Lampposts, ropes and crows

1.) Can you imagine anyone in any country giving her / his signature to any contract concerning anyone's treatment who abused children (or committed any other crime) that would cost UK£290,000?

2) Can anyone explain why (even) I do sometimes see lampposts, ropes and crows?

Plaidoyer pour l'art

Three years earlier born than Maurice Ravel, on March 7th, 1872 his fate was to become a painter: Piet Mondrian.

Do I (particularly) 'love' this kind of art?

No.

Why would I mention him then?

To attract your attention to an impressive post by A Doubtful Egg.

He's written a wonderful plaidoyer pour l'art.

Take your time. You'll regret rien. :)

Praise of a 'mad man'

"I only composed one master work, that is the Bolero; unfortunately, there is no music in it", Maurice Ravel once remarked with regard to what is said to have been his master work.

In so far, it had been not consequential if, after the first performance a lady whose name remained unknown cried: "Oh God, a mad man!", the composer had not said she was the only one to understand him, hm?

Well, anyway.

If I told what the Bolero achieves to conjure up whenever I happen to hear its first tone there'd certainly more than one (wo)man understand :) me.

That's why I won't tell.

Instead, I restrict myself to write: Happy birthday, 'mad man'!

And here's ... the Bolero. Enjoy!



... can't get enough? Longing for the finale furioso? :)
Here's Part II:

David and Sam

As it's still St. David's Day and I happen to think of another David I thought I should share what recently warmed my heart with those who did not already watch what I'll just call The Story of David and Sam.





H/t Colin Campbell and Freeborn John.

And did you see this at Ardent's?

Personal note

Ladies, gentlemen, friends,

it's not that I'd not answer your comments. Google does not let me!

Neither I can comment on my own blog nor on many others.

Slightly strange. Hope this will end soon.

With burning patience,

Yours,

Sean

Dafydd ap Gwilym XVI

It's St. David's Day again.

May the Welsh enjoy celebrating their Saint.

Omnium is celebrating their Poet.

Voilà.

It's a pity for me that the girl whose praises I am always singing, and who holds her court in the wood, does not know of the conversation I had about her with the gray friar today.

I went to the friar to confess my sins. I admitted to him that I have been without any doubt an idolatrous poet since I have always loved and adored a certain lovely girl with dark eyebrows, "And", I told him, "I have never had a single favour from my murdress, nor has my lady ever allowed me a moment of happiness: in spite of this I love her continually and am wasted with pining for my darling. I carry her praise through the whole land of Wales, and in spite of this I live without her, though I long to hear her in my bed between me and the wall."

The brother spoke this to me: "I will give you good advice: if you have loved this foamwhite girl (merely the colour of paper) forso long, it is time now to think of lessening your punishment on that dreadful day which comes to all of us, for all this is of no benefit to your soul. Cease from making rhymes and accustom yourself instead to saying your prayers, for God did not redeem the souls of men that they might make rhymes and elegiacs, and your minstrels' songs are nothing but flattery and idle bawling. This praise of the body is not good, and leads the soul to the devil."

Then I answered each word that the friar had spoken.

"God is not so cruel as old men tell us: nor will God cut off the gentle soul of a man for loving a woman or a girl. Three things are loved by the whole world.: women, fine weather, and good health, and girls are the fairest flowers in heaven next to God himself. Every man of all peoples is born of woman save these three: Adam, Eve, Melchizedek, and so it is not surprising that man loves girls and women. Gladness falls from Heaven, all misery comes from Hell.
Song makes glad old and young, sick and healthy, and I have an equal right to make poems as you have to pray, I have the same right to sing for my bread as you beg for it. Are not hymns and sequences but other kinds of odes and elegiacs? And are not the psalms of David poems to the good God?

God does not feed man with one food and one relish, he gives him time to eat and a time to worship, a time to pray and a time to make poems. Song springs up at every feast to give pleasure to the ladies, paters are said in church to seek the land of Paradise. Yscuthach drinking with his poets spoke the truth:
'A happy face, his house is full
A sad face, evil and bitterness.'

Though some love holiness, others love being glad together, and there are few men who can make a sweet verse though everyone can say a prayer. And so, my holy brother, I do not think that singing is the greatest sin. When men are as ready to hear paters as the harp, as ready as the girls of Gwynedd are to hear gay songs, then my right hand I'll say paters all day and for ever without ceasing. Till then shame on Dafydd if he sings paters instead of poems!"