The Bard of Tysoe: silence

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Showing posts with label silence. Show all posts

Saturday, 2 January 2021

And pay no worship to the garish sun…

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before the dawn with thanks… to Barbara Aves (13 March 1936 to 21 December 2020) the daws drive dark before the dawn; gather for the fi...

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...

Saturday, 31 August 2019

Let it die as it was born…

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I didn’t even have time to focus my binoculars. The shock slammed them hard against my surprised spectacles: anomalous barriers carving the ...

4 comments:

Monday, 9 January 2017

Swift as a shadow, short as any dream…

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It was the moment first-light shape-shifted – imperceptibly transmuting from astronomical to nautical dawn – and, although my vision had...

1 comment:

Wednesday, 5 October 2016

When; and the art of existential transience…

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For a relatively short time, I sobbed my heart out. But then, being the undoubtedly strange creature that I am – and, yet residing on it...

Wednesday, 27 July 2016

Q is for Quietude…

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Note… This post was written for – and originally published as part of – The Cross‑Eyed Pianist ’s A Pianist’s Alphabet series on 18 Jul...

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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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