Vedic Influences on Greek Philosophy and Christianity

The history of philosophy and spirituality in the ancient world is often seen as a series of isolated discoveries. Greek rationalism is presented as emerging independently of other traditions, and early Christianity is seen as developing solely within Jewish and Hellenistic contexts. Yet the history of trade and cultural exchange suggests a more interconnected reality, in which the philosophical and mystical traditions of the Vedas and Upanishads might have indirectly influenced both Greek philosophy and early Christian thought.

By the first millennium BCE, long-distance trade created networks that connected India, Persia, Mesopotamia and the Mediterranean. Merchants, scholars and mystics travelled these routes, carrying not only goods but also ideas. Greece had well-established links with the Persian Empire, which extended to India’s borders, creating opportunities for the intellectual exchange of ideas. Similarly, Jewish communities across Babylon, Persia and the eastern Mediterranean could have discovered these ideas, which might have subsequently influenced early Christian thought.

Greek philosophy is often represented as the sole product of rational inquiry. Yet evidence suggests it was developed in dialogue with mystical and Eastern influences. Pythagoras, for example, posited the transmigration of souls and the harmony of numbers, concepts similar to Vedic and Upanishadic thought. Pyrrho travelled to India with Alexander the Great’s army. His notion of scepticism, advocating “suspension of judgement” as the path to freedom from disturbance, is likely influenced by the non-attachment, meditative and ascetic practices he found there. Plato also developed ideas with parallels in Indian philosophy: belief in an immortal soul, the purification of a pre-existing soul through successive lives and the distinction between a transient material world and an ultimate eternal reality, evocative of the Vedic concept of Brahman.

These thinkers often used reasoning to systematise insights they had intuited directly. Modern scholarship has emphasised the rational dimension of Greek philosophy, understating its mystical aspects, yet the parallels with Indian metaphysics suggest at least an indirect connection.

The possibility of Indian influence on early Christianity is more speculative, but it remains plausible. Indian merchants were active along routes reaching Persia, Mesopotamia and the eastern Mediterranean, and Jewish communities along these routes, could have been familiar with Indian ideas. Groups such as the Essenes or Therapeutae, who practiced asceticism, ethical discipline and mystical contemplation, might have been receptive to new spiritual insights. Early Christian teachings reflect ideas that resemble Indian philosophical concepts: moral causality similar to karma, universal love and compassion comparable to dharma and ahimsa and spiritual rebirth through baptism and the pursuit of unity with the divine, echoing concepts of Brahman.

While direct evidence linking Indian thought to early Christianity is lacking, the cosmopolitan environment of the Hellenistic Near East makes indirect influence plausible. Ideas could have travelled as symbolic or philosophical concepts, entering Jewish mystical thought and eventually having a bearing on nascent Christian teachings.

Therefore, it reasonable to consider that Indian philosophical and mystical ideas might have influenced both Greek philosophy and early Christian thought.

My Brief Experience with the Hare Krishna Movement

For a few months in 1993, I attended meetings of the Hare Krishna movement (formally known as ISKCON: International Society for Krishna Consciousness), founded by A. C. Bhaktivedanta Swami Prabhupada. The movement worships Krishna, whom devotees regard as the sole incarnation of Brahman, the ultimate reality or God. I eventually stopped attending because I found the daily practices too demanding.

Hare Krishna devotees focus on “bhakti”, or devotional service, to Krishna. Daily practices include:

Chanting the Hare Krishna mantra using prayer beads.

Participating in temple worship.

Reading scriptures such as the Bhagavad Gita and Srimad Bhagavatam.

Dietary and lifestyle rules are also strict. Devotees are vegetarians and avoid vegetables grown underground, like onions, garlic and sometimes potatoes. They abstain from alcohol, sexual activity outside of marriage, watching TV, going to the cinema or theatre and listening to music not related to Krishna. I found the restriction on music particularly disturbing, as listening to music is one of my greatest joys.

I was even advised to set up a small altar in my flat, with the following items on it:

Deity images or small statues of Krishna.

Incense, lamps, flowers and food offerings.

This altar would be a place for prayer, chanting and offering food to Krishna. I was told to treat the images and statues as if they were incarnations of Krishna himself, and to maintain the altar with care and respect.

While I personally found these practices difficult to follow, they reflect a deeply held conviction among devotees that Krishna is a living, eternal, personal deity. Without this belief, such practices could not be sincerely maintained.

From a historical standpoint, however, Krishna’s development raises questions about the claim that he has always been a personal, eternal God. Early Vedic texts, such as the Ṛg Veda (c. 1500–900 BCE), mention deities like Indra, Agni and Varuna, but references to “kṛṣṇa” appear only as an adjective meaning “black” or “dark”, not as a divine figure. The early Upanishads (c. 900–500 BCE) focus on philosophical concepts such as Brahman and Atman, without mentioning Krishna as a historical or personal entity.

It is only in the Mahabharata (c. 400 BCE–400 CE) that Krishna takes on significance in the form of a narrative character, depicted as the charioteer and guide to Arjuna, and divine teacher of the [Bhagavad Gita]. Later, the Bhagavata Purana (c. 300–1000 CE) elaborates on his life and miracles, forming the theological and devotional framework of Gaudiya Vaishnavism, the religion formulated to worship him.

This chronological development suggests that Krishna was not a central figure in early Vedic religion. If he were as significant as later devotees claim, one might expect references to him to be found alongside the principal Vedic deities.

Gaudiya Vaishnava devotees address this textual absence by claiming that Krishna is implicitly present in the Vedas, hidden in symbolic or esoteric passages. This mirrors arguments used in other religions, such as claims that Christ is foreshadowed throughout the Old Testament.

From a critical perspective, this is a form of retroactive interpretation, in which later beliefs are projected onto earlier texts to validate a claim. The reasoning is circular: because Krishna is eternal and supreme, early texts must reflect him, even if they do not explicitly do so.

For literalistic devotees, Krishna is an eternal, historical, personal God. Historical evidence, however, indicates that the figure of Krishna, as fully formed and central, emerges only in later texts. This does not diminish the devotion or spiritual value of practices such as chanting, offering food or maintaining an altar. But it highlights that devotional authority does not rely on the earliest Vedic scriptures.

'Why COVID Conspiracy Movements Refused to Retreat When Reality Moved On' by Robert Miller—guest blogger and former COVID sceptic

When COVID-19 restrictions faded and societies reopened, one might have expected the most dramatic pandemic-era conspiracy narratives to fade with them. Instead, many of the loudest sceptics held fast to their original convictions or pushed them into even more expansive territory. The moment that should have disproved the theories became, paradoxically, further evidence of them. This phenomenon wasn’t an accident. It reflects how broad, emotionally charged conspiratorial systems behave when the world fails to conform to their predictions.

At the height of the pandemic, the most sweeping sceptical claims rested on a single core idea: that COVID-19 was being used as a pretext to impose lasting global control through lockdowns, mandates, digital IDs, surveillance and possibly forced vaccination. If that were true, the end of restrictions should have shattered the entire framework.

But human belief isn’t governed by simple logic. When someone invests deeply in a narrative that casts them as a rare truth-seer resisting mass deception, the belief becomes part of their identity. A retreat from it would feel like self-betrayal. So when the world fails to match the prophecy, the mind adapts the prophecy rather than discarding it.

This pattern is familiar. Failed doomsday predictions have been “reinterpreted” for decades, from religious movements to political cults. In each case, the believers experience not collapse but reinforcement.

For many sceptics, the key prediction was that lockdowns and restrictions were the opening act of a new global regime. When restrictions ended, this should have invalidated the idea. Instead, the frame shifted:

1. If governments had kept lockdowns indefinitely, it would have proven the theory.

2. When governments lifted lockdowns, this also “proved” the theory—because the alleged plan had supposedly been exposed and thwarted.

This is the hallmark of an unfalsifiable worldview. Every possible outcome fits the narrative. No new evidence is allowed to contradict its basic structure.

The narrative raises an unavoidable contradiction. If a clandestine, globally coordinated power could orchestrate unified policies across dozens of nations, manipulate data, silence dissent and enforce unprecedented compliance, why would it suddenly abandon its scheme because the public complained? The stated power of the plot and its alleged fragility cannot both be true. The incoherence doesn’t weaken belief; it simply goes unnoticed. Conspiracy systems aren’t designed to be consistent. They are designed to be explanatory, reassuring and self-protecting.

Acknowledging that the supposed plan never existed would require several difficult admissions:

1. That governments acted chaotically, not malevolently.

2. That experts may have been flawed but not conspiratorial.

3. That the believer’s own certainty was misplaced.

These steps invite cognitive dissonance. They threaten status within the sceptic community. They collapse a sense of special insight that can feel profoundly meaningful. So a third option is chosen: the plan was real, but ordinary people exposed and defeated it. This offers a gratifying narrative of resistance and triumph, without requiring any revision of the core belief.

Once established, these systems become self-sealing. Evidence against the theory is folded into the theory. Failed predictions trigger reinterpretation, not reevaluation. Every contradiction becomes either an oversight by the conspirators or a victory by the enlightened few.

This mechanism explains why COVID-era conspiracy thinking hasn’t diminished with reopening, vaccination programmes winding down or emergency measures disappearing. The movement no longer depends on the external events it originally latched onto. It depends on the psychological architecture built around them.

The endurance of these narratives shows that they were never really about epidemiology, public health or even governmental power. They were about certainty during crisis, identity during confusion and belonging during isolation. Once formed, the worldview outlived the moment that gave birth to it.

The pandemic ended; the conspiracies didn’t. They simply adapted to survive.

The Block Universe Time Travel Model

I always think about the past, yearning to go back in time to my youth, when the world seemed a better place and life was full of endless possibilities. Sometimes I imagine waking up one morning back there, and finding that my life now was just a sad dream. Maybe, though, some day, we will be able to travel back to a better past.

Recently, I came across a theory of time that offers an interesting way to think about the past, present and future. It’s a model that, at least conceptually, opens the door to the idea of time travel.

It’s called the “block universe” or “eternalist” model, and it presents a simple and plausible framework for understanding time, free will, causality and even some mystical experiences.

One way to visualise it is to think of time as a roll of celluloid film. Each frame represents a moment in life. Your consciousness is like the projector’s lens, as each frame moves through it one by one. The passage of time, then, is not really “time” itself, it’s the experience of the projector “perceiving” each frame. In the classic formulation of this theory, the past and the present are the parts of the film that already exist on the reel, while the future is not yet “developed” in the same way. But for the purposes of this discussion (and to include the idea of future frames) I will extend the analogy beyond the strict boundaries of the traditional model.

In this framework, time travel is conceptually straightforward. Different versions of yourself (at least the past and present ones) coexist independently. Interactions between them wouldn’t create temporal paradoxes, because nothing in the past is overwritten. Your younger self in 1981, for instance, exists separately from who you are today, and each retains its own continuity of experience. The so-called “grandfather paradox” dissolves, as all moments are already present, waiting on the reel for the projector to experience.

This model also provides a new way to think about free will. Our choices seem real and important because consciousness experiences events sequentially. Like the projector lens, we perceive decisions happening moment by moment. In that sense, free will might be more about the way perception unfolds than about altering a fixed reality. The narrative of making choices is part of how we move from frame to frame, even if those frames are already “fixed”

Causality, too, harmonises into this view. The philosopher David Hume posited that we can’t prove causation; we can only infer it from repeated observation. The block universe model suggests that what we call cause and effect might simply be the pattern of frames. Events appear connected because we experience them in sequence, not because there is an active force pushing one into the next.

Some experiences that are unexplained (premonitions, déjà vu or fleeting intuitions) also make sense in this framework. Perhaps they are moments where consciousness briefly overlaps neighbouring frames, producing a sense of familiarity or foresight.

Even ideas like karma can be encompassed in the block universe model, offering a new perspective. Many Eastern philosophies describe life as a web of cause and effect. Here, that web can be imagined as a set of patterns already inscribed on the film. Rather than cosmic reward or punishment, life simply unfolds along tracks woven into the reel. The sense of influencing one’s destiny might simply be part of the lens through which consciousness experiences the frames.

The beauty of the block universe model is its versatility. Physics, philosophy and mysticism can be seen as different ways of perceiving the same underlying structure. Time doesn’t flow; causality is a habit of thought; free will is experienced sequentially; and karma is the path already laid out.

In essence, the block-universe view treats time as a single, complete structure, and what we experience as past, present and future comes from the particular viewpoint of consciousness moving through it. Time is not literally “flowing”; it only seems that way from our position inside the sequence. 

I can’t say whether this theory is true (or whether it can ever be proved), but thinking about time in this way helps make sense of many things that at present can’t be explained. 

Reflections on a Lost Cinema

Before I studied poetry, I spent two years studying film; not at a prestigious film school, but at a small college in Liverpool, called South Mersey College. Those were the best two years of my life.

At the college, we watched classic Hollywood films by directors like Howard Hawks, John Ford, Orson Welles, Alfred Hitchcock and William Wyler, alongside European avant-garde films by Jean-Luc Godard, François Truffaut, Sergei Eisenstein and Andrei Tarkovsky. We studied American Direct Cinema through the films of Richard Leacock, D. A. Pennebaker and Albert and David Maysles. And also the experimental filmmaking pioneered by Len Lye and Stan Brakhage, as well as the underground cinema of Andy Warhol and Kenneth Anger. After each screening, we analysed the films’ themes, visual style, editing and historical context.

We also studied movements such as German Expressionism, Film Noir, Italian Neorealism, the French New Wave, Soviet Montage, Constructivist cinema, Surrealism, British Social Realism and New Hollywood. Our reading list included Rudolf Arnheim’s Film as Art, Sergei Eisenstein’s Film Form and The Film Sense and André Bazin’s What Is Cinema?

I was fascinated by the vibrant use of colour in 1940s and ’50s films. Bright, saturated hues made every frame look like a living painting. Music was equally as important to me, producing maybe eighty percent of a film’s emotional impact. At that time, one of my musical muses was Aaron Copland. I had only recently discovered his works, such as Fanfare for the Common Man and the score he composed for the film The Red Pony. Both pieces were life-affirming, and they became a personal soundtrack to my daydreams of the sorts of films I wanted to make. In my mind, I created film sequences, rising and falling with the flow of the music.

Had I known then how cinema would evolve, I might have been less optimistic. The digital revolution has changed everything. Traditional film stock (16 mm, 35 mm, 70 mm) has largely disappeared. Cameras have become lighter, and handheld naturalism dominates the look of films, with available light replacing carefully designed chiaroscuro lighting schemes. And long takes have largely replaced montage. Digital detail is sharper, but it lacks the depth and texture of film. The deliberate use of light, shadow and colour (the visual poetry that once defined films) has given way to bland, uniform imagery. Music, too, has shifted towards ambient textures rather than emotional scores.

Maybe this will change, and film will return as a tactile, expressive medium once digital technology matures. But for now, many contemporary films have no magic. Yet when I hear a Copland score, I can still glimpse the wonder that first drew me to film.

Old 'Carrier of the Seed' ebook review

I Just found this very old review of my 'Carrier of the Seed' ebook. I never knew it existed.

Quote from it:

"Those skeptical about the e-book format would do well to peruse it; it is proof positive that e-books are, in fact, both real and legitimate. This is a single long poem; 63 pages long, and its formal characteristics are unique: it features a single column composed of spare, terse lines, going straight down the page. This gives the poem a sleek, lean look, as is customary with Side. Reading the poem is like riding on a high-velocity train; it doesn't get sluggish, and there are no breaks in the continuity of the sustained, brisk rhythm. There is an obvious connection with some aspects of Language Poetry; the primary difference between, say, Barrett Watten's Progress and Carrier is that Carrier does actually tell a story, albeit elliptically. This is a story of love lost: memory associations, forms of consciousness which accrue to it."

https://adamfieled.blogspot.com/2007/12/jeffrey-side-carrier-of-seed.html

‘Death, Taxes and Poetry, or, Poetry is My Disability’ by Joritz-Nakagawa—guest blogger

Unable to bear it any longer, I start splintering . . .

I write this in big letters, my eyesight is fading . . .

When my father in law died I wrote a poem the second line of which was "No one will notice Milton's light has dimmed" and which ended ". . . and none of this is actually visible from the lighthouse."

This poem was published under the title The Lighthouse, in New American Writing, a print journal I am very fond of, although I read mostly online now, and also appears with no title in my 2013 poetry collection titled FLUX.

Of course I was referring to John Milton's famous sonnet ‘When I Consider How My Light is Spent’ also known as ‘On His Blindness’ and ‘Sonnet XIX,’ a poem I taught several times in an undergrad course in comparative poetry here in Japan.

After that, my mother in law died, my sister in law died (in October 2025), and my husband has been diagnosed with terminal cancer. My own parents have died, two siblings died of cancer when they are the age I am now, friends died, friends of friends and relatives of friends died, etc. et al.

I survived advanced cancer but it was a kind of devil's bargain: you can live, or you can choose palliative chemo, but your body and new life will be (almost?) unrecognizable in many important ways. But not in this way: poetry is still my disability.

I have written somewhat extensively about death as well as my multiple chronic illnesses and other disabilities and those of others.

When at one of my lowest points, before my third surgery for cancer, I was so frightened of death and further disability that I read Emily Dickinson's poems aloud to myself every night from my bed. Any poem of hers that mentioned psychic pain would do. And there is a great many of such poems by Dickinson, so there was much to choose from! I didn't even have to repeat myself, as I often do!

I am not saying however that disability is bad or necessarily frightening. I don't think that at all, and I was already disabled anyhow before I got cancer. I just became much more so—more disabled I mean. I was afraid of suffering, which is not the same thing as disability, or death, and the unknown, and perhaps a feeling of my own powerlessness in this situation. Please let's not confuse these!

I was net surfing recently and found somebody much younger than myself referring to a group of young persons who are "dark" (their word, not mine!) and inevitably drawn to Plath! I was very surprised to hear this remark! First, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that young people know who Plath is! Although always interested in Plath due to her thematic range, theatricality, power, mastery of verse and stylistic achievements, I didn't really feel the depth of that kind of darkness that appears in some of her late poems until later in life when due to extensive bereavement I felt I was living in it. Or as a Christian friend said to me recently, maybe this life on earth is hell, and heaven is what we get when we die?

But we (= I) also know, if only from opera, that love makes a heaven out of life if only temporarily; love is fragile and can turn to hate or disinterest or disappointment, etc. with relative ease. Can it bounce back with relative ease?

The happiest elegy (actually a so-called "self-elegy" which is why it is more cheerful!) I know is Christina Rossetti's ‘Remember,’ another poem I have taught to undergrads; the saddest is ‘Ending with a Line From Lear’ by Marvin Bell, which I have not. At times of intense suffering (e.g. physical pain, or, bereavement or depression) I have often repeated to myself his line: "I will never be better again" oftentimes followed by the final line, the repetition of the word "never." I was wrong about that, but it helped me to say it, anyway. There's also song lyrics by the band Everclear which begin "I hate waking up, it means I have to die again tonight…" another set of words I have repeated in my head upon waking up during my worst moments in life. As well as the beginning and ending of William Carlos Williams' poem ‘The Widow's Lament in Springtime;’ interestingly, the lyrics to Everclear's ‘Fire Maple Song’ contains a line similar to one in Williams' poem. These poems and songs soothe me somehow during difficult times, although they do much more than that.

Yet life changes, we change, things change.

But poetry is still my disability.

As a person with fibromyalgia, one of the Plath lines I most identify with, from her incredible poem ‘Tulips’ published when I was two years old, is: "The tulips are too red in the first place they hurt me."

I was raised by Plath. No, I don't mean I was raised on Plath or knew her personally. I mean Plath's generation was my mother's generation and they both raised me, if not revived me. A fiction writer friend who also likes poetry once said: "All women can relate to Plath." She meant all women of our generation. Because we were raised by Plath.

When I say "blue bladder" I don't mean the color blue. I mean my bladder is sad. Because it was removed from my body seven years ago.

When I say "There are baroque places inside me" I am quoting someone else.

Poetry is my disability.

NOTES:

“There are baroque places inside me” comes from the poem ‘The Believable Weather of His Baroque Face on a Wall’ by Raymond Farr in the journal Upstairs at Duroc, ed. Barbara Beck, issue 17, 2020, Paris.

A monograph by the author about Plath and other female poets under the title Dying Swans is available online via Argotist Ebooks.

Life Behind the Scenes at London Underground's Angel Station in 1989

Last night, I saw a repeat on TV of a 1989 documentary called Heart of the Angel, part of the BBC’s 1980s 40 Minutes series of documentaries. Though filmed in 1989, it had the look and feel of a much earlier period, say, the early 1960s, due mainly to the way it was shot, and what it focused on—the dilapidated Angel London Underground station and the people who worked there.

The documentary is a remarkable piece of filmmaking by director Molly Dineen. And unlike the modern, fast-paced, reality-TV style superficial “documentaries” we are bombarded with today, this one simply shows life at Angel station over 48 hours, letting viewers witness the daily grind in all its uncomfortable detail.

Watching it in 2025, the station itself looks Dickensian. The lifts, still manually operated at the time, break down frequently. The platforms are narrow and overcrowded, and the staff kitchen is a depressing sight, with peeling paint, rusty appliances and grime that make it look like a staff kitchen from a 1930s workhouse or prison.

Perhaps the most unsettling aspect of the documentary is the depiction of the “fluffers”: female cleaners crawling along the tracks at night, clearing hair and debris to prevent fire hazards. I was shocked that such a practice was still allowed in 1989. Thankfully, due to health-and-safety improvements and the modernisation of the London Underground, automated track cleaning machines and vacuum systems now do that job.

What makes the documentary so fascinating is not just the sense of a bygone era, but the humanity (warts and all) of the staff. You see the station foreman stressing out over the malfunctioning lifts, the misanthropic ticket-seller being rude and sarcastic to customers (I wonder if he was sacked after the documentary was originally broadcast?) and the maintenance crew working on the tracks at night in near-darkness and in unhealthy conditions.

For anyone interested in urban history, social history or the history of public transport in London, this documentary is a fascinating look at a world that has vanished.

Bob Dylan’s “Jimmie Rodgers” Voice on ‘Nashville Skyline’

Last year I noticed for the first time that Bob Dylan’s singing voice on Nashville Skyline was a direct homage to Jimmie Rodgers. I’d been a Dylan fan for years without realising this; and wouldn’t have, had I not happened to hear a clip of Rodgers singing. I was astounded by the similarity.

When Nashville Skyline came out in 1969, Dylan’s voice was widely remarked upon as being very different from his usual one. The nasal, reedy tone had been replaced by a warmer and smoother sound. This was seen as being more “country music–oriented”, though in what specific sense was never really explained. It was simply taken as a given.

As far as I know, no one has ever identified this “specific sense”, which I now believe to be Dylan’s adoption of Jimmie Rodgers’ vocal style.

Jimmie Rodgers is often called “the father of country music” for his relaxed, storytelling delivery, which helped define the genre’s emotional vocabulary. He was also distinct in his use of yodelling, which, as far as I know, was never used in country music before him.

Dylan, with his near-encyclopaedic knowledge of folk and country songs, would have known Rodgers’ songs inside out. He grew up with Rodgers’ music, and in interviews mentioned owning the album Hank Snow Sings Jimmie Rodgers as a teenager. And in The Bootleg Series Vol. 15: Travelin' Thru, 1967–1969 sessions, he sang Jimmie Rodgers medleys with Johnny Cash.

It seems very likely, then, that for Nashville Skyline he chose to base its vocal “sonic architecture” on Rodgers’ voice. Every song on the album can be heard as an homage to Rodgers’ singing.

Though critics immediately noticed Dylan’s changed voice, none remarked on how much it sounded like Rodgers’. That oversight is glaring, given the unmistakable resemblance.

And while Dylan never said outright, 'I sang like Jimmie Rodgers on Nashville Skyline' the parallels are obvious.

This is not to suggest that he was "channelling" Rodgers or mimicking him. It was more a continuation of a lineage. Rodgers’ voice represented the ordinary person singing about their troubles and pleasures in a simple, unembellished way. However, where Rodgers had turned American “work songs” and blues into country, Dylan turned country into something like an “art song”—but without pretension.

Rachel Lisi—Still Remembered

A dear friend of mine died in 2010, aged only 40. Her name was Rachel Lisi. She was an unknown poet who deserved to be known. She was also a photographer and graphic artist, and did a few cover images for Argotist Ebooks.

I just wanted to mention her now, after all these years, to keep her memory alive.

Here is a YouTube video her family put together after she died.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xbL4R0CS34

Kent Johnson: In Praise of Mischief and Literary Disruption

It’s been several years now since Kent Johnson passed. I had corresponded with him for roughly a decade, from around 2008 until a few months before his death, and I once interviewed him for The Argotist Online. At one point, he approached me about publishing an ebook of his collected writings. I was eager to do so but the project ultimately fell through: the sheer volume of material he offered, and the extensive editing it required, felt beyond my capacity. Still, I was genuinely flattered that he had asked me—and that he had such faith in ebooks as a medium.

Kent was something of a mythical figure in the circles of contemporary poetry. He was someone no one could quite categorise: was he a critic, a satirist, an archivist or a literary provocateur? When he was a child in Montevideo, he played ping-pong with the sons of ambassadors and even had Duke Ellington pat him on the head, and saying, ‘And what is your name, handsome young man?’—which he mentioned decades later with fondness. And in his early twenties, he was a literacy teacher in Nicaragua, living with revolutionaries and translating his first poetry collection in collaboration with Ernesto Cardenal, a priest and poet.

In the correspondence I had with him, I saw the breadth of his vision. He engaged deeply with avant-garde practice, the politics of poetry and the sociology of literary communities. He was always curious about the literary world; and no claim, scandal and poetic controversy was too insignificant for his attention. He questioned cliques, examined complicity and exposed absurdities with a sharp wit, but never with cruelty.

Looking back, I think what fascinated him most about poetry was its potential as a kind of “performance art”. Not in the sense of being performed as in “performance poetry”, but as an “idea” that could be used for performative interventions: mischief, satire or creative disruption. He cared less for poetry as a personal or aesthetic expression than for its capacity to function as a “disruptive element”—a kind of conceptual defamiliarisation that could unsettle, provoke or even create chaos.

Even in his youth, chaos was never too far away. A bowling alley in Carrasco, Uruguay, was bombed by Tupamaros (a Marxist–Leninist urban guerrilla group that operated in Uruguay during the 1960s and 1970s) just a few hours after he'd been there with the two sons of two CIA counterinsurgency specialists.

In the end, his work demonstrates that poetry is not only about the page, but is a performative act, a playground for imaginative intervention. He treated the literary world as a stage, and poetry as the stage directions.

When my friend the poet and photographer, Rachel Lisi, died unexpectedly at the age of only 40 in 2010, Kent commiserated with me, saying that though as a poet she was little-recognised, she would always be remembered. May the same be true of him.

'Debunking the Great Replacement Theory' by Ryan Soames—guest blogger

The “Great Replacement” theory alleges that governments or shadowy elites are deliberately engineering the decline of white, European-descended populations through immigration and differential birth rates. Though it has found a foothold in political rhetoric, the claim is baseless—and its consequences are deeply corrosive. In recent years, some GB News commentators and Reform UK supporters have also entertained the theory obliquely, speaking of “demographic change” or “cultural erosion” in ways that echo the language of the so-called “Great Replacement”.

The concept itself can be traced to the French writer Renaud Camus, who popularised the phrase in 2011. Since then, it has circulated widely among far-right networks in Europe and North America, where it has been adopted as a rallying cry for nativist and exclusionary politics. More worryingly, it has inspired acts of terrorism, including the Christchurch mosque shootings in 2019 and the Buffalo supermarket attack in 2022. In each case, perpetrators cited the theory explicitly, presenting ordinary demographic trends as proof of an existential plot.

Supporters of the theory often argue that demographic change has been made to appear “organic” but is, in fact, carefully orchestrated. This claim, however, does not stand up to scrutiny. Migration patterns follow clear economic, political and social drivers. People move to seek employment, safety, or opportunity; conflicts, natural disasters and climate change displace populations; and policy decisions on asylum or labour migration respond to labour shortages and humanitarian obligations. These dynamics are well-documented, transparent and observable—not evidence of a secretive, coordinated plan. Interpreting ordinary social processes as a deliberate plot is a misreading of cause and effect, driven by fear rather than fact.

Concrete data further dismantles the theory. The UK's population is projected to grow by 4.9 million (7.3%) over the decade from mid-2022 to mid-2032, with net migration accounting for the entire increase. In 2024, net migration was estimated at 431,000, a sharp decline from the unusually high levels in 2022 and 2023. However, it remained higher than levels seen during the 2010s, when the figure typically fluctuated between 200,000 and 300,000. Post-Brexit, net migration has been driven by non-EU immigration. In 2024, 69% of non-EU immigration was for work and study purposes. These figures reflect the UK's evolving immigration patterns, influenced by policy changes and global events, rather than a coordinated effort to alter the demographic makeup of the population.

Britain itself has long been shaped by migration, from medieval arrivals to the Huguenot refugees of the seventeenth century, the Caribbean and South Asian communities who helped rebuild after the Second World War and more recent flows from Eastern Europe. These are recurring historical patterns, not unprecedented interventions. Migrant communities also make substantial contributions to the UK’s economy, public services and social life, enriching culture rather than erasing it. National identity is not a static artefact but an evolving tapestry.

The danger of “replacement” rhetoric lies in its capacity to distort perception and redirect anger. By framing migration as an intentional plot, the theory fosters scapegoating, fuels xenophobia and distracts from real policy challenges such as housing, wages, or public service provision. In doing so, it provides a simplistic narrative for complex societal issues, offering fear but no solutions.

At its heart, the Great Replacement is a myth: a conspiracy theory that confuses demographic reality with paranoia. Migration and demographic change are not evidence of orchestrated decline but part of ongoing historical processes. Acknowledging this truth is essential to resisting divisive politics and maintaining a society grounded in fact rather than fear.

How Bad Arguments Hide Risky Ideas

Sometimes the most telling examples of flawed reasoning don’t come from articles but from real conversations. Below is a recent exchange I had online that illustrates common patterns of deflection, tokenism and rhetorical flaws that let risky ideas appear harmless. I’ve changed the names to protect identities, but the dialogue remains unchanged

Me: I’m always amazed by how some people from ethnic minorities who support the far right seem to assume that the movement will never turn on them—once their role as propaganda tools has reassured others that the far right isn’t racist, they could easily be discarded or deported at that point.

Onion: Oh behave!!! The point is they are supporters because they know the far right isn't racist. Stop stirring up trouble that doesn't exist. I have 3 black children and we have many friends of colour/race. Time will tell.

Me: I pray that you and your family won't be affected by any of this. I really do. I mean that sincerely. But I think if the far right did get elected in the UK, more extreme elements in the movement will feel empowered to call for total repatriation.

Onion: If the right tried to turn on the people I love and know of colour we will rise against that too. That just won't happen. But the Islamic takeover is a real threat to the west I'm afraid and we need to resist this now before it's too late and the country is lost.

Me: You say "if the right tried then to turn on the people I love and know of colour we will rise against that too" but it will be too late then, as by then the far right will be the government. They will make the atmosphere so hostile that anyone who is not white will be made to feel unwelcome. 

Onion: Stop scaremongering!

Me: I’m not trying to scare anyone, just thinking about the potential consequences. I hope we can both agree that protecting people from harm, regardless of background, is something worth caring about. My concern is about the broader movement and the patterns history has shown. Sometimes individuals or groups think they’ll be exempt, and it doesn’t turn out that way.

Carrot: Shut up you fool!!! I have black, Sikh, Chinese, Japanese, Polish and Russian friends and many of us are the same. It's about the illegals and Islamists that want to take our country, it's nothing about race and never has been.

This exchange shows how easily talking points, personal anecdotes and appeals to loyalty can be used to deflect scrutiny, shut down debate and make risky ideas seem harmless. Sometimes, simply letting the conversation speak for itself is enough to expose the gaps between what people say, what they mean and the real-world consequences of their beliefs.

Nigel Farage Expose Video

Here is an interesting video presenting a detailed look at Nigel Farage’s past, including allegations of racism, financial controversies and far-right connections:

'Who is Nigel Farage?'

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfyiSk8Rjc8

For those of you in the USA, Farage wants to be the UK's next PM, and is adored by the US far right, who think (because of him) that the UK stifles free speech because it doesn't approve of racist and homophobic comments on social media platforms. 

'The Irony of MAGA’s War on the New World Order' by Ryan Soames—guest blogger

The “New World Order” (NWO) conspiracy theory has long been a narrative framework for groups sceptical of globalisation, supranational governance and perceived elite manipulation of democratic societies. While the theory has spread across ideological lines, it has been most closely associated with the American far right, particularly militia movements and populist conservative networks.

What is noticeable, however, is the way in which this rhetoric has been absorbed into the political identity of Donald Trump’s “Make America Great Again” (MAGA) movement. Trump and his supporters frequently invoke the language of “globalists”, “deep state actors” and “elitist cabals”, portraying the political struggle as one of national sovereignty and popular democracy against unaccountable transnational power. Yet the practical effect of Trump’s politics has often been to erode democratic institutions while simultaneously strengthening the position of corporate and technological elites.

The NWO narrative warns against centralised, authoritarian control that overrides democratic governance. Trump’s actions in office, however, consistently undermine institutional checks on executive power. From attempts to delegitimise electoral outcomes in 2020 to attacks on judicial independence and the normalisation of political violence, Trump’s political project has weakened precisely those safeguards designed to prevent authoritarian capture.

This reveals a fundamental irony: a movement ostensibly dedicated to resisting authoritarianism has embraced a leader whose methods exemplify it.

A second irony lies in the movement’s relationship to economic elites. Trump’s administration has given significant tax cuts to the wealthy, pursued deregulation favourable to large corporations and cultivated links with powerful technology figures such as Elon Musk and Peter Thiel. Far from dismantling elite dominance, these policies entrenched it.

In this respect, MAGA’s anti-globalist populism functions less as a challenge to oligarchic power than as its legitimisation, reframed in nationalist rather than cosmopolitan terms.

MAGA’s nationalist framing (emphasising borders, cultural homogeneity and sovereignty) functions as a diversionary strategy. It directs popular discontent toward marginalised groups (immigrants, minorities and “woke” institutions) rather than toward structural concentrations of wealth and power. This redirection of grievance politics enables elite consolidation under the guise of defending “the people”.

The cult of personality surrounding Trump underscores another paradox. Conspiracy narratives often warn of demagogues who mobilise mass loyalty to centralise power. Yet within the MAGA movement, Trump himself occupies precisely this role, presented as the singular figure capable of defending America from “globalist” control.

The appropriation of New World Order rhetoric by the Trump’s supporters illustrates a paradox of modern populism. A narrative originally constructed to resist authoritarian centralisation and elite domination has been reconfigured into an instrument that enables both. The outcome is an inversion of its original intent: the supposed resistance to a global elite now serves to legitimate authoritarian governance and the consolidation of oligarchic power at home.

Poetry and Song Are the Same Artform

The debate over whether poems and songs are separate art forms or simply variations of the same aesthetic expression has a long history. At first sight, the difference seems obvious: poems are primarily meant to be read, while songs are experienced as sound, with music and vocals creating a listening experience. This distinction is often taken as self-evident, determining how audiences approach and categorise these forms. Yet this superficial difference overlooks deeper questions about how each affects us emotionally and cognitively, and about the complex ways in which language, sound and rhythm interact to determine artistic experience.

One significant difference is in how we experience rhythm. Poems rely on rhythm, rhyme and line breaks built into the written text, engaging the reader’s “inner ear” as they mentally hear the flow while reading. This internal auditory experience is an imaginative process, determined by linguistic background, prior knowledge and personal interpretation. Songs, on the other hand, deliver rhythm externally through melody, instrumentation and vocal performance, creating a direct auditory impact. The physical presence of sound waves and the nuances of timbre, pitch and volume give songs a sensorial immediacy that written poetry lacks. The performative element (the singer’s voice, the arrangement, even the listening setting) adds layers of meaning and emotion beyond the text itself.

Critics sometimes suggest that poems and songs invoke fundamentally different responses, yet much of this originates from cultural expectation and setting. In many traditions, songs belong to communal gatherings, rituals and celebrations, engaging listeners through shared sound and movement, while poetry is more often associated with solitary reflection or intellectual engagement. Reading a poem draws on the “inner ear”, determining rhythm and tone through imagination, whereas hearing a song delivers these qualities directly through melody, repetition and performance. In both cases, response is determined not only by the work itself but by the way it is encountered: in private or in company, in silence or in sound, in memory or in the moment. The boundary between them is fluid: many songs contain poetic language, and many poems have been set to music, underscoring the interplay between the two forms.

Despite this, the difference between a poem read on the page and a song heard aloud is less absolute than it seems. Poetry, when read, activates the imagination and inner hearing, drawing us in through patterns of sound and rhythm in the mind’s ear. These sonic qualities can evoke emotion and meaning much like music does, even in silence. The pauses between lines, the visual layout of stanzas and the typography of the text all shape its rhythm and pacing, producing effects that songs sometimes echo but cannot fully replicate. This internalisation of sound allows poetry to transcend the limitations of the printed page, creating a deeply personal and intimate experience that varies widely between individuals and contexts.

Whilst formal distinctions remain (poems are lines on a page, songs combine lyrics with melody and instrumentation), both share a common aesthetic foundation of sound, rhythm, voice and emotional resonance. The difference between them lies more in context and expectation than in essence.

Neuroscience corroborates this connection, demonstrating that reading poetry and listening to music engage overlapping brain networks, particularly in processing rhythm, sound patterns and emotion. Brain imaging shows that both activities stimulate regions linked to auditory perception, emotional regulation and pattern recognition; whether the rhythm is imagined through the reader’s “inner ear” or carried to us on waves of melody and instrumentation. At the same time, each form also draws on specialised circuitry: poetry on the page largely utilises language-processing areas, while song largely utilises pitch and melody-related regions. This blend of shared and distinct activation suggests that the mind responds to both with a common aesthetic framework, yet determines that response to match the sensory pathway (silent reading or audible performance) through which the art is experienced.

Ultimately, the difference between poems as read experiences and songs as heard experiences shows how context, perception and mental engagement determine our experience of artistic expression. Recognising their shared aesthetic roots and the fluidity between reading and listening gives us a broader appreciation of how rhythm, voice and sound create meaning: whether imagined in the mind or heard through the ears. The borders between literary and musical arts, therefore, are permeable, shifting with culture, history and individual perception.

Being Stuck Inside Your Old Self

Time travel has fascinated human imagination, often depicted as the ability to physically travel to the past and change history. But what if time travel isn’t about moving your body through time, but rather about your consciousness slipping backward to inhabit an earlier version of yourself? This concept departs radically from traditional ideas and opens new philosophical and emotional territory.

Imagine a person in 2025 able to transfer their awareness into their 1990 self. Unlike classic time travel, the 2025 consciousness cannot control or influence their past body; the 1990 self acts exactly as it did then. The traveller experiences everything the earlier self senses (sights, sounds, touch, taste and smell) but not their thoughts or feelings. They become a passive passenger inside their own history, witnessing life replay without control or emotional involvement.

This form of time travel carries profound implications. The present consciousness is cut off from the inner world of the past self. It can see the younger self in love, enjoying moments once cherished, yet remain disconnected from the emotions that made those moments meaningful. What the past self feels remains a mystery; the traveller can only observe from the sidelines: unable to experience the visceral passion and spontaneity of lived experience.

This dynamic transforms what might seem a nostalgic escape into a psychological ordeal. The traveller hopes to relive joy or love but instead confronts a hollow shell. The vividness of sensory input contrasts sharply with the absence of feeling, making the experience alienating and sometimes torturous. The very qualities that imbue life with meaning (control, emotional engagement and choice) are missing. To observe oneself without being able to participate is a kind of imprisonment.

Adding to this burden is the unyielding passage of time. The traveller must endure the entire span of their past self’s existence as it unfolded, unable to pause, skip or alter events. The mundane routines and frustrating moments become an unrelenting background to a detached awareness, amplifying feelings of boredom and helplessness.

Beyond individual experience, this model of consciousness time travel prompts broader questions about identity and self-hood. If a future self can observe a past self in this way, it suggests that at any given moment, we might be being silently watched by versions of ourselves still to come. This infinite regress of selves watching selves forms a temporal network of silent witnessing, raising questions about privacy, free will and the nature of consciousness itself.

Intriguingly, this framework could offer an explanation for phenomena like déjà vu. These fleeting sensations of “having been here before” might be subtle leaks of future awareness into the past self’s consciousness. In this way. déjà vu becomes not a mere brain glitch but a faint echo of temporal selves overlapping, a "whisper" from the future observer to the present experiencer.

Basically, this vision of time travel is less about adventure and more about the limits of human experience. It reveals that the past, no matter how vividly recalled, cannot be truly re-inhabited without its essential emotions and choice. Thus, nostalgia risks becoming a trap, like a prison where the present self longs for a feeling that can never be recaptured.

This idea turns the usual fantasy on its head, showing that the desire to revisit the past might be fraught with alienation and pain. It forces us to confront the profound truth that life’s significance lies not just in moments themselves but in our active, emotional engagement with them as they unfold. The past remains a place to remember, but not to return, I recall hearing once.

'An Insider’s Damning Testimony of the Restart Scheme' by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

When the UK government launched the Restart Programme, it was sold as a bold initiative to help the long-term unemployed back into work. Providers would deliver tailored, compassionate support; the kind that understands barriers, builds confidence and matches people to sustainable jobs.

But according to one former employee of Seetec, a major Restart provider, the reality is far from the marketing brochure. In a candid Reddit post, they describe an environment that’s toxic for both staff and participants, and driven almost entirely by money. See:

https://www.reddit.com/r/DWPhelp/comments/16ct4ta/inside_of_the_restart_programme_during_my_time_5/?utm_source=chatgpt.com

The ex-employee paints a picture of a workplace ruled by intimidation. Advisors are overworked, underpaid and micromanaged to a degree that borders on absurd. From assigned seating to being told not to talk to colleagues outside your “team zone”, it’s a rigid, joyless environment.

Team leaders, they claim, don’t lead; they use their hardest-working staff to prop up the rest, with no extra pay or recognition. Those who raise concerns about workloads or stress are met with hostility, not support. HR, in practice, doesn’t exist. Complain, and you’re out.

Perhaps the most disturbing detail is how participants are treated. Far from tailoring support to people’s circumstances, management allegedly views each person as nothing more than a “job outcome” target, worth up to £3,000 in payment once they’ve earned £4,000 in wages.

According to the whistleblower, this leads to:

1. Pushing people into unsuitable, full-time work, regardless of health conditions or caring responsibilities.

2. Threatening sanctions to force compliance, even on claimants approaching state pension age and those clearly unfit for work.

3. Pressuring participants to travel long distances for irrelevant job starts, simply to get them “off the books”.

They claim management even encouraged threats against participants’ families to intimidate them into taking jobs. And that the Jobcentre forces people into the scheme, and the Restart process often leaves participants more stressed and demoralised than when they began.

Some, they note, start the programme full of hope and confidence, only to emerge months later with their mental health in tatters. Others turn to their GP for sick notes or apply for disability benefits just to escape the pressure.

One of the most alarming allegations is the open sharing of participants’ sensitive information in office meetings. Health conditions, criminal records and personal histories are apparently treated as casual gossip fodder, an outright breach of confidentiality rules.

The post describes a constant churn of staff, with one resignation notice per week being the norm. New hires are often people with no relevant experience, sometimes from completely unrelated careers, given minimal training before being unleashed on vulnerable participants.

At the heart of this testimony is the claim that the Restart Programme is driven by financial incentives, not genuine support. Once a participant hits that magic £4,000 earnings milestone, the provider gets paid and loses all interest in their wellbeing. Whether the participant stays in work or ends up back on benefits is irrelevant.

The post claims that DWP is already facing growing complaints and may remove Seetec’s contract in the future. Whether that happens or not, it’s clear from this insider’s account that the Restart Programme (at least in some places) is failing to deliver the respectful, tailored support it was supposed to provide.

If the allegations are accurate, then Restart isn’t just broken, it’s actively harming the people it claims to help. And that raises a bigger question: when welfare-to-work schemes are built on targets and payments, can they ever truly put people before profit?

'GB News Overrates its Ratings' by Andrew Davies—guest blogger

GB News is claiming a "seismic moment" in British broadcasting. Why? Because in July 2025, it barely managed to edge past the BBC News Channel in average daily viewership. But behind the chest-thumping, the reality is far less impressive, and far more revealing.

According to BARB, GB News averaged around 80,600 daily viewers last month, edging just ahead of the BBC News Channel’s 78,700. That’s a lead of fewer than 2,000 people. GB News has also announced strong performance in key time slots like breakfast and weekday evenings, framing it as a transformative moment in UK broadcasting. But dominating a few hours in the day on a low-reach channel like GB News doesn’t make it a media powerhouse—it simply confirms its status as a niche outlet with a loyal, if limited, audience.

GB News has always styled itself as the underdog ("the channel for people who feel unheard") but what it really offers is a steady diet of manufactured grievance and culture war talking points. If it’s drawing in viewers, it’s not because of journalistic rigour. It’s because it knows how to serve outrage with breakfast and paranoia with the evening headlines.

And yet even within its own narrow definition of success, the victory is hollow. When we look at the broader picture, the BBC remains overwhelmingly dominant.

GB News might have edged a daily average, but the BBC News Channel’s weekly reach still far exceeds it—often more than double. That means more people across the UK are watching the BBC, even if only briefly, while GB News relies on a smaller base of habitual viewers. That is not really growth, but more like saturation.

Then there’s the rest of the BBC's output, which dwarfs anything GB News could hope to match. BBC One’s Breakfast, Six O’Clock News and Ten O’Clock News still reach massive audiences. None of those numbers are included in the News Channel’s BARB figures. And that’s before we even include iPlayer and the BBC’s website and app, which together draw more than 40 million users. GB News online just draws over 10 million.

And radio? The BBC’s network of national and regional stations delivers news to millions more every day. GB News, by contrast, doesn’t even try.

So GB News, despite its claims of speaking for "the people", still trails badly in that department. You can game viewing figures for a time, especially when your programming verges on the sensational, but you can't manufacture credibility.

If anything, this supposed breakthrough shows the limits of GB News. It’s carved out a niche. That’s all. A vocal, partisan slice of the public is watching more intently, but that doesn't mean the channel is reshaping British media. It means it's doubling down on its core audience while alienating the rest.

So despite all the noise GB News makes, it’s still playing catch-up.

Scents Before Modernity

I was a young child in the late 1960s and early 1970s, and the world I grew up in was saturated with everyday scents that were distinctive and ever-present. These smells, like the pop music of the time, formed the background texture of my life. Most have vanished. Some for good reason: safety, health and progress. Others were lost due to modern manufacturing processes and production methods.

The most noticeable absence is tobacco smoke, especially from pipes and cigars. Those two had a richness I associated with sophistication and gentility. I don’t advocate smoking, and I’m glad it’s gone. But I miss the smell, at least from pipes and cigars. Cigarettes didn’t smell as nice.

Other scents I miss are: petrol fumes, coal fires, the smell of woollen school blazers and caps, the real leather of school satchels, chalk dust, wax crayons, freshly sharpened pencils and rubbers (erasers). Wellington boots also had a smell. So did the diesel from buses, trains and ferries. As did sweets (candy) with their variety of aromas. And bookshops smelled of paper and cardboard.

Everywhere had a smell! Now, virtually nothing has!

Clean air. Sanitised surfaces. Air-conditioned buildings that emit nothing at all. Supermarkets are scentless. Public transport provides no odour, unless something has gone wrong. Homes are heated by scentless electricity, not by gas or paraffin heaters, that had “cosy” aromas.

This isn’t just nostalgia. Something has been lost; faded away without mourning. Smell is the oldest sense we have, wired directly into memory and emotion. The scents of childhood shaped us, or they did so for me. They fashioned a world rich in texture and associations, that you carried with you. Today, we have replaced scent for sterility. 

I miss the world when it smelled of life.