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Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts

Sunday, September 10, 2023

Convert Text (Poem) to QR Code

 As part of a project for an exhibition of Poetry, I was trying to convert each Poem into a QR code so that it could be downloaded for reading on a Phone, Tablet etc. This proved much more difficult than anticipated. 

Then I found the free online software https://me-qr.com/qr-code-generator/qr which seems relatively straightforward and offers a wide range of QR-Code designs. 

Here is an example...



Memoir as Poetry

 I am currently exploring the notion of using poetry as a form of memoir writing. My natural poetic style is the narrative form or flow of consciousness. I make no pretence at rhyme, rhythm or meter, although it is surprising how all those elements can appear in my writing. I have posted two poems on my Poetry Blog - Verse and Words. At the moment I visualise mixing the poetic form with conventional writing.


In the beginning ... Poetry

I apologise for cutting and pasting this interesting extract from The Cultural Tutor  Areopagus Volume LXII but I thought it was an interesting post for those on the periphery of Poetry, like myself who have yet to immerse themselves in the real world of mainstream Poetry. My thanks to the author who produces one of the most interesting websites and X (nee Twitter) threads, The Cultural Tutor and Twitter.


VI - Writing

In the beginning...


I have gathered here, for your perusal, the opening lines of several of history's most famous epic poems. Read them — not forgetting to enjoy and admire them, of course — and see if you can tell what they all have in common:

The Iliad of Homer

Sing, O goddess, the anger of Achilles son of Peleus, that brought countless ills upon the Achaeans.

The Odyssey of Homer

Tell me, O muse, of that ingenious hero who travelled far and wide after he had sacked the famous town of Troy. Many cities did he visit, and many were the nations with whose manners and customs he was acquainted; moreover he suffered much by sea while trying to save his own life and bring his men safely home; but do what he might he could not save his men, for they perished through their own sheer folly in eating the cattle of the Sun-god Hyperion; so the god prevented them from ever reaching home

The Aeneid of Virgil

Arms, and the man I sing, who, forc’d by fate,
And haughty Juno’s unrelenting hate,
Expell’d and exil’d, left the Trojan shore.
Long labours, both by sea and land, he bore,
And in the doubtful war, before he won
The Latian realm, and built the destin’d town...

Orlando Furioso by Ludovico Ariosto

Of ladies, knights, of passions and of wars,
of courtliness, and of valiant deeds I sing.

The Lusiads by Luís Vaz de Camões

Arms and the Heroes, who from Lisbon's shore,
Thro' seas where sail was never spread before,
Beyond where Ceylon lifts her spicy breast,
And waves her woods above the wat'ry waste,
With prowess more than human forc'd their way
To the fair kingdoms of the rising day:
What wars they wag'd, what seas, what dangers pass'd,
What glorious empire crown'd their toils at last,
Vent'rous I sing, on soaring pinions borne,
And all my country's wars the song adorn...

Jerusalem Delivered by Torquato Tasso

The sacred armies, and the godly knight,
That the great sepulchre of Christ did free,
I sing...

The Faerie Queene by Edmund Spenser

Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske,
As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds,
Am now enforst a far unfitter taske,
For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds,
And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds;
Whose prayses having slept in silence long,
Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds
To blazon broade emongst her learned throng:
Fierce warres and faithfull loves shall moralize my song.

Paradise Lost by John Milton

Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the World, and all our woe,
With loss of Eden, till one greater Man
Restore us, and regain the blissful seat,
Sing, Heavenly Muse...

Paradise Regained by John Milton

I, who erewhile the happy Garden sung
By one man’s disobedience lost, now sing
Recovered Paradise to all mankind,
By one man’s firm obedience fully tried
Through all temptation, and the Tempter foiled
In all his wiles, defeated and repulsed,
And Eden raised in the waste Wilderness.

So, what do these opening lines all have in common? There are certain models you can probably detect which, once established, were imitated, whether Virgil's original arms and the man I sing or some sort of Homeric invocation to the muses. But, in all cases, the connection is deeper and much simpler. In every example of epic poetry given here, the poet wastes no time telling you exactly what the poem shall be about, and usually in very direct language. Shakespeare did the same thing at the outset of Romeo and Juliet:
Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes
A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;

The reason I share all this is not only out of some scholarly interest. Rather, it's an important reminder not to fail to see the wood for the trees when we begin to write something. Tell the reader what they are about to read. Not all epic poems begin in this way, but the fact that many of them do should not be forgotten. Because, for all their length and complexity, their myriad characters and numerous plot-lines, the poet is in each case focussing on a single event or circumstance or theme, to which everything else is subsidiary. This clarity of intention cannot be underestimated. For if we begin with a single, simple intention in mind, and however complex the task becomes let it always be our north star, then we shall be surer of success and of creating something good than if we set out without a clear notion of where we are going. So, you see, these directly stated opening lines are for the poet as much as the reader. Any writer, of any sort of material, stands to gain by bearing this simple truth in mind.

Friday, February 3, 2023

I used to be Rubbish at Poetry

 For most of us, our first experience of poetry will be nursery rhymes although we will not realise that they are poems at the time. Our next experience will be at school when in English we have to learn a poem and probably recite it from memory and that will be a turn-off because we do not like learning things parrot fashion and we certainly don’t like standing up in front of our mates and make a fool of ourselves, and what’s the point, the words don’t make any sense anyway.

These early experiences colour our view of poetry as something a bit like art, it’s for posh people really. You don’t like poetry because you don’t understand it, right? If there is nothing in it for you why should you try to understand it? If you are going to enjoy something you don’t expect to have to try and understand it. After all, you can listen to a song and enjoy it without having to understand it! And that is a poem put to music. Most of us will come across a poem at some time in our life that does mean something to us, for example In Flanders Field by John McCrea

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 McCrea 2nd May 1915

The inspiration for “In Flanders Fields” came during the early days of the Second Battle of Ypres, a young Canadian artillery officer, Lieutenant Alexis Helmer, was killed on 2nd May 1915, in the gun positions near Ypres. An exploding German artillery shell landed near him. He was serving in the same Canadian artillery unit as a friend of his, the Canadian military doctor and artillery commander Major John McCrae. As the brigade doctor, John McCrae was asked to conduct the burial service for Alexis because the chaplain had been called away somewhere else on duty that evening. It is believed that later that evening, after the burial, John began the draft for his now famous poem “In Flanders Fields”.

I defy anyone to read the words of that poem and not be moved. But just like other art forms painting or drawing there are different styles many of which are very personal and many do not appeal to a wide audience. But that is no reason to dismiss poetry as something you don’t understand or something that is too complicated, something many of us are all guilty of, I suspect.

I do not understand all types of poetry, just like I don’t really get modern jazz or why anyone would want to become a punk or a goth. For that reason, I ignored it as an art form for most of my life, until I discovered a book of poetry called, Verse and Worse by Arnold Silcock. Sadly I can not remember exactly when It came to my attention, about the time I left school I think. It is a collection of light-hearted poetry amongst which are the few poems I have even committed to memory, mainly, I suspect, because they are vaguely rude. The first was:-

THE BLEEDIN' SPARRER
by Anon
We ‘ad a bleedin’ sparrer wot 
Lived up a bleedin’ spaht 
One day the bleedin’ rain came dahn 
An’ washed the bleeder aht.

An’ as 'e layed ‘arf drahnded 
Dahn in the bleedin’ street 
‘E begged that bleedin’ rainstorm 
To bave ‘is bleedin’ feet.

But then the bleedin’ sun came aht 
Dried up the bleedin’ rain 
So that bleedin’ little sparrer 
‘E climbs up ‘is spaht again.

But, Oh! - the cruel sparrer ‘awk 
‘E spies ‘im in ‘is snuggery 
‘E sharpens up ‘is bleedin’ claws 
An’ rips ‘im aht by thuggery.

Jist then a bleedin’ sportin’ type 
Wot ‘ad a bleedin’ gun 
‘E spots that bleedin’ sparrer ‘awk 
An’ blasts ‘is bleedin’ fun.

The moral of the story 
Is plain to everyone...
That them wot’s up the bleedin’ spaht 
Don’t get no bleedin’ fun.

You can imagine why that stuck in my consciousness.

Another was:-

Bloody Orkney

By Hamish Blair

This bloody town's a bloody cuss 
No bloody trains, no bloody bus, 
And no one cares for bloody us 
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody roads are bloody bad, 
The bloody folks are bloody mad, 
They'd make the brightest bloody sad, 
In bloody Orkney.

All bloody clouds, and bloody rains, 
No bloody kerbs, no bloody drains, 
The Council's got no bloody brains, 
In bloody Orkney.

Everything's so bloody dear, 
A bloody bob, for bloody beer, 
And is it good? - no bloody fear, 
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody 'flicks' are bloody old, 
The bloody seats are bloody cold, 
You can't get in for bloody gold 
In bloody Orkney.

The bloody dances make you smile, 
The bloody band is bloody vile, 
It only cramps your bloody style, 
In bloody Orkney.

No bloody sport, no bloody games, 
No bloody fun, the bloody dames 
Won't even give their bloody names 
In bloody Orkney.

Best bloody place is bloody bed, 
With bloody ice on bloody head, 
You might as well be bloody dead, 
In bloody Orkney

Again not difficult to see why those words stuck in my mind.

My girlfriend, now my wife, sent me poems when I was laid up in bed for 10 weeks. They were really sweet and meant so much to me but for the life of me, I could not write one back, no matter how hard I tried. But eventually many years later, when I was about 65 to be precise, a poem came to me from nowhere. Driving along in the car thinking about the place we used to go on holiday as kids, the sort of thing you do as you get old, it is called nostalgia, a poem started to form in my head. I could hear the words; they were describing the walk we used to take to the beach or the shore, as we called it in Scotland when I was a child. I could not wait to get out of the car to scribble the words down. I went for a coffee and scribbled in my notebook; before I knew it I had written my first poem.

Walk to the Shore

by Alistair J Parker

Cross the neat grass
Lift the latch
Hear the squeak
Rattle the chain
Think of a harness
Back on the hook
Make sure it’s closed
Mind the cow pat
Follow the dyke
A wiggly path
Winds down the hill
This way and that
Spot the odd rabbit
There used to be more
Hear the sweet singing
What did it say
Bread with no cheese repeats all the day
Yellow and noisy it hammers a song
One step more, keep going along
Notice the orchids
Notice some more
The little brown berries
In piles everywhere
Left by the bunnies
Left everywhere
Look there’s a burrow
Deep down in the ground
Home for a rabbit
Home in the ground
Taste the blackberries
All warm lush and round
Sun always shining
It shines every day
Over the stile now
Sweet smell of grass
It’s still early morning
Best time of the day
There is the sea
We’re nearly there
Through the rough grass
Mind the gorse spikes
Sloes in abundance
Lovely with gin
See the sand, closer now
The smell of the sea
The sound of the waves
Clack through the pebbles
All tumbling down
Look for the white ones
Look that’s one there
Feel the sand crunchy
On feet that are bare
Look it's Man Friday
A footprint is there
Hear the waves crashing
Up onto the rocks
Skim the stones seaward
Bounce off the waves
Hear the shrill call
The birds of the sea
A Sea Pie is calling
Plaintive and haunting
Memories flow
This magical place
I once loved to go
I feel a tear forming
The memory is dear
Seems a long time
Since I have walked there

There are a number of lessons to learn from this experience, firstly, you never know when the poetry bug will bit, If I can write a poem anyone can and there are no rules, well there are but you should not let not knowing them put you off. I have purposely not become involved in the rules of poetry much like I have avoided the rules of painting because I don’t want them to get in the way at the moment.

What you need to get you going is permission; you give yourself permission and maybe a few hints on how to get started if you really have no idea how to get started. My first tip would be to do as I did, visualise something you are very familiar with as a progression, get up in the morning, go to work, and write down a list of keywords that arise from the journey, and you have the makings of a poem…

Wake up,
open eyes,
yawn,
cough,
yawn again,
pull back the duvet,
sit up,
swing your legs out,
take a first step,
open the curtain,
and yawn.

Now add a few words and slightly rearrange.

Morning

I wake up
Open my eyes
Yawn, cough
And yawn again
Pull back the duvet
Sit up with a stretch
Swing out my legs
Take the first step
Open the curtain
And yawn.

You see what I mean; now you have a poem, you’re a poet in no time…

 Remember, there are rules, but don't let that put you off, mistakes are the source of inspiration and exciting discoveries. Plenty of time to learn the rules but only if you want to. Get writing…

Thursday, February 2, 2023

I remember the place but not the day


Poem - I remember the place but not the day

Standing still a special day.
The place I know.
The path alongside their house.
The coal shed.
The house next door.
Me my face my hands my legs my shoes.
My book, my cap.
My Gabardine raincoat to keep me warm and dry.
Me ready for school
The path the bricks along the edge.
The shadows heavy on the wall.
Me my dad, together.
I remembered the place but not the day

The poem was written and video made for my Ph.D. Exhibition 

Rational

Celia Lury tells us that snapshots or at least photographs are prosthetic memories. The Kodak Corporation sold the idea of the snapshot as a way of preserving our memories. Maybe that is only true if it was you who took the photograph. Not only is it a popular notion that we take snapshots to help us remember there is a significant academic discourse that also tries to convince us that there is an inextricable link between photographs and memory.

I was moved to research this notion further when I was faced with the paradox of the "First day at school" snapshot, a photograph of me aged seven, which triggered vivid memories of the place, when I first saw it in a family album, not of the day, even though I was clearly present.