Optical

I was on my way to the newsagent the other day and suddenly realised everywhere was a bit discombobulated. I’d put on my reading glasses by mistake. A handy reminder for how people coped before glasses were invented.

The understanding of how early humans addressed vision problems is limited. However, archaeological evidence suggests a reliance on strong eyesight for survival. Activities like hunting, gathering, and crafting required good visual acuity. People with limited vision likely played different roles within their communities, focusing on tasks that didn't demand sharp vision. They relied heavily on their other senses, particularly touch, hearing, and smell, to compensate for blurry sight.

Girl wearing glasses

Oral traditions played a vital role in these communities, with knowledge, history, and stories being passed down through generations by word of mouth. This reliance on auditory learning and memory skills allowed those with poor vision to contribute significantly to their communities and preserve their cultures.

The earliest recorded attempts to improve vision date back to ancient civilizations. From Egypt to China, our ancestors embarked on quests to overcome the challenges of impaired sight. Here's a glimpse into the earliest recorded attempts to improve vision:

Egyptians: The Egyptians used simple magnification techniques. They filled vessels with water to magnify small text or objects, taking advantage of the water's refractive properties.

Water as a magnifier

Romans and Greeks: The Romans and Greeks experimented with polished gemstones or beryl, using them as magnifying glasses to read texts and inspect objects more closely.

Indians: In India, texts from the 5th century BCE discuss the use of crystal lenses to magnify small objects, indicating an early understanding of the principles behind magnification. However, these were not corrective lenses for vision impairments but rather tools for detailed work or study.

Chinese: The early Chinese invention of eyeglasses, crafted with frames made from horn or tortoiseshell, represents another significant milestone in the history of vision aids. These early eyeglasses, appeared several centuries before their adoption in Europe.

All of the above deserve an article on their own and the information was from Urban Optiks.

A Reading Stone

The Middle Ages in Europe marked a period of significant experimentation and discovery in the realm of vision correction. Monks, who spent hours transcribing texts, were among the first to use primitive reading stones—a type of magnifying glass made from a transparent sphere. These stones, placed directly on the reading material, allowed for enlargement of letters.

It is generally accepted that the invention of glasses, understood as the first pair of corrective spectacles was created in Italy sometime between 1268 and 1300, but the exact date is disputed. These were essentially two magnifying glasses (reading stones) joined by a hinge that rested on the bridge of the nose.

But soon spectacle-making guilds in the 13th century in cities like Venice, were instrumental in refining the designs and production techniques of eyeglasses. Their efforts led to improvements in the quality and durability of glasses, making them more practical and accessible. The guilds also played a role in standardizing the production of lenses and frames, contributing to the spread of eyeglasses across Europe.

First painting showing glasses, by Tomaso da Modena

As for this week’s poem I had immediately thought of the lines below when I saw the topic. But I had thought that they were part of a longer one but it is in fact just this. But it is DP. And it’s completely untrue:

Men seldom make passes
At girls who wear glasses.

Dorothy Parker, Not So Deep as a Well (1937), "News Item"

Thanks for reading, Terry Q.

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Aphids & Aphorisms

When I think of gardens in the abstract, I have in mind Monet's various sumptuous impressionist renderings of his grounds at Giverny, or certain songs of Van Morrison featuring gardens all wet with rain. When it comes to gardens in the concrete (as my current one is - poor pun intended), I recall a bittersweet mix of long hours of back-breaking labour, digging, de-stoning, weeding, battling against rampant nature... and much shorter hours of admiring the results of said labours.

Gardening can be a very therapeutic endeavour. No less wise a man than Monsieur Voltaire exhorted us to cultivate our gardens as a means to achieving true contentment - but the rewards only come from toil, a waging of the constant battle. Admiring other people's gardens, enjoyable though it is, doesn't provide the same frisson. That deep, connected pleasure can only be won hands-on, and it's not easy.

The worst of it is the other life-forms one has to contend with: the sheer thuggery of slugs, those armies of aphids and plagues of blackfly that variously devour or infest the flowers and vegetables we coax and tend so lovingly. Note to God: aphids - bad invention!

The essayist, short-story writer and all-round wit Dorothy Parker was fond of claiming that she could immediately construct an aphorism out of any word anyone chose to pitch at her. I guess it became a party trick of hers. My favourite example is of the time someone called out 'horticulture'. Without missing a beat, Ms Parker shot back with this parodic gem: "you can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think." Game, set and match. What a gal.

My second favourite newspaper headline ever is: Woman claimed dead body in garden was plant.
My favourite, from the Miners' Strike, triumphed by virtue of a priceless misprint: Flying pickets sent to other planets.

One day my concrete garden will be rampant with horticulture and then everything will be very lovely, with marigolds, red hot pokers and masses of geraniums in big olive oil tins painted white just like in a Greek taverna; maybe the odd tomato as well.

This week's poem is about one such geranium, pictured below. I promised as much a few blogs ago (Overwintering, 28/11/2015 to be exact) and I'm a man of my word (most of the time).

Neon Geranium

Neon Geranium
Electrifying flame of passion,
not red, not pink,
but some hot iridescence
in between,
pulsing on a spectrum
that entices dusty bees
to the lit paper petalry
of your pollen stores.
Mind-shimmerer,
fabulous, fire-sprouting meme
of returning seductions,
above your bright veined leaves,
long strident stalks,
you draw me in
on sultry summer afternoons
even though
you are redolent
of tomcats and tomatoes.

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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The Ning Nang No?

This week's theme is loosely related to a question I've been considering lately.  I've entered a couple of poetry competitions this year.  Two of them were competitions which would result in having a collection published. 

When gathering up my scribblings I realised that my poems fall into two camps: those which I've written to entertain and those which I've written to explore the art form.  The former tend to be a hit with the majority of my audience (people who claim not to like poetry enjoy hearing or reading them) and the latter have received praise from poets whose work and opinions I respect.

In order to succeed in competitions, I always assume that the judges (respected/acclaimed poets) are looking for something which pushes the art form while recognising the tradition.  They want something smart and beautiful which has a tendency to resonate for a long time after it has been read, e.g. Olds' Stag's Leap or McCarthy's The Clothes that escaped the Great War.  These poems are mostly for the poets.  I suspect that the majority of consumers of the 'high art' poetry are poets themselves.

On the other hand, the enduring poems which win the 'nation's favourite' polls, i.e. the popular poetry, are often easier to understand, have basic metrical schemes and simple end rhymes.  They tend to express novel or virtuous philosophical ideas in simple terms, e.g. Kipling's If, Joseph's When I am Old, Eliot's Practical Cats. 

It's the popular poetry which works better for performance.  Long, wordy poems with elaborate metaphors require multiple readings whereas snappy, humorous verse is immediately pleasing.  This accounts, I think, for the success of Kate Tempest and the surge in the popularity of live poetry events. 

Poetry competitions tend to want poems for print rather than performance.  Often, competitions are run with the intention of publishing a collection or an anthology.  These books rarely sell well, which is why literary agents are allergic to poets. 

Much as I despise the term, I do think this comes down to branding.  Take Tim Key.  He made his name on programmes such as Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe, when he would read short, topical poems which were loosely related to the week's news.  His poems are funny and easily understood and yet I bought a copy of his first collection on the back of his performances.  I enjoyed reading it and shared it with my partner.  We both gained pleasure from the reading.  I don't expect I'll go back to the poems to re-read them. 

There are other books of poems which I keep because I do like to read their contents repeatedly (or at least I think that I would like to re-read them but tend not to as I'm busy reading new stuff instead).  I don't see why there shouldn't also be many books of poems which are published as entertainment rather than important tomes, weighty with words of gravity and cleverness.  Just as there is a time for jazz, the blues or classical music, so there is a time for fun, bubbly pop.  And just as there is a time for important collections of poetry, so there is also a time for the Spike Milligan, the Roald Dahl, the Dorothy Parker and the Tim Key. 

As for the poetry competitions, they tend to judge on artistic integrity over entertainment value.  So I suppose I know which poems to enter.  Or perhaps I should start my own competition?

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Writing and Money

 

 By Ashley Lister

 "If you have any young friends who aspire to become writers, the second greatest favour you can do them is to present them with copies of The Elements of Style. The first greatest, of course, is to shoot them now, while they’re happy.”

Dorothy Parker (attrib)

I echo the sentiments that have been shared this week. It’s Saturday and each day so far this week on the Dead Good Blog there’s been sage and erudite advice from the team of regular writers here: all sharing their insights into the mechanics of our vocation. Now it’s my turn and, as the sub-topic doesn’t seem to have been covered so far, I may as well touch on the subject of writing and money.

I could repeat Moliere’s thoughts here: “Writing is like prostitution. First you do it for love, and then for a few close friends, and then for money.” Or I could reiterate Johnson: “No man but a blockhead ever wrote, except for money.” I could even cite Twain who advised: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, sawing wood is what you were intended for.”

But these are cynical mindsets, driven by a capitalist ideal where financial success equates to achievement and accomplishment. And, as a writer, I’m aware there is little money fairly distributed to writers in the publishing world.

As an example, consider the fact that Edgar Allan Poe received the grand total of $24 in his lifetime for ‘The Raven’, and this was after selling it twice. Compare this paltry amount with the Fifty Shades trilogy, which was making its author $1,000,000 dollars a week at one point after its release. If we compare these two financially, E L James’s fiction is vastly superior to ‘The Raven’.

However, I don’t think there would be many critics who would agree that judgement reflects on the comparative quality of the two works.

If the measure of success in writing was solely determined by financial reward, this would mean the ‘best’ writers of our generation are Stephanie Meyer, Jeffrey Archer and Dan Brown.

That’s a heady concept to digest. If, for one instant, I thought that was true, I’d cite it as compelling evidence that capitalism is a flawed system and should be abandoned immediately ad I'd advocate rioting the in the streets and unstoppable anarchy.

But what would I know? I’m a writer so I know nothing about the subject of money. A writer talking about money is like the pope talking about contraception. An outsider can look at either of them and ask: What the f**k would he know about that subject?

So, to develop Twain’s maxim, I’d say: “Write without pay until somebody offers to pay you. If nobody offers within three years, carry on for as long as the vocation still entertains you.”  Or, at least, until one of Dorothy’ Parker’s well-meaning friends puts you out of your misery and shoots you whilst you’re happy.  

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