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Thank you all for coming. The life and death of poetry,

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I hope I won't kill the whole thing by my own technological know how because I've tried to bring some slides and audio clips.

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So forgive me if there are some gaps in the lecture while I kind of fuss around them.

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This is not a lecture about the wasteland. It is an assembly of voices invoked by and including the wasteland in order to let me read that poem more.

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Refreshingly, Elliott called it rhythmical grumbling,

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and I have always resented the spell cast by his gloom a cloud which goes on darkening

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because of the poems status as the most important poem of the 20th century.

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The most translated poem in the culture.

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What exactly is going on when the most important poem speaks to us like this?

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What is that sound high in the air murmur of maternal lamentation?

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Who are these hooded hordes swarming over endless plains stumbling in cracked earth ringed by the flat horizon only?

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I don't like Eliot's technique of summoning a crowd in the same tone of voice as Dante,

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but without Dante's pity or Chaucer's warmth or Homer's mighty perspective of forgiveness.

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Eliot is a satirist and a satirist, is a brilliant critic rather than a compassionate fellow traveller.

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For that reason, the religious transformation at the end of the wasteland always seems to me to be a private one.

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The thunder and reanimating rain sweep into me as lyric events, internal thought events, not epic ones.

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However, I have recently had to admit that the process of reading a poem begins with geography.

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For five years, I have been trying to read Elliott through eyes accustomed to Devon, which could not make sense of his urban patterns.

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Years ago, I moved to Bristol and something beyond my thinking something just behind the

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retina and before the visual cortex began to accept not Eliot's metaphysics,

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but his sequencing. The way the verses move round each other, incognito, like strangers,

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like people on a pavement looking sideways and down to read the wasteland in a city is like lining up.

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Two mirrors can see itself in the poem, and the poem can see itself in the city and in this doubled world.

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I am sometimes confused to notice a figure from the streets flitting ahead of me through the text.

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A woman crossing the road with heavy bags. Is she from my world?

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Or Eliot's? I saw her briefly as I turned the page and behind her a line of diminishing reflections.

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Ending in endlessness. That is what happens when you place one mirror in front of another.

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That is how the world aids itself to poetry so that every poem given the right reflective surface is half made of paper.

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And half made of life. Discovery is so enthralling to me that I am tempted to ask some questions, have my categories become too simplistic?

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Might a written down poem be treated more like an oral poem permitted to alter from one occasion

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to the next book become less like a permanent record and more like an improvising prompt?

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Should the reader take more responsibility for the images provoked by a poem?

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And even as literature is literary and language gets flattened and photocopied onto dead trees,

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and Elliot claims that every poem is an epitaph and the engine of the wasteland

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is the zombie movement of that corpse being recalled by water in section four.

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Nevertheless, the reader is part of the picture and the reader is alive.

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Ephemeral, three dimensional, dramatic, ordinary, unknowable and is entitled to ask What ails the wasteland?

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What makes a poem depressing rather than life giving?

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And it's poetry under pressure from its quiet, medium has grown more and more lyric in its scope.

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Since personal truth is the kind most accessible to the solitary writer, then at times of collective disturbance, could the reader.

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Should the reader be responsible for bringing in a chorus?

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Elliott provides one answer to these questions. In his poem A Note on war poetry, he says the enduring is not a substitute for the transient,

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neither one for the other, but the abstract conception of private experience at its greatest intensity.

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Becoming universal, which we call poetry, may be affirmed in verse.

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Not a little text, so I'm going to read it again. The enduring is not a substitute for the transient, neither one for the other,

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but the abstract conception of private experience at its greatest intensity.

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Becoming universal, which we call poetry, may be affirmed in verse right or only half right.

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It's not the case that the feat of becoming universal is begun by the writer, but needs to be completed over and over again by the reader right now.

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How shall I complete my copy of the wasteland?

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About two months ago, in April, I decided to read Elliot and Bristol simultaneously.

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Over the course of 30 days. This experiment would be a kind of rite of spring, and if I performed it correctly,

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I could expect warm weather to move over the city, bringing first thunder and then real revivify in rain and new leaves.

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That is, after all, what Elliot set out to achieve.

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In the year before publishing his poem, he had been to the London production of Stravinsky's Rite of Spring,

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in which a woman dances herself to death to ensure the fertility of the Earth.

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Elliott was impressed by Stravinsky's music, which he later described like this.

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Heather Stravinsky's music be permanent or ephemeral?

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I do not know, but it did seem to transform the rhythm of the steps into the scream of the motor home.

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The rattle of machinery, the grind of wheels, the beating of iron and steel,

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the roar of the underground railway and the barbaric cries of modern life, and to transform those despairing noises into music.

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The music of the wasteland moving through blocks of voices, cuts,

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quote rhythmic cells and swift transitions towards drumming and drumming and final collapse is a rite of spring to which we are all invited.

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And that is where I shall take you in this lecture, which is not really a lecture, but a carnival.

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An April walkabout in the company of T.S. Eliot, as well as at Burton Bristol.

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Playwright, poet and historian Dante Tour Guide to the after-world Lucy,

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English poet and historian of performance poetry Ben Haggerty, carrier of the ancient tradition of storytelling.

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Ian Hamilton Finney. The lament of a lost totality. The Hat Street poet Homer poet of Troy Jane, the drunk woman with the rucksack.

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Linton Kwesi Johnson.

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Great revolutionary poet Edwin Morgan, dead Scottish poet Danny Pandolfi, living performance poet and curator of the Lyra Festival.

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Jenny Pearson, storyteller Aaron Saroyan, electric poet True Thomas, the prophet from Northumberland.

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Duncan Williamson, Scottish Traveller singer storyteller Stone Waller, along with graffiti artists John Mozer.

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Avoid sexy mish mint cloth Beck's face first sketched goose sodje one ism nick a stuffy summer.

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And nights, as well as night, dusk, rose west and others remind me.

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And. The state police said the sentences offered all the freedoms and distortions of the cerebral,

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well, the readers world in which the mind slides over the memory like a sledge down a slope.

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Mary Mary. Hold on tight.

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Stretch of time movement backwards from spring to a single hour to a night of reading, then forwards again to the whole of winter.

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The first line widens as the focus narrows. Death and life swap places.

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The speaker is first invisible, then plural and female, then singular.

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Before heading south with a suggestion of feathers, there are no rules to help you navigate the gaps between opposites.

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You have to keep tobogganing over emptiness. Mary Mary hold on tight.

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I used to find my way into the wasteland through the opening in that personal pronoun.

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I read much of the night and fly south in winter.

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I used to think a reader was a book servant, and as a reader sliding my eyes down slopes of paper to the edge and emptiness between pages.

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I followed the laws of literature downwards from one reference to another to land at last in London, in pentameter with here and there a rhyme.

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As if, after all, the tradition of Dante and Shakespeare and Webster Spencer while still working on fog of a winter dawn.

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A crowd flowed over London Bridge. So many I had not thought death had undone.

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So many sighs, short and infrequent were exhaled.

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And each man fixed his eyes before his feet flowed up the hill and down King William Street.

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But about two months ago, in April, the cruellest month I, the reader,

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put down the wasteland and walked outside and a man in white with a white splurge on his

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nose stepped off the pavement and handed me the Bhagavad Gita saying Shanti Shanti Shanti,

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a woman in a crimson hijab, was running barefoot with a covered dish and someone was sitting under a tree singing drink drink.

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The country is on the brink. You know life doesn't last long, sir.

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Almost passed, so you better raise your glass and paint a bit of Bristol in your song, sir.

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He looked surprised to find this huge voice coming out of him, as if a stranger had been living in his chest with the lights out,

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and every time he heard himself, he offered a sweeping mediaeval gesture.

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And suddenly, as if invoked by this song, a drunk woman appeared labouring uphill towards me, bent double looking down not just drunk,

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but grieving, falling, wailing, breathless, exhaling short, infrequent sighs, she said she had a broken spine and couldn't get home.

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Constant jangle of sorrow, leaning against railings, moaning like a two year old carrying too much.

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I took her tripping scarves. She kept asking Why?

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Why, why? Then, once her under character spoke firmly in a deep voice, I needed Veronique.

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Then back to horror, literally doubled up with hurt, puffing up the hill.

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I said by way of interview, Would you trust me to take your rucksack?

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She said, No. Who are you? I said, Alice. She said, What do you do?

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Gardening? I said. And poetry. She stopped.

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She altered, illuminated. She said she loved poetry.

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She had a book in her rucksack. She rummaged. She couldn't find it.

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That didn't matter. It was not.

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It is not the thing in the book that matters, but the fact of poetry is existence, the tradition of poetry that she was from Wales.

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We Welsh. We love poetry. She rummaged. She straightened.

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She walked upright, almost lifted up the hill. Not by the thought of gardening, but by the thought of poetry against all odds, the survival of poetry.

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I saw it actually bring her back to life. A sort of goddess of collapse.

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A waterfall became a human. It was April.

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I was reading much of the night, and as I turned the page, I saw that woman labouring towards me with her rucksack rummaging for a book.

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Perhaps the very book I was reading, whose pages faced each other like diminishing mirrors behind each surface,

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the facsimile of some previous surface. First, we had a couple of feelers down at Tom's place that was old Tom Boyle to the eyes blind.

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Don't you remember that time after a dance?

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Top hats and all wee and silk cut Harry, an old Tom took us behind, brought out a bottle of fizz with old Jane, Tom's wife, and we got Jo to sing.

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I'm proud of all the Irish blood that's in me. There's not a man can say a word agin me first draughts.

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Elliott began the wasteland like that, introducing himself as one of a crowd of drinkers.

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The Lyons a homage to Joyce, but also a recollection of music hall and Ballard, and a night spent drinking in Boston.

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It feels as if a carnival is starting up and the reader prepares to be intoxicated.

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I need a drink, but Elliot, the critic Elliot the reader, made a decision.

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He took a pencil and lightly crossed out the whole page like a law enforcer.

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Warning drinkers off the streets and instead of Old Tom, our first true glimpse of him is that Rita staying up half the night before heading south.

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Elliot never destroyed the first page, but sent it with the rest of the manuscript to his friend John Quinn,

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knowing that Quinn was a collector and would value it.

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John Quinn, a lawyer and patron of the arts, had offered financial assistance to both ££ and Elliot.

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So it was a simple act of gratitude to send him the first draught of the wasteland.

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Elliot had a sense of the home's value, but I think he also had a sense that the poems attentiveness to the past had its own past,

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and that LB editing, as well as his wife's remarks and his own discarded passages, formed part of its tradition.

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He ruefully remarked in the 1950s, Well,

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the fate of that manuscript or typescript with his blue pencil slings on it is one of the permanent so far as I know minor mysteries of literature.

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Sure enough, Old Tom came to light in Quinn's papers in 1968 so that now there are two wastelands the sermonising one,

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which guides a reader from a death to an attempted resurrection,

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and the Carnival one published in facsimile in 1971, with old Tom leading the procession and silk hat Harry beside him.

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Not the Ali, a fly cop came along looking for trouble, committing a nuisance, he said.

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You come onto the station, I'm sorry, I said it's no use being sorry, he said.

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Let me get my hat, I said. Starts up, people begin to cross boundaries.

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The reader becomes the writer, the writer becomes the reciter, the living and the dead walk alongside each other.

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The seven opening sentences become seven hecklers. The crossed out characters take command and silk hat.

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Harry's hat, which used to appear to me in tattered black cloth with mould shimmer when you tilted it.

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This hat has become something quite extraordinary, which I witnessed moving towards me in April on a steep street between houses about two foot high,

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a pile of colour and fake flowers, silvery scraps, windmills, feathers, shiny, indefinable things and underneath it, a poet lifting his hat a little.

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He offered me a menu on which a list of poems with prices was written that day.

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Special cost £50. It must have been an amazing poem and.

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There were others at various values, sweet poems, sour poems or whatever.

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I paid £3 for a mid-length poem and a chance to interview the poet.

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I'm ashamed that I have forgotten the poem, although I remember the intensity of its delivery.

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I remember much rhyming and punching and people stepping round us.

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And afterwards, this conversation. This, he said, this is basically what the birds would do travelling round, trying to sell poems.

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Not all of them. I said a little on my guard and uncomfortable and needing the defence of my opinions.

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What about Thomas Reimer true Thomas, who was coerced to tell the truth for the rest of his days and therefore couldn't sell anything?

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Thomas is a full Spaniard written by Walter Scott.

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He said true, Thomas was a neurotic with anxieties about the truth, whereas me, he said, I'm a fool.

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I come from a long line of tricksters. I was a fund raiser once, he said, stopping people on the streets,

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and I started doing a poem as part of the pictures I used to work up the case studies into verse.

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Now that's what I call functional poetry. You've got intro problem solution.

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What we're doing about it and then ask for money back. I was recently walking down a canal, he said, and there was a couple.

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I said, Can I do a poem for you? And whipped out my menu? They were taken aback, just me and them on a canal on a Sunday.

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Yes, there are times when I'm performing and I can see my client being ripped out and restructured,

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and space and time do that narrowing thing and then clunk. I love it.

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I'm comfortable with this kind of discomfort, he said, because I used to play bass guitar.

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My roots are in rock and metal, but when I took out the music, I suppose I sort of softened.

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The thing is that I'm very confused and I'm happy with that. I once wrote a poem in hexadecimal, he said, which is computer code.

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You've only got 15 characters that was batshit crazy, but I'm always trying to undermine myself.

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I ebb in and out of rhythm. I compose on the phone and memorise what I write, and then sometimes I write something and forget it, OK?

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So that was just a leaf in the river. In a way it goes. I'm always trying to evolve, he said.

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Always looking for the ubiquitous word that could come from anywhere. I never know what I have until I perform it.

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Sometimes I have to pause to let a car go past. But at my back, from time to time, I hear the sound of horns and motors in the spring.

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And when I'm out in my hat, if I meet children, there's joy straightaway.

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But then I come across old, bitter man with no sexuality that just a mist of hatred.

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I don't care. But now my hat, his hat, as I've mentioned, is about two foot high.

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A pile of kind of fake flowers, silvery scraps, windmills, feathers, shiny, indefinable things when he's without it.

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He has glasses and leans forward like a puppet left on a peg.

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Oh yes, my hat, his female. She is the expression of my higher self.

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My tradition made of things, gifted bits of stuff picked up at festivals.

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She is my confidante, my wife. I speak to her. I charge her up.

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The intention builds and builds till it's no longer myself. Oh yes, there are some things best not spoken of.

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It was April that cruellest of months when poets ought to be sitting inside.

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Close reading the wasteland. But the closer I read, the more the poem becomes mere rubric asking for a congregation.

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Oh, that Shakespearean rag. It's so elegant. So intelligent.

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What shall I do now? What shall I do? I shall rush out as I am and walk the street with my head down.

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So it's not just that the city has altered the poem, but by the time I rushed out to walk the street with my head on.

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So the poem has altered the city someone has been through in the night and stencilled four

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lines of poetry on a wall and someone else has scrubbed them out now from the nearness.

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What does it say now? From the menace? The mere gloss, the mere land under the mist?

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Something, something something.

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Is this Bill Wolff, or is it a new poem written by the mist itself, turning that ancient poem into columns of rubbed out shadows?

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It is just as Elliot warned me. The past is being altered by the present as much as the present is directed by the past.

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There are shadows behind shadows, voices behind voices.

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Dead poets carried like a virus in the flesh. Dead storytellers whose stories keep speaking in the living room.

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And here is someone standing in her garden in excitable air, remembering one of the Scottish travellers who taught her storytelling.

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Let me tell you about Duncan Williamson, she says.

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So attentive to the audience of shrubs and me and the cat walking across that she has to hold on to things to stop the stories from stealing her away.

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Let me tell you about Duncan Williamson, she says, if you gave him the floor, you couldn't stop him for three days.

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He was exhausting. He was born in a tent. His mother was born in a cave.

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He was a traveller. He trained as a stone waller. He was a horse trader.

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He spoke Scottish count. He stole stories from his grandmother's pocket while she was sleeping.

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The truth is just another. Duncan never spoke much about himself.

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How are you? Duncan, you'd say. And he'd say well enough.

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You know, there was once a king who had three daughters. He would talk in a roundabout way.

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Part of his tradition was to make up the tradition. He was a wonderful singer.

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He would get down on one knee and look you in the eye. And that is how his repertoire passed into writing.

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A woman from Chicago fell in love with him, and that was that.

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A man with eyes closed, tilted forwards, flushed, heartless, tremulous singing folk songs,

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hearing his voice filled out by the arch, lingering on erotic hints and half notes, he can't see it.

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But along the line of the brickwork, it says, topple in luminous white paint, which lights up whenever a car goes through.

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I'm not sure whether the instruction is to him or the bridge, but they both keep standing just about.

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Ladies and gentlemen, this is not Eliot's unreal city. It is Bristol City of slam and spoken word.

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The slave trade and the statue of Colston rode into the river.

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And now, from the nearness under the mist, a motorway like a thin blue pencil in line by Ezra Pound has cut two communities in half,

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and the crossed out voices won't stay silent.

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April 2nd, 1980 42 years ago, in the cruellest month, riots broke out in the Black and White Cafe in St Paul's.

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And to mark the date, Linton Kwesi Johnson is performing in Bristol on April the 2nd 2022.

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I caught sight of him in the morning leaning smoking against a wall and was reminded of that

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passage in the Odyssey about a poet walking through a city with more faith around him.

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The grace of shape speech crowning his head as if the poems had floated visibly from his mouth and formed a smoke ring.

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Although even as I think this, I can hear Linton Kwesi Johnson saying sharply that some have the privilege of studying Greek and Latin,

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and it's all very well to make these associations. But for the average reader, that kind of poetry doesn't work.

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What I'm interested in, he said. What I'm interested in is finding the music and the language skipping rhymes, old times sayings.

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I'm interested in poetry that sings. Yes, there is something musical in Elliott, he says.

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I absolutely love the love song of Alfred J. Prufrock.

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But then in my late teens, I became intoxicated by the elegant extravagance of Christopher Okigbo.

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Aren't you interested in oral traditions? I asked. And he answered, Not really.

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The difference between the scribble and the oral is always extremely problematic.

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He said that it's in the language itself that you find the oral tradition.

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He said there are phrases in the Bible and phrases his grandmother used, which are all the poetry you need.

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A fool's thought is his own comfort chicken Mary.

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But Hawk Dania Young Bird don't know about the Hurricane Hardy picnic Pitney Rockstone know.

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He said he was not interested in landscape poetry either,

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even though he grew up in the hills of Clarendon and all the different plant forms and the sound of a storm they register in the conscience.

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But Derek Wolcott has already spoken for that, he said. Whereas I came to poetry through politics, I was there at the Brixton riots, he said.

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I am part of the rebel generation. I thought.

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What? OK.

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That happened in Penguin Classics.

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The line shapes land on the surface of your eye and you have to reveal them in and lay them out in the quiet place of the mind.

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And if you are anything like me, then whenever you think of the poem,

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the piece of paper remains inwardly visible, holding everything very thin and still and rectangular.

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It is an effort to keep a written poem moving.

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You have to keep walking outside to remember the mysterious on paper innis of the world.

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But when you hear that poem, the actual air is altered, St. Paul's is altered, the crossed out world becomes visible,

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shivering voice ripples move out from the speaker and something wing like the gear changes it's humming and is drifted sideways,

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like when you walk into a pillar of sunlight.

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In a world where midges are suspended in an airborne auditorium being lifted up and down by the same sound as agitates

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the leaves and then a gust comes through and the hissing overhead shifts the whole swarm suddenly to one side.

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That is the nature of the spoken word the audible,

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amplified winged word close in kind to the life of insects who feel and float and hum with the same instrument.

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And then again, when a poem starts blowing through a room,

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your whole canopy is shaken as if four people had taken hold of your skin at each corner and wafted it up and down.

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And if the poet is a thinker and a watcher, if the poet has a warm sense of justice as Linton Kwesi Johnson does,

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then you'll be followed out of the building by a swarm of sounds, a bloom whose structure rebalances the air.

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And that is the haze that lies over the city and makes a drunk woman walk easily

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uphill because the book in her rucksack partakes of the same pattern of life,

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given voices from the audience. I was there at the first Bristol Slam says when I thought I can do that and my life changed.

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I woke up and became a poet. I came to it age 14, says another.

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Don't get me wrong, I was writing poems and exercise books, but then I heard rap, underground rap and scat singing.

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The whole tradition going back through Linton, Kwesi Johnson, the beats, the Dubs, the music of Reggae and Langston Hughes.

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And the third says Linton was a huge influence to me.

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The skill of poetry is being able to listen to hear other voices.

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I have Caribbean parents, he said. But our home was always open to everybody.

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A Ukrainian soldier lived with us for four years that b young Asian women escaping from their families.

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My dad's eccentric, hard drinking friends, not to mention eight brothers and sisters.

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Hip hop AP English patois Creole.

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I have so many selves, he said to me. The skill is to be able to listen and hear my other voices and someone who is not there,

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someone who has travelled the world to research the training required for shaped speech,

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which is not the same as written down speech, nor is it the same as ordinary speech.

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This one contains inside his head a whole paragraph which widens the city as he walks, he says.

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I've watched A6 competing to compose spontaneous verse in perfect metre and rhythm on subjects given by the audience,

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with two inch needles placed between their lips to reduce the available vocabulary, he says.

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I've listened to a Gujarati praise singer, consciously bringing energy to his voice chat by chat.

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As the emotion intensified, I've watched a 16 year old Pan Vani Singer make 3000 villages,

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follow her improvised songs through the epic twists and turns of the Mahabharata.

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I watched a Chinese woman strike her drum in such a way that your mind cannot wander.

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I've listened to the man in griots Kora conjure up the shimmering armour of a distant army.

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I've heard a Rajasthani kabuki storytellers wife sing long lines of narrative,

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warding off barrenness and encouraging fertility as she held an oil lamp to illuminate

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the secret details of a scroll painting in the desert under stars a primal,

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dramatic effect that could reach back to the paintings in the caves at Lascaux.

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John Moser Avoid sexy mesh mint cloth Beck's face first sketched goose sage one ism nysc story.

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Graffiti is the voice of the passing by.

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The tradition goes back to the caves via 1960s New York, when people started leaving their tags in impossible places.

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Subways, high hoardings, train cars, lift shafts.

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The tag was a kind of personal advert, a boast as if to say I was here and I was winged at the time.

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Winged words land here at night,

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spray cans lined up on the kerb and a sound system fills up the space so that the writers can hide inside loudness inside fumes.

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One person sits there as if on God with eyes down. The other is shaping huge orange letters at various times.

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Various ephemeral instructions issued to the sleeping city.

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A avoid in squished capitals gone by the following night.

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Then believe then soup and virus set forth in Gothic and then gone and once for a whole week night was

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written on the outside arch in black lettering with silver edges as if the Moon was coming up behind it,

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as if ancient night herself had passed that way with a spray can and then gone.

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And a year later, I passed dusk in a playground, clouded grey letters with daylight blue behind them.

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No doubt it will have passed by now.

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It is all part of the performance of the language in this city that these words print themselves into you and then get painted over.

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Avoid haunts me for a couple of days, then soup then and luminous jackets arrive with grey paint and clean the whole

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thing off within an hour of them going nudge and loopy green letters like a weed.

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It looks amazing on its own against all that grey. But by the following day, a cartoon bird has landed next to it.

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Signed Sally. Some people call it graffiti.

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Some call it word art, and the different names summon different traditions.

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In the 1960s, just as the fashion for graffiti was growing popular in the U.S.

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Ian Hamilton Finley invented the concept of the one-word poem with title of any length.

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These two elements forming as it were a corner which would then contain the meaning.

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He asked for contributions for his magazine.

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Poor old tired horse and Edwin Morgan offered this title before cool, beautiful thing vanishing with the single word blue as its content.

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Hugh McDermott was infuriated by what he saw as a betrayal of the seriousness of modernism.

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He refused to have his work published in any book that contained Hamilton Finley,

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even though David Jones, the most serious and the most epic of the modernists,

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was a quiet pioneer of word art,

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and his long poem in parentheses succeeds in combining the stillness of inscription with the movement of myth and ordinariness.

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But that's another story for a later lecture. Then there is our Saroyan American minimalist writer born in 1943,

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who's in the Guinness Book of Records for writing the shortest poem in existence a four legged m, so wrote one word poems without titles.

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For example, his poem Light spelt elegy HGH.

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I would love to see that word graffitied on a dark wall. He called it an electric poem.

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He said apparently the crux of the poem is to try and make the ineffable, which is light,

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which we only know about because it illuminates something else into a thing.

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An extra G.H. does it. It is sculptural on that level.

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In effect, he said, the single word is a new reading process instant and continuous like electricity.

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So it would seem, finally, in the 100 years since the wasteland was published,

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or at least in the 30 days since I started rereading it, that the written down language has been able to grow.

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First flesh, then wings, then light itself as if coming back to life again,

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returning to its earliest singlets existence inscriptions carved by sunlight into ice haiku,

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swift rain signs coming and going over stones,

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legible letter shapes of geese and printouts of animals so that it is hard to say which is the signifier and which is the signified.

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As I watch the silvery ink of a snail crawling over a wall on which someone has felt tipped, Rose West knows best.

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That snail knows as well as anyone what Rose West knows, which we none of us know.

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And there are spiders slowly crossing out. Not yet upset.

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Written perhaps by the same winged character in red wax crayon in a doorway.

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And here and there, I keep noticing amongst ordinary shadows the stencilled shadow of a human with the tag.

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I was here, but I disappear.

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I caught it on the railway bridge as I walked over and a stag was passing underneath me in April, barking a personal advert amongst the ash trees.

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I was here in this improbable place. And yes, as I remember it now, it was raining with a hint of thunder.