August 2012

It all begins with an unpremeditated harvesting… the unlikely marriage of recognisable forms.

1970, Catalan Artist, Interview with Dean Swanson


Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir,
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine. (more…)

This evening I have spent
in the Irishwoman’s room.
A fire shared is a fire cheaper. (more…)

As though between performances, the ‘varnished waves’ of seats are gone,
Their dreaming space abolished with those darkened afternoons
Spent sunk in sticky ginger plush, revising The Belles of St Trinian’s
Or The Three Hundred Spartans, with David Farrar (Xerxes)
Sulking on his golden catafalque, his voice of cold command
Not only underused but dubbed for overseas. The end. (more…)

When I am grown to man’s estate
I shall be very proud and great,
And tell the other girls and boys
Not to meddle with my toys.

I’ll tell you now and I’ll tell you firmly
I don’t never want to go to Burnley
What they do there don’t concern me
Why would anybody make the journey? (more…)

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse 
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo, 
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse. 
Ma per ciò che giammai di questo fondo 
Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i’ odo il vero, 
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table; (more…)

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