Edward Lear Exhibition; Guardian write up

http://www.guardian.co.uk/culture/2012/sep/19/edward-lear-nonsense-illustrator?fb=native&CMP=FBCNETTXT9038

Profile: David Olsen

David Olsen's third poetry chapbook, Sailing to Atlantis, is forthcoming from Finishing Line Press in 2013. Since early 2011 he has placed poems in Envoi, Acumen, Orbis, Assent, The Interpreter’s House, Scintilla, SAW Poetry, Bloodroot, Babel Anthology, Earthborne, and competition anthologies from Cinnamon Press and Templar Poetry. Reading for October 6th "Please Do Not Touch" from the Barbara Hepworth Sculpture

Nonsense Drolleries Edward Lear p11

Nonsense Drolleries Edward Lear p11, a photo by CircaSassy on Flickr.

The Ashmolean Museum

The Ashmolean Museum, a set by Martin Beek on Flickr.

Over a thousand pictures from the Ashmolean by photographer Martin Beek

Martin Beek

Martin is a remarkable chronicler of art and churches in Oxfordshire. I am linking here to his pictures taken in the Ashmolean. http://www.flickr.com/photos/oxfordshire_church_photos/sets/72157605680129123/with/1123191903/ I think his take on Jerusalem is interesting as is his poem from Lear How pleasant to know Mr. Lear, Who has written such volumes of stuff. Some think him ill-tempered and queer, But a few find him pleasant enough. His mind is concrete and fastidious, His nose is remarkably big; His visage is more or less hideous, His beard it resembles a wig. He has ears, and two eyes, and ten fingers, (Leastways if you reckon two thumbs); He used to be one of the singers, But now he is one of the dumbs. He sits in a beautiful parlour, With hundreds of books on the wall; He drinks a great deal of marsala, But never gets tipsy at all. He has many friends, laymen and clerical, Old Foss is the name of his cat; His body is perfectly spherical, He weareth a runcible hat. When he walks in waterproof white, The children run after him so! Calling out, "He's gone out in his night- Gown, that crazy old Englishman, oh!" He weeps by the side of the ocean, He weeps on the top of the hill; He purchases pancakes and lotion, And chocolate shrimps from the mill. He reads, but he does not speak, Spanish, He cannot abide ginger beer; Ere the days of his pilgrimage vanish, How pleasant to know Mr. Lear! Edward Lear Edward Lear, Jerusalem (Ashmolean Musem Oxford) Lear (1812-88) is probably best known as an author of Nonsense rhymes, however he was also an accomplished ornithologist and an artist of considerable skill. He painted largely romantic far away places in the Middle East and Asia. His early works were in wash and body colour but he took up oil painting in 1838. Lear began his work out of doors but finished these works in the studio. during the last forty years of his life he was friendly with Holman Hunt and the Pre Raphaelite painters and possibly some of the richness of Lear's later landscape owes much to Hun't encouragement and instruction. He accompanied Hunt on a few of his painting trips and Hunt became a kind of mentor to the older man. Seddon another Pre Raphaelite painted near here at the same time. Whilst Lear's landscapes are very strong his figures show he did not have the passion for observation that is displayed in Hunt's or other Pre Raphaelite work and are more akin to the work of David Robert's landscapes of an earlier school.

Add your Limerick here, or at the Lear exhibition

At the far end of the gallery 58 of the Lear Exhibition you will find a poetry wall, where you can add limericks and scribbles.

Here is an example

I like this one by anon. At least it doesn't repeat the first line as too many of Lear's do, rather irritatingly.

Here are some of mine.


You can send us your limerick here
In remembrance of old Edward Lear
But perhaps if you dare
You can add one right there
At the Gallery where he's held dear                        Nick Owen


The poet called Lear once said
It is nonsense that fills up my head
But I think you will find
He 's a quite brilliant mind
And his poems live on now he's dead                       Nick Owen

Profile: John Elinger

John was born in 1935, and lives in Jericho, Oxford. 

 He has published two collections of poems, Still Life and Operatic Interludes. 

 In  2009 he won the first prize in a national competition with The Cooling Towers of Didcot, and has been (highly) commended in several other poetry competitions.
http://www.unitedpress.co.uk/free-poetry-competitions/local-poem-2009-winner-john-elinger.html

In the same year, he was appointed as the Visiting Poet at the University of Augusta, Georgia, in the USA. 

 He is preparing a third collection of poems about Oxford (with illustrations supplied by the painter, Katharine Shock), to be published in 2013. 

He prefers formal to free verse; and is interested in the poetry of ideas, as much as that of feeling.  Many of his poems confront the reality of old age and the approach of death.  

'His craft and form are surpassed only by the depth of thought.' (Philip Holland)" 

Poem for Performance

The Alfred Jewel

                                    'Þaes ofereode, Þisses swa mæg' (Deor)

                        'Alfred had me made.'  The Anglo-Saxon king

                        (who burned the cakes and beat the Danes)

                        the only king or queen called 'great'

                        in English history, ordered this jewel

                        from his craftsmen to accompany a book,

                        his Pastoral Care, as a pointer-cum-bookmark.

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.

                        Or did he?  Scholars doubt that a king

                        as great as Alfred would ever allow

                        his name to appear naked, untitled,

                        as here - although there are some coins

                        minted at Oxford where Alfred's name

                        also appears without any title.

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.

                        One possible answer is found in the Preface to the book,

                        where Alfred addresses each of his bishops

                        by name and status, starting with himself:

                        'King Alfred greets …'  Some argue that the Jewel's

                        text is a postscript to the Preface, obviating

                        a second title, since the two were to be inseparable.

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.

  

                        But I prefer by far the idea

                        that the missing pointer (mark the socket)

                        was made of precious metal and inscribed

                        with the missing title - and may even turn up one day

                        to complete the message, and make a metrical verse-line.

                        'Alfred had me made - the English nation's king.'

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.

                        Where should we search?  The Somerset marshes

                        near Athelney are where the Alfred Jewel

                        was discovered - close to the monastery the monarch had founded.

                        Its Abbot was called John, a German scholar,

                        one of the team of Latinists who had translated the book

                        Alfred wished to send to every see in his kingdom.

                          Those days are gone; these too will pass.

                       The Alfred Jewel's unanswered questions

                        tease careful scholars and casual visitors,

                        perplex the poet and surprise historians:

                        who is the figure with flowers in his hands?

                        Alfred himself? or perhaps Saint Cuthbert?

                        or God in his glory above a glassy sea?

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.

                        The past is a storehouse of precious things:

                        curious fragments and confusing questions,

                        stories and objects, strangeness and sameness.

                        Museums remind us of the mysteries of time:

                        everything changes, everyone dies.

                        Our age will vanish, as Alfred's has done.

                           Those days are gone; these too will pass.