An uphill journey

What I've been up to

We may have found a house. Or rather, we have found a house, but whether we get to live there is down to the whims of the credit check fairy. Nevertheless, we live in hope. I suspect the next fortnight at least will involve a lot of motorway travel and helping the movers, but at least it means I get to put the beautiful word "pantechnicon" to more use.

Gentle reader Timothy Hunt suggests that Yantantessera the cat gains her powers of disappearing by passing through the fourth dimension, in the manner of A Wrinkle in Time, and that her name is short for Yan Tan Tessera_ct_. I have no reason to suspect this to be false. I also note that "tesseract" is an anagram of "reset cat", which surely can't be coincidence.

I have been making a page of stories on my website; each story is both read aloud and written down. At present there are two there, both by Saki; I'll add some of my own, and other people's, later. The next to be added will be Saki's The Stalled Ox , at the request of gentle reader Louise Etheridge; other suggestions of stories unencumbered by copyright are welcome.

If you didn't hear Kathryn Rose's choral setting of my poem I walked in darkness earlier, do listen to it now. It 's very beautiful.

A poem

Pittsburgh is a rather hilly town. I wrote this one while standing in a small park halfway up a steep hill overlooking the city centre, as night began to fall. You can hear me reading it if you like.

Pittsburgh is a rather hilly town. I wrote this one while standing in a small park halfway up a steep hill overlooking the city centre, as night began to fall. You can hear me reading it if you like.

PITTSBURGH by Marnanel Thurman

This moment, I am God upon this town.
I compass every window spread below:
each pinprick point in total looking down
a pattern only overseers know.
I feel the human flow and ebb each minute
perceiving both with every passing breath;
each lighted room has home and hoping in it,
each darkening a sleeping, or a death.
And nothing, nothing makes it wait to darken;
had I the power it should be shining still.
Some other one you have to hope will hearken,
some other on some yet more lofty hill—
whom priests and people plead to, not to be
as powerless to hold these lights as me.

A picture


Human: "What are you doing in my underwear drawer?"
Raptor: "Looking for thermals."

Something wonderful

The ambition of Edmund Clerihew Bentley was to get a first at Oxford. When he didn't manage to do so, he devoted his energies instead to an attempt to get his middle name into the dictionary. He invented a verse form named the "clerihew", and published a collection of them, Biography for Beginners, which was enough of a success that he achieved his lexicographical aim. That book helpfully begins:

The art of Biography
Is different from Geography.
Geography is about maps,
But Biography is about chaps.

The clerihew has four lines, rhymed aabb; it generally begins with the name of its subject, and it is in roughly conversational metre. Another of Bentley's examples which shows their usual surreality:

I do not extenuate Bunyan's
Intemperate use of onions,
But if I knew a wicked ogress
I would lend her "The Pilgrim's Progress."

Since then, many others have been written: here are some to be going on with. Feel free to send in your own compositions. And let me know: if you decided to get your name into the dictionary, what would you invent?

Another poem

UP-HILL by Christina Rossetti

Does the road wind up-hill all the way? — Yes, to the very end.
Will the day's journey take the whole long day?
— From morn to night, my friend.

But is there for the night a resting-place?
— A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
— You cannot miss that inn.

Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
— Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
— They will not keep you standing at that door.

Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
— Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
— Yea, beds for all who come.

In Chesterton's phrase, the decent inn of death.