text:
MICHAEL HOFMANN

# One Lark, One Horse

_Of course he was very witty and funny when he was happy, and loved to tell her Jewish jokes and stories; like the one about Goldberg and Cohen, who have delicatessen shops next to each other. Goldberg's shop (he recounted) is always packed, while Cohen's is empty; so finally Cohen asks his friend what on earth he is selling. 'Lark pâté,' Goldberg tells him._ 'Lark pâté?' _gasps Cohen. 'But how can you afford it?' 'I add a bit of horse,' Goldberg replies. 'How much?' 'One lark, one horse,' says Goldberg._

CAROL ANGIER, _The Double Bond:
Primo Levi – A Biography_

_Stop trying to be a poet. There's no time._

NAGUIB MAHFOUZ

# Contents

  1. Title Page
  2. Epigraph
  3. Lindsay Garbutt
  4.   5. The Years
  6. LV
  7. Daewoo
  8. Derrick
  9. Smethwick
  10. _Portrait d'une Femme_
  11. Stag Party, Tallinn, May
  12. Judith Wright Arts Centre
  13. Cricket
  14. Letter from Australia
  15. Old Mexico
  16. _Recuerdos de Bundaberg_
  17. see something say something
  18. Before she met me
  19. Cavafy: _Subrosa_
  20. Hudson Ride
  21. Baselitz & his Generation
  22. Fontane
  23. Sankt Georg
  24. Night
  25. F.S.
  26. Broken Nights
  27. For Adam
  28. Warszawa
  29. Dead Thing
  30. Valais
  31. November
  32. Gottfried Benn, _c_.1916
  33. Ostsee
  34. Auden
  35. In Western Mass.
  36. End of the Pier Show
  37. Poem
  38. Lisburn Road
  39. Motet
  40. Ebenböckstrasse
  41. Lake Isle
  42. Seagulls, Italian Style
  43. Venice Beach
  44. Midterms
  45. Higher Learning
  46. Less Truth
  47. Silly Season, 2015
  48. The Case for Brexit
  49. Coventry
  50. On Forgetting
  51. Cooking for One
  52. Idyll
  53.   54. _Acknowledgements and thanks_
  55. About the Author
  56. By the Same Author
  57. Copyright

#  ONE LARK, ONE HORSE

# Lindsay Garbutt

I'm past the age of reading, and well into the age of re-reading. I know, because I hated my father for it when he did it. And I don't re-read either. About eight months ago, I started buying reading glasses. I have three pairs, which I variously use and don't use. I've never had glasses before. I was the boy who saw the buffalo a mile away. A piece I wrote last summer about Brecht was my first with glasses. I avoid putting them on as much as possible, because they make the rest of the room disappear. Now I have another piece about Brecht to write. I'm an inefficient volcano. Half-remembered scraps of things come out of my head. I don't know what book I last read, except for purposes of reviewing or translating. 'Do you have that in a large type edition?' Admission: I read Leon Wieseltier's piece in the _New York Times_ about our virtualised post-human scientistic predicament. The Internet seems to have killed off pictures, writing and music at one fell swoop, which isn't bad going for one lousy money-spinning invention. I thought that was probably the best synoptic article I've read for ten years, or whenever the _Guardian_ had a piece about a nasty practice called 'astroturfing'. The world is so full of false accounting and conniving. All vampires and zombies, if you ask me. It gives one conniptions. I put on John Cale's _Paris 1919_ this morning, and sat there in floods of tears. That mixture of prettiness and geography and bottleneck guitar does me in. And Lowell George and Ritchie Hayward are dead. Nothing post-human there. And when I last saw John Cale he had pink hair and a goatee. I wonder what he was reading.

# The Years

Nothing required an account of me

And still I didn't give one.

I might have been a virtual casualty,

A late victim of the Millennium Bug.

No spontaneity, no insubordination,

Not even any spare capacity.

# LV

The luncheon voucher years

(the bus pass and digitised medical record

always in the inside pocket come later,

along with the constant orientation to the nearest hospital).

The years of 'sir' (long past 'mate', much less 'dearie'),

of invisibility, of woozy pacifism,

of the pre-emptive smile of the hard-of-hearing,

of stiff joints and the small pains

that will do me in. The ninth complement

of fresh – stale – cells, the Late Middle Years

(say, 1400 AD – on the geological calendar),

the years of the incalculable spreading middle,

the years of speculatively counting down

from an unknown terminus,

because the whole long stack –

shale, vertebrae, pancakes, platelets, plates –

won't balance anymore, and doesn't correspond anyway

to the thing behind the eyes that says 'I'

and feels uncertain, green and treble

and wants its kilt as it climbs up to the lectern to blush

and read 'thou didst not abhor the virgin's womb'.

The years of taking the stairs two at a time

(though not at weekends)

a bizarre debt to Dino Buzzatti's _Tartar Steppe_ ,

the years of a deliberate lightness of tread,

perceived as a nod to Franz Josef

thinking with his knees and rubber-tyred Viennese _Fiaker_.

The years when the dead are starting to stack up.

The years of incuriosity and _novarum rerum_

in _cupidissimus_ , the years of cheap acquisition

and irresponsible postponement, or cheap

postponement and irresponsible acquisition,

of listlessness, of miniaturism, of irascibility,

of being soft on myself, of being hard on myself,

and neither knowing nor especially caring which.

The years of re-reading (at arm's length).

The fiercely objected-to professional years,

the appalling indulgent years, the years of no challenge

and comfort zone and safely within my borders.

The years of no impressions and little memory.

The years of 'I would prefer not'

and 'leave me in the cabbage'.

The years of standing in elevators

under the elevator lights in the elevator mirror,

feeling and looking like leathered frizz,

an old cheese-topped dish under an infrared hotplate,

before they kindly took out the lights

and took out the mirror, and slipped in screens

for news, weather, and sponsors' handy messages.

The years of one over the thirst

and another one over the hunger, of insomnia

and sleeping in, of creases and pouches and heaviness

and the barber offering to trim my eyebrows.

The years of the unbeautiful corpse in preparation.

The years to choose: _sild_ , or _flamber_

...?

# Daewoo

Heavy, and now grizzled ( _pro tem_ ) and generally high coloured.

The voice light, tripping over itself, setting off at an angle

into the thickets of vocabulary. It's gone; let it go.

No one knows I stole (wonder how?) Alan Waugh's chewed voice

when I was seventeen. Piling out of the car,

my _Siebensachen_ on the tarmac, my rucksack upside down,

the small size of bulldog clips everywhere.

Forty years of chaotic exits, and now one more.

# Derrick

That rather sprawling

foursquare spelling. Always

in my mind half-

associated with the hirsute

14-year-old I saw

in the newspaper

who sued his local

education authority

to keep his beard,

out of a sort of medical

necessity. My neighbour

took up residence

next to this youth

in my head. Derrick.

Clean-shaven, Welsh,

heavyset, lugubrious,

his steel-grey hair

apparently parted

by a steel comb.

Tracksuit bottoms,

graphite racket, retired

from something or other,

maybe ex-army.

A plangent sonorousness.

If I have it right,

India. A grandfather

_in spe_ , then fact.

He was shy, I was shy.

At the height of things

he fed me clippings

from the _Telegraph_ ,

and we talked about

militaria (I was translating

Ernst Jünger –

though not in time for him).

Some village-y gene

had given him

the atavistic habit

of standing outside

his front door for hours

arms crossed,

surveying the scene.

Perhaps a swagger-stick

to take the parade.

He knew the street

as I didn't know him,

spent years setting plants

and persecuting graffiti

in a tiny doggy flowerbed

under the railway bridge,

played tennis

on the corporation courts,

kept an ear open

for the local scuttlebutt.

Like a hardy perennial

he stood there

under his wife's hollyhocks –

now both under the ground,

massive heart attack (he),

years of chemotherapy

at the Royal Free and Easy (she),

buried from St Dominic's

down the road,

the orphaned court,

the problematic flowerbed

improbably flowering,

the neighbours shuffling past

the hollyhocks (pink),

more local connections

than I'll ever have.

# Smethwick

'What changed? Same maisonette in West London,

the straight shot of Talbot Road, held onto in spite of everything –

one's original intended went away, someone else eventuated –

riding to work on the Tube like an Edwardian, same job, steady Eddie,

not "a new kind of tobacco at eleven", and "my love

returning on the four o'clock bus", more "cut out the ciggies"

and a new palliness. Hamlet for yonks, kicked upstairs,

Prospero under this bonkers management.'

#  _Portrait d'une Femme_

_The age demanded an image
Of its accelerated grimace _

EZRA POUND

You were energised by your epoch.

The difference between a harmless nut – John Doe, Jane Doe, plain Jane,

practically any mediocrity – standing on a beach

and the same harmless nut

riding a wave of (now) cultural self-righteousness

about to tube. A tsunami armed with thunderbolts.

Empowered – yea, packing.

You played everything to the sympathetic studio theatre

of your hearers, a chorus-cum-sounding-board.

They were your doo-wop boys and girls,

your clique and claque and Marshall stack. The church hall chairs scraped,

the cheap black crêpe backdrop rustled 'cutting edge' at you.

You paid attention to how they oohed and aahed for you,

and then pantomime hissed, and balled their fists and bayed for blood:

the half-lustful half-men betraying their half-gender

when they weren't speculating what you were like in bed,

the frightened girls who'd never seen anything like you

but thought it might be fun (after Goth) to be a Maenad,

the Pharisaic mothers going home to their chilly fires,

their dim, furtive, put-upon husbands and their neo-feral offspring

with a 'There but for the grace of God' on their bony lips.

And it was all you, the decisive impulse, the focus, the leadership;

why, there was the beef, right there with its bleeding foot in its mouth.

The venomous articulation with its trademark solecisms

(naive to wonder how anyone with a Cambridge degree in it

could hurt the language like you).

A sort of chronically over-emphatic sub-style of maimed English,

a testosterone debris of nursery babble, pop psychology, tabloid yelp and obscenity.

Strangers were helpless in its vortices,

lawyers needless to say loved it –

what they would have given (M'lud) to be able to solicit like that.

It was all as humdrum as graffiti, vivid and appalling

and unutterably humdrum, it was Mary Elizabeth

Bott in the William books going

'I'll thcweam and thcweam and _thcweam_.'

It's strange, you were ungainly, but you were never wrong.

You had the yessers and nodders and eggers-on

to take care of that. Ungainliness in this instance

happened to be the price of rightness.

You espoused ungainliness. Worshipped it.

Ungainliness was the new duty. The new beauty.

Disinhibition ruled. Wa-hey.

And so it somehow had to be. You did it for them.

You erupted out of Englishness and made an exhibition of yourself.

(Tiny _terremoto_ in Derby that I read about in Mexico, 2 point something on the Richter scale.)

Once it might have been said where you came from you forgot yourself,

but that style of rebuke went out of fashion. Anyway, you weren't into

forgetting yourself. You were into remembering yourself.

As you would have said, 24/7.

It would have been good to do smoulder like Anna Magnani

or have a wronged profile like Dante's, whoever the fuck Dante is.

But you couldn't hack that.

So you chucked glasses and went public.

Bridget Jones thuggee. Jordan _tragédienne_.

The English rose goes ape.

Deal or no deal.

You were good value at cocktail parties. For about five minutes.

Then you were a bore; and as the good book didn't say, the bores are always with us.

You would have loved a column like Margaret Cook. (Not a cooking column.)

Your mother was dead, your godmother was dead,

look what happened to them. (They died.)

Perhaps there was something you could do,

and so you stayed alive and humbly served the numpties.

# Stag Party, Tallinn, May

'Umlauts and double vowels. The pale stares of Estonians.

Sex workers. I wish they all could be. Marriage industry execs,

More like. Baltic brides. Clothes short, scant, tight and bright.

A predilection for things long buried in the ground.

An unusual proliferation of maimings and disfigurements.

Pathos in monumental sculpture. Lilac in the offing.

Polyethnic, also Cyrillic. Old Believers over the water.

British booze cruisers. There's nothing to touch breasts.'

# Judith Wright Arts Centre

My office! My office at the Judy! The Judy

at the head of Fortitude Valley – Happy Valley! –

the ex-tea and -coffee warehouse, but reformed, reformed!

The industrial brick carcass full of arty bees,

sphinx of a building couchant on the crest of the hill,

the infrared elevator mysteriously redolent of cloves,

restaurant smuggled into one corner, cafe in another,

and the whole dipped in chocolate and tile.

The walk along Brunswick Street to my office

up two hills and down two dales – why every town in Australia

has to have a street named for Hessian mercenaries

I don't know – past the absurdly good coffee shops

and the absurdly good ice cream parlours

and the absurdly good banks, the backpacker hostels,

the ethnic restaurants, the skin clinics

and fitness studios and chiropractors and nail bars.

A touch about it of DHSS and Camden Town,

a touch of Prenzlauer Berg, and then always a touch

of paddle-steamer, the tropical levity conferred

by the tracery balconies and louvres and pillarets,

the rusting roofs and riotous growth;

taking in the trees as they went red and blue

and the stumps of the succulents spurted buttercream,

and the whiff of mock-orange and jasmine and chips.

The bookshop no longer, and the cinema no longer

and the theatre a fishbar theatrically named The Codpiece

but still the surprisingly earnest and massive hotels,

intemperance hotels, and one music venue after another,

and all of them _Spelunken_ and grotto-dark,

and the endearing bars with their windows wound down,

and the customers staring out at the continuous _paseo_

of the young, the buxom, the drapey, the stringy:

the pre-owned and the pre-loved, the much-travelled

and the want-away, the ripped and the buff

and the sweatered and coated, the baby-dolled and the muscle-shirted

and the skirts pulled over trousers and leggings,

and the flipflops and biker boots, and tote bags and shoulder bags

strapped across the bosom. (And it was all one style,

and the name of that style was called Alternative, or maybe,

Consensual Alternative at the World's End.) The Judy.

The little nest – suite – of three or four subdivided rooms

– that plasterboard and aluminium arrangement

so relatively permanent in its provisionality –

the red daubed walls and purple foam sitcom furniture.

My office – hardly ever used in anger – though I did stuff

a thousand pages of _Alone in Berlin_ into a cake box for collection once,

and then surfed home down ten blocks of Brunswick Street,

out of the green sky of the short northern dusk.

_(Brisbane)_

# Cricket

Another one of those Pyrrhic experiences. Call it

an _expyrrh_ ience. A day at Lords, mostly rain,

one of those long-drawn-out draws so perplexing to Americans.

Nothing riding on the game, two mid-table counties

at the end of a disappointing season, no local rivalry or anything like that,

very few people there, the game itself going nowhere slowly

on its last morning. The deadest of dead rubbers.

Papa had his beer, but you two must have wondered what you'd done wrong.

Did I say it was raining, and the forecast was for more rain?

Riveting. A way, at best, for the English

to read their newspapers out of doors, and get vaguely shirty

or hot under the collar about something. The paper, maybe, or the rain.

Occasionally lifting their eyes to watch the groundsmen at their antics –

not just hope over experience but hope over certain knowledge.

It was like staying to watch your horse lose.

And yet there was some residual sense of good fortune to be there,

perhaps it was the fresh air or being safely out of range of conversation

or the infinitesimal prospect of infinitesimal entertainment.

One groundsman – the picador – mounted on a tractor,

others on foot, like an army of clowns, with buckets and besoms.

The tractor was towing a rope across the outfield to dry it –

we saw the water spray up, almost in slow motion –

as from newly cut hair. The old rope was so endearingly _vieux jeu_.

It approached a pile of sawdust – two failing styles of drying –

and one of the groundsmen put out his foot to casually flick it over,

as sporting a gesture as we expected to see all day

in terms of finesse, economy of movement, timing.

He missed, and instead the rope sliced right through the sawdust pile,

and flattened it. A malicious laugh, widely dispersed and yet unexpectedly hearty,

went up on all sides of the ground. Soft knocks that school a lifetime – no?

# Letter from Australia

_to Ralph Savarese_

The early worm gets the bird –

it's morning in Australia.

It's strange to be so bilious

so far away.

Little to do with Australia,

which so far as I can see

seems mostly delightful:

airy pastel buildings and trees I can't name.

There is some peculation

among the local pols,

mainly relegated to the business section:

a few million hectares rightly or wrongly grazed or mined.

The shilly-shallying of Costello (who has a book to sell-o),

the ill-mannered couple at the Iguana,

the chair-sniffer unluckily caught in the act,

a victim of his own special brand of gallantry.

Then there was the recent South Sea shindig

all in matching shirts and kilts,

except for poor Fiji, which

was sent to Coventry.

The local parliament yammers all day –

you can get used to the phantom

pinpricks of short 'i's in words

like beach, bush or bake –

and then the Beeb burbles all night

dreaming to itself in Queen.

And when we wake up,

the world is still spoiled

by the comical malfeasance

of its whilom last best hope,

the familiar American _galère_

fourteen hours abaft of us:

Cheney the sinisterly skewed orang-utan,

the worn charmlessness of Bush,

the clumping one-armed snowman McCain,

looking either to club or hug.

And now – the commentariat agog

at the promised mélange of snowsports and watersports –

Sarah P., the driller killer,

the uterine shooterine.

The 'real' routinely trumping 'politics'

– as if politics weren't real.

There are no more anchovies,

but there is still fishing and (apparently) Anchorage.

If you can have little Englanders,

can't you have little Americans,

half-awash with Washington's hormones,

half in rebellion against them.

The imprisoned balloons

in the false ceiling of the 'Palindome',

hang above the fat freed faces.

Cyclothymia in the USA.

My friend in the bonsai liberal exclave

in your biodiesel flyover state,

I can still register my first

Zolaesque frisson of horror

at the fried turnip smell of the cars

that ate not Paris, but whatever you called it –

I Oughta Went Around it.

There is no going around it.

# Old Mexico

They can't get enough of the indecent

toy skeletons _in copulo_ every which way,

the perpetual action heroes, the cast-off clothes

with writing on them, the _mufla_

and _vulcanizadora_ shops, the girls in bathtub jeans

from no label they ever heard of,

no film without Schwarzenegger or Willis,

wrought iron and tin mirrors, sad tenor crooners

over brass, _caja de ahorros_ (chamber of horrors),

_joyerias_ (brothels), the prettier the place

the uglier the music, the men growing more and more

like themselves, the women more and more like the men,

an orange balancing on an orange

balancing on an orange, no dry stick poking

out of the ground without a flower, and those

flagrant skeletons – like there's no tomorrow.

#  _Recuerdos de Bundaberg_

_for Chris Wallace-Crabbe_

_No, I don't remember Guildford_

ROBYN HITCHCOCK

Did I fly there? I may have flown there.

Maybe in something with the specifications of a crop-duster.

The Sugar Coast. Everything comes with a name. A name and a nickname.

The Soaked Coast. Bundy. Blue rustle of cane. Home to Rum City Wrecking.

[Farewell,] Bundaberg, Home of Bricks. Big Daddy's Pies. Hair Force One.

And the nature. Grass trees, wedding bushes, acid frogs, termite nests.

Beaded or bearded dragons. Together or separately, I don't remember.

I saw one, though, it was huge, in some undergrowth.

Harmless, probably, but ferociously ugly.

I left the workshop in the Rotary Club. I took the Bra Challenge,

or did not take the Bra Challenge. I headed down Bourbong Street.

Towards the Bennett or the Burnett (the sources are unclear).

One of those short catastrophic Australian rivers. The old bones of sugar refineries.

The pocked mud glistening with thousands of alert little mud-crabs.

The farmers came in to buy dry goods and do their banking and get soaked.

The mercantile brick paving, awnings, shade and a gentle breeze.

Horace would have appreciated it. _Amoenus_ , I can hear him saying.

The twentieth century, the Wild East.

I occupied an array of public benches. Hours went by.

Chinese tourists mooched disconsolately down the pavements. _Sol_ or _sombra_ , to taste.

The Mediterranean social life of lorikeets. The inverted magpies.

The Golden Basket, the Golden Casket, the Golden Gasket.

Three for the price of four.

Bundaberg. Somewhere I'd no reason to be.

Anywheresville, as in miles from.

No dot on a marconigraph, semicolon, on no radar a single ping.

Or if there was, then just a ping singing to itself.

# see something say something

every transparent man his own bar-

code his own passwords account

activity iris scan fingerprints

tribal/ maiden name payment

history gold/ silver/ platinum/

lead cards ID (non-drivers incl.)

mobile number(s) email

addresses medical records

organ donor card insurance

allergies next of kin pets

police record age next birth-

day employer's letter tax

number implants joint re-

placements cranial plate

pacemaker social network

aliases chatrooms mother's

birthday and middle initial

welcome on board unusual

activity prior religious affili-

ation GSOH soul patch smell

# Before she met me

_after Ovid_

There was the narcoleptic giant,

the absentee clothes horse,

the petrified virgin and the flaky sadist.

Then she met me.

# Cavafy: _Subrosa_

Both of us disposable/so disposed/at each other's disposal,

so put me away, have me ejaculate against your hip

as part of some exhaustive totalising method,

leave the children with someone

('make the necessary arrangements'),

park around the corner at some ungodly hour twenty years ago,

give the barest touch on the doorbell, hush, and tiptoe down

to the blue daybed with your hair electric from the cold.

# Hudson Ride

_ich weiss nicht, was soll es bedeuten_

HEINRICH HEINE

Red and yellow bittersweet; Poughkeepsie;

the ice jags are silver, rush spikes gold

in the blue December. A big old eagle,

white head, white feet, perches on a tree

like a postage stamp or a glorified house cat.

Socks _in excelsis_. – God, what is it with separation?

A soft freeze. The woods are rusty stone, henna fuzz ravines,

snow slicks. Ice blinds and dries. Dazzles and steams.

Swans outside Croton. I sit in the train,

at the very back of the last car,

rueing every mile. Some sort of folly and exhilaration.

A caffeinated feeling of being all heart.

'Shouldn't I ask to hold to you forever'. I rather think I did ask.

They thought it was the New Rhine, here, or wanted to.

Rhinebeck. Germantown. Dutchess County.

My girl, someone's girl, her own girl. Perhaps

the only other time in my life I've opposed the machinery

and scale of the world. My personal insurrection.

_Auflehnung_. A leaning up against – say, and by preference,

you in your kitchenette and sweater among the hi-hats

and bolt-cutters and beheaded pin sculptures.

Now here come the hard options: the cracked old Nabisco plant,

West Point, Indian Point, Ossining, Rockland Psych.,

_Drachenfels. Bacharach. Loreley. Loreley. Loreley_.

# Baselitz & his Generation

_for Hai-Dang Phan_

_I have no doubt where they will go. They walk the one life offered from the many chosen._

ROBERT LOWELL

_They are all also, it should be remembered, West German artists, with the partial exception of Penck, and are all male._

JOHN-PAUL STONARD

He was born in the countryside / the provinces / the blameless sticks

in ( _false_ ) Waltersdorf ( _recte_ ) Dresden

in what is now Czechoslovakia / the Czech Republic ( _laughs_ ) / Czechia,

if it ever catches on

what's it to you.

Stripped of his East German citizenship, he fled

on foot with a handful of pop music cassettes

in a pantechnicon _mit Kind und Kegel_

in pandemonium

_nach vorne_

cool as you like, in an S-Bahn from the Russian Sector, in the clothes he stood up in.

Germany (thus Goethe's friend Mme de Staël) is the land of poets and thinkers

_der Dichter und Denker_

or of judges and executioners

_der Richter und Henker_

or of Richter and Penck.

He drew innocent geometrical shapes

boxed shirts / boxer shorts / boxy suits

men without women

hairy heroes of the Thirty Years' War / lansquenets / strangely fibrous figures a bit like those _New Yorker_ caveman cartoons

empty Renaissance helmets / mostly US fighter jets

the suicides of Stammheim.

He took the name of an American boxing promoter

a German Ice Age geologist

the village of his birth

the one he was given.

His first work to really catch on / be banned / get him in trouble / cause widespread revulsion was _Onkel Rudi_

_Die grosse Nacht im Eimer_

_Höhere Wesen befahlen: rechte obere Ecke schwarz malen! / oyez, oyez,_

_oyez_ , Politburo decree: upper right hand corner in ebony!

_ohne Titel_

a mural in the cafeteria of the Hygiene

Museum, since painted over.

He wound up in Düsseldorf

Berlin, _doh!_

_la bella Italia_

tax-exempt Ireland of Böll- and Beuys-full memory, where the earth-apples bloom.

His paintings were fuzzy geometry

like the country, ripped across the middle

upside down (especially effective: the trees)

shovelled out of the window

later withdrawn.

His favoured technique involved stick figures

Polke-dots

out of focus _grisaille_ photographs

scribbling on his pictures

woodcuts à la Dürer.

The numerals on his graphics represent a recent shopping bill

an attempt to disconcert the onlooker/ _Ostranenie_

amortisation

barcode

some other code

_Durchnummerierung_.

He studied with Joseph Beuys

the least doctrinaire painter he could find

for the best part of ten years, in East and

West, so that everything cancelled itself out

what's it to you

he didn't.

# Fontane

_for Jan Wagner_

Acacias. Acacias and rain make May here, the way

lindens and rain make July. Layers of complication and sorrow,

which precipitate as opinion. Brusque. Off-kilter. Uncalled-for.

A long and hopelessly trammelled backstory. Midnight.

The biggest brick church in the whole of Brandenburg.

Two burly men head off into the park with their impossibly tiny dog.

# Sankt Georg

Sankt Georg, what was it, questionable, doubtful, shady, twilit,

a something area, something Jan said, and he was born in Hamburg,

and went to school here, so he would know.

A little isthmus between the Alster with its freshwater sailors

and the railway station, always a reliable drag on things anywhere in Europe

(the transients, the drugs, the pre-set collisions between the foolish young

and the unscrupulous old), though this one piped classical music – not any more –

to the forecourt, where taxi drivers got out

and walked their Mercs around in neutral

because they were hours without a fare and were saving diesel,

(which was all very well in summer),

and the immediate, somehow always slightly grubby or compromised view

of three theatres, two museums and le Carré's bunker hotel,

but, hey, it was classy while it lasted,

and you could get to Milan or Moscow if you had to.

Then the _Polizeibezirk_ of underage _Puppenstrich_ about the time

B. came here from the country,

still often the only girl not on the game, among whores

and winos and people 'with an immigration background'

looking grim and wearing sub fusc and doing the messages, as we once said. Then gays –

is there a pink euro, like a pink pound, and the Pink Pistols and Grey Wolves? –

intrepid advance guard of gentrification.

So up the rents, send in the heavies, firebomb the buildings, locals out,

make improvements, and up the rents again, same everywhere.

A natty pellucid pissoir in the Hanser Platz that it would take Paris to pull off,

drunks round the monument ('reel around the fountain'), hardy trees and hardier women,

little roosters, little rosters in the apartment block for cleaning the common parts,

little brass squares set in the ground for individual fascist outrages,

with the victims' names, the massy church at the end of the street –

St George's, the AIDS church, the rainbow flag,

the fire-breathing community paper called the _Dragon_.

Sudden sad flurries of flowers, the curt pairs of dates,

a grown-out bleached person with one leg.

The main drag changed utterly,

meaning as usual stylistic _diktat_ from elsewhere

and the birth of an interchangeably frippish hideousness. Three hat shops,

an empty tea bar (tax write-off? money laundry?) boasting sixteen varieties of macaroons,

endless places to stop (if you even wanted to stop) on the narrow pavement

between the heedless cars and the nosy passers-by,

expensive ready-cooked food shops with names like _Mom's_ , gone

the hardware store that stocked everything and was staffed by people

who advised you where to find it for even less, out of business,

or moved away to less promising parts.

The photo shops, the record store, bookshop. All gone.

And behind that, the Steindamm, our belly and balls,

twinned with Kabul, or Mombasa, or Abuja.

Telephone shops if you wanted to call anywhere with a red, green and black flag

(launch pad of Ali Aĝca and his crew of martyrs), casinos,

thorny or hairy vegetables, fetish stores, Alphonso mangoes from Pakistan,

video brothels, limitless mint and parsley and cilantro, hourly hotels,

cracked olives and fresh cheese, old girls with three words of German, newly baked flatbread.

The birds strike up between three and four (it's the Northern light),

while at lit intersections they never stop.

Twilit, doubtful, shady, questionable. Something.

# Night

It's all right

Unless you're either lonely or under attack.

That strange effortful

Repositioning of yourself. Laundry, shopping,

Hours, the telephone – unless misinformed –

Only ever ringing for you, if it ever does.

The night – yours to decide,

Among drink, or books, or lying there

On your back, or curled up.

An embarrassment of poverty.

# F.S.

In bed

with Fred;

hugger-mugger

with _Ooga-Booga_.

# Broken Nights

_for Bill and Mary Gass_

_Then morning comes,_

_Saying, 'This was a night.'_

ROBERT LOWELL

Broken knights.

– No, not like that.

Well, no matter.

Something agreeably

Tennysonian (is there

Any other kind?)

About 'broken knights'.

Sir Bors and Sir Bedivere.

In my one-piece pyjamas –

My it-doesn't-matter suit,

With necessarily non-matching

– Matchless, makeless, _makeles_ –

Added top, I pad

Downstairs to look

At the green time

On the digital microwave.

My watch, you must know,

Died on my watch

All at the top, at midnight,

After a few

Anguished weeks of macro-

biotic stakhanovite

5-second ticks,

And I haven't had

Time, it seems,

To get it repaired.

Further (weewee hours),

To patronise

My #2 bathroom _en bas_

(Though N.B.

Only for a pee).

Groping for a piss,

As the poet saith.

Wondering how soon

It might be safe

To turn on the wireless,

Without it being either

New Age

Help you through the night

Seducer mellotrons

(What's a tron, mellow I can do?)

Or merely

Dependency inducing

And _wehrzersetzend_ ,

Deleterious for morale of the troops.

I eat to the beat,

Then snooze to the news.

Drift off to _Morning Edition_.

Arise/ Decline, Sir

Baa Bedwards.

# For Adam

In that aftertime

I wasn't writing. I never wrote,

I didn't know what the aftertime was for.

I felt little, collected nothing.

I talked to myself, but it was boring.

# Warszawa

Chipping at frozen puddles.

Magpies and varieties of crow.

The halt and the blind.

All day in the bakery.

The rise of the muffin.

_Res sacra miser_.

The sacred business of pity.

Ministries. Hotspots.

The Chinese Embassy.

Raw sienna and burnt umber.

Brick and stucco.

Strawberry and vanilla.

Lean and fat, roof and wall.

Statues with swords.

Statues with lances and canes.

Profligates, ascetics, martyrs.

_Stomatologia_ to _apteka_ and back.

Lourdes next 7 exits.

# Dead Thing

A dead thing floated downriver in Tartu.

At first I thought it was wood,

A rotting bole, some vestigial sharpness and strength.

An upside-down coffee table, with claws,

Imperturbable. Inflated, like a flotation device.

A head end and a tail end, but a

Certain amount of discretion, like a tortoise.

But dead. Under the willows a carcass.

Purposefully downstream, like a blond in the twenties.

Mahogany dead.

Laced football dead.

Brylcreem and sideburns dead.

Dead and gone.

# Valais

A working river, a working valley,

The grey-green Rhône

Lined with workings, heaps of dust, gravel, cement

And log-jams waiting for transport,

Like the island exporting itself to its neighbours one barge at a time.

The river, the road, and the railway,

A plait, a tangle, a place of through.

The river not navigable, the boggy valley floor not walkable,

The locals came down from the mountains a little way

To site castles on moraine and regulate trade.

Hannibal marched his elephants through here, dynamited rocks with vinegar.

Poplars were planted _en passant_ by Napoleon's _Grande Armée_

Two-hundred-some years ago.

Goethe came to visit.

The shade endures.

Rilke was reminded of Spain.

He lived among apricots at Muzot,

Just the other side of the language barrier,

And fixed to be buried with a view of France.

No one knows who I am, were his dying words.

Smells of hay and dung, the murmurs of subtle conversation.

Next door are tax-efficient sheep.

The underground chicken palace like CERN

Or a discreet gun-emplacement.

The lights come on when we appear, and go off after we're gone.

Larchwood and rye-bread, chocolate and slate,

Dried beef and stone

All one striated substance,

The staff of life breaking explosively, crumblingly,

If it breaks at all

A stash of daunting verticals,

A washing machine delivered by helicopter

Winched down into the Renaissance casbah.

Time was, a man had to carry his donkey across his shoulders up a cliff,

Now everything is tunnel fodder.

Electricity and water come piped through the mountains,

The vineyards get a sousing under great rainbow arcs,

Who wouldn't want to die in a thirteenth-century tower

With light sensors and cold running water

Off the hills and a chill in the sunny air of the contemporary archaic.

# November

_for Jamie Buchan_

_Eine Krähe hackt der anderen [nicht] die Augen aus._

GERMAN PROVERB(S)

Crows on oaks and cranes and cooling towers,

the sky cracking up, and crows investigating

the cream of whatever crust cracks yellow, milling

early birds, Styrofoam beaker of coffee,

refill, refill, and a spot of red-eye gravy.

_(leaving Bonn)_

# Gottfried Benn, _c_.1916

I'd rather speak it than write it, rather mutter it than speak it

(disobliging spiffy mutter that no one would understand)

how a man – the thing stiffened; the rogue state

familiarly engorged, bristling, crystalline; Myrmidon formation,

Schlieffen plan; Prussia the North Korea of the age,

four wars in fifty years, colonies in the Pacific everywhere not nailed down in 1880 –

and our man, himself to himself, the run of eleven rooms,

potters, if he cares to (not even _Uniformpflicht_ ), in pyjamas and cardigan

neither coward nor conchie, not stricken with disorder, disaffection, good fortune

or even medicine (medicine his sicknote), just immeasurable distance,

distance and _froideur_ , an antipathy to concerted action and human history

beyond the dreams of Keaton or Trakl or Archimedes or Schwejk,

smokes and thinks and writes ( _béguinage_ , he calls it)

in his personal monastery behind the lines in plucky little Belgium.

# Ostsee

– The water deepens to iodine from brown.

What is there to wait for? The gulls to get bored

of their bouncy slick offshore. The sun to break through the qwerty clouds.

The entire coast to make more hagstones, amber, jellyfish.

The sand martins to file themselves away in their cliffside tenements.

Or the cropped blonde to come back along the beach

with her mystery rucksack and impenetrable wrap-arounds,

her superbly articulated deltoids under the black wife-beater

– to iodine from brown.

# Auden

_but you would see faces that were worth a second look_

GOTTFRIED BENN

It was another world, the world of turned collars and polished shoes,

Hairbrushes once a week laid face-down in what I thought was a specific

But was only a weak solution of shampoo in lukewarm water,

Jerseys were roughed up with a kind of knuckleduster of Sellotape,

Suitcases wore characterful labels and tags on their heavy, leather-effect cardboard

Who can imagine such a world not of cares, but of care,

Once we set ourselves to become unpressed, casualised, short-run, drip-dry,

Encased in thinking synthetics or flash suits, the human fiddler crab and his device

Emerging together from nail bars and tanning studios and whitening salons

Like so many gigolos, soccer managers, politicians or molls,

Wearing our fewer, simpler, less restrictive garments more shabbily or dressily,

Having our manicures, our teeth whitened, our hair and beards repurposed

Every other day, owning either fewer things or they were let go to seed,

So intent on our personal grooming, we neglected _im_ personal grooming,

The care extended beyond ourselves, the aura of solicitude surrounding our appurtenances,

The world of facecloths and napkin-rings and coal-scuttles

And coir hall-carpets and brass stair-rods and milk-jugs and powdered mustard

And shoe-trees and tie-racks and plumped down pillows and cufflinks and weskits and hats

And hardbound children's books for our hardbound children

And malt vinegar and baking-soda to take off the worst of the dirt,

How careless, cheap and profligate we have become,

We have stopped shaving against the grain and in cold water,

We didn't eat or drink in the street in those days, flawed and freckled

An apple was taken for what it was, an undistinguished thing and a privilege,

Not chemistry at the top of its game, ester baby, breathing perfume and yet found fault with.

# In Western Mass.

What do I remember of those strange episodic parts of my life.

What they nowadays call outliers. Someone put them in brackets.

(Who put them in brackets? I wanted them to go on.)

A dwindling fall, pumpkins, marriage, winter.

The Pioneer Valley. The roaring American convection heating.

The fluff off our flannel sheets getting everywhere.

You wrote something about the number of windows.

Was it a lot? You seemed to think it was a lot.

Once, an owl huddled there, pecked at by small birds.

It was daytime and just beginning to snow. Such a picture of misery.

Me in my blue shirt, and James's tie. A frog

hopped over my boot. It seemed like luck. Then the threshold.

I don't remember kitchen, entertainment centre, bathroom –

just those cream flannel sheets rubbed and blown to lint.

The hereditary medievalist downstairs proclaiming: I have seniority in the car park.

The clever, clueless voice in workshop, hazarding: is it the voice of coffee.

The black tremulous Jules Feiffer chenille dress you married in. Ah, me.

# End of the Pier Show

It was – what? –

the triumph of hope

over experience.

But what triumph

(and what hope)?

The continued display

of a kind of unreasonable

fortitude, the man –

Beowulf – stooping

to pick his severed head

off the sawdust, and doing it

again and again.

And she, the woman,

sold, to her mind,

on love

as a kind of motor syrup –

a green linctus –

that was slowly replacing

her blood.

Perhaps lycanthropy.

A pessimistic sublime.

They had made

their bed and they

were jolly well

going to lie in it.

The woman's persistent

complaint that

it wasn't a life,

the man shrugging,

going away, battening down,

daring her to do worse,

if not her worst.

Siege conditions.

And she bringing out

in him strange abysms

of new behaviour.

Everything went

so peculiarly,

spectacularly skewed.

They were fascinated

by what they seemed

to have contained.

Unspoolings of truths.

Such dire sayings

of hers. Such vehemence

out of his mouth.

Just as well really

his doggish gloom

met her prickliness

halfway.

Attritional chafe,

chafe, bridle

and chafe, and, periodically,

a grin and tears.

Her good will

expressed itself

in a strange persistence

of affection that he

not unreasonably supposed

would last forever.

(It wasn't to do with him,

was it?)

When it stopped,

he didn't believe it.

He didn't know what to do.

He went hunting around

for the trip switch

that had made this darkness,

this withdrawal.

(Alas, he was never much

of an electrician.)

What happened

to their lovely

puppet theatre,

their grand knockabout?

# Poem

When all's said and done, there's still

the joyful turning towards you

that feels like the oldest, warmest, and quite possibly

best thing in me that I must stifle,

almost as if you were dead,

or I.

# Lisburn Road

_Ah, if one could at least live like that, not at odds with things_

GEORGE SEFERIS

A few yards of vinyl records, well-thumbed,

Under the cistern that sometimes overflows over the front door in London,

The drips giving visitors Legionnaire's disease. Books in four countries,

The same books. No turntable. None of this is a boast.

Boots, sweaters, jeans, from pre-designer days.

Papers, birth certificate, dead passports, their corners docked,

My degree, my decree.

Unopened letters from my mother.

Three sets of taxes, old boarding passes,

Coins, bundled stationery envelopes that are stuck down or won't stick.

The whatever world of passwords, streaming and clouds –

Oh, streams and clouds by.

A trunk holding a suitcase holding a holdall,

The travel equivalent of the turducken,

Motheaten to buggery.

Children's clothes, Oshkosh, never worn.

Two paintings by a man called Smith, American in Paris, or Brit in New York,

One by 'Puck' Dachinger, a black canted nude in a pink camisole,

With a stove in the corner, scratched with the back of the brush:

Ravings from internment on the Isle of Man.

Blood on one of the doors, peach on one of the walls (don't ask).

Two plastic bottles of yellowing _samogon_ mezcal

From Mexico, sealed with extra twists of plastic.

Imagine travelling with liquids.

Afghan rugs. A reamer, a garlic press.

A funny cup. The _Porky Prime Cut_ greetings etched in the lead-off grooves,

When not only did you listen to records,

You held them up to the light and read them.

# Motet

It's naphtha now you're gone

a sudden apprehension of squalor

the unflowering cardamom plant

gummy with syrup and flies

sour footsmell in the rumpled quilt

a wilted squadron of paper airplanes

ready to take me after you.

# Ebenböckstrasse

_for my mother_

A plaster – piece of sticking plaster – on the wall

Where the doorknob of the cold-water bathroom door might hit.

Has hit. A bruise in the other kind of plaster, a dent.

Mend and make do. Guest bathroom, if you will.

It never gets any better; just an embarrassing display of solicitude.

A naked concern with wear, like mylar or antimacassar.

The basin still too small for one hand to wash the other.

A crust of soap. No one's died, at least not recently.

One playpen in the living room, penal, receiving.

Obsolescent photographs of grandchildren.

Small sticky fingerprints. An actual cobweb in my cobwebby hair.

Knick-knacks no one understands trembling for their lives.

# Lake Isle

Get me a place on Danube Street, I want to live

on Danube Street, or if not there, then Ann would do almost as well,

between the padlocked private gardens (no dogs no ball games)

and the barranca, the sanction and the delimited amenity.

Mindless wood pigeons bleat like unanswered telephones.

Nothing so douce as sandstone in a granite town,

a town monstered by gulls and sunspots and unkempt dogs,

softened in any case from when I lived here fifty years ago,

when, taking my life in my hands,

I walked to school to save a few shillings bus fare,

beside a Styrofoam stream past drinks cans and jobbies and the occasional

murdered foreign student, but not too many.

Where the walls are scarred with YMD (for Young Mental Drylaw),

and the streets on Fridays are blustery with witty drunks,

and beautiful grant-maintained schoolgirls

tuck into beastly food with savage appetites.

I want to have wooden shutters and specimen plants,

Georgian casements (the only artefact I'd countenance from two millennia),

and ten fine days a year, fossicking at home in a cardigan

while my fellow-professionals are all at work.

I want to take my place as a nationally – make that notionally –

known professor, among investment advisers and plastic surgeons,

where there are always builders making improvements or repairs,

and the cobbles play merry hell with the bottles on the milk floats.

# Seagulls, Italian Style

[where engineering meets design] their creams and tans

a conscious colour statement, a finer, flashier glide,

a bigger entrance and a bigger entrancement,

volplaning wardrobes always newly back from the cleaners,

neither 'scroungers of the empyrean' nor 'nibblers of edible stars'

their minds on higher things (or lower things),

cashmere sleeves dangle-draped over their shoulders,

annulments in their man bags, foulard, eyewear, metal bangles.

# Venice Beach

_... reducing all that's made
to a green thought in a green shade_

ANDREW MARVELL

These are all thoughts – of course. At the edge of the ocean with nowhere to go,

the nearest land three thousand miles away and under different management,

the diving sun another thirty thousand times that, there is no reality,

only these parlous notions, messages, statements, stylings on the edge of extinction.

Little petillas. A kind of spontaneous zoo of human recency and arrival

and promontory variorum. Imprudent combover thoughts,

rigid and proud eye-catching false thoughts, little jiggling thoughts,

intricate braided beard thoughts the product of much misplaced patience,

product placement thoughts (which are rather elementary,

and are almost a contradiction in terms), unlike myriad highly evolved

dog thoughts (no mutts here), pushing a baby in a three-wheeled stroller

whilst running very hard in no shirt and sixpack thoughts,

this a development on the now-obsolete egg and paddle

(what it does to the infant to be impelled at such a rate into the future

whilst facing backwards like an Aeroflot passenger is not recorded –

not that forward is necessarily better), high-concept silky-swishing Afghan hound thoughts,

intrusive bum thoughts, hapless and homeless pan-handler thoughts

(a _smarte carte_ loaded with undesirables never far to seek),

low-slung belly-dragging beagle thoughts little better

than the serpent in the Bible, holding hands Adam and Eve thoughts,

foot-shuffling Zimmer frame thoughts, 'revolution in mobility' wheelchair and gravel thoughts,

pushed by most likely an illegal attendant borderline thoughts,

candy striped T-shirt and shorts thoughts, cut-off thoughts,

paired with sometimes nothing more than a bikini top, those three-quarter length

thin and probably amphibious trousers, worn without socks, that men go in for,

suggestive of adaptability and resourcefulness thoughts,

standard overloud mobile thoughts, ('our relationship is...'),

lying immobile on the grass on your back mobile thoughts

(these are different), tourist thoughts, an unexpected preponderance of Russian thoughts

(though with residential qualifications), borscht belt leopardskin thoughts

dripping with gold and eccentric lamentations, dog and baby both thoughts

(these last thought to be ideally-balanced), high-stepping poodle thoughts

like a four-wheel drive with little intelligence in rough country,

furiously texting in the glare with all thumbs to the pump thoughts,

being at least half elsewhere, baseball cap thoughts rife with determination,

slightly dated straw hat thoughts, reverse baseball cap also thoughts.

# Midterms

Those no-treads. Scott and Tom and Scott Scott and Tom Tom,

wealth-creator or small billionaire or lawyer or even, even woman,

groomed for the succession from yea-high, or there on sudden impulse

or empanelled cosmeticists' and focus groups' say-so,

committed to working (or porking) across the aisle, 'humbled'

(read insufferably puffed-up) to 'serve' ( _recte_ rob and enfeeble

and generally mal-administer) his/ her flyover state (its name here____________):

the great, the great, the greatest the world has never seen

in – uh – the entire history of the world.

# Higher Learning

_for Sarah Trudgeon and Aaron Thier_

'We monetise the university.

Raid the pension-fund, lease out the classrooms, put coin-slots on the phones and copy-machines,

and we throw money at the football team, the basketball team, the track team, all the other teams.

Sport deepens the Crocodile brand. Sport kicks communities and builds ass. You can shove the rest.

We casualise the support staff. Who's scared of a few roaches and spiders.

We empty the bins once a week, then once a month. Are we serious about paperless learning or not?

We stop the water fountains. Don't replace bulbs, call it green, and save thousands.

To think big, you've got to dare to think small.

We pause the elevators, let the profs find their own way downstairs

by the light of their towering intellects – or, more likely, their smartphones.

Bunch of limey faggots. Underpaid, undersexed and underwear.

Or, as I believe they like to say over there, 'pants'.

We get some proper K Street chops into our fundraising effort.

Personalised databases. Twitterfeeds. Birthday messages. Con-dolences and -gratulations.

A little complimentary merchandise goes a long way. Pre-formatted wills.

Candlelight giggle-o dinner-dates with Old Croquettes.

We hike the fees and we re-prioritise.

It's what you do in a race to the bottom.

We lay on handmaidens and academic tutors and personal chefs for our MVPs –

everything, and the great lunks still pass out at traffic lights.

We do a heavy concentration on STEM subjects,

plus microbiology, medicine, law, and one other.

Entrepreneur.

The rest can go wither. What are we here for – educating citizens?!

We free up tenure. We de-accession the library.

You don't need books to cut-and-paste, I always say.

We boost distance learning. Streaming lectures. Log on and goof off.

Overspill classes. Computer grading. Multiple choice.

Redefine the contact hour. Redefine the degree.

Virtuality is the new reality.

We put in a Gap and a Walmart, and call them bookshops.

We sell Pepsi one university-wide monopoly franchise in perpetuity, and TacoBell another.

and in general we take a leaf out of the contemporary airport:

a shopping centre with half a runway attached.

We award our sports coaches _ius primae noctis_ (for wins only),

plus 40,000 square foot pasteboard-and-marble mansions on prime lakeside real estate,

with green lights at the end of their private piers.

Throw in a motorboat and some stables, or else we're uncompetitive.

We put up a new building a week – prospective parents

like to see that stuff – and we sell on the naming rights to the old ones.

They plough up cemeteries, don't they?

Nothing's forever. Go Crocks.'

# Less Truth

_kneedeep in foaming status quo_

HANS MAGNUS ENZENSBERGER

more denials, more prevarication, more #real

hashtags and pop-ups and calculating interesticles, more clickbait,

more straight-faced, bare-faced, faceless, baseless

counter-allegations, more red herrings, crossed fingers,

rehearsed answers, turned tables, impossibilities

before breakfast, more 'accepting responsibility', less truth.

Lusher menus. Bigger bonuses. Less contrition. More shamelessness.

Less truth.

# Silly Season, 2015

Money is speech. Firms have feelings. The People's Republic of Facebook

is offended by that woman's pseudonym,

takes a copy of her passport to have her account made out to her real identity.

Your bank card is good for drawing cash, but

not for a balance or a statement. The Greeks, meanwhile,

revert to barter. One wolf cries 'terrorist!'

and sheep come from miles around to applaud a (Kurdish) boy being savaged.

(It's called NATO.) A list of NSA search terms

is so confidential, it can be shown to one person, if that.

Beate Zschäpe, on trial for the past two years for her part

in the racial murder of ten people, shares giggles

with her latest defence lawyer (28), cold shoulders

the other three. The accused bench is like a box at the opera,

there she is, popping a cachou into the new boy's mouth, cynosure, flash of cleavage.

Wagner directs Wagner. Disparities widen; 'scissors' is the German term of art.

Cities fill up/ empty out (your choice) with 'buy to leave' property.

Countries not busily pursuing their dissolution (UK, Belgium) harden themselves.

Walls go up against Serbia, Mexico, Palestine. A large body of water is of course (Australia) ideal.

Donald Trump pioneers the quick-drying comb-under.

The Republicans come up this time with (digit sum: seven) sixteen dwarves.

Never mind the quality, feel the narrowness.

The weather breaks records every which way; traffic reports –

miles of _Stau_ – go on forever. Railways lose money hand over fist, but continue

their policy of neurotically expressive pricing (no two journeys the same).

The Chinese stock exchange gets all kittenish at a cost of trillions.

America is good for an atrocity a week ('gun violence'), and doesn't get it.

Brazenness or apology: a style choice. Putin is a figure from Artaud or Genet;

'Sepp' Blatter wins and postdates his flounce out of FIFA; 'el Chapo'

burrows out of a high-security Mexican prison on a rail-mounted motorbike.

Lame-duck Obama goes to Africa to preach the virtues of term limits.

Human rights lawyers disappear like old snow or coral reefs or old-growth forests.

Most constitutional arrangements are subject to review,

most trade is with China. Nothing trumps (trumps!) immediate gratification.

Governments continue to attempt to refine their populations.

The new instrument of domestic policy is the F-16,

used by Syria, and now, three years later, by Turkey as well.

Saudi Arabia apes the US; a 'loose' alliance 'of the willing' bombs Yemen every day for months.

Whole families up sticks and emigrate to ISIS, if they can find it, or failing that ISIL.

Religions have feelings. Cartoons aren't funny. Speech costs.

# The Case for Brexit

_for Frederick Seidel_

I dropped my new shoes in the stream, thinking perhaps

They would get there before me, like two drowned Jews

Trundling along the seabed to Jerusalem. My immigrant parents lost patience and thrashed me.

The best thing that ever happened to me was on the boat.

I've no idea what it was. Then Tilbury. Or Harwich. Or Southampton.

I got eggshells crushed with lemon juice for the calcium and its better absorption.

I got buttered bread with a little bitter chocolate grated over it.

I got glabrous soured milk with cinnamon and sugar.

I got kohlrabi and celeriac and other non-existent vegetables,

Like so many chimaeras and hippogriffs.

I got _Kinderkaffee_ from malted barley, and _Katarzynki_ from Mr Continental, but only on Thursdays.

I got vermillion worm medicine, with bitter lemon

That didn't begin to take away the colour or the taste.

The four of us round the table. We all had to do it. It was like a suicide pact.

It was the winter of '63, the Plath winter. I barked for months.

I juggle the numbers, the way I sang my times tables

On the swing. (They are all I have in the world.) The sevens, the nines.

They mostly begin with the scalene 19—. I swing them around, sling them and swing them.

Lennon and Kennedy and punk and the Wall and the moon.

Big numbers, jagged numbers, like someone with very heavy weights.

I invented sepia. Sepia came for me. Something discoloured

Behind me, in my past, like a hobbled Clovis ad. Our charlady smelled so terrible,

My father smoked a pipe ('Fair Play') after she was gone. My young mother still giggled.

She and my father played badminton on the street at night.

You could read the _Times_ past eleven. (You could read the _Times_.)

School uniforms, playground fights. Goalposts. Polar ghosts. British bulldogs.

I should have liked to be called Roger or Arthur. The bully Brian Lorry pummelled and pummelled.

All Trutex or Aertex. Caps. Striped ties and the striped elastic belt with the snake mouth hook.

Melrose, RHS, Loretto, George Watson's, Boys' _and_ Girls' – all mauled us.

I was at bat for days without scoring a run.

Practically everything was a shibboleth. Harwich was a trick.

Berwick was a trick. Worcester was a trick. Geoffrey was a trick. I didn't know Sundays were no-go.

My home German was compared to a serendipitous knowledge of Welsh;

I knew better: it was less. My only friend, McVicar, had a Greek mother. Maybe Clytemnestra.

They moved further North, so that he could be with Prince Charles.

# Coventry

Two of us in the chandeliered room, the only ones

not speaking to anyone. Me and a man twice my age,

which unfortunately puts him at a hundred and twelve.

He might be Ernst Jünger's older brother, a frazzled cherub with a war wound.

He has worked out that, if you are to be alone,

then like a suicide bomber in the middle of a cluster of people.

Sweeps of radar. A turning circle of sorts. Ultra-approachable.

I imagine his hearing aid off. Procuring the companionable human jostle.

Shoulders. Feet. Excuse me.

# On Forgetting

_IQ of 145 and can't remember?_

TROUBLING HISTORIC BROADSHEET ADVERTISEMENT

'Empiricism' has been gone far more often than not;

I think I originally learned it in my teens.

Now I sometimes find it by alphabetising, but most of the time it's gone and stays gone.

I don't know if I dislike it because I can't remember it, or I can't remember it because I dislike it.

It's as though it's on permanent loan somewhere. Someone else's problem.

I don't know what would alarm me – really alarm me.

'Galicia' was gone. Both Galicias. 'Boarding pass' recently disappeared for a while.

I keep a firm hold on 'ocarina' and 'Hoffmeister',

eschewing 'Hoffman' and 'Hofmeister', that tacky 1980s lager when German became respectable.

I do _Corona, Corona_ and 'Corinna, Corinna' and la Coruña. That's the _el camino_ one.

I walked thirty blocks the wrong way down Derision.

The ordered numbers seemed to make no sense.

I was unclear about Hamilton and Harrison. Weren't they presidents?

If not, why not? Confound it, I didn't know which way was up or west.

I hoped the Post Office might be a Travelodge, where I finally posted my letter.

'Abstemious' was gone for years, now I keep hold of it

by tethering it to 'facetious'. What if 'facetious' goes? Imagine not knowing 'facetious'.

It would help to have a crocodile, a street of crocodiles.

'I was here yesterday, and I lost a brown glove,'

says a loud voice in a bar, not mine. Or not yet. Actually, it was a blue glove.

I get my Magyars mixed up. Was it Zsuzsa Rakovsky or Agnes Nemes Nagy? A or Z?

'Deborah' has displaced 'Dorothea', or was it vice versa. Now where are they?

I disappear into my room to look for a book,

and emerge hours later with the wrong one, or with none at all.

Tell me, is it 'singular universality' or 'simple unavailability'?

Tiger-striped spectacles and a lazy eye.

'How about I come over and make you forget all about him.'

That's not me either, that's for something called Grub Hub,

over a 10,000 calorie picture of alamode or miracle whip. There's comfort.

Probably, come to think about it, the 'him' would be Grubby Hubby.

My spelling isn't what it was. I talk when I have the words.

They are not always there when I talk.

I'm not sure if that makes me long-winded or delphic. Perhaps both.

I remember, I wrote 'apotropaically' once,

I wrote 'anamorphosis', I wrote 'aporia'.

It's 12 / 12 / 12. _Rien ne va plus_. 'Bout them Mayans.

The Pope has tweeted assurance, or his astronomers have. Sweet comfort.

Sweet tweet comfort. It's not la Coruña at all, it's Compostela. Ah, Stella.

Stella or Vanessa, make a decision. The pilgrims with their scallop shells of quiet,

their _Jakobsmuscheln_ , on their hats. Strange place for a shell, no.

_(Chicago)_

# Cooking for One

I put five small potatoes in a saucepan,

hold it under the cold tap

till they're covered with water,

add a squirt of washing-up liquid.

– There's a man who likes his life.

# Idyll

The windows will reflect harder, blacker, than before,

and fresh cracks will appear in the yellow brick.

There is no milkman or paper boy, but presumably

the lurid pizza flyers and brassy offers of loans

will continue to drop through the letterbox.

The utilities will be turned off one by one,

as the standing orders keel over or lose their address,

though there was never that much cooking or bathing or

phoning went on here anyway – the fridge will stop its buzz,

the boiler its spontaneous combusting – till there is nothing

but a mustiness of gas. The dust will coil and thicken

ultimately to hawsers around pipes and wires;

ever more elaborate spiders' webs will sheet off the corners;

rust stains and mildew and rot will spread chromatically

below the holes in the roof, radiate from the radiators;

eventually mosses and small grasses and even admirable

wild flowers, hell, an elder or buddleia, push their heads

through the chinks between the boards; a useless volume of books –

who could ever read that many – will keep the moths entertained,

generations of industrious woodlice and silverfish

will leave their corpses on the clarty work surfaces,

and a pigeon or two will hook its feet over the tarnished sink

and brood vacantly over its queenly pink toes.

# Acknowledgements and thanks

Grateful acknowledgement is made to the editors of the following publications, where some of these poems first appeared: _Australian Book Review, La Errante, Grand Street, Granta (100), Heat, London Review of Books, The Nation, New Yorker, New York Review of Books, 1914: Poetry Remembers, Paris Review, Ploughshares, Plume, Poetry, Poetry Review, Raritan Review, The Spectator_ and _Times Literary Supplement_.

For a conversation he won't remember, Jeremy Harding. For the kind use of her name on top of the piece she commissioned, Lindsay Garbutt. For encouragement, support, curiosity, also forbearance, sometimes over many years: Barbara Hoffmeister, Jonathan Galassi, Matthew Hollis, Alan Jenkins, Larry Joseph, Ange Mlinko, André Naffis-Sahely, Robin Robertson, Frederick Seidel, Don Share, Julian Stannard, George Szirtes, Rosanna Warren.

# About the Author

Michael Hofmann was born in Germany, grew up in England, and teaches at the University of Florida. He has published four volumes of poems and a _Selected Poems_ (2008). He is known for translations of Döblin, Kafka, Fallada, Benn and Joseph Roth. His reviews and criticism are gathered in _Behind the Lines_ (2001) and _Where Have You Been?_ (2014). Hofmann edited _The Faber Book of 20th Century German Poems_ , and has made personal selections from the work of Robert Lowell and John Berryman.

# _By the Same Author_

_poetry_

NIGHTS IN THE IRON HOTEL

ACRIMONY

CORONA, CORONA

APPROXIMATELY NOWHERE

SELECTED POEMS

_prose_

BEHIND THE LINES: Pieces on Writing and Pictures

WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN? Selected Essays

_as translator_

ASHES FOR BREAKFAST: Selected Poems (Durs Grünbein)

ANGINA DAYS: Selected Poems (Günter Eich)

IMPROMPTUS: Selected Poems (Gottfried Benn)

_as editor_

AFTER OVID: New Metamorphoses (with James Lasdun)

ROBERT LOWELL: Selected Poems

JOHN BERRYMAN: Selected Poems

THE FABER BOOK OF 20TH-CENTURY GERMAN POEMS

THE VOYAGE THAT NEVER ENDS:

Fictions, Poems, Fragments, Letters by Malcolm Lowry

W. S. GRAHAM: Selected Poems

_about Michael Hofmann_

THE PALM BEACH EFFECT: Reflections on Michael Hofmann edited by André Naffis-Sahely and Julian Stannard

# Copyright

First published in 2018
by Faber & Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA

This ebook edition first published in 2018

All rights reserved
© Michael Hofmann, 2018

The right of Michael Hofmann to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author's and publisher's rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly

ISBN 978–0–571–34231–0

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaBook


text:
Sierra Leone's ailing economy – overcoming the challenges – A rejoinder
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. In his article on the urgent need to disassemble the SLPP government's economic governance structure and reconstitute it with committees composed...
Budget vote controllers must submit 2019 Audit Report Implementation Plan in three weeks
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Vote controllers across Sierra Leone government departments and ministries – officials who are responsible for managing budgets, were told last week...
President Bio commissions $15 million fish processing plant
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Last Friday, President Dr Julius Maada Bio commissioned the country's first fish processing plant at the Sierra Fishing Company in the...
Ministry of agriculture signs service level agreement with NGOs
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Sierra Leone's Ministry of Agriculture and Forestry (MAF) last week signed Service Level Agreements (SLAs) with local and international NGOs. The symbolic...
Does Sierra Leone need a foreign service academy costing millions of dollars?
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. There is some consternation in Sierra Leone over news of the Chinese construction of a foreign service academy in Freetown to...
Rockefeller Foundation's call to action to provide sustainable energy for a billion people
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. The Rockefeller Foundation today announced the formation of a global coalition aimed at providing sustainable energy for one billion people by...
IMF approves $49 Million disbursement for Guinea
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. The Executive Board of the International Monetary Fund (IMF), yesterday said it has completed the Fifth and Sixth reviews of Guinea's...
Mo Ibrahim Foundation resets its Africa Europe partnership
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Yesterday, Monday 7 December, the Mo Ibrahim Foundation announced the launch of the Africa Europe Foundation. This open platform will facilitate...
Sierra Leone discusses the creation of Smart Africa with other countries
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Vice President of Sierra Leone – Dr Mohamed Juldeh Jalloh today committed Sierra Leone to the creation of a 'Smart Africa'...
Sierra Leone Telegraph nominated for 2020 National Entertainment Award
Africa-Press - Sierra-Leone. Sierra Leone's most widely read online newspaper – the Sierra Leone Telegraph, has been nominated to receive the 2020 National Entertainment...
© copyright Africa Press 2017

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Magnetic particle inspection is suitable for detecting discontinuities (e.g. cracks) in or near the surface of ferromagnetic mate-rials.
The workpiece must be magnetized in the test area. The discontinuity can be shown best if the magnetic field is vertical to the discontinuity. One possible method for magnetization is using a yoke. The magnetic flux flows into the workpiece through a ferroma-gnetic yoke. The main field direction is the connection line between the two poles of the yoke. Yokes can be installed in a test bench so that the whole material can be magnetized. If hand yokes are used only the region between the two poles can be magne-tized. Multi-directional magnetization can be used to find discontinuities in any direction.


text:
Marie Antonie Neapolsko-Sicilská (14. prosince 1784, Caserta – 21. května 1806, Aranjuez) byla dcera sicilského a neapolského krále Ferdinanda III./IV., který v roce 1816 obě království po více než pěti stoletích opět spojil, a manželka pozdějšího španělského krále Ferdinanda VII.

Původ
Narodila se z prvního manželství neapolsko-sicilského krále Ferdinanda III./IV. (1751 - 1825) s arcivévodkyní Marií Karolínou (1752 - 1814). Vyrůstala v početné rodině a byla již dvanáctým dítětem tohoto královského páru. Mezi její nejvýznamnější sourozence patří císařovna Marie Tereza (1772 - 1807), král obojí Sicílie František I. (1777 - 1830), sardinská královna Marie Kristýna (1779 - 1849), francouzská královna Marie Amálie (1782 - 1866), toskánská velkovévodkyně Luisa Marie (1773 - 1802) či salernský vévoda Leopold (1790 - 1851).

Otec náležel jako syn španělského krále Karla III. k domu Bourbon-Anjou a jeho matkou byla dcera saského kurfiřta z rodu Wettinů Marie Amálie. Narodil se jako devátý potomek a třetí syn z tohoto manželství. Na neapolský a sicilský trůn usedl v roce 1759, kdy se jeho otec stal španělským králem. Byl zakladatelem vedlejší bourbonské linie Bourbon-Obojí Sicílie. S arcivévodkyní Marií Karolínou jej oženili o devět let později.
Marie Karolína se narodila z manželství císaře Františka I. Štěpána s královnou Marií Terezií, pročež byla žádanou partijí. Jejími sourozenci byli mj. císařové Josef II. a Leopold II., který se v roce 1765 sňatkem s Marií Ludovikou stal švagrem jejího budoucího manžela Ferdinanda, či francouzská královna Marie Antoinetta.

Život
Dne 10. října 1802 se v Barceloně provdala za asturijského knížete a španělského následníka trůnu Ferdinanda Bourbonského. Zároveň proběhla svatba jejího staršího bratra Františka s Ferdinandovou sestrou infantkou Marií Isabelou. Vedena svou matkou z Neapole podporovala Antonie svého manžela proti ministrovi Manuelu Godoyovi a královně Marii Luise. Rovněž se snažila pro manžela získat podporu španělských kortes.
V letech 1804 a 1805 očekávali mladí manželé narození prvního potomka, obě těhotenství skončila bohužel potratem.
Marie Antonie zemřela po necelých čtyřech letech manželství na tuberkulózu a pro její špatné vztahy s královnou a jejím ministrem se začaly šířit pověsti, že jimi byla otrávena, čemuž věřila i její matka Marie Karolína.

Ferdinand usedl na španělský trůn po abdikaci svého otce Karla IV. v roce 1808, tedy dva roky po smrti Marie Antonie. Oženil se ještě třikrát, druhé manželství s Marií Portugalskou ale uzavřel až v roce 1816.

Vývod z předků

Tituly, oslovení a vyznamenání

Tituly a oslovení
 14. prosince 1784 – 6. říjen 1802: Její Královská Výsost princezna Marie Antonie Neapolsko-Sicilská
 6. října 1802 – 21. května 1806: Její Královská Výsost princezna asturijská, infantka španělská atd.

Vyznamenání
  6. října 1802 – 21. května 1806: 108. dáma Královského řádu šlechtičen královny Marie Luisy

Odkazy

Reference

Externí odkazy

Asturijské kněžny
Narození v roce 1784
Narození 14. prosince
Úmrtí v roce 1806
Úmrtí 21. května
Úmrtí v Aranjuezu
Zemřelí na tuberkulózu
Ženy
Bourbon-Obojí Sicílie
Bourbon-Anjou
Italští římští katolíci
Neapolské princezny
Sicilské princezny

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Divorce Attorney in Brooklyn | Peter L. Cedeño & Associates, P.C.
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As a Brooklyn divorce lawyer, attorney Cedeño displays a strong commitment to clients. From the moment you contact our firm, you can expect to be treated with professionalism, compassion and respect. Your case matters and we're here to support you amid the complexities of your family law matter.
We place a high value on your experience with our firm, as well as the results we're able to achieve on your behalf. By limiting the number of cases we take on, we can become closely familiar with the details of your case and work with you to pursue your desired outcome. The steps we take and the strategies we use are always carefully calculated.
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Schedule your consultation to speak with our New York divorce attorney.


Using Tomcat virtual hosts with the same appBase can cause unnecessary resource drain mainly due to excessive WebappClassLoader instances. See how to save heap memory by using separate appBase for each Host.
and downloaded to a local PC.
66 instances of "org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader", loaded by "org.apache.catalina.loader.StandardClassLoader @ 0xe821d800"
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xe82f2f90 - 5,607,928 (2.10%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xf1e72720 - 4,927,568 (1.84%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xf31ae2b0 - 4,864,952 (1.82%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xf407e3f0 - 4,826,728 (1.80%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xea8254a0 - 4,818,560 (1.80%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xf54cf4c0 - 4,803,360 (1.80%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xed983160 - 4,798,280 (1.79%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeca10008 - 4,729,264 (1.77%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xe94cbb90 - 4,711,664 (1.76%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xf0f698d0 - 4,687,168 (1.75%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeed13420 - 4,683,400 (1.75%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xefc0a930 - 4,664,488 (1.74%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeb74c960 - 4,607,632 (1.72%) bytes.
66 instances of "org.apache.naming.resources.FileDirContext", loaded by "org.apache.catalina.loader.StandardClassLoader @ 0xe821d800"
See also Details section in below summary screenshot.
$CATALINA_HOME/work contained the following directories: host1/, host2/, host3/, localhost/, host4/, host5/ and in each of these directories there were subdirectories for each of the web applications deployed under webapps (because of common appBase for all the Hosts). So looks like there was unnecessary memory overhead with creating class loaders for all web applications in each Host while only 1 of the applications was used in each of hosts (hostX) and 5 web applications were used in localhost including docs, host-manager and manager.
16 instances of "org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader", loaded by "org.apache.catalina.loader.StandardClassLoader @ 0xe8399b08"
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeb353eb0 - 4,911,384 (6.65%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xe9130ba0 - 4,838,248 (6.55%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xe85857c8 - 4,489,944 (6.08%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeb1222b0 - 850,496 (1.15%) bytes.
* org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader @ 0xeadfb508 - 825,552 (1.12%) bytes.
16 instances of "org.apache.naming.resources.FileDirContext", loaded by "org.apache.catalina.loader.StandardClassLoader @ 0xe8399b08"
And the summary screen follows - compare Deatils section.
To sum up, after the changes we managed to save 70MB with org.apache.catalina.loader.WebappClassLoader and 30MB with org.apache.naming.resources.FileDirContext not counting any other savings in other classes. A total of 100MB+ saving just by modifying appBase in server.xml and moving web apps into dedicated appBase.
Lesson to learn: use separate appBase for each virtual host in Apache Tomcat.


text:
Jamie Dimon
Jamie Dimon: Next US recession won't look like '07
By Brittany De Lea FOXBusiness
While JPMorgan said it is optimistic at the outset of the first quarter – despite reported weakness across many of its businesses triggered by market volatility and political uncertainty in the fourth-quarter – CEO Jamie Dimon says a possible near-term recession wouldn't look anything like the financial crisis.
Whereas loose underwriting standards among some banks helped precipitate the last crisis, Dimon noted the U.S. credit profile this time around is "much stronger than last time." The CEO noted that more credit card loans are considered prime, while auto loans are about the same.
5 financial terms to know in 2019
JPMorgan's Jamie Dimon warns of shutdown impact
However, there is one big area that could be at risk if the U.S. enters a recession over the near-term, according to the banking impresario: student loans, which he cited as having a "lack of discipline."
Outstanding student loan debt surpassed $1.5 trillion in 2018, second only to mortgage debt.
Student loan debt is also largely owned by the government and not the banking sector.
"The lender will not be there, so a lot of these borrowers are going to be stranded," he said. "It won't be anything like you saw the last time for the large banks."
A recession typically refers to a significant decline in economic activity spread across the economy, lasting more than a few months.
In addition to student loan debt, Dimon also cited a bit of risk in small commercial real estate.
During an interview with FOX Business earlier this month, Dimon told FOX Business' Maria Bartiromo that while it didn't look like a recession was imminent, there will eventually be a meaningful slowdown.
"There will be a recession one day. So when people say, 'Is there going to be a recession?' Yeah, I don't know when it's going to be, but there will be one and something will trigger it and it will be a little bit different than the last one," he said.
On Tuesday, Dimon and JPMorgan CFO Marianne Lake said they think the current outlook for growth is positive considering the consumer is still strong and healthy.
For the fourth quarter, the largest U.S. bank by assets reported lower-than-expected profit despite gains from higher interest rates and a bump within its loan sector. Losses were driven by market volatility, global growth worries and an ongoing trade war between the U.S. and China.
The outlook, at the outset of the first quarter, is more positive, according to the executives, who cited a more progressive outlook on trade and healthy investor appetites as tailwinds. Additionally, a "dovish Fed" could help support the credit markets – a source of weakness in the fourth quarter.


Joy Phala is a landscape artist, garden designer and founder of Organic Kitchen Gardens.
Landscape artist and garden designer, Joy Phala, is the founder of Organic Kitchen Gardens, an onsite edible garden installation and maintenance service for chefs, restaurants and private residents.
I worked as a management consultant for a few years after I obtained a BCom Accounting at Wits and then when I became a first-time mom, cooking became my therapeutic outlet. Inspired by MasterChef and food bloggers at the time. I cooked my way through my first year as a mom. This saw me growing my own ingredients on our little apartment balcony and later on in a few containers in the sunniest parts of our complex. The food that grew in our little garden was the tastiest we'd had in a long time. I then had an idea that perhaps there are chefs and restaurants who would also love to cook with high-quality produce straight from their own gardens.
Organic Kitchen Gardens came about as a result of wanting to create edible gardens that would fit into the urban environment, without the typical farm look associated with fruit-and-vegetable gardens. The work manifests itself in the form of stylized, mixed edible and ornamental gardens that complement the architecture of our clients' homes and reflect their personal style and aesthetic.
For people living in urban spaces without out much space to garden, it is important to go for plants that have a long seasonal interest and if edible, will provide multiple harvests during the season. Small evergreen edible trees and small shrubs of lemons, limes and kumquats are especially useful in an urban garden for creating structure. They will also happily grow in partial sun conditions of high-rise buildings with just a little less fruit production. Cut and come-again leafy greens and salads are more tasty when grown at home and will provide multiple cuttings when harvested as single leaves – as opposed to full heads. Small fruits like strawberries, blueberries and gooseberries take up very little space and will provide you with premium produce. Pair these up with your favourite flowers for a splash of colour.
One of the key starting points of going green, which has not only become necessary but urgent, is conserving water. Save the rain water for the garden. With our recent droughts, it is now no longer fashionable, but necessary to install a rainwater tank to water both private and corporate gardens. This will reduce the pressure on our already-strained municipal water resources. Also grow some of your own organic food or buy organic and locally produced food. Research by the University of Twente in the Netherlands on Water Foot Print of commercial crop production indicates that it takes 250L of water to produce 1kg of potatoes. The home gardener and farmer using organic methods of food production will use far less water for the same quantity of produce.
Words: Kelly Fung & Ntombenhle Shezi. Image: Lebogang Tlhako. This article originally appeared in the June 2018 issue of Elle Magazine.


Your Eugene chiropractor at Rethwill Chiropractic Clinic works with many Eugene pregnant women in practice and helps them. Further, articles about spinal manipulation and chiropractic Cox Technic treatment and exercise point to the opportunity for Eugene pregnancy back pain relief. Often, a combined approach is best.
So, make a chiropractic appointment for yourself or your pregnant loved one. Rethwill Chiropractic Clinic offers spinal manipulation as well as stabilization exercise recommendations to help get the pregnant woman out of pain and back to enjoying this captivating time of her life. Contact Rethwill Chiropractic Clinic today.


text:
Lantero (en asturiano y oficialmente: Ḷḷanteiru) es una casería que pertenece a la parroquia de Bárcena del Monasterio en el concejo de Tineo (Principado de Asturias). Se encuentra a 428 m s. n. m. y está situada a 16,50 km de la capital del concejo, la villa de Tineo.

Población
En 2020 contaba con una población de 8 habitantes (INE, 2020) repartidos en un total de 9 viviendas (INE, 2010).

Referencias

Bibliografía

Localidades de Tineo
Bárcena del Monasterio


Upgrade your wardrobe with these "Two Become one" geometric Printed Tights designed by Zohara. These one-size fashion Tights feature gold triangles printed on high quality black opaque tights.
Upgrade your wardrobe with these "Two Become one" geometric Printed Tights designed by Zohara. These one-size fashion Tights feature gold triangles printed on high quality black opaque tights. These cool fashion tights are great for all occasions, a true wardrobe essential!


text:
Indian Institute Of Technology
Indian Institute Of Technology Tender
View complete overview of WB DHE Tender
Indian Institute Of Technology - DHE Tender
West Midnapore, West Bengal
Electrical Works Associated With Supply, Installation, Testing And Commissioning For Modification Of The Old Electrical Panel For Bio-technology Air Conditioning Plant In The Institute.
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INDIAN INSTITUTE OF TECHNOLOGY KHARAGPUR KHARAGPUR, WEST BENGAL 721302 TENDER DOCUMENT for Electrical Works associated with supply, installation, testing and commissioning for modification of the old electrical panel for Bio‐ Technology Air conditioning plant in the Institute. NIT No. IIT/E/E&M/T/91/2018‐19 Notice Invitation Tender Serial No. IIT/E/E&M/T/91/2018‐19 dated‐ 25.03.2019 Tender Serial No. ______________________________Issued to: …………………………………………………..…………………..…………………..………… ………………………………………………………..……………..…………………..………… …………………………………………………………..…………..…………………..………… (ENVELOPE‐ 1) NIT No. IIT/E/E&M/T/91/2018‐19 Page | 1 Contents 1. NOTICE INVITING TENDER 2 1.1. INTRODUCTION ................................................................................................................................................. 2 1.2. PARTICULARS ..................................................................................................................................................... 2 1.3. ELIGIBILITY CRITERIA .......................................................................................................................................... 2 2. INFORMATION TO BIDDERS 4 2.1. SCOPE OF WORK ................................................................................................................................................ 4 2.2. GENERAL INSTRUCTIONS ................................................................................................................................... 4 2.3. SUBMISSION OF TENDER ................................................................................................................................... 5 2.4. EVALUATION OF BIDS AND AWARD OF WORK ................................................................................................. 5 3. UNDERTAKING BY THE BIDDER 8 4. Schedule of Quantities …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….09 5. Make List Format …………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………..10 6. Special Condition for Electrical work ……………………………………………………………………………………………………11‐12 (ENVELOPE‐ 1) NIT No. IIT/E/E&M/T/91/2018‐19 Page | 2 1. NOTICE INVITING TENDER 1.1. INTRODUCTION Indian Institute of Technology (IIT) Kharagpur, hereinafter called IITKGP, invites sealed tenders from the eligible contractors for "Electrical Works associated with supply, installation, testing and commissioning for modification of the old electrical panel for Bio‐Technology Air conditioning plant in the Institute". Particulars of the project are as following. 1.2. PARTICULARS 1.NIT Number NIT No. IIT/E/E&M/T/91/2018‐19 2.Name of Work Electrical Works associated with supply, installation, testing and commissioning for modification of the old electrical panel for Bio‐Technology Air conditioning plant in the Institute. 3.Location of Work Bio‐Technology Air conditioning plant in the Institute. IIT Kharagpur ‐ 721302 4.Estimated Cost (including GST) ₹ 82,893/‐(Rupees Eighty two thousand eight hundred ninety three only) 5.Earnest Money Deposit ₹ 1660/‐ (Rupees One thousand six hundred sixty only) 6.Time Limit 15 days. 7.Tender Basis and Mode Single Stage Bidding (Containing Technical Bid & Financial Bid) 8.Mode of Payment to IITKGP (EMD) Demand Draft / Pay order in favour of IIT Kharagpur payable at Kharagpur. 9.Closing Date & Time for Receipt of bids 3 rd April 2019 up to 15:30hrs 10.Date& Time for Opening of Bid 3 rd April 2019 at 16:30hrs 11. Engineer‐in‐charge and contact details. Mr. Sabyasachi Ghosh Senior Executive Engineer Tel: 03222‐282522_____, Email: sghosh@hijli.iitkgp.ernet.in 12. Address for tender issue, submission and opening Office of Senior Executive Engineer (Electrical),1st Floor, Old Building, IIT Kharagpur, Kharagpur WB 721302 13.Website for full and updated information


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Q: Figuring out obscure pointer typedef typedef solution_type (*algorithm_ptr_type) (
    problem_type problem,
    void (*post_evaluation_callback)(void *move, int score)/* = NULL*/
);

Please help me! Thank you

A: what a horrible piece of code!
what its doing is defining a function pointer type called algorithm_ptr_type, returning a solution_type and taking a problem_type as its first arg and a callback as its second arg. the callback takes void* and int as its args and returns nothing.
a better way to write this would be:
typedef void (*post_evaluation_callback)(void *move, int  score);
typedef solution_type (*algorithm_ptr_type)(problem_type problem, post_evaluation_callback callback);

A: This frustrating piece of code makes it so that algorithm_ptr_type is a function pointer.
This type must point to a function that returns an object of type solution_type.
This type must point to a function that takes the following arguments:
0: An object of type problem_type.
1: A function pointer which must point to a function that:
Returns void.
Takes the following arguments:
0: A void*.
1: An int.

A: This means, algorithm_ptr_type is a pointer to a function returning solution_type and whose parameters are:

*

*problem of type problem_type

*post_evaluation_callback  which is again a function pointer taking two parameters (void* and int) , and returning void.

And the same can be written as (easy and readable syntax):
typedef  void (*callback_type)(void *move, int score);

typedef solution_type (*algorithm_type)(problem_type, callback_type);

Note: the name of the parameters are optional, so I removed it, to make the typedef short and cute!

In C++11, this can be simplified further as follows:
using algorithm_ptr_type = solution_type (*) (
    problem_type,
    void(*)(void*, int)
);

That is much better, as now it's clear as to what is being defined and in terms of what.

In C++11, you can even define a utility to create function-pointer as,
//first define a utility to make function pointer.
template<typename Return, typename ... Parameters>
using make_fn = Return (*)(Paramaters...);

then use it as,
using callback_type = make_fn<void, void*, int>;

using algorithm_type = make_fn<solution_type, problem_type, callback_type>;

Here the first argument to make_fn is the return type, and the rest are the parameters — easy to decipher each one!

Usage:
solution_type SomeFunction(problem_type problem, callback post_evaluation)
{
   //implementation

   //call the callback function
   post_evaluation(arg1, arg2);
   //..
}

algorithm_ptr_type function = SomeFunction;

//call the function
function(arg, someOtherFunction);

A: Defines solution_type as a function pointer to a function that takes a problem_type and another function pointer. This second function pointer takes a void* (anything) and an int as parameters.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


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History of the Union of the Kingdoms of Great-Britain and Ireland: With an Introductory Survey of Hibernian Affairs, Traced from the Times of Celtic Colonisation
Charles Coote
author, 1802 - Ireland - 522 pages
It might be said, that they would strongly oppose such a change; but, he thought,
it would not be unfavorable to them, though it would secure the interest of their
protestant adversaries. It would perpetuate the toleration which they enjoyed and
But nothing, he thought, could more effectually heal the disorders of the realm
than an union with Great-Britain. " The more (he said) I have reflected on the
situation and circumstances of this kingdom, considering on the one hand the
strength ...
No one, he thought, could doubt that a legislative union would effect a change in
the constitution. Could it be doubted, when, instead of an addition to the amount
of members, correspondent with the increase of population, the proportion was ...
poration of the parliaments would add strength to the empire, and render the
whole state more flourishing, he was ready to give his assent to the coalition; but,
as he thought it degrading and detrimental to Ireland, and more likely to disunite
... to promote a dissolution of the government—it would indeed be a revolutionary
measure of the most dangerous kind.—The expediency or eligibility of the
scheme he was inclined to doubt; and he thought there was some foundation for
History of the union of the kingdoms of Great-Britain and Ireland: with an ...
Charles Coote, Sir
acknowleged adjustment adopted advantages affirmed anti-unionists appeared argument assertion benefit Britain British parliament catholics claim commercial competency connexion consideration considered constitution constitution of Ireland coun crown danger declared deemed discussion duty earl earl Fitzwilliam effect enemies England English established evils executive government existence expedient expences export faction favor former gentlemen Great-Britain and Ireland Hibernian honorable house of commons imperial parliament important incorporation independence influence interests Irish parliament jealousy king legislative union legislature liament liberty lord lord Castlereagh majesty manufacture measure ment minister ministry nation necessary nexion object opinion opposed parlia parliament of Ireland parliamentary peace peerage peers Pitt political present principle promote proportion proposed proposition prosperity protestant question realm rebellion reform remedy representatives resolutions respect scheme Scotland separate settlement sir Laurence Parsons speaker speech spirit tain taxes tended thought tion trade united kingdom voted wish
Page 124 - That in order to promote and secure the essential interests of Great Britain and Ireland, and to consolidate the strength, power, and resources, of the British empire, it will be advisable to concur in such measures as may best tend to unite the two kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland...
Page 521 - That for the like purpose it would be fit to propose, that all laws in force at the time of the union, and that all the courts of civil or ecclesiastical jurisdiction within the respective kingdoms, shall remain as now by law established within the same, subject only to such alterations or regulations, from time to time, as circumstances may appear to the parliament of the United Kingdom to require.
Page 516 - Britain may hereafter enjoy the same except the Right and Privilege of sitting in the House of Lords and the Privileges depending thereon and particularly the Right of sitting upon the Trials of Peers.
Page 512 - One, for ever after be united into One Kingdom, by the name of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland and that the Royal Style and Titles appertaining to the Imperial Crown of the said United Kingdom and its Dependencies...
Page 518 - ... may be composed, or of any abatement of duty on the same, and that when any such new or additional countervailing duty shall be so imposed on the import of any article into either country from the other, a...
Page 515 - Parliament by law, and, until so defined, shall be those of the House of Commons of the Parliament of the United Kingdom, and of its members and committees, at the commencement of this Constitution.
Page 514 - commoners (two for each county of Ireland, two for the city of Dublin, two for the city of Cork, one for the University of Trinity College, and one for each of the thirty-one most considerable cities, towns, and boroughs), be the number to sit and vote on the part of Ireland in the House of Commons of the parliament of the united kingdom...
Page 330 - Parliamentary constitution, and in a great measure by that Parliamentary constitution, have nearly doubled. Commercially it has worked well. Your concord with England since the Emancipation, as far as it relates to Parliament, on the subject of war, has been not only approved, but has been productive.
Page 327 - ... judicature, where he is to increase your taxes, where he is to get an Irish tribute, there he is a plain, direct, matter-of-fact man; but where he is to pay you for all this, there he is poetic and prophetic; no longer a financier, but an inspired accountant.
Page 125 - ... the Parliament of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and that such a number of lords spiritual and temporal, and such a number of members of the house of commons as shall be hereafter agreed upon by acts of the respective parliaments as aforesaid, shall sit and vote in. the said parliament on the part of Ireland, and shall be summoned, chosen, and returned, in such manner as shall be fixed by an act of the parliament of Ireland previous to the...
Title History of the Union of the Kingdoms of Great-Britain and Ireland: With an Introductory Survey of Hibernian Affairs, Traced from the Times of Celtic Colonisation
Author Charles Coote
Publisher author, 1802