On The Canal

Our country

One of people wandering the road

The dispossessed, only yesterday

Their lives homes stolen by British

Fast forward forget

All the homeless on the Canal

Praying in one direction or not

Our conscience means something or not 

International Haiku Day

 

fleeting life blossoms

tell of falling tomorrows

love but the moment

.

Focus / Flow (for poets perhaps)

In the context of the work by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.

Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi was a renowned psychologist known for his work on flow, a state of optimal experience where individuals are fully immersed and focused in an activity, feeling energized and in control. His research has significant implications when discussing the rate of information processing in the context of increasing it.
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mihaly_Csikszentmihalyi

Csikszentmihalyi emphasised the importance of attention and focus in achieving flow. To enter a flow state, individuals must concentrate fully on the task at hand, filtering out distractions and irrelevant information. By enhancing these cognitive skills, individuals can process information more efficiently, even within the limitations of conscious processing.

I would posit that any increase is ones brain bit rate / sec processing is to be welcomed.

But, did you ever have some idiot come to the door when you were writing a poem.?

Feckin plonker from Porlock.. ;-)

"On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter."

Samuel Taylor Coleridge 'reflecting' on his composition of the poem Kubla Khan in 1797. 

As Johann Wolfgang von Goethe said:

"A creation of importance can only be produced when its author isolates himself, it is a child of solitude."

In this context poets may wish to refer to Sheryl Crow 
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ikjmz_SlGhg

- "A Change Would Do You Good" and the optimum line / message: imho..

"Hello it's me, I'm not at home. If you'd like to reach me, leave me alone"

Whilst this may be perceived as somewhat negative in the context of engagement with the human race, what has that got to do with poetry... ;-)

The Cemetery by the sea

Paul Valéry’s unique poem “Le Cimetière Marin” (“The Cemetery by the Sea”). The Cemetery is in the French town of Sète, Valéry’s poem was published in 1920.

Perhaps in about another X years of reading it and studying French I will return to this again. In the meantime I would recommend Derek Mahons' translation. Regrettably I cannot reproduce it here.

As we now all know at this stage ;-)
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line. The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break).

As you may have surmised I am a big Paul Valéry fan.

if you would care to listen to a rendition in French then:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5Hv5C3JGNw
or an analysis in French then
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tDEqibrg4i4

Le Cimetière Marin

Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes,

Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes;

Midi le juste y compose de feux

La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee

O récompense après une pensée

Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux!

Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume

Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume,

Et quelle paix semble se concevoir!

Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose,

Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause,

Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir.

Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve,

Masse de calme, et visible réserve,

Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi

Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme,

O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame,

Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit!

Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume,

À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume,

Tout entouré de mon regard marin;

Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême,

La scintillation sereine sème

Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain.

Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance,

Comme en délice il change son absence

Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt,

Je hume ici ma future fumée,

Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée

Le changement des rives en rumeur.

Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change!

Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange

Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir,

Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace,

Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe

Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir.

L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice,

Je te soutiens, admirable justice

De la lumière aux armes sans pitié!

Je te tends pure à ta place première,

Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière

Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié.

O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même,

Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème,

Entre le vide et l'événement pur,

J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne,

Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne,

Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur!

Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages,

Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages,

Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants,

Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse,

Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse?

Une étincelle y pense à mes absents.

Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière,

Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière,

Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux,

Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres,

Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres;

La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux!

Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre!

Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre,

Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux,

Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes,

Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes,

Les songes vains, les anges curieux!

Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse.

L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse;

Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air

A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . .

La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence,

Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair.

Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre

Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère.

Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement

En soi se pense et convient à soi-même

Tête complète et parfait diadème,

Je suis en toi le secret changement.

Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes!

Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes

Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . .

Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres,

Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres

A pris déjà ton parti lentement.

Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse,

L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce,

Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs!

Où sont des morts les phrases familières,

L'art personnel, les âmes singulières?

La larve file où se formaient les pleurs.

Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées,

Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées,

Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu,

Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent,

Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent,

Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu!

Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe

Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge

Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici?

Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse?

Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse,

La sainte impatience meurt aussi!

Maigre immortalité noire et dorée,

Consolatrice affreusement laurée,

Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel,

Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse!

Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse,

Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel!

Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées,

Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées,

Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas,

Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable

N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table,

Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas!

Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine?

Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine

Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir!

Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche!

Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche,

À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir!

Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Êlée!

M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée

Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas!

Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue!

Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue

Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas!

Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive!

Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive!

Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent!

Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée,

Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée!

Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant.

Oui! grande mer de delires douée,

Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée,

De mille et mille idoles du soleil,

Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue,

Qui te remords l'étincelante queue

Dans un tumulte au silence pareil

Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!

L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre,

La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs!

Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies!

Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies

Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

Paul Valéry

 Paul Valéry

"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned; and this abandonment, whether to the flames or to the public (and which is the result of weariness or an obligation to deliver) is a kind of an accident to them, like the breaking off of a reflection, which fatigue, irritation, or something similar has made worthless."  

~Paul Valéry.

[Aux yeux de ces amateurs d’inquiétude et de perfection, un ouvrage n’est jamais achevé, – mot qui pour eux n’a aucun sens, – mais abandonné ; et cet abandon, qui le livre aux flammes ou au public (et qu’il soit l’effet de la lassitude ou de l’obligation de livrer) est une sorte d’accident, comparable à la rupture d’une réflexion, que la fatigue, le fâcheux ou quelque sensation viennent rendre nulle.]

Paul Valéry (1871-1945) French poet, critic, author, polymath

Whilst this translation above is one possible version the current - shall we say verbatim (via google translation) is;-

"In the eyes of these lovers of uneasiness and perfection, a work is never finished – a word which for them has no meaning – but abandoned; and this abandonment, which delivers it to the flames or to the public (and whether it is the effect of lassitude or of the obligation to deliver) is a sort of accident, comparable to the rupture of a reflection, which the fatigue, the unfortunate or some sensation come to nullify"

..if a French reader would care to correct this 'raw version' I would be honoured.

afaik..
In March 1933 Paul Valéry published an essay in “La Nouvelle Revue Française” (“The New French Review”) about his poem “Le Cimetière marin” (“The Cemetery by the sea”) and this quote emerged from there.

=

New Criterion had a great article a few years back (imho)
https://newcriterion.com/issues/2020/4/the-cemetery-by-the-sea

FYI:
Le Cimetière marin is written in alexandrine /alexandrin, a verse form that was the leading measure in French poetry a couple of hundred years ago. It consists of a line of 12 syllables with major stresses on the 6th syllable (which precedes the medial caesura [pause]) and on the last syllable, and one secondary accent in each half line.

The foundation of most alexandrines consists of two hemistichs (half-lines) of six syllables each, separated by a caesura (a metrical pause or word break, which may or may not be realized as a stronger syntactic break): https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alexandrine

Whilst somewhat reluctant to start a poetry war it would be most interesting to examine the form in the context of the scope of the rigours and how one might port them to our time and language.

I may have to temper this with Pindar's advice;-

"Do not, my soul, strive for the life of the immortals,
but exhaust the practical means at your disposal."

Yet..

"On mountain peak, the eagle spreads its wings,
And in the valley, river softly sings.
The sun sets low, the day comes to a close,
As nature rests, and peacefulness imposes."

ou de moi

"Sur le sommet de la montagne l'aigle étend ses ailes,
Et dans la vallée, la rivière chante doucement.
Le soleil se couche, la journée se termine,
Comme la nature se repose, la tranquillité impose."

Gaps in the oeuvre

Readers have asked me why are there such gaps in your work and well there ain't.. ;-)

I'm a little OCD and track the poems I have written - although I am behind right now, good years and bad years - you know yourself...

I am in the process of addressing this and at the least will post up a few poems for the missing years. I am very appreciative of the nudges in this regard.

An issue here is prior publication. It is often the case that one cannot submit when the poem has been previously 'published' on one's own website / blog. Whilst I can appreciate the sentiment / rationale from a publishing perspective it does seem counter indicative - one holds / hoards the 'allegedly' good poems for submission. 

Whilst the merit of a poem is totally subjective nonetheless one is contrained by the 'rule' - in my opinion. Comparing this with other creative endeavours would seem to confirm this, how might a painter sell or exhibit work without showing work?

I track when and where, the year, the title, the date, the location and well about 10 other metrics. Yeah I know, I'd be better to try and focus on poetry. (or vice versa). I only write in pencil and in longhand and only add poems to the spreadsheet after they have been transcribed into a Doc. I tend to cycle through no punctuation or some punctuation, perhaps even full punctuation. I think the cadence / the inflection one hears in the mind makes or breaks the poem, irregardless to punctuation or lack thereof.

It's not over since then the process of drafts, the bad and the ugly are easy - one leaves them alone. The good however iterate themselves. Years ago I was amazed to learn that the great Stanley Kunitz cycled through as many as a hundred drafts before he was happy. 

Back to Paul Valéry;-

"In the eyes of those lovers of perfection, a work is never finished - a word that for them has no sense - but abandoned;.."

For me it is not perfection, per se, perhaps just that one word that does not belong.  <grin>

I rate poems 1 to 5 stars and then use the spreadsheet to track submissions, when I'm in submission mode, which does fluctuate somewhat.

There is a funny / applicable anecdote here, a Basque person was talking to an Irish speaker about the various nuances of their languages and asked;-

what is the equivalent word in Irish for mañana? (tomorrow)
the Irish speaker thought for a while and said
we do not have a word that exhibits that sense of urgency

Censorship is Wrong

It pains me to report gross infringement of my rights as an individual to access whatsoever I want.

I abhor thought police.

To be clear this is in response to the COUNCIL REGULATION (EU) 2022/350 of 1 March 2022
amending Regulation (EU) No 833/2014 concerning restrictive measures in view of Russia's actions destabilising the situation in Ukraine

https://eur-lex.europa.eu/legal-content/EN/TXT/HTML/?uri=CELEX:32022R0350&from=EN

Please stand up now to insist that the individual must be able to read all internet and other sources freely and without hindrance / censorship.

In the meantime I would suggest the following sources for an educated / insightful view of this highly manipulated / designed / orchestrated crisis.

http://thesaker.is/

https://michael-hudson.com/

Home and Sense of Place

 As always the diversity reflecting the Ireland that we may become is exciting and none more so than the readings from Home and Sense of Place.

Home and Sense of Place presents nine poems exploring the idea of home and belonging, the experience of migration, and the importance of place:

• Nithy Kasa reading “The Lake Isle of Innisfree” by W. B. Yeats (Dublin, 2020)
• Selina Nwulu reading her work “Half Written Love Letter” (London, 2019)
• Seán Hewitt reading “Queens” by J. M. Synge (Coole Park, Co Galway 2020)
• Mahogany L. Browne reading her work “If 2017 was a poem title” (New York, 2019)
• Denice Frohman reading her work “Puertopia” (New York, 2019)
• Doireann Ní Ghríofa reading her work “Brightening" (Coole Park, Co Galway, 2020)
• Liz Berry reading her work “The Republic of Motherhood” (London, 2019)
• Camille Rankine reading her work “It Would Sound Like a Dream” (New York, 2019)
• Marian Richardson reading “Girls Bathing, Galway 1965” by Seamus Heaney (Dublin, 2019)

I fully intend to provide video / links to the above as I find them, in the first instance here is a reading from Nithy Kasa reading William Butler Yeats' "The Lake Isle of Innisfree".

https://www.poetryireland.ie/whats-on/poetry-speaks-poems-and-moving-image

Congratulations to William Wall

Mega congratulations to William Wall on his appointment as the Cork poet laureate, an initiative of the Munster Literature Centre... (funded by Cork City Council). 

The laureateship runs for ten months from May 2021. The laureate will publish a new poem at the end of each month.
 
https://www.munsterlit.ie/
Read more... https://www.munsterlit.ie/cork_poet_laureate.html
William Wall's website http://www.williamwall.net/
On Wikepedia https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wall_(writer)

William's first poem is... 

Hometown Blues 

Listen to William Wall reading here...
https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsandculture/arid-40308719.html

In memory of the late great Rory Gallagher, I remember being at a Rory Gallagher concert in the Stadium in Dublin and as William says... "the whole floor a drum" for those not familiar with Rory Gallagher please search for Going To My Hometown (1972)... I know, we are all ancient, how else can you survive... ;-)

On Wikipedia
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rory_Gallagher

Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund

Folks,
IMHO ..it is beholden on us as the Irish nation to make a contribution to the current fundraiser to the Navajo & Hopi Families COVID-19 Relief Fund as a small token for the Great Hunger / Famine relief provided by the 1847 donation from the Choctaw Tribe.

https://www.gofundme.com/f/NHFC19Relief

We as a Nation will never forget the generosity of our Choctaw Brothers and Sisters who in their own time of need saw fit to make a contribution to the suffering in Ireland in 1847.

Go raibh maith agat go léir

Now it is our turn, please make a contribution.

Des Donnelly Tyrone