Anyone know anything about this area of France? I have to do a piece on it. It's cultivated marshland, gone fallow. I've never been to North America (except Toronto and Niagara) or Australia, but you guys there might have similar bits of land and you might have stuff I could use. Pretty please?

Here's a site for you to look at anyway. I like the jumping frogs. Hey, for me, they are jumping, but I've finished the ouzo bottle and it sometimes has an effect on me, not like people who are used to it.

[www.ville-coulon.fr]



Stephen

Stephen-

Don't know nuthin' bout France, but I frequent a marshy (swamp) area around Lake Erie. The critters that live there do so for the same reason I go there. It is inhospitable to humans, keeps the riff-raff out. I wouldn't consider this valuable insight, but here goes.
From what I gather, people (other than bird-watchers) don't go there because of the high probability of getting their feet wet.
The wildlife there love to have wet feet, and when they see me they act like they OWN the place (they do). They are slow to yield the right of way, and if their facial expressions can be read, I believe they are thinking "What the hell are YOU doing here. You're going to get your feet wet!"
For reasons I can't understand, red-wing blackbirds would rather hang sideways on a reed than stand or perch upright anywhere.
Last time I was there I noticed a HUGE preying mantis five inches (125 cm) in the gravel parking lot. Not wanting it to be squashed by a car or stomped intentionally by some insectophobe, I scooted it with my boot toe until it took flight headed for the marsh. 'Well done', I thought to myself, just before a seagull swooped down and plucked it from the air!
No good deed goes unpunished.


Jack

Uh, is this actually swamp we're talking? As in Everglade-type place? If so, I can tell you one interesting thing about it, but I don't know if it's pertinent, or not? I've seen the Everglades, not often, mind you, but my impression was that they've got some helluva durable grass down there-- I think it's called "razor grass" and if you're wearing anything remotely wimpy (less than nato-jacketed strength of boot) it will literally cut you to ribbons like a razor. Kind of Grass-revenge for all those cycles and assorted lawnmowers we've perpetrated on lawn grass. It's definitely a wild relation to the soft downy stuff on the front lawn...

Also, I had a class in geology a few years ago (rocks for jocks it was nicknamed) and they prof. told us that we could forget about "saving" the Everglades because polution was a moot point down there since we had introduced "preditor plants." I don't remember all the ones he named, but I do recall a very beautiful one (I thought) called, "Brazillian Pepper." Apparently, BP does not go away once introduced to the environment (rather like kudzu) and it shoots out all over (rather like bamboo). It would, he assured us, destroy the native plant population eventually, even if we could stop the sugar farmers from doing it first.

Hope this helps,

bobo

Oh yeah, one other thing-- make sure you have enough gas to get you through to Miami BEFORE you enter the Glades, because there is exactly ONE oasis. In the middle, owned by Seminoles, who charge alot...

bobo-


I don't know about BP, but there has been a plant here in Michgan for a couple of decades now called Purple Leustrife (not sure of the spelling). It is a gorgeous, tall, sort of Bluebell plant. It lives in damp places, roadside ditches, and blooms seemingly all summer. Whenever I see it growing wild (all over the place) I think 'I've gotta GET me some of that!' Now I understand it is registered as an "aggressive, intrusive alien". The powers that be are trying to stamp it out. I'm not sure what it pushing out of the way, but they're just FIENDS about not letting people spread this beautiful purple menace.

Hey Fryer, go poke yourself, you pompous gimp!

Slaya, you're right, I am pompous. It's just me, the way I am. My purpose on this site is to help and guide (now how pompous does THAT sound) and if I fail because of the way I am, I may as well let sleeping dogs lie. Which particular post/s of mine have annoyed you?



Stephen

Bobo and Jack, thanks.

I've completed the part of the project which calls for a piece which would entice the reader to go somewhere you yourself love. It's prose, and therefore doesn't belong here, but I feel reckless. Crit welcome.

Marais Poitevin

It’s hard to describe the feeling. The brochures and the website do their best, but you can’t photograph a feeling. You don’t know what’s coming, even when you get there. You’ve been told, by others who’ve been there, that you will like it. But until you experience it for yourself, you don’t really believe them. So you go, and you have a coffee before you get into the little boat, and you set off, and it’s nice, and then. Then, you’re in the Marais Poitevin. And you say, oh.

I can tell you where it is, give you directions, describe the place a little. I can say that it’s between Niort and La Rochelle; that the tourist name for it is Green Venice; that these are marshes which since the 12th century – mostly from the 17th - have been extended inland by a system of polders [or prises] and dykes; that the result is a dense maze of small canals bordered by century-old willows, poplars, and pollarded ash. There are boats for hire, with or without a boatman. The place is quiet, relatively undiscovered, and you will find peace there. Your boatman will offer to put a light to the marsh gas coming off the surface of the water: let him do it, and give him a good pourboire afterwards, because well, what harm is there in doing touristy things for a laugh and I bet it’s a memory of the marsh that you will take away and treasure in your idle moments.

I can tell you too that the photographs in the brochures and on the website tell the truth: it isn’t that someone has cleverly picked out the one or two pretty views and pretended that it’s all like that. It is all like that. Those trees really do form a huge arch over your head, as you glide slowly – you can’t go fast, you mustn’t, you shouldn’t, and you definitely won’t want to - you will feel pleasantly enclosed by green tunnels. Oh and the fauna – the birds, fishes, frogs. You will hear them more than see them, and the chorus of the frog choir is something else you will remember. All around the marais, there are small pieces of land, individual plots dedicated to market-gardening or used as pastures for cattle. But the marais itself, it’s just canals surrounded, beside and above, by trees trees trees.

I can tell you about the atmosphere and just how it feels to be in there. Others told me, and that’s why I went, because I was told this by people I know and who know me and know what I like and am like. And I have to say thankyou. I knew that your recommendation would be good, but you didn’t tell me how good. So good, that I am writing this piece now so that I can pass on my good fortune, if I can, and share. But you, reading this, are not people I know or who know me. How do I know you will like it too? Why should I tell you? Why should you believe me?

Because if there’s one thing that you and I and every single person in this frenetic world needs, it is peace. The kind of peace that some find in silence and some in poetry and some, I know, in God. The Marais Poitevin will give you some of that peace: how much will vary from person to person, but there will be some. Let me try to explain.

You are sitting in a small boat and it is going slowly, very slowly, along a canal. There is little or no movement in the water itself. It is quiet now, now that you and your companions have stopped oohing and aahing and saying oh my and how about this and, isn’t it quiet? So, you have your silence. By now, you are totally cut off from the sounds of the world. Listen, instead, to the steady sounds of the little boat pushing through the water; and to the birds. And then, just as slowly, something else happens: your eyes, which had been glancing and peeping and spying and popping at the beauty of it all, start to become accustomed to this new experience: gradually, as the boat penetrates further and further into the green arches, your eyes realise that like your ears there is a kind of silence for them to enjoy: gradually, your breathing slows, almost stops. Cocooned, in a green tunnel of beauty, hardly any sound, hardly any sight. Tell me that isn’t peace. Try it.

I mentioned silence, but I also mentioned poetry. It is something I read all the time, and occasionally write. I would like to be able to tell you that the marais inspired me to write a great poem – but it would not be true. Because I would not want to write a poem about the place, about its beauty, about how it looks, about what Gerard Manley Hopkins called its inscape. Maybe one day I will be able to do that. Maybe if you go, you can write a poem. If you do, send it to me. No, it is what the Marais Poitevin gave to me, which will always stay with me, which will become a permanent part of me, of my inspiration, of my poetry - peace. And, I mentioned God. He is there: this is his green church. Go.



Stephen

Hi Stephen:

Okay, now, you should be warned that prose is not my thing! I did have an exacting task-master in creative writing, however, so I can avail you of what I think he would have said:

First thing...your first word is what he would have called a vague "it" expression. Never start with "It." Next, in the following eight lines you use "you" 14 times. A suggestion for an opening line (and this is where I'm not too strong)

"Brochure and website do their best, but how to photograph a feeling?"

Also, you might consider "capture" instead of "photograph". Then "feeling" is repeated closely in two sentences. Perhaps reveal the "feeling" instead of "telling" it.

"I," "you" and "it" are words to be used sparingly. If you think about it, you can come up with alternatives, but sometimes it's challenging!

"So you go, and you have a coffee before you get into the little boat, and you set off, and it’s nice, and then. Then, you’re in the Marais Poitevin. And you say, oh."

"...century-old willows, poplars, and pollarded ash. "

Comma splice. You have a comma and then "and". If you take the comma out, it's better. I didn't go through the entire piece-- you might want to check for more of these...

Becareful of too many forms of "be". Like, "to be" or "you will be" etc.


"I can tell you too that the photographs in the brochures and on the website tell the truth: it isn’t that someone has cleverly picked out the one or two pretty views and pretended that it’s all like that."


This is another example of "vague it expression" compounded by "that."

Do you see why I hate writing prose? I, for one, can't keep track of all these things flying at me at once. I remember well the frustration of this class! This teacher even found fault with Jean Shepperd-- what chance did I have?

Is this a leisure class, or are you working on a degree? If this is for leisure, then you've probably got a real interest. In that case ignore my rants, please. I HAD to take the class. And it compounded the frustration that I felt... I have to admit, though, that I learned alot.

I'll look over this some more and post more later-- if you still want me to!

bobo

Stephen-

You're really opening a can of worms here. Like the always patient Stephen Fryer would ask a tentative student requesting assistance, 'What is the ultimate goal of the piece?' There are several motives for composing something like this. What is yours? Sales? Television? Print? Catalouge? Pamphlet? Brochure? What is your target audience, and what do you want them to do? Sorry to be so analytical about it, but there are subtle variations that work better for one than another. Any specifics would help.

Stephen: How about a poem for an inspiration for this piece? This strange poem was in one of my school books from elementary school...I've always liked the way it traced through time a small detail of nature.



The Calf-Path

by Sam Walter Foss
(NH 1858-1911)
I.

One day, through the primeval wood,
A calf walked home, as good calves should;


II.

But made a trail all bent askew,
A crooked trail as all calves do.
Since then three hundred years have fled,
And, I infer, the calf is dead.
But still he left behind his trail,
And thereby hangs my moral tale.
The trail was taken up next day,
By a lone dog that passed that way.
And then a wise bell-wether sheep,
Pursued the trail o'er vale and steep;
And drew the flock behind him too,
As good bell-wethers always do.
And from that day, o'er hill and glade.
Through those old woods a path was made.


III.

And many men wound in and out,
And dodged, and turned, and bent about;
And uttered words of righteous wrath,
Because 'twas such a crooked path.
But still they followed - do not laugh -
The first migrations of that calf.
And through this winding wood-way stalked,
Because he wobbled when he walked.


IV.

This forest path became a lane,
that bent, and turned, and turned again.
This crooked lane became a road,
Where many a poor horse with his load,
Toiled on beneath the burning sun,
And traveled some three miles in one.
And thus a century and a half,
They trod the footsteps of that calf.


V.

The years passed on in swiftness fleet,
The road became a village street;
And this, before men were aware,
A city's crowded thoroughfare;
And soon the central street was this,
Of a renowned metropolis;
And men two centuries and a half,
Trod in the footsteps of that calf.


VI.

Each day a hundred thousand rout,
Followed the zigzag calf about;
And o'er his crooked journey went,
The traffic of a continent.
A Hundred thousand men were led,
By one calf near three centuries dead.
They followed still his crooked way,
And lost one hundred years a day;
For thus such reverence is lent,
To well established precedent.


VII.

A moral lesson this might teach,
Were I ordained and called to preach;
For men are prone to go it blind,
Along the calf-paths of the mind;
And work away from sun to sun,
To do what other men have done.
They follow in the beaten track,
And out and in, and forth and back,
And still their devious course pursue,
To keep the path that others do.
They keep the path a sacred groove,
Along which all their lives they move.
But how the wise old wood gods laugh,
Who saw the first primeval calf!
Ah! many things this tale might teach -
But I am not ordained to preach.

One from the blotto ouzo guzzler. Enjoyed your piece, makes me want to go there sometime. This really doesn't have much to do with anything, just thought of it while you were all talking about swamps.


In dark fens of the Dismal Swamp
The hunted Negro lay;
He saw the fire of the midnight camp,
And heard at times a horse's tramp
And a bloodhound's distant bay.

Where will-o'-the-wisps and glow-worms shine,
In bulrush and in brake;
Where waving mosses shroud the pine,
And the cedar grows, and the poisonous vine
Is spotted like the snake;

Where hardly a human foot could pass,
Or a human heart would dare,
On the quaking turf of the green morass
He crouched in the rank and tangled grass,
Like a wild beast in his lair.

A poor old slave, infirm and lame;
Great scars deformed his face;
On his forehead he bore the brand of shame,
And the rags, that hid his mangled frame,
Were the livery of disgrace.

All things above were bright and fair,
All things were glad and free;
Lithe squirrels darted here and there,
And wild birds filled the echoing air
With songs of Liberty!

On him alone was the doom of pain,
From the morning of his birth;
On him alone the curse of Cain
Fell, like a flail on the garnered grain, And struck him to the earth!

Longfellow.















.

And of course, there's the poem aspect to all of this

pam


Sitting in a small boat going slowly, very slowly, along a canal.

You are totally cut off from the sounds of the world.

Your eyes realise that there is a kind of silence for them to enjoy: gradually, your breathing slows, almost stops.

Cocooned, in a green tunnel of beauty, hardly any sound, hardly any sight.

Tell me that isn’t peace. Try it.


Perhaps 'floating' rather than 'going' in line 1?

drifting, mebbe.

Thankyou to all contributors.

Well, it worked. Marais Poitevin plus a handful of poetry (especially Bath) got me a place at the University of Kent in Canterbury to study Practical and Imaginitive Writing. It's a two-year part-time course. Wish me luck!



Stephen

Bon chance!

As always, Stephen, If you want to float any ideas past us here at emule, we will be only too happy to bash it with sticks, before you submit it elsewhere.




No. No thanks are necessary. Only too happy to oblige. I'm sure you'd do the same for us!

Congratulations and good luck!

(On the practical side, you might want to work on your spelling before you go. There's a little too much creativity in your spelling of "Imaginative.")

Oh, thankyou so much. I've been spelling "imaginative" wrongly up until now. Imagine what a pillock I would have looked! Whew.



Stephen

Congratulations!!! Do limericks count as practical?

pam

Pam: Sadly, no. The "practical" bit is - Journalism! (Later on, we get to the "imaginative" bit and, yes, that's poetry.)

Anyone know anything about Journalism?



Stephen

Only what Kipling told me--

pam

The Press



--------------------------------------------------------------------------------




The Soldier may forget his Sword,
The Sailorman the Sea,
The Mason may forget the Word
And the Priest his Litany:
The Maid may forget both jewel and gem,
And the Bride her wedding-dress-
But the Jew shall forget Jerusalem
Ere we forget the Press !
Who once hath stood through the loaded hour
Ere, roaring like the gale,
The Harrild and the Hoe devour
Their league-long paper-bale,
And has lit his pipe in the morning calm
That follows the midnight stress-
He hath sold his heart to the old Black Art
We call the daily Press.

Who once hath dealt in the widest game
That all of a man can play,
No later love, no larger fame
Will lure him long away.
As the war-horse snuffeth the battle afar,
The entered Soul, no less,
He saith: "Ha! Ha!" where the trumpets are
And the thunders of the Press!

Canst thou number the days that we fulfill,
Or the Times that we bring forth ?
Canst thou send the lightnings to do thy will,
And cause them reign on earth ?
Hast thou given a peacock goodly wings,
To please his foolishness ?
Sit down at the heart of men and things,
Companion of the Press !

The Pope may launch his Interdict,
The Union its decree,
But the bubble is blown and the bubble is pricked
By Us and such as We.
Remember the battle and stand aside
While Thrones and Powers confess
That King over all the children of pride
Is the Press - the Press - the Press !

--Rudyard Kipling

Congratulations. Good school, I worked on the campus (not for the university) for a while many years ago. I like Canterbury and still have friends that I visit there. I recall seeing a production of Under Milk Wood at the Marlowe some 20 years ago that turned me back on to poetry. An imaginative production!

Marian's snails in the Stephen King thread brought this to mind.

Jack, my only question is how did this pop up in the homework forum instead of the General Discussion?

Les

Don't blame Jack. He is sweet and shy. It's my fault. I put this here because it was my homework. OK? Wanna fight?



Stephen

No, but I do not think that very many of those forum members besides Pam, Hugh, and myself will find it here. Since Jack's reference for bumping the thread was in G. D., it just seemed to me it belonged there.

Les

A long way of saying "The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road." Hilair Belloc


This was meant to be further up, after The Calf Path. But it appeared down here. I thought I'd responded correctly, ho hum.



Post Edited (09-23-03 17:51)

Got my results today, and I owe you guys a big thankyou, for that initial push and help and encouragement. I am now the proud owner of a Certificate in Practical and Imaginative Writing, with Distinction.



Stephen

Congratulations, Stephen, a more deserving recipient does not exist.

Les

Well done. Does that mean you can tell us off more if we're impractical and unimaginative?

Damn right, Linda. Your post wasn't very practical now, was it? And did you think that you used enough imagination in composing it? I thought not. j/k, btw



Stephen

Stephen, I don't know if it matters to anyone or not, but this link is not operative any longer:

[www.ville-coulon.fr]


Les

The WayBackMachine site has it archived, but I don't remember the original references:

[]

[]

Great site Hugh, I wonder if I can find those lost lyrics by the Fuggs, now?

Les

Les, if you're serious about the Fugs, I may be able to help you
(IF YOU STOP CALLING ME FAT)
My friend used to be with them

Johnny, you know me I'm never serious! J/K

I never called you fat, I said you were like Falstaff. He is after all a character in the play.

But, could you tell me if this is the same group that included A. C. Swinburne's chorus from Atalanta in Calydon in one of their songs?

Les

I'm a scientist, I don't do imaginative, but I'm practical enough to change a plug, a nappy (though not recently, thank God) and my mind when necessary.

You can change nappies? Thank God. Can you come over right now, I've got the grandson, and whew. I'll send you the bus fare.



Stephen

Only terry nappies, rectangular fold, two pins (got you there. Where do you buy proper nappy pins these days) My oldest is 26, youngest 17, no grandchildren yet.

Do you do plane fare as well?

pam

Three million cheers!!!!!

pam

Well done, Stephen. What happens next, do you continue studying or is that it for now?

Les, if you could have seen me smiling when I wrote that, you'd know I'm just having the grandest time !

Good question, I'll pop off an email......I'll let you know if and when I get a response. Since he severed his connections with the Knitting Factory here in NY, he's sometimes slow to respond.

Linda, if you see this, I was able to figure out what a nappy was (Gee I wish I spoke English), but I'm not sure if I'm clear on the real meaning of "plug".

Nappies? Don't go there.

The next stage is the diploma. It's a mixture of creative writing and literature, and it takes up the next two years. Wish me luck.



Stephen

To me, a "nappy" is a short sleep.....as my wife is fond of taking

a "plug" could be a tampon, but I don't think that's what Linda means !

Johnny, save the e-mail. They are they same group. Go here:

[www.allmusic.com]



Les

Les, didn't realize it was from the very early stuff, Mark didn't join them til the 1980's (he would have been 7 years old when the first album came out !)

nappy = diaper in US as you've worked out.

plug = thing on the end of the power cable that is plugged into a wall socket to enable electricity to flow from the mains to the appliance e.g. radio, TV

I have engineer friends. Apparently, one of the rules for engineers requires saving power cords from broken appliances- they might come in handy for something.

pam

Congratulations, Stephen!! Hope the next two years go well for you. I really enjoyed Marais Poitevin, which I hadn't seen before. I wanna go there--it sounds pleasantly swampy and without mosquitoes.

ncw