Impressions of a Wandering Hind

My father found my writing "down in the mouth and depressing", which is
typical of his subtle, diplomatic manner. But he's right really. I am a
bit melancholy in this blog.

Things aren't as bad I might make them out in this blog. Cynical as I am, the
world is a fairly peaceful place. I mean, besides the natural catastrophes,
wars across the planet, increasing disparities in income, poverty on the
brink of disaster, and AIDS taking over Africa and China, things are going
pretty well for the human race.

Wilde said that art was useless. I wouldn't like to call my writing artistic,
but I think it's useless, which is a good start. Just like playing games, or
listening to your favourite piece of music is useless. When the seagulls
swoop around the cliffs here, chasing each other about and catching the
upward spirals of sea breeze to send them shooting up into the clouds,
there's absolutely no gain to be found. Perhaps it's when we start focusing
on what's useful that we can take at look at what is essential.

I see text as a space where the writer can play around for a while, and the
reader can breathe. Both stop doing useful things, and look at each other.
This blog can't be anything much more than that, but if it can achieve that, it's
already doing a fairly important job. While Radhika picks up on the thoughts
which have been buzzing about her mind in the last few weeks, I have been
obsessing about the sea. I'm hoping that you can wander along with us as
we do what Yeats describes Aengus doing in this poem. Perhaps Aengus
is a reader, getting lost in literature. Perhaps he's a writer like the characters
of Paul Auster's novels, who sinks deeper and deeper into self-sufficiency
and self-importance as he writes.

I've certainly found some golden apples in my wanderings through poetry,
novels, plays and students' essays this year. Would anyone care to share
them?

D

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THE SONG OF WANDERING AENGUS

by: W.B. Yeats

WENT out to the hazel wood,

Because a fire was in my head,

And cut and peeled a hazel wand,

And hooked a berry to a thread;




And when white moths were on the wing,

And moth-like stars were flickering out,

I dropped the berry in a stream

And caught a little silver trout.




When I had laid it on the floor

I went to blow the fire a-flame,

But something rustled on the floor,

And some one called me by my name:

It had become a glimmering girl

With apple blossom in her hair

Who called me by my name and ran

And faded through the brightening air.




Though I am old with wandering

Through hollow lands and hilly lands,

I will find out where she has gone,

And kiss her lips and take her hands;

And walk among long dappled grass,

And pluck till time and times are done

The silver apples of the moon,

The golden apples of the sun.