Tag Archives: Movies

Movie Geek For Refugees – Reviewing My Unseen DVDs For A Refugee Charity, In A Time of Humanitarian Crisis

This is a pile of DVDs in my living room, most of them unwatched.


“Movie Geek For Refugees” is an attempt to make something like a charity marathon out of film reviews, in aid of Refugee Action. Regular readers of my work might well note that silliness is never far from intense seriousness in a lot of stuff I seem to do, so while you’ll see me having fun as an amateur film critic finally getting around to viewing a two-column-strong pile of impulse purchased movies, I have seared in my mind what we’ve all seen is going on. People just like us have fled war, torture, indiscriminate violence, persecution and horror only to find that the international community is responding with indifference. People are living in unlivable conditions. Hundreds of unaccompanied children are perhaps the most greatly at risk. Your donations are desperately needed. If you’d like to join me in my fun movie critiquing sideshow at “Movie Geek For Refugees” you can, or just donate towards much-needed work and offer, in these times, a much-needed gesture of your compassion.

Refugee Action homepage.



Old Octopus

Part of a Series of Poems about Films, and After the Film “Oldboy” (2003)

A mosaic of things to compose your halo,
an octopus on a plate
in parts,
under a sun
that is secretly Gaudí’s Greek cousin,
fashionably late to the celebration,
amid whispers of his maddening.

Bow-legged and troubled from recycling breath,
and television in the same box,
sleeping the entire room.

You wonder how the creator of this scheme
got away with it,
you wonder how it stays up,
about the lizards that the design can support.

In a frame of mind,
Gaudí, like Walt Disney, doesn’t belong,
and I can’t convince you of a different film;
I only have six arms and
two legs,
cut with a cared-for blade.

But the Sagrada Famílias are popping up like mushrooms
to dress the set,
the unfinished and sunny salad,
where tomatoes blaze alight.

The table,
first refracted by as much water
as wild hair that streams before your eyes
– that river is just the flow of days,
and you wake up in a different style,
sometimes enough for tears –
every morning

a fraction of that sea;
in your glass,
or glasses,

like the light,
that extends many running legs
on vivid grass,
and wide arms.

Old Boy,
of the movie,
I know
we can change the seas
in front of our world’s noses.

I know your angry
taste for octopus
is matched by your furious
memory of living,

and it’s not good to be an octopus sandwich
a two parter.

I would like to
share a smile with a stranger,
more not knowing what to do when our overrated
paths cross
before this squid ink becomes
a leaking biro to stain a jean pocket.

And roll the squid
into contortions
of sushi,
in the House,
its heritage staircase,
when square topiaries are rooted outside by volunteer angels
and gardeners, behind us,
where we didn’t
miss each other.

All the inter-city passengers turned to comparisons with jelly,
watching things pass downwards
slowed inwards by fear.

The giant octopus,
could take the yellow bus for a petal,
wave it around a bit,
wonder what you are
as your body slides
from one traveller to another,
in the joy of being safe and alive,
passing through ghosts
collecting pocket change and
puzzle books
to the sound of my

The problematical Enigma machine of sums
for the mathematician I’m not.
Adverse to cutting the wires of a bomb
though he must;
apparently the blue.

The machine
that in a spot of frustration,
the American Ensign says is “busted”,
under sea level,
with the last double bass player on a cruise ship
not to float.

Curl a cup around my suckers,
to drink the bitter saltwater,
and I just might be the spirit of an octopus,
and just as envious of a wash-cloth.

I can just imagine a chorus line of
us octopuses
high-kicking in a Studio System musical,
but useless in our hallway,
where we hang up our coats.

These are the notes, that the angels,
have me writing in margins
of a remake’s screenplay:

before I say something like “Rosebud”, or perhaps “donut”
there is never anything wrong with a donut,
as a reward
instead of an octopuses’ punishment for being alive,
instead of food that won’t go quietly.

My Books Are Infested With Silverfish



I’ve not been online with any regularity lately. I am accessing The Hare indirectly, from a secret connection behind the bookshelf of a public library. You too can contact The Hare if you look hard enough for these Portals, or you could just email me.

I am about ready to “hang up my books, swallow the key, and throw away the towel”, as it were.

The Universal Library has books, full of not words but pictures. Nobody quite agrees  what the pictures are of – somebody’s brutalised Mother? two Sodomites in a Doomed Embrace? An Open Cage? 0r a Bird?

  • Do I know why?

Such is the nature of the puzzle of the enigma of The Universe, my Darlings! of which your life – with all this crazy gift of Time – is but a very silly part! So drink up! I would promise to never forget you, but you know I will, Children!

  • “Time is Not Money, Time is the Absence of Money.”

Willem Dafoe in the film “Faraway, So Close!” said that.

So Live Timelessly, kids. I’m counting on you.

Continue reading My Books Are Infested With Silverfish

“Song of Childhood” by Peter Handke (From The Film “Wings of Desire”, dir. Wim Wenders, 1987)

When the child was a child
It walked with its arms swinging,
wanted the brook to be a river,
the river to be a torrent,
and this puddle to be the sea.

When the child was a child,
it didn’t know that it was a child,
everything was soulful,
and all souls were one.

When the child was a child,
it had no opinion about anything,
had no habits,
it often sat cross-legged,
took off running,
had a cowlick in its hair,
and made no faces when photographed.

When the child was a child,
It was the time for these questions:
Why am I me, and why not you?
Why am I here, and why not there?
When did time begin, and where does space end?
Is life under the sun not just a dream?
Is what I see and hear and smell
not just an illusion of a world before the world?
Given the facts of evil and people.
does evil really exist?
How can it be that I, who I am,
didn’t exist before I came to be,
and that, someday, I, who I am,
will no longer be who I am?

When the child was a child,
It choked on spinach, on peas, on rice pudding,
and on steamed cauliflower,
and eats all of those now, and not just because it has to.

When the child was a child,
it awoke once in a strange bed,
and now does so again and again.
Many people, then, seemed beautiful,
and now only a few do, by sheer luck.

It had visualized a clear image of Paradise,
and now can at most guess,
could not conceive of nothingness,
and shudders today at the thought.

When the child was a child,
It played with enthusiasm,
and, now, has just as much excitement as then,
but only when it concerns its work.

When the child was a child,
It was enough for it to eat an apple, … bread,
And so it is even now.

When the child was a child,
Berries filled its hand as only berries do,
and do even now,
Fresh walnuts made its tongue raw,
and do even now,
it had, on every mountaintop,
the longing for a higher mountain yet,
and in every city,
the longing for an even greater city,
and that is still so,
It reached for cherries in topmost branches of trees
with an elation it still has today,
has a shyness in front of strangers,
and has that even now.
It awaited the first snow,
And waits that way even now.

When the child was a child,
It threw a stick like a lance against a tree,
And it quivers there still today.


Continue reading “Song of Childhood” by Peter Handke (From The Film “Wings of Desire”, dir. Wim Wenders, 1987)

The Hare – “On Interactivity” (or, “How to Earn your Servitude”)

Evening, my bright, young (?) candy-apples.

Just a few things to sweep your way regarding housekeeping issues. I want to draw further attention, away from the troublesome goat in the corner, to a feature of this site which is really quite something indeed, and that something, happily, is not a goat.

Warne’s Standard Extra-General Miscellanydefines a “web-log” as a highly interactive precision tool; a roundish instrument fashioned in gold, which large groups of people can simultaneously use to defeat any fast-approaching Irishmen.

The moral of the story is this:



Any style accepted, some more begrudgingly than others but, hey, you don’t know until you swing a cat.

This most blank of canvases should excite you. If not, you’re a corpse, and I don’t publish corpses,  nomatter how “At Risk of Exclusion” they are. Any subject, any tone, funny is good; we will give priority, without a pinchof shame, to anyone called Peter, or any writer/artist/musician/whatever who regards hares, rabbits, cats or owls (perhaps turtles, or other creatures) as one of their key Thematic Concerns. Any “Slave”…sorry…”contributor” will of course earn a guest writers credit, and the recognition you so desperately want yet don’t really need. Remember this, gold can turn to shit.

any medium, style, Hares or other creatures preffered…or any such lunacy. That is all, my dears.

 We reserve the right to giggle and point, or turn you out into the eternal winter of your disappointment. We are quite nice most of the time, though.  Everybody gets a pencil [note; this is a lie.]

Now, to redeem this post from the status of “filler” (there have been, i fear,  a few such posts lately)… let’s watch a movie. First a little fact; films are better than Opera, Chess, and Polo combined; if you take it upon yourself to do all that at once, you will just become confused.

This clip is a tribute to the film Princess Mononoke (1997, Dir. Hayao Miyazaki) which Peter re-edited and put music many ‘yons ago on crappy technology. Talk about killing a god.

Look! See!