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Post by nonrabbit on Jun 25, 2011 22:17:55 GMT
" The Lion all began with a picture of a Faun carrying an umbrella and parcels in a snowy wood. This picture had been in my mind since I was about sixteen. Then one day, when I was about forty, I said to myself: 'Let's try to make a story about it." C.S.Lewis We all know the beautiful imagery that Ian has written in song lyrics.. " We wandered through quiet lands, felt the first breath of snow Searched for the last pigeon, slate grey I've been told.." to name one off the top of my head However I wonder if he has or contemplated writing poetry and/or stories? other than his autobiography
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Post by steelmonkey on Jun 26, 2011 16:36:43 GMT
' and the black-eyed mother sun, scorched the butterfly at play, velvet-veined, i watched it burn'
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Post by nonrabbit on Jun 26, 2011 17:42:43 GMT
' and the black-eyed mother sun, scorched the butterfly at play, velvet-veined, i watched it burn' I wish I could paint
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Post by onewhiteduck on Jun 26, 2011 18:41:17 GMT
Her love is like a candle: you light it up at night. Her heart is like a pack of cards: one chance to guess it right. Sometimes I do. She's got a tongue like a viper, but she can whisper like a dove. Soft touch like brushed velvet: till she hits you from above. And sometimes she does.
Bit of a philistine I am but can relate to these !!!!
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Post by oksauce on Jun 26, 2011 22:28:39 GMT
I've heard that Ian doesn't care for poetry, and I think he prefers to focus on music rather than writing. Maybe one day he will
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Post by steelmonkey on Jun 26, 2011 22:37:31 GMT
ian not caring about poetry is like the ocean not caring about water ( pretty poetic, no?)
But i do believe him when he said, many years ago when asked by someone theorizing about his influences, that he thought yeats and keats were professional golfers.
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Post by falstaff on Oct 21, 2011 21:13:50 GMT
I've always believed that Ian's assertions of literary ignorance have been disingenuous. No one writes lyrics like that without being exposed to poetry. His use of literary devices like metaphor, simile, and his expert use of imagery gives lie to his claims. You don't develop these sort of techniques in a vacuum.
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Post by steelmonkey on Oct 21, 2011 21:32:10 GMT
Good Point...whether good singer/songwriter lyrics to classic poetry, there's no way ian doesn't give them the close reading any craftsman would give to a colleague in his or her craft.
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Post by falstaff on Oct 22, 2011 3:52:23 GMT
I think he takes pride in his skills, but he's self-conscious about any greater significance to his writing. Many of rock's finest songwriters feel the same. Bob Dylan claimed in an interview I read that he was never as nervous about an album review as he was about Chronicles: Volume 1, his memoir published a few years ago. He felt like an interloper, of sorts, into the mainstream literary world and was intensely gratified by the book's positive reception. I've always felt that "Heavy Horses" is probably his finest lyric. Take all of the music away and read it aloud. It's a vivid piece of writing full of, here it comes again, skilled use of alliteration, simile, metaphor and poetic structure. You hate poetry, Ian? I'd have to be thick as a brick to believe that.
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 22, 2011 9:22:32 GMT
I think words to a writer are like paint to a painter. Many of the greatest artists would not have been able to view many of the great paintings of the world in order for them to have influenced their own work.. I'm not a great believer in writers or poets having to read extensively for influence. When I write, the image and feelings for the subject dictate whether the outcome will be a piece of prose or as a poem and not necessarily in a standard literary context - thank god for free style poetry!
I think Ian is attracted to other forms of creativity but is comfortable and productive in his chosen form - the lucky sod ;D
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 22, 2011 9:26:41 GMT
I think he takes pride in his skills, but he's self-conscious about any greater significance to his writing. Many of rock's finest songwriters feel the same. Bob Dylan claimed in an interview I read that he was never as nervous about an album review as he was about Chronicles: Volume 1, his memoir published a few years ago. He felt like an interloper, of sorts, into the mainstream literary world and was intensely gratified by the book's positive reception. I've always felt that "Heavy Horses" is probably his finest lyric. Take all of the music away and read it aloud. It's a vivid piece of writing full of, here it comes again, skilled use of alliteration, simile, metaphor and poetic structure. You hate poetry, Ian? I'd have to be thick as a brick to believe that. very true I think sometimes we forget, as critics, that when someone produces a new song or a piece of art that it's their new baby and they are extremely nervous of any review
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Post by steelmonkey on Oct 22, 2011 13:32:33 GMT
But it evolves in a different way for every artist...the slow crawl or mad dash form: 'please, please have a look or listen....it's free today, just give it a try, I hope you like it' to ' f**k you, take or leave it and don't dare steal it'. For some performers, I'm sure the original, innocent nerves about their work never goes away...but for some, a drop or wallop of success changes everything. The Dylan book example is a great example of how poking into a different field brings back the original innocence and insecurity....maybe even slight changes in style or substance ( new instruments, new genres) does the same to keep an artist humble and hopeful.
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Post by maddogfagin on Oct 23, 2011 8:07:34 GMT
I've always felt that "Heavy Horses" is probably his finest lyric. Take all of the music away and read it aloud. It's a vivid piece of writing full of, here it comes again, skilled use of alliteration, simile, metaphor and poetic structure. You hate poetry, Ian? I'd have to be thick as a brick to believe that. I think I'll go with your thesis and say HH is IA's finest set of lyrics. For one thing there isn't a track on the album which one could consider as a "filler" and the song writing is faultless. Acres WildI'll make love to you in all good places under black mountains in open spaces. By deep brown rivers that slither darkly through far marches where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.
I'll make love to you in narrow side streets with shuttered windows, crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town discos silent under tiles that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly on concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed with cement fingers Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 23, 2011 10:15:34 GMT
It's funny how the lyrics just pop into your head "...Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air. Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasn't there..." I've searched and searched for a perfect image of that scene other than the one in my head - if any photographer could capture that for me I'd pay money.
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Post by oksauce on Oct 23, 2011 11:34:18 GMT
It's funny how the lyrics just pop into your head "...Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air. Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasn't there..." I've searched and searched for a perfect image of that scene other than the one in my head - if any photographer could capture that for me I'd pay money. What song is that from?
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 23, 2011 11:40:52 GMT
It's funny how the lyrics just pop into your head "...Wood smoke curled from blackened chimneys. The smell of frost was in the air. Pole star hovered in the blackness. I looked again: it wasn't there..." I've searched and searched for a perfect image of that scene other than the one in my head - if any photographer could capture that for me I'd pay money. What song is that from? Birthday Card at Xmas not one of my all time favs like some of the lyrics and the flute solo.
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Post by steelmonkey on Oct 24, 2011 1:57:32 GMT
Acres Wild is perfect example of a flawless, stand alone poem.
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 24, 2011 8:30:18 GMT
I've always felt that "Heavy Horses" is probably his finest lyric. Take all of the music away and read it aloud. It's a vivid piece of writing full of, here it comes again, skilled use of alliteration, simile, metaphor and poetic structure. You hate poetry, Ian? I'd have to be thick as a brick to believe that. I think I'll go with your thesis and say HH is IA's finest set of lyrics. For one thing there isn't a track on the album which one could consider as a "filler" and the song writing is faultless. Acres WildI'll make love to you in all good places under black mountains in open spaces. By deep brown rivers that slither darkly through far marches where the blue hare races.
Come with me to the Winged Isle northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.
I'll make love to you in narrow side streets with shuttered windows, crumbling chimneys.
Come with me to the weary town discos silent under tiles that slide from roof-tops, scatter softly on concrete marches of acres wild.
By red bricks pointed with cement fingers Flaking damply from sagging shoulders.
Come with me to the Winged Isle northern father's western child. Where the dance of ages is playing still through far marches of acres wild.The imagery of the small town be it Portree or Lytham St Anne's is so vivid in those words; " I'll make love to you in narrow side streets with shuttered windows, crumbling chimneys. Come with me to the weary town discos silent under tiles..." I think he revisits Blackpool and his youth pre Tull a lot in his lyrics.
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Post by falstaff on Oct 27, 2011 22:59:53 GMT
Acres Wild is perfect example of a flawless, stand alone poem. Couldn't agree more, it's a love poem firmly within the tradition of 19th century English verse.
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Post by nonrabbit on Oct 29, 2011 15:35:13 GMT
There was a time when you were so young and walked in their way. They made you feel they loved you all-seeing they say. You're going wrong if their game you don't play And that the song I sing will lead you astray.
Unfeeling, feel lonely rejection, unknowing, know you're going wrong. And they can't see that we're just trying to be, and not what we seem, and even now believe that it's not real and only a dream.
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Post by nonrabbit on Jul 29, 2012 19:44:29 GMT
What a sight for my eyes to see you in sleep. Could've startled the sunrise hearing you weep. You're not seen, you're not heard but I stand by my word. Came a thousand miles just to catch you while you're smiling. What a day for laughter and walking at night. Me following after, your hand holding tight. And the memory stays clear with the song that you hear. If I can but make the words awake the feeling. What a reason for waiting and dreaming of dreams. So here's hoping you've faith in impossible schemes, that are born in the sigh of the wind blowing by while the dimming light brings the end to a night of loving.
~~
A beautiful poem.
"Came a thousand miles just to catch you while you're smiling."
Perfect.
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Post by falstaff on Aug 16, 2012 5:01:02 GMT
There's an attractive simplicity to those words and I particularly enjoy how it invokes nature.
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Post by steelmonkey on Aug 18, 2012 21:40:11 GMT
' suppose bold woman, quite unsuited' really gets me...I know her....I've fallen for her...I'm looking for her again.
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Post by maddogfagin on Aug 19, 2012 6:52:23 GMT
' suppose bold woman, quite unsuited' really gets me...I know her....I've fallen for her...I'm looking for her again.
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Post by nonrabbit on Aug 19, 2012 9:09:33 GMT
' suppose bold woman, quite unsuited' really gets me...I know her....I've fallen for her...I'm looking for her again. Ahh that RT Beeswing moment in life Sorry Ian but Richard says it much better; "Oh she was a rare thing, fine as a bee's wing So fine a breath of wind might blow her away She was a lost child, oh she was running wild She said "As long as there's no price on love, I'll stay. And you wouldn't want me any other way" Brown hair zig-zag around her face and a look of half-surprise Like a fox caught in the headlights, there was animal in her eyes She said "Young man, oh can't you see I'm not the factory kind If you don't take me out of here I'll surely lose my mind..." Friends may age and worse still.....have a new coat of sensibility but at least they're still around to reminise.......................... Thank you Sunday service is now over - go in peace
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Post by steelmonkey on Aug 19, 2012 14:09:54 GMT
Once, when RT was listening to the audience for requests, I suggested 'Bee's Wing...again'...he had already played it...the audience applauded, he laughed and said something about the 400 extra verses but DID NOT play it again....I wasn't kidding .... I wanted to hear it again.
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Post by nonrabbit on Sept 30, 2014 15:47:24 GMT
ian not caring about poetry is like the ocean not caring about water ( pretty poetic, no?) But i do believe him when he said, many years ago when asked by someone theorizing about his influences, that he thought yeats and keats were professional golfers.
I'm just back from a two hour lecture and poetry reading on WB Yeats called Poetry in Autumn and there's no way he (Ian) is telling the truth about not reading Yeats. I kept hearing the lyrics to Moths as Yeats has a thing about them. Then we had the The Song Of The Wandering Aengus and it had SFTW,HH and a bit of HE all over it.... or the other way around.
The Song Of The Wandering Aengus
I went out to the hazel wood, Because a fire was in my head, And cut and peeled a hazel wand, And hooked a berry to a thread; And when white moths were on the wing, And moth-like stars were flickering out, I dropped the berry in a stream And caught a little silver trout. When I had laid it on the floor I went to blow the fire a-flame, But something rustled on the floor, And someone called me by my name: It had become a glimmering girl With apple blossom in her hair Who called me by my name and ran And faded through the brightening air.
Though I am old with wandering Through hollow lands and hilly lands, I will find out where she has gone, And kiss her lips and take her hands; And walk among long dappled grass, And pluck till time and times are done, The silver apples of the moon, The golden apples of the sun.
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Post by steelmonkey on Sept 30, 2014 16:09:54 GMT
Either that or there really is an independent muse who delivers the poems, fully-formed, to the vessel with pen. I mean, what do we know about how the universe works ? I saw a little snippet of a needle in a groove as the video to some old timey song...I mean, seriously...how can a needle running in circles on a piece of plastic result in music people made a thousand miles and 50 years ago ? And don't even get me started on how they fit people into televisions.
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Post by Equus on Sept 30, 2014 20:39:44 GMT
Either that or there really is an independent muse who delivers the poems, fully-formed, to the vessel with pen. I mean, what do we know about how the universe works ? I saw a little snippet of a needle in a groove as the video to some old timey song...I mean, seriously...how can a needle running in circles on a piece of plastic result in music people made a thousand miles and 50 years ago ? And don't even get me started on how they fit people into televisions. "Telephones are also a kind of people." - Danish cartoonist, Rune T. Kidde
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