Thackery and Poetry

Kyrie - Mr. Mister

The wind blows hard against this mountainside
Across the sea into my soul
It reaches into where I cannot hide
Setting my feet upon the road

My heart is old it holds my memories
My baby burns a gemlike flame
Somewhere between the soul and soft machine
Is where I find myself again

Kyrie Eleison
Down the road that I must travel
Kyrie Eleison
Through the darkness of the night
Kyrie Eleison
Where I'm going will you follow
Kyrie Eleison
On a highway in the light

When I was young I thought of growing old
Of what my life would mean to me
Would I have followed down my chosen road
Or only wished what I could be


Muff LOVED the above song by Mister Mister when it came out in the 80s. She also loved their initial hit, Broken Wings, but this song seemed to speak to her soul. It was her "song of the year" that year, just as Crosby Stills and Nash's "Southern Cross" was my song that year. She was also fond of "Come on Eileen" by Dexies Midnight Runners and Squeeze's "Black Coffee in Bed." Only the coolest songs would do for Muff. None of that sticky pop stuff by Madonna or Bruce Springstein or the Police.
She also adored the works of William Makepeace Thackery, and was always reading and re-reading the Barchester Towers series, as well as Vanity Fair. Dickens was always on hand whenever she wanted to read aloud, of course, and she loved his stories of underdogs who triumph, but for her own pleasure reading, it was always Thackery. Muff wasn't a big fan of most routine poetry foisted on English majors, but she did enjoy Seamus Heaney, Oscar Wilde, Robert Frost, the odd bit of Byron, Keats or Shelley, and at times she could be seen reading Gray. She loved Poe, and hated Plath. She liked the wit of Dorothy Parker and the natural imagery of Walt Whitman. She always appreciated Milton and Blake more than I did, and could enjoy an EE Cummings poem, while Cummings always made me shudder. Yet I always had a thing for Carl Sandburg and Pablo Neruda poetry that Muff found bizarre, I think. Her favorite poet was William Butler Yeats, of course, and she could recite most of his ouvre by heart.
I found myself automatically buying a new kind of stationary with matching pens at the Dollar Tree yesterday for Muff to write to the troops, and I had to stop for a moment in the aisles and cry, because it hit me, painfully, in the heart again that she's gone, and no longer has need of pen and paper. Dear God how I miss you, my friend.