tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-44573729654289353402011-12-30T15:58:59.687ZJames Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.comBlogger106125JamesRippingalehttp://feedburner.google.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-27538533853751893132011-12-30T15:52:00.005Z2011-12-30T15:58:59.695Z2011-12-30T15:58:59.695Z

Back from floods, from fevers, from national disasters, from 700 bitter miles of churned-up Asian roads by bicycle. Back from beaches and jungles and guns and borders and bribed policemen and elephants and landmines and monks and mountains. We made it through in one piece. All of us. The kids are alright.

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/12/im-back.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-65282767932672459952011-08-10T00:53:00.005+01:002011-08-18T21:46:10.008+01:002011-08-18T21:46:10.008+01:00

This was ready to go to my new publishers yesterday, but in light of the recent riots, I though it needed a rapid expansion. I've been going non-stop since 11pm last night and now it's finished. What started as a re-write of T.S Eliot's The Wasteland, somehow grew a body and mutated into a kind of Wasteland-X. Mostly written in cafes and sqaures and on benches during giant walks around London.

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/08/my-new-book.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-63302967809216095182011-08-06T17:35:00.014+01:002011-08-18T21:51:14.019+01:002011-08-18T21:51:14.019+01:00

I've just come back from a month-long travel writing assignment in Spain. A special time and a special place. Hiking volcanoes, jumping off harbour bridges at midnight, watching townspeople flood rose petals over religious processions from their balconies. My Spanish is slowly getting better, my salsa, not so. But there's really far too much to write about in one sitting so I'm just gonna give

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com1http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/08/other-places-other-news.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-7613301669102417902011-05-06T22:46:00.002+01:002011-05-09T01:44:09.482+01:002011-05-09T01:44:09.482+01:00

Bank, Threadneedle Street, Cheapside, Paternoster SquareSolemn moment in October dusk-light. A clump of tourists gathers round the remembrance wreath. Factory pressed poppies. A young child plays at being general by the side of the Wellington statue, scrawling his name in crayon against the marble. But can we give moment to history’s dead - whose eye we never met, hand we never held? Can we offer

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/evensong.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-26300383556241756172011-05-06T21:38:00.007+01:002011-05-09T02:27:06.735+01:002011-05-09T02:27:06.735+01:00

So the Royal Wedding is upon us. I abandoned by studies for the day and decided to document that curious species and global phenomenon otherwise known as The Great British Public. Despite the overriding political and economic cynicism of late, it was a really beautiful day; a kind of collective nostaglic insanity swept up all of London and it was lovely to disregard current affairs and celebrate

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Pretty sat there with you between the parasolsWhere the pale doves flickered and dartedAnd all the fashionistas ignored their phonesLulling their heads in cool mantra to the seaYou with your sun-trapped tumble of hairThat stilled the light and glowed an ember redAs you smoked in your wraparound shadesAnd the sea-breeze surrendered its chin to the sandHappy faking rich and looking emptyLeafing

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/for-samara.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-80152215495161695632011-05-06T20:10:00.003+01:002011-05-09T01:48:52.858+01:002011-05-09T01:48:52.858+01:00

I:It begins here: a darkened room strewn with rags, ropes And ashtrays. A nightmare-pit called up out of collective memory,Ten men working under strained bulb-light. Shirtless, silent, focused.It starts with the smell of diesel fuel, with the hummingOf a near-dead generator, and the tin fizz of a cheap radioThat plays a Malaysian pop song about a boy and a high-school crush.The viewer recoils as

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/skin.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-87483893309445854962011-05-06T19:54:00.003+01:002011-05-06T20:09:47.221+01:002011-05-06T20:09:47.221+01:00

It's been a two month house-arrest for all of us round here. Mara's been storyboarding for the BBC, Charlotte's been relentlessly editing fashion shoots and I've been writing my novel. Consequently, Neither me or my camera have seen much daylight, so here's some pictures from deep inside flat 40

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/inside-bunker.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-27836283286272628482011-05-06T19:52:00.001+01:002011-05-06T19:54:06.645+01:002011-05-06T19:54:06.645+01:00

Where do you go when the sun dies down?In the cool slash of blue after the sunstrokeWhere girls in gold drink champagneAnd palms outstretch their silhouettesAcross the Croisette fizzing with nightWhere do you go after the fast cars Exhale their glitter over beachfront roads?Sat there tired-smiling with your counterfeit stockPitted African skin unnoticed as a gum-stainAs the day’s kissing crowds

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/glitter.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-37299425643684566672011-05-06T19:51:00.001+01:002011-05-06T19:52:30.944+01:002011-05-06T19:52:30.944+01:00

She could not strike the match. Could not force that Prometheus brush-light into the frozen moment. She could not paint: nothing but dandelions and the weedsOf idiot-love. She could not build Gods. She smashed the hives But found no honey there, dragged her empty nets back up from The floodwater, and caught nothing but the vacuum. Nothing butThe late wind through the hinges. Soon they found her.

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/sacred-heart.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-12842156329183206172011-05-06T19:48:00.001+01:002011-05-06T19:50:21.505+01:002011-05-06T19:50:21.505+01:00

It happened at the season’s turnWhen the sun feathered south with the starlingsAnd autumn’s iodine fumed the trees.That day his creations came for him;Pinned out his murder in a bare-roomed Cuneiform of pain; poured themselves back intoThe bottle, so he would die alone, drink in hand;Nuzzled into that motherless cub-languageWith which he carefully printed them.No more Gatsbys, no more Carraways,

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/fscott.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-25580126594822535762011-05-06T19:36:00.003+01:002011-05-09T01:49:39.125+01:002011-05-09T01:49:39.125+01:00

Tottenham Court Rd, Denmark St, Charing Cross Rd, New Oxford StAnd the city just moves that way – synaptual, firing off at random as Centre Point hangs in winter’s streaked grey wash. Somehow the scene looks like it’s been dragged up from the ‘80s – grainy light, colour-bleached concrete and exhaust fumes - backlit anti-nostalgia of the Poll Tax and the Falklands. On the corner of Earnshaw

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/05/vanishing-point.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-32231784576555945222011-02-13T00:00:00.005Z2011-02-13T00:11:03.612Z2011-02-13T00:11:03.612Z

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SLOWLY I MARRIED HERBy Leonard CohenSlowly I married herSlowly and bitterly married her loveMarried her body….in boredom and joySlowly I came to herSlow and restfully came to her bedCame to her table in hunger and habit….came to be fedSlowly I married hersanctioned by nonewith nobody’s name….amid general warnings….amid general scornCame to her fragrance….my nostrils wideCame to her greed….with

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2011/01/slowly-i-married-her-by-leonard-cohen.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-1940502658142443822010-12-22T00:18:00.006Z2010-12-22T00:23:03.346Z2010-12-22T00:23:03.346Z

A new, unpublished poem of his that has just been found. Ted Hughes. My hero.Last LetterWhat happened that night? Your final night.Double, treble exposureOver everything. Late afternoon, Friday,My last sight of you alive.Burning your letter to me, in the ashtray,With that strange smile. Had I bungled your plan?Had it surprised me sooner than you purposed?Had I rushed it back to you too promptly?

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2010/12/last-letter-ted-hughes.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-31941261471541114482010-12-10T12:55:00.003Z2010-12-10T12:57:00.088Z2010-12-10T12:57:00.088Z

And in the middle of that surge - in the carnage and the flares and the truncheons. Somewhere, in the bottles and the smoke and the eight-horse charge of the riot squad, I felt so beautifully alive...

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2010/12/riot-state_10.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-16752141806893297082010-12-10T12:54:00.001Z2010-12-10T12:57:48.973Z2010-12-10T12:57:48.973Z

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.Some absolutely beautiful pictures taken by my girlfriend a few weeks ago. Poem by Carl Sandburg

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2010/12/winterland.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-67881222838293560252010-11-21T02:32:00.002Z2010-11-21T02:40:10.938Z2010-11-21T02:40:10.938Z

It’s late tonight. I can’t sleep and i thought that just for once, I'd write something about myself. I don’t think anybody ever reads this, so it can hardly matter much. Somewhere out there, it's Saturday night; i can hear the near-off whispering of traffic and trains along Bishopsgate, the all-night busses around the city and people coming home to rest. I always think I see more than that, hear

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Thin varnish that peels on sight Soft money and a cobalt blue sunsetUnder the palm trees at duskHere too are knife-cratered landscapesFormed in the geology of hotels and yachtsAnd the mirrored walkways where we kissedHere the Russian billionaire sleeps soundlyHere the Saudi sheikh forgets his chaste womenHere the African street seller is dumped at seaHard thing to unpick its sun-happy sequins A

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2010/10/billionaire.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-58883532064729534062010-09-19T19:55:00.001+01:002010-09-19T19:56:50.076+01:002010-09-19T19:56:50.076+01:00

James Rippingalehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00435113056376244991noreply@blogger.com0http://jamesrippingale.blogspot.com/2010/09/le-bosquet-station-after-dark.htmltag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4457372965428935340.post-64422069746763851732010-09-16T22:55:00.003+01:002010-09-19T01:27:59.332+01:002010-09-19T01:27:59.332+01:00

Just you and me and the rainclouds Dull-booming their careless downpourOver the lead-sky curve of the Cap D’AntibesAnd us hand-in-hand between the empty cafesWhere Coco Chanel sat all those years agoNursing solemn espressos as Paris burnedAnd lovers let pass their slow seductionsAs the bombs began to fallYou drew her shape in the rain as we walkedThe lacework ghost of a woman in mourningStill

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