I have been suffering more than somewhat from writer's block. I have a sheaf of poems that, frankly, aren't going to finish themselves, and numerous false starts filed here on Blogsey that won't make it past the starting pistol.
So I'm thinking to myself, "Could this be the end? Is it time to pop the inkwell back in the stationery cupboard and get back on the garden?" These are rhetorical questions, metaphorical in nature, and not particularly helpful, as it happens, BUT, on the verge of dropping out of the literary race I got caught by Gandhi:
"My life is my message."
He scrawled that on the back of an envelope which he then thrust through the window of a departing train to a devotee who'd asked for a last word for his followers.
"My life is my message."
Now before you give up in disgust thinking I've turned into some egotistical maniac, or driven those of you who are intimate with my life into paroxysms of mirth: it's Jeremy Corbyn I'm talking about.
Yesterday he was pilloried by people who want to do that to him, because he didn't bow low enough at the Remembrance Day ceremonial in London.
So far, so bad. But you will know, because I'm going to tell you, that instead of hoofing off to stick his nose in the trough with the other dignitaries, he then went over to the barriers to applaud the veterans who were kept safely behind them. He then returned to his constituency to read Wilfren Owen's great peace-poem ' Futility' at another Armistice Day service.
"My life is my message."
This is why Jeremy Corbyn stands apart from the bunch of trumped-up, over-spun, nasty little nobodies that comprise the UK government today. They despise him because his is the power of the heart and the soul:it makes them angry because he calls them out. Just by being who he is.
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