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As an endorsement of multiculturalism footage such as this is a total failure and it saddens me at so many levels, I am saddened that so many of the protagonists are acting purely on anger and emotion, it saddens me that the police are not arresting the lot of them for affray, It saddens me that the media are being attacked for doing their job of recording the events its saddens me that the usual suspects will be in excuse making overdrive rather than demanding , well, civil behaviour …
Its nothing to cheer about Comrades
As regular readers will have gathered I actaully like the craft of writing, In this craft, like all forms of creative writing, you learn what works to get your message across and you learn that by having a direct interaction with your readers, rather than having what you write filtered through an editor or a publisher. You see what I am circling around is the issue of “literary awards” and their role in the writing landscape. I have been inclined to think about this because Campbell Newman has just announce that he is scrapping the Queensland Premiers awards with an annual saving to the budget of nearly a quarter of a million bucks. Of course the response to this from the literati has been to denounce this as the act of a philistine:
Personally I think that poetry per se is very over rated and that apart from aspiring members of the literati nobody reads poetry at all these days. The exception is of course the poetry of songs and songwriters. I bet that if you ask “Jane Bloggs” on the street to recite a poem from memory you will draw a blank but you ask her to tell you the lyric to a popular song and she will be close to word perfect. Of course the cultural elites look down their noses at mere popular music yet that would have to be the only form of poetry that makes any kind of an impression on the people or makes quid these days. So perhaps we should acknowledge that Campbell Newman is doing we Queenslanders a favour by scrapping the awards and allowing a rather useless forms of literary expression slide into the obscurity that it so richly deserves
It is nearly June and I want to find a blog that is worthy of being my blog of the month so I thought that I would ask you, my dear readers, for nominations. The blog can have any topic or focus as long as it is interesting and well written. I will even consider blogs with leftist political leanings if they are good enough.
Failing any ideas for blog of the month please feel free to comment on any topic that takes your fancy, except Moi.
I have a very busy day ahead what with Gym classes for daughter number one, a visit to the library, a session on the bench grinder to make some suspension components for my sports car and playing genial host for a musical afternoon; it is going to be all go here today.
Did I ever mention that I was an Anarchist Punk when that was a new idea? Well all of this talk of capital punishment has reminded me of the work of the performance Poet John Cooper Clarke; a chap from Manchester who preempted all of the rap and Hip Hop artists in the use of words and clever rhyme to make his point. Poems like Beasley Street gave me a whole new perspective on the possibilities of poetry,shaking of the perceptions that it had to be dull and impenetrable, or willfully obscure. Then there is this little gem which is probably better when spoken by John Cooper Clarke himself but the written version still has its charm, just try to imagine it spoken in a sardonic Manchester accent…
Read the paper – humdrum
Henley Regatta – page one
Eat die – ho hum
Page three – big bum
Giving a lunatic a loaded gun
He walks – others run
Thirty dead – no fun
Foreigners feature as figures of fun
Do something destructive chum
Sit right down – write a letter to the Sun
Say… “Bring back hangin’ for everyone”
The took my advice – they brought it back
National costume was all-over-black
There were corpses in the avenues and cul-de-sacs
Piled up neatly in six-man stacks
Hanging from the traffic lights and specially made racks
They’d hang you for incontinence and fiddling your tax
Failure to hang yourself justified the axe
A deedely dee, a deedely dum
Looks like they brought back hangin’ for everyone
The novelty’s gone – it’s hell
This place is a – death cell
The constant clang of the funeral bells
Those who aren’t hanging are hanging someone else
The peoples pay – the paper sells
It’s plug ugly – sub-animal yells
Death is unsightly – death smells
Swingin’ Britain – don’t put me on
They’re gonna bring back the rope for everyone
LYRICS © JOHN COOPER CLARKE.
Portions of any work that are quoted are reproduced on the basis of the “fair dealing for purpose of criticism or review” section 41 of the Copyright Act 1968.
O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,
Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!
So haggard and so woe-begone?
The squirrel’s granary is full,
And the harvest’s done.
I see a lily on thy brow
With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheeks a fading rose
Fast withereth too.
I met a lady in the meads,
Full beautiful—a faery’s child,
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She look’d at me as she did love,
And made sweet moan. 20
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long,
For sidelong would she bend, and sing
A faery’s song.
She found me roots of relish sweet,
And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said—
“I love thee true.”
She took me to her elfin grot,
And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,
And there I shut her wild wild eyes
With kisses four.
And there she lulled me asleep,
And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!
The latest dream I ever dream’d 35
On the cold hill’s side.
I saw pale kings and princes too,
Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci
Hath thee in thrall!”
I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
On the cold hill’s side.
And this is why I sojourn here,
Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,
And no birds sing.
John Keats (1795–1821). The Poetical Works of John Keats. 1884.