Showing posts with label Poetry off the page. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry off the page. Show all posts

Thursday, April 23, 2009

Dada Birthday Sonnets to Bill



393rd Anniversary of Shakespeare's death ...
(& possibly the 445th of his birth -
he was baptised on the 26th of April,
but that was normally done a few days later)
400th Anniversary of Mr. W. H. ...
90th Anniversary of Tristan Tzara's "Recipe for Making a Dadaist Poem"

Check out the rules for the game here.

No sonnets were harmed in the course of this exercise.

We did, however, borrow the texts of no's XX, XXX, LX, LXXIII, CX & CXXIX, as you can see in the video linked to here ...

(Thanks to Tim Page for filming & editing,
Michele Leggott & Helen Sword for leading & facilitating the project,
which can be linked to here.)




Highbrow Sonnet – Blanks Inserted


“relation to one another of lines and patterns of sound”
- Basil Bunting, "The Poet's Point of View" (1966)


To ------ -------

despite stand -------- before wherewith --------

praising


hand contend and hasten stands end -----


brow time cruel truth flourish forwards place

being and and as they each crawl towards

nativity their crown’d waves maturity

crooked worth beauty’s and his shore


like in feeds parallels mow the so pebbled

rarities make transfix scythe glory confound

nothing minutes light changing sequent times

fight our now in once doth goes youth shall the

his the in do the main which time verse the

hope for on doth gave toil of nature’s gift


- DianeCasley/MatthewHawke/RobinDeHaan




Poetry as ere by as to it in with me


"Poetry, like music, is to be heard."
- Basil Bunting


Poetry as ere by as to it in with me
Of the thy was me do or or that
Makes the love of doth in love in the by is
Like sweet death’s hang boughs rest leave up it black choirs
Night whereon ashes blowing doth that which
Consumed ruin’d the twilight behold nourished none
Be such thou against bare thou must see’st seals cold
Second sunset sang year fadeth away by late
To which thou such time shake on youth day expire
The which fire where must death-bed mayst all the birds
After when strong of perceivest self thou
Upon those leaves few well that lie more
That yellow see’st west the which of me this
Take and that which in in his long thou music

- Alex Taylor / Georgina Higgins / Will Pollard





"All the arts are plagued by charlatans seeking money, or fame or just an excuse to idle."
- Basil Bunting


Had despised and spirit shame of past
Having straight mad enjoy’d knows is a trust
All the arts are plagued
No hunted purpose proved lust past so murderous
Dream extreme savage blame cruel in reason
by charlatans seeking
Proposed the waste perjured sooner of mad knows
Expense woe on in swallow’d the have this world
Action very well possession no this had taker
Quest action leads in sooner and reason
money, or fame or just
In a is shun non hated pursuit proof
Joy make extreme behind but not to hell
an excuse to idle.
Bloody the well the bait yet a and before
To that a lust till in heaven to and in
To bliss laid a rude all and as to a men

- Gareth & Daniel & Nolan




Of with and remembrance before many


“That is not poetry’s business.”
- Basil Bunting


When I sweet thought many and I thee end sad
And then grievances the time’s woe sessions
Heavily and cancell’d unused night pay
For paid new I while of remembrance dear
Death’s afresh fore-bemoaned to from waste grieve
Past friends at of friend can sorrows account
Silent woe a o’er which sought foregone
Then and love’s think to expense dateless if
Things flow sight drown sigh the up before weep
Restored with hid moan tell summon losses
Precious the not dear of the can old my
Vanish’d eye moan many if on an new
Thing all lack in but long wail woes since to
Are I woe a I the and as I of of

By Tricia and Alex!





"Such defects no doubt sickens some people
of poetry readings ..."
- Basil Bunting


mine whom welcome worse on view most friend old
made and most true heart truth have true all am
gored more affections grind on motley made
sold the alas love best myself heaven
thoughts gone dear have strangely ‘tis have own another
proved youth to blenches it the older best
essays most then confined to there mine pure
breast askance and gave is most offences
here but try end have cheap appetite I
give my loving look’d next me god and an
shall never is by thee now proof what above
these and I done love my what newer new
no is my a to all will that of and
in to of thy I a I even




"... the worst, most insidious charlatans fill chairs and fellowships at universities, write for the weeklies or work for the BBC or the British Council or some other asylum for obsequious idlers ..."
- Basil Bunting


purpose women’s amazeth object master-mistress
women’s rolling controlling pleasure a-doting
whereupon hast thy false woman’s me created
gilding adding nature’s but prick’d with nothing

thou than mine passion addition gentle one
eyes love wrought acquainted treasure face as man
woman’s the thing gazeth thee much an thee
hue own for thou steals my woman fell bright

by in and painted by wert defeated of
and change shifting women’s thy nature and
fashion with more but eye in not be men’s a
hand all use theirs a first love’s ‘hues’ their till

souls heart out she his since for a a of as
in she to and is the my false it less thee

- Helen & Jack & Michele


Friday, April 17, 2009

The Dada Lady of the Sonnets


[Shakespeare: The First Folio portrait (1623)]


Take a newspaper. Take some scissors. Choose from this paper an article of the length you want to make your poem. Cut out the article. Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag. Shake gently. Next take out each cutting one after the other. Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag. The poem will resemble you. And there you are – an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd.

- Tristan Tzara, "Recipe for Making a Dadaist Poem" (1919)




Shakespeare's Sonnets were first published by Thomas Thorpe in 1609, and dedicated (by the publisher) to a certain "Mr. W. H." This may have been William Shakespeare himself (albeit with a misprinted last initial). Who knows? Speculation on the identity of the mysterious "W. H." has never ceased for a second.

As we approach the four hundredth anniversary of their appearance (and the 393rd of the Bard's death on 23rd April, 1616), surely it's time for Dada to put in a word? Tristan Tzara's famous "recipe" of 1919 is, after all, approaching its own 90th anniversary ...

So Happy Birthday, Bill & Tristan (& Mr W. H., for that matter)!


Here are the rules of the game:

  • Each group of three should choose an envelope
  • All of you cut up the sonnet inside into its separate words
  • Put them back into the envelope and shake it up
  • One of you should take them out and read them aloud one by one
  • The second should paste each word on a sheet of coloured paper
  • The third should type it onto a computer screen
  • When each line has reached approximately 10-11 syllables, start a new one
  • You should end up with 14 lines in arbitrary order
  • Congratulations, you are now a master of the sonnet form!


So, to explain, this is the cut-up game we'll be playing in class on Tuesday 21/4 (Michele Leggott & Helen Sword's stage 3 English course Poetry off the Page).

If any of you at home would like to play it, too, feel free to send me the results, or (better still) leave them as comments at the bottom of the page.