Song of Songs

 

Henna in Blossom

Young Woman

Kiss me once again with lips that surpass wine,

Your name’s a sweet aroma, a link to the divine.

 

Women of Jerusalem

Better than wine indeed, their joy is made complete,

Young Woman

When all about adore you, but only our eyes meet.

 

Sun burnt unkempt I, yearn to follow you,

Where flocks rest at noon, I sojourn there too.

 

Young Man

Stop doubting and receive that you’re completely loved,

All I have I share with you, our fortunes jointly doved.

 

As pharaoh’s trembling stallion beholds a perfect mare,

I too am mesmerised by tumbling, cascading hair.

 

Young Woman

Sweet bouquets of henna I nestle upon my breast,

Inhale sweet aromas, lay your head and rest.

 

Young Man

As azure drops sparkle are your dazzling eyes,

Young Woman

Soft grass for our bed, cedar beams our skies.

 

A crocus I will be from Sharron’s verdant vale,

Young Man

I choose you as a lily, all else by it doth pale.

 

Young Woman

Under this tree I rest, for your fruit to taste,

One arm ‘neath my neck, other round my waist.

 

Wise women stir passion only when the time is right,

Here my lover approaches, bounding in morning light.

 

‘Let us run’ calls he, ‘winter winds have passed away,

Shoots of the vine appear, hope’s buds here to stay.’

 

Young Man

Come now from hiding, stand tall and boldly speak,

Your shining face I desire, your wondrous presence seek.

 

Women of Jerusalem

Watch for the little foxes! Enter and they’ll ruin the crop,

Young Woman

My lover’s mine and I am his, he bounds hills with a hop.

 

Awake I lay in bed, but my lover didn’t come,

Door to street I searched, in panic began to run.

 

In vain asked all ‘he’d gone without trace?’

Then my lover appeared, we silently embrace.

 

Wise women stir passion only when the time is right,

Women of Jerusalem

What’s this commotion!  A king displays his might?

 

Young Woman

Come and meet my king, crowned for his wedding day,

Young Man

Overawed by your beauty I know not what to say.

 

Mouth, cheek, and slender neck, pair of bouncing fawn…

Through the night I travelled, arriving at break of dawn.

 

You’ve captured my heart, love better that wine,

Enter a scented garden, sup fruit of the vine.

 

Young Woman

Winds blow north and south, fragrance swirls beside,

Young Man

Great treasure, spiritual sister, perfection, my bride.

 

Women of Jerusalem

Lover and beloved see, your joy is made complete!

   

Young Woman

And now to bed alone, my heart remained awake,

At the door a knock? With uncertainty I quake.

 

But I am ashamed, lacking hope to dare,

I go to the door, finding no one is there.

 

Wondered into darkness, into dangerous night,

Terrors attack me, compounding my plight.

 

Wise women seek my lover, tell him I endure.

 

Women of Jerusalem

You so highly esteemed, your lover’s worth this pain?

Young Woman

My lover’s dark and dazzling, no one matches his name.

Women of Jerusalem

Such love to us convinces, agreeing we come to your aide,

Young Woman

But too late I’ve found him, found in a lily-stroon glade.

 

Young Man

So wondrous you are, fine cities can’t compare,

Cheeks aglow, such teeth, flowing, bounding, hair.

 

If sixty, eighty, countless hoards, stood before me now,

I would see but only one, no one else but thou.

 

‘All’ sing your praises, every noble and queen,

Fairer than the moon, than any banner seen.

 

Young Woman

I go to the walnut grove, to glean if spring’s near,

Strong is my desire to find my charioteer.

 

Women of Jerusalem

We know that you will leave us, love must take its chance,

Young Man

All eyes are now upon you, along the line you dance.

This king is transfixed, delight overflows,

Every detail delightful, from Carmel to toes.

 

See the curves of a palm tree, high fruit in a pair,

Wake with wine washed kisses, more to hope than dare.

 

Young Woman

I am my lovers and he is mine,

We inspect the blossom, the fruit of the vine.

 

I can’t help imagining had you been my twin,

Nestled safely together our mother within.

 

Stir up deep passion just as time perfects,

Women of Jerusalem

This love is blessed, streaming light attest.

 

Young Woman

Beneath this tree wake, once born in this place,

Deluges of water cannot love erase.

 

Young Woman’s Brother

Our sister is too young, I’ll wall her in a tower,

She disgraces her family, despoils her flower.

 

Young Woman

Not fair I protest, free me my brother,

This vineyard is mature, and promised to my lover.

 

Young Man

I listen for your voice as we enter the garden,

Young Woman

Let's continue up higher onto the mountain.

FREEDOM

 Freedom is a nebulous concept.  Are you free?  Are you happy?  Would you being willing to live your life over again?

Tim Harford on the Radio 4's 'More or Less' programme, asked the question, "if newspapers were published once a month, what would their headlines say?  If they were published once a year?  Decade? Century?"

Great question.  Harford suggested the headline for the century paper would read, 'life expectancy more than doubles over the last 100 years'. 

Increase in life expectancy across the world

Few people would argue that this is not a statistic to celebrate.  But just as if everyone in the world were equally rich, and we all had helicopters, our lives would actually be hell, so long life comes with its problems.  Long life is one of the great pressures on our planet: homes, food, health. Perhaps it would be better for us all to have shorter but more fruitful and equal lives. 

There is no doubt that Jacinda Ardern, prime minister of New Zealand/Aotearoa is an intelligent effective communicator, but she tapped into the idea that 'no one should needlessly die' in this pandemic.  Again, everyone will agree.  But if we applied this principle to everything, risk of death by pandemic would be low down the list of 'death risks to our populations'.  

The American website 'Odds of Dying' spells it out for Americans.  In the UK, it can be argued that the current death rate from Covid19 has been 1 death per every 521 people.  The vast majority of these people would not have expected to be alive 100 years ago.  Conversely, I know an 82 year old who moved into a care home, only to be told she had Covid after being tested. She had no idea this was so.

To a fearful generation, death is the final sting.

And the real thing

 

The Charwood Hills Watsan Walkers

Beacon Hill 

Buck Hill

Bradgate Park

Preparing for the Watsan Walk for Water

Top of Old John- Bradgate Park

The residents of the park

Buck Hill

Residents at Beacon Hill

16 1/2 miles

How can you tell that the Author is male?

 

 Madame Récamier
by François Gérard (1805)
Carnavalet Museum, Paris

When the messenger returned her mistress gave directions that if a gentleman called he was to be admitted at once, and sat down to await results.

Sentimentally she did not much care to see him—his delays had wearied her, but it was necessary; and with a sigh she arranged herself picturesquely in the chair; first this way, then that; next so that the light fell over her head. Next she flung herself on the couch in the cyma-recta curve which so became her, and with her arm over her brow looked towards the door. This, she decided, was the best position after all, and thus she remained till a man’s step was heard on the stairs. Whereupon Lucetta, forgetting her curve (for Nature was too strong for Art as yet), jumped up and ran and hid herself behind one of the window-curtains in a freak of timidity. In spite of the waning of passion the situation was an agitating one—she had not seen Henchard since his (supposed) temporary parting from her in Jersey.

She could hear the servant showing the visitor into the room, shutting the door upon him, and leaving as if to go and look for her mistress. Lucetta flung back the curtain with a nervous greeting. The man before her was not Henchard.

The perfidity.  The scheming powers of the women to trap and ensnare.  The poor helpless victim.

The Power of Genetics

How does he regard those cubs?

 The Mayor of Casterbridge reflects that his remarriage was chiefly for the sake of their daughter, Elizabeth-Jane.  When he discovered that she is not the Elizabeth-Jane he fathered, he became hard-hearted and then rejects her.

This is a terrible indictment of parental love.  I am reminded of the wild fact that dominant males in a pack of lions will find the cubs that it as not sired and execute them.  There is an evolutionary explanation as expounded by Richard Dawkin's book, 'The Selfish Gene'.  

Evolutionary forces lurk beneath human waters too.  Adoption stands against this iniquity. The love of genetics is purely selfish, but the love of people through simply choosing to love them, is a much higher thing.  Perhaps it is unnatural?   It is certainly wonderful.

After Elizabeth-Jane's mother death Henchard tells her that he is her father.  She agrees to take his surname.  

“Now,” said Henchard, with the blaze of satisfaction that he always emitted when he had carried his point—though tenderness softened it this time—“I’ll go upstairs and hunt for some documents that will prove it all to you. But I won’t trouble you with them till to-morrow. Good-night, my Elizabeth-Jane!”

Whilst searching for a birth certificate (or the suchlike), Henchard finds the letter his wife wrote revealing Elizabeth-Jane's true parentage.  Henchard is completely changed. 

Her husband regarded the paper as if it were a window-pane through which he saw for miles. His lips twitched, and he seemed to compress his frame, as if to bear better. His usual habit was not to consider whether destiny were hard upon him or not—the shape of his ideals in cases of affliction being simply a moody “I am to suffer, I perceive.” “This much scourging, then, it is for me.” But now through his passionate head there stormed this thought—that the blasting disclosure was what he had deserved.

Henchard instantly about-faces, but Elizabeth-Jane has not yet been told.  She reflects:-

“I have thought and thought all night of it,” she said frankly. “And I see that everything must be as you say. And I am going to look upon you as the father that you are, and not to call you Mr. Henchard any more. It is so plain to me now. Indeed, father, it is. For, of course, you would not have done half the things you have done for me, and let me have my own way so entirely, and bought me presents, if I had only been your stepdaughter! He—Mr. Newson—whom my poor mother married by such a strange mistake” (Henchard was glad that he had disguised matters here), “was very kind—O so kind!” (she spoke with tears in her eyes); “but that is not the same thing as being one’s real father after all. Now, father, breakfast is ready!” she said cheerfully.

Henchard bent and kissed her cheek. The moment and the act he had prefigured for weeks with a thrill of pleasure; yet it was no less than a miserable insipidity to him now that it had come. His reinstation of her mother had been chiefly for the girl’s sake, and the fruition of the whole scheme was such dust and ashes as this.

The curse is in this kiss.  There is an assumption that genetics is the dominate force of love.  But the love depicted here is week in every respect.

The Life and Death of the Mayor of Casterbridge. A Man of Character

Arriving in Weydon Priors and heading
for the Furmity Tent.

Michael Henchard was a fool of a man from the start.  He sold his wife for a bowl of Furmity.

Although he attempted to improve himself in the sight of God, he did not succeed.  But how could he have thought that Elizabeth-Jane was his daughter?  He may have been a very neglectful father and not paid attending to her date of birth.  She apparently did not look like him.  He had such a blinding belief, but her age would betray that she could not be his daughter. 

When did JK Rowling read the Mayor of Casterbridge?  In Chapter XX we read...

The sharp reprimand was not lost upon her, and in time it came to pass that for “fay” she said “succeed”; that she no longer spoke of “dumbledores” but of “humble bees”; no longer said of young men and women that they “walked together,” but that they were “engaged”; that she grew to talk of “greggles” as “wild hyacinths”; that when she had not slept she did not quaintly tell the servants next morning that she had been “hag-rid,” but that she had “suffered from indigestion.”

"Like Prester John's, his table had been spread, and infernal harpies had snatched up the food."

Henchard is powerless to prevent his attempted at joy dissolve away in front of him.

Infernal Harpies

Elizabeth-Jane enters a room in Mr Henchard's house and looks round.  I notice the three books left out on the table.  These are highly symbolic.

It was furnished to profusion with heavy mahogany furniture of the deepest red-Spanish hues. Pembroke tables, with leaves hanging so low that they well-nigh touched the floor, stood against the walls on legs and feet shaped like those of an elephant, and on one lay three huge folio volumes—a Family Bible, a “Josephus,” and a “Whole Duty of Man.” 

Josephus was a Victorian fascination, providing evidence for the voracity of the gospel stories.  The bible, a vital book in a middle class home. And Whole Duty of Man, which symbolises the conservative establishment.

The passage continues

In the chimney corner was a fire-grate with a fluted semi-circular back, having urns and festoons cast in relief thereon, and the chairs were of the kind which, since that day, has cast lustre upon the names of Chippendale and Sheraton, though, in point of fact, their patterns may have been such as those illustrious carpenters never saw or heard of.

This picture speaks of an attempt at aspiring respectability-