If Saturday is for the Elizabethans, Sunday is for the Reformers. Modern women, note that AL's gifts were noted and her ability to translate used: she appended this to Calvin's sermons, and in doing so predated Sydney. And yes, it replaces Belloc. I am reformed, and it is a religious text. The only challenge to … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
Poem
Saturday Sonnet.
I have listened to the pained cry of the readers, and gone from a modern poet (Belloc) to an Elizabethan one (Philip Sydney). Because what remains of the old is good. Because this series is long. And because we all need more sonnets. This will run on Saturday: there is another sequence that is religious … Continue reading Saturday Sonnet.
There is no peace.
Many High church atheists find comfort in oblivion and that they will have peace beyond this life there. They fear any disturbance. A.R.D. Fairburn is of that ilk, and hoped death would be akin to a long sleep. THE DISADVANTAGES OF BEING DEAD On reading that Sir Ernest Fisk, Managing Director of Amalgamated Wireless, considers … Continue reading There is no peace.
They don’t make socailists like this any more.
J.B.S. Haldane was a Fabian muckraker and a reasonable biochemist. He was a stoical High Church atheist. And the genesis of this poem is summarized brilliantly by Infogalactic. Shortly before his death from cancer, Haldane wrote a comic poem while in the hospital, mocking his own incurable disease; it was read by his friends, who … Continue reading They don’t make socailists like this any more.
Sunday Sonnet.
The Belloc cycle is drawing to a close. If anyone wants to comment about other cycles, do so. XXXITI Of meadows drowsy with Trinacrian bees, Of shapes that moved a rising mist among — Persephone between the Cypress trees — Of lengthier shades along the woodland flung, Of calm upon the hardly whispering seas, Of … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.
The vinegar in colonial teeth.
One of the joys of this postcolonial time is that we are forced to forget who we are, and beg forgiveness for what we have not done. The ideologues consider the imperial period a disaster: a destruction of societies, and removal of diversity. And they look at the English, who banned the killing of wives, … Continue reading The vinegar in colonial teeth.
Sunday Sonnet
XXXI The world's a stage. The trifling entrance fee Is paid (by proxy) to the registrar. The Orchestra is very loud and free But plays no music in particular. They do not print a programme, that I know. The caste is large. There isn't any plot. The acting of the piece is far below The … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet
Write what you know.
Most of the authors I like and buy are not liked by the critics or win awards. In the area which I read the most, the winners of the last Hugo and Nebula Awards write luminous sentences and incoherent novels. Perhaps I am old fashioned. But perhaps the critics are degenerate and converged. To an … Continue reading Write what you know.
The dead cranberry and the cloths of heaven.
A couple of days ago Dolores O'Riordan, the lead singer of the Cranberries died, aged 46. I would not say this to her, for she is not the person who walks on my dreams. But it is time to pray for those who do. He wishes for the Clothes of Heaven Had I the heavens' … Continue reading The dead cranberry and the cloths of heaven.
Sunday Sonnet.
This one from Belloc is more like Kipling than Hopkins. But it is Sunday, the theme is death, and I don't merely want to put a satirical sonnet up. Spring and Fall to a young child Márgarét, áre you gríeving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leáves like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care … Continue reading Sunday Sonnet.