Desiderata

The Stolen Child

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I love beautiful things. Words, things, music. One (mostly) really great thing about some of the fantastic old works in the public domain is that you can use them in any way you like. I really love it when modern, talented musicians sometimes add heavenly vocal chords and tunes to already angelic words, and just send these things into the stratosphere for me.

Desiderata made it to vinyl forty years ago with Les Crane. You don’t hear words like that often. Imagine if we all lived our lives like that.

I also really love The Waterboys. Can’t really think of an Irish group that I don’t love to be honest. They’ve taken the poem, The Stolen Child by William Butler Yeats straight to heaven in my opinion. Just the sort of thing for a mellow Sunday morning.

William Butler Yeats

The Stolen Child.

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water-rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berries
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim grey sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances,
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And is anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,.
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you
can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal-chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
From a world more full of weeping than he
can understand.

Rose

How Do I Love Thee

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I wonder if Kathy Reichs still does such prosaic things as washing dishes. I’m sure Stephen King doesn’t mow the lawn. Robert Rankin’s capable of anything I imagine. He’d more than likely happily wash a pile of greasy pans wearing only a rubber apron and a pink floral shower cap. That’s one of the reasons that I’m so partial to him as a person as well as respecting him greatly as the author of some of the craziest books I’ve ever read. I certainly have to do an inordinate amount of prosaic things though. Just lately it’s been zooming around trying to save things from water damage, and drying out soggy corners to prevent mould. The biblical proportions of rain we’re having has uncovered quite a few leaky bits in the roof. So once again the dream of a romantic corner in an attic somewhere creating fantastical tales takes a back seat to manual labour. I’ve pretty much given up on apologising for always being late for everything too. Anyone who knows the sorts of things that come my way would probably be more surprised if I wasn’t late.

I’m getting African Me & Satellite TV ready for publication on the 31st March. My hero’s diaries need to be filled out with a few poems. That’s just the kind of guy he is. Even though I love poetry, and actually furtively stalk quite a few modern poets, unbeknownst to themselves of course, I’ve never actually had a proper try at writing any. When that sort of thing was happening at high school I was a lot more interested in a gorgeous rugby playing, two legged, poem called Michael, if I recall correctly. It’s a miracle that I passed English at all. So, just as soon as I’ve washed the dishes, fed the feathered horde, bleached a couple of suspiciously mouldy looking walls, and caught up with my beloved social networking, I’ll dig out my mauve beret, find a suitably stubby pencil somewhere, and see if I can wax poetic on the bench near the birdbath under the coffee tree. I’m doubtful of a satisfactory outcome though, so I’ll probably just tiptoe around the web as well, and see if any of my favourite poets would be gracious enough to give me some tips. Much as I love them, some poets carry an air of brooding danger about them, and can seem a little intimidating to us mere mortals. Whether this is cultivated or something particular to the general genetic make-ups of bards I don’t know, but I’ll take care nevertheless. In the meantime, I’ll leave you with one of my favourite poems to be getting on with, and another famous writing, which, whether poem or not, is one of the most beautiful things you could ever read, and an awesome credo to try and live your life by.

Till next time friends. xxx

How Do I Love Thee?

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
my soul can reach, when feeling out of sight.
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
most quiet need, by sun and candlelight.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use, in my old griefs,and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

Desiderata

Max Ehrmann

Go placidly amid the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be critical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness. Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be careful. Strive to be happy.

butterfly