Fred Frith writes music with titles such as ‘No Birds’ and ‘The As Usual Dance Towards the Other Flight to What is Not’. He prepares and plays guitars with drum sticks, ping pong balls, ribbons, anything. He is an expert with delay. Fred Frith is an experiment. Are there rules? What are the rules? NeedContinue reading “Some Comments on Fred Frith”
Tag Archives: poetry
From Now On, Everything You Do Becomes an Integral Part of the Work
I wanted to return to Pomes Flixus and considered ways of opening the book (again). This is one response to the question, which I realise I haven’t yet proposed… From 1970 or thereabouts, Maurice Lemaître’s Toujours à l’avant garde de l’avant garde jusqu’au paradis et au delà.
I am not here
When we first moved to Wivenhoe, Essex, over six years ago now, my compass still pointed towards London. The railway was a thin chain, a line of landscape that linked our new home with our old home in the city. A combination of changing jobs, Network Rail’s interminable bus replacement services, and a general diggingContinue reading “I am not here”
Elliptical Movements – Billy Mills review of Scarecrow
I’ve been rewarded this year by being introduced to the poetry of Billy Mills, whose recent The City Itself is one of those occasional collections that can make you question why you write the way you write. It simplifies the complex, and finds huge space for exploration in what is seemingly simple. It’s about place,Continue reading “Elliptical Movements – Billy Mills review of Scarecrow”
Preview: Scarecrow is coming
I love a proper big art project – one that starts as isolated moments and then starts to coalesce, condense into some serious thinking, serious time and serious work. I’ve just completed one. About four years ago I went to a Poetry Wivenhoe evening and was encouraged to go away and write something, andContinue reading “Preview: Scarecrow is coming”
Into the woods
Something hidden in the woods.
An early January edit
January is a month for new writing, completing older projects, and walking around Essex’s wilder places.
100-Word Fiction: ‘Ends’
How we think about life when it ends. The morning streetlight amber, off in an instant. The geese that fly in and then loop back without warning. The frosted cars idling by the pavements. The early fog that lifts slowly above the church tower. The shock of violas trembling in their pots. The blackbird thatContinue reading “100-Word Fiction: ‘Ends’”
100-Word Fiction: ‘A Slow News Week’
A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. Rent a smaller home. A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. A slow news week. Wear a warmer jumper. A slow news week. A slow newsContinue reading “100-Word Fiction: ‘A Slow News Week’”
100-Wird Fiction: ‘No Mountain High’
That a life builds, grows Is what she had heard. But it sometimes felt The opposite. It was as if a life Started with a mountain A mass of granite Immovable, vast And then things happened: Events, thoughts. The mountain Was chipped away at Incrementally. Tiny etchings, furrows – Surfaces scuffed, worn – From theContinue reading “100-Wird Fiction: ‘No Mountain High’”
MW Bewick 