Stupendous photo book – Lost London 1870-1945 by Philip Davies

Great book I spotted while searching in Chapters On Saturday. My sister treated me to it: $29.95.

 Lost London 1870-1945 by Philip Davies. English Heritage.

More than 500 spectacular unseen photographs of London, taken between 1875 and 1945, from the Archives of English Heritage. This unique archive shows Elizabethan, Georgian and Victorian London before the major 20th century redevolopment. Athoritative text by Philip Davies from English Heritage.

My plan is to select some of the photos and use thme as guides for some pencil and pen and ink drawings.Image…chilling to see so many buiildings lost to German bombing during WW II.

Great photos, fascinating historical information,  a real pleasure to carefully read.

Be warned this book weighs one ton even, heavy paper for exceptional print reproduction quality.

this link is to a video describing the book
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I_rsZ3bgdHM

 

a very old poem – In the Company

In the Company

 

The letter slot did its thing

and over Darjeeling Tea I read your letter.

 

His name is Joe,

and your daughter is Maude.

 

And everything’s fine.

Your hadnwriting hasn’t changed.

 

He plays golf, tennis, 

was a swimmer on the team in school,

that’s high and post secondary too.

 

The shine of it all comes through

like the polished steel water, sun

drilling the brain through the eyes.

 

He’s an accountant.

 

I’ve been driving a cab this winter,

getting a few parts in good shows that don’t run.

Writing the fourth draft of my novel,

wearing sweaters in the room,

eating soup,

just fine.

 

(December 1979)

this is one of my early attempts at narrative poetry

poem – Nothing To Do With Zen

Nothing to do with Zen

 

This poem has nothing to do with Richard Brautigan

After the rain fell for a year
I began to notice puddles were nothing new.
You told me I would begin to realize these things.
I was feeling the great ache. A new version.
Upgradable to wisdom for a price.
 
Pray for us now and all the hours
until we reach a safe place.
The cat knows what that is.
When did I lose my last molecule of patience.
The snow was trying to be rain
And failing against my windshield.
 
we use words
to dissect our experience,
put distance and padding and forgetfulness
between ourselves and the present. We know.
We spent time figuring out the past —
     the outcome tax calculation
                the night before the filing deadline.
Counting. The annual
comedy fest evolves curiously.
You know what I mean.
 
A gurgle and a giggle and the pushing rush of all that
turned inside out
like your sweater that you rushed
to pull off,
the miracle of that everyday magic trick.
Strong hands and patient eyes.

And when the sun goes out
like an old light bulb when you switch it and it says gone
in a joke without a punch line. .
You nod like an old soldier in the front
     of an old fire    in an old chair
and the kitten attacks the dancing
fire flickers   on the black tile     before the fireplace
       in a home you knew.

So many obstacles, none of them
    created by anyone else.
Must be elves, no
          and not escaped midgets from the circus.
All my work.
    It is only love.
It is only joy and another roll
through the car wash for souls.
I have a coupon for two.