Proost poetry collection, editing, editing, editing…

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A few people have asked how this project is getting on. The answer is that it is progressing nicely, but is a whole load of hard work! This is why the blog has been quiet of late- and I expect it to remain quiet for a while.

Hard work like this is no bad thing however as I find myself immersed in lovely words. I hope that we will start to release some sample poems in the run up to releasing the book, but in the first instance, I wanted to share with you another one written by a friend of mine, Susan.

I have two reasons for doing this- firstly because Susan is a wonderful poet who is far too modest, and also because of the subject matter.

Winter is upon us.

But this too shall pass…

Thaw

Out of two dead aired weeks

Ice and snow crusted over

All things living, when only

The birds hardy enough

To fly from there to here

In the hope I had remembered

To fill the feeders  made

Themselves visible and sadness

Scabbed over my heart:

Sudden joy

A mild Late February dusk

Song from every hidden branch,

The world filled with urges,

The drive to survive

Faith returns -the garlic shoots

In strong green lines

The kale still stiff

The rituals of soil call me:

Tomorrow I begin again.

Raptor…

Air Force, Army leaders discuss new UAS concept of operations

Raptor

.

“The traffic was murder this morning”

He said, adjusting the gas strut of his over-padded chair,

Punching in his password whilst

three thousand miles away the drone tunes to his direction.

.

He is surgeon,

Slicing clinically into canker

He is justice with a joystick

He is freedom at the press of a blood-red button

He has the wings of a dove and

Carrion claws of a vulture.

He takes his coffee black

With no sugar.

.

The screen throws green reflections at his designer glasses

The other side of the world lies dark

But still this unblinking eye in a moonless sky

Scans for movement

Waiting to unleash risk-free

Mechanical malevolence

.

At this elevation

People have no faces.

Winter, how to survive the darkness…

Winter sky from our house

Winter is now firmly with us. This morning Dunoon was sheathed in ice, and I sit here just after 5PM and it it totally dark outside.

I confess to dreading the dark long winters- longing for spring again. Like many of us, my mood always takes into itself some of the dark over the fallow season. Some of us have real issues with this- it makes us ill. If this is you, I hope that this year is easier than most.

As for me, I can not describe my ennui as anywhere near as severe as Seasonal Affective Disorder- rather I just get a bit stuck in a dark trough, so this year I am trying to re-order the way I think about winter. I know it to be beautiful, inspiring, meditative. A few years ago I wrote this poem at the sight of snow on the hills over the loch from where I live;

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First snows

.

The first snows of winter bring their blessing

To the hills across the loch

Yesterday dull and grey

Now blue-white crystal and pure

.

Soon it will be gone

Rain will bring decay

Rending white all mottled brown

Until the snow, all rotten

Is released

Worming down into dark earth

.

But for now, my eyes are drawn to high lands

Captured by reflected sun

Sparkling, showing no shadow

Driving out the dark things of the winter

.

Dressing up light for the dancing

And leading me on

.

Dressing up light for the dancing

Then gone

.

CG 2005.

The strange fact, revealed today in Radio 4′s programme Digital Nation, darkness is good for you. The problem is that most of us rarely experience it- we surround ourselves with artificial light. We screw up our serotonin levels by staring at bright computer screens before we go to bed, we forget what the stars look like, or what it means to find a natural rhythm of day/night.

So, here is my suggestion- let us embrace darkness. Let us see it as a blanket wrapping us for rest, for friendship, for interior creativity.

Today I spent much of the day making things;

First this;

driftwood fish

Then, as the ultimate winter food stuff, a great big pan of pickle;

IMGP5353

This evening I am going to spend some time with friends.

So, may your winter be full of darkness, so that you might rest from harsh artificial light.

May your interior spaces be warm and full of friendship and creativity.

And may the stark beauty of the fallow wild places speak to your heart.

 

Poetry of protest from the Middle East…

Al Khandra

Image from Aljazeera, here.

The poetic tradition is perhaps strongest of all in the Middle East- central to its telling of history, its spirituality, its love songs. Remember that the Bible too is a Middle Eastern document, which explains why (despite the efforts of the translators) around one third of its content was written in poetic form.

We might expect then that the recent troubles within the region might be reflected in poetry- the so called Arab Spring uprisings in Jordan and Egypt, the wars shattering Iraq and the on-going oppression of the Palestinian people.

If so, we hear little of it here in the West. The stories told of the region here are of violence, extremism, and the heroism of our troops.

However, I came across a series of films from AlJazeera called Artscape;Poets of Protest. This how the series describes itself;

Poets of Protest reflects the poet’s view of the change sweeping the Middle East through its intimate profiles of six contemporary writers as they struggle to lead, to interpret and to inspire.

Poetry lives and breathes in the Middle East as in few other places.

In a region long dominated by authoritarian regimes, poetry is the medium for expressing people’s hopes, dreams and frustrations. Poets became historians, journalists, entertainers – and even revolutionaries.

Ever since Tunisians chanted Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi’s If the People Wanted Life One Day poetry has been a key weapon of the Arab Spring, used to taunt regimes’ refusing to see the writing on the wall.

As the revolution spread to Egypt, it turned out that the writing on the wall was also poetry – graffiti by young artists painting the works of poets like al-Shabi or Egypt’s Ahmed Fouad Negm.

Poets of Protest focuses on the writers, their political and artistic struggles, and their work, with beautifully filmed visual interpretations of the poems.

As a matter of interest- this is the poem referred to above that the Tunisians chanted as a protest to their oppressors. Can you imagine a popular movement using poetry in this way in the West?

 “The Will of Life” Abu al-Qasim al-Shabi’s done bySargon Boulat and Christopher Middleton
 
Life’s Will
When people choose
To live by life’s will,
Fate can do nothing but give in;
The night discards its veil,
All shackles are undone.
Whoever never felt
Life celebrating him
Must vanish like the mist;
Whoever never felt
Sweeping through him
The glow of life
Succumbs to nothingness.
This I was told by the secret
Voice of All-Being:
Wind roared in the mountains,
Roared through valleys, under trees:
“My goal, once I have set it,
And put aside all caution,
I must pursue to the end.
Whoever shrinks from scaling the mountain
Lives out his life in potholes.”
Then it was earth I questioned:
“Mother, do you detest mankind?”
And earth responded:
“I bless people with high ambition,
Who do not flinch at danger.
I curse people out of step with time,
People content to live like stone.
No horizon nurtures a dead bird.
A bee will choose to kiss a living flower.
If my mothering heart
Were not so tender,
The dead would have no hiding place
In those graves yonder.
(Translated by Sargon Boulat and Christopher Middleton)
 
This poem appeared in English translation in Salma Khadra Jayyusi’s anthology “Modern Arabic Poetry” (Columbia University Press)

 Here are a couple of the films- you can view the rest here.

National Poetry Day…

Today is national poetry day in the UK. I thought it would be rude to let that one slip by unmarked…

Firstly, a wee thanks to all of you who sent poems for consideration for our up and coming collection via Proost. It has taken me longer than I thought to gather and sort them for the dreadful job of making final selections. I am still hoping that we will have a finished product out this year however. The delay has in part been because I am still getting submissions- which I have wanted to squeeze in. No more however please- I will now have to formally send them back with an apology…

On this auspicious day, lets celebrate the achievement of a friend of ours, who is the winner of the Hume Poetry Prize 2013; fellow Dunoon resident Marion McCready. She has submitted some poems for the book mentioned above and they are simply wonderful.

Her book will be published by Eyewear in the Spring of next year. I look forward to getting my copy.

marions book

Marion is a proper poet- someone who has spent years honing her craft. By comparison, I am a scribbler of a few snatched lines in the edge of another confused day. However, this being National poetry day, here is something that I wrote today after last nights storms;

 

Storm, October

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Last night the rain fell like anvils on the old house

Hammering me like pewter

And this morning the peninsular is an island again

High roads wearing half a hillside like ragged hats

The white-toothed burns bite at tree roots

And spit out stones like gristle

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I fear what is to come;

Just over the dark horizon the troops are massing

Guns lowered in this direction

.

waterfall, pucks glen

Seamus Heaney (1939-2013.) A great voice is silent…

A-Seamus-Heaney-9

Seamus Heaney, perhaps the greatest living poet, died yesterday. I thought it appropriate to post some of his poetry…

Firstly, let us hear him read something- it gives some idea of the warmth and humour of the man;

Next, here are a couple of poems in word form. Almost always the best way to catch a poem in the soul. The first one about the process of writing (and so much more)

Digging
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.
Under my window, a clean rasping sound
When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:
My father, digging. I look down
Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds
Bends low, comes up twenty years away
Stooping in rhythm through potato drills
Where he was digging.
The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft
Against the inside knee was levered firmly.
He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep
To scatter new potatoes that we picked,
Loving their cool hardness in our hands.
By God, the old man could handle a spade.
Just like his old man.
My grandfather cut more turf in a day
Than any other man on Toner’s bog.
Once I carried him milk in a bottle
Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up
To drink it, then fell to right away
Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods
Over his shoulder, going down and down
For the good turf. Digging.
The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap
Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge
Through living roots awaken in my head.
But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.
Between my finger and my thumb
The squat pen rests.
I’ll dig with it.

Seamus Heaney,

“Digging” from Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.

Next something far darker;

Limbo

Fishermen at Ballyshannon
Netted an infant last night
Along with the salmon.
An illegitimate spawning,

A small one thrown back
To the waters. But I’m sure
As she stood in the shallows
Ducking him tenderly

Till the frozen knobs of her wrists
Were dead as the gravel,
He was a minnow with hooks
Tearing her open.

She waded in under
The sign of the cross.
He was hauled in with the fish.
Now limbo will be

A cold glitter of souls
Through some far briny zone.
Even Christ’s palms, unhealed,
Smart and cannot fish there.

Next, something of Heaney’s courage in the face of the violence in Ireland;

Funeral Rites

I shouldered a kind of manhood
stepping in to lift the coffins
of dead relations.
They had been laid out

in tainted rooms,
their eyelids glistening,
their dough-white hands
shackled in rosary beads.

Their puffed knuckles
had unwrinkled, the nails
were darkened, the wrists
obediently sloped.

The dulse-brown shroud,
the quilted satin cribs:
I knelt courteously
admiting it all

as wax melted down
and veined the candles,
the flames hovering
to the women hovering
behind me.
And always, in a corner,
the coffin lid,
its nail-heads dressed

with little gleaming crosses.
Dear soapstone masks,
kissing their igloo brows
had to suffice

before the nails were sunk
and the black glacier
of each funeral
pushed away.

II

Now as news comes in
of each neighbourly murder
we pine for ceremony,
customary rhythms:

the temperate footsteps
of a cortège, winding past
each blinded home.
I would restore

the great chambers of Boyne,
prepare a sepulchre
under the cupmarked stones.
Out of side-streets and bye-roads

purring family cars
nose into line,
the whole country tunes
to the muffled drumming

of ten thousand engines.
Somnambulant women,
left behind, move
through emptied kitchens

imagining our slow triumph
towards the mounds.
Quiet as a serpent
in its grassy boulevard

the procession drags its tail
out of the Gap of the North
as its head already enters
the megalithic doorway.

III

When they have put the stone
back in its mouth
we will drive north again
past Strang and Carling fjords

the cud of memory
allayed for once, arbitration
of the feud placated,
imagining those under the hill

disposed like Gunnar
who lay beautiful
inside his burial mound,
though dead by violence

and unavenged.
men said that he was chanting
verses about honour
and that four lights burned

in corners of the chamber:
which opened then, as he turned
with a joyful face
to look at the moon.

Finally, something that makes us live a moment with him in wild places;

Postscript

And some time make the time to drive out west
Into County Clare, along the Flaggy Shore,
In September or October, when the wind
And the light are working off each other
So that the ocean on one side is wild
With foam and glitter, and inland among stones
The surface of a slate-grey lake is lit
By the earthed lightening of flock of swans,
Their feathers roughed and ruffling, white on white,
Their fully-grown headstrong-looking heads
Tucked or cresting or busy underwater.
Useless to think you’ll park or capture it
More thoroughly.  You are neither here nor there,
A hurry through which known and strange things pass
As big soft buffetings come at the car sideways
And catch the heart off guard and blow it open

Proost poetry collection, closing date for submissions!

typewriterletters

 

Thanks to all of you who have sent in poems for this collection! We will now formally close the submission gateway on SUNDAY THE 18th AUGUST 2013- so if you are going to submit something, get on with it!

We now have poems from about 100 poets from all over the world and I have had a quick scan of most that have come in, and there are some great poems. Some have reduced me to tears- in a good way.

The next task is to break this down with the dreaded yes/no, then categorise it all to see what chapters need more material. We will then possibly need to go back to the people who have written poems we have chosen and ask them if they want to write something else for the categories that need more stuff.

So, we will be getting in touch over the next few weeks.

Just a word again to those whose poems we will not be including in this collection. Please remember that this is not a vote of no confidence in your writing- far from it- please write more! It is simply that we did not feel that your work quite fitted in with the collection. As we said previously we are simply not able to give any more feedback than this about work submitted- for obvious reasons of time, but also because we are not poetry critics – just fellow writers, with all the subjectivity that this brings to bear.