The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

by Omar Khayyam

1048-1131

trans. by Edward Fitzgerald 1859

I.
Awake! for Morning in the Bowl of Night
Has flung the Stone that puts the Stars to flight:
And Lo! the Hunter of the East has caught
The Sultan's Turret in a Noose of Light.

II.
Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky
I heard a voice within the Tavern cry,
'Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup
Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.'

III.
And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before
The Tavern shouted - 'Open then the Door!
You know how little while we have to stay,
And, once departed, may return no more.'

IV.
Now the New Year reviving old Desires,
The thoughtful Soul to Solitude retires,
Where the White Hand of Moses on the Bough
Puts out, and Jesus from the Ground suspires.

V.
Iram indeed is gone with all its Rose,
And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no-one Knows;
But still the Vine her ancient ruby yields,
And still a Garden by the Water blows.

VI.
And David's Lips are lock't; but in divine
High piping Pehlevi, with 'Wine! Wine! Wine!
Red Wine! - the Nightingale cries to the Rose
That yellow Cheek of hers to incardine.

VII.
Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring
The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:
The Bird of Time has but a little way
To fly - and Lo! the Bird is on the Wing.

VIII.
Whether at Naishapur or Babylon,
Whether the Cup with sweet or bitter run,
The Wine of Life keeps oozing drop by drop,
The Leaves of Life keep falling one by one.

IX.
Morning a thousand Roses brings, you say;
Yes, but where leaves the Rose of Yesterday?
And this first summer month that brings the Rose
Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobad away.

X.
But come with old Khayyam, and leave the Lot
Of Kaikobad and Kaikhosru forgot:
Let Rustum lay about him as he will,
Or Hatim Tai cry Supper - heed them not.

XI.
With me along the strip of Herbage strown
That just divides the desert from the sown,
Where name of Slave and Sultan is forgot -
And peace is Mahmud on his Golden Throne!

XII.
A Book of Verses underneath the Bough,
A Jug of Wine, a Loaf of Bread, - and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness -
Oh, Wilderness were Paradise now!

XIII.
Some for the Glories of This World; and some
Sigh for the Prophet's Paradise to come;
Ah, take the Cash, and let the Promise go,
Nor heed the rumble of a distant Drum!

XIV.
Were it not Folly, Spider-like to spin
The Thread of present Life away to win -
What? for ourselves, who know not if we shall
Breathe out the very Breath we now breathe in!

XV.
Look to the Rose that blows about us - 'Lo,
Laughing,' she says, 'into the World I blow: 
At once the silken of my Purse
Tear, and its Treasure in the Garden throw.'

XVI.
The Worldly Hope men set their hearts upon
Turns Ashes - or it prospers; and anon,
Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty Face
Lighting a little Hour or two is gone.

XVII.
And those who husband the Golden Grain,
And those who flung it to the Winds like Rain,
Alike to no such aureate Earth are turn'd
As, buried once, Men want dug up again.

XVIII.
Think, in this batter'd Caravanserai
Whose Doorways are alternate Night and Day,
How Sultan after Sultan with his Pomp
Abode his Hour or two and went his way.

XIX.
They say the Lion and the Lizard keep
The Courts where Jamshyd gloried and drank deep:
And Bahram, that great Hunter - the Wild Ass
Stamps o'er his Head, but cannot break his Sleep.

XX.
I sometime think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled;
That every Hyacinth  the Garden wears
Dropt in its Lap from some once lovely head.

Never mind the boots – these feet were made for walking

I have said before that my musical tastes are eclectic – they range from Donovan to Debussy and Beautiful South to Beethoven.

Claude Debussy

In my teens I enjoyed the hits of the day and believe the 60s was one of the best decades ever for young people. It did not stop me also enjoying the sounds of Glenn Miller and that jazz wonder woman Billie Holiday.

Billie Holiday

One particular musical style that had me hooked in the 60s was country music, also known as country and western and not to be confused with folk music.

The “outlaw country” sound also had an appeal with so much of it based on travelling while longing for home; and on those born under a Wand’ring Star; or those who have the hankering to roam but never quite get round to doing anything about.

Outlaw country was rooted in blues and rockabilly music, and earned the “outlaw” tag with songs about the bad boys (and girls) who roamed the west, always one step ahead of the law.

It was said to have originated in the 1970s but that was just when they stuck a label on it.

Willie Nelson was an exponent of it in the 60s but at that time was better known for his songwriting than his singing.

Johnny Cash – Man in Black

Johnny Cash was the “Man in Black” and he was singing about prisons and lonesome cowboys in the 50s and 60s (even though, despite his reputation, he never spent more than one night in prison).

Both of them (along with Kris Kristofferson) joined up with Waylon Jennings (the man who gave up his seat on the flight which ended with the death of Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper) as The Highwaymen.

You may wonder where all this is leading – a discussion on country v classic or jazz v folk? No, this is taking me back to 1972 when I decided I needed a change after the best part of two decades in Rhyl.

My feet were starting to itch and I wanted to leave the nest and make my own way in the world.

In all those years I had never been more than ten days away from home at any one time. Only twice had I even been out of the country and, apart from Sunday trips to vist family in Liverpool, rarely even left Wales.

It was not that I didn’t enjoy working with my journalistic colleagues; or did not have a great social life; and I certainly loved my family.

I just needed to have a look on the other side of the fence.

The point is when I get an idea in my head I don’t just think of a small change – I think big.

Which is why not long after my 22nd birthday I was reading up on South Africa.

In fact not just reading (this was long before the worldwide web) but also writing off to the South African embassy for information and copies of their newspapers.

A 1970s South Africa advertising poster

South Africa was not chosen on a whim – two of my Liverpool cousins had gone to live out there and seemed to be getting on fine.

I studied the newspapers for style but also for the advertisements to get an idea of living costs out there.

Rather than saying I would get the equivalent of £XXX out there I checked out the prices of foodstuffs and general household products to work out how many hours or part thereof you would have to work to buy, for instance, a loaf of bread.

After all it is not much point in saying the pay is three times what you earn here if bread was four times the price of the UK equivalent.

After a month of research I had decided that it was worth taking a punt on emigration and I wrote to the embassy asking how I should go about applying for a job on a newspaper.

The fact that my politics leaned to the left and South Africa was a borderline fascist apartheid state did not seem like a problem. After all journalists knew how to out personal feelings aside when presenting a fair and unbiased report.

Oh boy was I naive.

It took over four weeks for the embassy to reply.

The letter was quite long and initially seemed quite positive until I realised the sender was couching the response in diplomatic language.

The reality of 1972 apartheid South Africa

What it amounted to was:

NO CHANCE.

In hindsight it was a lucky escape.

I decided to put this rejection behind me and rein in the distance I might be prepared to travel for a new job.

I found the UK Press Gazette (launched in the year I stated my first job in journalism) offered a decent range of jobs in the UK for young journalists seeking a job.

PS before the 70s were over both my cousins had moved to Auatralia.

NEXT TIME: My first real job interview.

The Travelling Post Office

by Banjo Paterson

1864-1941
The roving breezes come and go, the reed-beds sweep and sway,
The sleepy river murmers low, and loiters on its way,
It is the land of lots o' time along the Castlereagh.

The old man's son had left the farm, he found it full and slow,
He drifted to the great North-west, where all the rovers go,
"He's gone so long," the old man said, "he's dropped right out of mind
But if you'd write a line to him I'd take it very kind;
He's shearing here and fencing there, a kind of waif and stray -
He's driving now with Conroy's wheel along the Castlereagh.

"The sheep are travelling for the grass, and travelling very slow;
They may be at Mundaroon now or past the Overflow,
Or tramping down the black-soil flats across by Waddiwong;
But all those little country towns would send the letter wrong.
The mailman, if he's extra tired, would pass them in his sleep;
It's safest to address the note to 'Care of Conroy's sheep',
For five and twenty thousand head can scarcely go astray,
You write to 'Care of Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh',"

By rock and ridge and riverside the western mail has gone
Across the great Blue Mountain Range to take the letter on.
A moment on the topmost grade, while open fire-doors glare,
She pauses like a living thing to breathe the mountain air,
Then launches down the other side across the plains away
To bear that note to "Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh,"

And now by coach and mail man's bag it goes from town to town,
And Conroy's Gap and Conroy's Creek have marked it "Further down."
Beneath a sky of deepest blue, where never cloud abides,
A speck upon the waste of plain the lonely mail-man rides.
Where fierce hot winds have set the pine and myall boughs asweep.
He hails the shearers passing by for news of Conroy's sheep.
By big lagoons where wildfowl play and crested pigeons flock,
By camp-fires where the drivers ride around their restless stock,
And pass the teamster toiling down to fetch the wool away
My letter chases Conroy's sheep along the Castlereagh.

Ten years between tasty tipples

I don’t drink much alcohol these days, not that I was an inveterate boozer getting plastered every night even in my heyday.

I do know I never drank just for the sake of drinking, or to keep up with the crowd.

I also did not drink just anything on the basis that it was alcoholic.

I have never been a fan of gin, rum or whiskey but offer me a good vodka (not an oily one please) and I will be your friend for life.

Over the years I developed a taste for good wine, especially good red wine.

Maybe my taste for an ordinary white was spoiled for me by my introduction to it.

I was about 11, it was either while I was still at primary school or just after I started at the grammar school.

Dad’s brother sent him a special bottle of wine from a case of six, given to him by his father-in-law, as a Christmas present. It was a sweet white and therefore seemed appropriate as a pudding wine for Christmas Day.

I can still remember that first sip, it was sweet and fruity but still had a crisp aftertaste.

The wine was a pre-war Chateau d’Yquem and it was to be a decade before I would taste such sweet nectar again.

In between I tried beer (not really my scene); lager (much better than flat, warm beer); Chianti, Sauternes, Blue Nun; even Mateus Rosé.

Then towards the end of ’71 my editor, Brian Barratt, asked if I’d like to take his place on a press trip to London.

British Rail (as it was then) and Grand Metropolitan Hotels had got together to offer three-day package trips to London, staying at top quality hotels and dining out at some of the finest restaurants.

I didn’t have to think twice.

I joined the group at Rhyl and other journalists from North Wales were already on board – in a first class carriage of course.

Including our host and some partners, there were about 15 of us all together.

Our guide on this trip (a “freebie” as it was classed in journalistic jargon) told us that this was the last press trip of his financial year – it was September – and he had to spend the last of his budget otherwise it would be reduced the following year.

I think he knew a gang of journalists would ensure every penny was spent.

At this time Grand Met was a large company with a number of fine hotels and restaurants in London including the Mayfair Hotel (which was to feature in my life a few years later).

The Mayfair was our base and after leaving our luggage at the hotel we were whisked off to a restaurant in Half Moon Street where we dined and drank to our hearts’ content.

To show that this was a “working trip” and not just a “jolly for journos” we spent the afternoon being shown the workings of two of the hotels with visits behind the scenes including the kitchens and laundries.

That evening it was time for another big dining session, this time at an upmarket “Beachcomber Bar”.

After all the meals had been ordered our PR host asked four of us to pick out a wine and he would then order it.

I was no wine expert but I was one of those asked.

Two others both chose red wines of which he ordered three of each (most had professed a liking for red), another choice was a decent white and then I spotted it on the last – that magic name:

CHATEUA D’YQUEM.

I didn’t look at the price or check the year – if they bottle it with the Chateau label then it is a good vintage*.

Our host still just glanced at the list and ordered two of the other white and two d’Yquem.

Although it is a sweet wine I kidded myself that you really needed a white with gammon (I had ordered steak at the previous meal so had chosen grilled gammon this time round.

I think I polished off one bottle of the exceptional wine myself, a couple of others had also professed an interest. Most were on red, however, and our host ordered at least another six bottles to satisfy them.

The evening was rounded off with coffee and liqueurs.

To my mind it was the best evening of our stay and surprisingly the majority of the group were down for a hearty breakfast the next day.

Day two involved a tour of London sights with a professional guide, including a drop-off for a hearty lunch, and a roistering good evening at another GMH premises.

The last day was a morning questioning some of the team behind the London trip plans followed by a slap-up lunch at the Mayfair Hotel restaurant.

Most of the party had a good post-lunch nap on the train home, although some of us were still up to afternoon tea in the first-class dining car.

That trip remains etched in my mind half a century later and I have never tasted a better white wine since, which is why I concentrated on good reds after that.

*Any chateau-bottled Chateau d’Yquem is considered to be a good vintage.

Exceptional vintage years are labelled as such.

If a crop does not meet the high standards of the Chateau it is bottled under a different label as a table wine.

If you ever find out about one of these anonymous vintages then snap it up because a Chateau d’Yquem “reject” is still way ahead of most other labels.

Broken Love

by William Blake

(1757-1827)
My Spectre around me night and day
Like a wild beast guards my way;
My Emanation far within
Weeps incessantly for my sin.

'A fathomless and boundless deep,
There we wander, there we weep;
On the hungry craving wind
My Spectre follows thee behind.

'He scents thy footsteps in the snow
Wheresoever thou dost go,
Thro' the wintry hail and rain.
When wilt thou return again?

'Dost thou not in pride and scorn
Fill with tempest all my morn,
And with jealousies and fears
Fill my pleasant nights with tears?

'Seven of my sweet loves thy knife
Has bereavèd of their life.
Their marble tombs I built with tears,
And with cold and shuddering fears.

'Seven more loves weep night and day
Round the tombs where my loves lay,
And seven more loves attend each night
Around my couch with torches bright.

'And seven more loves in my bed
Crown with wine my mournful head,
Pitying and forgiving all
Thy transgressions great and small.

'When wilt thou return and view
My loves, and them to life renew?
When wilt thou return and live?
When wilt thou pity as I forgive?'

'O'er my sins thou sit and moan:
Hast thou no sins of thy own?
O'er my sins thou sit and weep,
And lull thy own sins fast asleep.

'What transgressions I commit
Are for thy transgressions fit.
They thy harlots, thou their slave;
And my bed becomes their grave.

'Never, never, I return:
Still for victory I burn.
Living, thee alone I'll have;
And when dead I'll be thy grave.

'Thro' the Heaven and Earth and Hell
Thou shalt never, quell:
I will fly and thou pursue:
Night and morn the flight renew.'

'Poor, pale, pitiable form
That I follow in a storm;
Iron tears and groans of lead
Bind around my aching head.

'Till I turn from Female love
And root up the Infernal Grove,
I shall never worthy be
To step into Eternity.

'And, to end thy cruel mocks,
Annihilate thee on the rocks,
And another form create
To be subservient to my fate.

'Let us agree to give up love,
And root up the Infernal Grove;
Then shall we return and see
The worlds of happy Eternity.

'And throughout all Eternity
I forgive you, you forgive me.
As our dear Redeemer said:
"This the Wine, and this the Bread."'

Frolics and firkins at farming fete

Being a journalist does not always mean being constantly on the lookout for hard news stories (although the best reporters have a subconscious awareness for news even when they’re not looking for it).

There are times when you can relax, such as an evening at the theatre.

There are also annual events, and for weekly newspaper reporters one of the best is an agricultural show.

I was reminded today, by my former mentor and colleague Elwyn Edwards, of the annual Flint and Denbigh show held just outside Rhyl at Cwybr Farm.

This one day event, usually held in August, had everything from displays of farming equipment, including tractors, hay balers etc., to livestock ranging from rabbits to mighty shire horses.

For the journos, however, the focal point for the day was not, as some might think, the beer tent but instead the press tent.

That is not to say that the press tent was devoid of alcohol – the odd firkin and a few crates of beer were generally tucked under the trestle tables where the portable typewriters were ready from early morning to late afternoon ready for the reporters to bash out their copy all day long.

The junior in the team often had to go and collect results from the competitions: best bull; fluffiest bunny; prize porkers; biggest marrow; tastiest sponge cake; and lambs frolicking in their pens.

The seniors would take an occasional stroll to garner any major stories, and to visit some of the corporate displays where they were often treated to a dram of whiskey or a gin sling.

Press tent at the Flint and Denbigh (possibly 60s). From the left: Bob Hewitt, photographer; Pat Durkin(?) reporter; Bill Prandle, sports editor; Brian Barratt, editor Rhyl Journal; extreme right Glyn Robert, one of the best press photographers I have known; and, finally, Elwyn Edwards, probably one of the earliest photo bombers, here doing an impression of a disembodied head, a great chief reporter.

By mid-afternoon the journalists’ copy often needed double-, even triple-checking as the alcoholic haze spread through the press tent.

At the end of the day the farmers and show organisers were delighted with the newspaper reports of the shows, the competions and the pages of prize winners with photos as well as stories.

Agricultural shows were a grand day out and a good way to fill the pages for our group’s papers which spread across North Wales.

The Supply Teacher

by Allan Ahlberg

b. 1938
Here's the rule for what to do
If ever your teacher has the flu
Or for some other reason takes to her bed
And a different teacher comes instead

When the visiting teacher hangs up her hat
Writes the date on the board, does this or that
Always remember, you have to say this,
OUR teacher never does that, Miss!

When you want to change places or wander about
Or feel like getting the guinea pig out
Never forget, the message is this,
OUR teacher always let's us, Miss!

Then, when your teacher returns next day
And complains about the paint or clay
Remember these words, you just say this:
That OTHER teacher told us to, Miss!

These feet were made for walking

Looking back over the last 50 years I see 1971 as a turning point in my life.

Not just because I celebrated my 21st birthday (although by now 21 was no longer a magic number as in 1970 we were granted the right to vote at 18) or that I had ended my indentures and having passed my NCTJ exams was now a fully accredited senior reporter.

This was the year I stopped seeing Rhyl as the place where I would spend the rest of my life, marry, settle down and maybe, eventually, become editor of MY newspaper.

I was not so arrogant as to believe that overnight I had become a fully-fledged ace reporter just because I had passed an exam and completed a set number of years working for one company.

I still had a lot to learn and was glad that I had worked with so many excellent journalists over the previous six years.

The trouble is I wanted more.

Ever since journalism became a “respectable” career (it has now turned full circle and journalists have once more become pariahs) the main ambition of any journalist was seen to be reaching “Fleet Street”.

In my youth this was a physical place where national newspapers had their main offices and sent their reporters out to far flung corners of the country or the world to gather the news.

Reporters would become specialists: political reporters; crime reporters; royal reporters; fashion reporters etc. etc.

That was not my ambition.

I wanted to be a good, all round reporter and then work my way up to become a good sub and then a good editor.

For this I needed experience of a wider field than I would find in Rhyl.

I was covering more important stories now I had graduated but I missed the opportunity to watch the process once I had handed my copy in and it went off to the head office in Oswestry.

Looking back, and over 50 years some memories do become fuzzy, I began to feel that my stories should have become tighter but newspapers were still changing from being “papers of record” to being papers that offered an insight into every aspect of life.

Like many young reporters testing their mettle I did feel that my copy did not always get treated in the way it deserved.

There were times when I felt my copy was being hacked to fill a space and others when I felt that it had been allowed to run when I should have kept it tighter myself.

I needed to get out in the world and find new experiences and learn from new “teachers”.

My feet were getting itchy.

I just didn’t realise how far those restless feet would take me.

Echidna or egg?

In your mind which came first?

The Echidna

or

The eggs

I am sure we all have a view whether it is based on science, or religion or just your own bloody-mindedness.

Personally I couldn’t care less.

What is more important is which of these came first for you?

The book?

or

the film?

I know that in this case the book obviously came first and Charles Dickens did not get the inspiration for The Tale of Two Cities from the film starring Dirk Bogarde, released in 1958. At least not unless he was a time traveller, and we all know that was Wells not Dickens.

What I am talking about is the order of your introduction to various pieces of literature. Did you read the book first or did you see the film/TV series and then decide to read the book.

When I was younger I often read a book and then later decided to go and see a film version. At the same time it was possible to see a TV series and then to read the book it was based on as well as others by that author.

Sometimes I have read a book and decided it was so good that any film about it would be just as delightful – only to be really disappointed.

Then again I have seen a film or TV series only to find the book.it was based on was so banal that the screen version had really just taken the title and the names of the main characters.

As a child I devoured books and also loved to watch drama series on TV based on books. Sunday afternoon, teatime at our house coincided with the children’s drama series, often Dickens but also from books by people I had never heard of.

I can certainly recall David Copperfield, Children of the New Forest (with Warren Mitchell as Oliver Cromwell), The Count of Monte Cristo and many more.

After Dumas’ Monte Cristo was aired I found another of his books on the bookshelf in the hall – The Three Musketeers, and this was followed by its neighbour Twenty Years After.

Over the years I discovered other books from TV or film and films or TV series I have watched and then read the books.

In the main there will be differences (for better or worse) but not often does one equal the other.

That is until we began to watch the wonderful Italian TV series (subtitled) Inspector Montalbano based on the books by Andrea Camilleri.

Luca Zingaretti as Salvatore Montalbano

This was originally broadcast on BBC Four and we used to find odd episodes being shown again.

Its quirky nature saw the hero, based in a Sicilian coastal town, was not just a detective procedural programme, it also dealt with his longterm and long distance partnership with Livia, who lives somewhere halfway up mainland Italy.

The characters are well-crafted (including a comic policeman who mangles the Italian language) and their personal lives are also portrayed.

We found it so good that we tracked down all episodes on BBC iplayer and watched them in order.

The one thing that niggled, although it wasn’t serious enough to detract greatly from our enjoyment, was the way the narrative sometimes jumped leaving inexplicable gaps.

I decided I enjoyed it so much that I would have a look at the first book in the series.

As it happened the first book was not the same as the first episode. The TV team had started at the third book, The Snack Thief, and later went back to the first book, The Shape of Water.

The first in the Montalbano series

When I started that book I was immediately drawn in to the little world of Salvatore Montalbano.

I soon realised why there appeared to be gaps in the narrative.

Andrea Camilleri is a talented writer and fortunately the translator has presented an English version which does credit.

The missing sections in the TV series were filled in by Camilleri’s narrative in which he presents Montalbano’s thoughts.

What is clear is that, in the main, the TV series does present the writing of Montalbano’s creator in the way in which it was intended.

It certainly conveys the great pleasure the inspector takes in his food, especially sea food and rich desserts.

I finished that first book within 24 hours of its arrival and have since read The Terracotta Dog (second in the book series but fourth on the tv) and am now reading The Snack Thief.

Surprisingly I can immerse myself in the books and enjoy the case without thinking ahead to what I have seen.

We may have finished the TV series but there is a spinoff of six episodes about Young Montalbano which we have started watching and more than 20 books to go.

Have you read a book and then seen a film or TV series or watched a film or TV series and then read the book?

Which did you prefer?