Sir Gawain and the Green Knight

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is a late 14th-century Middle English alliterative romanceoutlining an adventure of Sir Gawain, a knight of King Arthur's Round Table. In the tale, Sir Gawain accepts a challenge from a mysterious warrior who is completely green, from his clothes and hair to his beard and skin. The "Green Knight" offers to allow anyone to strike him with his axe if the challenger will take a return blow in a year and a day. Gawain accepts, and beheads him in one blow, only to have the Green Knight stand up, pick up his head, and remind Gawain to meet him at the appointed time. The story of Gawain's struggle to meet the appointment and his adventures along the way demonstrate the spirit of chivalry and loyalty.

The poem survives in a single manuscript, the Cotton Nero A.x., that also includes three religious pieces, Pearl, Cleanness, and Patience. These works are thought to have been written by the same unknown author, dubbed the "Pearl Poet" or "Gawain Poet." All four narrative poems are written in a North West Midland dialect of Middle English. The story thus emerges from the Welsh and English traditions of the dialect area, borrowing from earlier "beheading game" stories and highlighting the importance of honour and chivalry in the face of danger.

In addition to its complex plot and rich language, the poem's chief interest for literary critics is its sophisticated use of medieval symbolism. Everything from the Green Knight, to the beheading game, to the girdle given to Gawain as protection from the axe, is richly symbolic and steeped in Celtic, Germanic, and other folklore and cultural traditions. The Green Knight, for example, is interpreted by some as a representation of the Green Man of Celtic legend and by others as an allusion to Christ.

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight is an important poem in the romance genre, which typically involves a hero who goes on a quest that tests his ability. The ambiguity of the poem's ending, however, makes it more complex than most. Christian readings of the poem argue for an apocalyptic interpretation, drawing parallels between Gawain and Lady Bertilak and the story ofAdam and Eve. Feminist interpretations disagree at the most basic level, some arguing that women are in total control from beginning to end, while others argue that their control is only an illusion. Cultural critics have argued that the poem is best read as an expression of tensions between the Welsh and English present at the time in the poet's dialect region. The poem remains popular to this day, through translations from renowned authors like J. R. R. Tolkien and Simon Armitage, as well as through recent film and stage adaptations.

Beowulf

Beowulf is an Old English heroic epic poem of unknown authorship, dating as recorded in the Nowell Codex manuscript from between the 8th and the early 11th century,set in Denmark and Sweden. Commonly cited as one of the most important works of Anglo-Saxon literature, Beowulf has been the subject of much scholarly study, theory, speculation, discourse, and, at 3182 lines, has been noted for its length.

In the poem, Beowulf, a hero of the Geats, battles three antagonists: Grendel, who has been attacking the resident warriors of a mead hall called Heorot in Denmark; Grendel's mother; and an unnamed dragon. The last battle takes place later in life, after returning to Geatland (modern southern Sweden), where Beowulf has become king. In the final battle, Beowulf is fatally wounded. After his death his retainers bury him in a tumulus in Geatland.

John Milton

John Milton (9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674) was an English poet, author,polemicist and civil servant for the Commonwealth of England. He is best known for hisepic poem Paradise Lost and for his treatise condemning censorship, Areopagitica.

He was both an accomplished, scholarly man of letters and polemical writer, and an official serving under Oliver Cromwell. His views may be described as broadlyProtestant, if not always easy to locate in a more precise religious category. Milton was writing at a time of religious and political flux in England, and his poetry and prose reflect deep convictions, often reacting to contemporary circumstances. He wrote also in Latin and Italian, and had an international reputation during his lifetime.

After his death, Milton's personal reputation oscillated, a state of affairs that has largely continued through the centuries. He early became the subject of partisan biographies, such as that of John Toland from the nonconformist perspective, and a hostile account by Anthony à Wood. Samuel Johnson described him as "an acrimonious and surly republican"; but William Hayley's 1796 biography called him the "greatest English author", at a time when his reputation was particularly in play. He remains, however, generally regarded "as one of the preeminent writers in the English language and as a thinker of world importance."

John Donne

(I am grateful to the recent BBC Poetry Season for helping my appreciation)

John Donne (pronounced /ˈdʌn/ "dunn"; 1572 – 31 March 1631) was an EnglishJacobean poet, preacher and a major representative of the metaphysical poets of the period. His works are notable for their realistic and sensual style and include sonnets, love poetry, religious poems, Latin translations, epigrams, elegies, songs, satires andsermons. His poetry is noted for its vibrancy of language and inventiveness ofmetaphor, especially as compared to those of his contemporaries.

Despite his great education and poetic talents, he lived in poverty for several years, relying heavily on wealthy friends. In 1615 he became an Anglican priest and, in 1621, was appointed the Dean of St Paul's Cathedral in London.

Sauce Unknown

Poet Tree with Mistakes

I have a spelling chequer

it came with my pea sea

it plainly marchques four my revue

miss steaks eye cannot sea

Eye strike a quay and right a word

and weight fore it two say

weather eye am wrong or wright

it shows me straight away

As soon as a mist ache is maid

it nose bee fore two late

and I can putt the error rite

it's rarely very grate

I've run this poem threw it

I'm shore yore pleased to no

it's let her perfect in it's weigh

my chequer told me sew

Good Morning

(courtesy of ACS magazine)

I am God

Today I will be handling all of your problems.

Please remember that I do not need your help.

If life happens to deliver a situation to you

that you cannot handle

DO NOT ATTEMPT to resolve it.

Kindly put it in the SFJTD

(something for Jesus to do) box.

It will be addressed in MY time, not yours.

Once the matter is placed into the box,

DO NOT hold on to it or attempt to remove it.

Holding on or removal will delay the

resolution of your problem.

If it is a situation that you think you are capable of handling

please consult me in prayer

to be sure that is the proper resolution.

Because I do not sleep nor do I slumber,

there is no need for you to lose any sleep.

Rest my child.

If you need to contact me,

I am only a prayer away.

Haiku

Haiku (俳句 haikai verse^?)  plural haiku, is a form of Japanese poetry, consisting of 17 morae (or on), in three metrical phrases of 5, 7 and 5 morae respectively. Haiku typically contain a kigo, or seasonal reference, and a kireji or verbalcaesura. In Japanese, haiku are traditionally printed in a single vertical line, while haiku in English usually appear in three lines, to parallel the three metrical phrases of Japanese haiku. Previously called hokku, haiku was given its current name by the Japanese writer Masaoka Shiki at the end of the 19th century.

Snowdrop Woods (Burton Agnes 02/09)

by David Smart.

Chalk, broadcast in drifts,

is striped with long, ruled shadows

of spare, bare beech trees.

A time to keep silence and a time to speak (Ecclesiastes 3.7)

by Leslie Burnham.

Invective

Is more effective

And extensive

When comprehensive--

But some thoughts are best

Unexpressed.

Betjeman on Leeds

In 1968, Sir John Betjeman, the poet and architectural critic, was asked by the BBC to make a television programme about Leeds.

The result was a half-hour film in which he explored the city's Victorian heritage and lamented the destruction of the city's past in favour of new tower blocks.

For reasons which are still unexplained, Sir John's film was never broadcast.

Now, forty years on, extracts from the film will be broadcast for the first time on Inside Out on Wednesday 18 February at 7.30pm on BBC One Yorkshire & Lincolnshire.

The existence of the film came to light when a copy was found on top of a cupboard in the offices of Leeds Civic Trust.

The Trust was given a copy because, in 1968, it contributed 200 guineas towards the cost of the film and co-operated with the BBC during its production. It was passed to the Yorkshire Film Archive, where it was restored.

Kevin Grady, Director of Leeds Civic Trust, said: "When I became Director of the Trust 20 years ago, I was searching round the office and I found this cylindrical tin. I was told it was the Betjeman film."

Binny Baker, Head of Access at the Yorkshire Film Archive, said: "It's just so exciting to find a treasure like this. We've got a star – Sir John Betjeman – and nobody's seen it. That for me is a real find."

On Inside Out, reporter Nicola Rees follows in Sir John's footsteps.

Her first stop is Temple Mill, in Holbeck, Leeds, a 19th century flax mill built in the style of an Egyptian temple.

In 1968, Sir John was filmed walking across the roof of the mill which, after it was first built, was covered with grass on which sheep were allowed to graze.

It was announced in 2005 that the mill would be part of a £180m development scheme, including shops, art and sculpture. Work is still to start, and now the roof of this Grade One listed building has collapsed.

Writer, Martin Wainwright, said: "It's appalling to see how it is now. This is one of the most important industrial buildings in the whole country. If Betjeman came back now he’d be aghast to see what's happened."

John Mapplebeck, the BBC producer who made the film with Betjeman in 1968, is filmed by Inside Out watching the programme for the first time in forty years.

He said: "He was delightful. He taught me the pleasures of drinking champagne at 11 o'clock in the morning, which was the way his day used to start.

"He had a great deal of knowledge but, more than knowledge, he had tremendous affection for the city. I think that's one of the things that still comes out after 40 years."

It's still not clear why the film was never broadcast. A copy of the programme exists in the BBC's film library, but no paperwork has survived.

Three Babies

Poem written by neighbour at Dulverton Hall.

Three Babies

Graham lies sleeping so safe in his pram,

Maureen his mother is content with a smile.

Grandma comes close saying, "sweet little lamb",

Blue eyes soon open: he gurgles awhile.

Pounding the coverlet, fists cause some joy,

One year from now will his toes feel the sand,

Hear of the sea as he plays with a toy.

Wondering eyes now explore tiny hand.

Kofi is strapped to his siter so small -

Trailing their mother to market for chop,

Noses are twitching at smells from the stall.

Sister whose weary she asks, "Please do stop."

Church is a good place to rest and give suck.

Kofi awakes; his brown eyes open wide,

Sister sits proudly - her mother has pluck.

"Home for the meal?" Kofi's cloth is retied.

Joseph leads Mary on Jerusalem Way,

Clutching her Son with her eyes full of love,

Together they mount up the temple stairway.

Coster will sell them two holy doves.

Simeon Priest today holds up the child.

Offerings taking he thanksgiving sings,

"Now I have seen and rejoice reconciled,

Salvation God gives us; Born is our King."

Notes

This year I (i.e. Audrey, my neighbour) I would write a poem about the Presentation in the Temple. On seeing the children on the beach and in church here in Scarborough, I decided to begin with one of them. Neither of the names refers to any particular person. Then I thought, "Why not also include a Ghanaian child?" They are often strapped to the back of an older sibling, some quite small. Ghanaian markets are full of exotic scents fromonions, peppers, fruits and spices. Food is often called chop. Mothers usually buy food there daily and during a church service they will breastfeed their babies at the back of church. In the first century the entrances to the Temple were up wide staircases into the outer courtyard where the money changers were and the sacrificial offerings were sold.

Recessional

Recessional: A poem of the times

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Recessional by Alan Franks.

A poem written specially for this blog at Christmas, with apologies to John Betjeman andRudyard Kipling.

Gracious Lord, it seems like ages
Since we had a little chat.
Heaven knows, we've all been anxious -
Not that we blame you for that.
Father, what a dreadful year,
Losing much we hold most dear.

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I am loath to add to such
An inventory of loss and stress:
From Northern Rock to - goodness - Woolworths
(Though we veer to M and S.)
Yet one-eight-nine Cadogan Square
Once more requires your special care.

Through the war, you well remember,
How your will was amply done,
Sparing our grandparents from
The hand of, pardon me, the Hun.
The slump, we fear, will make us suffer
Worse effects than the Luftwaffe.

Such is fame today, we only
Note the great ones going down,
Overlooking, most unjustly,
Unsung firms like Harkness Brown
Where hardly anyone was caught
In any form of selling short,

Least of all my husband Harry
Who's entirely lost his pep;
Joe and Jonquil both at Eton,
Podge and Mimi still at prep;
Our tiny Norfolk hideaway
Gone back below 500 k.

Intending no irreverence,
Your house has likewise shed some stock.
You for this are once more blameless,
We who should be in the dock.
(For what it's worth I'm in the tent
Of antidisestablishment.)

We will labour, Lord, to value
What is not material,
Not that we pretend this won't be,
To begin with, hard as hell.
We will strive to feel we're blessed
With liberty through joblessness.

And we'll definitely stop saying
How we're neighbours of the Blairs,
And we'll jettison our shame
And empty anger when we hear
That dull young man from Foxtons state
We're only looking at 3.8.

Lord, I will leave your house til next time
Willing servant, mother, wife,
Praying that, if appropriate,
You bring the market back to life.
Meanwhile, though little and though late,
I've left a tenner in the plate.

Lorca

My interest in the subject of this blog derives from my reading of 'The Return' by Victoria Hislop.

Federico Garcia Lorca

POET AND PLAYWRIGHT (1898 - 1936) Federico Garcia Lorca is not only Spain's most universal poet, but he is also a universally recognised symbol of Spain - and especially Andalucia - itself. His poems paint a vivid and intrinsically poetic portrait of this fascinating region, with its stark landscapes of olive groves and fig trees, its moonlit nights among whitewashed walls and Moorish towers, its bullfighters and, above all, its gypsies with their free-roaming ways and fierce codes of living and loving. The fact that Lorca was summarily executed at the onset of the Spanish Civil War has to some extent increased his fame, but the reverse side of the coin is that the political implications of the tragedy have eclipsed his worth as one of the 20th century's most brilliant and innovative poets. Buy Now Born near Granada in 1898 to a prosperous farming family, Lorca was strongly influenced by his cultivated mother, who taught him to play the piano and sing, two skills which he put to good use later in life. During his student years in Madrid he made friends with Surrealist luminaries such as Salvador Dali and pioneer movie-maker Luis Buñuel, using their often outrageous techniques in his own work, but without compromising his own childlike, ingenuous style, full of lyrical freshness and spontaneity. He achieved instant celebrity both in Spain and in Latin America, as well as, later and through translation, in France and the United States, with his collection of poetry "The Gypsy Balladeer", in which he drew upon his boyhood contacts with the gypsies of the town of his birth, Fuente Vaqueros, to concoct a bewitching blend of social commentary and dreamlike fantasy. The best known poems from this period are the "Ballad of the Sleepwalker" (famous for the haunting refrain, "Green, green, how I love you green") which tells the tale of a gypsy smuggler who is killed by the police before he can rejoin his mistress, and the "Ballad of the Spanish Civil Guard", in which he recounts, in a mesmerising display of metaphor, a police raid on a gypsy community, with the burning of houses and the murder of the inhabitants. Another Lorca classic is his ode to the death of bullfighter Ignacio Sanchez Mejias, perhaps the most enduringly successful surrealist poem ever written in any language. Lorca was a man of the theatre and roamed Spain in a truck with a troupe of actors called "La Baraja", staging farces and tragedies in village squares in the backwaters of Andalucia. He created many enemies among Spain's traditional right-wingers with his trilogy of plays dwelling on the plight of women in Andalucía's villages - "Blood Wedding", "Barren" and "The House of Bernarda Alba" - and this controversial stance undoubtedly went against him when political scores were settled later on. An extended stay in New York and Cuba produced a book of surrealistic verse, "Poet in New York", in which Lorca expressed his horror at the harshness and materialism of American life in the 1930's. When General Franco launched his overthrow of the Republican Government, in 1936, Andalucia was the first region to fall. As each town and village was taken, a witch-hunt of the leading leftists took place followed by mass executions, in the name of the nationalist's "crusade" to rid Spain of the followers of Karl Marx. While not a political man himself, Lorca was inextricably associated with the libertarian movement, and his sister was married to Granada's Republican mayor, putting him high on the Fascist hit list. It is also possible that his thinly disguised homosexuality may have added to the antagonism of the conservative set; in any case, Lorca was one of the 30,000 inhabitants of Granada to pay with their lives for having supported Spain's fledgling democracy and attempt to break the stronghold of the Church and bourgeoisie over the dirt-poor peasantry of Andalucia. The above text was kindly provided by Lawrence Bohme.

Lorca family to allow exhumation

The family of the Spanish poet and playwright Federico Garcia Lorca have dropped their long-standing objection to the excavation of his grave.

Lorca was killed in the Spanish civil war and buried alongside other victims.

Families of some of the others want their relatives' remains to be exhumed, identified and given a proper burial.

Lorca's family have always resisted the digging up of the grave, but now say they will not stand in the way of the other families' desires.

Lorca was shot dead alongside a teacher and two trade unionists by General Francisco Franco's nationalists at the start of the civil war in 1936.

The four bodies are believed to lie close to an olive tree in a gorge in southern Spain - though others claim their grave is 400m away.

To open just one of the graves there and distinguish some of the dead above the others demeans the virtue of the place as a historic legacy Laura Garcia Lorca Lorca's niece

Judge Baltasar Garzon is considering a petition by two of the families to open the presumed grave.

"We will accept whatever decision is taken without objection," said Laura Garcia Lorca, the poet's niece.

"We understand the desire of a family to recover the remains of their relatives and give them proper burials," she told the Associated Press.

"[But] for our family it is preferable that he (Lorca) stay there. He is in good company."

She said the family thought the gorge - where thousands of other bodies are also believed to be buried - "should be protected for the cemetery that it is, a testimony to the terrible crimes committed under Franco and the repression".

The case reflects a growing desire in Spain to come to terms with the civil war, which for decades was barely talked about, correspondents say.

Judge Garzon has asked local government and churches to open their files on the thousands of people who disappeared during the 1936-1939 war, and under the dictatorship of Gen Franco until 1975.

Story from BBC NEWS:
http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/europe/7624887.stm

Published: 2008/09/19 09:52:35 GMT

© BBC MMVIII

Merry Month of May

It’s the merry, merry month of May!

When green leaves begin to spring,


Little lambs do skip like fairies


Birds do couple, build and sing.






It’s the merry, merry month of May! Spring is in full blossom and summer is just around the corner. This is your favorite day!

Waiting with your friends in the dew-strewn dawn for the few remaining sleepy heads to arrive, you chatter away with excitement. When the stragglers arrive you all take off for the woodland glens and meadows. You have been charged with the joyous responsibility of bringing back bushels and cartloads of flowers and boughs.

Dancing around the oxcart that carries your collected flowers, you return to the village in the gentle sunlight and sweetly scented air of mid-morning. While you were away, a large wooden pole has been erected on the village commons. Hewn from a tree, the pole rises 12 feet and has brightly colored ribbons streaming from its top. Each ribbon is one and half times the height of the pole, or 18 feet in length.

You and your friends fashion garlands to decorate the village and the May Pole. The leaves and flowers represent a language of their own and if you were to find a branch of mountain ash on your windowsill, it would be a sign of love from an admirer.

Finally, it’s time for the May Pole Dance. This year you are old enough to be one of the 12 dancers. Six young men with flowers in their buttonholes accompany 6 maidens crowned with flowers to the May Pole. Then the 6 lads each take hold of a ribbon and stand in a circle around the pole. The 6 lasses also each grab a ribbon and form an outer circle, farther away from the pole. In a complicated dance that you all practiced for days, you step to the bagpipe music and circle the May Pole, twining the gaily-colored ribbons into an elaborate braid around the pole. The braiding of the ribbons brings you all closer and closer together until you are out of ribbon and in a tight circle round the pole. Then it all begins again, this time in reverse, dancing in a pattern that takes you farther and farther from the pole, unwinding all the streamers.

You smile with pleasure as the gathered crowd applauds your performance and then you and your friends are free to join the merrymaking. Two of the village girls will be chosen to preside over the festivities. One will be Lady Flora, queen of the spring flowers, and the other will be Lady May, queen of the May Day celebration. There will be games and archery contests and of course, a feast for the hungry revelers.

When the sun has set and the bonfire is blazing brightly, you’ll have the memories of a glorious day tucked away. The reminiscence will be a cheerful antidote to the dreary days of next winter and a reminder that May Day will come again.

The Cultivation of Christmas Trees

There are several attitudes towards Christmas,
Some of which we may disregard:
The social, the torpid, the patently commercial,
The rowdy (the pubs being open till midnight),
And the childish - which is not that of the child
For whom the candle is a star, and the gilded angel
Spreading its wings at the summit of the tree
Is not only a decoration, but an angel.

The child wonders at the Christmas Tree:
Let him continue in the spirit of wonder
At the Feast as an event not accepted as a pretext;
So that the glittering rapture, the amazement
Of the first-remembered Christmas Tree,
So that the surprises, delight in new possessions (Each one with its peculiar and exciting smell), The expectation of the goose or turkey
And the expected awe on its appearance,

So that the reverence and the gaiety
May not be forgotten in later experience,
In the bored habituation, the fatigue, the tedium,
The awareness of death, the consciousness of failure,
Or in the piety of the convert
Which may be tainted with a self-conceit
Displeasing to God and disrespectful to children
(And here I remember also with gratitude St.Lucy, her carol, and her crown of fire):

So that before the end, the eightieth Christmas
(By "eightieth" meaning whichever is last)
The accumulated memories of annual emotion
May be concentrated into a great joy
Which shall be also a great fear, as on the occasion
When fear came upon every soul:
Because the beginning shall remind us of the end
And the first coming of the second coming.
-T.S.Eliot, 1954

Smiling

Smiling is infectious,
You catch it like the flu.
When someone smiled at me today
I started smiling too.

I passed around the corner,
And someone saw my grin.
When he smiled, I realised
I'd passed it on to him.

I thought about the smile
And then I realised its worth.
A single smile like mine
Could travel round the earth.

If you feel a smile begin,
Don't leave it undetected.
Let's start an epidemic quick
And get the world infected.

(dedicated to all those with coughs and colds currently experienced in close communities like ours)

Wilfred Owen in Scarborough

This past weekend marked the 90th anniversary of the arrival in Scarborough of one one of the most famous war poets.

Wilfred Owen fought on the Western Front but was badly shell-shocked in April 1917 and was first sent to hospital in Edinburgh to recuperate. He arrived in Scarborough around November 23 for light duties with the 5th Reserve Battalion of the Manchester Regiment and reported to the Clarence Gardens Hotel, now know as the Clifton Hotel on 24 November. It was here that he produced some of his best work.

'Miners' is a good example. In his poems he expresses the futility of war, the suffering, the horror and death. The inspiration for 'Miners' came as he gazed into the small coal fire in his room after reading that 140 men and boy miners had died in a pit explosion. This reminded him of the dangerous work of soldiers at the front. Here in Scarborough he drafted, wrote and revised 50 poems plus a number of sonnets and fragments of other poems.

After spending a few months in Scarborough he was posted elsewhere and eventually back to the front where he was killed in an attack on a heavily defended position, near the village of Ors. His grave is in the communal cemetery there with over 60 of his comrades.

Miners

There was a whispering in my hearth,
A sigh of the coal,
Grown wistful of a former earth
It might recall.

I listened for a tale of leaves
And smothered ferns,
Frond-frosts, and the low sly lives
Before the fauns.

My fire might show steam-phantoms simmer
From Time's old cauldron,
Before the birds made nests in summer,
Or men had children.

But the coals were murmuring of their mine,
And moans down there
Of boys that slept wry sleep, and men
Writhing for air.

And I saw white bones in the cinder-shard,
Bones without number.
Many the muscled bodies charred,
And few remember.

I thought of all that worked dark pits
Of war, and died
Digging the rock where Death reputes
Peace lies indeed.

Comforted years will sit soft-chaired,
In rooms of amber;
The years will stretch their hands, well-cheered
By our life's ember;

The centuries will burn rich loads
With which we groaned,
Whose warmth shall lull their dreaming lids,
While songs are crooned;
But they will not dream of us poor lads,
Left in the ground.

The Preacherman

One day I was in Manchester, quite close to Albert Square,
I listened to a preacherman, with people gathered there.
'Repent', he said, 'Confess your sins because the end is near'.
'He's right', I thought, then off I went and had a glass of beer.

I went to bed and woke up in the middle of the night.
That preacherman, I thought.....maybe he could be right.
I'll go to church next Sunday and confess my every sin,
'Cause if there is a heaven then, believe me, I want in.

Next Sunday came, the weather 'twas the nicest day by far.
Such a shame to waste it, so I went and washed the car.
I'll go the Sunday after, His forgiveness I will seek,
I'm sure the Lord Almighty will wait another week!

Next Sunday came, I did some work that simply 'could not wait'
The Sunday after, just the same, so was I tempting fate?
Always something else to do, so Sundays came and went.
And, sad to say, I must admit, were always badly spent.

This went on for weeks and months, and finally a year.
I forgot about the preacherman, and lost my sense of fear.
But one day I was out walking when there came a mighty wind,
It filled me with such terror, I remembered I had sinned.

A great big tree came crashing down, it hit me on the head.
I floated ever upwards, and I realised I was dead.
I thought about the preacherman, 'Oh dear, is it too late?'
'Indeed it is', said Peter, as he firmly shut the gate.

Immediately I fell backwards and I thought, 'Oh gosh, what's this?'
As I hurtled ever downwards, down towards a great abyss.
To my horror I could see the leaping flames were lit.
'Oh help me, someone save me from the awful fiery pit'.

Then bump, I found I'd landed.....upon the bedroom floor,
With great relief I realised 'twas a nightmare, nothing more.
Did I go to church next Sunday, did I do as I was bid?
Ladies, gents and childrenfolk - you bet your life I did...

St Pancras Station

The transformation of St Pancras
By Nick Higham BBC News

The development brings high speed train links to the UK .

It is easy to forget quite how unloved London's St Pancras station once was.

Today it is due to be officially opened by the Queen after an £800 million refurbishment, but in the early 1960s it was considered by many to be frankly grotesque - a hideous neo-Gothic folly, ridiculously fussy, not to mention grimy and impractical.

It represented everything mid-20th Century Britain hated about the 19th Century - at once obsolete, pompous and absurd.

It was considered a shame that Hitler's bombs had not done more damage. It was time to tear it down and start again, with something sleek and modern and efficient - like Euston Station, just along the road.

Like virtually every other building in London, St Pancras was indeed filthy, its red bricks covered in a layer of soot laid down by decades of exposure to the smoke from the coal fires that powered railway locomotives and heated the capital's homes, offices and factories.

St Pancras was also impractical - not so much the station itself, as St Pancras Chambers, designed by George Gilbert Scott and facing the Euston Road.

The chambers were built as the luxurious Midland Grand Hotel for the Midland Railway, for which St Pancras acted as its London terminus.

But the rooms had no bathrooms and the building's internal walls of load-bearing brick and iron resisted cost-effective conversion.

The station's refurbishment comes at a time when railways are back in fashion.

In the 1930s the hotel closed, to become railway offices, and in the subsequent three decades gradually sank into dilapidation.

But St Pancras had its champions, chief among them the future poet laureate, John Betjeman.
An enthusiast for all things Victorian and Edwardian, and a former architectural journalist, Betjeman could see the place had merits.

He helped lead a campaign to save the building, which culminated on 2 November 1967 when St Pancras was listed Grade 1, 10 days before it was due to be demolished and redeveloped as a sports hall and social housing.

That was 40 years ago to the month.

Four decades in which Britain's railways went into steady decline, the British Rail officials moved out of their offices in St Pancras Chambers, leaving them semi-derelict, and the station itself survived as a quiet haven for pigeons and dossers, the calm interrupted only by an occasional train to Nottingham or Sheffield.

It is hoped the site will be a popular gateway to mainland Europe.

The station's refurbishment comes at a time when railways are back in fashion.

There have been record numbers of travellers in the UK, and Britain now has its first complete high-speed line linking St Pancras with Paris and Brussels - not to mention the rest of the European high-speed rail network.

Gilbert Scott's Gothic masterpiece is undergoing separate renovation.

It reopens as a hotel in 2009, with its top two floors converted into luxury flats by the Manhattan Loft Co.

Behind it the vast train shed completed in 1868 and designed by the Midland Railway's engineer, William Barlow, has been reglazed and its cast-iron girders repainted a fetching sky blue to house the Eurostar trains.

To the north a new flat glass canopy has been built to cover separate platforms for Midland Mainline domestic services and a planned new high-speed commuter service into Kent.

A second new station has been built deep below ground for the Thameslink cross-London commuter service, replacing the scruffy King's Cross Thames link station 200 metres away.
And a third station has in effect been built by London Underground to improve access to the Circle and Metropolitan line stations under Euston Road.

We will have to see whether fashionable Londoners really do flock to William Barlow's restored masterpiece to while away their evenings sipping champagne.

The architect, Alastair Lansley, is a survivor of the old British Rail architect department, where he worked on the rebuilding in the 1980s of Liverpool Street station.

There too a grimy, unloved, workaday building was stripped back to reveal a Victorian gem, with glass roofs and decorative cast-iron columns.

At Liverpool Street the space thus revealed was promptly filled up again with shops.

At St Pancras Lansley and his team have been able to keep the main concourse free of clutter, tucking most of the retail space away downstairs in the "undercroft" below the platforms, along with all the Eurostar check-in facilities and departure lounge.

The undercroft is there because Barlow chose to take his tracks on a bridge over the Regent Canal, just to the north, rather than underneath it.

That meant raising the platforms on more than 700 cast-iron columns, and filling the space underneath with barrels of beer from the breweries of Burton-on-Trent and with the drayhorses to deliver them to London pubs.

Now St Pancras is being promoted as a trendy destination in its own right. We are promised the longest champagne bar in Europe, a regular farmer's market and upmarket shopping.

We will have to see whether fashionable Londoners really do flock to William Barlow's restored masterpiece to while away their evenings sipping champagne and watching the long Eurostar trains gliding in and out.

But there is no question that the new St Pancras is an impressive gateway to the Continent.
And, fittingly, just next to the champagne bar is a memorial to the man without whom St Pancras would long ago have vanished - a statue of the always shambolic John Betjeman, gazing up at that magnificent roof.

The Canticle of Brother Sun

Today is the Feast Day of St Francis of Assisi and National Poetry Day. The two come together is The Canticle of Brother Sun.

At National Poetry Day, we know that poetry is life-enhancing. For one day each year we channel the enthusiasm, passion and skill of poetry readers and writers into a national celebration. National Poetry Day 2007 falls on Thursday October 4th. National Poetry Day is the brainchild of William Sieghart of The Forward Arts Foundation who fuelled the nation’s enthusiasm for poetry by founding both National Poetry Day and the Forward Prize for Poetry. Now in our fourteenth year, we hope you will join us in the celebration.

The Canticle of Brother Son
or The Praises of the Creatures

The Canticle of Brother Sun is the very first work of literature in the Italian language. St. Francis composed it most likely during the winter of 1224-5 A.D.—possibly while at the Church of San Damiano, in Assisi —as grace, born of suffering, urged him to praise and glorify the Most Holy Trinity even unto death. The Canticle of Brother Sun first appears in the historical record in a reference made by Bl. Thomas of Celano in his Vita Prima, written 1228 A.D.

Most High, Omnipotent, Good Lord,Thine be the praises, the glory, and the honor and every blessing (cf. Apoc. 4:9.11).

To Thee alone, Most High, do they belong and no man is worthy to mention Thee.

May Thou be praised, my Lord, with all Thy creatures (cf. Tob. 8:7),especially mister brother sun,of whom is the day, and Thou enlightens us through him.

And he is beautiful and radiant with a great splendor,of Thee, Most High, does he convey the meaning

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for sister moon and the stars (cf. Ps. 148:3),in heaven Thou has made them clear and precious and beautiful

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for brother wind,and for the air and the cloudy and the clear weather and every weather (cf. Dan 3:64-65), through which to all Thy creatures Thou gives sustenance (cf. Ps. 103:13-14)

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for sister water,who is very useful and humble and precious and chaste

May Thou be praised, my lord, for brother fire (cf. Dan 3:66),through whom Thou illumines the night,and he is handsome and jocund and robust and strong

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for our sister, mother earth, (cf. Dan 3:74)who sustains us and governs,and produces various fruits with colored flowers and green plants (cf. Ps 103:13-14)

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for those who forgive for the sake of Thy love (cf. Mt 6:12),and endure infirmity and tribulation

Blessed those who endure them in peace (cf. Mt 5:10),because by Thee, Most High, will they be crowned

May Thou be praised, my Lord, for our sister, bodily death,whom no man living can escape
Woe to those, who die in mortal sin: blessed those whom she will find in Thy most holy desires,because the second death will do them no evil (cf. Apoc 2:11; 20:6)

Praise and bless my Lord (cf. Dan 3:85),and give Him thanks and serve Him with great humility!

Extract from 'Franciscan Spirituality'
Brother Ramon SSF

It is a mysterious and remarkable fact that Francis composed and sang his Canticle in the context of darkness, suffering and blindness, approaching the end of his earthly pilgrimage.

The Church around him was filled with corruption, materialism, and crusading violence. His beloved Order of friars was invaded by schism, and there was wholesale departure from the simplicity and poverty of Francis' earlier vision. Humanly speaking, it could have led to self pity and despair. But the darkest moment is just prior to the dawn, so God's revelation of love and assurance was about to burst upon and within him.

Francis' darkness gave way to spiritual enlightenment, and he composed, out of his existential darkness, this beautiful hymn of light and glory, praising God in and through the wonders of creation.