Autumn at Taos by DH Lawrence

Evening Light on Sangre de Cristo Mountains

 
Evening Light on Sangre de Cristo Mountains, New Mexico.

DH Lawrence wrote that, in New Mexico, a “new part” of his soul “woke up suddenly” and “the old world gave way to a new”. In Native American religion he discovered there were no gods, because “all is god”. In a related way, America, in the shape of Walt Whitman, liberated his poetic landscape.

This week’s poem, “Autumn at Taos”, seems to occur in real time. The speaker is encountered while out riding, and the poem’s rhythms let us experience the small, muscular, intimate “trot-trot” movement of the pony through the contrastingly immense sweep of landscape. Repetitions slow the pace, acting as reins. For instance, when “the aspens of autumn” of line one immediately reappear in the second line, the narrative seems to pause and look around. Lawrence is not an unselfconscious poet, whose brilliancies happen by chance. His judgment is nowhere more apparent than in these repetitions. Look at “mottled” in stanza three. At first we see distantly a mottled effect; then the speaker makes it clear that the mottling is produced by cedar and pinion. No sooner have the trees come into focus than, out of the blue, out of the idea of “mottled”, comes that amazing otter. The word acts as a little visual bridge.

Earlier, aspen and pines formed the stripes of a tigress, and the grey sage of the mesa, a wolf-pelt. The otter, at first, seems only its sleek self, but it’s clear from later in the poem, when the speaker is relieved to get back to “the pine fish-dotted foothills” (curious but effective elision) and “Past the otter’s whiskers”, that this liquescent, “silver-sided” creature embodies another variation of the landscape.

The otter is as fierce as the previous creatures, if less hairy. “Fish-fanged” suggests the slender length of the teeth, and, inevitably, the impaled fish. We get, in effect, a fish’s view of its looming predator.

With the introduction of the mythical hawk of Horus the man on the pony himself becomes mythic. “Behold me” he says, biblically, “trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden/ Great and glistening-feathered legs…” For a moment, we might think of Christ, mounted on an ass, entering Jerusalem. Horus was an Egyptian god represented by the sun as a winged disc but Lawrence may be conflating him with the feather-clad Mexican sun-god, Huitzilopochtli. Whatever his provenance, this bird gets royal poetic treatment. A duller writer might have gone for the “natural” word-order of his trio of adjectives: “great, golden, glistening-feathered…” Lawrence’s arrangement, split by the line-break, redeems the full force of words (“golden”, “great”) that are almost poetic clichés. The tarnished adjectives are suddenly made to tower and flare.

There’s a sexuality in these movements and positions, the rider bestrid by Horus or moving slowly under pines that are like the “hairy belly of a great black bear”. They might even imply different states of being. In Lawrence’s anti-democratic view of society, there were sun-men, an elite, and lesser mortals to be “thrust down into service”. Perhaps here he enacts a passage between both states: at any rate, the speaker is “glad to emerge” from the bearish pine-wood, and celebrates his release with a fresh, sunlit vision of the aspens, which, “laid one on another”, remind him of the hawk-god’s layered feathers.

Looking back on the “rounded sides of the squatting Rockies” unleashes more big-cat imagery, landscaped into metaphor. Possibly the speaker is a little unnerved by the “leopard-livid slopes of America”, comforting himself as he reassures the pony that all these predatory “fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes/ Are nerveless just now”. That “just now” implies only a temporary reprieve. The land, and the sensuous life-force it embodies, will triumph over its colonisers, artists included.

“The essential quality of poetry is that it makes a new effort of attention, and “discovers” a new world within the known world,” DH Lawrence wrote. The effort of attention here is also an effort of painterly imagination and out of the two he has made a strikingly original landscape poem. The creatures in it are not meant to emerge with that vivid, individualised presence of the different beasts of Birds, Beasts and Flowers: even the otter is a quick sketch. But the vision of natural integration between the land and these subliminally-present creatures could not be more alive. And, as so often in the animal poems, part of the charm lies in watching the amused, earnest, marvelling, deeply affectionate man who is watching the animal. Among the creatures in this poem is that small human figure on the pony, not a sun-god, but an English poetic genius, printing in his own way the new paths of technique which the American genius, Walt Whitman, has cleared before him.

Autumn at Taos

Over the rounded sides of the Rockies, the aspens of autumn,
The aspens of autumn,
Like yellow hair of a tigress brindled with pines.

Down on my hearth-rug of desert, sage of the mesa,
An ash-grey pelt
Of wolf all hairy and level, a wolf’s wild pelt.

Trot-trot to the mottled foot-hills, cedar-mottled and pinion;
Did you ever see an otter?
Silvery-sided, fish-fanged, fierce-faced, whiskered, mottled.

When I trot my little pony through the aspen-trees of the canyon,
Behold me trotting at ease betwixt the slopes of the golden
Great and glistening-feathered legs of the hawk of Horus;
The golden hawk of Horus
Astride above me.

But under the pines
I go slowly
As under the hairy belly of a great black bear.

Glad to emerge and look back
On the yellow, pointed aspen-trees laid one on another like feathers,
Feather over feather on the breast of the great and golden
Hawk as I say of Horus.

Pleased to be out in the sage and the pine fish-dotted foothills,
Past the otter’s whiskers,
On to the fur of the wolf-pelt that strews the plain.

And then to look back to the rounded sides of the squatting Rockies.
Tigress brindled with aspen,
Jaguar-splashed, puma-yellow, leopard-livid slopes of America.

Make big eyes, little pony,
At all these skins of wild beasts;
They won’t hurt you.

Fangs and claws and talons and beaks and hawk-eyes
Are nerveless just now.
So be easy.

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/14/poem-of-the-week-d-h-lawrence

Neutrino experiment repeat at Cern finds same result

The team which found that neutrinos may travel faster than light has carried out an improved version of their experiment – and confirmed the result.

Neutrinos travel through 700km of rock before reaching Gran Sasso’s underground laboratories

If confirmed by other experiments, the find could undermine one of the basic principles of modern physics.

Critics of the first report in September had said that the long bunches of neutrinos (tiny particles) used could introduce an error into the test.

The new work used much shorter bunches.

It has been posted to the Arxiv repository and submitted to the Journal of High Energy Physics, but has not yet been reviewed by the scientific community.

The experiments have been carried out by the Opera collaboration – short for Oscillation Project with Emulsion (T)racking Apparatus.

It hinges on sending bunches of neutrinos created at the Cern facility (actually produced as decays within a long bunch of protons produced at Cern) through 730km (454 miles) of rock to a giant detector at the INFN-Gran Sasso laboratory in Italy.

The initial series of experiments, comprising 15,000 separate measurements spread out over three years, found that the neutrinos arrived 60 billionths of a second faster than light would have, travelling unimpeded over the same distance.

The idea that nothing can exceed the speed of light in a vacuum forms a cornerstone in physics – first laid out by James Clerk Maxwell and later incorporated into Albert Einstein’s theory of special relativity.

Timing is everything

Initial analysis of the work by the wider scientific community argued that the relatively long-lasting bunches of neutrinos could introduce a significant error into the measurement.

Those bunches lasted 10 millionths of a second – 160 times longer than the discrepancy the team initially reported in the neutrinos’ travel time.

To address that, scientists at Cern adjusted the way in which the proton beams were produced, resulting in bunches just three billionths of a second long.

When the Opera team ran the improved experiment 20 times, they found almost exactly the same result.

“This is reinforcing the previous finding and ruling out some possible systematic errors which could have in principle been affecting it,” said Antonio Ereditato of the Opera collaboration.

“We didn’t think they were, and now we have the proof,” he told BBC News. “This is reassuring that it’s not the end of the story.”

The first announcement of evidently faster-than-light neutrinos caused a stir worldwide; the Opera collaboration is very aware of its implications if eventually proved correct.

The error in the length of the bunches, however, is just the largest among several potential sources of uncertainty in the measurement, which must all now be addressed in turn; these mostly centre on the precise departure and arrival times of the bunches.

“So far no arguments have been put forward that rule out our effect,” Dr Ereditato said.

“This additional test we made is confirming our original finding, but still we have to be very prudent, still we have to look forward to independent confirmation. But this is a positive result.”

That confirmation may be much longer in coming, as only a few facilities worldwide have the detectors needed to catch the notoriously flighty neutrinos – which interact with matter so rarely as to have earned the nickname “ghost particles”.

Next year, teams working on two other experiments at Gran Sasso experiments – Borexino and Icarus – will begin independent cross-checks of Opera’s results.

The US Minos experiment and Japan’s T2K experiment will also test the observations. It is likely to be several months before they report back.

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Full article and photo: http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/science-environment-15791236

The man lowered his weapon and left without a word.

Apparently the robber’s conscience got the better of him.

Kids Thwart Robbery With Piggy Banks

An attempted robbery in the German state of Lower Saxony took an unexpected turn earlier this week when an armed burglar called off his own holdup, having been shamed by a pair of children.

At around 6:25 p.m. on Monday evening, an armed robber wearing a ski mask and a long black coat forced his way into a private home in the town of Schwanewede after a babysitter answered the door, police reported Wednesday.

Hearing the commotion, two small children in the house came downstairs — holding their piggy banks.

They approached the gunman, who had been holding his weapon under the babysitter’s nose, and offered him their life savings.

The man lowered his weapon and left without a word.

“We’re assuming that in the face of these small children holding out their piggy banks, he regretted his course of action and chose to retreat,” police spokesman Jürgen Menzel told SPIEGEL ONLINE.

Though nothing was stolen, the would-be robber isn’t entirely off the hook. Authorities are now seeking a perpetrator assumed to be in his early twenties, about 185 centimeters (6 feet 2 inches) tall, for attempted robbery.

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Full article and photo: http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,798372,00.html

When Heaven Freezes Over

Hotels and bars made out of ice have been common for a while — now a church is the latest project to get the cold treatment. In the Bavarian Forest, one congregation wants to build a place of worship out of 1,400 cubic meters of snow, just as their ancestors did 100 years ago.

Everything is in place in Mitterfirmiansreut for the mountain village’s biggest construction project in a century — everything, that is, but the snow. Because residents in the Bavarian village near the Czech border are planning to erect a full-size church made entirely out of snow, in homage to their ancestors who did the same thing 100 years ago.

Once completed, the church will be able to accommodate up to 190 people. The plans call for a sweeping design, with a main room 26 meters long and 6.5 meters high and a tower soaring 17 meters high. Inside there will be sculptures, an altar and pews — all made out of ice. In total, 1,400 cubic meters of snow will be needed.

Although the snow church doesn’t even exist yet, requests for weddings and baptisms have already been flooding in to Bernd Stiefvater. The 45-year-old restaurateur has worked with friends on plans for the church for two years. Some 200 people have since become involved in a booster club.

An Unusual Protest

Stiefvater wants the snow church to serve as a reminder of an extraordinary event in local history. At the beginning of the 20th century, a trip to Sunday mass for people living in the remote mountain village of Mitterfirmiansreut meant an arduous 90-minute walk to the neighboring town of Mauth. After their pleas for a church of their own fell on deaf ears, the villagers decided to mount an unusual protest during the Christmas season of 1911: They built their own church out of snow.

“For me this is a really touching story of how people of faith can achieve anything,” says Stiefvater. He wants the new version of the snow church to honor this commitment 100 years later. The planning and construction of the church will cost about €100,000 ($135,000), according to the booster club. The money for the church is coming from sponsors, and the organizers are hoping to win financial support from an EU program.

The plans for the snow church have been drawn up by architect Alfons Doeringer. “Nothing in this project is routine. There were no standards and no norms,” he says. Designs for the church’s vaulting shape were created in collaboration with structural engineers. Doeringer is very aware of the potential risks: “That is an extremely heavy mass of snow, and people will be underneath it.”

The architect says 20 centimeters of snow is needed before construction can begin, with the grand opening planned for Dec. 17. There will be concerts and prayers held in the church, as well as an ice sculpture exhibition from Jan. 22 to 28 and a market with traditional handicrafts on Feb. 12.

Interest in the project has been brisk, and Stiefvater says numerous tour groups have registered to visit the church. And if there is not enough snow in Mitterfirmiansreut this year?

“That is very unlikely,” says Stiefvater. “But then we would just build the church next winter.”

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Full article and photos: http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,797988,00.html

Trenches: St Eloi by TE Hulme

British troops marching to the trenches

 
British troops in silhouette march towards trenches near Ypres at the western front during the first world war. 

The author of this week’s poem is remembered today chiefly for the anthology-favourite, “Autumn”. TE Hulme published only six short poems in his lifetime. Without Ezra Pound’s faintly ambiguous championship, he might not be known as a poet at all. Though omitting his work from the official Imagist anthologies, Pound added Hulme’s five earlier poems to his own 1912 collection, Ripostes, “for good fellowship: for good custom, a custom out of Tuscany and Provence… and for good memory…”, as he put it in the preface.

No original manuscript of “Trenches: St Eloi” remains. According to some accounts, Hulme recited it from memory to his fellow Imagists at the Poets’ Club while home on leave from the front (he served with the Royal Marine Artillery). Pound’s epigraph suggests the even more informal origins of a conversation. The poem was transcribed either by Pound himself, or by Hulme’s lover, Kate Lechmere. Pound admired the poem sufficiently to include it later on in his Catholic Anthology, in the august company of Eliot, William Carlos Williams and Yeats, among others. If Pound had made revisions or “abbreviations”, Hulme must have approved them.

It’s arguably the most radical of any of the English first world war poems. (Isaac Rosenberg and Herbert Read are the writers who come closest.) The style and structure are casual, but a stringent craft underlies the appearance of improvisation.

The opening scene-setting needs some effort of imagination. “Flat slopes” could imply naturally low slopes, slopes flattened in battle, or even the trenches of the title. The image of the sandbags is contrastingly precise and arresting. To this disturbed pastoral is added one further detail – “night”, set on its own line, so that it seems to expand into the surrounding space. Hulme had a romantic predilection for nightfall in his earlier poems, but this night, unembellished, is absolutely unlike the others.

The poem illustrates the unceremonious way the routines and horrors of warfare coexist. The depiction of the men walking about casually, “as on Piccadilly” is a brilliant novelistic stroke. We can just about see them, “making paths in the dark”, instinctively feeling their way. And then the scattered horses and the dead Belgian’s belly are introduced not simply in the midst of these casual comings and goings, but virtually underfoot. Juxtaposition is everything. Hulme adds no grisly detail. He trusts the shocked listeners, including those non-combatant poets, to imagine it for themselves.

Despite the superb imagist technique, the poem is interested in something besides the visual. The later stanzas head for the psychological interior. The flat reportage of “The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets” seems childishly naive, and verging on self-pity, perhaps, but is perhaps intended to mime the obsessive, simple litany of despair. The image of the cannon, “lying back miles”, resembles the earlier wall of sandbags, only on a vaster, breathtakingly intimidating scale. Then the single abstract noun, “chaos”, declares what lies ahead: the defeat of the image by the indescribable.

Hulme’s speaker repeats twice the grammatical structure of the line about the rockets. The first line of this modernist couplet is completely unexpected: “My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are corridors.” The word “corridor” evokes emptiness, in utter contrast with the busy pottering and walking to and fro of the earlier scene. It originally meant a place for running. What runs through the hollowed-out mind might be the vague, impossible thought of running endlessly away. The stoic, Beckettian last line rebuffs it. “Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on.” Hulme might be thinking about the poem, his sense that there is nothing more to say. But the whole horrible war must often have aroused a similar hopeless thought among those on the ground.

An aesthetic philosopher, influenced by Henri Bergson, Hulme seems to have arrived at an imagist theory independently of Pound, and perhaps earlier. He was a pugnacious character, sent down from Cambridge, allegedly, for brawling, and he became fascinated by military strategy. Possibly he thought war would be his métier.

“Trenches: St Eloi” reflects innocence transformed. In the previous poems, the images are a little whimsical. The moon is “like a red-faced farmer” in “Autumn”. Then there is the “old star-eaten blanket of the sky” that the fallen gentlman wishes could provide a warm cover in “The Embankment”, and the moon as a lost balloon in “Above the Dock”. The free-verse structure, and the brevity, make such poems seem fresh, but there is romanticism, or at least aestheticism, in the nocturnal air, and, sometimes, an anachronistic flourish: “Once, in finesse of fiddles found I ecstasy…” None of that fiddling obstructs the chilly line of “Trenches: St Eloi.” The poem is as stark as the period’s cubist art.

Pound wrote that Hulme “set an enviable example to many of his contemporaries who have had less to say”. Had Hulme not been killed in action in 1917, and had he continued to write poetry, the category “War Poets” might have had far wider connotations.

Trenches: St Eloi
(Abbreviated from the Conversation of Mr TEH)

Over the flat slopes of St Eloi
A wide wall of sand bags.
Night,
In the silence desultory men
Pottering over small fires, cleaning their mess- tins:
To and fro, from the lines,
Men walk as on Piccadilly,
Making paths in the dark,
Through scattered dead horses,
Over a dead Belgian’s belly.

The Germans have rockets. The English have no rockets.
Behind the line, cannon, hidden, lying back miles.
Beyond the line, chaos:

My mind is a corridor. The minds about me are corridors.
Nothing suggests itself. There is nothing to do but keep on.

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/10/poem-of-the-week-t-e-hulme

Poem of the week: Square One by Roddy Lumsden

City workers walk across London Bridge

 
City workers walk across London Bridge.

Several commentators on recent books blogs have said they’d like to see a discussion of Roddy Lumsden’s poetry, and PotW’s own MeltonMowbray posted a request earlier this year. So for this week’s poem, I’ve chosen one of my favourites from Lumsden’s latest collection, Terrific Melancholy (recommended if you haven’t already got a copy). I hope aficiandos and new readers alike will enjoy the elegiac virtuosity of “Square One.”

Panning shots of the razzmatazz of contemporary London begin with an unnaturally motionless River Thames, which contrasts with the surrounding fluidity of endless construction and self-invention. The location is mirrored in spirited, slangy diction, and a repetitive device that stitches all together in bright gold lamé thread. On the page, you almost see the green light. Read the poem aloud, and you hear the gunning of engines in the repetition of the hard “g” – described in phonetics as a voiced, velar stop.

This technique recalls the generative devices of the poets and novelists of the Oulipo (Ouvroir de littérature potentielle) who choose specific verbal constraints as a means of triggering ideas. The most famous, and diabolically complicated, is probably the “story-making machine”, set in motion by Georges Perec in the construction of his novel, Life: A User’s Manual. Poets have experimented with lipograms, palindromes, etc. Whereas these techniques need not, and mostly do not, emerge from the material, the “go” device in “Square One” connects directly to the poem’s theme and rhythmic energy-supply. It also echoes the dominant phonemes in the names of the two mythological giants who’ll emerge in the poem’s last line – Gog and Magog.

This is the London of Boris, bendy buses and bad bankers, but it’s also a tumult of lives harder to record, more slippery and edgy. As well as “the emos, indie kids/ Goths and ravers melting down the day” in stanza one, the prefix nets a jolly haul of “gowks”, “gonzos”, “gorillas” and “gomerils” to flesh out the “city’s multiplicity of fools”. Food is a vivid class-indicator: the “retired politicians” feast on dumplings and meggyleves (Hungarian sour-cherry soup) as well as scandal, while others “stare at bangers and bubble, tea/ gone cold … “. But the poem seems to imply freedom of choice. I like the fact that the power-brokers are simply given their space in the gorgeous, rotted tapestry, without comment. Brand- and place-names, from Gossamer to Gospel Oak, add further texture.

Are any other Oulipan devices used in the poem? I had a subliminal sense that further patterns were sometimes employed, but without being able to put a finger on them. I even wondered about the game of Go, which can be played with a 13 x 13 board (the stanzas are all 13-liners here), but drew a blank.

The title might suggest the Square Mile, or any of London’s many squares: it also recalls Larkin’s famous reference in “The Whitsun Weddings” to “postal districts, packed like squares of wheat”, a curious simile, since, contrary to northern myth, London has many postal districts nearer the breadline than the cornbelt. “Square One” might be anywhere, but it implies return, a reluctant new start. While elegising a lost Albion, the poem knows that new mythical creatures are constantly being born.

Perhaps the day of the poem represents a vaster historical period, one stretching from an almost-absurd respectability (“gongs struck in gentlemen’s clubs” to start the day and “dawn trains given the/ go-ahead at suburban junctions”) to the present social chaos. The poem’s author is a Scot, but an end-of-empire regret seems hinted. The accumulation of details evokes the thrill of change and movement, together with a despairing sense of being swept away into anonymity. Yet there’s no question that the speaker loves the city. The sun rises and sets almost romantically in images of the “gold tide,” the “slant shadows” of the high-rises, and the “misted moon.” Noted for its stillness in the first stanza, the river remains obstinately static, but, at the end of the poem, it seems to have found a voice, and utters a punning command to “own torn myths”. And this is exactly what the poem so exuberantly does.

Square One

Going steadily, rowed out from east to west, concrete
gondolas brink the Thames, which is still – it’s the land which is
googled by gravity, thrown around – an optical illusion
good enough to fool the city’s multiplicity of fools:
goons and gomerils who labour under Mammon’s lash,
gowks and golems who queue to flash their lips and lids in
god-forsaken church halls, reeking basements and seeping
Golgothas, clamped blithe to ardour: the emos, indie kids,
Goths and ravers melting down the day we launched with
gongs struck in gentlemen’s clubs, skirted girls at Nonsuch and
Godolphin thronging in corridors, dawn trains given the
go-ahead at suburban junctions, the first trace of the sun’s
gold tide as it washes back to our side of the sphere, but now,

 going for lunch, you swing between delight and throwaway,
gourmet and grease, dither between syrah in a silver
goblet or Tizer from a sprung can; you might stare over roasted
goose at the Gay Hussar, at your companion’s bowl of
goulash, as retired politicians two tables over whisper scandals,
gossip through dumplings and meggyleves, hissing the latest
Gordon or Boris anecdote, Obama’s honeymoon months,
government soap; you might stare at bangers and bubble, tea
gone cold; evening settles in at Kilburn, down Battersea Park;
Golders Green wanes; high-rises throw slant shadows over
Gospel Oak; students breathe the soot of a bendy revving on
Gower Street; in the doorways of basement strip joints,
gorillas strike stances; toms swap fat packs of Fetherlite and

 Gossamer, hitch into their tangas and fishnets waiting for the
gonk to finger a phone box card, the way a kid fingers what he
got from the kitchen drawer; evening touches Camden where
gonzos sup Stella; dancers shift in the wings of the opera;
goluptious girls slip into slingbacks, swim into creamy
gowns, or swash out of them, as that misted moon plays
go-between in a city of secrets, crimson or bilious – what
good will come of us, falling in the dark, our names
gouged into plane-trees? – we are becoming history,
godmothers to our own torn myths: twisted and crazed,
gorgeous giants, we hang spinning over the still river:
Go on! it murmurs – own torn myths – and midnight mentions
Gog and Magog – sweet, towering boys, long gone.

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/17/poem-of-the-week-roddy-lumsdent

Readmill Networks Lonely Bookworms

Traditionally, reading has been a solitary activity. But two Berlin-based Swedes hope to change this. They’re close to launching new software called Readmill, which promises to create a social network for bookworms to share their reading habits, margin notes and recommendations.

The pool table in the living room is covered by a wooden slab, a second room is full of boxes, and David Kjelkerud still has no idea how the coffee machine in the kitchen works. There’s simply no time for such trivialities. He is, after all, feverishly building a start-up. Two months ago he moved from Stockholm to Berlin with his co-partner Henrik Berggren to catapult book reading into the Internet age.

The duo is finalizing the last pieces of Readmill, an intelligent bookmarker for digital books. In their shared office space in Berlin’s central Mitte district, also occupied by start-up Amen, a flurry of development is going on, interrupted by tech conferences, presentations for investors and the search for cooperation from E-book industry players.

The goal is to transform book reading into a social activity, bringing together readers via their e-readers, and to grab a share of the booming E-book market. Other companies have their eye on social reading as well, such as the platform LovelyBooks. But Readmill, set to go live soon, wants to take the idea even further.

Both avid readers, Berggren and Kjelkerud have an ambivalent relationship with books. Kjelkerud calls them “somehow cold and unsocial.” Reading is solitary, and anyone who wants to discuss a passage must first shut their book, he explains. Berggren says that even digital books and the internet-connected reading devices haven’t changed things much. “There are many E-book services, but none of them are really social,” he explains. What was missing were good ideas to network books and readers with each other.

Last.fm for Books

Readmill, an intelligent bookmark for e-books, is their answer. The program looks over the reader’s shoulder, keeping a protocol of their progress and showing sections that have been highlighted and commented upon by other readers. This way Readmill members create a semi-public reference list for their books, giving them the possibility of alerting friends to interesting passages for discussion.

Music fans will recognize this principle from Last.fm, a music website that analyzes listening patterns to develop new artist and concert suggestions, in addition to bringing users with similar tastes together. Like Last.fm, Readmill’s software operates on three levels: as a background process for reading applications, as a web service that processes reading habits, and as a reading app for the iPad, where members can upload e-books that aren’t copyright protected.

Also similar to Last.fm, Readmill gets interesting when as many other e-book reading programs and devices as possible feed the Readmill central server with data. By year’s end, Berggren told SPIEGEL ONLINE, the company hopes to be supporting enough reading programs so that it could, theoretically at least, be combined with 80 percent of all e-books.

Publisher Partnerships in Progress

It isn’t an impossible goal. Currently there aren’t that many different reading devices and programs. Publishers and reading device manufacturers will also benefit from Readmill, its creators say. “Ultimately, Readmill is about discovering books,” Kjelkerud says. With partnership negotiations with publishers underway, the possibility of Readmill adding a book purchasing function isn’t far off.

But the company isn’t just focused on e-books. To help connect old-fashioned book lovers through Readmill, they’ve also created an android app called ReadTracker, with which users can also follow their reading progress on paper.

Berggren and Kjelkerud say that it was only their move to Berlin from Stockholm in March 2011 which made the realization of their social book dream possible. It was both a challenge and an opportunity to free themselves from social obligations to enable a sole focus on their project.

“It was so hard to always have to reject my friends’ bar invitations,” Kjelkerud says. Berggren adds: “With such a move you’re also making it clear to yourself that now things are serious, that now we have to push through.”

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Full article and photo: http://www.spiegel.de/international/business/0,1518,795764,00.html

Salt of the Earth

Elaborate salt formations are seen in the Dead Sea near Ein Bogek, Israel, on Nov. 9. The lowest point on Earth, the Dead Sea is one of 28 finalists in the online campaign to determine the new seven wonders of the natural world. The list includes other geographical splendors such as Switzerland’s Matterhorn mountain, the Great Barrier Reef in Australia and Venezuela’s Angel Falls.

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Full article and photo: http://www.spiegel.de/international/0,1518,797079,00.html

‘Berlusconi Is a Joke, Behind Him Is a Void’

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi may soon be history.

Italian Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi’s promise to resign has failed to calm financial markets, with Italy’s borrowing costs hitting a record 7 percent on Wednesday. Still, German commentators are glad to see the back of Il Cavaliere.

Silvio Berlusconi’s demise had been forecast many times, but each time the wily Italian prime minister, nicknamed Il Cavaliere, managed to wiggle his way out of trouble. But now the end of the 17-year Berlusconi era appears to finally be in sight, after his pledge on Tuesda that he would step down once the Italian parliament pushes through a package of measures demanded by European Union leaders aimed at reducing Italy’s vast debt and restoring investor confidence in the country. The move came just hours after a humiliating budget vote in parliament during which it became clear that the prime minister no longer had a majority.

On Wednesday, Berlusconi, 75, announced that he would not run if early elections are held and said that he expected elections to be held in February. He told La Stampa newspaper that former Justice Minister Angelino Alfano, 41, would be the candidate of his party, People of Freedom. The opposition, however, prefers a national unity government to early elections.

Hopes that Berlusconi’s resignation promise would ease the pressure on the country proved unfounded on Wednesday, however, with the yield on 10-year Italian bonds hitting a record high of 7.36 percent despite the prime minister’s statement. Most analysts consider 7 percent to be the level at which borrowing becomes unsustainable. Greece, Ireland and Portugal have all been forced to seek emergency EU funding when their borrowing costs hit the 7 percent mark. Interest rates on Italian sovereign bonds had climbed to well over 6 percent earlier this week, reaching 6.74 percent on Tuesday, the previous record level.

Relief on European stock markets also proved short lived. On Wednesday morning the FTSEurofirst 300 index of top European shares fell by 1.4 percent, reversing a 0.9 percent gain on Tuesday. Italy’s benchmark FTSE MIB index was also down by 3 percent, while Italian banks Mediobanca and Unicredit saw their shares fall by 4.6 percent and 5.4 percent respectively. “There is no guarantee (Berlusconi’s) successor will be able to do a better job,” fund manager Christian Jimenez told the news agency Reuters.

Increasing Pressure

Berlusconi had come under increasing pressure in recent weeks and months as a result of the euro zone’s worsening debt crisis. There are concerns that Italy could become the next candidate for a European Union bailout, but there are worries that the country is too big to rescue on the model of Ireland or Portugal. Italian debt stands at 120 percent of the country’s annual economic output.

Berlusconi has been a dominant fixture in Italian politics for 17 years and provided a degree of stability that the country had not enjoyed in the several decades between the end of World War II and Berlusconi’s first election to the premiership in 1994. Recent years have been overshadowed by numerous scandals, including accusations that he had paid for sex with an underage prostitute. Many have accused the media mogul of seeking to change laws to avoid prosecution.

Berlusconi fought hard to remain in power, saying that he wanted to look at the “traitors” in parliament “in the face.” His position became untenable on Tuesday when his closest parliamentary ally, Northern League head Umberto Bossi, urged the prime minister to step aside.

On Wednesday, German newspapers take a look at the implications of Berlusconi’s announcement.

In a Wednesday morning editorial published on its website, the Financial Times Deutschland writes:

“The skepticism of the markets is appropriate: Following Berlusconi’s announcement, it isn’t at all clear what the future looks like for Rome. All options are on the table … even Berlusconi’s return isn’t out of the question.”

“It has become apparent what everyone actually always knew: There is a lack of alternatives to Berlusconi in Italy. The left has spent years criticizing the prime minister, making fun of his dyed hair and of his philandering — but they forgot to present a political program of their own. The Berlusconi phenomenon, which has caused mystification outside of Italy, is the result of this weakness. Berlusconi is a joke. But behind him is a void.”

The center-left Süddeutsche Zeitung writes:

“Berlusconi promised Italian President Giorgio Napolitano on Tuesday that he will step down when the promised austerity package is pushed through parliament. But because we are in Italy, some observers believe that even this is not Berlusconi’s last act. He might, they believe, try to use some trick to hang onto power in the end.”

“As such, it isn’t quite time yet to analyze what the long-term effects of the 17 Berlusconi years might be for this grandiose, crazy country — such as the shocking lack of gravitas, the egoism and the superficiality he introduced into Italian politics. At the moment, the fact that he allowed the country’s economy to erode stands in the foreground. Interest rates for Italian sovereign bonds climbed to a record high of 6.74 percent on Tuesday. If the European Central Bank doesn’t buy massive quantities of Italian bonds, then Rome will approach the territory which triggered bailout packages for Portugal and Ireland.”

“That, though, won’t be successful for long, given that in the next year, Italy must pay back a €300 billion tranche of its €1.9 trillion in debt. At the same time, Rome is losing €400 billion annually through tax evasion, corruption and the underground economy. A turn toward the utmost seriousness would be appropriate. It is clear what must be done and where reforms need to be made. Among the priorities should be injecting flexibility into the moribund labor market.”

“It is by no means certain that investors will cease betting against the country without Berlusconi at the helm. What is sure, however, is that they would have continued had Berlusconi remained. Il Cavaliere is not to be blamed for everything, but he was a heavy liability for Italy. He had to go. For once at least, at the very end, it seems that he thought about what is best for his country.”

The business daily Handelsblatt writes:

“European partners are shaking their heads, and in Italy, too, no one can understand the pigheadedness of the prime minister, who remains glued to his chair. … Berlusconi’s predecessors, like Giulio Andreotti, immediately stepped down after such defeats in parliament. But Berlusconi remains stubborn, because he does not have to step down as long as he does not lose a confidence vote.”

“In addition to the political motivations, there are other reasons why Berlusconi has done nothing more than merely announce that he will step down in the future. Italian newspapers are widely reporting that Berlusconi wants to remain in office at all costs, even without a majority, so that he does not lose his immunity. His trials may have been eclipsed because of the current political turbulence, but four cases are still pending. Among them is the Milan court case in which he has been charged with abuse of power and prostitution involving a minor.”

“A date has not yet been set for presenting the stability proposal to parliament, but the timeframe of mid-November is being discussed. That is good for Berlusconi, but bad for Italy and the markets.”

The left-leaning Berliner Zeitungwrites:

“Silvio Berlusconi had presented himself as a savior for an Italy that was sinking into chaos. He said he had succeeded in making his company into one of the largest in Italy, and that he would likewise turn beautiful Italy into a thriving company.”

“None of it was true, and none of his promises have come true. Italy is now worse off than it was before Berlusconi. For years, he attacked that country’s democratic institutions using his parliamentary majority. For years, he was supported by the Vatican, which only distanced itself from him when the Holy See became aware of Berlusconi’s sex parties — or rather, when the sex parties became public knowledge. In the meantime, Berlusconi’s business model for Italy has fallen into such disrepute on the stock markets that his departure is greeted with shrieks of delight. … His business model for Italy has failed miserably, as could easily be predicted. The state is not a company.”

— SPIEGEL Staff

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Full article and photo: http://www.spiegel.de/international/europe/0,1518,796757,00.html

See also:  Photo Gallery – The scandals of Silvio

http://www.spiegel.de/fotostrecke/fotostrecke-74913.html

Dutch Scientists Drive Single-Molecule Car

Scientists in the Netherlands have introduced a molecule-sized car. Legroom might be an issue.

Its wheels are comprised of a few atoms each; its motor, a mere jolt of electricity. Scientists in the Netherlands have introduced the world’s smallest car — and it’s only a single molecule long.

It’s certainly no Porsche, but scientists at the University of Groningen in the Netherlands are still excited about their latest achievement: creating a “car” that’s only a billionth of a meter long.

The nanometer-sized vehicle, introduced in the British journal Nature on Wednesday, is comprised of a miniscule frame with four rotary units, each no wider than a few atoms. In fact, the whole construction is 60,000 times thinner than a human hair, according to the AFP news agency.

The research team was able to propel the nanocar six billionths of a meter by firing electrons at it with a tunnelling electron microscope. The “electronic and vibrational excitation” of the jolts changes the way the atoms of the “wheels” interact with those on a copper surface, the reports says, propelling the car forward in a single direction. The only problem, it would seem, is getting all the wheels to turn in the same direction every time.

A Small Future

It might be tough to imagine the use of such a diminutive roadster. But nanotechnology is widely considered one of the most exciting fields of the 21st century, and the researchers view their design as “a starting point for the exploration of more sophisticated molecular mechanical systems with directionally controlled motion.”

Utilizing materials at an atomic or molecular level — “nano” comes from the Greek word for “dwarf” — finds applications in everything from medicine and engineering to consumer products, such as sunscreen, ketchups and even powdered sugar.

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Full article and photo: http://www.spiegel.de/international/zeitgeist/0,1518,796970,00.html

Poem of the week: Stone by Janet Simon

A stone

 
‘A stone is a stone is a stone is a stone’.

“– Pebbles cannot be tamed / to the end they will look at us / with a calm and very clear eye,” Zbigniew Herbert concluded in “Pebble”. This week’s poem by Janet Simon, “Stone,” recalls the political-parable style of much central and eastern European 20th-century poetry, and seems to share Herbert’s sense of the stone as a point of moral reference.

There are four characters in Simon’s fable: the speaker, the addressee, a passerby and the stone itself. The addressee, as epithets such as “creamy” imply, is well-fed, well-washed, and, evidently, authoritative. This person is not initially unpleasant. He emphasises the stone’s smoothness, because he (or she) is an expert on smooth. Handing the stone to the speaker seems well-intentioned.

But the speaker’s ironical tone (“You sanction me …”) alerts our suspicions. The stone is identified with authority. Perhaps the speaker threw the stone in the first place? At any rate, it’s a difficult gift to receive. A “defence” is needed, one that proves an impossible compromise. Now an “outsized pebble” in the speaker’s mouth, the stone seems to implicate language – language as fixed and made “frigid” by those in control.

The spitting out of the stone is rejection, but certainly not malicious; nobody is meant to get hurt. The passerby misinterprets it, however, and sees, and uses, the stone as a weapon. The suave, creamy-skinned authority figure takes fright, becomes violently discoloured, bolts the door, rings the police – self-betraying reflexes that prove the power was hollow all along.

The crux of the poem comes when the speaker picks up the hurled-back stone. In six short, sparely-written lines the truth of the parable is laid out: the stone is neutral, uncoloured by its misinterpretations. Yet the stone seems to have a frailty of its own: it “pleads” for understanding.

The last stanza is more generalised, building from the situation narrated earlier. The “you” may be the same addressee, or a plural “you” that embraces everyone caught up in cycles of attack and revenge. The destruction is incomprehensible to the speaker, but there’s a clear insistence on the innocence of the stone. “And a stone is a stone is a stone is a stone,” Simon concludes, echoing her earlier notion of “stoneness” and, of course, alluding to Gertrude Stein’s “Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose”.

Stein herself said that her sentence was an attempt to escape the particularity of the Romantic “rose” and recover the universal. Incidentally, the line was parodied rather unkindly by Ernest Hemingway, reminding us that “Stein” can literally mean “stone” in German: “A stone is a stein is a rock is a boulder is a pebble.”

Simon’s stone may be all these things, too. And the hinted pun returns us to the idea of the stone as language, even voice – a difficult voice, a tongue you might have to hold. The act of holding the stone, in fact, seems mirrored in the poem’s shape.

This shape is one of enclosure around a central “core”. The exterior stanzas spread themselves. The first seems to mirror the spacious home, the easy hospitality of privilege. The last, conversely, suggests open air, lawlessness, danger, with the speaker needing to assert her eloquence.

These stanzas are like cupped hands. In the middle, the shorter-lined, indented core-stanzas focus on the stone, its adventures, and the cost of engaging with it.

It has been a consolation and a weapon, represented homeliness and the destruction of home. Personified, the stone seems not only a touchstone or neutral mineral, but an unreliable mortal. If it pleads guiltlessness and sings, even metaphorically, it must have about it some human quality. It’s not innocent, then, but perhaps it represents what Václav Havel called “Living in Truth”.

Janet Simon has published one full collection, Victoria Park (Loxwood Stoneleigh, 1995). “Stone” is from her pamphlet, Asylum, where its distinctive presence is underlined by realistic and moving poems reflecting the poet’s experiences working with asylum seekers and the homeless. Asylum was published by Hearing Eye in the Torriano Meeting House Poetry Pamphlet Series, of which number 62, “Protest” by David Floyd, will appear in November.

Stone

You would reduce this stone to something homely.
Set in the palm of your soft hand,
it rests as if it wouldn’t harm a fly.
In your pink fingers, it is a generous stone.
You offer its smooth surface as the best
of possibilities in the best possible of worlds.

      You pass this stone to me
      with pleasing manners.
      You sanction me to hold it
      for a few minutes
      and to speak uninterrupted
      in my own defence.
      Your gracious patronage
      reduces me to gibberish.
      To avoid stuttering
      I place this outsized pebble
      in my quivering mouth.
      Its frigid texture
      is cold, impenetrable.
      I cannot chew on it.
      I spit it out.

      An angry passerby
      picks up this stone
      and hurls it
      through your window.
      Your creamy skin
      turns puce-vermillion,
      and as he runs away
      you bolt your doors
      and ring for the police.

      I bend down and pick up
      this stone.
      It hasn’t changed
      its shape or colour.
      Its unrelenting stoneness
      pleads with me.

I do not understand what force of hatred
makes a man destroy your house,
what speed of terror grabs you to defend it,
but I accept this stone, I hear its silent plea
of guiltless being. It sings to me
in my own ignorance, I am a stone.
And a stone is a stone is a stone is a stone.

__________

Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/24/poem-of-the-week-janet-simon

Poem of the week: Tiny Pieces by Billy Mills

Broken glass

 
Broken glass.

This week’s poem is by Billy Mills, and comes from Lares/Manes: Collected Poems, published by Shearsman in 2009. While the title of the collection suggests concerns with hearth and home this is only part of the story: the vast and flowing home of the poems belongs to geological time. These poems are not confined to questioning language. They combine the musicality and intensity of poetry with the precision of scientific method, and the collection has the intellectual capaciousness of the bigger literary forms: it contains data of all kinds, found poetry, philosophical enquiry, and a variety of landscapes and cityscapes, including Ireland. While Mills is associated with a group of experimental Irish poets claiming independence from the traditional emphasis on identity politics, his poetry is fully alive to location. The fact that it doesn’t sing rhetorically about Ireland doesn’t mean that Ireland is excluded from the “important places” it considers.

 A poem in sections, “Tiny Pieces” forms part of a larger work, “What is a Mountain?” There is a trio of epigraphs: a brief report on the three car-bombs detonated in the centre of Dublin with the likely connivance of British Army intelligence, a quotation from Oscar Wilde (“All art is entirely useless”) and a verse by Godfraidh Fionn O Daláigh: “If they ask questions/ skilful poets will know; / bright this art you hear of: / questions the door to knowing.”

 The imagery of mountain-formation is introduced in a further, untitled prelude. “What is a mountain?” asks the fifth line. “Stone flows; folds. A name. It rises.” In the miniature-scale delicacy of the “Tiny Pieces” which follow, we find the inverse of the mountain and its associated cataclysm. What gradually emerges (each tiny piece has its own page in the collection) is tenderly consoling – a love poem more intimate and more spacious than such poems usually are.

 The first section considers both fragmentation (“scattered/ this glass”) and reintegration. “Folds” is a key word which will later give rise to three poems described as folds (“The First Fold,” etc). Fold mountains are formed by the collision of two tectonic plates, and the compressed material both rises and descends. “Folds” in the earth’s crust “determine” the shape of a mountain. “Folds” as sheltering-places also form our allegiances, and thus our blind-spots and our wars. Paper and poems are folded into shapes: lovers enfold one another. As the second poem suggests, tact and precision might inform and transform relations. With “Follow the lines” we move from particulate and scattered to particular and enclosing.

 The imagistic third section seems to excavate memory. Vividly present, the shining leaves (more tiny pieces) somehow lead back as well as up to the “boxroom/ window”. “Window” resurrects the scattered glass. The images suggest to me a child’s room, looking down on a small garden fronted with privet: safe containment, but with a view outwards. The symmetrical syllable-count 1/3/3/1/2/2 gives this poem the balance of a miniature sonnet.

The next segment stays with the natural world: it’s the most haiku-like of the pieces, and the depth of the stanza break seems to stand for the “cutting word” – often not a word, but a punctuation mark heightening the significance of a juxtaposition. Here, the thrushes emerge from the “various greens” and the printless space with the magical suddenness of actual birds seen suddenly close up, and with all the potential offered by “a pair”.

 Perhaps the thrushes help attune the reader to the sense of new young life, which is implicit in the next piece. The rift between the world and the word, the “imperfect charting,” after all begins with our earliest speech. Aligning word and world as accurately as possible is our first and life-long human concern.

 Exactness of language can at least find out the question and glimpse “the door to knowing”. In the sixth poem it finds song. This four-word invitation is a perfect musical phrase: “close/ now// slowly/ come.” Its unexpected, Latinate syntax, culminating in the verb, takes us from word to word, pause to pause. Having once read the sentence in this initially curious structure, it becomes impossible to imagine it otherwise.

 The lines in “Tiny Pieces” are themselves tiny. I counted 30 single-word lines out of 38, half of which are monosyllables: the longest line is “a pair of thrushes”. But their very shortness, emphasised by their separate pagination, insists on attentive reading. The tempo, in music, would be adagio. Words assert their primary meanings, but the silence around them allows us to hear other tones and resonance. So in the next poem, the simple verbs (perhaps imperatives) give the reader memory-room. We’re guided, told that the verbs represent “simple pleasures”, but the exact associations of “touch”, “call” and “remember” are gifts for private unwrapping.

 By the end of the poem, the shimmer of scattered glass is distant. The last segment might complete the sentence of the previous one: “here/where// all/is// tiny/ pieces” could denote the intimate space of a body or a room, the words of the poem itself, or the location of particles created by destruction. It could denote all these things simultaneously. And still the poem has a lightness and brightness with its images of leaves and building birds, its careful looking and touching. This sense of abundance and flourishing will continue throughout “What is a Mountain?”

 Singling one poem out of a collection inevitably distorts the poem to some degree. This is particularly true of “Tiny Pieces”. “What is a Mountain?” is conceived almost as one poem, its voices interrelated and recurring, as in a fugue. In fact, the whole of Lares/Manes is a voluminous web of connected images and themes.

 Tiny Pieces

scattered
this glass
reconstitutes

folds
determine

  

*

 

follow
the lines

come
again

*

sun
after rain

luminous
leaves

boxroom
window

*

various greens

a pair of thrushes

*

first
the world

next
the word

imperfect
charting

*

close
now

slowly
come

*

touch
call
remember

simple
pleasures

*

here
where

all
is

tiny
pieces

__________

Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/07/poem-of-the-week-billy-mills

Poem of the week: All Souls’ Day by Frances Bellerby

Day of the dead

 
Mexicans mark the day of the dead in San Gregorio. Bellerby’s poem likewise seems to melt the borders between life and death.

Frances Bellerby, who died in 1975, was born 112 years ago in Bristol. She wrote fiction, essays and poetry. Much of Bellerby’s verse is set in Devon and Cornwall; her first, 1946, collection is named after Plash Mill, her cottage near Upon Cross, on Bodmin Moor. Charles Causley praised, among the many other qualities he admired in her work, her ability to evoke “the ambience and essence of place”.

 Bellerby’s poetic locations are coloured by the changing seasons, and may respond to the church calendar, as here. All Souls’ Day, from her Selected Poems, weaves together imaginary and remembered conversation in a hushed, precisely-realised late-autumn setting. The sky is colourless, the “day draws no breath”. Such an atmosphere has an intense, mystical quality for Bellerby. And yet, although a Christian poet, she treats religious experience unconventionally, and seems to have an intuitive grasp of space-time, and the possibility of other dimensions, in those wishful lines: “what the small day cannot hold / must spill into eternity.”

 All Souls’ Day itself, usually celebrated on 2 November, is the day set aside for remembering and honouring the “ordinary” dead. In Mexico, on El Dia de los Muertos, the dead, and death itself, are made welcome among the living. Bellerby’s poem, too, though deeply English, seems to melt the borders between life and death, past and future: “Let’s go our old way …”

The brother she lost in the first world war may be the figure in All Souls’ Day. This otherwise taciturn person knows about butterflies; he has a poet’s eye as he compares their colours with those of the leaves. He is clearly a soulmate.

Psalm 42, in a metrical translation, begins: “Like the deer that thirsts / for running streams / my soul is thirsting / for you, oh God”; in a later verse, God’s might is imagined in terms of the sea. Similar images occur in Bellerby’s poem: the rustling of kicked leaves has “the rhythm of breaking waves”, and there’s a stream, though it’s almost stationary. Could the poem be alluding to this psalm, often included in the Office of the Dead?

Bellerby appears just as much a traditionalist in technique as she does in her subjects. Yet even in this poem of familiar-looking quatrains, there are unexpected touches. Half-rhymes (“moth”/”lost”, “together”/”November”) mingle with more conventional couplings (“breath” / “death”, “walk” / “talk”). The rhythm ebbs and flows informally: syllables sometimes crowd around the stresses (“witnessing the variousness of light”), or they may be suddenly thinned out (“enter the year’s night”). Nothing is fixed or rigid.

 The speaker is confidently intimate with her addressee, but, at the same time, the companion is present, however vividly, only in her imagination. There is a tremor of premonition in stanza seven. The walk is a memory, and the companion dead, but it’s as if – with sufficient care – the past could be relived and the future made safe.

 The poem increasingly vacillates: the companion is close, but, as always, “leaf-light” – and then not present at all. The last stanza sends a shiver up the spine: “and the leaves where you walk do not stir”. Death is feared in the poem, but the dead themselves are “scatheless” (harmless). The ghost is no Halloween horror: it is frail and sad and no sooner conjured than lost.

 Bellerby’s work reminds me of other quiet-voiced, independent-minded female writers of a similar era: Anne Ridler, EJ Scovell, Ruth Pitter. Gender, I think, is relevant to the way we read this generation as writers. Because of their particular, English experience of the early 20th century, it was inevitable such poets stayed with the pastoral and/or religious subjects and traditional forms they had always known. Although they increasingly had educational opportunities and paid jobs, they remained keepers of the emotional home fires. From our later perspective, we can see how Bellerby’s work claims continuity with the past (Charlotte Mew seems an important immediate forebear) and also begins to change shape and become coloured by the new century. It makes a bridge to the present, because the sensibility and diction, although not quite ours, are still close to ours.

 I’m grateful to the poet Maurice Rutherford, a regular reader of the printable version of poem of the week, for suggesting we take a look at the work of the underappreciated Bellerby.

All Souls’ Day

Let’s go our old way
by the stream, and kick the leaves
as we always did, to make
the rhythm of breaking waves.

 This day draws no breath –
shows no colour anywhere
except for the leaves – in their death
brilliant as never before.

 Yellow of Brimstone Butterfly,
brown of Oak Eggar Moth –
you’d say. And I’d be wondering why
a summer never seems lost

if two have been together
witnessing the variousness of light,
and the same two in lustreless November
enter the year’s night…

 The slow-worm stream – how still!
Above that spider’s unguarded door,
look – dull pearls…Time’s full,
brimming, can hold no more.

 Next moment (we well know,
my darling, you and I)
what the small day cannot hold
must spill into eternity.

So perhaps we should move cat-soft
meanwhile, and leave everything unsaid,
until no shadow of risk can be left
of disturbing the scatheless dead.

 Ah, but you were always leaf-light.
And you so seldom talk
as we go. But there at my side
through the bright leaves you walk.

 And yet – touch my hand
that I may be quite without fear,
for it seems as if a mist descends,
and the leaves where you walk do not stir.

__________

Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/01/poem-of-week-frances-bellerby

10 of the best women dressed as men

Surface male … Katy Stephens as Rosalind/Ganymede in a 2009 RSC version of As You Like It.

 
Surface male … Katy Stephens as Rosalind (as Ganymede) in a 2009 RSC version of As You Like It.

Orlando Furioso by Ariosto

Bradamante covers herself with armour and fights as a manly knight. “He” is befriended by the Saracen warrior Ruggiero, who realises his luck is in when his new comrade takes off her helmet and shakes out her long tresses. Ruggiero is instantly love-struck.

 As You Like It by William Shakespeare

The bard loved to give us a bit of cross-dressing (Portia, Imogen, Viola, Julia …), but with Rosalind he outdid himself. In As You Like It he has a boy actor playing a woman who dresses up as a man who pretends to be a girl (in order to help Orlando with his wooing). Talk about fluid ideas of gender …

 Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes

Out in the wilderness, Don Quixote’s friends are looking for the deluded knight. They meet Dorothea, a young woman wearing male clothing. She tells her tragic story – she has been seduced then discarded by a rich man’s son and has adopted this disguise in order to flee.

 The Roaring Girl by Thomas Middleton and Thomas Dekker

The thief Moll Cutpurse dresses in a man’s clothes but arouses the interest of many male admirers. When her would-be lover Laxton arranges a rendezvous, she arrives in disguise and fights him with a rapier. “Venus … passes through the play in doublet and breeches, a brave disguise and a safe one if the statute untie not her codpiece point.”

 The Country Wife by William Wycherley

Margery Pinchwife’s cruel husband is terrified of being cuckolded, so when he takes her out to the shops in London he dresses her as a young man. However, the rakish Horner is in on the trick and takes the opportunity to kiss and manhandle the “pretty” gentleman in front of the tormented Pinchwife.

 The Rover by Aphra Behn

Our heroine, Hellena, disguises herself as a young gent so she can prevent the man she loves, Willmore, succumbing to Angelica, a famous courtesan. In her male guise she tells Angelica a story of Willmore’s affair with another woman, rousing her to fury and alienating her from the “roving” Willmore.

 The Monk by Matthew Lewis

The dark, brooding monk Ambrosio – a pillar of rectitude – is attended by an admiring young novice, Rosario. “He seemed fearful of being recognised, and no one had ever seen his face. His head was continually muffled up in his Cowl.” No wonder – for one day in Ambrosio’s cell he reveals himself to be the beautiful Matilda, and effortlessly seduces the devout Ambrosio.

 Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien

Éowyn desperately wants to avenge her father, killed by orcs. She disguises herself as the male warrior Dernhelm and fights alongside the Riders of Rohan in battle, even managing to kill the Lord of the Nazgûl – who has boasted that no man can ever defeat him and is nonplussed to discover that his opponent is, in fact, a woman.

 Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters

Nan Astley, a simple girl from Whitstable, falls for male impersonator (or “masher”) Kitty Butler, whom she sees strutting her stuff on stage. Eventually she joins her in the act, and later walks the streets of London dressed as a man. When she is picked up by the wealthy widow Diana she cohabits with her in the guise of “Neville”.

 Monstrous Regiment by Terry Pratchett

Searching for her brother, who is missing in action, Polly Perks cross-dresses in order to join the Borogravian army. She befriends another squaddie, Lofty Tewt, who confides that “he” too is a girl. Slowly the truth becomes apparent: everyone in the regiment is in fact a woman dressed as a man. Naturally, they triumph in battle. JM

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/oct/28/ten-best-women-dressed-men

Ten of the best men dressed as women

Alan Cumming in The Bacchae

 
Alan Cumming in the National Theatre of Scotland’s production of The Bacchae.

The Bacchae by Euripides
Pentheus wants to witness the revels of the Maenads, women under the ecstatic influence of Dionysus who range freely in the woods and mountains. He is persuaded by the god that in order to do this he must dress as a woman. He is spotted spying by the possessed women and is torn to pieces.

Metamorphoses by Ovid
Thetis, Achilles’ mother, knowing that her son will die if he fights in the Trojan war, disguises him as a woman among the daughters of King Lycomedes. Odysseus turns up with some girly presents plus a spear and shield, which are immediately seized by the warrior, who thus reveals himself.

Epicene by Ben Jonson
Rich, grumpy, misogynistic Morose proposes to disinherit his nephew Dauphine by marrying, provided he can find a “silent woman”. A spouse called Epicene is found, and turns after marriage into a perfect shrew. Morose pays Dauphine to rid him of the termagant, whereupon his resourceful nephew pulls off the wife’s wig and reveals her to be a male in disguise.

Don Juan by Lord Byron
In Istanbul, our hero is sold as a slave to one of the sultan’s eunuchs, who commands him to dress as a woman. He has been spotted by the sultana, Gulbeyaz, who has designs on him. When the sultan arrives he rather fancies “the new-bought virgin”. “I see you’ve bought another girl; ’tis pity / That a mere Christian should be half so pretty”.

Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë
In a sequence usually omitted in film adaptations, Mr Rochester dresses as an old Gypsy woman and turns up at his own dinner party to read the fortunes of the guests. Even Jane does not recognise him, until he suddenly throws off his disguise.

Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain
On the run, Huck and escaped slave Jim find some women’s clothes on an abandoned houseboat, and Jim persuades Huck to go ashore disguised as a girl, to find out if people are still searching for them. As “Sarah Williams” he is admitted to a lady’s house, but she sees through his disguise when he begins to forget his own supposed name.

The Story of an African Farm by Olive Schreiner
Farmer Gregory Rose shows his devotion to the rebellious Lyndall by dressing himself in her mother’s clothes in order to serve as her nurse when she is terminally ill. She accepts his disguise and is consoled by his presence.

The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame
In prison for stealing a car, Toad wins the sympathy of the jailer’s daughter, who dresses him as a washerwoman to help him escape. He wanders the countryside, hitching a lift first on a barge and then in the very car that he earlier stole. Foolishly, its owners let this friendly lady take a turn at driving.

William the Showman” by Richmal Crompton
William Brown is staging a historical waxworks show with the Outlaws and decides that the poor audience response is down to the lack of “famous ladies”. After a quick raid of sister Ethel’s wardrobe, he struts his stuff as Mary Queen of Scots.

On the Razzle by Tom Stoppard
Rustic apprentice Christopher and his garrulous companion Weinberl travel to Vienna with a hare-brained idea of going “on the razzle”. Hiding from their boss, they end up in Madame Knorr’s women’s clothes shop, where they must don capacious tartan women’s garb and pose as mannequins. More cross-dressing follows. “I’m not the woman you think I am … I’m not even the woman you think is the woman you think I am”.

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2011/nov/04/ten-best-men-dressed-women

Ten of the best cathedrals in literature

Salisbury cathedral

 
Salisbury cathedral, the focus of William Golding’s novel.

The Spire by William Golding

Salisbury resident Golding imagined the building of the cathedral whose spire towers over the city. Ignoring the warnings of others, the obsessive Dean Jocelin drives the work on, convinced that an angel is prompting him. As he becomes madder, the miraculous building takes shape out of the dust and chaos.

The Mystery of Edwin Drood by Charles Dickens

Dickens’s last novel is set in the precincts of the cathedral of Cloisterham. “… a city of another and a bygone time is Cloisterham, with its hoarse Cathedral bell, its hoarse rooks hovering about the Cathedral tower, its hoarser and less distinct rooks in the stalls far beneath.” Murderous passions are nursed in the shadow of the great cathedral.

Notre Dame de Paris by Victor Hugo

The cathedral is the central character in Hugo’s huge historical novel. All his characters gravitate to it. Quasimodo is the bell-ringer and swings down on a rope from the towers of the Cathedral to rescue the Gypsy girl Esmerelda from the gallows. They seek sanctuary in the great church, but violence and death pursue them there.

Madame Bovary by Gustave Flaubert

Housewife Emma Bovary has an assignation with student Léon Dupuis in Rouen cathedral. “In the choir a silver lamp was burning, and from the side chapels and dark places of the church sometimes rose sounds like sighs, with the clang of a closing grating …” For Léon, the religious solemnity is fitting: he is a devotee of love. Emma arrives, tries to pray, but is overwhelmed by “the tumult of her heart”.

The Warden by Anthony Trollope

The clergymen of Barchester find the pursuit of God’s purposes is an often ignoble business. The unworldly Septimus Harding, precentor at the great cathedral, is drawn into a furious dispute about church corruption, his only solace being the sublime sound of the cathedral choir as its songs ascend to heaven.

Old St Paul’s by Harrison Ainsworth

Ainsworth’s best-selling Victorian romance is set in the 1660s. During the great plague, the old cathedral becomes a hospital. At the climax, the great, dilapidated old building burns down, trapping two of the novel’s villains in its vaults where they are drowned in molten lead.

The Choir by Joanna Trollope

Trollope’s tale of submerged provincial passions is set in the cathedral city of Aldminster, where the cathedral itself is falling down and the costs of repairs seem likely to be met by abolishing the costly boys’ choir. From the worldly dean to the idealistic choirmaster, everybody wants the best for the cathedral, the good of which becomes the justification for whatever they want to do.

“The Cathedral” by Rainer Maria Rilke

Rilke wrote a sequence of six poems inspired by a visit to Chartres cathedral with the sculptor Rodin. In the second, the poet muses on what the influence is of this huge tracery of stone, overwhelming rather than elevating. “And in the towers’ quelled ascent, / and sudden spurn of skies, sat Death”.

“A Cathedral Facade at Midnight” by Thomas Hardy

The poem recalls a night walk in the cathedral close at Salisbury, where Hardy took the movement of light across the building as a metaphor of ancient belief in the light of modern unbelief. The facade is thick with “the pious figures” of saints and clerics, holy men and women seen “Under the sure, unhasting, steady stress / Of Reason’s movement, making meaningless”.

The Cathedral by Joris-Karl Huysmans

Huysmans has his alter ego, Durtal, who has converted to Catholicism, explore the elaborate symbolism he discovers in stone in the great gothic edifice of Chartres cathedral. An apparent rejection of modernity, it was a bestseller.

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Full article and photo: http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/2011/nov/07/ten-best-cathedrals-in-literature