Saying “The Fly” by William Blake

The Fly

This week here I am saying the poem “The Fly” by William Blake (28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827).

William Blake

Blake is a fascinating poet, with his mystical aspect and of course his beautiful drawings that accompanied his poems. Or is it his beautiful poems that accompanied his drawings?

Of course, with the type of work I do I adore Blake: his writing, his drawing. Also these are very simple and direct forms. If you have never seen Blake’s drawings please try and do so as soon as possible. With his wife, they printed the images and coloured in the prints with watercolours. I see Blake’s books like fanzines.

Seen as a madman during his life, he has become more and more popular over time until he is now one of the best known and loved British poets.

Time and the poet

It is almost as if he stepped outside of time through his visions and hopes. Blake is bigger than time; he is timeless. He stated that he had visions from an early age, once seeing a flock of angels in a tree.

In this poem there is no vison, simply a realisation of the fleeting aspect of life, in its many forms.

There are many versions of this poem set to music but the beautiful simplicity of the lyric gives it something very playful, without needing any music to enhance it.

The message

For me this poem shows us that we never know when “a thoughtless hand” will brush us away. We have to enjoy our life as it is, no matter how fleeting that might be.

So, your projects, your hopes, your worries: all of these can disappear so quickly.

You can think about this at the start of the week on the way to wherever you are going…

William_Blake_The_Fly

The Fly

Little fly,
Thy summer’s play
My thoughtless hand
Has brushed away.

Am not I
A fly like thee?
Or art not thou
A man like me?

For I dance
And drink and sing,
Till some blind hand
Shall brush my wing.

If thought is life
And strength and breath,
And the want
Of thought is death,

Then am I
A happy fly,
If I live,
Or if I die.

From Songs of Experience. First published in 1794. This poem is in the public domain.

By William Blake

Taking part in VRRRR Festival 2017

VRRRR Festival 2017

I am one of the eleven artists chosen to take part in the VRRRR Festival 2017. The festival takes place in Toulon in the south of France.

Non stop drawing

For three days the Musée d’art de Toulon will have non stop drawing, music and performance. I’m on my way down there now and really looking forward to taking part. This year is special because it is going to be a retrospective of all of the previous artists. It is also going to be the last edition of the festival for a while, because they are going to renovate the musée d’art de Toulon.

I don’t really know what I am going to do but that is part of the festival !

Berlin – Toulon

Last week I went to Berlin for the first time in my life (late developer). It was an excellent holiday and really good preparation for this festival. Berlin was like a huge open air art school. There is definitely a spirit of experimentation. Art is everywhere, and some of it is so beautiful. Overall it doesn’t matter because there is a lot of space.

I didn’t have any particular ideas when I went there. Travelling is always so fascinating. You are so open and such great things happen.

Image Nation

So here I am travelling again. And for the next three days I’ll be travelling in my imagination. Image Nation.

Exhibiting in Toulon

I will post to my website everyday during the festival and for more informal, off the cuff stuff, you can see my instagram feed or my facebook page.

All the pieces I create during the festival will be exhibited from the 10th until 25th November 2017 in the musée d’art de Toulon. All the pieces will be for sale in Toulon and there are lots of other fabulous artists who will be there so if you are around, come on over. Its free entry, open to all.

Poetry

I managed to learn (more or less) Song of Childhood by Peter Handke last weekend in Berlin. I will do my best to learn a poem for this weekend but I’m sure you’ll all be very understanding if I don’t manage to do it…

Dream State

Now I am going to rest and hopefully enter into a dream state…

Saying Digging by Seamus Heaney

Saying Digging by Seamus Heaney…

This is a poem that I started learning at the end of August. I have been trying to learn a poem a week. It is now mid September.

I don’t really know why but this poem turned out to be so difficult to learn. It is a little longer than the other ones I have learnt so far but I think there is something about the message in the poem. Something about it that I can hear but not really feel.

The poem is one of Heaney’s earlier poems and he is looking at his father and his grandfather and how they were brilliant at digging. The rhymes are beautiful and subtle and it just sounds so natural. It is a beautiful poem. Maybe the core message did not vibrate with me.

Why so difficult?

Some of the reasons that made it so difficult to learn this poem was that there was a lot of stuff going on: it was the end of the holidays and then it was back to school for my young family. I tried a couple of times to record it but nearly everytime I tried to record it I got something wrong. Either when I was saying it or else something happened during the recording.

I have seen great advantages from learning poetry though. I have seen it  in re-learning some of my music and lyrics for the groups I play with.

Why learn?

There was a concert with Onze Onze and it was so easy to relearn all the lyrics after the holidays. In an earlier post I wondered about the utility of learning these poems so I suppose I am getting an answer already.

I can also feel it in my writing. I have continued drawing as well and there are things changing with that too. I will announce the news in relation to drawings on a separate post.

Last night, I was at the birthday party of a friend and he co-celebrated his birthday with his father. We improvised some music with some musician friends. I improvised some lyrics.

What can we say about time passing? About those who have come before? How can we live up to the ones who were before us?

Heaney answers you have to use the tools that you have.

Hope you enjoy this poem and see you soon…

Digging by Seamus Heaney.

Between my finger and my thumb   

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.


Under my window, a clean rasping sound   

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:   

My father, digging. I look down


Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds   

Bends low, comes up twenty years away   

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills   

Where he was digging.


The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft   

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.


By God, the old man could handle a spade.   

Just like his old man.


My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.


The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.


Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.
Seamus Heaney, “Digging” from Death of a Naturalist. Copyright 1966 by Seamus Heaney.