Poetry is alive and well. It is written, relished and read in a thousand
tongues around the globe, in a myriad of shapes and sizes. The influence of
yesterday's poetry is, thankfully, wilting on the vine, but that is not the
end of poetry. It thrives in deserts and beneath the oceans, it bellows in
outback stations and leaps in exotic whorehouses, it soars in cathedrals and
whispers in alleyways by neonlight, it is read by torchlight under covers,
it is written in refuge centres with a pencil and in pindan with a stick ...
It is celebrated, it is ignored, it is here now and hardy, regenerating cell
by cell (parthenogenesis) on all continents of the world.
2008/10/13 David Bircumshaw <[log in to unmask]>
> Some people these days say that poetry is dead, some violently deny
> it. My current image of the art is that of Desdemona while being, and
> after, suffocated by Othello: murdered but still talking in its last
> gasps, raising up from its pillow on a final breath. The
> Wilhelm-Baynes translation of the I Ching has a line somewhere :
> 'persistently ill, but still does not die' , which takes one beyond
> poor Desdemona, as of course her last revival is, well, curtains for
> her if not quite then the play.
> David Bircumshaw
> Website and A Chide's Alphabet
> The Animal Subsides http://www.arrowheadpress.co.uk/books/animal.html
> Leicester Poetry Society: http://www.poetryleicester.co.uk