Picture

photo of Milton Hebald's sculpture of James Joyce in Fluntern Cemetary (Zurich)


January 1, 2012
12:01 am

From a Gnat to the Mountain Battery:

It is a matter of common knowledge that the Ulysses of Mr. James Joyce is being republished in the United States in a blog edited by Sly Uses, and that this republication is being made without authorization by Mr. Joyce; without payment to Mr. Joyce and with alterations which seriously corrupt the text.  This appropriation and mutilation of Mr. Joyce's property is made under colour of legal protection in that Ulysses is as of this day not protected by copyright.  The question now in issue is whether the public will encourage Sly Uses to take advantage of the resultant legal difficulty of the author to deprive him of his property and to mutilate the creation of his art.  The undersigned protest against Sly Uses' conduct in republishing Ulysses and appeal to the American public in the name of that security of works of the intellect and the imagination without which art cannot live, to oppose to Sly Uses' enterprise the full power of honorable and fair opinion.
 

Worlds Weary

Nowthen Nowhen

Polly Temporal



 
 
Molly told me.  I understand, but don't
keep me waiting, while feeling
his lips, as he could spin those yarns for hours.  Molly in Citron's
Saint Kevin's parade.  She answered, going out.  I could
produce a bottle?  He howled, without looking up: and at
the tender mercy of God
is love pasted round there?  Make
a scrap picnic.  Tell you.  There's a bloody chance.  Old monks, the blond girl
in Meath Street that night in

the time of the stomach.  I will.  That's right, says Alf.  Robert
Emmet was buried here, Stephen said, frowning: I
won't trespass on your shift.  Dark dome received, reverbed.  I seen a fair
face for me?  Quietly, stumbling
a little serious,
equanimity.  Can't he
hear the inquest.  To catch rattlesnakes.
Heavy greasy smell there always
is in fashion.  Bloom: I am old

furniture.  Write me a long laugh down his
nose and promised him the card with
the baby.  Armed heroes spring up from the house of the
erudite and certainly by reason of change out
of this intermittent and increasingly conveyed from
the cemetery, Martin Cunningham began to shave
in its free state, Saint Patrick's, George's and Gay Malahide.  Make
room for your book, eh?  Wise child that
knows.  While you have no cities nor no wealth: our

lives.  Mr. Bloom asked, looking down on their striped petticoats, in
their habitual position clamped by three, he had learned of the
trees of the other so he was painting the landscape with his
heavy hand took his eyes to hear the voice of that and,
clinging to animals.  Bald pat at a certain
extent under the ground till the matter?  The flood.  I paid
the rent.  Young stephen what was it, they listened feeling that flow
endearing flow over them with your waters,
cows lowing, the scheme fell through the thousand virgins.



This poem was composed in collaboration with Gnoetry0.2, a poetry-generating software developed by Jon Trowbridge.  The software statistically analysed Ulysses, and the end-user, Eric Elshtain, made edits within the parameters of the software itself.  For more information on Gnoetry and other computer-generated poetry programs go here.

 
 
Father of a Ghost (after Stephen Dedalus)

            James Joyce b. February 2
            Hamnet Shakespeare baptized February 2

Father of a ghost, but from the charnel dead!
Truepenny called, but bid his one son read
A woeful bedtime tale. So list: if Hamnet were
A suicide (the rest, what is the rest?); if Shakespeare were
Behorned by Ann (and her way hath will, clear)
And asked the poor young Hamnet now to kill the ‘dulterous peer,
(Perhaps to pour the poison in the porches of his ear?)
Cert, he would read just like a crab, ass backward and in fear:
Hamlet (his twin), ou le Distrait, une Pièce de Père Shakespeare;
Ophelia-like, rosemary clad, made mad with that despair. 
Or … if the canon ‘gainst self-slaughter held fast,
Would he be murdered with all murdered at last?
And, scarred by family the most, 
Who would rise to be his ghost?