Two Thousand Twenty-Six

William Hogarth, Gin Lane (1751). "Drunk for a penny. Dead drunk for tuppence."

And must no egg in Japhet's face be thrown,

Because the deed he forg’d was not my own?

Must never Patriot then declaim at Gin,

Unless, good man! he has been fairly in?

—Alexander Pope, One Thousand Seven Hundred and Thirty-Eight. A Dialogue Something Like Horace, 2.189–92

In what age would you choose to live, if not in this?

Consider only anno Domini 1738,

Which Mr. Pope thought not all that great.

Its dentists, clearly, you’d best give a miss!

Its priests, insisting on the Real Presence

In flour paste and plonk kept down the peasants,

Or if they contrariwise called it allegorical,

Screwed them nonetheless—it’s all historical.

And speak not of the old-time ruling class

Who, when not murdering, acted out a farce!

We now dilute our gin with orange juice or tonic;

Our views of Incarnation have become ironic.

Although our leaders seem too fond of war,

They're mostly fonder yet of what's called jaw-jaw.

All hail, then, anno Two Thousand Twenty-Six,

Albeit Japhet’s eggy mug adorns the mix.

Thursday 12 February 2026

Wintry Mix

Hercules wrestles with the giant Antaeus, the son of Earth, Gaia. Late Archaic Attic red figure krater signed Euphronios, ca. 515–505 B.C.E. Musée du Louvre, Paris.

Let each new hero come

Seeking the golden apples and Atlas.

—Seamus Heaney, "Antaeus" (1966)

I shall not like famous Seamus

Revive Antaeus, the giant

Who drew strength from Mother Gaia.

His elevation was his Fall.

Earth still retains Her power, true—

But not for him, O foolish you,

Who've thrown a pretty world away

And on a wintry evening stew.

Our plans and policies betray

The Atlas of our ignorance—

And willed stupidity enhance.

Believing what we think, we prance

Along this seeming golden way.

You will, won't you, save me the dance?

Wednesday, February 4, 2026

The Slip Leash

The sunken "ha-ha" security wall at the Washington Monument in Washington, DC.

Small days go by in their unwanted vests,

Each towing a person on a long slip leash,

Sufficing for a quick tour d'horizon.

I watch them through the window from my bed,

Beyond the frozen ha-ha of the world outside.

Soon enough, though, the novelty's gone.

I'll rise in a bit—it's time for wolves to leap,

And perhaps for lazy watchers to be led,

Instead of sprawling there in bed asleep.

I plug the fast charger into my phone—

Not that I've the slightest plan to roam!

Sufficient unto itself, the view's enough,

And any news is mostly, after all, just bluff.

(That should be “small dogs,” naturally!

Good thing you spotted it! But does it matter?

The difference fits the stuff, you see.)

Saturday, January 31, 2026