There's No Escape

There’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape

These Atlantic breakers, will break and break, these Atlantic breakers, will break and break,

There’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape

There’s no escape route out for you and me to take,

There’s no escape route out for you and me to take,

There’s no escape, there’s no escape,

When we first shared that kiss we made our first mistake,

We broke this small town’s rules, heading for an earthquake

There’s no escape, there’s no escape,

Now we must lie together and wait and wait

Now we must lie together and wait and wait and wait

Waiting for the sun to set

Waiting for more hearts to break

There’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape

These Atlantic breakers, will break and break, these Atlantic breakers, will break and break and break

There’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape, there’s no escape

© Stephen Evans

THE ICE KING

'The Ice King' from Canada

Demille, A. B. "The Ice King." In A River of Stories, compiled by Alice Curry, 142-143. London: Commonwealth Education Trust Books, 2011.

"Where the world is grey and lone

Sits the Ice King on his throne –

Passionless, austere, afar,

Underneath the Polar Star.

Over all his splendid plains

An eternal stillness reigns.

Silent creatures of the North,

White and strange and fierce, steal forth:

Soft-foot beasts from frozen lair,

Noiseless birds that wing the air,

Souls of seamen dead, who lie

Stark beneath the pale north sky;

Shapes to living eye unknown,

Wild and shy, come round the throne

Where the Ice King sits in view

To receive their homage due.

But the Ice King’s quiet eyes,

Calm, implacable, and wise,

Gaze beyond the silent throng,

With a steadfast look and long,

Down to where the summer streams

Murmur in their golden dreams;

Where the sky is rich and deep,

Where warm stars bring down warm sleep,

Where the days are, every one,

Clad with warmth and crowned with sun.

And the longing gods may feel

Stirs within his heart of steel,

And he yearns far forth to go

From his land of ice and snow.

But forever, grey and lone,

Sits the Ice King on his throne –

Passionless, austere, afar,

Underneath the Polar Star."

I THOUGHT YOU WOULD FIND IT RIDICULOUS

I thought you would find it ridiculous
As others do so too
The way I go on and on and on and on to use
One thousand million billion zillion trillion words when
Only one or two need do
So I packed away my big heavy thoughts 
Compacted and crushed them into noughts
Until there remained
Three words true
That say quite simply
I Love You

(c) Stephen Evans 2016

Photograph, The Guardian.

The Guardian reports, "Geoffrey Hill, a poet regularly hailed as the greatest in the English language, died suddenly on 30 June at the age of 84".  

Hill was a supremely gifted poet and essayist.  Despite living for many years in the USA, he belonged to a long tradition of "English" poets, writing of England, its history and conventions; often framing these poems within his own experiences, many of childhood, having grown up in Bromsgrove, in the Midlands.   However, European history was not beyond his remit.  

His popularity suffered due a minsconception that his poems were inaccessable when in fact they were unpatronising ; respecting the audience's intelligence to use their own readings and skills of inference rather than hand out 'meaning' on a plate.  He was also accused of being earnest as cerebral as if these were flaws when in fact several readings of his poems revealed gentle self-mockery, self-effacement, humour, irony and joy for life. 

Below is one of Hill's better known poems. This choice seems fitting ,given the events of the last decade, wherein to  decry the horror and pain, runs the danger of petering to a tweeness and cliche where one senses a difficulty in expressing such outcry without sounding trite amid 'so many routine cries'.  This is one of the themes Hill explores in the poem, the dates given being that of the timeline of a Jewish girl, deported to a Concentration Camp.

Stephen

September Song

Related Poem Content Details

BY GEOFFREY HILL

born 19.6.32—deported 24.9.42

Undesirable you may have been, untouchable 

you were not. Not forgotten 

or passed over at the proper time. 

As estimated, you died. Things marched, 

sufficient, to that end. 

Just so much Zyklon and leather, patented 

terror, so many routine cries. 

(I have made 

an elegy for myself it 

is true) 

September fattens on vines. Roses 

flake from the wall. The smoke 

of harmless fires drifts to my eyes. 

This is plenty. This is more than enough. 

VOX POPPING IN WYTHENSHAWE CIVIC CENTRE YESTERDAY

Vox pop on the meaning of heritage.  Met so many lovely people passionate about history and heritage. A big thank you to John McCormack for filming and lightening-fast post-production.

BUXTON LIBRARY

Off to Buxton library today to finalise the second draft of my book. Probably unmarketable but it's been fun to write all the same.   Wish me luck!

MP MIKE KANE LENDS HIS SUPPORT TO OUR HISTORIES' DAY

MANCHESTER HISTORY FESTIVAL 6th June 2016

The Wythenshawe History Group is  holding an all-day event at Wythenshawe Library on the 6th June - details below.  If you are in the area (or country) or know people who are interested in local history and would like to come along and support it, please pass these details on.   

The Group (I am its Chair) is attending Manchester Town Hall on the 11th June where we have a stall and will be running presentations and displaying some of the artefacts we have in our collection, some dating back from the seventeenth century.  It would be great to see you on either (or both!) of these days.  Many thanks,  Stephen.

                      

INVITATION

As part of Manchester Histories Festival, the Wythenshawe History Group would like to invite you all to attend our Local History event at the

 Forum Library, Forum Square, Wythenshawe M22 5RX

on 6^th June between 10 a.m. and 4 p.m.

We will be in the Reference Library, first floor,

Conference Room (classroom) 1.

There will be people at hand to discuss all aspects of Wythenshawe’s history together with resources and artefacts to help you explore the origins of the ‘Garden City’ estate. There will also be presentations and displays about the beginnings of modern Wythenshawe. 

Refreshments will be available.

Please tell everyone you know about the event.

Everyone is welcome and we look forward to meeting you all.

The Wythenshawe History Group

ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON WITH HAT

  Always like photographs of  the former Poet Laureate with a hat.  Was he ever at his most sensual and erotic in the poem (sonnet) below?


Now Sleeps the Crimson Petal, Now the White
by Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white;
Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk;
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry* font:
The fire-fly wakens: waken thou with me.

Now droops the milk-white peacock like a ghost,
And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë  to the stars,
And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now slides the silent meteor on, and leaves
A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up,
And slips into the bosom of the lake:
So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip
Into my bosom and be lost in me.

No Second Troy

No Second Troy

Related Poem Content Details

BY WILLIAM BUTLER YEATS

Why should I blame her that she filled my days 

With misery, or that she would of late 

Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, 

Or hurled the little streets upon the great, 

Had they but courage equal to desire? 

What could have made her peaceful with a mind 

That nobleness made simple as a fire, 

With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind 

That is not natural in an age like this, 

Being high and solitary and most stern? 

Why, what could she have done, being what she is? 

Was there another Troy for her to burn?