Last night a thief came to me
And struck at me with something dark.
I cried, but no one could hear me,
I lay dumb and stark.
When I awoke this morning
I could find no trace;
Perhaps ’twas a dream of warning,
For I’ve lost my peace.
Lawrence, DH, New Poems, New York: B.W. Huebsch, 1916.
http://asemic-net.blogspot.com/2011/08/me-we-number-1.html
A little bit of cheating. I posted this asemic piece on another website but it’s a fantastic space of asemic writers and I certainly encourage readers to have a look through the incredible range of writing.
When the wind works against us in the dark,
And pelts with snow
The lowest chamber window on the east,
And whispers with a sort of stifled bark,
The beast,
‘Come out! Come out!’ -
It costs no inward struggle not to go,
Ah, no!
I count our strength,
Two and a child,
Those of us not asleep subdued to mark
How the cold creeps as the fire dies at length,—
How drifts are piled,
Dooryard and road ungraded,
Till even the comforting barn grows far away
And my heart owns a doubt
Whether ’tis in us to arise with day
And save ourselves unaided.
We are currently accepting submissions for the December issue of Rem Magazine. Deadline: 1 November 2011. Please read the guidelines carefully and submit!
Shameless promotion: latest issue of Rem Magazine is now online.
Includes: Stephen Bett, Iain Britton, Barbara Strang, Tim Gaze, Anna Kelly, Alex Wilson, Vaughan Rapatahana, Farhad Nabipour and an interview with John M. Bennett:
http://remmagazine.net/sieverts-issues/
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry
In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?
And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?
What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water’d heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?
Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?
When I was 11, I decided – in a completely non-sensical manner, befitting for a pre-adolescent child – that I simply had to learn ‘The Tiger’ poem off by heart. I’m not sure what compelled me to do so because the imagery of this poem isn’t particularly endearing but I suspect I fell in love with the romantic idea that I was in love with a romantic poet and somehow that love was enough to make me more interestingly weird than I already was to my classmates.
Anyway.
I memorised the poem and for several months, I recited it happily…until I discovered a ratty copy of Robert Frost in our pathetically underfunded school library. My love affair with Blake died like the short affair that it was.
Actually, no. I lie. I still like Blake’s body of work and I still love this poem but not for the same reasons that my 11 year old self had. William Blake was the experimental poet of his generation. Considered mad by his peers, he died largely unrecognised. Yet his poetry defines the ‘hippy’ aspirations of the Romantic period. For me, Blake offers an insight into a piece of literary terminology that writers such as myself throw around casually as if we’re paddock-matting. What exactly do we mean by experimental writing?
Well many things but in brief, experimental writing is whatever exists outside of, or grinds against, the normative content – the values, the worldview – of a dominant literary culture (although one could argue that dominance is a moot position. Experimental writing could be anything that doesn’t fit within the spectrum of ideals established by any particular subculture. After all, many within the asemic community will easily consider their product of labour as ‘normal’ and Walt Whitman’s poetry as ‘exotic.’). Blake reached beyond classicist models to create prophetic and expressive poetry that engaged a new philosophy of creativity. Individual imagination had to be the prime mover of human existence. Romanticism wasn’t a complete rejection of the Classicist model and Church authority but it certainly encouraged the idea that creatives were gods in the moment of their inspiration. After all, if they were creating something from nothing, that feat alone was proof of their divine inspirations. In a roundabout way, I guess that is what attracted me to Blake when I was 11 years old. ‘The Tiger’ symbolised the absolute freedom of interaction with the human mind. How could I not fall in love?
In case you are wondering, the poem is obviously in the public domain. As is the book in which this version appeared. Arthur Quiller-Couch, ed. 1919. The Oxford Book of English Verse: 1250–1900. Without sounding like an advert, http://www.bartleby.com is a great resource for public domain books.
I found this old asemic poem tucked away in the recesses of a mislabelled folder. The flowers are actually comprised of words but, unfortunately, I can’t find the original text; I have no idea what this poem is about.
I’d also like to stress how much I dislike masse-market Photoshop actions. However, I have found them useful tools for illustrating certain functions of the software. The action I have used in this work is called Out Of Bounds, I believe (and googleable).
Flowers, photo-manipulation, 2010.
