Eighteen

 

Patriotism and duty are key issues in American life. The inspiration for this piece came from the original 1813 Star Spangled Banner created by Mary Pickersgill, and which was raised over Fort McHenry on the morning of September 14, 1814, to signal the American victory over the British in the Battle of Baltimore. In the late 1800’s over 200 sq feet of snippets were cut from the flag and given away as souvenirs to prominent people. As a conceptual piece I have attempted to define the power of patriotism as a symbol gradually eroded by the stress of conflict, as exemplified by the contemporary war on terrorism. Each individual piece represents a State of the U.S. and as a whole is meant to evoke the numerous stones in a military graveyard. As ‘Snippets’ it questions the U.S. Patriot act of 2001, enacted by the administration of President George W. Bush and which enables the government to examine and intercept all communications and personal records of U.S. residents in the war against terrorism. It addresses the conflict between personal freedom and governmental control, the fracturing of patriotism in an attempt by the authorities to curtail foreign incursions. Such controversial elements in this are covered in depth in Michael Moore’s ‘Fahrenheit 9/11’ which was also a major inspiration of the piece.

 

I changed this piece as it developed in the latter stages to reflect the events of October 2009 which saw the heaviest losses of personnel in Afghanistan. 18 refers to the number of killed servicemen brought to Dover Air Force Base in Delaware on October 29^th 2009, a unique event since President Barack Obama attended this event together with the families of the deceased. At this point he (The President) was aware of the fact that he had been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize, and the committee was reported as subtly attempting to influence his decision to cease the conflict in Iraq and Afghanistan, yet all of this was to no avail. In December of 2009 the President made the order to send a further 30,000 troops to Afghanistan despite having received an international award for peace.

 

Throughout the production of this piece I have been working with numerical values and their connections to the lives of real individuals. It finally reached its apex with the designation of ’18.’ That so often war is often only concerned with numbers and statistics and fails to appreciate events on a human scale. I was emotionally moved by the return of dead servicemen at Dover and motivated to write an accompanying poem; ‘Eighteen is Not Just a Number.’ The name ‘Dover’ is a significant cultural reference in my mind, connected to the ‘White Cliffs of Dover’ which soldiers returning from the wars in Europe would see first; it signifies a safe haven, a end to conflict, peace. I thought that this event at Dover AFB would the beginning of the end (of the war) and a return to normality, but I was disappointed and disheartened. In the background I could hear the Joint Chiefs of Staff and general’s laughing… laughing at the Presidents prize for peace whilst they handed him the order to send in more troops to continue their war.

 

‘18’ sums up my feelings concerning American patriotism as an ideal that is slowly fracturing under the weight and expense of total war. 

O white silence

Snow and sand and chalk

Vision of Dover

Pale moon silent

Standing stillness

Faces in prayer

Unloading the Eighteen.

 

Eighteen…

Not just a random number

But the price of Patriotism:

 

18 mother’s tears

18 hours of waiting

18 steps of despair

18 shots in darkness

18 fragments of memory

18 reasons to doubt

18 hollow sounds

18 random shouts

18 blanks

18 citations

18 awards

18 lost lovers

18 letters sent

18 SSN’s

18 resume’s

18 hearts

18 questions

18 men…

 

Eighteen is not just a number.

Artwork: Flag #18 (formerly ‘Star Spangled Snippets’). Cotton Fabric (American Flag) on Pinewood panel, Acrylic paint, flat household paint, military belt, Fencing Wire, Steel Staples.

Copyright David John Drew 2009

Arianrhod: Queen of Heaven

Arianrhod

Thro darkest violet vales of shade

Her crescent crown appears in light

New bright moon of silver'd braid

A Queen invoked from velvet night

The Grace appears from whispered praise

The Goddess in cloak of purest white.

Unshrouded she walks thro our minds

Dancing in streams before out eyes

Inspiring dreams with love refined

Mortal souls stretched to highest skies

Heavens brow, a form majestic, designed…

A bridge of quiet, silent beams and sighs.

Her blessing bestowed thro age and time

From depths of space, eternal bond

Banished thought of death: tremulous rhyme

Ancient spinning wheel, a voice beyond

Echoes our prayer with words sublime

Ever watching, waiting to respond.

All Rights Reserved/Copyright David John Drew 2009

The Ferryman and the Ship Yard

 

Chinkle of the ferry chains

 

In the river's downward wind,

 

Secures the dire mooring

 

Decayed landing platform...

 

Where thousands embarked, left and

 

Crossed and returned

 

For work; now is silent;

 

Swinging in tides, holding

 

Now… Only a harbor of

 

Memories.

 

 

 

In a dense fog comes a ghost...

 

A monk, nestled

 

In the oak ribs, and

 

Leather of a coracle...

 

Sinews struggling with the tunes

 

Of deep, hidden currents

 

One solid oar dipping

 

In rippling shadows

 

Of murmuring...

 

Dark energies.

 

Chanting a psalm

 

Through sheets of cold sleet

 

Creating ringlets and triskeles

 

On the cold iced surface

 

Of green, brackish Water.

 

 

Looking back, turning round

 

At the Southern bank, and shore

 

Of shingle, looking back

 

Across the river, with all time...

 

All the history, a dim haze

 

retreated and gone.

 

 

 

Hammers now silent;

 

No riveters or the bright

 

Embers of welder's torches;

 

Who talks with that...

 

That dialect now?

 

The tongues are also

 

Silent... unheard... Long gone and lost,

 

The precious Gold coin of an Emperor

 

Buried deep in the earth.

 

 

All Rights Reserved/Copyright David John Drew 2009.

Jean Francois D'or and the Eccentric Club

The Eccentric Club, formerly known in its various incarnations as The Illustrious Society of Eccentrics, The Everlasting Society of Eccentrics, The Eccentric Society Club and, finally, The Eccentric Club. It was once one of the most important institutions of the British society. Its name is a long established and reputable brand, its members were amongst those who had shaped the British culture into what it is now, its history is inseparable with that of Britain itself... Founded a number of times by seemingly unrelated and socially different groups of people, for centuries it served as a meeting point to many great and original minds, pioneers of thought in artistic, literary, theatrical, scientific, legal and political circles, providing an amicable environment for their recreational and creative pastime as well as a testing ground for the novel and controversial theories and approaches to the issues equally important to the British society and the entire mankind.

First records of The Eccentric Club began with its official opening in 1781:

"Lookat that eccentric wheel in that steam engine, what motion would you get out of it without that wheel's eccentricity - only rest. So in society you would get precious little driving force out of it, but for eccentricities having free andactive motion. Let us encourage them, let us utilize them! (Applause)." -(Extract of the opening speech by its first president, 1781).

I composed a poem Inspired by the forthcoming 'Monthly General Meeting' of the Eccentric Club in London; which will incorporate a festival of eccentric poetry- featuring cutting-edge contemporary verse versus lyric recollections from the dusty archival drawers of the authors and publishers. In this I adopted the traditional sonnet, an example by the Bard himself: William Shakespeare and reworked it according to the modernist anarchic principles ofthe Dadaist poet Tristran Tzara, employing the sharpened capabilities of a pair of scissors. I thus set about chopping up the Elizabethan Bard's well crafted verse, subjecting it to another ancient form of random divination and re-composing it within a new framework. I kept the sonnet format (abab cdcd efef gg), added a few words of my own and decided to dedicate this one to the Jean Francois Dor and the Eccentric Club.

THE METHOD:

To Make A Dadist Poem

Take a newspaper.

Take some scissors.

Choose from this paper an article the length you want to make your poem.

Cut out the article.

Next carefully cut out each of the words that make up this article and put them all in a bag.

Shake gently.

Next take out each cutting one after the other.

Copy conscientiously in the order in which they left the bag.

The poem will resemble you.

And there you are--an infinitely original author of charming sensibility, even though unappreciated by the vulgar herd. 

ByTristan Tzara

(TristanTzara (April 16, 1896 - December 25, 1963) is the pseudonym of Sami Rosenstock, born in Moinesti, Bacău, Romania. A poet and essayist who lived for the majority of his life in France, he is known mainly as a founder of Dada, a nihilistic revolutionary movement in the arts.)

PRE-OPERATION OVERVIEW:

William Shakespeare. Sonnet XVIII

1. Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?

2. Thou art more lovely and more temperate:

3. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

4. And summer's lease hath all too short a date:

5. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

6. And often is his gold complexion dimmed,

7. And every fair from fair sometime declines,

8. By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:

9. But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

10. Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,

11. Nor shall death brag thou wander'st in his shade,

12. When in eternal lines to time thou grow'st,

13. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

14. So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

POST-OPERATIVE STUDY:

Possession eternal complexion hot summers untrimmed day? long this the thou rough wanderest lines and death sometime life when too nature's and in eyes thou thou shall men sometimes changing brag chance summer eternal shade compare fair as often gives temperate fair lease more dimmed thee in shake shall can short that from can his owest see declines summer nor thee his growest breathe every of date thy gold buds the heaven fair this or do fade so by I may and thou shines lives but of to lovely in course not or and art more and lose darling hath a eye of no to so shall winds long all too a.

DR.SHELLY'S DRAMATIC RECONSTRUCTION:

The Sonnet Reconstructed: The Days of Gold, dedicated to Jean Francois Dor Director.

In possession of your eternal complexion;

Long lease of those hot, untrimmed summer days,

Thou beam wanders in my rough direction

Thro life's nature tho' sometime death too brays.

And when thy men shall sometimes, in thy eyes

Brag the shady chance of summer eternal

And compare the fair, as temperate oft gives guise

Tis short shake for thee, less dimmed in each vernal;

The more yer summer declines, this all can'st see

T'more your breath grows, in all dates, in every way;

Fades not his fair gold buds of heaven: but flows free

And so, may thy Sun-shine thro lives of mortal clay…

A darling course too lovely in art and yet more

So eyes and long winds shall ever rest on thee: Dor.

CONCLUSION:

Tristran Tzara recommends a newspaper clipping although in this instance I used a poem by a reputable bard. I might have gone completely wild and written something truly avant-garde but something within me begged for the traditional format of the sonnet. With the references to 'summer', 'sun' and by inference 'gold' I decided to dedicate and end the composition to J.F.D. (the French/Belgic 'd'or' beingthe word for gold). And so, everything has been examined, probed, dissected, illuminated, reconstructed, re-appraised and dedicated: fulfilling the standard requirements for combining the ancient with the contemporary. The central anarchic principle of the Dada poem allows the poet to do whatever he/she desires, regardless of any convention: so although I have followed atraditional format in this example, I need not have.

In all good faith,

David John Drew. Copyright / All Rights Reserved 2009.

Image: André Breton, René Hilsum, Louis Aragon and Paul Eluard posing with a copy of Dada 3, 1919.

A Tribute: Shanahan’s Last Stand

 

Shanahan’s Last Stand

Here is a poem I wrote in honor of Michael Shanahan, who was fired as the head coach of the Denver Broncos on the last day of 2008. I tried to evoke not just the man, but also his name in history, some of his achievements and demise. Not all in classical ‘Deibhidhe’ meter. 

 

“Quando cadit Coliseus; cadet et Roma...” – Bede the Venerable

 

True the glorious tale, behold...

Of Shanahan, strictly good and bold!

 

Cosrach, brother of Cineadh;

Cosrach of Donchadh, well-bred

Donchadh Cuan, son of Seanchan

Paragons of Mother Shannon.

 

Clan Ui Bloid of the Dal gCais

Of Thomond, Munster: good grace

The Tordealbhaigh, O’Briens...

With MacNamara’s battle reigns.

 

Then Limerick, Cork, Waterford;

Bodyke, Feakle, Clare’s fair ward

Omulled the East, sweet Carlow

Wexford: Thro’ sun, wind, and snow.

 

The stronger kin grows ever strong;

Til famine is the lands’ sad song

Sept and Clans move far away

To prover their worth, earn their pay.

 

To foreign lands labour sought;

Wild geese in distant ports no doubt

In ships ‘cross oceans, another world

From Dublin to seek New York’s gold.

 

New Irish, of American breed;

Prospectors yearn to succeed

The ‘old-ways’ now reinvented

By émigré’s on prairie homesteads.

 

From Windy City’s Oak Park;

A son of Eire, green birthmark

Born of a dream, guided right

Stream of sparks, full of light.

 

Youngsters play to catch and run;

Chicago Bulls: All games hard won

Leyden High School to Illinois

Spirit of a sporting boy.

 

Lumberjacks and Gophers Gold;

College titles: the athlete bold

Watching, running, learning play

Reaching to tackle day by day.

 

Field-crushed and kidney lost;

Hard the red blood, dear the cost

Too near to death, feeling pain

Bleeding is a joyless strain.

 

From Quarterback to coaching;

With Raiders on an Angel’s wing

To green of St. Francis’ field

A lightening rod, spearhead, shield.

 

Denver Bronco’s: The best man;

Success: San Diego and Miami Clan

In nineteen ninety eight and nine

Green Bay Packers hear a victors rhyme.

 

All effort in discipline

Focus is a sharpened thing

Preparation: true battle plan

Men controlled by a tough man.

 

Soul of Leadership, of laurels

Of crowns won on hard hills

Never sleeping: tight-lipped and worn

Never faded, your loss we mourn

 

Thus the Man’s tale told so far...

Perhaps he leaves for another shore?

 

All Rights Reserved 2018 & Copyright David John Drew ‘Ollamh Draoi’

Compass of the Winds

 

Compass of the Winds, a poem by Lord Carville, Ollamh-Draoi

These few verses were inspired by the words of Angus the Culdee in the 'Saltair na Rain' (translated by Whitely Stokes in 1883). In the first section of the manuscript (dated to 985 - 1061 CE) he discusses the various Druidic winds in relation to creation, perhaps a remnant of an older Celtic creation myth with east as the purple wind, south as the white wind, west as the dun/gray wind and north as the black wind.

Dawns' love pierces dark sky blue,

Suns' gold in Eastern purple hue;

The womb of births': illuminating days...

Earth warmed by Royal; flames, fine rays.

Fair hand, the good and right,

Noble Spirit of purest white;

Virtue and honor, bless'd South...

Ever-best, fortune of a sweet mouth.

Haze of West is death devotion,

Dun-gray, brown, dusk-wind ocean;

Consumed, beneath waves, of drowning...

Grave sound of distant mourning.

Hard bitter North looms at left,

Black frost of souls lost, bereft;

Frozen Her of ill renown...

Dark cells never saw the light of dawn.

All Rights Reserved & Copyright January 2009 David John Drew