Site Meter Poetry Assassin: July 2016

Tuesday, July 05, 2016

Peasant, piss awf!

This is the best recording of Stupid Liam Butler Yeats (18.30 min into it) there is in existence. BBC, 1927. Tha Brits, huh. Worra they doin wivih? Only us gorrih innih, tha faery rust? 

It is called In The Poet's Pub, a radio talk Yeats gave in 1927, and his living voice is clear as a bell at the link.


I have reproduced the opening of it below. In it Yeats drones on about his dream, so boring I can't remember it. He doesn't mind what gets said, as long as it's him saying it. It is a load of shite. Yeats is just full of it, and talking utter drivel. He was full of it wasn't he? No place for little woman in dikhed's time. 

I don't like Yeats's poems they are rubbish and nobody reads them apart from people without taste.

Graffiti on a cubicle-toilet door in Dublin/Yeats's epitaph he wrote years before he died.

His hooey ideas and utter bullshit 'runs into the receptive area of the inner platform' idea is a lot of rubbish. And of course he writes this opaque nonsense to bail out of what he really didn't get across at all well in this piece. 


But his voice, it is clear as a bell. And so if you have only heard the stone age piece of crap that's rubbish and you hardly hear anything but static; you really are in for a big big treat courtesy of Uncle Kev.

You make your own mind up and take no notice of the sneery tone, it is speculative discourse and every voice is fictional. Or rather the one voice mimicking lots of others. 


My voice's words, Kevin Desmond's. Of which the last time one lived in print it was a very different world. 

There's a weight of memories that come into every person, and the phantasmagoria passed down in our family include, Gerald FitzGerald, 3rd Earl of Desmond, for example, Fili/poet.

And so i think, well, if he can, i can. 

Breeding.

The Geraldines, our saviour, who is it gonna be? Who is gonna clean out the closet of all the under-performers that need shouting at? Hey! HEy! HEY!! 


Whereas what i think Stupid is trying to say here, is purely to advance his musical 'space between the notes' argument, and the 'one group of ideas' theory, that is, imo, a loada CRAP!! coming outtariz gob and along to us along old tram lines this nobhed used to travel on wen he was living in Dublin all his life doin nowt special apart from conning a lot of people with his monumental failures.

He's got nothing. He talks of 'filling spaces up between notes' with musical notes that allow the mind to detach and hover above what would usually be just a very boring person in front of an audience putting them to sleep.

Yeats was a well-known very boring reader of his own werk, and the only people who did listen were a weird bunch of odd-ball intellectuals and creepy people who all agreed, numerous social-studies reports prove, that Yeats had a voice like a shovel clearing shit in a yard.


Not only that but it was notedly pretentious. He was right up himself, and that got on everybody's nerves in person. Which is why he had so few friends, apart from those giving him money.

One of the many people we hear he was a right royal pain in the arse from, was his Edwardian equivalent of a Facebook friend, the novelist Fiona MacLeod.


Who he never met but spent many years during his mid-period corresponding with 'her'. McLeod was actually a man,  and Yeats knew this, but played along in correspondence that he didn't know 'Fiona' was actually another of his friends, the writer, Frank Sharpe. 

A writer as equally boring as his boring friend Yeats

Fiona/Sharpe, had a middling sales record in the romantic staple pulp novels of the Edwardian era, and he thought he was a poet and he was fek'n brutal, pardon me German. 


And it was Sharpe who introduced Yeats to the idea of tatwas and all that crap

That very specific area of otherworldly skill and bearing and belief in what world-soul inwardly thought spun poetry true into this prayer calling Her to meet us in the centre of a universal 'we' that is spontaneous‬ speculative discourse - imbhas forosnai. See i am just making shit up now, like the Rathgar tossa. 

And anyway, Yeats wasted his life.

He spent twenty years trying out 'the notes between notes' nonsense; and every single event he went to there'd be weirdos knocking about in the dumps he hung loose in with a variety of oddball 'poetesses'.


Not me guv, that's what they called themselves. And very much confused nightmare-women with what today would be diagnosed as mental-health issues.

Yeats turned up everywhere with a sacred string instrument, that he claimed to model on the Harp of a Tuatha Dé Danann druid Abhean, that had ten strings.


Yeats knocked about with many charlatans, one of whom was this string instrument guy. Dunno his name, but he was 'awfully untalented'. So wrote George Moore in a letter to Doris Sigerson, that i heard about on someone's timelines or summat.

And when his few real friends and his many pretend friends and even more enemies, saw him turn up with it, that would clear two-thirds of the room right off the bat. And a lot of upset people grumbling that arsehole from Sligo had ruined their night, again.

So what i'm saying is this here piece of utter prosaic drivel has nothing to recommend it to a reader apart from the fact it is the text the best recording of his voice reads.

Sounds like he is next to you, like Joe Duffy complaining right there in front of ye.

What the werking klaws fowkza Kirkby and Ormskirk call 'a loada shite pal.'

I am not saying Yeats is without merit whatsoever, but i am saying he doesn't half talk some tripe.

(Love ye weely Silly dekhidz)

'Some years ago I heard verses spoken by speakers all belonging to a well-known society for the speaking of verse. All spoke well; all knew that lyric poetry must not be spoken as if it were dramatic dialogue, where nothing matters but the two or three words that arise in a line that arise out of the situation; all knew that every word was important and that the whole must be a form of music.

Yet when five or six poems came one after another, not only was there an intolerable monotony, but I could not follow the meaning. While I was thinking of one poem, the next had begun. My mind could not move quickly enough.

I thought I knew the reason. All over the world unaccompanied folk singers have tricks to break the monotony and to reast the mind. At the end of each verse, perhaps, they clap their hands to tune or crack their fingers or whistle or there is a chorus in which many voices may join.

(How bored are you now?) Should not the speakers learn from the singers? Both the folk singers and the speaker of verse must keep within the range of the speaking voice and the range of the speaking voice is small.

Perhaps the folk singer may go a little beyond it here and there but if he goes far he becomes a bird or a musical instrument, and his proper place is the concert platform. Why not fill up the space between poem and poem with musical notes and so enable the mind to free itself from one group of ideas, while preparing for another group, and yet keep it receptive and dreaming?

Furthermore to rest and wary the attention..' yip, yup, of course, yep, always said that, right, of course you're right, yep, yabba yabba yabba, hey, yes, yeah, yeah, yeah, love it, yep yip yap yep yep.'


That's all he ever goh wannih?

Ovid Yeats