Modern Poetry

Extract from an article in today's "Observer" newspaper:

"Stephen Fry has launched a scathing attack on the 'arse-dribble' of modern poets and revealed a private passion for writing his own verse.

In his new book, The Ode Less Travelled, a guide to writing poetry, Fry argues in favour of traditional form and metre.

He expresses admiration for WH Auden, Robert Browning and other dead poets, but condemns 'the condition of English-language poetics' today as 'tattered and tired'.

He goes on: 'Add a feeble-minded political correctness to the mix and it is a wonder that any considerable poetry at all has been written over the last 50 years. It is as if we have all been encouraged to believe that form is a kind of fascism, and that to acquire knowledge is to drive a jackboot into the face of those poor souls who are too incurious, dull-witted or idle to find out what poetry can be.'

These candid comments come in the month that National Poetry Day failed to capture the public imagination and prompted calls for 'an ambassador' to help give poets the same star status as leading novelists."

Harold Pinter has just been awarded the Nobel Prize for Literature. I wonder what Stephen Fry would make of this poem of Pinter's:

God Bless America

Here they go again,
The Yanks in their armoured parade
Chanting their ballads of joy
As they gallop across the big world
Praising America's God.

The gutters are clogged with the dead
The ones who couldn't join in
The others refusing to sing
The ones who are losing their voice
The ones who've forgotten the tune.

The riders have whips which cut.
Your head rolls onto the sand
Your head is a pool in the dirt
Your head is a stain in the dust
Your eyes have gone out and your nose
Sniffs only the pong of the dead
And all the dead air is alive
With the smell of America's God.

Harold Pinter January 2003

more about love and peace

And how about these quotes, I like them, too:

' Serenity isn't freedom from the storm, it is peace within
the storm.  If you continually give then you will continually
have.'
  -- Unknown Author from the Crystal Meth
Anonymous Support Site

   “The choice between love and fear is made every
moment in our hearts and minds. That is where the peace
process begins. Without peace within, peace in the world is
an empty wish. Like love, peace is extended. It cannot be
brought from the world to the heart. It must be brought
from each heart to another, and thus to all mankind.”
  --Paul Ferrini

    'Thus, the task is, not so much to see what no one
has yet seen; but to think what nobody has yet thought,
about that which everybody sees.'
    ~~ Erwin Schrödinger 1887-1961 

the question is wrong

I like this snappy little quote, don't you?

"If Love isn't the answer, the Question is Wrong"

found on http://quantumtouch.groupee.net/groupee/forums/a/tpc/f/6901071811/m/5621092811

What Tarot card are you?

I found this on Lock and Ki, thank you, jewels



You are the Hermit card. The Hermit has chosen a
solitary spiritual path. He shines light on his
inner self and, by this means, gains wisdom.
The Hermit's home is the natural world and it
is by being in tune with that world that he
learns the laws of nature and learn how they
operate within himself. His path is a lonely
one as he lives in silence and has for
companionship only his own internal rhythms.
But those crossing his path are touched by his
light and wisdom. Though often alone, he
manages nevertheless to instruct those who meet
him and guides those who chose to follow him on
a path towards enlightenment. Image from The
Aleister Crowley Tarot deck.
http://www.aeclectic.net/tarot/thoth/


Which Tarot Card Are You?
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On the Banks of Allan Water

When I sing even the first line or two of this song, my voice chokes up and tears start in my eyes. It's not the story, but rather the music and the words together, that produces this effect on me. I wish I knew how to publish the music here, it's so beautiful. Can anyone tell me how to do it?

Allan Water is a river in Scotland, near where I used to live. It rises in the Ochil Hills and joins the River Forth just below Bridge of Allan, Fife. The song is believed to have been written by Matthew. G. Lewis around 1805.

There are lovely pictures of the river here and here and below is a copy of a broadsheet giving the words. In case it's not legible, I have copied the words below.

ON THE BANKS OF ALLAN WATER.

On the banks of Allan Water,
When the sweet Springtime did fall,
Was the miller’s lovely daughter,
Fairest of them all.
For his bride a soldier sought her,
And a winning tongue had he:
On the banks of Allan Water,
None so gay as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,
When brown Autumn spreads its store,
Then I saw the miller’s daughter,
But she smiled no more;
For the Summer grief had brought her,
And the soldier false was he;
On the banks of Allan Water,
None so sad as she.

On the banks of Allan Water,
When the Winter snow fell fast,
Still was seen the miller’s daughter,
Chilling blew the blast.
But the miller’s lovely daughter,
Both from cold and care was free:
On the banks of Allan Water,
There a corpse lay she.

M.G. Lewis.

Locally produced cheese

I couple of weeks ago Rose and I were riding through the streets of Calbayog city, me pedalling and Rose riding in the sidecar, when we saw a street vendor selling cheese. These little thin disks of cheese are made from the milk of the carabao (water buffalo) and are very salty. I don't know why they have to be so salty, and I wash them in clean water for a few minutes before eating them to remove some of the salt. It's the only local cheese, there aren't many dairy cows here.

We bought 100 pieces for 300 pesos (about $5.35). The vendor put his little tub of cheese down on the road, put a plastic bag over his hand for a glove and carefully placed the pieces in another plastic bag for us to carry. He told us they are made in Gandara, a town an hour's ride away, where Rose's brother Rody happens to be the District Judge.


Four piles of carabao milk cheese on our dining table 

Building up high

We are making a tree house for the children. The tree it's in is a star apple, which has plenty of fruit in February/March. I don't actually like the fruit very much, it is full of latex which sticks your lips together when you eat it. Quite sweet and a bland taste. Click on a picture to enlarge it.


Tree house with some wall in place


Tree house getting its roof. That's Sanny up there fixing the nipa shingles with thin bamboo strips to tie them on to a bamboo framework, just as in full size houses here.