At the cusp of midnight on New Years Eve 2020/2021 poet and musician Patti Smith planned to perform her song "My Blakean Year" on the Piccadilly Lights screen in London. The piece was dedicated to the immensely influential 18th century poet, painter and mystic William Blake. Like many events that eve the performance was postponed, however it remains available to watch above and online through the circa.art website. Smith tells us:
"Almost all the songs I record are collaborations but occasionally I write a little song myself. I hear the melody in my head and sit on the floor with my acoustic guitar. After a bit of struggle I work it out and bring it to my band.
I have worked on this song for a while. Reading a lot of William Blake as well as the wonderful Blake biography by Peter Ackroyd. His life was a testament of faith over strife. He suffered poverty humiliation and misunderstanding yet he continued to do his work and maintained a lifelong belief in his vision. He has served as a good example in facing my own difficulties and feeling a certain satisfaction in doing so." - Patti Smith
Smith's recital also celebrated the tenth anniversary of the same performance she first staged at The New York Public Library on April 29, 2010
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
The Divine Image To Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness. For Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is God our Father dear; And Mercy, Pity, Peace, and Love, Is man, His child and care. For Mercy has a human heart; Pity, a human face; And Love, the human form divine: And Peace the human dress. Then every man, of every clime, That prays in his distress, Prays to the human form divine: Love, Mercy, Pity, Peace. And all must love the human form, In heathen, Turk, or Jew. Where Mercy, Love, and Pity dwell, There God is dwelling too. by William Blake (from Songs of Innocence) , 1789
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti Smith's commission A New Year with CIRCA marks the 50th anniversary of her first poetry recital at St. Mark’s Church-in-the-Bowery, New York City, on 10 February 1971. Smith used guitarist Lenny Kaye to accompany her poems after asking him if he could “play a car crash with an electric guitar.” She described the performance as “a bit controversial because we had sort of desecrated the hall of poetry with an electric guitar.” This controversial mix of poetry and rock ‘n’ roll would soon become Smith’s trademark style and her path to recognition. For her first performance, she read a poem called “Oath” which begins, “Christ died for somebody’s sins but not mine.” This line, with “Christ” changed to “Jesus,” would become the opening of her most famous album Horses four years later. Smith continued to read occasionally at St. Mark’s Poetry Project while she established herself in the music world.
If we be blind, if we turn from Nature, the garden of the soul, she will turn on us. In place of songbird, the shrill cry of the locust devouring the harvest, the terrible crackling of the blazing rainforest. The bushfires. The animals screaming. Peatlands smoldering, seas rising, cathedrals flooding, the Arctic shelf melting, the Siberian wood burning, the Barrier Reef bleached as the bones of forgotten saints. If we be blind, failing in our supplication, species will die, bee and butterfly driven to extinction, all of Nature nothing more
than an empty husk, the ghost
of an abandoned hive.
One year ago today Patti Smith shared a poem on social media wishing Greta Thunberg a happy birthday as the environmental activist turned 17. The final lines of Smith’s message (“who stood today, as every Friday, refusing to be neutral) are in reference to Thunberg’s weekly appearances at the ‘Fridays for Future’ protests outside the Swedish parliament.
This is Greta Thunberg, turning seventeen today, asking for no accolade, no gifts, save we not be neutral. The Earth knows its kind, just as all deities, just as animals and the healing spring. Happy birthday to Greta, who stood today, as every Friday, refusing to be neutral. By Patti Smith, for Greta Thunberg, January 3rd 2020
Patti Smith, Devotion, 2017
A work of creative brilliance may seem like magic -- its source a mystery, its impact unexpectedly stirring. How does an artist accomplish such an achievement, connecting deeply with an audience never met? In this groundbreaking book, Patti Smith offers a detailed account of her own creative process, inspirations, and unexpected connections.
Smith first presents an original and beautifully crafted tale of obsession -- a young skater who lives for her art, a possessive collector who ruthlessly seeks his prize, a relationship forged of need both craven and exalted. She then takes us on a second journey, exploring the sources of her story. We travel through the South of France to Camus's house, and visit the garden of the great publisher Gallimard where the ghosts of Mishima, Nabokov, and Genet mingle. Smith tracks down Simone Weil's grave in a lonely cemetery, hours from London, and winds through the nameless Paris streets of Patrick Modiano's novels. Whether writing in a café or a train, Smith generously opens her notebooks and lets us glimpse the alchemy of her art and craft in this arresting and original book on writing.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti Smith, Horses, 1974
In 1974 Patti Smith made history with her first album Horses, a punk poetry album. Her lyrics and her influences from beat poetry brought intellectuality and feminism to the genre, predominantly masculine. Her androgynous, scruffy, “unfeminine” style, was challenging and revolutionary. Though born in an insular downtown milieu, Smith’s view was vast, conducting the poetry of the past—of Rimbaud, the Beats, and rock and roll—into an uncertain future, through the nascent medium of punk rock. The album is “closely associated with the beginning of something,” and yet is “so concerned with endings”: the loss of Jimi Hendrix (at whose studio Smith recorded), and of “other departed counterculture heroes like Jim Morrison, Janis Joplin and Brian Jones” writes Mac Randall.
She thought of herself as a poet who “got sidetracked” by music. “When I was young,” Smith says, “all I wanted was to write books and be an artist.” But poetry was always central to her work; Horses, she says, “evolved organically” from her first poetry reading, four years earlier, at St. Mark’s Church, alongside Allen Ginsberg, William Burroughs, and other luminaries.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti Smith, The Coral Sea, 2012
Through the linked pieces of The Coral Sea, Patti Smith honours her comrade-in-arms Robert Mapplethorpe (1946-1989). She tells the story of a man on an ocean journey to see the Southern Cross, who is reflecting on his life and fighting the illness that is consuming him. Metaphoric and dreamy, this tale of transformation arises from Smith's knowledge of Mapplethorpe from a young man to a mature artist; his close relationship with patron and friend, Sam Wagstaff; his years surviving AIDS; and his ascent into death. The Coral Sea is Smith's lyrically compelling recasting of her grief to recapture Mapplethorpe's life in the past and his future in his art. Rich in evocative details, it shows the man beneath the persona.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
The Chelsea Hotel, New York City, 1970
Located on West 23rd Street, between 7th and 8th Avenues, Hotel Chelsea is firmly part of American history. Originally opened in 1884, Mark Twain, Allen Ginsburg, Andy Warhol, Arthur Miller, Leonard Cohen, and the power couple Patti Smith and Robert Mapplethorpe were among the artists, writers, musicians, and poets who have called the hotel home.
The film producer Albert Scopin writes about Smith and Mapplethorpe the following: "Patti fascinated me from the very start. She really was completely different to any other human I had ever met before. She was pure energy. Everything was an experiment and everything was to be understood. Robert, on the other hand, was a cool cynic, yet the two stood united in their fundamental aim to get to the top and I am incredibly pleased to know that they really made it!" - Albert Scopin, 2014
And below a rare TV film from 1972. Patti is in love with New York, it's art and artists. Will she one day be a star? Jonathan Miller returns to the city where he once starred in Beyond the Fringe. A freewheeling portrait, through two pairs of eyes, of the city that can make or break you.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti is a great fan of Bob's songwriting, and vice versa. Patti's poem "Dylan's Dog" is about a dream Patti had of Dylan and his dog. Patti listened to Dylan's World Gone Wrong over and over while writing songs after her husband Fred's death. She covers Dylan's "Wicked Messenger" on Gone Again, and several critics have pointed to Dylan's influence on other songs on the album.
Patti writes:
"In the Spring of 1971, upon awakening, me and Sam Shepard discovered that we had both dreamed of Bob Dylan. Mine was so unusual that Sam suggested that I write about it. I wrote a kind of nursery song which I have performed through the years. Each time I am transported to that very morning, when the winger dog of Bob Dylan flew into my dreams."
dylans dog have you seen dylans dog it got wings it can fly if you speak of it to him its the only time dylan cant look you in the eye have you held dylans snake it rattles like a toy it sleeps in the grass it coils in his hand it hums and it strikes out when dylan cries out when dylan cries out have you pressed to your face dylans bird dylans bird it lies on dylans hip trembles inside of him it drops upon the ground it rolls with dylan round its the only one who comes when dylan comes have you seen dylans dog it got wings it can fly when it lands like a clown hes the only thing allowed to look dylan in the eye Patti Smith, 1971
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Anne Carson is a poet, essayist, professor of Classics, and translator. “In the small world of people who keep up with contemporary poetry,” wrote Daphne Merkin in the New York Times Book Review, Carson “has been cutting a large swath, inciting both envy and admiration.”
Eight years after Patti Smith performed My Blakean Year at the New York Public Library in 2010, Anne Carson delivered an illustrated lecture on the same stage, “On Corners.” Presenting the a range of texts and figures both classic and contemporary, Carson will touch on inspirations from Homer’s Odyssey, Aristotle, and Sophokles, to Samuel Beckett, Borges, James Turrell, and many more. This is one to watch!
A Flower Given To My Daughter, James Joyce
Frail the white rose and frail are
Her hands that gave
Whose soul is sere and paler
Than time's wan wave.
Rosefrail and fair, yet frailest
A wonder wild
In gentle eyes thou veilest,
My blueveined child.
Bahnhofstrasse, James Joyce
The eyes that mock me sign the way
Whereto I pass at eve of day.
Grey way whose violet signals are
The trysting and the twining star.
Ah star of evil! star of pain!
Highhearted youth comes not again
Nor old heart's wisdom yet to know
The signs that mock me as I go.
Today marks the 80th anniversary of one of the most influential and innovative writers of the 20th century and a great influence to Patti Smith: James Joyce. The Irish poet and novelist was the author of the short story collection Dubliners (1914) and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), Ulysses (1922), and Finnegans Wake (1939). His collections of poetry include Chamber Music (1907) and Pomes Penyeach (1927).
The poem Poem #2 was written in 1977 by Smith and Hell, and, according to a statement on Richard Hell's website, "printed on a flyer given away at a concert by the Smith Group and the Voidoids in 1978 (and its last word really is 'I'm'".
BONES OF WOOD (billboard poem)
By Robert Montgomery
13th January 2021
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti Smith on Authors She Loves
Below is a selected reading list of the books Smith mentions in her memoir M Train (2015) — some in direct and effusive homages, others obliquely, all lovingly. What emerges is a self-portrait of a creatively voracious mind, and glimpse into her wonderful view of literature.
After Nature (public library) by W.G. Sebald
Excerpt:
“At one time the three lengthy poems in this slim volume had such a profound effect on me that I could hardly bear to read them. Scarcely would I enter their world before I’d be transported to a myriad of other worlds. Evidences of such transports are crammed onto the endpapers as well as a declaration I once had the hubris to scrawl in a margin — I may not know what is in your mind, but I know how your mind works.
Max Sebald! … He sees, not with eyes, and yet he sees. He recognizes voices within silence, history within negative space. He conjures ancestors who are not ancestors, with such precision that the gilded threads of an embroidered sleeve are as familiar as his own dusty trousers.
[…]
What a drug this little book is; to imbibe it is to find oneself presuming his process. I read and feel that same compulsion; the desire to possess what he has written, which can only be subdued by writing something myself.”
The Thief’s Journal (public library) by Jean Genet
The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle (public library) by Haruki Murakami
A Wild Sheep Chase (public library) by Haruki Murakami
Kafka on the Shore (public library) by Haruki Murakami
Dance Dance Dance (public library) by Haruki Murakami
2666 (public library) by Roberto Bolaño
Amulet (public library) by Roberto Bolaño
The First Man (public library) by Albert Camus
Excerpt:
“A photograph of Albert Camus hung next to the light switch. It was a classic shot of Camus in a heavy overcoat with a cigarette between his lips, like a young Bogart, in a clay frame made by my son, Jackson… My son, seeing him every day, got the idea that Camus was an uncle who lived far away. I would glance up at him from time to time as I was writing.”
The Divine Comedy (public library) by Dante Alighieri
The Story of Davy Crockett (public library) by Enid Meadowcroft
The Little Lame Prince (public library) by Rosemary Wells
Ariel (public library) by Sylvia Plath
Excerpt:
“My copy of Ariel [was] given to me when I was twenty. Ariel became the book of my life then, drawing me to a poet with hair worthy of a Breck commercial and the incisive observational powers of a female surgeon cutting out her own heart. With little effort I visualized my Ariel perfectly. Slim, with faded black cloth, that I opened in my mind, noting my youthful signature on the cream endpaper. I turned the pages, revisiting the shape of each poem.”
The Master and Margarita (public library) by Mikhail Bulgakov
Winter Trees (public library) by Sylvia Plath
Four Major Plays (public library) by Henrik Ibsen
After-Dinner Declarations (public library) by Nicanor Parra
Letters from Iceland (public library) by W.H. Auden
The Petting Zoo (public library) by Jim Carroll
Quote:
“Essential to anyone in search of concrete delirium”
Tractatus Logico (public library) by Ludwig Wittgenstein
A Dog of Flanders (public library) by Ouida
The Prince and the Pauper (public library) by Mark Twain
The Blue Bird (public library) by Maurice Maeterlinck
Five Little Peppers and How They Grew (public library) by Margaret Sidney
Little Women (public library) by Louisa May Alcott
Through the Looking-Glass (public library) by Lewis Carroll
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn (public library) by Betty Smith
The Glass Bead Game (public library) by Hermann Hesse
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
When Oscar Wilde (October 16, 1854–November 30, 1900) was incarcerated for being homosexual, he set out to be reborn within the walls of the infamous Reading Prison and recorded that quest for rebirth on the hundred pages of a stunning 50,000-word letter to Sir Alfred “Bosie” Douglas — the love of Wilde’s life and the subject of his exquisite love letters. Titled De Profundis, it chronicled Wilde’s effort to transmute his suffering into a spiritual journey toward self-transcendence.
In 2016, the notorious prison opened its doors to the public for the first time and the London-based arts organisation Artangel invited artists and writers to respond to Wilde’s stirring letter. Among them was Smith, who read from the original text and ended with a stunning vocal performance of her fittingly themed song “Wing.”
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Today is the 11th anniversary of Just Kids, Patti Smith's memoir documenting her relationship with artist Robert Mapplethorpe being published.
"I didn't write it to be cathartic," she noted. "I wrote it because Robert asked me to… Our relationship was such that I knew what he would want and the quality of what he deserved. So that was my agenda for writing that book. I wrote it to fulfil my vow to him, which was on his deathbed. In finishing, I did feel that I'd fulfilled my promise."
Chelsea Hotel footage filmed in 1972 by Albert Scopin
Today is the 11th anniversary of Just Kids, Patti Smith's memoir documenting her relationship with artist Robert Mapplethorpe. "I didn't write it to be cathartic," she noted. "I wrote it because Robert asked me to… Our relationship was such that I knew what he would want and the quality of what he deserved. So that was my agenda for writing that book. I wrote it to fulfil my vow to him, which was on his deathbed. In finishing, I did feel that I'd fulfilled my promise."
Today is a resounding day for the United States of America as Joe Biden and Vice President Kamala Harris are inaugurated into office. In celebration, CIRCA presents a virtual presentation by punk poet laureate, Patti Smith.
Featuring a specially recorded performance of ‘People Have The Power’ set against a montage of footage paying homage to people and organisations, past and present, who have used their voice to help create a better future: Shirley Chisholm; Kamala Harris; Greta Thunberg; Naomi Wadler; The Soup Kitchen, Holborn; The Emergency Designer Network, and many more.
This specially created 30-minute presentation features poetry, music, readings and an acoustic performance of ‘Because The Night’ by Thigh High (Tom Rasmussen and Hatty Carman) it is free to watch on the CIRCA YouTube channel at precisely 20:21GMT on the 20 January 2021.
“It’s a beautiful night, we have a new President and Vice President and our democracy seems to be quite intact and just wish everyone a better year. 2020 has been a Blakean year but I think the glad day is coming. This performance goes to everyone, it’s for everyone all over the world. Fred wrote it so that it might be embraced and it might inspire people globally, and it has. His wishes came true and may the wishes ring out in the New Year.”
Eternity It has been found again. What? – Eternity. It is the sea fled away With the sun. Sentinel soul, Let us whisper the confession Of the night full of nothingness And the day on fire. From humain approbation, From common urges You diverge here And fly off as you may. Since from you alone, Satiny embers, Duty breathes Without anyone saying: at last. Here is no hope, No orietur. Knowledge and fortitude, Torture is certain. It has been found again. What? – Eternity. It is the sea fled away With the sun. Arthur Rimbaud, May 1872
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
[ Transcript of above ]
à dix heures le 10 Novembre 1891
le poète Jean Arthur Rimbaud
rencontra la FIN de son
adventure Terrestre
A.R.
devotions. to Arthur Rimbaud. he was young. he was so damn young. he was so god damned. Drunk with the Blood of Baby dolls. Mad laughter. power. running neck and neck with his vision was his demon. Sooner Stick his dick up the baby dolls ass. Shove pins in the heads of innocents. Bad seed with a golden spleen. Ha Ha. he has the last laugh. Blonde Hairs raveling in your vital breath. White hydrogen. Rimbaud. Savior of the forgotten scientists: the alchemists. alchemy. of The. The Word. The power of The Word. Love Rays. bullets on the alter. obscene ceremonies. leave no proof clues. gold. behind. Rimbaud blessé Rimbaud wounded Rimbaud: angel with sleeves of blue hair. [NO] light without shadow. Rimbaud was a rolling stone are all prophets persecuted? He was so damn young.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Listen to Patti Smith reading the forward from The One Inside.
The first work of long fiction from the Pulitzer Prize-winning playwright Sam Shepard — a tour de force of memory, mystery, death, and life.
This searing, extraordinarily evocative narrative opens with a man in his house at dawn, surrounded by aspens, coyotes cackling in the distance as he quietly navigates the distance between present and past. More and more, memory is overtaking him: in his mind he sees himself in a movie-set trailer, his young face staring back at him in a mirror surrounded by light bulbs. In his dreams and in visions he sees his late father—sometimes in miniature, sometimes flying planes, sometimes at war. By turns, he sees the bygone America of his childhood: the farmland and the feedlots, the railyards and the diners—and, most hauntingly, his father's young girlfriend, with whom he also became involved, setting into motion a tragedy that has stayed with him. His complex interiority is filtered through views of mountains and deserts as he drives across the country, propelled by jazz, benzedrine, rock and roll, and a restlessness born out of exile. The rhythms of theater, the language of poetry, and a flinty humor combine in this stunning meditation on the nature of experience, at once celebratory, surreal, poignant, and unforgettable.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A USELESS DEATH I am on the scaffold. What excitement! What glitter! What is going on? I know so little of this country. I suspect its the coronation of the queen. NO. Oh god. I'm wrong. Its the execution of the queen! and I'm trapped. there's no way I can help. there's no way I can avoid watching. perched on this scaffold. I gotta bird's eye view. The king calls for action. like the director of some blown out passion play. He makes a weary gesture. its clear he hasn't slept in ages. first come the ladies in waiting. there they are. thirty of them. dressed alike. high-waisted green taffeta gowns. moving alike. medieval majorettes. that flemish air. nose in air. thirty pairs of tiny hands folded over protruding bellies. why are condemned women affecting a pregnant woman's gesture? and how comical it is. thirty sentenced women swaying. some very pretty indeed. many on the brink of collapse. The king is muttering. what is he saying? seems my hearing has become as acute as my view. "god damn ladies-in-waiting. get rid of them. how I've despised them. always clutter up the castle. cluck cluck." He seems to object to them more than the queen. but as the saying goes: kill me ya kill my dogs. and vice versa. its a package deal. its the rules of the game. and a king sticks to them. the ladies are in tears. tearing tissues. they approach a sizeable block of land. its roped off and seasoned with fresh topsoil. 3l shovels are lined up face down. The king decrees that they are to dig their own grave. Jesus what a rucas. The women lose what composure they had in the procession. They sob openly. they wring their hands and cling to one another. several fall prostrate. those more distraught tear their hair and rip their gowns. This is getting ridiculous. The prince is embarrassed. I throw a quick glance toward the castle. Backdrop. There is the queen. No one has noticed her. She moves as if a dream. listless. weightless. she seems to have little to do with the proceedings. does she understand that death is near? she seems completely unaware. How I admire her! She is a true heroine. Oblivious of her power. how power, love and death revolve around her! as though she had never stood before a mirror. The king is exasperated. her lack of recognition. does his word mean nothing? The ladies-in-waiting make up for it. they weep harder at the sight of their gentle queen. they beat their breasts in unison. a few onlookers swoon. The cook has to be carried off. The queen is handed a spade. Was that a smile that crossed her face? its impossible to tell now. Suddenly she shivers and says, "I'm cold". Instantly I feel the intense cold. everyone does. god, its below zero. I'm confused. wasn't it just spring? everyone has on thin wraps. Even the king has but a simple velvet cloak and not his usual ermine. The ladies' teeth chatter. the only way to keep warm is to move. they begin to dig like the devil. thirty women working hard in the soil creates great warmth. if they stop to rest they'll freeze to death. The queen can't seem to get in the swing of things. she helps a bit. loosens a chunk of hard clay or helps excavate a huge rock. occasionally a smooth stone or a pretty piece of crystal will attract her. she handles it. examines it. turns it over. drops it in her train which she has gathered up smiling. her childish delight in serving herself. Frost is making it harder to dig. yet the women are working like madmen to keep warm. The king has lost interest. the queen is wandering off. everyone is going home. I lose my footing fall off the scaffold everything in slow motion. crime without passion By Patti Smith [originally published as a small chapbook by the Gotham Book Mart, 1972]
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Patti Smith read 'The Tyger' (by William Blake) during a benefit concert for the museum on October 20, 2011. The concert was held in conjunction with the exhibition opening of Patti Smith: Camera Solo. Patti Smith: Camera Solo was on view from October 20, 2011 through February 19, 2012.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Keith Richards x Patti Smith
The February 1978 issue of Rock Scene contains a pretty cool poem written by Patti Smith in honour of one “Keith Richard,” yes, with the “S” missing. The poem is called “Wreath” and there's little evidence that it was ever sung live.
WREATH on the hills of rif we come to greet you through the halls of myth we choose to roam crown of thorns shroud of love our gifts we offer and the waters of life of health of stone on the hills of rif we call, undefeated crown of thorns kreed of love and language comb on the hills of rif we rise salute you ja-kiss your face of light and bone Patti Smith, 1978
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Perfect Moon, 1996, Patti Smith
This poem written by Patti Smith was released on Ivan Kral's Nostalgia album in 1995. Music was produced by John Cale.
Perfect Moon perfect moon I am calling perfect moon clad impure I approach your naked neck barefoot baying perfect moon perfect moon I am with you perfect moon I adore surrendering to thy great hands I am yours perfect moon Patti Smith, 1995
A New Year
The new year began, as the world fell into a state of unprecedented calm. And the farmer dropped his sickle and froze, witnessing a spectacle overwhelming in its common majesty. The sky was the brightest of blues, unblemished by cloud, the fields stretching before him were as the purest gold and without shadow. The wheat was plentiful and the hive ran with a honey rivaling the gold of the fields. Beyond, the streams were bright and clear as if poured from a crystals infinite center.
The children ceased their play and stood in baffled silence as a host of luminous balloons, wider than great ships, hovered, dipped as if in greeting, then ascended deep into that same blue.
Bowls of bread and fish and fruit materialized in the hands of the hungry. The sun drew the water from raging flood, relieving the saturated earth. The rain satiated drought and the desert flourished. Rivers teamed with fish, pink and plentiful. And the lame ran, the blind spun in a new radiance, and the sick rose refreshed.
The healing worm rose from the clay of creation and the tongue of every living thing brought forth understanding. And laughter rang out and the grieving were comforted. Bells of silver chimed and all bowed their heads, giving thanks. And rainbows circled the earth like the rings of Saturn, and all dipped their fingers into its formlessness and knew that it was good.
Bringing us full circle to the start of the month when Patti Smith recited My Blakean Year for us on New Year Eve 2020/21, we conclude this month's CIRCA Calendar by looking back to New Year's Eve of 1976. Rarely involving herself in politics, and factoring in the function the Piccadilly Lights screen serves, Smith wrote an inspiring and powerful manifesto in response to the media culture of the times which is worthy of recollection.
On November 29th 1976, Smith was banned from WNEW, New York's most powerful alt-rock radio station for saying "fuck" on the air. Smith and her band played a raucous New Year's Eve show at New York's Palladium, originally meant to be broadcast live by WNEW but isn't, in light of the ban. Smith responded by condemning the station and the Federal Communications Commission in an essay on censorship (later published by the Yipster Times) entitled, "You Can't Say Fuck in Radio Free America". Her outspoken stance for free speech and against the government generated much controversy. "I wouldn't say that I'm political; I don't know much about politics", Smith says. "I really hate politics but I care about our world. I'm a mom and I care about the world in terms of my children and everybody else's children. My parents were both concerned with the human condition and so am I. I wouldn't say it makes me political; I would like to think I'm a humanist."
Our last day of the CIRCA Calendar for January 2021 with Patti Smith endeavours to remind us of our freedoms, rights, and abilities to speak openly, and give awareness to the powers across media cultures, politics and the institutional frameworks that surround us.
Fuck the word…fuck the word
fuck the word the word is dead
is re-defined…the bird in the (womb)
is expelled by the propelling
motion of fuck the fucking
THE RESISTANCE
We believe in the total freedom of communication and we will not be compromised. The censorship of words is as meaningless as the censorship of musical notes; we cannot tolerate either. Freedom means exactly that: no limits, no boundaries…rock and roll is not a colonial power to be exploited, told what to say and how to say it. This is the spirit in which our music began and the flame in which is must be continued. Radio Ethiopia is a symphony of experience…each piece a movement…14 movements…14 stations.
There is silence on my radio…
–Stones
They are trying to silence us, but they cannot succeed. We cannot be “trusted” not to pollute the airwaves with our idealism and intensity. W(New) York has proved unresponsive at best to the new rock and roll being born under its ears…a music having worldwide cause and effect…injecting a new sense of urgency and imperative. Radio has consistently lagged behind the needs of the community it is honor-
We Want The Radio And We Want It Now 1977…the celebration of 1776-
The colonial year is dead. Rock and roll is not a colonial art.
We colonize to further the freedom of space.
We must dedicate ourselves to the future…in the sixties the DOG was GOD…the underdogs rose up and merged and fought for political freedom…we of 1977 are Rat/Art.
–Radio Ethiopia, 1977
suspended in relics (art)…The guardian of ritual salute all that heralds and redefines civilization into a long streaming system of tongues…salute then spit on those who left us the ruins of much broken ground then move on…
dedicate to the future we are thus fasting…we rip into the past/
1977. We the people of the neo-
!!THE ART/RAT DAWNS!!
(THE AWAKENING GRAIN)
RAISE UP/
[this manifesto (text as reproduced in High on Rebellion) was first printed in Yipster Times, March 1977]
The two South London-raised artists, spoken word poets and ‘chosen’ siblings Rene Matić and Kai-Isaiah Jamal came together before the end of 2020 to write four letters to each other entitled ‘Us 3’. These poetic correspondences were written in response to Patti Smith’s poetry and her ‘A New Year’ with CIRCA for January 2021. In light of the many social, political and environmental concerns that have taken place over the past twelve months, ‘Us 3’ and ‘A New Year’ together convey stories of optimism and kinship for a disparate world, and make a call for radical action in the face of so much imbalance.
Us 3
Written by Kai-Isaiah Jamal & Rene Matić
1st January, 2021
Kai,
I dreamed of freedom like Patti.
like we knew it was good
freedom
Freedom like calm like she said freedom like freedom like no fear like fist in
the air freedom
like success that comes from doing it like
freedom of space
space to work space to love like fruit like freedom to not dream it but be it freedom
like being understood like making sense like this is my dance space freedom
sweet freedom
endless materials freedom like roof tops like poets and paint like freedom
freedom like listening and being listened to
like freedom as desire as writing and thought and being alone and being with her and being with freedom
like rhythm and my hips and yours and strong hands freedom
a vase of freedom a glass of freedom a shot of freedom
like dirty like just as you want it as you feel it freedom like your bedroom with the door shut and our living room with
the window open
freedom
like before we knew it was white
disgusting
freedom
deserving freedom
delicate freedom
freedom like dub like blue beat like lovers rock rock steady punk rock rock and roll freedom like obviously
Ascending
like she says
and obviously running running without lungs like lungs don’t exist so we could just run freedom
and chain smoke freedom
and sit and rest and obviously birds and obviously flying and obviously balloons but also standing and stillness and
sleeping
and everybody freedom and nobody freedom and no body
beyond body beyond and
breaking through to the other side and the other side and the other side and the other side and the other side and the
other side and
I’ve got other sides freedom
No capital letters no countries no flags
no gods no mothers or whatever your tattoo says
but absolutely mothers
loving mothers
and maybe even gods
gods as lovers as fingers as gods
build ups and crescendo’s and
free money freedom awake in the night freedom
no years no minutes no seconds freedom no gender freedom
steel toe capped boots and knuckle dusters and knives in pockets freedom
no meds freedom
no trauma
freedom
they can’t hurt you now can’t hurt you now can’t hurt you now can’t hurt you now freedom
no truths
no traitors
freedom
plentiful, like she says and she says it twice freedom
formless freedom
falling failing flailing freedom
feel free to stop me freedom
Kai freedom
sky freedom
my freedom
bye freedom
hi freedom
high freedom
why freedom
because is it a lie, freedom?
‘baffled silence’ freedom Patti?
Patti?
____
____
Oh teeny one.
I believe I should have answers as a sibling, in the same duty I should have words as a poet.
But my whole life I’ve known the vastness of nothing. How sometimes to be nameless and numberless and motherless, thus to belong to nothing that knows your name or the scent of what it was before. Is the only way to be free.
How sometimes that does encompass all of the words
that do not belong to our tongue yet.
Freedom, do be what it be.
Anything can be synonym for it
If you believe in all of the words enough —
Especially the ones that do not belong to your tongue yet.
That are breach and trying to be birthed or waiting to be born.
And if it is the right to write the wrong words,
Then freedom is all of the things you are shouting and also the whisper of gaps between.
Freedom is whatever escapes from the gap in my teeth
In my first or final breath.
Freedom is my breath and how it does not ask to be. To be.
Freedom is us. Us just being kids, being just kids and kids forever.
Because freedom is forever which means it might not be here.
Might need to be somewhere a little more eternal.
Where a son I can be the boy the beast and the butterfly.
But that’s cool baby, that’s okay because freedom is today.
And also tomorrow and also as long as our souls keep living.
How long a soul been in a body?
How many bodies has it been in before it’s been in ours?
How many parts of souls belong to us that are not our own?
I wonder if my soul has ever lived inside your body.
I am sure it has because freedom is comfortable. I feel comfortable least but most with you.
When we are talking about a woman that lives in both of our souls
And her own — all at the same time.
Makes you think of a holy trinity. 3 always feels more like freedom. Unless it’s 3 the mandem.
2 is just too tied and tethered and ankles make me nervous
Like freedom is the geography of your body
But only sometimes.
Remember when I was gonna move the mountains?
Freedom is the knife being in the other hand.
Freedom is the knives in pockets
Becoming flowers.
Freedom is the knives in pockets
Becoming flowers.
Freedom is everything being a poem
everything being something else.
fists becoming knives becoming flowers becoming cocks freedom is believing nothing of it at all.
But trusting you.
and trusting Patti.
and trusting that my liberation
is in your little legs
And my long little legs.
And look I’m running
And not away.
And look we are running
Look we are jumping and dancing toward’s the sound.
I’ll meet you both there. We’ll taste it I promise.
The vinyl hysterically screams.
____
____
my just kid kai,
thank you for getting back
i don’t have gaps between my teeth,
i used to though,
maybe
i gave all the gaps to my dad.
but that is for another day
another year
‘unblemished by clouds’
we write so much like her, enit?
maybe tonight i’ll dress like her, enit?
white shirt black tie
kai
perhaps that is all a soul is is
similarity familiarity freedom
family
have you ever bought a record from a charity shop and found the previous owners name on the sleeve? i like that
that is a body that’s been
there is someone else’s name on my ‘easter’ album. there was someone else’s name on you for a while
likkle freedom
vissi d’arte, vissi d’amore freedom
rimbaud said something about us all once
‘a thousand dreams within me softly burn’
like chidera’s rose petal joints
like paris is burning
like
when silver spoons aren’t there at least knives are
or fists
or flowers
or freedom
it was edgar allen poe that said
‘and all i loved
i loved alone’
and this is patti for me
for you
when we’ve been lonely
and oh god
we are so often lonely
and when we are lonely
we look for things to love
and so we find our 3
3 always feels more like freedom
It’s funny you mention our legs because you look so much like legs to me every part of you has the ability to move
freedom
so let’s move
like we moved that day so separately so together
i think i was 17 or something
field day
freedom
2015 freedom
2021 freedom
happy new year baby
____
____
Even when your ears aren’t listening,
Your body is.
I told Maggie the other day, whilst you were in the bath
that I love being called a kid or kiddo.
Makes me feel like I belong there
[right there]
in someone’s mouth.
Even if they don’t have a gap like mine.
Being called home.
That’s all I ever write about init?
[home]
Making it or shaping it or breaking it or ruining it or reclaiming it or not having it or coming to yours and taking up some space.
I keep all my bags half-packed like i’m going somewhere
Everything in piles ready to throw in cases —
Always.
I am always packing a bag. I am always in preparation for what is to come.
I am already fist up, tenderly at times.
Isn’t freedom just unpacking your bags?
For ever.
For forever
or some time that feels a little like it.
I have. I also write notes in most records, in hope that one day someone will find it.
Maybe then I have always been writing for you, unknowingly but earnestly.
All in preparation for this.
Us
The holy trinity standing in Victoria park
2k15.
I had enough time to drop my backpack
Into Jem’s tree house that day.
And all I had was the money in my pocket,
the tobacco at the bottom of the dark green pouch
and a hand loosely in mine.
And there was even less in the backpack
nothing to unpack, really no purpose.
Which felt so fitting. I was carrying a lot of dead weight that summer.
But I went freely into it;
Owning nothing.
Owned by nothing,
with a backwards bruised heart.
Patti says
‘i don’t do nothing perfect’
‘i only fuck up perfect’
on stage
And I know what it is to be home.
Red stripe in black hand.
Surrounded by so much white.
But compromised no green below my feet. Stood my ground to see.
Because if anyone does black and white
It’s Patti right?
And Robert.
And white shirts.
And black ties.
And dark rooms.
And me and you Rene.
Im gonna write
‘Baby Rudeboy’ on my Horses cover
Blood is just permanent ink. You my blood.
Freedom is marking what’s ours.
I would have always found you. We have always been an arm stretch away. Two sides of a stage.
Le monde est à nous.
We know who said it best:
“Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed. It leads to each other. We become ourselves.”