E Y E W E A R, THE BLOG - FREEDOM MEANS BEING UNAFRAID TO WRITE WHAT YOU THINK

There is something of a Little Prince telling the sun to shut on or off about some businesspersons in the UK (and some politicians) demanding to 'open up' and let the travel and summer fun let rip. Such robust calls for less government control of 'our lives' seems based on the conviction, in some circles, that the government enjoys controlling people and limiting the opportunities for businesses to thrive, or that they have badly misread the scientific evidence. Whether this is wishful thinking, wilful blindness, or cynical agitprop, is unclear. When a nightclub owner or airline boss wants masses to get together again to generate revenue for a failing business, it is reasonable to understand their wish for cash influx, but less certain this person represents objective, disinterested 'common sense' let alone, the latest science. As many have noted you cannot 'follow the science' because science is multiple, but one thing 'science' is, which busine...

 It has been said more than once that the way a minority is treated indicates the quality of the majority - and in a world of multiple, and sometimes contrasting, individual and 'minority' identities, aided and sometimes undermined by, activism online, it might be soon the other way also - how minorities speak to majorities can be an issue. Of course, what is the 'majority' now, or the 'norm' with so many splintered interests, is uncertain, in an age of uncertainty. The Royal Academy has recently removed for sale works in their shop by an artist who, it was reported to them, holds potentially repugnant ideas and opinions. The reporting of these views is completely reasonable, and is it also reasonable to be saddened and concerned by such views, which threaten that community's sense of identity and meaning. What is less reasonable is the idea that the RA would then remove the artist from their shop - in common parlance, 'cancelling' them. What a commu...

Reading an essay on poetry and morality (or even sin) by Geoffrey Hill, the 'great', dead, 20th century English poet born in Bromsgrove, most often considered by critics the exemplar of 'difficult', 'rigorous', 'serious' or even 'elitist' poetry (as contrasted, to, say, Larkin), one is reminded of at least one thought: to choose a style is to select a way of thinking, or appearing to think. Allusive, circling, referential, and interested in other poets and their ideas - deferential then, to, if questioning of, tradition(s) - Hill's prose is not far from an ideal, the ideal perhaps, of what an intelligent use of language might sound like, or be. That this is an artifice - the choosing of this sort of dress for the mind, rather than another style - might be a heresy too far - some writers who are thinkers, like Orwell, consider the clear and precise use of language - a clarity - both moral and political - an essential fusion of the good - langu...

Despite having the same human failings as every other human, Prince Philip , in the documentaries on the BBC after his death, has been shown to be one of the great men - and I use that word intentionally for good and ill - of the past 100 years, in Western civilisation - a civilisation whose values, again, flawed for being human, nevertheless will be missed within a decade from now. Tall, handsome, physically expert at every sport he tried, superb and brave in war on the high seas, intelligent, interested in science, an early adopter of new technologies, and an environmentalist, who stood by his wife for 70 years as monarch and never complained, and was known for an irreverent sense of humour, with a Christian mother who harboured Jews from Nazis, and a profligate father, Philip Mountbatten was the all-rounder - a flawed but ideal sort of 'James Bond' man's man - strong, stoic, and able to serve a greater common good. He was no rebel, but he was non-traditional in many ways...

  55 (x 2)   Nothing could have prepared me For being born In Montreal, not even the long 18 th century, the little ice age, Or the summer my father learned   To swim and dive. As stoics Enjoy saying, ad nauseum, Death is like thinking Of all the years before birth. It barely registers and cannot hurt.   What doesn’t hurt doesn’t make you Exist, or their other idea, that earth Mingles Caesar and commoner alike. It’s a strange comfort to be told Your time preparing to arrive   Is what death is – so we come From death; then birth is stealing From the dead world? This is not What I want to go on about In this prattling meandering form   In which I choose to materialise Before you, which is what poems are, A way to teleport back and forth – In time and space, the zoom call Of their day. All early arts are replaced   Eventually by a better way to sing Happy birthday or choose a hot date, O...

Cathy’s Clown   ‘I die each night I hear this sound / here he comes that’s Cathy’s clown’   As the Anglican communion withers on the vine, After centuries of Brexit-like post-papal decline, Britain finds its new age built on a looser soil,   Belief brittle, online, feckless and vainly personal, As if the idea of a higher being was a crass magic That the Francis Crick ‘team’ had finally licked   With an ace crackerjack vaccine that mainly works When it infuriates the French, Germans and Turks… What other church is overseen by a former oil exec   Who admits to often being a bit depressed, atheistic? It’s difficult running a side-split faith organisation Derived from a randy king’s desire for penetration   In multiple ways not approved of by the testaments – Only in England could ‘bells and smells’ be meant In the best possible way, could priests be somewhat gay,   Yet told not to sleep together, in direct c...

  ON BEING KINGS OF LEON   Here’s what no one says: It’s hard to be a man these days; Probably harder not to be, To be some other identity, But that’s their story, and good luck To them, but if we’re about saying Truths, then this is one, just the same: When I was born I was slapped With a father’s name, But no fathering came to me. At least none I could see. The car I could have driven Remained locked; the golf course I might have mastered with a steadying Grip is wintering under ignorance. I barely know how to drink. Watching the new Kings of Leon Video, shot to look resonant of An age when black and white imagery Was meaningful, it is hurtful To sense how little these four white Men have left, apparently more sober now, About their business with a parental sense Something else is more valuable Than backstage rotgut and upfront groupies. Maybe. I see men sweating, ageing, growing beards And bellies, the look of the lock...