34th EDITION SERF UNDER_GROUND JOURNAL

THE FOUR SEASONS.

Part 2.




Summer time and the livin’ is easy…


Thought for the season by The Bard:

‘Oh how shall Summer’s breaths hold one
Against the willful siege of battering days.’


Sonnet 65.










This is Just to Say. William Carlos Williams.


‘I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold’








Sydney Harbour on a Summer’s Day.


Light glancing off the water below
the bridge, overhead a sky of endless
blue – what is it about blue that merges
mind and eye in a hazy journey into
infinity? Here’s ‘sublime’ without fierceness
of storms, the peaceful heavenliness of
Sydney Harbour on a summer’s day.
Sublime combines with the familiar,
a colourful ferry with revelers churns
its way towards the north shore, white
wake furrowing irreverently the sea’s blue
opacity, yachts skittering like gulls, houses
crowding the harbour, eager for a glimpse of
heaven – Sydney Harbour on a summer’s day.




Sydney-Seaplane-Harbour-Flight-728x5011






















Moby Dick. Herman Melville


In ‘Moby Dick,’ in the chapter entitled ‘The Mast-Head,’ Herman Melville describes the experience of the young look-out at the mast-head, immersed in transcendentalist reveries occasioned by that ‘mystic ocean’ beneath him:

‘Lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is the absent-minded youth by the blending cadences of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep blue bottomless soul pervading mankind and nature; and every half-seen beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly discovered, uprising fin of some indiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it …

There is no life in thee, now, except that rocking life imparted by a gently rolling ship, by her, borrowed from the sea; by the sea, from the inscrutable tides of God. But while this sleep, this dream is on ye, move your foot or hand an inch; slip your hand at all: and your identity comes back in horror. Over Descartian vortices you hover. And perhaps at mid-day in the fairest weather, with one half-throttled shriek you drop through the transparent air into the summer sea, no more to rise forever.’








From the sublime to … the holiday rituals of Monsieur Hulot..











To Robert Frost, the last word regarding seductive summer.






The Silken Tent. Robert Frost.


‘She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when a sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys’ it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound

By countless silken ties of love and though
To everything on Earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taught
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.’

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