Saturday – another week has passed, cascading us into autumn/fall. people in Hurricane Alley will be pleased to know they missed Gordon. He screamed up mid atlantic turned right/droite and, as a tropical storm has been passing over western Britain this last couple of days.
William Blake born in 1757, Poet, printmaker, visionary, the British artist Blake made work that is both profoundly personal and universal.As the son of a hosier, a generally lower middle class occupation in late eighteenth century London, he was brought up in a poor household, a preparation for the relative poverty in which he would live for most of his life. Blake felt compelled to work through his responses to the political upheavals of in Europe and America in this period. The American Revolution of 1775, and the Declaration of Independence in 1783 was, for Blake, just one example of youthful energetic rebellion against the forces of Autocratic Authority. The British war with France, 1793, and the introduction of rigorous laws of civil obedience were, for Blake, yet further instances of the hold which the forces of Authority (Church and State) held over the common people: like Wordsworth, and Shelley and Byron a generation later, Blake was politically both a Radical and a libertarian.Blake’s passionate commitment to a vision of Christianity revisioned, and to a Spiritual, Psychological, Political and Sexual Renaissance, brought about by discarding the narrow moralising and conventionality of orthodox Christianity.Perhaps better known for the hymn Jerusalem,[taken from his greatest prophetic book], Blake famously wrote: ‘I must create a system, or be enslav’d by another man’s. I will not reason & compare: my business is to create’. So while other poets might be content to use characters from the Bible, or from Greek and Roman myth, Blake created his own mythology populated by a host of beings that he himself had either invented, or re-interpreted. http://www.newi.ac.uk/rdover/blake/Life.htm
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stain’d
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou may’st rest,
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
"The narrow bud opens her beauties to
The sun, and love runs in her thrilling veins;
Blossoms hang round the brows of Morning,
and Flourish down the bright cheek of modest Eve,
Till clust’ring Summer breaks forth into singing,
And feather’d clouds strew flowers round her head.
"The spirits of the air live in the smells
Of fruit; and Joy, with pinions light, roves round
The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.
" Thus sang the jolly Autumn as he sat,
Then rose, girded himself, and o’er the bleak
Hills fled from our sight; but left his golden load.
WILLIAM BLAKE [1757 – 1827]
In her sleep she dreamt.
She looked into the sky and saw dead Rainbows,
The little girl touched the dead Rainbows.
She was surprised that she could make the dead
Rainbows come to life!
She wondered why her life was full of broken dreams.
Here in her sleep of dreams she could make magic with Rainbows.
She looked up to see the Rainbows shimmering,
she thought she saw smiling faces in her Rainbow sleep of dreams.
As she looked up , she heard words in her Rainbow
sleep of dreams, "Return to your reality and touch
what you desire and it shall be yours – no more broken dreams."
She awoke, and pulled herself out of her Rainbow sleep of dreams.
Will she make these dreams a reality? Only time will tell !
The thistledown’s flying, though the winds are all still,
On the green grass now lying, now mounting the hill,
The spring from the fountain now boils like a pot;
Through stones past the counting it bubbles red-hot.
The ground parched and cracked is like overbaked bread,
The greensward all wracked is, bent dried up and dead.
The fallow fields glitter like water indeed,
And gossamers twitter, flung from weed unto weed.
Hill-tops like hot iron glitter bright in the sun,
And the rivers we’re eying burn to gold as they run;
Burning hot is the ground, liquid gold is the air;
Whoever looks round sees Eternity there.
JOHN CLARE [1793 – 1864]