What moves me about this poem is its solemn beauty, its music, its prophetic role which leads on to the poet prophesying his own death. It is impossible to separate what moves me in this poem from the inner nature of the way it is written. The poet seems to have gone beyond the rim of ordinary experience, to have wandered to the outside constellations of what it is to be human.Ben Okri is a Nigerian poet and novelist, and in the eyes of critics he walks in the renown company of Indian-British Salman Rushie and Colombian Gabriel García Márquez. He recites Elegy for Alto, by Christopher Okigbo, and above explains why it moves him:
(with drum accompaniment)This poem, and Okri's solemn yet forthright reading of it, do remind me of Juan Vidal's thesis in his article Where Have All The Poets Gone?
AND THE HORN may now paw the air howling goodbye…
For the Eagles are now in sight:
Shadows in the horizon-
THE ROBBERS are here in black sudden steps of showers, of caterpillars-
THE EAGLES have come again,
The eagles rain down on us-
POLITICIANS are back in giant hidden steps of howitzers, of detonators-
THE EAGLES descend on us,
Bayonets and cannons-
THE ROBBERS descend on us to strip us of our laughter, of our thunder-
THE EAGLES have chosen their game,
Taken our concubines-
POLITICIANS are here in this iron dance of mortars, of generators-
THE EAGLES are suddenly there,
New stars of iron dawn;
So let the horn paw the air howling goodbye…
O mother, mother Earth, unbind me; let this be my last testament; let this be
The ram's hidden wish to the sword, the sword's secret prayer to the scabbard-
THE ROBBERS are back in black hidden steps of detonators-
FOR BEYOND the blare of sirened afternoons, beyond the motorcades;
Beyond the voices and days, the echoing highways; beyond the latescence
Of our dissonant airs; through our curtained eyeballs, through our shuttered sleep,
Onto our forgotten selves, onto our broken images; beyond the barricades,
Commandments and edicts, beyond the iron tables, beyond the elephant's
Legendary patience, beyond his inviolable bronze bust; beyond our crumbling towers-
BEYOND the iron path careering along the same beaten track-
THE GLIMPSE of a dream lies smouldering in a cave, together with the mortally wounded birds.
Earth, unbind me; let me be the prodigal; let this be the ram's ultimate prayer to the tether…
AN OLD STAR departs, leaves us here on the shore
Gazing heavenward for a new star approaching;
The new star appears, foreshadows its going
Before a going and a coming that goes on forever…
For centuries, poets were the mouthpieces railing loudly against injustice. They gave voice to the hardships and evils facing people everywhere. From Langston Hughes to Jack Kerouac and Federico García Lorca — so many — verse once served as a vehicle for expressing social and political dissent. There was fervor, there was anger. And it was embraced: See, there was a time when the poetry of the day carried with it the power of newspapers and radio programs. It was effective, even as it was overtly political. What has happened?I hope I am, and hope to be, such a mouthpiece. Three years ago I wrote a collection of sonnets, inspired by WH Auden's `In Time of War, in which I aspired to assume an epic perspective and adopt an epic spirit for our times. It was at the heels of Arab Spring, such as that in Egypt. I will post poems from it in time, and hope to have it published in time as well.
At its root, poetry is the language of protest. Whether centered on love, beauty, or the ills that plague a nation, it's all inherently political, and it all holds up as a force in any conversation. What seems like forever ago, poetry unflinchingly opposed corruption and inequality, civil and national.
I see a girl dragged by the wrists
Across a dazzling field of snow,
And there is nothing in me that resists.
Once it would not be so;
Once I should choke with powerless jealousies,
But now I seem devoid of subtlety,
As simple as things I see,
Being no more, no less, than two weak eyes.
There is snow everywhere,
Snow in one blinding light.
Even snow smudged in her hair
As she laughs and struggles, and pretends to fight;
And still I have no regret;
Nothing so wild, nothing so glad as she
Rears up in me,
And would not, though I watched an hour yet.
So I walk on. Perhaps what I desired
- That long and sickly hope, someday to be
As she is - gave a flicker and expired;
For the first time I'm content to see
What poor mortar and bricks
I have to build with, knowing that I can
Never in seventy years be more a man
Than now - a sack of meal upon two sticks.
So I walk on. And yet the first brick's laid.
Else how should two old ragged men
Clearing the drifts with shovels and a spade
Bring up my mind to fever-pitch again?
How should they sweep the girl clean from my heart,
With no more done
Than to stand coughing in the sun,
Then stoop and shovel snow onto a cart?
The beauty dries my throat.
Now they express
All that's content to wear a worn-out coat,
All actions done in patient hopelessness.
All that ignores the silences of death,
Thinking no further than the hand can hold,
All that grows old,
Yet works on uselessly with shortened breath.
Damn all explanatory rhymes!
To be that girl! - but that's impossible;
For me the task's to learn the many times
When I must stoop, and throw a shovelful:
I must repeat until I live the fact
That everything's remade
With shovel and spade;
That each dull day and each despairing act
Builds up the crag from which the spirit leaps
- The beast most innocent
That is so fabulous it never sleeps;
If I can keep against all argument
Such image of a snow-white unicorn,
Then as I pray it may for sanctuary
Descend at last to me,
And put into my hand its golden horn.
Grown men aren't supposed to cry. Anthony Holden and Ben Holden introduce a selection of poems that haunt a host of eminent men, from their new anthology in association with Amnesty International; they explain why, in words as moving as the poems themselves. With Melvyn Bragg, Richard Dawkins, Richard Eyre, Mike Leigh, Simon McBurney, Ian McEwan, Ben Okri, Simon Russell Beale and Simon Schama, and Kate Allen (Amnesty International UK).
From Amnesty
Writing poetry -- and responding to it -- happens because people care. And it's our capacity for caring that underpins our human rights. Individuals who care have real power to make a difference. Amnesty International, now a global movement of some three million people, began in 1961 when the lawyer Peter Benenson read about two Portuguese students imprisoned for toasting freedom, was inspired to take action, and called on others to join him. One of Amnesty's first prisoners of conscience was a poet, Dr Agostinho Neto, who later became president of Angola.
Throughout history poets have been targeted by repressive governments because of their power to stir emotions and liberate ideas. It still happens. The Chinese poet, artist and activist Liu Xia has been under illegal house arrest since October 2010, when her husband, Dr Liu Xiaobo (who is serving an 11-year prison term), was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize. Security guards surround her Beijing home. She cannot leave and is not allowed visitors. In January 2014, Liu suffered a heart attack, and has also been diagnosed with severe depression.
Please take action for Liu Xia.
About Poems That Make Grown Men Cry
Grown men aren't supposed to cry. But the fascinating new anthology Poems That Make Grown Men Cry sees 100 men eminent in their fields -- literature and movies, science and architecture, theatre and human rights -- confess to breaking down at poems that haunt them for a host of reasons. And they all explain why, in words often as moving as the poems themselves.
Father-and-son editors Anthony and Ben Holden have teamed up with Amnesty International to compile a poetry anthology unlike any other. The full list of contributors range from John le Carré to Jeremy Irons, Salman Rushdie to the late Christopher Hitchens and Seamus Heaney, Alan Hollinghurst to Jonathan Franzen, John Carey to Ken Follett, David Edgar to Stephen Fry, Stanley Tucci to Colin Firth, Sebastian Faulks to Richard Curtis, William Sieghart to Anish Kapoor, JJ Abrams to Nick Cave, Julian Fellowes to Daniel Radcliffe.I love the context and purpose for this poetry initiative. It reminds of a recent article on NPR Where Have All The Poets Gone? I love what Ben Holden reads about men and crying, and the facts he reads sound as if he were reading poetry.
In this book men whose writing or acting, music or thinking you have enjoyed and admired give you a private insight into their souls. Poetry fans will savour old favourites and discover new gems. Poetry novices will discover new worlds. The Holdens defy you not to be moved and inspired by these poems. This is a book to relish - sharing these private moments through the joys and sorrows of some of the most moving poetry ever written, and learning more about yourself in the process. As Nobel Laureate Nadine Gordimer says in her Afterword: 'Everyone who reads this collection will be roused: disturbed by the pain, exalted in the zest for joy given by the poets.'
For more information: Poems That Make Grown Men Cry.
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No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.American novelist Ernest Hemingway drew from Donne for the title From Whom the Bells Tolls. William Shakespeare, Donne's contemporary in the late-16th, early-17th centuries, drew quite a bit from his predecessors, and they from their predecessors, too, for instance, for `Romeo and Juliet:
[Miller] used the pseudonym Ted Foulke for submitting his work, later explaining "I just wanted the scripts to sink or swim on their own." Miller's script was voted to the 2010 "Black List" of the 10 best unproduced screenplays then making the rounds in Hollywood. Miller described it as a "horror film, a family drama and a psychological thriller". Although influenced by Bram Stoker's Dracula, Miller clarified that Stoker was "not about vampires. It was never meant to be about vampires but it is a horror story. A stoker is one who stokes, which also ties in nicely with the narrative." Alfred Hitchcock's Shadow of a Doubt also influenced the film. Miller said: "The jumping-off point is actually Hitchcock's Shadow of a Doubt. So, that's where we begin, and then we take it in a very, very different direction."Reference: Stoker.
Some synesthetes often report that they were unaware their experiences were unusual until they realized other people did not have them, while others report feeling as if they had been keeping a secret their entire lives. The automatic and ineffable nature of a synesthetic experience means that the pairing may not seem out of the ordinary. This involuntary and consistent nature helps define synesthesia as a real experience. Most synesthetes report that their experiences are pleasant or neutral, although, in rare cases, synesthetes report that their experiences can lead to a degree of sensory overload.Reference: Synesthesia.
Though often stereotyped in the popular media as a medical condition or neurological aberration, many synesthetes themselves do not perceive their synesthetic experiences as a handicap. To the contrary, some report it as a gift—an additional "hidden" sense—something they would not want to miss. Most synesthetes become aware of their distinctive mode of perception in their childhood. Some have learned how to apply their ability in daily life and work. Synesthetes have used their abilities in memorization of names and telephone numbers, mental arithmetic, and more complex creative activities like producing visual art, music, and theater.
That's stupid. Numbers don't have colors, they have personalities!Of course, synesthesia isn't the purview of art alone. I love what Alex relates at the end: Fellow synesthetes have very different orientations to numbers, so their gatherings have the makings of a friendly fight.
