The Pogues where a literary band, if ever there was one, at least out of the punk tradition. Melding as they did the punk sensibility with their Irish persuasion proved a volatile mix, indeed. Though this rendition of "The Auld Triangle" leans more toward the the Irish folk band, The Dubliners, than it does anything done by the Ramones, still, if Shane MacGowan is crooning, it's rock or nothing, lads, so here you have.
The lit connection is that the song comes from the breakthrough hit play "The Quare Fellow," by the Irish writer and raconteur, Brendan Behan. A voracious drinker - he'd once described himself as "a drinker with a writing problem - fame took it's predictable toll. He hand penned in his career, however, some of the milestones of Irish literature, in song, drama, an his autobiographical novel, Borstel Boy. He was dead by age 21 Here's the aforementioned Dubliner's version, live:
And, to solidify that rock connection, let's go full circle, with this number which Bono dedicates to Ronnie Drew of The Dubliners:
Ok, it's out of control and now really the circle starts again, with the original studio version of "The Auld Triangle" with Ronnie Drew singing:
We now turn you back over, if any of you are still here, to your regular interwebs.
Blessed Shawn
-----------------------
even for winter's withering
an indifferent face...
sea gull
Leonard Cohen recorded a gorgeous homage to FedericoGarciaLorca entitled "Take This Waltz," the lyrics of which are an English version of Garcia Lorca's poem "Pequeño vals vienés," and which is today's featured song on Issa's Sunday Service. According to the website, Poetry Connection, in"1986 Leonard Cohen's English translation of the poem "Pequeño vals vienés" by Lorca reached #1 in the Spanish single charts."
The mystery of Garcia Lorca's death has never been solved - whether his killing was purely political or whether it was personal or some combination of both - though just two years ago, the story was back in the news when an unsuccessful attempt was made to find his grave. In a previous edition of the Sunday Service, The Pogues sang of Garcia Lorca's horrific end in the song "Lorca's Novena," and posited that, before his killers were able to return and mutilate his body as planned, he simply got up and walked away.
So, Garcia Lorca walks on these many years later. If you would find him, look in the lines of his poetry.
If you would find him, look in your heart.
Here are two fine brief examples of his exquisite work.
Debussy
My shadow glides in silence
over the watercourse.
On account of my shadow
the frogs are deprived of stars.
The shadow sends my body
reflections of quiet things.
My shadow moves like a huge
violet-colored mosquito.
A hundred crickets are trying
to gild the glow of the reeds.
A glow arises in my breast,
the one mirrored in the water.
Sonnet
I know that my profile will be serene
in the north of an unreflecting sky.
Mercury of vigil, chaste mirror
to break the pulse of my style.
For if ivy and the cool of linen
are the norm of the body I leave behind,
my profile in the sand will be the old
unblushing silence of a crocodile.
And though my tongue of frozen doves
will never taste of flame,
only of empty broom,
I'll be a free sign of oppressed norms
on the neck of the stiff branch
and in an ache of dahlias without end.
Federico Garcia Lorca
And here is the version of the poem recorded by Cohen:
Take This Waltz
Now in Vienna there's ten pretty women
There's a shoulder where death comes to cry
There's a lobby with nine hundred windows
There's a tree where the doves go to die
There's a piece that was torn from the morning
And it hangs in the Gallery of Frost
Aey, aey, aey, aey
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz with the clamp on its jaws
Oh I want you, I want you, I want you
On a chair with a dead magazine
In the cave at the tip of the lily
In some hallway where love's never been
On a bed where the moon has been sweating
In a cry filled with footsteps and sand
Aey, aey, aey, aey
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take its broken waist in your hand
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
With its very own breath of brandy and death
Dragging its tail in the sea
There's a concert hall in Vienna
Where your mouth had a thousand reviews
There's a bar where the boys have stopped talking
They've been sentenced to death by the blues
But who is it climbs to your picture
With a garland of freshly cut tears?
Aey, aey, aey, aey
Take this waltz, take this waltz
Take this waltz it's been dying for years
There's an attic where children are playing
Where I've got to lie down with you soon
In a dream of Hungarian lanterns
In the mist of some sweet afternoon
And I'll see what you've chained to your sorrow
All your sheep and your lilies of snow
Aey, aey, aey, aey
Take this waltz, take this waltz
With its, I'll never forget you, you know
This waltz, this waltz, this waltz, this waltz
With its very own breath of brandy and death
Dragging its tail in the sea
And I'll dance with you in Vienna
I'll be wearing a river's disguise
The hyacinth wild on my shoulder
My mouth on the dew of your thighs
And I'll bury my soul in a scrapbook
With the photographs there, and the moss
And I'll yield to the flood of your beauty
My cheap violin and my cross
And you'll carry me down on your dancing
To the pools that you lift on your wrist
Oh my love, oh my love
Take this waltz, take this waltz
It's yours now, it's all that there is
Aey, aey, aey, aey
-------------------
And, finally, a fine live rendition of the song:
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This week's featured poem comes from Lilliput Review, #109, originally published in April 2000. Enjoy.
Buried
Buried in a pile
of camellia petals:
camellia petals.
Garcia Lorca by Aguijarro (Antonio Guijarro Morales)
What can anyone say about the Pogues or Garcia Lorca, for that matter, that hasn't been said?
"But Lorca's corpse, as he had prophesied, just walked away And the only sound was the women in the chapel praying"
Well, that's not bad for starters. Mr. MacGowan had a way with the words and one can only hope that, in the end, he is remembered for just that and not a way with a pint etc. This ode to the great Spanish poet doesn't shy away from the details while evoking a subdued beauty all it's own. As LitRock songs go, it's aces.
And if you are wondering about the Ignacio referred to in the first line of the song, here you go.
Here's a poem from Lilliput Review #17, November 1991, with a touch of a horror, and a fleeting (oh, wait, he said fleeing) revelation, all its own.
My animal face grimaces ---and flees again into darkness because I've come too close -----to remembering
In the inexorable march to the sea that is the ongoing survey of past issues of Lilliput Review, we've arrived at issue #45, from June 1993. The cover above is by the artist poet Lawrence Oberc. Here's a taste from the distant past:
use of religion
let the manna turn moldy and green, holy penicillin
Evan Klein
After Paging Through American Poetry Review A Friend Sent Me In the Mail
This is the game: To compete. Ads for books, ads for writing programs. Poems like craftbaskets sold in tourist towns to the tourist who wants to be an indian. Evangelization. The sales pyramid. And the secret desire leaking from the new churchgoer: ----"If I sell what's been sold to me, ------------------------------I won't be lost alone..."
----------christien gholson
Form As An Intention
the fashion is to heal and talk the fashion is to sprinkle histrionics over former meals of drunkenness the fashion is to go away where bandaids have been laced together like this bundle of my etchings (would you like to see my etchings?)
Sheila E. Murphy
Setting Hair
walls are what make horses bodies just the right size to lie atop the first color console television that doesn't have to ride the back of anyones small children just to hold the balance between both styles of farrah fawcett hair dos
Stacey Sollfrey
-----This faint light: -----the presence
-----of absence -----in a room.
-----Audrey Haerlin
Hearth fire crackles your silhouette opens a door inviting me in
William Galasso
a different view
hanging from a maple tree upside-down I see the world face to face
Garth Ferguson
Voyeur
that heavy breath against smeared glass
the poet rubbing windows
for the world to peep through
Melissa Cannon
Well, since it's Paddy's Day and I'm working on more projects than I can count, I thought it might be time for a brief respite and some accompanying music. The first clip combines two of my favorite purveyors of urban Irish music, The Dubliners and The Pogues. To see Ronnie Drew stand side by side with Shawn McGowan is an Irish music fans idea of Fiddler's Green. If neither uttered a note, their separate unique stances sing endless refrains.
The 2nd clip is of an old time favorite singer/composer, Dominic Behan, brother of Brendan, whose recordings, aside from a cut or two here and there on an anthology, are literally unattainable. He is a long-time favorite of mine and I have none of his records. How sweet the irony then that the only place they may be obtained is via You Tube, where a handful of cuts appear in a static, still photo format. If anyone knows of any recordings out there that are available, I'm loosening those eye teeth as I type. Hope you enjoy this cut, which is but a taste of what he does so well.
Dominic Behan
In addition to the weekly tour through past issues of Lilliput on this blog, the Twitter poem-a-day from back issues of Lillies is progressing nicely. As with these weekly posts, each poem posted daily at Twitter is from a particular back issue, starting from the newest and heading backwards chronologically. The one caveat is the poem must be 140 characters (including spaces) or less. Today the poem is from issue #156. Check it out.
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