How is it that time can pass at so many different rates? When good things pass quickly and dull slowly we are vexed and frustrated at this apparent reversal of what should be; our life passes by seemingly independently of us. Can we endeavour to engage that ‘life’, or are we fated to always be on a holiday from ourselves?
‘Few things are as exciting as the idea of travelling somewhere else. But the reality of travel seldom matches our daydreams. The tragi-comic disappointments are well-known: the disorientation, the mid-afternoon despair, the lethargy before ancient ruins. And yet the reasons behind such disappointments are rarely explored.’ The problem with holidays, is that we cannot help but take ourselves with us. After Alain de Botton
In light of the passing of April without due regard, and as a plea by which I beseech your pardon, the offering below attempts to acknowledge this worthy month:
Ode to April
Oft fourth since Roman second,
Julius returned mislaid day of Numa,
Eostur-monath’s dawn shimmering,
Perchance Bede’s deus ex machina.
Reign of Aphrodite, but that of Venus too,
Their kingdom love and lust and beauty,
But also human impulse and affection,
Between human Greek and Roman deity.
Jealous Aphrodite;
Fickle, culpable, vain,
Sea born of severed limb,
That which cast her domain.
Once more the sea: Poseidon,
Comes forth beside Aphrodite,
Who assuaged Hephaistos of his wrath,
Ungrateful, to incest born Adonis sprightly.
In Troy dwelt tempting herdsman,
From both low and upon high,
Divine smith shepherd cuckolded,
Left Rome’s grandfather, destitute of sight.
Caused Trojan ruin with vanity,
Did jealous Aphrodite;
For the divine shepherd’s favour,
This Paris deigned fecund beauty.
All done this worthy month of April:
Ambrosial tales of deities bare’ survived
And dark aged tales of dawn, leaves
These three realms of ours much demised.
