Gwyn Thomas and his poetry
Mrs G, The Boy, and I spent the evening on Saturday at a lovely surprise celebration for one of our closest friends, my school music teacher. It was the perfect evening. A gaggle of sparky, well behaved but grinningly rumbustious kids completed the next generation, with The Boy more than holding his own in deliciously subversive playing. Stars winked and candles flickered as we shivered gently in the most British of ways, as gentlemen divested jackets to the shoulders of loved ladies. We now parents forgot our thirties, mortgages and experience of sliding down the razor blade of life. Once again were sixth-formers, but enjoying in our conversation the new, closer yet more mature relationship based on our memories and their pride that you only get with former teachers. Looking around, it was striking that their legacy passes on. Each of us, former pupils all, now teaches another generation of musicians, whether in a classroom, a rehearsal hall, or in an instrumental lesson. That’s unbeatable. It was a night of lovely atmosphere, great hospitality, fun …
Words from the fabulous Edgar Guest for fathers everywhere
As I type this, I’m in what my iPhone tells me is an “ambitious, multi-artform cultural space…that presents and produces international art, performance and film alongside a dynamic social space.” I’d say it’s an arts centre with a caff. I expect this is why I’m probably more of a communicator than a poet
They don’t write them like this any more
America’s finest poet on the little boy from heaven
“Your email inbox is a list of things that you’re behind on, sorted in the wrong order.”
He is risen. You bet.
Birthday preparations make me consider the best strapline in the world
The Boy is asleep, and an evening stretches ahead with nothing but good bourbon whiskey, a view of the light fading over the mountain, and a lively selection of books. Even if an analytic dissection of the performance of the White House press corps isn’t your average vacation paperback, it’s a super holiday for the brain. Night, all. I’m now officially unavailable for comment.
I’ve found a vital tome of oratorical advice from 1923
The Wood Man cometh, bringing a fun family weekend (and a ton of logs)
One man mourns the demise of his wonderfully unreliable British classic
The great metaphysical question, information age style.
Open air, newspapers, dressed down khakis, family, sunglasses, a cigar. We may not have his money or style, but we can still enjoy our weekend his way.
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