Tuesday, 9 February 2021

A Lament For These Sad Times


A slow lament for these drab times, I'll play,

Alas, they won't improve, can't be restored,

So all the clouded sorrow of the day,

Shall learn I am immune, am quite inured

To misery and loneliness and grey.

For minor keys and portamento slides

Depict the churning of the changing tides,

Of cruel seas and mad affairs of men,

And know tomorrow comes, dawn breaks again.

And there are patterns in the music of the spheres,

Which wise composers borrow,

They sound as truth to those who aren't made bored

By seeking out the sequences of life.

For finding patterns relayed to our ears,

We recognise such phrases, hints as chime,

Resounding loudly down a thousand years

Which hold within the wisdom of their time,

And know when great distrust exists, is rife,

That there is naught to do but bear our sorrow.

And yet we needs must voice it when we feel

That there is more to thinking than we're taught

For melody and harmony reveal

That strange eternal nature of our grief,

And speak of deeper things we understand

And finding we are moved we find relief.

Not in the simple spelling out at length,

Of music's words of comfort, loving strength,

But in the underlying complex thought,

That has the charge of each creative hand.


Thursday, 4 February 2021

Freedom Of The Press (based on 2 quotes from Spengler)

 Freedom Of The Press 

“To-day we live so cowed under the bombardment of this intellectual artillery(the media) that hardly anyone can attain to the inward detachment that is required for a clear view of the monstrous drama. The will-to-power operating under a pure democratic disguise has finished off its masterpiece so well that the object's sense of freedom is actually flattered by the most thorough-going enslavement that has ever existed” Spengler

“The press today is an army with carefully organized weapons, the journalists its officers, the readers its soldiers. The reader neither knows nor is supposed to know the purposes for which he is used and the role he is to play.” Spengler

Today we live so cowed, yet think we’re free

Under bombardment of artillery,

The media, and others who torment

Regard it as their duty to prevent

The smoke from clearing so the view

Of all the monstrous drama’s clear to see.

The press an army, weapons organised,

Its hacks its officers, who plan attacks

The readers, soldiers hypnotised,

Who knowing nothing real from day to day,

Are held most cheaply, easily abused,

Blind to the purposes for which they’re used,

Nor of the role they are to play. 

No person must attain detachment, calm,

The daily news is meant to bring alarm.

The will to power dressed in the disguise

Of power at its softest, most dilute,

Has finished of its masterpiece, so well,

That truth we cannot really tell,

(Because it’s never really told) from lies.

We are enslaved by power absolute. 

What Is Truth (inspired by a quote from Oswald Spengler)

“What is truth? For the multitude, that which it continually reads and hears.” 

What is truth, does it hang about the BBC,

Like mist or ozone in the air?

I think it must be so, for it seems to me

That all such facts as can be trusted are approved there.

What is truth? do you know? does anyone care?

Can it be what I wish it to be?

Is it common as muck, or like gold, quite rare?

What is truth, does it hang about the BBC?

And can I ignore it if it makes me feel free,

If living a lie, prevents my despair?

What is truth, does it roll across the deep, grey sea,

Like mist or ozone in the air?

Can I challenge what they say it is, or shouldn’t I dare?

Will it die if I don’t pay my license fee?

Is it what it’s acceptable on Twitter, to share?

I think it must be so, for it seems to me

It’s only what you’d want your peers to see.

No point in facts that do not seem fair.

Does Parliament invent it? Do they guarantee

That all such facts as can be trusted are approved there?

And what are opinions, are they just a snare

Designed to trip you up? Do they sting like a bee?

Must they be squashed or avoided if they take you, unaware?

What is truth, is it what I hear continually

Does it hang about? 

Saturday, 30 January 2021

Imagination and Wisdom

“Imagination is a poor matter when it has to part company with understanding.” Carlyle

“They only are wise who know that they know nothing.” Carlyle

Imagination is a paltry thing indeed,

If it appears when understanding ends.

But who can tell what dreams comprise?

Great fiction and great truth arise

Together, often, you will find.

Yet he is only wise who comprehends

He knows no thing at all and can’t succeed

In much, if aught. And yet what then?

Can he not dream and conjure from his mind

Such fantasies as comfort honest men,

Who knowing they know naught are therefore wise?