The Gates of Hell, which has been very important to us this term. Below is a link to a Royal Academy article about the gates.http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibitions/rodin/the-gates-of-hell-and-the-kiss,18,AR.html
Rodin
The Gates of Hell, which has been very important to us this term. Below is a link to a Royal Academy article about the gates.http://www.royalacademy.org.uk/exhibitions/rodin/the-gates-of-hell-and-the-kiss,18,AR.html
Appropriating the appropriators
Here are a few example of appropriators who we can discussed appropriating. All of these works of art have caused threats of legal action.
An appropriate article
Here's one I ripped off earlier
For art and fashion students - and their tutors - when does inspiration become plagiarism?
John Crace
Tuesday January 23, 2007
The Guardian
If Damien Hirst is hurt by accusations of plagiarism, then he makes a good fist of not appearing to be bothered. Seven years ago, he paid an undisclosed sum to a toy designer for copying a Humbrol Young Scientist anatomy set for his sculpture Hymn. In 2003, another artist, Robert Dixon, claimed Hirst had copied his design, True Daisy, for a children's drawing book. He has since made a second claim against Hirst for basing his work Valium, a series of multicoloured spots in a circular pattern, on the same design.
Not that there's much reason for Hirst to care one way or the other. Art critics are only interested if he is in or out of fashion - whether his work is heartbreakingly hip or tiresomely last year. A Hirst is a Hirst is a Hirst, even if it looks almost identical to something else. Either way, his bank balance gives him the only reality check he needs. The Humbrol anatomy kit retailed for less than £15; Hymn was valued at about £1m. Dixon made next to nothing for True Daisy; the 500 prints of Valium sold for up to £10,000 each.
In text-based academic disciplines, plagiarism has been one of the hottest topics on campus for some years. The growth of online resources has made cut and paste a favourite keystroke for many students, and academics have had to wise up fast in the game of intellectual cat and mouse. All universities now run suspect essays through software programmes that can identify precisely what percentage of the text has been lifted from elsewhere; and if the guidelines to staff and students are still a little fuzzy on the exact distinction between proper attribution and ripping off, then at least no one is any doubt that there is a distinction to be made and that it is important.
Not so in the visual arts, says Dr Margo Blythman, academic director of teaching and learning at the University of the Arts London, who is collaborating with Susan Orr at York St John University College and Joan Mullin at the University of Texas in Austin on ways to address the subject. "I'm not sure it will be possible to come up with a definitive set of guidelines," she says, "but at least people will be forced to discuss plagiarism. At present, nobody in the arts really seems to want to even think about it. It's not that people are deliberately avoiding it; it's just a non-issue.
"In some ways, this has a positive knock-on effect. Whereas many students in text-based disciplines seem now to be almost paralysed by the possibility of inadvertently copying another person's work, our students operate in a relatively pressure-free environment that allows them to develop their creativity without fear. But having said that, I do think students need to understand there are ethical implications for their work."
Blythman knows it's not going to be easy, because there's little, if anything, that can be genuinely said to be new. "Any time I do something original, I understand I just haven't found the person who did it first," she laughs. Most art forms operate under a herd mentality, a convergence of taste and ideas at a point in time, that lends itself to homogeneity rather than difference. But even allowing for copyright law, the boundaries between creativity and copying are necessarily blurred. Does knocking up Rodin's Thinker in a different substance constitute an original piece of artistic work, or is it nothing more than a crude rip off?
There is also an understandable reluctance to pass judgment because there is a long artistic tradition of works that are inspired by, or are a homage to, another person. "We have all studied art history and been to galleries," says Annette Madsen, a first-year sculpture student at the Camberwell School of Art, "so we're all bound to be influenced by what we've seen - even if only subliminally. I'm not sure how original my own work really is, but I at least try to offer my own interpretation of an idea. I can sense when a piece is working out as I intended because I feel emotionally connected to it. But as a first-year student I am still too young to have developed a proper style of my own. For the moment I am still experimenting with a variety of materials and techniques to get a sense of what works for me."
Some of the problems are of the universities' own making. "When you're writing a catalogue for a large group of students' final show," says Blythman, "you simply don't have the space to list every artist's attributions and influences, so we don't necessarily encourage the rigour we would expect from others."
But other problems are simply a function of the art form itself. "Interior design has no history of acknowledgment," she continues. "You won't find any house that has a little plaque on the wall saying 'inspired by Philippe Starck'."
It is in fashion where plagiarism is a 24/7 industry; laws against it are so easily avoided - just throw in the regulation number of minor differences on any garment - that they appear to have been written with the idea of actively promoting it.
"Copying is something I think about quite a lot," says Celia Robson, a third-year womenswear designer at the London College of Fashion, "and I've become almost phobic about using any new images in my work for fear of accidentally plagiarising something. At the very least, I try to ensure that all my influences are properly attributed so that my tutors can see how my work has been developed from the original.
"But I do worry how I will cope when I start work in the industry. So much of what you see on the high street appears to have been copied directly from the catwalk, that you can only assume everyone just turns a blind eye to it. Certainly some big names haven't been put off from designing for the large retailers and it looks to be a straightforward case of 'if you can't beat them, join them'."
She adds: "I'm not sure how I would feel if I was working for a high-street chain and was asked to make a cheap copy of a designer brand; it doesn't square with my morals, but maybe I'll have no choice if I want to keep working in the fashion industry."
And it's not just the big names that get ripped off.
"We've had instances where industry has lifted ideas from our students' degree shows," says Blythman. "We now ban all cameras and mobile phones from the shows to make it more difficult for people to copy pieces."
It sounds as if Blythman's guidelines can't come soon enough. Or if not guidelines exactly, then guidelines about what the guidelines should be.
For art and fashion students - and their tutors - when does inspiration become plagiarism?
John Crace
Tuesday January 23, 2007
The Guardian
If Damien Hirst is hurt by accusations of plagiarism, then he makes a good fist of not appearing to be bothered. Seven years ago, he paid an undisclosed sum to a toy designer for copying a Humbrol Young Scientist anatomy set for his sculpture Hymn. In 2003, another artist, Robert Dixon, claimed Hirst had copied his design, True Daisy, for a children's drawing book. He has since made a second claim against Hirst for basing his work Valium, a series of multicoloured spots in a circular pattern, on the same design.
Not that there's much reason for Hirst to care one way or the other. Art critics are only interested if he is in or out of fashion - whether his work is heartbreakingly hip or tiresomely last year. A Hirst is a Hirst is a Hirst, even if it looks almost identical to something else. Either way, his bank balance gives him the only reality check he needs. The Humbrol anatomy kit retailed for less than £15; Hymn was valued at about £1m. Dixon made next to nothing for True Daisy; the 500 prints of Valium sold for up to £10,000 each.
In text-based academic disciplines, plagiarism has been one of the hottest topics on campus for some years. The growth of online resources has made cut and paste a favourite keystroke for many students, and academics have had to wise up fast in the game of intellectual cat and mouse. All universities now run suspect essays through software programmes that can identify precisely what percentage of the text has been lifted from elsewhere; and if the guidelines to staff and students are still a little fuzzy on the exact distinction between proper attribution and ripping off, then at least no one is any doubt that there is a distinction to be made and that it is important.
Not so in the visual arts, says Dr Margo Blythman, academic director of teaching and learning at the University of the Arts London, who is collaborating with Susan Orr at York St John University College and Joan Mullin at the University of Texas in Austin on ways to address the subject. "I'm not sure it will be possible to come up with a definitive set of guidelines," she says, "but at least people will be forced to discuss plagiarism. At present, nobody in the arts really seems to want to even think about it. It's not that people are deliberately avoiding it; it's just a non-issue.
"In some ways, this has a positive knock-on effect. Whereas many students in text-based disciplines seem now to be almost paralysed by the possibility of inadvertently copying another person's work, our students operate in a relatively pressure-free environment that allows them to develop their creativity without fear. But having said that, I do think students need to understand there are ethical implications for their work."
Blythman knows it's not going to be easy, because there's little, if anything, that can be genuinely said to be new. "Any time I do something original, I understand I just haven't found the person who did it first," she laughs. Most art forms operate under a herd mentality, a convergence of taste and ideas at a point in time, that lends itself to homogeneity rather than difference. But even allowing for copyright law, the boundaries between creativity and copying are necessarily blurred. Does knocking up Rodin's Thinker in a different substance constitute an original piece of artistic work, or is it nothing more than a crude rip off?
There is also an understandable reluctance to pass judgment because there is a long artistic tradition of works that are inspired by, or are a homage to, another person. "We have all studied art history and been to galleries," says Annette Madsen, a first-year sculpture student at the Camberwell School of Art, "so we're all bound to be influenced by what we've seen - even if only subliminally. I'm not sure how original my own work really is, but I at least try to offer my own interpretation of an idea. I can sense when a piece is working out as I intended because I feel emotionally connected to it. But as a first-year student I am still too young to have developed a proper style of my own. For the moment I am still experimenting with a variety of materials and techniques to get a sense of what works for me."
Some of the problems are of the universities' own making. "When you're writing a catalogue for a large group of students' final show," says Blythman, "you simply don't have the space to list every artist's attributions and influences, so we don't necessarily encourage the rigour we would expect from others."
But other problems are simply a function of the art form itself. "Interior design has no history of acknowledgment," she continues. "You won't find any house that has a little plaque on the wall saying 'inspired by Philippe Starck'."
It is in fashion where plagiarism is a 24/7 industry; laws against it are so easily avoided - just throw in the regulation number of minor differences on any garment - that they appear to have been written with the idea of actively promoting it.
"Copying is something I think about quite a lot," says Celia Robson, a third-year womenswear designer at the London College of Fashion, "and I've become almost phobic about using any new images in my work for fear of accidentally plagiarising something. At the very least, I try to ensure that all my influences are properly attributed so that my tutors can see how my work has been developed from the original.
"But I do worry how I will cope when I start work in the industry. So much of what you see on the high street appears to have been copied directly from the catwalk, that you can only assume everyone just turns a blind eye to it. Certainly some big names haven't been put off from designing for the large retailers and it looks to be a straightforward case of 'if you can't beat them, join them'."
She adds: "I'm not sure how I would feel if I was working for a high-street chain and was asked to make a cheap copy of a designer brand; it doesn't square with my morals, but maybe I'll have no choice if I want to keep working in the fashion industry."
And it's not just the big names that get ripped off.
"We've had instances where industry has lifted ideas from our students' degree shows," says Blythman. "We now ban all cameras and mobile phones from the shows to make it more difficult for people to copy pieces."
It sounds as if Blythman's guidelines can't come soon enough. Or if not guidelines exactly, then guidelines about what the guidelines should be.
Dan Robbins... Guru of painting by numbers
When we first started researching painting by numbers Dan Robbins crops up alot. Whether or not he is right about making everyman a Rembrant remains to be proved.
Raw Materials
Good webpage for anyone who missed Nauman's installation at the Turbine Hall. We loved it so much we've ripped off two of the pieces already.
http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/nauman/
http://www.tate.org.uk/modern/exhibitions/nauman/
Portrait of the Artists as Young Men
we are big fans of Gilbert & George's video pieces and this one was too good an oppourtunity for are-enactment.
Painting by Numbers - some inspiration
: Paul Bridgewater. Abstract Paint-by-Number Kit:
Against the Looking Glass. Unstretched canvas with
accompanying typed instruction, mixed paints,
and "artist's hair" brushes. 1978. Lent by the
Andy Warhol Foundation.
Andy Warhol. Do It Yourself Flowers). 1962. Crayon on paper. Lent by the Sonnabend Gallery.
Originality
“Originality is the art of concealing your sources”
Benjamin Franklin
“Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it.”
Dr. Laurence J. Peter
“Originality is undetected plagiarism.”
W. R. Inge
“Utter originality is, of course, out of the question”
Ezra Pound
“About the most originality that any writer can hope to achieve honestly is to steal with good judgment.”
Josh Billings
“Imitation, if noble and general, insures the best hope of originality”
Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton
“I invent nothing. I rediscover.”
Auguste Rodin
“Originality is nothing but judicious imitation. The most original writers borrowed from one another. The instruction we find in books is like fire. We fetch it from our neighbours, kindle it at home, communicate it to others, and it becomes the prope.”
Voltaire
“Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about. “
W. H. Auden
“Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory is too good. “
Friedrich Nietzsche
“When you take stuff from one writer it's plagiarism; but when you take it from many writers, it's research.”
Wilson Mizner
“Original thought is like original sin: both happened before you were born to people you could not have possibly met.”
Fran Lebowitz
Benjamin Franklin
“Originality is the fine art of remembering what you hear but forgetting where you heard it.”
Dr. Laurence J. Peter
“Originality is undetected plagiarism.”
W. R. Inge
“Utter originality is, of course, out of the question”
Ezra Pound
“About the most originality that any writer can hope to achieve honestly is to steal with good judgment.”
Josh Billings
“Imitation, if noble and general, insures the best hope of originality”
Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton
“I invent nothing. I rediscover.”
Auguste Rodin
“Originality is nothing but judicious imitation. The most original writers borrowed from one another. The instruction we find in books is like fire. We fetch it from our neighbours, kindle it at home, communicate it to others, and it becomes the prope.”
Voltaire
“Some writers confuse authenticity, which they ought always to aim at, with originality, which they should never bother about. “
W. H. Auden
“Many a man fails as an original thinker simply because his memory is too good. “
Friedrich Nietzsche
“When you take stuff from one writer it's plagiarism; but when you take it from many writers, it's research.”
Wilson Mizner
“Original thought is like original sin: both happened before you were born to people you could not have possibly met.”
Fran Lebowitz
Jonathan Monk
The painting on the left reads "This painting should ideallybe hung to the right of an Ed Ruscha". The image is from the catalogue of Monk's exhibition Continuous Project Altered Daily. Please check out the link below to his most recent exhibition Second hand:These text paintings were the inspiration for the work pictured below:
The Loves of Sheperds
The Loves of Sheperds by Glenn Brown was one of the pieces he submitted to the Turner Prize 2000. He got into trouble for plagiarism when Tony Roberts claimed it was copied from from his illustration for the novel Double Star. The dispute was settled out of court.
Interestingly the book deals with the themes of impersonation and the validity of copies.
The Human Hand
Amy's Story: The Human Hand
The Human Hand
It was just before dusk in the rain forest in the Salonga National Park. The weather was warm and wet as the colony of bonobos went about their evening rituals as the tribe returned from their daylight haunts to sleep together.
A small group had gathered as they expected the return of a daughter. She had a wandering spirit and had headed north some time ago.
To quell their excitement at her imminent return the group were engaged in sexual activities, behaviour typically in the peace loving bonobo society.
Soon there was disturbance in the bush and the daughter appeared. Her mother called out to her, “eeek eeek oooo ooooo.”
For the sake of this narrative at this point I will impose two things on the story. The first is a will translate the bonobos language into English, which is a difficult task and not to be viewed as too literal a translation. The second is I will give them human names. Firstly to make them easily distinguishable and secondly because ape names are notoriously hard to spell.
“Luyando, my daughter, you’ve returned.”
The females embraced and it was then that Makemba, the mother, noticed that Luyando had not returned with empty paws. The object she carried startled the mother and she recoiled from the embrace.
“What is that you have brought into our home? Tell me it is not what it appears”
The pitch of her shrieks brought a small crowd to gather around them.
“Yes, mother it is,” exclaimed Luyando. And with this she threw down her burden in front of the group. All the bonobos gasped as they recognised a human hand, severed at the wrist and dried like a date. The skin like wrinkled leather and the nails black and broken. “And it comes with a strange story attached but please let me rest before I share it with you.”
Such a strange occurance in very unusual in the peaceful society of the bonobos, so by the time Luyando had rested quite a number or the tribe had gathered to hear her tale.
She explained that on her travels she had encountered a grey-cheeked mangabey that was in a terrible state. He had been the one who had given her the hand. The monkey as well as being in terrible state was quite hard to understand, having a strong accent but Luyando had managed to piece the story together. The mangabey had got the hand in West Africa. He insisted it was cursed and had been given evil powers by a Bokor, a vodou sorcerer who wished to show that Nana Buluku’s natural order for us all must not be tampered with. He explained that each of the fingers on the hand held three wishes for separate men. The mangabey had witnessed the death of one man who had wished his final wish for peace. The monkey had been greatly affected by this and so had stolen the hand away. Now he was distraught and did not know what to do with this terrible thing. Luyando had been intrigued and when the monkey pressed her to take charge of the hand, she agreed to. She had brought it back to her tribe so that the elders could decide what should be done.
While she had been speaking the younger apes had been peering closely at the hand. At this natural break in Luyando’s speech her small brother Lamia piped up. “ Look! Look! One of the nails is not wrinkled and black, maybe the last and smallest digit still holds 3 wishes!”
This caused a great deal or murmuring in the crowd. Makemba rose up onto her rear legs to address the congregation. Makemba was one of the most respected females in this matriarchal society so immediately quiet was resumed.
“No good can come from dabbling in the affairs of men,” she announced, “I propose we bury this horrible thing and talk no more about it.”
There was a general murmur of consent at this but then another bonobo piped up, “Could we not wish to find more food, for the discovery of mbungu trees? For plenitude in these hard times?”
“Maybe we can use the wishes for good,” an elderly male spoke, ”Who can say if this magic can work for us but man has done us great harm in the past with their wars and their hunger for our meat. Surely we should use the wishes to rid ourselves of them.”
Quite a commotion was caused by this comment. And a female retorted, “Already this hand is bringing about wickedness, are we going to lower ourselves to the level of man by wishing for destruction of living things?”
And so the discussion went on until night had fully enveloped them and only their glittering eyes could be seen in the starlight.
As you can imagine, the thought of such power in their grasp was too much for this society of primates to bear and at the end of the intense debate a consensus had been reached. Makemba’s wise words were well and truly forgotten and she sat quiet and sullen as Marien, a large and old male lifted up the hand to make the first wish.
I think you will be surprised at the decision they had made and it may not been immediately apparent why they started on this path. Mankind had long been a problem for the bonobos and once they discounted ridding themselves of man they had looked to other ways to counteract this threat. By a strange twist of reason it had been agreed that if bonobos became human then they could attempt to reconcile the dreadful behaviour of man, and cease the attacks on their kind.
Marien held the disembodied hand aloft in the thick blackness and rumbled in his deep voice “We wish for bonobos to become human”. The crowd of apes fell completely silent while many moments passed. After some time they began stirring and then twittering, the sounds of the bonobo’s laugh. Nothing had happened and all those gathered suddenly felt the ridiculous of the situation.
Makemba stirred herself.
“Well, I hope nothing does come of that.” She said as she swung herself into her usual sleeping place. All the rest of the bonobos followed her lead and after the last of the giggling chattering died down the only noises left in the forest were those of slumber and nightwalkers.
As dawn brightened the rainforest and the bonobos were thrust into wakefulness, they discovered they had not avoided the curse. For anyone watching the change would have been impossible to perceive, but the bonobos felt it as son as they returned to consciousness. They woke to find themselves embarrassed by the way their bodies were exposed. The usual morning greetings of friendly sexual play did not take place. Suddenly everything their society thrived on seemed wrong and dirty. The animals were in deep disarray. In bonobo society conflict and fear are dealt with through sex. Now the chimps looked at each other with confusion and anger.
Luyando howled at what she had brought upon her tribe and cried out in pain. Slowly they began to talk in low tones about this new world they found themselves in.
Makemba at last addressed the gathering, “There is no point in dwelling on what we have brought upon ourselves.” She cried, “ We must find away to solve it.”
At this everyone spoke at once and the discussion was as long and deep as it had been the following night.
You see, the bonobos were not yet ready to concede that the hand would only do them harm. It was concluded that their wish hadn’t been understood, that it needed refining. Despite Makemba’s efforts her pleas fell on death ears. Once more Marien held the hideous hand aloft. “We wish to be the dominant species,” he called out.
And so the bonobos spent the most unpleasant day of their lives so far. They didn’t leave the clearing to take their usual daylight ground. They stayed as a group while trying to remain alone and waited for night to fall. After what seemed like a lifetime darkness began to creep over the miserable beasts. Soon, once more the tribe were at rest.
As I’m sure you may well be expecting the bonobos did not awake to find things had been resolved.
Again the difference would have been unperceivable to an observer, but now when they awoke they felt the swell of superiority. They felt their dominance and power. Suddenly they had an outlet for the shame that still gripped them.
The bonobos were much more eager to talk this morning, to discuss what to do with their newly acquired superiority. Much talk was on how to move forward, how to embrace this progress. Eventually talk turned to the fact they had been forced into an uncomfortable and unfruitful territory. This had occurred a long time ago, when a colony of chimpanzees had waged war on them. The bonobos had been a peaceful tribe back then but suddenly they felt this injustice and were intent on putting it right. Soon the cry went up to take on the chimpanzees that lived in this much converted territory just over the river. These chimpanzee had long defended their territory and, being of a much more aggressive nature, had kept the bonobo at bay.
The group were shrieking in excitement when suddenly Makemba stood erect in the centre of the group, holding the gruesome hand aloft.
“Enough,” she shrieked. “We wish to go back to how we were before any of these strange ideas were in our heads.”
The mob swelled at this utterance. Angered to have had their plans disrupted and the decisions they had made discounted, they moved towards the female.
Alas Makemba never got to see night fall and witness her bonobo tribe awaking on this third day to confront their actions. If only her wish could have been granted sooner, the tragedy of Makemba could have been avoided.
On the third day the bonobos awoke and realised that although so little had happened they had been changed for ever and Nana Buluku’s natural order could never be completely restored.
The Human Hand
It was just before dusk in the rain forest in the Salonga National Park. The weather was warm and wet as the colony of bonobos went about their evening rituals as the tribe returned from their daylight haunts to sleep together.
A small group had gathered as they expected the return of a daughter. She had a wandering spirit and had headed north some time ago.
To quell their excitement at her imminent return the group were engaged in sexual activities, behaviour typically in the peace loving bonobo society.
Soon there was disturbance in the bush and the daughter appeared. Her mother called out to her, “eeek eeek oooo ooooo.”
For the sake of this narrative at this point I will impose two things on the story. The first is a will translate the bonobos language into English, which is a difficult task and not to be viewed as too literal a translation. The second is I will give them human names. Firstly to make them easily distinguishable and secondly because ape names are notoriously hard to spell.
“Luyando, my daughter, you’ve returned.”
The females embraced and it was then that Makemba, the mother, noticed that Luyando had not returned with empty paws. The object she carried startled the mother and she recoiled from the embrace.
“What is that you have brought into our home? Tell me it is not what it appears”
The pitch of her shrieks brought a small crowd to gather around them.
“Yes, mother it is,” exclaimed Luyando. And with this she threw down her burden in front of the group. All the bonobos gasped as they recognised a human hand, severed at the wrist and dried like a date. The skin like wrinkled leather and the nails black and broken. “And it comes with a strange story attached but please let me rest before I share it with you.”
Such a strange occurance in very unusual in the peaceful society of the bonobos, so by the time Luyando had rested quite a number or the tribe had gathered to hear her tale.
She explained that on her travels she had encountered a grey-cheeked mangabey that was in a terrible state. He had been the one who had given her the hand. The monkey as well as being in terrible state was quite hard to understand, having a strong accent but Luyando had managed to piece the story together. The mangabey had got the hand in West Africa. He insisted it was cursed and had been given evil powers by a Bokor, a vodou sorcerer who wished to show that Nana Buluku’s natural order for us all must not be tampered with. He explained that each of the fingers on the hand held three wishes for separate men. The mangabey had witnessed the death of one man who had wished his final wish for peace. The monkey had been greatly affected by this and so had stolen the hand away. Now he was distraught and did not know what to do with this terrible thing. Luyando had been intrigued and when the monkey pressed her to take charge of the hand, she agreed to. She had brought it back to her tribe so that the elders could decide what should be done.
While she had been speaking the younger apes had been peering closely at the hand. At this natural break in Luyando’s speech her small brother Lamia piped up. “ Look! Look! One of the nails is not wrinkled and black, maybe the last and smallest digit still holds 3 wishes!”
This caused a great deal or murmuring in the crowd. Makemba rose up onto her rear legs to address the congregation. Makemba was one of the most respected females in this matriarchal society so immediately quiet was resumed.
“No good can come from dabbling in the affairs of men,” she announced, “I propose we bury this horrible thing and talk no more about it.”
There was a general murmur of consent at this but then another bonobo piped up, “Could we not wish to find more food, for the discovery of mbungu trees? For plenitude in these hard times?”
“Maybe we can use the wishes for good,” an elderly male spoke, ”Who can say if this magic can work for us but man has done us great harm in the past with their wars and their hunger for our meat. Surely we should use the wishes to rid ourselves of them.”
Quite a commotion was caused by this comment. And a female retorted, “Already this hand is bringing about wickedness, are we going to lower ourselves to the level of man by wishing for destruction of living things?”
And so the discussion went on until night had fully enveloped them and only their glittering eyes could be seen in the starlight.
As you can imagine, the thought of such power in their grasp was too much for this society of primates to bear and at the end of the intense debate a consensus had been reached. Makemba’s wise words were well and truly forgotten and she sat quiet and sullen as Marien, a large and old male lifted up the hand to make the first wish.
I think you will be surprised at the decision they had made and it may not been immediately apparent why they started on this path. Mankind had long been a problem for the bonobos and once they discounted ridding themselves of man they had looked to other ways to counteract this threat. By a strange twist of reason it had been agreed that if bonobos became human then they could attempt to reconcile the dreadful behaviour of man, and cease the attacks on their kind.
Marien held the disembodied hand aloft in the thick blackness and rumbled in his deep voice “We wish for bonobos to become human”. The crowd of apes fell completely silent while many moments passed. After some time they began stirring and then twittering, the sounds of the bonobo’s laugh. Nothing had happened and all those gathered suddenly felt the ridiculous of the situation.
Makemba stirred herself.
“Well, I hope nothing does come of that.” She said as she swung herself into her usual sleeping place. All the rest of the bonobos followed her lead and after the last of the giggling chattering died down the only noises left in the forest were those of slumber and nightwalkers.
As dawn brightened the rainforest and the bonobos were thrust into wakefulness, they discovered they had not avoided the curse. For anyone watching the change would have been impossible to perceive, but the bonobos felt it as son as they returned to consciousness. They woke to find themselves embarrassed by the way their bodies were exposed. The usual morning greetings of friendly sexual play did not take place. Suddenly everything their society thrived on seemed wrong and dirty. The animals were in deep disarray. In bonobo society conflict and fear are dealt with through sex. Now the chimps looked at each other with confusion and anger.
Luyando howled at what she had brought upon her tribe and cried out in pain. Slowly they began to talk in low tones about this new world they found themselves in.
Makemba at last addressed the gathering, “There is no point in dwelling on what we have brought upon ourselves.” She cried, “ We must find away to solve it.”
At this everyone spoke at once and the discussion was as long and deep as it had been the following night.
You see, the bonobos were not yet ready to concede that the hand would only do them harm. It was concluded that their wish hadn’t been understood, that it needed refining. Despite Makemba’s efforts her pleas fell on death ears. Once more Marien held the hideous hand aloft. “We wish to be the dominant species,” he called out.
And so the bonobos spent the most unpleasant day of their lives so far. They didn’t leave the clearing to take their usual daylight ground. They stayed as a group while trying to remain alone and waited for night to fall. After what seemed like a lifetime darkness began to creep over the miserable beasts. Soon, once more the tribe were at rest.
As I’m sure you may well be expecting the bonobos did not awake to find things had been resolved.
Again the difference would have been unperceivable to an observer, but now when they awoke they felt the swell of superiority. They felt their dominance and power. Suddenly they had an outlet for the shame that still gripped them.
The bonobos were much more eager to talk this morning, to discuss what to do with their newly acquired superiority. Much talk was on how to move forward, how to embrace this progress. Eventually talk turned to the fact they had been forced into an uncomfortable and unfruitful territory. This had occurred a long time ago, when a colony of chimpanzees had waged war on them. The bonobos had been a peaceful tribe back then but suddenly they felt this injustice and were intent on putting it right. Soon the cry went up to take on the chimpanzees that lived in this much converted territory just over the river. These chimpanzee had long defended their territory and, being of a much more aggressive nature, had kept the bonobo at bay.
The group were shrieking in excitement when suddenly Makemba stood erect in the centre of the group, holding the gruesome hand aloft.
“Enough,” she shrieked. “We wish to go back to how we were before any of these strange ideas were in our heads.”
The mob swelled at this utterance. Angered to have had their plans disrupted and the decisions they had made discounted, they moved towards the female.
Alas Makemba never got to see night fall and witness her bonobo tribe awaking on this third day to confront their actions. If only her wish could have been granted sooner, the tragedy of Makemba could have been avoided.
On the third day the bonobos awoke and realised that although so little had happened they had been changed for ever and Nana Buluku’s natural order could never be completely restored.
The Raven's Claw
Sara's Story: The Raven’s Claw
Once upon a graveyard eerie, there I wandered damp and dreary,
Upset to be left waiting in a Parisian freak downpour.
I wandered quite impatient, through the gravestones of the ancient,
Suddenly there came so soft and faint, a sound like ‘raven’s claw’
‘Tis this weather’ I did mumble, ‘hissing like a raven’s claw,
Only wind and nothing more.’
With my patience wearing thin for no sign of friend or kin,
And the cold rain reaching skin, made my head severely sore.
After drinking nights in Paris I knew absinthe caused that hiss,
Still hung over from the abyss that was the night before.
The smell of liquorice still lingered from that night before.
To be repeated nevermore.
So I found myself alone, next to Sartre and Simone,
The names engraved in stone immortal there for evermore.
But, barely there through the gloom, a trinket on that timeless tomb,
Thrilled me, filled me with such doom I had never felt before,
A wave of nausea overwhelmed me I had never felt before.
A disembodied Raven’s claw.
But the black skin shining bright, in such an atmospheric light.
Bewitched me to the sight of that wretched bird less claw.
And I snatched it from its shrine, so eager it be mine,
Oh what a heinous, beastly crime, of which such a burden bore.
A stolen trinket from dead lovers of which such a burden bore.
Oh my precious Raven’s Claw.
As I stared at my new token, I was startled at the stillness broken,
By my friend so softly spoken, appearing through the dark downpour.
Staring at its twisted shrivelled skin, she said ‘that’s a cursed thing,
It gives your dreams just by wishing, so says the legends lore,
But I warn you against wishing, as does the legends lore.
For three wishes, and no more.’
Much I marvelled the unlikely tale; sure the ghastly foot would fail,
And her premonition little meaning- little relevancy bore.
How such a small and lifeless limb could grant a wish on just a whim
And of the end an omen grim, made no sense of common law.
This wretched dried bit of crow could not break common law,
Just a wish and nothing more.
Deep into that downpour peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The only wish I had, I dared to mention, this my life’s sole intention,
So with angst and apprehension I held aloft the Raven’s Claw,
And wished for artistic recognition on that awful Ravens Claw.
Asked and wished and nothing more.
Then me thought the air grew lighter, the clouds soft, and sky brighter.
But my friend was taut with horror at my gluttonous outpour,
‘Just the pinnacle of foolish, to want for fame, fame is selfish,
You’ll rue the day you ever wished upon that cursed Ravens Claw’
‘No fame can it bequeath me it is just a shriveled Ravens Claw’
‘Still and lifeless evermore.’
But my answer made no difference, though no omen came, or hindrance,
Only champagne followed champagne once we reached the English shore.
Through the galleries of the East End I became a London legend,
Round the coast, and middle England I could not have wished for more.
Though I kept that twisted talon I never thought to wish for more,
T’was coincidence, nothing more.
And I kept made my shameful secret, never thinking to regret
Never thinking of that graveyard or Parisian freak downpour,
Till one day grey and overcast, I felt the grip of that claw, my past
Squeeze my heart so tight, so fast, I fell writhing to the gallery floor.
In front of crowds I lay coughing, gagging on the gallery floor,
Blackness only, nothing more.
I awoke above the panicking crowd, on some invisible low cloud,
And a ghastly realization burned right to my bosom’s core
That I was a phantom, here a mist, oh that it all should come to this,
It was just one stupid wish on that wretched god forsaken claw
My soul, for just one wish, on that pointless craven’s claw,
In purgatory, forevermore.
There I flew engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing,
No voice to scream the horrors of missing flesh so new and raw
I was ghostly silence to my friend; all phantom speech remained unkenned,
So I watched my coffin descend, through the dark cemetery floor.
There my named engraved in stone upon that dark cemetery floor
Immortal there forevermore.
And in my lonely silenced hell, I could only watch my fame swell,
As death took me from artistic recognition to absolute adore,
From England, Europe, Santa Fe, then all across the USA,
My name swept wider everyday, and haunts me evermore.
That ghastly cursed foot had worked and haunts me evermore,
Immortal now, nothing more.
Fowl foot thought I, could it be, this claw has two wishes left to me
I will wish for life, wish to live and breathe and nothing more.
For living flesh on living bone, I will beat this claw of crone,
No long ethereal days alone, I will be of substance soon once more,
Let my heart beat up a moment I will be of substance soon once more.
And defeat that Raven’s Claw.
My friend had left that claw of doom, a top my humble Highgate tomb
As a warning to all others who would think to wish for more
So with angst and apprehension, a wish, barely dared to mention
A wish, of such strange intention, oh raven release me I implore,
Give me flesh and bone and breath, I beg you, I implore.
Blackness now, nothing more.
Have I awoken? Am I still dead? I feel breathe though lungs of lead.
What is this blackness around my head, and silken velvet floor?
Six walls seem to encage me, oh claw of crone you enrage me,
Once again you upstage me, am I now your coffin boar,
This eternal trapped damnation, as your immortal coffin boar,
Captured here forevermore.
As panic held me, that air tight room, beating out my timeless tomb,
Terror filled me – thrilled me such fantastic torture never felt before,
As my hand touched foreign skin, oh the evil wretched thing,
Here to live with me in sin, here to mock me just once more.
But a third wish, oh the third wish, made me hold it just once more,
I wish abyss and nothing more.
The rhyming scheme of this was appropriated from the poem below, which is well worth reading if you dont know it.
Once upon a graveyard eerie, there I wandered damp and dreary,
Upset to be left waiting in a Parisian freak downpour.
I wandered quite impatient, through the gravestones of the ancient,
Suddenly there came so soft and faint, a sound like ‘raven’s claw’
‘Tis this weather’ I did mumble, ‘hissing like a raven’s claw,
Only wind and nothing more.’
With my patience wearing thin for no sign of friend or kin,
And the cold rain reaching skin, made my head severely sore.
After drinking nights in Paris I knew absinthe caused that hiss,
Still hung over from the abyss that was the night before.
The smell of liquorice still lingered from that night before.
To be repeated nevermore.
So I found myself alone, next to Sartre and Simone,
The names engraved in stone immortal there for evermore.
But, barely there through the gloom, a trinket on that timeless tomb,
Thrilled me, filled me with such doom I had never felt before,
A wave of nausea overwhelmed me I had never felt before.
A disembodied Raven’s claw.
But the black skin shining bright, in such an atmospheric light.
Bewitched me to the sight of that wretched bird less claw.
And I snatched it from its shrine, so eager it be mine,
Oh what a heinous, beastly crime, of which such a burden bore.
A stolen trinket from dead lovers of which such a burden bore.
Oh my precious Raven’s Claw.
As I stared at my new token, I was startled at the stillness broken,
By my friend so softly spoken, appearing through the dark downpour.
Staring at its twisted shrivelled skin, she said ‘that’s a cursed thing,
It gives your dreams just by wishing, so says the legends lore,
But I warn you against wishing, as does the legends lore.
For three wishes, and no more.’
Much I marvelled the unlikely tale; sure the ghastly foot would fail,
And her premonition little meaning- little relevancy bore.
How such a small and lifeless limb could grant a wish on just a whim
And of the end an omen grim, made no sense of common law.
This wretched dried bit of crow could not break common law,
Just a wish and nothing more.
Deep into that downpour peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.
The only wish I had, I dared to mention, this my life’s sole intention,
So with angst and apprehension I held aloft the Raven’s Claw,
And wished for artistic recognition on that awful Ravens Claw.
Asked and wished and nothing more.
Then me thought the air grew lighter, the clouds soft, and sky brighter.
But my friend was taut with horror at my gluttonous outpour,
‘Just the pinnacle of foolish, to want for fame, fame is selfish,
You’ll rue the day you ever wished upon that cursed Ravens Claw’
‘No fame can it bequeath me it is just a shriveled Ravens Claw’
‘Still and lifeless evermore.’
But my answer made no difference, though no omen came, or hindrance,
Only champagne followed champagne once we reached the English shore.
Through the galleries of the East End I became a London legend,
Round the coast, and middle England I could not have wished for more.
Though I kept that twisted talon I never thought to wish for more,
T’was coincidence, nothing more.
And I kept made my shameful secret, never thinking to regret
Never thinking of that graveyard or Parisian freak downpour,
Till one day grey and overcast, I felt the grip of that claw, my past
Squeeze my heart so tight, so fast, I fell writhing to the gallery floor.
In front of crowds I lay coughing, gagging on the gallery floor,
Blackness only, nothing more.
I awoke above the panicking crowd, on some invisible low cloud,
And a ghastly realization burned right to my bosom’s core
That I was a phantom, here a mist, oh that it all should come to this,
It was just one stupid wish on that wretched god forsaken claw
My soul, for just one wish, on that pointless craven’s claw,
In purgatory, forevermore.
There I flew engaged in guessing but no syllable expressing,
No voice to scream the horrors of missing flesh so new and raw
I was ghostly silence to my friend; all phantom speech remained unkenned,
So I watched my coffin descend, through the dark cemetery floor.
There my named engraved in stone upon that dark cemetery floor
Immortal there forevermore.
And in my lonely silenced hell, I could only watch my fame swell,
As death took me from artistic recognition to absolute adore,
From England, Europe, Santa Fe, then all across the USA,
My name swept wider everyday, and haunts me evermore.
That ghastly cursed foot had worked and haunts me evermore,
Immortal now, nothing more.
Fowl foot thought I, could it be, this claw has two wishes left to me
I will wish for life, wish to live and breathe and nothing more.
For living flesh on living bone, I will beat this claw of crone,
No long ethereal days alone, I will be of substance soon once more,
Let my heart beat up a moment I will be of substance soon once more.
And defeat that Raven’s Claw.
My friend had left that claw of doom, a top my humble Highgate tomb
As a warning to all others who would think to wish for more
So with angst and apprehension, a wish, barely dared to mention
A wish, of such strange intention, oh raven release me I implore,
Give me flesh and bone and breath, I beg you, I implore.
Blackness now, nothing more.
Have I awoken? Am I still dead? I feel breathe though lungs of lead.
What is this blackness around my head, and silken velvet floor?
Six walls seem to encage me, oh claw of crone you enrage me,
Once again you upstage me, am I now your coffin boar,
This eternal trapped damnation, as your immortal coffin boar,
Captured here forevermore.
As panic held me, that air tight room, beating out my timeless tomb,
Terror filled me – thrilled me such fantastic torture never felt before,
As my hand touched foreign skin, oh the evil wretched thing,
Here to live with me in sin, here to mock me just once more.
But a third wish, oh the third wish, made me hold it just once more,
I wish abyss and nothing more.
The rhyming scheme of this was appropriated from the poem below, which is well worth reading if you dont know it.
The Raven, Edgar Allen Poe
The Raven
[First published in 1845]
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
[First published in 1845]
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.'
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,'
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!'
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!'
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.'
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow will he leave me, as my hopes have flown before.'
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.'
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of "Never-nevermore."'
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.'
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!'
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.'
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
The Collective's Blog 2
This is The Collective's second blog. Due to technical problems that involve losing out individual identities we can no longer access the first blog. It's still good to look at and can be found at
http://www.thecollectivesblog.blogspot.com/
Thanks you for your patience.
http://www.thecollectivesblog.blogspot.com/
Thanks you for your patience.
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