My Life in the Bush of Ghosts

 

۞☠☃۩☃☠۞

[This CD is not exactly same as original LP but all tracks are here.]

As every one of them pointed his finger to me to come to him I preferred most to go direct to the copperish ghost from whose room the smell of African’s food was rushing out to me, but when the golden ghost saw my movement which showed that I wanted to go to the copperish-ghost, so at the same time he lighted the golden flood of light all over my body to persuade me not to go to the copperish-ghost, as every one of them wanted me to be his servant. So as he lighted the flood of golden light on my body and when I looked at myself I thought that I became gold as it was shining on my body, so at this time I preferred most to go to him because of his golden light. But as I moved forward a little bit to go to him then the copperish-ghost lighted the flood of his own copperish light on my body too, which persuaded me again to go to the golden-ghost as my body was changing to every colour that copper had, and my body was then so bright so that I was unable to touch it. And again as I preferred this copperish light more than the golden light then I started to go to him, but as this stage I was prevented again to go to him by the silverfish-light which shone on to my body at that moment unexpectedly. This silverfish-light was as bright as snow so that it transparented every part of my body and it was this day I knew the number of the bones of my body. But immediately I started to count them these three ghosts shone the three kinds of their lights on my body at the same time in such a way that I could not move to and fro because of these lights. But as these three old ghosts shone their lights on me at the same time so I began to move round as a wheel at this junction, as I appreciated these lights as the same.

 

excerpt from a novel by Amos Tutuola
first published in 1954

 

Queen’s English Demands Rhyme and Metre

‘A lot of people high up in poetry circles look down on rhyme and metre and think it is old-fashioned,’ said Bernard Lamb, president of the QES and an academic at Imperial College London. ‘But what is the definition of poetry? I would say, if it doesn’t have rhyme or metre, then it is not poetry, it is just prose. You can have prose that is full of imagery, but it is still prose.’

Just ask the Poetry Guardian

Elvis Does Alice w/o Malice


Beyond Belief

History repeats the old conceits
The glib replies the same defeats
Keep your finger on important issues
With crocodile tears and a pocketful of tissues

I’m just the oily slick
On the windup world of the nervous tick
In a very fashionable hovel

I hang around dying to be tortured
You’ll never be alone in the bone orchard
This battle with the bottle is nothing so novel

So in this almost empty gin palace
Through a two-way looking glass
You see your Alice

You know she has no sense
For all your jealousy
In a sense she still smiles very sweetly

Charged with insults and flattery
Her body moves with malice
Do you have to be so cruel to be callous

And now you find you fit this identikit completely
You say you have no secrets
And then leave discreetly

I might make it California’s fault
Be locked in Geneva’s deepest vault
Just like the canals of Mars and the great barrier reef
I come to you beyond belief

My hands were clammy and cunning
She’s been suitably stunning
But I know there’s not a hope in Hades
All the laddies cat call and wolf whistle
So-called gentlemen and ladies
Dog fight like rose and thistle

I’ve got a feeling
I’m going to get a lot of grief
Once this seemed so appealing
Now I am beyond belief…

[Elvis Costello 1982]

ELVIS is a POET KING !!

Reeking Tubes & Iron Shards

Nine Eleven

Walk about Zion, and go all around her.
         Count her towers;

 Mark well her bulwarks: consider her palaces;

 That you may tell it to the generation following.

 For this is God, our God forever and ever;                 

He will be our guide even to death.

[Psalm 48]

  Let’s consider something here in light of human history and recent events.

Why does the psalmist exhort us to walk around the great city of Zion marking well her bulwarks and counting her towers? So that we can inform the following generations of what the city looked like and where those towers were in our own day,  lest they forget. Evidently  the great city of Zion had a skyline that did not endure from generation to generation. Evidently even in Zion the towers and bulwarks were being demolished from time to time…

which brings us to a poem by Kipling  [written in 1897]:

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old–
Lord of our far-flung battle line
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine–
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The captains and the kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe–
Such boasting as the Gentiles use
Or lesser breeds without the law–
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget – lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard–
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard–
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord!