It is a whirlwind in here



The Ghost Ships Of The Old Year Sail Past On New Year’s Eve

here needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

There needs no ghost, my lord, come from the grave
To tell us this.

I’ve been reading my Shakespeare(As I often do)

Aloud, to Paw, my cat/kitten

Black as the grave,

With one white mitten.

He usually sleeps.

But he would agree with Horatio, that:

“There needs no ghost, my Lord/

“Come from the grave, to tell us this.”

And Paw, as is Horatio, would be right.

But still, the wrecks of ships,

Gone down to their watery depths

In the preceding year,

Float in a line

Stern to bow

Across the mouth of the harbour.

I go out, and always watch

In the dark dark dark of the night,

As one year of wretched release

Slides into another.

What can I do for them,

Other than to acknowledge

Their passage.

I’m The Lighthouse Poet Laureate of Partridge Island /1821 – 2022 / A lot of stuff have I seen / A lot of stuff to report}


Franz Kafka Ponders On New Year’s Eve

In Kafka In The Castle, I fill in the ‘missing’ diary entries from Kafka’s real diary. He either did not fill in these days himself, or he destroyed them. There are some estimates that Kafka destroyed 70% – 80% of everything he wrote. 


31 December 1916

The festivities down in the city are certainly subdued, which makes me one with the coming of the year. There were a few shots fired into the air – which is a mockery, considering what is happening in the world. And some dismal fireworks.

Max wanted me at his party, but even he saw little point in celebration, and his entreaties were totally for form.

I understand form quite well – most of my life consists of doing the expected.

Mouthing the proper words.

My letters to Felice have turned to such vehicles of propriety.

In such a way do all our days, and then our lives, acquire the necessary postmarks.

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