Tag Archives: romanticism

Poem of the Week #10: Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage (Byron)

My departure draws near, and it is time for Byron, for three reasons. One, he was a great European traveller. Two, he is venerated as a national hero in Greece (my final destination). And three, because I wish to be more Byronic in my own life. This essentially means that I want to be eccentric and characterful in conversation, brilliant and prolific in my writing, and to sleep with everyone. This does not seem like too much to ask.

from Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage

The waters heave around me, and on high
the winds lift up their voices. I depart
Whither I know not, but the hour’s gone by
When Albion’s lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.

Once more upon the waters, yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider – welcome to their roar!
Swift be their guidance, wheresoe’er it lead!
Though the strained mast should quiver as a reed
And the rent canvas fluttering strew the gale,
Still must I on – for I am as a weed
Flung from the rock on ocean’s foam, to sail
Where’er the surge may sweep, the tempest’s breath prevail.


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Poem of the Week #9: Ozymandias (Shelley)

Since I am currently sofa surfing, I am shorn of all my poetry books. So rather than tracking down something more obscure, I’m going to plump for possibly my favourite poem of all time – Ozymandias by Percy Shelly. Plus, I watched Watchmen on Monday, which makes this poem somewhat more timely…


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shatter’d visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamp’d on these lifeless things,
The hand that mock’d them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains: round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.


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Poem of the Week #8: London (William Blake)

I’m going to be leaving London soon for almost a year – maybe even longer depending on how things go. I think that I’ll come back. There are plenty of things to love about London; the people, the places, the arts, the opportunities. But it can be an alienating and lonely city, especially if you are uncertain of your place in the world – no one put this better than William Blake, in ‘London’…

London (William Blake)

I wandered through each chartered street,
Near where the chartered Thames does flow,
A mark in every face I meet,
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.

In every cry of every man,
In every infant’s cry of fear,
In every voice, in every ban,
The mind-forged manacles I hear:

How the chimney-sweeper’s cry
Every blackening church appals,
And the hapless soldier’s sigh
Runs in blood down palace-walls.

But most, through midnight streets I hear
How the youthful harlot’s curse
Blasts the new-born infant’s tear,
And blights with plagues the marriage-hearse.

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Things I Like #3: Lofty Peaks


Mountains call to us. They whisper promises of grandeur to the egotist, visions and inspiration to the artist, scenes of great beauty to the naturalist, geological wonders to the scientist. They don’t speak to everyone, but I think it is a rare person who can stand at the foot of a mountain and not have some kind of desire to be at the top of it, touching the clouds and surveying the landscape that rolls, infinite, before you.

It wasn’t always so – until the Romantics and natural philosophers began waxing lyrical about the wonders of mountains in the 17th century, Europeans regarded them as abhorrent, ugly things, rocky warts on the natural landscape that it would be foolish to climb. The Sherpa and Bhutanese, who have lived in and around the Himalaya for centuries, believe that gods live atop the high peaks and see no reason why any right thinking person should want to go up them. They view the desire to reach a summit as a mixture of insanity and blasphemy.

A love of mountains (and a desire to be on top of them) is something that we have learnt, not something we are born with.  In some way that it is impossible to understand, the love and lust for mountains is a reflection of our modern Western society. We have evolved into a society of summit hunters.

It is insane in many ways – hundreds of people lose their lives climbing mountains each year, and for what? And yet when I see a great mountainside like the North Face of the Eiger, I want to climb it.


It has killed so many, and there is no logical reason why I should want to get to the top, yet as I look at that forbidding wall of rock I am already trying to map a path up to the top. Something in it calls to me.

Perhaps this desire comes from simple territorialism – the desire to be king of the castle, the master of all we survey. Perhaps we have become a bored, soft race of people who have to create our own dangers artificially, by hurling ourselves at inaccessible peaks. Perhaps it is pure ego, the longing to achieve where others have failed or are too scared to attempt. Perhaps it is an expression of the self-destructive urge, the death drive that compels people to risk their lives for no good reason.

This love of the mountains may well be part founded on these less pleasant emotions, but there is something else to it as well – the truth lies beyond mere egotism or a desire for self-destruction. There’s something hidden up there in the mountains, up there where the air is thin. Not on the mountains themselves, but in the human mind.

Strange things happen to people at altitude. Sometimes terrible things – retinas torn loose, brain cells asphixiating for want of oxygen, lungs filled with blood, hands frozen black. But beautiful things as well; clarity, humility, peace, joy, an absence of the self, a connection with the natural world and the present moment.

The fascination of mountaineering is that it is a journey in the world of the spirit translated to the physical. Spiritual hardship is substituted for physical danger, moral hazard for the cracking ice, loose rocks and sudden storms that are the common threats on the mountains.

To climb a mountain, no matter whether it is Welsh peak in Snowdonia or a eight-thousander in the Himalaya, is in some way to wager one’s life on a pilgrimage of sorts, to accept discomfort, pain, and the chance of death in return for the psychological reward at the top. The spiritual journey of a philosophical discourse or crisis of religion made into tangible sensation. Mountains are not places human beings are supposed to be – alien, high and dangerous. To make a summit and come down again is to journey to some forbidden corner of the soul and come back alive.

No matter how hard I try, I doubt if I could express these these thoughts with the same clarity (and brevity!) as the famous Russian climber Anatoli Boukreev, so I’ll leave you with his wonderfully poetic justification for the madness of mountaineering.

“Mountains are not stadiums where I satisfy my ambition to achieve, they are the cathedrals where I practice my religion…I go to them as humans go to worship. From their lofty summits I view my past, dream of the future and, with an unusual acuity, am allowed to experience the present moment…my vision cleared, my strength renewed. In the mountains I celebrate creation. On each journey I am reborn.”



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Poem of the Week #6: The Rock of Cader Idris (Felicia Dorothea Hemans)

I was in the shadow of Cader Idris last weekend, so this poem is only appropriate…

The Rock of Cader Idris (Felicia Dorothea Hemans)

[It is an old tradition of the Welsh bards, that on the summit of the mountain Cader Idris is an excavation resembling a couch; and that whoever should pass a night in that hollow, would be found in the morning either dead, in a state of frenzy, or endowed with the highest poetical inspiration.]

I lay on that rock where the storms have their dwelling,
The birthplace of phantoms, the home of the cloud;
Around it for ever deep music is swelling,
The voice of the mountain-wind, solemn and loud.
‘Twas a midnight of shadows all fitfully streaming,
Of wild waves and breezes, that mingled their moan;
Of dim shrouded stars, as from gulfs faintly gleaming;
And I met the dread gloom of its grandeur alone.

I lay there in silence–a spirit came o’er me;
Man’s tongue hath no language to speak what I saw:
Things glorious, unearthly, pass’d floating before me,
And my heart almost fainted with rapture and awe.
I view’d the dread beings around us that hover,
Though veil’d by the mists of mortality’s breath;
And I call’d upon darkness the vision to cover,
For a strife was within me of madness and death.

I saw them–the powers of the wind and the ocean,
The rush of whose pinion bears onward the storms;
Like the sweep of the white-rolling wave was their motion,
I felt their dim presence,–but knew not their forms !
I saw them–the mighty of ages departed–
The dead were around me that night on the hill:
From their eyes, as they pass’d, a cold radiance they darted,–
There was light on my soul, but my heart’s blood was chill.

I saw what man looks on, and dies–but my spirit
Was strong, and triumphantly lived through that hour;
And, as from the grave, I awoke to inherit
A flame all immortal, a voice, and a power !
Day burst on that rock with the purple cloud crested,
And high Cader Idris rejoiced in the sun;–
But O ! what new glory all nature invested,
When the sense which gives soul to her beauty was won !

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