Poetry. It's doesn't have to be bad

[Sam]

Has anyone seen the reading of the Wasteland that Fiona Shaw did for the BBC? It's bloody marvellous. I've always liked T.S. Elliot. Has anyone read "Notes Towards the Definition of Culture"?

Right now I am inot impressionism (not just in paitining, but literature, poetry and music). I have been studying French symbolist poets like Mallarme. Here's one of my favourite poems "Gaspard de la Nuit" by Aloysius Bertrand.

(From http://www.russischeschule.com/Ravel.htm)

Ondine
''Listen! Listen! It is I, it is Ondine brushing with these drops of water the resonant diamond panes of your window illuminated by the dull moonbeams; and here in the dress of moire, is the lady of the castle on her balcony gazing at the beautiful starry night and the beautiful slumbering lake. Each wave is a water sprite swimming in the current, Each current is a path winding toward my palace, And my palace is of fluid construction, at the bottom of the lake, Within the triangle formed by fire, earth, and air. ?

Listen! Listen! My father is beating the croaking water with a branch of green alder, And my sisters are caressing the cool islands of grasses, water lilies and gladioli with their arms of foam, Or are laughing at the tottering, bearded willow that is angling.''

After murmuring her song, she besought me to accept her ring on my finger, to be the husband of an Undine, and to visit her palace with her, to be king of the lakes. And when I replied that I was in love with a mortal woman, she was sulky and vexed; She wept a few tears, burst out laughing, and vanished in showers that formed white trickles down my blue windowpanes.
Le Gibet
Ah! Could what I hear be the cold night wind yelping, or the hanged man uttering a sigh on the gallows fork? Could it be some cricket singing from its hiding place in the moss and sterile ivy with which the forest covers it floor out of pity? Could it be some fly hunting for prey and blowing its horn all around those ears deaf to the fanfare of the dead?

Could it be some cockchafer plucking a bloody hair from his bald scalp in its uneven flight? Or could it be some spider embroidering a half-ell of muslin as a tie for that strangled neck? It is the bell ringing by the walls of a city below the horizon, and the carcass of a hanged man reddened by the setting sun.
Scarbo
Oh, how often have I heard and seen Scarbo when at midnight the moon shines in the sky like a silver shield on an azure banner seam of golden bees! How often have I heard his laughter booming in the shadow of my alcove, and his nails grating on the silk of my bed curtains! How often have I seen him come down from the ceiling, pirouetted on one foot and roll around the room like the spindle that has fallen from a witch's distaff!

Did I at such time think he had vanished? Then the gnome would grow bigger between the moon and me like the bell tower of a Gothic cathedral, a round golden bell shaking on his pointed cap! But soon his body would become blue, diaphanous as the wax of a taper; his face would become pale as the wax of a candle end - and suddenly he would be extinguished.
 



Maurice Ravel wrote a piano piece of the same name, inspired by the poem. It represents the summit of his writing for piano (and in my opinion the summit of all musical impressionism along with "Daphnis and Chloe"). The opening of the piece is sublime (a triadic trill represents the shimmering of light on the water). Also check out the set of pieces entitled "Miroirs" which includes another water piece "Une Barque sur l'Ocean".

[fum]

I think they should:

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

John McCrae (1872-1918)

Good poem had to study this for ou.

Oooh me too - A103, you?

yeh a103 I did it last year. I'm doing a216 this year, how about you ?

[european son]

mein Neil once compared my own writing to that of e e cummings (we both like our lower-case) who i'd never read before, but looked his stuff up, and quite liked it.

e. e. cummings - in spite of everything

in spite of everything
which breathes and moves,since Doom
(with white longest hands
neatening each crease)
will smooth entirely our minds

-before leaving my room
i turn,and(stooping
through the morning)kiss
this pillow,dear
where our heads lived and were.

Painting? i like modern and/or pop-art more than classical stuff... i know it sounds a bit unrefined, but i just feel that i can get a lot more out of the newer stuff (in general).

my personal favourite:

Jackson Pollock - Autumn Rhythm

big 275k image definitely worth clicking

[Abbie]

yeh a103 I did it last year. I'm doing a216 this year, how about you ?

I've just started A103 this year and am really enjoying it!  What a coincidence eh?  I see you are going the Art History route, i'm going for History (at least at the moment thats what i'm going for).

[fum]

yeh a103 I did it last year. I'm doing a216 this year, how about you ?

I've just started A103 this year and am really enjoying it!  What a coincidence eh?  I see you are going the Art History route, i'm going for History (at least at the moment thats what i'm going for).

I really enjoyed studying A103 last year, If you have any problems feel free to ask I'll pm you my e mail address.

I'm doing  the Humanitites and art history degree. Which degree you doing?

Another good poem you'll study is Faint Praise by Wendy Cope
Anyone living with a bloke will appreciate this.

Size isn't everything.Its what you do
That matters,darling,and you do quite well
In some respects,Credit where credit's due-
You work, you're literate, you rarely smell.
Small men can be aggressive, people say,
But you are often genial and kind,
As long as you can have things all your way
And I comply, and do not speak my mind.
You look all right. I've never been disgusted
By paunchiness. Who wants some skinny youth?
My friends have warned me that you can't be trusted
But I protest I've heard you tell the truth.
Nobody's perfect. Now and then, my pet,
You're almost human.You could make it yet.

You've started me off remembering all my fave bits from A103 now.

[fanny splendid]

I take a day off to go drinking, and you lot start talking about art. Aren't we all such clever little buggers?

Here's my favourite painting.

[Qatar-wol]

Boborski - top defence of your position.  That's what I like to see - state you case, and provide evidence in a well written and humourous manner.

Well done.  Have a biscuit -

[butnut]

It doesn't drive a wedge at all - I first studied it at GCSE, and it's actually immensely simple. All the criticisms you make just aren't fair. This is a world away from the worst decadence of current modern art. You may as say The Illiad is obtuse, or Paradise Lost.

I don't think there's anything wrong with being elitist and obscure. I personally much prefer art that asks questions of me, and presupposes that I can learn something from it rather than from myself. And you can't say it's that obscure when he published the notes with the poem. How many writers have the good grace to do that?

I agree - not only did he publish notes with the poem (which, admittedly weren't that helpful to me) but these days it's very easy to find guides to the poem that talk you through the various interpretations - there's probably some online. I hate it when people moan about things being elitist, when information is so readily available. If you're going to really try and understand something like 'The Waste Land', it only takes a little bit of time to find these things out. People expect things to be readily understandable straight away these days - but some things DEMAND work from the reader/viewer/listener.

LOOK - FIrst search in google a massive site that goes through the poem line by line, and even has the lovely picture by Brugel that I posted in the art thread at the top

[Hal]

Futility
By Wilfred Owen.

Move him into the sun -
Gently its touch awoke him once,
At home, whispering of fields unsown.
Always it woke him, even in France,
Until this morning and this snow
If anything might rouse him now
The kind old sun will know.

Think how it wakes the seeds -
Woke, once, the clays of a cold star.
Are limbs so dear achieved, are sides
Full-nerved, - still warm, - too hard to stir?
Was it for the clay grew tall?
- O what made fatuous sunbeams toil
To break earth's sleep at all?

.