Poet's Corner

It's four in the morning and I've been awake since 1:30. Guess ye olde jet lag has settled in. Whatever it is, I'm awake and thinking about Poet's Corner at Westminster Abbey in London. I love standing in the midst of the great minds of old authors hoping some of their ghosts will pass their genius along to me.

The most famous monument is to William Shakespeare and wasn't erected ujtil 124 years after his death. He's buried in Holy Trinity Church, Stratford-upon-Avon. When the Abbey began burying famous folks, it was suggested his body be reburied there. But his epitaph made it clear his bones should not be disturbed:
"Good friend, for Jesus' sake, forbear
to dig the dust enclosed here!
Blest be the man that spares these stones
and curst be he that moves my bones."
So they built a statue instead. It shows him pointing with his left hand to a version of Prospero's lines from the Tempest:
"The Cloud capt Tow'rs
The Goreoous Palaces
The Solemn Temples,
The Great Globe itself,
Yea all which it Inherit, Shall Dissolve,
And like the baseless Fabrick of a Vision
Leave not a wreck behind."
(I'm not sure what all that means but Willie must have thought it was good.)

Many of the masters are buried beneath the Abbey floor, their names and dates engraved in the stone. Some have statues, like Wordsworth, and only the front of a bust like William Blake, which looks rather Halloweenish if you ask me. Jane Austen is one of seven women writers honored and she has only a small plaque that was installed in 1967.

Shelley and Keats are commenorated together. Shelley was initially refused because of his atheism but in 1945 he was linked to Keats by a marble swag. Lord Byron was excluded because of his scandalous lifestyle, but in 1969 he was given a floor stone.

Charles Dickens is the most visited. A floor stone covers his grave. The Bronte sisters have a wall memorial that states their names, dates of birth and death and below it is carved, "With courage to endure." Robert Browning is buried in the Abbey but his wife, Elizabeth Barrett is buried in Italy. John Milton waited 60 years before he was honored with a memorial bust that states simply, "Milton."

Chaucer, the father of English poetry, rates an altar sarcophagus; Christopher Marlowe, a memorial window in 2002. Handel, Laurence Olivier, Kipling. Names we all know and many more.

Being a writer, I decided I'd try my hand at a sonnet (written on the plane coming home.)

Good-bye, Britain
To your land of poets, palaces and queens,
To monarchs' fits of fancy, beheading, bedding and debauchery,
To glittering crown jewels and oppulant coaches that obscure the masses from your sight.
They've served you well and birthed our Eagle's Nest.
Thank you, Pilgrims, visionaries and Lovers of Liberty,
Pursurers of God's own plan.
Freedom has become our song, and bound by loyalty we wish not be released.
For holiday we visit you.
For living we come home.

Think I'll ever get a marble slab in the Abbey?

No Place Like Home

It is so good to be home!

After 20 hours of being awake and flying from London to here, we slept 10 hours last night and have spent the morning unpacking, doing laundry, picking up mail and all the "normal" life activities. I'm sure I won't be flying across the Atlantic (or the Pacific) ever again. But the trip was good, and we did enjoy being with a son, daughter-in-law and two grandkids.

We arrived in London on Friday and had planned a trip to Paris on the EuroStar, which goes through the chunnel between England and France. Our taxi driver told us there had been a fire in the chunnel a few days before and the chunnel was closed. We were thankful we weren't on the train when that happened! As it turned out, they re-opened the chunnel for the Paris trip on Monday. However, it was the last day tours were going to be able to go through it. I didn't make the trip since I didn't sleep one wink the night before. I spent Monday alone sleeping, watching TV, reading, walking around the neighborhood, sitting at Starbuck's and people-watching. I didn't mind missing the trip since I'd been there before.

We heard that Ike had hit Galveston and the Gulf Coast where I used to live. From what we have heard from those we know who live in that area, the devastation was horrific. It's difficult receiving news from the States when in London. Their papers report a little and the BBC reports a little. (We didn't mind not hearing about the campaign.)The bank failings were widely reported. It seemed their reporting was without bias--like it should be here.

Sunday morning we attended Westminister Abbey's 10:00 service. That was a new experience. The Abbey is so beautiful and used to be wonderful to tour, but in order to keep the homeless and drunks out, they have changed all of it. Lots of barriers. It isn't the same. I spent most of my time in the Poet's Corner, which I'll write more about later. It can't be toured on Sunday but we had done it Saturday.

Every day was a blog event, and I'll be writing some about it. Right now, all I can say is that there's truly no place like home!