max grieve

Dave Heath     Poets Leroi Jones and Allen Ginsberg, 7 Arts Coffee Gallery, New York City     1959


Lately, I’ve become accustomed to the way
The ground opens up and envelopes me
Each time I go out to walk the dog.
Or the broad edged silly music the wind
Makes when I run for a bus…

Things have come to that.

And now, each night I count the stars.
And each night I get the same number.
And when they will not come to be counted,
I count the holes they leave.

Nobody sings anymore.

And then last night I tiptoed up
To my daughter’s room and heard her
Talking to someone, and when I opened
The door, there was no one there…
Only she on her knees, peeking into

Her own clasped hands

–Leroi Jones, “Preface to a 20 Volume Suicide Note” 1961


-


For Naomi Ginsberg, 1894-1956

Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on
  the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking,
  talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues
  shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm–and your memory in my head three years after–
  And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud–wept, realizing
  how we suffer–
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember,
  prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of An-
  swers–and my own imagination of a withered leaf–at dawn–
Dreaming back thru life, Your time–and mine accelerating toward Apoca-
  lypse,
the final moment–the flower burning in the Day–and what comes after,
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom
  Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed–
like a poem in the dark–escaped back to Oblivion–
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream,
  trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worship-
  ping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all–longing or inevitability?–while it
  lasts, a Vision–anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder,
  Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shoul-
  dering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant–and
  the sky above–an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to–as I walk toward the Lower East Side
  –where you walked 50 years ago, little girl–from Russia, eating the
  first poisonous tomatoes of America frightened on the dock
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?–toward
  Newark–
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice
  cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards–
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school,
  and learning to be mad, in a dream–what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window–and the great Key lays its head of light
  on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the
  sidewalk–in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward
  the Yiddish Theater–and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now–Strange to have moved
  thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstops doors and dark boys on
  the street, firs escapes old as you
–Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me–
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe–and I guess that dies with
  us–enough to cancel all that comes–What came is gone forever
  every time–
That’s good!  That leaves it open for no regret–no fear radiators, lacklove,
  torture even toothache in the end–
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul–and the lamb, the soul,
  in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger–hair
  and teeth–and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin,
  braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai!  we do worse! We are in a fix!  And you’re out, Death let you out,
  Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with
  God, done with the path thru it–Done with yourself at last–Pure
  –Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all–before the
  world–
There, rest.  No more suffering for you.  I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more
  fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts,
  loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands–
No more of sister Elanor,–she gone before you–we kept it secret you
  killed her–or she killed herself to bear with you–an arthritic heart
  –But Death’s killed you both–No matter–
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and
  weeks–forgetting, agrieve watching Marie Dressler address human-
  ity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, halling his voice of a weeping Czar
  –by standing room with Elanor & Max–watching also the Capital
  ists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts
  pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and
  laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead now, and that long hair in the grave–lucky to
  have husbands later–
You made it–I came too–Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and
  will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer–or kill
  –later perhaps–soon he will think–)
And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now
  –tho not you
I didn’t foresee what you felt–what more hideous gape of bad mouth came
  first–to you–and were you prepared?
To go where?  In that Dark–that–in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the
  Void?  Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream?  Adonoi at last, with
  you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull
  in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon–Deaths-
  head with Halo?  can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence,
  than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have–what you had–that so pitiful–yet Tri-
  umph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower–fed to the
  ground–but made, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe,
  shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth
  wrapped, sore–freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the
  knife–lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy–even in the Spring–strange ghost
  thought some–Death–Sharp icicle in his hand–crowned with old
  roses–a dog for his eyes–cock of a sweatshop–heart of electric
  irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out–clocks, bodies, consciousness,
  shoes, breasts–begotten sons–your Communism–‘Paranoia’ into
  hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later.  You of
  stroke.  Asleep?  within a year, the two of you, sisters in death.  Is
  Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over
  midnight Accountings, not sure.  His life passes–as he sees–and
  what does he doubt now?  Still dream of making money, or that might
  have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Im-
  mortality, Naomi?
I’ll see him soon.  Now I’ve got to cut through to talk to you as I didn’t
  when you had a mouth.
Forever.  And we’re bound for that, Forever like Emily Dickinson’s horses
  –headed to the End.
They know the way–These Steeds–run faster than we think–it’s our own
  life they cross–and take with them.

  Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, mar-
ried dreamed, mortal changed–Ass and face done with murder.
  In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under
pine, almed in Earth, blamed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
  Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless,
Father in death.  Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m
hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
  Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not
light or darkness, Dayless Eternity–
  Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some
of my Time, now given to Nothing–to praise Thee–But Death
  This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Won-
derer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping
–page beyond Psalm–Last change of mine and Naomi–to God’s perfect
Darkness–Death, stay thy phantoms!

–Allen Ginsberg, “Kaddish, Pt. 1″  1961

Harold Chapman      Allen Ginsberg at the Beat Hotel, Rue Gît-le-Cœur, Paris     1957


I
Strange now to think of you, gone without corsets & eyes, while I walk on the sunny pavement of Greenwich Village.
downtown Manhattan, clear winter noon, and I’ve been up all night, talking, talking, reading the Kaddish aloud, listening to Ray Charles blues shout blind on the phonograph
the rhythm the rhythm—and your memory in my head three years after—And read Adonais’ last triumphant stanzas aloud—wept, realizing how we suffer—
And how Death is that remedy all singers dream of, sing, remember, prophesy as in the Hebrew Anthem, or the Buddhist Book of Answers—and my own imagination of a withered leaf—at dawn—
Dreaming back thru life, Your time—and mine accelerating toward Apocalypse,
the final moment—the flower burning in the Day—and what comes after,  
looking back on the mind itself that saw an American city
a flash away, and the great dream of Me or China, or you and a phantom Russia, or a crumpled bed that never existed—
like a poem in the dark—escaped back to Oblivion—
No more to say, and nothing to weep for but the Beings in the Dream, trapped in its disappearance,
sighing, screaming with it, buying and selling pieces of phantom, worshipping each other,
worshipping the God included in it all—longing or inevitability?—while it lasts, a Vision—anything more?
It leaps about me, as I go out and walk the street, look back over my shoulder, Seventh Avenue, the battlements of window office buildings shouldering each other high, under a cloud, tall as the sky an instant—and the sky above—an old blue place.
or down the Avenue to the south, to—as I walk toward the Lower East Side—where you walked 50 years ago, little girl—from Russia, eating the first poisonous tomatoes of America—frightened on the dock—
then struggling in the crowds of Orchard Street toward what?—toward Newark—
toward candy store, first home-made sodas of the century, hand-churned ice cream in backroom on musty brownfloor boards—
Toward education marriage nervous breakdown, operation, teaching school, and learning to be mad, in a dream—what is this life?
Toward the Key in the window—and the great Key lays its head of light on top of Manhattan, and over the floor, and lays down on the sidewalk—in a single vast beam, moving, as I walk down First toward the Yiddish Theater—and the place of poverty
you knew, and I know, but without caring now—Strange to have moved
thru Paterson, and the West, and Europe and here again,
with the cries of Spaniards now in the doorstoops doors and dark boys on the street, fire escapes old as you
-Tho you’re not old now, that’s left here with me—
Myself, anyhow, maybe as old as the universe—and I guess that dies with us—enough to cancel all that comes—What came is gone forever every time—
That’s good! That leaves it open for no regret—no fear radiators, lacklove, torture even toothache in the end—
Though while it comes it is a lion that eats the soul—and the lamb, the soul, in us, alas, offering itself in sacrifice to change’s fierce hunger—hair and teeth—and the roar of bonepain, skull bare, break rib, rot-skin, braintricked Implacability.
Ai! ai! we do worse! We are in a fix! And you’re out, Death let you out, Death had the Mercy, you’re done with your century, done with God, done with the path thru it—Done with yourself at last—Pure—Back to the Babe dark before your Father, before us all—before the world—
There, rest. No more suffering for you. I know where you’ve gone, it’s good.
No more flowers in the summer fields of New York, no joy now, no more fear of Louis,
and no more of his sweetness and glasses, his high school decades, debts, loves, frightened telephone calls, conception beds, relatives, hands—
No more of sister Elanor,.—she gone before you—we kept it secret—you killed her—or she killed herself to bear with you—an arthritic heart—But Death’s killed you both—No matter—
Nor your memory of your mother, 1915 tears in silent movies weeks and weeks—forgetting, aggrieve watching Marie Dressler address humanity, Chaplin dance in youth,
or Boris Godunov, Chaliapin’s at the Met, hailing his voice of a weeping Czar—by standing room with Elanor & Max—watching also the Capitalists take seats in Orchestra, white furs, diamonds,
with the YPSL’s hitch-hiking thru Pennsylvania, in black baggy gym skirts pants, photograph of 4 girls holding each other round the waste, and laughing eye, too coy, virginal solitude of 1920
all girls grown old, or dead, now, and that long hair in the grave—lucky to have husbands later—
You made it—I came too—Eugene my brother before (still grieving now and will gream on to his last stiff hand, as he goes thru his cancer—or kill—later perhaps—soon he will think—)
And it’s the last moment I remember, which I see them all, thru myself, now—tho not you
I didn’t foresee what you felt—what more hideous gape of bad mouth came first—to you—and were you prepared?
To go where? In that Dark—that—in that God? a radiance? A Lord in the Void? Like an eye in the black cloud in a dream? Adonoi at last, with you?
Beyond my remembrance! Incapable to guess! Not merely the yellow skull in the grave, or a box of worm dust, and a stained ribbon—Deathshead with Halo? can you believe it?
Is it only the sun that shines once for the mind, only the flash of existence, than none ever was?
Nothing beyond what we have—what you had—that so pitiful—yet Triumph,
to have been here, and changed, like a tree, broken, or flower—fed to the ground—but mad, with its petals, colored, thinking Great Universe, shaken, cut in the head, leaf stript, hid in an egg crate hospital, cloth wrapped, sore—freaked in the moon brain, Naughtless.
No flower like that flower, which knew itself in the garden, and fought the knife—lost
Cut down by an idiot Snowman’s icy—even in the Spring—strange ghost thought—some Death—Sharp icicle in his hand—crowned with old roses—a dog for his eyes—cock of a sweatshop—heart of electric irons.
All the accumulations of life, that wear us out—clocks, bodies, consciousness, shoes, breasts—begotten sons—your Communism—‘Paranoia’ into hospitals.
You once kicked Elanor in the leg, she died of heart failure later. You of stroke. Asleep? within a year, the two of you, sisters in death. Is Elanor happy?
Max grieves alive in an office on Lower Broadway, lone large mustache over midnight Accountings, not sure. l His life passes—as he sees—and what does he doubt now? Still dream of making money, or that might have made money, hired nurse, had children, found even your Immortality, Naomi?
I’ll see him soon. Now I’ve got to cut through—to talk to you—as I didn’t when you had a mouth.
Forever. And we’re bound for that, Forever—like Emily Dickinson’s horses—headed to the End.
They know the way—These Steeds—run faster than we think—it’s our own life they cross—and take with them.

      Magnificent, mourned no more, marred of heart, mind behind, married dreamed, mortal changed—Ass and face done with murder.
      In the world, given, flower maddened, made no Utopia, shut under pine, almed in Earth, balmed in Lone, Jehovah, accept.
      Nameless, One Faced, Forever beyond me, beginningless, endless, Father in death. Tho I am not there for this Prophecy, I am unmarried, I’m hymnless, I’m Heavenless, headless in blisshood I would still adore
      Thee, Heaven, after Death, only One blessed in Nothingness, not light or darkness, Dayless Eternity—
      Take this, this Psalm, from me, burst from my hand in a day, some of my Time, now given to Nothing—to praise Thee—But Death
      This is the end, the redemption from Wilderness, way for the Wonderer, House sought for All, black handkerchief washed clean by weeping—page beyond Psalm—Last change of mine and Naomi—to God’s perfect Darkness—Death, stay thy phantoms!

–Allen Ginsberg, “Kaddish-Part 1″  1961

Watch on afootballreport.com

On technology, empathy, and ref-cam

We can shoot video with a pair of glasses now. With the same pair of glasses, we can also translate languages, search the Internet, find directions, and send text messages, if we are willing to pay $1500 and look a little foolish. I can’t vouch for their optical capacity. It seems like the future, but today. It’s all too fast, but we’re here.

It seems strange, then, that it’s taken until now, the point at which we can search the Internet using a pair of glasses, to strap a camera to a referee’s head to see what they see, but that is now happening in Super Rugby, in Australia, New Zealand and South Africa. The footage is extraordinary and, perhaps most importantly, brings out a sense of empathy for those in charge of the game.

Referees suffer deaths of a thousand angles. Any given decision is shot from ten different viewpoints, but the referee has only one. Forget negatively weighted boots and impossibly spherical balls. Strap a camera to Howard Webb’s head this weekend as he goes out to handle Manchester United and Chelsea. There’s a real advancement. [Words by Max Grieve]

Dear Mister Henry

Manchester City are winning trophies, and that’s annoying for anyone who isn’t a Manchester City supporter. Chelsea have won trophies too, which is annoying for anyone who isn’t a Chelsea supporter. Manchester United, damn it all, have also won trophies, and nobody likes them either – let’s get past the fact that everybody hates everybody. I can point to Barcelona, to Madrid, to Milan and to Paris – at least, I will in the next year or so – and will be able to say that all those clubs have won trophies. Better ones than the Carling Cup, too – y'know, proper ones that people care about.

And even then, I can point to success that isn’t marked by a hunk of metal. Finishing fourth is brilliant. There are those who might say that finishing fourth is as good as finishing eighth, tenth or fifteenth – if you’ve not won the title, why does it matter? – but you’re a smarter man than that*. The Champions League, whether you’ve reached it from second, third or fourth place in the league, is the zenith. 

Other teams are doing well, even winning things, because they’ve spent money. You’ve got enough, so why don’t you as well? Jump off the bridge because everyone else is doing it. It’s clear that Financial Fair Play, or even the mere threat of it, is a joke – that said, we’ll be laughing like hell if all this comes off and you were right.

Weirdly, you’ve got to spend money to make money, which you can get considerably more of if your club is competing in the Champions League, and not that secondary tournament which, wonderfully enough, is having a final in Amsterdam this year – get along, if you can. Financial sustainability is a good thing, but there’s little point if it’s being achieved by spending nothing because you have nothing. The inability to scrape together an extra £2m for Clint Dempsey is pathetic, and can’t be helping the manager. 

I like you. I’d quite like for you to do well. More than anything though, with the exception of an unbeaten streak to the end of the season, I’d like for you to buy someone in January. Someone good.

Or you could bring in Michael Owen. I’m easy.

Max Grieve

*I hope to Christ that he is.

Nicklas Bendtner is still alive!

Are vertical stripes thinning or fattening?

By Max Grieve

Since arriving in Turin dressed like Alan Partridge, Nicklas Bendtner’s time at Juventus has been as action-packed as a night spent watching every one of the Die Hard films during a lightning storm with all the windows open. His request for the No. 10 shirt, then-recently vacated by Alessandro Del Piero, was promptly turned down due to concerns that he could be too good and overshadow its previous holder, so he humbly accepted the No. 17 instead, agreeing that it was best for everyone; not least and most importantly himself. 

Bendtner has had a flying start to his career at the Juventus Stadium, making one appearance as a substitute in the 80th minute in a 2-0 win over Chievo Verona – that’s where Romeo and Juliet is set! He had one shot, then left the field with the rest of the players once the game had ended. Club coaches have remarked on the Danish striker’s weight; an issue which Bendtner has acknowledged, and is working to resolve. In response to claims that he is “fat”, Bendtner tweeted ‘Overweight? Yeah it’s really horrible, will need 4-5 months to get going. Ha ha,’ demonstrating a clear shift in his attitudes towards a humanly acceptable work ethic. 

Juventus have an option to buy Bendtner at the end of the loan period, and one man at la Vecchia Signora believes that it’s an opportunity too good to pass up. 'Nicklas Bendtner is the best striker in the world. Of course Juventus would like to have Nicklas Bendtner stay at the end of the season, as would any club,’ said Bendtner.

Sideburns fade and fall

By Max Grieve

It’s as hard for me to tell you this as it is for you to read it, but it wouldn’t be right for me to keep it from you until you’re older, harder, and have a greater control over your urge to take out your anger on government buildings and public art. Alessandro Del Piero isn’t entirely happy. I’m sorry to have taken an axe to your satisfaction with life.

It’s not complicated. Simply, Sydney FC aren’t very good, and Del Piero is. The Italian is cutting an increasingly frustrated figure – he could be playing for a poor team in Qatar and making millions more. The A-League is curiously competitive, and has already seen seen four different championship winners in its eight-year history, though the success of the major cities, Melbourne and Sydney, is vital to the greater success of the league – even more so now, given the international coverage that Australian football has been receiving since Del Piero’s arrival. While he has been one of the most watchable players in the league this season, Sydney are diving to new depths of mediocrity.

“Put a sh*t hanging from a stick in the middle of the stadium,” said then-Real Madrid coach Jorge Valdano in 2007 of Rafael Benitez’s Liverpool, “and there are people who will tell you it’s a work of art. It’s not: it’s a sh*t hanging from a stick.” There are no such delusions as to what Sydney FC are presenting to the league and the watching millions.

Keep reading

Més que un football blog

I went to see a film called The Hobbit. It was set before a whole bunch of other films which had already been made, but were supposed to be after this film that had only just come out – this serious chronologial blunder only furthered my irritation, having already discovered that my assigned seat was two or three rows too close to the screen. The projection was also fuzzy, but I pushed on.

The film starts with Tim from The Office being played by an old man, and then after a few minutes by Tim from The Office. There is a dragon for a bit, but we don’t get to see it. To be fair, we do see its eye, but that happens at the end of the film, which is about halfway through the story. Then Lucas from Spooks comes along, doing less shooting than he did in Spooks, and about the same amount of being temperamental and antisocial, except with a beard.

Bilbo Baggins, seen here with Dawn from The Office.

There is a lot of fighting, fighting and also fighting, and a man behind me laughed, so some of it must have been funny. They go walking in New Zealand with some other people who have beards, and then the film ends. There will be two more films in which roughly the same thing happens, stretched out over a cumulative nine hours of your life which you’ll never get back.

It’s hard to say quite what The Hobbit is in the sense that it is a film, although one thing that most critics, including myself, are entirely agreed on is that it is definitely a film. Two and a half stars.

- Max Grieve