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Wednesday, August 02, 2017

Wednesday 23rd August at 7PM. Free entry: The Other Room, The Castle, The Northern Quarter, 66 Oldham Road, Manchester

The Other Room celebrates the European Union of Imaginary Authors, with readings in person from Robert Sheppard, Alan Baker, Joanne Ashcroft, Patricia Farrell, Allen Fisher, Tom Jenks, Scott Thurston and more. With some others on film. We are told that the EUOIA is the brainchild of Belgian bilingual poet RenĂ© Van Valckenborch, whose double Flemish and Walloon oeuvre can be read about here. But who believes that?

Conceived as a continuation of the fictional poems Robert Sheppard ventriloquised through the bilingual poems of Van Valckenborch in his A Translated Man (Shearsman, 2013), the complete 28 poets of the EUOIA (European Union of Imaginary Authors) presented here take on a variety of new meanings in Brexit Britain.


Working in collaboration with other writers, Sheppard created a stylistically various programme of these European writers, whose works range from the comedic to the political, from the imaginatively sincere to the faux-autobiographical. History may not be argued away by the fictive. Accompanied by biographical intros, the poets grew in vividness until they seemed to possess lives of their own. There is no resultant ‘Europoem’ style, but a variety of styles that reflects the collaborative nature of their production. The whole project will be published by Shearsman before we leave the EU... (Watch this blog for updates.) (But look here where I consider working on this anthology and on Atlantic Drift, which if you don't know about, you will be reading the link.)

Read more about the European Union (of Imaginary Authors) here and here.

Read Joanne Ashcroft's hopes for the evening here. And see our previous attempt to animate our creature, Matus Dobres of Slovakia here, and read about this fictional poet and find links to his texts here.

Luxembourg's George Bleinstein (co-created with Tom Jenks) has an interesting life (some of it still to come) and you can trace that life, with the help of embedded vidoes (Group Captain Carol Vorderman, sausages, that sort of thing), here.  

Estonia's Hermes (co-created with Rupert Loydell) is a bit of a dick: links to poems here

More about The Other Room here

Tuesday, August 01, 2017

The Earl of Surrey Buggers up Boulogne (Euroland)

I am posting these poems, writings-through of some sonnets by Surrey, as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 4 at any one time on the blog. And eventually they will all disappear. See here to check for poems from other days. Scroll back and find the other three... Also note the beginning of this sonnet exploration, Petrarch 3, is still for sale and is the featured post to the right of this column. And one of my previous Wyatt poems is here: from Hap: Understudies of Thomas Wyatt’s Petrarch. And another, recently published in International Times here


I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He did). My only enemy
- this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its dispersed refugees, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy of
yourself, pleasing pain, the biopic, the coat of arms, the portrait.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self
‘Glad to be Unhappy’ but ready for the ill-at-ease easy answer.    

OR:



I guided this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who said:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He did.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its dispersed refugees, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing towards the ill-at-ease easy answer.    

OR

Image result for tudor armour




I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to your self ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing towards that ill-at-ease easy answer.    


OR with horribly punning title, mishearing my own voice, reading the original, which is 'The fancy which I have served long':



Enemy to My Knees

I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; my fellows brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will.) My only enemy –
this is the poem speaking now – is within! (Not true, my lord.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to yourself ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing toward that ill-at-ease easy answer.    

I have now got Bo and Go and Dox and Fox in it: It's pretty truthful to the Earl of Surrey's predicament:



Direct Rule: Enemy to My Knees

I guide this warrior-poet from a renaissant land, who says:
They call me the Beast of Boulogne. The enemy was well
dagged with arrows; Fox and Dox brake their staves and maces
upon the blooded Frenchmen’s cracking Euro-bones!

But what of your flat-footed, crooked-ankled, squint-eyed, men?
Oh them! he said. Or your debts? Oh! those, he said. Your dad
would bury you alive to survive! (He will!) My only enemy – this
is the poem speaking – lies within! (Not true, chortle Bo and Go.)

If battered Boulogne is rendered then daddy would push for Calais:
you’d be in charge of its refugee camp, its post-Brexit duty-free,
the English border! But you are in servitude to your fantasy:
your self, its pleasing pain, that coat of arms, this portrait, my biopic.

You’re going to bugger it up, moaning to yourself ‘Glad to be
Unhappy’ but, enrobed, easing toward that ill-at-ease easy answer.    

1st August 2017

note: hubristic jingoism



Atlantic Drift Reading in Edinburgh: Brady: Collins: Bonney 19th August Book Now!

HERE www.ehu.ac.uk/AtlanticDrift

The book is now out. BUY it!