Tuesday, 7 September 2010

On Fists

Through the eyes of David Shrigley

Monday, 6 September 2010

On Ends

Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
the world becomes stranger, the pattern more complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Isolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stones that cannot be deciphered.
There is a time for the evening under starlight,
A time for the evening under lamplight
(The evening with the photograph album).
Love is most nearly itself
When here and now cease to matter.
Old men ought to be explorers
Here or there does not matter
We must be still and still moving
Into another intensity
For a further union, a deeper communion
Through the dark cold and the empty desolation,
The wave cry, the wind cry, the vast waters
Of the petrel and the porpoise. In my end is my beginning.

In the words of T. S. Eliot

On Cities

Each city recieves its form from the desert it opposes.

In the words of Italo Calvino

Sunday, 5 September 2010

On Peppers

Through the eyes of Edward Weston

Saturday, 4 September 2010

On Essays

The motor of fiction is narrative.
The motor of essay is thought.
The default of fiction is storytelling.
The default of essay is memoir.
Fiction: no ideas but things.
(Serious) essay (what I want): not the thing itself but ideas about the things.

In the words of David Shields 'Reality Hunger'

Tuesday, 31 August 2010

On Water


If I were called in
To construct a religion
I should make use of water.

Going to church
Would entail a fording
To dry, different clothes;

My litany would employ
Images of sousing,
A furious devout drench,

And I should raise in the east
A glass of water
Where any-angled light
Would congregate endlessly.

In the words of Philip Larkin

Saturday, 28 August 2010

On Wolves


I do not want to be reflective any more
Envying and despising unreflective things
Finding pathos in dogs and undeveloped handwriting
And young girls doing their hair and all the castles of sand
Flushed by the children's bedtime, level with the shore.

The tide comes in and goes out again, I do not want
To be always stressing either its flux or its permanence,
I do not want to be a tragic or philosophic chorus
But to keep my eye only on the nearer future
And after that let the sea flow over us.

Come then all of you, come closer, form a circle,
Join hands and make believe that joined
Hands will keep away the wolves of water
Who howl along our coast. And be it assumed
That no one hears them among the talk and laughter.

In the words of Louis Macneice