"The first stirrings of writing were merely drawings. The sturdy letter A that now opens our alphabet began as nothing more than the outline of an ox's head. Written language itself, by its simple existence, begins to show us how to fill the world with verbo-visual significance. What makes visual poetry distinct is that it concerns itself with the visual presentation of words (or letters) on the page. The visual poem is simply a poem (or an array of words or letters) in a visually significant landscape. A visual poem might enlarge the size of certain letters to make a point, or it might insert text into a photograph to create a new environment of meaning. The simple point about visual poetry is that the visual presence of the text is as important as the intellectual content of the words. Similarly, the visual element in a visual poem is a co-equal transmitter of meaning and serves a role much greater than decoration".
From Virgil's account of the sacking of Troy, to John Betjeman's
preoccupation with architecture, poets have always shown a concern with place
and, in particular, the city. At the forefront of Liverpool's Capital of Culture
celebrations have been their 'Mersey Sound' poets (Adrian Henri, Roger McGough,
Brian Patten), and few landmarks or institutions are without their own poet: be
they a favourite son like Barnsley's Ian MacMillan, or adopted scribes, such as
New York's Frank O'Hara. From
further back in time, John Clare is another poet whose name is inevitably linked
with a single location, in his case Northamptonshire, and his poetry is informed
by the life and speech-patterns of his fellow
locals.
In a place poem, the
poet attempts to capture the spirit of a particular place, and perhaps use that
place to reflect upon either the events in their life or the events that have
taken place at that location. But whereas a poet's location can be seen as a
source of inspiration that their powers of imagination and vision can transcend
and even shape, increasingly this relationship is understood in more functional
terms. 'Eco-critics' like Neal Astley argue poetry should reflect enlightened
thinking on climate change. 'Psychogeography' attempts to highlight the ways in
which landscape shapes a writer's words - regardless of whether the writer wants
it to or not. Plato wanted the poets banished from his Republic; now councils
and even rail networks are recruiting poets to provide a sense of identity and
heritage to their domains.
The landscape-evoking
power of poetry to blend scene, sounds and material structure is evident from W.
H. Auden's 'In praise of limestone'.
If it form the one
landscape that we, the inconstant ones.
Are consistently
homesick for, this is chiefly
Because it dissolves
in water. Mark these rounded slopes
With their surface
fragrance of thyme and, beneath,
A secret system of
caves and conduits; here the springs
That spurt out
everywhere with a chuckle,
Each filling a private
pool for its fish and carving
Its own little ravine
whose cliffs entertain
The butterfly and the
lizard; examine this region
Of short distances and definite places:
From one shaft at Cleator Moor
They mined for coal and
iron ore.
This harvest below ground could show
Black and red currants on
one tree.
In furnaces they burnt the coal,
The ore was smelted into
steel,
And railway lines from end to end
Corseted the bulging
land.
Pylons sprouted on the fells,
Stakes were driven in like
nails,
And the ploughed fields of Devonshire
Were sliced with the steel of
Cleator Moor.
The land waxed fat and greedy too,
It would not share
the fruits it grew,
And coal and ore, as sloe and plum,
Lay black and red
for jamming time.
The pylons rusted on the fells,
The gutters leaked
beside the walls,
And women searched the ebb-tide tracks
For knobs of coal
or broken sticks.
But now the pits are wick with men,
Digging like
dogs dig for a bone:
For food and life we dig the earth -
In Cleator Moor
they dig for death.
Every wagon of cold steel
Is fire to drive a
turbine wheel;
Every knuckle of soft ore
A bullet in a soldier's
ear.
The miner at the rockface stands,
With his segged and bleeding
hands
Heaps on his head the fiery coal,
And feels the iron in his
soul.
http://www.guardian.co.uk/books/booksblog/2008/jul/11/posterpoemsscenicspots
Art poetry science and climate: a data synthesis
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