The Bard of Tysoe: coronavirus

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— Mark Peter Beeson
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Showing posts with label coronavirus. Show all posts

Thursday, 10 December 2020

A long December…

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It may be down to the fact that I’m listening to – no: immersed in – Counting Crows a lot , at the moment (a very extended moment that ha...

Thursday, 12 November 2020

The weight of this sad time we must obey…

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I watch, and am become like a sparrow That is alone upon the house-top. – Psalm 102:7 It may have happened a million times. Or it...

Tuesday, 21 April 2020

Lockdown diary #4:
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

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Where the bee sucks, there suck I: In a cowslip’s bell I lie; There I couch when owls do cry. On the bat’s back I do fly After summer...

Friday, 3 April 2020

Lockdown diary #3:
You are never parted in the beating of your heart…

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As is so often the case, the body was in virtually flawless condition: the only clue as to its demise the dull eye (ordinarily… extra -ord...

Tuesday, 31 March 2020

Lockdown diary #2:
Spare your arithmetic, never count the turns…

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And then – suddenly; startlingly ; steadfastly… – it is Sunday . The chilling, seemingly fixed north-north-easterly – ferrying in yet one...

Tuesday, 24 March 2020

Lockdown diary #1:
By St Mary’s churchyard, I sat down and wept…

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Why, this is hell, nor am I out of it. Think’st thou that I, who saw the face of God And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not torm...

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EVERYTHING YOU WANTED TO KNOW ABOUT THE BARD BUT WERE AFRAID TO ASK:

The Bard of Tysoe: Copeland, Cumbria, United Kingdom; Originally an amateur musician… — yet having worked in IT and marketing communication for a quarter of a century — both as manager and consultant; as well as writing for the Guardian… — the Bard retired for medical reasons; and now devotes his life to keeping as healthy as possible by putting one foot in front of another (badly, but semi-frequently); watching the world, with all its vagaries, go by (in great puzzlement); capturing what he sees (in words and pictures); and trying to leave a trail of happiness in his wake. What matters most to him are beauty, truth, cats, and fairness — in whatever myriad forms they occur — and he despises inequality, greed, fascists, and hate. His favourite occupation is thinking; and he was (therefore) — for a handful of years — the Orchestra of the Swan’s ‘writer in reticence’. You are now, though, most likely to encounter him staring into space, with a thoughtful grin beneath his wonted hat and dark glasses, walking stick in hand, somewhere in the quieter parts of the Northern, North Western, and Western Fells of Lakeland. (He resembles nothing so much as a badly-dressed Herdwick.)

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Pages…

A long December…

The weight of this sad time we must obey…

Lockdown diary #4: My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Lockdown diary #3: You are never parted in the beating of your heart…

Lockdown diary #2: Spare your arithmetic, never count the turns…

Lockdown diary #1: By St Mary’s churchyard, I sat down and wept…

Lockdown diary #4:
My words fly up, my thoughts remain below…

Lockdown diary #3:
You are never parted in the beating of your heart…

Lockdown diary #2:
Spare your arithmetic, never count the turns…

Lockdown diary #1:
By St Mary’s churchyard, I sat down and wept…