Last week saw the publication of Dana Gioia’s Meet Me at the Lighthouse, a perfect collection of poems. Dana has been a mentor and a friend to me, but had he and I never met, the pages of this book would have lodged themselves just as firmly in my heart. In fact, we came to know each other through one of its masterpieces, “The Ballad of Jesus Ortiz.” It reached me through a mutual friend, the late Scott Timberg, and I leapt at the chance to publish it in the Los Angeles Review of Books. The ballad tells the true story of Dana’s great-grandfather, a Mexican immigrant to the US who was killed in an argument over a bar tab. It is a poem of the West, and others in Dana’s book — including the titular “Meet Me at the Lighthouse” — bring the…
In both of these collections the sea and its various moods features. It is not just this that endears me in each case but it is that element that prompts me to write about them today. It is raining once again here in Cornwall and it is as the mists mizzle gather over the bay that I find myself in somewhat melancholy mood to respond to these collections.
Derek Mahon
Essentially this is a collection of essays by different writers together with Mahon’s poems. Here is one example- the poem-“The Sea in Winter” which was written for Desmond O’Grady. There are so many lovely passages in this poem which is fast becoming a favourite.-
Portstewart, Portrush, Portballintrae-
Un beau pays mal habité,
policed by rednecks in dark cloth
and roving gangs of tartan youth.
No place for a gentleman like you.
The good, the beautiful and the true
have a tough time of it; and yet
there is that Hebridean sunset,
The coast in winter, something familiar here in West Cornwall evokes feelings as in these engaging couplets:-
The sea in winter, where she walks,
vents its displeasure on the rocks.
The human factor appears too beside these images or pathetic fallacies-
………………………….; the spite
mankind has brought to this infernal
backwater destroys the soul;
it sneaks into the daily life,
sunders the husband from the wife.
Sunder seems a significant word here, perhaps evoking “thunder” and reminiscent of the biblical separation of “asunder”. ( The chariot and horses of fire “parted asunder” Elijah and Elisha (2 Kings 2:11). So we are situated on the bleak edge of the sea. Though not quite in the same mood state as T.S.Eliot-On Margate Sands./I can connect/Nothing with nothing./The broken fingernails of dirty hands./My people humble people who expect/Nothing.
“I grew to love the poem’s complicit sense of ennui,bordering on but never quite reaching desolation, ‘living on the edge of space’; the memorable turns of phrase and allusive colour, both classical and contemporary; the sense of redemption just out of reach; the agonizing, trapped uncertainty of the writing life; all balanced against the consolation of confident, impeccable poetry.”
Evelyn Holloway
Evelyn’s book is published in English and German by Edition Sonnberg which is based in Vienna, where Evelyn was born in 1955. Perhaps the most interesting poem, it is for me, is Meeting which tells of Evelyn encountering Samuel Beckett in Oxford where she was a student in October 1973. I find that even with my poor German having the text in both languages somehow broadens the comprehension of the text.
Suddenly I see his face
stepped down from book covers,
a furrowed face, a landscape of thought
I waited for Godot,
saw people stuck in bins,
so many figures of his universe,
Now to return to the sea, a sea of memories- some perhaps repressed…….
ERRINERUNG IST EIN OZEAN OHNE SALZ
Ich kam hier um das Wrack zu sehen,
musste tiefer tauchen, tiefer.
Farben sind dort begraben,
Stimmen von der Zeit verschluckt.
Irgendwo in diesem Chaos,
ich bin irgendwo
verlassen,gefunden, und wieder verlassen
Atmen fällt schwer hier unten
Kunstweke hinter Mauern versteckt
Errinerung ist ein Ozean ohne Salz.
So that the memory can appear like a sea too, but one without salt. Memory and dreams have perhaps links to Vienna but the salty sea is close by in St Ives.
Here are just a few lines from WE ARE DANCING ROCKS (WIR SIND TANZENDE FELSEN)
We will outlast you.
Our salty eternity does not count the years.
We do not mourn the sand swallowed by the sea.
We are dancing rocks.
Her collection Words through Walls is published by Wieser Verlag ISBN 978-3-9504320-8-4
Amazing that such work could be done in the eye of the storm, so to speak. Many of these paintings are from a time which doesn’t feel long ago and how unusual that world appears.
After the early death of Rufin Sudkovsky in 1885, his widow, the former Elena Petrovna Besnard, a prolific Russian illustrator, later married another Ukrainian artist, Mykola Samokish (1860–1944), a selection of whose paintings I show today. Samokish is remarkable for having remained popular and successful in Ukraine and Russia from the 1880s into the Second World War, a period during which so many artists fell foul of one regime or another.
Samokish was born into a Cossack family in Nizhyn, Ukraine, and spent his youth in the town of Nosivka near Chernihiv, in the north-east of the country. He studied at the Imperial Academy of Arts in Saint Petersburg between 1879 and 1885.
Mykola Samokish (1860–1944), Hunters (1885), oil, dimensions not known, National Gallery of Art, Lviv, Ukraine. Wikimedia Commons.
In his early career, he painted several hunting scenes, including the painterly Hunters from 1885.
Blue Compotier Still life, neopastel on pastel paper, with additional reworkings begun, work in progress.
I have begun to rework various drawings that I have lately found in storage. Most of the drawings were studies and were never finished for that reason. To finish the drawings now means getting ideas from memory and imagination since the still life set ups are long gone, though in some cases certain still life objects are still in the room with me, available to consult. This drawing is particularly odd in its having a twin. For some reason I made two drawings of the same motif and didn’t finish either one. They appear on same sized sheets and the subjects are very similar. So I have decided to use one to suggest ways of working on the other. Whatever information the one drawing has gets copied to its twin. Then the first reworked drawing…
Odilon Redon, Profil sous une arche, signé ODILON REDON (en bas à gauche), pastel sur papier, 67,6 x 53,8 cm ; 26 5/8 x 21 1/8 in., Image Source: Sotheby’s
“Associated with the Symbolist movement, the art of Odilon Redon demonstrates a superb mastery of the pastel technique which draws it source from French 18th century art. The Impressionist painters such as Manet or Degas revived this medium, but Redon then developed a particular style which evoked a world inhabited by a deep sense of spirituality…The use of a arched window-like frame emphasises this space of transition between the physical and the spiritual world. The composition is completed by a majestic invasion of evanescent flowers. Flowers, as Redon described in his diary “…come from the convergence of two shores, that of representation, that of memory”. (A Soi-même. Journal (1867-1915), Paris, 1922, p.115).”
Absolutely love the expression “altering the authorities” because it seems to me, recently reading Lacan, perhaps that is what needs doing and not just alerting them!!
Dance Move, the second collection by the Belfast-based writer Wendy Erskine, comprises eleven short stories – little snapshots of life with all its minor dramas and incidents. While several other reviewers love this book, praising the stories for their humanity, authenticity and colour, it pains me to say that I found it somewhat uneven in quality. On the positive side, there are five very solid stories here – memorable, highly relatable pieces that made a strong impression on me. These are the stories that I’ll focus on in my review, with a few brief notes on the less satisfying ones towards the end.
Erskine’s strongest pieces tend to feature ordinary, working-class people, stoically dealing with the small dramas and preoccupations of everyday life. In some instances, there is a strong sense of looking back to the past, of paths not taken or opportunities left unexplored. In others, a more…
This is by my friend Ursula Ghee Wieckowska, who lives on the Island of Lewis not far from Stornaway
Snow Hills
March is turning out to be the month of Blue skies sun and brilliant snow Not overwhelming snow Pawprints made by the cats Prints by the chickens crows and ducks Then this morning all the prints were gone It must have snowed in the night Glistening crystals of snow now Covering the ground smooth and white By tonight the garden will be covered in prints again
Then over to the east the hills Beautiful white covered in snow The sun shining on them Showing off their features From a distance we see The individual hills Stac Polly Cul Beag Cul Mor Sulliven Canisp Different shapes Different personalities They only appear on some days This week we have been blessed Everyday against the blue sky They stand on the horizon They stand on the sea
In the town the roads are wet The traffic has melted the snow And the black tarmac appears Some snow is just lying On the verges and roofs and In between the trees
I head home and will look at the snow Through the car windows Then through my house windows As long as the sun shines Then it will disappear into the dark To come again hopefully tomorrow When I open the curtains in the morning I will once again be blinded by the Sun on the white snow
LOUIS VALTAT (1869-1952), Bouquet de dahlias, signed ‘L. Valtat’ (lower right), oil on canvas, 21 5/8 x 18 1/8 in. (55.1 x 46 cm.), Painted circa 1940, Image Source: Christie’s
Before the movie started, I had a look around me. EVERYONE was holding huge packs of chips, popcorn and drinks. It was noisy.
I thought, it will stop as the movie starts. It didn’t.
The guy close to me, in order to pack as many chips as possible in his mouth, was moving his harm toward me as if it was perfectly choreographed (to disappoint).
It was not beautiful. Not a sign of caring either.
Despite (or thanks to…) these distractions, and eating practices of my fellow neighbors… (as if there was no tomorrow), I could sense the power of buried emotions.
In others, Charlie, and myself.
The last scenes of the movie have been therapeutic.
This movie made me cry.
“Unexpressed emotions will never die.They are buried alive and will come forth later in uglier ways.”
penwithlit 