A Journey Through Christianity and Beyond

For many years, I identified as a Christian. It wasn’t just a label—it influenced how I viewed the world, formed my values and approached life. But over time, I began to re-evaluate my beliefs, and I eventually stopped identifying with Christianity. Here’s why.

It started with contemplative prayer. I practised it regularly for months and noticed it produced a sense of calm and connection that felt very familiar. Years earlier, I’d experienced exactly the same thing when practising Eastern meditation. This raised a question: If contemplative prayer and meditation produce identical effects, are they really so different? Could it be that contemplative prayer isn’t uniquely Christian at all?

Curious, I began looking into its origins. I learned that contemplative prayer has its roots in the practices of the Desert Fathers of 3rd-century Egypt. While there’s no direct evidence linking their practices to Eastern meditation, cultural exchange via trade routes like the Silk Road makes it plausible that the ideas travelled. If contemplation is a universal human practice, rather than something unique to Christianity, its effects wouldn’t depend on theology. They’d simply be the natural outcome of the practice itself, regardless of the label we attach to it.

This line of questioning opened the door to deeper doubts. I already knew that some concepts in Christianity—like the idea of the “Logos” in John’s Gospel—were borrowed from Greek philosophy. But I’d always thought of these as minor adjustments. What I hadn’t realised was how extensively Hellenistic ideas shaped Christianity.

For example, the concept of the immortal soul, central to Christian theology, is essentially Platonic. Traditional Judaism didn’t have this view; instead, the soul and body were seen as inseparable, ceasing at death until a future resurrection. Christianity adopted a dualistic view of body and soul from Greek philosophy, which shifted its framework significantly.

This raised a serious question for me: If Christianity is a blend of Judaic and Hellenistic ideas, can it claim to be an authentic continuation of Jesus’ teachings? Or is it something else entirely?

This led me to explore the possibility of even broader influences. Some scholars argue that Greek thought itself was shaped by Eastern philosophies, particularly those of the Vedanta tradition in Hinduism. If that’s true, then Christianity’s intellectual roots might extend much further east than we usually consider.

I also came across the theory that Jesus could have encountered Buddhist teachings during his so-called “lost years”. While there’s no definitive evidence that he travelled to regions like India, the spread of Buddhism via trade routes brought these ideas much closer to Judea than I’d previously imagined. The parallels between Jesus’ teachings and Buddhist principles—like compassion, detachment and a focus on inner transformation—are striking.

Gradually, I came to see Christianity not as the one true path to God, but as one of many ways humanity has tried to articulate the divine. Religion, I now believe, is shaped more by culture and history than by absolute truth. And if there is a spiritual truth, it likely exists beyond the limits of any one theology.

There’s a saying I’ve come to appreciate: “If you need words and doctrines to define the truth, then you’re probably not describing truth at all”. That, for me, captures the heart of why I moved on from Christianity. Language and theology create frameworks, but the divine is too vast to fit into them.

Even Jesus seemed to understand this. His teachings were practical, focused on moral living and direct connection with God, rather than rigid systems of belief. Yet, as Christianity developed, it became a Religion (with a capital “R”), full of doctrines, creeds and institutional structures.

People seem to have a natural tendency to organise themselves into groups and express spirituality collectively. That’s fine for those who find meaning in it, but for me, faith has become something more personal—an individual search for the divine that doesn’t rely on one tradition.

I haven’t rejected God. If anything, I feel a stronger connection now than I ever did as a Christian. I’ve simply let go of the need to define or confine that connection within a particular framework. The divine, I believe, is beyond labels, beyond systems and present everywhere.

A Complete Unknown: A Believable Rock Film Biography

The Bob Dylan biopic, A Complete Unknown, directed by James Mangold, captures Dylan's rapid rise to fame during the 1960s folk movement with a nuance and authenticity seldom seen in rock film biographies.

The film begins in 1961, with Dylan’s arrival in New York City as an eager young singer hoping to meet his idol, Woody Guthrie, who is hospitalised due to Huntington's disease—a condition that causes progressive deterioration in physical and cognitive functions. Dylan does meet Guthrie, and the story concludes with his polarising 1965 Newport Folk Festival performance. The film ends on a poignant note with Dylan’s touching, dialogue-free farewell to Guthrie.

Timothée Chalamet’s portrayal of Dylan is a revelation, and he captures his distinctive vocal intonations and idiosyncratic body movements and hand mannerisms with uncanny precision—especially once Dylan is preparing to “go electric” and becomes “hip”. Chalamet’s Dylan singing voice is also accurate, capturing Dylan’s phrasing and vocal quirks. I have never seen a performance by an actor playing a famous person before that has made me forget that they are not that person in actuality—Chalamet achieves this.

Equally impressive is Monica Barbaro, who portrays Joan Baez, a significant person in Dylan’s life and career during this period. While she physically doesn’t look like Baez, she captures her speaking voice and, to a great extent, her singing voice also.

Another notable performance is Edward Norton’s as Pete Seeger. Though not as tall in stature as Seeger was, he captures his sing-song-like speaking voice, and his warmth, integrity, humility and charm. His portrayal adds depth to the story, particularly in scenes where Seeger’s frustrations with Dylan’s evolving musical style come to the fore. It is refreshing to see Norton in such a role, as he has often played complex, morally ambiguous or unlikable characters in the past.

Another good performance is given by Elle Fanning, who plays Sylvie Russo, based on Dylan’s real-life girlfriend during this period, Suze Rotolo. While her portrayal is persuasive, I couldn’t help but wonder why the character wasn’t directly named Suze Rotolo. It’s a minor issue, but one worth noting.

The only performance that felt slightly misaligned, due solely to a script shortcoming, was Dan Fogler’s portrayal of Albert Grossman. For me, the role was underwritten, as if the director were marginalising Grossman’s pivotal role in Dylan’s career.

All in all, I was pleasantly surprised, as I was expecting the film, like most rock film biographies, to lack authenticity or fail to capture the Zeitgeist of the period they are set in.

My only complaint is that it left out a whole chunk of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village. There was no mention of Dave Van Ronk or the other folk venue performers and friends he had there. For me, the most interesting part of Dylan’s life in Greenwich Village was precisely his involvement and interactions with the other folk-singers there.

Why Isn’t There an Easier Way to Convert Old VHS Tapes to Digital?

I thought I’d write a blog post about something that has been bothering me for nearly 20 years now, namely the impossibility of finding an all-in-one standalone VHS tape to digital converter to convert all the old VHS tapes I made when I was on a BTEC film and video production course in the late 1980s. These tapes comprise of various course projects, fly-on-the-wall type footage of course life, and a show reel of the videos I made there. It would be nice to have these preserved digitally and playable. There are various businesses that do convert VHS tapes to digital but they charge around £35 per tape—and I have over 20 tapes, each lasting over two hours long

Around 15 years ago there was, indeed, an all-in-one standalone VHS tape to digital converter called ION VCR 2. It combined both a VHS deck and a monitor in a single compact device, which could convert VHS tapes to digital without the need for connection to external equipment, such as now obsolete VHS recorders and VHS camcorders, and was only £150. It has been discontinued for some inexplicable reason, so now if you want to convert VHS tapes you need the following ridiculous setup:

A VHS recorder or VHS camcorder (if you can even find these now).

A video capture device.

A computer to connect everything to.

Cables to connect it all.

The ION VCR 2 (or a similar all-in-one device) is sorely missed and desperately needed. If you’re in the same boat as me, leave comments on YouTube videos and in forums that are about VHS tape to digital conversion, and spread the word. Perhaps if enough people make a fuss about this, a company will see the demand and bring a product like this back into production.

Precious memories shouldn't be this hard to preserve! 

A Day In Liverpool in 1929 Film

Here is a 1929 film of Liverpool city centre that's been enhanced to look more modern. It gives a vivid sense of how people walked and moved back then. We often think of people from over 100 years ago, as seen in old photos, as somehow "other-worldly"—almost "spooky". But this film shows them as just like us, as of course they were all along. 

Courtesy of the admin of the Facebook group "The Scouse Back Kitchen Social Club".

How Instapoetry Could Redefine What Poetry Is

I must have been living in a cave, because until last week I had never heard of the “poetry” phenomenon known as “Instapoetry”. For those unaware as I was, here are some examples of it:

‘You deserve someone

who makes you feel

like sunshine

on a cloudy day.’

‘I am learning to let go

of the things

that no longer

serve me.

And it’s scary,

but I know

it’s necessary.’

‘Sometimes I think

I’m too much

for the world,

and other times,

I think

I’m not enough.’

Some well-known Instapoets include Rupi Kaur, whose books Milk and Honey and The Sun and Her Flowers have sold millions of copies worldwide. Atticus (a pen name) has published several books, including Love Her Wild and The Dark Between Stars. Charly Cox, whose texts explore self-love and mental health, and whose She Must Be Mad was a bestseller. Courtney Peppernell, who has a large following on Instagram, and is best known for her book Pillow Thoughts about heartbreak and healing. Nikita Gill, whose texts touch on themes of self-love and empowerment, and whose Your Soul is a River had a wide readership. And Cleo Wade, whose book Heart Talk: Poetic Wisdom for a Better Life has been highly praised.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, given the massive internet traffic on platforms like Instagram and TikTok, Instapoetry primarily attracts younger audiences who are drawn to its simplicity, accessibility and brevity. But does this popularity make Instapoetry, with its prose-like tendencies, repetitive themes, lack of ambiguity and linguistic plainness, poetry in any meaningful sense?

One of the most common criticisms of Instapoetry is its simplicity, which veers very close to banality. Written for scrolling and swiping, these quick-consumption “poems” rely on short lines and straightforward language, often resembling platitudinous motivational sayings found in self-help books. This focus on instant gratification sacrifices the complexity and depth that define poetry.

Unlike poetry, which invites readers into a dialogue, challenging them with layered meanings, intricate imagery and nuanced language, Instapoetry delivers single, surface-level ideas. This has left many critics questioning its staying power. A text that can be absorbed in seconds is unlikely to reward deeper contemplation or invite repeated readings.

Instapoetry’s success, as has been noted by some, owes much to its ability to resonate emotionally with its audience. But it could be said that this strength is also its Achilles’ heel. This commodification of emotion often results in a homogeneity of themes (love, heartbreak, self-empowerment etc.) that, while universally relatable, quickly becomes repetitive and stale. Perhaps the reason for this is that many Instapoets might be motivated by the commercial incentives of social media, and so write their texts to gain likes and shares rather than to explore language’s creative potential.

A defining characteristic of Instapoetry is its prose-like language, which often mimics conversational speech. Poetry, on the other hand, uses linguistic techniques—metaphor, allusion and ambiguity—to elevate language into something greater than the sum of its parts. Instapoetry, by contrast, shuns these devices in favour of straightforward statements, resulting in a limitation of poetic meanings. By presenting ideas in a literal, unambiguous manner, it leaves little room for interpretive engagement, denying readers the pleasure of discovering hidden meanings or creating their own narratives, which are arguably one of poetry’s greatest pleasures.

Some might argue that Instapoetry serves as a gateway to poetry. The idea being that readers charmed by its simplicity might then want to explore poetry. However, there is little evidence to suggest that this transition occurs on a meaningful scale. Instead, Instapoetry risks redefining what its readers think is poetry, normalising brevity, simplicity and emotional immediacy as being poetic.

This shift in expectations could have lasting repercussions for the broader poetic landscape. Emerging writers, seeing the commercial success of Instapoetry, might adopt its formulaic style. And publishers motivated by market trends, might champion these works at the expense of poetry. 

Over time, the increasing prominence of Instapoetry might diminish public appreciation for poetry, as it could be perceived by the general public as the sole authentic form of poetic expression.

Connotation, Denotation and the Complexity of Poetry: A Response to George Szirtes

It’s not often I find myself quoted, but when I came across George Szirtes’ 2007 Stanza Lecture, I was flattered and taken aback to find my views on connotation and denotation in poetry cited. At the time, I argued that there isn’t really such a thing as "difficult" poetry, only poetry that either connotes or denotes. In my view, the former tends to be seen as difficult, while the latter is often considered easier to engage with. I used The Waste Land as a prime example of connotative poetry—arguably more complex and harder to penetrate than a Simon Armitage poem, which I suggested is more denotative.

Szirtes, however, took issue with my distinction between connotation and denotation, suggesting that both processes are not mutually exclusive but rather simultaneous in any speech, let alone poetry. Here is my full quote:

'I don’t think there is such a thing as difficult poetry, only poetry that connotes or denotes. The former is always considered difficult by opponents of it. The Waste Land is more connotative than a Simon Armitage poem, for instance, that is why The Waste Land is seen as difficult.'

Here is Szirtes' response to it:

'I am not sure how this writer can draw a sharp distinction between connotation and denotation in any speech, let alone poetry. Connoting and denoting are simultaneous processes.'

While I respect his intellectual rigour, I still maintain that the distinction I drew between connotation and denotation is not only valid but necessary to understanding the nature of poetry. Semantically and cognitively, I agree that both processes can occur at the same time, but in the context of poetry, their creative usage modifies the balance Szirtes mentions. If connotation and denotation were always functioning in the same way, then literary criticism, as we know it, would not be as contentious or layered as it is. The tension between connotation and denotation is precisely what fuels much of the interpretation, discussion and critique of poetry.

This is why The Waste Land is a monumental work. It isn’t just a collection of images or a narrative that can be easily interpreted; it’s a network of connotative meanings, layered and intertwined, inviting the reader to feel as much as understand. 

Poetry that connotes and resonates deeply is not necessarily poetry that is "difficult". It's poetry that engages us in the fullness of our emotional and intellectual lives. It’s poetry that invites us to feel, think and inhabit the spaces between words and meanings. And for that, we need connotation just as much as we need denotation.

Poetry as Mental Experience

Poetry as Mental Experience

(Adapted from an academic article I wrote in the late-2000s)

Louise Rosenblatt, in her book The Reader, the Text, the Poem, describes poetry not as a fixed or static object but as a dynamic event:

‘The poem, then, must be thought of as an event in time. It is not an object or an ideal entity. It happens during a coming-together, a compentration [interdependence], of a reader and a text.’

In this view, poetry creates meaning through the interaction between a reader and the text. Rosenblatt elaborates further:

‘The reading of a text is an event occurring at a particular time in a particular environment at a particular moment in the life history of the reader. The transaction will involve not only the past experience but also the present state and present interests or preoccupations of the reader.’

In other words, the meaning of a poem depends on the unique context of each reader’s life and mindset. Reading poetry is therefore an active process—something experienced in real time.

To experience poetry this way, the reader’s mental engagement or “internalisation”, is important. Internalisation occurs when the reader focuses less on the poem’s surface features—such as its visual layout—and instead focuses on the meaning behind the words. This process can be hindered by poetry that emphasises “artifice” and form, such as intricate visual patterns or the use of non-typical typographical elements, which can distract from a deeper engagement with the poem.

Charles Bernstein echoes this view in ‘The Dollar Value of Poetry’, arguing that the essence of poetry lies in the personal experience it generates during reading. He suggests that poetry is inherently unparaphrasable because its meaning depends entirely on the reader’s specific circumstances:

‘What is untranslatable is the sum of all the specific conditions of the experience (place, time order, light, mood, position, to infinity) made available by reading.’

He also critiques certain experimental approaches that prioritise design over language, arguing that such works risk losing their essence as poetry, becoming more like visual art. In ‘Words and Pictures’, he says:

‘Visual experience is only validated when accompanied by a logico-verbal explanation.’

For Bernstein, meaning is inseparable from language. As he states in ‘Thought’s Measure’, ‘there is meaning only in terms of language.’

Nevertheless, he acknowledges the challenges of balance. In ‘Artifice of Absorption’, he reflects on his use of complex, sometimes jarring techniques:

‘In my poems, I frequently use opaque & nonabsorbable elements, digressions & interruptions, as part of a technological arsenal to create a more powerful (“souped up”) absorption than possible with traditional, & blander, absorptive techniques. This is a precarious road because insofar as the poem seems overtly self-conscious, as opposed to internally incantatory or psychically actual, it may produce self-consciousness in the reader in such a way as to destroy his or her absorption by theatricalizing or conceptualizing the text, removing

it from the realm of an experience engendered to that of a technique exhibited.’

While Bernstein values internalisation, he does, however, view ‘the semantic field as incorporating non-lexical features of a poem’. While I agree with incorporation in principle, in practice it can prove psychologically challenging for many readers, potentially explaining why such poetry is often regarded as “difficult”.

Ultimately, both Rosenblatt and Bernstein agree that poetry derives meaning through mental engagement. Stylistic elements like rhythm and structure, while important, are secondary to the reader’s interaction with the poem’s. What matters most is how the poem resonates in the reader’s mind—how it interfaces with their experiences and emotions.

At its core, a poem is “heard” in the mind, transcending the surface of the text. By prioritising the semantic qualities—the meaning of the words—readers can fully experience poetry as a unique, personal experience in time.

Though the formal qualities of a poem may minimally aid interpretation, they are ultimately subordinate to the mental activity the reader experiences. Poetry, distinct from the visual arts, operates primarily through its semantic dimension. A poem achieves its fullest potential only when it engages the reader’s thoughts, emotions and imagination in real time. All that we are able to glean from a poem is conveyed through the poems semantic operation. To argue that the formal qualities of the text facilitate a semantic response is to rely too heavily on an aesthetic theory that is more appropriate to the visual arts.

Layered Meaning or Fleeting Impressions? The Case of Frank O’Hara

Frank O’Hara’s poetry has always left me uncertain about its merits. I’ve given his work a try and ultimately found that its casualness and prosaicness, while often praised as clever or subversive, lack the transformative depth I associate with poetry. For me, O’Hara’s work feels like prose arranged into lines, lacking key poetic elements such as ambiguity, symbolism and metaphor. But this is, of course, a subjective view, and I realise that his appeal lies elsewhere for many readers. Let’s explore these missing elements in the context of O’Hara’s work.

A hallmark of poetry, as I see it, is its ability to suggest layers of meaning, inviting readers to engage in interpretation. O’Hara’s poems, though, are straightforward and journalistic. For instance, ‘The Day Lady Died’ recounts O’Hara’s emotional response to Billie Holiday’s death. Its opening lines, filled with mundane details of his day, is more like a diary entry than a poem designed to evoke multiple interpretations:

It is 12:20 in New York a Friday

three days after Bastille day, yes

it is 1959 and I go get a shoeshine

because I will get off the 4:19 in Easthampton

at 7:15 and then go straight to dinner

and I don’t know the people who will feed me

Some might argue that the stark specificity and cataloguing of errands reflect the fragmented, distracted state of grief, and that these plain details accumulate emotional weight. But for me, the poem doesn’t seem to invite further engagement beyond its surface narrative. 

Also, his poetry lacks transformative qualities. Rather than elevating mundane moments into something transcendent—an ambition Wordsworth attempted, though arguably without success—O’Hara doesn’t even make the attempt, if he was aware of such a possibility. In contrast, his poetry seems uninterested in this kind of transformation. For instance, in 'Having a Coke with You', a love poem that celebrates intimacy through straightforward, conversational language, O’Hara remains firmly grounded in the literal.

  I look

at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits

      in the world

except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and

      anyway it’s in the Frick

which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go

      together for the first time

For admirers of O’Hara, this unadorned honesty is (probably) precisely the point—why dress up emotion in metaphor when you can express it directly, they might ask? Yet compared to poets like Wallace Stevens or Sylvia Plath, who mingle dense symbolic frameworks with metaphor into their work, O’Hara’s style feels limited in scope. The simplicity of his language, while charming to some, leaves little for readers who enjoy creating individualised meanings from poems.

I appreciate that much of O’Hara’s appeal lies in the personal nature of his work. He records fleeting moments of his life with a conversational intimacy that feels confessional. But unlike T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land, which uses personal experience as a lens for exploring universal themes of despair and renewal, O’Hara’s poems seem content to remain on the surface of individual experience.

Critics of this perspective might argue that O’Hara’s personal focus is itself a reflection of his era. As a central figure of the New York School, his work aligns with a broader cultural movement that celebrated the everyday and rejected the “self-serious” ambitions of modernism. In this sense, his lack of universal themes could be seen as a deliberate rejection of poetic pretension. But this interpretation risks overstating the intent behind his simplicity; rather than rejecting pretension, O’Hara’s work often feels content to remain in the realm of fleeting impressions, offering immediacy at the expense of the layered richness that sustains deeper engagement.

If O’Hara’s poetry doesn’t fit traditional expectations, what is it? Perhaps it’s best understood as textual reportage, capturing fleeting moments of urban life with wit and immediacy. In this sense, O’Hara is akin to a literary Andy Warhol: both artists elevate the mundane and present it without pretence. O’Hara’s work also evokes the sharp wit and conversational charm of Truman Capote. While his poetry may lack the depth that draws me to other poets, it remains of interest for its immediacy, humour and charm.

Why the UK State Pension Age Should Be Reduced to 60

With rising life expectancy and longer working lives, the state pension age in the UK is planned to increase, with proposals for it to reach 68 in the coming decades. While this is often justified as necessary for financial sustainability and an ageing population, it ignores an important fact: systemic ageism among employers, which makes it unlikely for older job applicants to secure work. In my view, reducing the state pension age to 60 would not only address this issue but also create a fairer and more compassionate society.

For many people over 60, finding a job is often impossible. Age discrimination is rampant among employers and ingrained in workplace culture. Employers tend to prefer younger candidates, assuming them to be more adaptable, less costly or more energetic. Even when older job applicants are willing to retrain or take on new roles, their efforts often go unrecognised.

Some argue that retraining programs could help older job applicants become “job-ready” or employable. However, in reality, such initiatives are rare—possibly non-existent in the UK—and seldom lead to meaningful employment. By lowering the pension age, society could acknowledge the barriers faced by older workers and provide them with a dignified exit from the workforce when their job prospects are artificially limited due to ageism.

Also, many older job applicants face health issues or physical limitations that hinder job searching or make full-time employment difficult, even if they are fortunate enough to secure a job. Lowering the pension age to 60 would help address these challenges.

The way I see it, reducing the pension age would bring significant societal benefits. For instance, it would create opportunities for younger jobseekers by freeing up jobs currently held by older employees, helping to tackle youth unemployment. The years between 60 and 70 should be a time to enjoy life, spend time with family and engage in community activities—not a race to meet the demands of a job market that often devalues their labour.

Many older people are also carers, whether for aging parents, spouses or grandchildren. Lowering the pension age would give these carers the financial security to focus on this vital role in society.

Critics would argue that lowering the pension age would burden public finances. This is a valid concern, but one solution could be to allow partial pensions from the age of 60, coupled with part-time work. Such an approach could ease the financial impact while still supporting those who need it most.

Lowering the pension age would also send a powerful message about the value of older people in society. While the ideal solution would be to eradicate ageism through stronger laws, the reality is that existing legislation in the UK has failed to achieve this because, to be frank, it is unenforceable.

Reducing the state pension age to 60 would not only provide fairness and dignity to millions but also reflect a society that values all people, regardless of age.

The Poetic and the Political

Back in the late 2000s, I took part in a few online discussions about poetry and politics, or more accurately, the intersection of politics and poetry. In these discussions, I argued that the inclusion of overt political content in poetry often detracts from its aesthetic value and risks reducing poems to mere propaganda. I pointed out that if such poetry could effectively change the real world, then the protest song movement of the early 1960s would have been more effective in bringing about political change. None of the other participants agreed with me. I still hold the view that there is a necessary distinction between poetry as art and poetry as political rhetoric.

In these discussions, several objections were voiced against this view. A common objection was that all art, including poetry, is inherently political because it reflects the society and culture from which it emerges. While it's true that no work of art exists in a vacuum, this does not mean every poem must explicitly engage with political themes. For me, poetry's power lies in its ability to express enduring human concerns, emotions and aesthetic experiences that transcend immediate political concerns.

One rebuttal to this viewpoint is that poetry cannot avoid politics, as even silence or neutrality is a political statement. However, this conflation of the implicit and the explicit misses the point. A poem that incidentally reflects societal conditions through its imagery or themes differs fundamentally from one that overtly proselytises. The former allows for multiple interpretations, while the latter risks becoming didactic and one-dimensional.

Another argument presented in these discussions was that political poetry serves as a platform for marginalised voices, offering a means to challenge oppressive structures. While this is an admirable goal, it raises the question of whether poetry is the best medium to achieve this. As I have written about many times before, poetry excels in ambiguity, metaphor and layered meanings—qualities that are often at odds with the clarity and directness required for effective political communication.

However, advocates for political poetry argue that it can simultaneously inspire change and retain aesthetic depth. While this is theoretically possible, most overtly political poems prioritise message over form, resulting in work that might resonate with a specific current political issue but fails to achieve lasting artistic significance.

Several participants in these discussions claimed I was imposing a restrictive definition of poetry that excludes diverse voices and styles. They argued that my preference for aesthetic value over political engagement reflects an elitist bias rooted in traditional notions of art. However, this critique misunderstands my position. I am not advocating for a rigid, exclusionary definition of poetry but rather emphasising the importance of artistic integrity. Political content in poetry is not inherently problematic, but it must be integrated in a way that serves the poem as a work of art, not as a vehicle for ideological dissemination. Poetry’s primary obligation is to its craft, not to any external political agenda.

Other participants cited examples of celebrated poets—such as W.H. Auden, Pablo Neruda and Langston Hughes—who infused their work with political themes. They argued that this tradition validates the role of politics in poetry and challenges my argument. I fully acknowledge the contributions of politically engaged poets, but their success lies in their ability to transcend their immediate political contexts. Auden’s ‘September 1, 1939’, for instance, is deeply political yet achieves universality through its exploration of fear, hope and human frailty. The best political poetry balances specificity with timelessness, an achievement most politically charged contemporary work fails to replicate.

Some participants contended that in moments of social or political upheaval, poets have a moral obligation to address the issues of their time. While this sentiment is understandable, it risks reducing poetry to a tool for activism. Art, including poetry, functions best when it is free to explore, question and reimagine, rather than being used solely for the service of a cause. In addition, political engagement, when forced or expected, diminishes spontaneity and authenticity.

The relationship between poetry and politics is complex, and I am not denying the validity of political themes in poetry. Rather, I am questioning the prioritisation of political content at the expense of aesthetic and artistic considerations. Poetry’s enduring value lies in its ability to connect with readers on a deeper, more universal level—something that overtly political works often fail to achieve.

The counterarguments raised in these discussions highlight valid concerns but ultimately overlook the fundamental issue: the tension between art as a mode of expression and art as a tool of persuasion. In my view, poetry’s role is not to instruct but to illuminate—not to advocate, but to inspire. Reducing poetry to a mere vehicle for political expression risks undermining its integrity. Instead, we should strive to preserve poetry as an art form that transcends its immediate context, capable of expressing enduring human concerns and timeless insights.

From Folk Ballads to Dylan and Cohen

The evolution of song lyrics from simple folk ballads to complex poetic forms, is one of the most significant transformations in the history of popular music. Songwriters like Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen were instrumental in transplanting pre-1935 poetic ambiguity into the songwriting form, and, thus, reimagining lyrics as a serious art form. This introduction of lyrical ambiguity to songs has not only expanded the expressive potential of music but has also filled a void that modern mainstream and some avant-garde poetry, perhaps paradoxically, has failed to maintain.

Historically, song lyrics served as communal stories or refrains, intended for accessibility and for easy memorisation. Folk ballads, for instance, utilised repetitive structures and unambiguous language to convey themes of love, loss or societal injustice. Songs like ‘Barbara Allen’ or ‘The House of the Rising Sun’ are timeless thematically, but they are nevertheless unambiguous, focusing on narrative rather than interpretive introspection. Their impact lay in their thematic universality, using unambiguous language that could resonate broadly within the oral tradition.

However, the late 20th century saw a significant shift with the rise of the singer-songwriter “movement”. Dylan and Cohen’s work especially exemplifies this shift, as they introduced themes and structures more usually encountered in text-based poetry. Dylan’s lyrics, influenced by the Symbolists, Jack Kerouac's poetry and some of Allen Ginsberg’s “word chain runs” in Howl, enabled him to infuse into the song form surrealist landscapes and ambiguous narratives that moved beyond direct narrative structures. Songs like ‘Visions of Johanna’ and ‘A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall’ rely heavily on metaphor, symbolism and an obscurity that invites listeners to interpret meaning.

Cohen, also, did similarly, imbuing his lyrics with spiritual and existential undertones, as seen in songs like ‘Suzanne’, ‘Famous Blue Raincoat’ and ‘Night Comes On, the latter of which I have written about elsewhere. Unlike Dylan, he does this with an economy of words, that is more akin to “formal” poetic norms than Dylan’s lyrics are. Yet both writers achieve peak ambiguity via their respective approaches. The ambiguity in their lyrics, and their refusal to convey explicit messages, introduced a new dimension into the song form.

In many ways, this ambiguity reflects the qualities of pre-1935 poetry, which often specialised in open-ended meaning and interpretive possibilities. Poets like T.S. Eliot and Dylan Thomas exemplified this approach in their work, leaving readers with a sense of mystery and with numerous possibilities for the interpretation of their works. Eliot’s The Waste Land is an obvious example of this, and is dense with symbolic imagery and fragmented voices, where meaning is not predominantly explicit, but rather suggested in flashes of insight after reader-engagement with the text. Similarly, Dylan Thomas’ 'And Death Shall Have No Dominion' expresses themes of defiance and transcendence in the face of death through a sophisticated and mainly ambiguous form. His repeated use of the line 'and death shall have no dominion' evokes a strong emotional response, but he leaves it to the reader to explore the full range of its meanings.

Since 2005, I’ve argued that poetry’s shift toward precision and explicitness after 1935 left it less accessible to mystery and symbolic depth. The result has been that contemporary poetry, mainly mainstream and popular poetry (and even some avant-garde poetry in recent decades), has largely avoided the kind of ambiguity that Dylan, Cohen, Thomas and Eliot embraced.

It must be emphasised, that Dylan and Cohen are not isolated in this poetic approach to music, and dozens of artists since them have carried this aspect forwards to varying extents, including: Joni Mitchell, David Bowie, Neil Young, David Byrne, Tori Amos, Patti Smith, Beck, Lana Del Rey and dozens more; including bands like The Grateful Dead, The band, The Rolling Stones etc.

The impact of this development has been profound. Music has become a medium where ambiguity is not only tolerated but celebrated; where listeners are encouraged to engage in the same interpretive acts once largely reserved for poetic texts. Unlike much contemporary poetry, which tends towards precision and explicitness, song lyrics remain a laboratory for ambiguous expression. Dylan and Cohen helped to make this possible by expanding what lyrics could achieve. 

The ambiguities in song lyrics allow listeners to find resonance and meaning without dictating any singular interpretation, which is why songs have replaced poetry as a culturally significant art form.

Is John Ashbery Overrated?

John Ashbery occupies a complex position within the avant-garde tradition. While he is celebrated for his “innovative” style and layered themes, in actuality he might not embody after all the true spirit of avant-garde poetry. Instead, he risks being seen as a sort of "wannabe" (for want of a kinder word), creating a chasm between his reputation and the core principles of the “movement”.

While his work is frequently praised for its complexity, this complexity often lacks genuine originality and innovation. His poems weave together threads of thought and imagery that seem like pastiches of avant-garde influences. Whether this is intentional, though, has yet to be comprehensively established.

While his use of language to deconstruct meaning, along with his surrealist influences, is what made his poems noticeable when he first appeared, this doesn’t mean that he was doing anything particularly innovative historically. The poetic milieu he was operating within was very conservative poetically, and so naturally he would be seen as novel within that context.

And his reliance on disjointed imagery and non-linear narratives echoes elements and trends from earlier poetic movements, and even those of late-1960s psychedelic rock song lyrics. Instead of breaking new ground, his approach can be seen as a rehashing of ideas that have been explored by numerous other poets and artists.

And while his appropriation of, for instance, the "derangement of meaning" aesthetic was novel for late 1950s American poetry, a case could be made that the Beats were doing this before him.

Ashbery's association with the New York School places him within a specific cultural context that celebrates experimentation, but this affiliation can create a facade that obscures any actual contributions to the avant-garde tradition. At one time he was compared to T. S. Eliot as a marketing strategy, yet Eliot grappled with profound philosophical and emotional questions, pushing the boundaries of poetry in ways that challenged readers to confront meaning. In contrast, Ashbery’s work often seems like an exercise in style over language, prioritising a surface-level complexity that lacks the transformative engagement with language and texts that avant-garde poetry is supposed to embody.

The New York School, with all its cultural idiosyncrasies, certainly added its own flavour to the poetry scene, and Ashbery’s personal and cultural context gave him a particular lens. However, this doesn’t make him immune to critique or exempt from being held up against the broader standards of avant-garde exploration. It's one thing to mix different influences; it's another to argue convincingly that those influences have been used in a way that pushes the form or content of poetry in genuinely new directions. That's the point I’m making—Ashbery's work often seems more like an echo of past movements than a real departure from them.

Also, within this complex framework, can be found passages that lack the intricate layering often associated with his reputation. For example, his poem ‘The Picture of Little J. A. in a Prospect of Flowers’ juxtaposes sensory imagery with abstract reflection:

Yet I cannot escape the picture

Of my small self in that bank of flowers:

My head among the blazing phlox

Seemed a pale and gigantic fungus.

I had a hard stare, accepting

Everything, taking nothing,

As though the rolled-up future might stink

As loud as stood the sick moment

The shutter clicked. Though I was wrong,

Still, as the loveliest feelings

This sort of straightforward nostalgia is remarkably similar to Wordsworth’s approach to language. I discus this in my article ‘Reflective Discursiveness: Exploring Poetic Thought and Fragmentation in Wordsworth, Ashbery, Prynne and Harwood’.

While Ashbery’s contributions to the field are acknowledged, his legacy deserves reevaluation within the context of the avant-garde movement that critics claim it represents. His "style" has led to his celebration as a literary giant, yet it has rendered his work as derivative.

This critique doesn’t stem from a desire to limit poetry to predefined notions of what it should be (I’ve written many articles defending a reader-response approach to poetry), but rather to question how Ashbery’s work fits within the broader context of the avant-garde tradition. The avant-garde, historically, has often been about radical, innovative engagement with language and form, but also about pushing boundaries in ways that challenge not just craft, but also how readers engage emotionally and intellectually with the world.

I must emphasise, that I am not suggesting that the avant-garde was ever a monolithic aesthetic unity—that would be a gross oversimplification. What I am pointing out is that Ashbery is often celebrated as embodying a kind of avant-garde ideal, yet I question whether his work truly pushes the boundaries in the ways typically associated with that tradition. And his post-surrealist tendencies, which are sometimes noted, don’t necessarily equate to meaningful innovation or deep engagement with the kind of radicalism we often see in other strands of the avant-garde.

In this light, one might argue that John Ashbery, while celebrated, is ultimately overrated and perhaps not as authentic an avant-garde poet as is claimed.

Wombwell Rainbow Interview: Poets and Writers' Writing Approaches and Methods

I was interviewed for The Wombwell Rainbow a few years ago. The interview was part of a series of interviews with poets and writers about their approaches to and methods of writing. My thank to Paul Brookes for inviting me to take part. You can find it here:

https://thewombwellrainbow.com/2019/01/24/wombwell-rainbow-interviews-jeffrey-side/

The Influence of Dylan: Rediscovering the Joy of Poetry

It has been so long since I first started writing poetry, that I had almost forgotten why I started to write it. It certainly had everything to do with listening to Bob Dylan, and aspiring to do what he did with words but in a non-musical context. Because I couldn’t write songs, I used to write poems to song melodies and rhyme schemes. This was my way of "being musical", as I regarded myself more a frustrated songwriter than a poet. Writing poetry was for me merely a way to be able to say that I was doing something creatively similar to Dylan. I never saw my early poems as anything other than different lyrics to his melodies.

Looking back, I realise that this was my only enjoyable period in poetry. After I started to write poems “seriously”, and tried to get them published, and performed them at local readings, all the enjoyment began to fade. Like most pleasures, once you start to see it as a “business” then all its charm diminishes.

I was quite content to write such poetry and not have it seen by anyone, which is what I did for a while. But after having read some 19th century poetry by Browning, Tennyson, Coleridge etc., as well as some contemporary mainstream poetry, I was surprised to find that none of it was as rich in interpretive possibilities as Dylan’s lyrics were.

This led to my appreciating even more the genius of Dylan. The only poets who matched Dylan for me were Blake, Dickinson and Eliot. I also read Rimbaud, to see if he was as good (seeing as Dylan liked him) but apart from a few phrases here and there, he wasn’t. I also read Ginsberg and Kerouac, again because Dylan liked them. Of the two, I found Kerouac’s poetry more similar to Dylan than Ginsberg’s was—apart from Ginsberg’s Howl, which is very Kerouac in parts.

Finding out that nearly all the poetry I’d read wasn’t as good as Dylan’s lyrics, was a major revelation to me, and motivated me to find out why this was the case. So I read as much about poetry and its history as I could, but still could not come up with a sufficiently plausible answer. Eventually, I decided to go to university and do a degree in English Literature, thinking that this more rigorous and advanced study might reveal some answers. It did, and these answers led me to embark on a PhD course, and later to start The Argotist Online.

I eventually found that there was poetry out there that was as good as Dylan regarding his use of ambiguity and multi-textuality, but what it had of those elements, it lacked in emotional resonance. Such poetry was often associated with various postmodernist styles of writing, and as such tended to prioritise formal dexterity and novelty above emotion. This avoidance of emotion, particularly regarding the themes of love and loss, appears rooted in a theoretical understanding, that sees emotional expression as theoretically contentious and "unsophisticated".

Though I have borrowed a lot from postmodernism in my own poetry, I have never followed it down the “no emotion” road. Maybe other poets have done and are doing the same. I welcome that, if it is the case.

Wuthering Heights: The Ultimate Film Adaptation of Emily Bronte’s Novel

Looking at the barrage of overrated and over-produced contemporary films it is easy to forget that film once aspired to be an art form. One such film is William Wyler’s 1939 underrated version of Emily Bronte’s novel Wuthering Heights which is, for me, the best film adaptation of that novel. Whilst the film deals with only the first 16 chapters of the novel’s 34, it compensates by capturing perfectly the emotional essence of the book, which for me resides in the relationship between Cathy and Heathcliff. When read in light of having seen this film, the rest of the novel’s 18 chapters seem almost like an afterthought or padding.

Wyler’s use of camera, lighting and mise-en-scene take much from the German Expressionist cinema of the 1920s, which is to be expected since many of this school’s filmmakers and technicians had, by the early 1930s, relocated to Hollywood and become part of mainstream film production there. This expressionist style is well suited to the film, as it provides a visual equivalent to the novel’s gothic atmosphere.

The film quite deservedly won an Academy Award for Best Original Score, by Alfred Newman. Indeed, it is difficult to separate film and score, so entwined and essential are they that they become almost dyadic. To listen to Newman’s score alone is a deeply emotional experience.

However, Wuthering Heights did not win the Academy Award for Best Picture, which went to the unfortunately titled Gone With the Wind. In my view, this was an oversight because Wuthering Heights is the far superior film. One cannot help but suspect that Gone with the Wind won because it was an adaptation of a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, which dealt with a “big” subject. However, for me, the really timeless and universal themes are dealt with in Wuthering Heights.

Exploring the Art of Generalisation: Songs vs. Poetry

What distinguishes a song from a poem? Is it the melody or the vocal delivery, the lyrics or the musical arrangement? Certainly, it encompasses all these elements. However, for me, the key difference lies in how songs tend to generalise, whereas many contemporary poems do not. When I refer to "contemporary poems", I primarily mean anecdotal or descriptive pieces that lack ambiguity or mystery, which are often read by poetry enthusiasts. Such poems often fail to resonate personally with readers because they primarily serve as vehicles for straightforward information transfer—information that could easily be conveyed through prose. These poems aim to express the poet's thoughts and emotions regarding specific events, situations or places, without necessarily inviting readers to connect personally. The focus is on clarity of communication, whether conveying a profound insight, a prosaic observation or a commentary on everyday life.

Songs go beyond mere description. They activate both the imagination and emotions, allowing listeners to delve into their own deeply personal reservoirs of images, memories and associations. There was a time when poetry achieved this too, similar to songs, by employing generalisation. However, since Wordsworth's era—and largely influenced by him—poetry has shifted more towards novelistic and descriptive forms. Before Wordsworth, poets like William Blake or Thomas Wyatt adhered more closely to the traditions of song and ballad, avoiding extensive descriptive elements. It is widely acknowledged that songs pre-date poetry—or rather, songs transformed into poems once they were transcribed and read privately.

The limitations of poetry that does not generalise are plain to see if we compare some lines from one with those of a song. First the poetry—a stanza from Frank O'Hara's ‘Cambridge’:

It is still raining and the yellow-green cotton fruit

looks silly round a window giving out on winter trees

with only three drab leaves left. The hot plate works,

it is the sole heat on earth, and instant coffee. I

put on my warm corduroy pants, a heavy maroon sweater,

and wrap myself in my old maroon bathrobe.

What we see here is straightforward and descriptive writing that leaves little room for the reader's imagination. In contrast, let's examine song lyrics, specifically those of Leonard Cohen and Bob Dylan. In Cohen's 'Night Comes On', we find this verse:

I said mother I’m frightened,

the thunder and the lightening,

I’ll never get through this alone.

She said I’ll be with you,

my shawl wrapped around you,

my hand on your head when you go.

And the night came on,

it was very calm.

I wanted the night to go on and on

but she said go back,

go back to the world.

In contrast to O'Hara, Cohen embraces generalisation in his verse, opening up a wealth of interpretive possibilities. Right from the outset, ambiguity dominates as listeners are left pondering whether the speaker addresses his literal biological mother or if 'mother' serves as a metaphor for God or Mother Nature. Similarly, the thunder and lightning that instil fear are ambiguous—whether they are literal or symbolic remains uncertain. This ambiguity enriches each listener's experience, allowing them to interpret the nature of the speaker's fear differently.

Furthermore, this ambiguity invites numerous inquiries. When the speaker's mother assures him of her presence wherever he goes, the listener is prompted to question: Where exactly is he headed? Is he venturing into the fearful scenario symbolised by thunder and lightning? Could this be an existential ordeal akin to the "dark night of the soul" as described by Christian contemplatives? Is the "night" in 'the night came on' also metaphorical, perhaps representing a sense of comfort and reassurance? If so, does the speaker desire this reassurance to persist? Likely so, yet there's a suggestion to 'go back to the world'. Who issues this advice—the maternal figure or the night itself, in whatever symbolic form it represents?

The fact that this verse provokes such inquiries underscores its transcendence over the earlier quoted stanza by O'Hara.

Similar ambiguities and the questions they prompt can be found in the following verse from Dylan’s ‘Changing of the Guards’:

Fortune calls.

I stepped forth from the shadows, to the marketplace,

Merchants and thieves, hungry for power, my last deal gone down.

She’s smelling sweet like the meadows where she was born,

On midsummer’s eve, near the tower.

Similar to Cohen, Dylan embraces generalisation in his verse, blending various poetic registers to create a tapestry of language that both diversifies his expression and pays homage to his poetic lineage. He interweaves archaic phrases like 'I stepped forth', 'smelling sweet like the meadows' and 'on midsummer's eve' with more colloquial language such as 'last deal gone down'. This linguistic variety enriches the verse while acknowledging his poetic heritage.

The verse begins by declaring 'fortune calls', yet Dylan leaves it open-ended, leaving listeners to ponder: Is fortune beckoning the speaker, the audience or humanity at large? This ambiguity empowers the listener to interpret as they see fit. The introduction of a persona stepping forth from shadows adds another layer of intrigue—the identity of this persona remains ambiguous and unexplored, leaving ample room for interpretation. Even the term 'shadows', deliberately vague, invites myriad interpretations.

Moreover, Dylan employs phrases like 'merchants and thieves' and 'hungry for power' not only as specific symbols of corruption, decay and amorality but also as broader statements on the human condition. These phrases provoke further questions: Who is the woman 'smelling sweet' like the meadows? Why is "meadows" plural—does it symbolise something beyond its literal meaning? And what about the tower—does it hold symbolic significance as well?

In essence, Dylan's verse, like Cohen's, invites interpretation through its generalisations and poetic blending, making it a rich and layered piece that transcends simple description.

Similarly with Dylan’s song ‘The Wicked Messenger’, more questions are raised than answered:

There was a wicked messenger

from Eli he did come,

with a mind that multiplied

the smallest matter.

When questioned who had sent for him,

he answered with his thumb,

for his tongue it could not speak, but only flatter.

We note immediately the presence of ambiguity with the line: ‘from Eli he did come’. We are not told if Eli is a place or a person. The name has biblical connotations and can easily be a person. In the Old Testament Eli was the judge and high priest of Israel and although loyal to God, his reluctance to remove his two corrupt sons from the priesthood resulted in disgrace. Dylan’s lack of indication as to whom or what Eli is allows us to perhaps see a biblical reference in the name. If we take the name as referring to the biblical Eli then we have to ask the question: If the messenger was sent by Eli (who was a faithful servant of God) why is he seen as wicked? Is it because his mind ‘multiplied the smallest matter’ (possibly meaning he was neurotic) or that his ‘tongue it could not speak, but only flatter’ (possibly meaning he was a liar)? Are these common human failings sufficient grounds for someone to be designated as wicked? Alternatively, perhaps the messenger is wicked because there is a crudity about him—he ‘answered with his thumb’ (he gave the finger, perhaps?). For want of detailed information, we simply do not know.

So for me, each reader deserves the essential right to craft a personal meaning that encapsulates the essence of a poem. The poem itself serves primarily as a catalyst for this interpretive act. Embracing such an approach to poetry reading could potentially elevate poetry back to its rightful place as a significant and widely appreciated art form.

What’s in a Name?: The Art & Language Group and Conceptual Poetry

In his 2013 article, ‘Charmless and Interesting: What Conceptual Poetry Lacks and What It’s Got’ Robert Archambeau asks: ‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’ The answer to this question would clarify the relationship between conceptual poetry, conceptual art and the generally accepted definition of poetry as being specifically a literary art whereby language is utilised aesthetically and evocatively.

That some of the concerns and practices of conceptual poetry are not new in the world of conceptual art needs no extensive repetition here. However, it is interesting to note that in relation to conceptual poetry’s use of texts and lexical elements to comprise its works, a fairly recent historical precedent already exists. This can be seen in the theories, practices and works of 1960s conceptual artists such as Lawrence Weiner, Edward Ruscha and Robert Barry; and also in the theories, practices and works of the conceptual art group known as Art & Language, which was formed by Terry Atkinson, Michael Baldwin, Harold Hurrell and David Bainbridge in 1968. Others affiliated with this group, included Ian Burn, Michael Corris, Preston Heller, Graham Howard, Joseph Kosuth, Andrew Menard, Terry Smith, Philip Pilkington and David Rushton. These artists were among the first to produce art from textual and lexical sources.

The notable similarity between the theories of this group and those of conceptual poetry’s is that the group developed, extended and championed the conceptual theories that were initiated by artists such as Marcel Duchamp. The group also held the view that the practice of art should be systematically theoretical and entirely separated from concerns relating to craft or aesthetics. These and other ideas appeared in the group’s journal, Art-Language, the first issue of which appeared in 1969.

A direct parallel with the works of these artists and those produced by conceptual poets is not my intention here. There will be differences in scale (both physical and theoretical) and presentation between them; suffice to say, that the common element they share is that of a conceptual approach to their works, and as such, this leads us back to Archambeau’s question (‘In what sense is pure conceptualism poetry, beyond the institutional sense of being distributed and considered through the channels by which poetry is distributed and considered?’), and also one that I would like to ask. If it is at all possible to agree that both the Art & Language group and conceptual poetry share similar theoretical stances and working practices, then in what sense is the work produced by conceptual poetry more suited to be called poetry than that of the Art & Language group?

In one of the two Facebook discussions I took part in a few years ago about Archambeau’s question, it was mentioned by someone that the term “poetry” was merely an honorific one, conferred by the academy on what it deemed was poetry: the logical extension of this being that if the academy should deem, for instance, a text-book to be poetry then it would have to be accepted that a text-book was, indeed, poetry. In response to this, someone else mentioned that the approach of the literary theorist Roman Jakobson was more reasonable, in that Jakobson saw poetry as marked by specific functions in language rather than by an arbitrary redesignation by the academy of general texts. I agreed with the latter.

In light of this, it seems to me that given that there is no significant difference between the work of the Art & Language group and that of conceptual poetry, for the work of the latter to be designated as poetry whilst that of the former is not, seems a peculiarly inconsistent and whimsical act on the part of the academy. It seems to me, that neither the Art & Language group nor conceptual poetry can accurately be described as producing works of poetry, given that they are both operating from within a conceptual art aesthetic and theoretical stance.

Adrian Henri Interview: Performance and Written Poetry in 1995

I interviewed Adrian Henri in 1995 for the The Argotist magazine, which was the print predecessor of the The Argotist Online. Only some of the interview was used in the magazine.

The original audio cassette of the interview has now been converted to MP3 format and is now on YouTube. It is in four parts. It covers a range of topics: performance poetry, the practicalities of performance poetry gigging, written poetry and spoken poetry, poetry set to music, Bob Dylan as poet, and many other things.

You can find here:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E3YvS8iB3bQ

A Light for the Avant-Garde: Remembering Marjorie Perloff

I was deeply saddened to hear of the passing of Marjorie Perloff. From the inception of The Argotist Online in April 2005, she offered unwavering support. In fact, she was the first person to be aware of its existence before it went “live” online. I had contacted her for feedback on the site prior to its launch, and her insights proved invaluable in shaping its thematic direction and content.

She also put me in contact with various academics and poets she thought would make good contributors of material to the site. Without her initial support, I doubt the site would have lasted beyond its first two months, let alone nearly 20 years.

I am also immensely grateful to her for her generous review of my long poem, Carrier of the Seed, and for featuring an interview I conducted with her in a book of one of her collected interviews.

She was not only supportive to me but to many other poets and publishers as well. And her dedication to supporting innovation and encouraging new voices in poetry was immeasurable.

I never met her in person, but we emailed each other from 2005 until a few years ago.

May she rest in peace.

Christopher Plummer: A Journey Through Six Decades of Theatre and Film

Christopher Plummer’s In Spite of Myself is one of the best showbiz memoirs I’ve read. It’s very long (over 600 pages) but never boring, largely due to Plummer’s narrative skill, wit and charm.

A large part of the book reads like a Who’s Who of the American and British theatre of the 1950s and 1960s, with Plummer having worked with most major theatrical figures of those decades, from Elia Kazan to Peter Hall. And his friendships have also ranged widely, including figures such as Noël Coward, Rex Harrison, Laurence Olivier, Katharine Hepburn, Raymond Massey and Jason Robards. He is always generous towards everyone he mentions, even to those who have treated him unfairly, either professionally or personally; and he is always self-deprecating.

He is, perhaps, better known for his film work (particularly in The Sound of Music) but a major part of his career has been in the theatre, on both sides of the Atlantic. In the 1960s, he was a member of the Royal Shakespeare Company, living in Britain for a large part of that decade. And amongst the major theatrical classical roles he’s played throughout his career are Hamlet, Macbeth, Henry V, Richard III and King Lear.

The book is also full of interesting detail about Plummer’s more personal life: his visits to different countries (he’s extremely well travelled), his favourite hotels and restaurants, his house moving adventures, and movingly about the deaths of his pet dogs, which he kept in the 1980s and 1990s.

As you can imagine for a 600-plus-page book, there is far more in it than I have been able to touch on here, so I highly recommend it—especially to anyone interested in theatre and film of the past 60 years.