Work Without Hope

The title line and poem composed by Samuel Taylor Coleridge on the 21st February, 1827, yes admittedly give or take twelve days, seems appropriate. 'Work Without Hope', for so many faces that carry the burden of the 'now' life as opposed to Coleridge's 'then', and further, that bear the weight and welt of the 'mind for'gd manacles' of Blake's London, today exist in folds. Centuries later, what 'state' of hope are we in? In a history repeating itself feeling...what's new? Be at liberty to play with the terminology as you wish, I tend to sense drawing from observation, that things are not good. Smiles now seem few, regardless of context/backdrop in a temperature, as of late, to match the ice-cold stark faces that I see through window panes of coffee houses, bars, and even the 'happy' park which is NOT a derivative of a happy 'M' experience. Thank goodness, (and whoever coined that phrase?), that the wagging dogs whose rubber balls, now with trendy long saliva free handles, are blissfully unaware.






On this particular occasion I tried to seek comfort in a glimpse, or ambitiously two, of sunshine that slid and teased in and out of a looming grey mass. Still I walked on, flaneurian style in the park, ever the idealist in hope that there was more than this mood so scarily and all too often reflected in eyes that searched for mine. Trust Coleridge, (more word play if you like), to reflect something else rather prophetic...






'All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-


The bees are stirring-birds on the wing-


And Winter slumbering in the open air,


Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!


And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,


Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.






...and as the closing lines of the poem read...






'Work without hope draws nectar in a sieve,


And hope without an object cannot live'.






Coleridge's 'Hope without'... I draw not merely from the masses seen but also had witnessed in the eyes of those close to me. Clearly unable to 'see' hope (oxymoron?), to suffer this space of abject object, downtrodden and detached from smiles and dreams is all too Blake/ black. Stand back.






It did, if you are wondering, of course rain, and rain, and rain hard, and harder still. Consumed by this heavy 'down' pour of life, weather and apparent wither of all hope to a 'consumed for now maybe' or 'swallowed near potentially', my message is that sinking is NOT an option. Tomorrow... just maybe the sun will shine with a blinding light that requires you to wear shades, not stand in it.