The Highwayman

One of my favourite poems is 'The Highwayman' by Alfred Noyes. In the version I have, the illustrations are by Charles Keeping whose work I also admire. The combination is electric.

Here I have the opening illustration and the first verse for you to muse upon:

'The Highwayman'

The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding-
Riding-riding-
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

Alfred Noyes

Sunday Snippet

Georges Braque 'Clarinet and Bottle of Rum on a Mantlepiece'

The Erasers by Alain Robbe-Grillet

Alain Robbe-Grillet's novel, The Erasers (Los Gommes) was published in 1953.
It resembles a detective novel, but has a deeper structure within, based on Oedipus.
The detective in the novel is searching for the assassin in a murder that has not yet occurred. The discovery he makes is that he is destined to become that assassin.

Descriptions, methodical, geometric and repetitive reveal the psychological make up and the inner depths of the character. The reader is challenged to discover the character.

Time lines and the plot are fractured as in a cubist painting, so it can be seen as the literary equivalent and, as with such a painting, can mean different things to different people.

I read his work when I was around twenty years old. I was reading Virginia Woolf at the time and it seemed to me that they achieved similar ends using entirely different literary structures; protraying the person within the character.

Should I say … discuss??? Well, I should welcome your comments, if you have read both authors or not. For myself, I think that shall read both again to see whether or not hold the same view.

Sky Watch Friday

..... and this one is the moon with whispy clouds passing and a star off to the top right of its beams ... last night.




It is not so much an obsession with the moon, but that it is so clear as there are no street lights to detract from its beauty.

Wordless Wednesday

Tuesday Taster

Michael (Blue Cabin blog) asked about the author Alain Robbe-Grillet. Well here is the opening paragraph of his novel 'The Erasers':

'In the dimness of the café, the manager is arranging tables and chairs, the ashtrays, the siphons of soda water; it is six in the morning.'

More of Alain Robbe-Grillet (mentioned in my guest post on The Oliva Reader blog) in a later post.

I welcome your thoughts on this opening.

Sunday Snippet

I have always loved this poem, which is from an anthology 'Golden Apples' (chosen by Fiona Waters); one that I have read from to children over the years. It is written by a ten year old boy. I have tried to find him on Facebook to say that I am posting his poem, but he is elusive. Obviously, he is a man, now. If I find him, I shall let you know.

In the meantime, enjoy his poem:

Moon Bat

Once I held a bat, its small helpless
body quivering in my hand.
Its silver grey body like moonlight
shining on ancient web.
Its small shiny eyes had a look
of fear as it stared intently at
me.
I was filled with delight as moon-
light shone through the veil-like
membrane of its wings.
As I lifted my hand to the starry
night, its frail wings lifted it up to
the moon.

Sebastian Mays

As I hold his poem in my mind, I feel that I, too, am holding this precious creature in my hand.

This Saturday my guest post 'Chapters in My life' is on The Oliva Reader (see blog list) ... if anyone wants to read it.

Sky Watch Friday

I leave you this photograph to take you into the weekend ... and my apologies that I have had little time to comment, this week. I shall catch up on your posts.
In the meantime, I would ask you to look at my guest post on Spangle's (The Oliva Reader) blog series 'Chapters in My Life' which appears on a Saturday.

Tuesday Taster

..... because I love old words, old stories. This is from a book 'Legends of the Borders' (those between England and Scotland) by Wendy Wood.

Enjoy!

'Because the evening sky was stormy behind the Border hills, the lone traveller was relieved to hear the sound of pipes, and, rounding a corner, was able to join the piper who was going home with his cow. The stranger soon made it clear that he would be glad of shelter for the night.
"Aweel, ye're welcome tae sic fare as mysel' and my wife can offer," said the piper, seeing by his companion's attire that there was no need to apologise for their humble home.'