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A Spell To Help Haiti February 26, 2010

Posted by The Typist in Toulouse Street.
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Pogues singer Shane MacGowan enlisted a group of alt-rock musicians — and one famous actor — to record Screamin’ Jay Hawkins’ 1956 hit, ‘I Put a Spell on You,’ to raise relief money for Haiti…The new version of ‘I Put a Spell on You’ will be available via digital release on March 7 but can be pre-ordered from 7 digital. Proceeds from single sales will go to Dublin’s Concern Worldwide, which has been aiding Haiti for 16 years

God Bless & Keep You, Shane MacGowan.

Except I can’t buy it here. It’s only available in Ireland (and I presume the UK, since the online price is in Pounds not Euro). As Shane might say, what the fuck is up with that? Anybody who will get me this MP3 I will PayPal One (1) Pound Sterling (it costs 0.79) . Just promise me to buy me a copy so the money gets to Dublin’s Concern Worldwide.

Pirates will be punished by Concerned Haitian Supernatural Parties With Roots In Africa With Whom You Don’t Want To Fuck.

That is no country March 15, 2009

Posted by The Typist in 504, cryptical envelopment, Dancing Bear, New Orleans, NOLA, Poetry, Toulouse Street.
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You need one more drop of poison and you’ll dream of foreign lands
— Shane MacGowan’s Sick Bed of Cuchulainn

Somehow sitting on the porch drinking after the St. Patrick’s parade ends up with the Pogues on the stereo, and the song Lorca’s Novena comes up and I find myself dreaming of the intersection of Eire and Andalusia, of politics and poetry, of blood and beauty. I am but 1/16 Irish with not a drop of Spanish blood but this creole mongrel holds no allegiance to any country which does not place its poets above all else.

The Gypsy and the Wind
By Federico García Lorca

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes
along a watery path of laurels and crystal lights.
The starless silence, fleeing
from her rhythmic tambourine,
falls where the sea whips and sings,
his night filled with silvery swarms.
High atop the mountain peaks
the sentinels are weeping;
they guard the tall white towers
of the English consulate.
And gypsies of the water
for their pleasure erect
little castles of conch shells
and arbors of greening pine.

Playing her parchment moon
Precosia comes.
The wind sees her and rises,
the wind that never slumbers.
Naked Saint Christopher swells,
watching the girl as he plays
with tongues of celestial bells
on an invisible bagpipe.

Gypsy, let me lift your skirt
and have a look at you.
Open in my ancient fingers
the blue rose of your womb.

Precosia throws the tambourine
and runs away in terror.
But the virile wind pursues her
with his breathing and burning sword.

The sea darkens and roars,
while the olive trees turn pale.
The flutes of darkness sound,
and a muted gong of the snow.

Precosia, run, Precosia!
Or the green wind will catch you!
Precosia, run, Precosia!
And look how fast he comes!
A satyr of low-born stars
with their long and glistening tongues.

Precosia, filled with fear,
now makes her way to that house
beyond the tall green pines
where the English consul lives.

Alarmed by the anguished cries,
three riflemen come running,
their black capes tightly drawn,
and berets down over their brow.

The Englishman gives the gypsy
a glass of tepid milk
and a shot of Holland gin
which Precosia does not drink.

And while she tells them, weeping,
of her strange adventure,
the wind furiously gnashes
against the slate roof tiles.