coflyfr - Tumblr blog

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Performing Coflyfr

Time is notlinear; we experience it as linear. Its ubiquity dictates nothing is new. Everything has already been written - it is just waiting to be discovered.

The long poem Coflyfr is not created to be beautiful, but with a specific purpose in mind. Language and words from across time are knotted together; a net is fashioned to capture slivers of future times flashing through narrative depths.

Coflyfr’s author is not named, instead multiple voices are spliced into the poem, and inspiration is taken from various sources. Some are cited in the ‘about’ section or in the poems.

During the performance the ancient Cymraeg bardic tradition of channeling past poets becomes manifest. The mythical poetic persona Taliesin speaks; creates awen (inspiration); reaches out across time, language and dimensions.  

The 20-minute multimedia piece of performance, film, sound and conceptual art installation was developed from this blog (the blog format was specifically chosen because it is written moving forwards through time, but read backwards). 

There are two elements to the exhibition: the performance - with sound and a film projected across the performer; and the conceptual art that remains - although some of the plates are smashed during the show (see below for photographs and an excerpt from the film).

  Coflyfr was first performed as part of the Tales We Tell exhibition at UnDegUn gallery in Wrecsam on 30th January 2015.

For bookings email: words@sophiemckeand.com

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More photos of the Coflyfr installation.

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Part of the performance/exhibition from Coflyfr at The Tales We Tell exhibition currently on at UnDegUn throughout February 2015.

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Part of Coflyfr from The Tales We Tell exhibition at UnDegUn, Wrecsam. Exhibition of the work is from 30th January - 28th February 2015. 

Music by Hood Flair: soundcloud.com/hood-flair

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baedd gwyllt

what you hear<<<<<<                                                >>>>>>what you know (be carful in valuing words)               …I once met a man & when I shook his hand great cities appeared buildingempires is not my craft_this is a man to fear_we will not meet again                                                       ((n0t ttthe healLLllerr. hE c//laiimsss)) As Manawydan I craft saddles // blue as Llasar Llaesgyngwyd’s// 

                                                                          As Manawydan I stitch shoes                                                                              {of finest Cordovan leather}            Ουδέν μονιμότερον του προσωρινού ‘she must have stolen something’                          when gold and jade fill the hall                                                           they cannot be guarded                                                                                  {I take only what is mine}

                                                                                                                                                                         the moon                                                                              whispers                                                  poems                         down 2me A’m swynwys sywyt sywydon kyn byt                                                                        it seems to me if you can’t trust                                                                                         you can’t be trusted*                                   there is nothing more to say                                     <<here begins Coflyfr >>

* it seems to me: Ben Folds

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on assembly lines & ephemera

shredding and slicing, dividing and subdividing, the clocks of Harley Street                nibbled at the June day, counselled submission, upheld                                                 authority, and pointed out in chorus               the supreme advantages of a sense of proportion                  there is no truth (onlyyy fashion) 2fall                       in                              &                out of                                (eyecreatetimelessnessess)                                    constant, slow movement teaches us to keep working                                                                     like a small creek that stays clear,                                                              that doesn’t stagnate, but finds a way                                                           through numerous details, deliberately*

                                   [chüeh sheng ch'i chih]                        ¿¿Ywrite poetictruthsY?? true words resemble their opposites                 ((&unpack cases of drama&)) eyeweave daisychains llygad llo mawr*                         blown to the wind                         ἐφήμερα                                   this is the second poetic truth There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.* *Sherlock Holmes *Rumi 

*all plant names taken from Llyfr Natur, Iolo Williams a Bethan Wyn Jones.

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Poetomachia/The Lie (remix)

And there was a battle in heaven, Michael and his Angels fought against the dragon, and the dragon fought and his Angels. But they prevailed not, neither was their place found anymore in heaven.                                                                                               Kymry prif diryeit                                                                                              rann rygoll bwyeit And the great dragon, that old serpent, called the devil and Satan, was cast out, which deceiveth all the world; he was even cast into the earth, and his Angels were cast out with him.

                                                                                                           j’accuse!                                         That is not my name!                                  (I know mynAme)                                            <<knowTheLie>>                      {under fifteen-feet of pure-white-snow}                                                                                    truth is for the righteous                                                                        (I am what is left) &when the darkness engulfs you                               I a m t h e l i g h t &when the brightness blinds you                               Iamtheshade

                                    the Cymru will be the worst of the wretches                                                      a group having utterly lost [God’s] blessing                                                     {alone in understanding}                                                                                                    <<&satire&>>                ¿between yes and no | how much difference?                                             try not                       do (or do not)               there is no try*                                   the antichrist is risen                                                                                           where there is truth                                                                                                      I Am The Lie *Yoda

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the madness of Sarah Mansfield

for he that overcometh and keepeth my works unto the end, to him I will give power over nations; And he shall rule them with a rod of iron, and as the vessel of the potter, shall they be broken; <poetaster>                                                 (& who was broken by the words of Lao Tzu?)                   this is the first poetic truth &t i m e - l e s s& but it was her manner that annoyed him; timid; hard; arrogant; prudish.                                 ‘The death of the soul.’

                                              Rhyfedaf yn llyfreu                                             nas gwdant yn diheu                                              eneit pwy y hadneu &when the time comes                                 0aroundaroundaround0                 I will chAnge mymind                                  wash brokenpottery to sand//create beaches //             make whole\\&holy\\

"And just at that moment I had reached the point of ecstasy that I always wanted to reach, which was the complete step across chronological time into timeless shadows, and wonderment in the bleakness of the mortal realm, and the sensation of death kicking at my heels to move on, with a phantom dogging its own heels, and myself hurrying to a plank where all the angels dove off and flew into the holy void of uncreated emptiness, the potent and inconceivable radiancies shining in bring Mind Essence, innumerable lotus-lands falling open in the magic mothswarm of heaven. I could hear an indescribable seething roar which wasn't in my ear but everywhere and had nothing to do with sounds. I realized that I had died and been reborn numberless times but just didn't remember especially because the transitions from life to death and back to life are so ghostly easy, a magical action for naught, like falling asleep and waking up again a million times, the utter casualness and deep ignorance of it. I realized it was only because of the stability of the intrinsic Mind that these ripples of birth and death took place, like the action of the wind on a sheet of pure, serene, mirror-like water. I felt sweet, swinging bliss, like a big shot of heroin in the mainline vein; like a gulp of wine late in the afternoon and it makes you shudder; my feet tingled. I thought I was going to die the very next moment. But I didn't die...”                               [UhAaave insuf/..ffIIcie}}nt f.unds ffor_??thistttransaakt’n] But Proportion has a sister             less smiling                           more formidable, a Goddess         Conversion is her name                                                                       &she feasts                                                              on the wills                                                  of the weakly                                   loving to impress     to impose//          adoring her own features stamped on the face of the populace*

//allof this\\ has ALreaDyhappened                in dreams                          mewn breuddwydion                                                        in dreams

*Mrs Dalloway

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timezones: Rhi

(the road not taken)

                                        For she was beautiful - her beauty made                                                The bright world dim, and everything beside                                         Seemed like the fleeting image of a shade

He then asked me if I wasn’t interested in changing my life. I replied you could never change your life, that in any case, one life was as good as another and that I wasn’t at all dissatisfied with mine here.*                               (He looked upset) My muse is not a horse,                    and I am in no horse race                                         and if indeed she was,                                              still I would not harness her to this  tumbrel -                                              this bloody cart of                                              severed heads and                                              glittering prizes.* I realized that I’d destroyed the balance of the day and the perfect silence of this beach where I’d been happy. And I fired four more times at a lifeless body and the bullets sank in without leaving a mark. And it was like giving four sharp knocks at the door of unhappiness.*                       The Ocean-Nymphs and Hamadryades,                           Orreads and Naiads with long weedy locks,                       Offered to do her bidding through the seas,                           Under the earth and in the hollow rocks                                                       …I don’t know who I’m supposed to be                                                                                               she whispered                                                                                                     that’s okay                                                                                                         I replied                                                                                 neither do I… Then Pooh climbed a little further… and a little further… and then just a little further. By that time he had thought of another song…

*He then asked me/ I realized that: Camus, The Outsider *My muse is not a horse: Nick Cave

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secession (milvus milvus)

*on songlines: Jay Griffiths *the ballads/it is ideas: Paul Kingsnorth

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collage

I am digesting: pg 27 this is time: pg 50 superfluous: pg 184 Longwinded speech: Lao Tzu verse 5, translated by Stephen Addiss and Stanley Lombardo. this stark, bare: D H Lawrence Author’s note I think I shall make this the last note. I am always, upon reflection, disappointed when I’ve written these explanations. Who wants to be spoon-fed? (Or to spoon-feed?) That is not why I write. Coflyfr’s voice appeared immediately. It is not my voice, I am not sure how this happened, but decide it best to just write. Trusting this process has been the most difficult part. This is why I write additional notes, you see, more than anything, I want you to understand. From now on though, I shall weave the explanations through the poems, rather than write notes. This is the last example: On 1st September in the notes to A Modest Proposal I wrote ‘although I was always hewing rock’. I don’t know where that came from, it just jumped out at the end but I liked it, so it remained (although I wish I’d had the foresight to put it in the poem). Today I read the introduction to D H Lawrence in Vol. 1 of The Norton Anthology of Modern and Contemporary Poetry. He is quoted as writing of verses chipped earnestly out of the living rock of feeling, and poetry’s rocky directness of statement. I’ve highlighted this time-slip in the line “I only read this today(?!)” It is neater, more compact, truer, than all of this longwinded waffle at the end. Is this prescience through art? I would argue yes. And so Coflyfr continues… it is time to cast off the stabilisers and pedal like crazy into The Wild Common! “The spirit has to break through the egoism and become, as a line in one poem says, ‘Not I, but the wind that blows through me!’”

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vouz oubliez

                                                                         Uffern cannot be measured                                                                                             [does not exist]                                             how do I know?                                   I tz’u                  like this! & herein lies the rub…                 question! question! //performonkey// question! question! neu a wdant lyfyryon do bookmen know pan daw nos a lliant where the day and tide come from                                                        (godsofsun&moon)

**how does it come so that you don’t see it?**

                                                                     the answer cannot be written                                                   makes fools of us all                                                                           you know this! I am Taliesin                                        (who am not) *Anne Waldman: Manatee/Humanity * Prif gyuarch geluyd: all Middle Welsh and translations taken from Marged Haycocks’ Legendary Poems from the Book of Taliesin

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a modest proposal on the plight of the creative artist

                                                 Le Poëte est semblable au price des nuées                                                     Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l’archer; ::I find it hard to live in the world::                         &wHhere c/an..genIIus find Ahome??                                                        {except in a heart moved only by song} these are not my words such an age of creativity can only beget minds overflowing with free association …there is no other conclusion Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées, Ses ailes de géant l’empéchent de marcher.

*The Satires of Juvenal VII lines 45-48 **Of course today’s writers are so organised we do not even need the skills of an editor to compile our anthologies. Notes on time: The main part of this poem was written yesterday (Saturday 31st August) but I needed to sleep on it as there was something missing.

Upon waking this morning it also occurred to me that the blog entry Further Experimentation on 5th August is about free association. Prior to weaving this poem the idea of free association was just a vague shadow dancing throughout the words (woods), dissipating as a murder of crows whenever I drew too close. I realise now that all of Coflyfr’s poems are based around this concept, but it is only through writing A modest proposal that this thought has become solid (although I was always hewing rock).

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Entfremdung

*Ond wele: T H Parry-Williams *Dostoevsky: Devils, Wordsworth Classics pg83

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further experimentations

And this: A supercomputer is a computer at the frontline of contemporary processing capacity--particularly speed of calculation. Distributed computing is a field of computer science that studies distributed systems. A distributed system is a software system in which components located on networked computers communicate and coordinate their actions by passing messages. The components interact with each other in order to achieve a common goal. It’s unlikely that I’ll use all of these texts in the final piece. These are just thoughts. I’m not asking you to write to me, or to add to this, just to read it, and draw your own conclusions. Then I will write, and we will see what we will see…

Final note: On 3rd August I used a classic Welsh idiom: Marw yn y harnais. Which means to die working. I spelt it wrong - I wrote Mawr yn y harnais. Mawr = big Marw = dead The mistake has been rectified!

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eilio

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Lotophagi