The Perils of Feel-Good Poetry

The thing is, we thought Dead Poets' Day was going to be all about feeling good. And it mostly was. Lovely daffodils and sleekit timorous cowering beasties and what have you - OK, the John Clare was a little more melancholy, but in a good kind of way, and I thought from there on in the upward gradient of the mood would continue through to "Read your Favourite Poem" time.

And "Read your Favourite Poem" time was superb - Jenny kissed me, the lovely wistfulness of Betjeman's Harrow on the Hill, and then after an hour of this kind of uplifting cheerfulness - the kind of thing poetry was designed for - we had Burton reading, for reasons known only to himself, Hardy's Hap. And yes, in its place it's a powerful piece of work. In its place. But I wanted joy and hearts, romance and flowers. Not a Wessex scream at an empty sky.

And so we turned to Morgwn to pronounce the prayer to close the liturgy of poetry. But in the kind of outbreak of spontaneity that I'm going to have to stamp out, Morgwyn announced that first she'd like to read us her favourite poem.

Stop all the Clocks.

She said it always makes her feel happy because she remembers that Hugh Grant got it together with Andie MacDowell in that film.

Tonight's dinner was a terrible gloomy affair. The Gibbon Moon folk are still somewhere out on Four Acres, sobbing.  Young Keith's nipped off to the White Horse for a quiet cry into his beer. And I'd tell you about tomorrow's planned Flint Fiesta, but what's the point? And what's the point of poetry, if it's going to make you feel bad?