Is it better to be a contented pig
And dig
In the mire,
Or a rich man who’s every desire
Is met
And yet
Each new toy
Brings but a fleeting joy?
Or is it preferable to be a philosopher who thinks
And ever further sinks
Into a slough of Despond?
How should one respond
To such a question, other than to interrogate the mind
For an answer it is impossible to find?
—
The above was prompted by this post, (https://alittledaydreamer.com/2016/05/30/do-we-need-the-answers-to-everything/)
A fascinating post on the history and traditions surrounding June in medieval times.
June is just around the corner. In the Middle Ages, that meant not only a change in the weather, but a shift in daily labors, and in what was on the menu to eat.
While most crops were harvested much later in the summer, hay was the first to be cut in June, though it was typically poor quality. In a society so dependent on animals for survival, haying was a vital community activity, with the lord’s fields taking priority over all the others. This was a labor carried out by men, women, and children. They worked in groups under the supervision of a reeve that had been elected by the peasants themselves. The men cut the hay with long scythes, each going through about one acre per day. Women and girls were responsible for raking and turning it. If the hay was not able to dry out, it would…
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A fascinating piece in “The Guardian” regarding the Future Libraries Project, where authors submit a manuscript which is securely stored and only read in 100 years from now (2114). The ceremony for handing over manuscripts takes place in a Norwegian forest who’s trees will be cut down in 100 years time to make paper on which the books submitted to the project will be printed. The latest author to hand over his manuscript is David Mitchell.
For the article please visit https://www.theguardian.com/books/2016/may/30/david-mitchell-buries-latest-manuscript-for-a-hundred-years
This young woman makes an important point about not allowing social media (particularly Facebook) to rule our lives.
I know you are probably going to ignore this post of mine or let’s just say that you wouldn’t even care to have a look because I don’t fall into your list of ‘the popular ones’. (Not that I care a bit.) But I would appreciate if you take a minute of your precious life and read this.
One year back, I decided to do the most difficult thing, that was to stop using Facebook. At all. Yes (considering that I was addicted to it). Since I started using social media, my life was ruled by the amount of likes or comments I got on facebook. I let it affect me so much that I was slowly slipping into a shithole. I stopped interacting with people around me, became anti-social in real life while I made thousands of friends virtually. I started feeling hollow that there was nothing more to…
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The wind blows today.
It will go away
In time leaving me refreshed,
Yet my soul can not for long rest.
Children lark about
And shout.
I doubt
My brain
Which runs like an express train
Will
For long be still.
Listening to the leaves
I perceive
A need to write.
There is delight, in the wind chimes which on occasion sound,
Speaking of things more profound
Than I who am tied to this shifting ground.
The wind has dropped now
And I wonder how
My poem will be understood
By those who would
Try
To find meaning in words that erratically fly,
From one who sits listening to a barking dog, who cares not
A jot
For what
I have to say
On this sunny, wind swept day.
I saw Utopia like some bright star.
It burned far
Away and the nearer
I drew the clearer
It shonne on bones white
That glistened in it’s baileful light.
I saw man, his head in a book,
He dained not to look
At the earth but dwelt
In a world of ideas and felt
That if only man would conform to his abstract theory
This planet dreary
Would become a paradise, where man would reach for the sky.
As time passed he wondered why
The star
Was just as far
Away
As the day
On which he first read Marx or some other sage.
The theorists’s rage
He did mark
With tombstones stark
Which the idealist built
Employing the spilt
Tears of men
Who when
He spoke of Utopia shook their heads
With dread.
One Utopia has fled
Yet the blood that bled
Will blead
Again
If terror’s reign
Remains unconstrained
By the knowledge of past pain.
According to an article in “The Telegraph” a new generation are buying books in order to express their personality. Some of these books remain unread on shelves but, a Foyle’s representative does not see this as a problem as, sooner or later these works will be picked up by their owner and read. For the article please go to, http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2016/05/29/new-generation-buying-books-to-express-their-personalities/
A couple of weeks ago I fell into conversation with a teacher of music. She had just purchased my book, “Lost in the Labyrinth of My Mind” and our conversation turned to matters of creativity. I asked whether she believed that computers would ever be able to produce music of the same standard as that of Mozart and other great composers? She responded with a question of her own, “could a computer ever produce poetry of the same standard as that of the great poets?”
The above is an interesting question. There is a tendency perhaps inate in we humans to deny that something is possible merely on the grounds that it’s occurance fills us with forboding or abhorrence. However gut reactions are not (usually) the best means of answering complex questions.
As regards my own view of the matter, the simple answer is that I have no idea as to whether machines will ever be capable of producing works of artistic merit. The great advantage of we humans is that we possess emotions which are interwoven in our art whether literary, painting or musical. I suspect (and I am no scientist) that it will be easier for those working in the field of artificial intelligence to produce machines which are of similar intelligence (or perhaps exceed) that of humans. However to reproduce genuine emotion will, I suspect be a far more difficult task so intellectual pursuits may well be one of the last bastions to fall to AI. Its also perfectly possible that “true” AI will never be achieved as there is still much debate about what, exactly constitutes real intelligence, (merely because an extremely fast computer could, in the future have access to all known information and be able to process it at greater speed than a human would not make it more intelligent than mankind for intellectual abilities reside in far more than processing power).
Below is a piece of speculative fiction written by me in early 2015. As ever I would be interested in your views. https://newauthoronline.com/2015/01/18/robert/
Kevin
My thoughts travel back
Down history’s track.
I hear the clack
Of the wheels of the train
Running through my nostalgic brain.
I recollect separate carriages, each with an individual door,
And me reading,
My imagination feeding
On the contents of a magazine,
Today, no longer seen.
Who could ask for more?
Often I sat alone.
There was No mobile phone
To disturb my contemplation.
The nation
Has moved on.
And the old characterful trains have gone.
I have to accept
That which I would reject,
A perfect world of plastic and chrome
Where man sits alone
Conversing with his friend, the phone.
—
I remember travelling on trains with separate carriages, each compartment having comfortable seats and holding (if memory serves correctly) a maximum of 6 people. The
Me reading my poem ‘Midnight’, which can be found in in ‘Dalliance; a collection of poetry and prose’: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bidx3qZ6RZA
You can get ‘Dalliance’ here for the UK: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dalliance-collection-poetry-prose-Morris-ebook/dp/B00QQVJC7E and here for the US: http://www.amazon.com/Dalliance-collection-poetry-prose-Morris-ebook/dp/B00QQVJC7E
K Morris - Poet 