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Off Topic. About car meets and Christmas, just a big joke poem. Mydriasis Aletheia Jul Revengence Story.

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We all have something to disguise beneath this corporeal face, Something we keep hidden from all social grace, some barbarities would not fade, some malefactions are too great. I do not condone the violence of such furious vengeance, There is no solace to be found in it. That does not mean I cannot appreciate; The Champion Nemesis.

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With lights off but the engine on, Roll out and get your gameface on. Who's praying you'll defend those feeble lies again? Silent under the dark while on the hunt. Barry Andrew Pietrantonio Oct Thomas the Tank Engine. Why did they change it to Thomas the Train? He's a tank engine He's Thomas the Tank Engine. Paul Hansford Jan Even from behind the glass, you can smell the chemical that keeps the moths away. All grey now, sixty years on, it has aged as those that owned it never did. They went naked to the shower room, clutching the soap they would never use, and then to the ovens. This is at least the fourth major re-write of this poem.

Zeeb Jul Hot Rod long, for gearheads. Hotrod Verse I Wrenches clanging, knuckles banging A drop of blood the young man spilt A new part here, and old part… there A hotrod had been built! A patchwork, mechanical, quilt Feelings of excitement not unlike those of Christmas mornings long past paid visit to the young man, his head under a raised hood, hands occupied, the job nearing completion. Did building that Lionel train-set so long ago form some type of pattern in his brain, now being so pleasurably served?

He, and his type, cursed a lot, but mostly to their selves as they battled-on with things oily, hot, bolted, welded, and rusty — in cramped spaces. Despite the swearing, the good and special feelings, feelings known only to those with a true capacity for this type of passion, would always return, generally of a magnitude that exceeded the physical pain and mental frustration of the day, by a large margin. Certifiably obsessive, the young man continued to toil dutifully, soulfully, occasionally gleefully, sometimes even expertly, in his most loved and familiar place, his sanctuary, laboratory… the family garage.

And tomorrow would be the day. Fire extinguisher? Even the local machine shop to which the boy nervously entrusted his most prized possession had had enough.

But in the end, the mill was dead-on. Bad shops fall out quickly, but this place had the look of times gone by.

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Good times. Old porcelain signs, here and there were to be found, all original to the shop and revered by the older workers in honored nostalgia. The younger workers get it too; they can tell from the men they respect and learn from, there is something special about this past. Not a bad deal for a good block that had never had its first 0. In the shop, it was cleaned, checked for cracks, measured and re-measured, inspected and re-inspected.

It was shaped and cut in a special way that would allow the stroker crankshaft, that was to be the special part of this build, to have all the clearance it would need.

New bearings were installed everywhere bearings are required. Parts were smoothed here and there. After machining, the block was filled with new and strong parts that cost the young man everything he had. Parts selected with the greatest of effort, decision, and debate.

10116 Poems

Right on. You get one shot at getting that right, and this proclamation demonstrated wisdom but also provided ample excuse for the rough and unfinished look of the rest of his machine. And its power plant? Well the machine shop had talked their customer into letting them do the final engine assembly - even cut their price to do it.

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They were looking out for the boy. It would produce adequate torque in the low RPM range to get whole rig moving quickly, yet deliver enough horsepower at red-line to pile on the MPH, fast. No longer a polite-natured workhorse, this engine, this engine is impatient now. High compression, a rapid, choppy idle - it seems to be biting at the bit — to be released. On command, it gulps its mixture and screams angrily, and often those standing around have a reflexive jump - the louder, the better - the more angry, the better.

A cacophony? This is the addictive sound and feel that has appealed to a certain type of person since engines replaced horses, and why? A surrogate voice for those who are otherwise quiet? A visceral celebration of accomplishment? Who cares. But the bourgeois, apolitical stance is the single most ideologically constructed and defended position of all. Do we read them afresh on the basis of this discovery? Do we blame them for this? Does the ideological nature of pre-postmodern writing void it of interest in our contemporary eco-apocalypse, beside which the merely aesthetic has ceased to matter much, if it ever did?

This is what ideology does. At the centre of my argument, I think, is the concept of disagreement, and what we do with it. I mentioned war poetry, for instance, and have written elsewhere about what we do as readers with war poems we enjoy but which contradict our politics, and those that appear to conform to our politics but which are artistically inferior.

Because they are an insult to my intelligence and treat me like a moron I may well be a moron, but object to being treated like one. Aesthetics matter in themselves, because they allow me to respond humanly, ethically, imaginatively to perspectives I would otherwise violently reject. The question is therefore we as readers and writer can agree to disagree or whether we merely disagree to disagree.

I have gone through my life vigorously disagreeing with any and everyone, and greatly enjoying the experience, and there are few things I enjoy more than people disagreeing trenchantly with me. But now it has taken Private Eye to remind me that Padel is chairing the Forward Prize this year and was reviewing someone Fiona Sampson on the shortlist.

Surely she should now resign?

"A Bird Made of Birds" - Sarah Kay

Below the text of a talk I gave the other day at a most enjoyable conference in Belfast. I begin with this reminder, as I sense that anyone who reads poetry and poetry criticism today will be familiar with the feeling that much of the time we are offered something else instead, which may overlap with the thing itself but nevertheless falls crucially short. Most contemporary poetry criticism, let me baldly assert, is in fact something else by proxy, whether gender studies, sociology, postcolonial theory or other.

It can go either way. But this pro-bird corrective spirit can also be taken too far. When the subject switches, a faraway look comes into his eye. He just waits for a lull and steps in where he left off. The serious opening point I am labouring to make here, however, is this: how much of the bird poem belongs to us, how much to the birds? How inevitable are our appropriations and anthropomorphizations of the birds, how right or wrong? Is there an epistemology of ornithopoetics can I claim that term?

There has been a rich harvest of nature writing in recent years, and a list of the poets who have written well on birds would include Michael Longley, Peter Reading, Robert Adamson, Paul Muldoon, Kathleen Jamie, Alice Oswald, Helen Macdonald and Jen Hadfield, but even within this group there are many contrasting approaches to the central question at stake: how to represent the inhuman, and how do justice to it across an insuperable species divide.