Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb, WW1

Ballad of the Three Spectres

In Ivor Gurney’s nightmarish vision, the dead among the living bear dire warnings and mockery. Ballad of the Three Spectres As I went up by Ovillers In mud and water cold to the knee, There went three jeering, fleering spectres, That walked abreast and talked of me. The first said, ‘Here’s a right brave soldier That walks the dark unfearingly;…

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Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Tweet Tweet

Tweet Tweet There’s a blackbird in my mango tree and I think of Marley and singing songs of freedom I have followed birds from hills to home and back wondering where was Zion but now I am content on this verandah the blackbirds come to my mango tree and sing home is always where it’s meant to be I am…

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Art, Film, Photography, Food, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Mud Soup

Some culinary disasters can be repurposed. Here is Glen Baxter on polenta: And then there are times when you just have to cut your losses. Some poems just write themselves. Here is Carolyn Kizer writing – ranting and venting might be more accurate – about a Craig Claiborne recipe she tried from the NY Times. It probably didn’t help her…

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Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Russian – American Romance

Russian – American Romance In my land and yours they do hit the hay and sleep the whole night in a similar way. There’s the golden Moon with a double shine. It lightens your land and it lightens mine. At the same low price, that is for free, there’s the sunrise for you and the sunset for me. The wind…

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Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

A Catalpa Tree On West Twelfth Street

Here again – for the summer solstice – are those Wittenham Clumps. By the early 1940s Nash’s was in declining health. Suffering from chronic asthma – triggered his wife Margaret believed by inhaling gas at Passchendaele in 1917 –  he had endured several spells in hospital. He and  Margaret, began to make visits to nearby Boars Hill where their friend Hilda Harrison lived…

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Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, Politics, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Home

Home no one leaves home unless home is the mouth of a shark you only run for the border when you see the whole city running as well your neighbors running faster than you breath bloody in their throats the boy you went to school with who kissed you dizzy behind the old tin factory is holding a gun bigger…

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Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, Politics, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Under One Small Star

Forget the mother of all bombs and the father of all mankind – here is the ultimate parent of all apologies. Just look at this great list as the poet slyly moves from the serious to the playful, from the abstract to the mundane, from the burden to the lightweight.  It’s an insistence on going on living and enjoying small…

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Art, Film, Photography, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

To look at any thing

“My boy you should go in for nature.” Sir William Richmond’s advice to Paul Nash on reviewing some of his early drawings. One of Paul Nash’s friends at the Slade School of Art was Claughton Pellew-Harvey who “had a deep love for the country, particularly for certain of its features, such as ricks and stooks of corn.” At first I…

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Education, Poetry, Politics, RattleBag and Rhubarb, WW1

The Poltroon

Poltroon – the very word is like a … what? a.) A North American mammal of the raccoon family known for its habit of rooting for grubs in the undergrowth of deciduous forests b.) A metal or earthenware pot typically having a funnel-shaped top, often kept under the bed c.) An abject or contemptible coward, lacking courage; ignobly timid and faint-hearted. The Poltroon…

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City and Country, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

Did you have a special place as a child? Perhaps somewhere secret and magical? A corner of a city park, a place in the garden, somewhere under the trees or behind the shed?  Do you have one now? For the artist Paul Nash his first special place was Kensington Gardens, in west London, near where he was born in 1889.…

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Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb, WW1

The Dancers

The Dancers All day beneath the hurtling shells Before my burning eyes Hover the dainty demoiselles — The peacock dragon-flies. Unceasingly they dart and glance Above the stagnant stream — And I am fighting here in France As in a senseless dream. A dream of shattering black shells That hurtle overhead, And dainty dancing demoiselles Above the dreamless dead.  …

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Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

An Answer to Frances Cornford

Do you have any favorite poems about trains and train journeys? I was compiling such a list – the way one does on a rainy Tuesday in June – when I discovered this gem from C. K Chesterton. What a delightful put down of a very annoying verse that’s been stuck in my head since I was about eight. An…

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Education, Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

How to Read a Poem: Beginner’s Manual

How to Read a Poem: Beginner’s Manual First, forget everything you have learned, that poetry is difficult, that it cannot be appreciated by the likes of you, with your high school equivalency diploma and steel-tipped boots, or your white collar misunderstandings. Do not assume meanings hidden from you: the best poems mean what they say and say it. To read…

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Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Poem [Lana Turner has collapsed!]

There’s a story behind every poem. There’s always a story. And the story behind this one is that the poet – Frank O’Hara –  was on his way  to Staten Island where he was to give a reading with Robert Lowell at Wagner College. It was February 1962 and the weather was nasty. O’Hara picked up a newspaper to read on…

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Poetry, RattleBag and Rhubarb

Wild Geese

Before reading the poem – take a look at this painting. Take a good look. What’s there? Be literal. What is in this picture? What do you see? So you climbed the staircase with the one-legged man with the help of a crutch while the world about you lay in ruins. In spite of all, you started the climb while…

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