Thelonious Monk – Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

December 31, 2014 § Leave a comment


December 27, 2014 § Leave a comment

Sonnet 13


I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—
My glass I lift at six o’clock, my darling,
As you plotted . . Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.

Jack Butler Yeats

December 25, 2014 § Leave a comment


‘The Skating Minister’

December 23, 2014 § Leave a comment

There was a mad, sprawling figure as I looked out of the bus window, on the pavement, running — though I caught it in mid air. Perhaps a tiny woman, perhaps a boy. (But why would a boy be running on the pavement, in woolen hat and backpack?)

The figure reminded me of The Skating Minister (below), for the shape between the legs, but with something similar in the arms, too. Flying frog-like, it put me in mind of video games.

Just a few minutes previously I had seen from the window an old chap in dressing gown, Crocs and santa hat with shopping trolley and a disgruntled expression, and felt sad.

What oddities walk the streets of London, lesser and greater, more or less obvious. It is a reminder of the nonsense of a simple split of sane and insane —

or The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch, purportedly by Sir Henry Raeburn (1970s)

or ‘The Reverend Robert Walker Skating on Duddingston Loch’, purportedly by Sir Henry Raeburn (1970s)


December 16, 2014 § Leave a comment

Your clear eye is the one absolutely beautiful thing.
I want to fill it with color and ducks,
The zoo of the new
Whose name you meditate–
April snowdrop, Indian pipe,

Stalk without wrinkle,
Pool in which images
Should be grand and classical

Not this troublous
Wringing of hands, this dark
Ceiling without a star.

— Sylvia Plath

from Song of Myself, Whitman

December 10, 2014 § Leave a comment

“Apart from the pulling and hauling stands what I am,
Stands amused, complacent, idle, unitary,
Looks down, is erect, or bends an arm on an impalpable certain rest,
Looking with side-curved head curious what will come next,
Both in and out of the game and watching and wondering at it.”

Veronica Maggio – Hela huset ft. Håkan Hellström

December 10, 2014 § Leave a comment

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