Amazing CFP – ‘Encounters, Affinities, Legacies: the 18th century in the Present Day’ – conf at York in June.

Here’s a CFP for what looks like it will be an incredible conference. I’m not involved with the organization & not trying to take credit for it by putting it on this blog, but it just seemed like the easiest way to share over Twitter etc since there isn’t (yet) a website.

CFP Encounters, Affinities, Legacies – the Eighteenth Century in the Present Day II

 

I’d quite like to submit an improved version of a paper I originally came up with for a ‘Celebrating Carter’ forum I ran with two friends in the Spring to mark the 20-year anniversary of Angela Carter’s death. It’s called (something along the lines of) ‘Celia’s Bits: Demystification of the Feminine in the writing of Angela Carter and Jonathan Swift’. Would quite like to do a panel. Any other Swiftians / Carterites/ scholars of the grotesque / female bodies / mythologies out there?

In London at the moment researching – super interesting stuff emerging about surname change. Each name change petition a little narrative. Blog update soon!

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‘The Tinker’. Or, ‘Bumming, bumming, bumming.’

This is the most bizarre poem in existence by Wordsworth. 
Or by, you know, anyone. 

Unsurprisingly, it was never printed. 

The Tinker

 Who leads a happy life
 If it's not the merry Tinker?
 Not too old to have a Wife ;
 Not too much a thinker :
 Through the meadows, over stiles, 
Where there are no measured miles, 
Day by day he finds his way 
Among the lonely houses : 
Right before the Farmer's door
 Down he sits ; 
his brows he knits ; 
Then his hammer he rouzes ; 
Batter ! batter ! batter ! 
He begins to clatter ; 
And while the work is going on 
Right good ale he bowses ; 
And, when it is done, away he is gone ; 
And, in his scarlet coat, 
With a merry note, 
He sings the sun to bed ; 
And, without making a pother, 
Finds some place or other 
For his own careless head. 
When in the woods the little Fowls 
Begin their merry-making, 
Again the jolly Tinker bowls
 Forth with small leave-taking : 
Through the valley, up the hill ;
 He can't go wrong go where he will :
 Tricks he has twenty, 
And pastimes in plenty ; 
He's the terror of boys in the midst of their noise ; 
When the market Maiden, 
Bringing home her lading, 
Hath passed him in a nook, 
With his outlandish look, 
And visage grim and sooty, 
Bumming, bumming, bumming,
 What is that that's coming ? 
Silly Maid as ever was ! 
She thinks that she and all she has
 Will be the Tinker's booty ; 
At the pretty Maiden's dread 
The Tinker shakes his head, 
Laughing, laughing, laughing, 
As if he would laugh himself dead. 
And thus, with work or none, 
The Tinker lives in fun, 
With a light soul (sic) to cover him ; 
And sorrow and care blow over him, 
Whether he's up or a-bed.