A prayer of Henry the Sixth

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Copy of a paper in the hand-writing of Dr. Harbin, librarian to 1st and 2nd Viscounts Weymouth: "In an old MS. Missal printed (sic) * in 8vo., in the reign of K. Henri VIII., p. 48. are two Latin Short Prayers made by K. Henri VI. as is affirmed in an index to the said book, p. l55,o. at ye end of y° said Missal. (Notes and queries, Oxford Univ Press, June 1856).

Domine Jesu Christe, qui me creasti, redemisti et praeordinasti ad hoc, quod sum, tu scis quid de me facere vis: fac de me secundum voluntatem tuam cum misericordia.

Lord Jesus Christ, you have created me, redeemed me and destined me to that which now I am. You know what you will do with me: do with me then according to your will and your mercy.

The choral setting is by Henry Ley, Precentor at Eton College 1926-1945.

thanks: paul ellison


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Nike of Ephesos

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This Nike from the Artemis Temple in Ephesos is the most complete surviving remnant of at least 36 similar pieces, according to ancient authors. The temple was once one of the largest anywhere, magnificently adorned with relief sculpture and housing the cult statue of Artemis / Diana of the Ephesians. The relief of Nike, goddess of victory, was taken to the British Museum in London upon its discovery in 1869, where it remains today.

thanks flickruser a.m. thomson. click to embiggen.

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Sebastian Quill -- Fall, 1970

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During my convalescence the past several weeks I've managed to finish scanning and posting the first issue of Sebastian Quill, San Francisco's first explicity gay-male literary magazine which I edited 1970-73. I've added an intro which explains how the publication originated in the underground spirit of the late Sixties and early Seventies.

I'll post the subsequent issues, which featured writing by Allen Ginsberg, Thom Gunn, Robert Glück, Bruce Boone, Paul Mariah and Richard Tagett, when I find the time. If the text seems a little fuzzy, it's because what you're looking at is essentially a series of low-resolution photographs of the original pages.

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Here we are

Rich Tagett sent me a new poem with a final stanza that stabs like a dagger. Unfortunately it didn't make it into his collection Demodulating Angel published earlier this month.

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Signs and wonders

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I’ve been homebound for the past five weeks, recuperating from a badly sprained knee. The constant ingestion of pain-killers, as I discovered, makes it hard to focus on reading and writing, but happily I was able to make good progress with my guitar-playing and with copy-editing two more books queued for publication later this year.

The long hours of  convalescence made me much more aware of current events, culminating with last week’s parade of horrors. In the space of only six days,

1.         Wisconsin Republicans revoked collective bargaining for public employees—especially infuriating to me personally, since I  worked as an AFSCME shop steward for three years.

2.         By midweek it appeared that Colonel Shitface Qaddafi had gained control over the rebels in Libya, while the so-called international community continued to dither about intervening, in the usual manner of Rwanda, Darfur and Somalia.

3.         McCarthy-style Congressional hearings began with much publicity to investigate the risk of attack by domestic Islamic radicals, thus likely creating many more of them and ignoring the more cogent issue of how our own homegrown, non-Islamic paranoid schizophrenics like McVeigh or Gestedner are able to obtain explosives and automatic rifles as easily as they do.

4.         By the end of the week Japan had been devastated by a horrendous tsunami and by a row of incipient nuclear meltdowns, while just yesterday

5.         A ten-car train derailed near the Concord BART Station, because, as it was first reported, three or four wheels had fallen off one of the coaches.

In short this was one of the worst weeks in recent history, making one acutely aware how good we have it living our comfy, computer-driven lives here in San Francisco.

I’ve also decided to add a couple more gallons of bottled water to my earthquake emergency supply kit.

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Demodulating Angel has arrived!

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Ithuriel's Spear is delighted to announce the publication of San Francisco poet Richard Tagett's DEMODULATING ANGEL: Selected Poems 1960-2010.

A preview of Rich's book with a sampling of the poems can be viewed at the Ithuriel's Spear website, and there is even more information to be found here at Small Press Distribution in Berkeley.

The book launch celebration will be held at Modern Times Bookstore in San Francisco on the 20th of April at 7 p.m.


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The America-is-not-broke speech

Michael Moore's great speech in Madison last weekend has been circulating like wildfire around the Internet. The official version of it, slightly edited and with the original video, appears on his own website at: http://www.michaelmoore.com/words/mike-friends-blog/america-is-not-broke.
It reminds me strongly of Thomas Paine's Common Sense, and I hope it meets with a similar reception.

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Suze Rotolo's art books

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susan rotolo: august (2005) --  medialiagallery, nyc

Thanks to a post on Silliman’s Blog today, I found my way to a display of Suze Rotolo’s beautiful art books at a New York gallery. They are self-enclosed little worlds, and they remind of the movie Prospero's Books.

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Talking about Jesus with Little Richard

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I basically detest poems that are longer than a dozen lines or so, but I am always willing to make an exception for David Kirby, whose brilliant poem about Little Richard and Jesus showed up this morning on Poetry Today.

Kirby’s style of writing wittily combines stand-up comedy with real insight and irresistible imagery, for example in his genial and totally accurate description of Little Richard’s onstage appearance:

     in his flowing tresses and spangled blue suit,
     he looks like a sea god who has been clipped by a passing
     motorboat

Little Richard’s place in 1950’s rock history is assured because his Good-Golly-Miss-Molly boogie style assaulted the final limits of musical tolerability, simultaneously wedded as it was to the crazy vanity of his own semi-hysterical presence.

Kirby’s discursive poem however eventually turns eerily serious, probably reflecting Little Richard’s career as a born-again Christian preacher, and the poem ends with personal ruminations on dying in the midnight hour—“When the Lord of Night holds out his claw.”

I can't imagine when my turn comes that I will be thinking about Little Richard, but, well, I suppose there are less stimulating possibilities.

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