseph K
Is cooking with gas today;
Metres that would reduce to tears a strong man
Are regimented with ease into serried ranks that scan.

[Joseph K]

Clerihew for J.K.

Joseph K
Is cooking with gas today;
Metres that would reduce to tears a strong man
Are regimented with ease into serried ranks that scan.

Thanks.

[Beef Oven!]

Fatty and skinny went up in a rocket .....
Fatty came down with shit in his pocket.

[Joseph K]

Fatty and skinny went up in a rocket .....
Fatty came down with shit in his pocket.

lol

[Joseph K]

February

Slowly the sun encroaches after sleeping
through winter’s withering as spring returns,
we become aware of the measured creeping
of light – a recrudescent morn relearns
to cease our slumber. The yawn of February straddles
the seasons - dainty birds emit a cheeping
against the frost that winter, as it straggles
spring, brings; through tart cold spring begins its seeping
of green fighting from gelid trees, revived
and waiting to be seen. Colour recovers
its presence and counterpoints with snow deprived
of mid-winter’s strength where it dominates and smothers.
While Albion’s erratic weather might
belie its season, there’s still the burgeoning light.

[Joseph K]

Smoking (part 2)

Oh, wouldn’t it be nice to have a fag –
I do believe I need a tasty smoke.
I’ll savour all the toxic fumes as I drag
the coffin nail and meditatively toke.
I don't wish to get particularly wiggy –
I realise that it disgusts some folk.
It has a lot to answer for, the ciggy –
this you cannot deny, and cancer’s no joke,
of course. It may look cool but it’s neither big
nor clever, taking risks like this, inhaling
tobacco smoke. But I love the humble cig
if truth be told – it might result in my ailing –
this I accept. A practice I’ll regret
in time – for now here’s to the cigarette.

[greenilex]

How about this from March forty years ago:

Strange how Spring devours the hemispheres
And inch by roaring inch puts paid to dark;
Strange how the dawn which broke so near to tears
And wished the nightingale was but the lark
Washes the sky for flowers that still will come.
Silently, stealthily, like the Assyrian king
In purple, gold and crimson
Rides every tiny thing
With cohorts of cabbages
Spikes of pale asphodel
And little flags of harebell
Nodding in a ring.