Spanish
(non)Government: There are hints the left-of-centre parties –
doubtless Communists to USA voters – are getting their act
together, so avoiding another general election for us in June. I say us but,
of course, we foreign, tax-paying residents aren't allowed to
participate in these. Revoultions have begun for less.
La Crisis: The suicide
rate in Spain has risen 20% since the start of this. It now accounts
for twice as many deaths as road accidents. Though this reflects the impressively dramatic decline in the latter over the last 15 years.
The PP Party: This
right-of-centre party is currently the interim government but is
expected to lose power shortly, leading to the (very belated) replacement of
its uninspiring leader, Marian Rajoy. His successor was widely
expected to be his fellow Gallego, Alberto Feijoo. But the latter has
received an offer of a million euros a year to head up the
Ortega[Zara] foundation. A real dilemma, then . . .
RT TV: There's a huge
international conference taking place today on terrorism. Russia is
boycotting it. Was this mentioned on Moscow's propaganda channel this
morning? Well, you know the answer to that. But there was a load of
anti-American news to enjoy instead. As ever. Ironically, they had a long interview with a French ex-Prime Minister on the terrorism threat faced by the EU.
And now . . . From Threat to a Treat: Two love poems. The first, one by John Donne from the early
17th century, described by Andrew Marr as possibly the greatest poem
about love-making ever written. The second, a rather more modern
avowal of love from a woman to her beau. HT to the lovely Lucy for the latter. Not sure her husband - the equally lovely David - knows about her citation . . .
TO HIS MISTRESS GOING
TO BED: John Donne (1572-1631)
Off with that girdle,
like heaven's zone glistening.
But a far fairer world
encompassing.
Unpin that spangled
breastplate which you wear
That the eyes of busy
fools may be stopped there.
Unlace yourself, for
that harmonious chime
Tells me from you that
now it is bed time.
Off with that heavy
basque, which I envy,
That still can be, and
still can stand so high.
Your gown, going off,
such beauteous state reveals,
As well from flowery
meads th' hill's shadow steals.
Off with that wiry
coronet and show
The hairy diadem which
on you does grow:
Now, off with those
shoes, and then safely tread
In this love's hallowed
temple, this soft bed.
In such white robes,
heaven's angels used to be
Received by men; thou,
Angel, brings with thee
A heaven like Mahomet's
Paradise; and though
Ill spirits walk in
white, we easily know
By this these angels
from an evil sprite:
Those set our hairs,
but these our flesh upright.
License my roving
hands, and let them go
Before, behind,
between, above, below.
Oh, my America! My
new-found land,
My kingdom, safest by
one man manned,
My mine of precious
stones, my empery,
How blessed I am in
this discovering of thee!
To enter in this bonds
is to be free:
Then where my hand is
set, my seal shall be.
Full nakedness! All
joys are due to thee,
As souls unbodied,
bodies unclothed must be
To taste whole joys . . .
To taste whole joys . . .
BRIDLED VOWS by Ian
Duhig (1954-)
I will be faithful to
you, I do vow.
But not until the seas
have all run dry
et cetera. Although I
mean it now
I'm not a prophet and I
will not lie.
To be your perfect
wife, I could not swear;
I'll love, yes: honour
(maybe); won't obey
but will cooperate if
you will care
as much as you are
seeming to today.
I'll do my best to be
your better half
but I don't have the
patience of a saint
and at you, not with
you, I'll sometimes laugh,
and snap too, though
I'll try to show restraint.
We might work out. No
blame if we do not.
With all my heart I
think it's worth a shot.
Finally . . . My
Garden: Every year there seems to be a new weed which colonises this.
The latest is this bugger, which grows quickly but is easy to yank
out of the ground.
Anyone know its
name(s)?
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