Category Death

The Good of Language

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The Death of an Old Man

Yesterday, a grand and often very beautiful funeral was held, following the death of a likeable, shrewd and vivid man. It is of course hard to separate the image we are given of Prince Philip, or ourselves put onto him, from the man he actually was. He surely had a similar problem, himself. Who was he, apart from his public… continue reading

Two Poems for the Autumn

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My Way to You

I keep coming upon this poem in its folder, its digital “archive,” and it’s as if I’ve tripped up on it. It somehow sticks out, sitting meekly under “M” in its alphabetical order. But where really does it belong ? I never quite know what to make of it and yet I think it is possibly a poem I would… continue reading

Wild Honey UK 2020

  This poem above is actually a very loose translation of “Wild Honey” by the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova.  The slightly altered title here is an acknowledgement of just how loose the translation is. The poem’s original was written (I think) in 1933. Stalin had been in power for around a decade and his purges were beginning. I do not… continue reading

West of Caritas

“The Conversion of Saul” by Michelangelo, Pauline Chapel fresco, Vatican City.   This “I” we each inherit, made spine of the world, axis, pole, look-out from the world’s helm gazing on the universe, gazing on you, gazing on death…   “Mummy,” I said, seven or eight years old, “I have decided that I am God.” We were walking east along Glebe Road… continue reading

Kenwood in May

Kenwood is an impressive mansion on the northern edge of Hampstead Heath, London. It and its grounds are managed by English Heritage and open to the public. It is a deservedly popular place to visit and on the day in question, I drove my dear friend the late Mary Young there. She lived nearby. Mary was a psychotherapist and a… continue reading

Facing West over a Small Field

Here is a link to a poem about the poet D.J. Enright and his French wife, the artist Madeleine Enright. (See one of her pictures, above). They belonged in worlds quite foreign to me, but in the last few months of their lives, I chanced to be their next-door neighbour. I had moved into a bungalow in south west London,… continue reading

Broken Colour

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The Widow

  Here is another poem of loss and it’s called “The Widow” (the title links to it). I wrote it some years ago, in sorrow for the grief of the person concerned, but also in awe at how she voiced her bereavement, the words she reached for, and the way she flung them out, time and again, to her… continue reading

Copyright © Rogan Wolf – Poet and Social Worker
In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk

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