there is a writing before writing
The The
may still look like a place of peculiar and historic qualities -
"traditions"
the change has been predicted for some time
a kind of autumn shrivelling that would leave the roots untouched
morning milk delivered to the doorstep characters characterized by what
george orwell called "decency"
could that time now be recalled like a dream?
how odd that we thought the periphery could shrink and the centre stay
unchanged scepticism and satire have replaced orwellian decency we
have absolutely no idea how things will work out writing in britain
has been affected in various ways a small specialism has developed in
national self/examination the kind of "whats-wrong-with-us?" book that
has a steady popularity in the united states but in britain comes to
spasms in scotland fiction has evolved in its own language and dark
identity and flourishes mostly it describes the present english
fiction -that is fiction from england- has begun to do something else
how to describe this writing?
the surface shone the rot was underneath
this is the literature of farewell
[strongly adapted from i jack]
i think of writing as partly an instrument of exploration and partly a
special way of recording moments & events taking the poetry of them
i am not interested in stories
maybe in devices maybe in patterns
there is a writing before writing
no smoke without you my fire
c y
thth
--
"words will not say anything more than they do and my various purposes
will not understand them more than what they say" / robert creeley 1967
phil
>
> quite suddenly or so it seems writing has changed to the outsider it
> may still look like a place of peculiar and historic qualities -
> "traditions"
> the change has been predicted for some time
> a kind of autumn shrivelling that would leave the roots untouched
> morning milk delivered to the doorstep characters characterized by what
> george orwell called "decency"
he had great discrimination, did our eric, and an almost unequaled
precipience
> could that time now be recalled like a dream?
> how odd that we thought the periphery could shrink and the centre stay
> unchanged scepticism and satire have replaced orwellian decency we
> have absolutely no idea how things will work out writing in britain
> has been affected in various ways a small specialism has developed in
> national self/examination the kind of "whats-wrong-with-us?" book that
> has a steady popularity in the united states but in britain comes to
> spasms in scotland fiction has evolved in its own language and dark
> identity and flourishes mostly it describes the present
aye, black and blue, and recovering drunk (mama! almost take me in!)
> english
> fiction -that is fiction from england- has begun to do something else
>
> how to describe this writing?
>
> the surface shone the rot was underneath
> this is the literature of farewell
> [strongly adapted from i jack]
>
> i think of writing as partly an instrument of exploration and partly a
> special way of recording moments & events taking the poetry of them
> i am not interested in stories
> maybe in devices maybe in patterns
> there is a writing before writing
yes there is, but this is not the place to explore it
i think you will find a better reception among readers than writers
the dominant extent of commercialism has blunted any acuity of comment
and dulled sensibility to context. (tolkien would always be off-topic
here, as would betch)
no longer are there mythic appreciations - all is history (politics)
whereas mythos is a record of consciousness; it will end à coda~
twelve maids dancing
silent white
round a lynchet hill
whose will will
still by night
sing their ancient song
what braveheart? thou some any
self
phil
alma
anyone tell me if the following verse is correct and also who is
the author?
I met a little elf man once
Down where the lilies blow
I asked him why he was so small
And why he didn't grow
He slightly frowned and with an eye
He looked me through and through
I am just as big for me said he
As you are big for you
-----------------------------------------------------------
Got questions? Get answers over the phone at Keen.com.
Up to 100 minutes free!
http://www.keen.com
alma
know if my message regarding a children's poem about A Little
Elf Man has been sent or not.
Gerald Clough
>
> I have been searching for a poem I learned as a small child. Can
> anyone tell me if the following verse is correct and also who is
> the author?
>
> I met a little elf man once
> Down where the lilies blow
> I asked him why he was so small
> And why he didn't grow
> He slightly frowned and with an eye
> He looked me through and through
> I am just as big for me said he
> As you are big for you
>
> -----------------------------------------------------------
>
>
from the poem into any of the search engines, Yahoo, for instance. If
it's at all known, it will usually turn up a web site. In this case:
http://ebbs.english.vt.edu/exper/kcramer/wb2/Elf.html
--
-----------------------------------------------------------
Clo...@Texas.Net
"Nothing has any value unless you know you can give it up."
-----------------------------------------------------------
phil
>
> I have been searching for a poem I learned as a small child. Can
> anyone tell me if the following verse is correct and also who is
> the author?
>
> I met a little elf man once
> Down where the lilies blow
> I asked him why he was so small
> And why he didn't grow
> He slightly frowned and with an eye
> He looked me through and through
> I am just as big for me said he
> As you are big for you
i don't know
pan?
who was the author of the toby twirl books ?
there was a terrible witch in the stories (who kept 2 ravens in a cage)
and on my first day at school my mother took me by the hand and
introduced me to my teacher - but i recognised her immediately!
obviously my mother had been dulled by a spell, for it was the witch
herself! which i loudly announced; then jammed my arms out straight so i
couldn't be forced through the door
at the end of the day i cried because i didn't want to leave
phil
Hugh Watkins
>I met a little elf man once
http://www.google.com/search?q=I+met+a+little+elf+man+once&meta=lr%3D%26hl%3Den&btnG=Google+Search
Google results 1-10 of about 15,899 for I met a little elf man once.
Search took 1.33 seconds.
"The Little Elf" by John Kendrick Bangs from The Posy Ring: A Book of
Verse for Children [1903],
chosen and classified by Kate Douglas Wiggins and Nora Archibald Smith.
Illustration by Charles E. Brock, from Hood's Humorous Poems [1891] by
Thomas Hood.
http://ebbs.english.vt.edu/
John kendrick Bangs, 1852-1922
http://cdl.library.cornell.edu/moa/browse.author/b.21.html
http://www.fantasticfiction.co.uk/authors/John_Kendrick_Bangs.htm
http://www.bartleby.com/65/ba/Bangs-Jo.html
http://webtext.library.yale.edu/sgml2html/beinecke.bangs.sgm.html
Brittanica only found Bang, Herman
novelist who was a major Danish representative of literary Impressionism.
His work reflected the profound pessimism of his time.
worthy of your attention too
Hugh W
The The
>
> > there is a writing before writing
>
> yes there is, but this is not the place to explore it
> i think you will find a better reception among readers than writers
> the dominant extent of commercialism has blunted any acuity of comment
> and dulled sensibility to context. (tolkien would always be off-topic
> here, as would betch)
>
> no longer are there mythic appreciations - all is history (politics)
> whereas mythos is a record of consciousness; it will end à coda~
>
i see
i tragically see
ill continue to question
it takes all place in the wings
thanking you
phil
>
> phil wrote:
-----
> > no longer are there mythic appreciations - all is history (politics)
> > whereas mythos is a record of consciousness; it will end à coda~
> >
>
> i see
> i tragically see
> ill continue to question
the dead will bury them
> it takes all place in the wings
an atrocious flight
or centre stage invisibly
(if it aint conscious, then unconscious)
silence before the curtain
when there isn't
mebyon, phil
nothing spilt and sticky
> thanking you
>
> thth
Trent
> The The wrote:
> >
> > phil wrote:
> -----
> > > no longer are there mythic appreciations - all is history (politics)
> > > whereas mythos is a record of consciousness; it will end à coda~
> > >
> >
> > i see
> > i tragically see
> > ill continue to question
>
> the dead will bury them
not from his mouth had it the ability of life to thank
you: he never gave commandment for their death
> > it takes all place in the wings
>
> an atrocious flight
> or centre stage invisibly
> (if it aint conscious, then unconscious)
>
> silence before the curtain
> when there isn't
>
> mebyon, phil
>
> nothing spilt and sticky
our names shouted in a certain dawn
a message
a summons
there must have been a moment at the beginning where we could have said
"no"
but somehow we missed it
[immediately the whole stage is lit up revealing upstage arranged in the
approximate positions last held by the dead tragedians
the tableau of court and corpses]
in a kubrickesque mask
yrs
phil
> our names shouted in a certain dawn
> a message
> a summons
> there must have been a moment at the beginning where we could have said
> "no"
> but somehow we missed it
the heart has thoughts of its own
Du musst Dein Leben ändern
> [immediately the whole stage is lit up revealing upstage arranged in the
> approximate positions last held by the dead tragedians
> the tableau of court and corpses]
these actors and muses
first there is a mountain, then there is no mountian, then there is
i met my old friend merlin recently
(excuse these celtic enthusiasms)
who has discovered a huge figure in the cornish landscape
he calls it 'arthur riding a boar'
about 9 miles in diameter
and we recently sat together a long time
on his crown (at camelot, of course!)
and below us in the plain lay the testing ground of the industrial
revolution
(all the inventors came and made their engines there) and painted the
map red
now this lion lies down
and on the other side is raised a crown
> in a kubrickesque mask
> yrs
unmasqued
phil
> thth
The The
> [...]
> and below us in the plain lay the testing ground of the industrial
> revolution
> (all the inventors came and made their engines there) and painted the
> map red
> now this lion lies down
> and on the other side is raised a crown
>
> > in a kubrickesque mask
> > yrs
>
> unmasqued
> phil
outward appearances dont matter anymore
eventually the other one the antipode the doppelgänger
will meet me he with my face of snow
je suis entouré d'hommes qui me sont inconnus
l'un de nous survivra
greatings
thth
--
"when things are going well i find myself doing a lot of things at the same
time when things are going badly its a question of searching around for what
the hell i CAN do" / adrian mitchell
phil
il pleut deucement, qui pénètre
fiche-toi feu sacré
mon brave
The The
elles viennent
equal and different
towards the lighted town
je suis ce cours de sable qui glisse
my dear moment i finally see you
its always a pleasure to speak harmonic tongues phil