tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-83197979964944876532024-02-20T09:03:46.017+00:00 The Solitary WalkerThe Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.comBlogger1604125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-926179210608297942020-07-08T13:43:00.000+01:002020-07-11T19:26:31.350+01:00The Flowers of Evil: a New Translation<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Already as a child, I had two contradictory feelings in my heart: the horror of life and the ecstasy of life</b> </span><b>CHARLES BAUDELAIRE</b></div>
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After three years' work my 200-page verse translation of <b>Baudelaire</b>'s <i>Les Fleurs du Mal</i> is now available as a paperback from <b>Sinuous Cat Productions</b>; it contains all 126 poems of the 1861 edition. The distributor is <b>Amazon</b> and the price is £7.99. It's easily traceable on <a href="https://www.amazon.co.uk/Flowers-Evil-Charles-Baudelaire/dp/B08BWFWSXK/ref=sr_1_4?dchild=1&keywords=baudelaire+flowers+of+evil&qid=1594210209&sr=8-4">amazon.co.uk</a>, but for international <b>Amazon</b> sites you must search for it by entering either the ASIN number (B08BWFWSXK) or the ISBN number (9798656437936). It's so good to have this labour of love finally in print—I do hope you enjoy.</div>
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Here's my introduction to the book:</div>
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<b>TRANSLATOR’S NOTE</b></div>
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‘The translator can never be sure of himself, he must never be. He must always be dissatisfied with what he does because ideally, platonically, there is a perfect solution, but he will never find it. He can never enter into the author’s being and even if he could the difference in languages would preclude any exact reproduction.’ <b>GREGORY RABASSA </b></div>
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Translating poetry is a fine balancing act at the best of times, but translating <b>Baudelaire</b> often felt like treading a very high wire indeed. Too great a swing towards the letter on one side or the spirit on the other can cause the literary balancing pole to wobble alarmingly, threatening to plunge the unfortunate tightrope walker into the void below. I’m reminded of a cautionary aphorism I read somewhere, namely that translation is difficult, translation of poetry very difficult, translation of French poetry more difficult still, and translation of <b>Baudelaire</b> all but impossible. <b>Baudelaire</b> himself wrote that ‘A translation of poetry . . . may be an enticing dream, but can only ever be a dream.’ But I do not want to dwell on difficulty or impossibility. I want to dwell on joy. For translating <b>Baudelaire</b> has indeed been a complete joy, a process both rewarding and intoxicating, though also frustrating – and occasionally terrifying.</div>
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First I had to decide what other translations to read, if any. (In the end I dipped very lightly into all that I could discover, then put them to the back of my mind.) Next I had to consider meter:<b> Baudelaire</b> often uses the twelve-syllable alexandrine line. (I quickly realised iambic pentameter was the natural choice for my English versions.) Then there was the question of rhyme: <b>Baudelaire</b>’s rhyme schemes are classically strict. (I ended up retaining rhyme, or slant rhyme, or at least some kind of sympathetic end-of-line pairing.) What I was striving for was accessibility, a pleasing flow, and, with luck, a kind of beauty – in comparison with various other translations I had read, many of which seemed awkward and forced to me (<b>Jan Owen</b>’s being notable exceptions). Although I took care to translate as accurately as possible, I would always put the spirit rather than the letter first, if the two conflicted. This tension and its balanced resolution lie, of course, at the heart of all poetry translation. </div>
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There were many other problems: for instance how to emulate <b>Baudelaire</b>’s extravagant grotesquerie, his gleeful iconoclasm and his oxymoronic excess, without seeming either ridiculous or incomprehensible to modern readers. Another hurdle was how to mirror <b>Baudelaire</b>’s subtle and mellifluous use of assonance, alliteration and other figurative ploys.</div>
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Baudelaire has challenged many translators over the years, including some who are writers and poets themselves: <b>Stanley Kunitz</b>, <b>Robert Lowell</b>, <b>Allen Tate</b>, <b>Roy Campbell</b>, <b>Richard Wilbur</b>, <b>Yvor Winters</b>, <b>Aldous Huxley</b>, <b>Edna St Vincent Millay</b> . . . However, few of these writers (apart from <b>Campbell</b> and <b>Millay</b>) took on more than a small selection of the poems, and their translations sound very antiquated today. </div>
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My aim was to attempt to create a translation of all the poems of <i>Les Fleurs du Mal</i> – and in verse, not in prose. (There are prose translations available, such as <b>Joanna Richardson</b>’s, but this seemed like cheating to me.) I wanted to produce a high level of readability, accessibility, comprehensibility and (one can but hope) a general loveliness. My passionate desire, both as translator and reader, is always to encounter translations that can be read and enjoyed in their own right, not as pale reflections of the original, or displeasing to the ear.</div>
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My sincere and idealistic intention was to open up <b>Baudelaire</b> to the English-speaking world in a new and exciting way. Translation must be a gateway not a barrier. My model was <b>Don Paterson</b>’s translations (or ‘versions’ as he calls them) of <b>Rilke</b>’s <i>Sonnets to Orpheus</i>. I like <b>Paterson</b>’s idea of translations as versions very much: works that are independent and breathe their own air, yet are still, of course, intimately connected with the original.</div>
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I have tried, as far as possible, to honour the meaning and intention of <i>The Flowers of Evil</i> while, at the same time, preserving a strong flavour of its aesthetics (the work has a sublimely paradoxical beauty of expression: it is classical in form, but shockingly modern in theme and thought). I wanted, above all, to produce translations that sounded easy on the ear, looked good to the eye and flowed in a natural way, while sacrificing as little textual accuracy as possible. </div>
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For those punctilious readers who think I have strayed too far, lost my nerve, and caused the tightrope to tremble and shake, I quote <b>David Bellos </b>in my defence: ‘If you want the same thing, that’s quite all right. You can read the original. ‘ And also this from <b>Jorge Luis Borges</b>: ‘The original is unfaithful to the translation.’ </div>
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As the philosopher <b>Hans-Georg Gadamer</b> has written: ‘Reading is already translation, and translation is translation for the second time . . . In fact, all acts of communication are acts of translation. The process of translating comprises in its essence the whole secret of human understanding of the world . . .’ </div>
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<b>Robert Wilkinson, June 2020</b></div>
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<b>34. — The Cat</b></div>
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Come, lovely cat, close to my loving heart;</div>
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Sheathe your sharp claws and stretch contentedly.</div>
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Let me plunge deep into your eyes, which spark</div>
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With metal fused with green chalcedony.</div>
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And as my idle fingers carelessly</div>
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Caress your head and your elastic spine,</div>
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And as my subtle hand so sensuously</div>
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Strokes your soft fur, so sensitive and fine,</div>
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My woman’s there. Her penetrating look,</div>
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Like yours, dear creature, cuts like a bee’s sting</div>
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Or poisonous dart, profoundly cold and sharp,</div>
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And all around her body and brown skin </div>
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Hovers a dark and dangerous perfume,</div>
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Persuasive and pervasive in the room.</div>
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The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-17729246136265810002017-03-05T12:17:00.000+00:002017-03-05T21:04:05.688+00:00BeachscapeI haven't blogged for a while, but here is a new poem.<br />
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<b>Beachscape</b><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Surprising that I never knew before</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the bright curve of this bay,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the way the washed sand crimps the light</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and bathers lounge like graceless seals.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I must have visited this coast</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>a hundred times, yet never understood</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>how marram grass secures the dunes</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>with subterranean roots, and why</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>we only see the coiled casts of the lugworm,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>never the lugworm. What the lobster does.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>When tides turn with the moon.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>If mermaids count the coins within their purse.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>It’s odd how just one shower, one rainbow,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>one brief focus, one slant of the sun,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>one mood, one chemistry, one instant,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>combine in random destiny like this</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>to give us more than ever we expected:</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the revelation of a cream-tipped wave,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>spent on the sand, the gull’s orgasmic cry,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>greedy and wild, the sensuality</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>of sun on skin, of arms and legs in water,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>impressionistic light</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>breaking the bonds of molecule and atom</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>yet bringing all together like the roots</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>of marram grass, the disappearing groynes</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>rotting with knowledge, the unknowing ocean,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the beach bums gazing vacantly to sea</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>aching for grace, dreaming epiphany.</b></span>The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-10559577362061340932017-01-20T11:23:00.001+00:002017-01-20T23:48:36.186+00:00One Day In Washington<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>One Day in Washington</b></div>
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<i>I noticed at the ceremony, your corrupt ways had finally made you blind. </i><b>Bob Dylan</b> <i>Idiot Wind</i></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>The White House doesn’t seem so white today,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>more a rainy shade of gray,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and Lincoln looks more serious than usual</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>inside his classical Memorial,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and Washington’s great Monument stands proud</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>although its apex hides within a cloud,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and cops and bikers sweat, and kids play ball</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>along the walkways of the National Mall,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and everyone is here, the sage, the fool,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>casting their hopes in the Reflecting Pool,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>some jeer and some are silent, some applaud</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Mine Eyes Have Seen The Glory Of The Lord,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>some think there isn’t very much to fear</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>but fear itself, and distance is not near,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and everything can be replaced, they say,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>until the next time it is blown away</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>by idiot winds, and others, fast and loose,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>play games of chance with executioner’s noose</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and pardoner’s hand, and deathly voodoo doll,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>from New York City to the Capitol,</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and all is still a grayer shade of white</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and the hard rain falls long into the night.</b></span></div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-33846879493479929812016-12-09T18:20:00.000+00:002016-12-09T18:22:08.005+00:00Pilgrim<b>Pilgrim</b><br />
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<i>All of us are pilgrims on this earth. I have even heard it said that the earth itself is a pilgrim in the heavens.</i> <b>Maxim Gorky</b><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Your journey never ends -</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>each step the first step,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>each step the last step.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You move, but stand still.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>In stillness you move through the valleys.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You feel you can move mountains.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You walk all day to a familiar place,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>a place of coming and going,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>a place of crowds and crossing points,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>a place of no signposts.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You wait among the crowds,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>watching for signs and signals.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>One face among many,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>you are alone, but not lonely</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>among the unfamiliar faces.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You are rootless, but at home</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>among the sharks, the snakes</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and the snake oil salesmen,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>though you would rather be in the desert</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>living on locusts and honey,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>turning stones into bread</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and water into wine.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You are rooted in the earth</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>like a tree whose twigs</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and branches are crooked paths,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>webbing the heavens.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You are the wellspring,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the stream and the river,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the delta, the ocean,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the shimmering destination.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You are all of this</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and yet you are nothing</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>but the weary pilgrim,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>arriving, departing,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>following blind-eyed</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the desire path of sorrow,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the dream path of desire,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>up the steep hill,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>past rowan and thorn</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and the fourteen stations.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Each step the first step.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Each step the last step.</b></span>The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-39987689535385493342016-11-24T13:55:00.003+00:002016-12-09T18:22:29.094+00:00The Dove Descending<div style="text-align: justify;">
This poem was inspired by a recent reading of <b>Rilke</b>'s <i>The Dove</i> and <b>Lowell</b>'s <i>Pigeons</i>.</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>The Dove Descending</b></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>The dove descending breaks the air / With flame of incandescent terror</i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>TS Eliot </b><i>Little Gidding</i>, <i>Four Quartets</i></div>
<br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Eliot said the end of our exploring</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">will be to arrive at where we started</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">and realise our home was not so boring</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">before we panicked, packed our bags and parted.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">And Rilke said a dove must fly the world</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">in order to appreciate the dovecote.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">In storm and roaring wind is peace revealed.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">The raging torrent rocks, then calms, the love boat.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Danger and distance, certainly,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">and fear, and fear of fear itself,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">delay departure, often indefinitely,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">leave us like bookends on a dusty shelf.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">We know the multi-coloured rainbow beckons</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">from edge of town, but our fenced-in backyard</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">requires attention. Drab suburbia threatens</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">but comforts also. It is always hard</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">to quit the friendly space one knows and loves,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">to doubt the ones inhabiting that space.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Yet constantly a restless heart outgrows,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">outflies the limits of this time and place.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Yes, all of us are arrows in the dark</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">speeding from God-knows-where to God-knows-where,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">unsure of making a true mark on earth,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">falling unsteadily through endless air,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">skimming the ocean till we disappear</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">into the fire of the sinking sun,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">all fight extinguished, as the Temeraire,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">all flight unfeathered, Icarus undone.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">In pieces, we reform to our true shape.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">In dust, we scatter like primeval seeds.</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Divorced from cells of coelacanth and ape,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">no more embodied by our thoughts and deeds,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">alone – no myth or metaphor or art –</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">and open to the stars which are our home,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">we still the beating of our weary heart,</span></b><br />
<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">finding at last the place that we’ve come from.</span></b>The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-88212125412465989012016-11-11T09:10:00.001+00:002016-11-12T08:08:24.336+00:00Van Gogh's Ear<b>Bernadette Murphy</b>'s recent book, <a href="https://www.penguin.co.uk/articles/find-your-next-read/recommendations/2016/jul/bernadette-murphy-on-van-gogh/"><i>Van Gogh's Ear: the True Story</i></a>, inspired this poem.<br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Van Gogh's Ear</b><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I am not here. Already I’ve moved out</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>from studio to street, from charcoal grey</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>into chrome orange and cochineal,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>from yellow house to whorehouse. Gabrielle,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>that poor maid, mops the floor</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the painted ladies pockmark with scuffed heels.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I pity her bare arms, her rabid flesh</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>scarred by the cauterising iron,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and pull her by the wrist into the light,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the burning light of cobalt blue Provence.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b><br /></b></span>
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I place a ragged parcel in her hands.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>She shudders and says nothing, but receives</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the gift with grace, clutching it to her breast</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>in reverence, and I am like a god —</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I’m Jesus Christ, and gentle Gabrielle</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>is Mary Magdalene. I stagger through</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>the blinding streets of Arles and cross the Rhône,</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>rave in the cornfields just beyond the town.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Vermilion blood runs down my cheek like tears.</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>But I’m not here. I have already flown</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>by crow’s path over waving cypresses</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>and under whirling stars I lay me down.</b></span>The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-4216452136267531032016-11-11T09:06:00.000+00:002016-11-11T09:06:21.381+00:00You Want It Darker<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>If you are the dealer, I'm out of the game</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>If you are the healer, it means I'm broken and lame</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>If thine is the glory, then mine must be the shame</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You want it darker</b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>We kill the flame</b></span><br />
<br />
<b>Leonard Cohen</b> (1934-2016)The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-82482505254614546782016-10-29T13:06:00.000+01:002016-10-29T13:28:46.240+01:00Knowledge<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>The more you know, the more you know you don't know.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>Socrates</b>, <b>Aristotle</b> and <b>Einstein </b>all realised this. And it's a statement worth unpicking. First of all, what do we mean by to 'know'?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vi7-WZV3MhNgdXuB8p72zwx4pVSGf8mxlSz24-mZsj02c0utwhvVDzrBRhuwK1AS7I7yk_e1SQ5msEvuSFMBo1h3RokA05Ewik3LjJ24Xegrz18vgMyDHnAfzuX5mwQj3a-EC7eYf8s/s1600/Einstein_a%25CC%2580_travers_le_temps.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1vi7-WZV3MhNgdXuB8p72zwx4pVSGf8mxlSz24-mZsj02c0utwhvVDzrBRhuwK1AS7I7yk_e1SQ5msEvuSFMBo1h3RokA05Ewik3LjJ24Xegrz18vgMyDHnAfzuX5mwQj3a-EC7eYf8s/s320/Einstein_a%25CC%2580_travers_le_temps.GIF" width="249" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Einstein — boy to man.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
There's a world of seemingly incontrovertible facts and figures out there, things which by and large are not a matter of opinion. The moon spins round the earth. The earth spins round the sun. <b>Trump</b> and <b>Clinton</b> are the USA's presidential candidates. The capital of Venezuela is Caracas. The kind of bald truths churned out in question and answer form on the innumerable quiz shows which plague the media in the guise of entertainment.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Then there's the wealth of information and misinformation grounded in hearsay, gossip, prejudice, conjecture, supposition, intelligent (and not-so-intelligent) guesswork, propaganda, and religious, political and economic belief. Jesus married Mary Magdalene. Marlowe and others co-wrote many of Shakespeare's plays. Eating cheese increases your chance of a heart attack. Allah is the one true God. The Labour party is the best. Communism is dead.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
A few things we can be completely sure about, i.e. mathematical formulations, such as one plus one equals two, and syllogisms, such as 'All men are mortal. Socrates is a man. Therefore Socrates is mortal'. These rather uninteresting truths are true for all time and are what philosophers call <i>a priori</i> truths. Most other truths are <i>empirical</i> truths — whether 99.9% certainties (the sun will rise tomorrow) or highly dubious beliefs which are advocated by some but disparaged by others (wearing a copper bracelet will help the arthritis in your wrist). There's a vast spectrum of truths and beliefs, ranging from unassailable logical truth to absolute falsehood, with many shades of truth, half-truth and untruth in-between.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
If we consider the whole of history, how many things can we be utterly sure of? The accuracy of some dates and the reality of some personages and events, certainly. But many things remain in obscurity or semi-obscurity. What was the actual cause of the First World War? What was Rasputin's true character? Why do we think the Greeks invented democracy when their empire was built on slavery? Did Atlantis really exist? </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Science seeks and often uncovers the truth (cigarette smoking is likely to cause lung cancer), but this may only be a relative truth (Galileo and Einstein turned astronomy and physics upside down), dependent on the historical timeline.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The point of all this is to say quite simply that truth is a tricky business — and we haven't even begun to consider emotional truth, imaginative truth or artistic truth.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
The reason I'm trying to sort out my feelings about truth and knowledge at the moment is that I feel I'm being bombarded with incredible amounts of information — from the Internet, from social media, from TV and radio, from politicians, economists, new-age gurus and other pundits, from salespersons, from books and magazines, from just about everyone and everywhere. And this flow of information ever increases. But to whose benefit? Do we really want to know all those facts about celebrity and sport and TV shows regurgitated by the blotting-paper brains of quiz show contestants? Do we really need to fill our minds with pro-and-contra arguments about every conceivable subject? Are we really going to be made to feel inadequate because we haven't mastered this or that skill or learnt this or that fact in order to increase our kudos in the eyes of contemporary society?</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Faced with this onslaught of undifferentiated, often trivial information, we have the ability, thank goodness, to select, discriminate and shut out the bits we want to shut out. I refuse to be jealous of those with apparently huge mental reservoirs of facts and figures, of arguments and opinions, who are able to recall them and rehearse them at will. I refuse to be intimidated by the pressurised demands of the noisy and instant information age. I want to read and watch and hear and learn and digest the things which I myself<i> </i>decide I want to know, and to hell with the rest. </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
For I know that, despite all we know, we know very little, and, anyhow, knowledge is quite a different beast from wisdom. I read a great deal, but I know I'll never read all the books I want to read, and <i>I don't care</i>. (Or I tell myself I don't care.) Often it's far more rewarding to know one thing in depth rather than many things superficially. And knowledge itself, as we've found, is a slippery creature. For instance, take our own mind and body. They are our two constant and intimate companions — but do we really <i>know</i> them? I would hazard barely at all. Take a random subject — China, say, or geophysics, or Mediterranean flowers, or phenomenology, or a million others. Unless we happen to be a specialist in that particular area, do we really know very much about any of them? (I'm not saying that we should do — a small amount of knowledge may well be all that is necessary for our sanity, despite the saying that a little learning is a dangerous thing.) </div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I come back to this. I know that the more you know, the more you don't know — as <b>Socrates</b>, <b>Aristotle</b> and <b>Einstein </b>once said. Actually, in the end, that's quite a comforting notion.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-82971788569996632172016-10-24T12:55:00.000+01:002016-10-24T12:55:19.484+01:00Onto A Vast Plain<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgrVLsUIR0OSy-KooMX35f3GgEKLDF54_m4Py0faM3CJojcdwchpSUBnqV_COz7iQL8URPRhZvn0aXbLoLtW_fS7_eJKy9rt6TsfgyJSXkiSGgFUuCZDwNR-Ofa8C0B1S2Yo7hLZW3rU/s1600/8113802277_e7908cf7b3_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMgrVLsUIR0OSy-KooMX35f3GgEKLDF54_m4Py0faM3CJojcdwchpSUBnqV_COz7iQL8URPRhZvn0aXbLoLtW_fS7_eJKy9rt6TsfgyJSXkiSGgFUuCZDwNR-Ofa8C0B1S2Yo7hLZW3rU/s640/8113802277_e7908cf7b3_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krista Tippett (Image from Wikimedia Commons)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
I've been enjoying the podcasts on <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Krista_Tippett">Krista Tippett</a></b>'s inspiring website, <i><a href="http://www.onbeing.org/">On Being</a></i> (thanks, <b><a href="http://transit-notes.blogspot.co.uk/">George McHenry</a></b>). Out walking this morning I listened to her <a href="http://www.onbeing.org/program/joanna-macy-a-wild-love-for-the-world/61">conversation with <b>Joanna Macy</b></a> — translator of<b> Rilke</b>, philosopher of ecology and Buddhist scholar.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Summer has gone and winter storms will soon be with us.</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<i>'<b>Onto a Vast Plain'</b></i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>You are not surprised at the force of the storm —</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>you have seen it growing.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>The trees flee. Their flight</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>sets the boulevards streaming. And you know:</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>he whom they flee is the one</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>you move toward. All your senses</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>sing him, as you stand at the window.</b></span></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">The weeks stood still in summer.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">The trees' blood rose. Now you feel</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">it wants to sink back</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">into the source of everything. You thought</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">you could trust that power</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">when you plucked the fruit:</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">now it becomes a riddle again</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">and you again a stranger.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Summer was like your house: you know</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">where each thing stood.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Now you must go out into your heart</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">as onto a vast plain. Now</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">the immense loneliness begins.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">The days go numb, the wind</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">sucks the world from your senses like withered leaves.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Through the empty branches the sky remains.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;"><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">It is what you have.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Be earth now, and evensong.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Be the ground lying under that sky.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">Be modest now, like a thing</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">ripened until it is real,</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">so that he who began it all</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b style="color: #3d85c6;">can feel you when he reaches for you.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<b>RILKE</b> <i>Book of Hours, II 1 </i></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
Translated by <b>JOANNA MACY</b> and <b>ANITA BARROWS</b></div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-47381201138142797072016-10-23T19:54:00.003+01:002016-10-23T19:54:49.934+01:00Vashti Bunyan<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0AGD78mWcss" width="459"></iframe><br />
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Just discovered <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Vashti_Bunyan" style="font-weight: bold;">Vashti Bunyan</a> — very late, I know.The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-15238573861159812442016-10-05T08:51:00.001+01:002016-10-05T09:07:30.306+01:00Margery Clute: Literary Phenomenon Or Provincial Nobody?<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCqzWD01R8gRPMBVB0auNJtCa9ddlCZwhyphenhyphenDH7S1klQVt7UwIFSOXRUydn3Pm_iGwcqOsJdRJGYawiK5Q2kL5hxX3hOEf2oqpMwJbUpl2mJVAD1MA68ItXeOI1jDRfCnGs_k8g8neKqTw/s1600/20161002_161423.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiCqzWD01R8gRPMBVB0auNJtCa9ddlCZwhyphenhyphenDH7S1klQVt7UwIFSOXRUydn3Pm_iGwcqOsJdRJGYawiK5Q2kL5hxX3hOEf2oqpMwJbUpl2mJVAD1MA68ItXeOI1jDRfCnGs_k8g8neKqTw/s640/20161002_161423.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b>Charlotte </b>and<b> Emily Brontë</b>'s writing table<b> </b>in the Haworth Parsonage Museum.</td></tr>
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Following a recent visit to the <a href="https://www.bronte.org.uk/">Brontë Parsonage Museum</a>, I was reminded again of that little-known Yorkshire poet <a href="http://dominicrivron.blogspot.co.uk/2011/09/poetry-of-margery-clute-1.html"><b>Margery Clute</b></a> (1824-76), who, I'm reliably informed, entered into and vanished from the lives of the <b>Brontës</b> like a wraith on the Pennine moors. When you've had a surfeit of <b>Emily Brontë</b>'s poetry, and you're wondering where to turn next, it's well worth perusing <b>Clute</b>'s (admittedly meagre) output for a bit of light relief.</div>
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It's on record that <b>Clute</b> became increasingly jealous of and vindictive towards the <b>Brontë </b>sisters, particularly<b> Charlotte</b> and <b>Emily</b>, as it became more and more evident that her own work would never achieve the starry heights so obviously destined for these superior writers. What's not always realised is the extent to which <b>Clute</b> tried to sabotage the work and reputation of her talented contemporaries. For example, she was in the habit of accompanying minor portrait painter <b>Branwell Brontë </b>on some of his habitual pub crawls around Haworth — not for reasons of social intercourse or beer-soaked bonhomie (indeed, <b>Clute</b> was strictly teetotal), but in order to clinically observe <b>Branwell</b>'s progressive inebriation and document each sordid detail in her notebook in a neat and precise hand. (This cold and calculating attitude, it may be argued, is a necessary stimulus to creativity. Did not <b>Graham Greene</b> talk of the writer's 'splinter of ice in the heart'?) Although she never actually used any of this 'evidence', as far as I can gather, it was always there in case she needed it in her secret campaign to sully the <b>Brontë</b> image.</div>
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Another story, so incredible it must be true, goes as follows. <b>Clute</b> kept a pet magpie which she'd found injured in Haworth churchyard. She nursed the bird until it was completely recovered, training it easily, as one can an intelligent corvid. Then, one warm summer's day, when <b>Tabitha Aykroyd</b>, the <b>Brontës</b>' housekeeper, had opened the rectory windows to let in some fresh air, <b>Clute </b>introduced the magpie through the window of the downstairs room where <b>Charlotte</b> and <b>Emily</b> were in the habit of working at a large mahogany writing desk. It promptly flew across to a sheaf of papers on the table, picked them up in its beak and carried them off into the treetops. Neither bird nor booty were ever seen again. The papers comprised the half-finished manuscript of <b>Emily Brontë</b>'s second novel, provisionally entitled <i>Blethering Depths</i>. <b>Emily</b> never restarted the work.</div>
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One final apocryphal narrative suggests that <b>Margery Clute</b> is in fact a pseudonym for the obscure Bradford poet <b>William Eckerslyke</b>, though why he should adopt a female name is a mystery, as it would be an invitation to even less attention and fewer book sales (after all, the<b> Brontë</b> sisters adopted the masculine first names of <b>Currer</b>, <b>Acton</b> and <b>Ellis</b> in order to evade the pervasive nineteenth-century prejudice against female writers, and, of course,<b> Mary Ann Evans</b> published under the name <b>George Eliot</b>). </div>
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I've been able to trace very few of<b> Clute</b>'s poems myself. Despite rumours of a second slim volume of verse, possibly called <i>Moorland Ditties, </i>her<i> </i>only verifiable published work is <i>Fallen Leaves</i>, which is extremely rare, and I believe only a handful of copies exist in this country (there are tattered copies in New York and Tokyo, I'm told, which are being repaired and restored as we speak). The bulk of the short, privately-printed run may have disappeared in the Great Fire of Ramsbottom (1888). However, I do know that one or two of my blog friends and followers have more than a passing interest in <b>Clute</b>'s oeuvre, and may be able to supply me with one or two of her poetic gems. If anyone can contribute, please do so in the comments section. With grateful thanks.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vArd4JeNPWsOZAHwvjH4I5MoKqbguHj9CiUBrUUD-kYMjnSYd6kG6U77WLLEZt28N_ElqBjO9gLPLdRgv3rha6SFrFRvI7QS3jfcvKPoLrK2Hbjx2pWfx-C17TrY6LtHX3I9SC1ICHU/s1600/20161002_154936.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0vArd4JeNPWsOZAHwvjH4I5MoKqbguHj9CiUBrUUD-kYMjnSYd6kG6U77WLLEZt28N_ElqBjO9gLPLdRgv3rha6SFrFRvI7QS3jfcvKPoLrK2Hbjx2pWfx-C17TrY6LtHX3I9SC1ICHU/s640/20161002_154936.jpg" width="360" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Could one of these indecipherable tombstones in Haworth churchyard mark the grave of <b>Margery Clute</b>?</td></tr>
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The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-60932713200018093812016-09-15T21:20:00.000+01:002016-09-16T08:10:41.661+01:00The Garden In September<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Z7NsvYzzAc3EEF8OXijneKIp_OqNODRcyAljhDq2aOj6TPPJzhcroX-hOIzu8tzCZNmu_gyWbzKRjwoU1Pmn5-3LUnBU3GtaPWusXBZC1DKJotYN2cG02PfRLJD1telybTpL3CquyBY/s1600/20160915_180752.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2Z7NsvYzzAc3EEF8OXijneKIp_OqNODRcyAljhDq2aOj6TPPJzhcroX-hOIzu8tzCZNmu_gyWbzKRjwoU1Pmn5-3LUnBU3GtaPWusXBZC1DKJotYN2cG02PfRLJD1telybTpL3CquyBY/s400/20160915_180752.jpg" width="241" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Climbing rose 'Golden Showers'.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAi9pSxmfigP2pTCKsv2QDWb8pDtltPTlCl6Yk57yyOPlz_PzliFPSp0UR8ZyIfjC1Dg1Wqtt35siSS89vjD-eytUxgIGF0ktr8s-oj5w4jOktR4ascGLVddaG96J7yDG4ihKb1MtYesI/s1600/20160915_180153.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAi9pSxmfigP2pTCKsv2QDWb8pDtltPTlCl6Yk57yyOPlz_PzliFPSp0UR8ZyIfjC1Dg1Wqtt35siSS89vjD-eytUxgIGF0ktr8s-oj5w4jOktR4ascGLVddaG96J7yDG4ihKb1MtYesI/s400/20160915_180153.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="225" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dahlia.</td></tr>
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This morning really felt like autumn, with fog in the air and dewdrop-beaded spider webs on the lawn. But come afternoon a warm sun shone, and insects reappeared as if by magic, making the most of what could be the last day of this Indian summer. Bees, hoverflies and Small Cabbage White butterflies busied themselves on the asters, the fuchsias and the lavenders — harvesting pollen and nectar in one last mad rush. </div>
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Peering closely I found yet more spider webs festooned vertically between the aster and lavender stalks. A spider guarded the centre of one web, gloating over what looked like a small hoverfly shrouded in gossamer. I blew the web very gently, and she scurried along the outermost strand of silk to take camouflaged refuge in a flower head. When satisfied things were safe, she traced the same route back to her prey.</div>
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Because of the dry summer, and because I hadn't watered nearly enough, many plants had withered weeks ago. But the 'Golden Showers' climbing rose was still putting out blooms — always the first rose to flower and the last to succumb — and some of the dahlias were still going strong. At the bottom end of the garden the plums were now picked, or had fallen or shrivelled on the branch, and Red Admiral and Comma butterflies gorged on the scanty, squelchy remains.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJTiGpUyzcDHG3LS_f8UEiS9ndOrHQR-Wkh_YwrbmhUNrPPECoRa8IeXO2C_hmGEDHUD1L8iv82EMdpT8zShLEUUgGwOqew2XnvXu3CFins1-qX9NFziQ4iZ27OmkDshzLRi1QRYqsIo/s1600/20160915_180013-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxJTiGpUyzcDHG3LS_f8UEiS9ndOrHQR-Wkh_YwrbmhUNrPPECoRa8IeXO2C_hmGEDHUD1L8iv82EMdpT8zShLEUUgGwOqew2XnvXu3CFins1-qX9NFziQ4iZ27OmkDshzLRi1QRYqsIo/s640/20160915_180013-1.jpg" width="296" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Two Comma butterflies in the plum tree. The one in the top left-hand corner, disturbed by a shadow or vibration, has folded its raggy-edged wings. What perfect camouflage! </td></tr>
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The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-85754050322477454602016-08-26T14:15:00.001+01:002016-09-15T21:38:59.194+01:00Recollections Of Fado And Jazz<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKjiFPvsgkDkaS8N1ecj__5RMwzDup8G28eR1fH9e9xpuJFu5bWXpxTj3_EFF53RPohru2cAEWKrRtgnVnjbi3gaM0Iqo2-bDCZLief8YaIfEwUbDehOPbaxJBlPhuOAa9W8MYNgTfbE/s1600/Lee_Morgan_%25281959%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRKjiFPvsgkDkaS8N1ecj__5RMwzDup8G28eR1fH9e9xpuJFu5bWXpxTj3_EFF53RPohru2cAEWKrRtgnVnjbi3gaM0Iqo2-bDCZLief8YaIfEwUbDehOPbaxJBlPhuOAa9W8MYNgTfbE/s400/Lee_Morgan_%25281959%2529.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Lee Morgan (Image from Wikimedia Commons)</td></tr>
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<b>Vagabonde</b> is a blog friend of mine and writes the blog <a href="http://avagabonde.blogspot.co.uk/">Recollections of a Vagabonde</a>. Recently she made some fascinating comments on my posts about fado and jazz. They were so interesting that I'm reproducing them here with her permission. (I thought many of you may have missed them, and they really are too good to miss.)</div>
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<b>Vagabonde</b> lives in Atlanta, Georgia, but was born and raised in Paris. Her mother was a French Parisian and her father an Armenian from Istanbul. She emigrated to the USA, to San Francisco, in the 1960s, and lived there for ten years. She has been back to Paris more than sixty times since then, and has dual citizenship.</div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I heard Amália Rodrigues in the 1950s and bought many 45 records of hers. She was very famous in France and was often on French TV. I have loved fado music because of her for decades and even studied some Portuguese so I could understand its lyrics. I appreciate <i>saudade</i> and feel it when I miss my other country and original language. I also went to Lisbon specially to hear the music live and visit the fado museum. Another great singer is Maria Teresa de Noronha, a Portuguese aristocrat. If you don’t know her, go on YouTube and you’ll be able to listen to her great voice – she was a traditional fado singer. Portuguese brought me also to Cesária Évora, a great Cape Verde traditional singer. I was able to watch her live in Paris the year before she passed away. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>My, oh my — to represent jazz it would be hard for me to decide who to include. I started to listen to jazz in the late 1950s and went to jazz clubs in Paris and London at that time. Also being in Paris it was easy to go and watch Duke Ellington, Mile Davis, Sidney Bechet and others when they came there. Also in Paris I used to go and watch Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers – I have several records signed by him. One of the main reasons I went to the US was to listen to jazz, live. In New York I listened to several jazz greats at the Village Vanguard.</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>My first four months in San Francisco were spent, every night, at the Blackhawk Jazz Club in the Tenderloin district, where I saw the MJQ, Lee Morgan, Horace Silver and others. One of my all time favourites is Thelonious Monk, but I also like Stan Getz and Gerry Mulligan in the cool jazz style. I spent my first Thanksgiving at the home of Earl 'Fatha' Hines in Oakland - I believe Coltrane was there, and maybe Philly Joe Jones, Charlie Mingus, Sonny Rollins and Paul Chambers, but that was a long time ago – I forget. Then in North Beach there was the Jazz Workshop where I saw Dizzy Gillespie (who tried to pick me up!); Cannonball Adderley, Oscar Peterson, Erroll Garner and John Coltrane were all regulars there too. Carmen McRae was singing there as well. Then, after that, I think starting in 1965 in San Francisco, both the Fillmore Auditorium and the Avalon Ballroom featured both jazz musicians and rock 'n' roll like Janice Joplin and Big Brother and the Holding Co. Nice to remember all this (I still have all my Blue Note 33 LPs).</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I was raised with music – my father had a player piano in my bedroom and as a child I would listen to Scott Joplin’s rags (in-between Chopin’s waltzes!) Then, later, when I visited London, I would go to all the New Orleans type places in Soho. When I went to school in London I would also go once a week to a pub that had great jazz. Have you read my 2011 blog post <a href="http://avagabonde.blogspot.co.uk/2011/12/recollection-new-year-party-to-remember.html">A New Year Party to Remember</a>? It mentions jazz in London. </b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>In Paris at that time there was a radio station, Europe No. 1, that had started a broadcast called <i>Pour Ceux Qui Aiment le Jazz </i>one hour every evening (Monday night modern jazz, Tuesday night New Orleans jazz, Wednesday night a concert, and so on.) That is where I learnt a lot about jazz and all the musicians. It would advertize where you could go and hear jazz musicians in Paris. The show would start with Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers playing <i>Blues March for Europe No.1</i> (I still know it by heart, and my heart jumps when I hear it . . . You can listen to it <a href="http://www.dailymotion.com/video/xf3hv9_art-blakey-jazz-messengers-blues-ma_music?GK_FACEBOOK_OG_HTML5=1">here</a>.) Lee Morgan played trumpet in this piece. It’s funny that I saw Lee Morgan many times in San Francisco after that, and became friendly with his girlfriend. We would sit together at the club listening to him. In Paris I also had a subscription to the magazine <i>Jazz-Hot</i>, a French magazine on jazz, started in 1935. In my circle then, in Paris and London, I was a lot more into jazz than in the US. France has always been strong on jazz since WWI, when the US black musicians who had been fighting the war stayed in Paris to avoid the racism back home. There are some interesting books about this. I still listen to jazz.</b></span></div>
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<i>Saudade</i>: A Portuguese term for a state of deep emotional longing for an absent something or someone that one loves.</div>
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MJQ: Modern Jazz Quartet.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-80400611681151455232016-08-25T10:30:00.000+01:002016-08-25T13:00:21.558+01:00Ten Of The Best: Bob Dylan (10)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/0RPkJeziNyI?list=RD0RPkJeziNyI" width="459"></iframe><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I got the pork chops, she got the pie</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>She ain't no angel and neither am I</b></span></div>
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Two of my favourite <b>Dylan</b> lines ever — apart from all the numerous others. </div>
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This is a great video montage to a soundtrack of <i>Thunder on the Mountain</i>, the first song on <b>Dylan</b>'s thirty-second studio album,<i> Modern Times</i>, released in 2006.</div>
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What can I say about <b>Dylan</b> that hasn't been said a million times and in a million ways before? What I will say is that whatever you or the world are going through (emotionally, spiritually, politically, economically, physically, existentially) he's nailed that experience somewhere in one of his songs — perhaps in the whole song, perhaps in just a few words or lines. Where else can you find that except in the <i>Tao Te Ching</i>, the <i>Holy</i> <i>Bible, </i><b>Shakespeare</b> or <i>Winnie-the-Pooh</i>?</div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Thunder on the mountain, fires on the moon</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>There's a ruckus in the alley and the sun will be here soon</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Today's the day, gonna grab my trombone and blow</b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Well, there's hot stuff here and it's everywhere I go</b></span></div>
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For the complete lyrics to this song click <a href="https://play.google.com/music/preview/Tyhtro4wxtalilxqtesh6cfexda?lyrics=1&utm_source=google&utm_medium=search&utm_campaign=lyrics&pcampaignid=kp-lyrics">here</a>.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-6374415199779646802016-08-21T14:08:00.002+01:002016-08-21T14:21:41.051+01:00Ten Of The Best: Joni Mitchell (9)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ojIZ61GBHwY" width="459"></iframe><br />
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Much as I love <b>Carole King</b>, <b>Joan Baez</b>, <b>Emmylou Harris</b>, <b>Gillian Welch</b>, <b>Kate Wolf</b>, <b>Lucinda Williams</b> and many other female singer-songwriters, for me <b>Joni Mitchell</b> is in a class of her own — right up there in that hallowed realm alongside <b>Leonard Cohen</b> and <b>Bob Dylan</b>. <i>Clouds</i>, <i>Ladies of the Canyon</i>, <i>Blue</i>, <i>For the Roses</i>, <i>Court and Spark</i>, <i>The Hissing of Summer Lawns</i>, <i>Hejira</i>, <i>Shadows and Light</i>, <i>Turbulent Indigo</i> — all these records are absolute favourites of mine and, much like <b>Bob Dylan</b>'s releases, form the soundtrack to different periods of my life. <i>Blue</i> has to be one of the classic LPs of all time; I still get the shivers if I play it now. Perhaps I didn't appreciate some of her later CDs quite as much, though <i>Shine </i>(2007) is superb, I think.</div>
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The video is a really good live version of<i> Song for Sharon </i>(from <b>Joni</b>'s fabulous album <i>Hejira</i>), performed at a concert in London's Wembley Arena in 1983.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-45575300992435496902016-08-16T11:36:00.000+01:002016-08-22T09:44:25.557+01:00Ten Of The Best: Carole King (8)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/BDm1xD_Kwyc" width="480"></iframe><br />
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When my father bought a <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Radiogram_(device)">radiogram</a> in the early 1970s, my sister and I were able to buy records for the very first time. Not that we could buy many, as we had little money. But I remember quite clearly our first prized LPs, mostly released in 1970 and 1971 — such wonderful years for music: <b>John Lennon</b>'s <i>Imagine</i>, <b>Carole King</b>'s <i>Tapestry</i>, <i>Sweet Baby James</i> by <b>James Taylor</b>, <i>Relics</i> by <b>Pink Floyd</b>, <i>Led Zeppelin III</i>, <b>Emerson, Lake and Palmer</b>'s eponymous first album, <b>Bob Dylan</b>'s <i>Greatest Hits</i> (1967). We played them over and over again on what was a ridiculously poor sound system. Radiograms were meant as furniture, not hi-fi, and the whole fake-teak structure vibrated alarmingly even at moderate volume. I could have chosen any of these records, but I've picked <i>Tapestry</i>, which is for me one of the most iconic pieces of vinyl ever — perfect voice, perfect songs, perfect arrangements, perfect piano, perfect production, perfect cover design. This album is emblematic of an era.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-39627975499204555592016-08-09T15:02:00.002+01:002016-08-31T16:20:16.405+01:00Ten Of The Best: Miles Davis and John Coltrane (7)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/rkY_zTKzPCY" width="459"></iframe><br />
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To represent jazz on this list I first thought of <i><a href="https://youtu.be/F3W_alUuFkA">Flamenco Sketches</a></i> by <b>Miles Davis</b> from the groundbreaking album <i>Kind of Blue</i>; then I thought of <b>John Coltrane</b> and <i>Spiritual</i>. (Of course, <b>Coltrane</b> also plays on the<b> Davis</b> track.) Both such intensely mystical pieces of music, I feel.</div>
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>In 1957 Coltrane had a religious experience that may have helped him overcome the heroin addiction and alcoholism he had struggled with since 1948. In the liner notes of <i>A Love Supreme</i> Coltrane states that in 1957 'I experienced, by the grace of God, a spiritual awakening which was to lead me to a richer, fuller, more productive life. At that time, in gratitude, I humbly asked to be given the means and privilege to make others happy through music.'</b></span></div>
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<b>WIKIPEDIA</b></div>
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And in the liner notes of <i>Meditations </i>(1965) <b>Coltrane</b> declares: <span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>I believe in all religions.</b></span></div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-37479826395234397162016-07-30T15:31:00.000+01:002016-07-30T15:40:11.066+01:00Ten Of The Best: Amália Rodrigues And Ana Moura (6)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/ARS7Zi-Zpkw" width="459"></iframe><br />
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I am smitten with the vitality and passion of Portuguese <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fado">fado</a> and Spanish <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flamenco">flamenco</a> music. This is the late, great <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Am%C3%A1lia_Rodrigues">Amália Rodrigues</a></b> (1920-1999), who was known as the <i>Rainha do Fado</i>, the Queen of Fado. If you like this, you must also listen to the fabulous <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ana_Moura"><b>Ana Moura</b></a> (b. 1979), whom I've <a href="http://solitary-walker.blogspot.co.uk/search/label/Ana%20Moura">featured before</a> on this blog. <a href="https://youtu.be/dfzYRTV5aUA">Here</a> she is singing <i>Amor Afoito</i> from her album <i>Desfado</i>, and <a href="https://youtu.be/stUEfc3L3eE">here</a> she joins with the brilliant Israeli musician <b><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Idan_Raichel">Idan Raichel</a></b> in <i>Sabe Deus</i> (<i>God Knows</i>).</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-5515357781398521752016-07-29T15:52:00.000+01:002016-07-29T15:54:44.280+01:00Ten Of The Best: David Bowie (5)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/y-JqH1M4Ya8" width="480"></iframe><br />
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So many rock and roll icons have been taken from us recently, but for me <b>David Bowie</b>'s death was the greatest shock. However, my goodness, didn't he leave with a bang, with such a theatrical flourish! <i>Blackstar</i> is simply one of the best albums he ever made (and that's saying something) — dark but not hopeless, innovative and genre-busting as always.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-24569098729109826952016-07-28T19:36:00.000+01:002016-07-28T20:05:20.141+01:00Ten Of The Best: Amy Winehouse (4)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/362JArvhAqg" width="459"></iframe><br />
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One of the greatest vocal talents to emerge from Britain since the 1970s, <b>Amy Winehouse</b>'s premature death from alcohol poisoning in July 2011 was nothing short of tragic. She was only 27. She was clever, witty and intelligent, and the best, most soulful female singer of her generation — though her private life was one unholy mess. She could seem strong, yet was in fact acutely vulnerable, and your heart went out to her. There's so much good stuff of hers on YouTube, I really couldn't choose — but in the end I went for <i>I Love You More Than You'll Ever Know</i>. Do please also check out her <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wo5--q2GPNo">cover of <b>Ella Fitzgerald</b>'s <i>Someone to Watch over Me</i></a>. It's sublime.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-90313918842238569652016-07-27T14:16:00.000+01:002016-07-27T14:28:48.846+01:00Ten Of The Best: Paul Simon (3)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="270" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9lJHVpH5v8Q" width="480"></iframe><br />
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After his split with <b>Art Garfunkel</b> in the early 1970s, <b>Paul Simon</b> has gone on to produce some fine records and some not quite so good — but big kudos to him for experimenting and trying out different kinds of songs and rhythms. When <i>Graceland</i> came out in 1986 I remember listening in stunned admiration and mounting excitement to<i> You Can Call Me Al</i> and <i>The Boy in the Bubble</i>, which were released as singles and played a lot on the radio at the time. Every song on this album is a gem. I also really like <i>So Beautiful or So What</i> from 2011, in which he returns to proper, traditional songwriting, and the recent <i>Stranger to Stranger</i>. Here's <i>Wristband</i> from this album. Such a cool vibe! I love it.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-57063008047270207982016-07-23T11:22:00.000+01:002016-07-23T11:22:33.879+01:00Ten Of The Best: Kate Wolf (2)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/PsXGzblg7Ws" width="459"></iframe>
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There has never been another singer who catches at your heart quite like <b>Kate Wolf</b>, who died in 1986 at the age of 44 after a long battle with leukaemia. She is still sorely missed. If I were to pick just two more of her songs I'd choose <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T2Kn3j7o2yY">Across the Great Divide</a></i> and <i><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BHD2aPTjqNM">Give Yourself to Love</a></i> — though most of her work is exquisite. I played her incessantly all through the weekend my sister visited me in July 1987 — the weekend before she died of a brain tumour aged 29.</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-91751609175538056222016-07-22T23:02:00.000+01:002016-07-22T23:18:49.992+01:00Ten Of The Best: Bob Marley (1)<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/vdB-8eLEW8g" width="459"></iframe><br />
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What can you say about the legendary <b>Bob Marley</b>? A beautiful human being, incorporating the very soul of Rasta and reggae, with the voice of an angel. I suppose he's now become an institutionalised icon, and we forget the rebel he was. I could have chosen many of his songs, but I chose <i>One Love</i>.</div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">One love, one heart</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Let's get together and feel all right</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Hear the children cryin' (one love)</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Hear the children cryin' (one heart)</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Sayin' give thanks and praise to the Lord and I will feel all right</span></b></div>
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<b><span style="color: #3d85c6;">Sayin' let's get together and feel all right</span></b></div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-38612489387016209172016-07-17T17:30:00.001+01:002016-07-19T10:35:41.608+01:00What Are You Reading?<div style="text-align: justify;">
I'm always fascinated by what others are reading.</div>
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Right now I've just read or am reading <i>Krishnamurti to Himself: His Last Journal</i>; <i>Schubert's Winter Journey: Anatomy of an Obsession</i> by<b> Ian Bostridge</b>; <i>Out of Sheer Rage: In the Shadow of DH Lawrence </i>by <b>Geoff Dyer</b>; <b>Italo Calvino</b>'s<i> Invisible Cities</i>; and <b>John Gray</b>'s <i>Straw Dogs</i> — an incredible, infuriating, outlook-changing book which will make all your ideas about religion and philosophy, science and 'progress', history and morality, humanism and anthropocentrism fall about your ears like a house of cards. It's essential, provocative reading, with the unmistakeable yet disconcerting ring of truth.</div>
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What are you reading at the moment?</div>
The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com42tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8319797996494487653.post-33610953004941655452016-06-27T15:07:00.000+01:002016-06-27T15:08:06.673+01:00Happy The Man<div style="text-align: justify;">
This morning I read <b>Alexander Pope</b>'s poem <i>Ode on Solitude</i>, which gave me some short blessed relief from the current turmoil in the UK.</div>
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<b>Ode on Solitude</b><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Happy the man, whose wish and care </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> A few paternal acres bound, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Content to breathe his native air, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> In his own ground. </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Whose herds with milk, whose fields with bread, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Whose flocks supply him with attire, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Whose trees in summer yield him shade, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> In winter fire. </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Blest, who can unconcernedly find </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Hours, days, and years slide soft away, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>In health of body, peace of mind, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Quiet by day, </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Sound sleep by night; study and ease, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Together mixed; sweet recreation; </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>And innocence, which most does please, </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> With meditation. </b></span><br />
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<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Thus let me live, unseen, unknown; </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Thus unlamented let me die; </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b>Steal from the world, and not a stone </b></span><br />
<span style="color: #3d85c6;"><b> Tell where I lie.</b></span>The Solitary Walkerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/11284354541952038339noreply@blogger.com14