Friday, October 20, 2017
The fate of the last of the Gaderene swine
From Swimming Against the Tide by Raymond Carr. A book review.
When the governing body of Christ Church was debating the admission of women to the college, a member of that body argued that, since other colleges were admitting women, Christ Church could not be left behind. To which my late lamented colleague, Charles Stuart, replied that there was no evidence that the fate of the last of the Gaderene swine was noticeably preferable to that of the first.
The Present by John Mole
From The Spectator, 23/30 December 1989
The Present
by John Mole
He stepped into the room, permitted,
Seen, not heard, His father stood
With glass in hand but sober-suited:
Mother, has the boy y been good?
I think he has. Her voice came faintly
From the long sofa where she sat
Between the aunt no one called Auntie
And the uncle who'd seen to that.
So, he shall have his present. Something
Rustled in a dark recess
Then silence, and then whispering,
Then sudden light, then there it was —
The rocking horse, magnificent,
With stirrups, reins, a crimson bow
Tied round the saddle — heaven-sent
To prove the love they could not show.
He took one step, then dared another,
Folded his hands and bowed his head:
Thank you father. Thank you mother.
Thank you. That was all he said.
Thursday, October 19, 2017
Serenity
From The Spectator 28 March 1992
Serenity
by David Geller
Enthusiastic? Yes, I'd qualify.
I can get more than used to having things around:
Can, for a good while, praise them to the sky
Or drive them into the ground.
Serene? I think not. No establishing
That quite unprovable saint's or madman's state of mind
Achieved by tolerating everything
Or leaving it all behind.
Wednesday, October 18, 2017
Our only enemy was gold
The Castle
by Edwin Muir
All through that summer at ease we lay,
And daily from the turret wall
We watched the mowers in the hay
And the enemy half a mile away.
They seemed no threat to us at all.
For what, we thought, had we to fear
With our arms and provender, load on load,
Our towering battlements, tier on tier,
And friendly allies drawing near
On every leafy summer road.
Our gates were strong, our walls were thick,
So smooth and high, no man could win
A foothold there, no clever trick
Could take us in, have us dead or quick.
Only a bird could have got in.
What could they offer us for bait?
Our captain was brave and we were true...
There was a little private gate,
A little wicked wicket gate.
The wizened warder let them through.
Oh then our maze of tunnelled stone
Grew thin and treacherous as air.
The cause was lost without a groan,
The famous citadel overthrown,
And all its secret galleries bare.
How can this shameful tale be told?
I will maintain until my death
We could do nothing, being sold;
Our only enemy was gold,
And we had no arms to fight it with.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
Posts
