All that is gold does not glitter is a poem by J.R.R. Tolkien from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. When a friend shared it on Facebook, it immediately reminded me of this picture of prince Thorin, working in the forges of men after his people have lost Erebor to the dragon Smaug.
I know the poem is really about Aragorn (written by Bilbo Baggins if I remember correctly), but I think it also perfectly illustrates Thorin's quest to reclaim his home and his crown.
Though they sink through the sea they shall
rise again;
Though lovers be lost love shall not;
And death shall have no dominion.”
(From: And death shall have no dominion by
Dylan Thomas)
If you know
me, you know that I’m not easily impressed. I tolerate a lot of things, I’m
open-minded about changes and new ideas and I always give people the benefit of
the doubt, but once you’ve lost my regard (or my attention, or even my respect),
it’s incredibly hard to get it back.
Imagine
this: My sister and I are at our third Chris Isaak concert. This man’s concerts
are some of the very best live experiences I’ve ever had, apart from *Live* and
maybe Metallica (yes, my taste in music is very diverse). So we usually don’t
really pay attention during the opening act. We simply want whoever it is to
keep it short, stop trying to be funny (nobody’s interested in your jokes, get
over it!), sing a couple of songs while we wait and please do take our polite
applause as an encouragement – for you to get off stage as soon as possible.
On walks
some guy with a guitar… “Hello, my name is Paul Freeman, I’m Welsh.”
Well, the
Chris Isaak concert was brilliant. We had so much fun, there are no words that
would do it the justice that it deserves. The man, the music, the band… even
the silly dance moves – I loved every second of it!
So, I wake
up the day after this brilliant concert and I’m still feeling great about this
wonderful night. I’m singing in the shower and while I’m having breakfast it
suddenly dawns on me: I’m not singing a Chris Isaak song! The song that’s been
in my head all morning is called Tightrope
and it’s by Paul Freeman…
“There's no way back if I let go
You’re where I’ll land
So here I go
Cause I just want to live
And I just wanna feel it”
(From: Tightrope by Paul Freeman)
Yes, I enjoyed
his five-song mini concert, and so did the rest of the crowd, judging from the
louder-than-average applause after, and the attentive silence during the songs.
But only the morning after do I realise exactly how much of an impression this
man has made. I HAVE to know more!
I am
absolutely certain that I had never even heard his name until about 2 weeks
ago. And now, I just want him to come back to Belgium and play for me again – I
feel as if I didn’t pay enough attention the first time and I’d like to
experience it again to see if he can impress me a second time.
So what is
it about Paul Freeman that made him able to wipe away a wonderful Chris Isaak
concert and make his way into my subconscious? His boyish good looks and
radiant smile? Although he definitely has those, it’s the music that impressed
me.
“It's easier to compromise when everything has
gone
And it's hard to make amends when all the
damages are done
And to everyone I've ever hurt, I'm sorry
But I was wrong”
(From: That’s how it is by Paul Freeman)
When I got
a chance to meet Paul after the concert, he was just as sweet and genuine as he
seemed to be on stage and he’s as intelligent as his lyrics. He won my undying
respect a few days later when I found out that he likes Dylan Thomas. Thomas
was known to be a great admirer of William Blake which almost makes us kindred
spirits. (Hey, can you believe I just found a link between Paul Freeman and
Richard Armitage? I knew there was a reason I liked this man!)
Right back at you, Paul!!
Another
thing that caught my attention is the way Paul sings his songs. Every time he
started playing, it was as if he went into a world of his own. There was such dedication
and joy in the way he performed; it makes me smile to even think about it. But
don’t take my word for it, here’s the proof. This is Paul’s performance of
Tightrope at the concert that I attended in Brussels.
It’s that joy that woke the room up and Paul
managed to grab the attention of people who would usually just see him as the
reason why the main act of the evening wasn’t there yet. By the third song, he’d
won them over. When he finally walked off the stage, I felt a sense of loss…and
the applause continued longer than I have ever seen it last for an unknown
opening act.
So Paul,
when exactly are you coming back to sing for me?
I'm currently listening to PRELUDES by T.S. Eliot,
as read by Richard Armitage for Symphony of the City on BBC Radio 3 in 2010.
Even though I studied English at university and had to analyse many aspects of English and American literature and culture, I was never really interested in poetry. This poem, however, speaks to me in a way that very few texts ever have. I keep going back to it and love to listen to these beautiful words while I walk to the train station after a long day at work, or on a cold and dark winter morning when the city is still half asleep. Beautiful words, yes, read by a beautiful voice, but not a beautiful subject. And it’s exactly that contradiction between the sad and soulless city and the beauty of the description that continues to fascinate me.
John Thornton (Richard Armitage) walks the dingy streets of Milton in the BBC's adaptation of Elizabeth Gaskell's North & South
I don’t want to go into a detailed analysis of the poem, but here’s a short description of my own interpretation:
T.S. Eliot wrote the four sections of his Preludes between 1909 and 1911. It describes the degradation and sadness of modern city life.
The first section describes an evening, a rainy day coming to an end with more rain on empty streets.
The second section describes a cold morning. The city wakes up, but the smell of the drunken night before is still in the air. People flock to coffee stands and put their ‘work face’ on, hoping that that will give them the strength to survive another hard day.
In the third section, a woman is lying in bed, thinking about her sorry excuse for a life and the cold world that she has to live in. It seems like she’s not quite ready yet to get out of bed and start the day.
Section four is really the most depressing of all. The hollow, dirty city gets trampled by insistent feet of people who want to get home as soon as possible. They are isolated as they hide behind their newspapers and they only care about financial gain (‘certain certainties’). They want to rule the world, but they don’t care about the person next to them. Although they might think that the world revolves around them, it really doesn’t and life goes on as it always has. People remain nameless, depressed, isolated and soulless.
The morale of the story: Life goes on, so make the most of it!
Depressing, right? Not really, and that’s the genius of T.S. Eliot!
You can listen to Richard Armitage’s reading of T.S; Eliot’s Preludes here:
I The winter evening settles down
With smell of steaks in passageways.
Six o'clock.
The burnt-out ends of smoky days.
And now a gusty shower wraps
The grimy scraps
Of withered leaves about your feet
And newspapers from vacant lots;
The showers beat
On broken blinds and chimney-pots,
And at the corner of the street
A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps.
And then the lighting of the lamps.
II The morning comes to consciousness
Of faint stale smells of beer
From the sawdust-trampled street
With all its muddy feet that press
To early coffee-stands.
With the other masquerades
That time resumes,
One thinks of all the hands
That are raising dingy shades
In a thousand furnished rooms.
III You tossed a blanket from the bed,
You lay upon your back, and waited;
You dozed, and watched the night revealing
The thousand sordid images
Of which your soul was constituted;
They flickered against the ceiling.
And when all the world came back
And the light crept up between the shutters,
And you heard the sparrows in the gutters,
You had such a vision of the street
As the street hardly understands;
Sitting along the bed's edge, where
You curled the papers from your hair,
Or clasped the yellow soles of feet
In the palms of both soiled hands.
IV His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o'clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
