Wednesday, 20 January 2010


Wallace Stevens, by David Hockney

Tonight finished judging the second of two big poetry competitions - so, over Christmas, that is 2,800 poems read, plus finishing the through draft of Márai and beginning to produce final draft (still doing that), marking UEA work (still doing that), reading and correcting proofs of Fortinbras at the Fishhouses, not to mention getting Christmas cards written and sent out, and some four poems. It is C's birthday on Monday! It was H's on the 13th. Oh - and today, recording an hour's worth of jazz and conversation in town with Tony Cleary for small local radio station, Future Radio. Might put up the playlist if there is any interest. The programme is to be broadcast on Sunday, along with my other programme for them, on Wymondham Abbey. I'll link if I can

Never mind all the Eliot stuff, and whatever else I have forgotten. I can just see a Wallace Stevens poem forming somewhat along the lines of The Idea of Order at Key West, to be called The Idea of Leisure in South Norfolk... So, tell me, Ramon Fernandez, what's it all about?

...Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves;...

...ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.

Yup, sounds like me. Examine these sleeves. Nothing up them.

What I wanted to write about was the exhibition we saw at the National Gallery on Monday morning, The Sacred Made Real - rather marvellous, but I'll deal with that tomorrow. Late now and more than usually tired.


Poet in Residence said...

Olive drab ghosts haunt mountains
covered with alu-junk.
The oceans are full of radioactive sardines.
The night ages rapidly. The time is elastic.
I too shall hunker down with my Stevens.
Thank you, George.

Lisa Allender said...

Actor Steve Martin is quite fond of Hockney. I was able to see a pretty clever collection in--of all places--Las Vegas(!), a few years ago. Mr. Martin had displayed his art collection there, and Hockney figured quite prominently.
Quirky, and somewhat, uh, disturbing...
Thanks, Mr. Szirtes. :)