This is not really one of those blogs. It was supposed to be about the epic poem that I want to pass on to my boy, a place to post the verses as they occur and to slowly refine them until they become something of which he can be proud. Or, at least, less embarrassed by. It was never really supposed to become a place for me to talk or write about things. I have enough avenues for that kind of thing already.
Would you like to know more?
There came then the first of the line, Auld James son of the Sutton Mother,
A lover of men and a gainer of knowledge and wealth.
Well-worn and lived was he when known to the last before thee,
Wrinkled and wizened like a warrior poet of old but marked by the nature of his cause.
Musicals as much a part of this man's heritage as his love of classics
Of Greece and wrestling, heat and dust, learning and extravagance;
A captain missing only his crew, a politician missing his party.
Equally, though, the act of creating such a thing is, and should be, intensely personal. If my son is to come into this as an inheritance and not some kind of showy thing that his father passes on to him for the sake of passing something on then it must resonate. The poem must have me within its bounds so that he is able to continue and add his own parts. To write in his life for the next and so on through the generations. Personal enough that it is still me, his father, that writes to him but showy enough that it does not become hopelessly mired in my own musings.
Stephen was his name and there was no man prettier in the United Kingdom as he,
His father's name hed carried and carries still, before the letters of his profession and calling,
As much as his father's passions and marks upon his visage.
A weltenschauung of business and pragmatism beyond the romance of his youth,
A stature as tall in public as short he is in private with keen wit and sharp words in equal measure.
A guide, a blaze on the bark of the woods of life like those followed by Owain of old,
But also a warning that to gain the world one must lose a soul.
Therefore this blog must also serve as a repository of all things inbetween. It must serve a function that was not envisaged when I began it and so it must not be shared. I have no idea if any of these posts will be read, I fancy that if they are they will not be revisited, there is something about my style that is off-putting, it is thick and intense. The poor poetry probably doesn't help. And so I intend to change the nature and character of the posts, but not today.