Creeping censorship

I experienced it again today.'

The blank screen.

It all started because I was reading a newspaper article about 34 women being killed by knives* in Austria so far this year.

In order to get more information I went to a news source which I use from time to time.  The story I found there was headlined German knife deaths rival London's (or words to that effect). I think I glimpsed that 5 people had died in 5 different German cities in knife attacks at the weekend. But I couldn't swear to it for suddenly -

as I was reading the article the computer screen started doing strange things and then a notice appeared on screen telling me I was 'forbidden to use this resource'.

Obviously a mistake I thought.

This is a news website in the public domain.

I've been using it for years.

But no, try as I might I cannot return to it.

A technical hitch or Big Brother censorship?

How can we know? We cannot know because today

as in 1984

too many people self censor - which does not bode well for our future.

When will we ever learn?


*now had an opportunity to reread the original newspaper article and it turns out they weren't all killed by knives  - other means included shooting, suffocating and strangulation.

Christmas Tree Bear. What's atop yours?

Warm wishes
 from Zen the Polar Bear
at Christmas.

Christmas Books

At this time of year my mind turns to my poetry books. 

The latest addition to my collection is Tagore's Gitanjali. 

His verse somehow reminds me of the work of a favourite Welsh poet - R S Thomas. 

I feel the following from Gitanjali 30  could well have been written by Thomas: 

I came out alone on my way to my tryst. But who is this that follows me in the silent dark?

I move aside to avoid his presence but I escape him not. 

He makes the dust rise from the earth with his swagger; he adds his loud voice to every word that I utter.

He is my own little self . . .

I can imagine that Retired, here from Thomas's Collected Later Poems, might have been written by a modern day Tagore. 

Not to worry myself any more

if I am out of step, fallen behind.

Let the space probes continue;

I have a different distance to travel. 

Here I can watch the night sky,

listen to how one grass blade
grates on another as member 
of a disdained orchestra.

Another book of verse I will return to is William Carlos Williams's Paterson. 

It is dangerous to leave written that which is badly written. A chance word, upon paper, may destroy the world. Watch carefully and erase while the power is still yours, I say to myself, for all that is put down, once it escapes, may rot its way way into a thousand minds . . .