Vanishing Point

Ansel Adams-The Road
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AFOOT and light-hearted, I take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before me,
The long brown path before me, leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune—I myself am good fortune;
Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,
Strong and content, I travel the open road.

The earth—that is sufficient;
I do not want the constellations any nearer;
I know they are very well where they are;
I know they suffice for those who belong to them.

–from Song of the Open Road by Walt Whitman

I’m taking my family circus on the road until the new year and don’t expect I’ll be around much until then. Let me wish you all an enjoyable holiday season and a happy new year. It’ll be a year in January since I started this blog as a reaction to the constant and arbitrary deletions on the Guardian blogs.

Since then, it seems to have taken on a life of its own. It’s given me a great deal of pleasure for which I thank you all and I hope it’s afforded you all some passing amusement as well. I hope the coming year treats you and yours as well as the year past has treated me and mine.

Until the new year, be well.

Affectionately, Mishari

Dark Was The Night, Cold Was The Ground

Winter Bikes
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The ‘season of mists and mellow fruitfulness‘ is upon us and already there’s a sharpness and snap to the weather. It’s especially noticeable if, like me, you’re a keen cyclist. I have to wear gloves now, lest my hands solidify into lumpish, claw-like appendages.

I’ve always detested hats and caps and refused to wear them, despite being assured by innumerable people that ‘…you lose %50 (%60, %70, %80…) of your body heat through your head‘. I always viewed this assertion with suspicion and it’s now been comprehensively debunked.

The main hazard of winter riding, aside from the hordes of atrocious drivers who no more belong behind the wheel of a car than in the cockpit of an F-16, is ice. Especially treacherous to riders like me, whose bikes roll on performance slicks. But as Aunt Dahlia’s excitable French chef Anatole was wont to remark, ‘…I can take a few smooths with a rough.’ I take a tumble now and again but I just pick myself up, dust myself off and start all over again.

Say…that’s kind of catchy. I could make a song out of that. And speaking of songs, it’s time for you lot to get your mukluks on, slather your face with seal-blubber, hitch up the dog-team and deliver a Sonnet on winter…mush, you Huskies.

Chien Méchant

Write A Poem
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Write a dogg poem for our friend Zéphirine over at psuedstuff, you idle sons of bitches…go on…fetch…(and before any of you impudent bastards points out that I haven’t written one yet, I’m waiting for my Muse to return with the stick I threw…so there).

Honestly, people work like dogs to give you a bone to gnaw on and you just want to lie by the fire scratching your fleas. Get on with it before I start hitting people on their noses with a rolled-up newspaper.

Return To Sender

Eliot Stamp
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Given the highly entertaining spell of inclement weather in a paper cup over on Poem Of The Week, ( a quick précis: Eliot was a great poet. No, he was an upper-class poseur. The Wasteland is a great poem. No, it’s a tool of Capitalist oppression. No, it’s a great poem. Rubbish, it’s a piece of pretentious cack foisted on a gullible proletariat. Christopher Hitchens says it’s the most over-rated poem of the 20th century. Ah, the old argument from authority. No, the fallacy only arises if Hitchens is cited as infallible…und so weiter), I thought this would be a good time for Eliot parodies. Mind you, it’s always a good time for Eliot parodies. Let’s breed lilacs out of the dead whatsit….
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The Love Song Of J. Alfred Mowbray

Penso che un sogno così non ritorni mai più.
Mi dipingevo le mani e la faccia di blu.
Poi d’improvviso venivo dal vento rapito
E incominciavo a volare nel cielo infinito.

Volare, Oh!, Oh!,
Cantare, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!, Oh!
Nel blu, dipinto di blu,
Felice de stare lassù.

Let’s fuck off then, you and me
When the evening is flat on its back
Like an out-patient hammered on crack
Let’s sling our hooks and piss-off
Down the Old Kent Road, hotels and cafes
And such-like gaffs.
Oh, don’t ask ‘Who the fuck?”
Let’s just drop in on the cluck.

In the boozer, the birds come and go
Talking about some dago painter.

Foggy out, innit? Must be the weather.

Fancy some tea and toast?

Fuck me, it’s them birds again
Still yakking about that Italian.

Whodjoo mean, my hair’s getting thin?
Cheeky bastard.

Fancy a coffee? Pass the spoon.
Is that music in the other room?

Ragged claws? Silent seas?
You’re talking in riddles, mate.

Well, what did you mean, then?
Lazarus, my arse.

Yeah, werl, we’re all getting old, mate.
You should buy shorter trousers.

Part your hair behind? Behind what?
Make up your bleedin’ mind:
Do you want a peach
Or a day at the sea-side?

Memento

Painted Lady
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Lydia oh Lydia, say have you met Lydia,
Lydia, the Tattooed Lady.
She has eyes that folks adore so,
And a torso even more so.

Lydia oh Lydia, that encyclopidia,
Oh Lydia the Queen of Tattoo.
On her back is the Battle of Waterloo.
Beside it the wreck of the Hesperus, too.
And proudly above waves the Red, White, and Blue,
You can learn a lot from Lydia.


–from Lydia the Tattooed Lady by Harold Arlen and E.Y. ‘Yip’ Harburg

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It was in Tahiti, in July of 1769, that Captain James Cook first recorded his observations of the indigenous body modification. His notes are the first known use (by an Occidental) of the word tattoo. In the ship’s log, Cook recorded this entry: Both sexes paint their Bodys, Tattow, as it is called in their Language. This is done by inlaying the Colour of Black under their skins, in such a manner as to be indelible.

Cook added: This method of Tattowing I shall now describe…As this is a painful operation, especially the Tattowing of their Buttocks, it is performed but once in their Lifetimes.

The practice is, of course, far older than Cook knew.

Tattooing has been a Eurasian custom since Neolithic times. Ötzi the Iceman (discovered in 1991 in the Schnalstal glacier between Austria and Italy and dated circa 3300 BCE) bears 57 tattoos.

The Man of Pazyryk (c. 500 BCE), a Scythian chieftain extracted from the permafrost of Altaï, is tattooed with an extensive and detailed range of fish, monsters and a series of dots that lined up along the spinal column and around the right ankle

Pre-Christian Germanic, Celtic and other central and northern European tribes were often heavily tattooed, according to surviving accounts. The Picts were famously tattooed (or scarified) with elaborate dark blue woad (or possibly copper for the blue tone) designs. Julius Caesar described these tattoos in Book V of his Gallic Wars (54 BCE).

The Arab traveller Ahmad ibn Fadlan also wrote of his encounter with the Scandinavian Rus’ tribe in the early 10th century, describing them as tattooed from fingernails to neck with dark blue tree patterns and other figures.

According to Robert Graves in The Greek Myths, tattooing was common amongst certain religious groups in the ancient Mediterranean world, which may have contributed to the prohibition of tattooing in Leviticus. However, during the classic Greek period, tattooing was only common among slaves.

Tattooing for spiritual and decorative purposes in Japan is thought to extend back to at least the Jōmon or Paleolithic period (approximately 10,000 BCE) and was widespread during various periods for both the Japanese and the native Ainu. Chinese visitors observed and remarked on the tattoos in Japan (300 BCE).

Between 1603 – 1868 Japanese tattooing was only practiced by the ukiyo-e (The floating world culture). Generally firemen, manual workers and prostitutes wore tattoos which communicated their status. Between 1720 – 1870 Criminals were tattooed as a visible mark of punishment, this actually replaced having ears and noses removed. A criminal would receive a single ring on their arm for each crime committed.

Tattoos are now utterly commonplace. No longer the mark of the criminal, the outcast, the outsider; no longer the province of the sailor, the biker, the junkie. I have one myself (acquired at the age of 19) as I imagine do many of you.

So let’s have poems on the subject of ‘body art’. No particular form this time. Just get out your needles and ink and prick a pattern…

Lose The Goddamned Do-Rag: David Foster Wallace-A Belated Apology

DFW
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I can’t remember when I first became aware of David Foster Wallace. Sometime in the mid-90’s, I think. I was immediately on my guard. Triple names usually bode ill: Lee Harvey Oswald, John Wilkes Booth, Mary Joe Kopechne, David Lee Roth, Bozo The Clown…QED. That was strike one.

Then there was the picture of DFW that I kept coming across. A fleshy-faced tax-payer who looked like he hadn’t missed many meals, gazing soulfully/sulkily to one side, a do-rag covering his tonsure.

On a Glock-wielding, South Central Blood flashing bejeweled fangs and furiously throwing cryptic gang signs, a do-rag looks risible enough. On a podgy, middle-class white-boy, it’s an absurdity too far and kicks my immune system into overdrive.

What’s the subtext here? Is it a nod to gangster chic? A show of solidarity with Rosie the Riveter? Is he auditioning for a pirate movie? Actually, you know what? I don’t give a shit. Do-rag = Douche bag…erm..probably. Strike two.

Then there was the hype. People whose judgement I respect less than my cat’s were pumping out hysterical encomiums at a rate that made me suspect they were being paid by the syllable. People kept comparing DFW to Pynchon. “The heir to Thomas Pynchon,” wrote Douglas Kennedy. Strike three. Yerrrr ouuuttt…

Let me explain. As a young man in the late 60’s and early 70’s, I gravitated towards the ‘hippie’ sub-culture. I was by no means a natural hippy. I was not a pacifist. I did not eschew aggression.

In fact, I was a bit of a thug. I did not think that Sgt. Pepper was a palimpsest containing a hidden guide to The Meaning Of Life. I did not believe that ‘bad vibes’ were as destructive as napalm and I flat-out laughed at the notion that The Grateful Dead knew anything that I didn’t.

In those days and in those circles, there were three sacred texts: The Lord of the Rings; The Teachings of Don Juan and Gravity’s Rainbow.

The first, I’d read and loved as a 10 year-old. When I tried to re-read it in my late teens, just to see what all those hippie numb-skulls were channeling, I discovered that I’d developed a powerful allergy to elves, magic rings, wizards and all the rest of the Middle Earth bullshit that the incontinent Tolkien churned out at such length. And yet, countless hippies looked to LOTR as some sort of blueprint for a lost Elysium, a world that we could (given enough Lebanese hash, Afghan sheepskin coats and patchouli oil) reconstruct in England’s green and pleasant land.

It was considered a work of profound philosophical and moral depth (a notion so preposterous that anyone who entertained it for a nano-second was revealed as a cretin).

But the Great Cretin Drought of 1971 that I longed for never happened and I lost count of the hippies who introduced themselves as ‘Bilbo’, ‘Frodo’ or ‘Gandalf’. This last was especially popular. I must have met a hundred lank-haired, cape-wearing nincompoops who called themselves ‘Gandalf’ and they were all of a piece. They attempted to cultivate an air of command, of hidden powers; they practiced a piercing gaze that made them appear psychotic. Mostly, however, what they did was take drugs, spout ill-considered drivel and try to persuade hippy girls that their powers extended to the bedroom.

I was more successful in that respect (seriously, dude…did you think I was hanging around for the high-quality conversation?). I would gaze into some girl’s eyes, contrive to look sorely troubled and moved and say, “You’re like Galadriel…”. The saps loved it. They yearned to be Elven princesses and were happy to consider me Aragorn son of Arathorn son of Kiddieporn, wielder of The Sword That Was Broken But Was Sent Back To Customer Services For Fixing. Christ…the things we do for sex, eh, boys?

The second holy scripture was Castenada’s The Teachings Of Don Juan, a book of half-baked mystical mumbo-jumbo, the illegitimate love-child of Madam Blavatsky and Speedy Gonzales. It was a volume so eye-wateringly moronic, so super-charged with utter meaninglessness that a 10 minute speed scan gave me all I needed to know. I became so adept at faux-mystical blather a la Don Juan that I was widely regarded as a ‘deep thinker’. The horror, the horror…

The third sacred text was Gravity’s Rainbow. I read it. I loathed it. I loathed it for its self-indulgence and its leaden ‘humour’ but most of all, I loathed it because people I held in contempt loved it.

I seem to have digressed. Fuck it. It’s my blog. I’ll digress if I want to. My point is that comparing DFW to Pynchon was not going to win me over. And so, for these many years past, I’ve managed to avoid reading a single word of DFW’s. Until a week ago.

Browsing the stock in a local charity shop, I came across a volume by DFW called Consider The Lobster and Other Essays. Out of curiosity, I picked it up. I opened it at random and found myself reading an essay entitled Authority and American Usage. Sucker punched. Me, I mean.

As a man who’s owned the Complete OED and Mencken’s The American Language for 30 years; a man who used to turn eagerly to William Safire’s On Language column in the NYT Sunday Magazine every week; a man who wants to scream every time some half-wit journalist or politician uses the phrase ‘fit for purpose’, nothing could have been better calculated to draw me in.

I bought the book and have just finished reading it. Honour demands that I make a public apology to the shade of David Foster Wallace. Forgive me. I let my prejudices get in the way of my judgement. You were an extraordinarily fine writer.

Now I’ll have to read his fiction. I’d appreciate it if any of you have any recommendations to make. Should I just go straight to Infinite Jest or start at the beginning and work through his fiction?

Charles Seliger-Small Is Beautiful

Seliger-The Mayor (1945)
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Charles Seliger, whose small-scale, jewel-like paintings of imaginary natural forms made him the most idiosyncratic of the first-generation Abstract Expressionists, died in Manhattan on Oct. 1. He was 83 and lived in Westchester County, N.Y.

The cause was a stroke, said his son Robert.

While fellow artists like Jackson Pollock and Willem de Kooning created high drama with drips and bravura brushwork on billboard-size canvases, Mr. Seliger conjured up his own private worlds on canvases, and later Masonite boards, that rarely exceeded the dimensions of a cafeteria tray.

Strongly influenced by the Surrealists and the idea of automatism — the belief that the artist’s undirected hand could reach deep into the unconscious — he layered skeins of fine, interlaced lines and overlapping luminous forms that suggested microscopic views of human tissue or plant specimens, land masses seen from an airplane or undiscovered worlds exploding into being.

These poetic explorations, increasingly complex and refined, carried him through a career that lasted more than 60 years.

“He was the last link to the Abstract Expressionist movement,” said the art historian Francis V. O’Connor, the author of “Charles Seliger: Redefining Abstract Expressionism” (2003). “He was the last artist fully committed to the methodology of Surrealism and psychic automatism, which he developed in a carefully thought-out way.”

Charles Marvin Zekowski was born on June 3, 1926, in Manhattan. His parents divorced when he was 2, and at 14 he adopted his mother’s maiden name. His childhood was chaotic, as he and his mother, destitute, hopped from one residence to another in New York, New Jersey and Maryland.

He began painting and drawing as a child and, after moving to Jersey City in 1940 and discovering a copy of Amédée Ozenfant’s “Foundations of Modern Art,” experimented with the styles of Aubrey Beardsley, Persian miniatures and Cubism. He dropped out of high school in the 10th grade and found work tinting photographs at a studio in Manhattan.

In 1943 he met Jimmy Ernst, the son of the Surrealist artist Max Ernst, and through him began meeting and showing with the dominant figures of the Abstract Expressionist movement at the 67 Gallery and later at Peggy Guggenheim’s Art of This Century Gallery, which gave him his first one-man show in 1945, when he was still in his teens.

His painting “Cerebral Landscape” was included in an influential traveling exhibition of Abstract Expressionists that originated at the David Porter Gallery in Washington in 1945.

In an artistic statement for the exhibition, Mr. Seliger wrote: “I want to apostrophize micro-reality. I want to tear the skin from life, and, peering closely, paint what I see. I want my brain to become a magnifying lens for the infinite minutiae forming reality. Growth is the poetry of all art.”

Mr. Seliger got off to a fast start. In 1946 the Museum of Modern Art bought “Natural History: Form Within Rock” for its permanent collection, and in 1948 he was given his first important museum exhibition, at the De Young Memorial Museum in San Francisco. A year later he joined the prestigious Willard Gallery, where his fellow artists included Mark Tobey and Lyonel Feininger.

In 1948 he married Ruth Lewin, who died in 1975. In addition to his son Robert, of Winchester, Mass., he is survived by his wife, the former Lenore Klebanow; another son, Mark, of Auburn, Mass.; and two grandchildren.

For the next six decades Mr. Seliger worked steadily and slowly, producing no more than 10 paintings a year but always showing and always represented by major dealers, most recently the Michael Rosenfeld Gallery on 57th Street, where he had a solo show last fall. At the same time he maintained a full-time job at Commercial Decal, a china company in Mount Vernon, N.Y., where he started out as a decal artist and retired in 1993 as executive vice president.

Mr. Seliger’s earliest paintings, often depicting botanical forms and insects, fused small areas of color in a manner suggestive of stained-glass windows. Later he intensified his focus, concentrating on all-over compositions of intricate tracery and linked patches of color. Often he drew spidery lines and dots with a Leroy pen, normally used for blueprints, which he filled with thinned paint, and applied paint with a single-hair brush.

He read voraciously, and it showed. “He was extraordinarily erudite,” Mr. O’Connor said. “Apart from Motherwell, the Abstract Expressionists only knew themselves and their own art, but he knew history, literature, art and even science. One of his first works was an homage to Erasmus Darwin, the grandfather of Charles.”

In 1986 the Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum, which owns more than 20 works by Mr. Seliger, presented a retrospective exhibition of his work. In 2003 he received the Pollock-Krasner Foundation’s Lee Krasner Award.

Beginning in 1952 Mr. Seliger recorded, in a minute hand, his observations about the art world, his thoughts on painting and the technical details of his works in progress in slim notebooks. In 2005 he donated all 148 volumes of his journals to the Morgan Library & Museum.

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Actually, come to think of it, art and artists should provide a wealth of inspiration, so let’s have villanelles on Art and/or Artists.

While Poets Walked, Swine Flew

Porky Pig Looney Tunes
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Pig: • noun 1. a domesticated mammal with sparse bristly hair and a flat snout, kept for its meat. 2. a wild animal related to the domestic pig. 3. informal a greedy, dirty, or unpleasant person. 4. informal, derogatory a police officer. 5. an oblong mass of iron or lead from a smelting furnace.

–Concise Oxford English Dictionary

Pigs have acquired an unenviable reputation. Their name is synonymous with greed, lust, filth and disease. Jews and Muslims abominate them as an article of faith and the rest of us aren’t terribly keen.

But it wasn’t always thus:

The Pig was held sacred by the ancient Cretans, because Jupiter was suckled by a sow; it was immolated in the mysteries of Eleusis; was sacrificed to Hercules, to Venus, the Lares, and all those who sought relief from bodily ailments. –Brewer’s Dictionary of Phrase & Fable, 1894 Edition

In fact, Brewer’s entry for pigs is woefully scanty for an animal that has figured so prominently in the world’s myths, cults and religions.

Tibetan Buddhist deity, Vajra Yogini, is also known in the form of Vajravarahi the Adamantine Sow.

The Hindu Goddess Durga often takes the form of a wild boar.

Nuut the Egyptian goddess of the night, Mother of Stars, was sometimes depicted on amulets as a sow suckling her piglets.

The pig was sacred to Isis, just as it was to Demeter. (Indeed several aspects of her mythology –especially details of the quest for the dismembered Osiris — are identical to myths of Demeter’s quest for her abducted daughter.)

The chief of the Greek gods, Zeus, was suckled by a sow.

Swine were sacred to Demeter, goddess of the earth’s fertility, who was the mother of Persephone, queen of the underworld. In autumn, during the rites of Thesmophoria, her devotees drove a herd of swine into a labyrinthine cave. Later, they would return to see if the deity had accepted this offering by examining the condition of any pig carcasses that might remain.

Her cult was later absorbed and subsumed by that of the Roman goddess of grain, Ceres, to whom the pig offering continued to be performed. Swine were sacrificed also, to Hercules, to Venus and also to the Lares by those seeking relief from their illnesses.

In the epic about the Greek hero Odysseus’ 10 years of adventure returning from the Trojan War, somewhere on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, the sorceress Circe turned Odysseus’ crew into swine for the 7 years during which she held him captive.

Tacitus (1st century CE) in Germania [ch. 45] says of the Germans that:

‘They worship the Mother of the Gods, and wear, as an emblem of this cult, the device of a wild boar, which stands them in stead of armor or human protection, and gives the worshiper a sense of security even among his enemies. They seldom use weapons of iron, but clubs very often.’

The Slavic figure called Baba Yaga (or Iaga,) is usually described as riding an airborne mortar which she steers with her pestle. However, some Russian folktales describe her riding a sow.

The Celtic Mother goddess Ceridwin, who was associated with the moon, was referred to as the Old White Sow. The Celts were also among those who considered the flesh of swine the most suitable meal for the gods even after the Old Mythology was diminished into tales of the Otherworld. It was also said that Manannan, god of the sea, had magic pigs which though eaten one day, returned the next to be eaten again.

In Artemis’ eastern form as Great Goddess similar to the Diana of Ephesus, she is associated with the boar. Hence, it is more than likely that the bulbous appendages on the tiered body of the triple-crowned goddess of the Ephesians are not breasts (Are there any breasts without nipples?) but rather boar’s testicles.

Adonis, a later Greek god whose origins lie in the Middle East, perished by the tusks of a wild boar. His name, which derives from adohn or lord, likely refers to Tammuz, consort of the Great Goddess, Ishtar.

A flying boar was associated with Clazomenae, a city of Asia Minor, home to philosopher Anaxagoras (499-428 BCE.) He taught, with some similarity to the Buddha, that “nothing comes into being nor perishes but that it is compounded or dissolved from things that are.”

Vishnu’s third avatar, or manifested form, is The Boar. He is depicted either as the animal or as a boar-headed man with four arms. In that form, he holds a wheel, a conch- shell, a sword, and a mace or a lotus. Alternately, two of his hands may be in the protection or boon-bestowing gestures.

Hiranyaksha, (golden-eyed demon) received a boon from the god Brahma after having practiced severe austerities in his devotion to him. He asked to become king of the whole world, and that no animal which he mentioned by name should ever have the power to harm him. But he had to enumerate the animals, and he forgot to mention the boar.

Now the demon wreaked havoc, plundering everything of value from the creatures of the world, including the Hindu scriptures. Golden-eye even took the earth down into the ocean as a hostage, but it complained bitterly and loudly.

Vishnu assumed the boar form and plunged into the depths of the primeval ocean to rescue Earth. It took him one thousand years to kill Hiranyaksha and to lift the earth up with his great white tusks. He calmed it, and made it ready for human use by molding its mountains and continents.

In Rome, a boar was the feast offering to the god Saturn; Martial says, “That boar will make you a good Saturnalia.” The winter pork feast reminds us of Vishnu’s Varaha incident occurring as it does at the winter solstice when the earth needs to be retrieved from the depths of darkness.

The boar’s-head standard is among the gifts bestowed by the Danish king upon the hero Beowulf for his having slain the ogre, Grendel.

In Saxo’s History of the Danes the order of the battle of Bravalla is described, and Woden or Odin’s device of a boar’s head [hamalt fylking] is said to refer to the swine-head military formation referred to in the Code of Manu [ancient Indian social code] a ” terrible column with wedge head which could cleave the stoutest line.”

The valkyries, the Norse dakinis, served the warriors of Valhalla meat from the boar named Saehrimnir. The divine chef, Andhrimnir, prepared a stew of it in the cauldron called Eldhrimnir. The beast magically came back to life again before the next meal.

At Yule, the northern European winter solstice festival, the head of a roast swine with an apple in its jaws, is the highlight of the meal.

Arthurian legend includes “The Hunting of Twrch Trwyth,” a magical boar with comb, scissors and razor between its ears. The animal was female and, like Marichi, was considered to travel with her 7 farrow.

The Yuletide celebrations were adopted at least from the time of the Saxons, who offered a boar as a solstice sacrifice like their more northern relatives. A boar’s or pig’s head with the apple in its mouth is a festive dish at Christmas in the British Isles though the reason for it may be long forgotten.

The Beast of Cornwall, as described in medieval British legend, is a boar.

Which all goes to demonstrate that pigs are worthy of our respect.

And so we come to our friend Alarming’s (and The Whalley Range All Stars’) Giant Inflatable Electric Euro Pig:

Al's Giant Pig

Politely Homicidal is going to break with tradition and encourage you to swinishness (I can hear some mutters of “…I thought swinishness was Politely Homicidal tradition” but I’m going to ignore the nameless malcontent [Mowbray]). Get your trotters in the trough and root out some verses in honour of Alarming’s splendid Euro Pig.
Thats-all-Folks-Porky-Pig

A Chant Royal By Zéphirine

Matisse, Nude, 1941
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My call for Chants Royal inspired our friend Zéphirine to gift us with this witty, charming, cunningly wrought gem. The lightly mocking, conversational tone is hard enough to inject into so structured a poetic form. To maintain that tone over five long rhyming stanzas demands extraordinary finesse. Happily for us, Zéphirine has that finesse in abundance.
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A recently published study has revealed that women have 237 reasons for having sex.

Gentlemen, who have pondered on the cause
Of women’s passions, and what lies behind
Those sudden freezes and less frequent thaws,
Why Friday’s vamp is Monday’s disinclined;
If you were thinking that you’d maybe missed
Some hidden motives – reasons must exist
Could you but find them – ones that would pertain
To why we sometimes do, sometimes abstain,
Experts have now an answer to supply:
It’s quite precise – there are, so they maintain
Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.

It seems we women long to get our claws
On one of two types. Only two now, mind!
Ah, but we must pay heed, not look for flaws,
The Experts have us females well defined.
Their theories must not lightly be dismissed
For they are Experts and should not be dissed.
Type Number One may often be quite plain
But it’s his income which we ascertain
Is bound to put a twinkle in our eye.
Remember there are (although it sounds inane)
Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.

We drool at sight of a pre-nuptial clause
As Mr Ugly keeps us wined and dined.
And Mister Rich could look a bit like Jaws
He’d still find girls willing, though unrefined.
It seems we ladies simply can’t resist
Someone who brings some diamonds to a tryst.
A resource benefit, the term mundane
Describes the man and not his private plane,
The Experts say we really won’t be shy –
Platinum cards remind us yet again:
Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.

The other type we like as paramours
Won’t surprise anyone who isn’t blind:
Young Master Gorgeous makes us drop our drawers.
(No mention’s made of Handsome and Rich combined,
The Experts perhaps unable to enlist
Respondents who were willing to assist –
Speechless that they had managed to attain
Both cute companion and financial gain,
These lucky girls could only smirk and sigh).
In scientific detail, lists contain
Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.

They cite some motives which draw no applause,
Revenge and spite, betrayal most unkind,
And some which make you think they clutched at straws:
To get the lawn mown, have they lost their mind?
Of course, there’s always being Brahms and Liszt,
Believing that you’ve got to, now you’ve kissed,
The sort of thinking which can leave a jane
Pushing a pram containing Baby Wayne.
Enough! These foolish rules I must decry!
These Experts have a shortage in the brain:
“Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.”

ENVOI

So, gentlemen, this speculation’s vain –
To save you from an ill-advised campaign
Here is a simple method to apply:
Just say you love us, then, with care, explain
Two hundred and thirty seven reasons why.

Comfort Me With Apples: For I Am Sick Of Love.

Constantin Brancusi . The Kiss, 1908
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The task this week is a little more demanding than usual and I’ll understand if you don’t feel up to it. I want a Chant Royal on the subject of carnal pleasures. Obviously, it would be presumptuous of me to advise you. I’m in no position to offer advice…but I know a man who is:

By all means sing of love but, if you do,
Please make a rare old proper hullabaloo:
When ladies ask How much do you love me?
The Christian answer is cosi-cosi;
But poets are not celibate divines:
Had Dante said so, who would read his lines?
Be subtle, various, ornamental, clever,
And do not listen to those critics ever
Whose crude provincial gullets crave in books
Plain cooking made still plainer by plain cooks
As though the Muse preferred her half-wit sons:
Good poets have a weakness for bad puns.

–from The Truest Poetry is the most Feigning by W.H. Auden

Clearly, this is a challenge beyond the abilities of the rabble of free-verse merchants who infest the on-line world (and the ‘real’ world, for that matter). This requires a degree of craftsmanship far beyond such footlers and poodle-fakers. Which is why I’m certain that if anyone can rise to the challenge, it’s you lot. And surely, after all, you can do better than this?:

Poets Are Not Celibate Divines

Poets are not celibate divines;
And should you hear a poet say:
“Not for me choice meats and wines,
I must to work; No time for play.”
Note the poet’s tone and eyes:
A poet speaking thus? He lies;
A poet’s no stranger to desire;
He burns within, a steady fire
And only flesh can douse the flame
Flesh that’s bought or flesh for hire:
To feed the senses is no shame.

And after all, what man declines
The chance to brighten up a day?
The Gods are mute and their designs
Are some remote and strange ballet;
Did not the preacher himself advise
Eat, drink and be merry? He was wise.
No puzzle here, no need to enquire,
No need to be shifty, to plot, conspire;
No need to seek to place the blame;
Take her to your bed–retire:
To feed the senses is no shame.

And should love lead to pleasing lines
Be grateful, let the donkeys bray;
We worship all at different shrines
If bed is where you choose to pray
Indulgent Gods will not chastise:
It’s only eunuchs they despise,
The monk and pious, sweaty friar;
The priestess and the canting prior;
The grasping burgher, his sour dame;
These provoke a just God’s ire:
To feed the senses is no shame.

Equip yourself with concubines
From deep Afric and far Cathay;
For work makes blunt but love refines;
Hear your heart and then obey;
Douse your head in wine, baptise
And let the font be women’s thighs;
Of those, what man can ever tire?
Let them be your funeral pyre,
A soft and lovely picture frame
(though the world may hang you higher):
To feed the senses is no shame.

In the stars you’ll see the signs,
The portents all point out the way;
When you must burst the flesh confines
And go from world of light to grey;
It comes to all, this grim demise
But see how love such fate defies
And scorns that damned celestial choir
That would make every rake a liar;
With your hands and lips proclaim
That life contains all you require:
To feed the senses is no shame.

ENVOI

Poets, sometimes you misfire
Erase a verse (or poem entire);
The universe will wipe your name,
‘Til then, whatever may transpire:
To feed the senses is no shame.

I Can’t Give You Anything But Love, Baby…

Bardot In Colour
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After the international uproar and scandal provoked by the 1956 film And God Created Woman, Brigitte Bardot said she wished she had never been born. Now, as Bardot – “the French export as important as Renault cars” according to Charles de Gaulle – turns 75 on Monday, exhibitions at national museums and private galleries, alongside tributes at fashion weeks in Paris, London and New York, are throwing the spotlight back on to one of the last living icons of the 20th century. –Agnès Poirier, The Grauniad, Sept. 22

Personally, I always preferred the Italian ’sex goddesses’, the Lollabridgidas, Cardinales, Lisis and Lorens: chacun à son goût, as we say in Whitechapel.

Let’s have poems on your favourite screen goddess (or god).

One of my favourites was Virna Lisi, probably best remembered as the wife Jack Lemmon is accused of murdering in How To Murder Your Wife (who can forget the scene where Lemmon persuades his witness to push the button?).

Fever High, Pulse Rapid, Condition Normal

I saw the the small mole by your lower lip
As evidence of your vulnerability: you were human.

It made me hope that I had a chance with you
Despite our differences–my schoolwork, your career;
But Italian screen goddesses weren’t sleeping
With 14 year-old boys that year.
Or any year.

Willy Ronis 1910-2009

Le Vigneron Giroudin, 1945
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Willy Ronis, whose lyric black-and-white photographs of courting couples, busy street scenes and children at play lent a gentle but enduring mystique to postwar, working-class Paris, died in Paris on Saturday. He was 99.

His death was confirmed by his close friend and fellow photographer Jane Evelyn Atwood.

Mr. Ronis, like his colleagues Robert Doisneau, Henri Cartier-Bresson and Brassaï, wandered the streets of Paris, open to serendipity, which usually found him. His carefully composed images showed ordinary people doing ordinary things, unaware that immortality was just a camera click away.

His lens captured, in photographs that have become synonymous with Paris, a small boy racing home with a baguette under his arm, lovers gazing out at the city from the tower of the Bastille, two children playing on an empty barge on the Seine, a woman’s legs stepping over a puddle as they mounted a curb on the Place Vendôme.

“He was one of the finest photographers of his generation,” said Paul Ryan, the author of “Willy Ronis” (Phaidon, 2001). “Although he is not as well known as Doisneau and Cartier-Bresson, among photographers he was always regarded as a master. It is very hard to go through one of his books and find a bad photograph. His sense of proportion, his framing of an image, was exquisite.”

Willy Ronis was born on Aug. 14, 1910, in Paris, where his parents, Jews from Odessa and Lithuania, had taken refuge from the czarist pogroms and started a photography studio. Willy, a skilled draftsman, helped retouch photographic prints as a child, and at 15 his father gave him a camera. His ambition, though, was to become a concert violinist.

Pressured by his father, he began studying law at the Sorbonne, but he continued his music lessons, which he paid for by playing in a restaurant orchestra. When his father became ill with cancer in 1932, Mr. Ronis took a more active role in the photography studio, where he met and befriended David Seymour, Robert Capa and Cartier-Bresson.

In 1936, after his father’s death, Mr. Ronis sold the family business and set up as a freelance photographer, doing commercial work and, using a Rolleiflex camera, documenting the strikes and demonstrations associated with the rise of the Popular Front. His work at this time provided much of the material for his book “Photo-Reportage: The Hunt for Images” (1951), which he always regarded as the best explanation of his methods and approach.

After the fall of France in 1940, Mr. Ronis fled south to Vichy France and spent a year with a traveling theatrical troupe. When the Germans occupied the south of France, he went into hiding.

During this period he met his future wife, the painter Marie-Anne Lansiaux, subject of one of his most famous photographs, “Provençal Nude” (1949), which showed her washing at a sink as sunlight poured in from a nearby window. She died in 1991. There are no immediate survivors.

In 1944 Mr. Ronis returned to Paris, where he photographed French prisoners and deportees returning from Nazi captivity. In 1946 he joined the Rapho photo agency, where his colleagues included Doisneau and Sabine Weiss. The agency’s signature was humanistic photography.

After settling in Belleville, a working-class neighborhood, he spent several years recording the everyday scenes that made up his first book, “Belleville-Ménilmontant” (1954). Paris was also the subject of “Sur le Fil du Hasard” (“With Chance as My Guide”), published in 1980, and “My Paris” (1985).

The warmth and human interest of his photographs won him a following in France. “It is my contemporaries who most interest me, ordinary people with ordinary lives,” he told The New York Times in 2005, when a retrospective of his work at the Hôtel de Ville in Paris was drawing enormous crowds. “I have never sought out the extraordinary or the scoop. I looked at what complemented my life. The beauty of the ordinary was always the source of my greatest emotions.”

Mr. Ronis became known in the United States when his work began appearing in Life magazine. Edward Steichen included him in two important exhibitions at the Museum of Modern Art, “Five French Photographers” in 1951 and “The Family of Man” in 1955.

In the late 1960s, after teaching part time in Paris, Mr. Ronis moved to Provence, where he taught at schools in Avignon, Aix-en-Provence and Marseilles. His work was honored this year at the photography festival Rencontres d’Arles, which organized a retrospective of his work.

“I never took a mean photo,” he told The Associated Press in 2005. “I never wanted to make people look ridiculous. I always had a lot of respect for the people I photographed.”

Last month, when a reporter for Le Figaro asked him how he would like to be remembered, he said, “As a fine fellow and a good photographer.” – New York Times, Sep. 18

Aces And Eights

Eastwood
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I want to ride to the ridge where the west commences
And gaze at the moon till I lose my senses
And I can’t look at hovels and I can’t stand fences
Don’t fence me in.

–Words and Music By Cole Porter

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Bounty hunter: You’re wanted, Wales.

Josey Wales: Reckon I’m right popular. You a bounty hunter?

Bounty hunter: A man’s got to do something for a living these days.

Josey Wales: Dyin’ ain’t much of a living, boy.

–Clint Eastwood, The Outlaw Josie Wales (1976)

As a way of softening you greenhorns and tenderfeet up for my long promised Clint Eastwood piece, I thought we might have poems on a Western theme…so saddle up an’ let’s get this herd to the railhead at Abilene. Git along, little dawgies…

The Saddle Tramp’s Lament

Come gather ’round boys an’ I’ll tell you my story
A tale of adventure an’ heartbreakin’ woe
How a bright boy left home an’ went lookin’ fer glory
From broad plains of Kansas to ole Mexico.

Chorus:
Oh, the life of a cowboy’s a sad lonely tale
You bust up, you bust out, you land right in jail
Yer out in all weathers, in the storm an’ the gale
It’s a hard life an’ a short life on the ole Chisolm Trail.

Well, my Ma waved me off on that long ago day
She cried and commenced right to sobbin’
“Don’t get no young girls in the family way
An’ don’t take to thievin’ an’ robbin’.”

Well, I thought to myself she was wastin’ her breath
The ole West weren’t no place for a saint
An’ I weren’t afeared of no hellfire nor death
An’ I’d take my lumps without complaint.

Chorus:
Oh, the life of a cowboy’s a poor one an’ hard
You might git yerself shot at the turn of a card
An’ doors are all bolted an’ gates are all barred
Agin a cowboy the townfolk are all on their guard.

Well, I soon took up with a desperate crew
An’ I fitted right into their ranks
I tell ye, boys, there weren’t much I wouldn’t do
Took right smartly to robbin’ them banks.

But a man’s luck has only got so long to run
Afore the dice come up snake-eyes each time
If you live by the Colt then you’ll die by the gun
Else it’s jail an’ get hung fer yer crime.

Chorus:
Oh, a life in the saddle is weary an’ short
Don’t believe them tall tales of romance
An’ punchin’ them cattle ain’t no kind of sport
As fer women? You ain’t got a chance.

Let’s mount up an’ ride out an’ hope fer the best
An’ pray that the herd don’t stampede
An’ play all yer cards right up close to yer vest
If’n you cain’t hope fer luck, hope fer speed.
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The High Window

Marked In Indigo
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“In everything that can be called art there is a quality of redemption. It may be pure tragedy, if it is high tragedy, and it may be pity and irony, and it may be the raucous laughter of the strong man. But down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. The detective in this kind of story must be such a man.

He is the hero, he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour — by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. I do not care much about his private life; he is neither a eunuch nor a satyr; I think he might seduce a duchess and I am quite sure he would not spoil a virgin; if he is a man of honour in one thing, he is that in all things.

He is a relatively poor man, or he would not be a detective at all. He is a common man or he could not go among common people. He has a sense of character, or he would not know his job. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. He talks as the man of his age talks — that is, with a rude wit, a lively sense of the grotesque, a disgust for sham, and a contempt for pettiness.

The story is this man’s adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. He has a range of awareness that startles you, but it belongs to him by right, because it belongs to the world he lives in. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.” – from The Simple Art of Murder by Raymond Chandler (November 1945, The Atlantic Monthly).

Humor is the only test of gravity, and gravity of humor; for a subject which will not bear raillery is suspicious, and a jest which will not bear serious examination is false wit. –Aristotle

Why worry? Why be doubtful or confused? Why be gnawed by suspicion? Consult cool, careful, confidential, discreet investigator. George Anson Phillips. Glenview 9521. –Raymond Chandler, The High Window (1943)

Why worry? Why be doubtful and confused? Why be gnawed by suspicion? Consult cockeyed, careless, clubfooted, dissipated investigator. Philip Marlowe, Glenview 7537. See me and you meet the best cops in town. Why despair? Why be lonely? Call Marlowe and watch the wagon come.–Raymond Chandler, The High Window

Some 65 years ago, author and critic Edmund Wilson (‘Bunny’ to his friends) used his regular New Yorker column, ‘Books’, to villify crime writing. Between the end of 1944 and early 1945 he wrote three columns in which he launched a vitriolic attack on detective fiction and those who read it. (In an error-filled column later in 1945, Wilson dismissed the writing of H. P. Lovecraft as “hackwork”.)

The columns: “Why Do People Read Detective Stories?”, “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd: A Second Report on Detective Fiction”, “Mr. Holmes, They Were the Footprints of a Gigantic Hound”, were, in turn, mean-spirited, ignorant, contradictory and illogical. Wilson is mostly forgotten now (hands up everyone who’s read To The Finland Station. No? Memoirs of Hecate County? No? Oh, well…) while the objects of his scorn, writers like Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett and Agatha Christie are still read by millions. Sorry, Bunny.

It’s worth mentioning because I believe Wilson’s essays had a powerful and long-lasting effect on the reading public or rather, that part of the reading public that shapes opinion and the attitudes of editors and publishers.

The after-effect is with us still. Crime fiction is regarded as somehow less worthy of thoughtful consideration and criticism than so-called ’serious’ fiction despite the fact that one Raymond Chandler novel is worth everything that Iris Murdoch ever wrote…and then some.

My introduction to crime fiction (or what I think of as ‘modern’ crime fiction) was courtesy of my mother, who has eclectic tastes. Her shelves contained the country-house, locked-room, Col. Mustard-with-the-candlestick stuff of Agatha Christie, Dorothy L. Sayers and Mary Roberts Rinehart alongside the almost psychopathic brutalism of James Hadley Chase and James M. Cain, the simplistic and jingoistic thrillers of Edgar Wallace and the complex, subtle works of Simenon and Maj Sjowall and Per Wahloo. Somehow, my mother had missed Chandler and Hammett. I discovered them on my own, especially Chandler.

My discovery of Chandler was a game-changer for me. Suddenly, here was crime fiction that could hold its head up in any company. My discovery came about like this: as a 16 year-old in Kuwait, I was in the habit of driving over to the Sheraton Hotel most mornings and installing myself by the pool, there to read and swim and smoke cigarettes in what I fondly imagined was a tough/urbane/suave manner.

It wasn’t any paucity of swimming pools that drove me to the Sheraton; no. What the Sheraton had was, for a 16 year-old with raging hormones, one irresistible advantage over other available pools. Air hostesses. Lots of them.

All the airlines put their flight crews up at the Sheraton for lay-overs and the pool fairly pullulated with pulchritude of a morning. The girls, many of them not much older than myself, were friendly and chatty and…well, anyway. On my way into the hotel in the morning, I’d stop off at the news-kiosk/bookshop in the lobby and pick up the papers. On my out, I’d stop and peruse the books.

One day, as I scanned the books on offer, a garishly covered paperback caught my eye. A violently day-glo orchid, a man’s tortured face in profile, a gun, a palm tree. It was The Long Goodbye by Raymond Chandler, a Doubleday paperback. I’d never heard of him but the enthusiastic encomiums on the back cover persuaded me. I took it home and started reading it. I didn’t put it down until I’d finished it. I was enthralled. The laconic private eye, Philip Marlowe, delivered the narration with a wry, knowing wit. The dialogue had a snap and crackle like nothing I’d read before. It was the opposite of the long-established whodunit. Nobody, least of all the reader, gave a damn whodunit.

It whetted my appetite for a new kind of crime fiction and that appetite grew. The next morning, I was in the Sheraton’s lobby, waiting for the news kiosk to open. I bought every Chandler they had (and they had most of them). I read and re-read them compulsively. That was 40 years ago. I re-read them all recently and they’re every bit as good as I remembered them.

Down these mean blogs a poet must go…so give us a Chandler-esque poem

The Big Sleep

The dream’s always the same:
the alley at night,
the dame, the pooled blood
reflecting the light,
the gun in my pocket:
the perfect frame.
The one thing the cops know for sure
is my name.

The hiss of cars on a rainy street,
the squeal of tires braking hard,
the voice in my head says you’re anyone’s meat
she lied and she lied:
time to turn a new card.

Break for the border, down Mexico way
bribable cops and no questions asked
always some space for a man with no name
a man with no face, no ties and no past.

Even down south, the shadows are deep,
the sand blows in under the door while you sleep,
the grit that disturbs you’s a capital crime
that robs you of solace and murders your time.

Our friend Tom Clark wrote a very fine Chandler-esque poem HERE. Puts my paltry effort into context, sadly…

…And So To Bed

Great Grandfather
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In 1882, Sheik Abdul-Razzzak Mishari Al-Adwani of Kuwait (pictured above), ordered a silver-encrusted bed.

The design was sent to Christofle in Paris calling for a bed of “dark wood decorated with applied sterling with gilded parts, monograms and arms, ornamented with four life-size bronze figures (of naked females) painted in flesh colour with natural hair, movable eyes and arms, holding fans and horse tails”.

Some 290kg of silver was needed to decorate the bed. The four naked figures were European, representing women of France, Spain, Italy and Greece, each with a different skin-tone and hair colour. Through ingenious mechanics linked to the mattress, the Sheik was able to set the figures in motion so that they fanned him while winking at him, against a 30-minute cycle of music from Gounod’s Faust generated by a music box built into the bed.

–from A History Of The Trucial States by Col. H.R. Dickinson, Eyre & Spottiswood (1932)

The bed is still in my possession. In fact, I’m lying on it as I dictate this to my scribe, while the naked figurines fan me and wink and Gounod tinkles agreeably in the background. The bed is a trifle garish for modern tastes but I’m an old-fashioned sort of fellow and anyway, it affords my concubines hours of harmless amusement.

“You know those good-for-nothings that you’re always chatting to on this interweb thing (the work of Shaitan, God preserve us from it)? Well, why don’t you set them to write a sonnet about beds?” So spoke my number 2 concubine, Ayesha, as I puffed meditatively on my opium pipe and nibbled on crystallised fruit.

A splendid idea, I think (and for which Ayesha received a small purse of uncut emeralds). So this is your task, faithless ones. A Sonnet about beds or a specific bed…not about sleep, although sleep may enter into it, obviously… but primarily about beds themselves.

Here’s a Spencerian Sonnet (you can tell it’s poetry because I use the word ’tis)

Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears, and sometime voices
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again; and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me, that when I waked,
I cried to dream again.

–The Tempest 3.2.148-156

To Dream Again

I lay me down in my place of rest
The bed wherein I seek my slumber
There I wait for thoughts expressed
In dreams: no locks or chains encumber.

Night and night; nights without number
In cloudy flocks have passed the sheep
This bed of mine is no mere lumber
It is the very realm of sleep.

‘Tis Morpheus who drags me deep
In sea of dreams, where I must flounder
And if a chasm I must leap
Then after, I shall sleep the sounder.

For this is more than just a bed:
It is the place where dreams are bred.

The Sheltering Sky

Cornell
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Well, I’m happy to see that you’ve all remained as skillful as ever. We’ve done streams, now let’s do what’s so often reflected in them: sky.

I want acrostic poems on the subject of the sky, like this:

No Other Place

Because there was no other place
to flee to
Anne Sexton, Flee On Your Donkey

Call a cab and hit the road
Leave this city’s leaden sky
On me, it’s like a heavy load
Under it, we act the lie:
Damned to live and doomed to die.

Course is plotted, sunward bound
On the swallow’s trail we fix
Via train, we cover ground
Engaging with the usual mix:
Remittance men both young and old
Slipping south away from cold.

Lower now, the sun’s blush shows
On silver olive and the peach;
Nearer now to sand than snows’
Down the map, towards a beach
Over harsh hills burned and seer,
Nearing where the sky grows clear.

Trout Mask Sepulchre

Classic Trout
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Clearly, you idle bastards have been shirking while I’ve been away. So, just to get you rabble back on your toes, let’s have Rondeaux on the subject of fresh-water fish.

You’re not working for kindly, easily-imposed on Dr. Jekyll Mills, now. It’s Mr. Mishari Al-Hyde. So, get cracking… freshwater fish…no halibut, cod or sardines, you slippery sods.

Let’s see if you clowns still have the chops.

Here’s mine:


Stream Of Conciousness

The world flows by like a swift dream
Swirls round your mind like feeding bream
The sun dawdles; the air stays chill
Magpies chase each other downhill
Mayflies rise, wreathe water like steam.

In town, you aren’t what you may seem
Out here, vast nature reigns supreme
Keep what you catch; eat what you kill:
The world flows by.

The air flows over skin like cream
You mine your mind, a rich new seam;
Ore you must refine; have you skill?
Make something fine; takes time–and will;
On the brow of the hill, sun’s gleam:
The world flows by.

…alright, alright…or poems about freshwater streams.

Pretty Fly For A Beige Guy

Robot Jesus
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Many Things Very Considerable or Trout Fishing With Robot Jesus

And an ingenuous Spaniard sayes, “That both Rivers, and the inhabitants of the watery Element, were created for wise men to contemplate, and fools to pass by without consideration.” And though I am too wise to rank myself in the first number, yet give me leave to free my self from the last, by offering to thee a short contemplation, first of Rivers, and then of Fish: concerning which, I doubt not but to relate to you many things very considerable. –Isaak Walton, The Compleat Angler (1653)


The poor dope. He always wanted a pool.
Joe Gillis (William Holden) in Sunset Boulevard (1950)

“He’s supposed to have a particularly high-class style: ‘Feather-footed through the plashy fen passes the questing vole’ … would that be it?”

“Yes,” said the Managing Editor. “That must be good style.” –Evelyn Waugh, Scoop (1938)

I come from haunts of coot and fern, where the curious Pyrenean wombat barrels through the lush undergrowth in search of….ahhh, fuck good style. I doubt it suits me.

Greetings scribblers, versificators, assorted creatures (and Mowbray, who’s sui generis). Politely Homicidal is back in harness…goddamn it. Back to the city I love/hate, where the dulcet tones of the Lesser Spotted Crackhead echo in the detritus-strewn streets; where pimply teenaged policemen club you to your knees and taser you for being beige and politicians and ‘celebrities’ make the air hideous with their noise and unseemly contortions. Ah…London. Where I might, if I cared to, emulate the Blessed Freep and ‘slink sullenly through Slough, or prance petulantly past Penge.’

I picked up the robot Jesus image from a souvenir stall in the portico of Girona’s cathedral. Even given Spain’s long predilection for blasphemy, I was a bit surprised. I’m not sure why, but I was very struck by the image and carried it with me throughout our varied fishing jaunts around the peninsular.

I must mention, in passing, the Aragonese hamlet of Sant Jordi des Arroyo or, as I came to think of it, The Village Of Ghastly Headgear. For some inexplicable reason (and believe me, I was too disconcerted to actually ask) the entire population of the village (all 200 of them) wore what are called in the US ‘gimme’ hats, i.e. baseball caps with a corporate logo emblazoned across the front. (‘Where’d ya git thet hayat, Gomer? Feller down the John Deere place gimme it‘).

It was passing strange to see an 80 year-old crone shuffling down the main drag, shopping in one hand, fiercely-smoking Ducado firmly plugged into the corner of her puckered old gob as she emitted metronomically regular puffs of smoke like The Little Engine That Could, a Microsoft baseball cap planted on her old grey head. The local priest wore a cap that declared his fealty to Metallica and the local game warden advertised his penchant for Dr. Pepper. I suspect some US Air Force plane, winging its way to an American base with the necessities of US-style existence (hamburger patties, guns, crack, Percocet, baseball caps), was forced to jettison its cargo over the village.

Yachting Noah

Even more intriguing, I came across firm evidence of our friend Steven Augustine’s double-life (something I’ve long suspected him of, the dog). A local establishment bore the sign:

Estaban Agustin i Germans-Pernils (‘pernil’ is ham in Catalan, ‘germans’ is brothers)

Berlin hipster/artist provocateur by night, purveyor of quality pork products to gnarled Catalan rustics by day: if I had one of those gimme hats, I’d take it off to him. That’s what I call subversive.

I’ll be back later on to bore you all comatose with tales of derring-do: how I matched wits with the cunning trout in the eternal battle for primacy between Arab and fish. But lest you imagine that trout are the only wildlife of interest to be found in an Aragon trout stream, disabuse yourself of this notion. Many shy and lovely creatures may be observed in these bucolic mountain landscapes.

Aragon Trout Stream
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a bientot...

Public Service Announcement

Vacation Hell

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Politely Homicidal is going to be mostly off-line until September. All that means is that I won’t be around. The blog will still be live, though and everyone’s welcome to use it as a sort of graffiti wall…until then, I have a wife to placate, children to terrorise, a sun to worship and fish to catch.

Born Today-Edward Hopper

Hopper-Night Shadows
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Hopper was born on July 22, 1882, in Nyack, New York, and studied illustration in New York City at a commercial art school from 1899 to 1900. Around 1901 he switched to painting and studied at the New York School of Art until 1906, largely under Robert Henri. He made three trips to Europe between 1906 and 1910 but remained unaffected by current French and Spanish experiments in cubism.

He was influenced mainly by the great European realists—Diego Velazquez, Francisco de Goya, Honore Daumier, Edouard Manet—whose work had first been introduced to him by his New York City teachers. His early paintings, such as Le pavillon de flore, were committed to realism and exhibited some of the basic characteristics that he was to retain throughout his career: compositional style based on simple, large geometric forms; flat masses of color; and the use of architectural elements in his scenes for their strong verticals, horizontals, and diagonals.

Although one of Hopper’s paintings was exhibited in the famous Armory Show of 1913 in New York City, his work excited little interest, and he was obliged to work principally as a commercial illustrator for the next decade. In 1925 he painted House by the Railroad, a landmark in American art that marked the advent of his mature style. The emphasis on blunt shapes and angles and the stark play of light and shadow were in keeping with his earlier work, but the mood—which was the real subject of the painting—was new: It conveyed an atmosphere of all-embracing loneliness and almost eerie solitude. Hopper continued to work in this style for the rest of his life, refining and purifying it but never abandoning its basic principles.

Most of his paintings portray scenes in New York or New England, both country and city scenes, all with a spare, homely quality—deserted streets, half-empty theaters, gas stations, railroad tracks, rooming houses. One of his best-known works, Nighthawks, shows an all-night café, its few uncommunicative customers illuminated in the pitiless glare of electric lights.

Although Hopper’s work was outside the mainstream of mid-20th-century abstraction, his simplified schematic style was one of the influences on the later representational revival and on pop art. He died May 15, 1967, in New York City.

(Got tired of looking at Proust and his wilting moustache and spaniel eyes–Ed.)

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