tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post1755431350016699233..comments2023-06-21T18:53:11.897+10:00Comments on Pykk: this world being made soUmbagollahhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comBlogger11125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-72819592380172525112016-01-07T04:53:28.274+11:002016-01-07T04:53:28.274+11:00His stuff is all so good, but yes, also quite open...His stuff is all so good, but yes, also quite open-ended and melancholy. Still, really beautiful. Thank you for pointing to him.<br /><br />Here love ends,<br />Despair, ambition ends;<br />All pleasure and all trouble,<br />Although most sweet or bitter, <br />Here ends in sleep that is sweeter <br />Than tasks most noble. scott g.f.baileyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05726743149139510832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-79799803048422123932016-01-06T06:07:14.731+11:002016-01-06T06:07:14.731+11:00He might mean that death is the moment when we sto...He might mean that death is the moment when we stop saying, "There's nothing like the sun today" -- it's the point at which we stop observing the sun at all, and the long stream of different suns finally comes to an end -- but I'm not sure. He has a number of those endings that point toward some sort of absence or forbiddenness or ghost-storyish mystery. Even in anthologised <i>Adelstrop</i> you know that something terrible is going to happen after the last line: the train will leave.<br /><br /><br />Two Houses<br /><br />Between a sunny bank and the sun<br />The farmhouse smiles<br />On the riverside plat:<br />No other one<br />So pleasant to look at<br />And remember, for many miles,<br />So velvet-hushed and cool under the warm tiles.<br /><br />Not far from the road it lies, yet caught<br />Far out of reach<br />Of the road's dust<br />And the dusty thought<br />Of passers-by, though each<br />Stops, and turns, and must<br />Look down at it like a wasp at the muslined peach.<br /><br />But another house stood there long before:<br />And as if above graves<br />Still the turf heaves<br />Above its stones:<br />Dark hangs the sycamore,<br />Shadowing kennel and bones<br />And the black dog that shakes his chain and moans.<br /><br />And when he barks, over the river<br />Flashing fast,<br />Dark echoes reply,<br />And the hollow past<br />Half yields the dead that never<br />More than half hidden lie:<br />And out they creep and back again for ever.<br />Umbagollahhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-85775477489781378702016-01-06T05:52:29.559+11:002016-01-06T05:52:29.559+11:00oh ugh!!!oh ugh!!!Mudpuddlehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17194891656971454279noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-38058701114532312172016-01-06T04:41:12.292+11:002016-01-06T04:41:12.292+11:00Parsley
Is gharsleyParsley<br />Is gharsleyUmbagollahhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-61123514407609671462016-01-05T05:22:06.160+11:002016-01-05T05:22:06.160+11:00Both of these are just fabulous. I've heard of...Both of these are just fabulous. I've heard of both Thomas and Handke, but until now have never read a word of either. I wonder what Thomas means in that final line. When we die, what will be like the sun <i>then</i>?<br /><br />I like the Handke image of a full life on the edge of something, I can imagine a novel told of someone living on the outskirts of a great city, on the edge of a beautiful countryside, but who never ventures into either city or country, living always on the margin and happily so. I may use that idea. It fits in with some stuff I've been rolling around related to Turner skyandlandscapes.scott g.f.baileyhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/05726743149139510832noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-13836584082426627452016-01-03T08:35:39.985+11:002016-01-03T08:35:39.985+11:00"active yet helpless mourning" : trenc..."active yet helpless mourning" : trenchant; pithy; like it...Mudpuddlehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17194891656971454279noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-58782577390391433642016-01-03T03:25:30.123+11:002016-01-03T03:25:30.123+11:00Well my impression of Nash is based almost complet...Well my impression of Nash is based almost completely on the poem that was in the <i>Book of Poetry for Children</i> that my patents gave me when I was about five, and it was:<br /><br />"The trouble with a kitten is that<br />Eventually it becomes a cat."Umbagollahhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-52015263355612438052016-01-02T11:08:42.812+11:002016-01-02T11:08:42.812+11:00well, i've read some nash but not thomas, so m...well, i've read some nash but not thomas, so my reaction is not based on expertise, but ignorance, and, like most humans, i judge on what i'm familiar with, trying to evade what's real. facts are a sometime thing, to paraphrase an oldie but goodie...Mudpuddlehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17194891656971454279noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-87579162672579058162016-01-02T10:34:47.441+11:002016-01-02T10:34:47.441+11:00(I mean that I definitely agree with the idea of h...(I mean that I definitely agree with the idea of him being "homey," even if I wouldn't on my own, have made a connection to Nash, a poet I remember mainly for his impatience and couplets.)Umbagollahhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-47133736514470459342016-01-02T10:29:31.661+11:002016-01-02T10:29:31.661+11:00Thomas, as I read him, as an intensely acute and s...Thomas, as I read him, as an intensely acute and sad feeling for the transience of homeyness, and all his homey stories are darkened by the knowledge that time is passing and the good place will be lost, no matter what it is. He is also aware that the good place only came to him by luck, and it's typically not a place, more often a <i>view</i> of a place, or the light falling on the place, or the birds or the wind he heard in the place. He has a sort of active yet helpless mourning.Umbagollahhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/14556344092820711893noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5424364424049242300.post-46759502885019350132016-01-02T05:54:31.373+11:002016-01-02T05:54:31.373+11:00this is entirely unappropriate, but the thomas poe...this is entirely unappropriate, but the thomas poem gives me the same feeling i get from ogden nash, a kind of homey, warm sense of comfort; and the handke does somewhat the same, but "edgier" as he says himself... nice for a cold snowy winter afternoon.Mudpuddlehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/17194891656971454279noreply@blogger.com