Friday, 31 August 2007

BSG

just finished watching the second season of the new Battlestar Galactica...I've not seen anything as good since Firefly, am completely blown away, and the thrid series is out next week on dvd..so I'm going to be locked away doing that as the rest of UK goes back to school..ah sometimes it's a joy to do something a bit naughty.. like watch sci-fi while everyone else is at work.....

here is Part 2 of the re-edited barbican video



hey e....

okay back to literature i go now...

Thursday, 30 August 2007

a Rumi quote

 a friend sent me this quote from Rumi yesterday

'The meaning of the sound and its resonance are one'

re-edited video

Hmmm not been blogging enough you say...

well i'll try a bit more ;-)e

am getting though my summer reading pile, but more books keep arriving, so i have made a radical decision to only read one book at a time instead of my usual 3 or 4 which doesn't seem to be working at present. almost finished Rilke's 'Letters to a young poet.' a must read for any serious poet or reader of poetry.

have been listening recently a lot to a great recording of Serkin playing schubert, and also the first led zeppelin lp in the car..."i've been dazed and confused for so long it's not true, wanted a woman never bargained for you.....'
Bloody Geniuses...

i have been re-editing the barbican video into single poems to make it more digestible, here is the first one, all four parts are on youtube, along with the original long one, also the oxfam vid is there too. please can you support your friendly neighbourhood poet by rating the films if you like them, (don't if you don't) favouriting them if you have a youtube account, and maybe even a few kind words of comment...(esp the Oxfam one as that is so public.) I appricate your support.. this is the thin edge of developing literature so that non poetry lovers may get a taste of poetry can actually do, and it can undo some of the set ideas people have about my beloved artform that they have picked up along the way..

enjoy 'summer cycle # 1 - the list'



and the link on youtube for the vid is here

mwah mwah darlings

John

Sunday, 12 August 2007

SkyScape.jpg


SkyScape.jpg
Originally uploaded by John Siddique.

I've been inspired to buy a new bicycle, so for the first time in many years I've been out and about exploring the landscape. two discoveries: firstly West Yorkshire is even hillier than I thought, and two - the sky is huge when you take the time to be under it.

~

e.xx

~

listening to Bach - solo violin

Saturday, 11 August 2007

FAC51 Goodbye Tony Wilson


FAC51
Originally uploaded by ranh.

the ever so ubiquitous Tony Wilson has passed on. Professional Manc, Founder of Factory Records, Radio Presenter, News Reader, and the man behind the Hacienda where as boys we would simply disappear into the music.

God love you Tony - Thank you for all those nights & music & for putting manchester on the map

Friday, 10 August 2007

Haworth Church - Brontes


Haworth Church - Brontes
Originally uploaded by John Siddique.

This is certainly a beautiful country! In all England, I do not believe that I could have fixed on a situation so completely removed from the stir of society. A perfect misanthropist's heaven.

Brontes in Howarth Church


Brontes in Howarth Church
Originally uploaded by John Siddique.

Had to get out of Hebden this morning, the pressure in the bottom of the valley is sometimes too much. Since I read Wuthering Heights again the other week I have been aching to do the short run over to Haworth to go to the Bronte House, spookiest thing was the vibe in the room that Emily and Anne wrote in, it is also the room Emily died in, and the sofa she died on is sitting right there.

Have been in my garden a lot, I say garden but it is all in containers as I have no real garden. trying to rest my mind amongst the foliage.

Listening to Vaughn Williams - The Lark Ascending

Tuesday, 7 August 2007

ah SUNFLOWER


ah SUNFLOWER
Originally uploaded by John Siddique.

Sunflower Sutra

I walked on the banks of the tincan banana dock and
sat down under the huge shade of a Southern
Pacific locomotive to look at the sunset over the
box house hills and cry.
Jack Kerouac sat beside me on a busted rusty iron
pole, companion, we thought the same thoughts
of the soul, bleak and blue and sad-eyed,
surrounded by the gnarled steel roots of trees of
machinery.
The oily water on the river mirrored the red sky, sun
sank on top of final Frisco peaks, no fish in that
stream, no hermit in those mounts, just ourselves
rheumy-eyed and hungover like old bums
on the riverbank, tired and wily.
Look at the Sunflower, he said, there was a dead gray
shadow against the sky, big as a man, sitting
dry on top of a pile of ancient sawdust--
--I rushed up enchanted--it was my first sunflower,
memories of Blake--my visions--Harlem
and Hells of the Eastern rivers, bridges clanking Joes
Greasy Sandwiches, dead baby carriages, black
treadless tires forgotten and unretreaded, the
poem of the riverbank, condoms & pots, steel
knives, nothing stainless, only the dank muck
and the razor-sharp artifacts passing into the
past--
and the gray Sunflower poised against the sunset,
crackly bleak and dusty with the smut and smog
and smoke of olden locomotives in its eye--
corolla of bleary spikes pushed down and broken like
a battered crown, seeds fallen out of its face,
soon-to-be-toothless mouth of sunny air, sunrays
obliterated on its hairy head like a dried
wire spiderweb,
leaves stuck out like arms out of the stem, gestures
from the sawdust root, broke pieces of plaster
fallen out of the black twigs, a dead fly in its ear,
Unholy battered old thing you were, my sunflower O
my soul, I loved you then!
The grime was no man's grime but death and human
locomotives,
all that dress of dust, that veil of darkened railroad
skin, that smog of cheek, that eyelid of black
mis'ry, that sooty hand or phallus or protuberance
of artificial worse-than-dirt--industrial--
modern--all that civilization spotting your
crazy golden crown--
and those blear thoughts of death and dusty loveless
eyes and ends and withered roots below, in the
home-pile of sand and sawdust, rubber dollar
bills, skin of machinery, the guts and innards
of the weeping coughing car, the empty lonely
tincans with their rusty tongues alack, what
more could I name, the smoked ashes of some
cock cigar, the cunts of wheelbarrows and the
milky breasts of cars, wornout asses out of chairs
& sphincters of dynamos--all these
entangled in your mummied roots--and you there
standing before me in the sunset, all your glory
in your form!
A perfect beauty of a sunflower! a perfect excellent
lovely sunflower existence! a sweet natural eye
to the new hip moon, woke up alive and excited
grasping in the sunset shadow sunrise golden
monthly breeze!
How many flies buzzed round you innocent of your
grime, while you cursed the heavens of the
railroad and your flower soul?
Poor dead flower? when did you forget you were a
flower? when did you look at your skin and
decide you were an impotent dirty old locomotive?
the ghost of a locomotive? the specter and
shade of a once powerful mad American locomotive?
You were never no locomotive, Sunflower, you were a
sunflower!
And you Locomotive, you are a locomotive, forget me
not!
So I grabbed up the skeleton thick sunflower and stuck
it at my side like a scepter,
and deliver my sermon to my soul, and Jack's soul
too, and anyone who'll listen,
--We're not our skin of grime, we're not our dread
bleak dusty imageless locomotive, we're all
beautiful golden sunflowers inside, we're blessed
by our own seed & golden hairy naked
accomplishment-bodies growing into mad black
formal sunflowers in the sunset, spied on by our
eyes under the shadow of the mad locomotive
riverbank sunset Frisco hilly tincan evening
sitdown vision.


Allen Ginsberg

Berkeley, 1955