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J F Keane

Email: j_f_keane@talktalk.net
Updated: Mon, 4 Mar 2013 08:24 pm
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Biography

ICT specialist with management/ICT background and a wholly unrelated love of poetry. Kind of like a modern Novalis, if I may make so bold. I am very interested in reprising traditional forms of literature. However, I firmly believe there is nothing wrong with extolling Traditional Heroic virtues in art, and my work is not satirical but taut with existential sincerity. To live nobly in pursuit of honor, dying gloriously to leave an everlasting fame - these define the heroic life, and the urban underclass alone embody those values in the modern world. This is why I write about them in epic terms - truly, they are our Homeric heroes. Why should the State have a monopoly on violence? I am very interested in Traditionalist, anti-bourgeois thinkers like Ernst Juenger, Oswald Spengler, Julius Evola and Rene Guenon - men utterly at odds with contemporary civilization. I am also greatly interested in the aesthetic analyses of Martin Heidegger, who considered poetry to be the key to Being itself, and the poet a kind of seer. I like Homer, Anglo-Saxon poetry, Stephan George, Holderlein, Novalis, Josef von Eichendorf, Goethe, Longfellow, Chatterton, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Keats, Yeats, Ezra Pound and a little Philip Larkin. My poetic taste is conservative and Traditional, with little time for formless self-expression: Scorn the sort now growing up All out of shape from toe to top, Their unremembering hearts and heads The base-born products of base beds. The Drunken Bag-Lady's Arcadia - a fairly definitive collection of my poetry - can be had here: http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/the-drunken-bag-ladys-arcadia/12545367 Sir Phillip Sydney dedicated his 'Arcadia' to the Countess of Pembroke; I dedicate mine to a drunken bag-lady. This harsh distinction seems meet and fitting, given our respective social circumstances.

Samples

Game Come live with me, and be my love, For I am upper-middle class; I can provide the best for you Until your blooms of beauty pass; I will buy you a silver car Whose burnished bonnet blinds the sun, That prowls the road with leopard grace And never leaves a race unwon; You will not waste your youth in work, But steep those tender years in wine; You must not grow outworn by care Nor old and stooped, before your time; Since private healthcare shall be yours, These pretty pleasures long should prove - So take them while you’re young and still Can live with me, and be my love. Honestus All Rome demanded bold resolve From those about to die: One must consult with fortitude The Colosseum's cry He must not shun the stooping blade, But meet it with his strength And savor like a lover's kiss The coldness of its length, And in the cool release of death Should sink, with honor bless'd, - Like some contented traveler Reclining into rest. Shipwreck I’ve seen that bloody river, foam flecked, dark With horror in my troubled warehouse eyes And known the secret place where childhood dies Amidst the screaming slurge of clotted deeps In frantic terror, to be heard no more; But I beheld, not long ago, in sleep Beset by winter waves, yet quite secure Rolled berthless into raging midnight war Where exiled ghosts of vanished childhood weep, A crowded vessel mighty as the sea Of such a kind had not been seen before The boat set sail beneath a stormy sky Heavy with thick clouds, a frozen face It sought the vision of another place. A shower fraught with shadows blew us by And tossed the tresses of the waves to white; The rolling waters sighed no lullaby But gazing hopeful from the lookout’s height The countless vessels passing in the night; Until at last I saw a city rise, With countless shining wonders; bright as flame The crowd rushed out and lost themselves to sight, But no ship came again to native lands And so my life was left to pine, and die. I drifted through the changing phase. Why, why Could such a vessel, served by eager hands Be dragged from windward to a silent grave While mewing flocks of seabirds wheeled nearby? I stand upon the dock, too late in vain And watch the sinking sunlight blood the waves By rusting scaffolds at the edge of day; But never will that fateful ship return For she, returning homeward passed away. Agoraphobia (After Spenser) I stand half-blent upon these lofty walls And gaze across the world; wayting weare A welkin breeze touches the woxen leaves That crawl, fast-dight, over the stones below; Trinal stormcouds gather from the south; The snaggy wooded hills transmew dark green As sandstone, swept by stound and thrillant winds Throws sulleyn sky-dust over thrusting snubbes. The moat stormed by habilliment of ferns, Its watch of hardiment now forgotten: Then griesly fear hews grenning on the wind – The blood within my chest grows hartlesse chill – The fields afore a carpet far below, Unfolding far exanimate away They move into horizons ghostly pale And alchemed others lit by summer sun. A scruzed feeling like to lust-sick love With shend, eddying tides of vertigo Then makes me quav’ring think that I could fall Amate from off the suface of the world; Those surviewed, distant, bright and silver fields Beneath the suborned sun merge with the sky And randon I as they y-melt away Into the maugre cloudes, into the world, Into the perlous storm, into the rain That freshly argent now begins to fall. My feet are hazardize froze to the grass, My trembling hand is clutching at the rail, As unrecoyled I cling onto the world That I, like hills, and ruins in the grass Might never fall away into the sky From off my fraughten, whirling, heady height: And only more I fear the trussed storm Will strike me from the aer’s enlofted perch, That wyzled winds will grow and ever blow And, grinding at the castle with their teeth Must cast me off into their sweep, or down Far down and dreaming all the hurtlen way To smash myself forespent upon soft grass And rolling hills, among the grazing cows. Suburbia Years of silence Framed in tragic glass Unwanted children Rich in loveless gifts Urbane persuasion Masking boundless rage The gift of youth A husk in striving schools Sick bedroom secrets Cutting diamond-deep I pass the houses every day But seldom see a face What dark, suburban secrets hide Behind their faded lace? George and Lynn Never grieving Always laughing Never angry Walking on air Or in bed, glowing Seventies smart Without hang-ups, Happily childless Amply-leisured Always shining Never weeping Never growing old. Wall of Words Consider them, in all their serried prime, Swift portals to a forestry of worlds: Triassic coasts replete with creatures strange And Mayan temples lost in tropic green; Forgotten nations deep in buried time And future places somewhere yet to be. They call to me, these gateways on their shelves – Or worlds call through them to my silent ear. Common Sense Isn’t We’ve all been lied to. And such fools we were To value all these things: intelligence And culture, reasoned argument, hard work And towing lines and doing the right thing. Such trash, the lot of it; all utter nonsense, Defective and misplaced. What fools we were To listen to the lies, and aim our lives Towards a shadow’s dream. How deep the wound When now we see that commonsense was not. Keep it Real You’re not good-looking enough; Not stable enough emotionally; Not driven enough; too old; Plus, you’re songs are shit. Give it up. The Roads One: Alan Road A secret road that sparkles come the rain, That wears the years and seasons light but well; A slash of nature through suburban grey Where foxes shun the innocence of light: This is their run, their haunt, their hunting ground – Their Serengeti on the August nights. Old maps declare this road and still it runs In faded pleasance, rugged underfoot. Two: Green Lane A sudden swerve abruptly to the left Through tricky lights less often green than red. This lane is not so fair as some that go Across the Moor’s ascendant counter-sprawl – But still, it’s pretty good for half its length. A bit like Birmingham, the better parts, The places tarts and teachers choose to live. But as the road unfolds, its pattern shifts; - And now it’s Heaton Norris, not so nice With pregnant women pacing dirty prams And stunted youths with pallid, vicious eyes. Three: Earle Road Another secret road, but careful eyes Can probe its issues with a canny glance. Detached and stalwort, middle-middle class – A road of calm and quiet confidence. The pavements smooth, since no one ever runs; At best they briskly walk, more often stroll To common cars expectant by the curb. “I love this place,” the poet said or thought, His evening stroll a wisp of violet air. The Winners (In Praise of Sociopaths) The heads of countries, states and entities - The cool, relentless winners: Swiss discreet, yet goblins in the dark Of private rooms Guiltless, shining, sometimes beautiful - Drawing on their glib and easy charm To spin a web of golden strands Around their prey Welcome to my world, they say: Lose yourself and follow me. All so easy, painless as a sweet: Come taste my world and see Yet not my cellars hollow as the night Where no light ever comes, nor ever shall: A well sunk countless fathoms deep Beneath recall of day There rats with stinking fur Patrol the clammy runs, flicking Snake-thick tails, their chisels bared: My secret, inmost place Like angler fish they wait, - Their lanterns waving, waving; Can you see it, can you see the light? Forget yourself and see.

All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.

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Hover over an event to see the details. (Open Mic open mic event, WOL Write Out Loud event)

Monday 13 November 2017

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Comments

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Richard Hartley

Sat 18th Nov 2017 09:35

Hello John
Thankyou for liking three poems on my blog: Embers; The Last Train; The Hearse.
It was kind of you to take the trouble to to read them and I'm glad you let me know that you liked them.
Thankyou.
Richard

Martin Elder

Mon 8th May 2017 22:47

Hi John
As per our earlier conversation the following are the contact details regarding 'Read regional 2017' it would appear be an initiative to encourage people to both write and read books and poetry within the context of the library system with some sponsorship from the Arts council. there is a website
www.newwritingnorth.com and there is also a local contact listed for Stockport Rachel Broster, senior Librarian
Rachel.broster@stockport.gov.uk
much of the other representation seems to be heavily in the North East and also Yorkshire with only Blackburn, Cumbria and Stockport representing the North West.
It maybe that central library may want to encourage a poetry session there! Hope this is of interest
Martin

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keith jeffries

Thu 16th Mar 2017 16:33

I enjoyed reading ¨Don´t Fix It¨, ¨Honestus¨, & ¨Game¨, all of which are beautifully crafted. Thank you. Keith

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John F Keane

Sun 20th Dec 2015 00:24

If I can make it, we will be.

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Nigel Astell

Sat 19th Dec 2015 21:03

Thanks John enjoyed last night

I think he was gathering information to use for his speech!

If you can make it Wednesday are we doing the play?

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andy n

Sun 27th Jul 2014 12:38

glad you liked it, John.

I've updated it now to make it 15 pieces

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=43470

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andy n

Sat 26th Jul 2014 13:44

Hi John. Tweeted them all as i wrote them all but glad you like them.

All was wrote listening to Scott 3 and Scott 4 by Scott Walker.

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andy n

Sat 26th Jul 2014 12:17

Here are my 9 little poems for Heatons Twaiku, John.

May do some more 2moro but here are some to get you going

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=43470

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Shevaughn

Fri 20th Dec 2013 18:35

MY HEART beats for love,not only for the fulfilment of a dream but also for a person.That is my feeling and is mine to decide.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Wed 24th Apr 2013 13:01

Good grief! A little knowledge and a glib pen can wreck civilizations; it isn't always chain balls and volcanoes!

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John F Keane

Tue 23rd Apr 2013 15:39

Simply that poverty and social problems were not exclusive to the Thatcher era. As is now widely accepted, the so-called 'post-War consensus' was rife with racism, class-distinction and poverty. To attribute these maladies solely to Thatcher is ridiculous. They existed before her and they exist now she has gone (oddly ameliorated, to no small degree).

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Laura Taylor

Tue 23rd Apr 2013 11:22

What's your point, caller?

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Isobel

Sat 16th Mar 2013 10:08

Thanks for your comment on my latest poem John. I think it's one of those themes many people can identify with.

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andy n

Wed 19th Sep 2012 12:00

Hi John - the death of summer pieces i told you about in September are here.

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=31647

(Part 1 and 2)

http://www.writeoutloud.net/public/blogentry.php?blogentryid=31706

(Part 3 and 4)

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 28th Apr 2012 14:35

Perhaps more 'pagan' than not, in the generally accepted sense. But, for me, 'pagan' is a non-word, like 'heathen'. I no longer recognise 'sacred' and 'secular' except as deliberately divisive propaganda. Many years ago, I seriously thought of being a minister in the Protestant Christian genre, and did indeed work within the 'church' for a very long time. I found that most ministers with in-depth scriptural knowledge, and vital enthusiasm, were virtually strangled at the pulpit by their congregations' limited 'acceptance' of Biblical scholarship. My heart literally wept for their necessity to temper, or even deny, their spiritual insights. I now go my own way entirely. I think I have made more friends than enemies; but, who knows.

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Sat 28th Apr 2012 14:03

Dad always insisted on a male dog. (Not kidding.) He actually fathered five girls, but one died. My parents had to give up on the 'boy' thing. We did grow up with no sexual division of labour - the idea of boys' work and girls' work is anathema to me even now: WORK WAS WORK and that was the end of it. Such upbringing still affects me wholly.

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Nick Clifton

Sun 18th Mar 2012 14:48

Just read your last blog poem. Plenty good, yeah! Ta much, Nick.

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andy n

Thu 6th Oct 2011 09:05

Part 4 is now also up, John.. Hope to see you next week @ Stockport.

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andy n

Thu 29th Sep 2011 22:21

Hi John;

thanks for your comments on my the end of summer poems... mean a lot to me, so thanks for that.

the third one is now up, and the fourth should be following soon, then I'll be onto my next sequence after that which maybe about the end of Piers.

see you soon at Stockport.

Andy N

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Fri 8th Jul 2011 12:59

Thank you, Mr Keane. I will make a real effort to check your work out also. I read your bio'. You might also enjoy my poem called 'Beloved' - not too far back.

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Lynda Morgan

Sun 29th May 2011 16:44

Hi John

Thank you for your lovely comments on my poems. You are very generous.

Lynda x

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Paul F Blackburn

Sat 6th Mar 2010 15:21

Thanks for your comment on Wall of death. I've been writing a few of these, short and ambivalent (I was going to say cheerful, but there seems to be a lot of death in them) pieces about the fair grounds of the 50s as I remember them (vaguely).
The 'variety' element of the fair was very much on the way out and I caught the fag end of it.

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John F Keane

Fri 5th Mar 2010 21:14

Rev

Thanks, it is also a true account of events, and many of its protagonists are/were real persons. I think the glossary is an essential inclusion.

I like your profile picture!

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Winston (Admin)

Wed 3rd Mar 2010 17:27

May I follow the others and welcome you to the site. Hope you find some things you like here.
Win

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John F Keane

Tue 2nd Mar 2010 15:40

Chris

The Chaviad music is by Clint Mansell. It is a remix of a track called 'Requiem for a Dream', which is used in the cult movie of the same name. He has composed a lot of Hollywood film scores, but this is his best.

A remarkable piece!

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Chris Dawson

Tue 2nd Mar 2010 13:32

Hi there,
Just heard 'Chaviad' on the poetry jukebox - absolutely loved it. Very inventive.
Can you tell me what the music you used is, please? I recognise it but can't place it.
Cx

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clarissa mckone

Tue 2nd Mar 2010 05:18

Hi JF, nice little poem, sounds like a good plan. welcome to the site.

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Ann Foxglove

Mon 1st Mar 2010 17:23

Welcome to WOL, hope you enjoy the site. Hope to see some of your poems here soon.

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