Tag Archives | Poetry, Literature, Music and Art

Sunday Poem 81

By on March 27, 2011 in Culture

I usually try to steer clear of the really popular poems but, every so often, it’s the popular ones which do the trick.  Leicestershire in Spring has been awash with glorious golden daffodils; every hedgerow, verge, lamp-post and garden has had strips of sunshine, urging us into the light.

So I’m going to give you ‘Daffodils’ by William Wordsworth.  I have a love/hate relationship with Wordsworth because, although he wrote some super stuff, he also wrote The Lyrical Ballads which were shit.

I also wish to make it clear that Lady Somerset is visiting for the weekend and we have just necked two bottles of  Sancerre and she has convinced me that the film clip which I have included at the end of the poem is relevant and valid.  I may change my mind after The Archers Omnibus.

When I was at school we sang a beautiful version of this poem by Erich Thiman  in two part harmony that has helped me to remember every word.  I tried to find a version of it on the Intraweb, but instead slumped across a rap version by McNut.  I have my doubts, but Lady Somerset says it’s a thing of beauty.

Daffodils – by William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never ending line
Along the margin of a bay;
Ten thousand saw eye at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them dances, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed – and gazed – but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
they flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
and then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

Squirrel Daffodil Rap

Comments { 14 }

Sunday Poem 80

By on March 20, 2011 in Culture

Louis Macneice was born in Belfast, Ireland, son of a schoolmistress and a retired farmer.  He was educated in England and studied Philosophy and Classics at Oxford.  Although he associated with left wing poets such as Spender, Auden and Isherwood, he was somewhat politically ambivalent and mistrusted political parties and any dogmatic philosophy.

He wrote a significant number of books, plays and poetry and was employed by the BBC to produce and write radio programmes and, by the end of WW2, had written over sixty programmes for them.

In the 1950s Macneice had began to drink heavily and this affected not only his marriage and future relationships but also his ability to complete his work.  By 1958 he was employed part time by the BBC leaving him the rest of the time to devote to his own writing.  Despite living on alcohol and precious little else, he was still turning out plays and poems.

In 1963, MacNeice went down into a mineshaft to check on sound effects whilst on location with the BBC for his final radio play ‘Persons from Pawlock’.  After being caught in a storm, he failed to change out of his wet clothes and developed bronchitis which evolved into pneumonia.  He died aged only 55.

Soap Suds – by Louis Macneice (1907-1963)

This brand of soap has the same smell as once in the big
House he visited when he was eight: the walls of the bathroom open
To reveal a lawn where a great yellow ball rolls back through a hoop
To rest at the head of a mallet held in the hands of a child.

And these were the joys of that house: a tower with a telescope;
Two great faded globes, one of the earth, one of the stars;
A stuffed black dog in the hall; a walled garden with bees;
A rabbit warren; a rockery; a vine under glass; the sea.

To which he has now returned.  The day of course is fine
And a grown-up voice cried Play! The mallet slowly swings,
Then crack, a great gong booms from the dog-dark hall and the ball
Skims forward through the hoop and then through the next and then

Through the hoops where no hoops were and each dissolves in turn
And the grass has grown head-high and an angry voice cries Play!
But the ball is lost and the mallet slipped long since from the hands
Under the running tap that are not the hands of a child.

Comments { 2 }

Sunday Poem 79

By on March 13, 2011 in Culture

The Collarbone of a Hare – by W B Yeats (1865-1939)

Would I could cast a sail on the water
Where many a king has gone
And many a king’s daughter,
And alight at the comely trees and the lawn,
The playing upon pipes and the dancing,
And learn that the best thing is
To change my loves while dancing
And pay but a kiss for a kiss.

I would find by the edge of that water
The collarbone of a hare
Worn thin by the lapping of water,
And pierce it through with a gimlet, and stare
At the old bitter world where they marry in churches,
And laugh over the untroubled water
At all who marry in churches,
Through the white thin bone of a hare.

Comments { 4 }

Sunday Poem 78

By on March 6, 2011 in Culture

One thousand apologies for the lateness of the Sunday Poem today.  I have had a crap weekend with little bursts of ’alright’.  A nice interlude yesterday was Boy the Elder and I having afternoon tea at the Kilworth House Hotel.  We don’t often have time together on our own and it was lovely to sit in elegant surroundings having tea and scones whilst Boy the Younger was at some ghastly party in the arse end of nowhere.

This morning, I rose late, descended the stairs and slipped on a sheet of clear plastic that one of the boys had casually discarded.  I had two cups in my hands in which remained about an inch of cold tea, and I tumbled down, tea sploshing and me shouting as I banged various bits of me on hard stairs and sharp banisters.  Completely winded and trying not to cry, I stumbled into the sitting room where the boys brought me a duvet and some hot tea.  Nine hours later, everything is starting to hurt and bruises are rising to the surface in places that I thought were better padded.

I needed to choose something funny – no Ted Hughes today! and the following poem seemed strangely apposite.  It can be found in his Selected Poems.

Bits of Me – by Roger McGough (1937- )

When people ask: ‘How are you?’
I say, ‘Bits of me are fine.’
And they are.  Lots of me I’d take
anywhere.  Be proud to show it off.

But it’s the bits that can’t be seen
that worry.  The boys in the backroom
who never get introduced.
The ones with the Latin names

who grumble about the hours I keep
and bang on the ceiling
When I’m enjoying myself.  The overseers.
The smug biders of time.

Over the years our lifestyles
have become incompatible.
We were never really suited
and now I think they want out.

One day, on cue, they’ll down tools.
Then it’s curtains for me. (Washable
plastic ones on three sides.)  Post-op.
Pre-med.  The bed nearest the door.

Enter cheerful staff nurse (Irish
preferably), ‘And how are you today?’
(I see red.) Famous last words:
‘Bits of me are fine.’ On cue, dead.

Comments { 9 }

Win Free Beer with The Dabbler and Bath Ales!

By on March 5, 2011 in Culture, Food, The Big, Wide World

Golden Hare, Ginger Hare, Wild Hare, Rare Hare, Gem… 

Four pints of heaven

… this may sound like The Wartime Housewife’s shopping list but it is, in fact, a few of the wonderful names given to Bath Ales of Bristol. 

I’m a regular reader of The Dabbler, a cultural magazine blog.  It covers a broad range of subjects, is often humorous and always readable.  I contributed myself only a few weeks ago in their ‘6Clicks’ feature, so they are clearly people of discernment.  If you’re even vaguely interested in art, literature, music and the wider world, give it a go.

At the moment, The Dabbler is running an exclusive competition to win some Bath Ale.  I have only recently converted to drinking beer on a regular basis and I have to admit that I would buy these based on their labels alone.  Apparently, Bath Ales produce the best beer in the known universe – as Brit explained here – and The Dabbler has been in touch with these lovely people to wangle one of you a free case.

Bath Ales use traditional brewing techniques blended with cutting-edge technology.  They are an independent micro-brewery established in Bristol in 1995. Their founders all come from a brewing background and have combined a complementary range of skills with a shared passion for real ale. They have also just opened a new bottling plant and brewery shop.

It’s so heart-warming to see these micro-breweries springing up all over the place and we should be supporting local breweries wherever they appear.  There is so much revolting alcoholic crap being touted around in pubs and clubs these days, that it is sheer joy to experience properly brewed, well-kept beers, made from real ingredients and that taste divine.  Wild Hare at 5%?  Give me three pints at once.

Read The Dabbler and go in for their Bath Ales competition.   You won’t regret it.

Comments { 11 }

Songwriters' Circle BBC4

By on March 4, 2011 in Culture

Being Boy the Younger’s birthday, it has been a hectic and fun-filled day.  I finally sat down just before 11pm and was flicking about the channels for something cheerful and mindless to watch while I had a final cup of coffee.

Fran Healy out of Travis

I clicked on to a programme on BBC4 called Songwriters’ Circle, because it had the promising line up of Fran Healy out of Travis, Graham Gouldman out of 10cc and Ron Sexsmith, a Canadian of not nearly enough repute.  All three are singer songwriters, all three write beautiful music and there was a tremendous rapport and a welcome generosity between them, which really showed as I was watching them listening to and enjoying each other’s music.

Ron Sexsmith - under-rated

Ron Sexsmith is a massively under-rated musician.  His songs are lyrical and intelligent and he strikes me as being a very charismatic bloke.  He seems to be lauded by other musicians but has so far failed to really break through in the wider market.  There was a documentary about him before this programme which I missed, but you can find it on iPlayer and extracts on Youtube.  Have a listen and tell me what you think.

There were some great songs sung, established hits and new stuff, and I enjoyed hearing them done acoustically.  Apparently this has been part of a series about songwriters but I’ve missed all the others.  Have a listen to the programme on BBC iPlayer HERE – I don’t know how long it will be on.  It was one of those programmes which makes you smile all the way through so don’t miss it.  I took the photographs off the telly so you can put faces to names; I’m sure this is not legal but as I’m promoting their programme, I hope they’ll let me off.

Graham Gouldman out of 10cc

I seemed to be being drawn to 10cc at the moment.  I bought a Greatest Hits type cd the other day charting the history of 10cc, there was then an interview with Graham Gouldman on the the radio and tonight, there he was again with the other two.  Sister the Second has invited me darn sarf to see them in April.  Do you think I should go?

Comments { 7 }

Sunday Poem 77

By on February 27, 2011 in Culture

Francis Thompson was an English poet and ascetic. He was born in Preston, Lancashire in 1859 and was the son of a doctor.  He began studying medicine at Manchester University but had no real interest in the subject and never practiced as a doctor himself.  In 1885, he decided to move to London and become a writer.

Things went horribly wrong and he ended up selling matches and newspapers to earn money and during this time he became an opium addict, although it had originally been prescribed for a medical condition.      In desperation, in 1888, he sent some poetry to the magazine ‘Merrie England’ and the kindly proprietors, seeing value in his work, rescued him from his destitution.

Although he eventually achieved success with his poetry, a life of poverty, addiction and poor health  left him virtually an invalid.  At one point he attempted suicide, but a vision of Thomas Chatterton (a Romantic poet who had killed himself 100 years previously) appeared to him and changed his mind. He eventually died of tuberculosis in 1907, aged only 47.

His most famous poem was ‘The Hound of Heaven’ and G. K. Chesterton said shortly after his death that “with Francis Thompson we lost the greatest poetic energy since Browning”.

Today’s poem is a request from Outa Spaceman Being: 53, a regular reader of and commenter on this blog.  I’m going to take the unusual step of including a musical version of this song which I think is very lovely.  You could listen and read the words at the same time.  Listen here.

No Strange Land – by Francis Thompson (1859-1907)

O world invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!

Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air–
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?

Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!–
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.

The angels keep their ancient places–
Turn but a stone and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ’tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendored thing.

But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry–and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.

Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry- clinging to Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water,
Not of Genesareth, but Thames!

Comments { 11 }

Shire Books and The Joy of Lavatories (as well as many other subjects of note)

By on February 25, 2011 in Culture

We are blessed in Market Harborough, as we have a Waterstones, an independent bookshop – Quinns, and a couple of excellent second-hand bookshops.  As you go through the door of Quinns, there is a rack of Shire Books which will have any right-minded person drooling and cooing at the boggling array of deliciously English subject matter.

Shire Books was set up in 1962, producing low-priced, factual paperbacks on the most astonishing range of subjects which catered for the enthusiasms and niche interests of ordinary people all over the country.

The only problem was, that despite the indisputably interesting content, they began to look really dull and old-fashioned in their layout and with black and white photography and illustrations.

But then in 2007, the owner retired and sold the company to Osprey Publishing.  In 2008 a major revamp of its list of titles as well as an overhaul of content and cover designs, was undertaken, resulting in the gorgeous and irresistible collection of books on sale today. Even the paper they’re printed on feels lovely. And they’re still cheap.

I have taken the reckless step of obtaining the current Shire Catalogue and, because I am a dangerous obsessive, I have typed up the list (leaving the catalogue untouched for posterity) so that a) I can remember what I’ve got and b) I can mark the books with which to treat myself each month.

The First Six

My latest purchase is entitled ‘Privies and Water Closets’ (making this a Bog Blog?) and the front cover features a delightful illustration c.1814 by Martinet of Paris, of a large gentleman with a rather strained expression, sitting on a commode.  The book contains a beautifully written, lavishly illustrated history and technology of the lavatory, beginning with an interesting explanation of where we get our words for ‘toilet’ from.

I am allowing myself two Shire Books per month and I now have four weeks to agonise about which two to buy next.  Shall it be:-

British Family Cars of the 1950s and 60s?
British Pigs?
The Victorian Workhouse?
Old Medical and Dental Instruments?
Fields, Hedges and Ditches?
Women of the First World War? or
Nailmaking?   Who wouldn’t want to own a book about nailmaking?

Then again, it’s still February, and March is only a matter of days away…

Comments { 35 }

Black Swan – A Review

By on February 23, 2011 in Culture

Natalie Portman as the Black Swan

As it is half term, we threw caution to the winds and went to the pictures on a Monday night.  We normally go on Wednesdays to Kettering because a) we can get a free ticket through Orange Wednesdays and b) parking is free at Kettering.  However, I couldn’t face the idea of sitting through any of the films the boys wanted to see, so we agreed that they would watch ‘Big Moma’s Fathers and Sons’ (which they enjoyed enormously) and I would finally go to see ‘Black Swan’ as they were showing at practically the same time at the Leicester Cinema de Lux.

I don’t think I’ve ever come out of a cinema feeling so emotionally exhausted and generally troubled.

Now I must explain what it’s like going to the pictures with me.  I take it very personally.  When I watch a film, I am with them in every scene; I cry pitifully when I am sad, happy, emotional, empathising or sympathising.  I jump out of my skin when I’m startled and I offer audible advice if I think the characters are about to make a terrible mistake.  I hide behind my hands to avoid unpleasantness and I have been known to complain out loud if a film doesn’t end as I think it should.

So.  First of all, the lead character, Nina (Natalie Portman) is thoroughly unlikeable and is undoubtedly the sort of woman I would never tire of slapping.  Her bedroom is pink, full of soft toys and screams of her emotional and sexual stunting.  She is constantly on the verge of tears, uptight, unable to express herself, repressed and neurotic.  Of course, she is a ballet dancer in search of perfection, and is consequently distastefully thin and obsessive. 

However, no-one else seems to like her either.  Her mother is a failed ballet dancer who lives vicariously through her daughter and is, herself, a frightening, pantomime witch of a woman.  She wants her daughter’s success but hates her for it with the same breath.

The crux of the film is that Nina is chosen to play the Swan Queen in Swan Lake which requires her to play both the White Swan who is sweet and lovely and the Black Swan who is dark, visceral and treacherous.  Nina cannot find the Black Swan within herself and the bullying, sexually predatory habits of the company’s director do not help.

She hallucinates all the way through the film and we are left wondering whether this is because she’s psychotic, anorexic or simply stressed out of her brains trying to draw from within herself a character that simply isn’t there.  But we never really know what’s real or imagined and she’s treated so manipulatively by everyone round her that even when something potentially nice happens, you’re on the edge of your seat waiting for it to turn nasty.  And it frequently does.

The sound engineer on this film should have won many awards.  Whenever she pulls a muscle, strains a ligament, splits a toenail or obsessively scratches her back, we are treated to an auditory manifestation of the fragmentation of her body and consequently her mind.  It’s like people who see numbers as colours – we are made to hear corruption as sound, and very unpleasant it is too.

Skin is also used as a metaphor for protection, safety and a covering to keep the nastiness inside.  Nina scratches her back as others might bite their nails.  I was put in mind of Eustace in ‘The Voyage of the Dawn Treader’ in which Aslan makes him tear off his dragon skin to reveal the pure, re-born person within.  At any moment I expected black feathers to erupt, bleeding from her shoulder blades as she struggled for her inner darkness.  But enough about that.

As for the lesbian sex scene (which I know has lured many into the film), we are not allowed to enjoy the potential eroticism of it because, by this time, we know how the film is working and there is the terrible fear that something horrific and disgusting is going to happen. Again, the sound effects lead us down a very uncomfortable path and, when it didn’t end horribly, I felt dirty, as though I was colluding in an abusive pornography of my own invention.

The ending is a terrible, horrific and tragic fragmentation of mind and body and yet… and yet…. it felt like the only humane and satisfactory outcome.

See the film by all means (if you think you’re hard enough), but give yourself time to think about kittens and snowdrops and rainbows  for a while before you go to bed.

Comments { 22 }

The Two Minute Review – 9

By on February 21, 2011 in Culture

TV Mini Series:   South Riding
                                  based on the novel by Winifred Holtby

Time:                      BBC1 – 9pm

Starring:               Anna Maxwell Martin, David Morrissey,
                                 Penelope Wilton, John Henshaw,
                                 Douglas Henshall

I remember this series from the 1970s and I’ve been looking forward to it for weeks.  It didn’t disappoint.  It’s 1934 and a young, glamorous and progressive teacher, played by Anna Maxwell Martin,  arrives in the South Riding of Yorkshire after years of teaching in London, applying for the post of Head Mistress at the local girls’ school.  She is given the post but she’s a controversial choice.  One of the Governors in particular, the endlessly charismatic David Morrissey, is particularly unhappy, but he has problems of his own…

Stellar cast, engaging characters, breathtaking photography, some lovely train shots at the beginning – I can’t wait for the next episode. 
Catch the first instalment on iPlayer if you missed it.

Comments { 4 }