Poets From England

"Slave-owning culture ... gives rise to the teleological explanation of the Universe, which reaches its subtlest form in Plato’s or Aristotle’s philosophies, in which all phenomena are determined by Ideas or Forms. These correspond to the plans formed in the mind of the slave-owner which his slave passively fulfils."

"The domination inherent in the slave-owning system is not repressed, as with the bourgeois, but is conscious, and the illusion consists, not in supposing that no domination exists, but that society is in fact really determined solely by the will of the master, and does not in turn determine his will."

"The slave-owner is at times visited with a nightmare. He finds that his free will, in spite of its freedom, is thwarted, not by a superior will but by things-in-themselves – by inferior wills, accidents, mistakes, and his own ignorance. Yet he is still unable to conceive his will except as being thwarted like that of his slave’s by another will, and since he the master is so thwarted, might not even the world’s master and his – God Himself – be thwarted in his volition by some grand over-riding will, by Will-in-Itself? This is the slaveowning conception of Moira, or Fate, a comparatively late development reaching its noblest expression in Greek tragedy. This Fate, in spite of its closeness to bourgeois determinism, betrays its slave-owning parentage by the fact that it is always visualised as a consciously forseeing Will, and always as thwarting, not determining human wills as well as events, but interfering with human wills by means of events."

"The bourgeois ... necessarily regards all behaviour that bursts ‘spontaneously’ forth from the individual ignorant of its causality, as above all free. Therefore the instincts are conceived as freely striving for unconscious goals, and psychology becomes the adventures of the free instincts in their struggles against the restraints of the environment (in Freud, of society) which impede and cripple their freedom. Out of this struggle cognitive and emotional consciousness is born.Now the only objection to this bourgeois psychology is that it inverts the picture. The instincts are not free springs of connation towards a goal. They are, so far as they can be abstractly separated, unconscious necessities, as Kant realised. They are unfree."

"That the environment does wrongs to man’s mind today none will deny. These wrongs are not done because consciousness imprisons the instincts with the fetters of necessity; but because bourgeois man is unconscious of the determinism of his culture. Because of this the instincts are losing such freedom as they attained, are becoming crippled, and less free. Unconsciousness and inexperience, not consciousness and experience, are the gaolers of modern bourgeois man."

"If only this fear would leave me I could dream of Crickley Hill And a hundred thousand thoughts of home would visit my heart in sleep; But here the peace is shattered all day by the devil's will, And the guns bark night-long to spoil the velvet silence deep."

"But we of the rich plain of sweet airs and pure, Oh! Death would take so much from us, how should we not fear?"

"Poems, like dreams, have a visible subject and an invisible one. The invisible one is the one you can't choose, the one that writes itself. Not a message that comes at the end of the poem, more like a pathological condition that deforms every word – a resonance, a manner of speaking, a nervous tic, a pressure. And this invisible subject only shows up when you're speaking the language that you speak when no one is there to correct or applaud you. Remembering that language is the whole skill of writing well."

"Like a fish in the wind, jumps right out of its knowledge, and lands on the sand. Like when the wind comes ruffling at last, to sailors adrift, trying to manage the broken springs of their muscles, and lever and lift their well rubbed oars, making tiny dents, in the ocean. Like when they're cutting ash poles in the hills, the treetops fall as soft as cloth. Like oak trees swerving out of the hills, and setting their faces to the wind, day after day being practically lifted away, they are lashed to the earth, and never let go, gripping on darkness. All day in a trance of war, men murder each other, but at dusk, silence, only the fingers of fire lifting their questions to the mainland. Is there anybody there, please help. Help. help. Until he's full, and of his own iron will walks on."

"I've got no bodies inside me All of me is me, I will not eat no body else So I am what you see. I do not plan to eat young sheep I will not eat a hen, I'm so proud of what I am I must say once again."

"If the young vegan kids of our nation Are at school and can't get vegan bites, Then the school staff need food education Because safe food are one of our rights."

"There's no vegan who is the greatest Because all you vegans are great, Just like the peace dove You symbolise love, And there is no death on your plate."

"I have always loved playing around with words. I didn’t know it was called poetry. I was just an innocent kid messing around with words when an adult said ‘You’re a poet, be published or be damned’."

"…Sometimes I’ll do these things for a couple of days then suddenly one day the poem comes out, just like that, in a couple of minutes. I might rewrite it later, a kind of fine tuning, or sometimes I’ll tell the audience it’s a new poem and just perform it to see if it works."

"When I start, I have a story that tends to have a lesson to be learnt. A lot of the time my novels are called novels for young adults and I think one of the reasons they are popular with young adults is because they read them and understand it…"

"…So to me it’s not about black, white, Asian, whatever. To me, it’s about literature for everybody, you know. There’s a lot of literature and it should represent us, basically – male, female, whatever kind of nationality or racial background you come from: that’s the kind of literature I want to see in the world and hopefully I’m making my own little contribution."

"One day when I was 11, I asked my mother where did meat come from and she said from the butcher and I said where did the butcher get it from and she said the farmer and I said where did the farmer get it from and she said the cow and I said where did the cow get it from and she said – it is the cow! A shudder went through me! … I read a book about how humans drink milk that was meant for the animals’ young and I decided I wanted to disturb the animal kingdom as little as possible. But it was sometimes difficult to explain why. One day a kid gave me an ice cream and I said I didn’t want it because it had milk in it and milk belonged to babies. ‘You’re a vegan’, he said – and I thought he was calling me a nigger or something so I went to beat him up. He was yelling, ‘No, no, it’s a good thing!’ I was quite proud then because I was the only vegetarian or vegan I knew. … I passionately love life and I understand now how important love is to me. I really think about the true meaning of the word – that and compassion. If I have just one sentence on my tombstone to be remembered by it would be, ‘He tried to love every body’, with everybody as two separate words."

"Someone said that Capitalism will eat itself, and I think that’s like the meat industry, the meat industry itself will become dead meat and compassion will reign supreme."

"As the only black kid in my primary school playground, animals had become my friends. By 15 I was vegan, although I didn't give up honey until 16. For a while my mother thought it was just "a rasta phase"."

"I can honestly say I've not been tempted to give up veganism in 27 years. I sometimes smell a chip shop and like the smell but then feel guilty because fish might be part of it. But I'll go home and make vegan chips. After all these years, my favourite food is my mother's butter bean stew with whole potatoes, yam and dasheen. I don't think I've ever made a meal for her, to be honest. I think she would consider it a failing of her motherhood and say "Boy, get out the kitchen.""

"I thought, OBE me? Up yours, I thought. I get angry when I hear that word "empire"; it reminds me of slavery, it reminds of thousands of years of brutality, it reminds me of how my foremothers were raped and my forefathers brutalised."

"Things are not going well for me. My chef at the Charité strongly disapproves of women students and took this means of showing it. About a hundred men (no women except myself) went round the wards today, and when we were all assembled before him to have our names written down, he called and named all the students except me, and then closed the book. I stood forward upon this, and said quietly, "Et moi aussi, monsieur." [And me, Sir.] He turned on me sharply, and cried, "Vous, vous n'êtes ni homme ni femme; je ne veux pas inscrire vôtre nom." [You, you are neither man nor woman; I don't want to write your name.] I stood silent in the midst of a dead silence."

"How many times, for instance, have we not heard people speak with all the authority of conviction about the "canine teeth" and "simple stomach" of man, as certain evidence of his natural adaptation for a flesh diet! At least we have demonstrated one fact; that if such arguments are valid, they apply with even greater force to the anthropoid apes—whose "canine" teeth are much longer and more powerful than those of man … And yet, with the solitary exception of man, there is not one of these last which does not in a natural condition absolutely refuse to feed on flesh! M. Pouchet observes that all the details of the digestive apparatus in man, as well as his dentition, constitute "so many proofs of his frugivorous origin"—an opinion shared by Professor Owen, who remarks that the anthropoids and all the quadrumana derive their alimentation from fruits, grains, and other succulent and nutritive vegetable substances, and that the strict analogy which exists between the structure of these animals and that of man clearly demonstrates his frugivorous nature. This is also the view taken by Cuvier, Linnæus, Professor Lawrence, Charles Bell, Gassendi, Flourens, and a great number of other eminent writers."

"No man who aims at making his life an harmonious whole, pure, complete, and harmless to others, can endure to gratify an appetite at the cost of the daily suffering and bloodshed of his inferiors in degree, and of the moral degradation of his own kind. I know not which strikes me most forcibly in the ethics of this question the injustice, the cruelty, or the nastiness of flesh-eating. The injustice is to the butchers, the cruelty is to the animals, the nastiness concerns the consumer. With regard to this last in particular, I greatly wonder what persons of refinement—aye, even of decency—do not feel insulted on being offered, as a matter of course, portions of corpses as food! Such comestibles might possibly be tolerated during sieges, or times of other privation of proper viands in exceptional circumstances, but in the midst of a civilised community able to command a profusion of sound and delicious foods, it ought to be deemed an affront to set dead flesh before a guest."

"The EU violates just about every green principle going. It is the opposite of local; it is destructive to the natural world; it wipes out cultural distinctiveness; it is anti-democratic; it puts the interests of banks and corporations before the interests of its working people. Why – when – how – did the Green Movement abandon its commitment to localism and democracy, and jump into bed with a beast like this?"

"For fifteen years I have been an environmental campaigner and writer. [...] But after a while, I stopped believing it. There were two reasons for this. The first was that none of the campaigns were succeeding, except on a very local level. More broadly, everything was getting worse. The second was that environmentalists, it seemed to me, were not being honest with themselves. It was increasingly obvious that climate change could not be stopped, that modern life was not consistent with the needs of the global ecosystem, that economic growth was part of the problem, and that the future was not going to be bright, green, comfy and 'sustainable' for ten billion people but was more likely to offer decline, depletion, chaos and hardship for all of us."

"To me, this is the most exciting thing about the Dark Mountain Project. [...] It is a vision that a few years back would have seemed heretical to many greens, but which is now gaining wide traction as the failure of humanity to respond to the crises it has created becomes increasingly obvious. Together we are able to say it loud and clear: we are not going to 'save the planet'. The planet is not ours to save. The planet is not dying; but our civilisation might be, and neither green technology nor ethical shopping is going to prevent a serious crash."

"In flame and smoke the wondrous city sinks! Her walls are gone! her palaces are dust! The desert is around her, and within! Like shadows have the mighty passed away!"

"Greatness is no sure frame to build upon, No worldly treasure can assure that place; God makes both even, the Cottage with the Throne."

"Tombed in the solid night of starless space; From nearest living orb so far removed, That light, of all material things most swift, Myriads on myriads of earth's years must speed, Ere the mere outskirts of that Stygian gloom, If ever, it might reach,-at rest eterne, Lies the cold wreck of an extinguished sun. Prime glory once of all heaven's radiant host; Body, for soul of purest light most fit- 'Tween its first darkening, and eclipse complete, Streamed years which might eternity appear; While into ether, like the particles, Invisible, which are the breath of flowers, The mighty bulk its softer elements Still ever was exhaling. As when flesh And sinew of earth's monster Mastodon, By the slow wasting of the elements, All are dissolved, and hard, enduring bones Alone remain,- even so, of this immense,- When, by the ocean waves of centuries, Millions succeeding millions, worn away,- The adamantine skeleton alone, In darkness, silence, utter solitude, A ruin for eternity, was left."

"It was a day of gloom, and strange suspense, And feverish, and inexplicable dread, In Herculaneum's walls. The heavy, thick, And torrid atmosphere; the solid, vast, And strong--edg'd clouds, that through the firmament In various and opposing courses moved:-- The wild scream of the solitary bird That, at long intervals, flew terror-driven On high:--the howling of the red-ey'd dog As he gaz'd trembling on the angry heavens:- The hollow moans that swept along the air, Though every wind was lock'd,-portended all That nature with some dire event was big, And labour'd in its birth."

"If Eve did err, it was for knowledge’ sake, / The fruit being fair persuaded him to fall."

"Fairfax's Tasso, which was so long and so strangely neglected, is now recovering its popularity. Of all the strange caprices of the Public taste, there is none more strange, than the preference which was given to the rhyme-tagged prose of Hoole, over this spirited and truly poetical production of Fairfax."

"He that peruses Homer, is like the traveller that surveys mount Atlas; the vastness and roughness of its rocks, the solemn gloominess of its pines and cedars, the everlasting snows that cover its head, the torrents that rush down its sides, and the wild beasts that roar in its caverns, all contribute to strike the imagination with inexpressible astonishment and awe. While reading the Aeneid is like beholding the Capitoline hill at Rome, on which stood many edifices of exquisite architecture, and whose top was crowned with the famous temple of Jupiter, adorned with the spoils of conquered Greece."

"One of the most judicious, elegant, and haply in his time most approved of English translators, both for his choice of so worthily extolled a heroic poet as Torquato Tasso, as for the exactness of his version, in which he is judged by some to have approved himself no less a poet than in what he hath written of his own genius."

"It were to be wished that no youth of genius were suffered ever to look into Statius, Lucan, Claudian, or Seneca the tragedian; authors who, by their forced conceits, by their violent metaphors, by their swelling epithets, by their want of just decorum, have a strong tendency to dazzle and to mislead inexperienced minds, and tastes unformed, from the true relish of possibility, propriety, simplicity, and nature. [...] If I might venture to pronounce so rigorous a sentence, I would say, that the Romans can boast of but eight poets who are unexceptionably excellent,—namely, Terence, Lucretius, Catullus, Virgil, Horace, Tibullus, Propertius, Phaedrus. These only can be called legitimate models of just thinking and writing. Succeeding authors, as it happens in all countries, resolving to be original and new, and to avoid the imputation of copying, become distorted and unnatural. By endeavouring to open an unbeaten path, they deserted simplicity and truth; weary of common and obvious beauties, they must needs hunt for remote and artificial decorations..."

"This was the first Book I ever read with that Juvenile Avidity so delicious during the racy Season of Life. I felt its Beauties, repeated its Precepts,—wearied my Parents with Quotations and my Tongue with Praises of this—shall I call it unlucky Volume, which made a Writer & a Critic of H:L:P."

"Milton often copies Fairfax, and not his original."

"The golden sun rose from the silver wave, And with his beams enamelled every green."

"I have lit upon Fairfax's 'Godfrey of Bullen,' for half-a-crown. Rejoice with me."

"Aurora bright her crystal gates unbarred, And bridegroom-like forth stept the glorious sun."

"Better sit still, men say, than rise to fall."

"The rose within herself her sweetness closed."

"In regard to Fairfax's poetical powers, they were never called in question, and many scattered beauties are to be found in his Version of Tasso. But it has one very great fault, that of not being sufficiently faithful. [...] There are also other objections. The first arises from the structure of the stanza, which to the generality of readers is irksome. I know, indeed, that on this subject there is a difference of opinion. [...] The second objection is to be found in the quaintness of many of Fairfax's expressions, which, however correct and proper they might have been in those ancient days, (I need hardly say that he wrote in the time of Queen Elizabeth) are now become obsolete, and from the greater polish which our language has acquired, seem to a modern ear unworthy of the dignity of serious poetry."

"Sorrow, misfortune's son, despair's foul fire."

"Oh vanity of man's unstable mind, Puffed up with every blast of friendly wind!"

"A narrow room our glory vain upties, A little circle doth our pride contain, Earth like an isle amid the water lies, Which sea sometime is called, sometime the main, Yet naught therein responds a name so great, It's but a lake, a pond, a marish strait."

"Two inward vultures, Sorrow and Disdain."

"They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies."

"His diction is so pure, elegant, and full of graces, and the turn of his lines so perfectly melodious, that one cannot read [his translation] without rapture; and we scarcely imagine the original Italian has greatly the advantage in either, nor is it very probable that while Fairfax can be read, any author will attempt a new translation of Tasso with success."