Some days there’s so much noise around me I think I’m going to lose my mind. Noise from thoughts, caterwauling from the kids, traffic, horns, sirens, TV, radio and so on. Some days I long for silence; to retreat into an inner sanctum, where there’s respite from the onslaught of the world. Meditation helps, and so does playing the violin. Sometimes I long to hear the sound of your voice. But sometimes only silence will do…
THE SOUND OF SILENCE
The sound of silence, substrate of creation…
Noise of nothingness filling, expanding senses,
Priming them to detect violent vibrations,
Scales of dainty decibels, sonorous caresses.
Listen well; distinguish subtle intonations,
Auditory input on waves of turbulent air,
A tendency to love pulsing impressions,
Emanating forth, emulating, wishing to share…
Silence surrounds; the base note of existence…
Without that peace, would I appreciate sound?
Lilting of inner voice, harmony not dissonance,
A palette on which to speak, sing and listen is profound.
Silence: a constant companion, blank canvas for music,
The space between notes, said Claude Debussy,
Clasping violin, I perform my favourite acoustic,
Exploring the infinite waters of a fathomless sea.
Sounds can nourish – biting into crunchy apple,
Or jangle cells, like long finger nails on a blackboard,
The terrifying cacophony of war, sound of battle,
Some are sweet, like a lover’s kiss, desired, adored.
Some are jolting, startling – a sudden, strident scream,
Soft tears of God; comforting, steady rain drops,
Splashing onto Earth, in relentless, rhythmic stream,
Solace for my soul, time to ponder, until it stops.
Sounds carry me to exotic, far flung places,
Where turbulent waves crash over distant lands,
Creatures howl and cry, endless echoes, many faces,
Inaudible grains of sand slip through my hands.
Floating on a breeze, flowers whisper the joy of scent,
Icy, cruel winds have their own sharp language,
Thunder fulminates across quivering landscapes, spent,
Hear my heartbeat; primordial thud – free from anguish.
Life force emanates from all that is – eternal silence,
Out of the divine shroud a rustle, a breath: quiet, loud,
Familiar sounds bond to heart, enable resilience,
Earth’s endless maelstrom, amorphous as clouds.
Energy fields to immerse in, align with…
No tone goes unheard by the universe,
Flight – the whirring of gossamer wings will give,
A soprano’s broken heart, on an audience does disperse.
Silence sets the stage, from birth to old age,
In-tune with tranquil Self, absorb oscillations,
To travel down memory lane, from same page,
Exulting in emotions of pitch and modulation.
Healing human wounds, retreating back to source,
Stillness resides there, diaphanous spark of essence,
“The question is, are we happy to suppose that our grandchildren may never be able to see an elephant except in a picture book?” ~ David Attenborough
In many respects the success of the human race has caused as many problems as it has solved for us collectively. Population explosion, the demands for food, pollution, the endless pursuit of profits at the expense of people, plants and animals, (especially the mega corporations such as Monsanto), who produce and use some of the most harmful ingredients known to man and nature.
Governments only seem to care about the environment when there’s something in it for them, such as tourist trade. Don’t even get me started on the destruction of rainforest for palm oil and other ingredients that fuel our ‘convenience’ lifestyle.
So many endangered species in Asia and the Amazon are seeing their habitats destroyed for the sake of a few companies and individuals making more than a few bucks. This is the dark side of capitalism. Making money no matter the cost.
But the end does not justify the means, because billions of people live on this planet. Harvesting huge swathes of the ‘lungs of the earth’ for timber and other land use may give a short term economic gain, but how can we measure the huge cost to humanity in terms of loss of diversity and disasters bought about as a result of such ecological destruction?
We can all do our bit, reducing waste, recycling, walking instead of taking a car, being aware of our buying habits, and asking ourselves, do we support environmentally conscious businesses? Do we buy cosmetics and food that is produced in an ethical and sustainable way?
Planet Earth II
I admire Sir David Attenborough in many ways, he is a brilliant broadcaster and passionate naturalist, but it’s mostly because of the man he is; the way he has dedicated his life to bringing the beauty of nature to the masses. Definitely a national treasure! He has done more in his life than probably any other person (except maybe Darwin), to help us understand and love the natural world, open our eyes to how complex and amazing planet Earth really is, showing us that humans and the natural world are interdependent. Their survival aids our survival.
Planet Earth II has been compelling viewing! Some highlights:
The last episode of Planet Earth II is airing tonight on BBC One, and it focuses on animals in urban environments. Here’s the trailer for Cities:
I hope you enjoy my poem, Elegy for Earth. It’s a bittersweet musing on what we’ve done to the animal kingdom and the planet we call home – Earth.
Elegy for Earth
Gravity pulls us to your perfect, rounded bosom,
Our feet, able to walk in soft earth, grass and sand,
Your endless bounty is a gift, pure and fulsome,
Evolved have we, to wield a greedy, grasping hand,
Eager to harvest, destroy and plunder your riches,
We continue to rape and pillage; burn nature’s bridges.
Many of our people appreciate and value such utopia,
Those who do not, give no thought to rainforests or
Wildlife; they are deaf to earth’s cry of melancholia,
No longer can she sustain this global ravage before
We reach the point of no return – alas, this is it.
“What’s happened to me,’ he thought. It was no dream.” ~ Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
This stunning performance on the harp by Lavinia Meijer, of Metamorphosis II by Philip Glass, plus a lovely violin and guitar duo make a perfect accompaniment for my poetry on the subject. I hope you enjoy the music, the prose and the paintings!
‘Metamorphosis’
What is this force that draws me, inexorably towards you?
The Earth’s four seasons, unfaltering, come and go,
Red, orange and yellow foliage now proliferates,
Love, like burnt leaves, clings precariously,
To rustic boughs; fearing annihilation from the gusts of life.
Pompeo Mariani – Autunno
Thoughts and feelings transmute like the elements,
Hot for a time, cold the next, perhaps even icy…
But passions warm like a glorious autumn day,
Lighting up your life while they burn and glow; evolution
Is inevitable, yet the heart yearns for what has passed.
The Stone Bench in the Garden at Saint-Paul Hospital by Vincent van Gogh
Learning to embrace the wisdom of changing seasons;
Both life and death. All effort against nature is futile,
Souls are forged within molecular metamorphosis,
Dipping in and out of an infinite, primordial panoply,
Merging with other souls, individual but connected.
Apple Picking at Eragny sur Epte c. 1888 by Camille Pissarro
The concertina caterpillar chews quietly on his leaf,
Unremarkable on the surface, evolving inside his chrysalis,
Hidden from the world, he is overtaken by energy,
Emerging from his self-imposed cocoon transfigured,
All of life is metamorphosis, an explosion of alteration.
Jupiter, Mercury and Virtue by Dosso Dossi circa late 16th Century
The new butterfly tests his dynamic, vibrant wings,
Fluttering to and from the sweet scent of flowers,
Thus an old heart may beat to a new tune,
But it remembers the shared music of before,
Where unforgotten melodies are woven into DNA.
Autumn Leaves by Sir John Everett Millais
A new phase, a new masterpiece will be written,
As the trees release their golden halos, ready
For preordained progression, so it is with spirit.
The journey of metamorphosis and rebirth carries us
To infinity, where we are ever the same – yet different.
~ By Virginia Burges
Autumn c. 1904 by Edward Atkinson Hornel (1864-1933).
Philip Glass on the piano playing his Metamorphosis IV and V:
“I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me. I cannot even explain it to myself.” ~ Franz Kafka, The Metamorphosis
Lately I have been trying to make sense of how I act unconsciously. Watching to see what happens when I allow certain situations or people to push my buttons!
It has been a busy and somewhat stressful time for me over the past few weeks, and to get through this intense phase I know I need to be more aware of the emotions that I have disowned in myself, and therefore rub me up the wrong way when other people display that very ‘thing’.
To shine the light of awareness on my my own internal state is not easy, but it is helpful. For when we become conscious of a hidden belief or shadow that is driving us, we can integrate and ‘own’ it, and the dysfunctional behaviour that surrounds it will drop away. We rarely act in a way that is detrimental to our well-being once we are conscious of it.
Writing about this subject in the form of poetry has helped me to understand the concept better and apply it in my own life. I hope you enjoy the poem in its own right, along with the sublime art (which always reflects beautifully the human condition).
Long may the light shine on you (and your shadows!) Happy Sunday!
The Paradox of Polarities
Juliet lamented to Romeo: ‘parting is such sweet sorrow’,
Yet we love…yearning to insatiably consume,
Maybe fearing, perhaps craving the morrow.
What will fate serve us: fortune or doom?
Whatever may manifest in these given hours,
That which we truly see, is endowed with powers…
The Last Kiss of Romeo and Juliet by Francesco Hayez
Where our vision dares to go, energy will flow,
Born are we, into the realm of black and white,
Intrepid into the shadow side, we must not go.
To survive this masquerade we stay in the light,
Reprisals in childhood make us afraid to venture,
As adults, what is perceived as dark, we censure…
Orpheus and Eurydice in the Underworld by Peter Paul Rubens
Lurking somewhere beneath, dark soils unconscious mind,
It cannot be disowned, denied and repressed forever,
Expressing covertly as dysfunctional, not kind.
To exhibit that which we thought of never,
The voice we accept not in ourselves, or in others,
Speaks the loudest, drowns out, and smothers.
Othello and Desdemona by Christian Köhler
Despite our best efforts, eventually in vain,
We never will destroy shadows; our other side,
As night follows day, with pleasure comes pain.
The vast spectrum of life is not easy to divide,
Opposites attract, nay, depend on each other to exist,
Demarcation is purely conceptual, shrouded in mist…
Hamlet – Act IV Scene V – Ophelia Before the King and Queen by Benjamin West
How humans define polarity is arbitrary,
Endless primordial cauldron of emotion,
Good against evil can be so contrary.
Life and death, clarity and confusion,
Appear they, to be separate ideas of reality,
Isolated by social convention, for the sake of sanity…
Macbeth and the Ghost of Duncan by Theodore Chasseriau
Thus, one ‘thing’ is split into a patchwork field,
We can only appreciate health because of illness,
Energy delineated, to create our journey we wield.
We can harm or heal; by practice, learn to witness,
The inner states with which we play the game,
Be we happy or sad, empty or full, of pride or shame…
The Illness of Antiochus from Antiochus and Stratonice by Jean-Auguste-Dominique Ingres
To avoid any experience is to fall on our sword,
Better to watch and feel, then move forward,
Enjoy passion, shun apathy, either inspired or bored.
Awareness frees us from stagnation and being cornered,
To surf the panoply and panorama of tides,
Waves of dichotomy ebb and flow from all sides…
Tristan and Isolde by Herbert James Draper
The paths we take are followed in physics,
Nature’s eternal, divine laws unfold regardless,
To deny a part of the whole is to set limits.
What is buried, resisted and guarded will surface,
Dip into darkness again; find a flicker of light,
A single, bright, dancing flame expands in sight…
The taking of Christ by Caravaggio
We make up right and wrong as we go along,
Physical forms of the infinite, quantum reality,
Both here and not here; is a part of our song.
For singing softens the immutable tree of polarity,
After waking up with a bit of a hangover I felt the urge to write about the weather… How very British! I was also pondering on how the collective unconscious affects our perception of nature. I hope you enjoy it, and perhaps even relate to it on some level.
As I love the work of Joseph Mallord William Turner, Britain’s most prolific and famous landscape painter, I have used his art to help illustrate my prose.
Happy Sunday!
A British Summer
Heavy grey clouds claim the sky, suffocating hope,
Reflecting the changing moods of the nation,
Temperatures fluctuate; oppressive then cool,
Winnie-the-Pooh’s blustery day is upon us…
Raby Castle, the seat of the Earl of Darlington, by JMW Turner
Towering trees adorned with lush, verdant leaves,
Shimmer, bend and wave in nature’s breathy puff,
Wild flowers populate meadows and hedgerows,
Colourful petals spread succour for broken hearts
Thomson’s Aeolian Harp by JMW Turner c. 1809
Rays of sun breakthrough, beaming sporadic warmth,
Threat of violent showers always present, looming,
A green and pleasant land supports uncertain steps,
Whether bold or timid; blades of grass in their billions.
Abergavenny Bridge Monmouthshire by JMW Turner
Pimms and tennis distract weary, outraged citizens,
Quintessential Hundred Acre Wood of our nation,
Still holds surprises. The worker bees hide not;
Streams babble and burst lowly banks.
Arundel Castle on the River Arun, with a Rainbow c. 1824-5 Joseph Mallord William Turner
Life abounds in forests, fields and flowers,
Towns and cities go about their daily grind,
Forgotten worms thrive in velvety brown sludge,
Birds soar above gardens, manicured or wild.
Oxford High Street by JMW Turner
In times of trouble the land is earthy and stable,
The cycle of death and rebirth ceaseless, reliable.
Gain strength from longer, lighter days, be
Fortified by the season of playfulness and revelry.
Pope’s Villa at Twickenham by JMW Turner
History lives on in ancient stone walls,
Land of democracy and freedom decays,
Only to grow back around human drama,
Scenery of ups and downs: metamorphosis.
Stonehenge by JMW Turner c. 1827
Lakes and mountains, coasts and cliffs,
Magnificent island refuge to everyday strife,
Spires look upwards over quaint village greens,
Season of vitality to revive cynical souls.
Scottish landscape by JMW Turner
English rose, soft symbol of beauty and summer,
She attracts us with her sweet, heady scent,
Draws blood with her protective, thorny fingers,
But we love her essence and fullness of life.
The Old Library: A Vase of Lilies, Dahlias and Other Flowers 1827 Joseph Mallord William Turner
Is this the summer of our discontent?
Rough winds do shake wounded spirits,
Sprites commit their mischief then sneakily retreat,
“All art aspires towards the condition of music.” ~ Walter Pater
Playing a musical instrument is the best workout I know for my brain, as well as for invigorating my whole body. Meditation follows a close second alongside some other pleasurable activities…
The Music Lesson by Manet c. 1868
During a practice session I feel totally alive; my mind seems to be at its most creative, and yet clear of life’s ‘junk’. I can be myself when I’m playing my violin; happily ensconced in a ‘flow state’ with no judgment or expectation other than to enjoy my activity.
I may not be on stage in a world-class concert hall, (only in my imagination), in reality I’m in my lounge and completely engaged in a joyful fusion of physical and mental exercise.
The thought of not being able to play inspired the premise for my novel, The Virtuoso.
Music score to accompany The Virtuoso by Tim Johnson
While I’m playing Bach, Beethoven, Mozart and Vivaldi my brain is doing the ultimate multi-tasking, coordinating on an epic scale:
It’s enabling me to read the notes, to perform challenging passages of semi-quaver notes, to react quickly with tricky incidental notes, trills and possible key changes during the piece, let alone changing position on the fingerboard, deciding what digit goes where, what bowing technique is required, the dynamics of the music and, of course intonation and my unique interpretation based on how the music makes me feel as I play it.
Violinist by Jeanne Saint Cheron
Imagine coordinating that many processes in a split second. Brain plasticity is an incredible process. It must be an orchestra of simultaneous sparks, a symphony of synapses in there, lighting up all over the place!
Science has backed me up on that one. How playing an instrument benefits your brain – Anita Collins:
Afterwards I find myself in a special space, my mind is empty yet energised and I just write. Ideas flow. It doesn’t last forever, but I try to make the most of it! Those alpha brain waves are the good guys, they usher in our most creative moments when we’re in a state of relaxed concentration.
The Music Lesson by Caspar Netscher
Music really is instrumental in improving brain function and cognitive ability.
You may relate to my joy if you play an instrument. I don’t mean to be unnecessarily sombre, but if music disappeared overnight, for whatever reason, what would become of our species? I don’t think I could live in a world devoid of such a rich, cultural heritage…
A fascinating talk from the late neurologist Oliver Sacks – Musicophilia: Tales of Music and the Brain:
This short video shows Dr. Sacks’s brain activity as he listens to music by Bach, his favourite composer compared with that of Beethoven:
A great excerpt from a talk about the history of music by Dr. Daniel Levitin, who argues against Steven Pinker, asserting that music preceded language:
I wanted to share with you my own verses; poetry which most certainly does not compare to the likes of Keats or Shelley, but which is nonetheless genuinely reflective of my love for music; both playing and listening.
Music Makes Me Feel…
First came the hypnotic rhythm of Beethoven,
Moonlight tones passing through my mother’s womb;
Loving piano gently infiltrates fleshy oven,
Beautiful harmony surrounds the warm, watery tomb
My whole being is receptive, active, listening,
Later in life, it will make my spirit sing.
Woman at the Piano by Pierre Auguste Renoir
Orchestras fill our home, my education starts,
Lessons begin on the violin; fun but hard,
Before long I am hooked, for joy it imparts,
Bowing, scraping, hand stretching on fingerboard,
The right note eludes me, again and again,
Eventually, fingers know their place more than pain.
Berthe Morisot – The artist’s daughter playing the violin
Pulsing air waves elicit ecstasy, and poignant lingering,
Oscillations match to memories from the deep,
Such moving melody, well-spring of suffering,
Black notes on treble or bass clef; ready to leap
From musicians instruments, creating composer’s passions
Hypnotism says Ludwig van, to force same emotions.
The Kreutzer Sonata by Xavier Prinet
Major or minor key, varying dynamics and tempo
Music mirrors every sacred moment of life,
Soft, soothing adagio or a galloping allegro,
Good vibrations comfort me when in strife;
Open your heart to its flowing, healing tune,
And fill your soul with rapture, thrilling croon.
Ancient, divine sounds, evolving over millennia,
Effect is more visceral than art, sculpture, literature.
No mode of communication stirs like an aria;
Universal language communes with our nature,
Eclectic music of mankind, such profound apotheosis,
Ultimate expression of humanity: Quo Vadis?
The Music Lesson by Jan Vermeer
Apart from the sound of my mother’s voice, this timeless and peaceful composition by Beethoven that my mum used to play was probably one of the first things I ever heard:
Sound when stretched is music.
Movement when stretched is dance.
Mind when stretched is meditation.
Life when stretched is celebration. ~ Sri Sri Ravishankar
~ William Shakespeare from As You Like It, Act II, Scene 7, 139–42
I’m going to commence part 2 unapologetic for my continued worship binge of William Shakespeare! Especially after his recent #Shakespeare400 anniversary.
For me, text comes alive when you can see and hear actors performing it. So there’s going to be lots of media in this post.
Here’s a comic Hamlet taster from the celebrations held at the RSC in Stratford in conjunction with the BBC:
The first published mention of Shakespeare’s plays was made in Palladis Tamia: Wit’s Treasury, by Francis Meres in 1598:
His sonnets weren’t published as a collective work for a further eleven years.
Love’s Labour’s Won
Because so little is known about William Shakespeare the man, the mention of an unknown play, Love’s Labour’s Won adds to the mystery surrounding his life and work. It was originally thought that Love’s Labour Won was the same play as The Taming of the Shrew, it wasn’t uncommon for his plays to be known under different names: Twelfth Night was sometimes called Malvolio and Much Ado About Nothing was sometimes referred to as Benedict and Beatrice, so the possibility of an alternative title was entirely plausible.
But in 1953 the mystery deepened when a book dealer in London came across a fragment of a bookseller’s inventory from 1603, listing both Love Labour’s Won and The Taming of the Shrew together, indicating that they were indeed separate plays. If it ever existed in printed form there is hope that one of the potential 1500 lost copies may surface one day…
It leads on to the question, if Love’s Labour’s Won really is a separate play, why wasn’t it included by Heminges and Condell in the First Folio?
Shakespeare vs Milton – Fascinating debate about the kings of English literature:
Shakespeare in film
Films continue to be made of his plays, and even about Shakespeare himself. For your viewing pleasure!
Macbeth:
The Merchant of Venice (2004):
Much Ado About Nothing (1993):
Coriolanus:
Romeo and Juliet (2013):
Richard III (1955):
Henry V:
Hamlet: (1996):
Othello (1995):
Twelfth Night (1996):
Shakespeare In Love:
I’d like to dedicate the remainder of the post with excerpts from some of the greatest bards the world has ever known.
Christopher Marlowe – Excerpt from Doctor Faustus
You stars that reign’d at my nativity,
Whose influence hath allotted death and hell,
Now draw up Faustus like a foggy mist
Into entrails of yon labouring clouds,
That when they vomit forth into the air,
My limbs may issue from their smoky mouths,
So that my soul may but ascend to Heaven.
Mephisto before Faust by Eugene Delacroix
William Blake ~ (Notebook 40)
Abstinence sows sand all over
The ruddy limbs and flaming hair
But Desire Gratified
Plants fruits and beauty there.
Cremation of Shelley by Louis Edouard Fournier
Love’s Philosophy by Percy Bysshe Shelley, read beautifully by Tom O’Bedlam:
Ulysses ~ Alfred, Lord Tennyson:
It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,
That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d
Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when
Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.
I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’
Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades
For ever and forever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!
As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
This is my son, mine own Telemachus,
To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—
Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil
This labour, by slow prudence to make mild
A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees
Subdue them to the useful and the good.
Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere
Of common duties, decent not to fail
In offices of tenderness, and pay
Meet adoration to my household gods,
When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.
There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:
There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,
Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—
That ever with a frolic welcome took
The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed
Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all: but something ere the end,
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,
‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Ulysses by JW Waterhouse
BBC Documentary about Byron, Keats, and Shelley – The Romantics – Eternity:
Edgar Allan Poe-The Raven- Read by James Earl Jones:
Audio book playlist by Random House – The Prophet by Kahlil Gibran:
Rabindranath Tagore on boundaries and understanding:
Audiobook of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno (Part 1 of 4):
Great website covering classic literature, explaining here about the epic poem The Iliad by Homer.
Achilles Slays Hector by Peter Paul Rubens
I’m going to finish with Shakespeare, probably the greatest Bard of all time and the greatest soliloquy of all time: To be, or not to be from Hamlet.
Kenneth Brannagh is electrifying:
Going back through the ages, oral tradition was everything, however, when the written word came into being all the ‘Bards’ that have come since could be immortalised.
True Bardic tradition may be a thing of the past, but modern authors, poets and musicians can leave a legacy of their work. Perhaps not on the scale of the likes of Chaucer, Milton, Shakespeare and Tagore, but we all have an imagination, which Einstein reminded us is more important than intelligence.
Excerpt from Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein
Art and culture as we know it owes everything to the bards of the ages, and in this digital age we can all be a ‘Bard’ or even ‘Bardess’, to a larger or lesser extent…
“The appropriate business of Poetry, (which, nevertheless, if genuine, is as permanent as pure science), her privilege and duty, is to treat of things not as they are, but as they appear; not as they exist in themselves, but as they seem to exist to the senses, and to the passions.” ~ William Wordsworth
There will be plenty of bardolatry in these two posts, to quote the rather satirical term coined by George Bernard Shaw in his fervent appreciation of Shakespeare. When I think of ‘The Bard’, of course it is always Shakespeare that immediately springs to mind. With the 400th anniversary of his death approaching and his incredible legacy of literature, he is rightly referred to as ‘The Bard of Avon’.
William Shakespeare – The ‘Chandos’ portrait, artist unknown
Another more recent ‘Bard’ is Rabindranath Tagore, who was known by the sobriquet ‘The Bard of Bengal’.
But, strictly speaking, what is a ‘Bard’?
A ‘Bard’ has its roots in ancient Celtic, Welsh, Scottish and Irish culture, referring to one who had the innate skill of storytelling, composition of verse and poetry and or being a musician and singer, usually employed by a monarch or noble patron. Bards shaped our culture and ensured that our stories (and the wisdom contained within them), was passed on to future generations.
The Bard before the Royal Family by Anton Huxoll
The meaning and influence of bardic tradition has evolved over the centuries to the more romantic understanding that is defined so perfectly in our modern world by the writings of William Shakespeare.
Interestingly, works of art work portraying bards tend to depict elderly men with windswept white hair playing a harp or grasping a tome, set against the backdrop of epic scenery.
The Bard by Benjamin West
It awakens quite a primordial longing to be at one with nature, be of service to the community and also kinship with fellow man. For me, there seems to be a very close connection with the wilderness, which, in ancient times would have been the case.
The Bard by John Martin c. 1817
I’d like to start way back before Shakespeare though, with a poet I’d not heard of before, who hailed from Dark Ages Wales – Taliesin.
The Bard by Thomas Jones
The Tale of Taliesin
Thanks to my good friend, fellow musician, writer and sound therapist, Laurelle Rond, I recently learned of the mythic Celtic folklore that surrounds the birth of Taliesin, a 6th century Welsh Bard.
He was a revered poet of the post-Roman period whose work seems to have survived in a Middle Welsh manuscript, known as the Book of Taliesin. Taliesin is believed to have sung at the courts of at least three Celtic British kings.
His name, spelt Taliessin in Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s Idylls of the King and in some subsequent works, means ‘shining brow’ in Middle Welsh. In legend and medieval Welsh poetry, he is often referred to as Taliesin Ben Beirdd (‘Taliesin, Chief of Bards’ or chief of poets). According to legend Taliesin was adopted as a child by Elffin, the son of Gwyddno Garanhir, and prophesied the death of Maelgwn Gwynedd from the Yellow Plague. In later stories he became a mythic hero, companion of Bran the Blessed and King Arthur.
Here is the mythological Tale of Taliesin, as told by Peter Freeman:
At its heart the Tale of Taliesin is a story of rebirth. It is layered with symbolism and meaning on many levels, but for me, the ultimate message of the myth is that spiritual struggle, suffering and cleansing can transform us, at which point we are reborn with inner vision, as Taliesin, the Bard.
Ceridwen, the queen and a Goddess herself, cannot bear to look upon her ugly son Morfran, who represents the shadow side of human nature; the dark side of ourselves that we don’t want to see and find hard to look at.
Gwion, Morda and Ceridwen attending to the cauldron – Taliesin
Gwion Bach, the young boy who is tasked with guarding the magic elixir, but who consumes the three drops of inspiration to avoid a burn when the potion is accidentally spilt on his hand, ignites her wrath and the shape-shifting chase begins. The chase is akin to the vicissitudes of everyday life, the ebb and flow of our fortunes, whereby we have to take different forms (personality traits and strengths), in order to run with our challenges.
Eventually we are empowered and born with the gift of intuition, poetry, music, wisdom and a willingness to be of service to others.
This tale has inspired composers, musicians, singers and songwriters alike, and I was delighted to find this evocative concerto for alto saxophone and orchestra by Martin Romberg, with Anja Bachmann as the soloist:
Song by Damh The Bard – Ceridwen and Taliesin:
#Shakespeare400
It will soon be 400 years since William Shakespeare shuffled off his mortal coil on 23rd April 1616, and with iconic titles such as Hamlet, Romeo and Juliet, The Tempest, Henry V, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Othello and Macbeth to his quill it’s no wonder that his name will never be erased from the great canon of English literature. His works are as relevant and loved today they were in Elizabethan times. Talk about staying power!
Trends and ‘celebrity’ status are transient, but true genius is enduring. No-one created characters like Shakespeare…
Procession of Characters from Shakespeare
Historically, poets had glorified God, but our William had other ideas. His muse was free and he did not censor her. Imagination was the foundation for his art. He wrote plays about love, hate, jealousy, ambition, power, greed, potions, witches, kings, queens, noblemen and women, fairies and everyday people. He needed to entertain the people so that he could make a living and support his young family back in Stratford.
However, in 1593, in the wake of the dreaded plague the theatres were closed and so ‘The Bard’ turned to poetry. His first poem was Venus and Adonis.
In the midst of the religious turmoil of the Tudor period, Shakespeare’s own distant cousin, Robert Southwell, was imprisoned in the Tower of London. He had sent his cousin W.S. a letter on the duty of poets, which was given to Queen Elizabeth I on the evening after his execution.
In 1594 under the patronage of Lord Hunston William formed a company of actors, mainly with his long-time friends, John Heminges, Henry Condell, William Sly, Augustine Phillips and Richard Burbage, who played many of his most memorable roles.
Shakespeare and his Contemporaries at The Mermaid Tavern by John Faed.
Sadly, William and Anne’s only son, Hamnet, died at the tender age of 11, so he was no stranger to heartache. It is thought that Sonnet 33 with its poignant verses could be describing Shakespeare’s grief, or potentially his despair at the rift in his relationship with the Earl of Southampton:
Sonnet 33
Full many a glorious morning have I seen
Flatter the mountain-tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green,
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine
With all triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.
Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth.
In part 2 we’ll hear more from the ‘Bard of Bengal’ and the ‘Bard of Avon’, as well as some other much loved poets that have graced our lives since then.
“I slept and dreamt that life was joy. I awoke and saw that life was service. I acted and behold, service was joy.” ~ Rabindranath Tagore