Lachlan passed away in January 2010.  As a memorial, this site remains as he left it.
Therefore the information on this site may not be current or accurate and should not be relied upon.
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Welcome to Lachlan Cranswick's Personal Homepage in Melbourne, Australia

Deep River, Ottawa Valley, Ontario, Canada and surrounds

Sunday morning breakfast at the Fort William Hotel / Pontiac Hotel, Sheenboro, Pontiac County, Quebec - 11th June 2006

Lachlan's Homepage is at http://lachlan.bluehaze.com.au/

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Sunday morning breakfast at the Fort William Hotel / Pontiac Hotel, Chichester, Quebec A photo of James McCool A framed photo of the Fort William Hotel
Sunday morning breakfast at the Fort William Hotel / Pontiac Hotel, Chichester, Quebec A photo of James McCool A framed photo of the Fort William Hotel
Fort William Hotel veranda overlooking the beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel Fort William Hotel carpark
Fort William Hotel veranda overlooking the beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel Fort William Hotel carpark
Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River
Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River Fort William Hotel overlooking the beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River beach and Ottawa River
Dog The not so obvious driveway entrance into the Fort William Hotel St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion.  est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion.  est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion.  est circa 1857
Dog The not so obvious driveway entrance into the Fort William Hotel St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion. est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion. est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion. est circa 1857
St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion.  est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion.  est circa 1857
St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion. est circa 1857 St Theresa of the Little Flower Chapel, Formerly St Simion. est circa 1857


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Poetry Links and stuff

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
(Robert Frost 1874-1963)

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


"September 1, 1939"
(WH Auden)

I sit in one of the dives
On Fifty-second Street
Uncertain and afraid
As the clever hopes expire
Of a low dishonest decade:
Waves of anger and fear
Circulate over the bright
And darkened lands of the earth,
Obsessing our private lives;
The unmentionable odour of death
Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can
Unearth the whole offence
From Luther until now
That has driven a culture mad,
Find what occurred at Linz,
What huge imago made
A psychopathic god:
I and the public know
What all schoolchildren learn,
Those to whom evil is done
Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew
All that a speech can say
About Democracy,
And what dictators do,
The elderly rubbish they talk
To an apathetic grave;
Analysed all in his book,
The enlightenment driven away,
The habit-forming pain,
Mismanagement and grief:
We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air
Where blind skyscrapers use
Their full height to proclaim
The strength of Collective Man,
Each language pours its vain
Competitive excuse:
But who can live for long
In an euphoric dream;
Out of the mirror they stare,
Imperialism's face
And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar
Cling to their average day:
The lights must never go out,
The music must always play,
All the conventions conspire
To make this fort assume
The furniture of home;
Lest we should see where we are,
Lost in a haunted wood,
Children afraid of the night
Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash
Important Persons shout
Is not so crude as our wish:
What mad Nijinsky wrote
About Diaghilev
Is true of the normal heart;
For the error bred in the bone
Of each woman and each man
Craves what it cannot have,
Not universal love
But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark
Into the ethical life
The dense commuters come,
Repeating their morning vow;
"I will be true to the wife,
I'll concentrate more on my work,"
And helpless governors wake
To resume their compulsory game:
Who can release them now,
Who can reach the deaf,
Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice
To undo the folded lie,
The romantic lie in the brain
Of the sensual man-in-the-street
And the lie of Authority
Whose buildings grope the sky:
There is no such thing as the State
And no one exists alone;
Hunger allows no choice
To the citizen or the police;
We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night
Our world in stupor lies;
Yet, dotted everywhere,
Ironic points of light
Flash out wherever the Just
Exchange their messages:
May I, composed like them
Of Eros and of dust,
Beleaguered by the same
Negation and despair,
Show an affirming flame.


"It's no use raising a shout."
(WH Auden)

It's no use raising a shout.
No, Honey, you can cut that right out.
I don't want any more hugs;
Make me some fresh tea, fetch me some rugs.
Here am I, here are you:
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?

It wasn't always like this?
Perhaps it wasn't, but it is.
Put the car away; when life fails,
What's the good of going to Wales?
Here am I, here are you;
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?

A long time ago I told my mother
I was leaving home to find another:
I never answered her letter
But I never found a better.
Here am I, here are you:
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?

In my spine there was a base;
And I knew the general's face:
But they've severed all the wires,
And I can't tell what the general desires.
Here am I, here are you:
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?

In my veins there is a wish,
And a memory of fish:
When I lie crying on the floor,
It says, "You've often done this before."
Here am I, here are you:
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?

A bird used to visit this shore:
It isn't going to come any more.
I've come a very long way to prove
No land, no water, and no love.
Here am I, here are you:
But what does it mean? What are we going to do?


"Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day"
(Delmore Schwartz (1913-1966))

Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn . . .)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.


[Back to Lachlan's Homepage] | [What's New]
[Deep River 2006] | [Deep River links]

[Intro - CranClan] . . [Happening Things] . . [The Daresbury Laboratory Web Ring of Life] . . [NCS - Non-Competitive Scrabble] . . [Garden Gnomes of Daresbury Laboratory] . . [Nature and Local UK Things] . . [USA 2001 and LDEO Columbia University] . . [Historical Literature/Poetry] . . [Music] . . [Misc Things] . . [DL SRS Status] . . [Conference and Travel Things] . . [The Wonders of Team Building] . . [Other People's Homepages] . . [Crystallographic Internet Front] . . [While in Melbourne] . . [Semi Relevant Links]


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