Archive for December, 2019

Hedge Sparrows | Burn The Water

My work has often seen me walk and write symbiotically with William Wordsworth. I’m suddenly jolted back into that relationship with the realisation that all the roads around here, an housing estate in Dronfield Woodhouse, are named after places in The Lake District and that everyday I walk this road, Grasmere Road. Grasmere the birth and burial place of the great poet.

Here are some lines he wrote by Grasmere Lake in 1806:

CLOUDS, lingering yet, extend in solid bars
Through the grey west; and lo! these waters, steeled
By breezeless air to smoothest polish, yield
A vivid repetition of the stars;
Jove, Venus, and the ruddy crest of Mars
Amid his fellows beauteously revealed
At happy distance from earth’s groaning field,
Where ruthless mortals wage incessant wars.
Is it a mirror?–or the nether Sphere
Opening to view the abyss in which she feeds
Her own calm fires?–But list! a voice is near;
Great Pan himself low-whispering through the reeds, ‘Be thankful, thou; for, if unholy deeds
Ravage the world, tranquillity is here!’

William Wordsworth
Grasmere Lake
1806

And I walk on. Four times a day. I travel the edges. The between ways. Sometimes crossing the borders other times sticking close by them but remaining to one side. Trying to make sense of, to know this place and that and mine too.

a car alarm
suddenly stops
hedge sparrows

Paul Conneally
Dronfield Woodhouse
December 31st 2019

Source: Hedge Sparrows | Burn The Water

Sappho and the Queer Imagination — PUSSY MAGIC

Sappho of Lesbos. Painting by John William Godward.

“Women’s desire for one another is still characterized as a girlish and feverish drive thought to wear itself out by adulthood. America’s patriarchal and homophobic lens simultaneously hyper-sexualizes the physical connection between lesbians while dismissing their capacity for love.”

Source: Sappho and the Queer Imagination — PUSSY MAGIC

Revisiting Adrienne Rich’s “Twenty-One Love Poems” — PUSSY MAGIC

Adrienne Rich

Cassidy Scanlon delves into the world of Adrienne Rich in comparison to other poets like Pablo Neruda and the contractions between heterosexual and queer relationships in literature and the freedom Adrienne allows women.

In her essay “Uses of the Erotic: The Erotic as Power,” Audre Lorde states:

“The erotic has often been misnamed by men and used against women. It has been made into the confused, the trivial, the psychotic, the plasticized sensation. For this reason, we have often turned away from the exploration and consideration of the erotic as a source of power and information, confusing it with its opposite, the pornographic. But pornography is a direct denial of the power of the erotic, for it represents the suppression of true feeling. Pornography emphasizes sensation without feeling.”

Source: Revisiting Adrienne Rich’s “Twenty-One Love Poems” — PUSSY MAGIC

Ginkgo trees: The incredible plant that survived an atomic bomb by Christine Mi at Vox

 

 

 

 

Annual Review – MUTTS Daily Email

Source: MUTTS Daily Email

Hannah Stamler on Greta Gerwig’s Little Women (2019) – Artforum International

GRETA GERWIG’S GREAT SUBJECT is the twilight of girlhood. She has become something like the patron saint of girls on the precipice, or, as Britney Spears put it twenty years ago, the not-girls-not-yet-women. Her heroines, sharp and tender, find themselves caught between their past and future selves; they are consumed by the task of reconciling youthful hopes with present realities, slouching toward some kind of self-actualization, and away from adolescence real or protracted.In both Frances Ha (2012) and Mistress America (2015), cowritten by Gerwig, she plays adrift twentysomethings struggling . . .

Source: Hannah Stamler on Greta Gerwig’s Little Women (2019) – Artforum International

“Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty” a poem by Jane Mead

Passing a Truck Full of Chickens at Night on Highway Eighty

What struck me first was their panic.
Some were pulled by the wind from moving
to the ends of the stacked cages,
some had their heads blown through the bars—
and could not get them in again.
Some hung there like that—dead—
their own feathers blowing, clotting
in their faces. Then
I saw the one that made me slow some—
I lingered there beside her for five miles.
She had pushed her head through the space
between bars—to get a better view.
She had the look of a dog in the back
of a pickup, that eager look of a dog
who knows she’s being taken along.
She craned her neck.
She looked around, watched me, then
strained to see over the car—strained
to see what happened beyond.
That is the chicken I want to be.

– Jane Mead

with gratitude to dmf  ~