Tag Archives: saison poetry library

Alright am ready, nearly.

So am nearly ready for BALTIC next week.  Their fame even spreads to the south coast, altho this design in Margate is not theirsbaltic logosm

Been a busy fascinating week. I joined ENAS at Margate to see the Grayson Perry show at the Turner Gallery which was pretty good. If he keeps practising he’ll make those pots straight one day.  Everyone in the Enas coach seemed to love his work, his wit & intelligence. His work is inspiring. I love the way he tumbles the barriers over, pushing stultified tradition over yet replacing it with new possibilities. I can’t indeed won’t show any images of his work as a protest, a BIG protest about this crap many galleries have about not taking photos etc. It’s such a negative ting. I aks you when you come see my works to take photos, as many as you likes.

fiona fouhy

Then I wandered around the town and saw some nice art, especially  Fiona Fouhy’s etchings.

fiona fouhy2

Here’s some shots from me Margate trip:

peter pizza

that’s me hungry fer petesa

I enjoyed Heidi Plant’s heidiwork at the Resort studios and may go back to do some work in their print studio. And when we arrived back at Firstsite wur we set out from the moon was out and the gallery looked so good. moon site

Next day I was back on my bike and over to London toon to do ‘Poetry’ with a visit to the Poetry Library first to deliver a signed cover for my collaboration work with David Jury. Saradha http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/saradha-soobrayen introduced me to the books of Anne Carson who seems to be an artist writer after my own art. There are lots of parallels in our books’ materials & looks. She were born in Toronto, Ontario in 1950, I was born in Glasgow the same year. Her Antigo Nick has a very similar feel to my Apulgold book, and the similarities don’t stop there. There’s a staggering resemblance in the way she made a book called Nox and the new version of my Shrewd Idiot. So much so you’d think I have copied her, not so, I never heard of her til Saradha introduced her work to me. But the way she has cut & pasted images and words is identical to my prep work already done. I just find that so encouraging and supportive, showing me I am on the right track. Of course the subject matter is very different. Mine is all about me, hers is about her brother.

http://www.theguardian.com/books/2006/dec/30/featuresreviews.guardianreview7

I finished off at Enitharmon where I still couldn’t find William Blake but I saw a launch of a book on Ed Dorn with his wife Jennifer and others reading poems of his. I bought her poem Eastward Ho, The Saga Of Vitus Bering wherein I discovered that the Bering straits were named after a man called Bering! Bright that.

Did you know that the Boss had done a song about my youth? Enjoy- https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8i5A1Pn0z6k

Now down to some hard graft, polishing ma dancing boots, shaping ma cowbouy hat, donning ma spurs, covering ma buks, learning ma werds and preparing ma presenting skills for BALTIC nex Saturday at High Noon. Bring yer camras, feel free to take them darned photos of Outlaw Pete and his outputs.

A Happy Man.

A Happy Man.

Sandwiched

Between

Nancy & Sam

Pete Kennedy

16.11.2014

 i am dis orfan

‘tangajorsarpaq eye am this orphan’

 Am rejoicing as the week has arrived for two trips into the Big City o’ Londres. I went up yesterday for a full filled day at the Poetry Library where I saw our work in such good company and two bee sandwiched between two such great practitioners as Nancy Campbell & Sam Winston was indeed a privilege. I was of course looking at werds; my verds watti wroted (not like Roth did) and David Jury printed ‘em, Nancy’s words, sam’s words, then loads of others’words like- Gaudier Brezka, Ezra £, Diter Wrot, jon Cage, Gins-oak-burger, Jean Cokatoe (I love her sketches), and many more. However you can’t go see it even ift you cry, it wer only up fer one dae. So am putting some small photos in this blArt to show you what ya mist. And I did this bit of nonsense using up werds wat I sore.

a sam

 I wer particularly inspired with Sam’s work, ‘Orphan’, in which he used a lot of words he had rote and cut & pasted. So I did the above cut & Baste misen. Eclosion means summat to do with changing frae a pupa to a angel, I tink the transformation has begunned. I invent a new word from a bill stick on a Paolozzi muriel at Tottinghen Caught Rude tube station, Ekanity

,a ep eka

it’s a bit like eternity but a bit longer, or shorter, who dares? I have finally fully launcehed misen into the muddy pastureyes of the cut & Blast, some o’t werds cum frae BLAST. Thur’s mad in yer eise Einsteye, Eisenstine, Eyesore, eye eye, oh begorrah bagum.

a mud vison

Then at 8pm 3 poets began to read their reactions to what they had seen in the boxes of books prepared for Sunday’s display. William Wyld went first and did a tribute poem to one he’d seen about mud. I loved his words about a reluctant rebellious recalcitrant seal melting into the snow, ‘You took my claws but you couldn’t take my head’. Then Patrick Brandon read his words inspired by John Cage’s Silence on Rauschenburg. Then he did one filling in the gaps in Tom Phillip’s Humument with words like, ‘What is life other than matter complicated by time…’ In my poem in the exhibition I also refer to humans as energy. Hilda Sheehan talked about life and death too, I suppose poetry is lots about our mortality. I enjoyed her Kiss.

She too referred to John Cage’s Silence. Her poem went

Silent

it just

dis

ap

peared.

It was a poem for Georgina, after holding up a tiny piece of tangled wire Georgina had made and hung silently last year:

I’m impressed with your strings

Hung up like mirrors

Shhhhh…

silence

 

Shhh… let these (very small) images tell the story.

 a cam 3

Nancy’s beautiful Icelandic poema cam6

Nancy uses Inuit words for love (I tink)

a set

Pete & David’s collaboration poems

a i am

I Yam a Seeker of Toots

anex2

Pete next to Sam’s poem

a sam2 a sam3

How Sam plays in clouds

a ep9

At TotCort Rd the mural needs replenishing

 a pk4

Pete auditioning fer Egg Heads

Larfin at the woild’s great jest.

A note frae the Big Blogger Bloke about The long and the short of it.

 This is the long version of this blart* for the short version go to:   https://apulhed.wordpress.com/2014/11/02/im-larfin-at-the-woilds-great-jest-shorter-version/

*What’s a blart? It’s my bl…Art. my blog, my blathering on, my blaggart.

bolt sm

 I stayed at home all day which gave me time to think, to mend a bolt on a gate, chop some wood,

log

the logs wat I chops

(by hand, NOT I uses wedges and sledges and well honestly, brute farce)

scythe some weeds and wash some dishes, twice, and look at some autumn leaves then notice the new thin crescent moon. I did not go for my regular swim, gym , yoga or ought like it but I forgave misen saying you can mend a bolt on a gate, chop some wood, scythe some weeds and wash some dishes and all that stuff.

My blArt don’t get millions, neither thousands* nor hundreds o ‘views’ but tens is quite fine by me. 25 views yesterday and several folk wished me an ‘appy Day on my 64th. *Actually my 97 blArts have had 4352 views (average 45 per post) now in about 13 months! TANKS A BUNCH We do have to make the most of all our days cos we never know when the finger will beckon or as Lennon once put it, ‘we move from one car into another’, as he moved from his bullet riddled old vehicle into his new disguise. Of course I ‘get’ that Buddhist ting about acceptance and letting go but am not really into their idea about not leaving a mark as a result of our endeavour. Shakyamuni (Buddha’s tribal title) left a considerable mark and his influence is impacting on my thoughts 2500 years after he released from his human frame. Of course I would like my traces to be predominantly positive and full of humour, laughing, like Chesterton said, at the world’s great jest. So, here’s a little ting in which I am going to appropriate some more famous folks’ words and after Walt Whitman’s ‘Song of Myself’ I’m calling this, an appropriation* poem:

See my previous blart- https://apulhed.wordpress.com/2014/04/19/i-wanted-to-be-an-artist-but-im-alright-right-now-right-what-is-original-what-is-quality-part-2/

Song To My Self

 

‘Old man, look at my life

I’m a lot like you were’

A song about an old man Neil Young

sang that when I were young

 

back in 197young

forever young

I sang it to myself

screeching just like Neil

 

it sounds different now

no longer I am

wow

forever young,

 

‘Young man, look at my life

I’m a lot like you, how

I wanna live

I wanna give

I kept on searchin for that heart of gold

Now am getting old.

 

I bin done my life

You go do your life

We’re both still searching

For the blArt of gold.’

 

I may be getting …old

Buttam not giving up

Still

Amidst all the dissolution

Creating my contribution

A trail of distribution

With much convolution

 

Leaving a Trace.

 DW not playin in Young's band

Neil Young not playing in DW’s band not singing my ‘Song To My Self’.

I was scouring the shelves in the Saison Poetry library at Southbank and came across a poet man called John Peck, (he trained as an analyst at the C.G. Jung Institute),  http://www.lrb.co.uk/v22/n12/clive-wilmer/on-the-turn  and I wish for you to see some of Peck’s words in his poem about existence http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/181150

 

‘Anasazi, Ancient Enemies’

 

in dream or flapping images of the gone

or the soon-to-be-going or the tremblingly poised

that catch like undertow

the foot in tide-rip toeing

 

down the singing or remembered beach

we study populations in the forests,

we hold the paper flat,

mark, note, warn—the dictated

 

prophecies do their work, we do some work—

cut horn from rhinos so they won’t be poached.

but, to go on from there,

one needs to stand in the doorway

 

some evening and feel the air as if it were fire

pulling illusionlessly, letting the draw

of one fact heat its chain

of links, such as, Japan

 

clear-cutting forests in Siberia

where tigers not already harvested

lope their dwindling range,

two hundred as the hinge

 

for their growled arc of existence, bones of the others

ground to powders for old men’s potencies.

One needs to feel the tug

of the draft on skin, the drag

 

of process utterly anciently itself.

Faster, now, the pull is from birth through dwelling through

dissolution, along lines

streaming through us, ageless winds.

© John Peck

 

I think Peck is talking about the eternal links that exist throughout all time and all things and maybe the need for mutual care and consideration. He blasts the killing of rare species to gain bones to be ground down to nebulously aid ‘old men’s potencies’. (Have they not heard of Viagra? It’s cheap as chips compared with the tragedy of making a species extinct.)

anasazi dancers

http://www.cliffdwellingsmuseum.com/anasazi/digging-deeper-into-the-anasazi/major-anasazi-region-and-sites The reference to Anasazis recalls the mysterious people who built those cliff dwellings in Arizona and who probably were the antecedants of the Hopis and Zunis my two favourite peoples of North America. I have been inspired and fascinated since the mid 1970’s by the Hopis and those characters standing on my drawing of the mesa are Hopi Kachinas what I drew too. He refers to the many cultures that have been and gone in the history of planet Earth, many of which we (normally) know little about. But really Peck is harking about how we do not fully understand the significance of many aspects of our existence, how many things are interlocked even though we are unaware of the interconnect. So, RESPECT is the call he is sending out, respect the mysteries. He more importantly talks of the mystery of life. ‘One needs to feel the tug of the draft [or waft?] on skin, the drag of process utterly anciently itself… streaming through us, ageless winds’. Here is he referring to the timeless, or eternal, passage of ‘existence’ which goes back to the Big Bang and maybe beyond? And ‘streaming through us, ageless winds’ like neutrinos stream thru you as you sit NOW this minute, time, or rather the process of existence, streams on thru us, we are inextricably linked into EXISTENCE, that and maybe that alone is the miracle. We are here. You are there, wherever you are, some of you who read this are in India, Kazakstan, Japan. We are where we are, we are part of it. Namaste.