Patton Oswalt for Poet Laureate - watch more funny videos
Friday, 27 February 2009
Sunday, 22 February 2009
Saturday, 14 February 2009
Thursday, 12 February 2009
What is to happen to each of us?
from To My Wife At Midnight by W.S. Graham
Are you to say goodnight
And turn away under
The blanket of your delight?
Are you to let me go
Alone to sleep beside you
Into the drifting snow?
Where we each reach.
Sleeping alone together,
Nobody can touch.
Is the cat's window open?
Shall I turn into your back?
And what is to happen?
What is to happen to each of us
And what is to happen to each
Of us asleep in our places?
Are you to say goodnight
And turn away under
The blanket of your delight?
Are you to let me go
Alone to sleep beside you
Into the drifting snow?
Where we each reach.
Sleeping alone together,
Nobody can touch.
Is the cat's window open?
Shall I turn into your back?
And what is to happen?
What is to happen to each of us
And what is to happen to each
Of us asleep in our places?
Monday, 9 February 2009
Friday, 6 February 2009
Tapetenwechsel.
Up from the vaults of Germany's Telefunken-Decca label comes Hildegard Knef's(1925-2002) self-titled 1970 rocker, Knef. I want to tell you all the things I know about this album, but the liner notes are in German. Instead, have a listen to the plumb bass and thin drums laid out under some electrifying arrangements by composer-producer Hans Hammerschmid, and over which Knef half-sings, half-moans in a drawling German. You might find yourself losing a few afternoons this way. Mit den Kult-Tracks »Im 80. Stockwerk« und »Die Herren dieser Welt«Hildegard Knef - Im 80. Stockwerk
Hildegard Knef - Ich brauch' Tapetenwechsel
Hildegard Knef - Die Herren dieser Welt
Hildegard Knef - Insel meiner Angst
Hildegard Knef - Holiday Time
Tuesday, 3 February 2009
The not quite nothing.
Fires by Edwin Morgan (b.1920)
What is that place, my father and my mother,
you have gone to, I think of, in the ashes
of the air and not the earth, better to go there
than under stones or in any remembrance
but mine and that of others who once loved you,
fewer year on year. It is midsummer
and till my voice broke, Summer suns are glowing
I loved to sing and One fine day to hear from
some thin wild old gramophone that carried
its passion across the Rutherglen street, invisibly
played again and again -- I thought of that person,
him or her, as taking me to a country
far high sunny where I knew to be happy
was only a moment, a puttering flame in the fireplace
but burning all the misery to cinders
if it could, a sift of dross like what we mourn for
as caskets sink with horrifying blandness
into a roar, into smoke, into light, into almost nothing.
The not quite nothing I praise it and I write it.
What is that place, my father and my mother,
you have gone to, I think of, in the ashes
of the air and not the earth, better to go there
than under stones or in any remembrance
but mine and that of others who once loved you,
fewer year on year. It is midsummer
and till my voice broke, Summer suns are glowing
I loved to sing and One fine day to hear from
some thin wild old gramophone that carried
its passion across the Rutherglen street, invisibly
played again and again -- I thought of that person,
him or her, as taking me to a country
far high sunny where I knew to be happy
was only a moment, a puttering flame in the fireplace
but burning all the misery to cinders
if it could, a sift of dross like what we mourn for
as caskets sink with horrifying blandness
into a roar, into smoke, into light, into almost nothing.
The not quite nothing I praise it and I write it.
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