W.B Yeats. Gone a bit over the top in Sligo?

redarmyblues

il gatto wrote: »

Yeats is not Shakespeare. No comparison. I'm not having a dig at his work but Shakespeare's fame is in a whole different league.
I think you do misunderstand the thread slightly. Nobody is saying not to use Yeats to bring tourism. They're saying it shouldn't be the almost sole focus. It's insufficient and it's getting unseemly. Every new Yeats scheme has diminishing returns as his pulling power is limited.
And Spike Milligan actually set a novel in Sligo, "Puckoon" about the eponymous village "several and a half miles North East of Sligo". He also spoke about Sligo in interviews and was an Irish citizen.

Yeats is not Shakespeare right, no comparison wrong, he is up there with the very best in the English Language, and if you don't believe me, believe James Longenbach. “Yeats matters today in the way that Shakespeare or Jonson or Dickinson matter” or TS Elliot "one of those few whose history is the history of their own time, who are a part of the consciousness of an age which cannot be understood without them", and even if he is cat altogether the lake district sells itself on William Wordsworth Sligo has every right to do the same with Yeats.

il gatto

redarmyblues wrote: »

Yeats is not Shakespeare right, no comparison wrong, he is up there with the very best in the English Language, and if you don't believe me, believe James Longenbach. “Yeats matters today in the way that Shakespeare or Jonson or Dickinson matter” or TS Elliot "one of those few whose history is the history of their own time, who are a part of the consciousness of an age which cannot be understood without them", and even if he is cat altogether the lake district sells itself on William Wordsworth Sligo has every right to do the same with Yeats.

And again, nobody has said otherwise.
I've clearly stated I'm not questioning his importance. Nor that we should use him to bring in tourists. Some have said they don't like his writing as is their prerogative.
But we seem to have reached "peak Yeats". It's appears to be the only damn thing they can come up with. In fact, they've been quite active over the years in stifling things. Remember the Sligo Bay cruise ship? Stopped. The water bus on Lough Gill? Made to operate from Leitrim. Parking charges? Dearer than most comparable towns and apply 7 days a week. Public toilets? None. Pedestrianise and renovate the town's Main Street? Nah. Stick some pipes along the sides.
But we had Eileen Magnier commentating on cutting a cake for Yeats 150th birthday.
This year we have the Fleadh again to remind us how much money tourism can bring. Will the local powers that be use it as a springboard to finally get a share of a market that pumps 1.2 billion into the south west each year? Will they f@ck. They'll get paid either way.

Carson10

il gatto wrote: »

And again, nobody has said otherwise.
I've clearly stated I'm not questioning his importance. Nor that we should use him to bring in tourists. Some have said they don't like his writing as is their prerogative.
But we seem to have reached "peak Yeats". It's appears to be the only damn thing they can come up with. In fact, they've been quite active over the years in stifling things. Remember the Sligo Bay cruise ship? Stopped. The water bus on Lough Gill? Made to operate from Leitrim. Parking charges? Dearer than most comparable towns and apply 7 days a week. Public toilets? None. Pedestrianise and renovate the town's Main Street? Nah. Stick some pipes along the sides.
But we had Eileen Magnier commentating on cutting a cake for Yeats 150th birthday.
This year we have the Fleadh again to remind us how much money tourism can bring. Will the local powers that be use it as a springboard to finally get a share of a market that pumps 1.2 billion into the south west each year? Will they f@ck. They'll get paid either way.

Yes, Yeats has reached his peak in Sligo and is worn out at this stage. The Sligo Champion has gotten about a months worth of photos every week from the Yeats birthday celebrations and Joanna Lumley.

No reflection on the quality of his work or his poetic status among others.

Kettleson

redarmyblues wrote: »

Yeats is not Shakespeare right, no comparison wrong, he is up there with the very best in the English Language, and if you don't believe me, believe James Longenbach. “Yeats matters today in the way that Shakespeare or Jonson or Dickinson matter” or TS Elliot "one of those few whose history is the history of their own time, who are a part of the consciousness of an age which cannot be understood without them", and even if he is cat altogether the lake district sells itself on William Wordsworth Sligo has every right to do the same with Yeats.

I wouldn't pay much attention to what Mr Longenbach has to say on the matter. His is only one critical opinion and is not without personal and professional bias.

I would also strongly challenge the statement that "the Lake District sells itself on William Wordsworth". That is nonsense. (Do you have a reference for that?)

The "Lake Poets" of whom Wordsworth is one, are closely associated with the Lake District. The Lake District is however, quite able to "sell" itself on the natural beauty of its lakes, wildlife, forest and fells. Sligo has a lot of that too.

il gatto

Kettleson wrote: »

I wouldn't pay much attention to what Mr Longenbach has to say on the matter. His is only one critical opinion and is not without personal and professional bias.

I would also strongly challenge the statement that "the Lake District sells itself on William Wordsworth". That is nonsense. (Do you have a reference for that?)

The "Lake Poets" of whom Wordsworth is one, are closely associated with the Lake District. The Lake District is however, quite able to "sell" itself on the natural beauty of its lakes, wildlife, forest and fells. Sligo has a lot of that too.

The poetry helped launch the industry there, along with the advent of railways, but nowadays it's tourists looking for scenery, history, hospitality and activities. Sligo is still 150 years behind and relying on poems.

redarmyblues

Kettleson wrote: »

I wouldn't pay much attention to what Mr Longenbach has to say on the matter. His is only one critical opinion and is not without personal and professional bias.

I would also strongly challenge the statement that "the Lake District sells itself on William Wordsworth". That is nonsense. (Do you have a reference for that?)

The "Lake Poets" of whom Wordsworth is one, are closely associated with the Lake District. The Lake District is however, quite able to "sell" itself on the natural beauty of its lakes, wildlife, forest and fells. Sligo has a lot of that too.

I am afraid I prefer Longenbach.'s opinions to yours, I base my opinion on the lake district on having visited the place and ever since I left it every time I see a daffodil I reach for my weedkiller.

Kettleson

Fear not, rab, I am very accepting of your preference for Mr Logenbachs opinion.

I would however urge you to use eco-friendly weed killer, as the effect of chemical weed killers on the environment can be most cat.

codan

It appears Thoor Ballylee - Yeats Museum Co.Galway has got involved with promoting itself as the home of Yeats also.

They even got Colin Farrel to dress up as Yeats (1:54)
https://www.dropbox.com/s/m3x6n0jj0w9998d/Yeats%20-%20wi%20titles.mp4?oref=e&n=15412723

Love to see Colin Farrel come do the same next year in Sligo

Kettleson

They done good. Fair play to them, he lived there for a good few years so credibility not in doubt. Now I'm off to the hazel wood as there's a fire in me noggin.

Kettleson

..and for good measure.

The Tower: WB Yeats

What shall I do with this absurdity --
O heart, O troubled heart -- this caricature,
Decrepit age that has been tied to me
As to a dog's tail?
Never had I more
Excited, passionate, fantastical
Imagination, nor an ear and eye
That more expected the impossible --
No, not in boyhood when with rod and fly,
Or the humbler worm, I climbed Ben Bulben's back
And had the livelong summer day to spend.
It seems that I must bid the Muse go pack,
Choose Plato and Plotinus for a friend
Until imagination, ear and eye,
Can be content with argument and deal
In abstract things; or be derided by
A sort of battered kettle at the heel.

II
I pace upon the battlements and stare
On the foundations of a house, or where
Tree, like a sooty finger, starts from the earth;
And send imagination forth
Under the day's declining beam, and call
Images and memories
From ruin or from ancient trees,
For I would ask a question of them all.

Beyond that ridge lived Mrs. French, and once
When every silver candlestick or sconce
Lit up the dark mahogany and the wine.
A serving-man, that could divine
That most respected lady's every wish,
Ran and with the garden shears
Clipped an insolent farmer's ears
And brought them in a little covered dish.

Some few remembered still when I was young
A peasant girl commended by a Song,
Who'd lived somewhere upon that rocky place,
And praised the colour of her face,
And had the greater joy in praising her,
Remembering that, if walked she there,
Farmers jostled at the fair
So great a glory did the song confer.

And certain men, being maddened by those rhymes,
Or else by toasting her a score of times,
Rose from the table and declared it right
To test their fancy by their sight;
But they mistook the brightness of the moon
For the prosaic light of day --
Music had driven their wits astray --
And one was drowned in the great bog of Cloone.

Strange, but the man who made the song was blind;
Yet, now I have considered it, I find
That nothing strange; the tragedy began
With Homer that was a blind man,
And Helen has all living hearts betrayed.
O may the moon and sunlight seem
One inextricable beam,
For if I triumph I must make men mad.

And I myself created Hanrahan
And drove him drunk or sober through the dawn
From somewhere in the neighbouring cottages.
Caught by an old man's juggleries
He stumbled, tumbled, fumbled to and fro
And had but broken knees for hire
And horrible splendour of desire;
I thought it all out twenty years ago:

Good fellows shuffled cards in an old bawn;
And when that ancient ruffian's turn was on
He so bewitched the cards under his thumb
That all but the one card became
A pack of hounds and not a pack of cards,
And that he changed into a hare.
Hanrahan rose in frenzy there
And followed up those baying creatures towards --

O towards I have forgotten what -- enough!
I must recall a man that neither love
Nor music nor an enemy's clipped ear
Could, he was so harried, cheer;
A figure that has grown so fabulous
There's not a neighbour left to say
When he finished his dog's day:
An ancient bankrupt master of this house.

Before that ruin came, for centuries,
Rough men-at-arms, cross-gartered to the knees
Or shod in iron, climbed the narrow stairs,
And certain men-at-arms there were
Whose images, in the Great Memory stored,
Come with loud cry and panting breast
To break upon a sleeper's rest
While their great wooden dice beat on the board.

As I would question all, come all who can;
Come old, necessitous. half-mounted man;
And bring beauty's blind rambling celebrant;
The red man the juggler sent
Through God-forsaken meadows; Mrs. French,
Gifted with so fine an ear;
The man drowned in a bog's mire,
When mocking Muses chose the country wench.

Did all old men and women, rich and poor,
Who trod upon these rocks or passed this door,
Whether in public or in secret rage
As I do now against old age?
But I have found an answer in those eyes
That are impatient to be gone;
Go therefore; but leave Hanrahan,
For I need all his mighty memories.

Old lecher with a love on every wind,
Bring up out of that deep considering mind
All that you have discovered in the grave,
For it is certain that you have
Reckoned up every unforeknown, unseeing
plunge, lured by a softening eye,
Or by a touch or a sigh,
Into the labyrinth of another's being;

Does the imagination dwell the most
Upon a woman won or woman lost.?
If on the lost, admit you turned aside
From a great labyrinth out of pride,
Cowardice, some silly over-subtle thought
Or anything called conscience once;
And that if memory recur, the sun's
Under eclipse and the day blotted out.

III
It is time that I wrote my will;
I choose upstanding men
That climb the streams until
The fountain leap, and at dawn
Drop their cast at the side
Of dripping stone; I declare
They shall inherit my pride,
The pride of people that were
Bound neither to Cause nor to State.
Neither to slaves that were spat on,
Nor to the tyrants that spat,
The people of Burke and of Grattan
That gave, though free to refuse --
pride, like that of the morn,
When the headlong light is loose,
Or that of the fabulous horn,
Or that of the sudden shower
When all streams are dry,
Or that of the hour
When the swan must fix his eye
Upon a fading gleam,
Float out upon a long
Last reach of glittering stream
And there sing his last song.
And I declare my faith:
I mock Plotinus' thought
And cry in Plato's teeth,
Death and life were not
Till man made up the whole,
Made lock, stock and barrel
Out of his bitter soul,
Aye, sun and moon and star, all,
And further add to that
That, being dead, we rise,
Dream and so create
Translunar paradise.

I have prepared my peace
With learned Italian things
And the proud stones of Greece,
Poet's imaginings
And memories of love,
Memories of the words of women,
All those things whereof
Man makes a superhuman,
Mirror-resembling dream.

As at the loophole there
The daws chatter and scream,
And drop twigs layer upon layer.
When they have mounted up,
The mother bird will rest
On their hollow top,
And so warm her wild nest.

I leave both faith and pride
To young upstanding men
Climbing the mountain-side,
That under bursting dawn
They may drop a fly;
Being of that metal made
Till it was broken by
This sedentary trade.

Now shall I make my soul,
Compelling it to study
In a learned school
Till the wreck of body,
Slow decay of blood,
Testy delirium
Or dull decrepitude,
Or what worse evil come --
The death of friends, or death
Of every brilliant eye
That made a catch in the breath -- .
Seem but the clouds of the sky
When the horizon fades;
Or a bird's sleepy cry
Among the deepening shades.