Beat Generation Dream

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Well are you? Looking at Google images this seems to be a pretty popular question to spray over the walls of the world. Probably not so common is this sample of poetry below.

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starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking
for an angry fix……

Allen Ginsberg, Howl Part I

A heavily cropped shot from Malta of a stenciled nod to the Beat Generation, clicking on Mr Ginsberg’s name will link you to the complete Howl Parts I and II.

The Spanish Mariner

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….Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean….

One of the little fishing boasts that bobs up and down just off the beach at Fuengirola.
The snippet of poetry is from the mammoth Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. If you don’t fancy reading it you can listen to it on Youtube read by Richard Burton and friends.

The Fog

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The fog is an illusion—
A master of disguise,
Which hides the tangible
Before our very eyes.

But when the fog has lifted
Everything’s still there,
And the tangible
Only seemed to’ve disappeared.

In the early morning
Or late at night,
The fog descends
Upon various sites.

It gives an air of mystery
That has long prevailed.
Dangerously intriguing
Is the fog’s foggy veil.

                                                                By Walterrean Salley

Some fog forming on the Tay, would have been good if it had been a bit thicker but it wasn’t to be.

Thistle

Thistle

Against the rubber tongues of cows and the hoeing hands of men
Thistles spike the summer air
And crackle open under a blue-black pressure.

Every one a revengeful burst
Of resurrection, a grasped fistful
Of splintered weapons and Icelandic frost thrust up

From the underground stain of a decayed Viking.
They are like pale hair and the gutturals of dialects.
Every one manages a plume of blood.

Then they grow grey like men.
Mown down, it is a feud. Their sons appear
Stiff with weapons, fighting back over the same ground.

By Ted Hughes

In its autumn tint of gold…….

Golden

From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.  

By Edgar Allan Poe.      

A wee photograph taken on the first day of the year with my trusty old FZ45 can’t remember but it was probably taken at full zoom. I first heard the poem Alone not in my childhood schooldays but watching the film The Krays so they weren’t all that bad were they?