Well I am pure and very simple
P -imple
Ps all this talk of technique and no one has mentioned sexual technique and craft

-----Original Message-----
From: Poetryetc: poetry and poetics [mailto:[log in to unmask]] On Behalf Of Judy Prince
Sent: 23 June 2009 22:51
To: [log in to unmask]
Subject: Re: Technique

Hi Desmond, I forgot to mention that on POETRYETC there's a 250-word limit
for each message, and only one message each week's allowed.  I wager it'll
get you truncating like mad, and I myself prefer to hear only I really mean
ONLY about your Druidic hands-on experience.  This is not Guardian online,
you know, where all's fair in politics and poetry, no indeed.  A commenter
here must present her/himself as disciplinedly erudite.  Pure and simple.
Oh, and the Wednesday snaps---ready for tomorrow, Desmond?---must be under
150 words.

I look forward to hearing less from you, but formed in the jewel that comes
from compression.

Best,

Judy

2009/6/23 Desmond Swords <[log in to unmask]>

> Timmy baby !
>
> *i* (as an imaginary voice being ventriliquized by the I behind the hand
> behind the mind behind the man who loves you (as a textual construct) berry
> berry much - you do know that dude, yeah. Yeah bro?
>
> I mean as a fictional Timmy towards whom i direct naught but cordiality,
> and
> know that His imagination is a textually significant psychic signifier
> signalling that the mind behind the eye behind the very well respected and
> eminently intelligent man-lover of Poetry, is a veritable TA defending the
> ark of our Religion in Norwich from the sneery unbelieving hordes whose god
> is He who needs not naming. Ogma.
>
> Thank you very very much for engaging in worship at the Langpo altar - as a
> person who thus far exists only in the head of a colleague on the love bus
> who respects what you are doing borth as a major political vehicle for
> great
> change to the status-quo stasis and for engaging in what my very dear,
> first
> and only tutor at third level, the criminally underspoken of, the marv oh
> loss, undisputed, undefeated lite-heavyweight chat king of the whole wide
> west lancashire plain, mister Robert Sheppard, from whom i learnt
> everything
> i know about po-mo and the heirophantic rites of our Alternative Church in
> which we both commune with the spirit embodied by our pontifical poetic
> worship as parishoners Timmy baby --- terms:
>
> Speculative Discourse.
>
> ~
>
> Bob Sheppard has not been given his die by the more competitive bores in
> the
> gorve who would seek to steal his ideas and pass them off as their own, or
> incorporate them into good practice level twenty of the QLA Local
> Educational Authority Doctrine, vis a vis - outright theft of Bob's most
> perspicacious and brilliant pedogogic implement.
>
> Speculative Discourse.
>
> This is Sheppard's meat and two veg of the whole teaching gig Timmy:
>
> "Poetics I define as a speculative writerly discourse about writing, taking
> from past practice and projecting into the future. Its aim is the
> developing
> autonomy of the student, so that he or she has reflective mechanisms to
> continue development beyond the end of the course."
>
> And in practical terms, this boils down to writing a *self-assesment* which
> accompanied every piece of coursework over the three years of the writing
> BA.
>
> This made us reflect on what we had written and inculcated in us newbs, a
> systematic and methodoligical good-practice method, of digging into the
> mind
> in such a way that this component of the course, occassioned the External
> Examiner to testify to the  uniqueness of Bob's teaching genius in the 2002
> report, one year after i had first been welcomed in a warm apostlistic
> embrace of Robert Sheppard, Scott Thurston, Cliff Yates, to name just three
> of the poets there:
>
> "...the programme is unusually innovative in the tasks set and the types of
> writing explored. I know of no other course that requires students to give
> such serious attention to their own explicitly writerly philosophy, to
> theoretical material and to the theoretical and political implications of
> their choices of form."
>
>
> ...actually Timmy.
>
> ~
>
> But joshing aside, this component of the course was perhaps the most
> beneficial and efficacious in the long run, becuase it opened up the chanel
> to a mode of practise which does exactly what it says on the tin:
>
> Speculative discourse.
>
> Sheppard defines Poetics as:
>
> "...a writerly activity that speculates about the future of writing
> practice
> in an attempt to enable its further development. It is ofen an
> intermittent,
> mercurial discourse, quite distinct from literary criticism. I believe that
> writers have often been drawn to this activity which often takes hybrid
> forms (as defence, essay, biography, or in the creative writing itself)...
> The discourse keeps open the speculative 'permission to continue' that
> writing thrives upon. It is not simply the use of 'reflection' and
> 'commentary' which imply a retrospective trawl through the already
> achieved,
> an ongoing"
>
> ...process which offers the widest and most freest plane of practise on the
> planet, imho.
>
> Practically speaking it ties in with a substrand of the highest
> compositional method (imbas forsnai - manifestation of knowledge which
> enlightens)  in the old bardic curriculum, and one of the fourteen official
> streams of poetic knowledge (srotha eicsi) detailed in this 1200 year
> printed tradition --- dichetal do chennaib --- extemporisation from the
> tips
> (of tongues/fingers).
>
> Imbas Forosnai (manifestation of knowledge which enlightens) and the two
> substrands which feed into it, one of which is dichetal do chennaib -
> extemporisation from the tips (of tongue/fingers) -- were took on from the
> eighth year of pratice on, at grade five (cli- ridgepole) or six (anruth -
> great stream) of the seven of the 12 year course; which terminated on
> qualifying at grade seven as an ollamh (poetry professor) after a dozen
> short quick years of six month semester study.
>
> The top three compositional methods were entirely extempore, essentially
> orgiinating out of the same compositional pool as the Specualtive Discourse
>  Sheppard has at the heart of his own Poetic.
>
> I started hitting this zone about a year ago, and because my learning
> (which
> began with Bob in 2001 when i had been writing for six months or so) has
> followed a pattern of relevatory breakthroughs (in the form of texts) which
> act as datum markers which plot define, delineate, guide and graph a course
> over the years that  began in blindness and slowly evolved into a
> self-created and sustaining career as a bore bodying forth into the light
> of
> Poetry as a positive agent for enoblement.
>
> So, the gig is, dive in and extemporise and at first we are the floundering
> div getting laughed and sneered at by our betters with more experience
> whose
> own careers and poetic belief, naturally, is unique to them. But over time,
> if one is lucky enough to have natural ability (which according to the
> ancient bardic sources is 50% of everyone) we get a true grip and slowly
> end
> up acquiring bouyancy and singing in our own note.
>
> So, with this topic of technique and craft, i am like the rest here,
> thinking it is all a bit hooey, but on beginning the specualtive discourse,
> making it up as i went along, some sense of what Gravesy was saying started
> to make itself plain.
>
> Graves essentially was talking about the poets he liked and saying they
> were
> craftspeople, with those he didn't saying they were mere technicians.
>
> Essentially, everything anyone says is only opinion, which we call
> Criticism
> when practicing as a fully ticketed bore Tim, and naturally, the poetry
> world being as it is, we are not going to agree, all we can do is strive
> for
> eloquence and elegance on the page, and if we are read and people take us
> seriously, then that's all we can ask, innit?
>
> ~
>
> I remember during the second year final semester poetry module, we had to
> hand in six poems, five of which were sincere, but one i wrote as a cod,
> sort of strung together a lot of airy fairy lines just for the sheer heckl
> of slipping one under the radar which played the game of po-mo.
>
> It began with a quote from Julia Barnes: (the layout may not appear as it
> does int he poem)
>
> COLLAGE
>
> "Style is a function of theme
> Style is not imposed on subject matter
> But arises from it   - Julian Barnes -
> Style is truth to thought"
>
> Thursday morning rhythm�s business
> Long dead poets
> Who metered out rules
> We�re unaware of
>
>    -  And the words  -
>
> Ward Robe tables chair
> One two point O five
> Contain no meaning
>
>        -  I read  -
>
> There was a cow in a field
> The machine is out of order
> Truth is not but evidence
>
>       -  And many more words  -
>
> Thursday afternoon rhythm�s business
> Long dead poets
> Who metered out rules
> We�re unaware of
>
>       -  And the words  -
>
> Deconstructing schoolchildren
> Among Shadows on a cave
> Looked good once
>
>   -  I heard  -
>
> Yeats
> Towering over
> A simple wise man
> Who the mountain shakes
>
> ~
>
> So, i wrote this totally cynically, and five years later the strangest
> thing
> happened, because i returned to it and it tuned into the seed-text of a
> long
> poem i wrote about - can you guess:
>
> "Style is a function of theme
> Style is not imposed on subject matter
> But arises from it
> Style is truth to thought"
>
>  Julian Barnes
>
>                 --------------
>
>
> Julian: he was the real big fellow
> who thought outside the box, a giant
> in ther canon
>
> a big gun saviour who tore up the
> terrain with radical thinking
>
> fully functioning saint of the eternal
> theme and a main squeeze
> of the triple godess.
>
> To others he�s a just a barmpot:
> a loop-loop nut-job and jumped up office
>
> wallah who had no style or talent for
> anything other than filing, flannel, cobblers
>
> daft ideas, conning everyone he met
> and being jammy on his toes.
>
> Some don� profess to know either way
> preferring instead to try and get a
>
> considered perspective, then move with
> what�s left - living in the here and now.
>
> Some don�t care about the subject matter
> of his life or his written work, aren�t arsed
>
> couldn�t give a toss if his style was imposed
> or arose, and many in the world have
> never actually heard of him.
>
> He could be anyone.
> His truth to thought was his own.
>
> Same as everybody, he was unique
> and his words made a difference
>
> Most had no clue who he was
> or what he was up to.
> An anonymous author nobody read
>
> who remained unknown and unrecognised
> and who could not get arrested if he was
>
> cart-wheeling naked on the high street.
>
> ~
>
> He was from country stock.
> Great at field work, donkey work:
>
> a country tribe's baby blue-eyed
> "Jewels" - going places
>
> destined for greatness.
> Be handy for a bit more than sweeping up
> and spitting in the farmyard
> D'yer get it?
>
> He couldn�t put a foot wrong
> and all things revolved round him.
>
> You know the type:
> the youngest on the farm who grew
> up tall and could read and write in a
>
> wonderful style;
> shovel muck double quick
> from sty to dung heap, dig ditches
> and do a brilliant bit of building work
>
> Jules: he was a man
> who thought about all sorts, not just
> pig swill or chickens and having a lend
> of his neighbours sheepdog.
>
> A jack-in-the-box with big ideas
> about spuds swedes, beetroot, dairy produce
>
> small rural industry, stocks, bonds
> treasury white papers, domestic think
> tanks, strategies that rid the workplace
>
> of prejudice and promote tolerance
> inclusion, diversity, fairness
> and transparency in local government
>
> transport and maritime-territorial  issues
> national health concerns, contingencies
> for state emergencies and the most
>
> efficient and practical way of mucking
> out effluent from piggeries, stables and
> chicken coops .
>
> Several pub�s number one genius-in-residence
> who, in no time at all, could whip up
> a master-plan of attack on the back of fag
> packet or beer mat
>
> and one who�d keep an army on its toes
> if he wasn�t devoting his energies to
> farm work or thinking of what style might
>
> arise from the subject matter of his next
> essay
>
> Barnsey:
>
> he was the intellectual giant who�d direct
> operations from a lounge bar or hay-barn
> HQ: wield the shovel for six hours solid,
>
> knew all about invisible ink,
> could grow a muzzy -
> dabbled in any dodge going, and found how
> to disguise a dream when love was terminal.
>
> A large bloke who�d fight in the trenches
> for Art and Peace: plotting to overthrow
> the status quo as he cycled the countryside
>
> picnicking, keeping fit, necking a few scoops
> as he constantly mooched about rousing
> the troops
>
> whipping up the craic, firing one liners
> having a great gas then, taking it to the max.
>
> A laughter lad giggling at being an all round
> live legend, who relieved stress by taking
> the mick out of cut glass titular rich ones
>
> who thought they were doing themselves
> a favour by not leaving her be and fecking off
> out of it.
>
> ~
>
> His doings foxed everyone but Kathleen
> until that night. She always knew the score;
> still does. She�s unreal. None of us con her
>
> Barnsey.
>
> In Bloomsbury, Barnsley and Brum,
> he knew lovers, fighters, fanatics, violent
> shithouses, loons, frightened bullies
>
> spivs, liars, cowards, spies, good people
> whose desire was for freedom and peace;
> who�d loot hearts, minds, mythologies
>
> and cop-shops on his whim,
> but only when desperation kicked in
> for the freedom he never had as a kid.
>
> More than all this though Barnsey
> he was a style expert who spun tales
> by jumping straight in.
>
>               --------------------
>
>
> Aoife mouths words but it�s all
> Kathleen�s world, and the brown
> leather robe draped across the chair
>
> tucked beneath the table
> contained within this locked box
>
> is mine -
>
> Niamh cries
> coming through the door of the
> occupational therapy room where
>
> Aoife O�Brien sits listening
> to angelus bells peel havoc at the hill top.
>
> ~
>
> Julian deported your mind to see beyond
> stereotype freaks from the underbelly
> out-patient agency of background artistes
>
> on peanuts a day for the full bore shoot
> pretending to be Tom, Robert or Marlon�s heir
> connected now to those you share
>
> consciousness with, through Niamh and Aoife�s
> angelus energy:
>
> have the sense to look for meaning
> where few dare peek for fear of being branded
> mentally unkempt,
>
> like Niamh was before she snuffed it a derelict
> in the loony bin
>
> opined to be beyond all reach by the boss head
> doctor of a crumbling psychiatric hospital,
> where she patiently waited in nineteen ninety nine
>
> for professor O�Brien to dish up pills
> and dole out injections from ten to eleven
>
> depending on
> depending on�
>
> If there is a cow in the field and
>  a machine out of order.
>
> ~
>
> Niamh is on-ward and in role play as
> a not yet dead nut-nut strapped to a naughty chair
> and babbling freely at the table.
>
> The machine is out of order.
>
> as Niamh continues
>
> "Within the four walls of this crypt I conjur
> the tall author, architect of state and soldier
> of memory who
>
> lives on."
>
> Does Niamh now flit with the big man�s shade
>
>       in books
>
> deconstruct schoolchildren
> from shadows in caves
>
> and tower over oath-bound men
> to find a simple mountain grace
>
>   written
>
> at life�s end?
>
> where Yeats ruled a world of words
> his imagination shook fairly from her tongue
> pouring forth to make prayer and fable
> a nation�s tomb?
>
> ~
>
> Me me me me me, more than he it was
> back when Niamh gobbed off and got on
> with the business of being la la.
>
> Nuttying it up for medication and a cosmic life
> ticking boxes and flapping wings across forms
> Aoife�s boss Kathleen Ireland - the chief executive -
>
> read: before deciding the only option on offer
> for Niamh, were a few large bolts of energy-jolts
> through her brain.
>
> Now you know
>
> A one woman universe who returns
> her tribe to disperse underground
> and travel through air as ether.
>
> ~
>
> Niamh knew Aoife�s way was the leather restraining belt
> and the  moniker they used
>
> "Kathleen"
>
> her daily jacket.
>
> "will be where the morning lit mountain phantasmagoria
> and shade, leisure with the ghost of a man
> who topped a fella who took draughts
> of demands to London."
>
> ~
>
> ECT demons came haunting her in the TV room
> until a liquid cosh tipped her mind into overdose
> and she disappeared during the angelus bell
>
> silently faded and was instantly whisked to VIP
> at the afterlife bash in paradise.
>
> "Will Kathleen tell?"
>
> ~
>
> Niamh never spoke
> once the initial disolution instantly dissolved
> any questions lingering in her bonce,
> just got stuck underground in a box after Kathleen
>
> called her to dance her reflection in a grave
> where the well of time will return in wild spring
> flowers.
>
> "An answer blown on ageless dumb stone, tells
> of whose love falls there for you Kathleen,
> who knew what went on as my heart beat alive
>
> and I breathed being driven through the breeze
> to an ambush that night when the windows blew in
> and a bullet got shot through my skull."
>
> ~
>
> Fictional Style-maestro Julian, the sleight of hand
> in this tale - did not witness the deed that night
> nor see the people who scattered and withdrew
>
> he just moves through shadows in an author�s mind
> a cipher in Van Shock�s vision:  Niamh, Aoife
>
> Kathleen
>
> a poetic fable, whose phantom triggered Mick�s
> quick return to her,
>
> and in the immediate aftermath, two faint ghost-
> trails appeared to flicker on the track
>
> glowing, they say, for the short time it took
> for his spirit to pass over.
>
> The light dimmed as it drew in beneath the foot
> of Mouth Flower rock, then paled out and vanished.
>
> The big fellow's shade vanished to Kate Ireland�s earth.
>
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