I was one of those who watched Question Time avidly last night – I’m fairly sure the viewing figures must have shown a huge upturn, although I have been guilty of not just watching the programme before but of actually taking an interest in the debates that go on there.
Last night though was, as pointed out by many people, less ‘Question Time’ and more ‘The Nick Griffin Show’. One would have thought the leader of the BNP would have relished the opportunity to publicly explain his real policies and thoughts, and defend himself and his party from the scurrilous things that have been said about them in the media. A media that is, they claim, biased against the BNP because by their own admission they are not part of the mainstream. There is a lot that is not ‘mainstream’ that I like – music, comedy – but right wing non-mainstream politics is rather different.
And Griffin may now be reflecting on his decision to submit himself and his beliefs – past and present (he says unconvincingly that these are two different things) – to public scrutiny. He has had to attempt to defend the indefensible. Which is, of course, impossible.
As for his wonderful take on “English” history, if so much hate and poison did not arise from it, I would have found his views hugely amusing. There are many countries which have identifiable indigenous races – the Maoris, Native American Indians and Aborigines are just three examples. In each of these areas of the world, at a relatively late period of human history, a foreign power marched in and took the land away from that indigenous population, usually violently, by force and with no heed for their cultural history or the thought of compensation for their loss. Although certainly not the only nation to act as usurpers in this way, the British were one of the most notable.
However, if one looks at the history of our own country, the earliest accepted inhabitants were Celts, most of whom fled in the face of wave after wave of foreign conquerors – Saxons, Britons, Norse, Romans: even the Angles, who according to some gave their name to England, were actually Germanic. If there are any true descendants of the Celts left (which I doubt) they would reside in the farthest corners of Cornwall, Wales, Ireland and Scotland. The rest of us, according to the BNP, are all immigrants. And that’s without the Normans, Huguenots – I could go on. I wonder what Mr Griffin’s family background is? But perhaps he would not have a problem with the mix of races above in view of the fact that they all share a similar (but not identical) skin pigmentation. Yet I stand corrected – Griffin declared on the programme that colour is not the issue.
Even I cringed at times as he was loudly (and deservedly) ridiculed for claiming that he couldn’t explain why he had denied the Holocaust nor why he had changed his mind – even when given complete dispensation by Jack Straw! And his declaration that everyone would agree that gay men are ‘creepy’ had to be heard to be believed.
But I thought it was right of the BBC to give him a public platform in this way, and while I respect and understand their motives, I believe those who protested outside the building were misguided and simply gave the BNP more publicity, and of a more sympathetic nature than Griffin achieved. Quite apart from the issue of following their own rules, the BBC would in refusing Griffin a place on Question Time, have created a martyr, allowing the BNP to claim unfair bias against them. And before the programme was aired I believed that if given enough rope, Griffin would publicly hang himself and his party – and I think he effectively did so last night.
Friday, 23 October 2009
Friday, 18 September 2009
The Ode Re-Travelled
I have recently re-acquainted myself with Stephen Fry’s wonderful opus, ‘The Ode Less Travelled’. As a poetry lover and a longtime admirer of Mr Fry, it comprises almost perfect reading matter for me. But this time round – probably because I wasn’t scurrying around doing Stephen’s bidding (there are lots of enjoyable poetry exercises scattered through the book) – I noticed with some sense of satisfaction that practically all the poems quoted as illustrations of great verse at work are by writers that I number among my favourites.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
Part of this satisfaction, if I’m honest, stems from the knowledge that Mr Fry is widely regarded as something of an expert on language and literature, and would be deemed to have excellent taste – if my taste runs parallel to his in some small way, I too must have good taste – yes?
But even more, it confirms the relationship I have enjoyed with Stephen for more than twenty years now. A purely non-reciprocal relationship, I hasten to add: I have never been privileged enough to even meet Mr Fry. But I have loved his work since the eighties when I emerged from my Monty Python-induced comedy blinkers to discover the ‘new’ generation of entertainers, including Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders, Ade Edmondson, Rik Mayall, Ben Elton, Rowan Atkinson, Hugh Laurie – and Stephen Fry.
Stephen stood out for me even then, and even against the backdrop of such talent. Not because he was so obviously so much more talented, no – but because one of the first things I knew about him was that he came from Norfolk, my home county. At that stage, not having read ‘Moab is My Washpot’, I was blissfully ignorant of the fact that Mr Fry was not what we Norfolk folk (or should that be Nor-folk?) would term a native. Not even close. In East Anglia you are only accepted as indigenous if your family has resided in the region for at least four generations. I can proudly boast of a Norfolk heritage (with the odd dash of Suffolk) going back to 1650 or so.
But the Frys actually moved into the area during Stephen’s childhood, making them one of those interloping families my parents complained of. Taking over houses real Norfolk people could have lived in, taking up places at our local schools (although even there Stephen failed me by being sent away to school).
I was educated two miles from the Suffolk borders, meaning that we were a mixed race school – mixed race in this context meaning that the Norfolk boys would challenge the Suffolk boys to challenges such as who could pee higher up the wall. All that changed when a handful of Londoners appeared: suddenly the local boys all became East Anglians, united against the common enemy.
The local girls had a different challenge – biology being what it is we were never going to win the urine-up-the-wall contest anyway – who could be the first to pull a Cockney? Since my husband is from Whitechapel (I met him much later – he wasn’t on offer then) I think that challenge may have had long term consequences for me….
As has the erroneous impression that Stephen Fry is a ‘local boy made good’. He has rectified the situation by choosing to champion Norfolk, I have to admit. But more importantly, Stephen has provided me with hours and hours of entertainment, laughter, thoughtful ponderings and sheer enjoyment through his acting, comedy, presenting, writing…..
So for that, and for sharing my love of Keats, Yeats, Tennyson, Eliot et al, I thank you Stephen.
Monday, 10 August 2009
Reasons to forget about death, part 2..
Following on from my last, rather lugubrious, blog, I have been considering ways of taking the mind off the inescapable fact of death, and – in common with other great thinkers I believe – I have come up with a small selection of useful methods: namely: books; sex, chocolate and comedy.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Not all at once, I hasten to add – in fact any combination of the above is risky in some way. Deciding to finish that fantastic novel you were reading in bed while your partner has other ideas conveys at the very least a dissatisfaction with said partner’s technique. As for comedy – laughing at your partner when he strips off is not guaranteed to endear you to him either. Sex and chocolate have already been discussed – if anyone is tempted to mix the two I can only refer them to Ponderland Series 1, topic – Love.
Chocolate and comedy sound a good combination and indeed a recipe for a good evening in – but beware! I have actually laughed so hard I snorted chocolate up into my nasal passages. Painful and unpleasant.
No – I would advocate enjoying these pleasures one at a time – any one, if of high enough quality, should be enough to dispel gloom.
Comedy is useful because – if you like me have a stock of DVDs of your favourite shows and comedians – it is usually readily available, so you don’t have the situation of wanting chocolate to relieve your ennui, yet being too lethargic to actually go out to the shops to buy any – naturally the last time you did get some in you ate it all…
But I find comedy (like sex) can, if you don’t take precautions, have an unexpected and prolonged effect on your life. So before you settle in front of that DVD, please take this as a sort of ‘Safe Comedy’ message.
I can – and do - watch good comedy repeatedly. This means I find myself quoting bits of Blackadder, Bill Bailey or Hancock at opportune (or inopportune) moments, earning me questioning looks from non-addicts.
Worse still, key phrases come into my head in certain situations. My trips to the supermarket, with mental subtext, usually go like this:
Approach shop; see fruit display.
Eddie Izzard: They put fresh fruit there to show this is a fresh shop – everything here is fresh. If they put toilet rolls by the door you’d think, this is a poo shop – everything here is made of poo…..
Go into shop, approach display; do the ‘Squeezy Test’, still with Eddie’s voice doing a running commentary. Look at the Stalinist oranges (decide not to buy – Stalin was a nasty dictator); refuse to buy pears because they wait till you leave the room to turn to mush….
Approach tea display.
Simon Amstell: Which is better, organic or free trade?
Spend two hours on this vexed question before moving on….
Pass bargains screaming – in Russell Brand’s voice – ‘Only a pound, only a pound..’
Make purchases as quickly as possible to avoid giggling in public.
By the checkout there will inevitably be a selection of canvas bags for sale.
Greet checkout assistant, realising that you are audibly singing Tim Minchin’s ‘Canvas Bags’ aloud. Apologise and pack your purchases, girding your loins for the final challenge: the chip and pin machine. If you have seen Russell Brand’s description of chip and pin protocol, and can still manage to get out of the store before you’ve broken into a chorus of ‘Wild Boys’, you know you’ve won.
But if you hear of me having been taken away from the local Tescos in a white van, declaring it’s not my fault – blame Eddie, Russell, Tim, Simon… we ran out of gas….there was an earthquake…IT’S NOT MY FAULT!! - you’ll know why.
Sunday, 9 August 2009
Existential Angst? Or just a bit fed up?
I’ve been in a strange sort of mood all week – listless, lethargic, without being able to work out why. This culminated yesterday in an unusual feeling for me: complete lack of interest in anything, world weariness, ennui. Shelley’s poem, Ozymadias, kept running through my head:
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".
I suppose you could sum up my mood thus:
Interviewer: How would you describe your life sir?
Dalai Lama: I’ve had better….
So, as Russell Brand would I’m sure advise, I started to think of ways of taking my mind off the thought that we’re all going to die. I did briefly consider attending an orgy, but since a) I live miles from the nearest tower block; b) I’m sure I’d end up eating the nibbles and c) my husband might object (to the orgy, not the nibbles) I discarded that idea.
My nearest and dearest were no help. When, in response to what I took to be a sympathetic enquiry into my apparent glumness, I said I understood what Nietzsche was on about, hubby grinned and said ‘Oh, I know him – he keeps the Dog and Duck…’
I knew I could change my state of mind – NLP has taught me that. Unfortunately it has also taught me I need to want to change my state, and be prepared to act positively to do so – and I could even be bothered to want to do anything positive. So I did mindless stuff for a while. Then hubby’s male problem-solving approach came to the fore and he suggested a walk to the beach – usually the most relaxing, soothing thing for me. And admittedly, a couple of hours in the sun, swimming in the sea and relaxing on the beach, did alleviate things a bit.
And that was enough to open my mind to the wisdom of ‘Souls of poets dead and gone’ – so when I got home I turned to my old friends Byron, Shelley and Keats. And of course, Keats had it:
But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.
She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy's grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.
In other words – if you’re not melancholy at times, you won’t appreciate what it is to be happy.
And today, I’m happy – and have realised I was actually reacting to a couple of weeks in which I’ve been physically working hard yet not stretched mentally, and have not read anything challenging – so my brain was demanding intellectual food.
Pass me that volume of poetry……
Wednesday, 13 May 2009
Like the back end of a bus??
On Sunday my husband suggested a stroll down to the beach and a pub lunch. Lovely! Till I discovered that one of the reasons he had had such an idea was the presence of an old London bus on the esplanade - one of his interests.....
So hubby goes off to investigate bus and talk sprockets and accumulators (or some such) with its owner, leaving me standing by the bus, watching a regatta on the beach opposite and soaking up the sun.
Along comes one of those men you know instinctively is a) a bus spotter b) still living with his mum even though he's about 45. I would take bets on the fact that his backpack contained a packed lunch she'd made him, a spare jumper she insisted he bring and a pac-a-mac. Oh, and a notebook for taking bus numbers and spare camera.
His actual camera was slung round his neck and poised for action as he approached.
presumably he thought I suspected him of trying to take a sneaky photo of me, because on noticing me standing there he assured me:
'Don't worry love - I'm only interested in the bus.'
I guess I should have been devastated that my womanly charms had been spurned in favour of a vehicle which is older than me - although if preserved vehicles generally are anything to go by, it would have had considerable reconstructive surgery, a route down which I have never felt the need to travel....
....but actually, looking at him, I thought 'Yes - you probably are....'
So hubby goes off to investigate bus and talk sprockets and accumulators (or some such) with its owner, leaving me standing by the bus, watching a regatta on the beach opposite and soaking up the sun.
Along comes one of those men you know instinctively is a) a bus spotter b) still living with his mum even though he's about 45. I would take bets on the fact that his backpack contained a packed lunch she'd made him, a spare jumper she insisted he bring and a pac-a-mac. Oh, and a notebook for taking bus numbers and spare camera.
His actual camera was slung round his neck and poised for action as he approached.
presumably he thought I suspected him of trying to take a sneaky photo of me, because on noticing me standing there he assured me:
'Don't worry love - I'm only interested in the bus.'
I guess I should have been devastated that my womanly charms had been spurned in favour of a vehicle which is older than me - although if preserved vehicles generally are anything to go by, it would have had considerable reconstructive surgery, a route down which I have never felt the need to travel....
....but actually, looking at him, I thought 'Yes - you probably are....'
Tuesday, 12 May 2009
Sex and Drugs and Poetry
The main catalyst for this blog is the news story of Derek Walcott withdrawing from the shortlisted candidates for the appointment of the Oxford Professor of Poetry after anonymous allegations of his sexual harassment of students.
I am undecided about this story – especially since no one knows what actually went on except the people involved, and one of the facets of modern society that I abhor is Trial By Media.
On one hand, I have a very strong feeling that a professional must act professionally or take the consequences, especially if s/he is in a position of trust and / or care over younger, more vulnerable people. So if it is true that Mr Walcott used his power over students to lower grades as a 'punishment' for them refusing his advances, then he has done the right thing in withdrawing.
However, if he has been forced to take this action through unfounded allegations, that is sad and unfair. Who knows?
The one thing I do know is that poetry and scandal seem to have co-existed for centuries. It may be that the creative spark that engenders the poetry also engenders a disrespect - healthy or otherwise - for social convention.
If you want sexual scandals, they abound, from the Earl of Rochester's nose dropping off from syphilis, through Shakespeare's aleged relationship with the Earl of Southampton (as well as at least one 'godson' whose birth resulted from something other than an act of God), past Byron and on to Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin - who would believe the man often portrayed as a dried up librarian had three mistresses simultaneously (that he admitted to...)?
Then - and a recent conversation with a friend about Thomas de Quincey reminded me of this - there are the drug addicts who wrote their best poems whilst under the influence of something more tangible than Calliope or Euterpe: I love the image of Coleridge penning 'Kubla Khan' whilst self-medicating on laudanum, only to be disturbed and find his muse had deserted him along with the hallucinogens.
It must be said there is a very clear differential between behaviour that defies - or more probably just ignores - social mores, and using blackmail - emotional, sexual or financial. If - and it is an 'if' - Mr Walcott is guilty as charged, the above does nothing to excuse such behaviour.
But if we only give out plaudits to creative talents belonging to those whose personal lives are squeaky clean according to the morals of the day, then I fear we have a small pool from which to draw . I enjoy a range of creative output - from the Romantic poets to Freddie Mercury - of people whose private behaviour some parts of society disapprove - but then I don't have to live with them, so it's not my business - I can just admire the poetry, music, for what it is - sheer genius.
I am undecided about this story – especially since no one knows what actually went on except the people involved, and one of the facets of modern society that I abhor is Trial By Media.
On one hand, I have a very strong feeling that a professional must act professionally or take the consequences, especially if s/he is in a position of trust and / or care over younger, more vulnerable people. So if it is true that Mr Walcott used his power over students to lower grades as a 'punishment' for them refusing his advances, then he has done the right thing in withdrawing.
However, if he has been forced to take this action through unfounded allegations, that is sad and unfair. Who knows?
The one thing I do know is that poetry and scandal seem to have co-existed for centuries. It may be that the creative spark that engenders the poetry also engenders a disrespect - healthy or otherwise - for social convention.
If you want sexual scandals, they abound, from the Earl of Rochester's nose dropping off from syphilis, through Shakespeare's aleged relationship with the Earl of Southampton (as well as at least one 'godson' whose birth resulted from something other than an act of God), past Byron and on to Dylan Thomas and Philip Larkin - who would believe the man often portrayed as a dried up librarian had three mistresses simultaneously (that he admitted to...)?
Then - and a recent conversation with a friend about Thomas de Quincey reminded me of this - there are the drug addicts who wrote their best poems whilst under the influence of something more tangible than Calliope or Euterpe: I love the image of Coleridge penning 'Kubla Khan' whilst self-medicating on laudanum, only to be disturbed and find his muse had deserted him along with the hallucinogens.
It must be said there is a very clear differential between behaviour that defies - or more probably just ignores - social mores, and using blackmail - emotional, sexual or financial. If - and it is an 'if' - Mr Walcott is guilty as charged, the above does nothing to excuse such behaviour.
But if we only give out plaudits to creative talents belonging to those whose personal lives are squeaky clean according to the morals of the day, then I fear we have a small pool from which to draw . I enjoy a range of creative output - from the Romantic poets to Freddie Mercury - of people whose private behaviour some parts of society disapprove - but then I don't have to live with them, so it's not my business - I can just admire the poetry, music, for what it is - sheer genius.
Thursday, 9 April 2009
Eggs, rabbits, chicks - and a wooden cross??
I've just read a friend's blog in which she laments that Jesus bloke taking over her birthday celebrations, and I have sympathy because my daughter's birthday is very close to Christmas so it happens to her every year. But that Jesus bloke actually has taken over the original spring festivals - I mean, what have the 'traditional' Easter celebration rites - chocolate eggs, Easter bunnies and chicks - got to do with a torturous death by crucifixion and a resurrection three days later?
The answer of course is: nothing! These accoutrements were appropriated by the early Christians from the pagan spring fertility celebrations. As was much else.
Note, I said the early Christians - not Christ himself. Whoever and whatever Jesus was, I absolve him from any guilt in this regard - I can find no Bible verse in which Jesus holds up a chocolate rabbit and exhorts his followers to eat it in remembrance of him (and if I could find a religious excuse for eating chocolate, believe me, I would!) In fact, there is no instruction in the Bible on how Jesus' death and resurrrection should be celebrated at all.
The clue is in the naming of the festival: Easter is actually an updating of Eostre, the Saxon mother goddess repreesenting fertility. It is from the same root we derive oestrogen, the female hormone. The festival of Eostre was originally a fertility rite in her honour, held to celebrate the return of life to the world in spring.
Thus, eggs and chicks represent new life and rebirth, and of course we all know what rabbits are known for, which is why there are so many of them. Admittedly, go for a walk and you won't see too many, because they scent humans and fear them - probably because they know we are the creatures who inhabit those huge metal machines that tend to squash them if they venture on to roads. But go for a horse ride, and magically there is a hopping rabbit carpet over the field. The hare is also the symbol of the moon and the mother goddess, again representing life and fertility.
Eostre was one of a pantheon of mother / fertility goddesses in various traditions (Aphrodite, Ishtar, Astarte, Venus, Cybele) who represented feminine power as the source of life. In stark contrast to the modern pressure on women to be youthful, thin and passive, these goddesses were portrayed as older, maternal, curvaceous and dominant over their younger lovers, who were seen as gorgeous young men devoted to the service of the divine womb.
In later mystery cults this young male consort took on the role of earlier 'green man'-type gods of fertility; he was portrayed as having been born of a virgin, and represented the cycle of the seasons by dying and returning to life around the spring equinox, usually over a three day period starting with Black Friday. Hmm,sound familiar?
Spring celebrations in older times varied in different places and cultures, but they centred on fun, enjoyment - and often, being fertility rites, sex. When the patriarchal religions took hold they repressed this aspect of the festival along with the celebration of the feminine, but left us with such innocent pleasures as decorating eggs and giving fluffy bunnies and chicks. The naugtiest thing we are left with is chocolate, so excuse me now while I go and celebrate the season by indulging myself with a packet of Lindt mini-eggs...
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