All in all, it is best to dispense with news entirely. Paying attention to it drags us into the politicization of life that has been poisoning our culture (such as it is) for years, and which proceeds apace. The internal editing required is not worth the time and effort. Our souls were sent here on more important business. Time is short.
The people in the park
are not news:
they only go to prove
what everyone knows --
of water and a few trees.
The people in the gallery
are not news either:
they are here for more trees
and the permanence of water
of various kinds: everything
from the seastorm to spring rain.
Walking in the street,
we are not news, you and I,
nor is the street itself
in the first morning sun
which travels to us from so far out
sharpening each corner with its recognition.
wilting underfoot, news
always about to lose its savour,
the trees arch over the blown sheets
rain is reducing to a transparent blur
as if water with trees were alpha and omega.
Charles Tomlinson, The Vineyard Above the Sea (Carcanet 1999).
Stanhope Alexander Forbes (1857-1947)
"The Harbour Window" (1910)
Here is my news for the week. Patches of purple-pink and pink-white sweet peas have appeared in the meadows that slope down to the bluffs above the waters of Puget Sound. Beside the paths I walk, the blackberry bushes are blossoming: countless five-petaled white stars. Tiny crab apples are growing on a solitary tree that stands beside a wide field. On a windy day, the tall grass in the field tosses and sways like a sea.
Where, to me, is the loss
Of the scenes they saw -- of the sounds they heard;
A butterfly flits across,
Or a bird;
The moss is growing on the wall,
I heard the leaf of the poppy fall.
Mary Coleridge, in Theresa Whistler (editor), The Collected Poems of Mary Coleridge (Rupert Hart-Davis 1954). The poem was written in 1900.
Thomas Creswick (1811-1869) and Alfred Elmore (1815-1881)
"Dorothy Vernon's Doorway, Haddon Hall" (1865)