A hard chair

And there was I thinking it was going to be nem con.

There are ten remaining candidates for the Oxford Poetry Professorship. Paula Claire withdrew on 7 June, in protest over "serious flaws" in the election process, and favouritism shown to Hill.

We are used to arguments about what does or does not constitute poetry, but Roger Lewis doesn't draw a distinction between the patterned words and the metaphor. Like Geoffrey Hill (for whom Professor Dame Averil Cameron, Warden of Keble, has posted an encomium), Lewis hasn't written a manifesto. His case is extravagantly pleaded by Rebecca Nicolson (St Hugh's 1985). Tantalisingly,

If elected to the Chair of Poetry, Lewis' subjects may well include - Ezra Pound: Poetry and / or Politics; The Ramification of Richard Ellmann's 1,500 Factual Errors in his Biography of Oscar Wilde; The Nineteenth Century View of Shakespeare and Jesus and Great Cryptograms; Sullivan Without Gilbert; Philip Larkin and Ted Hughes: Sex, Violence and Difficulties with Girls; Poets of the Appetites: M.F.K. Fisher and Elizabeth David; The End of England: Eric Ravilious, Barbara Jones and Edward Bawden; and Dick & Liz at Oxford: The Burtons and Doctor Faustus.

But he won't be.

Michael Horovitz stands much more of a chance. It doesn't signify, but his facebook group has more supporters than Hill's. I just don't get his allegation that his religion is against him because it seems irrelevant to me - but maybe it's true that Christians are voting for Hill because he's a Christian... Have literature, and Oxford, come to this? I applaud Horovitz's manifesto:

Let the Oxford professorship's authority be revived as a platform for authentic poetry ticket-bookings, scheduling ever newer departures and in-depth arrivals way beyond mere careerist arrivism. Anyone voting for me is assured that I will continue striving to emulate Chaucer's Clerk of Oxenford: "Sownynge in moral vertu was his speche, / And gladly wolde he lerne and gladly teche."

Ruth Padel supports both Hill (with a damning qualification about his stamina) and Horovitz. (Snarky article in Camden New Journal at the link.)

Other candidates include poetry fundamentalist traditionalist Michael George Gibson

The literary and verbal things now presented and published as 'poems' are so varied that a fresh and fundamental examination of what was and is 'poetry' is well worth making.

[Edit: amended following a complaint from Mr Gibson's agent - see comments]

Seán Haldane if elected wants

to talk about the neuropsychology of poetry, poetry and verse, poetry and 'more-than-coincidence', poetry in different languages, and what Hardy called its 'sustaining power'.

Chris Mann, a former Newdigate prizewinner, offers samples of his work, including

Dragonfly

Rafting the Zambezi River,
I saw your filigree shimmer
on a boulder's bulky sphinx…

Maybe that wasn't such a good idea.

Stephen Moss is the Monster Raving Looney whose candidacy has been well documented in the Guardian.

So why I am standing? It's a good question. The idea came to me over a curry at the Hay Literary Festival last year.... What will I do if I win? Well, I will give the stipend away to needy poets and writers, and to good literary causes. I will set up an annual two-week poetry festival in Oxford. I will fight against the marginalisation of poetry, literature's perennial poor relation. I will buy anyone who votes for me a drink. I will, if necessary, go into coalition with Geoffrey Hill. I will back proportional representation in future elections. I will lecture on the role of poetry in society, starting with the Greeks and ending about a week last Tuesday. And I faithfully promise not to publish too many of my execrable poems. Can we win it? YES WE SCAN!

Sanskrit scholar Vaughan Pilikian's ambitions are as wide ranging as Lewis's, if harder to visualise.

I intend a lecture series to range across some, if not all, of the following topics: the poetics of science in the atrocity exhibition; antiaesthetics, esoterrorism and metempsychosis; the rhythm of the dig in the Negro spiritual; Japanese death poetry; rhymed trajectories to heaven in the Iliad and the Mahabharata. My aim in this august office will be to pull poetry from the drawing rooms and the garrets and the palaces, and send it forth. For poetry is a weapon, bloodsoaked and glinting. It is a gnostic heresy, a counterattack on all that holds us captive, a challenge to the cruel symmetries and stifled laughter of the Demiurge. It is only through poetry that we might revenge ourselves on time.

It is only through poetry that we might revenge ourselves on time. I could almost be persuaded of that.

Full Candidate statements here

I haven't voted yet.

Beauty in numbers

300,000 starlings in Denmark



Via

The Workforce from Praga

Oh good, I thought, when this came up on Google alerts, a review at last. But "workforce"? Were they going to be accusing me of lucubrations?

So I wandered over and found myself in an alternative universe. As Gary Larson says of another malfunction entirely, the results are disquieting but inexplicably hilarious:

Anne writes:

"Besides as on recent 50p coins, Britannia employed to look on the old British pennies. The influence of society 's, and the province 's, demands on single individuality is something that holds upseted me for many geezerhood."

I love "geezerhood"! I'm having that. I don't care really, so long as they've spelt my name correctly. And below that, they've printed the poem. They shouldn't really do that without permission, should they? I can tell it's my poem from the shape of it. But hang on, this isn't right. Not right at all:

Britannia
Anne Berkeley


Careful not to bemire her delicacy Ferragamos,
the grand locomotes discreetly through the herbaceous borderline,
a bundle of cuttings in her bag:
a cardinal, the Queen 's gynecologist, a twelve QCs.

She holds come for the music, course,
but the ambience 's lovely, such elegant lampshades.
There is e'er some Authorities in the garden
where the sheep are maintained in their rightful spot
safely cropping beyond the haha.

There are twenty-two transactions before pall upwards.
The wind is cold, there Holds a whine of rainfall
but the outing must locomote along and be such merriment:
an unfastened window functions coloratura with rap de pate de foie gras.
Everyone holds a carpeting for their genus, and she reminds us
again of her dark at the Albert Hallway,
the swallowing blueness of a million delphiniums.
We can nighly believe in her cloak-pin and shield.

It Holds not what it was, she states: the coarse new edifice,
annually the way to the lily pond more overgrown -
a dialolog of green blackberries and birtwistle.
Hemlines are uprise; already comptrollers rinse au fait the lawn.

Even today, out mazed with Rebel Alien,
I hear her jubilant arpeggios over the waves,
the Broadwood 's V policing round the fiddles.


Britannica ' is printed in The Manpower from Praga

( Salt Publication, 2009 ).

Read more about Anne and The Hands from Praga

[That link above is a pukka link handcoded by me to take you directly to Salt.]

I love the way there is a different translation of "Men" each time, not all of them politically correct. I shall never again see the words "Albert Hall" without thinking of a humble corridor, and the neglected vaudeville entertainer, Albert Hallway. And when the going gets tough, I might well consider getting out mazed with Rebel Alien.

As for jamesmarshallko, the name behind this odd tribute, he seems to be a bot who has crawled over Peony Moon, extracted my poem and run it twice through a translation tool. In case there's any malware floating around, I'm not linking. It is hosted by livejournal, a place I normally associate with keen-eyed ficcers. I didn't click on any of the links over there, which probably take you to Canadian pharmacies or worse. I'm keeping this poem, though.

Boys

"We didn't see a big splashy plume like we wanted to see," said Michael Bicay, director of science at the National Aeronautics and Space Administration's Ames Research Center.

Hundreds of space enthusiasts in parkas and sleeping bags gathered in the early morning to watch the impact on a big outdoor screen at the Ames Research Center, housed on an old dirigible field in Silicon Valley.

"You're going into a place where the sun hasn't shined for a billion years," Morrison said.

(Paragraphs reordered)

Weblog

As any fule no, a blog is a weblog, and it started out by being a list of sites visited. As an antidote to Blytonia, here are some of the more interesting items I've come across in the past few days.

Jim Murdoch ponders the dearth of modern nursery rhymes.

Lorna Watts is refused the loan of scissors by a north London librarian: They are sharp, you might stab me.

Anton Vowl suggests what Gordon Brown should have answered to that question from Andrew Marr.

Belle Waring has an impassioned post on Crooked Timber about sexual harassment in the academy, with a sideswipe at "look but don't touch" Kealey from Buckingham. Mary Beard isn't so bothered. Is Terence Kealey as misunderstood as Juvenal? (Or as contemporary? I'm inclined to add.) Yes, it may have been satire, but it's pretty lame satire.

In a post entitled Because Men are Stupid and Shallow, That's Why, Jeff Fecke demonstrates that some men are capable of seeing the person beyond the breasts. He challenges the Canadian Rethink Breast Cancer campaign (aimed at raising men's awareness by concentrating on breasts):

the thing about breasts that I generally like the most is that they’re usually attached to living, breathing women, and I like women, because, you know, they’re people. Many of them are people I like, and consider friends. All of them are worth far more than the breasts attached to them; that should go without saying.

Ben Goldacre considers the AIDS-denialist film House of Numbers, which was shown at Cambridge Film Festival and (temporarily) hoodwinked rationalist sceptic Caspar Melville. Goldacre starts a lively discussion about how to deal with moonbats - exposure, ridicule, debate? Or by ignoring them? (There's no widely accepted noun for that, but ignoral might suit.) This comment in particular struck me:

The best advice my late Dad ever gave me was; “Never argue with an idiot, because people watching lose track of which is which”. The older I get, the more I appreciate his words. Several times a week, I’m given cause to think of them.

Teach the debate is what creationists say.

Jack of Kent argues why English libel law is a danger and makes a proposal for reform.

Shuggy has a go at performative theists aiming for the class prize.

no man ever forsook his father, mother, brother, sister, son or daughter and took up his cross in order to support the nuclear family, preserve the work ethic, reduce crime in the neighbourhood or foster charitable giving as an important ingredient in civil society.

Terry Glavin doesn't know how to handle the human tide, except that the handling should be humane. Who could disagree?

Right, I'm off to Oxford now for the launch of See How I Land.

Palin Shatnerized

(Yes, that's a zee because they are both American.)



Hat tip to the ever-resourceful AKMuckraker.

Baffleboard

A present from my sister, acquired in Bordeaux market. This is her photograph. She understands me very well.

Made in China of course. Just look at the size of that car! (Click image to enlarge.) I imagine the manufacturer had overstocks as he had so few orders from the catalogue. Alas, no instructions were included, but I'm just being greedy.

Using lists

Perusing the list of BNP members induced a mixture of emotions. Schadenfreude, because I detest them and all they stand for, and it was an odd sort of poetic justice to see them exposed like that. Ridicule that they'd let it happen. Shame, because however awful they are, ordinary members deserve their privacy. Anxiety that I might find someone I know there, or someone from my own village. Revulsion at the large numbers of people from the same family, again and again, with teenagers signed up to the youth group. A grudging respect for all the volunteering that it represented: every one of those thousands of entries had been compiled by someone knocking on a door, filling in a form, and someone else collating it.

I wasn't looking at the original file, but one that someone else had copied and posted up, so there was minimal formatting, no tablulation. But it was clear that there were fields for title, first name, surname, qualifications, address, and comments. These last were pathetically illuminating:

Accountancy skills
Activist (discretion requested)
Activist. Ex-Independent candidate (General Election May 05). Good networker
Activist. Former Lib Dem agent. Change of address 21/3/07
Activist. Letter sent re. temporary activity ban (Southampton area) of six months
Activist. Previously listed as Alfred
Activist. Upgrade from Standard to Gold m/ship 3/4/07
Aged 17 (06). Change of address 18/6/07
Body piercer/retailer (self-employed). BA (Hons) Business Enterprise. City & Guilds Adult Teaching Cert. Diplomas in Aromatherapy/Reflexology. Former nurse. Hobbies: dancing, swimming, walking, caravanning
Borough councillor.
Bounced cheque: membership cancelled 4/11/05.
Business owner
Candidate
Candidate willing
Candidate willing Has meeting venue available
Carpenter/builder
Cert Ed. (Law/Accounting). Hobbies: researcher/writer modern philosophy & pre-historic mysteries. Poetry. Yoga, martial arts, body-building (former competitor). Occasional martial arts/fitness instructor
Chartered town planner
Civil servant
Commercial artist.
Company director
Composer/musician/lecurer. Doctor of Philosophy (Composition) PhD. Cert. ED:FE, BA (Hons), BTEC computer software. Soundtrack writer, ethnomusicologist. Hobbies: music (performance), rambling/hiking, ornithology, history, poetry
Computer skills (web design)
Computer skills (web design)
Director (small company). ANZIQS, NZATC, NZCQS, NZCB. Hobbies: lay-reading (C of E)
Director a tatoo [sic] & body piercing studio. Qualified mountaineering instructor (AMI). Hobbies: DIY
Donation £35 (07). Original birth cert returned 29/3/07
Donation £5 (07)
Engineer. City & Guilds (motor engineering).
Ex-serviceman (Army). Hobbies DIY, dogs
Experience of legal, constitutional & european law. Publishing skills
Ex-serviceman (MoD Police). Abex
Ex-serviceman. Hobbies: woodwork/metalwork. Proof-reader
Ex-serviceman. Retired docker
Ex-serviceman. Retired lecturer. Abex
Factory manager
Family: (name). Comps slip: gold/family membership
Film maker (amateur) with own recording studio
Fluent French/Dutch
Fluent German
Former Conservative councillor (13 years).
Former police/prison officer
Former policeman (international security/counter terrorism)
Gold badge not received - replacement sent 12/2/07
Graphic design/desktop publishing
Housewife. Hobbies: walking, water colour painting
Illustrator/graphic designer (professional)
IT experience
Jobbing builder, cabinet maker, boat builder, restorer. Hobbies: boating, fishing
Joiner (placards/boards etc.). Security
Joiner. Slater. Tiler (self-employed). Hobbies: fishing, darts, pool
Law graduate. Teacher (English literature)
Locksmith/carpenter
Manager (building site). City & Guilds (plastering, floor laying). Hobbies: karate (2nd Dan instructor), clay pidgeon[sic] shooting. Lead singer/drummer with band
Manager (senior)
Manufacturing company owner
Marketing skills
Mechanic/manufacturing engineer (self-employed)
Military/social historian
Mobile DJ with singing partner, snakes & spiders
Musician (professional)
Nick's double
Office manager
Parish councillor
Party chairman
Pilot (helicopter/aeroplane)
Plumber/gas engineer
Printing company owner
Refrigeration and air conditioning engineer
Resigned 02/06/04. Will not be renewing 07 (unhappy with his reception within the Party - reports not published, etc.) Journalist
Retired clerical worker/fireman on British Railways. Hobbies: railways
Retired fitter
Retired Head of Mathematics
Retired male nurse
Retired martial arts instructor. Plasterer
Retired primary teacher. Cert. Ed/Teaching. Hobbies: knitting, walking
Retired R & D engineer. Former chief engineer &; consultant (engineering/environmental). BSc Mechanical Engineering. Hobbies: archaeology, English history/literature
Sales/marketing
Security officer
Self-employed
Senior citizen: paid full rate
Serviceman
Serviceman (Army)
Singer/musician (English Folk)
Site manager (construction)
Teacher (secondary school) (discretion requested)
Teacher. Cert. Ed. Hobbies: astronomy, wildlife, ancient history, handwriting
Video editing equipment
Will not be renewing 07 (took offence to newspaper reports about the Party)
Will not be renewing. Now supporting UKIP
Will not be renewing 07 (court case pending)
Will not be renewing 07 (emigrating)

By contrast, I learn from Huffington Post that Obama's team emailed everyone on their campaign list on Monday:

The campaign was letting me know that barackobama.com was directing visitors to volunteer for -- or donate to -- relief efforts to aid the victims of the Southern California fires.

Huffington adds:

There are, of course, some on the political fringes already mounting their pushback, as Rep. Paul Broun of Georgia did, comparing Obama's call for national service to "what Hitler did in Nazi Germany" and "what the Soviet Union did." Jonah Goldberg likened it to "slavery" (of course, Goldberg's latest advice on dealing with the financial meltdown is for Obama to do nothing).

Perhaps one good thing that will come out of the hard times will be a collective willingness to ignore such bleating -- and to do what so clearly needs to be done to ameliorate the human suffering those hard times have brought.

A crisis is a terrible thing to waste.

Tuscan whole milk

It's good milk if you drink it right away, but I'm only giving it one star because it spoiled when I left it [on] the counter when I went away for the weekend. They really should put this in the description. I've bought a lot of products from Amazon (books, CD's, etc.) and I've never had this problem with anything else.

Human creativity knows no bounds. Any new technology will quickly attract populations to exploit it beyond its original purpose, whether they use it to sell things, to rob people blind, to perform new acts of vandalism, or simply to have fun. While facebook attracts its share of spammers, spivs and satirists, it's heartening to know that the wilder reaches of amazon.com have their own colony of creative writers squatting in Gourmet Food.

I was in two minds blogging about it - it's like a small microclimate one hesitates to disturb by sending tourists trampling over it. I've hardly begun to explore its wilder reaches myself yet, but I love the way people adapt creatively to hostile environments. A quick google reveals that I'm late to the party as usual: Boing Boing blogged about it nearly two years ago.

God's plaything

Ted Hughes put in a dramatic appearance at Aldeburgh Poetry Festival. The "Poet on Poet" lecture was Christopher Reid reading from the Letters, which he's just edited. The event opened with Huge himself, his dark brown voice out of the ether growling the opening verses of Crow. With extraordinary sangfroid CR stood alone at the podium looking self-deprecating, took a draught of water as God was being challenged, then owned that the more alert of us would have realised that he wasn't engaging in some extraordinary act of ventriloquism. He wanted us to keep Ted's voice in our head when he read the letters.

Terrific stuff. He started with the first letter in the book, an extraordinary teenage love letter in which the poetic imagination was stretching its wings. Then there were letters from Cambridge, the letter to Olwyn where he tells about winning the poetry competition (p 93), a letter to Olwyn about America (p 106) where everything is wrapped in cellophane and transported great distances...

It was while he was reading part of a letter to Ben Sonnenberg (pp 586-589) where Hughes is talking about his jaguar, and how he tried to capture that curl of the lip, like a dog bothered by the fly - and in fact the whole passage is about work, revision, and the inspiration that comes with work and alertness - that the surely by now famous visitation occurred. Reid was reading:

The image that came to my head, to give the idea, was - memory of a fly landing on a dog's nose

and something rose across my vision from bottom left to top right, and I tilted my head a few times to try and get it again, thinking it was a trick of the light on the inner surface of my glasses. CR read on for almost half a minute, describing how the dog might react to the fly, and how he was trying to get the description right, and now:

To intensify my idea and make the point of irritation more of an impossible, inaccessible fixture...

and we realised there was a butterfly onstage.

Probably: as if it had a fly up its nostril [laughter from the audience] while I was actually writing these words...

For now the butterfly was in full view, under the spotlight, fluttering over Reid's head. Still laughter

...an average size bluefly came straight acorss that very cold room - where no fly could have moved since November at the latest -

more laughter -

and went straight up my nostril, where it lodged.

The butterfly landed on Reid's head, to general hilarity. He felt something and brushed at it, so it left again and fluttered around, and he saw it, but not before he'd read:

I extracted it, and pressed it in my Shakespeare.

And as he finished the sentence, he was laughing too, and pointing at the butterfly, and said what we were all thinking, if only in jest: "He's here!" After a bit it fluttered onto one of the cardboard boxes bearing the legend "Words", where it stayed until the end of the lecture.