The view from my prison cell.

oscar-wilde

You can imprison a body, but you cannot cage a man’s soul. There have been some “great” prisoners through the years. People who used their time in custody wisely and continued to fight for their cause. Time looks upon such people kindly. Nelson Mandela, Thomas Francis Meagher, Bobby Sands, Mohandas Gandhi, Leon Trotski, Aung San Suu Kyi. For the smart person prison can represent an opportunity as much as a setback, a classic case of life giving you lemons and you make lemonade. Many people know the Ballad of Reading Gaol, but it is not the only tale of woe from the Irish guest of his Majesty who had nothing to declare but his genius. Sadly his time in prison gave him only a very limited redemption. The fight for homosexual rights is far from won.

At Verona; by Oscar Wilde
HOW steep the stairs within Kings’ houses are
For exile-wearied feet as mine to tread,
And O how salt and bitter is the bread
Which falls from this Hound’s table,–better far
That I had died in the red ways of war,
Or that the gate of Florence bare my head,
Than to live thus, by all things comraded
Which seek the essence of my soul to mar.

‘Curse God and die: what better hope than this?
He hath forgotten thee in all the bliss
Of his gold city, and eternal day’–
Nay peace: behind my prison’s blinded bars
I do possess what none can take away,
My love, and all the glory of the stars.

Foggy Day

Today is a foggy day both physically and metaphorically. A white mist lies across the land and across my mind. The one across my mind is a result of a stinking cold, a very upset stomach, and some powerful drugs. As a result I am not feeling lucid enough to write a long post. So I give you a foggy poem. As I recall this was given to us as examples of personification and alliteration when learning poetry criticism in school. Stay well clear of cruel, hungry foam. Instead pour yourself a beer and marvel at that cool and thirsty foam winking merrily at you from the top of the welcoming glass 🙂 Now, I must go and call those cattle home!

The Sands of Dee

Charles Kingsley (1819–1875)

‘O MARY, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee;’
The western wind was wild and dank with foam,
And all alone went she.

The western tide crept up along the sand,
And o’er and o’er the sand,
And round and round the sand,
As far as eye could see.
The rolling mist came down and hid the land:
And never home came she.

‘Oh! is it weed, or fish, or floating hair,
A tress of golden hair,
A drownèd maiden’s hair
Above the nets at sea?
Was never salmon yet that shone so fair
Among the stakes of Dee.’

They rowed her in across the rolling foam,
The cruel crawling foam,
The cruel hungry foam,
To her grave beside the sea:
But still the boatmen hear her call the cattle home
Across the sands of Dee.