written and posted by members of Lancashire Dead Good Poets' Society

Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Oscar Wilde. Show all posts

Friday, 22 October 2021

Reclamation Of A People

Reclamation of a People – Women Creole Artists, Language, Dialect and Legacy

"We can take everything that English education has to offer us, but ultimately, we must reject the domination of her influence because we are not English, nor should we ever want to be."
So said Norman Manley, first Prime Minister of Jamaica, 1939, quoted from (p1) 'Miss Lou: Louise Bennett and Jamaican Culture' by Mervyn Morris

Black history month is surely the time to celebrate the legacy of Jamaican women who promoted their culture and aroused interest in it, through performing poetry, stories and plays in their native Creole dialect, known as ‘patois’ in the UK.

Before introducing them, it is worth sharing how the mother tongue of most Jamaicans is Creole and that 90% of Jamaicans are black and descendants of Africans forcibly taken to the New World as slaves. The language is made up of words originating from other languages, mainly English, combined with language structures from Africa. The literary heritage of this language is rich, consisting of songs, folk tales, proverbs, drum music and riddles. The most famous examples of Creole literature, are the series of Anancy stories about a cunning spider who, although no saint himself, reveals weaknesses in human nature.

One woman artist who made an impact in England through using Creole in performance was Pamela Colman Smith, an artist at the Slade School of Art, occultist, poet and performer. She captivated the 'Swallows and Amazons' author Arthur Ransome, whose father was a distinguished Lancaster Grammar School scholar and whose grandfather lived in Morecambe. Ransome wrote about this ebullient, vibrant young woman in his book ' Bohemia in London'. The two met before World War I. The first time they met, she treated him to the ‘It’ drink of the day, opal hush, a mixture of claret and lemonade, before launching into a song:

‘O the googoo bird is a giddy bird
No other is so gay.
O the googoo bird is a merry bird,
Her zingeth all day.
Her zooketh sweet flowers
To make her voice clear,
And when her cryeth, googoo, googoo,
The zummer draweth near.
’

Pamela Colman Smith
She went on to tell Anancy stories, another about a singing turtle, then Chim Chim, the little bird and also the Obeah Woman, mentioned in a song by Nina Simone. Ransome, relates how she helped understanding of them with wooden toys she made herself. He writes (p64) 'Bohemia in London':
“To hear her was to be carried back to the primitive days of story-telling, and to understand, a little, how it was that the stories of the old minstrels were handed on from man to man with so little change upon the way.”

Ransome was a great advocate of preserving dialect and languages of minority communities or language that is marginalised by any society. An example of this is when he ingratiated himself with the Romany Gypsy community of Millom to the extent of learning their language. It is unsurprising that he should have befriended Pamela Colman Smith, whom he names, significantly, Gypsy in his account.

Another woman who was instrumental in promoting the Creole language and its dialect in the twentieth century and up to her death in 2006, was Louise Bennett, known popularly as Miss Lou. Born in Kingston in 1919, she learned Creole songs, legends, folk customs, proverbs and stories from her grandmother. A poet, actor, researcher and teacher, she fought to gain international recognition and respect for the Creole language. Bi-lingual, she spoke and performed in Standard English and Creole.

During her educational years in Jamaica, her biographer, Morris says that she gained the firm understanding that the colonial authorities around her thought that songs, stories and verses she heard on her grandmother’s knee (p26): “…ought to be despised and deplored as coming from the offspring of slaves who were illiterate, uncultured and downright stupid.”

She herself, along with other Jamaicans, felt that she was expected to have European tastes and to cultivate only art from other lands than her own. She felt that particularly, her African heritage was undermined and deserved respect. The opposition to Creole had its roots in prejudice, which she faced with humour and, according to those who knew her, humility.

She started the path to reversing this as a teenager, when she wrote her first poem in Creole. She identified with market women who had to carry baskets and had to sit at the back of buses. She understood their resentment when other people tried to take the back seats of the buses and expressed this in her poem On A Tramcar (p8) '

Miss Lou: Louise Bennett and Jamaican Culture', Mervyn Morris:

‘Pread out yuhself deh Liza, wan
Dress ‘oman dah look sey
She se’de li space side a we
An’ want foace herself een deh.

Translation:

Spread yourself there, Liza
A dressed up woman looks as though
She sees the little space beside us
And wants to force herself in there.

During her lifetime Louise Bennett gained a British Council scholarship to RADA, a scholarship to collect folklore in West Indian territories, had her own radio shows, acted in pantomimes, published and performed her own poetry in England, Jamaica and America, published Anancy stories, Jamaican songs, verses, recipes and folklore, gained an MBE for her services to Jamaican literature and theatre, became Ambassador and Special Envoy for Jamaica and took part in the film Club Paradise with Robin Williams and Peter O’Toole.

Louise Bennett
Children in Jamaica became, under her influence, like her, bi-lingual, learning Creole in addition to Standard English, in which she was fluent. Her influence endures in Jamaica today.

Louise Bennett challenged opposition to Creole and won. Her desire to preserve Creole dialect had its roots in preserving the spirit and soul of another country and asserting what was essentially the foundation of her island race, preserving what came from African culture. It was not like someone trying to preserve what came from England, like Lancashire or Yorkshire dialect. Unsurprisingly, she had support from her native country, Jamaica, in addition to support from the English-speaking literary establishment itself who admired her. She reached out to the English-speaking people by performing in Creole and in Standard English.

Is Creole a language, rather than a dialect? We have to ask where does this leave the British and their dialects?  Should we preserve our many dialects and what place do they have? It’s over to you folks!

What would be the likely outcome if English language schools taught sophisticated Asian businessmen Yorkshire dialect like "Put wood i’ thoile" (it means ‘close the door’ – ‘put the wood in the hole’) and making them pronounce it correctly according to ancient recordings of Yorkshire folk? What place does dialect, from the many regions of England, have in today’s society? What of the forgotten English Gypsy language Ransome learned?

One thing is certain in England; what would never be tolerated in mainstream English schools is teaching Standard English, which was taught to Miss Bennett. The reason is because of our society is so class ridden and because early publishers of books on how to speak Standard English, in my opinion, wanted crucifying and boiling in oil.

I remember when I took drama lessons, coming across the verse:

Father’s car is a Jaguar
and pa drives rather fast!
Castles, farms and draughty barns
We go charging past
. (Long A sounds of course)

It’s awful, isn’t it? It is so class ridden and ‘those-with-money-centric' it is untrue! Even without being subjected to this, people, no doubt would soon get uppity and on the defensive about being made to talk posh, when the reality is, we live in an international community where English is a common language and many EFL students ask ‘how do you sound like an English person, and what is the correct pronunciation?' That is the purpose of Standard English; to have a general standard.

Teaching Standard German works in Germany, but then, their high and low German has nothing to do with indicating class or social status. Received Pronunciation, whether English, German or American, is merely a means of communication across countries and continents, especially across the second language world of today.

Thanks mainly to Oscar Wilde, I became totally sold on Received Pronunciation. Not many people know that he swapped his native Dublin accent for Standard English. I used to read out his poetry, which I loved, over and over again, noting how it seemed to suit Standard English. Now I know why! People I shared his poetry with gave comments like, "Amazing", "Wow!", "Sweet", "Really sweet" and "Very sweet". A favourite quote was:

And at Springtide when the apple blossoms
brush the burnished bosom of the dove,
two young lovers lying in an orchard
would have read the story of our love.

Would have read the legend of my passion,
known the bitter secret of my heart
kissed as we have kissed
but never parted as we two
are fated now to part.


So, it goes on….

What has been helpful for me through standing by my man, (Wilde), is that I have never had any harassment from anyone down south about how I speak. People do not notice this at all. If people have a strong accent they can be subjected to ridicule, particularly teachers by pupils in schools who are from another region of the country. A teacher who was a native of Poland complained to me that her pupils imitated her accent, which she did not like. Maybe pupils should not do this and it is rude, but they do and it a hassle people can do without.

Conversely, I received criticism and accusations of snobbery from people who came from native Lancashire where I grew up and was tackled by school students about this. I ignored them as I was doing nothing wrong and have profited as a result. In the Czech Republic in July 1997, I ended up going from unemployed to employed because a language school manager wanted a teacher who spoke standard English for the benefit of his students. He wanted me to give the students Standard English lessons, which I have no problem with and rather enjoyed giving, as each language has own music and it is great to share this with others. In the post-Communist world of Eastern Europe, of course, speaking ‘posh’ means nothing, something that generally goes over the heads of the British English.

It is worth noting that even if accent is used, as it often is, in drama, accent has to be standardized for performance. There is no point in people speaking with such strong accents that an audience cannot understand them, which can and has happened, resulting in viewer complaints from those who watched a TV serial set in the south west of England!

It seems appropriate to end this blog with a quote from the admirable and eminently sensible Miss Bennett, who did not reject Standard English, but promoted her native tongue (p12 ibid): 
“I think I speak for all Jamaica. I can’t feel that I belong to any class or that I write for any class.”

Anne Gaelan

Monday, 18 January 2021

The Language Of Yellow

There are many types of languages. These structured communications can be visual, written or spoken.  Language conveys meaning, and in some cases, feeling.  Colour is one element artists and poets have readily on hand. Amazingly, there are millions of colours that the human eye can detect including variations of yellow. Yellow is one of three primary colours sitting somewhere between orange and green.

Colour Wheel
The Theory and Practice of Color - Bonnie E. Snow, Hugo B. Froehlich
(Laidlaw Brothers, 1920)

The word yellow is derived from the Old English geolu meaning … yellow. However, my idea of yellow may not be exactly your idea of yellow. To clarify, we need further description and thus, there is sunny, lemon, mustard, dandelion, corn, flaxen, marigold – the list goes on.  Different kinds of yellow conjure up different types of imagery.

Throughout the ages, this bright and often bold colour varying in hue and intensity has grabbed attention, indicated danger and soothed the soul. It has warmed our hearts and homes. It has given atmosphere to paintings along with making serious fashion statements. Sir Herbert James Gunn’s Pauline in the Yellow Dress is a good example.

Here the artist has used the yellow dress to give focus to the subject and also to show that the sitter, his wife, is a self-assured woman. It takes confidence to wear such a dress, she is meant to be seen. No wallflower is she.
Pauline in the Yellow Dress
Herbert James Gunn, 1944, oil on canvas
Harris Museum, Art Gallery & Library Collection

Van Gogh also had an affinity for the colour yellow. He even lived for a time in a yellow house. He created five artworks focusing on sunflowers. These works hang on walls but hardly sink into a background. According to the Van Gogh Museum website, all of these canvases were painted in only three shades of yellow in order to demonstrate ‘that it was possible to create an image with numerous variations of a single colour without any loss of eloquence.’

Sunflowers
Vincent Van Gogh, 1889, oil on canvas
Van Gogh Museum Collection

The Yellow House
Vincent Van Gogh, 1888, oil on canvas
Van Gogh Museum Collection

For those who paint with words as poets do, yellow also provides eye-catching imagery that in one’s mind can be sweetly tasted, make mouths pucker or feel warmth of light  i.e. ‘banana’, ‘lemon’ and ‘sun’. Here is a delightful mixture of poetry with references to yellow and other colours.


XXXI
Nature rarer uses yellow
    Than another hue;
Saves she all of that for sunsets,--
    Prodigal of blue,

Spending scarlet like a woman,
    Yellow she affords
Only scantly and selectly,
    Like a lover's words.

Emily Dickinson


Symphony in Yellow
An omnibus across the bridge
Crawls like a yellow butterfly
And, here and there, a passer-by
Shows like a little restless midge.

Big barges full of yellow hay
Are moored against the shadowy wharf,
And, like a yellow silken scarf,
The thick fog hangs along the quay.

The yellow leaves begin to fade
And flutter from the Temple elms,
And at my feet the pale green Thames
Lies like a rod of rippled jade.

Oscar Wilde


Pelican Chorus (An Excerpt)
King and Queen of the Pelicans we;
No other Birds so grand we see!
None but we have feet like fins!
With lovely leathery throats and chins!

Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee!
We think no Birds so happy as we!
Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill!
We think so then, and we thought so still!

We live on the Nile. The Nile we love.
By night we sleep on the cliffs above;
By day we fish, and at eve we stand
On long bare islands of yellow sand.

And when the sun sinks slowly down
And the great rock walls grow dark and brown,
Where the purple river rolls fast and dim
And the Ivory Ibis starlike skim

Edward Lear

And here’s a bit of my own drawing and writing this week…

Yellow
Kate Eggleston-Wirtz, 2021
Pen and Ohuhu marker on Paper

Colour Wheel
Cheery is the colour yellow
Warm and glowing - pleasant fellow
Brush with death the colour blue
A sad and melancholy hue

The colour yellow is the one
So full of life - so full of fun
Playful, happy then we have
The colour blue whose face is grave

Now blue upon the other hand
Could be the sea upon the sand
Where blue and yellow like to meet
In calm or stormy tidal beat

Dance together - intermingle
Back and forth amongst the shingle
Till sun says to rest into the night
Artist waking, turns on the light

Meet again on painter’s palette
Mixed emotions brushed beget
Envy – hope - blooming buds in spring
The sky, the earth and everything

Kate Eggleston-Wirtz


Thank you for taking the time to read, Kate đźŚž 

Saturday, 21 April 2018

Oscar Wilde - His Part In My Downfall

If I've piqued your interest with the title of today's blog then we're off to a promising start.

To be earnest with you (which is important, is it not?) I was at a loss to know what I was going to write concerning this week's theme - Oscar Wilde - until Torbay Civic Society came to my rescue. Their blue plaque (which you might see if you ever visit Babbacombe Cliff ) sums our man up quite succinctly, if not wholly accurately. I'll let you read it for yourself...


Of course they skip over his being jailed for homosexuality (in an age when it was a crime), his subsequent exile to Paris and death there in destitution while still in his mid-forties. They also fail to mention that in addition to being a poet and playwright, he was an essayist and a fine novelist - but I like the bit about 'self-styled leader of the aesthetic movement'.

Oscar Wilde's part in my downfall is quite simple to explain. My dad wanted me to do sciences at A-level: chemistry, physics, maths. He had an engineering degree and said it would be far easier for me to get a place at university with science A-levels. We had strong words on the subject, for I'd really enjoyed the humanities at O-level (the precursor of GCSEs), English literature in particular - to the extent that I read quite widely beyond the syllabus. I was determined to go my own way and at the time I think he thought I was making a wrong decision on two counts: tactically - as most universities required A grades for English but offered science courses to pupils with B or C grades; morally - as studying literature was somehow self-indulgent and served no practical purpose.

I had been self-indulgent to the extent of reading and enjoying Wilde's novel 'The Picture of Dorian Gray' during the summer prior to signing up for my A-level subjects and it was a heap more fun than 'Electro-magnetism Explained'. So I followed my own course - English, history, geography - and disappointed my dad who had no interest in great literature. (Nor had my mother for that matter.)

I've never regretted my downfall. I got my A grades and a place at Warwick University to read English. I followed that up with a PGCE and then taught English and drama at a London comprehensive school. I enjoyed every minute of it for several years before jumping over into industry - IT systems as it happens. I think my dad saw that as something of a discreet triumph. (In practical terms, the pay was much better and the stress a lot less.) So, thank you Oscar Wilde (among others).

It seems only fair to the man to feature one of his poems this week. Wilde is most famous for the plays ('Lady Windermere's Fan' and 'The Importance Of Being Earnest' in particular) plus the afore-mentioned novel but he did write some quite powerful poetry, as well as some that hasn't stood the test of time quite so well.

If you recall my blog from last week, I was enthusing about today being Record Store Day. I went into town and came back with a re-mastered vinyl pressing of Joy Division's 1979 debut album 'Unknown Pleasures'. That being the case, what more appropriate Oscar Wilde poem to leave you with than 'The Harlot's House'?


It was probably written in Paris in 1883. I love the imagery, the voyeuristic angle, the complex interweaving of fascination and revulsion, the surprising twist in the penultimate two stanzas and the sense of melancholy that lingers. See what you think...

The Harlot's House
We caught the tread of dancing feet,
We loitered down the moonlit street,
And stopped beneath the harlot's house.

Inside, above the din and fray,
We heard the loud musicians play
The Treues Liebes Herz of Strauss.

Like strange mechanical grotesques,
Making fantastic arabesques,
The shadows raced across the blind.

We watched the ghostly dancers spin
To sound of horn and violin,
Like black leaves wheeling in the wind.

Like wire-pulled automatons,
Slim silhouetted skeletons
Went sidling through the slow quadrille,

Then took each other by the hand,
And danced a stately saraband;
Their laughter echoed thin and shrill.

Sometimes a clockwork puppet pressed
A phantom lover to her breast,
Sometimes they seemed to try to sing.

Sometimes a horrible marionette
Came out, and smoked its cigarette
Upon the steps like a live thing.

Then, turning to my love, I said,
'The dead are dancing with the dead,
The dust is whirling with the dust.'

But she - she heard the violin,
And left my side, and entered in:
Love passed into the house of lust.

Then suddenly the tune went false,
The dancers wearied of the waltz,
The shadows ceased to wheel and whirl.

And down the long and silent street,
The dawn, with silver-sandalled feet,
Crept like a frightened girl.
                                 
                                     Oscar Wilde (1883)


Thanks for reading. "Be yourself: everyone else is already taken." S :-)

Thursday, 19 April 2018

Oscar Wilde's poetic pedigree.

Oscar Fingall O'Flahertie Wills Wilde (1853 - 1900) Irish poet, wit and dramatist studied at Magdalen College, Oxford and in 1878 won the Newdigate prize for his Ravenna. In 1881 he published Poems; in 1891 a novel, Dorian Gray  and in 1893 the play Lady Windemere's Fan. Three  other plays followed; in 1894, A Woman of No Importance : in 1895, An Ideal Husband  and in 1899  The Importance of Being Earnest.
 
His works The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898) and De Profundunis (1905) give life to his imprisonment and two years hard labour for homosexual practices revealed during his abortive libel action (1895) against the Marquis of Queensberry, who had objected to Wilde's association with his son Lord Alfred Douglas.
 
Wilde died an exile in Paris, having adopted the name Sebastian Melmoth. While Wilde was alive his controversial 'art for art's sake' personality and the notoriety of his trial made an impartial assessment of his work difficult. He was strongest as a dramatist, his brilliant epigrams lending distinction to his writing and making a penetrating commentary on the society of his time.
 
Did you know that Oscar Wilde's mother was a poet herself?  Lady Jane Frances Speranza was a Dublin socialite whose salon was the most celebrated in the city. 
 
Born in 1821, young Jane Elgee was exceptionally bright and eager to learn, but the denial of a formal education to women left her dependent on her own resources. In an interview published in Hearth and Home towards the end of her life, she recalled her studious nature: ‘I was always very fond of study, and of books,’ she said, "My favourite study was languages. I succeeded in mastering ten of the European languages. Till my eighteenth year I never wrote anything. All my time was given to study."

The first poems from the pen of Speranza were translations of suitably rousing verse from Russian, Turkish, Spanish, German, Italian and Portuguese, but she soon gained the confidence to write poetry of her own.
 
During the famine year of 1847, Jane’s words had a galvanizing effect: ‘a nation is arising from her long and ghastly swoon’, she declared. In ‘The Voice of the Poor’, she railed against the horror, writing ‘before us die our brothers of starvation’. In ‘The Famine Year’, she condemned the arrival of ‘stately ships to bear our food away’. In ‘The Exodus’, she lamented the ‘million a decade’ forced to flee. Her most popular composition was ‘The Brothers’, a rousing ballad eulogising Henry and John Sheares, one a lawyer, the other a barrister, both United Irishmen hanged for their part in the uprising of 1798. In tone and theme it resembles her son’s Ballad of Reading Gaol and it was taken up by the street balladeers of Dublin.
 
Throughout her life, Jane was bitter in her condemnation of the neglect of women. Harnessing her finest revolutionary rhetoric, she raged:  "Women truly need much to be done for them. At present they have neither dignity nor position. All avenues to wealth and rank are closed to them. The state takes no notice of their existence except to injure them by it's laws."
 
Following her husband's death  she was contributing wide-ranging, learned articles to the Pall Mall Gazette, The Burlington Magazine, The Queen, The Lady’s Pictorial, TheSt. James’s Magazine, and Tinsley’s Magazine. She wrote several learned, humorous and eminently readable books, the last of which, Social Studies, contains essays exploring her distinct take on feminism.
 
Jane’s progressive, albeit slightly erratic, views on the position of women in society were uncompromisingly frank and she injected much of the revolutionary fire she had harnessed in the pursuit of Irish nationalism into her arguments for gender equality. In ‘The Bondage of Women’, she expressed despair at the universal disregard shown for the intellect of women: ‘For six thousand years,’ she wrote, ‘the history of women has been a mournful record of helpless resignation to social prejudice and legal tyranny’. She finished with an exceptionally powerful passage; "Genius never unsexed a woman, or learning culture ever so extended; but the meanness of her ordinary social routine life, with all its petty duties and claims, and ritual of small observances, degrades and humiliates her of all dignity, and leaves her without any meaning in God's great universe."

I would definitely have agreed with her on that one.








 
 
 
Thanks for reading.  Adele

Tuesday, 17 April 2018

Oscar Wilde - Come to my Party


If I could host a gathering of people from bygone times, Oscar Wilde would be way up at the top of my guest list. I would sit him next to me for a good while so I could hang on to his every word and hope that his brilliance and wit might rub off on me. Eventually, I would have to set him free to mingle amongst my other guests and allow him to entertain, as is his nature. Sometimes, I’m quite sure I belong to Victorian times. I enjoy the written work of Oscar Wilde. I prefer his plays to his poetry and best of all, his novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray.

A decade ago, I visited Dublin with a small group of fellow writers. It was just four of us and amusing to us that we were English, Irish, Welsh and Scottish, gone to Ireland to see a play by a Russian, (The Three Sisters by Chekhov at Dublin’s Abbey Theatre) and a film about Welsh poet, Dylan Thomas, ‘The Edge of Love’, which had just released. We packed a lot of literary based interest into our three day adventure and spent as much time as possible in the fascinating Dublin Writers Museum. I enjoyed everything we did and everywhere we went. My personal highlight was going to Merrion Square and seeing the birthplace of Oscar Wilde then spending ages in complete wonder at Danny Osborne’s 1997 sculpture.

This is my own photograph, one of many taken that afternoon. I thought the statue was painted, but the colours come from the different materials used by the sculptor. The torso is made from nephrite jade and pink thulite, the legs from blue pearl granite from Norway and the head was originally porcelain but replaced by white jadeite when the porcelain showed early signs of cracking. The Trinity College tie is made of porcelain. The stone he is placed on is quartz from Wicklow.

Oscar Wilde read Classics at Trinity College, Dublin then continued at Magdalen College Oxford where he gained a double first in his B.A. of Classical Moderations and Literae Humaniores.

It is well documented that Wilde led a ‘scandalous lifestyle’ for which he served time in prison. Last year, he and others were posthumously pardoned for committing homosexual acts which were no longer offences.

To me, he was a great writer, with nothing to declare except his genius.
 
John Betjeman's poem,

 
 
The Arrest of Oscar Wilde at the Cadogan Hotel
 
He sipped at a weak hock and seltzer
As he gazed at the London skies
Through the Nottingham lace of the curtains
Or was it his bees-winged eyes?
 
To the right and before him Pont Street
Did tower in her new built red,
As hard as the morning gaslight
That shone on his unmade bed.
 
‘I want some more hock in my seltzer,
And Robbie, please give me your hand -
Is this the end or beginning?
How can I understand?
 
‘So you’ve brought me the latest Yellow Book:
And Buchan has got in it now:
Approval of what is approved of
Is as false as a well-kept vow.
 
‘More hock, Robbie – where is the seltzer?
Dear boy, pull again at the bell!
They are all little better than cretins,
Though this is the Cadogan Hotel.
 
‘One astrakhan coat is at Willis’s –
Another one’s at the Savoy:
Do fetch my morocco portmanteau,
And bring them on later, dear boy.’
 
A thump, and a murmur of voices –
(‘Oh why must they make such a din?’)
As the door of the bedroom swung open
And two plain clothes policemen came in:
 
‘Mr Woilde, we ‘ave come for tew take yew
Where felons and criminals dwell:
We must ask yew tew leave with us quoietly
For this is the Cadogan Hotel.’
 
He rose, and he put down The Yellow Book.
He staggered – and, terrible-eyed,
He brushed past the palms on the staircase
And was helped to a hansom outside.
 
                         John Betjeman
 
 Thanks for reading, Pam x
 

Wednesday, 18 February 2015

More precious than gold



This week we are looking at treasure, which, of course, means different things to different people. I have reached the conclusion that my memories are my greatest treasures, for they contain all the people and occasions that I hold dear in life.
 I’ve always been rubbish at photos. At every photo-worthy occasion I can be relied upon to forget my camera. Even when I’ve remembered to take it with me, I can easily leave it in the car, on the coach or just forget that it’s in my bag. With such a cavalier attitude to preserving noteworthy occasions for posterity, it is no surprise that my photo collection down the years is not a neat pile of albums, all thoughtfully populated with photos carefully annotated and in date order, so that some sense can be made of the decades they commemorate. No, it is an ungainly jumble of assorted packets and loose pictures, all rammed in a cupboard somewhere at my previous home and spilling out whenever the door is opened. This chaos is no doubt symptomatic of a disordered mind!
To me photographs are not the vital treasures that they are to many people. For some it feels almost like the occasion didn’t happen if there is no photographic evidence to prove that it did. I think there’s sometimes a tendency to use all one’s energy in getting the perfect shot and, in so doing, enjoyment of the moment itself can be lost. My treasures rely on memories of happy times, rather than the photographs produced for them. In recent times, I can think of a couple of brilliant occasions, for which the memories mean more to me than the commemorative photos.
My graduation day last year was one of the happiest of my life. I have a professional set of photos of me and my family, posed and somehow static and lifeless, which is rammed in a cupboard etc. It in no way reflects my memories of that day, which are of me and my family, sitting for hours in the glorious sunshine outside the No. 5 café after the ceremony, chatting and downing unseemly numbers of bottles of Prosecco. All around us were my college friends with their families doing the same, all united in pride at our achievement and relief that it was all over, getting gently sozzled in the warmth of a July afternoon.
Another occasion was Blackpool FC’s highly memorable promotion to the premier league. I have the programme to remind me, copies of all the press clippings of the event, the commemorative issues of newspapers, the match ticket stubs. None of them are necessary to enable me to conjure up at will the memories of a glorious sunny day, when the world turned tangerine; every service station on the long journey to Wembley thronged by singing, happy Blackpool supporters and neutrals wishing us well; milling around the ground in apprehensive anticipation and bumping into every Blackpool fan you’ve ever known; the breathtaking first sight of our end inside the ground, a sea of tangerine semi-hysteria; the noise and the heat of the remorseless sun; the match, the growing incredulity that we were going to win; the final whistle, the disbelief; the surprisingly muted atmosphere as we all trouped out of the stadium; the daunting realisation that we would actually have to play in the premier league!
Memories – more precious than gold, rammed in the cupboard of my mind. Hope they never spill out.
To finish, here are a couple of quotations about treasures that I enjoyed reading.

“Nothing in the tangible word that isn't living has any value beyond a dollar amount. Considering that dollars can only buy more tangible and inanimate objects, it would seem a far more worthwhile goal to instead learn to place value on the treasures of the mind. Memories, knowledge and skill together are the only things we will ever actually own.”
― Ashly Lorenzana

“Ordinary riches can be stolen, real riches cannot. In your soul are infinitely precious things that cannot be taken from you.”
― Oscar Wilde

Thank you for reading,
Sheilagh

Sunday, 15 December 2013

Oscar Wilde- a villain, hell!

16:05:00 Posted by Unknown , , , , , 2 comments
I know relatively nothing of Oscar Wilde's work. Like most writers, I have an anthology and like most, I have flicked through it from time to time but to write something on the theme- you're having a laugh. 
What I do know about the man is that he was locked up for being a homosexual, the criminal! On account of him being a villain then, a villanelle. 

Heavyweight Themes

This week the blog post will be late
The gap between words and my mind is vast
I'm afraid, my friends, you'll have to wait.

We're discussing another literary great
Something I found out on Monday past
This week the blog post will be late.

Six days to research a heavyweight
A Dickens or Wilde is just too fast
I'm afraid, my friends, you'll have to wait.

Ideas- all the links- they vibrate, mutate
Though they gather up they just won't hold fast
This week the blog post will be late.

I cannot sit here until my pupils dilate
Sticking bad quotes together with Elastoplast
I'm afraid, my friends, you'll have to wait.

But reader, know I don't mean to aggravate
I just dare not to wrong the enthusiasts
This week the blog post will be late
So I'm afraid, my friends, you'll have to wait.



Thanks for reading,
S.



Saturday, 14 December 2013

A Society of Assholes

00:00:00 Posted by Ashley Lister , , , 7 comments
 by Ashley Lister
 There are many things that grind my metaphorical gears. I don't care for Tories (unless they're recently deceased with a comedy orange up the anus). I abhor animal cruelty (unless said cruelty has resulted in a semi-decent burger). I despise slugs: they simply scare the crap out of me.

But one thing that really makes me angry is homophobia. Because of our society's former homophobia Oscar Wilde was imprisoned and forced to undergo hard labour. 

His crime? 

He liked the cock. He liked the cock and he lived in a ridiculous society that said it was illegal for men to like the cock. 

Quite why a government – any government – should decide who can like the cock and who can't is a mystery to me.

The Russians are violently anti-gay. The Russian punk band Pussy-Riot has been imprisoned and one of their members has been disappeared. (I deliberately used that transitive verb in its intransitive/Orwellian form).

India has recently criminalised sodomy. For a country that can’t guarantee the safety of women riding on public transport, the idea of criminalising consensual sexual relations between men seems, to me, to be a little misguided if not downright asinine.

Earlier this week Australia’s Supreme Court overturned legislation allowing gay marriage, effectively annulling the legality of many recent nuptials.

It’s disconcerting to think that, in these times of global economic hardship, so many of the world’s governments are focused on who’s allowed to like the cock and who’s allowed to eat the pussy. You’d have thought there were more important matters at hand, such as fracking, global warming, child poverty, impending environmental catastrophes, medical developments human rights violations etc.

It’s even more worrying to think that our coalition government, currently being mismanaged by Cameron and Clegg, the Chuckle Brothers of British politics, is one of the few that seems to be making the right choices about these matters.

Back in 1910 the actress Mrs Patrick Campbell is reported to have made the remark, “Does it really matter what these affectionate people do — so long as they don’t do it in the streets and frighten the horses?” She was speaking about gay men but I think the attitude can be applied to every brand of consensual sexual relations. It’s a shame there weren’t more people blessed with her open-mindedness before Wilde’s incarceration. It’s an even greater shame that today, more than a century since she made that remark, the world isn’t home to more free thinkers of her astute perspicacity.

I’ll leave the last word here to Oscar Wilde with a passage from his Ballad of Reading Gaol. Keep in mind this is from the man who gave us The Picture of Dorian Gray, The Importance of Being Earnest and Salome. These are some of the words he wrote whilst being imprisoned for liking the cock.


I know not whether Laws be right,
Or whether Laws be wrong;
All that we know who lie in gaol
Is that the wall is strong;
And that each day is like a year,
A year whose days are long.

Friday, 13 December 2013

An Oscar Complex

11:19:00 Posted by Louise Barklam , , , , , 4 comments
Well, what a man!

I decided to look at quotes from Oscar Wilde as opposed to anything else, as I think they can truly give a better insight into persons psyche.  Those quotes which are observations off the cuff are the most revealing of course, as opposed to clips from edited novels or poems. However, doing my research, I found a proliferation of quotes online, showing an abundance of thoughts, subjects and excerpts from his written works. One that really jumped out at me was as follows:  "To recommend thrift to the poor is both grotesque and insulting. It is like advising a man who is starving to eat less."    The Soul of a Man Under Socialism. 1881.

In the current economic climate this is as true today as it was back then. Perhaps David Cameron could do with being reminded of it.

I also liked this: "I love acting. It is so much more real than life."     The Picture of Dorien Grey. 1891.

To a degree, I think everyone is guilty of doing this at some point. Creating an alter-ego who is more than you really are. Wilde also carries this theme over into his other great work "The Importance Of Being Ernest" as explored yesterday on the blog. If you haven't read Lara's post yet, give it a read.

My absolute favourite though has to be: "The truth is rarely pure and never simple".     The Importance Of Being Ernest. 1895.

That is something which I class as one of my mantra's in my journey through life. I try to make a point of hearing both sides of a story. Although, even then, things may not be as clear cut as we would like them to be.  It is also a quote which I wish more people would follow.

I must admit, I do find that finding an inspiring quote is uplifting. It adds to my mantra of Life itself. Of course, there will always be opinions of others which I don't agree with, but again, that's life!

He was a man ahead of his time. In this day and age, his lifestyle choices wouldn't be a big deal, as they were back then. Shame really. I could sit here all day, just listing the many things that this man once said, but there are so many of Oscar Wilde's quotes to read, it is mind-boggling. But even if you only find one that truly speaks to you, then follow it wholeheartedly. Be a better person by the example of others.


"On Your Shoulders" - By Louise Barklam

Standing tall
Feet firmly planted
Rooted solidly upon knowledge of old
Progress unearths a road before you

Dare to step out
Forge forward
Pave the way

We stand on the shoulders of Giants
Every day
Do we notice? Not really.
Take it for granted at your own risk
If we forget what they have done
Future generations may wonder
"What's the point?"

Those Giants have lifted us up so high
We've forgotten them
They created works, things, and gadgets
They made our lives better
Enriched us

Don't forget the Pioneers
They made EVERYTHING possible!

BE the next Giant
Forge forward
Pave the way!

Lift the future on YOUR shoulders!!


Thanks for reading my random waffle today.  ;-)


Thursday, 12 December 2013

Would You Make A Bunbury?

Bunburying is the delightful concept at the centre of Oscar Wilde’s play The Importance of Being Earnest.  Its usage and meaning within the play is perhaps best explained by the most adept bunburyists of all, Algernon Moncrieff:

You [Jack] have invented a very useful younger brother called Ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. I have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called Bunbury, in order that I may be able to go down into the country whenever I choose. Bunbury is perfectly invaluable. If it wasn’t for Bunbury’s extraordinary bad health, for instance, I wouldn’t be able to dine with you at Willis’s to-night, for I have been really engaged to Aunt Augusta for more than a week.

I had planned on analysing the text with the use of several literary theories; a little bit of reader-response criticism, a dash of psychoanalysis, a handful of the lexical units required for structuralism, a splattering of deconstruction and a pinch of Marxism. But then I remembered I have a prior engagement with Cedric de Montferrat who urgently requires my attendance for… umm… for something extremely important.

Thus, dear reader, I must leave you to consider alone:
Is having a Bunbury lying or is it a morally acceptable way of escaping social obligations?
Would you create a Bunbury to avoid dinner with Aunt Augusta?


Thank you for reading,
Lara.



Wednesday, 11 December 2013

Tuesday, 10 December 2013

It's all in the picture

Due to a very heavy workload I will be covering for Cerrie this week.


Oscar Wilde's A Picture of Dorian Grey shocked a society when it was first published in 1890 as the lead story in Lippincott's Monthly Magazine. The magazine itself censored over 500 words from the original because they were deemed to be too much. Though most of the outrage was because the scenes of the debauchery depicted acted more like a mirror to the higher order and served as confirmation of actions to those living in the less fortunate world. 

In 1891 Wilde removed some of the more controversial passages, added a couple of chapters and did some major rewrites to create the book form that is so well known today.

What most people don't realise about A Picture of Dorian Grey is how much of it is based on reality. Not all the sordid frightfulness, we all know what the other half get up to in the quiet of their own Buckingham Palace. It's the painting, the picture, the wearer of the sins that is real.

Yes I know it sounds too amazing to be true however, I have located the pictures held in the attics of some well known politicians and when you see them you will understand how these people maintain such a normal looking face with all the wrong they do.

First up is Dep. Prime Minister Nick Clegg.


Then the main man himself, David Cameron 

But the most compelling evidence that pictures are are being kept to hide the effects of sins from an evil doing person is this one of Margaret Thatcher.
It was removed from her attic 1 week before she passed. As you can see, there was a lot of sin to catch up with.