All alone we go
Waiting for the snow
To softly fall
And cover all.
The wise understand
All must go
Into that quiet land
And greet the snow.
All alone we go
Waiting for the snow
To softly fall
And cover all.
The wise understand
All must go
Into that quiet land
And greet the snow.
My friend, Brian drew this recent article in the Telegraph to my attention https://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/2021/05/22/hot-handel-royal-academy-music-could-dump-artefacts-composer/.
In “Too Hot to Handel”, the Telegraph reports that the Royal Academy of Music is considering disposing of artifacts associated with the composer, due to Handel having invested in the slave trade. It also mentions that Mozart is being reviewed due to his father Leopold having been hosted by those involved in the slave trade during his visit to England.
I have always been of the view that one should consider a work of art (whether music, literature or painting) on it’s own merits. It matters not whether the author was a person of virtue or a disreputable reprobate. If there artistic creation is sublime, then that is what it is.
Slavery was (and remains) an abhorrent practice. However to state this fact is irrelevant when considering the value of Handel (or any other creative person’s work). Of course one may pause when listening to the Messiah and ponder on how a man who could produce such sublime music could have profited from human misery. But, in the end beautiful music remains beautiful music.
One must also view Handel in the context of his time. Many people participated in slavery either as investors or as sailors who brought human cargoes from Africa. It was (and remains) an abominable trade, but whilst condemning past men may give us a feeling of moral superiority, it does not aid our understanding of Handel’s work.
One of my favourite poets (probably my favourite), is Ernest Christopher Dowson. He lived a decadent life and died at the age of 32. During his career he spent much time in the arms of prostitutes and this contributed to some of his most moving verse, including Cynara, https://www.theguardian.com/books/booksblog/2011/mar/14/non-sum-qualis-cynarae-dowson.
I have no interest in what consenting adults choose to do in private, and this view extends to those who consort with the world’s oldest profession. However, even if one holds that those who patronise prostitutes (as Dowson did) are immoral persons who exploit the vulnerable, it is important to judge the worth of an artistic creation on it’s own merits and (so far as is humanly possible) to separate the creator from his creation.
As always I would be interested in the views of my readers.
Windblown flowers.
Lost hours.
I know,
How a flower’s stem,
Is so,
Easily broken, by men.
Slippery money
Made of plastic.
A honey,
Her morals elastic.
Money smooth
As honey’s skin.
The wind does pass
Across my window glass.
While I, inside
Think on human pride.
Hearing it’s gusts
I regret my lusts,
And all my pride.
There is no brand of P
Upon her youthful forehead.
And no letter C
Upon his grey head.
And, in polite society,
There is what we call invisibility.
“Oh ancient oak tree
What do you see?”.
“Many a past century.
People toing and froing,
Their lives going …
The war memorial nearby,
And I
See thee
Pass by”.
I heard your heart beat
As you lay with me.
Each clock wound
Must run down.
And in our final heart beat
We find Old Father Time.
What is sin?
A girl’s smile.
And the clink of coin.
And is there heaven
And hell?
Heaven is her smile.
And will you find
Hell behind?
She
Will not tell.
And he
Will find
In women and wine
That heaven
And hell
Join
In the chink
Of coin.
Angels dance on a pin,
And philosophers ask, “is there sin?
And the priest hears confession
Of an ancient profession.
Though some say farming is older.
And a girl’s bare shoulder
Tempts man into the descent
To heaven and hell.
And within
Is pleasure,
Or sin.
(perhaps they are the same).
A coin
On the collection plate.
Then, later, Lou or Kate
Join
Him
For coin.
And smile while
The world continues to spin.
6:30 as I begin to compose
I have not the arrogance to suppose
That time will cease while I rhyme.