Credibility?
The ability to be believed: convincing.
What is *progressive* practice in contemporary poetry?
How would you recognise the new, different, exciting and crucially,
progressive voices you claim to champion?
Would they come lumbering as an oil-tanker, telegraphing their presence and
talent by following a predictable route of study to sinecure, in exciting
thoughtful, steady-as-they-go'ness, in modest airs and with academic grace?
Would you welcome a put-upon poet with no supporters cheering their corner,
as the progressive in-print-practitioner displaying the innovative skills in
language of the Modernist tradition you so love: or like a court bard of
Maelgwn ap Cadwallon when Taliesin appeared predicting the collapse of
Cadwallon's kingdom in a torrent of extemporised verses, would you make
noises of a baby gurgling?
~
Forgive me Jeff, but I am beyond caring about the credibility of my doings.
The facts speak for themselves. The practice is either the result of some
deeply powerful psychological itch and twitch which manifests itself as
verbal incontinence, (mental illness perhaps?) that a superior intellectual
like your very good self could contextualise in long penetrating lines of
astounding insight, as the ramblings of an idiot with no appreciation of
whatever you as the inheritor-custodian of Ez and Aristotle hold fast and
cleave to.
Art lover drifting along on a central heated cloud to the land of
tranquility and passion within, your progressive practice batting for the
one true light of forward viewing advanced bands of Literature lovers
uttering what the history of Art tells us:
"What is categorically not the case, is that major talent can only be an
outpouring of an unadventurous character."
~
Talent, regardless of the labels of major or minor, is Seigas well within,
in my tradition, and the routes to one's poetic attainment through imbas -
cerebral fizz of literary inspiration, as the masters in language reveal, do
not all follow the same one track, do not all sing from the same
back-catalogue.
Eliot and Joyce: Bernstein and Beckett, po-mo playfulness, that's the racket
a masterful ollamh desires to chant - purity of mouth, without poisonous
satire, hymns and hands bright without wounding, vows to become a wonder
tale teller in spite of those whose long list of letters speak not of ogham
in six easy lessons.
The spelling of chains and terrible fetters, no secret language, no
truth-telling shield or bearla filidh, no knowledge of ancestors or toiling
in Lismore, Armagh and Clogher. You speak not of they who wrought hard won
eces, but of your own dissapointments and failures, mister progressive.
You the one who began a public scrap, polite and studious concealing your
ire behind plain meaningless words, were impelled by that which sought to
topple a poet with ten times your talent, and i as your *lunatic* chum, by
mental illness made into imbas and the genuine British poetic, cast vast
drafts of mighty death spells on your contention cock -- seek now to teach
you of sparring with Jeff's id 'n ego pretending it all doesn't matter.
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