My blind tongue
knows of the stag cry
the windroar of mountaincaves
the nightslaves to winterchill
the killers on the pilgrim road
and the seers who died with the bracken turning red
and my blind tongue
speaks of the young sun
and gods in each birdflight
and it tears up an old heart
and it's courted a dead soul
and it's scolded wild eyes
danced for new days
and best cursed the joys that fled
and cursed them dead
and my tongue tells of woods before they fell
and my tongue speaks the old tongue for me still
and my blind tongue
once tasted a corpsehair
and scared off a mad cur
and started an enterprise for quislings,
sizzling
now in the beautiful hell I helped them down to
(ha ha)
and my blind tongue
has rested on the old stone
the foam of the first sea
the breadth of the country
hill to glen
and then
my tongue became the landbridge
that first brought you here
and my tongue fashioned tinker
fashioned whore
and my blind tongue was every crowd in prayer
and my blind tongue
sang for the springlarch
and sang for mad Sweeny
and told where the birds swam
and followed sounds
everyeveryeverytime the churchbell
rang to me
my calling
my dumb calling
profound
Originally posted by FinsburyParkCarrots To provide colours from a different portrait you have to steal them from someone's canvas first, picking their dried crust off flake by flake and hoping to stick them onto another painting by sheer violent pressure. It won't work.
Neither will imitating too closely or aberrantly decoding the compositional hue of another's work, work. The off-orange degrades itself in its aim of tainting the original.
But fresh paint of any colour is welcome. This is an interactive (but, I hasten to add, not a communal!) effort, in pursuit of capturing the true light and dynamics of Ophelia's nun's mythical red tomato. True vivacity of fusing creative energies across the world is our artistic dream. But some negative interaction impedes this multicoloured web of mixed-media affinities. Love is all we need anywhere to make work work.
Love to all,
Fins
are you CERTAIN it's NOT communal???
that is to ask...
are you SURE
and if so...
HOW so??? Hmmmm??? Hmmmm???
sssshhhhhhhh mr. carrots... you're feeling sleeeeeeeepyyyyyyyyy....
my palatte overflows with chips and flecks from other ppl's portraits... humanity and the social brain dictate it must be so...
no man is an island
and while
i am NO man
still, I like man
er... men...
er... a man...
ummm...
ANYWAY
these chips and flecks made fluid with copious amounts of my own solvent, yes? i can guess that there may be one or two test tube bubble babies out there, but ain't none of em poetic genius
they're prolly lucky if they know how to use a fork....
not that there's anything wrong with using your fingers, still...
The dichotomy I was asserting was between eclecticism and outright plagiarism. There was an essay entitled "Tradition and the Individual Talent" that was produced in 1921 by TS Eliot. Eliot argued that the corpus of literature is intercommunicative (years later, Julia Kristeva would use the term "intertextual"). Theorists such as Bakhtin and, later, Derrida would perceive all words as sign systems admitting traces of every other utterance and context in which they were used. So, in a phrase or utterance in a poem there is an intertextual echo or consonantal trace of every other time that phrase has been used in any other poem, or even communicative context anywhere. Words and phrases interact in this sense of the free flow of linguistic and significatory play here, but they rely on the concept of (and this isn't a spelling mistake or typo here) "differAnce" in order to interoperate.And parody or imitation can subvert the "master" discourse and create a "third space" for the subversive, iconoclastic text to deconstruct its immediate progenitor.
BUT, imitation that is too linguistically close to its source constitutes plagiarism. I argue that interaction between texts, whether satirical or critical or meta-meta-meta-pretentiously theoretical-critical, strengthens linguistic and literary expression even if the elements of a text are internally in conflict. This is the wonder of the multi-dialogic potential of interactive Internet poetry. But there is a particularly monologic tendency in some poetry which is too imitative to reword language and text sufficiently to be different (or "differAnt", referring non-plagiaristically but intertextually to Derrida here); I was referring to specific examples of this above. The notion of "communal" poetry isn't the same in my mind as interactive, shared poetry (often contradictory but geared towards the excitement of the perpetuation of ideas). To commune in the production of poetry implies that all should speak monologically and deliberately with the same voice.
In Stalin's era, particularly in the 30s, poets were encouraged to "commune" and work together, effectively and inevitably in support of the Party. Dissidents were killed or imprisoned, as the writings of Anna Akhmatova describe. The poets and artistic figures who banded together in collaboration to defend poetic expression from Stalin's Yezhov Terror worked interactively and often with internal quarrels, to produce a multiplicity of voices challenging the monologic dominant linguistic ideology enforced upon "communal" worker-poets.
Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.
...in a phrase or utterance in a poem there is an intertextual echo or consonantal trace of every other time that phrase has been used in any other poem, or even communicative context anywhere. Words and phrases interact in this sense of the free flow of linguistic and significatory play here, but they rely on the concept of "differAnce" in order to interoperate.
what's interoperate mean?
And parody or imitation can subvert the "master" discourse and create a "third space" for the subversive, iconoclastic text to deconstruct its immediate progenitor.
and this, i'm sorry... i don't get it... :(
BUT, imitation that is too linguistically close to its source constitutes plagiarism.
I argue that interaction between texts, whether satirical or critical or meta-meta-meta-pretentiously theoretical-critical, strengthens linguistic and literary expression even if the elements of a text are internally in conflict.
nor this :(
This is the wonder of the multi-dialogic potential of interactive Internet poetry. But there is a particularly monologic tendency in some poetry which is too imitative to reword language and text sufficiently to be "differAnt",
i SEE
The notion of "communal" poetry isn't the same in my mind as interactive, shared poetry (often contradictory but geared towards the excitement of the perpetuation of ideas). To commune in the production of poetry implies that all should speak monologically and deliberately with the same voice.
this is the spirit in which I sometimes "tag" opp (other ppl's poetry) I think it might offend some poets, especially if I read a phrase that reminds me of something I once wrote and go ahead and post it or send it to them... but it is only that... the perpetuation of ideas.... exciting, indeed especially in this anonymous forum...
In Stalin's era, particularly in the 30s, poets were encouraged to "commune" and work together, effectively and inevitably in support of the Party. Dissidents were killed or imprisoned, as the writings of Anna Akhmatova describe. The poets and artistic figures who banded together in collaboration to defend poetic expression from Stalin's Yezhov Terror worked interactively and often with internal quarrels, to produce a multiplicity of voices challenging the monologic dominant linguistic ideology enforced upon "communal" worker-poets.
dem crazy commies... LOL
i think i shoulda ate some Wheaties before the second attempt here
Ah, ya posted before me! I thought I was gonna be all pre-emptive and schtuff...
:D:D
Interoperate? In a free flow of signs at play in a deconstructed text, signifiers interoperate to reinforce the Derridan notion that "There is nothing (in terms of signified "meaning") outside of the text."
The thing about the third space; it's actually often applied in practice as a theoretical discourse of deconstruction to postcolonial theory, but its principles overlap with many other post-structuralist methodologies (go find 'em ... come back ... report! ). However, its roots are in Bakhtin and Derrida.
I think to deconstruct is, ironically, to see with what complexity language is put together, and to celebrate this, but to tear apart some of the cruder, often dominant-ideological ways of reducing interpretation to fixed readings or "constructs" of "meaning".
Blue whisper out of range over the beach
out from each wave; strain the ear to hear
the echoes fumbling low free from reach
and never clear (and never clear)
But where the black ford hits the sea (where?) -
quick - capture, rich upon this breaking shore
her call.. it's there!... She's here!...
The Blue. Just under!
Hunter's moon, my mavourneen.
Nightglade and the elmshade.
Ripples make a warning:
Wiseheads, watch the landhead.
With our robe and our food
With our look and our word
They will tear down our wood
but we've the Blood.
Journeymen rhyme, my mavourneen;
Not in hairline of our wordmen.
They mimic our kings in the morning;
They're the no-ones:
we're the scions.
With the clasp on our tongue
with a watch on our throng
they want the air of our song
but we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
And with the clasp on our tongue
And with a watch on our throng
they want the air of our song:
Well, we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
And that's the way it always is and that's the way
it always ends and the fire and the rose are one
and always the same scene and always the same
subject right from the beginning like in the Bible
or The Sun Also Rises which begins Robert Cohn
was middleweight boxing champion of his class
but later we lost our balls and there we go again
there we are again there's the same old theme
and scene again with all the citizens and all
the characters all working up to it right from
the first and it looks like all they ever think of
is doing it It and it doesn't matter much with who
half the time but the other half it matters more
than anything O the sweet love fevers yes and
there's always complications like maybe she has
no eyes for him or him no eyes for her or her no
eyes for her or him no eyes for him or something
or other stands in the way like his mother or
her father or someone like that but they go right
on trying to get it all the time like in Shakespeare
or The Waste Land or Proust remembering his Things
Past or wherever And there they all are struggling
toward each other or after each other like those
marble maidens on that Grecian Urn or any market
street or merrygoround around and around they go
all hunting love and half the hungry time not even
knowing just what is really eating them like Robin
walking in her Nightwood streets although it isn't
quite as simple as all that as if all she really
needed was a good fivecent cigar oh no and those
who have not hunted will not recognize the hunting
poise and then the hawks that hover where the
heart is hid and the hungry horses crying and
the stone angels and heaven and hell and Yerma
with her blind breasts under her dress and then
Christopher Columbus sailing off in search and
Rudolph Valentino and Juliet and Romeo and John
Barrymore and Anna Livia and Abie's Irish Rose
and so Goodnight Sweet Prince all over again
with everyone and everybody laughing and crying
along wherever night and day winter and summer
spring and tomorrow like Anna Karenina lost in
the snow and the cry of hunters in a great wood
and the soldiers coming and Freud and Ulysses
always on their hungry travels after the same
hot grail like King Arthur and his nighttime knights
and everybody wondering where and how it will all
end like in the movies or in some nightmaze novel
yes as in a nightmaze Yes I said Yes I will and he
called me his Andalusian rose and I said Yes my
heart was going like mad and that's the way Ulysses
ends as everything always ends when that hunting
cock of flesh at last cries out and has his glory
moment God and then comes tumbling down the sound
of axes in the wood and the trees falling and down
it goes the sweet cock's sword so wilting in the
fair flesh fields away alone at last and loved
and lost and found upon a riverbank along a
riverrun right where it all began and so begins again
I see you on the kraal now, looking out towards the veld,
at poison rushes, waving underneath
tonight's uncommon knifewind. And I know, all night, you've held
That moon deep in your gaze, seeking its death
not in descent but hollowing by love's relentless night:
You wish Her any fate except to die
prostrate before the Sun in all His truth-defining light
that rents the heart's dreamveil. You defy
inevitable dawn with your proud eye.
Usually it's all improvs from me on this thread, but here is a really old song lyric of mine.
Singing to the Silence
The dusktide's meander, a moon-mystic reel
Courts shadows from yesterday time cannot heal
No longer reflecting old splendours contained
I've watched your eyes darken until light's all drained
Before the feature stills
To cease flights unfufilled
There's comfort to be found
When silence reigns on far
Concluding to capture a rest to this line
No more in contention, you shamble behind
With merely your gesture of voice to defend
an existence that cries out at sunset for end
And when the light has gone
And after all is done
There's comfort to be found
When silence reigns on far
Revealing an apathy seeking disguise
as sustinence falters, night prayers arise
But will you adhere it their fashions profane
And slip through their promise, to darkness attain?
With dreams that ride the now
Made futile by the hour
There's comfort to be found
As silence falls on far
Comments
I'd not steal honey from a bee
But I could tell you a few stories about poetry thieves over the centuries...
Lizi, feel free to contribute anytime!
she's a good writer...
i wonder if i have that "naff" thing on the old board still
sitting in dope's inbox or something
and....may i just say, you are very chirpy today, like the birds in my garden
confused??? but.....you changed your name and never told me? who are you!!!! haha....
:( :( :(
shame on you fins...
i told you to tell bambi HI for me
tsk TSK!
come out it's shell
on it's own
to this fools hell
tis to
make the talc
turn back to rock
long after it
went all to chalk
knows of the stag cry
the windroar of mountaincaves
the nightslaves to winterchill
the killers on the pilgrim road
and the seers who died with the bracken turning red
and my blind tongue
speaks of the young sun
and gods in each birdflight
and it tears up an old heart
and it's courted a dead soul
and it's scolded wild eyes
danced for new days
and best cursed the joys that fled
and cursed them dead
and my tongue tells of woods before they fell
and my tongue speaks the old tongue for me still
and my blind tongue
once tasted a corpsehair
and scared off a mad cur
and started an enterprise for quislings,
sizzling
now in the beautiful hell I helped them down to
(ha ha)
and my blind tongue
has rested on the old stone
the foam of the first sea
the breadth of the country
hill to glen
and then
my tongue became the landbridge
that first brought you here
and my tongue fashioned tinker
fashioned whore
and my blind tongue was every crowd in prayer
and my blind tongue
sang for the springlarch
and sang for mad Sweeny
and told where the birds swam
and followed sounds
everyeveryeverytime the churchbell
rang to me
my calling
my dumb calling
profound
my blind tongue
my blind tongue
* * * * * * *
(PS... there's music to that
are you CERTAIN it's NOT communal???
that is to ask...
are you SURE
and if so...
HOW so??? Hmmmm??? Hmmmm???
sssshhhhhhhh mr. carrots... you're feeling sleeeeeeeepyyyyyyyyy....
my palatte overflows with chips and flecks from other ppl's portraits... humanity and the social brain dictate it must be so...
no man is an island
and while
i am NO man
still, I like man
er... men...
er... a man...
ummm...
ANYWAY
these chips and flecks made fluid with copious amounts of my own solvent, yes? i can guess that there may be one or two test tube bubble babies out there, but ain't none of em poetic genius
they're prolly lucky if they know how to use a fork....
not that there's anything wrong with using your fingers, still...
fuck yeah, baby
fuck yeah and
i STOLE it from setaside2
see?
(fucking thief)
BUT, imitation that is too linguistically close to its source constitutes plagiarism. I argue that interaction between texts, whether satirical or critical or meta-meta-meta-pretentiously theoretical-critical, strengthens linguistic and literary expression even if the elements of a text are internally in conflict. This is the wonder of the multi-dialogic potential of interactive Internet poetry. But there is a particularly monologic tendency in some poetry which is too imitative to reword language and text sufficiently to be different (or "differAnt", referring non-plagiaristically but intertextually to Derrida here); I was referring to specific examples of this above. The notion of "communal" poetry isn't the same in my mind as interactive, shared poetry (often contradictory but geared towards the excitement of the perpetuation of ideas). To commune in the production of poetry implies that all should speak monologically and deliberately with the same voice.
In Stalin's era, particularly in the 30s, poets were encouraged to "commune" and work together, effectively and inevitably in support of the Party. Dissidents were killed or imprisoned, as the writings of Anna Akhmatova describe. The poets and artistic figures who banded together in collaboration to defend poetic expression from Stalin's Yezhov Terror worked interactively and often with internal quarrels, to produce a multiplicity of voices challenging the monologic dominant linguistic ideology enforced upon "communal" worker-poets.
i'm going to need to take paid leave off to read that reply...
LOL
love to you
Poor naked wretches, whereso'er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,
Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en
Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;
Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,
That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,
And show the heavens more just.
http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/aakhma.htm
...in a phrase or utterance in a poem there is an intertextual echo or consonantal trace of every other time that phrase has been used in any other poem, or even communicative context anywhere. Words and phrases interact in this sense of the free flow of linguistic and significatory play here, but they rely on the concept of "differAnce" in order to interoperate.
what's interoperate mean?
And parody or imitation can subvert the "master" discourse and create a "third space" for the subversive, iconoclastic text to deconstruct its immediate progenitor.
and this, i'm sorry... i don't get it... :(
BUT, imitation that is too linguistically close to its source constitutes plagiarism.
I argue that interaction between texts, whether satirical or critical or meta-meta-meta-pretentiously theoretical-critical, strengthens linguistic and literary expression even if the elements of a text are internally in conflict.
nor this :(
This is the wonder of the multi-dialogic potential of interactive Internet poetry. But there is a particularly monologic tendency in some poetry which is too imitative to reword language and text sufficiently to be "differAnt",
i SEE
The notion of "communal" poetry isn't the same in my mind as interactive, shared poetry (often contradictory but geared towards the excitement of the perpetuation of ideas). To commune in the production of poetry implies that all should speak monologically and deliberately with the same voice.
this is the spirit in which I sometimes "tag" opp (other ppl's poetry)
In Stalin's era, particularly in the 30s, poets were encouraged to "commune" and work together, effectively and inevitably in support of the Party. Dissidents were killed or imprisoned, as the writings of Anna Akhmatova describe. The poets and artistic figures who banded together in collaboration to defend poetic expression from Stalin's Yezhov Terror worked interactively and often with internal quarrels, to produce a multiplicity of voices challenging the monologic dominant linguistic ideology enforced upon "communal" worker-poets.
dem crazy commies... LOL
i think i shoulda ate some Wheaties before the second attempt here
:P
but... i think... i get you for the most part
Interoperate? In a free flow of signs at play in a deconstructed text, signifiers interoperate to reinforce the Derridan notion that "There is nothing (in terms of signified "meaning") outside of the text."
The thing about the third space; it's actually often applied in practice as a theoretical discourse of deconstruction to postcolonial theory, but its principles overlap with many other post-structuralist methodologies (go find 'em ... come back ... report!
Read this:
http://www.emory.edu/ENGLISH/Bahri/1WEBPAGE.HTML
My next points about texts in conflict in an unbreakable web of differAnce? Try this:
http://web.utk.edu/~misty/Derrida376.html
There were post Derridans who WOULD question the notion of "meaning", though.
take apart... passionately
i'll get to reading some time soon,
Night!
out from each wave; strain the ear to hear
the echoes fumbling low free from reach
and never clear (and never clear)
But where the black ford hits the sea (where?) -
quick - capture, rich upon this breaking shore
her call.. it's there!... She's here!...
The Blue. Just under!
Here.
Nightglade and the elmshade.
Ripples make a warning:
Wiseheads, watch the landhead.
With our robe and our food
With our look and our word
They will tear down our wood
but we've the Blood.
Journeymen rhyme, my mavourneen;
Not in hairline of our wordmen.
They mimic our kings in the morning;
They're the no-ones:
we're the scions.
With the clasp on our tongue
with a watch on our throng
they want the air of our song
but we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
And with the clasp on our tongue
And with a watch on our throng
they want the air of our song:
Well, we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
we're the ones
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
MAVOURNEEN
it always ends and the fire and the rose are one
and always the same scene and always the same
subject right from the beginning like in the Bible
or The Sun Also Rises which begins Robert Cohn
was middleweight boxing champion of his class
but later we lost our balls and there we go again
there we are again there's the same old theme
and scene again with all the citizens and all
the characters all working up to it right from
the first and it looks like all they ever think of
is doing it It and it doesn't matter much with who
half the time but the other half it matters more
than anything O the sweet love fevers yes and
there's always complications like maybe she has
no eyes for him or him no eyes for her or her no
eyes for her or him no eyes for him or something
or other stands in the way like his mother or
her father or someone like that but they go right
on trying to get it all the time like in Shakespeare
or The Waste Land or Proust remembering his Things
Past or wherever And there they all are struggling
toward each other or after each other like those
marble maidens on that Grecian Urn or any market
street or merrygoround around and around they go
all hunting love and half the hungry time not even
knowing just what is really eating them like Robin
walking in her Nightwood streets although it isn't
quite as simple as all that as if all she really
needed was a good fivecent cigar oh no and those
who have not hunted will not recognize the hunting
poise and then the hawks that hover where the
heart is hid and the hungry horses crying and
the stone angels and heaven and hell and Yerma
with her blind breasts under her dress and then
Christopher Columbus sailing off in search and
Rudolph Valentino and Juliet and Romeo and John
Barrymore and Anna Livia and Abie's Irish Rose
and so Goodnight Sweet Prince all over again
with everyone and everybody laughing and crying
along wherever night and day winter and summer
spring and tomorrow like Anna Karenina lost in
the snow and the cry of hunters in a great wood
and the soldiers coming and Freud and Ulysses
always on their hungry travels after the same
hot grail like King Arthur and his nighttime knights
and everybody wondering where and how it will all
end like in the movies or in some nightmaze novel
yes as in a nightmaze Yes I said Yes I will and he
called me his Andalusian rose and I said Yes my
heart was going like mad and that's the way Ulysses
ends as everything always ends when that hunting
cock of flesh at last cries out and has his glory
moment God and then comes tumbling down the sound
of axes in the wood and the trees falling and down
it goes the sweet cock's sword so wilting in the
fair flesh fields away alone at last and loved
and lost and found upon a riverbank along a
riverrun right where it all began and so begins again
"A Coney Island of the Mind" Copyright © 1958 by Lawrence Ferlinghetti. Reprinted by permission of New Directions Publishing Corp.
http://www.emory.edu/ENGLISH/DRAMA/beckettnoti.html
thanks!
at poison rushes, waving underneath
tonight's uncommon knifewind. And I know, all night, you've held
That moon deep in your gaze, seeking its death
not in descent but hollowing by love's relentless night:
You wish Her any fate except to die
prostrate before the Sun in all His truth-defining light
that rents the heart's dreamveil. You defy
inevitable dawn with your proud eye.
Sago.
Spike Milligan
Singing to the Silence
The dusktide's meander, a moon-mystic reel
Courts shadows from yesterday time cannot heal
No longer reflecting old splendours contained
I've watched your eyes darken until light's all drained
Before the feature stills
To cease flights unfufilled
There's comfort to be found
When silence reigns on far
Concluding to capture a rest to this line
No more in contention, you shamble behind
With merely your gesture of voice to defend
an existence that cries out at sunset for end
And when the light has gone
And after all is done
There's comfort to be found
When silence reigns on far
Revealing an apathy seeking disguise
as sustinence falters, night prayers arise
But will you adhere it their fashions profane
And slip through their promise, to darkness attain?
With dreams that ride the now
Made futile by the hour
There's comfort to be found
As silence falls on far
July 28th 1990