The ambient somnambulist

In twilight's embrace, a figure roams, An ethereal presence, in the silent homes. The Ambient Somnambulist, a nocturnal sprite, Awakening in slumber, to wander through the night.

In moonlit realms, where shadows dance and play, This mystic wanderer treads an unseen way. Through hushed abodes and dreams so deep, They tiptoe softly, where secrets often seep.

A ghostly silhouette, shrouded in veils, Their footsteps whisper like elusive tales. Unbound by time, they traverse each room, Where night's embrace envelops like a tomb.

With half-closed eyes, they move with grace, Exploring realms, both known and outer space. They drift through realms of forgotten thought, In twilight's depths, where the truth is sought.

Their presence stirs the dormant minds, A muse for dreamers, the creative kind. For in their wake, inspiration blooms, As poets find solace in their moonlit rooms.

The Ambient Somnambulist, forever in flight, Embracing the darkness, seeking inner light. They carry the dreams of a slumbering world, In whispers and echoes, their essence unfurled. So let us marvel at their nocturnal quest, For they are the messengers, divinely blessed. Awakening dormant thoughts, they gently persist, The Ambient Somnambulist, the dreamer's tryst.

In the tapestry of night, they find their way, Guided by stars that adorn the astral fray. The Ambient Somnambulist, a guardian of dreams, In their ethereal dance, reality redeems.

So as the night unfolds its veiled design, Embrace the wonder of this realm, so fine. And know that in slumber's enchanting thrall, The Ambient Somnambulist awaits your call.

A poem and picture created entirely by AI apart from the title, which was by me.
 

Colour by Christina Rossetti

 I've long loved the poetry of Christina Rossetti and this gentle poem is a gem. What rhymes with orange by the way?

I've had this recording in the can for quite some time. I thought the world might be ready for it now.

Paul Garrard - Artist · Colour by Christina Rossetti

Poetry

As long as I can remember I've liked poetry. In a way it's hardly surprising as being born into the rock and roll age I was weaned on what is essentially poetry set to music. The earliest poetry I remember was stuff by Edward Lear, Walter de la Mare, Lewis Carroll and Spike Milligan. As a kid I loved rhyme, and if humour was involved then a double bonus. The works of Lewis Carroll have always stayed with me but later I learned to love the war poets, especially Siegfried Sassoon, and then at school I was introduced to Dylan Thomas. Well! That was it. It opened up my world and my understanding of poetry. His poetry was like molasses, black treacle, rich, sweet and fruity. And then when he read it in that lugubrious voice it took on an even more magical quality. I felt and still do feel truly enriched by his work.

Next I discovered William McGonagall. The poor chap is often cited as the worst poet ever but I think that's rather unfair. His work has something. Yes it's challenging at times, and not to most people's liking but that's the nature of art; there is no good or bad, just personal preference. McGonagall was ahead of his time. The original punk poet.

John Betjeman was always there during my childhood. In the background. Later the poet laureate. The poet of the establishment. Abuser of Slough. But he released what was the rap of the day in his blockbuster Betjeman's Banana Blush. Poetry set to music. But in such a way that it was both comfortable and radical at the same time.

Punk, which changed my life totally, brought forth a whole heap of fantastic poets. Across all the arts the rule book was torn up. Linton Kwesi Johnson was the first poet of that era that I really got into. I'd never heard anything like it before. Naturally that lead to John Cooper Clarke and then Benjamin Zephaniah. Poetry had become exciting!

Poetry is exciting!

Of course in my youth I wrote shed loads of dire poetry. It was my way of dealing with the deep depressions that I went through. It helped. It stopped me from topping myself. So it wasn't all bad. Very little of it has seen the light of day even though I still have loads of note and exercise books full of the stuff. I'm not sure the public would ever be ready for it.

Since the days of punk my interest in poetry has blossomed and grown. I appreciate such a diverse spread of work and am constantly coming across new stuff that fires my imagination.

In my art I've always been inspired by pop/rock music but recently I've turned my attention to poetry as a source of inspiration for my pictures and videos. First in that series is a very short poem by W.B. Yeats, The Great Day. You will find it here. A video is to follow.

Dr Zeeman’s Catastrophe Machine Show

I've been aware of the poet Martin Figura for a couple of years. I've seen him perform three times before Thursday night's performance of Dr Zeeman’s Catastrophe Machine Show. The show was part of the Norfolk and Norwich festival. I don't think I've ever seen a more absorbing and spellbinding one person performance of poetry and prose. It seems to be a mix of autobiography and poetic licence, which along with some inspiring props and well displayed photos and graphics to support Martin's charming and humorous writing makes for a wondrous evening.

It's a show that will make you smile, laugh, empathise and engender an inner glow. If you get the chance it's a must see!

Poetry in motion

When I find myself in times of trouble it is not mother Mary who comes to me, but poetry.

I can't remember a time when I didn't like poetry. I blame being weaned on popular music. Of course the influence of enlightened teachers helped as well. Ever since I was able to read properly, which I think was around about the age of eight, because of being a late developer, I've been reading poetry and not just when I was required to, but for fun as well. Yes, I have always willingly read poetry. How cool is that?

As a child born into the rock 'n' roll decade popular music has always been a great influence on my thinking and my creativity. And I've long been of the opinion that if you can't say something in two minutes fifty then it's probably not worth saying. I'm not rubbishing great songs that are longer or great works of literature. Mighty tomes have their place. It's just that often being succinctly salient is the best way to say all that needs to be said; bare bones writing. Brevity. Carrying no passengers. People that know me know that I'm not the chattiest sort. There are times when I say very little. I could rarely be accused of having verbal diarrhoea. I can't understand these people who would rather use ten words when one will do. Then there are those verbose individuals who are permanently glued to their mobile phones, chatting away for hours on end to people they see every day. Wasted energy in my opinion. I also like the irony of what I've just written.

To repeat myself; one of the reasons I like poetry is because in the main, although not exclusively, it has a tendency to be concise. Brevity in art in my opinion is a good thing. The minimal is to be praised. Poetry very often says a lot with very little. As with any interesting and exciting art it's the gaps that are the best bits, what's left out. Left out for the beholder to fill in. "Between the girls are worlds that only lovers see..." Bill Nelson (Between the worlds - Be Bop Deluxe)

At school poetry was often present in English lessons. But I didn't need English lessons to read poetry. I would read it anyway. I liked it. I suppose to begin with it was fairly simple stuff or humorous offerings like Lear, De La Mare or Carroll, then a bit later Spike Milligan but it was all poetry and you have to start somewhere. As with appreciation of any art form there's nothing wrong with your toe in at the shallow end as long as eventually you pluck up courage to wade further in. Eventually pushing yourself to go into parts deeper than you feel you dare.

I still have a little anthology of poems I liked and wrote out at school in an exercise book. A treasure from my childhood.

As a spotty teenager I hid away in my bedroom, in misery and alone, writing reams of hormone-fuelled bad poetry. Some of which (unexpurgated and unedited) I have started to put on my 'If you feel it' blog. I don't make any great claims about the stuff. Most of it is immature and pretty dire, but it conveys my thoughts of the time. Those thoughts have made me who I am.

Today I continue to enjoy poetry it helps me during troubled times; it soothes, amuses, consoles, lifts and commiserates.

Poetry is life. Poetry is love. Poetry is.

Visual Verse

Visual Verse is a website that publishes a picture and asks writers to write a short piece inspired by that picture. It's ekphrasis again! I submitted a contribution which you will find here. I hope you like it.

the day the music died

it was just before christmas
the day the music died
at first we thought it a dream
the day the music died
or maybe a fantasy
the day the music died
oh dark day and dark dark night
the day the music died
no more pie american
the day the music died
the walrus would sing no more
the day the music died
silence, deafening silence
the day the music died

Paul Garrard

I thank you!

Okay so what rhymes with arse?

I do love the search term statistics that I get for this blog. A recent search that brought a cyber-space traveller to a particular post on my blog was: “izal medicated toilet paper poem”.

The post in question does mention Izal medicated toilet paper but no poem. Being a lover of poetry I thought I would Google “izal medicated toilet paper poem” to see what came up, and it turns out that during the war Izal employed a poet to pen morale boosting poems in a bid I guess to shit for victory. Here is one such poem that was printed on Izal toilet paper:

Hitler now screams with impatience
Our good health is proving a strain
May he and his Axis relations
Soon find them right down the drain

Stirring stuff eh?

An evening with Wendy Cope

Last night and what is the epitome of a middle-class cultural event I attended an evening with Wendy Cope, part of this year’s Norfolk and Norwich festival. For the uninitiated Wendy Copy is one of the finest living English poets, writing serious and humorous works that are both technically astute and easily accessible; no mean feat. An ex-school teacher Wendy is a gentle, genteel and at the same time acerbically clever wordsmith. Reading from her latest book Family Values she introduces each poem or each set of poems in a delightfully matter of fact way and then delivers them in a clear, precise and relaxed style. I’m not sure I cared that much for the inclusion of the question and answer session at towards the end of the evening. I’m not one for over analysing art or wanting to get into the head of the artist. I want to enjoy the work as I perceive it. I don’t want to be told how or why I should enjoy it. Not only that, but it also gives a platform to sycophants and nutters. Wendy deserves credit for the way she handled those two types of unfortunate. I also have this belief that when I pay good money to be entertained by an individual or group I want to be entertained by them and not by the audience. Audience participation is lazy as well as being an impudent abomination. Commissioners of radio phone-in programmes take note.

I had seen Wendy Cope once before, a few years ago in Bury St Edmunds, where I was one of less than half a dozen men in the audience, at least last night there were quite a few more although there was still a very high ratio of women to men. In fact that was one of the questions that was asked of Wendy Cope, ‘why do you thing you attract an audience that is predominantly women?’ It was suggested that audiences for ‘arts’ events tended to weigh heavier towards the female than the male. I’m not convinced that this is entirely true.

As long as I can remember I’ve enjoyed poetry. It was something that school failed to put me off. Writing it in my teenage years helped me deal with a lot of angst and pain associated with hormones and spotty-herbert-ness. My poetry has never been published. My poetry is very personal, as well as being consistently awful. But it was a great outlet and kept me sane. These days my enjoyment of poetry is confined to reading it, Radio 4 and occasional theatre trips. Paul Garrard the poet was never a serious option, so the world can breathe a sigh of relief.

A New Jerusalem

Don't you just love translator software ?

As an experiment I thought I'd translate William Blake's Jerusalem from English to French and back again. This is what I got:

And did these feet in ancient time
go on the green of the mountains of England?
And was the holy lamb of God
on the pleasant pastures of England seen?

And it undermines it guessed the glare ahead
on our opacified hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here
among these dark mills of Satanic?

Bring to me my extreme gold arc:
Bring to me my arrows of the desire:
Bring to me my lance: The clouds of O reveal!
Bring to me my carriage of fire.

I will not cease a mental combat,
nor my sleep of sword in my hand
until we built Jerusalem
in the green and pleasant ground of England.

Me thinks Blake would have thought it was the work of the devil.

Perhaps the ghost of a flea got into the machine!