Northern Disco Lights tells the untold story of a group of teenagers in the arctic city of Tromsø, who set off a chain of events that would go on to transform their country. There will be two screenings of this fabulous film on Record Store Day (Saturday April 22nd) at The Refuge, Manchester.
Noise of Art and Red Gallery, London, are teaming-up to present the first exhibition of photographs, film and artwork documenting the story of French electronic music from the start of the 20th century to the present day, followed by a series of music, film and panel events on the weekends of 17, 24 and 31 March and a closing party on 7 April.
I have always had a deep love and respect for poetry: TS Eliot’s ‘Macavity – The Mystery Cat’ http://tiny.cc/9it0ex thrilled me as a child and later Shakespeare’s sonnets http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/17.html and plays ‘Othello’, ‘Hamlet’, ‘Macbeth’, ‘The Tempest’, ‘Richard III’, ‘A Midsummer Nights Dream’, ‘The Merchant of Venice’, ‘The Taming of The Shrew’ and ‘The Twelfth Night’ introduced me to history, fantasy, reality, love, loss, passage of time, beauty, mortality, politics written in such a way that real emotions were wrought from the words on the page. Studying Shakespeare also gave me an insight into the phenomenal craft of a poem written to book length aka a ‘play’. Six years later, TS Eliot’s ‘The Wasteland’ blew my academically mushrooming and hormone ravaged mind. I clearly remember the day that my English Literature A-Level teacher, Mr Birch, said loftily (whilst rubbing his profuse beard) that ‘prose was an open hand and poetry was a closed fist’ – from this moment the inspiration ran high to punch well above my literary weight with such a fist and the resonance rang deeper than an Atlantean bell. I have always preferred writing poetry (although up to now it’s been mainly personal stuff that nobody sees or reads) to prose: it presents much more of a challenge to me.
Now if poetry is a closed fist then my preferred, and the very succinct, Japanese Haiku form is an iron fist welded fast inside a titanium lined velvet glove.
This article is about the Japanese poetic form. For haiku poetry written in English, see Haiku in English. For other uses, see Haiku (disambiguation).
Haiku (俳句 haikai verse?)About this sound listen (help·info) (no separate plural form) is a very short form of Japanese poetry typically characterised by three qualities:
The essence of haiku is “cutting” (kiru). This is often represented by the juxtaposition of two images or ideas and a kireji(“cutting word”) between them, a kind of verbal punctuation mark which signals the moment of separation and colors the manner in which the juxtaposed elements are related.
Traditional haiku consist of 17 on (also known as morae), in three phrases of 5, 7 and 5 on respectively.A kigo (seasonal reference), usually drawn from a saijiki, an extensive but defined list of such words.
Modern Japanese haiku (現代俳句 gendai-haiku?) are increasingly unlikely to follow the tradition of 17 on or to take nature as their subject, but the use of juxtaposition continues to be honored in both traditional and modern haiku. There is a common, although relatively recent, perception that the images juxtaposed must be directly observed everyday objects or occurrences.
In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line while haiku in English often appear in three lines to parallel the three phrases of Japanese haiku.
Previously called hokku, haiku was given its current name by the Japanese writer Masaoka Shiki at the end of the 19th century.
They say you should do one thing every day that scares you. I am now going to publish some of my poetry.
I have always loved words and the look of them on the page. I learned to speak, read and write very early on in life.My earliest memories involve singing, dancing, doing shows for my family and holding court whilst standing on a snooker table but the day I learned to join the letters together was an out of body moment that I can only explain as riding solo on a learning curve.
One Monday evening, just like any other, I was lying on the sitting room floor, resting on my elbows, thinking and reluctantly doing my homework. I was not concentrating at all, since it was way more important to keep one eye on the TV and the other on the subject in hand. We had been asked to write an essay – ‘Last Weekend’ so I set about fantasizing around the most banal happenings, stacking one little letter in front of another with finger spaces between each one. I soon grew tired of the effort and wanted to get the job done quickly, so started to link the letters together with connecting swirls and curls. It seemed perfectly logical and natural to do this. Before I knew it, the essay was finished but when I checked over it I realised that my handwriting had drastically changed. How unusual it was to see the infant turn into the child in writing and in front of my eyes.
The strange thing is that I can’t remember exactly what I was writing about that brought about the change. All I remember is running to look up my style of writing in the encyclopaedia Brittanica – yes – the ‘hand’ I had chosen was closest to copperplate. No-one had shown me how to do it. I hadn’t practised it or purposefully tried to do it. It took no great effort. It was simply something that happened for me as naturally as breathing, sleeping and eating.From that day to this I have been in love with writing and our letters.
Since then I have explored the world of writing, keeping handwritten diaries, writing haikus and poems in a collection of ruled notebooks that i keep hidden from the world. I also keep a blog whenever I can remember the password.