Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Irsa Ruçi writes

Why people write poetry

People write poetry out of fear
That one day I’ll be only a memory in time
And in middle of oblivion
Only hatred will be remembered
Vomiting in selfishness.

While poets are rivers they flow peacefully
In the idealism which weighs in their consciousness
Without there being enough evil
To fit in the society.

But you can’t be a poet
If you aren’t foolish enough
To believe that your own line
Will change the mood
Go on believing in stubbornness
In naivety
That your name be one day
Something more than some letters on a page.

That’s why people write poetry,
To clean their soul…

 Saying the Names -- Faye Hall

1 comment:

  1. Malcolm Guite wrote, "The painting ... is one of a sequence of three by the remarkable Canadian artist Faye Hall. This one was made in response to my poem.... Saying The Names celebrates the remnant fishing fleet in the little Northumbrian harbour town of Amble. The poem chants the lovely names of these vessels as part of a meditation on the power of language, of naming itself, and as an evocation of the unique atmosphere and history of that part of England. Faye has created a remarkable work, using a photopraph by Lancia Smith for the portraiture and encorporating lines of my hand-written text for the poem, in different scales, into the fabric of the painting, so that my words about sky and sea and light become part of her evocation of those same things in colour and texture....

    Saying the Names

    Dawn over Amble, and along the coast
    light on the tide flows to Northumberland,
    silvers the scales of fishes freshly caught
    and glowing in their boxes on the dock,
    shivers the rainbow sheen on drops of diesel,
    and lights, at last, the North Sea fishing fleet.
    Tucked into harbour here their buoyant lines
    lift to the light on plated prows their names,
    the ancient names picked out in this year’s paint:
    Providence, Bold Venture, Star Divine
    are first along the quay-side. Fruitful Bough
    has stemmed the tides to bring her harvest in,
    Orcadian Mist and Sacred Heart, Aspire,
    their names are numinous, a found poem.
    Those Bible-burnished phrases live and lift
    into the brightening tide of morning light
    and beg to be recited, chanted out,
    for names are incantations, mysteries
    made manifest like ships on the horizon.
    Eastward their long line tapers towards dawn
    and ends at last with Freedom, Radiant Morn.


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