Monday 21 October 2019

A

The pleasure of a good read.

As Autumn draws in the urge to read is ever more strong. As darkness slowly returns the inner world needs fuel and sometimes
a call to revisit a book read and enjoyed previously is heard.



I think it was the actor Christopher Lee who returned to Lord of the Rings every October to follow Frodo on his life changing quest to destroy the evil ring of absolute power.I understand his need to do this.
 The urge is to again find a place of the numinous that makes delving deeper into the mystery of our  inner world easier. This feels essential as the year begins to slow down.

 This Autumn have found a new book to take me on such a journey.


  

I have said recently politics here and in the US and the carnage worldwide has been playing havoc with my peace of mind and this is a book that has taken me to other places. The world of islands, of folklore and human endeavor. A voyage taken by a man who has a wonderful sensitivity and acute observation and who can vividly share his journey taking the reader along with him.This book is the latest work by Phillip Marsden and is titled The Summer Isles.
  The author takes his boat and makes an exploration of the islands on the coast of Ireland and Scotland.


This is a pilgrimage as well as a voyage of discovery. As a young man Phillip used to visit his much loved Aunt Bridget for the holidays He loved the islands walking and climbing with this independent and adventurous woman. She and her husband had retired to live a dream of simple living in the remote and beautiful Summer Isles.Sadly while out climbing Bridget fell and died alone on the mountain.This haunted Phillip as they had planned to climb this mountain together .


As we travel through wind and weather with the author we share his fears and inner thoughts.
We meet many of the island dwellers, those that the he encounters and those from the past or from the mythic imagination.The book is rich in folklore,myth and anecdote and the mystique of islands both real and imagined. Illusive islands that appear and disappear in reality and in the minds of sailors.
The author allows the reader into his own private journey he discusses the place of  nostalgia in human life but is never sentimental.
I studied Yeats for A level and I took down my rather old copy of his Selected Poems from the shelf and found this poem,one my Mum would recite when I was young,we both loved it and although it has been over used like Wordsworth's daffodils it is still the most tender evocation of the idealized simple life. 

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

W B Yeats
 As I travel onward up the coast toward the Summer Isles in company with Mr Marsden I will keep these images of the islands in my mind could they be the fabled summer lands of folklore ?
 Whatever I think ,they are obviously embedded in the authors own many faceted inner world.


The two  paintings are by Winifred Nicholson whose works seem to capture the soul of islands,

Wednesday 25 September 2019

Bright Star returns !!!

Well I have been in no mans land for a while . I have been horrified by the ghastly politics and revolting hatred that has been prevailing in my country and elsewhere in our world. I felt I could not think about the things I loved. I felt paralyzed and totally depressed by the realization of my worst fears.
The rise of the right and xenophobia are a creeping poison I cannot ignore.To quote Wordsworth "Mans inhumanity to man"
 The ideals that make life worth living have been disappearing before my eyes. What did it matter what I  liked or loved when there was so much that I had no control over.The lessons from the past were being ignored and a new ignorance and arrogance was taking its place.


Losing myself in literature,art and creative hobbies just seemed  a self indulgent irrelevance in the face of corruption and ecological disaster. However I have to stop sinking into  this sort of horrified depression, it does not help me or anyone else . I will return to my blog and stop being so afraid. Today I would like to think about the message of Autumn.It has always been very special to me,the wonderful colours ,the sense of closing in and peace.The first fires in the wood stove, candles in the evening!
 and thinking of making a years supply of highly alcoholic marmalade !These are small joys I love.




The smell of mushrooms and making a delicious autumn omelette with them,all these  things cannot be cast away forgotten while we work through some of the most heinous of political times in my memory. Autumn is a time for thought and contemplation,casting aside the dead things,resting and hoping to survive winter and onward into a glorious spring. Whatever happens we must search for a humane way to deal with the problems we face but I must remember to feed my soul or I will loose myself in despair.It is our duty to vote for the best possible outcome for the most people and it is our duty to seek out the truth and not believe the liars and crooks who seem to be in control.
 Bright Star is named for John Keats, his life was far from easy and whose legacy is in his wonderful poetry,nobody can evoke Autumn like Keats.His life was cruelly short and bedeviled by disease and yet we have this from him.
To Autumn

I do not think anyone can touch this for an  evocation of of this season although there are many other worthy poems on the subject. I will leave you with that and I hope I can get back the enthusiasm I had in the early days of my blog.I started it as a sort of online diary to share. Speaking of diaries I have been reading Dorothy Wordsworth's Grasmere Journals and have been touched by her beautiful prose and everyday observations yet again.She had the French Revolution to cope with and Wordsworth's socks to darn not to mention dealing with the opium stoked Coleridge's problems so maybe I can enjoy writing the blog in spite of Boris Johnson and his ilk, if she can do it so can I.