Category history

So where have we got to, so far, in 2021 ?

  So where have we got to, so far, in the year 2021 ?  Locked in, locked down, sundered from outer family – again. And everywhere, the virus and its effects, spreading yet further, pressing wider and deeper.  The masked face, still – and ever increasingly – the image of our time. In the US, a few days ago, that enormous… continue reading

Let’s Hear it from Janus on the Union

The Roman god Janus had two heads, two faces. They are usually depicted as looking in opposite directions. And the UK has a Gaffe man and a lying Toad for Prime Minister. He says, “Call me Boris” but perhaps “Call me Janus” would ring a little truer. And those two heads are not only turned in opposite directions – all… continue reading

What a Funny Time to say Goodbye to the Chaos Maistro

So now, suddenly, it’s off with his head, the maestro, that shiny hate-filled spear-head of Brexit. He conducted his own removals, exiting through the front door of course, in full view of the cameras, delivering insult to the last. Not so long ago, a raucous parrot I know, a “bird of paradise” who insists on the liberty to speak, had… continue reading

The Beast Outside the Citadel

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Wild Honey UK 2020

This poem above is a loose translation of “Wild Honey” by the great Russian poet Anna Akhmatova. It is one of her most famous poems. The slightly altered title here is an acknowledgement of just how loose the translation is. The poem’s original was written in 1934, after Stalin’s purges had begun. I do not know Russian and have worked… continue reading

The Gaze Blank and Pitiless

WB Yeats’ poem “The Second Coming” was written almost exactly a century ago, but if it’s possible for a poem to become truer still with age, then surely this one does. And yet…Yeats wrote his poem in 1919, in the aftermath of the First World War and the beginning of the Irish War of Independence (he was Irish). The poem… 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

A Sentence Called Humanity

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Steps

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The Photograph

“He first deceased : she for a little tried To live without him, liked it not, and died.”     There they stand, those old antagonists, posing at the head of the high-walled city, that vast coronet of ruin.   Above them, the daily familiar blue glare of God’s regard, far beneath them, their radiant Aegean.   Arm in arm they stand and eye… continue reading

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

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