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80th birthday in Brazil with George Tijani and the kids
Posted in Brazil, Uncategorised, Uncategorized
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More Drawings from Brazil
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The Runiad – Books 1 to 22
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To read this epic in progress, please click this Heyzine link.
Book 22 was written in Rio de Janeiro.
I suggest expanding the image and turning off the sound. Click the bottom corner of the page to turn the pages, and the bar below the book allows you to scroll to whichever book you want to read. Contents pages at the beginning tell you the page number of each book.
Posted in Brazil, Poetry, The Runiad
Tagged Anthony Howell, Brazil, poetry, The Runiad, The Tiger King, Vargas
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Vista
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Each of us pursues a path, each ant has its very own
Destination. However, in my opinion, poetry’s been ruined by
An excess of thought: thought that sneers at action and
Reduces observation to a metaphor crawling across the page
And possibly down to its foot, but getting little further.
Heaps and heaps of poets today busily manufacture
Quasi-profound little homilies for competition prizes
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In languid lyrics which comply with designated sizes.
So how should one deal with a vista? Not just one in fact
But a myriad views which extend even beyond the ability
To describe them. Helicopter squares below, and then
The geometry of stadia, playing fields, and over there
The stencilled letter of a port with its quays. Or flats
Looking flat, laid out in so many stacked-up Leggo blocks,
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Then the long strip of a runway. A bridge like a necklace
Strung across the strait. The city seen as a map, buttressed by
Crags, connected by tunnels, flowing along the protracted
Curves of the sea. A glittering flood of humanity! Lapping at
The feet of hills, it rises ever higher, seeking to reach the Redeemer
Whose outstretched arms protect more distant aerials,
While Magnificent Frigatebirds float higher still and share the view
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Our vantage point provides for us. Here the air’s as pure
As that of Delphi. Even if this particular high place
Hardly suggests you’ll come down with a tablet or two.
Maybe a plaited straw hat, or you can dine beneath a parasol
As the city turns to diamonds way below your prosecco
And all you need’s a white suit and a pot pourri of sambas
To entice her back to your fancy pad, there to slip like a snake
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Out of the skin of her gown. But you can leave all that till you
Get down. Evening has not fallen yet, although a reddened moon
Is now afloat close to an island breaching the horizon.
It’s amazing really. My grandmother was born in 1870.
My grandchildren might live to see the start of the 22nd century.
And here I can look out across the background of Brazil:
Hill beyond hill beyond hill beyond hill beyond hill…
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From The Runiad, Book 22
Posted in art, Brazil, Poetry, The Runiad
Tagged Rio de Janeiro, Runiad, Sugar Loaf, watercolour
2 Comments
On writing a very long poem
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There is no justification for being in a hurry. But at the same time a certain amount of
impatience is necessary, in order for the urge to persevere and finally arrive at
completion to function as an efficient drive. But art is either worthless or priceless,
as Gertrude Stein once said. I must regularly re-read the entire text, and I can easily
spend a day working on a single page, and each tiny adjustment, each iota of
enlightenment pays off for me. The alchemy that results from allowing myself the
time to become aware of what improvements need to be made transforms that page,
turns it into being an authentic part of the poetic entity that is the sole purpose of the
whole. Shiva stands for balance, and has always been the guiding spirit of this poem.
Zeal must be tempered by patience. I need to keep this in mind.
Two Churches in Rio
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The Gale
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But now the streets get emptied. Everyone exits.
It’s the rain, mistily thin this afternoon, but still with
The ability to soak one. Rain which began last night,
Drumming in a syncopated fashion on the ventilator fixed
Into my window. Tariffs though are just too dull a subject.
This percussion’s steadied by the slow but steady drip from
A tap into the sink, which generates a different note.
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Now whenever there’s a pause, the maze of markets under
Giant trees surges into life crammed into see-through macs
Beneath umbrellas, awnings, sheets of tarpaulin. Still
Everything drips onto reddening cloves of garlic, orange
Oranges and watermelon slices, maize in all its mixtures
Cultivated by the Incas. In some other corner, mounds
Of watches, tools and ancient cameras – all worthy of a forage.
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Rained off the beach by another gale, as I enter the
Pedestrian underpass, a middle-aged lady gives me a smile.
It’s wonderful in Rio. No need for a baby-sitter. Mum and dad
Are dancing forro together in the busy square while the kids
Are rushing about, playing tag, leaping walls, boys and girls
Playing together, at 9pm – when it’s cooler. Integrated atmosphere.
Unlike London’s hidden eyes, faces something all ignore.
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(work in progress)
Posted in art, Brazil, Poetry, The Runiad
Tagged Brazil, gale over Rio, poetry, The Runiad
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Lavinia – an excerpt from The Runiad published now in The High Window
Very pleased that this has now been published in The High Window magazine!
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Added note:
The completed RUNIAD can now be read by clicking here
This final version contains my own illustrations
Posted in art, Poetry, The Runiad
Tagged Anthony Howell, Longevity, poetry, The High Window, The Runiad
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Villa Venturoza – Rio de Janeiro
And now I am drifting, drifting away from the relevance
Of impending affairs, even though there are whole towns
Burning down elsewhere, but here… here old men gather to chat
And play chequers, seated on plastic chairs behind pineapples and pears
Sold by one grizzled hippie, while people are swapping partners
As they dance amateur samba gaffiera in front of the palace
This evening – which feels more like noon to me, jet-lagged as I am.
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Everything is plural here in Catete: the blind, the bums,
The breasts, the bags, the bikes, the backs of knees, biceps, back-packs…
Rio is ideal for the flaneur. Imagine holing her!
Some of us go messy, others horny, but it’s too damn hot!
Over-dressy, corny lamé tee-shirts are the thing to wear
When painting toenails in the Sahara. Here the human torrent
Passes by in plait-extensions. Air-conditioned stores
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Lure you in for sneakers, pouches. Everything is multiple…
Arms in arms and polka dots, brilliant bottoms it’s a joy to watch
Until they disappear beyond the swiftly changing lights.
Macrame stalls sell skirts you would never wear in the street.
Her mascara stains her mobile. Tats, palms, beeps,
Charms to keep you nubile after thirty. The witches shake
A kind of rattle, fascinating Dionysus – who they then assassinate.
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(from the quarry for The Runiad – a work in progress)
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See also – https://anthonyhowelljournal.com/2025/04/02/the-runiad-books-1-to-21/
Posted in art, Brazil, Poetry
Tagged art, Gloria, poetry, Rio de Janeiro, watercolour
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Three Trees in Rio
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