Soon We Will Be Happy

Soon we will be happy

Perhaps next year or next month

I’d rather not put too definite a date on it

Maybe when spring is over and summer comes

When we can sit outside in the evenings

When the blossom turns to leaves

When we can afford a place of our own

When our landlord fixes the boiler

When our government changes

When I start working again

When the bank gets back to us

When your eyes heal

When the doctor says I am ready

When the neighbours stop talking

When I forget your infidelity

When your children forgive you

When the ocean swallows the cities

When I stop writing poetry.

Maybe tomorrow in fact

But probably a while longer.

The Scientist, The Artist, Science and Art

When Pythagoras is forgotten, Homer will be remembered. This is no disrespect to Pythagoras or praise for Homer, but simply a reflection of their natures as scientist and artist. The scientist does not create, he discovers. Once Pythagoras has proved that the square of the hypotenuse equals the addition of the other sides squared, this knowledge becomes the property of everyone who can understand it. It does belong to Pythagoras, but to the nature of the universe itself. Pythagoras was merely the man who first understood this aspect of the universe.

Homer, meanwhile, has created something completely new. The Iliad was not a part of the universe for him to discover, but a new universe for him to create. Homer’s personality is stamped into it, and it belongs to him alone. Even if we forget who wrote The Iliad (and some may say this is already true), it does not matter. It is still the unique product of its author. Though readers may see new things in it, no-one may ever understand the art on the same level the artist does at the moment of creation. It is his alone. The ultimate proof is that if Pythagoras did not discover his theorem, someone else would, or at the very least could. No-one else could write The Iliad.

However, while The Artist is Eternal and The Scientist is Temporary, Art itself is Temporary while Science is Eternal. By science here, I mean not only maths and physics, but also biology, geography, economics and history, really any area in which the scientist discovers aspects of the universe in the attempt to find the complete truth. Science is the revealed nature of the universe. Even when we forget it, it still exists, waiting to be rediscovered. Scientists can do nothing to change science; it is eternal and indestructible.

Art, meanwhile, is fragile and temporary. It requires the artist to create it, and can easily be destroyed, like Mozart’s lost Concertos. Unlike Pythagoras’s theorem, these can never be rediscovered. Each work of art is unique, so much so it can be hard to define what art is at all. In some ways philosophers, engineers and generals are artists, at least when they work on unique and personal subjects rather than discovering efficient methods that future generations can use. Historical figures such as Robespierre could be either artist or scientist, depending on whether they are unique aberrations or the embodiments of their age. Art is anything fragile, unique and irreplaceable. When the human race and even the universe end, all art will die. But science will remain.

something i thought of while getting dressed this morning.
note: The Scientist and The Artist are 'he' only because the examples i used were male

Defiance

possibilities of salvation

illusionary, all illusionary

An Autumn Land

This is an autumn land.

These people, they sit best in autumn

This grass feels greenest when it is muddy

The trees feel greatest when they shed themselves

The fields are ripest as they die.

This is the Autumn Isle.

Dressed in her carpet of leaves, she looks most like herself

With her crown of rain on darkened rivers

Rippled puddles reflected in the sallow streetlights

Stooped figures passing under cloudy sunsets with lowered eyes

Climbing damp trees and picking our way through muddy fields

This is my country as I remember her best.

Still, I wonder,

Did Caesar land on the shores of a Winter Isle?

Did Chaucer tread the grass of a land in spring?

Did summer shine on Shakespeare’s stage?

In short, have this people

Bastard children of Celtic-Roman-Christian-Angle-Saxon-Norman-Other parents

After such time of triumph and tribulation

Come to their autumnal years of existence?

Or, have these woods and fields always felt most comfortable

With measured death

And falling leaves.

Perhaps these stones are simply autumn stones

And this land knows its home lies between the last harvest and first frost.

I do not speak of the decline of Empire, eclipse of science, dearth of culture

Nor in fact any metaphor for slow death, anything other than what it claims to be:

An Autumn Island

Filled with autumn souls.

Another Year, Another Camera, Another Man

summer 2006
unfortuantly i wont be able to carry on that yearly portrait tradition, as my grandmother, whose building this is, died this autumn

Self Portrait, August 2005

my 100th post

'A Place For Friends'

Soon after reading Jenni’s recent rant, I found my girlfriend had acquired a myspace. Having been rather mean to her about it, I’ve decided instead to vent my angst somewhere no-one will mind. Somewhere, in fact, no-one will read it. Yes, that’s right: here.

Myspaces are really just extended versions of the lonely hearts columns in the papers. Want a new friend? Simply browse through your ‘friend’s ‘friends’ and choose whoever has the best film taste, the most fashionable music collection, the coolest friends, the photo most lovingly teased into perfect spontaneity. No longer for you, myspace user, the trouble of meeting new people, exploring their personality, introducing them to new ideas, tastes…. No, enough of all that foolishness! Now, thanks to News Corporation, you can carefully select only those people whose opinions won’t conflict with yours, and avoid all that hassle of debate and new experience. How nice.

I realise I am being unfair. Of course myspace is about more than just self advertisement. No, it’s far, far worse. Myspace is of course the home of ‘emo’ and as everyone knows, the true emo is the wanabe emo (paradoxical thought that may seem). ‘I wish my grass was emo so it would cut itself’ is pretty damn funny. But there is a serious point that myspace is full of people who glorify their depression, self-loathing and self-harm. And that can’t be good. There’s really quite enough misery in the real world without having to create more for the sake of fashion and egotism. And, don’t forget, you, self-harming emo kiddies, are hugely privileged. Not only for living in the only time in history the whole world could be free of poverty, but in living on one of the wealthiest countries in that world. And yet, these whiny white middleclass kids still feel the world wants to know about their fictional problems.

What it’s all about then, is egos. Inflating your problems crying out for the world to listen… it’s not hard to analyse. It’s as if the new way to hide your insecurity to pretend you’re secure enough to bare your insecurities to the world. Any myspace isn’t just a way to ‘keep in touch’. If you want to say something, use messenger. Send an email. Maybe, even, shockingly, actually speak to them in person. Apparently some people still do such things. The only reason to use the comments is to show off your friendship to the world, how close, how, incredibly, Important you are to that person.

Ironically enough, one of the things I find most annoying about myspace is that I, as a arrogant non-user, aren’t allowed to view my girlfriends pictures, or post comments on my friends about how much they suck for getting myspaces. The obvious thing is to get one yourself so you can…. And then it begins. I’ll finish by mentioning, as you probably already know, that the whole thing is owned my News Corporation: Richard Murdoch. As if you needed more proof of the evil.

Incidentally, I am entirely conscious of the irony of putting this on a myspace.

But that’s ok.

Because irony

Is Delicious.

Richard in Portugal

Master of my Order

I am the master of my order

And proud and honourable it is

I am the great and sole recorder

My recollections shall not be hid

I am the regent of these wide lands

They are loaned from a far-away king

I am the leader of this my band

Though not sweetly yet truly we sing

I am the keeper of a portal

A passage far to a boundless place

I am a lone and wand’ring mortal

And you shall see my face

actually one of the oldest poems i've written, found the other day when looking through old notebooks and touched up a bit. so still no new poetry.

the silver sea

taken in full colour

The Way of all Flesh

a sight i'd imagine very few people will recognise. (though you can probably work it out)

England

England is sleeping.
The rows of tiny towns,
Swollen expanses of London,
Empty patchworks of fields
Cannot yet see the sun
But slumber in a dark blue repose.

Only we, aliens, privileged visitors
Descending from foreign skies
Can see it gilding the clouds
First pink, then orange, gold;
First the high icy waves
Then the great tumbled heaps
The wisps of baseless colour
The highest church spires;
The great land bellow.

England is sleeping.
She is waking, slowly;
The sun is gilding her skin bronze
Her hair white-gold;
It is touching her eyelids with the first rays of day.
And though she does not see
A plane nine-thousand feet above her
My beautiful England is waiting for me
And I return at last.

for someone.
written on a plane about to land.

H ton

Japan 2004

Swimming in a Stormy Ocean

Walking home with the rain on my back
Pattering the puddles that I wade through
I think of the singular pleasure of the stormy sea.

A black mass of storm swims in from the south:
The sky is leaden and foreboding.
Dive into the shallow sea.
There are no waves; only mountains of froth
Colliding and separating and whirling
Diving horizontally with no regard of what a wave should be
And you are jumping, twisting to keep your head above
But laughing with mania at the great sea-gods
Whose winds rake grooves in the water.

And the energy you feel, even before the rain begins
Before it comes spitting harshly down on your shoulders
But when it does you feel you can leap over the waves
The highest foam flecked towers
Raked with the wind and pummelled by the rain, like you.

And standing on shore at the end
To look on the seething animal you were part of;
White glimpses of mountaintops receding to the horizon
A lonely bird struggles so elegantly with the sky
The wind stings your naked chest and raindrops fly in your eyes
But you know, as Calvin said, what it is to feel alive,
Gloriously alive, however temporarily.

true story.
North Carolina, Afternoon 11th August 2006

don't go in there

'I was attempting to write a poem for you'

I was attempting to write a poem for you
So I read all my other love poets
And it occurred to me that love poetry
Is just emotional blackmail
Filled with masturbatory guilt
And self-indulgent melancholy
And so I did not write you a poem
Instead I wrote this:
An excuse.

North Carolina August 2006

i'm not dead,

i'm just quite happy really. And i find poetry much harder to write when you're happy. I havn't posted pictures either because i'm trying to keep it a mix of poetry and pictures. And I'm running out of pictures anyway.

Deppression