CRAMPTON & ENGERTH
Sunday, 30 October 2011
Friday, 24 June 2011
Learn by Heart this Poem of Mine - Gyorgy Faludy
Learn by heart this poem of mine;
books only last a little time
and this one will be borrowed, scarred,
burned by Hungarian border guards,
lost by the library, broken-backed,
its paper dried up, crisped and cracked,
worm-eaten, crumbling into dust,
or slowly brown and self-combust
when climbing Fahrenheit has got
to 451, for that's how hot
your town will be when it burns down.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Soon books will vanish and you'll find
there won't be any poets or verse
or gas for car or bus - or hearse -
no beer to cheer you till you're crocked,
the liquor stores torn down or locked,
cash only fit to throw away,
as you come closer to that day
when TV steadily transmits
death-rays instead of movie hits
and not a soul to lend a hand
and everything is at an end
but what you hold within your mind,
so find a space there for these lines
and learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine;
recite it when the putrid tides
that stink of lye break from their beds,
when industry's rank vomit spreads
and covers every patch of ground,
when they've killed every lake and pond,
Destruction humped upon its crutch,
black rotting leaves on every branch;
when gargling plague chokes Springtime's throat
and twilight's breeze is poison, put
your rubber gasmask on and line
by line declaim this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine
so, dead, I still will share the time
when you cannot endure a house
deprived of water, light, or gas,
and, stumbling out to find a cave,
roots, berries, nuts to stay alive,
get you a cudgel, find a well,
a bit of land, and, if it's held,
kill the owner, eat the corpse.
I'll trudge beside your faltering steps
between the ruins' broken stones,
whispering "You are dead; you're done!
Where would you go? That soul you own
froze solid when you left your town."
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Maybe above you, on the earth,
there's nothing left and you, beneath,
deep in your bunker, ask how soon
before the poisoned air leaks down
through layers of lead and concrete. Can
there have been any point to Man
if this is how the thing must end?
What words of comfort can I send?
Shall I admit you've filled my mind
for countless years, through the blind
oppressive dark, the bitter light,
and, though long dead and gone, my hurt
and ancient eyes observe you still?
What else is there for me to tell
to you, who, facing time's design,
will find no use for life or time?
You must forget this poem of mine.
books only last a little time
and this one will be borrowed, scarred,
burned by Hungarian border guards,
lost by the library, broken-backed,
its paper dried up, crisped and cracked,
worm-eaten, crumbling into dust,
or slowly brown and self-combust
when climbing Fahrenheit has got
to 451, for that's how hot
your town will be when it burns down.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Soon books will vanish and you'll find
there won't be any poets or verse
or gas for car or bus - or hearse -
no beer to cheer you till you're crocked,
the liquor stores torn down or locked,
cash only fit to throw away,
as you come closer to that day
when TV steadily transmits
death-rays instead of movie hits
and not a soul to lend a hand
and everything is at an end
but what you hold within your mind,
so find a space there for these lines
and learn by heart this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine;
recite it when the putrid tides
that stink of lye break from their beds,
when industry's rank vomit spreads
and covers every patch of ground,
when they've killed every lake and pond,
Destruction humped upon its crutch,
black rotting leaves on every branch;
when gargling plague chokes Springtime's throat
and twilight's breeze is poison, put
your rubber gasmask on and line
by line declaim this poem of mine.
Learn by heart this poem of mine
so, dead, I still will share the time
when you cannot endure a house
deprived of water, light, or gas,
and, stumbling out to find a cave,
roots, berries, nuts to stay alive,
get you a cudgel, find a well,
a bit of land, and, if it's held,
kill the owner, eat the corpse.
I'll trudge beside your faltering steps
between the ruins' broken stones,
whispering "You are dead; you're done!
Where would you go? That soul you own
froze solid when you left your town."
Learn by heart this poem of mine.
Maybe above you, on the earth,
there's nothing left and you, beneath,
deep in your bunker, ask how soon
before the poisoned air leaks down
through layers of lead and concrete. Can
there have been any point to Man
if this is how the thing must end?
What words of comfort can I send?
Shall I admit you've filled my mind
for countless years, through the blind
oppressive dark, the bitter light,
and, though long dead and gone, my hurt
and ancient eyes observe you still?
What else is there for me to tell
to you, who, facing time's design,
will find no use for life or time?
You must forget this poem of mine.
Wednesday, 16 February 2011
Friedrich Strasse: John Stezaker
I was about to post something about my recent trip to the John Stezaker exhibition at Whitechapel Gallery but then realised my friend Friedrich Strasse has already done a far more thorough job of it than I would have managed.
Friedrich Strasse: John Stezaker: "As anyone who knows me personally will know, collage and photomontage are things for which I have quite a considerable penchant. People lik..."
I am a huge fan of Stezaker's work and this exhibition is inexplicably beautiful. If I was prone to gushing, which of course I am not, I would exclaim that in many ways, for me, these works constitute absolute perfection. I walked round 3 times and am going back next week.
The only part FS doesn't mention is the Third Person Archive... hundreds of tiny stamp-sized fragments of larger illustrations that isolate the minuscule figures that feature as "extras" in larger scenes, when the more prominent action is elsewhere. Completely captivating and sort of life-affirming. Alright I'm embarrassing myself now so here you go, if you have 30 quid go geddit.
http://www.amazon.co.uk/Third-Person-Archive-John-Stezaker/dp/3865603718/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1297892243&sr=8-1
TWIN PEAKS DANCING
I just spent an entire January sunk deep in the magic of Twin Peaks. It enlightened my life then left me exhausted and devastated. Took me a few days to fully recover... anyway. There's enough obsessive fan sites and blogs which will tell you why it must be seen. But for me, the best bits were often the distinctly unsettling dancing scenes... completely blew me away.... so here is a little compilation of those glorious characters getting their grooves on...
Of course, these are just "appropriated" from YouTube but I am considering doing something with this... something along the lines of Christian Marclays video collages...
Of course, these are just "appropriated" from YouTube but I am considering doing something with this... something along the lines of Christian Marclays video collages...
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
In desperate need of "Bookmen’s Bedlam: An Olio of Literary Oddities"
I REALLY WANT THIS BOOK BUT IT IS £50 ON AMAZON USED AND NEW. HELP.
Anthropodermic bibliopegy: the art of book binding with human skin. What a wonderful thing!
Anthropodermic bibliopegy: the art of book binding with human skin. What a wonderful thing!
Joan Lyons - The Gynaecologist
I like it. This is what Joan has to say....
"Fanciful historic gynecological representations of women are juxtaposed with a contemporary patient / doctor interview, which reveals the authority a traditionally male medical culture holds in describing and prescribing for an individual body; in this case female. Aspects of the text will be familiar to most women. This book was based on several years of research and was in danger of becoming a ponderous document before I edited it down to what I know best—an artist's book. It echos the structure of historical printed books, with its small text block and illuminated margins."
"Fanciful historic gynecological representations of women are juxtaposed with a contemporary patient / doctor interview, which reveals the authority a traditionally male medical culture holds in describing and prescribing for an individual body; in this case female. Aspects of the text will be familiar to most women. This book was based on several years of research and was in danger of becoming a ponderous document before I edited it down to what I know best—an artist's book. It echos the structure of historical printed books, with its small text block and illuminated margins."
Richtung 2000 - Made in Germany, 1972
Es sieht herrlich, aber ich spreche kein Deutsch! Ist das die Zukunft?!
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