Friday, 1 August 2014

From the Chaucer of Urdu Poetry: Mir Taqi Mir

One day, out for a walk, I happened to take the road to the newly ruined city [Delhi]. At every step I shed tears and learned the lesson of mortality. And the further I went the more bewildered I became. I could not recognize any neighbourhood house. There were no buildings to be seen, nor any residents to speak to.

The scene of desolation filled my eyes with tears and my mind with the most solemn thoughts.  At every step my distress and agitation increased.  I could not recognise the houses and often lost my bearings.  Of the former inhabitants there was no trace, and no matter whom I inquired about, I was told that he was not there and nobody knew where he might be found.  

Houses had collapsed. Walls had fallen down. The cloisters were bereft of Sufis. The taverns were empty of revelers. It was a wasteland, from one end to the other. What can I say about the rascally boys of the bazaar when there was no bazaar itself! And what can I tell of the pale-cheeked children playing in the streets when there was no [rosy-cheeked one to ask].  The handsome young men had passed away. The austere old men - All had gone. The palace quarters were wholly ruined, their lanes were lost in the rubble. Every place was desolate; there was no sign of a human anywhere.

Suddenly I found myself in the neighbourhood where I had lived - where I gathered my friends and recited verses; where I lived the life of love and cried many a night for the love of tall and slender beloveds and sang high their praises in verses to them; where I spent time with the beauties whose long tresses held me captive. If I were without them for even a moment I would pine for them restlessly. This was in the days when I arranged joyous gatherings and invited beautiful people, feasted them and lived a really [pleasant] life. And now? Not a  soul I could recognise to spend a few convenient moments with in conversation.  The bazaar was a desolate waste; the lane was a track into [the] wilderness. I stood there and looked in amazement, stunned and silent and was horrified and filled with abhorrence at the scene. I swore I would never return to the city again, as long as I lived. 

Mornings and evenings I went to the bank of the river and enjoyed the sights. Such a beautiful place - with gardens on one side and the fort and the establishments of great nobles on the other, you would say it was a river in paradise. The fame of my bikr tarashi poetic genius [the creation of a new poetic theme or a bundling of associative ideas] had spread far and wide. Bashful beauties and those who had thick black eyelashes; those who coined fine phrases and those who dressed elegantly; and those who had a gift for poesy - they never left me alone and treated me with great respect. 2 or 3 times I walked through the city from one end to the other meeting its scholars Sufis and poets but none could comfort my restless heart.  I said to myself 'Great God! This is the same city that had its fair share of fine houses and gardens and inns, scholars of Hadith; dervishes; Quran-memorizers; Quran-reciters; Imams of mosques and Muezzins, abodes of Faqirs, schools and seminaries and where scholars and jurists, dialecticians, philosophers, divines and gnostics, saints and mystics, physicians and teachers and poets and writers were often seen in every place.  But now I find no place to sit and rest a while and I find not a single person whose company I may share.'  I saw a terrifying wasteland.  And so I grieved deeply and returned after having spent 4 months in the city of my origin. I left with my eyes awash with tears of longing and reached the forts of Suraj Mal.

When they entered Lucknow, his permanent abode, and took residence in the royal palace, new carpets of manifold hues were laid out every day, with golden incense-burners placed on their corners. The area surrounding the house was sprinkled with rose water, and attar was rubbed in the beds. Everyone's clothes were fragrant with perfume. Velveteen carpets [were spread out] such as none had ever stepped upon. Walls glittered like silver. Elegant pavilions were set up in gardens and decorated with screens and curtains. The sweet smell of amber spread everywhere, creating a unique effect. The houses put to shame the homes for spring. Roasted almonds and pistachios and firangi tidbits were laid out for munching. At night, there were dances by women who were like fairies - nay, who were like the houris of paradise. Flower vases of crystal and porcelain were carefully arranged. Shelves and niches in the walls were filled with choice fruit, perfectly ripe. A firangi dance was held, a lovely scene - a house of joy. In the evening, they had elabroate illuminations and set off fireworks. The starbursts and rockets touched the sky. The sight of the illuminations stole the hearts [of the spectators]. The flares turned the night into day. A pavilion of gold brocade was set up - of such beauty that not even the sun had seen its like. The nobles were busy, offering hospitality; the rajas went about, offering their services. Excellent poets sang their praises. Young stalwarts stood by to tend to things. Every house was finely prepared, with shady nooks and channels of flowing water. Vases that held bunches of narcissus flowers seemed like a garden to behold in Isfahan, or a garden in Kerman, containing a large lake.  Ice, more pleasing to the sight than molten silver, carefully gathered from water. Bowls of fāluda of many colours and kinds, their sherbet sweeter than the syrup of life.

As for the types of breads at meal times; almond bread of utmost delicacy; and both coloured with saffron on top that would put the sun to shame; youthful bread, so soft and warm that if an old man were to eat it he would act like a youth; paper bread of such a quality that I could fill a whole book with its praises; ginger bread too, so flavourful that Taste itself grows happy comprehending it. In the middle were placed varieties of qaliya and do-piyaza, such rich stews of different kinds that the guests were all delighted and satisfied. And the kebabs that were laid out on the long table-cloth: flower kebab, full of bloom and flavour; perfectly salted Indian kebab stole every heart; Qandahari kebab brought relief to those who were tired from the hardships of the journey; leaf-of-paper kebab made to such an amazing recipe-manuscript that it delighted everyone; and all the more common kebabs, spicy and flavourful. 10 large plates of food were placed before every single guest. Then there were pulaos of all kinds and wonderful soups of every type. 'Praise be to One, who is Bountiful and Generous!' 

What a splendid guest! What an exemplary host! A grand guest; a glorious host. A guest of wonderful disposition; a host of the greatest eminence. A guest, so refined and elegant; a host, sun-like in his munificence. The guest, a man of perfect sagacity; the host, an embodiment of hospitality. Their likes had never been seen by the eyes of ages, nor heard of by the ears of sages. In that manner they continued to meet for 6 months, day and night, and conversed and exchanged thoughts.

In short, the world is a place of strange happenings. What houses there were that crumbled down! What young men there were who gave up their lives! What gardens there were that are now a wilderness! What joyous assemblies there were that now seem a fantasy! What flowers, that withered away! What handsome men who passed away! What gatherings of friends, that were tossed to the wind! What caravans, that loaded up and disappeared! What honourable men there were who suffered ignominy! What bold men there were who tasted mortality! I have had eyes to see, and ears to hear, and what things have I not seen and heard! In this brief span of life this drop of blood which men call the heart has suffered all manner of blows, and is all bruised and bleeding.  My temperament was unsuited to these times, and I no longer mix with people.  I am 60 now, and old age is upon me.  I am generally ill, and for some time my eyes have been troubling me .... My failing powers, my sensitiveness, my weakness and grief and despondency, all tell me that my end is near, and the truth is that the times are no longer fit to live in.  it is time to withdraw from the world.  I wish that I may come to a good end, but God's will must prevail

And what should I say of the pain in my teeth - I was at my wits' end.  How long could I go on treating them? Finally I resigned myself to it and had them all pulled out.
Mir Mohammad Taqi Mir. Zikr - E - Mir. Translated by C. M. Naim. (Oxford University Press, 1999).  93, 94, 96, 97, 121 - 123, 129.

Related links: 'Colonel Mordaunt's Cock Match' By Johann Zoffany, (1788). 
                        A Garden of Kashmir.
                       Ab e Hayat: Mir Taqi Mir.  Muhammad Husain Azad, (1880). 

Recent Publications

Essay - 'Bald Glyphs & Psychic Maps: An Examination of Sylvia Plath's 'Sheep in Fog', (Plath Profiles 6). 
SalomeMC.  I Officially Exist.  (English Lyrics edited by Rehan Qayoom).
Lecture - 'Socrates: Philosopher or Prophet?', (University College London, 7 February 2013). Video.
Essay - 'A Retrospective Appraisal of Hollace M. Metzger's 3VOΓVE'.

Sunday, 29 June 2014

Ramadan Mubarak

O ye who believe! Fasting is prescribed for you as it was prescribed for those before you so that you may become pious.

            The Holy Quran. al-Baqara [The Heifer]: 184.
Allah is the Light of the heavens and the Earth. The similitude of His light is as a niche, wherein is a lamp. The lamp is in a crystal globe. The globe is bright as it were a glittering star lamp lit from a blessed olive tree neither of the east nor of the west, whose oil would well-nigh glow forth even though fire touched it not. Light upon light! Allah guides to His light whosoever He wills. And Allah sets forth parables for people, and Allah knows all things completely.
   Glowing forth from houses for which Allah ordained that they be exalted and that His name be commemorated in them. Glorify Him therein in the mornings and the evenings.

            The Holy Quran. al-Nur [The Light]: 36, 37.

May this Holy month draw people nearer to God and ease the journey to the Divine beloved. May it be a month that brings peace to the world and to the Muslims in particular so that God in His eternal Mercy may grace the Spirit of peace and the tranquillity of His love.

Friday, 12 July 2013

'Prose 1997 - 2008', 'About Time' & 'After Parveen Shakir' (Revised & Updated)

Prose 1997 - 2008
 2009, revised & updated, 2013 | Paperback: List Price: £12.00.  Full Colour PDF: £6.62.
101 pp. | 15.2 × 22.9.
* Preview *

After Parveen Shakir
 2011, 2013.  |  Paperback List Price: £5.50.  51 pp. | 14.81 × 20.98.
About Time: Poems & Adaptations 1993 - 2012
 2011, revised & updated 2013.  |  Paperback List Price: £7.75.  85 pp. | 15.2 × 22.9.

Friday, 11 January 2013

Plath 2013 / 'Ted Hughes: A Biography' by Jonathan Bate

This page will be updated as more material becomes available during 2013, the fiftieth anniversary of the death of the poet Sylvia Plath.

Elizabeth Winder.  On Plath's Food & Body Issues.
Interviews: Olwyn Hughes (sister in-law and Plath's Literary Executor), Elizabeth Sigmund (friend and dedicatee of The Bell Jar).
'Bald Glyphs & Psychic Maps: An Examination of Sylvia Plath's 'Sheep in Fog'.  Rehan Qayoom.  (Plath Profiles 6). [2]
 Sylvia Plath Mini Blogathon.
1963 - The Big Freeze.  (BBC, 1963, 2013).
'What You Don't Know About Sylvia Plath'.  Carl Rollyson, (The Huffington Post US, 11 February 2013).
The Last Days of Sylvia Plath, (BBC, February 2013).
Andrew Wilson on Plath Behind the Glass, Interview
The Legacy of Sylvia Plath:Interview with Carl Rollyson & Peter K. Steinberg, (ABC, 11 February 2013).
Sylvia Plath had "literally hundreds of lovers", (Newstalk, 20 February 2013).
Today with Pat Kenny, (RTÉ, 14 February 2013).
'There Are Almost No Obituaries For Sylvia Plath', (Interview with Plath Scholar Peter K. Steinberg).
Sylvia Plath: A 50-Year Retrospective, commemoration in Ireland, (University of Ulster).
'What Sylvia Plath Loved', (The Academy of American Poets).
'Arts Extra: Sylvia Plath'.  Maeve O'Brien, (BBC Radio Ulster, February 2013).  
Searching For Sylvia, (Sunday Times, 20 February 2013).
'When Sylvia Was A Millie: An Interview With Elizabeth Winder', (The Millions, 16 April 2013).
Sylvia Plath's New York, (Huffington Post,16 April 2013).
'Book Corner: Sylvia Plath, Party Girl?'.  Elizabeth Winder, (Harper's Bazaar, 17 April 2013).
'Author Elizabeth Winder Writes of Sylvia Plath's Intern Summer', (Women's Wear Daily, 17 April 2013). 
Q & A with Elizabeth Winder, (Gaithersburg Book Festival, 18 May 2013).
Frieda Hughes: Jospehine Hart Poetry Hour, (10 June 2013).
Behind the Curtain - Elizabeth Winder, (A Lovely Being, 27 June 2013). 
Sylvia Plath’s Daughter on a Remarkable Trove of Her Mother’s Drawings.  (Time, 1 July 2013).
New book examines New York summer for in-depth look at Sylvia Plath, (Daily Press, 25 July 2013). 
'Sylvia Plath's unseen drawings'.  Frieda Hughes.  (The Times, 24 August 2013). 
'Frieda Hughes shares her family treasures & keepsakes', (Daily Mail, 22 September 2013).
Elizabeth Winder, (The Aesthete).
Elizabeth Winder Discusses Sylvia Plath in Fashion, (Phoenix Art Museum: 11 October). 
Interview: Elizabeth Winder, (New Books Network, 18 October 2003).
Elizabeth Winder: The Sylvia Plath Cliché, (Zola Books, 25 October 2013).
Talk: Elizabeth Winder, (Melrose Public Library, 26 October 2013).
Revisiting Plath & Her Cultural Afterlife At 50.
Book Marc: Elizabeth Winder.

Related Links: A Celebration, this is
                      The Plath Diaries - a PhD Blog
                      Rehan Qayoom, 'Beautiful, beautiful America!' - On Ted Hughes' Birthday Letters.
                      Ted Hughes Commemoration in Poet's Corner.
[1] Ann Skea's works on Ted Hughes include Ted Hughes: The Poetic Quest,  (University of New England, 1994), Poetry & 
   Magic: An Analysis of Ted Hughes' Use of Tarot & Cabbala in 'Adam & the Sacred Nine', 'Capriccio' & Birthday 
   Letters' and 'Ted Hughes & the Goddess'.
[2] Plath Profiles 6 features major essays including 'These Ghostly Archives 5: Reanimating the Past' by Gail Crowther 
     & Peter K. Steinberg, works by Maeve O' Brien'The Smoke & Mirrors of "The Couriers" by Julia Gordon-
     Bramer'The Right Mind of Sylvia Plath: Magic, Myth & Metamorphosis' by Carole Brooks Platt.  Reviews of 
    recent books on Plath & tons more!

Ted Hughes: A Biography by Jonathan Bate

Ted Hughes at the Hay Festival, (30 May 1996).  A list of all the poems read can be found here.
Interview with Professor Jonathan Bate about his forthcoming biography Ted Hughes: The Inner Life, (February, 2012).
Ted Hughes' estate withdraws biographer's access, (The Guardian, 31 March 2014).
Jonathan Bate: How the actions of the Ted Hughes estate will change my biography, (The Guardian, 2 April 2014).
Damon Parker (on behalf of Carol Hughes): Why the Ted Hughes estate withdrew biographer Jonathan Bate's permissions, (The Guardian, 3 April 2014).

Thursday, 20 September 2012

'3VOΓVE: The Living Bridge'. Hollace M. Metzger.

Premiered at 'The Living Bridge' multi-media exhibition benefit for Tibet, 31 August - 9 September 2012.  Community Gallery, Dunedin - New Zealand.

Metzger & Qayoom Col-lab-orative: 'Muse's Shadow', (August 2012, Turk's Head Review, 2014).
'The Night I Saw Diamonds', (February 2013). 

Related Links: Facsimile of 'For Hollace' (The Delinquent, Visions) from About Time in guitar instrumental by Teresa Gabriel to 'Echoes of Thoughts Cascading' from Why the Willow by Hollace M. Metzger.  
                       'A Retrospective Appraisal of 3VOΓVE'.
                       Thoughts on Eternal Story by Hollace M. Metzger.
                       MiDEA Spotlight.

© Hollace M. Metzger, 2012.

Monday, 2 January 2012

Game Royale.

"By the way if ever you want to ride, just let Lynch know and he'll sort it out for you."
"Oh, Papa, Cousin Matthew doesn't ride."
"I ride."
"And do you hunt?"
"No I don't hunt."
"I dare say there's not much opportunity in Manchester."
"Are you a hunting family?"
"Families like ours are always hunting families."
"Not always.  Billy Skelton won't have them on his land."
"But all the Skeltons are mad."
"Do you hunt?"
"Occasionally.  I suppose you're more interested in books than country sports."
"I probably am.  You'll tell me that's rather unhealthy."
"Not unhealthy.  Just unusual.  Among our kind of people."
(Julian Fellowes.  Downton Abbey).
O for "illicit" venison, I side with Alexander Pope's verse about preferring a rogue with it 'to a saint without.' Pope liked his 'ven'son'.  His letters often mention dining on friendly venison with quite some relish (which about 70 years ago would have contravened rule 47b of the Emergency Butchery Act). Do you fancy the haunch yourself, or "half an 'aunch" (quoth Phoebe in Goodnight Sweetheart: London Pride)? Or would you prefer pheasant? In India there is a traditional succulent curry prepared from the freshly-hunted leg meat and pheasant together. Enjoy these biting lines from Pope's 'Epistle To Allen Bathurst: Of the Use of Riches':
What made Directors cheat in South-sea year?
To live on ven'son when it sold so dear.
Ask you why Phryne the whole Auction buys?
Phryne foresees a General Excise,
Why she and Sappho raise that monstrous sum?
Alas! they fear a Man will cost a plum.
Julian Fellowes is right 'I think you look at those people and they have a kind of personal discipline in many cases, not just the toffs, everyone, they were very disciplined and dignified and I think we have lost a bit of that and I think we're a less dignified generation.'

Friday, 23 December 2011

Ted Hughes Commemoration in Poets' Corner, Westminster Abbey.

Minute after minute, aeon after aeon,
Nothing lets up or develops.
And this is neither a bad variant nor a tryout.
This is where the staring angels go through.
This is where all the stars bow down.
(Ted Hughes.  'Pibroch').
I received an invitation to attend the unveiling ceremony of a memorial stone to Ted Hughes by Seamus Heaney in Westminster Abbey.  I set off at 3pm and realised half-way to the station that I had forgotten the invitation card at home so had to go back to pick it up.  

Walking past the Houses of Parliament I saw the Home Secretary Theresa May coming out in her car.  The abbey always looks really awesome in the floodlight.  I entered through the arch and the East Cloisters which were really dark and atmospheric.  It was quite an experience walking through the dimly lit cloisters with tombstones on the floor until I reached an area that had been cordoned off where people gathered slowly.  A glance upon the floor revealed a tombstone marked Aphra Behn, the Restoration dramatist.  I spotted Simon Armitage and got up from where I was sitting upon the stone benches along the walls to talk to him about his work on 'Sir Gawain & the Green Knight' and its relation to the eighteenth chapter of The Holy Quran but then changed my mind and sat back down thinking, perhaps, that this was not the occasion for such talk.  As always everybody always knows each other or seems to, so I have a habit of taking out my book to read.  I read a bit of Pablo Neruda: A Passion for Life by Adam Feinstein before we were ushered in through a door leading to Poets' Corner.  There was a lady to my right who asked how or if I had a Hughes connection.  I had read Plath first but then really discovered his work at college after Birthday Letters came out.  She remarked that she was a librarian at Cambridge University where she had seen him read in the seventies upon which the lady to my left observed that she was from Cambridge too.  I spotted Andrew Motion and Hughes' widow Carol dressed beautifully in opal, she laid flowers from the garden at Court Green (their house in Devon). 

Sitting in Poets' Corner among so many countless tombs and memorials to writers, poets, historians and theologians and just being present in Westminster Abbey is always a spiritually uplifting experience.  The intensity of historical presence is overpowering.  The Urdu poet Parveen Shakir wrote a poem on this sense of being overwhelmed by history in her poem 'Westminster Abbey'.  All the seats had the Order of the Service placed upon them.  Dr John Hall, the Dean said "We have come to Poets' Corner, where the word is celebrated.  Here Geoffrey Chaucer lived and died, and was buried in 1400.  Here William Caxton set up his printing press in 1476.  Here writing in English and its publication were first achieved."
        "Buried here is all that could be buried of Edmund Spenser and John Dryden, Tennyson, and Browning.  They are remembered; their words live on."  Lord Evans of Temple Guiting read from Hughes' letter to Plath of 1 and 2 October 1956 scientifically arguing in favour of reading aloud.  Hughes says that was how all reading was done until the invention of Caxton's press.  It is an incredible passage to read.  This was followed by a reading of Hughes' poems 'Full Moon and Little Frieda' 'Anniversary' and 'Where I Sit Writing My Letter' by Juliet Stevenson.  The acoustics of the abbey offering a resound.  Then Heaney who I saw for the first time delivered an address, beginning with a quotation from Beowulf and remarking upon Hughes' natural use of the alliterative Anglo-Saxon meter in, for example, the first line of 'The Thought Fox' and in 'Fern'.  But, he said, he did not intend to lecture on Hughes' uses of language and meter.  This was followed by him unveiling the memorial stone, Daniel Huws' reading of 'In Memory of Ted Hughes' by the poet R. S. Thomas and Heaney's readings of 'Some Pike for Nicholas' 'For the Duration' 'That Morning'. 

The Order of Service contained some interesting points about Poets' Corner: Chaucer was buried here not because he was a great poet but because he had served as the Clerk of Works to the palace of Westminster, Joseph Addison first referred to 'the poetical quarter' in The Spectator and the first written use of the title that is known was in a poem of 1733 'Upon the Poets' Corner in Westminster Abbey'.  

In all about 300 people attended.  As everyone walked past the plaque I glanced at the names on the chits upon the chairs, lots of lords and ladies and one 'Mrs T. S. Eliot' who I've never seen and didn't catch this time either.  There were refreshments afterwards for those with a blue ticket.  I did have 2, one white and one blue but I'm certain it wasn't the blue one so I made my way back.  There were carol singers at Westminster station singing 'Ding dong merrily on high':
So we found the end of our journey.
So we stood, alive in the river of light
Among the creatures of light, creatures of light.
(Ted Hughes.  'That Morning'). 

Wednesday, 6 July 2011

In Memoriam: Morney Wilson.

Morney Shayne Wilson was born on April 3, 1969 in Scotland. She studied at Fortismere School and graduated in English Literature from the University of Sussex. She worked as an administration officer at Middlesex University.  Morney was a regular contributor to the online Sylvia Plath Forum moderated by Elaine Connell and her poems were published on several websites. Her collection of poems was published as I Am The Blast From Your Past. The singer/songwriter Barry Crawford has set several of her poems to music in albums produced as The Morney Set (2008) and Morn (2011), some first included in her posthumous poetry collection Martyr Doll.  Her prose has been collected in the volume Remains, both of these along with a compilation of The Recordings are being published here for the first time.  Morney Wilson died in London in November 2010.  4 of her poems have been published in Plath Profiles 4, the interdisciplinary journal for Sylvia Plath studies.  She was very excited about their being accepted just before her death:
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

Ted Hughes. 'The Thought-Fox'.
The Pink Room

Where I am safe.

When you get to the pink room
do not forget to leave her
a rose.

I want her to know
we have remembered the pink room,
I want her to remember me.

I dreamt of the pink room last
night, of a time when it kept me safe,
a time when it kept her safe.

The pink room is hidden from view
now, has been stripped bare of the
lilac, the silver – someone
I will never know has carelessly
splashed blue paint over my memories.

If you should go to the pink room,
you know you will see me there.
I never could leave the pink room –
remember to leave me a rose.

From Martyr Doll.  Edited by Rehan Qayoom, (2011).

Thursday, 9 June 2011

Thoughts on ‘Eternal Story' by Hollace M. Metzger.

Buy here.  £8.69 (ebook £6.39).  212 Pages.

If it form the one landscape that we, the inconstant ones,

Are constantly homesick for, this is chiefly

Because it dissolves in water. [1]

Everything to do with Hollace M. Metzger is art, every word she utters transmogrifies itself into poetry so that one cannot help but come back to the work again and again.  Like history, it is cyclical.  And with this new book; daylight has broken.  Her voice and her poems can never tire one.  Her paintings are an endless kaleidoscope of labyrinthine meanings and emotions, they are stubbornly direct in conveying their message, in making themselves felt.  We are bravely offered, raw and throbbing, the timely truths that can sometimes be problematic, painful, disorderly and ugly and we are shown how all can turn to beauty and joy at a slight change of perspective.  They are like the sun which rises and sinks diurnally yet every rising heralds a new dawn. 


Can one but help be immersed in Metzger's work and not be dazzled?  I read everything cyclically.  In dreams of showing an essay I've written of just over a page in red ink.  Of mention of my photo-phobia and her asking a class of students to draw the curtains:

I know what you do

when he makes love to you,

how he doesn’t like

when you wear your hair up,

But, you shouldn’t worry

because he will never turn away,

leave you or lean my way.

We may touch, but only kiss

in our fantasies while we

share a coffee in silence.

Never, in

his wildest dreams,

would he think

of committing himself to me.

It’s too easy.

       ('To the Jealous Girlfriend'). [2]

For me those moments spent in such regal company are of strange and secret whisperings:

The surroundings were muted
Just for the moment
The necks of the winds had been severed from their bodies
The heartbeat of the stars had momentarily paused
As if the pulse of their very existence had ceased!
And the receding moments were stilled into fright

The Iranian poet Ziba Karbassi says that 'The poem is the result of a state of restlessness in the poet's soul which is usually marked by heavy breathings and severe panting before and after the birth of a poem. It is in the poetry of gasp, that we counter eroticism in language.' Breath is life-giving. Sound is created on the out-breath (except in certain African languages which begin some words with an implosion of in-breathed sound):

The sounds that we make depend on where the breath stops on its passage from the lungs to the lips. [3]

The Universe is the visible articulation of the Divine 'exhalation' of the All-Compassionate God, blown from a state of latency into outward forms whose love englobes like the breath underlying all sounds: Words are from letters, letters from air, air from the Breath of the Compassionate. Through the names effects appear in the created worlds, and they are the goal of the knowledge of Jesus. Through these words man requires the Presence of the Compassionate to give of Its very Self that which will give life to what was asked for by these words. Thus the order becomes eternally circular. [4]

I could write (not talk) endlessly on what a great friend, collaborator, Muse I have in the Beauty and Grace that is Hollace Metzger. One of the chosen few who have made me less unsure without the so-thought necessity of their physical presence whether anyone ever understood my oracles of 'Mule-bray, pig-grunt and bawdy cackles' [5] and suchlike.


Re 'Stalkings' there is no girl (let me tell you) down my street but that doesn't mean I do not dream though they do not do but to say this is to be cyclical as all things ultimately are. That is the essential lesson of life, of flux within its continuum. [6] I can hear the most sublime music and a beautiful love poem in 'Violin Heart' - "Tomorrow will be okay." 


I have some comments on 'Fame' on a love that dares not name me now that had promised to remember me but now rejects, jilts, reviles even as fame accompanies that one (now passed around like a wineglass) from place to place, person to person, heart to heart:


in their present state,

my possessions

have been diminished

to people as memories

and this pen

corroding that which

was left unspoken.

This is literally so in my case at present.  Soon, soon I shall corrode what 'was left unspoken' into blogs that are left like dream-letters on doorsteps albeit: 

I have yet many things to say unto you, but ye cannot bear them now.

  Howbeit when he, the Spirit of truth, is come, he will guide you into all truth: for he shall not speak of himself; but whatsoever he shall hear, that shall he speak: and he will shew you things to come.

       He shall glorify me: for he shall receive of mine, and shall shew it unto you.

       All things that the Father hath are mine: therefore said I, that he shall take of mine, and shall shew it unto you. [7]

The 'Prithee' in '© Facebook' reminds me of some lines I translated once into my poem 'Catullus in London' via some lines of Keats. [8] They are:

'Yours the rhyme in every line, my Muse

Sweetheart, be my Valentine, my Muse

Show how your dimpling kisses warm the waders

Lesbia irenic, earnest, tell the riaders

Tomorrow’s autumns of delations and

Noyades the unrepentant thieves command

Cadaverous faces in the cancerous gloom

Our thousand thousand more and more will bloom’ [9]

My thoughts on 'AND/RE' make me think of the second song from Tagore's Nobel prize winning Gitanjali:

When thou commandest me to sing it seems that my heart would break with pride; and I look to thy face, and tears come to my eyes.

       All that is harsh and dissonant in my life melts into one sweet harmony - and my adoration spreads wings like a glad bird on its flight across the sea.

           I know thou takest pleasure in my singing.  I know that only as a singer I come before thy presence.

         I touch by the edge of the far spreading wing of my song thy feet which I could never aspire to reach.

         Drunk with the joy of singing I forget myself and call thee friend who art my lord. [10]

And of my lines from 'Love is Better Than Wine'

I learn to live with what I've got and just then

Teeming tears of grief, flaccid pain

Tell me what I never had and where and when  

       My eyes can't contain

Light enough to know our days won't return

And it feels like I am close to passing out

Now the wings of tiny little angels burn

         What's love all about?

Grace me with your Chardonnay kisses tonight

Scintillating stature in fur coat soused in

Bathed luminosities and glinting light

            Let our life begin [11]

So that I fear that I shall greet her in silence with tears:

If ever again we do see eye to eye

Some other path will branch out from that point on

And hand in hand we will begin the journey

In the shadows of your tresses to the movement of your arms

    The other thing is also sorcery for the heart knows

There is no turning no desert no spell

Veiled in which my months can pass

If the path of life runs with your thoughts - All is well

If you do not turn round to look it doesn't matter [12]

'First Valentine' is one of the many many amazing poems of Metzger that arouse, cajole, enviegle (rather like the dragon of Communism in Revelations which has been chained up for a millennium and would be unleashed upon the world in the Latter Days before the Apocalypse) into taking notes as I read the wonder words, hear them, re-read them repeatedly.  The vivid description of the food, the scene reminiscent of Catullus, one or other of his poems where he describes food with similar relish. [13] As I read of future partners whose pleasures lie not in love but in fulfilling bloody-minded, narcissistic, nihilistic expectations, in proving things - I think of the first few lines of Donne's 'The Good Morrow':

I wonder by my troth, what thou, and I

Did, till we loved? were we not wean'd till then,

But suck'd on country pleasures, childishly?

Or snorted we in the Seven Sleepers' den?

'Twas so; but this, all pleasures fancies be.

If ever any beauty I did see,

Which I desired, and got, 'twas but a dream of thee. [14]

Very few writers these days write with such clear beauty, grace, such lucidity, such purity, none that I can think of, so physically and with such "sexiness" and I do not read little. It is about all I have done in these last few decades that may be called my life. The comfort and ease with which her pen seems to flow and the command and grasp that Metzger has over subject, meter, rhythm and prosody is of the kind that has been recognised in Muses (markedly by Ted Hughes in Birthday Letters). That is to say it is not of the usual kind poets utilise but of the rare kind of Hardyesque Hawk's Eye envisionings.  Not the marginalia or remains that shock the pious usurper. Compare for example, this:

I don't, I DON'T want to take a girl out and spend CIRCA £5 when I can toss off in five minutes, free, and have the rest of the evening to myself. [15]

And you'll see what I'm getting at.  I do make love outside of my bedroom: I cannot know exactly what I mean when I say this or what it is to say this, I abandoned Life and Love half-way somewhere to be recollected/picked up (if I can rediscover the place I left them) when/if I ever have somewhere to get to and sail calmly on:

Birds claim their territories, talking to one another, and I've accepted that I do not and possibly will never understand them.

       (‘Sojournal: Diary of a Fisherwoman in France – Part II’ p 119).

You know Hardy's 'The Darkling Thrush'.  He felt the same.  Ted Hughes wrote that the whole lure of fishing for him was like the creative act.  He would say:

Catching a fish is like writing a poem, a kind of metaphor for the creative act.  'Pike' is very much about that.  This idea of pulling something out of the darkness, into the light of consciousness. [16]

Metzger has firmly placed her eternal Parisian hand upon the infernal London hearts of many a poet.  'The Hand' falls into a handsome tradition of poets such as Auden who spoke of hands in some of his poems.  There are 2 poems by Ted Hughes on hands (in Moortown Diary and in Birthday Letters).  There is 'The hand that signed the paper felled a city;' [17] of Dylan Thomas' poem but that is the Achilles' Heel of hands which permits the lies the robberies the wars the murders.   I last held hands a lifetime ago but Betjeman's lines evoke the holding of my hand of one whose prayers stand by my side though he himself could not, when once he held them and gently pressed them as if night would no longer follow us after that evening:

Holding hands our two hearts beating in the bedroom silence round us,

Holding hands and hardly hearing sudden footstep, thud and shriek. [18]

Then there is, of course Keats' living hand 'warm and capable' held yet towards Fanny, the hand in which Coleridge felt death at their extra-dimensional and rather bizarre encounter upon Milfield LaneThe 'Sojournal' entries are the most unfeigned and lucid prose pieces I have read in a very long time, that the world needs for such things as are noticed, recorded, transformed, healed.


A (digressive) word to the critics and denigrators: I am thinking of Pope's 'The Dunciad: iv' and these lines:

Roman and Greek Grammarians! know your better:

Author of something yet more great than Letter;

While tow'ring o'er your Alphabet, like Saul,

Stands our Digamma, and o'ertops them all.

'Tis true, on Words is still our whole debate,

Disputes of Me or Te , of aut or at,

To sound or sink in CANO, O or A,

Or give up Cicero to C or K. [19]

And with that, another of my obscure (read crazy) linkages with his 'An Epistle To The Right Honourable Richard Earl of Burlington' on the subject of architecture. It was occasioned by Burlington's publication, in the previous year (1730), of 'Palladio's Designs of the Baths, Arches, Theatres etc. of Ancient Rome'.


I know that the frigid stoners, the pick-a-pockets, my detractors (being ilk of such as those that criticise Metzger/her work/her art) might well quote me the following in answer as if I Did Not [20] know it:

He has appointed a succession of angels before him and behind him guarding by the Command of Allah. Surely Allah changes not the condition of a people until they change their own attitude. But when Allah wishes to punish a people there is no repelling it nor have they any protector beside Him. [21]

At the very least they should concede the audacity to brave the admission that I am everywhere with my sources and digress like a lunatic: whilst reading something in Why the WilloW I thought of how academic study/education can be a barrier to the innocence and beauty of childhood (short of leaving one cold, poor and sober).  This is something Betjeman explores in 'Norfolk' his poem of childhood when he says:

How did the Devil come? When first attack?

The church is just the same, though now I know

Fowler of Louth restored it. Time, bring back

The rapturous ignorance of long ago,

The peace, before the dreadful daylight starts,

Of unkept promises and broken hearts. [22]

There are few, too few pure souls as Metzger in whose case this is untrue. Who can carry that purity, that innocence throughout their lives blending in harmony with the knowledge, the acumen with expertise of subject. 

© Rehan Qayoom, 2011.

Related Links: Facsimile of 'For Hollace' (The Delinquent, Visions) from About Time in guitar instrumental by Teresa Gabriel to 'Echoes of Thoughts Cascading' from Why the Willow by Hollace M. Metzger.  
                       'A Retrospective Appraisal of 3VOΓVE'.
                       MiDEA Spotlight.

[1] Auden, W. H. ‘In Praise of Limestone.’ Collected Poems. Edited by Edward Mendelson.  (Faber &; Faber 1976, 1991).
[2] Metzger, Hollace M. 'To the Jealous Girlfriend'.  Transcriptions of Time. (2009). 195.
[3] Hirtenstein, Stephen. The Unlimited Mercifier. (Anqa Publishing, 1999). 225.
[4] ibn al-‘Arabi, Shaykh Muhiyudeen. Futûhât al-Makkiya [The Meccan Revelations]. 2 Vols.  Edited by Michel 
     Chodkiewicz. (Pir Press, 2002, 2004).
[5] Plath, Sylvia. Collected Poems. Edited by Ted Hughes. (Faber & Faber, 1981).  129. 
[6] I tend to the neorealist view of history being cyclical. The roulette wheel can only bring up the same numbers 
      again and again: a continual movement, as Anaxagoras observed ‘Nothing is born nor perishes, but things already 
      existing combine and then separate again.’ Transformed much later by Antoine Lavoisier into the phrase ‘Rien ne se 
      perd rien ne se crée, tout se transforme.’
[7] The Holy Bible. John 16: 12 - 16. Authorised King James Version.
[8] Ah me ! whither shall I flee? 
      Thou hast metamorphosed me. 
      Do not let me sigh and pine, 
      Prythee be my valentine.
[9] Qayoom, Rehan. About Time. (2011). 14, 15.
[10] Tagore, Rabindranath. Gitanjali: Song Offerings. (Macmillan, 1913).
[11] Qayoom, Rehan. About Time. (2011). 8.
[12] Qayoom, Rehan. About Time. (2011). 54.
[13] XXXII.

[14] Donne, John. The Complete English Poems. Edited by A. J. Smith. (Penguin, 1971,  corrected reprint 1976, revised 
        1996).  60.
[15] Larkin, Philip. To Kingsley Amis. In Andrew Motion Philip Larkin: A Writer's Life. Faber  & Faber, 1993).
[16] Cornwell, Tim. ‘Fishing for inspiration – Ted Hughes’ journals.’ The Scotsman. (15  October 2008).  Also:
When I am fishing alone, as I come out of it, if I have to speak to somebody, I find I can't speak properly. I can't form words. The words sort of come out backwards, tumbled. It takes time to readjust, as if I'd been into some part of myself that predates language.
(Ted Hughes interviewed by Thomas R. Pero. 'So Quickly It's Over' Wild Steelhead & Salmon. Winter, 1999. 50).
[17] Thomas, Dylan. The Poems of Dylan Thomas. Edited by Daniel Jones. (New Directions,  1971, revised 2003). 75.
[18] Betjeman, Sir John. Collected Poems. John Murray. (2006). 125.
[19] Pope, Alexander. The Poems of Alexander Pope. Edited by John Butt. (Routledge, 1965,  corrected 1968). 778.
[20] Moore, Thomas.  'Did Not'.  The Poetical Works of Thomas Moore.  (Oxford University Press, 1929). 
[21] The Holy Quran. Al Raad [The Thunder]. 12.
[22] Betjeman, Sir John. Collected Poems. John Murray. (2006). 168.