The end of a year

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…and thank god. Not one of my favourite years, this. And yet this date-to-date construct is misleading. Some months were good, some bad. Really, some days were good, others bad.  But we need our spans, our lengths, our life measured out in new year parties (if not coffee spoons). And the events of the past two months have led to a general agreement that this was a terrible year.

It makes me wonder about those who fell in love or got married or had babies or struck it lucky / rich this year. Do they feel guilty or want to say, ‘er…but it wasn’t such a bad year for me.’ Do they feel the world’s anguish crowding in on personal joy? Do they feel pressured to relinquish it? I feel a little bad for them.

No matter what kind of year you’ve had, this definitely is a time for hope.And who can blame us for sorely needing some? So I was thinking about hopeful poems and Sometimes by Sheenagh Pugh came to mind. (Do read her disclaimers / disowning of it. Heh.) I rather like it precisely because it is one of those simple, feel-good poems but it reminded me of how hard it is to write about happy things without sounding greeting card-ish. My attempt at a new year poem resulted in something fairly bleak which I won’t impose on you right now. So instead, here’s New Year by Rachel Hadas, and for those who like it the old-fashioned way, Ring Out Old Bells by Tennyson.

And a bit  late in the day, here’s Mrs Scrooge written by Carol Ann Duffy for Christmas.

Happy New Year. Have a safe one.

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