Site Meter Poetry Assassin

Tuesday, July 05, 2016

Peasant, piss awf!

This is the best recording of Stupid Liam Butler Yeats (18.30 min into it) there is in existence. BBC, 1927. Tha Brits, huh. Worra they doin wivih? Only us gorrih innih, tha faery rust? 

It is called In The Poet's Pub, a radio talk Yeats gave in 1927, and his living voice is clear as a bell at the link.


I have reproduced the opening of it below. In it Yeats drones on about his dream, so boring I can't remember it. He doesn't mind what gets said, as long as it's him saying it. It is a load of shite. Yeats is just full of it, and talking utter drivel. He was full of it wasn't he? No place for little woman in dikhed's time. 

I don't like Yeats's poems they are rubbish and nobody reads them apart from people without taste.

Graffiti on a cubicle-toilet door in Dublin/Yeats's epitaph he wrote years before he died.

His hooey ideas and utter bullshit 'runs into the receptive area of the inner platform' idea is a lot of rubbish. And of course he writes this opaque nonsense to bail out of what he really didn't get across at all well in this piece. 


But his voice, it is clear as a bell. And so if you have only heard the stone age piece of crap that's rubbish and you hardly hear anything but static; you really are in for a big big treat courtesy of Uncle Kev.

You make your own mind up and take no notice of the sneery tone, it is speculative discourse and every voice is fictional. Or rather the one voice mimicking lots of others. 


My voice's words, Kevin Desmond's. Of which the last time one lived in print it was a very different world. 

There's a weight of memories that come into every person, and the phantasmagoria passed down in our family include, Gerald FitzGerald, 3rd Earl of Desmond, for example, Fili/poet.

And so i think, well, if he can, i can. 

Breeding.

The Geraldines, our saviour, who is it gonna be? Who is gonna clean out the closet of all the under-performers that need shouting at? Hey! HEy! HEY!! 


Whereas what i think Stupid is trying to say here, is purely to advance his musical 'space between the notes' argument, and the 'one group of ideas' theory, that is, imo, a loada CRAP!! coming outtariz gob and along to us along old tram lines this nobhed used to travel on wen he was living in Dublin all his life doin nowt special apart from conning a lot of people with his monumental failures.

He's got nothing. He talks of 'filling spaces up between notes' with musical notes that allow the mind to detach and hover above what would usually be just a very boring person in front of an audience putting them to sleep.

Yeats was a well-known very boring reader of his own werk, and the only people who did listen were a weird bunch of odd-ball intellectuals and creepy people who all agreed, numerous social-studies reports prove, that Yeats had a voice like a shovel clearing shit in a yard.


Not only that but it was notedly pretentious. He was right up himself, and that got on everybody's nerves in person. Which is why he had so few friends, apart from those giving him money.

One of the many people we hear he was a right royal pain in the arse from, was his Edwardian equivalent of a Facebook friend, the novelist Fiona MacLeod.


Who he never met but spent many years during his mid-period corresponding with 'her'. McLeod was actually a man,  and Yeats knew this, but played along in correspondence that he didn't know 'Fiona' was actually another of his friends, the writer, Frank Sharpe. 

A writer as equally boring as his boring friend Yeats

Fiona/Sharpe, had a middling sales record in the romantic staple pulp novels of the Edwardian era, and he thought he was a poet and he was fek'n brutal, pardon me German. 


And it was Sharpe who introduced Yeats to the idea of tatwas and all that crap

That very specific area of otherworldly skill and bearing and belief in what world-soul inwardly thought spun poetry true into this prayer calling Her to meet us in the centre of a universal 'we' that is spontaneous‬ speculative discourse - imbhas forosnai. See i am just making shit up now, like the Rathgar tossa. 

And anyway, Yeats wasted his life.

He spent twenty years trying out 'the notes between notes' nonsense; and every single event he went to there'd be weirdos knocking about in the dumps he hung loose in with a variety of oddball 'poetesses'.


Not me guv, that's what they called themselves. And very much confused nightmare-women with what today would be diagnosed as mental-health issues.

Yeats turned up everywhere with a sacred string instrument, that he claimed to model on the Harp of a Tuatha Dé Danann druid Abhean, that had ten strings.


Yeats knocked about with many charlatans, one of whom was this string instrument guy. Dunno his name, but he was 'awfully untalented'. So wrote George Moore in a letter to Doris Sigerson, that i heard about on someone's timelines or summat.

And when his few real friends and his many pretend friends and even more enemies, saw him turn up with it, that would clear two-thirds of the room right off the bat. And a lot of upset people grumbling that arsehole from Sligo had ruined their night, again.

So what i'm saying is this here piece of utter prosaic drivel has nothing to recommend it to a reader apart from the fact it is the text the best recording of his voice reads.

Sounds like he is next to you, like Joe Duffy complaining right there in front of ye.

What the werking klaws fowkza Kirkby and Ormskirk call 'a loada shite pal.'

I am not saying Yeats is without merit whatsoever, but i am saying he doesn't half talk some tripe.

(Love ye weely Silly dekhidz)

'Some years ago I heard verses spoken by speakers all belonging to a well-known society for the speaking of verse. All spoke well; all knew that lyric poetry must not be spoken as if it were dramatic dialogue, where nothing matters but the two or three words that arise in a line that arise out of the situation; all knew that every word was important and that the whole must be a form of music.

Yet when five or six poems came one after another, not only was there an intolerable monotony, but I could not follow the meaning. While I was thinking of one poem, the next had begun. My mind could not move quickly enough.

I thought I knew the reason. All over the world unaccompanied folk singers have tricks to break the monotony and to reast the mind. At the end of each verse, perhaps, they clap their hands to tune or crack their fingers or whistle or there is a chorus in which many voices may join.

(How bored are you now?) Should not the speakers learn from the singers? Both the folk singers and the speaker of verse must keep within the range of the speaking voice and the range of the speaking voice is small.

Perhaps the folk singer may go a little beyond it here and there but if he goes far he becomes a bird or a musical instrument, and his proper place is the concert platform. Why not fill up the space between poem and poem with musical notes and so enable the mind to free itself from one group of ideas, while preparing for another group, and yet keep it receptive and dreaming?

Furthermore to rest and wary the attention..' yip, yup, of course, yep, always said that, right, of course you're right, yep, yabba yabba yabba, hey, yes, yeah, yeah, yeah, love it, yep yip yap yep yep.'


That's all he ever goh wannih?

Ovid Yeats

Tuesday, May 10, 2016

Oh hear ye fools in verbal trade

what is shoddy and not well made
in a country where knaves teach
less and less literature each day

where ignorance reigns supreme
and fewer people read, but steal
that which is written, to write ten
and more flarf poems at one sitting.

Kevin Desmond

Thursday, September 17, 2015

WB Logan. Peasant, Piss Off.

Trash-talk trolling opinion of the trash-talk and troll king of contemporary American poetry, William Logan​. The most recent (of four) comments responding to Logan's Partisan​ zine take-down piece, 'Flowers of Evil'; in which he sneers and insults, with no love for it, The State of the Art; The Best American Poetry​ anthology series Editor, David Lehman​’s new book of twenty-five collected forewords, that preface his annual Best American Poetry anthology. That has a different guest co-editor (with Lehman) every year.

~~~

I've always thought of Logan as a two-dimensional vaudevillian. The Glenn Beck of American poetry criticism. Who has spent a career specializing in the critical equivalent of cage-fighting.

What Patrick Kavanagh called in his poem Prelude, the 'unfruitful prayer' of satire.

Logan is a laughably transparent critical hypocrite. When reviewing the Dennis O’Driscoll Stepping Stones interviews, and Heaney generally, he deploys - with pejorative intent - the word 'cunning' a lot. Stating in his snotty 2009 New Criterion review of the Heaney DOD collaboration, written in lieu of an autobiography:

“The slyest moments here are his backhanded judgments on fellow poets”

…before indulging in the exact same literary Machiavellian practice himself:

“The richness of these interviews comes in part from the weakness of character inadvertently revealed. A poetry of warmth and humility has been drawn around a personality at times icy with conceit.”

      ~~

The obvious statement to make about Logan’s style is that he has made a name for himself as an un-scholarly boot-boy and literary lout, applying the sneeriest of standards to others, when his own poetry is of far poorer quality than many of the people he trash-talks and trolls.

I suspect it is because of one of the four human Sorrows we learn from Amergin's untitled 120 line text in the Book of Ballymote. The longest by far of the four texts spread over 172 lines of 7C Old Irish, that the annals attribute to this founding poet of the contemporary Gaels. This provably authentic bardic voice first translated into English from 7C Old Irish, in 1978, by late (2011) Galwagian academic, P.L. Henry, as the subject of a specialist scholarly article in Studia Celtica #14/15, 1979/1980, pp. 114-128, 'The Cauldron of Poesy'

'Jealousy.'

What of, he will never learn.

Henry Lloyd Moon, a regular poster on the guardian books blog, in a worshipful blog by John Sutherland blowing Martin Amis – could equally be referring to Logan’s overblown standing:

It’s like laughing along with the worldly but weedy class show-off.

Poet-manque Logan is clearly more of a bullying comedian than knowledgeable poetry / filíocht critic and scholar. A professional and outrageously readable troll whose glaring fault is, that, for all his smug condescending and comfortable tone of speaking voice he is essentially unfulfilled in the role of poet.

We can deduct this because Joyful praise, rarely, if ever, passes from his lips to the page. The simple humble human state of being in awe and wonder with the divine, is something which has totally bypassed this doggerelist of awful plodding ditties. This is the beginning of  The Nude that Stays Nude, a recent (2013) prose-poem, in what is supposed to be an 'ironic' post-avant fictional literary voice that is just incredibly and - no doubt - unintentionally, comedically awfully dull:

 'Don’t do what all the other little buggers are doing.

Don’t try to make the poem look pretty. You’re not decorating 
cupcakes, Cupcake.'


~~

It is clear from a short trek round Logan's oeuvre that, after an earnest start writing sub-standard Yeatsean doggerel ('... singing, which is like shouting, / shouting into the deaf light.') failing to train or learn how to move into any higher gear than plodding ('The Monarch butterflies now copulate / in the kitchen') and pedestrian ('the sun lay on the horizon like a vegetable'), the odd flash of interesting language, followed by a predictably bland, boring, and wholly unexceptional earth-bound non-evolution of voice.

The falling into an unfruitful, if rewarding, bitter prayer of trashy well remunerated prose satire; turned Logan over the years into what he is now. A vicious middle-aged literary troll operating with only half the ingredients in the Filí/poet kit-bag.

The definition and etymological root of which is defined in 10C Cormac's Glossary as: 'Fi', 'poisinous/toxic satire'. With no 'Li', 'splendour in praise', to poetically counter-balance and make up rounded the two halves of a fully realized Fili poet-tongue.

Here’s a short few lines from our resident know-all whose mediocrity knows no bounds:

After the Blitz, her mother had begun an affair. So she said.
No one would have called her wellbred,

but she knew how to fill a low-cut dress,
had a fetching smile and a tongue for success.

…and on and on ad finitum, deploying all the plodding amateur rhyming skills and poetic intelligence he lambastes the targets of his critical misanthropy for displaying.

I read an extract from Our Savage Art recently, littered with allusions and references to figures from Greek myth, as Logan tried to strike a balance between being a bare-knuckle bore, and belaboring his points about the fine art of Criticism. Seemingly blind to the irony that the examples he sneered for our entertainment, about all the poetaster critics of yesteryear – are equally applicable to himself:

“Blackmur, who, though a brilliant critic, was a dreadful poet.”

…and quoting Coleridge:

'..a critic most hates those who excel in the particular depart­ment in which he, the critic, has notoriously been defeated..'

The problem with two-dimensional ditty makers that have little in the way of poetic talent themself, compensated for by exhibiting lots in the way of attitude, who fall safely into comfortable Ivy League jobs as the jolly pit-bull critics sneering at all and sundry – is that eventually they become spent and highly toxic grumps towards the end. And are finished off when a cleverer and younger wit enters the ring and knocks them spark out out with the first blow.

I have stated elsewhere that i am keen to debate, with or without gloves, with Logan, anywhere at all, but i do not think he has the courage to face me in print, because he knows which of us is the  superior in both intellect and artistry.

WB Logan is a joker, a fake, a fraud, telling lies for a living. And no more a poet than i’m a tree that's a planet or a moon fully Spanish. And more, he’s a weedy armchair bully who’s gob dribbles for the Skating with Stars and KUWTK generations, of second rate ditty readers with the attention span of brainwashed losers.

William Logan. Critic manque, forgettable ditty maker.

I’ve said it before, but think it worth reiterating to draw attention to the fact that Logan really is wholly inconsequential as a Critic.

Not only in the cosmic scheme of Reality (as we all ultimately are) but in the here and now of the new gender-neutral 21C globally English language poetry.

His essentially anti-intellectual attacks and thrashings are knock-about entertainment for the lit-lite minded who like one-liners.

His art, is the art of a weedy frat-class show-off who boots with a broad brush, because his mind has not developed sufficiently enough to connect with the fundamental Truth of Poetry.

Love.

He is too lazy, has grown too static, too predictable, and far too cocky and comfortable in his tiny little poetry world-page, to be capable of escaping his dán/poetry, and, in its most authentic meaning, Fate; of being finished off here in the home of a Poetry Assassin.

Not getting past first-base male jealously, in which The man Critics' first instinct is to disagree, find fault, no matter what the quality of the writing, and then trash-talk to fook for the sole purpose of humiliating one's intellectual opponent.

Fancying himself a ditty-maker, it is an obvious and natural jealousy present in all artists of high intellectual stature. Which Logan is clearly not.

However, it is how we channel our envy that will decide if we end up like Logan, a person who assembles himself the facade of poetic expression; in a cloak of guff from fave poet X, the verbal tic of poet Y – and in mis-matched hand-me-down opinions, with an imitationally inspired instinct, choosing to say the first dismissive snarky thing he can think about a poem. Over a 20 year period, all the potential of poetically evolving himself as a balanced Filí/poet, was subsumed into becoming the hack-bag of borrowed stylistic twitches with nothing original getting said, that we all know and love.

Pointing out, no matter how slight, the inelegance in others, which makes up the most of himself. Even if the poetry is of 80% positive quality Logan will speak four parts satirical poison, and one part lukewarm disingenuous praise.

The same as seeing a painting by a very gifted artist which has a speck of dust on it, and instead of reporting the beauty in the image, concentrate on the minor flaw, and get a thousands words out of it, in his anal-head game of working out long convolutions of, frankly, laughably anti-intellectual posturing — posing as a sophisticated member from some esoteric guild holding abstruse arcane knowledge of Poetic Enlightenment, which is in fact – the exact opposite. Foetry entitlement.

Deluded people thinking they know better, more truthfully, what the story is on Filíocht / Poetry.

Worthless dumbed down dreck.

~

Envy needs to be chanelled into a game-with-self. If we read, see or hear a poet who sets off a green twitch, rather than childishly hating them because we believe them more gifted or better than us: we use this force to improve our own practice.

Focus into getting better than the one who sparked it off, and when we meet them again, perhaps we are a step closer.

Or we see them, and rather than being intimidated by their dazzling edifice, we focus our efforts into the act of developing our own potential, instead of a sneery jibe; resulting in us coming to understand the deeper poetic truths – because we tried harder and did not accept staying in our comfort zone.

We then start to see behind the god, and get to see the technician at work. What blinded us before and we thought sheer genius naturally flowing as though divine, we recognise for what it is – the hard work writers and intellectuals put into attaining their own potential, by the act and experience of writing the words down. Every day. A lot.

Then, slowly, we become respectful, and even if we hate them, because we put the slog in, our professional pride in doing the right thing, leads us to getting better and leaving them behind.

When we come to think, why did i ever think i wouldn't get better than the ones who i thought cleverer and more creative and better than i?

All along, we had it in us to beat them, by consistently surpassing our own goals, bars and literary standards. Raising the spiritual bar within and becoming closer to God within, as s/he is without – the seed inside and Segais Well, Logan, i am willing to bet a billion bucks, does not know.

Yet which is worth a trillion tweets from this Delphic Sibyl from Boston, Massachusetts?


~~

When he gets a book of poems to hate, he is like an old and highly unintelligent red-neck who was once welcome socially for their caustic wit and coarse charm when a younger man, whose misanthropy was not at 100% toxicity. But now, after 25 years, in the absence of any America Poetry Critic who is any good, he has come to delude himself that his low-level mindless rants are not the product of a privileged boor, but of a prophetic post-modern thinker whose every word, every jock-like impulse to expose to us the Reader his shameful level of total ignorance on the art of dán and filíocht, poems and poetry. Believing deluded that each next hate-filled squib is another step leading him to Parnassus, rather than what it is in reality – his poetically negative and intellctually backward moves into eventual obscurity and a total loss of wit and all credibility as a critic.

Being one’s inferior, poetically speaking, both in live and printed poetry, along with Criticism – i can only sneer at how unintelligent this clown is.

Like a bully whose abuse over many years has led them to believe violence and love are the natural state of being, he got flabby and out of shape due to getting accorded a wholly artificial and false reputation and status by the ivy league WASP frat-boy silver spoons and their juvenile and childish world-view. Logan never went past first base, didn't even start as a focloc, because he is lazy intellectually and a spent force, now.

He only half-formed his poetic intelligence, in the pool of satire which grossly distended his print-persona into one which is deeply unpleasant and will be viewed in 20 years, in a clearer light, for what it is. A product of his time. All the prejudices and faults he is excused now because of the hawk-war mindset of the last few decades in which bullying under a guise of doing the world a favour, is the cloak concealing highly unpleasanter truths — will be the glaring defect that will cause his many and numerous misanthropic texts to become totally forgotten within a very short time. Because our children re-reading them will only experience a compound sense of shame and guilt that we were complicit in the manufacture of such shallow and unpoetic conduct.

His poetry, to be blunt, is rubbish, along with his Criticism. As comedic rant from a poet manque, it works, but not as poetically perspicacious pieces which lead the Reader to the light of something truly humanly warm and inclusive.

No, rather, his is the work of a one-sided has-been who never was.

Desmond Swords

Friday, August 21, 2015

Update on s/m flyting.

(Written spontaneously on becoming aware, at 5am Saturday morning, of a recent (free) e-book, Poets for Corbyn, and its negative Times review (behind a paywall), not having read it and knowing nothing of its contents.)

It would have to be a poem for Corbyn, that came and stole the show on its own feet.

That, unfortunately, rarely, if at all, comes out of a collective online poetic creative-writing group protest in which we all agree how great our shit is. And in which our level of sincerity is measured in how angwee we sound.

But if there wuh a talented norvun shoal rhymer, speaking in the authentic working class self-ennobling tone ye can learn by cleaving to the Auraicept na n-Éces. Well, hello sailor. The poems most would write, would be, satirical poems (i suspect)? Tho there's nowt to stop us from writing a love poem to England and in it casting Jez as an honest man of the people, like some Medieval moral poem.

But satire, going on the general tone of the prose, would be, i suspect, what most would be thinking of writing. I thought that just now, as i was writing. Waffling on more for exercise and my own intellectually onanistic engagement and hand-relief (sorry), not really giving a toss who gets in, because i think, as i have said before on these pages, that the working-class need me to lead us.

Until you recognise, that, perhaps, that working-class English guy in Dublin, why don't we ask him to be our leader; well, i'm afraid Dave is in for the foreseeable, because you are all far too culturally close to the problem of the class-system and need someone like me, 48, heavy-smoker, overweight, borderline alcoholic, luvs talking a lot and making people look silly, looking for audience of English working-class - to rally round my writing like ye did when Liam and Noel wuz banging ten lines an hour and **** ***** a night.

It'll be a poem that ye need to connect with evrywun. Rather than one thousand poems from English rhymers spewing our doggerel for jezza, that, unfortunately, is the usual fare in these jaunts.

Is there one poem that floated to the top of the poets against the Iraq war? Or, as i suspect, a lot of experimental writing of uneven quality with nothing burning into the readers mind as a powerful Yeatsean 1916 message that hits home?

The cool detached dispassionate mature phase, archly poetic side-stepping the usual banalities and speaking in a voice that comes from a practice one had to be at it for seven years and took on at the eighth year; imbas forosnai. Which, as ye all know, is the name of my new banging spoken word collection, using bits and pieces of the best contemporary poems in the world, written thru into my own shit.

And everyone believing it is the shit. Like Kate fukin Tempest, yeah. I'm just fukin like kate tempest coz i'm edgy, raw, burnin man, ye know, really powerful message 'bout teinm laida, extemporised song, and the other sub-strand of the trinity of apical filidh compositional form, dichetal do chennaib, breaking open the bones of knowledge and in the marrow prophesying from the ends of the fingertips. This is what we seek, methinks.






Guido 'hasn’t enjoyed poetry so much since read Dr Seuss to his children.'

The Rupert Murdoch Times: 'Much of it is ear-bleedingly awful.'

~~~

I originally posted it to an Anglo-Irish poet's s/m, not knowing they had contributed to the collection, and within the hour they deleted the update, along with the twelve or more comments on it.

The second time one's writing has been the subject to removal there. I myself when i began sporting anonymously in letters beneath the line on the Guardian in 2007 as Ovid Yeats, operated a three-strikes and you are out rule. I would twice ignore any other anonymous people that wrote unsolicited angwee responses addressing my writing, and, the third time it happened, would respond full force in kind and unleash with both satirical barrels the third time they tried engaging with me satirically.

Ovid Yeats: 22/3/2007 - /1/8/2007.

Human Love: 20/9/2007 - 17/10/2007.

Practicing Artist: 6/11/2007 - 22/12/2007

Then began a cat and mouse game, that involved me being slung off by the anonymous CommuntiyModerator, and immediately creating a new account and going straight back on. I remember really upsetting the Editor on 7 May 2009, reaching a next level with despenser, defending a famous poet from the English golden circle, Faber and Faber poet, David Harsent, from the very serious collective s/m trash-talk assault he was getting from the regulars in the comment section of a snarky piece he'd written about the then yet to become ennobled (Sir) Andrew Motion, the then UK Poet Laureate: There's nothing poetic about the poet laureate.

In fact, i see looking at it that Jack Underwood is there, CJUnderwood

(Ah, yes, i remember now this name from my early days on the Guardian, but never linked it, until now, with being the Jack Underwood recently thrashed by Sean O'Brien.)

I agreed with the trolls, but as an intellectual exercise, found an uber polite, kind, respectful voice that successfully countered the trolls vicious trashing of Harsent, and i had a great time being a new bestie on the page with this senior fellow, reading, i suspect, and something happened. I writing as despenser lasted a day, two comments. The final paragraph of despenser's toxic offensive shit to the English rose Editor of the time:
Imbas, is an Irish word that encapsulates the sense of poetic and writerly intuition that leads to discovering the calm space in the centre of the storm, in the purest sense, which in Gaelic literary culture prior to its implosion four hundred years ago, relates to a mythical well called Seigas, which at one time symbolized the whole enterprise of textual creation. Now however, attempting to speak of such things is a very dangerous business for the online writer especially, as it brings out the worst in those who would rather Seigas well was not talked of.

Desmond Swords

After lasting a day and slung off for writing my real name, i returned the same day as OhGodNotHimAgain, but knowing that i could never sign my real name to any of the writing as that would get me instantly slung off. Just my name, Desmond Swords. A combination of my father and mother's surnames.

The writing worked, i was left alone, until the final straw came four months later, in a harmless piece of writing responding to a Robbie Williams story, that ended on the line so highly offensive to the editor it got me deleted and blocked again: 

I have just been reading up on the story so far, and am wondering if he needs me to write songs for him to sing, Bobsicle: Williams and i, one day he could be making me millions.
Of course, it didn't stop me. Scores more names had preceded it and, over the next four years, scores more followed. Indeed, one of my recent compliments came from the observation made by a senior English poet, that I 'had a different name every week'. Sometimes you'd get thru five a day. They'd delete the accounts entirely, and so the majority of these short lived one and two comments written in name after different name after different name, were altogether wiped from the public record; but now and again one turns up. A handful of the ones i have recently stumbled across and saved as bookmarks are

Deasmhuman O'Claimhin: 28/3/2008 - 3/4/2008

Hyperborean: 14/1/2009 - 21/1/2009

laurelandhardygod: 25/6/2010 - 5/7/2010

TWilkinson: 16/10/2012 - 14/11/2012

Amazeballs: 27/4/2013 - 24/6/2013

After taking a year's break i returned with my current one on 30/6/204

gwionb.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Response to Ian Duhig / Kate Tempest Post


Comment not posted on Ian Duhig's Facebook, as it was too long.The discussion is on Kate Tempest.

~

When i pitched up in Bubbalin dubalin tewn eleven years ago, at the height of the delusional era, the page poets, headed by he who needs no name, the greatest and most successful living page poet of the final third of the 20C, and then some; all those orbiting round him in the olluná inner golden circle of poets - measured there own standing in the world of poetry, i thought, in relation to where they stood with Famous. As U2 have seven degrees of separation, with level three in the hotel emptying the bar for free, but still four levels off meeting Bono, so Famous had many ripples of invisible social, cultural, political and otherworldly force protecting him from unwanted intruders. If you knew him personally, that would be enough of a top up, i suspect, to feel ten times better about yourself already. Just him cracking onto you would make your day.

As soon as i landed i threw myself into the only open mic in Dublin, Write and Recite, that was the poetry WaR scene before the Super Happy Yummy Fun Times scene that did make a very large and seismic impact, after social-media and this platform took off and all at once the grubby and disheartening grass-roots open-mic work, the printing of little cards and flyers, trying to get the word out in public, evaporated. And the lonely bored and mixed up kids thinking of poetry, alone in their bedrooms, could be coaxed out by a new buzz. Wholly different from the one we had at Write and Recite. Austerity replaced excess and the kids came out to shout the old guard down.

And they/we were very successful at it. The new slam and spoken word scene was perfect for radio, and all the old guard were replaced with the new young kids in fairly short order after the Crash. I played a minor part by creating the All Ireland Poetry Slam.

I created the AIPS when i was in the homeless hostel, at the end of my 18 month stay there, where i moved to after graduating uni in England. It was after a particularly low night at WaR, getting roaring drunk and shouting at the top of my lungs, songs in the doorway of the Duke pub off Grafton Street - where WaR was on its fifth week of what the MC, Gerry Mac, hoped would be a permanent weekly residency.

The song was the full song we used to blast out at full volume every new years eve in our cul de sac in tolerant Ormskirk, where the neighbours would indulge us as we played rebel songs, 'come out ye black and tans, come out and fight me like a man, tell your wife how you won medals down in Flanders.'

A crowd of homeless alcoholics and drug addicts gathered round me, joining in, and one of them insisted, i'm getting ye a pint. And at the bar the manager behind it said, 'out, and never come back.' He then barred WaR, and i got barred (for a shot time) from attending its new venue, and the only way i could think of wheedling a way back in was to create the All Ireland Slam and hand it to Gerry on a plate. Which i did.

Most of the new breed of successful performance poets that came to prominence thru winning the all ireland slam, replaced a lot of old Tiger cubs that thought their RTE gigs were for life, when Famous was alive and his stability was the feature of poetry in Ireland, as the living tide lifting all other Irish poets. Now it is a very coveted title because it is the most authentic. RTE last had a slam eleven years ago, by private entry, and it was won by a Trinity academic with a truly awful piece of doggerel. I think the slam is so respected by the national broadcaster, because it was created out of the real stuff of living poetry, and not in some lofty high-vaulted drawing room of a government arts office on Merrion Sqaure. It has a reputation as the real thing. Giving a leg up with nothing more than a few words arranged into a title most irish people would not say no to being. An All Ireland Live Poetry Champion.

Of course, being English, though i was unaware of it in the early years i was handing out prize money and doing something for nothing in the service of other poets; what has ended up most interesting to me, is how i got treated by the very people that made careers and were involved with the competition i created - treating it as a stepping stone upon their own way to whatever they think it is they ahave arrived at doing their spoken word versions of fíliocht.

I wrote to the RTE show that a lot the people i'd given money to for being ace poets, had got gigs, usually interviewed the day they won the all ireland slam competition, such is the national cultural excitement around my creation. After writing nobody replied, and i asked one of the winners who had a regular spot on the show, hey, i wrote three weeks ago and haven't heard back, did anyone say anything to you?

And was given a devastatingly clever and perfect answer, 'i haven't been there for three weeks'. I suspected this was a cute way of avoiding answering a straight question, which in ireland, unlike the UK, is generally avoided, and a lot of dancing round has to happen with everyone holding their cards close to their chest, before, if at all, you discover the knowledge you want.

I wrote to another contributor to the same show, in the comment section of their blog, who is now full time at RTE poetry department, and the main editorial leader of the new kiss-ass gen of shmokin shpoken wordas in peroppa woppa orda. And they were very brusque and replied as if i had done something exasperatingly wrong even contacting the. And no, it was my problem, they had no input into the show and, it felt like at the time, being told to go away and why don't i just die and let someone else take over the all ireland.

Then i wrote to a producer of the show on fb and got ignored and blocked by them. i thought then that perhaps all the ace poets i'd given money to and helped with their careers, were perhaps jealous of me, and, perhaps, hated the fact i was English.
Of course, being English, though i was unaware of it in the early years i was handing out prize money and doing something for nothing in the service of other poets; what has ended up most interesting to me, is how i got treated by the very people that made careers and were involved with the competition i created - treating it as a stepping stone upon their own ay to whatever they think it is they ahave arrived at doing their spoken word versions of fíliocht.

I wrote to the RTE show that a lot the people i'd given money to for being ace poets, had got gigs, usually interviewed the day they won the all ireland slam competition, such is the national cultural excitement around my creation. After writing nobody replied, and i asked one of the winners who had a regular spot on the show, hey, i wrote three weeks ago and haven't heard back, did anyone say anything to you?

And was given a devastatingly clever and perfect answer, 'i haven't been there for three weeks'. I suspected this was a cute way of avoiding answering a straight question, which in ireland, unlike the UK, is generally avoided, and a lot of dancing round has to happen with everyone holding their cards close to their chest, before, if at all, you discover the knowledge you want.

I wrote to another contributor to the same show, in the comment section of their blog, who is now full time at RTE poetry department, and the main editorial leader of the new kiss-ass gen of shmokin shpoken wordas in peroppa woppa orda. 
 
And they were very brusque and replied as if i had done something exasperatingly wrong even contacting the. And no, it was my problem, they had no input into the show and, it felt like at the time, being told to go away and why don't i just die and let someone else take over the all ireland.

Then i wrote to a producer of the show on fb and got ignored and blocked by them. i thought then that perhaps all the ace poets i'd given money to and helped with their careers, were perhaps jealous of me, and, perhaps, hated the fact i was English.

And of course, over the next few years, it was obvious by the silence, avoidance of answering any questions, and no contact whatsoever from those i helped out, once my use had stopped, that of course i was just another English mug in their eyes. There is now a very powerful loosely connected and working band of thirty-something nod and wink live poatz on their now seven year old (yawn) New Scene, of a handful of the same old faces saying the same old poems, and just as laughably pulling every stroke in the 'fuk u ova' playbook - and doing the exact same petty guarding of their hard-won small poetry patches in Ireland - as the lot they replaced where doing when i first arrived and before the supposed saviours came in and tipped over the furniture whilst using the word fuck a lot as proof of their revolutionary mission.
 
One brave young voice who has the balls to speak his mind, Cal Doyle, stating in a new Burning Bush 2 Literary Magazine interview

'I almost threw up recently in a bar with some writer friends who were discussing, no, gushing over a poet and one poem in particular; a poem that is utterly incompetent, megalomaniacal and clichéd all at the same time. But one has to bite their tongue in such situations: there is no room for dissent, or in this particular case, basic common sense. This needs to be addressed. If one smells bullshit, then one should be free to say ‘I smell bullshit’ without fear of being alienated from the wider community. And of course this bullshit only exists because of dubious editorial practises at various journals—these editors publish bad poems and writers see the bad poems and reproduce them ad nauseam, then they build up a minor reputation, publish a collection with an imprint that churns out book after book, poet after poet, then they get a job teaching impressionable young people how to write bad poems.'

Tis a tuf aul road being an English poet in Dublin. You have to base your 14 year training in Au as that is the only way you wont lose out to all the very many petty strokes and stunts pulled by the poetry assassins that smile to your face as they stick the knife in and fuk u ova.

Ah, tis a grand old loif.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Yeats epitaph carved on his tombstone in cemetry at Drumcliff, Sligo, and a Dublin pub toilet.