Why we can’t wait.

August 28, 2022 by Sailoil

Two of my kids were in Washington and here they are visiting the Lincoln Memorial in August 2022. I was born in October 1963 following a summer of unrest for Black Civil Rights in the USA. The summer peaked on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial on Aug 28th, 1963 when Martin Luther King Jr. addressed a crowd of 250,000 supporters who marched to the capital for Jobs and Freedom.

His speech, almost a sermon, is known as the “I have a dream” speech. It formed the core of his subject for the book he published in the following year “Why we can’t wait”. I grew up in a white Irish household with a copy of that book on our bookshelf. The Civil Rights movement of the USA became a model and a template for the Civil Rights Movement in Northern Ireland.

Today we need to take a leaf from the playbook of Martin Luther King Jr. and apply it to the issue of Climate Change. We need to highlight the fierce urgency of now. There is no time for cooling off, because we are heating up. The weak promises of democracy need to be exchanged for hard actions. National interests rooted in old colonial competitive paradigms need to be set aside so that the world can work together as one. The cause of Climate is the cause of Racism. The Sweltering Summer of 2022 set heat records all over he world and while whites suffer in the heat people of color die in drought and conflagration. There is no such thing as “Business As Usual” when it is the economics of exploitation and depletion which have brought us to this juncture. The tranquilizing drug of gradualism will kill us. The earth will abide, the future of humans remains in the balance.

The following is an excerpt from the MLK speech and the full text is on this LINK

We have also come to his hallowed spot to remind America of the fierce urgency of now. This is no time to engage in the luxury of cooling off or to take the tranquilizing drug of gradualism.

Now is the time to make real the promises of democracy. Now is the time to rise from the dark and desolate valley of segregation to the sunlit path of racial justice. Now is the time to lift our nation from the quick sands of racial injustice to the solid rock of brotherhood. Now is the time to make justice a reality for all of God’s children.

It would be fatal for the nation to overlook the urgency of the moment. This sweltering summer of the Negro’s legitimate discontent will not pass until there is an invigorating autumn of freedom and equality. 1963 is not an end, but a beginning. Those who hope that the Negro needed to blow off steam and will now be content will have a rude awakening if the nation returns to business as usual.

-=o0o=-

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The birth of Turks

August 26, 2022 by Sailoil

Turkic peoples have lived in central Asia for a long time. The first clear reference to them is from China in the 6th Century but historians postulate that they may have been referenced as far back as the 1st Century AD as a people living in the forests round the Sea of Azov, in Roman histories. No doubt they were old even then.

The Turkic horsemen were formidable warriors and sold their services to the Kings of Persia. They served the Parthians and the Sassanids. In this regard they frequently encountered the Romans and Byzantines. It was on August 26th, 1071 that they became recognized as a great people, changing from Turkomen to Turks. The Seljuk Turk Empire began in 1037 when they took control of the East of Iran and gradually took over the Persian Empire from the Ghaznavids. But it was their meeting with the Byzantines at Manzikert in 1071 that confirmed them as a world power.

Free; by Orhan Veli Kanik

We live free
air is free, clouds are free
valleys and hills are free
rain and mud are free
the outside of cars
the entrances of cinemas
and the shop windows are free
bread and cheese cost money, but
stale water is free
freedom can cost your head
but prison is free
we live free.

-=o0o=-

Ива́н Гро́зный

August 25, 2022 by Sailoil

Poor translations are a dreadful curse and nobody suffers more from poor translation than the first Tsar of Russia, Ivan IV Vasilyevich. The honorific accorded to him in Russian in the title reads in Latin script as Grozny. It is a word that has no direct equivalent in English, but represents the power of the holder to dominate and overawe his enemies. He could have been Ivan the Magnificent, or Ivan the Formidable, Ivan the Fearsome, or the Dreadful. The word the English selected as a translation in the 16th Century was “Terrible” which did at the time mean something similar to “Formidable”.

Over time the word Terrible has changed in meaning. These days it means awful, bad, defective, poor quality. It has grown from a relatively neutral term to become a strongly negative trait. And Ivan is stuck with it.

Ivan was born on this day, August 25th, 1530. He was a member of the Rurikid dynasty, the royal family founded by the Viking lord, turned Varangian prince and ruler of the Kievan Rus, Rurik. In the current climate of the Russian invasion of Ukraine it is sobering to remember that it was a Ukrainian prince of Kiev who founded Russia, not the other way round. When Ivan was born his father was ruler of the Grand Duchy of Moscow. At age 3 on the death of his father he was appointed Grand Prince of the Duchy.

At age 16 his “Chosen Council” elevated Ivan to Tsar of Russia, a word which is a corruption of the Latin term Caesar, and reflects the Russian belief that the Russian Orthodox Church was the natural successor to the patriarchy of Constantinople which fell to Islam in 1453. They saw the secular ruler as the successor to the Emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire.

His conquest of the Tatar Khanates of Kazan and Astrakhan bolstered his position both religiously and politically and gave him the power to shed his council. He was then dragged into the Northern Wars with Poland, Lithuania and Sweden, which went badly for him and led to widespread dissatisfaction amongst the aristocratic class of Russians. But instead of leading to a Magna Carta Russia went in a different direction. Ivan turned the screws on his equivalent of the English Barons, the Boyars. His oppression is called the Oprichnina. He formed a personal guard made up of commoners who had no allegiance to the noble families, called Oprichniki. They are often considered to be the first secret police force.

The Oprichniki carried out the proscriptions, punishments and land seizures used by Ivan to terrify the nobles into submission. With age Ivan became more paranoid, suspicious and jealous of his power. He was violent, even to his own family and is alleged to have killed his own son and heir, and caused the death of his own unborn grandson with an assault on his daughter in law. So, in the latter half of his reign the formidable Ivan did indeed become Ivan the Terrible.

And so a question, did the word Terrible simply evolve into negativity over time, or was it the association of the word with Ivan himself that led it down that path?

And now for a piece of interesting trivia. Joseph Stalin was another ruler in the mould of Ivan the Terrible. Suspicious, paranoid and surrounding himself with men that he played off against each other. He had his own secret police; the NKVD. Stalin was a Georgian and while there were many brilliant chefs in the Kremlin to cook for him his favourite was a fellow Georgian who cooked the dishes Stalin loved from his youth. The grandson of this cook became a member of the secret police force that replaced the NKVD: the KGB. He then went into politics. His grandfather was Spiridon Putin. Today’s Ivan the Terrible is none other than Vladimir Putin.

-=o0o=-

Marj Dabiq

August 24, 2022 by Sailoil

The Mamlukes were slave soldiers who were raised as a force by Saladin to prosecute his wars against the Crusaders. Mostly they were Kipchak Turks from Central Asia who formed slave regiments for various Emirs. They were converted to Sunni Islam and taught Arabic. They were elevated in status above that of a slave servant, but were slaves nonetheless.

It was Baibars the Fourth Mamluke sultan who brought them to the peak of their power. He drove the Crusaders out of Outremer and also defeated the Mongols at Ain Jalut in 1260. Although the Mamlukes continued to rule over Egypt until their defeat by Napoleon in 1798, they did so only as vassals of the Ottomans.

It was on this day, August 24th, in 1516 that the Mamlukes clashed with the Ottomans north of Aleppo in modern day Syria in a meadow called Marj Dabiq. This was when Thomas More was publishing Utopia in the England of Henry VIII. Selim I, known as “The Grim” defeated the Mamlukes and went on to chase them all the way to Egypt. From this point it was the Ottomans who became the supreme power in the Middle East for 400 years until their ultimate collapse in the aftermath of World War 1.

Reports of the battle of Marj Dabiq agree that the Mamluke cavalry were splendid and had the upper hand, driving back one of the Ottoman wings and capturing some artillery pieces and arquebusiers. Then we are told that they lost some key marshals and their attack faltered.

What is less spoken of, because it is highly practical and unromantic, is that the battle appeared to be decided by two factors. The first was the absence of significant firepower on behalf of the Mamlukes. They left their artillery in Egypt. Firearms were beginning to appear on battlefields from the 1400’s and by 1516 they represented a game-changing advantage. The second factor, possibly linked, is that Selim bought the commander of the left flank of the Mamluke army Khai’r Bey. As soon as he saw the attack on the right wing falter he lost no time signalling a retreat taking his forces off the field.

The Mamluke retreat became a rout and an escape to Baghdad. But their alliance fell apart completely there. The Egyptians fled south and Damascus yielded to Selim almost without resistance.

Now follows a poem penned by this same Sultan, but sadly it has be translated by an idiot. Well, perhaps this is unkind, Gibb was a renowned orientalist and translator, but he is a lousy poet.

A Poem by Selimi (Sultan Selim I) translated by E.J.W. Gibb

From Istanbul’s throne a mighty host to Iran guided I;
sunken deep in blood of shame I made the Golden Heads to lie.
Glad the Slave, my resolution, lord of Egypt’s realm became:
thus I raised my royal banner e’en as the Nine Heavens high.
From the kingdom fair of ‘Iraq to Hijaz these tidings sped,
when I played the harp of Heavenly Aid at feast of victory.
Through my sabre Transoxania drowned was in a sea of blood ;
emptied I of kuhl of Isfahan the adversary’s eye.
Flowed adown a River Amu from each foeman’s every hair
rolled the sweat of terror’s fever if I happed him to espy.
Bishop-mated was the King of India by my Queenly troops,
when I played the Chess of empire on the Board of sov’reignty.
O Selim, in thy name was struck the coinage of the world,
when in crucible of Love Divine, like gold, that melted I.

-=o0o=-

Private time with Paddy Clancy

August 23, 2022 by Sailoil

Utagawa Toyokuni, born in 1769, was a master of a school of Japanese Woodblock artists. He is often called Toyokuni I to distinguish him from those of his students who adopted his name and referred to the “Utagawa School”. In the latter half of the 19th Century Western Europe developed an appreciation for all things Oriental and the woodblock prints of Japan were especially prized.

Aubrey Beardsley leaned heavily on Japanese prints in originating the Art Nouveau Style.

Born on August 23rd 1849 William Ernest Henley was in his most productive period when the oriental fashion struck. It is no surprise that he wrote a poem celebrating the touring prints of the Toyokuni school. Henley shares his Birthday with my father who was born on this day in 1927. My father never made it to Japan but Japan made itself to him. Dublin is home to one of the most important collections of oriental manuscripts in the world; the Chester Beatty Library. If you visit it today you will find it located in the grounds of Dublin Castle. But when my father first brought me there it was the old library on Shrewsbury Road he brought me to. Not purpose built, really just like visiting someone’s private home.

It was one of those solo treats he did with all his kids from time to time. For some reason he thought I would appreciate this trip. I recall that the young me was a little disappointed to discover that much of the collection was Islamic art, and in particular text documents. When I heard it was an “Oriental” collection my mind immediately leapt to Japan. But after some searching we did find Japanese block prints and watercolours, and I was happy. I felt a bit like Henley getting lost in the drama of the imagery.

Ballade Of A Toyokuni Colour-Print; by William Ernest Henley

Was I a Samurai renowned,
two-sworded, fierce, immense of bow?
A histrion angular and profound?
A priest? A porter? Child, although
I have forgotten clean, I know
that in the shade of Fujisan,
what time the cherry-orchards blow,
I loved you once in old Japan.

As here you loiter, flowing-gowned
and hugely sashed, with pins a-row
your quaint head as with flamelets crowned,
demure, inviting – even so,
when merry maids in Miyako
to feel the sweet o’ the year began,
and green gardens to overflow,
I loved you once in old Japan.

Clear shine the hills; the rice-fields round
two cranes are circling; sleepy and slow,
a blue canal the lake’s blue bound
breaks at the bamboo bridge; and lo!
touched with the sundown’s spirit and glow,
I see you turn, with flirted fan,
against the plum-tree’s bloomy snow …
I loved you once in old Japan!

Envoy
dear, ’twas a dozen lives ago;
but that I was a lucky man
the Toyokuni here will show:
I loved you – once – in old Japan.

-=o0o=-

Naughty naughty.

August 21, 2022 by Sailoil

Born on this day, August 21st, 1872 Aubrey Beardsley never made it into the 20th Century. In his short life he became the most influential artist in the creation of Art Nouveau. He was inspired by the poster art of Toulouse Lautrec and Japanese Woodblock prints then fashionable in Paris, to originate a style that also heavily influenced Art Deco. As a member of the aesthetic art movement he worked closely with Oscar Wilde, collaborating to create the illustrations for the play Salomé.

His work revels in the grotesque, but also the decadent and the erotic. He was to die of tuberculosis, as did his grandfather and father. TB was the major killer disease of the modern world until a reliable cure was discovered as late as 1949. Before then it was cured with clean air and plenty of food. Sanitoria varied. The poor might sleep in tents in the countryside in the coldest of winters. The rich would travel to Switzerland to the clean Alpine air, or seek eucalyptus groves.

My parents told me of estates in Dublin built for families afflicted by TB. Although not exactly contagious it did tend to “run in families”. If a young man or woman began walking out with a member of such a family they often got a tap on the shoulder from a well meaning grandmother or aunt to tell them this might not be a great idea. The language of the day was replete with euphemisms for the disease. Consumption is the best known, the wasting disease, anyone described as “delicate” might also be suspect. Other historical names include phthisis, scrofula, the Kings Touch, The White Plague and the Captain of all these Men of Death.

Additionally it might be confused with sexually transmitted diseases, especially syphilis, which was also incurable.

When I left school I worked for 6 months as an orderly in James Connolly Memorial Hospital in Blanchardstown Dublin. It was originally built well outside of Dublin city as a sanatorium. It is a hospital with well spaced out units where each ward has broad verandahs. TB patients used to sleep the night on the verandahs or with the French doors wide open to let the clean air in. My mother jokingly commented that the poor tended to survive the treatment better than the rich because the food was better than they were used to and the cold was no worse.

Lines Written In Uncertainty; by Aubrey Beardsley

The lights are shining dimly round about,
the Path is dark, I cannot see ahead;
and so I go as one perplexed with doubt,
nor guessing where my footsteps may be led.

The wind is high, the rain falls heavily,
the strongest heart may well admit a fear,
for there are wrecks on land as well as sea
eíen though the haven may be very near.

The night is dark and strength seems failing fast
though on my journey I but late set out.
And who can tell where the way leads at last?
Would that the lights shone clearer round about!

-=o0o=-

A boy and his dog.

August 20, 2022 by Sailoil

Edgar Albert Guest was born in Birmingham on August 20th, 1881. At age 10 his family moved to the USA where he grew up to become “The People’s Poet”. His lighthearted optimistic poems are ready family favourites and I give one of his most popular below.

I have no doubt that Harlan Ellison had this poem in mind when he wrote his stories about the immoral Vic and his telepathic and cynical dog, Blood. Blood is able to sniff out females for Vic to rape in exchange for Vic providing the dog with food in the post-apocalyptic USA of 2024. The short stories were compiled into the Novella “A boy and his dog” published in 1969 which won a Nebula.

There was immediate interest in securing the movie rights. Disney was interested in a movie featuring a talking dog, but Ellison recoiled in horror. Blood was never meant to be a cute talking dog and Disney was the wrong medium for a film exploring themes of violence, rape and survival in a post nuclear world of foraging gangs and mutants on the surface and subterranean communities in fallout shelters. Blood does not talk, he is a telepath, a product of a shady military research project.

L.Q. Jones produced the film independently and made an inspired choice with Don Johnson in the lead role. The 1975 film was not a commercial success and was (and continues to be) panned by the mainstream Hollywood film industry and it’s organs like Variety. But it quickly gained credibility in the Sci-fi community where it remains a popular cult classic. It became the inspiration for the game “Fallout” which is now preparing Fallout 5.

A Boy And His Dog; by Edgar Albert Guest

A boy and his dog make a glorious pair:
No better friendship is found anywhere,
for they talk and they walk and they run and they play,
and they have their deep secrets for many a day;
and that boy has a comrade who thinks and who feels,
who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.
He may go where he will and his dog will be there,
may revel in mud and his dog will not care;
faithful he’ll stay for the slightest command
and bark with delight at the touch of his hand;
oh, he owns a treasure which nobody steals,
who walks down the road with a dog at his heels.
No other can lure him away from his side;
he’s proof against riches and station and pride;
fine dress does not charm him, and flattery’s breath
is lost on the dog, for he’s faithful to death;
he sees the great soul which the body conceals-
oh, it’s great to be young with a dog at your heels!

-=o0o=-

Halftalk code of suicide.

August 18, 2022 by Sailoil

In-groups frequently develop coded language so that they can discuss sensitive topics without triggering reactions for people on the outside. Pro-anorexia support groups need to communicate their messages of “thinspiration” in an environment where parents and siblings are watching out for clues they are in touch with their pro-ana network. The ABC diet stands for “Ana boot camp”. Thighgap, hip bones, thinspo etc.

The poem below has supplied a lexicon of terms for those contemplating suicide. The internet is filled with depressed teens offering their favourite pasta recipe, saying the chicken in the fridge is gone, they finished both their shampoo and conditioner, or the Netflix trial ended.

Don’t Kill Yourself Today: by Hannah Dains

Don’t kill yourself today because your Netflix free trial still has a week left.
Don’t kill yourself today because no one else will finish off the chicken in the fridge.
Don’t kill yourself today because I know for a fact Starbucks is introducing a new frappachino sometime next month.
Yes, your mother will miss you.
Yes, your bully will make a sappy facebook post about what a wonderful person you were.
Yes, suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem, but you know that.
You’ve known that.
Anyone and everyone has been shoving that down your throat since you first learned what the word ‘suicide’ meant.
Those slogans might have lost their meaning but anything that keeps you alive is worth saying.
So don’t kill yourself until you finish your shampoo and conditioner at the same time.
Don’t kill yourself until Doctor Who is finally cancelled.
Don’t kill yourself until you tell someone your best pasta recipe.
Don’t kill yourself because I will keep coming up with more reasons and I need you to hear all of them.
Don’t kill yourself. I love you.
You’re important.
Its a bad day not a bad life.
There is more to this.
The world will keep spinning on its axis without you but think of all the sunrises you’ll miss.
Think of all the tears you’ll never get to shed.
Think of all the celebrity twitter fights.
All the puppies and goldfish.
Think of all the sunflowers and frozen yogurt flavors.
I know this sounds pointless.
When you’re sitting in front of everything deadly you own and revising your goodbyes there will be too much darkness to see anything else, but this is not about seeing anything else.
This is about turning off the lights.
This is about finding the bedsheets instead of the noose.
This is about giving yourself just one more day.
Even if it takes 10,000 of those ‘one more mornings’ before you get to ‘I can’t wait for tomorrow’.
This is about staying alive because it’s pumpkin season.
This is about staying alive because you never really learned how to make gnocchi.
This is about staying alive because the future is coming and it is ready for you.
I don’t need you to see it.
I just need you to believe that you can make it until then.

-=o0o=-

Roncevaux

August 15, 2022 by Sailoil

On August 15th, 778 AD Charlemagne was withdrawing from Spain back into France after he sacked the Basque city of Pamplona. The Basque army attacked the retreating Franks and trapped the Frankish rearguard in Roncevaux Pass in the high Pyrenees. The rearguard was wiped out and a legend was born.

The bravery of the knights who stood their ground and would not surrender became the subject of medieval courtly romance. The Paladins were led by Roland who became central to the 11th Century romance poem The Song of Roland.

In many artworks celebrating the incident Roland is shown holding his Ivory horn. The hero and his great friend Oliver argued over whether to summon Charlemagne back to rescue them. Originally Roland refused and urged the Paladins to stand and fight to prevent the Basques catching the baggage train of the main army.

Eventually Roland does sound the horn three times and it is a message to Charlemagne that all is lost. The horn falls from Roland’s hand and is picked up by the warrior priest Turpin, who attempts to fetch water in it for the dying Roland, only to die of his own wounds.

The tropes from the Song of Roland pervade later literature. Roland and Oliver, the tragic warrior friends, are reminiscent of Achilles and Patroclus. Fast forward to the Lord of the Rings and the brave Boromir dying in defense of the Hobbits. His last act is to sound his great war horn which is heard all the way down in Gondor.

The priest bringing water to the dying Roland has shades of later grail legends, water restoring life to a dying hero, with influences linked to the votive use of water in sacred rituals. Indiana Jones and the last Crusade explores the themes of moral purity and self sacrifice over greed and avarice. The Paladins of Charlemagne were elevated to saintly status.

In many of the retellings Charlemagne is recast as a bastion of Christianity and instead of the Basques the Franks are attacked by Saracens. In the good vs evil narrative of the middle ages it was an awkward truth that the Vascones (Basques) were fiercely independent but also Christian. The Franks brutally savaged them and tore down their forts and defenses so they could easily transit the region to further expand the Holy Roman Empire.

LXXXIII

Says Oliver: “Pagans in force abound,
while of us Franks but very few I count;
Comrade Rollanz, your horn I pray you sound!
If Charles hear, he’ll turn his armies round.”
Answers Rollanz: “A fool I should be found;
in France the Douce would perish my renown.
With Durendal I’ll lay on thick and stout,
in blood the blade, to its golden hilt, I’ll drown.
Felon pagans to th’ pass shall not come down;
I pledge you now, to death they all are bound.

LXXXIV

“Comrade Rollanz, sound the olifant, I pray;
If Charles hear, the host he’ll turn again;
will succour us our King and baronage.”
Answers Rollanz: “Never, by God, I say,
for my misdeed shall kinsmen hear the blame,
nor France the Douce fall into evil fame!
Rather stout blows with Durendal I’ll lay,
with my good sword that by my side doth sway;
till bloodied o’er you shall behold the blade.
Felon pagans are gathered to their shame;
I pledge you now, to death they’re doomed to-day.”

LXXXV

“Comrade Rollanz, once sound your olifant!
If Charles hear, where in the pass he stands,
I pledge you now, they’ll turn again, the Franks.”
“Never, by God,” then answers him Rollanz,
“Shall it be said by any living man,
that for pagans I took my horn in hand!
Never by me shall men reproach my clan.
When I am come into the battle grand,
and blows lay on, by hundred, by thousand,
of Durendal bloodied you’ll see the brand.
Franks are good men; like vassals brave they’ll stand;
nay, Spanish men from death have no warrant.”

-=o0o=-

Reward criticism.

August 10, 2022 by Sailoil

It was clear to everyone who knew anything about ships that there were serious problems with the Swedish flagship Vasa on her departure day from Stockholm on August 10th, 1628. The King of Sweden, Gustavus Adolphus, was in Poland on campaign and demanded that his fantastic new warship take up her duties. He had personally commissioned one of the most heavily armed warships in the world, armed to the teeth with bronze cannon forged in Sweden. She represented the ambitions of Sweden itself.

The people of Stockholm lined the docks. The dignitaries of the privy council took pride of place to observe the ship departing on its maiden voyage with all the pomp and ceremony of one of the greatest courts of Europe.

The voyage did not go many miles. It did not go one mile. Note even 1,500 metres. About 1,400 into the voyage she was caught by a cross wind stronger than a zephyr, rolled over on her beam, and kept rolling. Down she went.

She was one of the earliest examples of a ship built with two full gundecks. There was little understanding of the impact of the weight of guns combined with the high gunwhales and towering fore and stern castles. She was never seaworthy and the captain responsible for construction demonstrated this to Admiral Fleming by having men run over and back across the deck. The Admiral stopped the test because he feared a capsize. But nobody would tell the King. Everyone was afraid to be the bearer of bad news, so nobody opened their mouth.

Vasa should serve as a dire warning to Emperors, Monarchs, Prime Ministers and CEOs on the dangers of living in a sycophantic bubble. Beware surrounding yourself with friends, lackeys and acolytes. Surround yourself with people who challenge you, however frustrating that can be. Make your cabinet diverse and include some people you respect but may not like. Most importantly never shoot the messenger. If someone brings you bad news reward them.

Beach Glass; by Amy Clampitt

While you walk the water’s edge,
turning over concepts
I can’t envision, the honking buoy
serves notice that at any time
the wind may change,
the reef-bell clatters
its treble monotone, deaf as Cassandra
to any note but warning.
The ocean,
cumbered by no business more urgent
than keeping open old accounts
that never balanced,
goes on shuffling its millenniums
of quartz, granite, and basalt.

It behaves
toward the permutations of novelty —
driftwood and shipwreck, last night’s
beer cans, spilt oil, the coughed-up
residue of plastic — with random
impartiality, playing catch or tag
ot touch-last like a terrier,
turning the same thing over and over,
over and over.
For the ocean, nothing
is beneath consideration.

The houses
of so many mussels and periwinkles
have been abandoned here, it’s hopeless
to know which to salvage.
Instead
I keep a lookout for beach glass —
amber of Budweiser, chrysoprase
of Almadén and Gallo, lapis
by way of (no getting around it,
I’m afraid) Phillips’
Milk of Magnesia, with now and then a rare
translucent turquoise or blurred amethyst
of no known origin.

The process
goes on forever: they came from sand,
they go back to gravel,
along with treasuries
of Murano, the buttressed
astonishments of Chartres,
which even now are readying
for being turned over and over as gravely
and gradually as an intellect
engaged in the hazardous
redefinition of structures
no one has yet looked at.

-=o0o=-

Mindship

Monthly Archives: August 2022

Why we can’t wait.

The birth of Turks

Free; by Orhan Veli Kanik

Ива́н Гро́зный

Marj Dabiq

Private time with Paddy Clancy

Ballade Of A Toyokuni Colour-Print; by William Ernest Henley

Naughty naughty.

Lines Written In Uncertainty; by Aubrey Beardsley

A boy and his dog.

A Boy And His Dog; by Edgar Albert Guest

Halftalk code of suicide.

Don’t Kill Yourself Today: by Hannah Dains

Roncevaux

Reward criticism.

Beach Glass; by Amy Clampitt