All knotted up
at three games apiece
The oh-so-reliable Daisuke Matsuzaka starts Game 7.
Cautiously optimistic.
Go Sox!
Sunday, October 21, 2007
Saturday, October 20, 2007
Sorry to tell you this, Barack ...
... but it's true.
Not all. But let that go.
... but it's true.
It is well documented that black Americans — particularly black males — have shorter life expectancies than whites. But blacks do live to become senior citizens.
Not all. But let that go.
A black person born in 2004 had an average life expectancy of 73.1 years, about five years less than for whites, according to the National Center for Health Statistics.
Imagine that!
| What American accent do you have? Your Result: Boston You definitely have a Boston accent, even if you think you don't. Of course, that doesn't mean you are from the Boston area, you may also be from New Hampshire or Maine. | |
| The West | |
| North Central | |
| The Midland | |
| The Northeast | |
| Philadelphia | |
| The Inland North | |
| The South | |
| What American accent do you have? Quiz Created on GoToQuiz | |
Friday, October 19, 2007
Book quiz
Via Andrew Sullivan:
Via Andrew Sullivan:
| What Kind of Reader Are You? Your Result: Dedicated Reader You are always trying to find the time to get back to your book. You are convinced that the world would be a much better place if only everyone read more. | |
| Literate Good Citizen | |
| Book Snob | |
| Obsessive-Compulsive Bookworm | |
| Fad Reader | |
| Non-Reader | |
| What Kind of Reader Are You? Create Your Own Quiz | |
Thursday, October 18, 2007
Deborah Kerr has died at age 86
I enjoyed her work in this undernoticed film from the early sixties. Requiescat.
I enjoyed her work in this undernoticed film from the early sixties. Requiescat.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Magnificat anima mea Dominum
A Marian villanelle, the first version of which was written twelve years ago today.
A Marian villanelle, the first version of which was written twelve years ago today.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
October 14, 1894
birthday of Edward Estlin Cummings
To commemorate:
Semi-sonnet for Cummings' hundredth (written 13 years ago)
and:
a meditation on his line "must's a schoolroom in the month of may" ...
birthday of Edward Estlin Cummings
To commemorate:
Semi-sonnet for Cummings' hundredth (written 13 years ago)
and:
a meditation on his line "must's a schoolroom in the month of may" ...
I use this bridge almost every day
It's only a 300-foot drop if the span collapses, but they say it won't. I'm reassured.
It's only a 300-foot drop if the span collapses, but they say it won't. I'm reassured.
Friday, October 12, 2007
Thank you!
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Mr. Riddle asks:
what the heck does global warming have to do with peace?
Took the words right out of my etcetera.
Thank you, thank you, thank you!
Mr. Riddle asks:
what the heck does global warming have to do with peace?
Took the words right out of my etcetera.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
from
The Oxford Book of Prayer
ed. George Appleton
Prayer No. 316
The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces. Let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured, and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.
-- R. L. Stevenson, 1850-94
*
Prayer No. 354
Withhold not from me, O my God, the best, the Spirit of thy dear Son; that in that day when the judgement is set I may be presented unto thee not blameless, but forgiven, not effectual but faithful, not holy but persevering, without desert but accepted, because he hath pleaded the causes of my soul, and redeemed my life.
-- Eric Milner-White, 1884-1964
The Oxford Book of Prayer
ed. George Appleton
Prayer No. 316
The day returns and brings us the petty round of irritating concerns and duties. Help us to play the man, help us to perform them with laughter and kind faces. Let cheerfulness abound with industry. Give us to go blithely on our business all this day, bring us to our resting beds weary and content and undishonoured, and grant us in the end the gift of sleep.
-- R. L. Stevenson, 1850-94
*
Prayer No. 354
Withhold not from me, O my God, the best, the Spirit of thy dear Son; that in that day when the judgement is set I may be presented unto thee not blameless, but forgiven, not effectual but faithful, not holy but persevering, without desert but accepted, because he hath pleaded the causes of my soul, and redeemed my life.
-- Eric Milner-White, 1884-1964
Monday, October 08, 2007
Definitely worth reading
One of many highlights in William Luse's most recent post:
That's me most of the time, I'm afraid.
At Apologia, you can also find reflections on beer, yardwork, mockingbirds, and young lesbians; a review of a recent film; and a philosophical quandary that involves a wolf attacking Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. And you can see a fine painting as well! But don't rely on my all-too-quick précis; hasten thither.
One of many highlights in William Luse's most recent post:
I know a lot of Christians go to church and recite with the crowd, asking God to, for example, take away their manifold sins and wickedness, but I don't think they mean it. Based on the evidence. It's as though they hope for a heaven that's much like what's going on now, but with the physical ailments and the criminal element removed.
That's me most of the time, I'm afraid.
At Apologia, you can also find reflections on beer, yardwork, mockingbirds, and young lesbians; a review of a recent film; and a philosophical quandary that involves a wolf attacking Mahmoud Ahmadinejad. And you can see a fine painting as well! But don't rely on my all-too-quick précis; hasten thither.
Friday, October 05, 2007
I was just saying this to someone the other day
Basically the same prediction that's in that last sentence, about Hillary.
Here's hoping that the commenter and I are both wrong.
Basically the same prediction that's in that last sentence, about Hillary.
Here's hoping that the commenter and I are both wrong.
Cavatina
by David Gascoyne (1916-2001)
Now we must bear the final real
Convulsion of the breast, for the sublime
Relief of the catharsis; and the cruel
Clear grief; the dear redemption from the crime,
The sublimation of the evil dream.
Beneath, all is confused, dense and impure;
Extraordinary shiftings of a nameless mass
From plane to plane, then some obscure
Catastrophe:
The shattered Cross
High on its storm-lit hill, the searchlight eyes
Whose lines divide the black dome of the skies,
Are implicated; and the Universe of Death --
Gold, excrement and flesh, the spirit’s malady,
A secret animal’s hot breath ...
Yet through disaster a faint melody
Insists; and the interior suffering like a silver wire
Enduring and resplendent, strongly plied
By genius’ hands into the searching fire
At last emerges and is purified.
Its force like violins in pure lament
Persists, sending ascending stairs
Across the far wastes of the firmament
To carry starwards all our weight of tears.
by David Gascoyne (1916-2001)
Now we must bear the final real
Convulsion of the breast, for the sublime
Relief of the catharsis; and the cruel
Clear grief; the dear redemption from the crime,
The sublimation of the evil dream.
Beneath, all is confused, dense and impure;
Extraordinary shiftings of a nameless mass
From plane to plane, then some obscure
Catastrophe:
The shattered Cross
High on its storm-lit hill, the searchlight eyes
Whose lines divide the black dome of the skies,
Are implicated; and the Universe of Death --
Gold, excrement and flesh, the spirit’s malady,
A secret animal’s hot breath ...
Yet through disaster a faint melody
Insists; and the interior suffering like a silver wire
Enduring and resplendent, strongly plied
By genius’ hands into the searching fire
At last emerges and is purified.
Its force like violins in pure lament
Persists, sending ascending stairs
Across the far wastes of the firmament
To carry starwards all our weight of tears.
From the most recent issue of Dappled Things
Fragment from Assisi, a poem by Meredith of For Keats' Sake!
Fragment from Assisi, a poem by Meredith of For Keats' Sake!
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Two very different autumn poems
Poem in October by Dylan Thomas (1914-53):
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning ...
and:
Autumn by Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945):
... the cold bayonets of autumn
suddenly glint in the fields and the wind
rages.
Poem in October by Dylan Thomas (1914-53):
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly
Come in the morning ...
and:
Autumn by Adam Zagajewski (b. 1945):
... the cold bayonets of autumn
suddenly glint in the fields and the wind
rages.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
Donald Hall
Never, never, never show a poem to anybody until you have worked on it in solitude for at least six months.
from Flying Revision's Flag
Never, never, never show a poem to anybody until you have worked on it in solitude for at least six months.
from Flying Revision's Flag
Friday, September 28, 2007
Cummings
this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
this is the garden:colours come and go,
frail azures fluttering from night's outer wing
strong silent greens serenely lingering,
absolute lights like baths of golden snow.
This is the garden:pursed lips do blow
upon cool flutes within wide glooms,and sing
(of harps celestial to the quivering string)
invisible faces hauntingly and slow.
This is the garden. Time shall surely reap
and on Death's blade lie many a flower curled,
in other lands where other songs be sung;
yet stand They here enraptured,as among
the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep
some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.
Thursday, September 27, 2007
This is how metrical verse is done
Quite apart from formal considerations, this is a beautiful, moving elegy: "Long Distance II" by the English poet Tony Harrison (b. 1937).
Quite apart from formal considerations, this is a beautiful, moving elegy: "Long Distance II" by the English poet Tony Harrison (b. 1937).
Stephen Fry's Poetry Exercise 19
I haven't attempted a Petrarchan sonnet in close to 20 years. I did produce a draft in an hour and a half, a draft that will not be shared here in its entirety. I liked exactly two lines of my effort, the opening and closing lines of the octave:
The apathetic voter shrugs his mind
and
He joins the party of the disinclined.
[Addendum, Saturday: Come to think of it, that first line is rather redundant, isn't it? If the voter "shrugs his mind," it's clearly implicit that he is apathetic, or at least indecisive ...]
My sestet (rhymed cdeedc) began with three rather facile lines, intended to be ironic:
Behold the politician smiling bright
A public servant in the truest sense
Noble self-sacrificial and the rest
But from there, if such a thing can be imagined, it got worse. I resorted to slant rhyme, all manner of cliché (vide supra, "smiling bright"), etc. ... The best that could be said about the effort is that it scanned well. Too well, in fact. No metrical roughness, no variation ...
I think that Fry's exercises result (for me, at least) in rather sad adventures in pseudo-neo-formalism. When a poem is a homework assignment, given by someone else, I tend to flounder. I do a little better when I'm my own taskmaster, when the poem is (tired phrase, but apt) a labor of love.
But I thought I'd try these exercises, some of them anyway, because I've just emerged from four years of having attempted no poetry at all, and I need the practice, no matter how cringe-inducing the result.
Write a Petrarchan Sonnet on Electoral Apathy.
I haven't attempted a Petrarchan sonnet in close to 20 years. I did produce a draft in an hour and a half, a draft that will not be shared here in its entirety. I liked exactly two lines of my effort, the opening and closing lines of the octave:
The apathetic voter shrugs his mind
and
He joins the party of the disinclined.
[Addendum, Saturday: Come to think of it, that first line is rather redundant, isn't it? If the voter "shrugs his mind," it's clearly implicit that he is apathetic, or at least indecisive ...]
My sestet (rhymed cdeedc) began with three rather facile lines, intended to be ironic:
Behold the politician smiling bright
A public servant in the truest sense
Noble self-sacrificial and the rest
But from there, if such a thing can be imagined, it got worse. I resorted to slant rhyme, all manner of cliché (vide supra, "smiling bright"), etc. ... The best that could be said about the effort is that it scanned well. Too well, in fact. No metrical roughness, no variation ...
I think that Fry's exercises result (for me, at least) in rather sad adventures in pseudo-neo-formalism. When a poem is a homework assignment, given by someone else, I tend to flounder. I do a little better when I'm my own taskmaster, when the poem is (tired phrase, but apt) a labor of love.
But I thought I'd try these exercises, some of them anyway, because I've just emerged from four years of having attempted no poetry at all, and I need the practice, no matter how cringe-inducing the result.
Surrealism
The Cage
by David Gascoyne (1916-2001)
In the waking night
The forests have stopped growing
The shells are listening
The shadows in the pools turn grey
The pearls dissolve in the shadow
And I return to you
Your face is marked upon the clockface
My hands are beneath your hair
And if the time you mark sets free the birds
And if they fly away towards the forest
The hour will no longer be ours
Ours is the ornate birdcage
The brimming cup of water
The preface to the book
And all the clocks are ticking
All the dark rooms are moving
All the air’s nerves are bare
Once flown
The feathered hour will not return
And I shall have gone away.
September Sun: 1947
by David Gascoyne
Magnificent strong sun! in these last days
So prodigally generous of pristine light
That’s wasted only by men’s sight who will not see
And by self-darkened spirits from whose night
Can rise no longer orison or praise:
Let us consume in fire unfed like yours
And may the quickened gold within me come
To mintage in due season, and not be
Transmuted to no better end than dumb
And self-sufficient usury. These days and years
May bring the sudden call to harvesting,
When if the fields Man labours only yield
Glitter and husks, then with an angrier sun may He
Who first with His gold seed the sightless field
Of Chaos planted, all our trash to cinders bring.
_______________
From the poet's obituary, a fascinating biographical datum:
[...] depression, fuelled by amphetamine abuse, took its toll. The writing dried up, and, in the 1960s, Gascoyne retreated in despair to his parents' home on the Isle of Wight, fetching up, after his father's death, in the local asylum. There, a miracle occurred. A therapist named Judy Tyler Lewis read one of his poems, September Sun, to the inmates. When he claimed it as his, she thought it one more of his delusions. But they married, and lived happily thereafter on the island.
The Cage
by David Gascoyne (1916-2001)
In the waking night
The forests have stopped growing
The shells are listening
The shadows in the pools turn grey
The pearls dissolve in the shadow
And I return to you
Your face is marked upon the clockface
My hands are beneath your hair
And if the time you mark sets free the birds
And if they fly away towards the forest
The hour will no longer be ours
Ours is the ornate birdcage
The brimming cup of water
The preface to the book
And all the clocks are ticking
All the dark rooms are moving
All the air’s nerves are bare
Once flown
The feathered hour will not return
And I shall have gone away.
September Sun: 1947
by David Gascoyne
Magnificent strong sun! in these last days
So prodigally generous of pristine light
That’s wasted only by men’s sight who will not see
And by self-darkened spirits from whose night
Can rise no longer orison or praise:
Let us consume in fire unfed like yours
And may the quickened gold within me come
To mintage in due season, and not be
Transmuted to no better end than dumb
And self-sufficient usury. These days and years
May bring the sudden call to harvesting,
When if the fields Man labours only yield
Glitter and husks, then with an angrier sun may He
Who first with His gold seed the sightless field
Of Chaos planted, all our trash to cinders bring.
_______________
From the poet's obituary, a fascinating biographical datum:
[...] depression, fuelled by amphetamine abuse, took its toll. The writing dried up, and, in the 1960s, Gascoyne retreated in despair to his parents' home on the Isle of Wight, fetching up, after his father's death, in the local asylum. There, a miracle occurred. A therapist named Judy Tyler Lewis read one of his poems, September Sun, to the inmates. When he claimed it as his, she thought it one more of his delusions. But they married, and lived happily thereafter on the island.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Monday, September 24, 2007
Some real poetry
Dylan Thomas reading "The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower":
Dylan Thomas reading "The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower":
The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.
The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.
The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.
And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.
Stephen Fry's Poetry Exercise 3
from his book The Ode Less Travelled
The suggested time limit for this exercise was 45 minutes. I failed miserably. I enjambed when I didn't mean to, and had difficulty with my caesuras. I may post the results later tonight, with the exception of the dream couplets. My dreams don't translate well into ordinary language.
_______________
Addendum:
Here they are. Written last Wednesday evening.
1a Outside the Window
The field where our town's high-school football players
Practice, it seems, for sixteen hours a day.
2a What I'd Like to Eat
I'm full from pizza but suppose I could
Have a few wheat thins or potato chips.
4a Pesky Tasks Overdue
Although the laundry piles up in the basket,
I think I'll put it off until next week.
5a Portrait of the Artist
A forty-six-inch waist and coffee-breath.
Unmanageable hair. A scruffy beard.
*
(1b)
The Cougars practice. How long have they been
Out there? Since time began? A whistle blows.
(2b)
Wheat thins, potato chips, you sit inside
My kitchen cabinet. Right now I'm stuffed.
(4b)
Downstairs. Into the cellar, where the clothes
Get washed and dried. Not now. Too much to do.
(5b)
Excessive girth. A buzz-cut that won't grow
Back properly. An unattractive face.
_______________
I enjambed couplets 1a and 2a, and arguably put a caesura in the second line of 5a. So I didn't do the exercise exactly right. But there you have it.
I think that Mr Fry's book, The Ode Less Travelled, is intended for poets and would-be poets who have never ventured rhyme and meter before. I don't think I'll attempt all the exercises in the book. (Poetry Exercise 13: Write a dramatic monologue in heroic couplets in the voice of someone who is clearly stoned out of his mind and trying to explain to the cops the half-ounce of cannabis they found on his person. Exercise 14: Write a villanelle. Exercise 15: Write a sestina.) I have done some of those things before -- guess which one I haven't done! -- but doubt strongly that I could produce examples of those forms on command. For now, I'm having fun with the easier exercises ...
from his book The Ode Less Travelled
Write five pairs of blank (non-rhyming) iambic pentameter in which the first line of each pair is end-stopped and there are no caesuras.
Now write five pairs with (give or take) the same meaning in which there is enjambment.
Make sure that each new pair also contains at least two caesuras.
[...]
To make it easier I will give you a specific subject for all five pairs.
1. Precisely what you see and hear outside your window.
2. Precisely what you'd like to eat, right this minute.
3. Precisely what you last remember dreaming about.
4. Precisely what uncompleted chores are niggling at you.
5. Precisely what you hate about your body.
The suggested time limit for this exercise was 45 minutes. I failed miserably. I enjambed when I didn't mean to, and had difficulty with my caesuras. I may post the results later tonight, with the exception of the dream couplets. My dreams don't translate well into ordinary language.
_______________
Addendum:
Here they are. Written last Wednesday evening.
1a Outside the Window
The field where our town's high-school football players
Practice, it seems, for sixteen hours a day.
2a What I'd Like to Eat
I'm full from pizza but suppose I could
Have a few wheat thins or potato chips.
4a Pesky Tasks Overdue
Although the laundry piles up in the basket,
I think I'll put it off until next week.
5a Portrait of the Artist
A forty-six-inch waist and coffee-breath.
Unmanageable hair. A scruffy beard.
*
(1b)
The Cougars practice. How long have they been
Out there? Since time began? A whistle blows.
(2b)
Wheat thins, potato chips, you sit inside
My kitchen cabinet. Right now I'm stuffed.
(4b)
Downstairs. Into the cellar, where the clothes
Get washed and dried. Not now. Too much to do.
(5b)
Excessive girth. A buzz-cut that won't grow
Back properly. An unattractive face.
_______________
I enjambed couplets 1a and 2a, and arguably put a caesura in the second line of 5a. So I didn't do the exercise exactly right. But there you have it.
I think that Mr Fry's book, The Ode Less Travelled, is intended for poets and would-be poets who have never ventured rhyme and meter before. I don't think I'll attempt all the exercises in the book. (Poetry Exercise 13: Write a dramatic monologue in heroic couplets in the voice of someone who is clearly stoned out of his mind and trying to explain to the cops the half-ounce of cannabis they found on his person. Exercise 14: Write a villanelle. Exercise 15: Write a sestina.) I have done some of those things before -- guess which one I haven't done! -- but doubt strongly that I could produce examples of those forms on command. For now, I'm having fun with the easier exercises ...
Sunday, September 23, 2007
Sonnet XVII
by Pablo Neruda (1904-73)
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
*
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
(100 Love Sonnets: Cien Sonetos De Amor, trans. by Stephen Tapscott)
_____________
According to Wikipedia, today is the 34th anniversary of Pablo Neruda's death. May God have mercy on the old communist so-and-so: he could write beautifully.
by Pablo Neruda (1904-73)
I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
*
No te amo como si fueras rosa de sal, topacio
o flecha de claveles que propagan el fuego:
te amo como se aman ciertas cosas oscuras,
secretamente, entre la sombra y el alma.
Te amo como la planta que no florece y lleva
dentro de sÃ, escondida, la luz de aquellas flores,
y gracias a tu amor vive oscuro en mi cuerpo
el apretado aroma que ascendió de la tierra.
Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo, ni de dónde,
te amo directamente sin problemas ni orgullo:
asà te amo porque no sé amar de otra manera,
sino asà de este modo en que no soy ni eres,
tan cerca que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mÃa,
tan cerca que se cierran tus ojos con mi sueño.
(100 Love Sonnets: Cien Sonetos De Amor, trans. by Stephen Tapscott)
_____________
According to Wikipedia, today is the 34th anniversary of Pablo Neruda's death. May God have mercy on the old communist so-and-so: he could write beautifully.
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