In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
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… Continue reading The Gaze Blank and Pitiless
“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
towards the… Continue reading West of Caritas
There they stand,
those old antagonists,
posing at the head of the high-walled city,
that vast coronet of ruin.
Where’s the fraught frontier between
Mercia and East Anglia ? Guards were stationed here
gazing out from within. And within
was somewhere to die for. And without
was someone to kill. I explored it once,
that fraught frontier, now footpath
between nettles. It was sunday
and Cambridge families were out walking there
after a good lunch.
And where’s
the fraught frontier between Wales
I want to talk about the British Labour Party which – despite everything – still occupies the ground I look to for the beginning of this nation’s regeneration and return to health.
But “ground” is one thing ; the withered and stunted vegetation I see presently over-running and littering… Continue reading Britain's Return to Health
Our race has re-made the world to be a reflection of our own chaotic inner lives and processes. We’ve fashioned our environment in such a way that it has become our self-portrait (if we dare to look). Perhaps we see ourselves for the first time, when we look… Continue reading Cat Vies with Hard Drive for my Soul
Around the world, the hoodlums and outlaws are running amok, in their suits of armour made of lies. By contrast, the sheriffs seem downcast, overwhelmed and on the run. I feel downcast and overwhelmed, too. Might it mean that I’m a sheriff, in disguise ? But there is no star in my cupboard.
The picture I… Continue reading High Noon is Nearly Upon Us. Where's the Sheriff ?
The parrot in his cage is sitting pretty, hanging on tight. Meanwhile, Mr Toad is enjoying himself in the chaos he’s been allowed to stir up. Chaos is Toad’s element. It tends to follow him, with cameras. Presumably those who’ve granted Toad this scope find chaos fun as well.
The first… Continue reading The Parrot Repetitive
Copyright © Rogan Wolf – Poet and Social Worker
In all our sanctuaries we sit at risk
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