#RimelNeffati Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day @MarkGKirshner

Sonnet XVIII Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date: Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade, When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

Source: #Neffati Shall I Compare Thee To A Summer’s Day

Thou art more lovely and more temperate: Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer’s lease hath all too short a date

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimm’d; And every fair from fair sometime declines,

But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st; Nor shall Death brag thou wander’st in his shade,

When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st: So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

An Oral Biography of Dylan Thomas

 

From our archive, an oral history of the poet’s youth and early years in Wales.

Source: An Oral Biography of Dylan Thomas

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High Street, Swansea, Wales, ca. 1930.

Today is the centenary of Dylan Thomas’s birth. Paul Ferris’s “Ink Is Wanted by Raving Brother: Dylan Thomas’s Swansea Years”—an oral history of the poet’s youth and early years in Wales—appeared in our Spring 2004 issue. The excerpt below explores Thomas’s brief, unhappy stint as a reporter.

In 1931, probably after the summer term, Dylan Thomas left school and went to work for the local newspaper, the South Wales Daily Post. He was sixteen years old. The paper was in fact an evening title, part of a London-based chain, and changed its name to Evening Post soon after. Its early editions circulated throughout southwest Wales, but the core readership was in the Swansea area. Local commerce and politics were featured to a degree unheard of in today’s vacuous local tabloids. The editor, J. D. Williams, assumed that his readers (some of them, at least) cared about music, theater, and poetry.

CHARLES FISHER (A lifelong friend of Thomas’s, and a fellow reporter.): His father probably got the job on the paper for him through J. D. Williams, as my father got me mine—he was head machinist there, he ran the rotary press. And since I had some talent for writing simple sentences, it was thought I could become a reporter. No one challenged that idea. I followed Dylan as a reader’s boy, a copyholder, and took that vacancy created when he moved on to be a junior reporter. I copyheld for about six months, then I was promoted to the newsroom. We wrote everything up in a strange, constricting, old-fashioned prose that really belonged to reporting at the start of the century. No one thought of treating news any other way. But our image of ourselves was a Chicago newsroom, the black hat turned down, the knowing look, the cigarette never removed once lit—which was a habit Dylan kept to the end.

ERIC HUGHES (A journalist, older than Thomas, and never very fond of his younger colleague.): I think Dylan was on the Post less than a year. I was a sub-editor, and when you saw his copy, it was appalling, with many lacunae. Nor was he reliable. To my knowledge, he wrote a crit of the Messiah at one of the St. Thomas chapels, to which he didn’t bother to go. Half his time was spent in the David Evans Café where they gave you a free State Express cigarette with your coffee.

CHARLES FISHER: Our journalism was intended to be flattering. One flattered the local grocers, the local tea importer, the local coal merchant. Nothing was done with any intense concentration. It was a very kindly, welcoming town. People realized in those days you had to make due. People weren’t captious. They weren’t critical of the fact that a man had to turn a shirt inside out to get cuffs that were clean on the outside, or that the man who appeared in the evening dress would be carrying his dancing shoes in a paper bag. Swansea at that time was classless. It wasn’t pretending to be democratic, it was indeed democratic. People had no compunction about talking to everyone. It was a very close community.

CHARLES FISHER: Work life blended into social life seamlessly. When you were a young reporter you could go anywhere, like your little grandchild can toddle anywhere without reproof. Dylan had free admission to the cinemas, to the variety shows at the Empire. Heaven knows, I was able to go to enough dinners, free dinners, at the expense of hearing a lot of speeches afterwards. The Oddfellows, the Piscatorial Society. There were Scottish associations and Irish associations. They all had dinners. It was an occasion, the toasts to distinguished visitors, to the king. It was a town where people loved the sounds of their own voices.

April or May 1932. Dylan, then aged seventeen and still at the Evening Post, wrote to Percy Smart from the newsroom. Killay is a rural suburb west of Swansea, Landore an industrial suburb to the east.

[…] For the 1000th time this morning the telephone bell rings. Is this Mr. —? No, this is Joan of Arc. Can’t you hear me sizzling. Is this Mr. —? No he is away at the moment, sprinkling [illegible] over his grandmother, who is a staunch Tory. For the 100th time I hear the noise of the engines, I hear the voices of men I loathe & distrust, I feel them breathe upon my cheek, I am called here, I am called there, there is an accident in Landore, there is a marriage in Killay, there is a newly dug grave in garden & Mother has bought me a razor blade, & razor blade, to cut my throat so early.

For the 100th time I say to myself “I am dying.”

CHARLES FISHER: In the evening when I’d finished I’d go to cafés like the Plaza and Lovell’s, meet people I knew. Dylan would do the same but usually in pubs. Or he was in the Little Theatre, rehearsing for a play. I went to a lot of dances. Not Dylan. He would have felt constrained in a whole evening of dancing. He asked me, I think at the Mermaid Tavern in the Mumbles, “Charles, do you like beer?” I said, “Not really.” “I like it,” he said. “I like the taste of it.” Already that formed how he spent his time.

[…] It was obvious he didn’t relate to the things he was expected to do—calling on the hospital, coroner, fire station, et cetera. No opportunities for Dylan there, though he did write articles for the Herald of Wales, the companion weekly, which were far above the usual standard. He did one series on neglected Welsh poets. Encouraged by J. D. Williams, I should think, the one person who would know he could write. His articles were wittier and better than mine, but the inducement was the same, ten schillings and sixpence. It wasn’t because he was such a bad reporter that he left. We were all bad reporters. I never knew the circumstances. I’m inclined to think they were the same as the circumstances in which he gave up trying to learn mathematics at the Grammar School. He simply stopped attending classes—there was agreement by mutual consent, as it were. His life was bohemian already. He dyed his suit green.

GWEN WATKINS (An author in her own right, and the wife of the other Swansea poet, Vernon Watkins, a close friend of Thomas. Her recollections belong to later years, but she knew his background from Vernon, who died before he could publish his own memoir of his friend.): You cannot overestimate the part that Swansea of the twenties and thirties played with him. With people he knew later, he was amusing, funny, nice, but always this slight anxiety. “Am I performing all right?” He remained the Swansea boy, the provincial. That boy was always there, the one who shocked the girls in the Mumbles when he was fourteen and fifteen by whistling at them and saying, “That’s a pretty pair of knockers.” What he was always looking for was the Swansea gang.

Read more in Issue 169, available for purchase here.

Sleaze Town USA

 

J’ACCUSE  Album Cover Sleaze Town USAYabba Dabba DoGotcha!Caught ya!Looking for some actionNight out on the townWinning!Best mask and costumeBleached blondeWannabe bombshellSmokin’ hot chimneyUnderneathTearaway lingerieMinutemen in every pool hallWhispering so you can hear“Rack ‘em up”“I’d hit that”What’s on tap?Bud Light lowsDoobie down highsAh, Scooby-DooScooby SnacksDinner!Flamin’ Hot Fritos-CheetosAnd Schlitz Malt LiquorShow a little classHave a mason jar of Port instead.Looking goodSnap! Crackle! Pop-hair!White wife-beaterTwo sizes too smallHiding a black peekaboo braHa-ha, such a teaseFlashing dime store blingLaugh lines by designMaybellineHardcore eyelinerCovering crow’s feetPerfect for under singing starsUltra-wet lip gloss gooFor the oh so sexy, “ooh”Yanking pants down lowMaking sure the tramp stamp showsRemember Helen of TroyAlways chose a TrojanNot a man for the moment.After little is saidThe deed is doneWrapping up the eveningChugging downRemedy No. 1Alka-Seltzer nightcapBefore a good scrubbingRemedy No. 2Cold water showerSteel wool and AjaxKills ya lice and scabies — baby! “If you must be indiscrete, be discrete in your indiscretion.”― Mark Twain     *Paolo Nutini —“Scream (Funk My Life Up)”It was time to write something with a little humor.  Please know that I’m not making fun of any town named “Sleaze”, or Hollywood for that matter.  I know both of these places all too well.  I lived around the corner from a joint called, The Body Shop.  Anyone familiar with the Hollywood area or this club should be smiling!                                                                                                                   Luxury

Source: Sleaze Town USA

J’ACCUSE  Album Cover

 

Sleaze Town USA
Yabba Dabba Do

Gotcha!
Caught ya!
Looking for some action
Night out on the town
Winning!
Best mask and costume
Bleached blonde
Wannabe bombshell
Smokin’ hot chimney
Underneath
Tearaway lingerie
Minutemen in every pool hall
Whispering so you can hear
“Rack ‘em up”
“I’d hit that”
What’s on tap?
Bud Light lows
Doobie down highs
Ah, Scooby-Doo
Scooby Snacks
Dinner!
Flamin’ Hot Fritos-Cheetos
And Schlitz Malt Liquor
Show a little class
Have a mason jar of Port instead
.
Looking good
Snap! Crackle! Pop-hair!
White wife-beater
Two sizes too small
Hiding a black peekaboo bra
Ha-ha, such a tease
Flashing dime store bling
Laugh lines by design
Maybelline
Hardcore eyeliner
Covering crow’s feet
Perfect for under singing stars
Ultra-wet lip gloss goo
For the oh so sexy, “ooh”
Yanking pants down low
Making sure the tramp stamp shows
Remember Helen of Troy
Always chose a Trojan
Not a man for the moment
.
After little is said
The deed is done
Wrapping up the evening
Chugging down
Remedy No. 1
Alka-Seltzer nightcap
Before a good scrubbing
Remedy No. 2
Cold water shower
Steel wool and Ajax
Kills ya lice and scabies — baby!

 

“If you must be indiscrete, be discrete in your indiscretion.”
― Mark Twain     *

Paolo Nutini —“Scream (Funk My Life Up)”

It was time to write something with a little humor.  Please know that I’m not making fun of any town named “Sleaze”, or Hollywood for that matter.  I know both of these places all too well.  I lived around the corner from a joint called, The Body Shop.  Anyone familiar with the Hollywood area or this club should be smiling!                                                                                                                   Luxury

And So It Is

 

And So It Is Lee Miller photographed by Man Ray

And So It IsThere exists something different, strange and mysterious today. I can smell the stillness, perhaps it’s the uncertainty of the known.I blink, accepting an invitation to an alternate reality. I blink again, I can no longer discern what material is, I assure myself, it’s of no importance.An indescribable release floods my being, I let go of all attachments that anchor me to a realm of light and dark. There’s a weightlessness found in this saturated calm, like the air after a good hard rain. I feel more alive than ever, the perpetual violet twilight smiles down on me.With grace I push-off, fully immersing myself, slipping silently into the visible abyss of everything and nothing. No longer blinking, I forget everything that came before this moment. “Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely.”― Edna St. Vincent Millay Henry Halloway reads, “A Dream Within a Dream” by Edgar Allan Poe.       Zing!

SEPTEMBER 12, 2016 ~ COPPER CRANES

Source: And So It Is

 

Sisters’ Endgame

What of fate and faith? While they embrace, hold hands, which rules the other? This perpetual thought is a silent cancer that creeps within, like rust that never sleeps. Should they drift off into slumber, the dark-grey melancholy wakes them. Before their cries reach a fevered pitch of malignancy, they dance the last tango, what if and if only. Loyal duty and service to this thought wavers, to what purpose does it serve, and to what end? Lost days pass, the finish line inches ever closer, what of the final moment? Grace reserved, wishes fate and faith to be kind. “Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day’s chalking.”― Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace Staind – “It’s Been Awhile”

Source: Sisters’ Endgame

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“Life is grace. Sleep is forgiveness. The night absolves. Darkness wipes the slate clean, not spotless to be sure, but clean enough for another day’s chalking.”
― Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace 

Staind – “It’s Been Awhile”

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About

AboutThis just about sums it up. The Genius Of The Crowdby Charles Bukowski.there is enough treachery, hatred violence absurdity in the averagehuman being to supply any given army on any given dayand the best at murder are those who preach against itand the best at hate are those who preach loveand the best at war finally are those who preach peacethose who preach god, need godthose who preach peace do not have peacethose who preach peace do not have lovebeware the preachersbeware the knowersbeware those who are always reading booksbeware those who either detest povertyor are proud of itbeware those quick to praisefor they need praise in returnbeware those who are quick to censorthey are afraid of what they do not knowbeware those who seek constant crowds forthey are nothing alonebeware the average man the average womanbeware their love, their love is averageseeks averagebut there is genius in their hatredthere is enough genius in their hatred to kill youto kill anybodynot wanting solitudenot understanding solitudethey will attempt to destroy anythingthat differs from their ownnot being able to create artthey will not understand artthey will consider their failure as creatorsonly as a failure of the worldnot being able to love fullythey will believe your love incompleteand then they will hate youand their hatred will be perfectlike a shining diamondlike a knifelike a mountainlike a tigerlike hemlocktheir finest art

 

mia-crisp

Mia Crisp

Source: About

The Pardon’s Wife

Lucia Coghetto "Ghetto"

Lucia Coghetto “Ghetto”

The Pardon’s Wife

When days are long, nights longer, there thrives a predictable chaos to everything that walks silently behind her. It hides beneath her shadow of certainty, which she prays to righteously and religiously. It smiles as she makes missteps, finding glee in the lessons. It frightens her in the dark, having no hands to hold. It lies in wait as she becomes ever more unsure asto her purpose and direction. It casts a net of paralysis over her will and determination. When she reaches the point of wretched indecision, it reveals itself as a familiar stranger, an unwelcome friend, Fear.

Source: The Pardon’s Wife

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Mia Crisp

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