Bud Bloom Poetry

Clattery MacHinery on Poetry

2007-02-13T20:09:00.012-05:00

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Check out the new poetry blog:

Clattery MacHinery on Poetry

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Posts Readied
for Read, Review, & Comment

V. Sundaram's A Great Sant from Gujarat and Rajasthan (with rare translations of Dadu bhajans)

Luisetta Mudie's Climate Change and the Poetic Imagination

All-World Wrestling Poetry—a collection of 52 wrestling poems

Wrestling Poetry Project

. . . and don’t forget these Christmas poems

A Sunday Holiday of Fifty Negro Boys

Ten Thousand Thanks

Posing Aemilia Lanyer (as Shakespeare; as his Dark Lady; and as she posed)

The Pee in the Pool of On Line Poetry, by Terreson

Life and Death from Beijing: a Poetry Sequence by Luisetta Mudie and Dreamer Fei

Elliot’s Car & Sully’s Truck

The Long Abandon’d Hill, for Frank Wilson as he retires

Lite Verse with No Cholesterol or Trans Fat, by 33 Already Dead Poets, 6 Unknown Anyway

A Gaping-Wide-Mouth Waddling Frog, illustrated by Walter Crane

Today is World Samina Malik Day: Terrorize your lyrics

Whatever is

World Samina Malik Day December 6th

A Selection of Kitten Verse by Oliver Herford

The Ghost of the Susquehanna vs. the Curse of the Bambino

Free Burma!

Alley War Poetry

Taslima Nasreen: Women’s Rights vs the Holy Hell

The Long-Awaited, Unabating, Top 30 All-Time Greatest Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar

The Official Top 20 Countdown of the All Time Greatest Love Poems of Paul Laurence Dunbar

Nikki Giovanni's "We Are Virginia Tech"

Gill Dennis on Johnny Cash & voice in poetry

The Ella Wheeler Wilcox Top 30 Countdown

"The Scent of Ensure" by J. Shawcross

Blue Kookaburra

The Lyric Minutiae (or the ee(cummings) in (katharine mcph)ee)

Sources say writer and journalist Fessehaye “Joshua” Yohannes has died in detention

By Myself Pouring Wine as the Moon Shines

Warning to Other Writers About Using Blogger

Li Bai drinking alone (with the moon, his shadow, & 32 translators)

Turning the pages of William Blake's notebook online

Amnesty International: Well-known satirist Sakit Zahidov imprisoned following an unfair trial with questionable evidence

Sir Francis Bacon on Poetry

Misplaced Leisure Water: The Displaced Function of Poetry

from Poem a Day: "New Year Snow" by Frances Horovitz

Sonny's Lettah by Linton Kwesi Johnson (LKJ)

J. Geils Band's 'Floyd's Hotel': A place to get our poetic souls back

"’Twas the Night Before Christmas," illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith

Christmastime at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s

Adonis: 'We, in Arab society, do not understand the meaning of freedom'

Blue Luge

Mary and The Maid, cleaning up the place

Some Embers & Sonnets of Gilbert Parker

Butterfly Wisdom, poet unknown

Warning: A stark poem on the gruesome murder of Addie Hall

Faith's Review and Expectation by John Newton (Amazing Grace, that is)

Over Emily Dickinson’s for Thanksgiving: 16 Poems

From Pining Poem to Haunting Anthem: "Dark Eyes" by Yevhen Hrebinka

Verse for Veterans: First Foe to Flanders Fields

September 30, 2006: Massacre. September 29, 1960: Tenzin Gyatsu’s prayer.

I am sorry you had to leave Reine

Wrestling With Poetry in November

The All Time Top Ten Greatest Poems of Scotland

Daniel Webster: Great American Orator on Poetry

David Kirby: his poetry, Kirbyisms, & video

Ko Un

A Conversation on Experimental Fiction and Now Poetry

Mark Doty Physically: "Heaven for Paul"

Poetry Festivals Worldwide: This weekend, the Dodge

Punky Dunk and the Spotted Pup

The Babes in the Wood: a Randolph Caldecott Picture Book

Green Grape Cakes

By what act or department of Congress?

Billy Collins: An Evening with the former U.S. Poet Laureate

Jack Kerouac, the 20th Century's Greatest Poet: One Hour of Video

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Warning to Other Writers About Using Blogger

2007-02-06T21:31:00.000-05:00

Some of you may know that I have another poetry blog that is not kept under a pseudonym.

There are several reasons I use Bud Bloom. Here are four.

1. A pseudonym is psychologically liberating. Each time I write as Bud Bloom, I re-enter the world with no other role other than to tackle the subject matter at hand.

2. If you know who I am, you are probably a "friend", someone I have chosen to share my identity with. In this way, Bud Bloom is like a secret hand shake. I get to share thoughts that come from the real me with those of my choosing, those I trust.

3. Alternatively, I may choose that certain people have no clue that I participate in this activity. It's not something that happens often, but every once in a while, I meet someone I would not like to share that I have this blog as a reflective aspect of my personality. This has nothing to do with shame, by the way, although for other writers, I could see that it could.

4. With a pseudonym, I may be bold and say things, take political or religious positions that others may hate. If they hate these ideas, they may want to look me up and bring me harm. When I am not Bud Bloom, I am the easiest person to find, a sitting duck.

A serious fault in the Blogger conversion program, has merged my two identities. When I am not blogging as Bud Bloom, it is important that people know who I am. This is different from my day job that makes me the easy mark. It has to do with poetry, and goals. Therefore, I would like to be able to be "looked up" and easily identified. As relatively popular as this blog has become, the other is both more popular and more relied upon by others. I must be able to have my real name when I choose to blog with it.

By merging the two identities, it is as if Blogger is forcing me and other writers to make a choice. The problem is that I had already made my choice to have both.

If all my posts at my other blog and around the Blogger world were by "Bud Bloom," it would be very clear who Bud Bloom really is. My pseudonym, which I have had for years before blogging ever existed, would be revealed in the blogosphere. It would then be obvious who Bud Bloom was in other realms as well. In fact, last month, Blogger was responsible for revealing this to the entire blogging world through their Blogger conversion program.

I may have to delete this blog. I imagine that writers around the world have not complained, but simply felt the heat and deleted the blogs that put them at risk, hopefully before their identities were revealed to the wrong people, hopefully before they were marked for death or an investigation was opened that would imprison them for ideas they expressed.

Why not convert to WordPress or something? Because the new blog precludes this conversion to other software. I imagine the reason is that Blogger will be charging for these services soon, and does not want anyone "escaping". I may have folded if it had to do with such economic hijinks. But, when it has to do with my freedom of expression. I cannot. I write.

I have been e-mailing Blogger "support" for weeks now. They took weeks to respond, and once Karl started in, he failed to read what the issue was, and converted all my posts everywhere to Bud Bloom again. He e-mailed me, telling me he fixed the problem. I immediately e-mailed him back, and he changed things such that I could only post elsewhere as "Bud Bloom"--another shallow reading of the problem, and another quick "fix".

I have e-mailed him every other day since for over a week, and he does not respond. It is as if he has written on a docket "problem fixed by yours truly, Karl superstar, once again" or this issue has been placed into another queue as I await another member of the Blogger Team to take over. I should not think through this situation so much. Maybe Karl is just on an employee-of-the-month vacation or something.

Bud

Li Bai drinking alone (with the moon, his shadow, & 32 translators)

2007-01-25T23:49:00.000-05:00

The Tang poet Li Bai--a.k.a. Li Po, Li Bo and the Poet Immortal--left us over 1,000 poems. Besides these, he is also known by the way it is said he died. He supposedly drowned drunk, trying to embrace the moon's reflection in the Yangtze River.

Below are 30 English translations (from 32 translators (and counting)) to one of his three poems most commonly titled with some variation of "Drinking Alone in the Moonlight" or "Drinking Alone with the Moon." I have ordered them in rough chronological order, and put the date of each translation, or my best approximation, before it. If you know I am wrong about a date (or anything else, for that matter), please let me know and I will make the correction.

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by 李白 (Li Bai) (701-762)

花間一壺酒
獨酌無相親
舉杯邀明月
對影成三人
月既不解飲
影徒隨我身
暫伴月將影
行樂須及春
我歌月徘徊
我舞影零亂
醒時同交歡
醉後各分散
永結無情遊
相期邈雲漢

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tr Herbert A. Giles ~1900?

Last Words

An arbor of flowers and a kettle of wine:
Alas! In the bowers no companion is mine.
Then the moon sheds her rays on my goblet and me,
And my shadow betrays we're a party of three!
Thou' the moon cannot swallow her share of the grog,
And my shadow must follow wherever I jog,
Yet their friendship I'll borrow and gaily carouse,
And laugh away sorrow while spring-time allows.
See the moon--how she dances response to my song;
See my shadow--it dances so lightly along!
While sober I feel, you are both my good friends;
While drunken I reel, our companionship ends,
But we'll soon have a greeting without a goodbye,
At our next merry meeting away in the sky.

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tr W.A.P.Martin ~1900?

On Drinking Alone by Moonlight

Here are flowers and here is wine,
But where's a friend with me to join
Hand in hand and heart to heart
In one full cup before we part?

Rather than to drink alone,
I'll make bold to ask the moon
To condescend to lend her face
The hour and the scene to grace.

Lo, she answers, and she brings
My shadow on her silver wings;
That makes three, and we shall be.
I ween, a merry company

The modest moon declines the cup,
But shadow promptly takes it up,
And when I dance my shadow fleet
Keeps measure with my flying feet.

But though the moon declines to tipple
She dances in yon shining ripple,
And when I sing, my festive song,
The echoes of the moon prolong.

Say, when shall we next meet together?
Surely not in cloudy weather,
For you my boon companions dear
Come only when the sky is clear.

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tr Ezra Pound, 1915

Amongst the flowers is a pot of wine

Amongst the flowers is a pot of wine
I pour alone but with no friend at hand
So I lift the cup to invite the shining moon,
Along with my shadow we become party of three

The moon although understands none of drinking, and
The shadow just follows my body vainly
Still I make the moon and the shadow my company
To enjoy the springtime before too late

The moon lingers while I am singing
The shadow scatters while I am dancing
We cheer in delight when being awake
We separate apart after getting drunk

Forever will we keep this unfettered friendship
Till we meet again far in the Milky Way

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tr W.J.B.Fletcher, 1919(?)

We Three

One pot of wine amid the Flowers
Alone I pour, and none with me.
The cup I lift; the Moon invite;
Who with my shadow makes us three.
The moon then drinks without a pause.
The shadow does what I begin.
The shadow, Moon and I in fere
Rejoice until the spring come in.
I sing: and wavers time the moon.
I dance: the shadow antics too.
Our joys we share while sober still.
When drunk, we part and bid adieu.
Of loveless outing this the pact,
Which we all swear to keep for aye.
The next time that we meet shall be
Beside you distant milky way.

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tr Arthur Waley, 1919

Drinking Alone by Moonlight

A cup of wine, under the flowering trees;
I drink alone, for no friend is near.
Raising my cup I beckon the bright moon,
For he, with my shadow, will make three men.
The moon, alas, is no drinker of wine;
Listless, my shadow creeps about at my side.
Yet with the moon as friend and the shadow as slave
I must make merry before the Spring is spent.
To the songs I sing the moon flickers her beams;
In the dance I weave my shadow tangles and breaks.
While we were sober, three shared the fun;
Now we are drunk, each goes his way.
May we long share our odd, inanimate feast,
And meet at last on the Cloudy River of the sky.

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tr Florence Ayscough & Amy Lowell, 1921

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight

A pot of wine among flowers.
I alone, drinking, without a companion.
I lift the cup and invite the bright moon.
My shadow opposite certainly makes us three.
But the moon cannot drink,
And my shadow follows the motions of my body in vain.
For the briefest time are the moon and my shadow my companions.
Oh, be joyful! One must make the most of Spring.
I sing--the moon walks forward rhythmically;
I dance, and my shadow shatters and becomes confused.
In my waking moments we are happily blended.
When I am drunk, we are divided from one another and scattered.
For a long time I shall be obligated to wander without intention.
But we will keep our appointment by the far-off Cloudy River.

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tr Amy Lowell &/or Florence Ayscough

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight

A pot of wine among flowers.
I alone, drinking, without a companion.
I lift the cup and invite the bright moon.
My shadow opposite certainly makes us three.
But the moon cannot drink,
And my shadow follows the motions of my body in vain.
For the briefest time are the moon and my shadow my companions.
Oh, be joyful! One must make the most of Spring.
I sing--the moon walks forward rhythmically;
I dance, and my shadow shatters and becomes confused.
In my waking moments, we are happily blended.
When I am drunk, we are divided from one another and scattered.
For a long time I shall be obliged to wander without intention;
But we will keep our appointment by the far-off Cloudy River.

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tr Shigeyoshi Obata, 1922

Three with the Moon and his Shadow

With a jar of wine I sit by the flowering trees.
I drink alone, and where are my friends?
Ah, the moon above looks down on me;
I call and lift my cup to his brightness.
And see, there goes my shadow before me.
Ho! We're a party of three, I say,--
Though the poor moon can't drink,
And my shadow but dances around me,
We're all friends to-night,
The drinker, the moon and the shadow.
Let our revelry be suited to the spring!

I sing, the wild moon wanders the sky.
I dance, my shadow goes tumbling about.
While we're awake, let us join in carousal;
Only sweet drunkenness shall ever part us.
Let us pledge a friendship no mortals know,
And often hail each other at evening
Far across the vast and vaporous space!

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tr Witter Bynner, 1929(?)

Drinking Alone with the Moon

From a pot of wine among the flowers
I drank alone. There was no one with me--
Till, raising my cup, I asked the bright moon
To bring me my shadow and make us three.
Alas, the moon was unable to drink
And my shadow tagged me vacantly;
But still for a while I had these friends.
To cheer me through the end of spring . . .
I sang. The moon encouraged me.
I danced. My shadow tumbled after.
As long as I knew, we were boon companions.
And then I was drunk, and we lost one another.
. . . Shall goodwill ever be secure?
I watch the long road of the River of Stars.

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tr Robert Payne, 1958

Drinking Alone under Moonlight

Holding a jug of wine among the flowers,
And drinking alone, not a soul keeping me company,
I raise my cup and invite the moon to drink with me,
And together with my shadow we are three.
But the moon does not know the joy of drinking,
And my shadow only follows me about.
Nevertheless I shall have them as my companions,
For one should enjoy life at such a time.
The moon loiters as I sing my songs,
My shadow looks confused as I dance.
I drink with them when I am awake
And part with them when I am drunk.
Henceforward may we always be feasting,
And may we meet in the Cloudy River of Heaven.

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tr William Acker, 1967

Amidst the Flowers a Jug of Wine

Amidst the flowers a jug of wine--
I pour alone lacking companionship,
So raising the cup I invite the moon,
Then turn to my shadow which makes three of us.
Because the moon does not know how to drink
My shadow merely follows my body.
The moon has brought the shadow to keep me company a while,
The practice of mirth should keep pace with spring.
I start a song and the moon begins to reel,
I rise and dance and the shadow moves grotesquely.
While I'm still conscious let's rejoice with one another,
After I'm drunk let each one go his way.
Let us bind ourselves for ever for passionless journeyings.
Let us swear to meet again far in the Milky Way.

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tr J.C. Cooper, 1972

The Little Fete

I take a bottle of wine and I go to drink it among the flowers.
We are always three--
counting my shadow and my friend the shimmering moon.
Happily the moon knows nothing of drinking,
and my shadow is never thirsty.

When I sing, the moon listens to me in silence.
When I dance, my shadow dances too.
After all festivities the guests must depart;
This sadness I do not know.
When I go home,
the moon goes with me and my shadow follows me.

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tr Irving Yucheng Lo, 1975

Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon

A pot of wine among the flowers:
I drink alone, no kith or kin near.
I raise my cup to invite the moon to join me;
It and my shadow make a party of three.
Alas, the moon is unconcerned about drinking,
And my shadow merely follows me around.
Briefly I cavort with the moon and my shadow:
Pleasure must be sought while it is spring.
I sing and the moon goes back and forth,
I dance and my shadow falls at random.
While sober we seek pleasure in fellowship;
When drunk we go each our own way.
Then let us pledge a friendship without human ties
And meet again at the far end of the Milky Way.

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tr Rewi Alley, 1980

Alone and Drinking Under the Moon

Amongst the flowers I
am alone with my pot of wine
drinking by myself; then lifting
my cup I asked the moon
to drink with me, its reflection
and mine in the wine cup, just
the three of us; then I sigh
for the moon cannot drink,
and my shadow goes emptily along
with me never saying a word;
with no other friends here, I can
but use these two for company;
in the time of happiness, I
too must be happy with all
around me; I sit and sing
and it is as if the moon
accompanies me; then if I
dance, it is my shadow that
dances along with me; while
still not drunk, I am glad
to make the moon and my shadow
into friends, but then when
I have drunk too much, we
all part; yet these are
friends I can always count on
these who have no emotion
whatsoever; I hope that one day
we three will meet again,
deep in the Milky Way.

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tr Burton Watson, 1986

Drinking Alone Under the Moon

A jug of wine among flowers
I drink alone, for there's no companion.
I raise the cup and invite the moon,
With my shadow we become three.
Of course the moon does not understand drinking;
The shadow purposelessly traces my body.
But I accompany the moon and the shadow anyway
The pursuit of pleasures must continue until the spring.
The moon wanders as I sing;
The shadow rattles when I dance.
Still sober, we share our joys;
After drunk, each goes its way.
Permanently joined for feelingless journeys--
Perhaps to the remote Milky Way.

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tr Elling O. Eide, 1994

Drinking Alone in the Moonlight

Beneath the blossoms with a pot of wine,
No friends at hand, so I poured alone;
I raised my cup to invite the moon,
Turned to my shadow, and we became three.
Now the moon had never learned about my drinking,
And my shadow had merely followed my form,
But I quickly made friends with the moon and my shadow;
To find pleasure in life, make the most of the spring.

Whenever I sang, the moon swayed with me;
Whenever I danced, my shadow went wild.
Drinking, we shared our enjoyment together;
Drunk, then each went off on his own.
But forever agreed on dispassionate revels,
We promised to meet in the far Milky Way.

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tr Stephen Owen, 1996

Drinking Alone by Moonlight

Here among flowers one flask of wine,
with no close friends, I pour it alone.

I lift cup to bright moon, beg its company,
then facing my shadow, we become three.

The moon has never known how to drink;
my shadow does nothing but follow me.

But with moon and shadow as companions a while,
this joy I find must catch spring while it's here.

I sing, and the moon just lingers on;
I dance, and my shadow flails wildly.

When still sober we share friendship and pleasure,
then, utterly drunk, each goes his own way--

Let us join to roam beyond human cares
and plan to meet far in the river of stars.

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tr Winifred Galbraith, 1997

Drinking under the Moon

The wine among the flowers,
O lonely me!
Ah moon, aloof and shining,
I drink to thee.

Beside me, see my shadow,
Rejoice we three!
Moon, why remote and distant?
Dance with my shade and me.

*

This joy shall last for ever,
Moon, hear my lay,
My shade and I can caper
Like clouds away.

And drunk we are united
(But lone by day)
Let's fix eternal trysting
In the Milky Way.

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tr Xu Yuanchong, 1997

Drinking Alone under the Moon

Amid the flowers, from a pot of wine
I drink alone beneath the bright moonshine,
I raise my cup to invite the Moon who blends
Her light with my Shadow and we're three friends.
The Moon does not know how to drink her share;
In vain my Shadow follows me here and there.
Together with them for the time I stay
And make merry before spring's spent away.
I sing and the Moon lingers to hear my song;
My Shadow's a mess while I dance along.
Sober, we three remain cheerful and gay;
Drunken, we part and each may go his way.
Our friendship will outshine all earthly love,
Next time we'll meet beyond the stars above.

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Drinking Alone by Moonlight

Among the flowers a pot of wine,
I drink alone; no friend is by,
I raise my cup, invite the moon,
And my shadow; now we are three.
But the moon knows nothing of drinking,
And my shadow only apes my doings;
Yet moon and shadow shall be my company.
Spring is the time to have fun.
I sing, the moon lingers,
I dance, my shadow tangles,
While I'm still sober, we are gay together,
When I get drunk, we go our different ways.
We pledge a friendship no mortals know,
And swear to meet on heaven's Silver River.

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tr Sun Dayu, 1997

Drinking Alone under the Moon

With a jug of wine among the flowers,
I drink alone sans company.
To the moon aloft I raise my cup,
With my shadow to form a group of three.
As the moon doth not drinking ken,
And shadow mine followeth my body,
I keep company with them twain,
While spring is here to make myself merry.
The moon here lingereth while I sing,
I dance and my shadow spreadeth in rout.
When sober I am, we jolly remain,
When drunk I become, we scatter all about.
Let's knit our carefree tie of the good old day;
We may meet above sometime at the milky way.

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tr Sam Hamill, 2000

Drinking Alone

I take my wine jug out among the flowers
to drink alone, without friends.

I raise my cup to entice the moon.
That, and my shadow, makes us three.

But the moon doesn't drink,
and my shadow silently follows.

I will travel with moon and shadow,
happy to the end of spring.

When I sing, the moon dances.
When I dance, my shadow dances, too.

We share life's joys when sober.
Drunk, each goes a separate way.

Constant friends, although we wander,
we'll meet again in the Milky Way.

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tr Vikram Seth, 2001

Drinking Alone with the Moon

A pot of wine among the flowers.
I drink alone, no friend with me.
I raise my cup to invite the moon.
He and my shadow and I make three.

The moon does not know how to drink;
My shadow mimes my capering;
But I’ll make merry with them both--
And soon enough it will be Spring.

I sing--the moon moves to and fro.
I dance--my shadow leaps and sways.
Still sober, we exchange our joys.
Drunk--and we’ll go our separate ways.

Let’s pledge--beyond human ties--to be friends,
And meet where the Silver River ends.

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tr Dongbo

Solitary Moonlight Drunk

One jug of wine
a thicket of flowers,
A solitary drunk
no friends around.
I raise my cup
urge Moon to drink,
But Moon has no stomach for wine!
Shadow stalks my tettering form,
Moon and Shadow
my transient chums,
The three of us
giddy as springtime,
I sing out!
Startled!
Moon stops dead,
I jitterbug!
Shadow boogies drunkenly.
Sober we're bosom friends,
Pickled we scatter.
I yearn to trek to the frigid beyond,
And together plunge into Star River.

_____

tr Paul Rouzer

Drinking Alone Under the Moon

Among the flowers, a single jug of wine;
I drink alone. No one close to me.
I raise my cup, invite the bright moon;
facing my shadow, together we make three.
The moon doesn't know how to drink;
and my shadow can only follow my body.
But for a time I make moon and shadow my companions;
taking one's pleasure must last until spring.
I sing--the moon wavers back and forth.
I dance--my shadow flickers and scatters.
When I'm sober we take pleasure together.
When I'm drunk, we each go our own ways.
I make an oath to journey forever free of feelings,
making an appointment with them to meet in the Milky Way afar.

_____

tr Keith Holyoak, 2005

Drinking Alone Under the Moon

Alone among the flowers with a jug of wine,
Without a single friend to drink with me,
I lift my glass and invite the bright moon to come
Join in—now the moon, my shadow and I make three.

I know the moon is not a famous drinker,
My shadow's toast no more than mimicry,
And yet for a little while the three of us
Carouse in springtime camaraderie.

I sing, and the moon sways to and fro in rhythm;
I dance, and my shadow floats in harmony.
Drinking, we share our joys with one another;
After, we'll need to find them separately.

Let's meet again, at the end of the Silver River,
And there, my friends, resume our revelry!

_____

tr Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping, 2005

Drinking Alone by Moonlight

A pot of wine in the flower garden,
but no friends drink with me.
So I raise my cup to the bright moon
and to my shadow, which makes us three,
but the moon won't drink
and my shadow just creeps about my heels.
Yet in your company, moon and shadow,
I have a wild time till spring dies out.
I sing and the moon shudders.
My shadow staggers when I dance.
We have our fun while I can stand
then drift apart when I fall asleep.
Let's share this empty journey often
and meet again in the milky river of stars.

_____

tr Zhang Tingshen & Wei Bosi, 2005

Drinking Alone under the Moon

A jug of wine amidst the flowers:
Drinking alone, with no friend near.
Raising my cup, I beckon the bright moon;
My shadow included, we're a party of three.
Although the moon's unused to drinking
And the shadow only apes my every move
For the moment I'll just take them as they are,
Enjoying spring when spring is here.
Reeling shadow, swaying moon
Attend my dance and song.
Still sober, we rejoice together;
Drunk, each takes his leave.
To seal forever such unfettered friendship
Let's rendezvous beyond the Milky Way.

_____

tr 2007

By Myself Pouring Wine as the Moon Shines

From the filled jug of wine left within the blossoming bed,
I pour with no love nor family by. Loneliness sets in.

Drawn to its beam, I raise a brimming cup and face the moon--
an encounter that spawns a shadow. We've become a trio.

The aloof moon, as of late, has been declining to imbibe
and the faithful shaver, my shadow, follows my every move.

For tonight, anyway, we three will be boon companions.
Turned on, we'll be stepping out. Spring leaves us too soon.

I try to sing, and the moon starts its little swaying move,
which gets me dancing till my poor shadow's all confused.

With so much in common, we rouse to the time of our lives
until, in a drunken fog, we let go, dispensed into a cured world.

Ever cast to find passion in an age of fruitless wandering,
our feelings are mutual. I'll see you in that cosmic cloudy dynasty.

_____

tr Carol Saba, 2007

Li Bai's Solitary Considerations in the Moonlight

A bottle found on the garden path
is invitation enough for friendless me.
I beckon the moon and smile at my shadow
for I'm no longer alone; now we are three.

The moon is not much of a drinking companion,
my shadow can't share an original thought;
yet I will spend time with these as my friends
to relish the waning spring eve as I ought.

I sing to the moon, it sways to my song,
I dance with my shadow, it bounces along;
awake, we three are the same as one
but drunk I fall back to being alone.

Eternally bound to the mythic journey
we each have our place on the way to the stars.

_____

(extra credit)

George Thorogood's I Drink Alone

Duration 4:39

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Turning the pages of William Blake's notebook online.

2007-01-25T14:27:00.000-05:00

William Blake (1757-1827)

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Click on William Blake's notebook to the right, and visit The British Library's Sir John Ritblat Gallery. The site is called Turning the Pages™ and uses the Shockwave plug-in to fabulous effect.

Once there, you will have the experience of turning the pages of Blake's notebook, wherein you will find such things as sketches, and his poem "The Tyger"--in his handwriting, of course. You will be supplied with a magnifying glass, so that you can examine the pages, and the options of listening to and/or reading the British Library's notes on whatever aspect you are perusing at the moment.

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The Tyger

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? what dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, tyger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

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Amnesty International: Well-known satirist Sakit Zahidov imprisoned following an unfair trial with questionable evidence

2007-01-23T15:22:00.000-05:00

This is from: Amnesty International USA: Azerbaijan: Appeal Cases

24 January 2007; AI Index: EUR 55/002/2007 (Public)

Well-known satirist Sakit Zahidov imprisoned following an unfair trial with questionable evidence

Sakit Zahidov, a well-known journalist in Azerbaijan, was sentenced to three years’ imprisonment on questionable charges of possessing illegal drugs. Amnesty International is concerned that the 47-year-old journalist was not given a fair trial and that he may have been imprisoned solely for peacefully exercising his right to freedom of expression. The organization calls on the Azerbaijani authorities to ensure an immediate retrial in compliance with international fair trial standards.

Sakit Zahidov is a journalist and satirist for the opposition newspaper Azadlıq ('Freedom'), as well as a poet. He is married with five children. He was arrested on 23 June 2006 on a charge of possession of illegal narcotics with intent to distribute by Interior Ministry personnel belonging to its anti-narcotics department. A statement issued by the Ministry alleged that 10 grams of heroin had been found on Sakit Zahidov's person and confiscated following his arrest. Sakit Zahidov's brother and editor-in-chief of the Azadlıq newspaper, Qanimat Zahidov, and other prominent opposition journalists believe that his arrest was politically motivated and that the heroin was planted on Sakit Zahidov in order to incriminate him. Allegedly, a senior officer (his name was provided to Amnesty International) from the Investigation Department for the Fight Against Drug Trafficking planted drugs in Sakit Zahidov's left pocket after the journalist was forced into a car at the time of the arrest. The alleged planting of incriminating evidence on victims targeted because of their political activities was documented by human rights activists in the context of the 2005 parliamentary elections, when a number of opposition party activists were arrested and two imprisoned on narcotics-related charges.

Sakit Zahidov's trial opened on 18 August 2006. A large number of public figures, human rights activists and journalists came to attend the trial, but were unable to gain access as the preliminary hearing reportedly took place in a small room with capacity for only 25 people. No recording of the hearing was permitted, and it is therefore difficult for Amnesty International to ascertain what evidence was presented to prove whether Sakit Zahidov had used illegal substances. Amnesty International is not in a position to be able to verify the apparently contradictory medical evidence presented to the trial; however the organization is concerned by a number of procedural irregularities in Sakit Zahidov’s arrest and trial. A number of important witnesses were not called for questioning at his trial and appeal. Furthermore, allegations that Sakit Zahidov's own testimony was partially omitted from the final protocol used as a record of the trial cannot be substantiated, as reportedly his lawyers have still not had access to this document.

On 4 October, Sakit Zahidov was sentenced to three years' imprisonment in Baku Court on a reduced charge of "possession of drugs for the purpose of personal consumption". Opposition journalists believe that Sakit Zahidov was convicted on account of the satirical column he wrote for Azadlıq, in which he regularly criticized the Azerbaijani government. In December he was moved to Bailovsk detention facility in Baku to a penal colony in Gobustan region. Amnesty International is concerned that Sakit Zahidov was not given a fair trial and questions the evidence on which the conviction was based. Therefore Amnesty International calls for Sakit Zahidov's immediate retrial in compliance with international fair trial standards. If it cannot be convincingly proved that he is guilty of a crime, he should be released immediately.

Background information

Amnesty International is extremely concerned that over the last two years there have been repeated encroachments on the rights of members of civil society, and in particular journalists, to exercise their rights to freedom of expression in Azerbaijan.

Amnesty International has documented a number of developments of particular concern. First, the organization has received numerous reports regarding the harassment, including physical abuse, of journalists by law enforcement officials. Second, unidentified actors have carried out a series of violent attacks on journalists which have resulted in life-threatening injuries or even death, with the most recent attack taking place on 25 December 2006. These incidents have not been thoroughly, effectively or independently investigated, and have had a chilling effect on freedom of expression in the country. Third, Amnesty International has received information indicating that there has been an increase in the number of politically motivated arrests. Also, the authorities continue to use criminal defamation charges as a means to silence critical views and scrutiny of official wrongdoing. The fact that the victims in virtually all cases are closely linked to opposition parties and independent media suggests a political context to these cases. Also, outspoken independent media outlets have been accused of violating administrative and regulatory standards, with consequences that have regrettably resulted in the disruption of their professional activities.

These developments have taken place despite the fact that the right to freedom of opinion and expression is enshrined in the Azerbaijani Constitution, according to which '[E]veryone may enjoy freedom of thought and speech' (Article 47). Furthermore, in a meeting with the Secretary General of the non-governmental organization Reporters Sans Frontières in April 2005, President Ilham Aliyev reportedly explicitly stated that it was "unacceptable for government officials to attack journalists". Azerbaijan also has an obligation to promote and protect the right to freedom of expression as a State Party to a number of international treaties, such as the European Convention for the Protection of Human Rights and Fundamental Freedoms (ECHR; Article 10) and the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR; Article 19).

Recommended actions:

Please send courteous letters in Azeri, Russian, English, Turkish or your own language.

Express concern about allegations that the criminal charges against Sakit Zahidov were politically motivated and that the heroin was planted on him in order to incriminate him.

Express concern that Sakit Zahidov was not given a fair trial and about the uncertainty surrounding the evidence on which the conviction was based.
State that Amnesty International is calling for an immediate retrial in line with international fair trial standards.

State that the Azerbaijani authorities must ensure that no criminal charges are brought against journalists solely as a result of their lawful exercise of their right to freedom of expression.

Urge the Azerbaijani government to implement the March 2003 recommendations of the United Nations Human Rights Committee, the recommendations of the Parliamentary Assembly of the Council of Europe and the July 2005 recommendations of the Organization for Security and Co-operation in Europe Representative on Freedom of Media, in regard to freedom of expression.

Please send appeals to:

President
President Ilham Aliyev
Office of the President of the Azerbaijan Republic
19 Istiqlaliyyat Street
Baku AZ1066 AZERBAIJAN
Fax: + 994 12 492 0625
Email: president@gov.az, office@apparat.gov.az
Salutation: Dear President

Minister of Internal Affairs
Lt.-Gen. Ramil Usubov
Ministry of Internal Affairs
7 Husu Hajiyev Street
Baku 370005, AZERBAIJAN
Fax: + 994 12 492 45 90, +994 12 492 7990
Salutation: Dear Minister

Procurator General
Zakir Qaralov
Procurator General; 7 Rafibeyli Street; Baku 370001, Azerbaijan
Fax: + 994 12 492 32 30 (if someone answers ask for a fax tone)
Email: prosec@azeri.com
Salutation: Dear Procurator General

COPIES TO:

Ombudsperson
Prof. Elmira Suleymanova
Office of the Ombudsman
40 Uz. Hajibeyov Street
Baku AZ1000, AZERBAIJAN
Fax: + 994 12 498 8574
Email: ombudsman@ombudsman.gov.az

You may send copies to diplomatic representatives of Azerbaijan accredited to your country.

PLEASE SEND ANY REPLIES FROM THE AUTHORITIES AS SOON AS POSSIBLE TO THE INTERNATIONAL SECRETARIAT OF AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL. (Eurasia Team, Europe and Central Asia Programme, Amnesty International; 1 Easton Street; London WC1X ODW; United Kingdom)

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Sir Francis Bacon on Poetry

2007-01-14T12:27:00.000-05:00

Sir Francis Bacon, 1st Viscount St Alban, (1561-1626), is known both as the father of inductive reasoning through his Baconian method of scientific observation, and for introducing the essay to the English language. Below are snippets from his essays, through which he gives us his thoughts on poetry.

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from Of Truth

One of the fathers, in great severity, called poesy vinum daemonum, because it fireth the imagination; and yet, it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that passeth through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spake of before.

. . . .

The poet, that beautified the sect, that was otherwise inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently well: It is a pleasure, to stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure, to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth (a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear and serene), and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the vale below; so always that this prospect be with pity, and not with swelling, or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon earth, to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in providence, and turn upon the poles of truth.

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from Of Unity: in Religion

The quarrels, and divisions about religion, were evils unknown to the heathen. The reason was, because the religion of the heathen, consisted rather in rites and ceremonies, than in any constant belief. For you may imagine, what kind of faith theirs was, when the chief doctors, and fathers of their church, were the poets.

. . . .

Lucretius the poet, when he beheld the act of Agamemnon, that could endure the sacrificing of his own daughter, exclaimed: Tantum Religio potuit suadere malorum.

What would he have said, if he had known of the massacre in France, or the powder treason of England? He would have been seven times more Epicure, and atheist, than he was. For as the temporal sword is to be drawn with great circumspection in cases of religion; so it is a thing monstrous to put it into the hands of the common people.

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from Of Adversity

It is yet a higher speech of his, than the other (much too high for a heathen), It is true greatness, to have in one the frailty of a man, and the security of a God. Vere magnum habere fragilitatem hominis, securitatem Dei. This would have done better in poesy, where transcendences are more allowed. And the poets indeed have been busy with it; for it is in effect the thing, which figured in that strange fiction of the ancient poets, which seemeth not to be without mystery; nay, and to have some approach to the state of a Christian; that Hercules, when he went to unbind Prometheus (by whom human nature is represented), sailed the length of the great ocean, in an earthen pot or pitcher; lively describing Christian resolution, that saileth in the frail bark of the flesh, through the waves of the world.

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from Of Envy

They that desire to excel in too many matters, out of levity and vain glory, are ever envious. For they cannot want work; it being impossible, but many, in some one of those things, should surpass them. Which was the character of Adrian the Emperor; that mortally envied poets, and painters, and artificers, in works wherein he had a vein to excel.

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from Of Love

By how much the more, men ought to beware of this passion, which loseth not only other things, but itself! As for the other losses, the poet's relation doth well figure them: that he that preferred Helena, quitted the gifts of Juno and Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of amorous affection, quitteth both riches and wisdom.

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from Of Riches

The poets feign, that when Plutus (which is Riches) is sent from Jupiter, he limps and goes slowly; but when he is sent from Pluto, he runs, and is swift of foot. Meaning that riches gotten by good means, and just labor, pace slowly; but when they come by the death of others (as by the course of inheritance, testaments, and the like), they come tumbling upon a man.

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from Of Fortune

Certainly there be, whose fortunes are like Homer's verses, that have a slide and easiness more than the verses of other poets; as Plutarch saith of Timoleon's fortune, in respect of that of Agesilaus or Epaminondas. And that this should be, no doubt it is much, in a man's self.

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from Of Building

Houses are built to live in, and not to look on; therefore let use be preferred before uniformity, except where both may be had. Leave the goodly fabrics of houses, for beauty only, to the enchanted palaces of the poets; who build them with small cost.

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from Of Studies

Reading maketh a full man; conference a ready man; and writing an exact man. And therefore, if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if he confer little, he had need have a present wit: and if he read little, he had need have much cunning, to seem to know, that he doth not. Histories make men wise; poets witty; the mathematics subtile; natural philosophy deep; moral grave; logic and rhetoric able to contend. Abeunt studia in mores. Nay, there is no stond or impediment in the wit, but may be wrought out by fit studies; like as diseases of the body, may have appropriate exercises.

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from Of Fame

The poets make Fame a monster. They describe her in part finely and elegantly, and in part gravely and sententiously. They say, look how many feathers she hath, so many eyes she hath underneath; so many tongues; so many voices; she pricks up so many ears.

This is a flourish. There follow excellent parables; as that, she gathereth strength in going; that she goeth upon the ground, and yet hideth her head in the clouds; that in the daytime she sitteth in a watch tower, and flieth most by night; that she mingleth things done, with things not done; and that she is a terror to great cities. But that which passeth all the rest is: They do recount that the Earth, mother of the giants that made war against Jupiter, and were by him destroyed, thereupon in an anger brought forth Fame. For certain it is, that rebels, figured by the giants, and seditious fames and libels, are but brothers and sisters, masculine and feminine. But now, if a man can tame this monster, and bring her to feed at the hand, and govern her, and with her fly other ravening fowl and kill them, it is somewhat worth. But we are infected with the style of the poets.

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Misplaced Leisure Water: The Displaced Function of Poetry

2007-01-04T18:26:00.000-05:00

In a Books Inq. blog post from yesterday, the Philadelphia Inquirer's books editor, Frank Wilson, linked to this item in Poetry Magazine:

Does Poetry Have a Social Function?

Here is some of what he wrote:

On New Year's Eve, one of our dinner guests, a beautiful Chinese woman, read several classical Chinese poems for us. This proved that Auden was right when he said that when you hear real poetry it doesn't matter if you know the language--you know it is poetry. Our friend also sang, with the voice of an angel, one of Li Bai's poems. It is this sort of experience of poetry that makes such a question as the one posed on this link seem so banal. The essence of poetry is enchantment, not utility.

What follows, is a response to both Frank Wilson's blog post and the article on Poetry's web site, which is a conversation among poets Stephen Burt, Daisy Fried, Major Jackson, and Emily Warn.

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I found the answers banal. I was hoping Major Jackson would kick the discussion into gear. Daisy Fried spoke too often about what she considers politically correct for poets to write about. Whereas the poet must write what the poet is given to write, hopefully having gold and not mud, and whether it agrees with Fried's politics or not.

To Joseph Campbell, the poet of current society was the shaman of the past, still being born as ever. Inspiration, whether something is carried over from primordial soup, communicated by muse-gods, given by God, whether from an extra-sensitivity to the sounds of earth or some yet-charted waves from distant novas exploding, there is a constancy to what shamans and poets produce. Wisdom is wisdom. Art is art. And poetry is poetry.

One social value of fresh poetry, then, is to say in current terms what had been said in classic poetry and scripture. For whatever the current society, it has inevitably misinterpreted its poetry, inevitably bringing about outdated customs and neurotic modes of thinking, but also grave consequences.

Poetry does not have to have such meaning, though. It may have only its sound or, as Frank Wilson points out, the sound and the poet present to speak it. I experienced this listening to Ko Un. As much enjoyment came from his speaking the poems as through the anticipation of what his translator would say in English. This is the music of poetry.

It is not necessary for a poem to contain both wisdom and music. But in some of the best poems, these aspects work together, the rhythm, the sounds, and language.

I want to take up the poem these poets were discussing, "The Mill-Race" by Anne Winters. Here is a link to the poem in full on the page:

PoetryFoundation.org: The Mill-Race

And here is a link to Anne Winters reading it:

New York Times: Books: Audio: Anne Winters Reads From 'The Displaced of Capital'

I was struck by the "leisure water." It represents poetry. A complaint within the poem is that the bus riders are losing the poetry of their lives, that even this was being placed at the whim and utility of the current economy and politics. How extraordinarily anti-poetry.

But this "leisure water" also answers the very question of a function of poetry. A thirst sure, but in the poem, the water reflects the sky, and it is in a "glib stretch" (italics mine).

Here are excerpts wherein the poets discuss that poem:

Daisy Fried:

Anne Winters's "The Mill-Race," about office workers in lower Manhattan, contains virtuoso description of the urban scene: workers, weather, light, limos of the bosses, buses of the employees. Though its subject matter and politics are both clear and attractive, content has very little to do with why the poem is extraordinary.

Is it a useful poem? I like political poetry; it acknowledges that politics are part of life. Certainly at this historical moment, many of us are hungry for poems that look outward, not just into the self or into what seems like another kind of narcissism, a turning away via the knee-jerk (therefore empty) "avant garde" linguistic gesture. America's crimes may be forcing poets back into the world. It's not as though it's optional. Eventually it becomes political necessity.

Emily Warn:

"The Mill-Race" by Anne Winters serves as proof text. How can its content not matter? How can one not relate to the drained faces of the women office workers on an evening bus, to their scant hope that, despite their misspent, dwindling hours in the service of Labor, they have preserved a shred of self?

. . . .It won't take us
altogether, we say, the mill-race--it won't churn us up altogether. We'll keep
a glib stretch of leisure water, like our self's self--to reflect the sky.
But we won't (says the bus rider now to herself). Nothing's
left over, really, from labor. They've taken it all for the mill-race.

Will this poem end drudgery? No. Does it disclose the pathos of other human beings and the source of their suffering? Yes. Is it this capacity that will help us, better than ammo or dollars, find a way through these harrowing times? Absolutely.

Daisy Fried:

Emily Warn seems to argue that content supplies poems' utility. Content matters--poetry is far more than a formal game--but does not supply utility. Quality does. "The Mill-Race" is good and useful because it presents in extraordinary language an aspect of the human condition, not some false solution having to do with feel-good "relat(ing) to drained faces." Emily should reread the very lines she quotes if she thinks this poem is about workers "preserv(ing) a shred of self." The poet is there on the bus, we are there, we are all in the mill-race.

Emily Warn:

Poems such as "The Mill-Race" make us aware of the social conditions that shape our relations; their language helps us dwell in, puzzle out, and feel the conditions and the relations, no matter how terrible, making a change in them more possible. It is this possibility, this hope, that makes poetry as necessary as a paycheck.

"The Mill-Race" ends on the word "salt," ("but it's mostly the miller's curse-gift, forgotten of God yet still grinding, the salt-/mill, that makes sea, salt"). The salt sting is both our empathy for the workers' weariness and the fact of their individual lives ground to salt. Over centuries, the poem also says, these workers have raised cathedrals, invented art. The work, "the curse-gift" of the poet, is to tell the story of a person who has no story other than the story of relations. As Celan wrote, "I am you/if I am."

Stephen Burt:

Rather, my point is that different poems do different things, and good poems (such as "The Mill-Race") do many things at once. If there are universal truths about the communicative functions in poems--truths about all good poems, not just about "The Mill-Race"--they are so universal that they do not count as social, by my lights: they concern communication among just two persons at a time, whether the two meet face-to-face, or whether implicit author and genuine reader live thousands of years apart.

___

They never merge the point of the discussion with the point of the poem. It is almost as if the poem worked its way into everyone's subconscious, but they never worked out why. No one mentioned that this poem is about a social function poetry can have. They simply used it as if it functioned.

This is part of how we participate in the art or poetry that we make of the sounds, clay, landscapes that we have. We take sounds and make music, fields and make golf courses, food and make fine cuisine, words and make poems, and so forth--and we use them in our lives. And just as sometimes the poet cannot fulfill the muse, the reader does not either. Thus more poetry needed.

I went to the web to get support for this point, and found it made in a most unlikely way by Dan Chiasson here:

Slate: The Anne Winters Challenge: Should a Marxist poet be stylistically ornate?

He quotes the last stanza:

It's not a water-mill really, labor. It's like the nocturnal
paper-mill pulverizing, crushing each fiber of rag into atoms,
or the workhouse tread-mill, smooth-lipped, that wore down a London of doxies and sharps,
or the flour-mill, faërique, that raised the cathedrals and wore out hosts of dust-demons,
but it's mostly the miller's curse-gift, forgotten of God yet still grinding, the salt-
mill, that makes the sea, salt.

Here is the question he is asking:

What to do about this "faerique in the flour mill" issue--the frisson between subject matter and poetic language?

Aha! Nice. Here we have a discussion of the disconcert between the language in the poem and the lives of the bus riders. That's what's missing in their lives, the poetry. Specifically this poem. Point made in the asking of a question. Thank you, Mr. Chiasson.

But here is what Chiasson says:

But when you start bringing these kinds of objections up--when they start interfering with your enjoyment of works of art—you realize what an impoverished discussion we've all been having, these past years, about art and its connection to experience. We've come to imagine that there needs to be a traceable, obvious connection between "style" in art and subject matter. An art of the people better have lots of swear-words and spitting in it. And honking horns. An art of the intellect should be about Big Ideas. An art of theoretical density has got to be unintelligible. An art of great beauty should mention snow fields and sunsets. Art by Southerners should be full of dirt-roads and hounds. If this sounds parodic, read around in contemporary literature with my inventory in mind. Contemporary literature is parodic.

Oh well.

By the way, the poets took up the idea of the "Hard-working Roto Rooter reading poetry." But none of them mentioned that it is that guy writing it.

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from Poem a Day: "New Year Snow" by Frances Horovitz

2007-01-01T14:35:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, I received two super poetry books, not yet in my library. My sister gave me one with the poem below, "New Year Snow" by Frances Horovitz. It is the poem for January 1st in: Poem A Day, Volume 3: 366 poems, old and new--one for each day of the year.

The book is edited by Retta Bowen, Nick Temple, Nicholas Albery, and Stephanie Wienrich, and published by Zoland Books. I am looking forward to reading the book as designed--throughout the year.

Also below, is the commentary on the page about the poet, an excellent feature of the book.

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by Frances Horovitz (1938-1983)

New Year Snow

For three days we waited,
a bowl of dull quartz for sky.
At night the valley dreamed of snow,
lost Christmas angels with dark-white wings
flailing the hills.
I dreamed a poem, perfect
as the first five-pointed flake,
that melted at dawn:
a Janus-time
to peer back at guttering dark days,
trajectories of the spent year.
And then snow fell.
Within an hour, a world immaculate
as January's new-hung page.
We breathe the radiant air like men new-born.
The children rush before us.
As in a dream of snow
we track through crystal fields
to the green horizon
and the sun's reflected rose.

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Frances Horovitz read English and Drama at Bristol University and trained as an actress at RADA. After graduating, she concentrated mainly on reading poetry and only began to write herself following her marriage to the poet Michael Horovitz in 1964. Her first pamphlet was published in 1967, followed by The High Tower in 1970. Her son Adam, now also a poet, was born in 1971 and the Horovitzs moved to a remote offshoot of the Slad Valley in Gloucestershire, which became a source of inspiration for many of the poems in her third book. It is from this book that "New Year Snow" is taken. She married Roger Garfitt shortly before her death in October 1983.

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Sonny's Lettah by Linton Kwesi Johnson (LKJ)

2006-12-27T22:37:00.000-05:00

Duration 3:02

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by Linton Kwesi Johnson (LKJ)

Sonny's Lettah (Anti-sus poem)

Brixton Prison
Jeb Avenue
London, South West 2
Inglan

Dear Ma Maa,

Good Day
I hope that when these few lines reach you
they may find you in the best of health

Ma Maa I really don' know how to tell yu dis
'cause, I did meck a solemn promise
to teck care a likkle Jim and try
mi best fi look out fi 'im

Ma Maa a really did try mi best
but none de less
mi sorry fi tell yu sey
poor likkle Jim get aress'
it was de middle a de rush 'our
when everybody jus' a hustle an a bustle
fi go 'ome fi dem evenin' shower

Me and Jim stand up waiting pon a bus
not causing no fuss
when all on a sudden a police man
pull up
out jump 3 police man
De 'ole a dem carrying baton

Dem walk up to me and Jim
one a dem 'ole on to Jim
sey 'im teckin 'im in
Jim tell him fi leggo a 'im
fa 'im no do nuttin
an 'im naw tief, not even a button

Jim start to riggle
De police start to giggle

Ma Maa, meck a tell yu weh dem do to Jim
Ma Maa , meck a tell yu we dem do to him

Dem tump 'im in 'im belly
an' it turn to jelly
Dem lick 'im pon 'im back
an 'im rib get pop
Dem lick 'im pon 'im head
but it tuff like lead
Dem kick 'im in 'im seed
an it started to bleed

Ma Maa I just couldn't just stan' up
deh a no do nutten

So mi juck one ina 'im eye
an 'im started to cry
Mi tump one in 'im mout
an 'im started to shout
Mi kick one pon 'im shin
an 'im started to spin
Mi tump 'im pon 'im chin
an 'im drop pon a bin
an crash an dead

Ma Maa more police man come down
an beat me to de ground

Dem charge Jim fi sus
Dem charge mi fi murder
Ma Ma! Don't fret
don't get depress an down 'earted
be of good courage

Till I hear from yu

I remain your son

Sonny

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J. Geils Band's 'Floyd's Hotel': A place to get our poetic souls back

2006-12-24T17:11:00.000-05:00

For Christmas, I got myself The Morning After, the 1971 album by my favorite band to see in concert in my teens, the J. Geils Band. In those 70s, some of us from Massachusetts had good friends from Manchester, NH. And I remember one time being in a car heading home from Montreal, with a mix of us as we all got into singing and swaying to the song "Floyd's Hotel," a song written about a New Hampshire hotel, done by the Massachusetts-based band. I have many J. Geils albums, the early albums, and the concert ones mainly, in a box down in my basement--but never got this one, and always should have.

Another thought, in watching the video below, it occurs to me that the latest American Idol, Taylor Hicks, has a similar energy to Peter Wolf. This makes me wonder if there is an influence there. I have no inclination to go see Hicks in concert or buy his albums. The reason might be that he comes across too pop. R&B and Rock 'n Roll, versus pop, are rooted in the realities and hard core emotions of life, which include such a hotel as Floyd's and the encounters there. The song enters that world, becomes an anthem for it, and speaks from it. It may turn out to be too "bold" a move for someone like Hicks to do, even if he wanted to. Maybe Hicks has sold his R&B soul to the American Idol devil.

Now, we come back full circle to J. Geils, and whether the band sold their souls in their later albums. The song "Centerfold", a song I would not buy, does not address human sexuality the same way as "Floyd's Hotel." How do you get from "South Side Shuffle" to "Freeze Frame"? One answer might be through the Love Stinks album. Other answers, though, might be through the easy life or the desire for the popularity of pop. Do we need to forgive the band for selling out before they broke up? And, if so, do we forgive Geils and Hicks alike?

The difference between the tightrope Taylor Hicks is walking, and the J. Geils Band's historic journey, is in what Geils demonstrated: that it could be done. J. Geils Band represented the artistry, or should I say the poetry of all R&B artists, in showing that they could do other types of perimeter-inspired poetry as well. "Freeze Frame" and "Centerfold" are standards that will survive in pop culture far beyond we who are living today, as will the band's blues rock survive for R&B seekers in forthcoming generations.

The best pop artists, the ones selling the most records, are not doing it because they do it better. That's settled now. The challenge Peter Wolf and the J. Geils Band has for any pop band or singer, is can they now, with their talents, sing from their for-real souls, as well as from their musical abilities. When and if Taylor Hicks can get his pop standards up for forthcoming generations, he will still need to return to his music for his soul.

_____

The above performance of "Floyd's Hotel" is from BBC TV's Old Grey Whistle Test on January 9th, 1973. I have not been able to transcribe the words precisely. Below is what I am hearing. But I cannot make out the first few words, so I include the words from the album "The Morning After" in parentheses, like so:

(She had big rosy red) hips, oh nice and round
Red rosy lips, you know they really got me down

I know very well that that is incorrect, as the progression itself is altered. This is what is on the album:

She had big rosy red hips really knocks them right on
She had juicy red lips that really laid me down

It is interesting to hear how the progressions are different from the album in 1971 to the 1973 rendition. What has come out, and been replaced is this:

Smilin' Jim, he's the cat that checks you in
Big fat Smilin' Jim, you know he signs you in
Don't ask where you goin'
He don't care where you been

What we have instead, is the Hyde Park stanza below.

If you hear it better, let me know. I am open to corrections.

_____

performed by J. Geils Band
Stephen Jo Bladd, drums
Magic Dick, harp
J. Geils, guitar
Seth Justman, keyboard
Danny Klein, bass
Peter Wolf, vocals

written by
Seth Justman
Peter Wolf
& of course, Juke-Joint-Walden

Floyd's Hotel

(She had big rosy red) hips, oh nice and round
Red rosy lips, you know they really got me down
She stuck me in a taxi
And drove me way across town

She got me down, down to Floyd's Hotel
She got me down, down to Floyd's Hotel
Lotta cheap rooms
Always something nice to sell

Fellow there, you know they call him Tyrone
Fellow there, you know they call him Tyrone
He don't care where you go
Always leave you alone

Met a fellow hanging out in Hyde Park
Walking around Hyde Park, met a fellow called Tyrone
That was his name--gave him five quid
You know he really turned me on

Going down, down to Floyd's Hotel
I'm going down, down to Floyd's Hotel
Lotta cheap rooms
Always something nice to sell

_____

"'Twas the Night Before Christmas," illustrated by Jessie Willcox Smith

2006-12-23T22:24:00.000-05:00

pictures by Jessie Willcox Smith (1863-1935)

written, very likely, by either

Henry Livingston, Jr. (1748-1828)
or
Clement Clark Moore (1779-1863)

originally titled

"A Visit from St. Nicholas"

now popularly known as

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

Houghton Mifflin Company

Boston

Copyright (c) 1912 by Houghton Mifflin Company

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

HC ISBN 0-395-06952-1
PA ISBN 0-395-64374-0

Printed in the United States of America

LBM 40 39 38 37 36

_____

Introduction

mid the many celebrations last Christmas Eve, in various places by different persons, there was one, in New York City, not like any other anywhere. A company of men, women, and children went together just after the evening service in their church, and, standing around the tomb of the author of "A Visit from St. Nicholas," recited together the words of the poem which we all know so well and love so dearly.

Dr. Clement C. Moore, who wrote the poem, never expected that he would be remembered by it. If he expected to be famous at all as a writer, he thought it would be because of the Hebrew Dictionary that he wrote.

He was born in a house near Chelsea Square, New York City, in 1781; and he lived there all his life. It was a great big house, with fireplaces in it;--just the house to be living in on Christmas Eve.

Dr. Moore had children. He liked writing poetry for them even more than he liked writing a Hebrew Dictionary. He wrote a whole book of poems for them.

One year he wrote this poem, which we usually call "'Twas the Night before Christmas," to give to his children for a Christmas present. They read it just after they had hung up their stockings before one of the big fireplaces in their house. Afterward, they learned it, and sometimes recited it, just as other children learn it and recite it now.

It was printed in a newspaper. Then a magazine printed it, and after a time it was printed in the school readers. Later it was printed by itself, with pictures. Then it was translated into German, French, and many other languages. It was even made into "Braille"; which is the raised printing that blind children read with their fingers. But never has it been given to us in so attractive a form as in this book. It has happened that almost all the children in the world know this poem. How few of them know any Hebrew!

Every Christmas Eve the young men studying to be ministers at the General Theological Seminary, New York City, put a holly wreath around Dr. Moore's picture, which is on the wall of their dining-room. Why? Because he gave the ground on which the General Theological Seminary stands? Because he wrote a Hebrew Dictionary? No. They do it because he was the author of "A Visit from St. Nicholas."

Most of the children probably know the words of the poem. They are old. But the pictures that Miss Jessie Willcox Smith has painted for this edition of it are new. All the children, probably, have seen other pictures painted by Miss Smith, showing children at other seasons of the year. How much they will enjoy looking at these pictures, showing children on that night that all children like best,--Christmas Eve!

E. McC.

_____

'Twas the Night Before Christmas

was the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

he children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;
And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

hen out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

he moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below,
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer,

ith a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name:

ow, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!
Now dash away! dash away! dash away all!"

s dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky;
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.

nd then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

e was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

is eyes--how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow;

he stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath;
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly.

e was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself;
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread;

e spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose;

e sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night."

_____

thanks to The Project Gutenberg

_____

Christmastime at Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's

2006-12-21T01:00:00.000-05:00

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
(February 27, 1807 – March 24, 1882)

Aftermath

When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.

Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mired with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.

Completing Tales of a Wayside Inn, on his sixty-sixth birthday, February 27, 1873, may have inspired Longfellow to write this poem. That third part of Tales was included in the volume named after the poem, in which the poem was placed last, the last of the third flight of his Birds of Passage.

The Children's Hours

Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.

I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.

From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.

A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.

A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!

They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.

They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!

Do you think, o blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!

I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.

And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!

click picture for song in wma format

Christmas Bells

I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Till, ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said:
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"

Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead; nor doth he sleep!
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men!"

The Cross of Snow

In the long, sleepless watches of the night,
A gentle face--the face of one long dead--
Looks at me from the wall, where round its head
The night-lamp casts a halo of pale light.
Here in this room she died; and soul more white
Never through martyrdom of fire was led
To its repose; nor can in books be read
The legend of a life more benedight.
There is a mountain in the distant West
That, sun-defying, in its deep ravines
Displays a cross of snow upon its side.
Such is the cross I wear upon my breast
These eighteen years, through all the changing scenes
And seasons, changeless since the day she died.

"'Looking over one day,' says Mr. Longfellow's biographer, 'an illustrated book of Western scenery, his attention was arrested by a picture of that mysterious mountain upon whose lonely, lofty breast the snow lies in long furrows that make a rude but wonderfully clear image of a vast cross. At night, as he looked upon the pictured countenance that hung upon his chamber wall, his thoughts framed themselves into the verses that follow [--above, that is]. He put them away in his portfolio, where they were found after his death."

a Fragment

December 18, 1847

Soft through the silent air descend the feathery snow-flakes;
White are the distant hills, white are the neighboring fields;
Only the marshes are brown, and the river rolling among them
Weareth the leaden hue seen in the eyes of the blind.

written on the back of a note from a Mr. Summer, and dated:

"September 28, 1841. Half past 3 o'clock, morning. Now to bed"

Excelsior

The shades of night were falling fast,
As through an Alpine village passed
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice,
A banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

His brow was sad; his eye beneath,
Flashed like a falchion from its sheath,
And like a silver clarion rung
The accents of that unknown tongue,
Excelsior!

In happy homes he saw the light
Of household fires gleam warm and bright;
Above, the spectral glaciers shone,
And from his lips escaped a groan,
Excelsior!

"Try not the Pass!" the old man said:
"Dark lowers the tempest overhead,
The roaring torrent is deep and wide!
And loud that clarion voice replied,
Excelsior!

"Oh stay," the maiden said, "and rest
Thy weary head upon this breast!"
A tear stood in his bright blue eye,
But still he answered, with a sigh,
Excelsior!

"Beware the pine-tree's withered branch!
Beware the awful avalanche!"
This was the peasant's last Good-night,
A voice replied, far up the height,
Excelsior!

At break of day, as heavenward
The pious monks of Saint Bernard
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer,
A voice cried through the startled air,
Excelsior!

A traveller, by the faithful hound,
Half-buried in the snow was found,
Still grasping in his hand of ice
That banner with the strange device,
Excelsior!

There in the twilight cold and gray,
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay,
And from the sky, serene and far,
A voice fell, like a falling star,
Excelsior!

The Good Part

that shall not be taken away

She dwells by Great Kenhawa's side,
In valleys green and cool;
And all her hope and all her pride
Are in the village school.

Her soul, like the transparent air
That robes the hills above,
Though not of earth, encircles there
All things with arms of love.

And thus she walks among her girls
With praise and mild rebukes;
Subduing e'en rude village churls
By her angelic looks.

She reads to them at eventide
Of One who came to save;
To cast the captive's chains aside
And liberate the slave.

And oft the blessed time foretells
When all men shall be free;
And musical, as silver bells,
Their falling chains shall be.

And following her beloved Lord,
In decent poverty,
She makes her life one sweet record
And deed of charity.

For she was rich, and gave up all
To break the iron bands
Of those who waited in her hall,
And labored in her lands.

Long since beyond the Southern Sea
Their outbound sails have sped,
While she, in meek humility,
Now earns her daily bread.

It is their prayers, which never cease,
That clothe her with such grace;
Their blessing is the light of peace
That shines upon her face.

translated by Longfellow from the Spanish

by Francisco de Aldana (1537-1578)

The Image of God (La Imagen de Dios)

O Lord! who seest, from yon starry height,
Centred in one the future and the past,
Fashioned in thine own image, see how fast
The world obscures in me what once was bright!
Eternal Sun! the warmth which thou hast given,
To cheer life's flowery April, fast decays;
Yet in the hoary winter of my days,
Forever green shall be my trust in Heaven.
Celestial King! O let thy presence pass
Before my spirit, and an image fair
Shall meet that look of mercy from on high,
As the reflected image in a glass
Doth meet the look of him who seeks it there,
And owes its being to the gazer's eye.

The Meeting

After so long an absence
At last we meet again:
Does the meeting give us pleasure,
Or does it give us pain?

The tree of life has been shaken,
And but few of us linger now,
Like the Prophet's two or three berries
In the top of the uppermost bough.

We cordially greet each other
In the old, familiar tone;
And we think, though we do not say it,
How old and gray he is grown!

We speak of a Merry Christmas
And many a Happy New Year
But each in his heart is thinking
Of those that are not here.

We speak of friends and their fortunes,
And of what they did and said,
Till the dead alone seem living,
And the living alone seem dead.

And at last we hardly distinguish
Between the ghosts and the guests;
And a mist and shadow of sadness
Steals over our merriest jests.

published in the Knickerbocker as The Fifth Psalm

also called An Autumnal Chant in Longfellow's diary

Midnight Mass for the Dying Year

Yes, the Year is growing old,
And his eye is pale and bleared!
Death, with frosty hand and cold,
Plucks the old man by the beard,
Sorely, sorely!

The leaves are falling, falling,
Solemnly and slow;
Caw! caw! the rooks are calling,
It is a sound of woe,
A sound of woe!

Through woods and mountain passes
The winds, like anthems, roll;
They are chanting solemn masses,
Singing, "Pray for this poor soul,
Pray, pray!"

And the hooded clouds, like friars,
Tell their beads in drops of rain,
And patter their doleful prayers;
But their prayers are all in vain,
All in vain!

There he stands in the foul weather,
The foolish, fond Old Year,
Crowned with wild flowers and with heather,
Like weak, despised Lear,
A king, a king!

Then comes the summer-like day,
Bids the old man rejoice!
His joy! his last! Oh, the man gray
Loveth that ever-soft voice,
Gentle and low.

To the crimson woods he saith,
To the voice gentle and low
Of the soft air, like a daughter's breath,
"Pray do not mock me so!
Do not laugh at me!"

And now the sweet day is dead;
Cold in his arms it lies;
No stain from its breath is spread
Over the glassy skies,
No mist or stain!

Then, too, the Old Year dieth,
And the forests utter a moan,
Like the voice of one who crieth
In the wilderness alone,
"Vex not his ghost!"

Then comes, with an awful roar,
Gathering and sounding on,
The storm-wind from Labrador,
The wind Euroclydon,
The storm-wind!

Howl! howl! and from the forest
Sweep the red leaves away!
Would, the sins that thou abhorrest,
O soul! could thus decay,
And be swept away!

For there shall come a mightier blast,
There shall be a darker day;
And the stars, from heaven down-cast
Like red leaves be swept away!
Kyrie, eleyson!
Christe, eleyson!

Snow-Flakes

Out of the bosom of the Air,
Out of the cloud-folds of her garments shaken,
Over the woodlands brown and bare,
Over the harvest-fields forsaken,
Silent, and soft, and slow
Descends the snow.

Even as our cloudy fancies take
Suddenly shape in some divine expression,
Even as the troubled heart doth make
In the white countenance confession,
The troubled sky reveals
The grief it feels.

This is the poem of the air,
Slowly in silent syllables recorded;
This is the secret of despair,
Long in its cloudy bosom hoarded,
Now whispered and revealed
To wood and field.

The Three Kings

Three Kings came riding from far away,
Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;
Three Wise Men out of the East were they,
And they travelled by night and they slept by day,
For their guide was a beautiful, wonderful star.

The star was so beautiful, large, and clear,
That all the other stars of the sky
Became a white mist in the atmosphere,
And by this they knew that the coming was near
Of the Prince foretold in the prophecy.

Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,
Three caskets of gold with golden keys;
Their robes were of crimson silk with rows
Of bells and pomegranates and furbelows,
Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees.

And so the Three Kings rode into the West,
Through the dusk of night, over hill and dell,
And sometimes they nodded with beard on breast
And sometimes talked, as they paused to rest,
With the people they met at some wayside well.

"Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,
"Good people, I pray you, tell us the news;
For we in the East have seen his star,
And have ridden fast, and have ridden far,
To find and worship the King of the Jews."

And the people answered, "You ask in vain;
We know of no king but Herod the Great!"
They thought the Wise Men were men insane,
As they spurred their horses across the plain,
Like riders in haste, and who cannot wait.

And when they came to Jerusalem,
Herod the Great, who had heard this thing,
Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;
And said, "Go down unto Bethlehem,
And bring me tidings of this new king."

So they rode away; and the star stood still,
The only one in the gray of morn
Yes, it stopped, it stood still of its own free will,
Right over Bethlehem on the hill,
The city of David where Christ was born.

And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,
Through the silent street, till their horses turned
And neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;
But the windows were closed, and the doors were barred,
And only a light in the stable burned.

And cradled there in the scented hay,
In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,
The little child in the manger lay,
The child, that would be king one day
Of a kingdom not human but divine.

His mother Mary of Nazareth
Sat watching beside his place of rest,
Watching the even flow of his breath,
For the joy of life and the terror of death
Were mingled together in her breast.

They laid their offerings at his feet:
The gold was their tribute to a King,
The frankincense, with its odor sweet,
Was for the Priest, the Paraclete,
The myrrh for the body's burying.

And the mother wondered and bowed her head,
And sat as still as a statue of stone;
Her heart was troubled yet comforted,
Remembering what the Angel had said
Of an endless reign and of David's throne.

Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,
With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;
But they went not back to Herod the Great,
For they knew his malice and feared his hate,
And returned to their homes by another way.

The Wind Over the Chimney

See, the fire is sinking low,
Dusky red the embers glow,
While above them still I cower,
While a moment more I linger,
Though the clock, with lifted finger,
Points beyond the midnight hour.

Sings the blackened log a tune
Learned in some forgotten June
From a school-boy at his play,
When they both were young together,
Heart of youth and summer weather
Making all their holiday.

And the night-wind rising, hark!
How above there in the dark,
In the midnight and the snow,
Ever wilder, fiercer, grander,
Like the trumpets of Iskander,
All the noisy chimneys blow!

Every quivering tongue of flame
Seems to murmur some great name,
Seems to say to me, "Aspire!"
But the night-wind answers, "Hollow
Are the visions that you follow,
Into darkness sinks your fire!"

Then the flicker of the blaze
Gleams on volumes of old days,
Written by masters of the art,
Loud through whose majestic pages
Rolls the melody of ages,
Throb the harp-strings of the heart.

And again the tongues of flame
Start exulting and exclaim:
"These are prophets, bards, and seers;
In the horoscope of nations,
Like ascendant constellations,
They control the coming years."

But the night-wind cries: "Despair!
Those who walk with feet of air
Leave no long-enduring marks;
At God's forges incandescent
Mighty hammers beat incessant,
These are but the flying sparks.

"Dust are all the hands that wrought;
Books are sepulchres of thought;
The dead laurels of the dead
Rustle for a moment only,
Like the withered leaves in lonely
Churchyards at some passing tread."

Suddenly the flame sinks down;
Sink the rumors of renown;
And alone the night-wind drear
Clamors louder, wilder, vaguer,--
"'T is the brand of Meleager
Dying on the hearth-stone here!"

And I answer,--"Though it be,
Why should that discomfort me?
No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain."

written in Longfellow's college years, before he was 19

Woods in Winter

When winter winds are piercing chill,
And through the hawthorn blows the gale,
With solemn feet I tread the hill,
That overbrows the lonely vale.

O'er the bare upland, and away
Through the long reach of desert woods,
The embracing sunbeams chastely play,
And gladden these deep solitudes.

Where, twisted round the barren oak,
The summer vine in beauty clung,
And summer winds the stillness broke,
The crystal icicle is hung.

Where, from their frozen urns, mute springs
Pour out the river's gradual tide,
Shrilly the skater's iron rings,
And voices fill the woodland side.

Alas! how changed from the fair scene,
When birds sang out their mellow lay,
And winds were soft, and woods were green,
And the song ceased not with the day!

But still wild music is abroad,
Pale, desert woods! within your crowd;
And gathering winds, in hoarse accord,
Amid the vocal reeds pipe loud.

Chill airs and wintry winds! my ear
Has grown familiar with your song;
I hear it in the opening year,
I listen, and it cheers me long.

Adonis: 'We, in Arab society, do not understand the meaning of freedom'

2006-12-18T23:14:00.000-05:00

Duration 4:40

_____

This is from The Middle East Media Research Institute: Special Dispatch Series, No. 1393

The video above is better viewed on the MEMRI site from here:

MEMRI TV Clip 1335

Below is the transcript translated into English by MEMRI.

_____

Renowned Syrian Poet 'Adonis': 'We, In Arab Society, Do Not Understand The Meaning Of Freedom'

The poet Ali Ahmad Sa'id (b. 1930), known by his pseudonym "Adonis," a 2005 candidate for the Nobel Prize for Literature, left his native Syria for Lebanon in the 1950s following six months' imprisonment for political activity. In 1973, he received his Ph.D. from St. JosephUniversity in Beirut; in 1985, he settled in Paris, where he now works as a writer and literary critic. Among other occupations, he has edited the modernist magazine Mawaqif (Viewpoints), and translated some of the great French poets into Arabic.

The following are excerpts from interviews with Adonis, which aired on ANB TV on November 26, 2006 and on Dubai TV on March 11, 2006.

November 26, 2006 Interview

to view this clip: MEMRI TV Clip 1335

Adonis: "The difference between Europe and the Islamic world is in quality, not in degree. What I mean is that the Christian view of the world is not political, but humanistic. It is human beings who are the basis for politics.

"A Christian has great liberty to separate his religious faith from his political activity. The mistake committed by the Church in the Middle Ages was rectified--obviously after a struggle and violent revolutions--and political rule was entirely separated from politics . . ."

Interviewer: "From religion . . ."

Adonis: "From religion, sorry. In our case, political rule was based . . . Ever since the struggle over who would inherit Prophet Muhammad's place, political rule was essentially based on religion."

Interviewer: "But there were great revolutions in the Arab and Islamic world. Take, for example, the ideology of Arab nationalism. This ideology may be connected with Islamic culture, but it is still a man-made ideology."

Adonis: "But the ideology of Arab nationalism, in all its forms, is a religious ideology, in the sense that it has never raised any cardinal question concerning religion."

[. . .]

"The Arabs have managed to turn democracy or the revolution into a dynastic or monarchic regime, which is handed down. Most Arab regimes are monarchic regimes, one way or another."

Interviewer: "Including the republics . . ."

Adonis: "Especially the republics. In my opinion, while it is true that colonialism has played a role, and the wars with Israel have played a role, the greatest responsibility is, nevertheless, on us Arabs."

[. . .]

"The Arab individual does not elect from among people of different opinions who represent different currents. The Arab is accustomed to voting according to pre-determined concepts. Whoever represents this pre-determined concept . . . The nationalist will vote for a nationalist, and the communist will vote for a communist. These are all types of religious sects. The tribal and sectarian structure has not disintegrated, and has not melted down into the new structure of democracy and the democratic option."

[. . .]

"There can be no living culture in the world if you cannot criticize its foundations--the religion.

"We lack the courage to ask any question about any religious issue.

"For example, as a Muslim, I cannot say a single word about the Prophet Moses.

"The Prophet Moses did not say anything to me as a Muslim, whereas the Israeli Jew can criticize Moses and all the prophets in the Torah, and he can even question the divinity of the Torah."

[. . .]

"We, in Arab society, do not understand the meaning of freedom. We say that freedom means writing an article. Freedom is much deeper than that."

Interviewer: "Even writing an article is not possible."

Adonis: "True. Arab society is based on many types of invisible slavery, and the ideology and political rule conceal them with worthless slogans and political discourse. The underlying structure of Arab societies is a structure of slavery, not of liberty."

_____

March 11, 2006 Interview

to view this clip: MEMRI TV Clip 1076

Adonis: "Words are treated as a crime today. Throughout history, there has never been anything similar to what's happening today in our Arab society--when you say a word, it is like committing a crime."

Interviewer: "True."

Adonis: "Words and opinions are treated as a crime. This is inconceivable."

Interviewer: "You can be arrested for writing an article."

Adonis: "That's one example."

[. . .]

"In the Koran itself, it says that Allah listened to his first enemy, Satan, and Satan refused to obey him. I believe that Allah was capable of wiping out Satan, yet He listened to Satan's refusal to obey Him.

"At the very least, we demand that Muslims today listen to people with different opinions."

[. . .]

Interviewer: "How do you view the plan for democracy, the 'Greater Middle East' plan?"

Adonis: "First of all, I oppose any external intervention in Arab affairs. If the Arabs are so inept that they cannot be democratic by themselves, they can never be democratic through the intervention of others.

"If we want to be democratic, we must be so by ourselves. But the preconditions for democracy do not exist in Arab society, and cannot exist unless religion is reexamined in a new and accurate way, and unless religion becomes a personal and spiritual experience, which must be respected.

"On the other hand, all issues pertaining to civil and human affairs must be left up to the law and to the people themselves."

Interviewer: "Mr. Adonis, how do you view the democracy in Palestine, which brought Hamas to power?"

Adonis: "I support it, but I oppose the establishment of any state on the basis of religion, even if it's done by Hamas."

Interviewer: "Even if it liberates Palestine?"

Adonis: "Yes, because in such a case, it would be my duty to fight this religious state."

[. . .]

Interviewer: "What are the reasons for growing glorification of dictatorships--sometimes in the name of pan-Arabism, and other times in the name of rejecting foreigners? The glorification comes even from the elites, as can be seen, for example, in the Saddam Hussein trial, and in all the people who support him."

Adonis: "This phenomenon is very dangerous, and I believe it has to do with the concept of 'oneness,' which is reflected--in practical or political terms--in the concept of the hero, the savior, or the leader. This concept offers an inner sense of security to people who are afraid of freedom. Some human beings are afraid of freedom."

Interviewer: "Because it is synonymous with anarchy?"

Adonis: "No, because being free is a great burden. It is by no means easy."

Interviewer: "You've got to have a boss . . ."

Adonis: "When you are free, you have to face reality, the world in its entirety. You have to deal with the world's problems, with everything . . ."

Interviewer: "With all the issues . . ."

Adonis: "On the other hand, if we are slaves, we can be content and not have to deal with anything. Just as Allah solves all our problems, the dictator will solve all our problems."

[. . .]

"I don't understand what is happening in Arab society today. I don't know how to interpret this situation, except by making the following hypothesis: When I look at the Arab world, with all its resources, the capacities of Arab individuals, especially abroad--you will find among them great philosophers, scientists, engineers, and doctors. In other words, the Arab individual is no less smart, no less a genius, than anyone else in the world. He can excel--but only outside his society. I have nothing against the individuals--only against the institutions and the regimes.

"If I look at the Arabs, with all their resources and great capacities, and I compare what they have achieved over the past century with what others have achieved in that period, I would have to say that we Arabs are in a phase of extinction, in the sense that we have no creative presence in the world."

Interviewer: "Are we on the brink of extinction, or are we already extinct?"

Adonis: "We have become extinct. We have the quantity. We have the masses of people, but a people becomes extinct when it no longer has a creative capacity, and the capacity to change its world."

[. . .]

"The great Sumerians became extinct, the great Greeks became extinct, and the Pharaohs became extinct. The clearest sign of this extinction is when we intellectuals continue to think in the context of this extinction."

Interviewer: "That is very dangerous."

Adonis: "That is our real intellectual crisis. We are facing a new world with ideas that no longer exist, and in a context that is obsolete. We must sever ourselves completely from that context, on all levels, and think of a new Arab identity, a new culture, and a new Arab society."

[. . .]

"Imagine that Arab societies had no Western influence. What would be left? The Muslims must . . ."

Interviewer: "What would be left?"

Adonis: "Nothing. Nothing would be left except for the mosque, the church, and commerce, of course."

[. . .]

"The Muslims today--forgive me for saying this--with their accepted interpretation [of the religious text], are the first to destroy Islam, whereas those who criticize the Muslims--the non-believers, the infidels, as they call them--are the ones who perceive in Islam the vitality that could adapt it to life. These infidels serve Islam better than the believers."

_____

Blue Luge

2006-12-14T10:57:00.000-05:00

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Blue Luge

Two guys are on a park bench arguing about whether God exists.

Harry says there's no God, that when you die, you get zilched. Freddy says when you die, you go to God in Heaven.

A lightning bolt strikes and takes them both, one at a time, in what can be described as an upwards luge in blue, snowlike only more fun. It's a blast, in fact.

They get to the landing laughing, and are ushered into a line, waiting to get to a desk, as if at a busy country airport.

Harry admits he was wrong. Freddy gloats.

They get to the desk, and sure enough, the guy's name there is Peter. Peter's sending Harry back with a message of peace and love for the world.

Freddy asks Peter, "So, when do I meet God?"

Peter explains that, there in Heaven, there are far more and better philosophers, mathematicians, and scientists than live on Earth, indeed the greatest ever. And they pretty much agree that the chance of there being a God is zero.

_____

_____

Mary and The Maid, cleaning up the place

2006-12-10T22:44:00.000-05:00

by Patty Griffin

Mary

Mary
You're covered in roses
You're covered in ashes
You're covered in rain
You're covered in babies
You're covered in slashes
You're covered in wilderness
You're covered in stains

You cast aside the sheets
You cast aside the shroud
Of another man who served the world proud
And you greet another son and you lose another one
On some sunny day and always stay
Mary

Jesus says Mother I couldn't stay another day longer
He flies right by and leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels were singing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Oh Mary
She moves behind me
She leaves her fingerprints everywhere
Everytime the snow drifts
Every way the sand shifts
Even when the night lifts she's always there

Jesus said Mother I couldn't stay another day longer
He flies right by and leaves a kiss upon her face
While the angels were singing his praises in a blaze of glory
Mary stays behind and starts cleaning up the place

Oh Mary
You're covered in roses
You're covered in ruins
You're covered in secrets
You're covered in treetops
Covered in birds
Who can sing a million songs without any words
You cast aside the sheets
You cast aside the shroud
Of another man who served the world proud
And you greet another son and you lose another one
On some sunny day and always you stay
Mary

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The song:

Duration 4:13

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"Mary" may be Patty Griffin's best song among many extraordinary songs--whether we consider the words poetry or not. "The Maid" may be Gilbert Parker's best poem. Both deal with the sense of how important it is to take care of, and care deeply for, the world while we are here, as both also touch on the inevitable, the awesome, and the personal aspects of our and our loved ones' dying.

_____

by Gilbert Parker

The Maid

A little while I saw the world go by--
A little doorway that I called my own,
A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I,
A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone
And now, alone, I bid the world good-bye.

_____

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Some Embers & Sonnets of Gilbert Parker

2006-12-10T20:39:00.000-05:00

Sir Horatio Gilbert George Parker (1862-1932)

Gilbert Parker of Ontario, Canada, is known primarily as a novelist and politician. He was also a poet. The below selection of his poetry is from his collections, Embers and A Lover's Diary.

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Athenian

Your voice I knew, its cadences and thrill;
It stilled the tumult and the overthrow
When Athens trembled to the people's will;
I knew it--'twas a thousand years ago.

I see the fountains, and the gardens where
You sang the fury from the Satrap's brow;
I feel the quiver in the raptured air,
I heard it in the Athenian grove--I hear you now.

_____

The Camel-Driver to His Camel

Fleet is thy foot: thou shalt rest by the etl tree;
Water shalt thou drink from the blue-deep well;
Allah send his gard'ner with the green bersim,
For thy comfort, fleet one, by the etl tree.
As the stars fly, have thy footsteps flown--
Deep is the well, drink, and be still once more;
Till the pursuing winds, panting, have found thee
And, defeated, sink still beside thee--
By the well and the etl tree.

_____

The Choice

If Death should come to me to-night, and say:
"I weigh thy destiny; behold, I give
One little day with this thy love to live,
Then, my embrace; or, leave her for alway,

And thou shalt walk a full array of years;
Upon thee shall the world's large honours fall,
And praises clamorous shall make for all
Thy strivings rich amends." If in my ears

Thou saidst, "I love thee!" I would straightway cry,
"A thousand years upon this barren earth
Is death without her: for that day I die,

And count my life for it of poorest worth."
Love's reckoning is too noble to be told
By Time's slow fingers on its sands of gold.

_____

L'Empereur, Mort (M. H., Aged Five)

My dear, I was thy lover,
A man of spring-time years;
I sang thee songs, gave gifts and songs most poor,
But they were signs; and now, for evermore,
Thou farest forth! My heart is full of tears,
My dear, my very dear.

My dear, I was thy lover,
I wrote thee on my shield,
I cried thy name in goodly fealty,
Thy champion I. And now, no more for me
Thy face, thy smile: thou goest far afield,
My dear, my very dear.

My dear, I am thy lover:
Afield thy spirit goes,
And thou shalt find that Inn of God's delight,
Where thou wilt wait for us who say good night,
To thy sweet soul. The rest--the rest, God knows,
My dear, my dear!

_____

Eyes Like the Sea

Eyes like the sea, look up, the beacons brighten,
Home comes the sailor, home across the tide!
Back drifts the cloud, behold the heavens whiten,
The port of Love is open, he anchors at thy side.

_____

A Farewell From the Harem

Take thou thy flight, O soul! Thou hast no more
The gladness of the morning: ah, the perfumed roses
My love laid on my bosom as I slept!
How did he wake me with his lips upon mine eyes,
How did the singers carol, the singers of my soul,
That nest among the thoughts of my beloved!
All silent now, the choruses are gone,
The windows of my soul are closed; no more
Mine eyes look gladly out to see my lover come.
There is no more to do, no more to say
Take flight, my soul, my love returns no more!

_____

The Fighter

Blows I have struck, and blows a-many taken,
Wrestling I've fallen, and I've rose up again;
Mostly I've stood--
I've had good bone and blood;
Others went down though fighting might and main.
Now Death steps in,
Death the price of sin:
The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain,
One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken.

_____

The Forgotten Word

Once in the twilight of the Austrian hills,
A word came to me, wonderful and good;
If I had spoken it--that message of the stars--
Love would have filled thy blood;
Love would have sent thee pulsing to my arms,
Laughing with joy, thy heart a nestling bird
An instant passed--it fled; and now I seek in vain
For that forgotten word.

_____

Kildare

He's the man that killed Black Care,
He's the pride of all Kildare;
Shure the devil takes his hat off whin he comes:
'Tis the clargy bow before him,
'Tis the women they adore him,
And the Lord Lieutenant orders out the drums--
For his hangin', all the drums,
All the drums!

_____

The Last Dream

One more dream in the slow night watches,
One more sleep when the world is dumb,
And his soul leans out to the sweet wild snatches
Of song that up from dreamland come.

Pale, pale face with a golden setting,
Deep, deep glow of stedfast eyes;
Form of one there is no forgetting,
Wandering out of Paradise.

Breath of balm, and a languor falling
Out of the gleam of a sunset sky;
Peace, deep peace and a seraph's calling,
Folded hands and a pleading cry.

One more dream for the patient singer,
Weary with songs he loved so well;
Sleeping now--will the vision bring her?
Hark, 'tis the sound of the passing bell!

_____

The Little House

I

Children, the house is empty,
The house behind the tall hill;
Lonely and still is the empty house.
There is no face in the doorway,
There is no fire in the chimney--
Come and gather beside the gate,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills.

Where has the wild dog vanished?
Where has the swift foot gone?
Where is the hand that found the good fruit,
That made a garret of wholesome herbs?
Where is the voice that awoke the morn,
The tongue that defied the terrible beasts?
Come and listen beside the door,
Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills.

II

Sorrowful is the little house,
The little house by the winding stream;
All the laughter has died away
Out of the little house.
But down there come from the lofty hills
Footsteps and eyes agleam,
Bringing the laughter of yesterday
Into the little house,
By the winding stream and the hills.
Di ron, di ron, di ron-don!

III

What is there like to the cry of the bird
That sings in its nest in the lilac tree?
A voice the sweetest you ever have heard;
It is there, it is here, ci, ci!
It is there, it is here, it must roam and roam,
And wander from shore to shore,
Till I travel the hills and bring it home,
And enter and close my door--
Row along, row along home, ci, ci!

What is there like to the laughing star,
Far up from the lilac tree?
A face that's brighter and finer far;
It laughs and it shines, ci, ci!
It laughs and it shines, it must roam and roam,
And travel from shore to shore,
Till I get me forth and bring it home,
And house it within my door--
Row along, row along home, ci, ci!

_____

_____

Love's Language

Just now a wave of perfume floated up
To greet my senses as I broke the seal
Of her short letter; and I still can feel
It stir me as a saint the holy cup.

The missive lies there,--but a few plain words:
A thought about a song, a note of praise,
And social duties such as fill the days
Of women; then a thing that undergirds

The phrases like a psalm: a line that reads--
"I wish that you were coming!" Why, it lies
Upon my heart like blossoms on the skies,

Like breath of balm upon the clover meads.
The perfumed words soothe me into a dream;
My thoughts float to her on the scented stream.

_____

The Maid

A little while I saw the world go by--
A little doorway that I called my own,
A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I,
A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone
And now, alone, I bid the world good-bye.

_____

The North Trail

"Oh, where did you get them, the bonny, bonny roses
That blossom in your cheeks, and the morning in your eyes?"
"I got them on the North Trail, the road that never closes,
That widens to the seven gold gates of Paradise."
"O come, let us camp in the North Trail together,
With the night-fires lit and the tent-pegs down."

_____

Proem

And the Angel said:
"What hast thou for all thy travail--
what dost thou bring with thee out
of the dust of the world?"

And the man answered:
"Behold, I bring one perfect yesterday!"

And the Angel questioned:
"Hast thou then no to-morrow?
Hast thou no hope?"

And the man replied:
"Who am I that I should hope!
Out of all my life I have been granted one
sheaf of memory."

And the Angel said:
"Is this all!"

And the man answered:
"Of all else was I robbed by the way:
but Memory was hidden safely
in my heart--the world found it not."

_____

Qui Vive

Qui vive!
Who is it cries in the dawn,
Cries when the stars go down?
Who is it comes through the mist,
The mist that is fine like lawn,
The mist like an angel's gown?
Who is it comes in the dawn?
Qui vive! Qui vive! in the dawn.

Qui vive!
Who is it passeth us by,
Still in the dawn and the mist--
Tall seigneur of the dawn,
A two-edged sword at his thigh,
A shield of gold at his wrist?
Who is it hurrieth by?
Qui vive! Qui vive! in the dawn.

Qui vive!
Who saileth into the morn,
Out of the wind of the dawn?
"Follow, oh, follow me on!"
Calleth a distant horn.
He is here--he is there--he is gone,
Tall seigneur of the dawn!
Qui vive! Qui vive! in the dawn.

_____

The Sea-Reapers

When the Four Winds, the Wrestlers, strive with the Sun,
When the Sun is slain in the dark;
When the stars burn out, and the night cries
To the blind sea-reapers, and they rise,
And the water-ways are stark--
God save us when the reapers reap!
When the ships sweep in with the tide to the shore,
And the little white boats return no more;
When the reapers reap,
Lord, give Thy sailors sleep,
If Thou cast us not upon the shore,
To bless Thee evermore
To walk in Thy sight as heretofore,
Though the way of the Lord be steep!
By Thy grace,
Show Thy face,
Lord of the land and the deep!

_____

A Son of the Nile

Oh, the garden where to-day we, sow and to-morrow we reap;
Oh, the sakkia turning by the garden walls;
Oh, the onion-field and the date-tree growing,
And my hand on the plough--by the blessing of God;
Strength of my soul, O my brother, all's well!

_____

Summer is Come

Summer is come; the corn is in the ear,
The haze is swimming where the beeches stand;
Summer is come, though winter months be here--
My love is summer passing through the land.

Summer is come; I hear the skylarks sing,
The honeysuckle flaunts it to the bees;
Summer is come, and 'tis not yet the spring--
My love is summer blessing all she sees.

Summer is come; I see an open door,
A sweet hand beckons, and I know
That, winter or summer, I shall go forth no more--
My heart is homing where her summer-roses grow.

_____

The Torch

Art's use what is it but to touch the springs
Of nature? But to hold a torch up for
Humanity in Life's large corridor,
To guide the feet of peasants and of kings!

What is it but to carry union through
Thoughts alien to thoughts kindred, and to merge
The lines of colour that should not diverge,
And give the sun a window to shine through!

What is it but to make the world have heed
For what its dull eyes else would hardly scan,
To draw in a stark light a shameless deed,

And show the fashion of a kingly man!
To cherish honour, and to smite all shame,
To lend hearts voices, and give thoughts a name!

_____

Under the Cliff

The sands and the sea, and the white gulls fleeting,
The mist on the island, the cloud on the hill;
The song in my heart, and the old hope beating
Its life 'gainst the bars of thy will.

_____

The Waking

To be young is to dream, and I dreamed no more;
I had smothered my heart as the fighter can:
I toiled, and I looked not behind or before--
I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

By the soul at her lips, by the light of her eyes,
I dreamed a new dream as the sleeper can,
That the heavenly folly of youth was wise--
I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

She came like a song, she will go like a star:
I shall tread the hills as the hunter can,
Mine eyes to the hunt, and my soul afar--
I was stone; but I waked with the heart of a man.

_____

_____

Butterfly Wisdom, poet unknown

2006-12-06T22:56:00.000-05:00

Gutenberg.org has recently uploaded a book called Pages for Laughing Eyes by Unknown. In it are short yarns for children, some themed to the winter holidays, and quite a few poems, making it a good book to take out for bedtime stories.

Two of the poems, "Butterfly Wisdom" and "When I Grow Up", are included below, along with the picture "A Busy Street".

_____

Butterfly Wisdom

A butterfly poised on a wild-rose spray,
As a child tripped by one summer day,
And he thought: "How sorrowful she must be
To know she can never have wings like me!"
But the child passed on, with a careless eye
Of the gay-winged, proud, young butterfly,
While he fluttered about, as butterflies will,
Sipping of honey and dew his fill.

The butterfly spread his wings to the sky,
As the sweet-faced child again tripped by,
And he thought: "How envious she will be
My beautiful azure wings to see!"
But the child passed, with a lightsome heart,
Where never had lodged a poisonous dart,
While he fluttered about, as butterflies will,
Sipping of honey and dew his fill.

When the child again passed the wild-rose sweet,
A bit of azure fell at her feet;
She lifted it from the moss, and said:--
"Poor little butterfly, it is dead!"
Then she tossed it up towards the wild-rose spray,
And, singing merrily, went her way,
With never a thought, the summer through,
Of the butterfly and its wings of blue.

_____

When I Grow Up

"When I grow up my dress shall be
All made of silk and lace,
My hair I'll wear in some fine style
That best will suit my face;
With rings upon my fingers, too,
And bracelets on my arms,
I'll be the finest lady out,
With wondrous mighty charms.

"When I grow up, you understand,
I'll always dine at eight,
And go to dances and 'At homes,'
And sit up very late.
I'll never touch rice-puddings then,
But pastry eat, and cheese,
And always do just what I like
And go just where I please.

"When I grow up I'll have no nurse,
Nor yet a governess;
And lessons will not bother me
When I grow up, I guess.
I'll pay no heed to proper nouns,
Nor yet to mood nor tense"--
Here nurse put in: "When you grow up
Let's hope you'll have some sense!"

_____

A Busy Street

_____

Warning: A stark poem on the gruesome murder of Addie Hall

2006-12-04T11:35:00.000-05:00

_____

Something than which nothing greater can be thought so truly exists that it is not possible to think of it as not existing.
--Anselm of Aosta

Saint Anselm and the Murder of Addie Hall
in New Orleans on October 5, 2006

1.

Unbelievable, overwhelmingly sad
and shocking, to kill Addie Hall, have sex with
her body, chop her up in the tub, place her
torso in the refrigerator, cook her

arms and legs seasoned in the oven, her head
boiling until unrecognizable on
the stove top, while vegetables are prepared on
the countertop, in the apartment the two

shared in the French Quarter; to ultimately
shift to Plan B, take the last fifteen hundred
dollars and go on a two-week partying
spree of buddies, booze, and women in strip joints:

the unthinkable, which begs us to ask if
such a crime could be part of us on this earth.

2.

Is it so great a crime that it is itself
the God of love crimes? No other greater, more
perfect, more incomprehensible? Do we
not then prove or disprove it to ourselves as

Anselm tried to for God? God, will we not know
it happened, when it is both conceivable
and possible to us? Maybe she is still
alive: but not violated, dismembered,

and cooked. Instead we find her killer leaped to
his death, a confession in his pocket. He
murdered her, the poet and dancer, who met
and loved him in Katrina's aftermath. She

insisted he move out of her apartment
over the voodoo shop. He had not been true.

3.

Our God of love crimes is true, but this is not
the perfect crime. She was not disposed of piece
by seasoned piece, nightly with the tossed salad,
as if in unfinished meals, her poetic

head, lover's heart, artist's hands and dancer's legs,
all of her unrecognizable even
as a human body and especially
as the Adriane Hall, traceable to North

Carolina, who moved to New Orleans four
years earlier. Neither could the hauntingly
greater crime, with its full cannibalistic
possession of the lover, come to complete

fruition. Plan B had to be used. He thought
he could pay with his life. But it was Addie's.

November 18, 2006

_____

Here is a story that touches on how Addie Hall stayed in New Orleans during Katrina:

The New York Times: Holdouts on Dry Ground Say, 'Why Leave Now?'

Here is one on her murder:

The Times Picayune: Katrina survivalist's descent into madness

_____

Faith's Review and Expectation by John Newton (Amazing Grace, that is)

2006-11-23T09:05:00.000-05:00

originally a poem

written with William Cowper (1731-1800)

by Rev. John Newton (1725-1807)

Faith's Review and Expectation

Amazing grace! (how sweet the sound)
That sav'd a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to fear,
And grace my fears reliev'd;
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believ'd!

Thro' many dangers, toils and snares,
I have already come;
'Tis grace has brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home.

The Lord has promis'd good to me,
His word my hope secures;
He will my shield and portion be,
As long as life endures.

Yes, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
And mortal life shall cease;
I shall possess, within the vail,
A life of joy and peace.

The earth shall soon dissolve like snow,
The sun forbear to shine;
But God, who call'd me here below,
Will be for ever mine.

_____

Duration 3:51

performed by LeAnn Rimes

Amazing Grace

Amazing grace, how sweet the sound,
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I'm found.
I was blind, but now I see.

'Twas grace that taught my heart to feel
And grace my fears relieved.
How precious did that grace appear,
The hour I first believed.

When we've been dead ten thousand years,
Bright shining as the sun,
We've no less days to sing God's praise
Then when we first begun.

Amazing grace, O how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now I'm found.
I was blind, but now I see.

_____

Duration 6:00

in Cherokee

u ne la nv i u we tsi
i ga go yv he i
hna quo tso sv wi yu lo se
i ga gu yv ho nv
a se no i u ne tse i
i yu no du le nv
ta li ne dv tsi lu tsi li
u dv ne u ne tsv
e lo ni gv ni li squa di
ga lu tsv he i yu
ni ga di da ye di go i
a ni e lo hi gv
u na da nv ti a ne hv
do da ya nv hi li
tsa sv hna quo ni go hi lv
do hi wa ne he sdi

_____

Over Emily Dickinson's for Thanksgiving: 16 Poems

2006-11-22T21:14:00.001-05:00

Emily Dickinson
1830-1886

_____

A Bird came down the Walk

A Bird came down the Walk--
He did not know I saw--
He bit an Angleworm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,

And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass--
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass--

He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all around--
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought--
He stirred his Velvet Head

Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home--

Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam--
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon
Leap, plashless as they swim.

_____

God gave a Loaf to every Bird

God gave a Loaf to every Bird--
But just a Crumb--to Me--
I dare not eat it--tho' I starve--
My poignant luxury--

To own it--touch it--
Prove the feat--that made the Pellet mine--
Too happy--for my Sparrow's chance--
For Ampler Coveting--

It might be Famine--all around--
I could not miss an Ear--
Such Plenty smiles upon my Board--
My Garner shows so fair--

I wonder how the Rich--may feel--
An Indiaman--An Earl--
I deem that I--with but a Crumb--
Am Sovereign of them all--

_____

He ate and drank the precious Words

He ate and drank the precious Words--
His Spirit grew robust--
He knew no more that he was poor,
Nor that his frame was Dust--

He danced along the dingy Days
And this Bequest of Wings
Was but a Book--What Liberty
A loosened spirit brings--

_____

I bring an unaccustomed wine

I bring an unaccustomed wine
To lips long parching
Next to mine,
And summon them to drink;

Crackling with fever, they Essay,
I turn my brimming eyes away,
And come next hour to look.

The hands still hug the tardy glass--
The lips I would have cooled, alas--
Are so superfluous Cold--

I would as soon attempt to warm
The bosoms where the frost has lain
Ages beneath the mould--

Some other thirsty there may be
To whom this would have pointed me
Had it remained to speak--

And so I always bear the cup
If, haply, mine may be the drop
Some pilgrim thirst to slake--

If, haply, any say to me
"Unto the little, unto me,"
When I at last awake.

_____

I had been hungry, all the Years

I had been hungry, all the Years--
My Noon had Come--to dine--
I, trembling, drew the Table near--
And touched the Curious Wine--

'Twas this on Tables I had seen--
When turning, hungry, Home
I looked in Windows, for the Wealth
I could not hope--for Mine--

I did not know the ample Bread--
'Twas so unlike the Crumb
The birds and I had often shared
In Nature's Dining-Room--

The Plenty hurt me--'twas so new--
Myself felt ill--and odd--
As Berry--of A Mountain Bush
Transplanted--to the Road--

Nor was I hungry--so I found
That Hunger--was a way
Of Persons outside Windows--
The Entering--takes away--

_____

I meant to have but modest needs

I meant to have but modest needs--
Such as Content--and Heaven--
Within my income--these could lie
And Life and I--keep even--

But since the last--included both--
It would suffice my Prayer
But just for One--to stipulate--
And Grace would grant the Pair--

And so--upon this wise--I prayed--
Great Spirit--Give to me
A Heaven not so large as Yours,
But large enough--for me--

A Smile suffused Jehovah's face--
The Cherubim--withdrew--
Grave Saints stole out to look at me--
And showed their dimples--too--

I left the Place, with all my might--
I threw my Prayer away--
The Quiet Ages picked it up--
And Judgment--twinkled--too--
Tat one so honest--be extant--
It take the Tale for true--
That "Whatsoever Ye shall ask--
Itself be given You"--

But I, grown shrewder--scan the Skies
With a suspicious Air--
As Children--swindled for the first
All Swindlers--be--infer--

_____

I worked for chaff and earning Wheat

I worked for chaff and earning Wheat
Was haughty and betrayed.
What right had Fields to arbitrate
In matters ratified?

I tasted Wheat and hated Chaff
And thanked the ample friend--
Wisdom is more becoming viewed
At distance than at hand.

_____

It sifts from Leaden Sieves

It sifts from Leaden Sieves--
It powders all the Wood.
It fills with Alabaster Wool
The Wrinkles of the Road--

It makes an Even Face
Of Mountain and of Plain--
Unbroken Forehead from the East
Unto the East again--

It reaches to the Fence--
It wraps it Rail by Rail
Till it is lost in Fleeces--
It deals Celestial Veil

To Stump and Stack--and Stem--
A Summer's empty Room--
Acres of Joints where Harvests were,
Recordless, but for them--

It Ruffles Wrists of Posts
As Ankles of a Queen--
Then stills its Artisans--like Ghosts,
Denying they have been--

_____

One Blessing had I than the rest

One Blessing had I than the rest
So larger to my Eyes
That I stopped gauging--satisfied--
For this enchanted size--

It was the limit of my Dream--
The focus of my Prayer--
A perfect--paralyzing Bliss--
Contented as Despair--

I knew no more of Want--or Cold--
Phantasms both become
For this new Value in the Soul--
Supremest Earthly Sum--

The Heaven below the Heaven above--
Obscured with ruddier Blue--
Life's Latitudes leant over--full--
The Judgment perished--too--

Why Bliss so scantily disburse--
Why Paradise defer--
Why Floods be served to Us--in Bowls--
I speculate no more--

_____

One Day is there of the Series

One Day is there of the Series
Termed Thanksgiving Day.
Celebrated part at Table
Part in Memory.

Neither Patriarch nor Pussy
I dissect the Play
Seems it to my Hooded thinking
Reflex Holiday.

Had there been no sharp Subtraction
From the early Sum--
Not an Acre or a Caption
Where was once a Room--

Not a Mention, whose small Pebble
Wrinkled any Sea,
Unto Such, were such Assembly
'Twere Thanksgiving Day.

_____

Prayer is the little implement

Prayer is the little implement
Through which Men reach
Where Presence--is denied them.
They fling their Speech

By means of it--in God's Ear--
If then He hear--
This sums the Apparatus
Comprised in Prayer--

_____

They won't frown alway--some sweet Day

They won't frown alway--some sweet Day
When I forget to tease--
They'll recollect how cold I looked
And how I just said "Please."

Then They will hasten to the Door
To call the little Girl
Who cannot thank Them for the Ice
That filled the lisping full.

_____

'Twas just this time, last year, I died

'Twas just this time, last year, I died.
I know I heard the Corn,
When I was carried by the Farms--
It had the Tassels on--

I thought how yellow it would look--
When Richard went to mill--
And then, I wanted to get out,
But something held my will.

I thought just how Red--Apples wedged
The Stubble's joints between--
And the Carts stooping round the fields
To take the Pumpkins in--

I wondered which would miss me, least,
And when Thanksgiving, came,
If Father'd multiply the plates--
To make an even Sum--

And would it blur the Christmas glee
My Stocking hang too high
For any Santa Claus to reach
The Altitude of me--

But this sort, grieved myself,
And so, I thought the other way,
How just this time, some perfect year--
Themself, should come to me--

It was too late for man,
But early yet for God;
Creation impotent to help,
But prayer remained our side.

How excellent the heaven,
When earth cannot be had;
How hospitable, then, the face
Of our old neighbor, God!

_____

Undue Significance a starving man attaches

Undue Significance a starving man attaches
To Food--
Far off--He sighs--and therefore--Hopeless--
And therefore--Good--

Partaken--it relieves--indeed--
But proves us
That Spices fly
In the Receipt--It was the Distance--
Was Savory--

_____

Unto my Books--so good to turn

Unto my Books--so good to turn--
Far ends of tired Days--
It half endears the Abstinence--
And Pain--is missed--in Praise--

As Flavors--cheer Retarded Guests
With Banquettings to be--
So Spices--stimulate the time
Till my small Library--

It may be Wilderness--without--
Far feet of failing Men--
But Holiday--excludes the night--
And it is Bells--within--

I thank these Kinsmen of the Shelf--
Their Countenances Kid
Enamor--in Prospective--
And satisfy--obtained--

_____

Victory comes late

Victory comes late--
And is held low to freezing lips--
Too rapt with frost
To take it--
How sweet it would have tasted--
Just a Drop--
Was God so economical?
His Table's spread too high for Us--
Unless We dine on tiptoe--
Crumbs--fit such little mouths--
Cherries--suit Robbins--
The Eagle's Golden Breakfast strangles--Them--
God keep His Oath to Sparrows--
Who of little Love--know how to starve--

_____

_____

From Pining Poem to Haunting Anthem: "Dark Eyes" by Yevhen Hrebinka

2006-11-15T14:34:00.000-05:00

Duration 2:12

Chet Atkins (1924-2001)

_____

originally a poem in Ukrainian

by Yevhen Hrebinka (1812-48)

composer unknown

Dark Eyes (The Gypsy Anthem)

Eyes of ecstacy, always haunting me,
Always taunting me, with your mystery,
Tell me tenderly, you belong to me
For eternity--dark eyes talk to me!

Eyes so dark and dear, eyes of loveth here,
Beauty full and true, I'm in love with you.
Give me eyes of love, like the stars above.
You stole my heart. May we ever part!

Gypsy melody that has haunted me,
Won't you set me free of all memory:
Of the time that's waste, of the path we traced
Of the pain we taste--so endlessly!

_____

К. П. Гребенка

Очи черные, очи страстные !
Очи жгучие и прекрасные !
Как люблю я вас! Как боюсь я вас !
Знать, увидел вас я в недобрый час !

Ох, недаром вы глубины темней !
Вижу траур в вас по душе моей,
Вижу пламя в вас я победное:
Сожжено на нем сердце бедное.

Но не грустен я, не печален я,
Утешительна мне судьба моя:
Все, что лучшего в жизни бог дал нам,
В жертву отдал я огневым глазам !

_____

Duration 2:02

Dmitri Hvorostovsky (b. 1962)

_____

Verse for Veterans: First Foe to Flanders Fields

2006-11-11T01:55:00.000-05:00

by Richard Lovelace (1618-1658)

To Lucasta, Going to the Wars

Tell me not, Sweet, I am unkind,
That from the nunnery
Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind
To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,
The first foe in the field;
And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such
As thou too shalt adore;
I could not love thee, Dear, so much,
Loved I not Honor more.

_____

at sea in the First Dutch War (1665) the night before an engagement

by Charles Sackville, 6th Earl of Dorset (1638-1706)

Song, Written at Sea

To all you ladies now at land
We men at sea indite;
But first would have you understand
How hard it is to write:
The Muses now, and Neptune too,
We must implore to write to you--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

For though the Muses should prove kind,
And fill our empty brain,
Yet if rough Neptune rouse the wind
To wave the azure main,
Our paper, pen, and ink, and we,
Roll up and down our ships at sea--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Then if we write not by each post,
Think not we are unkind;
Nor yet conclude our ships are lost
By Dutchmen or by wind:
Our tears we'll send a speedier way,
The tide shall bring them twice a day--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

The King with wonder and surprise
Will swear the seas grow bold,
Because the tides will higher rise
Than e'er they did of old:
But let him know it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall stairs--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our sad and dismal story,
The Dutch would scorn so weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree:
For what resistance can they find
From men who've left their hearts behind?--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

Let wind and weather do its worst,
Be you to us but kind;
Let Dutchmen vapor, Spaniards curse,
No sorrow we shall find:
'Tis then no matter how things go,
Or who's our friend, or who's our foe--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

To pass our tedious hours away
We throw a merry main,
Or else at serious ombre play:
But why should we in vain
Each other's ruin thus pursue?
We were undone when we left you--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

But now our fears tempestuous grow
And cast our hopes away;
Whilst you, regardless of our woe,
Sit careless at a play:
Perhaps permit some happier man
To kiss your hand, or flirt your fan--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

When any mournful tune you hear,
That dies in every note
As if it sighed with each man's care
For being so remote,
Think then how often love we've made
To you, when all those tunes were played--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

In justice you cannot refuse
To think of our distress,
When we for hopes of honor lose
Our certain happiness:
All those designs are but to prove
Ourselves more worthy of your love--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

And now we've told you all our loves,
And likewise all our fears,
In hopes this declaration moves
Some pity for our tears:
Let's hear of no inconstancy--
We have too much of that at sea--
With a fa, la, la, la, la.

_____

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

My Bonnie Mary

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine,
And fill it in a silver tassie,
That I may drink, before I go,
A service to my bonnie lassie.
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith,
Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry,
The ship rides by the Berwick-law,
And I maun leave my bonnie Mary.

The trumpets sound, the banners fly,
The glittering spears are ranked ready;
The shouts o' war are heard afar,
The battle closes thick and bloody;
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore
Wad mak me langer wish to tarry;
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar--
It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary!

_____

by William Cowper (1731-1808)

The Nightingale and Glow-Worm

A nightingale, that all day long
Had cheered the village with his song,
Nor yet at eve his note suspended,
Nor yet when eventide was ended,
Began to feel, as well he might,
The keen demands of appetite;
When, looking eagerly around,
He spied far off, upon the ground,
A something shining in the dark,
And knew the glow-worm by his spark;
So, stooping down from hawthorn top,
He thought to put him in his crop.
The worm, aware of his intent,
Harangued him thus, right eloquent:
"Did you admire my lamp," quoth he,
"As much as I your minstrelsy,
You would abhor to do me wrong,
As much as I to spoil your song;
For 'twas the self-same Power Divine
Taught you to sing, and me to shine;
That you with music, I with light,
Might beautify and cheer the night."
The songster heard his short oration,
And warbling out his approbation,
Released him, as my story tells,
And found a supper somewhere else.
Hence jarring sectaries may learn
Their real interest to discern;
That brother should not war with brother,
And worry and devour each other;
But sing and shine by sweet consent,
Till life's poor transient night is spent,
Respecting in each other's case
The gifts of nature and of grace.
Those Christians best deserve the name
Who studiously make peace their aim;
Peace both the duty and the prize
Of him that creeps and him that flies.

_____

by Edmund Hamilton Sears (1810-1876)

It Came upon the Midnight Clear

It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace on the earth, good will to men
From heaven's all-gracious King"--
The world in solemn stillness lay
To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world;
Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on hovering wing,
And ever o'er its Babel-sounds
The blessed angels sing.

But with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long;
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring;--
Oh, hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load,
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way
With painful steps and slow,
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing;--
Oh, rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing!

For lo! the days are hastening on
By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When Peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendors fling,
And the whole world give back the song
Which now the angels sing.

_____

by Louise Driscoll (1875-1957)

The Highway

All day long on the highway
The King's fleet couriers ride;
You may hear the tread of their horses sped
Over the country side.
They ride for life and they ride for death
And they override who tarrieth.
With show of color and flush of pride
They stir the dust on the highway.

Let them ride on the highway wide.
Love walks in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway
Is a tramp of an army's feet;
You may see them go in a marshaled row
With the tale of their arms complete:
They march for war and they march for peace,
For the lust of gold and fame's increase,

For victories sadder than defeat
They raise the dust on the highway.

All the armies of earth defied,
Love dwells in little paths aside.

All day long on the highway
Rushes an eager band,
With straining eyes for a worthless prize
That slips from the grasp like sand.
And men leave blood where their feet have stood
And bow them down unto brass and wood--
Idols fashioned by their own hand--
Blind in the dust of the highway.

Power and gold and fame denied,
Love laughs glad in the paths aside.

_____

by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae (1872-1918)

In Flanders Fields

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

_____

September 30, 2006: Massacre. September 29, 1960: Tenzin Gyatsu's prayer.

2006-11-10T21:29:00.000-05:00

May I become at all times, both now and forever
A protector for those without protection
A guide for those have lost their way
A ship for those with oceans to cross
A bridge for those with rivers to cross
A sanctuary for those in danger
A lamp for those without light
A place of refuge for those who lack shelter
And a servant to all in need.

--Tenzin Gyatso, the 14th Dalai Lama

_____

A Romanian ProTV station on a massacre of Tibetan refugees by Chinese soldiers on Nangapa pass in the Himilayas on Sept. 30, 2006. See more coverage and get involved in the struggle to free Tibet at Students for a Free Tibet and Tibet Will Be Free.

_____

from his website

a prayer

by His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso The Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet

Words of Truth

Honoring and Invoking the Great Compassion
of the Three Jewels; the Buddha, the Teachings,
and the Spiritual Community

O Buddhas, Bodhisattvas, and disciples
of the past, present, and future:
Having remarkable qualities
Immeasurably vast as the ocean,
Who regard all helpless sentient beings
as your only child;
Please consider the truth of my anguished pleas.

Buddha's full teachings dispel the pain of worldly
existence and self-oriented peace;
May they flourish, spreading prosperity and happiness throughout this spacious world.
O holders of the Dharma: scholars
and realized practitioners;
May your ten fold virtuous practice prevail.

Humble sentient beings, tormented
by sufferings without cease,
Completely suppressed by seemingly endless
and terribly intense, negative deeds,
May all their fears from unbearable war, famine,
and disease be pacified,
To freely breathe an ocean of happiness and well-being.
And particularly the pious people
of the Land of Snows who, through various means,
Are mercilessly destroyed by barbaric hordes
on the side of darkness,
Kindly let the power of your compassion arise,
To quickly stem the flow of blood and tears.

Those unrelentingly cruel ones, objects of compassion,
Maddened by delusion's evils,
wantonly destroy themselves and others;
May they achieve the eye of wisdom,
knowing what must be done and undone,
And abide in the glory of friendship and love.

May this heartfelt wish of total freedom for all Tibet,
Which has been awaited for a long time,
be spontaneously fulfilled;
Please grant soon the good fortune to enjoy
The happy celebration of spiritual with temporal rule.

O protector Chenrezig, compassionately care for
Those who have undergone myriad hardships,
Completely sacrificing their most cherished lives,
bodies, and wealth,
For the sake of the teachings, practitioners,
people, and nation.

Thus, the protector Chenrezig made vast prayers
Before the Buddhas and Bodhisativas
To fully embrace the Land of Snows;
May the good results of these prayers now quickly appear.
By the profound interdependence of emptiness
and relative forms,
Together with the force of great compassion
in the Three Jewels and their Words of Truth,
And through the power
of the infallible law of actions and their fruits,
May this truthful prayer be unhindered
and quickly fulfilled.

This prayer, Words of Truth, was composed by His Holiness Tenzin Gyatso, the Fourteenth Dalai Lama of Tibet, on 29 September 1960 at his temporary headquarters in the Swarg Ashram at Dharamsala, Kangra District, Himachal State, India. This prayer for restoring peace, the Buddhist teachings, and the culture and self-determina-tion of the Tibetan people in their homeland was written after repeated requests by Tibetan government officials along with the unanimous consensus of the monastic and lay communities.

_____

_____

If you want others to be happy, practice compassion. If you want to be happy, practice compassion.

_____

I am sorry you had to leave Reine

2006-11-05T11:34:00.001-05:00

in response to Linda Ronstadt singing Roy Orbison's "Blue Bayou"

alongside a Dag Hol painting of Reine, Lofoten, when unfinished

(Click to enlarge)

I am sorry you had to leave Reine

You could not stay with me, a middle-aged
woman of the fjord, who from birth has never left
her hamlet, living here on a shore at the base
of this jagged new mountain, where fresh clouds are not stroked up,
but come and go, where stars, the moon, and snow counter
winter noon when the thousands, like you, have come and gone--
to a world where imaginary replicas of my psyche get studied

in cozy jet-set universities. You cannot see me now so far away
from you. And I would not enter your red-bottomed oil.
A chasm's mantra wall of molten marble would have come
between me and my focus. Nor could seafarers coax
me into their crafts, with bottoms only the painted-on lipstick red
of waiting souls and bodies--how ships and art take on
their captains' fantasies, cool vessels that calmly fall off the far

edge of the earth and its realities each day.
Here in the great North, the world funnels up, small enough
for any traveller's vision to fit, and like fluid brick all fit
together. So I would not go into Reine for the proceedings
when my mother died. My red lava feet would have chilled
to pipegray. My steps would have become watery, then airy with
a summer's skyblue, my head following ghosts through openings

in clouds. My shoes would be like yours, permanently separated
from the blood. Look at them. You cannot have your molten feet back:
how you look for the crescent moon, the way you think it chases--
then waits on--some circling midnight sun for light. I remain here
and real, not art nor a paragraph like you seem to want to be.
Ask yourself how far away must a midnight sun be to leave the crescent
on the sky. It is not on the horizon. We will never get there.

October 8, 2006

note: for "Reine" say "RAY-neh"

_____

_____

Wrestling With Poetry in November

2006-11-03T21:41:00.000-05:00

by Homer (ca. 8th century BCE)

translated by Alexander Pope (1688-1744)

The Iliad

Book 23: Funeral Games in Honour of Patroclus
[wherein Achilles bestows on Nestor the unawarded fifth prize, the two-handled urn]

Achilles this to reverend Nestor bears.
And thus the purpose of his gift declares:
"Accept thou this, O sacred sire! (he said)
In dear memorial of Patroclus dead;
Dead and for ever lost Patroclus lies,
For ever snatch'd from our desiring eyes!
Take thou this token of a grateful heart,
Though 'tis not thine to hurl the distant dart,
The quoit to toss, the ponderous mace to wield,
Or urge the race, or wrestle on the field:
Thy pristine vigour age has overthrown,
But left the glory of the past thy own."

He said, and placed the goblet at his side;
With joy the venerable king replied:

"Wisely and well, my son, thy words have proved
A senior honour'd, and a friend beloved!
Too true it is, deserted of my strength,
These wither'd arms and limbs have fail'd at length.
Oh! had I now that force I felt of yore,
Known through Buprasium and the Pylian shore!
Victorious then in every solemn game,
Ordain'd to Amarynces' mighty name;
The brave Epeians gave my glory way,
AEtolians, Pylians, all resign'd the day.
I quell'd Clytomedes in fights of hand,
And backward hurl'd Ancaeus on the sand,
Surpass'd Iphyclus in the swift career,
Phyleus and Polydorus with the spear.
The sons of Actor won the prize of horse,
But won by numbers, not by art or force:
For the famed twins, impatient to survey
Prize after prize by Nestor borne away,
Sprung to their car; and with united pains
One lash'd the coursers, while one ruled the reins.
Such once I was! Now to these tasks succeeds
A younger race, that emulate our deeds:
I yield, alas! (to age who must not yield?)
Though once the foremost hero of the field.
Go thou, my son! by generous friendship led,
With martial honours decorate the dead:
While pleased I take the gift thy hands present,
(Pledge of benevolence, and kind intent,)
Rejoiced, of all the numerous Greeks, to see
Not one but honours sacred age and me:
Those due distinctions thou so well canst pay,
May the just gods return another day!"

_____

I have been tired and often not feeling well the past couple months, nothing serious, just part of being me with the maladies I have. This is one reason for the slowdown in posts. I work well over 40 hours a week, and work on a poetry column that takes 20-30 hours a week as well, so the Bud Bloom time is what's left after taking care of personal and family matters.

A second reason has turned up the past couple weeks. That has to do with the Pocha Pocha project, the Positive Change Poetry Channel. I want to get that off the ground, and I'm thinking that literature, visuals, and music forums should go up first, then possibly a mixed-media periodical, and then the development of a resource center for artistic expression, a site that is not nationalistic in any unnecessary sense, that reaches to be there for anyone, anywhere, any language. There are other steps that will become goals beyond the internet, some expressed in the post linked to above, but this is the beginning. I want PochaPocha.com to be up as soon as reasonably possible.

But the third reason is another online identity I have, which moved me to make this post. As a practical matter, I will be spending hours and hours this month with another pseudonym. The Massachusetts wrestling community knows me as "dansdad". Seriously, I have walked into tournaments and heard "Hey, that's dansdad".

At MassWrestling.com, I am a moderator for the articles, and the College forum. November means that colleges nationwide (California's a bit different) are beginning their programs, and have their rosters and schedules up online. I serve the wrestling community across the country by making lists of the colleges with wrestling programs, sorting them A to Z, and by state (and for you clickers, I don't know how those "?"'s got in there this past year).

I then take the up-to-date alphabetical list, and click into all the rosters of all the colleges, looking for the wrestlers from Massachusetts. I create directories of them by school and alphabetically. Someone's got to do it.

So now, priorities get switched, because the wrestling project is time sensitive. I really ought to have everything up by the end of the month. Usually, I am jamming with my Thanksgiving Day time off, to get it all near complete.

I don't know how this will work out. I have never been Bud Bloom and dansdad at the same time. In fact, I have only been Bud Bloom while looking forward to going to readings and festivals, never local meets and tournaments. I was at the high school tournament below, for instance, and will be there this year too. But I hope to bring some interesting and high quality poetry blog posts for you here this month.

Thanks very much.

dansdad

The All Time Top Ten Greatest Poems of Scotland

2006-10-29T17:28:00.000-05:00

In their article called Jeelie Piece Song is among our best poems, The Sunday Times of Scotland reports that "listeners of BBC Radio Scotland" have chosen Scotland's favorite all time top 20 poems.

These are included in the new book, edited by Stewart Conn, titled 100 Favourite Scottish Poems: The Nation's Favourites Including The Top 20 As Voted By BBC Scotland Listeners.

Presented below are the top ten as listed in the Sunday Times article, either the poems or links to them--all but number 10, which I could not find online. As with The Top 20 Greatest Banjo Paterson Poems of All Time from early last month, they are listed bottom to top.

_____

#10

by Liz Lochhead (b. 1947)

View of Scotland/Love Poem

(not available, here is an audio selection of her work)

_____

#9

from Vailima, Samoa

by Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

To S. R. Crockett (On receiving a Dedication)

Blows the wind to-day, and the sun and the rain are flying,
Blows the wind on the moors to-day and now,
Where about the graves of the martyrs the whaups are crying,
My heart remembers how!

Grey recumbent tombs of the dead in desert places,
Standing stones on the vacant wine-red moor,
Hills of sheep, and the howes of the silent vanished races,
And winds, austere and pure:

Be it granted me to behold you again in dying,
Hills of home! and to hear again the call;
Hear about the graves of the martyrs the peewees crying,
And hear no more at all.

_____

#8

by Marion Angus (1866-1946)

Mary's Song

I wad ha'e gi'en him my lips tae kiss,
Had I been his, had I been his;
Barley breid and elder wine,
Had I been his as he is mine.

The wanderin' bee it seeks the rose;
Tae the lochan's bosom the burnie goes;
The grey bird cries at evenin's fa',
'My luve, my fair one, come awa'.'

My beloved sall ha'e this he'rt tae break,
Reid, reid wine and the barley cake;
A he'rt tae break, an' a mou' tae kiss,
Tho' he be nae mine, as I am his.

(song in mp3, sheet music in pdf)

_____

#7

translated from the Scotts Gaelic version (just below) by Hugh MacDiarmid

by Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)

The Watergaw

One wet, early evening in the sheep-shearing season
I saw that occasional, rare thing--
A broken shaft of a rainbow with its trembling light
Beyond the downpour of the rain
And I thought of the last, wild look you gave
Before you died.

The skylark's nest was dark and desolate,
My heart was too
But I have thought of that foolish light
Ever since then
And I think that perhaps at last I know
What your look meant then.

_____

#7 (cont)

in the original Scottish vernacular

by Hugh MacDiarmid (1892-1978)

The Watergaw

Ae weet forenicht i' the yow-trummle
I saw yon antrin thing,
A watergaw wi' its chitterin' licht
Ayont the on-ding;
An' I thocht o' the last wild look ye gied
Afore ye deed!

There was nae reek i' the laverock's hoose
That nicht--an' nane i' mine;
But I hae thocht o' that foolish licht
Ever sin' syne;
An' I think that mebbe at last I ken
What your look meant then.

_____

#6

by Alastair Reid (b. 1926)

Scotland

It was a day peculiar to this piece of the planet,
when larks rose on long thin strings of singing
and the air shifted with the shimmer of actual angels.
Greenness entered the body. The grasses
shivered with presences, and sunlight
stayed like a halo on hair and heather and hills.
Walking into town, I saw, in a radiant raincoat,
the woman from the fish-shop. 'What a day it is!'
cried I, like a sunstruck madman.
And what did she have to say for it?
Her brow grew bleak, her ancestors raged in their graves
and she spoke with their ancient misery:
'We'll pay for it, we'll pay for it, we'll pay for it.'

_____

#5

an off-concrete Scottish fantasia

by Edwin Morgan (b. 1920)

Canedolia

(click picture for poem)

_____

#4

translated from the Scotts Gaelic version (just below) by Sorley Maclean

by Sorley Maclean (1911-1996), a.k.a Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Hallaig

'Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig.'

The window is nailed and boarded
through which I saw the West
and my love is at the Burn of Hallaig,
a birch tree, and she has always been

between Inver and Milk Hollow,
here and there about Baile-chuirn:
she is a birch , a hazel,
a straight slender young rowan.

In Screapadal of my people,
where Norman and Big Hector were,
their daughters and their sons are a wood
going up beside the stream.

Proud tonight the pine cocks
crowing on the top of Cnoc an Ra,
straight their backs in the moonlight--
they are not the wood I love.

I will wait for the birch wood
until it comes up by the Cairn,
until the whole ridge from Beinn na Lice
will be under its shade.

If it does not, I will go down to Hallaig,
to the sabbath of the dead,
where the people are frequenting,
every single generation gone.

They are still in Hallaig,
Macleans and Macleods,
All who were there in the time of Mac Gille Chaluim:
the dead have been seen alive--

'Time, the deer, is in the Wood of Hallaig.'

the men lying on the green
at the end of every house that was,
the girls a wood of birches,
straight their backs, bent their heads.

Between the Leac and Fearns
the road is under mild moss
and the girls in silent bands
go to Clachan as in the beginning.

And return from Clachan,
from Suisnish and the land of the living;
Each one young and light stepping,
without the heartbreak of the tale.

From the Burn of Fearns to the raised beach
that is clear in the mystery of the hills,
there is only the congregation of the girls
keeping up the endless walk,

coming back to Hallaig in the evening,
in the dumb living twilight,
filling the steep slopes,
their laughter in my ears a mist,

and their beauty a film on my heart
before the dimness comes on the kyles,
and when the sun goes down behind Dun Cana
a vehement bullet will come from the gun of Love;

and will strike the deer that goes dizzily,
sniffing at the grass-grown ruined homes;
his eye will freeze in the wood;
his blood will not be traced while I live.

_____

#4 (cont.)

in the original Scotts Gaelic

by Sorley Maclean (1911-1996), a.k.a Somhairle MacGill-Eain

Hallaig

'Tha tìm, am fiadh, an Coille Hallaig'

Tha bùird is tàirnean air an uinneig
trom faca mi an Aird an Iar
's tha mo ghaol aig Allt Hallaig
'na craoibh bheithe, 's bha i riamh

eadar an t-Inbhir 's Poll a' Bhainne,
thall 's a-bhos mu Bhaile Chùirn:
tha i 'na beithe, 'na calltainn,
'na caorann dhìreach sheang ùr.

Ann an Sgreapadal mo chinnidh,
far robh Tarmad 's Eachann Mòr,
tha 'n nigheanan 's am mic 'nan coille
a' gabhail suas ri taobh an lòin.

Uaibhreach a-nochd na coilich ghiuthais
a' gairm air mullach Cnoc an Rà,
dìreach an druim ris a' ghealaich--
chan iadsan coille mo ghràidh.

Fuirichidh mi ris a' bheithe
gus an tig i mach an Càrn,
gus am bi am bearradh uile
o Bheinn na Lice fa sgàil.

Mura tig 's ann theàrnas mi a Hallaig,
a dh'ionnsaigh sàbaid nam marbh,
far a bheil an sluagh a' tathaich,
gach aon ghinealach a dh'fhalbh.

Tha iad fhathast ann a Hallaig,
Clann Ghill-Eain 's Clann MhicLeòid,
na bh' ann ri linn Mhic Ghille Chaluim:
chunnacas na mairbh beò--

'Tha tìm, am fiadh, an Coille Hallaig'

na fir 'nan laighe air an lèanaig
aig ceann gach taighe a bh' ann,
na h-igheanan 'nan coille bheithe,
dìreach an druim, crom an ceann.

Eadar an Leac is na Feàrnaibh
tha 'n rathad mòr fo chòinnich chiùin,
's na h-igheanan 'nam badan sàmhach
a' dol a Chlachan mar o thus.

Agus a' tilleadh às a' Chlachan,
à Suidhisnis 's à tìr nam beò;
a chuile tè òg uallach,
gun bhristeadh cridhe an sgeòil.

O Allt na Feàrnaibh gus an fhaoilinn
tha soilleir an dìomhaireachd nam beann
chan eil ach coimhthional nan nighean
a' cumail na coiseachd gun cheann.

a' tilleadh a Hallaig anns an fheasgar,
anns a' chamhanaich bhalbh bheò,
a' lìonadh nan leathadan casa,
an gàireachdaich 'nam chluais 'na ceò,

's am bòidhche 'na sgleò air mo chridhe
mun tig an ciaradh air na caoil,
's nuair theàrnas grian air cùl Dhùn Cana
thig peileir dian à gunna Ghaoil;

's buailear am fiadh a tha 'na thuaineal
a' snòtach nan làraichean feòir;
thig reothadh air a shùl sa choille:
chan fhaighear lorg air fhuil rim bheò.

_____

#3

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Is There, for Honest Poverty

(or the song A Man's a Man for A'That)

I.

Is there, for honest poverty,
That hangs his head, and a' that?
The coward-slave, we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Our toils obscure, and a' that;
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The man's the gowd for a' that!

II.

What tho' on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin gray, and a' that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
A man's a man, for a' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, and a' that;
The honest man, though e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that!

III.

Ye see yon birkie, ca'd--a lord,
Wha struts, and stares, and a' that;
Though hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
His riband, star, and a' that,
The man of independent mind,
He looks and laughs at a' that.

IV.

A king can make a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, and a' that,
But an honest man's aboon his might,
Guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, and a' that,
Their dignities, and a' that,
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,
Are higher ranks than a' that.

V.

Then let us pray that come it may--
As come it will for a' that--
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,
May bear the gree, and a' that;
For a' that, and a' that,
It's comin' yet for a' that,
That man to man, the warld o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that!

_____

#2

by Violet Jacob (1863-1846)

The Wild Geese

(or the song Norland Wind)

"O tell me what was on yer road, ye roarin' norlan' Wind,
As ye cam' blawin' frae the land that's niver frae my mind?
My feet they traivel England, but I'm dee'in for the north."
"My man, I heard the siller tides rin up the Firth o' Forth."

"Aye, Wind, I ken them weel eneuch, and fine they fa' an' rise,
And fain I'd feel the creepin' mist on yonder shore that lies,
But tell me, ere ye passed them by, what saw ye on the way?"
"My man, I rocked the rovin' gulls that sail abune the Tay."

"But saw ye naething, leein' Wind, afore ye cam' to Fife?
There's muckle lyin' 'yont the Tay that's mair to me nor life."
"My man, I swept the Angus braes ye hae'na trod for years."
"O Wind, forgi'e a hameless loon that canna see for tears!"

"And far abune the Angus straths I saw the wild geese flee,
A lang, lang skein o' beatin' wings, wi' their heids towards the sea,
And aye their cryin' voices trailed ahint them on the air--"
"O Wind, hae maircy, haud yer whisht, for I daurna listen mair!"

_____

#1

"Of Brownyis and of Bogillis full is this Buke." --Gawin Douglas.

A Tale

by Robert Burns (1759-1796)

Tam O'Shanter

When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neebors neebors meet,
As market-days are wearing late,
An' folk begin to tak' the gate;
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' gettin' fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

This truth fand honest Tam O' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter,
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonny lasses.)
O Tam! hadst thou but been sae wise,
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou wasna sober;
That ilka melder, wi' the miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on,
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirton Jean till Monday.
She prophesy'd, that late or soon,
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon;
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale:--Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right;
Fast by an ingle bleezing finely,
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny,
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony;
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither;
They had been fou' for weeks thegither!
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And ay the ale was growing better:
The landlady and Tam grew gracious;
Wi' favors secret, sweet, and precious;
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle--
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.

Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy!
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious.

But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white--then melts for ever;
Or like the borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm.
Nae man can tether time or tide;
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The de'il had business on his hand.

Weel mounted on his gray mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet;
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet;
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.--

By this time he was cross the foord,
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods;
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods;
The lightnings flash from pole to pole;
Near and more the thunders roll;
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze;
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing;
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.

Inspiring, bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd nae deils a boddle.
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd,
'Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance;
Nae cotillion brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels:
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge;
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.--
Coffins stood round, like open presses;
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses;
And by some devilish cantrip slight
Each in its cauld hand held a light--
By which heroic Tam was able
To note upon the haly table,
A murderer's banes in gibbet airns;
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns;
A thief, new-cutted frae a rape,
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape;
Five tomahawks, wi' bluid red-rusted;
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted;
A garter, which a babe had strangled;
A knife, a father's throat had mangled,
Whom his ain son o' life bereft,
The gray hairs yet stack to the heft:
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu',
Which ev'n to name would be unlawfu'.

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious,
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious:
The piper loud and louder blew;
The dancers quick and quicker flew;
They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit,
'Till ilka carlin swat and reekit,
And coost her duddies to the wark,
And linket at it in her sark!

Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans
A' plump and strapping, in their teens;
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen,
Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen,
Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair,
That ance were plush, o' guid blue hair,
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdies,
For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies!

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,
Rigwoodie hags, wad spean a foal,
Lowping an' flinging on a cummock,
I wonder didna turn thy stomach.

But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlie,
There was a winsome wench and walie,
That night enlisted in the core,
(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore;
For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear.)
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That, while a lassie, she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie--

Ah! little kenn'd the reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my muse her wing maun cour;
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strung,)
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd;
And thought his very een enrich'd;
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
'Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a' thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied,
When out the hellish legion sallied.

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch screech and hollow.

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin'!
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin'!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin'!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now do thy speedy utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stane of the brig;
There at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they darena cross!
But ere the key-stane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle--
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain gray tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd,
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind,
Think! ye may buy the joys o'er dear--
Remember Tam O' Shanter's mare.

_____

Daniel Webster: Great American Orator on Poetry

2006-10-20T21:55:00.000-04:00

Daniel Webster was born in Salisbury or Franklin, New Hampshire in 1782, and died in Marshfield Massachusetts in 1852. He was a constitutional attorney, a US Senator, and a great orator. He opposed war, and sought compromise. Some say it is because of his compromising that he did not attain the presidency. It would have been remarkable for this man to have stood his ground firmly as an abolitionist opposed to slavery, and not compromise this position, for instance. A century after his death, in 1957, the Senate voted him as one of the top 5 Senators in US history. We may also vote him in some top 10 or 5 group of all-time US orators, somewhere in the close numbers that lead up to Martin Luther King through John F. Kennedy.

So what does Daniel Webster have to do with poetry? In the course of a life of speeches filled with stirring remarks and quotable quotes, come some thoughts on poetry, worth pondering 170 or so years later. Below are four excerpts from The Great Speeches and Orations of Daniel Webster.

_____

Poetry is found to have few stronger conceptions, by which it would affect or overwhelm the mind, than those in which it presents the moving and speaking image of the departed dead to the senses of the living. This belongs to poetry, only because it is congenial to our nature. Poetry is, in this respect, but the handmaid of true philosophy and morality; it deals with us as human beings, naturally reverencing those whose visible connection with this state of existence is severed, and who may yet exercise we know not what sympathy with ourselves; and when it carries us forward, also, and shows us the long continued result of all the good we do, in the prosperity of those who follow us, till it bears us from ourselves, and absorbs us in an intense interest for what shall happen to the generations after us, it speaks only in the language of our nature, and affects us with sentiments which belong to us as human beings.

at Plymouth Rock, Dec 22, 1820

~~~

An aged man, without an enemy in the world, in his own house, and in his own bed, is made the victim of a butcherly murder, for mere pay. Truly, here is a new lesson for painters and poets. Whoever shall hereafter draw the portrait of murder, if he will show it as it has been exhibited, where such example was last to have been looked for, in the very bosom of our New England society, let him not give it the grim visage of Moloch, the brow knitted by revenge, the face black with settled hate, and the bloodshot eye emitting livid fires of malice. Let him draw, rather, a decorous, smooth-faced, bloodless demon; a picture in repose, rather than in action; not so much an example of human nature in its depravity, and in its paroxysms of crime, as an infernal being, a fiend, in the ordinary display and development of his character.

at the trial of John Francis Knapp, Essex County MA, April 6, 1830

~~~

A true lover of the virtue of patriotism delights to contemplate its purest models; and that love of country may be well suspected which affects to soar so high into the regions of sentiment as to be lost and absorbed in the abstract feeling, and becomes too elevated or too refined to glow with fervor in the commendation or the love of individual benefactors. All this is unnatural. It is as if one should be so enthusiastic a lover of poetry, as to care nothing for Homer or Milton; so passionately attached to eloquence as to be indifferent to Tully and Chatham; or such a devotee to the arts, in such an ecstasy with the elements of beauty, proportion, and expression, as to regard the masterpieces of Raphael and Michael Angelo with coldness or contempt. We may be assured, Gentlemen, that he who really loves the thing itself, loves its finest exhibitions.

at a centennial birthday celebration for George Washington, Washington DC, Feb 22, 1832

~~~

In the early part of the second century of our history, Bishop Berkeley, who, it will be remembered, had resided for some time in Newport, in Rhode Island, wrote his well-known "Verses on the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America." The last stanza of this little poem seems to have been produced by a high poetical inspiration:--

"Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first acts already past,
A fifth shall close the drama with the day:
Time's noblest offspring is the last."

This extraordinary prophecy may be considered only as the result of long foresight and uncommon sagacity; of a foresight and sagacity stimulated, nevertheless, by excited feeling and high enthusiasm. So clear a vision of what America would become was not founded on square miles, or on existing numbers, or on any common laws of statistics. It was an intuitive glance into futurity; it was a grand conception, strong, ardent, glowing, embracing all time since the creation of the world, and all regions of which that world is composed, and judging of the future by just analogy with the past. And the inimitable imagery and beauty with which the thought is expressed, joined to the conception itself, render it one of the most striking passages in our language.

"A muse of fire, . . .
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!"

The Muse inspiring our fathers was the Genius of Liberty, all on fire with a sense of oppression, and a resolution to throw it off; the whole world was the stage, and higher characters than princes trod it; and, instead of monarchs, countries and nations and the age beheld the swelling scene. How well the characters were cast, and how well each acted his part, and what emotions the whole performance excited, let history, now and hereafter, tell.

at the laying of the cornerstone of the addition to the Capitol, July 4, 1851

~~~

_____

by George Berkeley (1685-1753)

On the Prospect of Planting Arts
and Learning in America

The Muse, disgusted at an age and clime
Barren of every glorious theme,
In distant lands now waits a better time,
Producing subjects worthy fame:

In happy climes, where from the genial sun
And virgin earth such scenes ensue,
The force of art by nature seems outdone,
And fancied beauties by the true;

In happy climes, the seat of innocence,
Where nature guides and virtue rules,
Where men shall not impose for truth and sense
The pedantry of courts and schools:

There shall be sung another golden age,
The rise of empire and of arts,
The good and great inspiring epic rage,
The wisest heads and noblest hearts.

Not such as Europe breeds in her decay;
Such as she bred when fresh and young,
When heavenly flame did animate her clay,
By future poets shall be sung.

Westward the course of empire takes its way;
The four first Acts already past,
A fifth shall close the Drama with the day;
Time's noblest offspring is the last.

_____

by William Shakespeare

The Life of King Henry the Fifth:

Prologue

[Enter Chorus.]

Chorus.

O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend
The brightest heaven of invention,
A kingdom for a stage, princes to act,
And monarchs to behold the swelling scene!
Then should the warlike Harry, like himself,
Assume the port of Mars; and at his heels,
Leash'd in like hounds, should famine, sword, and fire
Crouch for employment. But pardon, gentles all,
The flat unraised spirits that hath dar'd
On this unworthy scaffold to bring forth
So great an object. Can this cockpit hold
The vasty fields of France? Or may we cram
Within this wooden O the very casques
That did affright the air at Agincourt?
O, pardon! since a crooked figure may
Attest in little place a million;
And let us, ciphers to this great accompt,
On your imaginary forces work.
Suppose within the girdle of these walls
Are now confin'd two mighty monarchies,
Whose high upreared and abutting fronts
The perilous narrow ocean parts asunder;
Piece out our imperfections with your thoughts:
Into a thousand parts divide one man,
And make imaginary puissance;
Think, when we talk of horses, that you see them
Printing their proud hoofs i' the receiving earth.
For 'tis your thoughts that now must deck our kings,
Carry them here and there, jumping o'er times,
Turning the accomplishment of many years
Into an hour-glass: for the which supply,
Admit me Chorus to this history;
Who, prologue-like, your humble patience pray,
Gently to hear, kindly to judge, our play.

[Exit.]

_____

_____

The Gifts of Donald Hall: "Retriever"

2006-10-15T21:13:00.000-04:00

by Donald Hall

Retriever

Two days after Jane died
I walked with our dog Gus
on New Canada Road
under birchy green
April shadows, talking
urgently, trying
to make him understand.
A quick mink scooted past
into fern, and Gus
disappeared in pursuit.
The damp air grew chill
as I whistled and called
until twilight. I thought
he tried to follow her
into the dark. After an hour
I gave up and walked home
to find him on the porch,
alert, pleased to see me,
curious over my absence.
But Gus hadn't found her
deep in the woods; he hadn't
brought her back
as a branch in his teeth.

his poem brought to you through the poet laureate's gracious consent

_____

Donald Hall, our United States Poet Laureate, read from his book White Apples and the Taste of Stone: Selected Poems 1946-2006 for an hour this afternoon at the First Congregational Church in Pelham New Hampshire. He sat at a table as he does now, and read his poems of love, death, New Hampshire, and more, without great animation in body language, but with his kind and aging New England voice. The focus in listening, then, goes onto his words, being sure to make them out, but also on his intonations.

Eric Clapton noted that when Aretha Franklin sings, never is a note simply sung and held for its time. The soul of her singing comes through in how she bends and gives character and feeling to each note, such import to each. In this sense too, Donald Hall is a soul poet. Never is a stressed syllable simply read as a stressed syllable. Each is spoken to hold the accentuated note and meaning out into the room as a gift to the listener, presented with such suspense imparting the emotion and character of his words in their contexts.

With the first poems Hall read, the chant of the song within the poem could be heard, the soul of each stressed syllable revealing the meter of his freest verse poems. It was during these first minutes that he read the poem "White Apple" which contains the line, "white apples and the taste of stone", the title of his latest book. That line came to him years after he first had the dream of the poem, and brought the poem together and to completion. In this and other senses, he is also a mystic poet, and thus the chant of his song-poems. But then, shouldn't a poet who writes at once in a word about love, death, and his home, be naturally rooted in the mystic?

For the next minutes, it was as if he warmed to the occasion, and he read poems to make the audience laugh and feel at home with him. His delivery became more animated in his facial expression and tone of voice. The chant receded to the yarn of conversation, and yet the soul still alive within each stressed syllable. It was during this time, that he read his poem "Mount Kearsage" that begins:

Great blue mountain! Ghost.
I look at you
from the front porch of the farmhouse
where I watched you all summer
as a boy.

and the poem "Great Day on the Cows' House" with the first-stanza lines

Now she stretches her wrinkly neck, her turnip eye
rolls in her skull, she sucks up breath,
and stretching her long mouth mid-chew she expels:
mm-mmm-mmmmm-mmmmmmmm-ugghwanchhh.

Mid-poem there he interjected that friends tell him that last line is his best line of poetry.

The soulful singing of his poetry, the down home mysticism, the friendship with the audience well-established, all came to bear as he directed his audience's hearts to his Jane Kenyon poems, of which "Retriever" above is one. The moments were naturally riveting, a great time in literature. Donald Hall's Jane poems are as important to the poetry canon as Chopin's Nocturnes are to piano music. There is a wholesome life, yet very mortal captivation to them.

After the reading, came the questions from the audience, and in response to one, he mentioned Thomas Hardy. In Claire Tomalin's biography of Hardy, Thomas Hardy: The Time-Torn Man, to be published by Viking on October 19, she writes of his wife Emma dying:

She did not complain or ask for the doctor to be sent for, but she did ask Dolly to fetch her husband. Dolly ran down to the master in his study, where he was making an early start on his day's work. He told her to straighten her collar--she wore a blue dress with a white collar when she was working--then he climbed the narrow stairs to his wife's room and went up to the bed. He spoke her name: "Em, Em--don't you know me?" But she was already unconscious, and within minutes she had stopped breathing. Emma Hardy was dead.

This is the moment when Thomas Hardy became a great poet.

And then:

Filled with sorrow and remorse for their estrangement, he had her body brought down and placed in the coffin at the foot of his bed, where it remained for three days and nights until the funeral. The gesture would have been remarkable in a lover who could not bear to be parted from the body of his mistress, but for an elderly husband who had for years been on bad terms with his wife it seems almost monstrously unconventional, until you realise that he was thinking of his situation quite differently. He had become a lover in mourning.

The parallel between Hall and Hardy is unmistakable in the great poetry that followed their wives' deaths. Furthermore, Hall noted that he was born following the winds the same year Hardy died in January (and here I note almost nine months later on September 20, 1928). Indeed, he looked to Hardy's Emma poems in writing his own Jane poems.

The differences are striking, however. Whereas Thomas Hardy was estranged from Emma Hardy while in the same house, Donald Hall was in a loving and close relationship with Jane Kenyon. Jane had great love poetry written about her by a soulful poet, who loved her as she lived, and gave tribute to this love after her death.

Hall's and Kenyon's separation was in that their offices were as far apart as they could physically be in that same house: poetic solitude, distance for the sake of the creativity they had in their separate rooms--a creativity they could then share when not writing. Hall noted that where there were two in solitude, now there is one, and that being one in solitude is the worse. He spends his days writing letters, trying to write poetry, and taking walks and naps from time to time.

_____

Using your RealPlayer, here is Donald Hall at the 2005 National Book Festival:

Donald Hall: Book Fest 05 Web Cast
(Duration 36:35)

Also at The Library of Congress site, is an excellent webography of Hall, with links to readings and interviews:

Donald Hall: Online Resources

_____

Click on the picture of the book, to see a list of Donald Hall's works at the Houghtin Mifflin Books site:

_____

The history of one's poetry is the history of gifts.
(Donald Hall, October 15, 2006)

_____

David Kirby: his poetry, Kirbyisms, & video

2006-10-13T23:46:00.000-04:00

by David Kirby

The Search for Baby Combover

In Paris one night the doorbell rings,
and there's this little guy, shaking like a leaf
and going "uh-uh-uh-UNH-ah!" and his eyes get big
and he raises his hands like a gospel singer
and goes "UNH-ah-uh-uh-uh-UNH-uh-ah!"

and for just a fraction of a second I think
he's doing the first part of Wilson Pickett's
"Land of a Thousand Dances" and he wants me
to join him in some kind of weird welcome
to the neighborhood, so I raise my hands a little

and begin to sort of hum along, though
not very loudly in case I'm wrong about this,
and I'm smiling the way old people smile
when they can't hear you but want you to know
that everything's okay as far as they're concerned

or a poet smiles in a roomful of scientists,
as if to say, "Hey! I'm just a poet!
But your data's great, really! Even if
I don't understand it!" And by the time
I start to half-wonder if this gentleman wants me

to take the you-got-to-know-how-to-pony part
or means to launch into it himself, he gives
a little hop and slaps his hands down to his sides
and says, "PLEASE! YOU MUST NOT MOVE
THE FURNITURE AFTER ELEVEN O'CLOCK OF THE NIGHT!"

so I lower my own hands and say, "Whaaaa...?"
And he says, "ALWAYS YOU ARE MOVING IT WHEN
THE BABY TRY TO SLEEP! YOU MUST NOT DO IT!"
And now that he's feeling a little bolder,
he steps in closer, where the light's better,

and I see he's got something on his head,
like strands of oily seaweed, something
you'd expect to find on a rock after one of
those big tanker spills in the Channel,
so I lean a little bit and realize it's what

stylists call a "combover," not a bad idea
on the tall fellows but definitely a grooming no-no
for your vertically-challenged caballeros,
of which Monsieur here is certainly one,
especially if they are yelling at you.

But I'd read an article about AA that said
when your loved ones stage an intervention
and go off on you for getting drunk
and busting up the furniture and running out
into traffic and threatening to kill the President,

it's better to just let them wind down
and then say, "You're probably right,"
because if you're combative, they will be, too,
and then your problems will just start over again,
so I wait till Mr. Combover--it's not nice, I know,

but it's the first name that comes to mind--stops shaking,
and I say, "You're probably right," and he raises
a finger and opens his mouth as if to say something
but then snaps his jaw shut and whirls around
and marches downstairs, skidding a little

and windmilling his arms and almost falling
but catching himself, though not without
that indignant backward glance we all give
the stupid step that some stupid idiot would have
attended to long ago if he hadn't been so stupid.

The next day, I ask Nadine the gardienne
qu'est-ce que c'est the deal avec the monsieur
qui lives under moi, and Nadine says his femme
is toujours busting his chops, but il est afraid
of her, so il takes out his rage on the rest of nous.

There's something else, though: a few days later,
Barbara and I see Mr. and Mrs. Combover
crossing the Pont Marie, and she is a virtual giantess
compared to him! Now I remember once hearing Barbara
give boyfriend advice to this niece of mine,

and Barbara said (1) he's got to have a job,
(2) he's got to tell you you're beautiful all the time,
and (3) he's got to be taller than you are,
so when I see Mrs. Combover looming over her hubby,
I think, Well, that explains the busted chops.

Not only that, Mrs. Combover looks cheap.
She looks rich, sure--Nadine had told me Monsieur
is some sorte de diplomat avec the Chilean delegation--
but also like one of those professional ladies
offering her services up around the Rue St. Denis.

But who are they, really? "Combover" is one
of those names from a fifties black-and-white movie;
he's the kind of guy neighborhood kids call "Mr. C."
and who has a boss who says things like, "Now see here,
Combover, this sort of thing just won't do!"

He's like one of Dagwood's unnamed colleagues--
he's not even Dagwood, who at least excites
Mr. Dithers enough to be fired a couple
of times a week, not to mention severely beaten.
Only Dagwood is really in charge. Everything goes his way!

Despite cronic incompetence, ol' Dag keeps
the job that allows him his fabulous home life:
long naps, towering sandwiches, affectionate
and well-behaved teenaged children, a loyal dog,
and, best of all, the love of Blondie.

Blondie! The name says it all: glamorous but fun.
Big Trashy Mrs. Combover is not glamorous,
although she thinks she is, and no fun at all.
She is the anti-Blondie. Her job seems to be
to stay home and smoke, since we're always smelling

the cigarette fumes that seep up though the floor
into our apartment day and night. And he says
we're keeping Baby Combover awake when we move
the furniture, which we've never done, but then
we've never seen Baby Combover, either. Or heard him.

Baby Combover: the world's first silent baby.
Barbara has this theory that, after a life
of prostitution, Mrs. Combover has not only repented but
undergone a false pregnancy and imaginary birth.
Therefore, the reason why Baby Combover is silent

is that he is not a real baby who fusses and eats and
wets and poops but is instead a pillowcase with knots
for ears and a smiley-face drawn with a Magic Marker and
a hole for its mouth so Mrs. Combover can teach it
to smoke when it's older, like eight, say.

Now I know what they fight about: "You never spend
any time with the babyl" hisses Mrs. Combover.
"I will--when he's older and can talk!" says Mr. Combover.
"Here I am stuck with this baby all day long!
And those horrible people upstairs!"

And he says, "Oh, be silent, you... prostitute!"
And she says, "Quiet, you horrible man--
not in front of the child!" Maybe it's time
for a call to the police. Or the newspapers.
I can see the headlines: OU EST LE PETIT ENFANT COMBOVER?

I feel sorry for him. With parents like this,
it would be better if someone were to kidnap him.
Or I could take him back to America with me,
I who have a wife who loves me and two grown sons.
Why not? We've got all this extra room now.

We'll feed him a lot and tickle him;
there's nothing funnier than a fat, happy baby.
And when the boys come home to visit,
they'll take him out with them in their sports cars:
"It's my little brother!" they'll say. "He's French!"

The neighborhood kids, once a band of sullen mendicants,
will beg us to let him play with them,
even though he doesn't speak their language.
Look! There they go toward the baseball field,
with Baby Combover under their arm!

I love you, Baby Combover! You are Joseph Campbell's
classic mythical hero, i.e., "an agent of change
who relinquishes self-interest and breaks down
the established social order." But you're so pale!
You've stayed out too long and caught cold.

Barbara and the boys gather around his bed;
they hug each other, and we try not to cry.
Baby Combover is smiling--he always smiled, that kid.
His little mouth begins to move, and we lean in
and think we hear him say, "Be bwave fo' me."

Back in Paris, Mr. Combover grows a full head of hair.
Mrs. Combover reaches up to touch it.
He puts down his attaché case and caresses her cheek.
"How beautiful you are!" he says. It's so quiet now.
Then they hear it: in the next room, a child is crying.

brought to you with the poet's gracious consent

_____

David Kirby, who grew up in Baton Rouge, is the Robert O. Lawton Distinguished Professor of English at Florida State University. The latest news on his work is that, for the third time a poem by him, "Seventeen Ways from Tuesday", has made the pages of Best American Poetry. He is also currently judging for the InterBoard Poetry Community.

For more profile on him, see this page of The Chelsea Forum:

David Kirby;

where Andy Brumer is quoted in a New York Times item, saying:

The stream-of-consciousness and jazz-based rhythms of Kerouac and Ginsberg meet the surreal, philosophical musings of Wallace Stevens, with an occasional dose of cathartic confessionalism à la Robert Lowell.

A current profile, with a webography that includes links to his poetry, is at About Poetry:

David Kirby;

where we find:

He has two books forthcoming in 2007, The House on Boulevard St.: New and Selected Poems (also by LSU Press) and an essay collection entitled Ultra-Talk: Johnny Cash, The Mafia, Shakespeare, Drum Music, St. Teresa Of Avila, And 17 Other Colossal Topics Of Conversation (University of Georgia Press).

To visit his web site, click his logo:

_____

Kirbyisms

He is also a writer for the New York Times. You can find his articles here:

NYT Archive: "By David Kirby"

In those articles, we find what may be called Kirbyisms, sayings about poetry and life, said at just the right time, in only the way David Kirby can, or would as the good professor in him comes to the fore. Here are some:

~~~~~

In poetry, the first-person pronoun is simply more reader-friendly. It’s like a knock on an office door that’s already open. You didn’t have to knock, but if you had just started talking, it might have been awkward, and your listener might not have responded.

from Dreams, Trees, Grief, August 20, 2006

~~~~~

There is a brash, exuberant poetry being written in America these days, a long-lined, many-paged, pyrotechnic verse that would have its daddy, Walt Whitman, slapping his slouch hat against his leg and chortling with unbridled glee.

from The Biggest Little Poems, December 18, 2005

~~~~~

But of course there is no real competition between the Whitman who boasted "I am large, I contain multitudes" and the Dickinson whose niece Martha reported that her aunt once pretended to lock the door to her bedroom and pocket an imaginary key, saying, "Mattie, here's freedom."

from The Biggest Little Poems, December 18, 2005

~~~~~

You're having a cup of coffee, and bang! It's your neighbor, putting his car in the garage. Unfortunately, it's your garage and the door was down. This could be the beginning of a lawsuit--or a poem.

from 'Codes, Precepts, Biases, and Taboos' and 'Into It': The Double, September 25, 2005

~~~~~

Undergraduate writing programs probably send as many students to law schools as they do to M.F.A. programs. Makes sense: whether you're writing a brief or a sonnet, you're gathering material, thinking about the order you're putting it in, adjusting tone to make the right impact.

from 'Codes, Precepts, Biases, and Taboos' and 'Into It': The Double, September 25, 2005

~~~~~

"Inside every lawyer is the wreck of a poet," Clarence Darrow said, but in recent times there have been efforts to encourage the two professions to coexist peacefully.

from 'Codes, Precepts, Biases, and Taboos' and 'Into It': The Double, September 25, 2005

~~~~~

The lawyers can't stop the doomsday machine, even if they want to. And the poets can only write about it.

from 'Codes, Precepts, Biases, and Taboos' and 'Into It': The Double, September 25, 2005

~~~~~

Yes, the world is one big banana peel, and if we don't know that we've got one foot on it, it's because we're not looking down: the goat (actually, it's a heifer) on Keats's immortal urn is being led to slaughter, wildflowers nourish killer bees, the South's sylvan meadows were once battlefields soaked in blood.

from 'Luck Is Luck': Intimations of Mortality, April 10, 2005

~~~~~

Our parents go through all this before we do; the man who used to take us on his back is bent and gray now, and the woman our friends thought sexy spends her days in a chair. We're following a curriculum that, if we're lucky, leads us to accept our lives, and that consists in part of observing our parents as they learn to accept theirs.

from 'Luck Is Luck': Intimations of Mortality, April 10, 2005

~~~~~

If poetry is as much a state of mind as it is an assortment of black marks on white pages, then it resides in that intimate space between the world and those who observe it.

from 'Danger on Peaks': Ars Longa, Vita Longa, November 21, 2004

~~~~~

Yesterday's hippies are now gray-haired and prosperous and probably not reading much poetry.

from 'Danger on Peaks': Ars Longa, Vita Longa, November 21, 2004

~~~~~

The adage "when in Rome" has always been good advice for foreign travelers. But finding out what, exactly, the Romans do--let alone how to emulate them without making a fool of yourself--is not always easy.

from For Social Slips, Anti-Skid Books, October 3, 2004

~~~~~

If you want to make friends, a smile will always be understood.

from For Social Slips, Anti-Skid Books, October 3, 2004

~~~~~

Poetry can't fix everything, and maybe it can't even fix anything. Yet it lets us see and sometimes even understand.

from Moe, Larry and Bertolucci, May 2, 2004

~~~~~

Pound and Monroe were the Lennon and McCartney of their shared enterprise, the one skirting the shoreline of art as the other steered toward the stream's middle; the impresario and the editor were bound to part, and not happily.

from Poets Behaving Badly, December 1, 2002

~~~~~

All writers think of themselves as superior to the competition, and so it is with a certain amount of malicious glee that one encounters the thunderings of poets who today are more or less nobodies, the John G. Neihardts and John Gould Fletchers who howl with fury at having to appear alongside those they consider their inferiors.

from Poets Behaving Badly, December 1, 2002

~~~~~

Kirby Audio/Video

Listen to David Kirby read his poetry, and his love of travel becomes evident. In fact, as I write, this Southern American is on sabbatical leave in France. Through the sounds of his poetry, he gives us the world to travel, with its accents and lingo, but also the vocalizations from--for a different example--young hip hop artists. In this sense, his is an audio world for poetry.

Below are two poetry readings by him available on the web that will use your RealPlayer. The first is close to a half hour in length, and is from from the Library of Congress's web pages of the 2005 National Book Festival. The fourth of the four poems he read there, "The Search for Baby Combover" feature above, from his book The Ha-Ha, is a favorite among the young men of high schools, to read for, and win, Poetry Out Loud competitions across America. Click on his picture to view this webcast:

Duration 28:25

Click the picture of his Big-Leg Music book, to get a RealAudio presentation from his web site, with graphics, of David reading his poem "Your Momma Says Omnia Vincit Amor", wherein music overlays the world of language, this world travelled through poetry.

Duration 2:15

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David Kirby Books

Books by him are available here:

BestPrices.Com: David Kirby Books

_____

Ko Un

2006-10-10T21:55:00.000-04:00

Born in 1933, Ko Un is a former Zen monk, a former prisoner, and a poet. Here we sample from, his web site:

Ko Un

There, on the page called "Ko Un on Ko Un", he writes:

For instance, who today would contradict someone who insists that the death of codes brings life to a poem, as in the case of the different numbers on freight trains waiting in line at Daejeon Station, whose numbers are no longer a code but a poem.

It is in this context that I reject the recent trend of interpreting a poem as text. There is no such thing as a poem that can simply be seen as a text. No poem can stay on a desk or an Internet screen. Poems do not exist in material anthologies.

The universe and space, the imensities of time are the stage for poems. Even a very short love song or elegy is a poem of the universe. That explains why poems should faithfully fulfill their public obligations to the world.

On the page "Who is Ko Un?", Robert Hass has written:

Ko Un is a remarkable poet and one of the heroes of human freedom in this half century, a religious poet who got tangled by accident in the terrible accidents of modern history. But he is somebody who has been equal to the task, a feat rare among human beings.

On the "Chronology" page, after a section on Ko Un's former lives, we find this for the year 1942:

By the time he was eight, he had already studied classical Chinese texts that even much older children usually had difficulty in mastering. In 1942 when he was in grade three, his Japanese headmaster asked him what he hoped to become in the future and got the answer, 'The Emperor of Japan.' Ko Un was severely punished for this effrontery.

And this for the year 1952:

Before the war was over, in 1952, he joined the Buddhist clergy and became the recognized disciple of the great monk Hyobong. For the next ten years he lived a life of Zen meditation, always on the move. He traveled the whole country, living by alms.

From his page "What They Say About Ko Un", we are linked here to discover three of his poems:

Words Without Borders: Ko Un

and find a link to this, copied from Korean Culture Magazine from Spring 1999:

and this, copied from The Washington Post's "Poet's Choice" of January 4, 1998; which contains the poem "The woman from Sonjae" by Ko Un, translated by Brother Anthony of Taiza and Young Moo-Kim, and with discussion by Robert Hass:

He has several more sections, but the one I especially want to note is "Works in Translation" where at each translated compilation's page, there are poems that pop up with a click into windows that perfectly fit the poem on its nicely done background. For instance, from Beyond Self--108 Korean Zen Poems pops

"Echo"

and from Morning Dew pops

"Sunlight"

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Here are his most recent poetry volumes, translated into English:

Flowers of a Moment (2006)

The Three Way Tavern: Selected Poems (2006)

Ten Thousand Lives (2005)

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A Conversation on Experimental Fiction and Now Poetry

2006-10-05T10:05:00.000-04:00

The argumentative aspect of a conversation on experimental fiction and now poetry, began with Scott Esposito's posting the following in his blog, about an article John Freeman wrote:

Stunning lack of experimentation in American fiction in the past 20 years? John, you´ve been reading The New York Times too much, amigo.

Below is last night's response to Frank Wilson's (pictured) call that "More people should chime in."

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Hi Frank,

From your return e-mail, I see that I knew where some of the conversation was on the web, but now I think I have at least this linked circle's conversation.

09/10: in Newsday: John Freeman's Turning readers upside-down

09/18: in his Conversational Reading blog: Scott Esposito's John Freeman's Experiments

09/24: here in Books Inq.: your I suppose it's only fair ...

09/26: in his Conversational Reading blog: Scott Esposito's Huh

10/02: in his The Reading Experience blog: Daniel Greene's A Safe and Useless Place

10/02: here in Books Inq.: your Daniel Green advances

10/04: in his Dragoncave blog: Art Durkee's What is "experimentation?"

As one who has been tagged as an experimental poet, as Art Durkee has, I like his use of the word "play." But, some of the discussion has gotten pretty heavy, even Daniel Green's, who I kept wanting to add what he would add as I read his entry, making me think I would have nothing to add myself, but then he stopped, leaving a ball to pick up.

The crux resides in where the muse lies, or what has been inspired. If I am inspired to write a regular poem about something to do with love, or death, or the new roof on my house and how that is mystical or a metaphor for living a moment in life somehow, I may choose a sonnet, a villanelle, conversational prose, free verse, whatever form seems to catch the rhythm and language I want to create. Experimentally speaking, thematically it may fail or succeed, and at the level of word choice it may also succeed or fail. But, I will not necessarily advance poetry writing, poetology or poetiatry, and maybe not even my own skill level. It's a regular old unexperimental poem on that score, other than in its thumbs up or down aspects.

I may, though, get some inspiration to advance form somehow. Here we have the possibility for experiment. Anne Carson is known for her edgy work at the limits of what is poetry and what is not, sometimes answering which prose is poetry and which is not, hybrid stuff. We may look at her work, and unexperimentally choose to write in the forms she has trailblazed for us. Yet, for the most part, in the material I have of Carson's, within the forms she chooses, she has her themes and such that she weaves in. Her topics are applied to her forms experiments. She's so good, I imagine she publishes her experimental successes, yet I also imagine her (unscientifically private?) failures.

Another approach is to play with language, in a way that the poet's musing is in how words will be selected and arranged. There is no inspiration from death, love, or a new roof, nothing mystic--not intentionally written in anyway. What comes of these methods have a lot to do with how we humans as readers try to make sense out of language. I think of the language poets, but also Jackson Mac Low, who did some great experimental work with language and computer models, whose work with Gertrude Stein's language I have enjoyed.

Musings can come "in between" the thematically inspired and the form inspired. Poems can be written by Google searching a phrase, to use only words that follow in querie results. Which reminds me of a poem that made Best American Poetry one year, pre-written lines that were passed back and forth in Babel Fish from English into French (I think it was) into English into French, and so forth. On that one, again, once the experiment is done, the nifty effect becomes common knowledge.

Again, I like Art's use of "play" and want to add that we need to watch where the muse lies for a poet, what's amusing the poet. But, as we know, whatever is amusing the poet does not always succeed. These failures become part of the experiential knowledge we have.

But, experimental poetry should also include when a poet blazes trails thematically. Mark Doty's upcoming book "Dog Years" is billed as his writing about the "unsayable". This may or may not be true, and if it is true, it may not work. If it does not work, then critically speaking, John Freeman may say something similar about Doty's work, as he did here, in the review that began this good conversation:

Danielewski clearly wants to push the boundaries of the novel even further with his latest, "Only Revolutions," but he has done it with a smaller, less ambitious story.

And then he may go on, to tell us where he sees it failing, and where it succeeds.

Rus

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