NEUTRAL NORWAY

A belated nod to Edward Lear on his 200th Birthday. How does anyone get that old. I know it’s pretty cliche but the Owl and the Pussycat is one of my all time favourite poems. I filled a whole book illustrating it when I was 6. So, Edward, here’s to you. Deva x

I
The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea
In a beautiful pea green boat,
They took some honey, and plenty of money,
Wrapped up in a five pound note.
The Owl looked up to the stars above,
And sang to a small guitar,
‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,
What a beautiful Pussy you are,
You are,
You are!
What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

II
Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!
How charmingly sweet you sing!
O let us be married! too long we have tarried:
But what shall we do for a ring?’
They sailed away, for a year and a day,
To the land where the Bong-tree grows
And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood
With a ring at the end of his nose,
His nose,
His nose,
With a ring at the end of his nose.

III
‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling
Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’
So they took it away, and were married next day
By the Turkey who lives on the hill.
They dined on mince, and slices of quince,
Which they ate with a runcible spoon;
And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,
They danced by the light of the moon,
The moon,
The moon,
They danced by the light of the moon.

Cat Morgan Introduces Himself

I once was a Pirate what sailed the ‘igh seas -
But now I’ve retired as a com-mission-aire:
And that’s how you find me a-taking’ my ease
And keepin’ the door in a Bloomsbury Square.

I’m partial to partridges, likewise to grouse,
And I favour that Devonshire cream in a bowl;
But I’m allus content with a drink on the ‘ouse
And a bit o’ cold fish when I done me patrol.

I ain’t got much polish, me manners is gruff,
But I’ve got a good coat, and I keep meself smart;
And everyone says, and I guess that’s enough:
`You can’t but like Morgan, ‘e’s got a kind ‘art.’

I got knocked about on the Barbary Coast,
And me voice it ain’t no sich melliferous horgan;
But yet I can state, and I’m not one to boast,
That some of the gals is dead keen on old Morgan.

So if you ‘ave business with Faber - or Faber -
I’ll give you this tip, and it’s worth a lot more:
You’ll save yourself itme, and you’ll spare yourself labour
If jist you make friends with the Cat at the door.

!Terra_Furma!

Be Drunk

by Charles Baudelaire
translated by Louis Simpson

You have to be always drunk. That’s all there is to it—it’s the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking…ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: “It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.”

After a while
You can’t tell
If it’s missing
A woman
Or needing
A cigarette
And later on
If it’s night
Or day
The suddenly
You know
The time
You get dressed
You go home
You light up
You get married

#7

Meanwhile, another kind of being
was constructing itself, blindly

- a mutant, some have said:
the blood-compelled exemplar

of a “botched civilization”
as one of them called it

children picking up guns
for that is what it means to be a man

We have lived with violence for seven years
It was not worth one single life-

but the patriot’s fist is at her throat,
her voice is in mortal danger

and that kind of being has lain in our beds
declaring itself our desire

requiring women’s blood for life
a woman’s breast to lay its nightmare on

Adrienne Rich died. I feel kind of strange about it. I read her essays. And then I found out she was a poet. And then I read her poetry. I have no clear view on either. But here’s a small tribute poetry post.

On The Road, Again

I tried to be somebody mad
mad to live mad to be saved
but nothing comes of madness
that can’t be constrained
labelled and copied
reproduced forever
and ever
and ever until it becomes so diluted
so madly dissolved in it’s own madness
it is nothing but sad ticker tape
tapping the mundane
same old same-ness
spilling from any old
mouth lips
who’ve been reading the same books
smoking the same brand cigarettes
until they cough up everything they have
ever consumed
(or thought about consuming)
and a voice from the
back of an uncharacteristically
over-crowded room shouts
DON’T BELIEVE EVERYTHING YOU READ
BECAUSE THEN THERE WON’T BE ANY BELIEF LEFT-OVER
FOR THE REST OF US

and ever so slowly
we’ll slip
sinfully sadfully
back into
private madness.

ABB

Following him back and then slaughtered all of his prize goldfish. If only ‘peasant’ wasn’t such a funny word. And here I am trying to make sense of the whole thing. Not that it hasn’t been difficult, you know, lying all this time.
In stead of our flight captain, Rodney Regas Vegas was going to be put in charge. I wasn’t really concerned about it apart from the fact that I and himself had spent the last fourteen years on a boat drinking. We had only really got sober once we had reached the shore and from there it was Rodney that was the keenest to switch from sea to air.
‘It’s like sailing only through clouds. Clouds are water you know. Thousands of tiny droplets all moving together in one breath. Like the sea.’
‘Barry Crockett.’ I said. ‘No-one’s gonna get something made out of metal to sail through these clouds.’ I indicated the wooden clouds splintering in the sky.
I was wrong. When we joined the Air Cunts and signed up, they brought us to our planes. They were an inch high and made out of sandalwood. This, I thought, was bollocks.
But Rodney was still keen. ‘I’m sure they got a trick up their sleeve,’ he said, indicating his sleeve. Thousands of tiny ants were crawling out from within.
Pretty soon the Air Cunts got to training us. We had to push our selves inside ourselves in order to get to the correct dimension needed to enter the fighters. Whoever had been in mine previously had left a tiny potted beanstalk on the dash. Fucking tourists. Most of the other guys did all right and stayed more or less in proportion but there was this one young guy who made himself really flat and wide. He looked really unhealthy and he was having trouble breathing all the time. Come to think of it, nobody did anything to help him.
Rodney was in my ear. ‘This is gonna be hip square super duper tip top!’
‘Fuck yeah’ I said unenthusiastically. A mountain goat had wandered into the barracks and was eating all my salad.
‘Fuckbrains!’ He shouted. ‘A nutritious breakfast cereal.’
He went on in a similar fashion. He seemed to be taking the whole thing really seriously now that we were sober. I tried to ask him what was up but I was too miserable since I had contracted gingivitis and was probably going to turn blind.
After a few months I was fully blind and Rodney Regas Vegas was making flight captain. Our mission, he said, was to collect sea urchins and bring them back to be used for detergent and wine.
‘We aren’t even anywhere near the sea Rodney. You’re a fucking cunt you know that. I can’t even fucking see.’
Rodney didn’t say anything. He pretty much ignored me all day now. We took off in silence and continued along the coastal path. I crashed a lot into hegdes and the floor because I was blind. But the sandalwood planes were resistant to pretty much everything that wasn’t a very fast dog or bird so I was grateful somewhat. Eventually Rodney was beginning to lose hope.
‘Let’s go back.’ He said. ‘My mother was right I am completely feckless.’
But I was beginning to see something in the distance.
‘Keep going.’ I said. ‘I’m beginning to see something in the distance.’
Ahead of us appeared a twilight moon encircled round by and past, enshrouded by this, following round, then left behind – colour. And then vibrance allowed, render inward boughs of salt shook and the cataclysm blued. Laid now, complacent, I saw.
‘I can see!’ I shouted, full of the glee. ‘I can see the sea!’
‘You can sea the see?’
‘C the C.’
And I did si saw ce sea sand sollowed cit soo ce cedge. Cere si saited sor sit, sand siled sasay sanother sear.

MJHM

PATTI SMITH AND ROBERT MAPPLETHORPE