Poetry on the Buses
To mark , ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ Northern Ireland has displayed some poems by on translink buses and bus shelters across Belfast. It was the brainchild of Mark Adair, ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ NI's Head of Public Policy and Corporate Affairs, who is a great champion of Ulster poetry. MacNeice was an excellent choice, of course, since this year is the centenary of his birth, he is a local writer who is now enjoying greater international attention, and (like Paul Muldoon) is a former ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ arts producer.
I took part in a photoshoot today to launch the event. So if you are one of those members of the public who looked bemused as a photographer and cameraman encircled me at a bus stop near the City Hall, that's what we were doing. We had a perfect Belfast moment when one lady, standing at the bus stop holding bags of shopping, having studied our photoshoot intensely, asked her friend, "In the name of God, what's goin' on there?"
It's good to see poetry breaking out of libraries and classrooms and finding its way into other areas of life. At its best, poetry moves us to see the world differently and can take us on all kinds of personal journies. I hope we begin to see many more poems on our buses -- and in other less-traditional venues. Poetry can slow us down, quicken us up, make us think, prompt a smile on a shopper's face, trigger a conversation between strangers, turn a bus into a memory, and is a perfect antidote to the at-times stupefying effects of all-encompassing commercial advertisements.
and have "poetry on the move" projects; indeed, the centenary of MacNeice has already been marked by the inclusion of his poetry on this year. Belfast has been slow to mobilize its poetic heritage; but the city is gradually discovering the importance of public art (and art in public), and the writing arts are increasingly taking to the streets.
Comments
We are dying Louis dying....
"Poetry can slow us down, quicken us up...."
Oh great, now we don't need drugs anymore. ...er, hold that....hum,...er...tell ya what, gimmie a dime bag of poetry instead.
"...make us think..."
Frankly...for most people, that's one prayer nothing can answer.
I was pleasantly surprised by poetry on a Bus shelter on the Holywood Road. It made me stop and smile!
Behind it I could see the "mountain and the gantries" (or where they used to be)
Well done ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ NI and Mark Adair!
All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble.
G.Orwell
"All ignorant we dared to own
The joys we now dissemble"
Too late we learn our saviors false
They give us cause to tremble
Better than greenfinches, apple boughs, girls bellies, and apricots IMO.
"I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls,
And woke to find it true;"
Maybe Orwell was on a marble slab...in the morgue...figuratively speaking of course. Just his poetry. One day he woke up and found out it was dead. BTW, IMO, as a poet...his sentiments and words aside, his meter stinks, very choppy not fluid at all, extra syllables on some lines. So who cares, like all art forms, great poetry is whatever the critics say it is and heaven help you if you say otherwise. And especially bad for modern poetry, the greatest sin of all....it rhymes.
I really enjoyed the story about shooting the elephant.
"He wears a mask and his face grows to fit it."
Rod Serling produced an episode of The Twilight Zone with this as its punchline. An eerie thought.
Hey, I'm a poet and I don't even know it.
There once was a lady from....
Now how come there are no limericks on those buses instead of all that sticky gooey tree sap? Something to make people laugh. That's far easier than to make them think, more fun too. Orwell should have stuck to bashing totalitarian government, that was his real contribution to humanity.
"There was a wild colonial boy, Jack Doolan was his name....."
OK, here's one for you poetry lovers, I've been looking all over the internet for this and can't find it. Around 1965,1966 Jean Shepherd read a long wild poem on his radio show called "Asleep at the Switch" in which a railroad switchman falls asleep, fails to throw a switch to a shunt in time and awakes to a head on train crash he caused through his neglect. At the end of the poem, he wakes from his dream just in time to throw the switch and prevent the very crash he dreamt of. Brass figleaf and bronze oakleaf cluster to anyone who can find this poem. BTW, Jean Shepherd was one of America's greatest raconteurs, he spoke of growing up in the Midwest during the depression, his days in the army, and life in general, an observer of "the contemporary scene."
This blog site is dying William dying.
Either it’s not being moderated or there is a software problem. ³ÉÈË¿ìÊÖ has had software problems on an off uploading to its blog sites for at least a year. Too bad they can’t hire someone who actually knows something about the internet and how to fix it but then what do you expect from a government sanctioned monopoly that seems unaccountable to anyone?
I've also heard the Jean Shepherd show
this is a poem by D. Edger Murry
you can find it at: