E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

Britain's acclaimed architect expert, critic, bon vivant, wit, and writer, Charles Knevitt , is coming to New York for two one-man shows - LE CORBUSIER'S WOMEN - at the famous Bowery Poetry club, soon, to do a reading of his play on the life of great modernist Le Corbusier . The play is sexy, scandalous, informative, and fun, and it is recommended by Eyewear , not least because Knevitt wears Le Corbusier glasses. There will be two performances at Bowery, both on Sunday, September 22nd. The Le Corbusier exhibition at MoMA closes the following day, Monday 23rd. It claims 4,000 visitors a day. For full details and to purchase tickets: lecorbusier.brownpapertickets.com Follow CK on Twitter @lecorbusierNYC

Walk on air S.H. A morning progressing in the usual manner, that Gorgeous every-day glory we’ve almost gone numb to. The Awful music blared the moment you went from us, far Into the woods where Mad Sweeney roamed, his hajj Now yours. Did you pass your father, digging time, tau Spuds in golden ratio? Did you pass Aunt Mary, broad, Teaching love with a goose’s wing and a scoop sunk snug, Years of flour fading its gleam? I hope there was a tree Outside your window to link you into the firm Unending network of eternal life. And all the while, Remember, I was unconscious of your pain. Beating my legs against a machine, an animal that Escaped, so far, the pit that you fell into. Seamus, The gym seemed silent, my muscles spent, feeling your death. poem by Bethany W. Pope, copyright 2013.   Bethany W. Pope is an award winning author of the LBA, and a finalist for the Faulkner-Wisdom Awards. She was a runner up

i.m. Seamus Heaney 1939-2013 The windmills turn, but no one can push back the wind. It comes from the far darkness, and without a sound war drops confetti primers where the young will find the haw beds stirring, laughing where great words resound. The spires of the citadel are stark and bare, no longer young, none striding forth with prospects there to find the mazy streets lead to the fullsome w orld . . . for darkness once again has been to darkness hurled. A great one's passed, who validated much of youth . . . to rattle in the darkness, finding signs of truth. His clear voice boomed and worked to put us all at ease with prospects of a keen, perpetual increase. Now we shall hear his voice no more, except in signs the sharp and shaping anvil has its grand designs.   poem by Ben Mazer, copyright 2013

In Memoriam, Seamus Heaney A day after parliament stopped the British from war and now the heart-stopping news you are no longer the bearer of a passport that let you travel far and wide. Ready to be lugged and thrown, however gently into the difficult ground you measured as it was sown, with seed or wound - to flower only later, for it is near-autumn, and the harvest coming in is not for you to see or taste. Seamus, you had the tongue to take what's best of sound and give out what had to be said - in a governed way, that understood the dead. You were no comedian like Wilde, no tragedian like Yeats; your vision a middle way. Your Virgil was Ireland, bringing you upwards to the light, which sees and says the best things. There will be massacres and weapons inspectors Sunday, and the year after, and arguably until time stops working, and it never does. Only bodies halt, and that is a bitterness to drink down.  Sweet hearts fail.  Words go on. poem by Tod

I met Seamus Heaney once - he was celebrating the tenth anniversary of his win of the Nobel prize - and I was part of the dinner party (a guest of Tamar Yoseloff ).  We spoke briefly, and he called me "Hot Toddy".  I am very sad - even unexpectedly moved - to learn of his untimely death at the age of 74.  Heaney was the greatest living traditional, lyric poet, since Philip Larkin .  He was not as great as Yeats , or Kavanagh , but he was a poetic genius, and, what is more, he reached out to the common reader in a way that was astounding; his warmth was palpable - he cared about readers and people.  I feel that his poetry will be judged to have shied away too much from the themes of love and bodily passion that made Yeats so universal - and his over reliance on the Classical tradition was perhaps old-fashioned - but in his best poems, no one could match his moral vision, his sonic intelligence, and his gravitas. He saw far and wide. I don't think he was a very witty poet

Today is a day for British citizens - and I am one of them - to pause, and reflect on what their politicians have done in their name.  For this morning, Britain is - depending on your politics of war - either a seriously diminished, paltry thing, isolated and deflated - or a nation that has shown it is nobody's lapdog, and that parliament is indeed in charge.  This is the day that lays to rest Labour's sins under Blair , and that dodgy dossier - or, makes Ed Milliband the new Neville Chamberlain .  For make no mistake, yesterday's vote against the PM's declared aim to take Britain into war against the Assad regime is historically momentous - never before has a British Prime Minister had their war plans kiboshed in such a way.  It is, depending on your view, a humiliation or a triumph, or maybe both. Eyewear's view is that it is a potential tragedy, for the following reasons: while it is good that the primacy of parliament was upheld, it is not clear such a domes

Zachary Bos Thinking of Tomorrow in a Drowsy State                                for JMD The past drains from the present – Daniel Hoffman I really mean to say instead is, come back – Denise Riley Lonely from the beginning of time until now! – Ezra Pound * * Tomorrow first thing I’m going to look straight into your sleepy eyes and urge you to make something out of the day.  Get up , I’ll say.  Shake off the dust . Get a grip of your apprehensive, self-impeding self. Scrape the green bilge out of your eye corners. You’ve got to get to it!  It’s time to let yourself be a person with full needs and urges, to be that person who wonders in your beautiful original way. I know you dream a lot about going back to that moment that peaceful instant between the ignition of the cosmos and its expansion, when light had yet to build up speed enough to latch onto things