I vecka 20 får vi se vilken webbplats som tutar högst.
Den tredje bidragsgivaren bland webbplatserna har nog den högsta akademiska svansföringen av dem alla.
The Times Literary Supplement har funnits sedan 1902.
Jag har redan beskrivit sajten en gång förut, och nöjer mig med att repetera den kaxiga inledningen på deras egna historiebeskrivning.
"Since 1902, the TLS has scrutinized, dissected, applauded, and occasionally disparaged, the work of the twentieth century’s leading writers and thinkers. Many of those same writers and thinkers have been notable contributors to the paper – from T. S. Eliot and Virginia Woolf in the 1920s to Paul Muldoon, Ali Smith and Joyce Carol Oates today."
Nu till veckans tre dikturval.
Burns night, by Owen Gallagher (f. 1949)
(from A good enough love. Cliffs of Moher, County Clare [Ireland] : Salmon Poetry, 2015.)
I want to be that lone bagpipe player in the field,
in full dress, under the motorway, pumping up
the sun on this icy morning, forcing leaves out
on trees, piping one of a forgotten clan from a glen,
play at the opening of the Highland Games
from Braemar to the Cowal Gathering,
and lead a triumphant Scottish football team
off at the next World Cup. The pipe's drone
reminds me of their banning, the clearances, kilts
and dirks, and make me feel like a celebrity
as I'm piped into this London field,
before I have finished my morning run,
by a magical, mantelpiece figure
in a Munro, MacLean, or MacPhurlan tartan,
who could tease salmon from a river
and a wandering Scot back home.
Research, by Derek Mahon (f. 1941)
(from Life on earth. Loughcrew, Oldcastle, Co. Meath : Gallery, 2008.)
An actual conch
Like a human head on its side,
Washed up and left here by the ebb tide,
a magigal-sculpture, perfectly arbitrary,
lies as if dropped from orbit.
Oh, they will launch
research to find
ice in the Sea of Rains,
a first dubious twitch of mud and plants,
signs of life on the other planets,
whispers of inchoate mind
and flickering brains.
Meanwhile on Earth
we’ve mud, plants, pleasure, pain
and even real livies to be getting on with;
seasons for this and that, the works and days
of many mice and men
as Hesiod says.
Best to ignore
“the great ocean of truth”,
the undiscovered seas of outer space,
and research this real unconscious conch on the shore with its polished, archaic face
and its air of myth.
|Med en kazoo i munnen.|
Reveille with Kazoo, by George David Clark
(from Reveille : poems. Fayetteville : University of Arkansas Press, 2015.)
From your overlong, even invincible sleep;
from the pink and orange moth-scales
that collect on your mind like a dust;
from the stately plush where you jonah
in a bottled frigate’s belly;
from this lopsided aerie of marigold sheets:
Sleeper, your shoelaces knot
out of boredom. Light wants in your pockets
like money. Wake up from the torpors
of cat fur, from these lingerie dragnets
of lace. The swimming pools
of the future were born this morning
and tenderly swaddled in sun-lust.
Pamphlets announcing new flavors
of ice cream descend on the plaza
in a blitz of sugar. And under the bridge
an angel spray-paints her wings.