File spoon-archives/lyotard.archive/lyotard_2003/lyotard.0302, message 96


Date: Wed, 19 Feb 2003 11:45:50 +1000
Subject: Re: poetry and war


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Eric/All,

Many years ago I saw "The Homecoming" on Broadway - a powerful, stimulating, ironic production.  

The poem is in some ways similar.  The poem reminds me of rappers and a couple of TV documentaries of poetry "slams", by very young people.  Unlike the rappers, I found the slams to be earnest and interesting expressions.

A critic has said that art is what the canvas does to the viewer, rather than what the painter does to the canvas.  I think poetry is much the same; read very little poetry, but, on rare occasions a few lines capture mind and memory with powerful effect.  I can't describe the effect, only share the lines.  I was very young when I heard the words:  "He jests at scars, who never felt a wound", on radio. 

 Only a smidgen from a play written hundreds of years ago, but, for me, like the lines from Yeats, current and fitting - today.

regards,
Hugh

~^*^~*^~^*~^*^~*^~*^~*^*~^*~^*~^~*^*~^~*^~*^~*^~^~*~^*~^~*~*~^*~^*~^


Hugh, 
   

  Here's a poem from the great writer Harold Pinter that is a little more current.  He always reminds me a little of Noam Chomsky.

   

   

   

  God Bless America                                                                                

                                                                                                    

                                                                                                    

   Here they go again,                                                                              

   The Yanks in their armoured parade                                                               

   Chanting their ballads of joy                                                                    

   As they gallop across the big world                                                              

   Praising America's God.                                                                          

                                                                                                    

                                                                                                    

   The gutters are clogged with the dead                                                            

   The ones who couldn't join in                                                                    

   The others refusing to sing                                                                      

   The ones who are losing their voice                                                              

   The ones who've forgotten the tune.                                                              

                                                                                                    

                                                                                                    

   The riders have whips which cut.                                                                 

   Your head rolls onto the sand                                                                    

   Your head is a pool in the dirt                                                                  

   Your head is a stain in the dust                                                                 

   Your eyes have gone out and your nose                                                            

   Sniffs only the pong of the dead                                                                 

   And all the dead air is alive                                                                    

   With the smell of America's God.                                                                 

                                                                                                    

                                                                                                    

   Harold Pinter January 2003                                                                       

                                                                                                    

                                                                                                    

   

   

   

--Boundary_(ID_kq9LzJ8GoXQrrwRIucmzuA)

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Eric/All,
 
Many years ago I saw "The Homecoming" on Broadway - a powerful, stimulating, ironic production. 
 
The poem is in some ways similar.  The poem reminds me of rappers and a couple of TV documentaries of poetry "slams", by very young people.  Unlike the rappers, I found the slams to be earnest and interesting expressions.
 
A critic has said that art is what the canvas does to the viewer, rather than what the painter does to the canvas.  I think poetry is much the same; read very little poetry, but, on rare occasions a few lines capture mind and memory with powerful effect.  I can't describe the effect, only share the lines.  I was very young when I heard the words:  "He jests at scars, who never felt a wound", on radio. 
 
 Only a smidgen from a play written hundreds of years ago, but, for me, like the lines from Yeats, current and fitting - today.
 
regards,
Hugh
 
~^*^~*^~^*~^*^~*^~*^~*^*~^*~^*~^~*^*~^~*^~*^~*^~^~*~^*~^~*~*~^*~^*~^
 
 
Hugh,

 

Here=92s a poem from the great writer Harold Pinter that is a little more current.  He always reminds me a little of Noam Chomsky.

 

 

 

God Bless America                                                                               

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                 

 Here they go again,                                                                             

 The Yanks in their armoured parade                                                               

 Chanting their ballads of joy                                                                   

 As they gallop across the big world                                                             

 Praising America's God.                                                                         

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                 

 The gutters are clogged with the dead                                                           

 The ones who couldn't join in                                                                    

 The others refusing to sing                                                                     

 The ones who are losing their voice                                                             

 The ones who've forgotten the tune.                                                             

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                  

 The riders have whips which cut.                                                                

 Your head rolls onto the sand                                                                   

 Your head is a pool in the dirt                                                                  

 Your head is a stain in the dust                                                                

 Your eyes have gone out and your nose                                                            

 Sniffs only the pong of the dead                                                                

 And all the dead air is alive                                                                   

 With the smell of America's God.                                                                 

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                 

 Harold Pinter January 2003                                                                      

                                                                                                 

                                                                                                  

 

 

 

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