Philip Pullman's Speech

Leave the libraries alone. You don’t understand their value. Blog False Economy


This is something that should be read by all who love books, all who love libraries.

Read and pass it on if you are moved by Philip Pullman's heartfelt speech.

Hope

Hope -  The artist is George Frederick Watts RA

1817-1904

This is Barack Obama's favourite painting and I have to say I love it very much too.

Hope




Hope lives in silence,

his face so often obscured

in low-slung shadows, esconced in sunbeams.

Such peace; like a silent order, save for birdsong

and its new day’s heartfelt repetitions.

Yesterday a white down feather lay upon a loved one’s shoulder,

while a black cat slinked, ghost-like, past French windows in our view;

(today, two magpies graze the garden).

Late, summer-scented, sudden and secret, a swift rain shower descends,

falling vertically, innocently unaware, unabashed by the sunlight

which is understated; warm but not yet bright.

Verging on unnoticed, to me it is a treasure,

unfolding a promise of persistence.

Positivity comes as its gift, unwrapping itself

in an August rainbow, just for you and me,

something you might dream of in some future winter.



Cait O’Connor

Jorg Luis Borges, the Argentine poet.........

You've probably seen on the Google home page that it is his 112th birthday today;  here is one of his quotes and a sweetish poem. I think I have blogged a poem by him in a previous post but my Google (blog) Search button is not working for me. Perhaps some kind soul could check and see if it works for you? My new computer has a mind of it's own, has teamed up with Google Blogger and both seem intent on forbidding.

Anyone else hate Windows 7?

The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), Argentinian author. "Funes the Memorious," Labyrinths (1964).

Anyone else had that feeling?

Here is the poem. 

Instants



If I could live again my life,

In the next - I'll try,

- to make more mistakes,

I won't try to be so perfect,

I'll be more relaxed,

I'll be more full - than I am now,

In fact, I'll take fewer things seriously,

I'll be less hygienic,

I'll take more risks,

I'll take more trips,

I'll watch more sunsets,

I'll climb more mountains,

I'll swim more rivers,

I'll go to more places - I've never been,

I'll eat more ice creams and less (lime) beans,

I'll have more real problems - and less imaginary

ones,

I was one of those people who live

prudent and prolific lives -

each minute of his life,

Of course that I had moments of joy - but,

if I could go back I'll try to have only good moments,
If you don't know - thats what life is made of,

Don't lose the now!
I was one of those who never goes anywhere

without a thermometer,

without a hot-water bottle,

and without an umberella and without a parachute,
If I could live again - I will travel light,

If I could live again - I'll try to work bare feet

at the beginning of spring till

the end of autumn,

I'll ride more carts,

I'll watch more sunrises and play with more children,

If I have the life to live - but now I am 85,

- and I know that I am dying ...



Jorge Luis Borges

Anyone else think this poem reminds them of another one?

Where has all the good news gone?

Where has all the good news gone?




It’s the shy but gifted child at the back of the classroom

who was cradled in compromise,

knows the truth, has all the answers

but simply cannot raise her hand.

It’s what God would bring, or the angels,

but the mouths of the media,

brought up on the bad

are too often gagged or censored.

It blows in on the wind sometimes, unbidden;

and before we have time to prepare, it will circle a room

looking for the best place to land.

It hovers; rearranging, repositioning,

raising energies, brightening auras.

refuting all that’s gone before.

Exploding, it exposes our cynicism,

despairing of our apathy,

knowing it will lead to anarchy.

Wanting to embrace you, it will instead shake you,

will move you and change you.

It’s what we should all try to seek

every damned minute.

It’s in this poem trying to speak.

You may have given up on it.

But you deserve it.

You deserve it.



Cait O’Connor

High Haf

Picture by Gayle Murphy

 

High Haf




You deceived me with your promises

of bright, warm days and long, light nights.

How could you.

We were to fly among the hills

and walk through new warm sea;

instead I emerge like a pit pony

into the coal-black afternoon.

You have done this before,

but I am soft and need your touch

yet you tease me with trailers of might be

you advertise so well it is a pity

you have nothing to sell.

You are the summer love:

Transient, naïve and remembered

with distorted fondness.



Christopher Challener

10 metaphors for a Friday

10 metaphors for a Friday

Rosebuds sigh pure innocence

Extroversion, the ever open door

Patience is a collared dove

Summer, a smile

Autumn, first chill

Winter, a death

Spring, the rebirth

Seasons fit my moods.

Days are lifetimes.

Tears are a well

Cait O’Connor



For a brilliant article on the riots go to Peter Oborne's article in the Telegraph.



Just for Once

Dingle Cottage by renowned artist Ellen Lefrak

Just for Once

Just for once let me reveal what holds me here in this cottage, once a blacksmith’s home and now my would-be hermit’s abode where I live, dream and write in such sweet seclusion.

It is a cerise and blue sunrise that calls me, drawing me from my bed to meet the day anew while all is fresh and free of Man’s contamination. All is still quiet, there are no jarring sounds, no ringing phone, no bad news on the radio; none of modern life’s stressful interruptions.

Just for once the cottage wakes on a summer morning clean and bright and smiling broadly. Each of its little corners warm from the rays of the sun and all the surfaces shining having been polished to a fault. There are jugs of roses and sweet peas, both scented, new novels in piles, their worlds waiting to be lost in The crystals hanging in the windows reflect the sun and cast rainbows round the room (we call them fairies or angels ); there are the cherished little treasures hanging from brass hooks on ancient oak beams, beams which once framed the finest British sailing ships of old. What stories could they tell?

The white cat is home from a night’s hunting, she lies on a windowsill; birdwatching is her favourite pastime. The two dogs mill about, eager to go outside, their excitement at the thought of tasting the new day is contagious. I don outdoor shoes and throw on a cape over my night-wear. No-one will see me thus attired. I venture out.

As I stand and watch the river I cannot keep from singing. The river plays its melodies and little white horses race across stones. There is much life in our river.

It is not only the fish who jump. My heart does too as it remembers I have long days ahead that are filled with blank pages. I cannot help but twirl but it is a secret dance for with all the world seemingly asleep, only the earliest of birds can see me in my nightgown at the water’s edge, a grey haired old diva dancing for joy.

This new day has begun.

Let me not be too afraid to say that just for once, all is well.



Cait O’Connor