When I was six years old, my father read me Othello. It was particularly meaningful because he had, as editor of the Stratford Series dedicated this edition of Shakespeare’s work to me. I was struck even at that age by the dedication:
Yet there are times when our hands senselessly labouring grow most hateful to us and we would gladly rid us of these burdens…we have such hours, but are drawn back again
By faces of goodness, faithful masks of sorrow,
Honesty, kindness, courage , fidelity,
The love that lasts a life’s time.
The Difficult Land – Edwin Muir
It is a piece of poetry I have memorised over the years and used, as a place of magic, in times of hardship and despair. It is probably also the singular piece of writing which encouraged me to embark on my own journey as a poet. I often wonder if my father knew even at that stage that he would have a child beset by imaginings and intensity.
When my father went through his own nighttime of the soul, I wrote a poem for him.
A Song of Hope
When deceit is rewarded
When betrayal is customary
When enemies gain power
When dreams are burnt by malice
When the chatter of others is alien
When hope is a foreign thing
When beauty ceases to be gentle
When there are no longer mornings
textured with familiarity
When despair remains despair
Be still and watch at your window
Listen for the sounds of richer times
gathering and conspiring in a revolt
with a might which will flood the mountains
and overthrow this season
I thnk that in this way we have used words to support the idea of one another. And it has been for me, a truly wonderful celebration which I hope we have years more to craft, together.
