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Showing posts with label W. H. Auden. Show all posts
Showing posts with label W. H. Auden. Show all posts

Saturday, August 16, 2014

Night Mail

1937 advertisement for the L. M. S.

How the Royal Mail was delivered from London to Scotland on the L. M. S. is shown in this fascinating 1936 documentary, with poem by W. H. Auden and score by Benjamin Britten.  Classy.  And what an amazing amount of work those postal fellas did.



1935 system map of the L. M. S.


Wednesday, June 22, 2011

Note, Returned


My goal is to always come from a place of love . . . but sometimes you just have to break it down for a motherfucker.

--RuPaul

I was going to use that as the epigraph of a little essay on the faults and flaws of the modern world, and of LGBT people in particular. Being oppressed does not make you virtuous, ipso facto. There's a difference.

Oh but . . . skip it. Human beings have been repeatedly told, ad nauseam - and better yet, shown - how to live, from Socrates down to Mother Teresa.

But who really cares? Before you answer: circumspice.


ENVOI

For poetry makes nothing happen: it survives
In the valley of its making where executives
Would never want to tamper, flows on south
From ranches of isolation and the busy griefs,
Raw towns that we believe and die in; it survives,
A way of happening, a mouth.


--Auden
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