Simon Armitage, About His Person
http://poemhunter.com/poem/about-his-person/
Wednesday, 10 June 2009
Tuesday, 9 June 2009
Poem of the day
Philip Larkin, Going.
There is an evening coming in
Across the fields, one never seen before,
That lights no lamps.
Silken it seems at a distance, yet
When it is drawn up over the knees and breast
It brings no comfort.
Where has the tree gone, that locked
Earth to the sky? What is under my hands,
That I cannot feel?
What loads my hands down?
Bring me my high horse
Right. Time to talk politics without sounding preachy. Not gonna happen is it.
So the BNP winning seats in last week's elections is annoying me, but not only for the obvious reasons. The reaction amongst the political elite and general public is baffling/angering me in equal measure.
Politics in this country is fucked at the moment - there can be no doubt about that; expenses rows, an economic crisis (which incidentally I don't think Brown exactly helped while he was Chancellor, deregulating everything to the nth degree), blind former cabinet ministers being attacked by discerning cattle - it's all gone tits up, yeah? This is a given. But my point is that we can't attribute this political decline as the sole reason for the BNP's success.
About 35% of people eligible to vote did so. And for this reason we deserve the BNP. It's like when lefties moan about Berlesconi - why? The Italian people have elected him. I have no idea how to heal, or even quantify, the apathy which seems to prevent British people going out to exercise such a basic democratic right.
It's impossible to estimate, but the media often talks about a politically educated elite that refuse to vote because no mainstream political party reflects their views. I think that this is broadly true, but there is also a similarly sized chunk of the electorate who simply do not give a fuck. It's frustrating, and may possibly always be a problem. And yes, it is the responsibility of the political system to try and get people interested in politics, but its also our responsibility.
OK, I'm done...someone put padding on the floor, I'm jumping down from the pedestal.
So the BNP winning seats in last week's elections is annoying me, but not only for the obvious reasons. The reaction amongst the political elite and general public is baffling/angering me in equal measure.
Politics in this country is fucked at the moment - there can be no doubt about that; expenses rows, an economic crisis (which incidentally I don't think Brown exactly helped while he was Chancellor, deregulating everything to the nth degree), blind former cabinet ministers being attacked by discerning cattle - it's all gone tits up, yeah? This is a given. But my point is that we can't attribute this political decline as the sole reason for the BNP's success.
About 35% of people eligible to vote did so. And for this reason we deserve the BNP. It's like when lefties moan about Berlesconi - why? The Italian people have elected him. I have no idea how to heal, or even quantify, the apathy which seems to prevent British people going out to exercise such a basic democratic right.
It's impossible to estimate, but the media often talks about a politically educated elite that refuse to vote because no mainstream political party reflects their views. I think that this is broadly true, but there is also a similarly sized chunk of the electorate who simply do not give a fuck. It's frustrating, and may possibly always be a problem. And yes, it is the responsibility of the political system to try and get people interested in politics, but its also our responsibility.
OK, I'm done...someone put padding on the floor, I'm jumping down from the pedestal.
Monday, 8 June 2009
Poem of the day
Emily Dickinson, It Was Not Death
http://www.poetseers.org/early_american_poets/emily_dickinson/emily_dickinsons_poetry/it_was_not_death
http://www.poetseers.org/early_american_poets/emily_dickinson/emily_dickinsons_poetry/it_was_not_death
The Horrors, Camden Electric Ballroom, Friday 5th June
Not only can I feel the sound bouncing in and out of my ears, but the floor is vibrating and throbbing. On stage The Horrors are still goth, but no longer cartoon goth, more an early Cure, Mary Chain type of goth. Barring Faris, their hair no longer resembles a crow's nest in a force-ten gale. The bass player even wears a shirt that isn't black and dances hypnotically using only his shoulders (you had to be there). Certain gimmicks of the old days linger, the keyboard player as pale, bowl-cutted and quietly frightening as an Addam's family extra.
There was a problem, but I'm yet to work out if this was the band's fault. Their new album, 'Primary Colours' has not left my CD player and iPod for a month, and as a result I know every nuance, every colourful glimmer, every vocal flourish. I didn't expect them to replicate the sound of the record live (a naive hope when going to see any band), but I did expect more than simply a relentless wall of noise, which is what I got.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy the gig. Their playing was far better than when I saw them at Reading in 2007, and they had that synergy that some bands can almost magically muster, a glorious racket which sounds greater than the sum of its parts. 'Scarlet Fields' sounded wonderful, exploding into a cacophany of colourful synth, 'Do You Remember' drenched in baggy charm. But Faris's vocal could only just be discerned, buried beneath pounding guitar, bass and drums. You could hear that his voice was on the money, but you could barely grasp or hold it in your hearing, like sensing something sinister out of the corner of your eye without being able to see it.
I admired their refusal to dwell on the songs that initially brought them attention: none of the 8 songs they played pre-encore were from the 1st album, though they did pay knowing homage to them at the gig's climax, rattling off 'Count In Fives', 'Sheena Is A Parasite', and 'Gloves' in frenetic succession, Faris shining a lantern into the crowd, tall and wiry, an undertaker on leave.
I felt incredibly old when the lights came on to reveal teens in their fertility-restricting jeans and Topman starter-kits. But to go to Camden expecting anything else would be another act of naivety.
There was a problem, but I'm yet to work out if this was the band's fault. Their new album, 'Primary Colours' has not left my CD player and iPod for a month, and as a result I know every nuance, every colourful glimmer, every vocal flourish. I didn't expect them to replicate the sound of the record live (a naive hope when going to see any band), but I did expect more than simply a relentless wall of noise, which is what I got.
That's not to say that I didn't enjoy the gig. Their playing was far better than when I saw them at Reading in 2007, and they had that synergy that some bands can almost magically muster, a glorious racket which sounds greater than the sum of its parts. 'Scarlet Fields' sounded wonderful, exploding into a cacophany of colourful synth, 'Do You Remember' drenched in baggy charm. But Faris's vocal could only just be discerned, buried beneath pounding guitar, bass and drums. You could hear that his voice was on the money, but you could barely grasp or hold it in your hearing, like sensing something sinister out of the corner of your eye without being able to see it.
I admired their refusal to dwell on the songs that initially brought them attention: none of the 8 songs they played pre-encore were from the 1st album, though they did pay knowing homage to them at the gig's climax, rattling off 'Count In Fives', 'Sheena Is A Parasite', and 'Gloves' in frenetic succession, Faris shining a lantern into the crowd, tall and wiry, an undertaker on leave.
I felt incredibly old when the lights came on to reveal teens in their fertility-restricting jeans and Topman starter-kits. But to go to Camden expecting anything else would be another act of naivety.
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