Poe, Rathbone, The Bells

Go straight to awesome, do not pass go, do not collect countless acquired expectations: That's the card Edgar Allan Poe drew from the community chest when he sat down to Literary Monopoly. Poe's talents were exercised during a time when his native literary establishment was exhibiting a stifling and torpid parochial self satisfaction (ring a bell, anyone?). So he decided to distance himself from it and focus his attention on the popular press, pretty much as Dickens did in London except that the Dickens was working in a much less clearly delineated literary environment.

I suppose you've heard of The Raven? Poe's most celebrated work of poetic verse, a work that is reviled in equal measure to that celebration. I assume I've left little doubt on which side of the fence of that divide I'm planted on. The Raven is quite a difficult piece to do justice to, I occasionally wonder how many fans of Poe, spend countless frustrating hours reciting it. Difficult as it is, there's one that's much harder, Poe's The Bells probably exemplifies Poe's preoccupation with iteration and refrain, some aspects that make it so challenging. I suppose it's this kind of demand that Poe fearlessly throws down the gauntlet for, that is one of the things make him so special. It's not that the average reader can't make a passable attempt at it, it doesn't have The Raven's vicarious intricacies, it's just the disparity between that on the page, and that which comes out of you mouth represents a gaping chasm. Fortunately the talents of one particular orator of renown were exercised on this verse and committed to vinyl quite a while ago. I'm referring to Basil Rathbone, who's readings of Poe's work are probably the best available, according to my estimation. Even more fortunately some kind person has uploaded a Youtube flick of that recording.

Submissions

If you're a jotter of meagre accomplishment like me, you'll be familiar with the soul crushing experience of submissions. Unfortuantly when you're the only one with the insight to recognise you're a gifted creative genius, the process tends to be something you find yourself avoiding with increasing consistency. One of the problems for me is the wide variation in submission guidelines circulated by prospective publishers, being somewhat disorganised, it's something of a problem to keep the drafts in their pigeon holes. This time I got round the problem by submitting to a publisher who wouldn't except simultaneous submissions, which is something you want to avoid really since turnaround times seem to draw out forever. At least this publisher promises a prompt rejection notice, which is something that mitigates that problem, most of 'em don't even bother with that.

One thing I can say though, is that at least writers don't have put up with quite the same anguish as illustrators. There's something about the visual arts that draws out the very worst of things like professional envy and petty sniping and that's main reason I kicked that world into the bin, I just couldn't hack the aerosols that permeate the air, so to speak. This latest effort is going to fail, I'm sure of that but it's like buying lottery tickets. You know there's no realistic chance of success but there's just a moment, maybe less than a second, when you're assurance that you'll win is absolute and that's the best feeling in the world, a feeling that, when confident your fortitude can sustain you, you'll bare the soul crushing gladly for.

Another angel

Goodbye Symphony (sniff), go and make someone an expensive Xmas present

You remember those Airfix kits you never got to round to making up when you where a kid? Well after a certain amount of digging, I found the one I could never bring myself to sully with blobby polystyrene cement streaks and runny paint. Alas more mundane considerations preoccupy me these days, like eating and funding hot water, so it's goodbye to, Symphony, Destiny or maybe even that mysterious Harmony, go and make one of the last minute bidding runs that always manage to rob me of that bargain.

Come to think of it, wasn't Rhapsody, the redhead?

Update:
No bidders oh well, don't mind Rhapsody, with you by my side that tin of spam will seem like ambrosia served amid the scented environs of Mt. Olympus.

Plenty more fish...

Notes
Grey Mullet: One of a number of related species whose reputation as a poor table fish is so legendary, its flesh is commonly considered to be inedible by anyone not on the brink of starvation.

Flounder: In English parlance, a flat fish whose resemblance to Plaice is occasionally the subject of consternation to those who discover their error, when they find the repast they anticipated with such relish tastes of mud. One of a number of species sold under the label Lemon Sole by undiscriminating fish mongers.

Shad: A migratory fish.

Plenty more fish...

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out apt to compare a favour
It's apt it seems to compare the favour
Afforded by a grim fourteen stone beast
To that of an estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Were the words borne from the mouth of my dad
If fate frustrate your ardent endeavour
It turns out to be apt to compare the
Comfort offered by some grim mare or beast
Comfort afforded through some obese beast
Comfort offered by some Medusaesque beast
To that got through estuarine Mullet feast

Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
That's the ticket my lad


That Ire that crawls through your soul like an eel
The remorse in your mind you'd rather not feel
When you have cause to revisit the scene
Of the delight and the senses serene
that you felt when you finally found her
Only to find yourself chewing a Flounder


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Smile she'll grab your gonad


When solitude burns and failures accrue
That Girl on the bus or school friend you knew
Then comes the time that you probably should
Ask would it not be likely you could
Dig for the strength to renew your pursuit
When she confesses she might be hirsute


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Say it once more I'll go mad


It's odd to admire a girl for her fins
I find I now look for scales on their shins
I should dream of a Marylin Monroe
But no I find that it's Cod and their roe
Amphibians next, newt toad and a frog
Can you drop this Ichthyian analogue?


Plenty more fish in the sea to be had
Plenty more fish in the sea
Plenty more fish in the sea said my dad
Mmm, wouldn't say no to a Shad.

Interesting find for Captain Scarlet fans

I had thought of knocking up a couple of 3d models from the Gerry Anderson puppet series. A quick inspection through the search pages thrown out by search engines threw up some quite interesting material. One was an illustrator's blog that I've since subscribed to and another is this rather good looking paper model of an Angel Interceptor that I though might be of interest.



If you're interested in having a go at this model it's available free for download on the creators web site, here. Thanks to Garry Pilsworth for granting permission to feature his excellent model here.

To kill a pig

Oh dear this is unfortunate, challenged to write a verse around a title, I came out with this. It's unfortunate because I'm late for supper and I've only got bacon in the fridge.


To kill a pig, practice is to let blood
Or smite head with hammer, take careful aim
With a single blow it should pith the brain
Be swift and they wont even hear that thud
Mmm that succulent tender flesh so beloved
By epicure who might move to disdain
Some lesser creature you killed in vain
Though not a cow relieved from chewing cud
In scalding brine steeped to depiliate
And filed in row upon a sharp hook hung
Run through their heels as they desanguinate
While restless iron blades eviscerate
Clear trunks of offal, heads of lolling tongue
It's meat the public does appreciate

The Ghost Story

Mother had a dreadful fear of mice and rats, it was one of those things that as a youngster I could never fully comprehend, like her similar but less acute fearful reaction to the noises of bonfire night. I never shivered in an air raid, otherwise I might had more sympathy when she'd cower on the 5th of November. It took me longer to empathise with her fear of rodents, mother was a robust and muscular woman whose fear of those creatures seemed incongruous but whenever she'd encounter them her audible protests would make anyone believe her the epitome of a shrieking hysterical female stereotype.

Well one day, she explained the fear to me, it was something that made me shudder. "They're an omen," she said but not in so many words. She went on to explain about the death of her mother, she was living in London at the time, one night she'd dreamt of a rat. It sounded as if she was suffering from night terrors from her recollection of the experience, she couldn't tell if was real or not. The next morning she had telegram telling her of her mothers passing.

"Just a coincidence," I said.

"Yes but it had happened before" this aroused my curiosity so I asked when? she spoke of the night before her sister, my auntie Nora, died, the same thing happened. Something that was easy to dismiss as another coincidence, then she recollected a third incident that occurred when she'd travelled home to Ebbw Vale for her mother's funeral. There was a rat in the room and it jumped on the bed or so she thought, it could've been another dream, a little later she got the word that her first husband was missing presumed killed.

"I've seen loads of mice and rats, nobody died" she looked at me with the world weary resignation that is spawned when confronted with implacable scepticism.

"It's different for me," she said then she showed me, "Look at this" I saw the birth mark on her thigh, I couldn't make it out at first, it had obviously faded with age but as examined it closer, I saw the the unmistakable outline of a rat etched onto her living flesh.