The Bridge of Sighs
by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)
One more Unfortunate,
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly
Young, and so fair!
Look at her garments
Clinging like cerements;
Whilst the wave constantly
Drips from her clothing;
Take her up instantly,
Loving, not loathing.
Touch her not scornfully;
Think of her mournfully,
Gently and humanly;
Not of the stains of her,
All that remains of her
Now is pure womanly.
Make no deep scrutiny
Into her mutiny
Rash and undutiful:
Past all dishonour,
Death has left on her
Only the beautiful.
Still, for all slips of hers,
One of Eve's family
Wipe those poor lips of hers
Oozing so clammily.
Loop up her tresses
Escaped from the comb,
Her fair auburn tresses;
Whilst wonderment guesses
Where was her home?
Who was her father?
Who was her mother?
Had she a sister?
Had she a brother?
Or was there a dearer one
Still, and a nearer one
Yet, than all other?
Alas! for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!
O, it was pitiful!
Near a whole city full,
Home she had none.
Sisterly, brotherly,
Fatherly, motherly
Feelings had changed:
Love, by harsh evidence,
Thrown from its eminence;
Even God's providence
Seeming estranged.
Where the lamps quiver
So far in the river,
With many a light
From window and casement,
From garret to basement,
She stood, with amazement,
Houseless by night.
The bleak wind of March
Made her tremble and shiver;
But not the dark arch,
Or the black flowing river:
Mad from life's history,
Glad to death's mystery,
Swift to be hurl'd
Anywhere, anywhere
Out of the world!
In she plunged boldly
No matter how coldly
The rough river ran
Over the brink of it,
Picture it think of it,
Dissolute Man!
Lave in it, drink of it,
Then, if you can!
Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashion'd so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!
Ere her limbs frigidly
Stiffen too rigidly,
Decently, kindly,
Smooth and compose them;
And her eyes, close them,
Staring so blindly!
Dreadfully staring
Thro' muddy impurity,
As when with the daring
Last look of despairing
Fix'd on futurity.
Perishing gloomily,
Spurr'd by contumely,
Cold inhumanity,
Burning insanity,
Into her rest.
Cross her hands humbly
As if praying dumbly,
Over her breast!
Owning her weakness,
Her evil behaviour,
And leaving, with meekness,
Her sins to her Saviour!
_______________
I cherish the rhyme of "family" and "clammily" ...
Monday, November 19, 2007
The 1970s
The blogger at Enchiridion has posted the lyrics (in Spanish and English) to the song "Eres tú" by Juan Carlos Calderón. I remember hearing the song on AM radio in the '70s, when I was quite young. Here it is on YouTube as performed by Mocedades:
The blogger at Enchiridion has posted the lyrics (in Spanish and English) to the song "Eres tú" by Juan Carlos Calderón. I remember hearing the song on AM radio in the '70s, when I was quite young. Here it is on YouTube as performed by Mocedades:
Sunday, November 18, 2007
John Berryman
1914-72
Eleven Addresses to the Lord.
Not a perfect poem -- the record of a man trying to talk himself into faith, or to talk himself into not losing the little faith he has -- but there are some fine moments:
Jonquils respond with wit to the teasing breeze
and
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
1914-72
Eleven Addresses to the Lord.
Not a perfect poem -- the record of a man trying to talk himself into faith, or to talk himself into not losing the little faith he has -- but there are some fine moments:
Jonquils respond with wit to the teasing breeze
and
Unite my various soul,
sole watchman of the wide & single stars.
I think continually of those who were truly great
by Stephen Spender (1909-95)
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasures in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
by Stephen Spender (1909-95)
I think continually of those who were truly great.
Who, from the womb, remembered the soul's history
Through corridors of light, where the hours are suns,
Endless and singing. Whose lovely ambition
Was that their lips, still touched with fire,
Should tell of the Spirit, clothed from head to foot in song.
And who hoarded from the Spring branches
The desires falling across their bodies like blossoms.
What is precious, is never to forget
The essential delight of the blood drawn from ageless springs
Breaking through rocks in worlds before our earth.
Never to deny its pleasures in the morning simple light
Nor its grave evening demand for love.
Never to allow gradually the traffic to smother
With noise and fog, the flowering of spirit.
Near the snow, near the sun, in the highest fields
See how these names are fêted by the waving grass
And by the streamers of white cloud
And whispers of wind in the listening sky.
The names of those who in their lives fought for life
Who wore at their hearts the fire's centre.
Born of the sun, they traveled a short while toward the sun
And left the vivid air signed with their honour.
Monday, November 12, 2007
Especially meaningful or striking Bible passages
Seen at Eve's. I don't know if I can come up with ten, but I'll try.
1. The Magnificat
2. Psalm 51 ("Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.")
3. Psalm 8 (in the Coverdale translation, "O Lord our Governor ...")
4. Psalm 148
5. Wisdom 7:7 - 8:1
6. Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 24:18 [Vulgate 24:24, "Ego sum mater pulchrae dilectionis ..."]
7. Sirach 43:17ff. "He sprinkles the snow like fluttering birds" ...
8. Luke 15, the Prodigal Son
9. Isaiah 42:3, "A bruised reed he shall not break, a smoldering wick he shall not quench."
10. The Song of Songs, esp. 2:14.
Seen at Eve's. I don't know if I can come up with ten, but I'll try.
1. The Magnificat
2. Psalm 51 ("Asperges me hyssopo et mundabor, lavabis me et super nivem dealbabor.")
3. Psalm 8 (in the Coverdale translation, "O Lord our Governor ...")
4. Psalm 148
5. Wisdom 7:7 - 8:1
6. Sirach (Ecclesiasticus) 24:18 [Vulgate 24:24, "Ego sum mater pulchrae dilectionis ..."]
7. Sirach 43:17ff. "He sprinkles the snow like fluttering birds" ...
8. Luke 15, the Prodigal Son
9. Isaiah 42:3, "A bruised reed he shall not break, a smoldering wick he shall not quench."
10. The Song of Songs, esp. 2:14.
C. S. Lewis
If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.
-- from "The Weight of Glory" in The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses: Revised and Expanded Edition (Macmillan Paperbacks, 1980), pp. 3-4.
If there lurks in most modern minds the notion that to desire our own good and earnestly to hope for the enjoyment of it is a bad thing, I submit that this notion has crept in from Kant and the Stoics and is no part of the Christian faith. Indeed, if we consider the unblushing promises of reward and the staggering nature of the rewards promised in the Gospels, it would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.
-- from "The Weight of Glory" in The Weight of Glory and Other Addresses: Revised and Expanded Edition (Macmillan Paperbacks, 1980), pp. 3-4.
Friday, November 09, 2007
No, this doesn't quite fit
Via Dyspeptic Mutterings.
| Your Inner European is Dutch! |
 Open minded and tolerant. You're up for just about anything. |
Via Dyspeptic Mutterings.
Monday, November 05, 2007
Saturday, November 03, 2007
Friday, November 02, 2007
C. S. Lewis
on St. Mary Magdalene
The allegorical sense of her great action dawned on me the other day. The precious alabaster box which one must break over the Holy Feet is one's heart. Easier said than done. And the contents become perfume only when it is broken. While they are safe inside they are more like sewage. All very alarming.
-- from Letters to an American Lady, letter dated Nov 1st 54
on St. Mary Magdalene
The allegorical sense of her great action dawned on me the other day. The precious alabaster box which one must break over the Holy Feet is one's heart. Easier said than done. And the contents become perfume only when it is broken. While they are safe inside they are more like sewage. All very alarming.
-- from Letters to an American Lady, letter dated Nov 1st 54
C. S. Lewis
The act which engenders a child ought to be, and usually is attended by pleasure. But it is not the pleasure that produces the child. Where there is pleasure there may be sterility: where there is no pleasure the act may be fertile. And in the spiritual marriage of God and the soul it is the same. It is the actual presence, not the sensation of the presence, of the Holy Ghost that begets Christ in us.
-- from Letters to an American Lady, letter dated 20/2/55
The act which engenders a child ought to be, and usually is attended by pleasure. But it is not the pleasure that produces the child. Where there is pleasure there may be sterility: where there is no pleasure the act may be fertile. And in the spiritual marriage of God and the soul it is the same. It is the actual presence, not the sensation of the presence, of the Holy Ghost that begets Christ in us.
-- from Letters to an American Lady, letter dated 20/2/55
Thursday, November 01, 2007
Monday, October 29, 2007
Champions!
The Boston Red Sox have won the 2007 World Series in four games straight ...
Congratulations!
Sox are kings of the diamond by Gordon Edes of the Boston Globe.
The Boston Red Sox have won the 2007 World Series in four games straight ...
Congratulations!
Sox are kings of the diamond by Gordon Edes of the Boston Globe.
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Three games to nil
All right, it got a little scary tonight in the 7th inning, but a win is a win is a win.
Daisuke's 2 RBI were a nice touch. And the (other) rookies came through when they had to.
The box score.
One more ...
Go Sox!
All right, it got a little scary tonight in the 7th inning, but a win is a win is a win.
Daisuke's 2 RBI were a nice touch. And the (other) rookies came through when they had to.
The box score.
One more ...
Go Sox!
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Thursday, October 25, 2007
September 26, 1983
If it weren't for the levelheadedness of this man, we all would have been nuked to death twenty-four years ago.
Via Dyspeptic Mutterings.
If it weren't for the levelheadedness of this man, we all would have been nuked to death twenty-four years ago.
Via Dyspeptic Mutterings.
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
Especially when the October wind
by Dylan Thomas (1914-53)
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
by Dylan Thomas (1914-53)
Especially when the October wind
With frosty fingers punishes my hair,
Caught by the crabbing sun I walk on fire
And cast a shadow crab upon the land,
By the sea's side, hearing the noise of birds,
Hearing the raven cough in winter sticks,
My busy heart who shudders as she talks
Sheds the syllabic blood and drains her words.
Shut, too, in a tower of words, I mark
On the horizon walking like the trees
The wordy shapes of women, and the rows
Of the star-gestured children in the park.
Some let me make you of the vowelled beeches,
Some of the oaken voices, from the roots
Of many a thorny shire tell you notes,
Some let me make you of the water's speeches.
Behind a pot of ferns the wagging clock
Tells me the hour's word, the neural meaning
Flies on the shafted disk, declaims the morning
And tells the windy weather in the cock.
Some let me make you of the meadow's signs;
The signal grass that tells me all I know
Breaks with the wormy winter through the eye.
Some let me tell you of the raven's sins.
Especially when the October wind
(Some let me make you of autumnal spells,
The spider-tongued, and the loud hill of Wales)
With fists of turnips punishes the land,
Some let me make of you the heartless words.
The heart is drained that, spelling in the scurry
Of chemic blood, warned of the coming fury.
By the sea's side hear the dark-vowelled birds.
fragments
the monastery of the setting sun
*
dream of confession to a pagan priest
*
impediments to liberty abound
*
a spirit that's unused to sacrifice
*
estranged from silence this distracted soul
*
enslavement to the taste of fleeting bliss
*
still slumbering lulled by magic not benign
*
the non-ascetic worshiper of self
*
dark icons of a false humility
*
he runs as one who wants to stand in place
*
how long will God protect the reckless man
who walks through dangerous places drunkenly
*
a plague of pleasures and a scourge of pains
*
peremptory thanksgiving for good health
*
asking a wrathless heaven to bless the dead
the monastery of the setting sun
*
dream of confession to a pagan priest
*
impediments to liberty abound
*
a spirit that's unused to sacrifice
*
estranged from silence this distracted soul
*
enslavement to the taste of fleeting bliss
*
still slumbering lulled by magic not benign
*
the non-ascetic worshiper of self
*
dark icons of a false humility
*
he runs as one who wants to stand in place
*
how long will God protect the reckless man
who walks through dangerous places drunkenly
*
a plague of pleasures and a scourge of pains
*
peremptory thanksgiving for good health
*
asking a wrathless heaven to bless the dead
Sunday, October 21, 2007
All knotted up
at three games apiece
The oh-so-reliable Daisuke Matsuzaka starts Game 7.
Cautiously optimistic.
Go Sox!
at three games apiece
The oh-so-reliable Daisuke Matsuzaka starts Game 7.
Cautiously optimistic.
Go Sox!
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