. The Cyber Muse .

Information.

2011-05-02T19:21:00.026+01:00

The reader may well think I need something more important to worry about, but I am more than annoyed by the press and other media reporting information as the truth, when in many cases there is nothing to substantiate this information as the truth.

The question is, how much information is fact? The next question is, which information can we pick out as being trustworthy? The answer to the second question must be that there is a large percentage that we cannot be sure of trusting, unless we care to research everything we are fed, which we could never have time to do.

The problem has been excacerbated by the internet, (especially with the increasing popularity of blogs, twitters etc.) After all, anyone can post any information on the internet as fact, and this can easily be spread to other sites. A researcher, then, in an attempt to find information on an area of specialised interest, could use a small 'byte' of information that he/she believes is from a reliable source. Therefore the intention to mislead is not always present, but mislead we are.

Or maybe people in modern times have come to assume that most of what they are fed is just entertainment value, and may/may not be true. Does anyone have any opinions on this? It is a shame if we have become blase about the truth. Although these 'factoids' are not always of great importance, they must surely, by increments, mis-shape our view of the world, if they are to be believed.

An example: A reputable Sunday newspaper reported a list of historical coincidences, including the following-

On 5th Dec 1660, a ship sank in the Strait of Dover. The only survivor was noted to be Hugh Williams. On 5th Dec 1767, another ship sank in the same waters, 127 lost their lives, and the only survivor was Hugh Williams. On August 8th 1820, a picnic boat capsized on the Thames. There was one survivor. Hugh Williams. And on July10th 1940, a British trawler was destroyed by a German mine. Only 2 men survived, one man and his nephew - both were called Hugh Williams.

This is a great story. It's got the wow factor. In days before the internet, not so long ago, we could go on our merry way thinking about this great coincidence and maybe re-telling it at dinner parties!? But the internet confuses us more. A cultural historion might say that the internet gave information to the masses for the first time, but what do we have? Let me point out a few 'facts' about the above example.

Look it up. Our first instinct? If we do, we find that most references say the 1st three examples happened at the Menai Straits. A long way away from Dover. The first example could have been 1664. But some examples say all the 1st 3 happened on Dec 5th. Then again, some don't. Which example did the newspaper use? There are many different variations of what is toted as a 'fact.'

But wait, what happened at the Thames? Some say all 3 happened at the Menai Straits. If so, it's not so much a coincidence, as there were hundreds of shipwrecks in the 16th-19th centuries, just like car crashes of today, and Hugh Williams, well, just imagine the English equivalent of John Smith, it was bound to happen!

There is a Hugh Williams who heard of this when he was 17 and is still trying to verify the validity of the story. He hasn't so far. The story is most probably a myth, but imagine if it was YOUR name! would you like to know if it's true?

The internet, then, has only served, in this case, to cast more doubt on a 'factoid' that might, or might not, have began on the internet. There are records to be observed in naval historical papers etc. that someone, someday, might piece together. In the meantime, the papers continue to 'tell'us things. (By the way, there were half a dozen similar 'factoids' on the same page. Multiply this by all the pages in all the papers on every day.. a lot of misinformation)

PS, the term 'factoid' was coined by Norman Mailer when researching information about Marylin Monroes death. So there!

Libraries gave us power

2011-02-12T02:37:00.002Z

As Nicky Wire of the Manics says, its hard not to feel despondent about the plight of British libraries.

Far from being outmoded, the usage of libraries actually went up in the last decade. I always felt that the death of the library would be the beginning of the end for old-fashioned values. Of course they cost money, but surely they bring good value as they are available as a source of knowledge, and inspiration, to everyone, with nothing expected in return. Closures will hit the most poorest, once again.

Nicky Wire -So often absolutely ordinary in appearance, a good library should offer escape routes down the most extraordinary avenues, pathways into different worlds from the ones you've left outside. Ridding our villages, towns and cities of libraries, which are essential in shaping a nation's consciousness, seems like a direct attack on the soul of a country.

(Seems like announcements like this always happen after a government get in power, not mentioned when they are asking for votes.)

Religion & language

2010-11-19T23:55:00.016Z

Here begins a rather long blog about a train of thought, which began when I looked up on the internet the meaning of "Mithras."

Mithras is an ancient Persian religion, which was adopted by the Romans, particularly Roman soldiers. There were many mithraea, or mithric temples, stretching from Britain to Persia, the ruins of which can be found in London & Colchester among other examples. To summarise, (although details can obviously be looked up,) Mithra, one of many Persian gods, was depicted by the Romans as a figure slaying a bull, in many statues and paintings, as a good over evil symbol. The Romans that practised Mithras kept their religion as an exclusively male sect, and were very secretive, so few written details survive. (Roman emperors were also worshiped as gods at one time, and although historians claim Mithras was very popular, it was also very 'underground,' temples actually being built under ground, with severe initiation ceremonies to test the devotion of members.)

Interestingly, some scholars of Mithraism have put forward the theory that the similarities between Mithra, the god, and the life of Jesus have so many parallels as to indicate that the New Testament borrowed many ideas from the religion of Mithras. Namely:

Mithra was born on Dec 25th, of a virgin.

Mithra had 12 followers.

Mithra was buried in a tomb and after 3 days was resurrected.

Mithra performed miracles.

His resurrection was celebrated every year.

His sacred day was Sunday.

So, of course, if this is true, it has enormous implications, as it discredits the Bible completely. But no, not so simple as that. I then realised that some historians discredit this claim, although naturally, these are Christians, working in the field of Apologetics. (This is presenting a rational argument for the Christian faith. Forgive me if I am stating the obvious, but the term is new me.)

Their main agument seems to be that nearly all the evidence comes from a time after the writing of the New Testament. I emphasise nearly as it seems to me that its not good enough; if any evidence comes before, then that is sufficient evidence.

They also argue that some attributes are common to many religions, as in performing miracles, which is a valid point. Also, that Dec 25th was not mentioned in the New Testament, but was suggested by the church long after, and was anyway used by many sacred festivities as it was at the time recognised as the winter solctice.

There is far too much for and against information to discuss here. There are many conferences and books on the subject, you could say an industry! But how the two 'sides' argue the case can be analysed:

Acharya, a writer attempting to prove the virgin birth of Mithra, many years BC, says he was born of Aditi, the 'mother of the gods' or the 'inviolable or virgin dawn.' Critics say this is applying terminology illicitly, dawn=virgin. The story is that Mithra was born from a rock, so Acharya says Mithra was born of 'Prima Materia, or Primordial Matter, which could be considered First Mother, Virgin Matter, Virgin Mother, etc.' This is flimsy, using the latin Mater, mother, to connect the words matter and mother, and connecting the words first and virgin, to try to prove her case.

Also, of course, there is the problem of translation of ancient language, and it has been acknowledged that no one person has the mastery of linguistics, history, anthropology, archaeology etc. that is needed to decypher this problem. It also seems there are ulterior motives for each 'side' to propogate their beliefs.

Another word on Apologetics. The Bible states that some people of the Old Testament lived for hundreds of years, ie Noah lived for 950 years. The only answer I can find from the Apologists is that the Earth was a very different, ie healthier, place, before the flood, or that there was an envelope of water around the Earth that protected it. Not that I am making any claims about the scriptures here! Just that it is all food for thought.

Finally, and somewhat irrelevantly, these are pictures from some plaques beside the Roman wall at Noble St, London.

My Story

2010-10-01T18:19:00.002+01:00

There is an interesting website linked to the BBC program My Story.

Its www.bbc.co.uk/my-story and it has hundreds of submissions of true stories, which are indexed by theme. As some are quite tragic, it seems dubious to me to make a competition out of these stories. (The prize for the best was a publishing contract.) Some are stranger than fiction!

Censorship.

2010-06-16T12:59:00.003+01:00

Donald McGill was the prolific cartoonist that gave Britain most of the 'saucy postcards' that go on sale in our beach resorts. Although a staid Victorian type character, he was master of the double entendre, which, coupled with his drawings, gave us the funny cartoons we all know and love. He created over 12,000 designs, but although these sold in excess of 200 million, he only gained 3 guineas each.

The most bizarre use of the 1857 Obscene Publications Act must be the prosecution of Donald McGill and Constance Publications. In 1954 the government saw fit to put McGill, then an 80 year old man, to trial. He was advised to plead guilty to escape jail and was fined. This lead to many of his printed designs being destroyed.

Reading between the lines, it seems to me that he was encouraged to make his designs more 'bawdy' as it was these that sold better, and his style can be seen to change from his earlier to later work. But more interestingly, his images were quite innocent, as were his captions. A jump in imagination had to be made to make the whole even remotely obscene. So in fact he was charged for projecting a thought, or even a potential thought, into the viewers mind.

I wonder if this is the one and only case where this has happened?

George Orwell wrote an essay about McGill in 1941. Sixteen years later, Big Brother had truly arrived.

Later, McGill parodied his own prosecution, as can be seen here.

Predictions

2010-06-08T11:42:00.002+01:00

Marcus Du Sautoy is a Professor of Maths at Oxford University, and holds the Professorship for the Public Understanding of Science. He is running a competition; predict the outcome of the Premiership at the end of next season and you win £10,000. Free to enter. Sounds quite possible, doesn't it? But wait, the odds, if the teams could be considered as purely random, are over 2 sextillion to one. This is more likely than picking one second out of the entire lifespan of the universe.

Of course it is not entirely random, ie no-one expects Chelsea to come bottom of the table. So this all has connotations. What is possible in science is not actually possible in 'real' life. Also, I think, there are psychological points of interest here. If your average football expert was given 1000 goes at getting the Premiership right, he would be pretty confident at doing so. But the Professor says that even if 100,000 fans have a go, the money will probably be safe.

So, this means, I think you will agree, that humans have an inflated belief of how well they 'know' something. This is what keeps bookies in business. This could probably be transferred to all walks of life, ie how well we think we can judge people for example. Or maybe its subjective, ie some people would have a lower 'confidence rating' and just wouldn't have a go. But I think everyone has a belief that they know about some things, and that this belief distorts their perception of how valid that knowledge is. Mind you, if I win the 10 grand I will end up eating my words!

A Spaniard In The Works

2010-06-02T12:21:00.002+01:00

Here is a link to a website that prints all of John Lennon's second book, A Spaniard In The Works, in which he writes nonsensical prose and poetry with clever use of puns. Written in 1965. At the same time as being a Beatle? I don't know how he did it.

http://beatlesnumber9.com/spaniard.html

Weather Poetry

2010-05-09T17:59:00.003+01:00

I went to a poetry group, the subject of the day being 'weather poetry.' The weather may affect our moods, or our moods may be conveyed by reference to the weather. I thought these poems were relevant, by Robert Graves:

MIST

Fire and Deluge, rival pretenders
To ruling the world's end: these cannot daunt us
Whom flames will never singe, nor floods drown,
While we stand guard against their murderous child
Mist, that slily catches against love's throat,
Shrouding the clear sun and clean waters
Of all green gardens everywhere-
The twitching mouths likewise and furtive eyes
Of those who speak us fair.

GOLD CLOUD

Your gold cloud, towering far above me,
From which I climb from darkness into sleep
Has the warmth of sun, rain's morning freshness
And a scent either of wood-smoke or jasmine;
Nor is the ascent steep.

Our creature, time, bends readily as willow;
We plan our own births, that at least we know,
Whether in the lovely moment of deat
Or when we first meet, here in Paradise,
As now, so years ago.

Mesostic Herbarium

2010-04-20T22:52:00.010+01:00

This is a book by Alec Finlay. There are some nice examples of mesostics. Apparently a 50% mesostic means that between any two CAPITALISED letters, you aren't allowed the second letter. With a 100% mesostic, you aren't allowed either letter. I'm not sure if all the mesostics in this book adhere to this, but never mind.

I like the idea that the theme is flora, and that

...................naMes
................makE
.......................Stems
...................chOsen
...............wordS
.......................Their
................growIng
................branChes

(these aren't easy to line up in a blog! look at these:)

........................Far
........................Overseas
.................you'Re
..............kissinG
.....................mE
.........goodnighT
...........................
.........................Morning
.......................hEre
.............................
...................midNight
..........................Over
..........................There

..........................Milky
....................berrIes
............................Shine
.......................wiThin
.......................holLy
...........................lEaves
......................proTecting
...........................lOvers'
.....................kissEs

............................Bright
............................Uncomplicated
..................bloomS
.............................You
...............................
.............................Linger
.............................In
.........................haZy
..........................laZy
......................semI-shaded
.....................bordErs
.............................Summerlong

...........finally..gettIng..the..hang
...........................oV
.............................Yt

On a similar note, people have deliberately given out messages using acrostics, where the first letter of the line is significant. Eg James May, in each edition of Autocar, using the big red letter at the beginning of each review, spelled out "So you think its really good? Yeah you should try making the bloody thing up. It's a real pain in the arse." I wonder if there are many others that have gone unnoticed...

The Million's Poet

2010-04-11T15:53:00.004+01:00

The Million's Poet is an X-factor style TV show aired in the United Arab Emitates. It is shown on Emirati TV. The winner is awarded a 5 million dirham prize. The show is one of the most popular in the Middle East. It draws masters of Bedouin dialect poetry, called Nabati. Extraodinary. I wonder how a similar show would fare on western TV?

Hissa Hilal is Saudi housewife and mother of four who attracted attention with her poetry denouncing Islamic extremism. She wore traditional head to toe black cloak and veil. She defied death threats to reach the final of the show. Her final poem concerned the topic of freedom of speech. Apparently, in the second part of of the program, all poets have to improvise a six verse poem to match one by the previous year's winner. They must use the same weight, rhyme and subject without using any of the previous one's metaphors.

The panel, which accounts for 60% of the votes, placed her first, but after the remaining 40% of the votes from the public came in, she was placed third, with a prize equivalent to £536,000. Mrs Hilal admitted she was scared by the death threats, but vowed to use poetry to fight extremism. The winner, from Kuwait, received the 5m dirham (£900,000). Extraordinary. I wonder if we would all try harder with our poetry if this sort of show was on every Saturday night? I wonder, also, whether any of this poetry is available in translation? Please let me know if anyone has any feedback.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

2010-03-29T09:38:00.004+01:00

Found myself at a poetry group reading of the above poem. I won't go into too many details of the poem here, as there are plenty of links. However, I will clarify by saying that this reading was of the translation by Simon Armitage.

The poem makes good use of alliteration, ie lines 140 146 -

I should genuinely judge him to be a half-giant

or a most massive man, the mightiest of mortals.

But handsome too, like any horseman worth his horse,

for despite the bulk and brawn of his body

his stomach and waist were slender and sleek.

In fact in all features he was finely formed

and also uses what apparantly is called 'bob and wheel,' a two syllable line followed by a short four line rhyme. To continue from the above-

it seemed.

Amazement seized their minds,

no soul had ever seen

a knight of such a kind-

entirely emerald green.

I was most interested by the difference of other translations. (It is estimated as 600 years old.)

This kyng lay at Camylot vpon Krystmasse

With mony luflych lorde, ledez of the best. (2nd ed. Oxford 1967)

This king lay at Camelot one Christmastide

With many mighty lords, manly liegemen. (Peguin 1974)

It was Christmas at Camelot- King Arthur's court,

where the great and the good of the land had gathered (Faber & Faber 2007)

So as you see the new edition is very readable and makes the same use of alliteration, even if not using the same consonants.

I like the lines-

But each year, short-lived, is unlike the last
and rarely resolves in the style it arrived.
So the festival finishes and a new year follows
in eternal sequence, season by season.
After lavish Christmas come the lean days of lent
when the flesh is tested with fish and simple food.
Then the world's weather wages war on winter:
cold shrinks earthwards and clouds climb;
sun-warmed, shimmering rain comes showering
onto meadows and fields where flowers unfurl,
and woods and grounds wear a wardrobe of green.

There are two themes evident in the poem, the Beheading Game, found in Irish and French tales. Also the Wooing Game or test of chastity. (Gawain is found in many Arthurian tales. He seems to degenerate from the ideal hero, in early versions, to less vituous and even treacherous. In Morte d'Arthur he is 'the destroyer of good knights.')

The test of chastity has lead some to say that there is a feminist theme to the poem, as the female is in control:

It was she, the lady, looking her loveliest,
most quietly and craftily closing the door,
nearing the bed. The knight felt nervous,
lying back he assumed the shape of sleep
as she stole towards him with silent steps,
then clasped the curtain and crept inside,
then sat down silently at the side of his bed.
And awaited him wakening for a good long while.
Gawain lay still, in his state of false sleep,
turning over in his mind what this matter might mean,
and where the lady's unlikely visit might lead.
Yet he said to himself, 'instead of this stealth
I should ask openly what her actions imply'

By pure coincidence, the next day I visited Windsor Castle, where there is the names and coat of arms of all the Knights of the Order of the Garter, dating from the Black Prince of the 14th Century to present day. One of these early Knights, or a close relation, is likely to be the Pearl Poet, the unknown author of Gawain....

The Muslim World

2010-03-09T12:37:00.002Z

Barbara Walters, of 20/20, did a story on gender roles in Kabul, Afghanistan several years before the Afghan conflict. She noticed that the women customarily walk five paces behind their husbands.

She recently returned to Kabul and found that the women still walk behind their husbands. Despite the overthrow of the oppressive Taliban regime, the women now seem to, and are happy to, maintain the old custom.

Ms. Walters approached one woman and asked, "Why do you now seem happy with an old custom that you once tried so desperately to change?"

The woman looked Ms. Walters straight in the eyes, and without hesitation, said "Land mines."

The moral of the story is, no matter what language you speak or where you go: Behind every man, there's a smart woman.

Who Killed Davey Moore?

2010-03-01T21:01:00.003Z

As it is easier to blog someone elses words rather than ones own, here are some lyrics that I like. Davey Moore was a boxer who died in 1963 after fighting Sugar Ramos.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2kOO8v2m598

Crazy English

2009-12-08T22:36:00.007Z

Reasons why the English language is so hard to learn.

The farm was used to produce produce.

The bandage was wound around the wound.

As there is no time like the present, he thought it was time to present the present.

I did not object to the object.

The insurance was invalid for the invalid.

The wind was too strong to wind the sail.

There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.

They were too close to the door to close it.

I had to subject the subject to the tests.

Upon seeing the tear in the painting I shed a tear.

Doesn't it seem crazy that you can make amends but not one amend? If you have a bunch of odds and ends and get rid of all but one of them, what do you call it? Is it an odd, or an end? If a vegetarian eats vegetables, what does a humanitarian eat?

In what language do people recite at a play and play at a recital?

Ship by truck and send cargo by ship?

Have noses that run and feet that smell?

How can a slim chance and a fat chance be the same? You have to marvel at a language in which you fill in a form by filling it out and in which an alarm goes off by going on.

English was invented by people, not computers, and it reflects the creativity of the human race. That is why, when the stars are out, they are visible, but when the lights are out, they are invisible...

J A Lindon

2009-09-25T20:51:00.010+01:00

I have been spending half an eternity looking for references to J A Lindon on the web. I first became curious of his work after recalling, from many years ago, of a spoof of "Poem in October" called "Poem in Tubwater."

It appears that many of his poems were only published in newspapers. However, he is credited with creating the first vocabularyclept poem!! This is when a poet is given the words from a poem, in alphabetical order, a,a,a, an, and, etc. and given the task of creating a new poem. He also did this 'blind' as due to an oversight he did not know what the previous poem was.

Although accedited as from Weybridge, he contributed to the 'Word Ways' magazine of Butler University, Indianappolis, where he wrote acrostic poetry as well as articles on poetic problems.

He was also very 'into' palindromic poems (read forwards/backwards by letter, word or line.)

Here is a spooky example of his (line) palindrome poetry (to be read at halloween!)

DOPPELGANGER

Entering the lonely house with my wife
I saw him for the first time
Peering furtively from behind a bush -
Blackness that moved,
A shape amid the shadows,
A momentary glimpse of gleaming eyes
Revealed in the ragged moon.
A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Put him to flight forever-
I dared not
(For reasons that I failed to understand)
Though I knew I should act at once.

I puzzled over it, hiding alone,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
Night after night.
Night after night
He came, and I saw him crouching,
Watching the woman as she neared the gate.
I puzzled over it, hiding alone-
Though I knew I should act at once,
For reasons that I failed to understand
I dared not
Put him to flight forever.

A closer look (he seemed to turn) might have
Revealed in the ragged moon
A momentarty glimpse of gleaming eyes
A shape amid the shadows,
Blackness that moved.

Peering furtively from behind a bush,
I saw him for the first time,
Entering the lonely house with my wife.

PS Is the fear of palindromes really aibohphobia?

Concrete Poetry.

2009-08-26T23:24:00.010+01:00

Visited the ICA recently to see the exhibition on concrete poetry, called Poor.Old.Tired.Horse.

Particularly like Liliane Lijn's printed spinning cones, which were, literally, that! The rotation allows the observer to see the beginning of the line to come into view as the end of the line disappears, creating a unique effect of 'nonlinear reading', is the only way I can describe it. The lines -
Protons are positive. Are you? Are you?
Electrons are negative. Are you? Are you?
Neutrons are neutral. Are you? Are you?

go round and round, but the effect is unlike the words on the printed page.
Also, as I have realised by reading Lijn's comments, the conical shape means the words are accelerated as they feature lower down. She says-
"When we see the written word we forget that letters are symbols of vibrations. I make poem machines to transform words into energy patterns."

Ferdinand Klimet had metal signs with circular 'compendium words' as in BLACKOUTLAW, LIPUBERTYPE. The design of the signs to me had the style of giving information, whereas the word patterns embossed on them were more cryptic, but the presentation gave them more intrigue.

More traditionally, Alasdair Gray had on show poems that formed part of his black and white illustrations, illustrations that reflected a theme of the poem. I liked, from "In A Cold Room",

Loneliness

From the soul's proper loneliness love and affection seem
part substance and part dream
held in the mouth in the same way the snake carries its eggs
if gripped too hard they break
leaving a few grains of dust
and a heart crippled by its weight of lust

hope you are all still writing & will continue to blog!

Torn

2009-07-22T22:09:00.000+01:00

You might find this amusing if you haven't seen it...

YouTube - torn mime

To God.

2009-07-10T20:51:00.005+01:00

There was once a man who worked at the post office whose job it was to return letters that were addressed incorrectly. One day he found a letter on his desk that just had "To God" written on the front of the envelope in shaky handwriting. Intrigued, he opened the letter, and it read thus:

"Dear God,
My name is Edna, I am 83 years old. Every year I save up £100 and use it to have a Christmas party for all my friends. But today somebody stole my purse with my £100 in it. It is only 5 days until Christmas and all of our plans have been spoiled. I have never asked for anything from you before but I wondered if this time you could possibly help me?
Yours faithfully,
Edna.

Well the man felt sorry for Edna and passed the letter around to his colleagues. After reading it they decided to have a whip round, and managed to collect £96, which they quickly sent back to Edna's address on the top of the letter, feeling very charitable at this festive time.

Well Christmas came and went, and a few days later another letter appeared on the desk, in the same shaky handwriting, addressed "To God." All the people gathered around the desk excitedly, to see what the letter would reveal. It said:

"Dear God,
Hello this is Edna. I cannot thank you enough for the money you sent to me! Because of your divine intervention we all had a wonderful Christmas, and my friends and I enjoyed ourselves very much. I knew I could have faith in you!
By the way, there seemed to be £4 missing from the envelope. I bet it was those bastards at the post office.
Yours faithfully,
Edna."

2009-06-17T03:23:00.006+01:00

Stop Press 1 !

There is a series on the BBC on Friday evenings called "My Life In Verse" in which celebrities (eg Sheila Hancock ) talk about the poetry that influenced them in their lives.

Stop Press 2 !!

Poet turned singer/songwriter Leonard Cohen plays Weybridge on the 11th July!!! I will be there. Here is an old clip -

YouTube - first we take manhattan -leonard cohen: "http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TRaGvuJNoxI"

Colour The Truth.

2009-06-17T00:14:00.015+01:00

The girl from Brazil
Now in the mind's eye
The girl from Brazil
I told a white lie
I read to her
In The White Giant's Thigh
Could I turn back the page?
It's not black and white.

Now take it as read
She is statuesque
A red blooded heart
Can only attest
Under the quenched sun
We acquiessed
No man or woman
Ever should be oppressed

A dual equation
There's no more I can do
I symbolically changed
What was one into two
Now the heart beats itself
Until I'm black and blue

Something else about words...

2009-05-13T00:11:00.003+01:00

Fi yuo can raed tihs yuo hvae a sgtrane mnid too.
Cna yuo raed tihs? Olny ffiytfvie plepoe out of one hnurded can.
I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg.
The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rseaecrehr at Cmarbigde Uinervtisy, mneas it dseno'y mtaetr waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frist and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and yuo can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe. Azamnig huh? Yaeh and I awlyas tghuoot slpelnig was ipmorantt! If yuo can raed this frowrad it.

2009-05-06T00:42:00.003+01:00

I read an article about mobile phone novelists in Japan. Apparently the mobile phone novel is a publishing boom which is set to hit Britain soon. Of last year's 10 best-selling novels in Japan, 5 were Keitai Shousetsou (mobile phone novel.)

Ryu, a Japanese barman, blogged his novel, Tokyo Real, every night to his friends. It was subsequently downloaded by more than 3 million people, made into a film, and inspired an anti drugs march through the streets of Tokyo.

Similarly Tadashi Izumi, who has a PhD in Victorian Literaturefrom Cambridge University, is the author of Cross Road, which more than 2 million people downloaded within a week.

He said that the keitai novel is democratising publishing because novelists can now acquire a fan base before publishers even know who they are, similar to high profile bloggers such as Belle du Jour and Petite Anglais. The language needs to be conscise and simple with far fewer adjectives. So instead of describing a sunset, he simply writes that the sun is setting.

Also, publishers Indigo launched a digital book service in 120 countries. Most customers used their phones for e-reading.

I guess that it may materialise into an alternative for, rather than a replacement to, a conventional book.

2009-04-03T19:26:00.002+01:00

Hi fellow bloggers. Read some things in the free Metro that you might find interesting.

1. The power of words. There has been a culture recently that saying 'sorry' allows you to get away with a lot. MPs and footballers for example. I remember a teacher of ours being angry with us when we said sorry for something, with a grin on our faces. He would say 'you are not sorry. Sorry means you are full of sorrow, which you are not.' & of course he was right. So I was surprised to see two examples of this on the same page.

"Hitman Says 'Sorry' Over 27 Murders." - apparently his sentence will not change, but he will receive £30 a month to buy goods from the jail canteen. (He is banned from writing a book about his crimes. The law must be different in Canada.)

"Give Sorry Khmer Boss His Own Cell." - Comrade Duch, of the Khmer Rouge, should be given his own cell because he said sorry for his crimes, his lawyer argued. Seems there is often an incentive for the apology.

2. "Gadsby: Champion of Youth, by Ernest Vincent Wright written in 1939 is noticable for not using the letter 'e' once in its 50,000 plus words. This inspired other writers to do the same thing, notably George Perec in La Disparition. " Which is an obvious link to the book 'Eunoia' by Chritian Bok, which only uses one vowel in each of its 5 chapters.

3. A new book by Alain de Botton, 'The Pleasure And Sorrows Of Work.' (I know about the latter.) He says ' Most modern fiction suggests all people do is fall in love and murder each other. It doesn't give you an idea of how central work is to people's experience.' He has written a 'poetically minded collection of extended essays that observe the rituals and internal culture of nine very different jobs.' Seems like a fairly unique book.

Finally, here is another calligramme. The words actually spell out what they are depicting. Needs to be seen in full screen.

.

2009-04-03T19:22:00.000+01:00

2009-03-31T20:46:00.004+01:00

Yes it's fascinating facts time. I believe that the shortest poem ever was by Muhammed Ali, and goes like this:
Me?
Oui!
Which is ironic considering how talkative he is. I don't think anyone has beaten 5 letters? Anyway just like to say that I have really found the course interesting and have enjoyed meeting you all and seeing/hearing your writing.

2009-03-23T11:26:00.000Z

After discussing ways of using text, I was looking at calligrammes by poets such as Apollinaire, where the text forms a picture relevant to
the text. Unfortunately these seem to be mostly in French! but here

is one -

& after going to the Harvey gallery and talking about putting poetry together with images, I suddenly remembered two books which I have had for years and all but forgotten about, by Heathcote Williams. They are "Whale Nation" and "Autogeddon" and they are basically books of photographs with interspersed verse, which work together really powerfully and I can't express how good I think they are. Anyway I have copies that anyone can borrow/look at. They would be of interest to anyone into poetry or photography or green issues.

2009-03-11T01:26:00.000Z

A villanelle, at last.

If Once.

If once you loved, let love endure
With the days that pass and the earth that turns
Can one see fade what once was pure?

To preserve strong heart, you may ensure
That the light won't flicker as the candle burns
If once you loved, let love endure.

And the strength is a vigour that may procure
A belief that only the Cynic spurns
Can one see fade what once was pure?

In our modern age nothing is secure
Distracted by abstract, deflecting concerns
If once you loved, let love endure.

When focus fails, meaning is obscure
And nothing is permanent, one learns
Can one see fade what once was pure?

So falter not ever, never be unsure
And remember the spirit of a heart that yearns
If once you loved, let love endure
Can one see fade what once was pure?

2009-02-27T13:06:00.000Z

Hi folks, for anyone who couldn't make it this week, just to let you know that we looked at the form the 'villanelle', and also poetry by Katie Donovan. Including 'Day of the Dead', 'Rocks', 'Motherlode'' and 'Sunset' if anyone wants to look them up.

Also if anyone has to be very late next week we will be at the castle, which is just down the hill from the centre, if the weather is ok. But we shall be meeting first at the classroom.

And here is .... amazing anagrams!

Dormitory = dirty room
Snooze Alarms = alas! no more Z's
The Public Art Galleries = large picture halls, I bet
Eleven Plus Two = twelve plus one
Desperation = a rope ends it
Mother-in-law = Hitler woman

To be or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune...

becomes

In one of the Bard's best thought of tragedies, our insistent hero, Hamlet, queries on two fronts about how life turns rotten...

(from a book.)

2009-02-21T00:13:00.000Z

An attempt at a sestina.

The Visionary.

There was once a Visionary, of a City in the sand
His people would revere him for the secrets he could see
Each morning he would waken as the dawn sky turned to gold
And leave the City walls into the desert all around
Through the wilderness he trod, but known only to him
Lay a still oasis where he could contemplate the truth.

Meditating by the cedar tree, he divined the truth
As he sat and let his fingers sift through the grains of sand
There was no sound, no movement, perfect solitude for him
The far horizon shimmered for as far as he could see.
He would at last gaze at the sky, and notice all around
The heavens that were cloudless, the pure air bathed in gold.

So overhead into the west dissolved the sun of gold
The shadow of the cedar darkened his quest for truth.
His path was long and lonely as the twilight came around.
As he approached the city gates beyond the torrid sand
A multitude would wait for his arrival. He could see
Like disciples of a prophet, they thirsted to greet him.

"What have you seen?" they asked. They needed gilded words from him.
He would paint fantastic images for their own eyes to see.
"I have seen the Giant Lizard freeze to an effigy of gold.
I have seen an aged wizard hold the sacred book of truth
I have seen a young Nereid rise up from the sea of sand."
And they marvelled at his stories, as they were gathering around.

The next dawn came, in the desert, seclusion all around
But clearer than a mirage, cold remorse came over him.
And as he sat upon his rock, his spirit turned to sand.
"I have taken from them charity, I have weaved them lies, not truth
I have given them false visions in exchange for there gold
I have invented all these secrets for them to vainly see."

"My soul is blank, as empty as the sky. Yes now I see."
His being was as barren as the wasteland all around
The truth was hard to bear at once, but he must bear the truth
For reality, unspeakable, had been shown to him.
His existence was too clear now. He had given them fool's gold.
As nightfall came, he retreated to the City in the sand.

"What did you see? What did you see?" voices clamouring around.
"I have seen nothing. Just sand," he said. They mocked and jeered at him.
But the truth befell more precious than their gold.

2009-02-10T12:37:00.000Z

I was reading with interest that Seamus Heaney is a big fan of Eminem.
He said "Eminem has created a sense of what is possible. He has sent a voltage around a generation. He has done this not just through his subversive attitude but his verbal energy."

He was named second most powerful celebrity on the planet, by Forbes. He also won an Oscar for Lose Yourself. This was 2003, so I am completely behind the times. But here is Lose Yourself. I like the images with the lines. (Warning. There is swearing.) Love it or hate it...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PRRn9NoZs8s

2009-01-28T04:01:00.000Z

Read something interesting in the newspaper today by Howard Jacobsen. He said:

Without a context we understand nothing. A context explains intent. And without an intent we understand nothing either. A word on its own tells you absolutely zilch.
Words are innocent. Words await what the user means to do with them, and then await interpretation at the other end. They are no more malicious in themselves than alcohol is inebriated in the bottle.

I'm not too sure. Anyway, here's another haiku, with no malicious intent:

Branches nod sagely
Like two old politicians
In their secret talks.

2009-01-24T15:47:00.000Z

Here's a haiku, or maybe senyru, love poem:

Cannot say enough
In seventeen syllables
Just that I love you.

And these little fellows ... are called ellipses, apparently. Or in computer languages, can be called yadda yadda yadda. I kid you not! You can wikipedia it ...

2009-01-09T12:28:00.000Z

Hi everyone, I hope you all had a pleasant Christmas. Hope to see you all next week. Been trying, but not hard enough, to write more, but spent too much time eating drinking and being merry instead. But why not, apparently the world will end in 2012, just to cheer you up. The ancient Mayan calendar started 5000 years ago but unlike ours counts downwards, and ends in 2012. Which is also when the Earth's magnetic field reverses. Apparently. Which is not much fun for all you orienteerers out there. Physicists say that this is nothing to worry about, but perhaps they are just being kind.

I went last weekend to the Lightbox in Woking, which is a new gallery and museum. It has caused a lot of controversy among the townsfolk, I have been told, many of whom believe that the money needed to build it could have been used more practically. The lighbox is decieving; the broadside, as one approaches, makes the building appear larger than it is. The entrance is gained from the left side which is quite narrow. So imagine a long thin rectangle of light. I went out of interest in "Drawn Blank" which is an exhibition of 60 paintings by Bob Dylan. What you actually find is a single room on the top floor which contains the works, which are drawings from the 80s and 90s that have been digitally enlarged and then painted by Bob. Some, it has to be said, are reminiscent of other artists, such as the 4 identical drawings in different colours that is very Warhol. Others remind you very much of Van Gogh, and I was hoping to see something more original. But he says that such similarities were not made intentionally. Most are views from rooms or portraits, and all share the same casual, colourful style. Incidentally, these works go for approx. "£4,000 unframed, £5,000 framed." A thousand? Your reviewer has quit his job and is going into the frame making business.

Anagrams Never Lie

2008-12-05T02:47:00.000Z

Soul Searching.
Singular Echoes.
Social Hungers.
Gin Chaser Soul.
Angels Chorus, I
Ache Ruing Loss.
Anguish Closer,
Halo's Rescuing,
Rushing Solace.

2008-12-02T12:22:00.000Z

Hi all, here is another belated blog. I have found an interesting website for any aspiring writers, which is http://www.short-stories.co.uk - some of the stories are great, some not so much, and vary from one or two pages long upwards. I find even the not so good ones interesting as the reader can maybe see how the prose 'went wrong.' But hey, I am no critic - I have discovered from my writing course that it is very,very difficult to pen a good story without devoting enough time and thought to it. My 1st is nearly finished, and I will try to 'blog it up' by the end of the day. Or it might take me that long to think of a decent title!
There is also a link at the top where the genres list is, called HYPERFICTION that could be of interest to the more avant garde or technically minded among you - its a bit beyond me, but I shall take another look as it seems like interesting ideas. Anyway, still grappling with this damn story - watch this space!

Saatchi gallery chelsea

2008-11-16T14:16:00.000Z

This recently opened gallery is free to the public and is easily found, from Sloan Sq. tube head down King's Rd for one minute and the Duke of York's residence is on the left. This has now been transformed into an impressive, modern, gallery. My motivation for going was to see a laurie lipton exhibition.I now realise that she was only featured online, as the gallery features its own online artists. She is, however, an amazing, stunning artist as you may agree if you follow this link.. http://www.laurielipton.com/

What my friend D and I did find here, however, was a collection of art by Chinese artists. It is probably not the 'done thing' to burst out laughing in a gallery, but when confronted by a huge statue of a donkey pushing over a skyscraper (or something worse) this is exactly what she did. This was by Zhan Huan and has something to do with the toppling over of government oppression, apparently. There is also some good work by Feng Zhenjie of blank-faced women, neither Western or Oriental in appearance, that represents the blandness of commercial advertising. There are some disturbing figures suspended from the ceiling by Zhang Dali, and conversely Cang Zin has very lifelike figures which seem to have fallen to the floor, the angel, in particular, appearing very real. One can get as close as one likes to these objects and also take pictures. Being a very silly man, I saw someone had dropped a hairband on the floor and pretended to take pictures of it. An art critic I will never be. However, this is a fascinating place to go to, not least because it is the newest London gallery and inside is what modern art is meant to be - striking and shocking.
http://www.saatchi-gallery.co.uk/

Gourmet For Two

2008-11-14T08:56:00.001Z

We have dined on buttered breasts

Heaped on a plate

Sucked on olive oiled artichoke hearts

It is a gourmet dish for middle aged lovers

The smile you hold before your lips

Gives you satisfaction

Words tumble from your mouth

I recognise the question markLodged between your teeth

You have written my poem written

On a lettuce leaf

Now for the first time I understand you.

Anonymous - does anyone know the author of this?

Lazy Sunday

2008-11-14T01:30:00.001Z

Late Sunday afternoon, and Joanne was the happiest she had been for days. Her five-year-old tugged at her arm impatiently. She found her money, turned away from the trailer, looked down, and - she couldn't believe it - her son had disappeared. She stood there bemused with his favourite ice-cream in her hand, and gazed up and down the towpath of the canal - but no sign of Robbie. She had only been distracted for a few seconds.

The families strolling along by the water's edge on this oppressively hot day obscured her view, and the cloudless sky shot sunrays off the glittering canal, blinding her eyes. She fumbled for her sunglasses as the ice-cream dripped over her fingers. I could see her as she threw it to the floor in frustration and anger.

Urgently, she assessed the situation. Surely, she thought, he wouldn't have crossed the narrow lock gates to the other side? She looked across to where the far bank was even busier. The old stone pub, The Fox, was teeming with people. The gates were parting now, and the white water rushed and hissed between them. She looked up to heaven. Out of the blue, the words of her husband came back to her. He had told her never to let the boy out of her sight. He always seemed to have an accusing tone in his voice nowadays, as if she was always doing something wrong or, ironically, as if he didn't trust her.

How Joanne hated him. She would never for one moment had believed five years ago that she would now be filing for divorce. But that was before she had found out about the affair.

"Are you sure he's not cheating?" said her friend one day, when she had confided in her about the strange texts and his late nights home. 'Cheating' was a word she really disliked. You can cheat at dominoes, she thought, or cheat the lights, or even cheat off early from work, and the antidote to cheating, if caught, is merely the word 'sorry', and everything is ok. So when did going behind your wife's back, the one you supposedly love, supposedly honour, become 'cheating? Was a six-month affair - and god knows, it could have been longer, if he can lie once then his confession could be a lie - just 'cheating', in the same way as having an ace up your sleeve?

In tabloid-speak, then certainly it was, but not for her in her personal definition. So what sort of man was her husband? In the annotation of today - a cheat, noun. - a chiseler, a cozener, a decoy. a fake, a jockey, a shark. a sharper, a shyster, a swindler, to name but few terms. Why so many terms for such a bad person? Is that a comment on our age? Would there be as many entries for 'saint?' She didn't think so.

So she would keep herself awake and then check his phone in the middle of the night until the evidence was clear. She had found the message that proved everything. And now she intended to take him for everything she could. After all, she was doing this for Robbie's sake. She couldn't stay with the man now and she certainly wasn't going to let the boy be deprived because of his actions. And he'd had the audacity to accuse her of the same thing!

"You can get whatever lawyer you like", he had yelled, "but you won't get anything from me. I know you've been seeing that ex-boyfriend of yours. I'm not an idiot." But this was ludicrous. The guy was her friend, of course she saw him occasionally. Only socially, he was in her circle of friends she had known since law school.

"What's more, I can prove it", he said bitterly. She had called him paranoid. His fist hung above her and pushed him away so violently he had fallen and hit the back of his head on the coffee table. That was some satisfaction, but he would probably try to use this in court against her.

"So he was cheating?" her friend had said, well-meaningly, of course, but she had felt like knocking her out as well at the time. Now her nuclear family was becoming her unclear destiny. Her imperfect future, tense. She didn't know what direction it would take.

She gazed up and downstream again, thinking, 'where could he be?' I watched her do this from the other side of the lock. I could see Joanne clearly as I sat anonymously among the drinkers outside the Fox. The shade of the marquee was a welcome respite from the heat, and I was sure she couldn't see me.

I watched as she ran towards a group standing by a brightly painted barge. She saw, ahead of her, two policemen in their yellow waistcoats peering down between two boats. One of them was saying something into his crackling radio while the other looked on sternly. A cloth-capped old boy was gesticulating at them from one of the decks. I watched as she got to them, gasping for air. I could even see her relief as she realised the commotion was merely the argument about the lack of some permit or other. Then I noticed Robbie.

He was running along this side of the bridge, not far from where I was. There was another boy with him, of about the same age, maybe older, who seemed to be encouraging him to go somewhere. Robbie stopped, but his companion was pointing and showing him the way to something in the distance, that he was excitedly trying to show him. I could just about hear him saying "Come on, don't be scared" and the two of them skipped off, out of my line of sight.

"I don't think anyone lives here, but my brother says differently", the older boy said. They were standing by an old cabin cruiser that looked quite disused. The faded red and gold paintwork was flakey and the curtains looked grey, the old wooden doors of the cabin were bolted. "Go on, jump it. You first" he said to Robbie. Robbie noticed a coot's nest on the far side. The boat rocked in the water's wake, and tugged at the towrope, the gap of dirty water between wall and boatside shortening and widening.

Suddenly, he jumped, and stumbled across the damp boards. At this, his companion abandoned him and ran off. Robbie picked himself up, and peeped between the curtains into the dark cabin. Then he tried the wooden doors, which gave a little. Broadside, it seemed, something moved beyond the dark curtains. Or was it the light? He wasn't sure. He pulled at the doors again and the rusty bolt gave way. "Look at this" he said over his shoulder, but then realised that he was alone. He hesitated for a moment or two, then started to climb down the steps to the cabin below.

I just caught site of him before he descended. Jumping onto the deck, I shouted "Come here!" I grabbed the boy by the arm, who gave a start and looked up, shocked. The boat banged dangerously against the side wall as he struggled to get free.

I hadn't intended to startle the kid so much. "It's alright" I said, "but you shouldn't be here. This way."

I dragged him over to the bridge. "Hey! Is this your lad?" I called, and Joanne raced across to meet him.

"I thought he looked lost" I said as she bent down to hug him, and I hastily left. It was ok, I reasoned, my cover hadn't been blown. She would never know my identity. I had been hired by her husband, I specialise in procuring evidence in divorce cases, and her husband was paying me well. I was often less than proud of what I do, but today, for once, I had given someone a good turn.

Glass Houses

2008-11-13T18:52:00.001Z

Although I knew you lived in a glass box

I was unaware (until yesterday)

How fragile you are.

- They say there is a pitch

A tone beyond the human ear

That shatters brittle transparency

Yesterday

I came to you and turned the key

In your door

Discovered crystal splinters

In your bed

What shoud have been your head

Dripped across the floor

Liquid gleamings

- But I swear

I made no sound

I swear.

Anonymous - does anyone know the author of this?

Untitled

2008-11-13T18:35:00.001Z

Even in sleep my heart a captured predator

Behind the cage of your ribs

Bombed back into the stone age

Penetrating to be a man

The one out of the picture book of the old war

Madness drop by drop
In the sweat of imaginary embraces

The coming nights a breast scraped clean

Rise in the breath of an obsession

Lovers on paper

Imprisoned in four-colour print:

Five twists of tobacco with

Your back a chorale
Your muscles a blues

By BB King

Your sex a mystery of the doors

In bed in summer, in stir

At night at night, we were one we are one We woke up we wake up

Near each other next to us

The other a skeleton

The world the law
Watch out keep your eyes shut

Keep your ears shut

Divine stations in the underground shelters

Adjourn yourself they will bomb you back

Into the stone age

They want you back with them.

Anonymous - does anyone know the author of this?

Free Fall

2008-11-13T18:20:00.001Z

Imagine my shock

When I found that the world

Had closed for a day

Shut like a shell: Shut like a shop

Right up, for a day and a night

My basket useless, my money

Valueless as sugar paper

No shops - no props

The day caves in aboout me dangerously

The street heaves into nightmare

I alone in a dead world

Oh if the street would wake

Into the six mile smile

That sustains me as a prayer

Sustains everybody here

But the world is shut!

There are no props: No open arms

No shops!

Anonymous - Would anyone know the author of this?

The Academy

2008-11-13T17:49:00.000Z

These heavy walls I pass each day

These iron gates ornately

Keep me away. Forever outside

In the comfort zone.

No I can't see, but sometimes hear

On mornings almost dreaming

Gun-fire. Shot from those inside

They hone the art of killing.

The sound is real, all to clear

Somewhere above the ceiling

The murmer of an early plane

Drifts past the children playing.

Those airmen who are barely older

Can they see red dots of blazers?

Will their names be written with regret

In all our morning papers?

On page nine, skip-read or not at all.

Why should I care?

I'm this side of the wall.

Welcome

2008-11-13T15:41:00.000Z

Welcome to the first page of this diary!

On Monday of this week I attended Stepping Stones - a talk with Seamus Heaney, Dennis O'Driscoll and Mark Lawson, to mark the publishing of the book of interviews of Heaney by O'Driscoll. This was at the Wyndam's Theatre at Leicester Square.

Heaney began by reading six poems of his and ended with the reading of a further two.

Outside the theatre, there were no posters or advertising of the event to be held inside, but the rows soon became full, which is an indicator of his popularity. In fact his fans have a name of their own - 'heaneyboppers.'

The tone of the evening was quite anecdotal and light. At one point Heaney remarked that when creating a poem, he goes from the stage of the poem as being linked with the word 'I', ie it is still in the process of being linked with himself and his thoughts, to being linked with the word 'It', when it becomes a thing in its own right. He said "I am not sure how you go from the process of 'I' to 'It'... except perhaps by adding a 'T!'

Lawson at one point talked about predictive texting, and informed Heaney that if you type in the word 'poet' you come up with the word 'soft', to which Heaney replied 'very good Mark!'

Dennis O'Driscoll, while seeming to be not as used to speaking publicly as the other two, spoke very deliberately and earnestly about his relationship with the poet. The book took six years to write, including interviews both face to face and online, and O'Driscoll commented of the differences in style between the two, ie how e-mail interviewing gives the interviewer more time to reflect, and how this self-editing can be both good and bad.

Heaney also talked about his reasons for turning down the poet laureate position, saying it was basically a fact that it was a full-time job that he did not want the responsibility of, and not for any political reason.

The surprise was that no copies of Stepping Stones were available on the night, but after hearing this three-way conversation I would say that for anyone interested in biography or poetry, this should be a fascinating read.