Ever dreamt of becoming a falconer? What would it be like to have such a beautiful creature land on your arm? I'm not quite ready for a two year apprenticeship with an already licensed falconer so I will observe from afar. The thought reminded me of one of my favorite poems that really has nothing to do with falconering but references it.
Meanwhile my thoughts are with the families of the tornado victims and on the lovely little man who recently escaped his mother's tummy over here. The convergence of these two events is an extraordinariy overlap of dichotic elements.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)
The lovely little man is glad you are back to blogging.
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