Posts Tagged ‘ dawn ’

Resonance Extra – Sounds of Dawn

International Dawn Chorus Day

5AM London time (UTC 0+1) on Saturday 4 MAY to 6AM on Sunday 5 MAY 2019

Reveil (2014-19) is a 24 hour broadcast of live sounds of daybreak. Starting near the Greenwich Meridian at 5AM, Reveil travels West following the grey line just ahead of sunrise, when birds and other organisms generate a continuously changing wave of sound. Live audio feeds are supplied by streamers around the world using devices from phones, laptops and Raspberry Pi’s to commercial broadcasting equipment. Domestic scale projects join formal research networks to realize a collective composition of environmental sounds lasting one earth day. Reveil links a series of micro festivals (soundcamps) on International Dawn Chorus Day. Supported by Arts Council England and private contributions With thanks to all the streamers, projects and stations who make up the broadcast. Resonance Extra is a 24/7 digital broadcasting platform dedicated to global music, sound art and radio art based at Resonance, London’s community radio station for the arts.

Source: Resonance Extra

Tom Clark – Beyond the Pale – THURSDAY, 16 NOVEMBER 2017 YOU / coexistence


_DSC0831: photo by noppadol maitreechit, 23 April 2016


YOU (I) 
The door behind me was you
and the radiance, there like
an electric train wreck in your eye
after a horrible evening of waiting outside places in the rain for you
to come
only to
find all of them, two I know, the rest scullions, swimming around you
in that smoky crowded room like a fishbowl
I escaped from, running away from you and my André Breton
dream of cutting your breasts off with a trowel
and what does that matter too them or you now, but just wait,
it’s still early
to the children embroidered in the rug, who seem to be setting up siege
engines under a tree house full of midgets who look like you.
Where are you in this sky of new blue
deltas I see in the drapery, and your new friends wearing bamboo singlets
what are they doing down there in the moat waving tridents like stalks
of corn?
Me, I’ll be happy to see their blood spilled all over the bedspread
pavilions of your hands as an example. If you come home right now I’ll
scrunch your hat
between my thighs like a valentine before you have time to wipe them.
You are bright, tremendous, wow.
But it is the hour of one from the horrible tremendousness
Of youth is about to depart.
The boats are ready. The air is soft and you perhaps nearby
Do pass, saying “I am for you.”
This is as much as “Everything is great.”
But desperation builds up all the time.
Life is nothing
            more to me
strapped at the bottom
      of  the throat
Than majesty, I think. You are arduous as that
Ashtray.  Swallow me!  since
Your hands are full of streets
And I walk out upon the streets
And I think the girls are better looking, vicious, cool
And the men are flying kites and newsprint
Gets on my arms. I enter rooms —
Wild my steps like an automaton’s —
Where batons are linked into some residue.
A gull is eating some garbage.
The sky is an old tomato can, I think.
I buy a newspaper and begin to walk back.
Smells torture the kites like gulls. Wild gulls, and
It’s the tremendous sky of survival.
Few things are still visible to me. Baseball
Withholds the tremors. They fall, so
I drag you down and
You are akimbo as I stick it in
And everything is thunderous accordion April, great,
Risen from palms and hypntism. I run home
And dip my coffee in bread, and eat some of it.
Today I get this letter from you and the sun
buckles        a mist falls over our villas
with a hideous organic slush like the music of Lawrence Welk
I lay in bed all day, asleep, and like some nocturnal
beast. And get your salutation among the torn green numbers
in the sky over the council houses. And see your eyes when
                                                   the retired pensioners pass
me by the abandoned railway station — this is not nothing, it is not
                                                                                          the hymn
of an age of bankrobbers or heraldic days but it is to sing
with complete gaiety until your heart freaks. I love you.
                                                         And go down amid the sycamores to
summer. Wandering by the lake any way
seems lovely, grand, the moon
is a gland in the thigh. Tumble and twinkle as on the golf course apparel
lifts. And a door is opened to
an owl. It is snowing, and you are here on the bed with me
and it is raining, and I am as full of frets as a guitar or a curtain
and I am singing, as I sponge up the cat place. You
                                                     are heaped. A curtain
of belief keeps me away from the tombs
of imagery. I love you, I’d like to go.
The chords knotted together like insane nouns         Dante
you are in bed           in the dark copula you
of the musical phrase          a few star birds sing in the branches
their voices are tangled not high
now all of them are dark and some move            you
were a word in the wood of my life
where the leaves are words, some of them fucking
in obscurity their clasping is terrible and brusque
pain birds ache thru them            and some
are lighter and seem to suggest less
of death than of a viola da gamba player these
birds sweep past in the forest
of my hands on your chest,            as we move
out on the glowing sea of the tropics on an ice pack,             you,
YOU (V) (after Hölderlin)

Desert flowers (sunset): Tom Clark

O Earth Mother, who consents to everything, who forgives everything
don’t hide like this                                                        and tell

Her Power is sweetened in these rays, the Earth before her
conceals the children
of her breast in her cloak, meanwhile we feel her,

and the days to come announce
that much time has passed and often one has felt
a heart grow for you inside his chest
They have guessed, the Ancients, the old and pious Patriarchs,
and in the secret they are, without even knowing it,
in the twisted chamber, for you, the silent men
but still more, the hearts, and those you have named Amor,
or have given obscure names, Earth, for one is shamed
to name his inmost heart, and from the start however man
when he finds greatness in himself and if the Most High permits,
he names it, this which belongs to him, and by its proper name
and you are it, and it seems
to me I hear the father say
to you honor is granted from now on
and you must receive songs in his name,
and you must, while he is distant and Old Eternity
becomes more and more hidden every day,
take his place in front of mortals, and since you will bear and raise
children for him, his wish
is to send anew and direct toward you men’s lives
when you recognize him           but this
directive which he inscribes in me is the rose
Pure sister, where will I get hold, when it is winter, of these
flowers, so as to weave the inhabitants of heaven crowns
It will be
as if the spirit of life passed out of me,
because for the heavenly gods these signs
of love are flowers in a desert       I search for them, you are hidden

Tom Clark

Desert flowers (dawn)
: Tom Clark

Dawn by Federico García Lorca

Federico García Lorca  

Dawn in New York has
four pillars of muck
and a hurricane of black pigeons
splashing in the putrid waters.

Dawn in New York moans
on the immense staircases
searching between the corners
for spikenards of depicted anguish.

Dawn arrives and no one receives it in his mouth
because neither morning nor hope are possible:
at times furiously swarming coins
perforate and devour abandoned children.

The first to arise know in their bones
there will be neither paradise nor leafless loves:
they know the muck of numbers and laws awaits them,
of simple-minded games, of fruitless labor.

The light is buried by chains and noises
in a shameless challenge to rootless science.
Insomniacs stagger around in each district
like refugees from a shipwreck of blood.


Willard Bohn, translation

Today’s Haiku (April 1, 2015) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi)

春暁や雨のあらひし松の幹  久保田万太郎

shungyô ya ame no araishi matsu no miki

            spring dawn—

            a pine tree’s trunk

            washed by rain

                                                Mantaro Kubota

Fay Aoyagi, translator

from “Haiku Dai-Saijiki” (“Comprehensive Haiku Saijiki”), Kadokawa Shoten, Tokyo, 2006

Fay’s Note:  Mantaro Kubota (1889-1963)

Today’s Haiku (April 1, 2015) | Blue Willow Haiku World (by Fay Aoyagi).

[HD] “O’Holy Night” – Patti Smith

Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Sho Ka (1991)

Black! crow standing in his eye all eternity

Long shadows draw

Wild winds abate In morning’s first light A

broken teahouse

Bursting open The rose dawn fills My empty


No barrier now Lofty mountain to one

Riding the wind.

–  Sho Ka, 1991

Bamboo and Plum Blossom: Sho Ka (1991).

Patti Smith – “Mother Rose” – Teatro delle Rocce, Gavorrano (GR)

Oh, Bad Blues: Larkin, Plath, Donne, Bessie Smith, & The Metaphysical Dilemma of Radical Narcissism – Montevidayo

Oh, Bad Blues: Larkin, Plath, Donne, Bessie Smith, & The Metaphysical Dilemma of Radical Narcissism – Montevidayo.