The Seventh Age, sans eyes sans teeth, sans everything
In the literary marathon I set myself, there has to be a moment when the bell is rung and one re-enters the stadium. The Seventh Age is that moment. From
The Sixth Age of Man
The Sixth Age shifts into the lean and slippered pantaloon, with spectacles on nose and pouch on side. His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide for his shrunk
âAnd then the justice, In fair round belly, with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut.â
Shakespeareâs fifth age We left the journey through the Seven Ages of Man in July, anticipating the guns of August which heralded the start of the First World War. Dutifully
Adlestrop and the guns of August â Shakespeareâs fourth age: The Soldier
In this article, we must journey back in time, just over 100 years. We are in the long hot summer of 1914 and the outbreak of the First World War
⊠and then the lover, sighing like furnace
There is a particular pleasure in matching a painting, or drawing, to the relevant age described in Jaquesâ speech. This time it is exceptional. Jean-Antoine Watteau was 31 when in
The Seven Ages of Man ⊠The Schoolboy
Shakespeareâs schoolboy, circa 1600, âwith his satchel. And shining morning face, creeping like snail. Unwillingly to schoolâ; William Blakeâs schoolboy, 1758, âbut to go to school on a summer morn,
The Seven Ages of Man: âThe infant, mewling and puking in the nurseâs armsâ
It was almost a year ago now that I wrote the first article âMirror, Mirrorâ on the magnificent poem of Stephen Spender âThe Truly Greatâ, reflecting on those doctors and
The Journey of the Magi by T.S. Eliot â an Epiphany
Everyone has a favourite Christmas carol. Mine, safely tucked in after âWhile Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Nightâ and before âThe Holly and the Ivyâ, is âWe Three Kings of
One must have a mind of winter
How can one address this, writing about winter and cold and snow in poems whilst the temperature is still mild outside here in the Algarve. I thought we would take
The sounds of autumn
In writing this series of articles during lockdown, I have come to understand the pure companionship of poetry. Poems one has loved and known through a lifetime are trusted friends