Why this Blog?

A place where I can lament the changing times; for eccentric comments on current affairs and for unfashionable views, expressed I hope, in cogent style; also occasional cris de coeur largely concerned, I regret to say, with myself.


I welcome your comments, so do please write. Please note however that all comments are moderated prior to publication. Whilst I fully appreciate that life can be frustrating, nevertheless, abuse, SMS language and illiteracy will not be tolerated!

Tuesday 14 August 2012

I Wish I Could Write

Today, a very good friend telephoned and expressed the view that I really should cease my depressive outpourings here and indeed, remove those already written.

I explained that these diatribes or cries of anguish and angst serve as an "outlet" and that therefore they will remain.  Attentive regulars (bless you for your patience!) will have noticed that certain posts have actually been removed...

Matthew Arnold, son of the redoubtable Thomas of Rugby (see Lytton Strachey's Eminent Victorians) could certainly write - and understand; witness his poem Longing:


Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

Come, as thou cam'st a thousand times,
A messenger from radiant climes,
And smile on thy new world, and be
As kind to others as to me!

Or, as thou never cam'st in sooth,
Come now, and let me dream it truth,
And part my hair, and kiss my brow,
And say, My love why sufferest thou?

Come to me in my dreams, and then
By day I shall be well again!
For so the night will more than pay
The hopeless longing of the day.

A man who could write I think.

Like Robert Frost in Reluctance; the last verse expresses my feelings very well:


Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last long aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch-hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question 'Whither?'

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Until the next time.


Anonymous said...

yes ,to be able to write like that would be a true gift. I`ve always thought Byron ,like Shakespeare, had a view on most of the human condition.
Thank you for moderating your earlier posts....they frightened the children.......

In secret we met--
In silence I grieve,
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee?--
With silence and tears

Paul said...

Excellent choice - even if the writer was "mad, bad and dangerous to know"

Anonymous said...

"Remember thee! Remember thee!; Till Lethe quench life’s burning stream; Remorse and shame shall cling to thee, And haunt thee like a feverish dream! Remember thee! Ay, doubt it not.

Anonymous said...