The tiger that walks in her gestures
Has the insolent grace of the ships
(Lines by Alberto de Lacerda quoted by Marianne Moore in her essay, "Subject, Predicate, Object," in Complete Prose, p. 505)
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Tuesday's Marianne Moore
[...] the testament to emotion is not volubility.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 349
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 349
Monday, November 24, 2008
Metablogging? (I'm never sure if I'm using that word correctly)
A brief hiatus is soon to come hereabouts, from this afternoon until tomorrow afternoon, or possibly later.
Also, the Marianne Moore selections might not be a daily occurrence after today. Apologies to the legions of readers who wait each day for these excerpts with bated breath and limitless anticipation!
Also, the Marianne Moore selections might not be a daily occurrence after today. Apologies to the legions of readers who wait each day for these excerpts with bated breath and limitless anticipation!
Monday's Marianne Moore
I believe verbal felicity is the fruit of ardor, of diligence, and of refusing to be false.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 437
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 437
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Sunday's Marianne Moore
I have a very special fondness for writing that is obscure, that does not quite succeed, because of the author's intuitive restraint. All that I can say is that one must be as clear as one's natural reticence allows one to be.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 435
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 435
Saturday, November 22, 2008
The doubter and the saint
An article on Polish poet Czeslaw Miłosz and Polish saint Maximilian Kolbe, at poetryfoundation.org ...
Saturday's Marianne Moore
I was to talk about words, and about how one can hold people's attention. I feel that the clue to contagion is to take a clinical view of our clumsiness, and that subject-matter that takes possession of us -- that interests us -- affords us the patience to work at the weak spots.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 433
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 433
November 22, 2008
Saint Cecilia's Day.
Addendum : A poem by W. H. Auden for St Cecilia, which inspired a musical composition by Benjamin Britten.
Addendum : A poem by W. H. Auden for St Cecilia, which inspired a musical composition by Benjamin Britten.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Friday's Marianne Moore
[...] when editors muddy the purity of criticism by the demure implication that we further art by presenting refuse to which cold-hearted publishers are inhospitable, the impurity under the guise of purity is doubly a reproach.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 343
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 343
Thursday, November 20, 2008
24 degrees (-5°C) in Boston
Those of you who complain of 40s and 50s might like to know that it's significantly below freezing here in Massachusetts!
Thursday's Marianne Moore
[...] it is possible for the artist to use suffering and not be effaced by it.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 346
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 346
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
The Anchored Angel
For those 1½ or 2 of you who haven't gotten enough of José García Villa, here is a review of a 1999 selection of his writings. The review contains some biographical data, some charming (the poet's preference for gin martinis), some off-putting (the poet's habit of asking women if they were virgins).
Apparently, Villa was once asked why he never wrote political poems. His answer impresses one favorably:
Because I am an artist, and in the kind of art I believe in and to which I have given my whole allegiance, there is no place for anything that has to do with social, economic or political problems. The whole function of the poet is to arouse pleasure in the beautiful. Propaganda does something else.
Apparently, Villa was once asked why he never wrote political poems. His answer impresses one favorably:
Because I am an artist, and in the kind of art I believe in and to which I have given my whole allegiance, there is no place for anything that has to do with social, economic or political problems. The whole function of the poet is to arouse pleasure in the beautiful. Propaganda does something else.
Wednesday's Marianne Moore
One of New York's more painstaking magazines asked me, at the suggestion of a contributor, to analyze my sentence structure, and my instinctive reply might have seemed dictatorial: you don't devise a rhythm, the rhythm is the person, and the sentence but a radiograph of personality.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 396
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 396
November 19, 2008
Life on earth is like a drop of water as it falls down into the ocean waiting to embrace it. From the reflection for Wednesday of the 33rd Week in Ordinary Time.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
"Disintegrate me to thy ecstasy"
Three more poems by José García Villa. The poem labelled "Lyric 22" especially magnetizes.
Tuesday's Marianne Moore
Poetry is the Mogul's dream: to be intensively toiling at what is a pleasure; La Fontaine's indolence being, as the most innocent observer must realize, a mere metaphor. As for the hobgoblin obscurity, it need never entail compromise. It should mean that one may fail and start again, never mutilate an auspicious premise. The objective is architecture, not demolition; grudges flower less well than gratitudes.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 506
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 506
November 18, 2008
Optional memorials : Dedication of the Basilicas of the Holy Apostles Peter and Paul; St Rose Philippine Duchesne.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Two poems
by José García Villa (1908-97). One detects obvious debts to William Blake, Gerard Manley Hopkins, and (especially in the second poem) E. E. Cummings.
Sonnet LVII
by Pablo Neruda (1904-73)
Mienten los que dijeron que yo perdà la luna,
los que profetizaron mi porvenir de arena,
aseveraron tantas cosas con lenguas frÃas:
quisieron prohibir la flor del universo.
"Ya no cantará más el ámbar insurgente
de la sirena, no tiene sino pueblo."
Y masticaban sus incesantes papeles
patrocinando para mi guitarra el olvido.
Yo les lancé a los ojos las lanzas deslumbrantes
de nuestro amor clavando tu corazón y el mÃo,
yo reclamé el jazmÃn que dejaban tus huellas,
yo me perdà de noche sin luz bajo tus párpados
y cuando me envolvió la claridad
nacà de nuevo, dueño de mi propia tiniebla.
*
They’re liars, those who say I lost the moons,
who foretold a future like a public desert to me,
who gossiped so much with their cold tongues:
they tried to ban the flower of the universe.
"The quick spontaneous mermaids’ amber
is finished. Now he has only the people."
And they gnawed on their incessant papers,
they plotted an oblivion for my guitar.
But I tossed — ha! into their eyes! — the dazzling lances
of our love, piercing your heart and mine.
I gathered the jasmine your footsteps left behind.
I got lost in the night, without light
of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me
I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
(trans. S. Tapscott)
Mienten los que dijeron que yo perdà la luna,
los que profetizaron mi porvenir de arena,
aseveraron tantas cosas con lenguas frÃas:
quisieron prohibir la flor del universo.
"Ya no cantará más el ámbar insurgente
de la sirena, no tiene sino pueblo."
Y masticaban sus incesantes papeles
patrocinando para mi guitarra el olvido.
Yo les lancé a los ojos las lanzas deslumbrantes
de nuestro amor clavando tu corazón y el mÃo,
yo reclamé el jazmÃn que dejaban tus huellas,
yo me perdà de noche sin luz bajo tus párpados
y cuando me envolvió la claridad
nacà de nuevo, dueño de mi propia tiniebla.
*
They’re liars, those who say I lost the moons,
who foretold a future like a public desert to me,
who gossiped so much with their cold tongues:
they tried to ban the flower of the universe.
"The quick spontaneous mermaids’ amber
is finished. Now he has only the people."
And they gnawed on their incessant papers,
they plotted an oblivion for my guitar.
But I tossed — ha! into their eyes! — the dazzling lances
of our love, piercing your heart and mine.
I gathered the jasmine your footsteps left behind.
I got lost in the night, without light
of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me
I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.
(trans. S. Tapscott)
Rumi
I want to be where
your bare foot walks,
because maybe before you step,
you'll look at the ground.
I want that blessing.
your bare foot walks,
because maybe before you step,
you'll look at the ground.
I want that blessing.
Monday's Marianne Moore
one who attains equilibrium in spite of opposition to himself from within, is stronger than if there had been no opposition to overcome
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 335
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 335
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Weather
It hit 70 degrees here last night at about nine, with fiercely animated southwest winds. It's still 62, but today is supposed to bring "the big drop." Lower forties by five this afternoon. Later this week we should see twenties in the morning.
Ah, New England in November!
Ah, New England in November!
Sunday's Marianne Moore
realism need not restrict itself to grossness
The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 330
Wickedness is less troubling to those who are immersed in it that it is to a man like Job whose one thought is to serve and obey.
ibid., p. 331
The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 330
Wickedness is less troubling to those who are immersed in it that it is to a man like Job whose one thought is to serve and obey.
ibid., p. 331
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Marianne Moore for Saturday
When the spirit expands and the animal part of one sinks, one is not sardonic[.]
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 299
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 299
Friday, November 14, 2008
Not quite a poem
This thing is seriously goofy. Or un-seriously goofy. But I remember that the blogueuse of the late lamented Gospel Minefield liked the line about the stylite.
Marianne Moore for Friday morning
If everything literary were deleted, in which there is some thought of deity, "literature" would be a puny residue; one could almost say that each striking literary work is some phase of the desire to resist or affirm "religion."
That belief in God is not easy, is seemingly one of God's injustices; and self-evidently, imposed piety results in the opposite. Coercion and religious complacency are serious enemies of religion -- whereas persecution invariably favors spiritual conviction. But this is certain, any attempted substituting of self for deity, is a forlorn hope.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 678
That belief in God is not easy, is seemingly one of God's injustices; and self-evidently, imposed piety results in the opposite. Coercion and religious complacency are serious enemies of religion -- whereas persecution invariably favors spiritual conviction. But this is certain, any attempted substituting of self for deity, is a forlorn hope.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 678
November 14, 2008
Friday of the 32nd Week in Ordinary Time brings a meditation on Purgatory from Abbot Gueranger, a Benedictine.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Marianne Moore, again
Volcanics seem pardonable when they are one's own, but in others it is some species of poetics usually which attracts one, and in search of pure art we tend to feel betrayed when experts tell us merely where it is not.
The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 201
Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.
ibid., p. 178
The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore, p. 201
Egotism is usually subversive of sagacity.
ibid., p. 178
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Marianne Moore
[...] only the purblind would dissect a rose to determine its fragrance, or a poem to discover its secret; for a poem deprived of its mystery would no longer be a poem. And mystery is different from obscurity.
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore (Penguin, 1987), p. 370
from The Complete Prose of Marianne Moore (Penguin, 1987), p. 370
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Greater Love
by Wilfred Owen (1893-1918)
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce Love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,—
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,—
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot,
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
Red lips are not so red
As the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Kindness of wooed and wooer
Seems shame to their love pure.
O Love, your eyes lose lure
When I behold eyes blinded in my stead!
Your slender attitude
Trembles not exquisite like limbs knife-skewed,
Rolling and rolling there
Where God seems not to care;
Till the fierce Love they bear
Cramps them in death's extreme decrepitude.
Your voice sings not so soft,—
Though even as wind murmuring through raftered loft,—
Your dear voice is not dear,
Gentle, and evening clear,
As theirs whom none now hear
Now earth has stopped their piteous mouths that coughed.
Heart, you were never hot,
Nor large, nor full like hearts made great with shot;
And though your hand be pale,
Paler are all which trail
Your cross through flame and hail:
Weep, you may weep, for you may touch them not.
War Is Kind
by Stephen Crane (1871-1900)
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die
The unexplained glory flies above them
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die
Point for them the virtue of slaughter
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Do not weep, maiden, for war is kind.
Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment
Little souls who thirst for fight,
These men were born to drill and die
The unexplained glory flies above them
Great is the battle-god, great, and his kingdom--
A field where a thousand corpses lie.
Do not weep, babe, for war is kind.
Because your father tumbled in the yellow trenches,
Raged at his breast, gulped and died,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Swift, blazing flag of the regiment
Eagle with crest of red and gold,
These men were born to drill and die
Point for them the virtue of slaughter
Make plain to them the excellence of killing
And a field where a thousand corpses lie.
Mother whose heart hung humble as a button
On the bright splendid shroud of your son,
Do not weep.
War is kind.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain
I've combed the archives, and selected thirty-odd poems of mine (emphasis on the odd) to be placed under the label of "thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain" (the line is Anne Bradstreet's, describing one of her books). So, by clicking on the label of this post, if you're a glutton for punishment, you can read some of what I've produced since 1985.
Sunday, November 09, 2008
Tracy Chapman's newest single
I've removed the YouTube embed because, for some strange reason, it was messing up my blog. So here's the link to the YouTube ...
The whole album is quite good. The best five songs are probably "Sing for You," "Save Us All," "Thinking of You," "A Theory," and "Conditional."
"A Theory" contains the happy rhyme of "I will postulate" and "ask you out on a date"!
The whole album is quite good. The best five songs are probably "Sing for You," "Save Us All," "Thinking of You," "A Theory," and "Conditional."
"A Theory" contains the happy rhyme of "I will postulate" and "ask you out on a date"!
55 years
Today is the anniversary of the death of Dylan Thomas (1914-53). To commemorate the occasion, here is the famous villanelle.
Psalm 146. Lauda, anima mea.
1 Praise the LORD, O my soul: while I live, will I praise the LORD; * yea, as long as I have any being, I will sing praises unto my God.
2 O put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of man; * for there is no help in them.
3 For when the breath of man goeth forth, he shall turn again to his earth, * and then all his thoughts perish.
4 Blessed is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, * and whose hope is in the LORD his God:
5 Who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that therein is; * who keepeth his promise for ever;
6 Who helpeth them to right that suffer wrong; * who feedeth the hungry.
7 The LORD looseth men out of prison; * the LORD giveth sight to the blind.
8 The LORD helpeth them that are fallen; * the LORD careth for the righteous.
9 The LORD careth for the strangers; he defendeth the fatherless and widow: * as for the way of the ungodly, he turneth it upside down.
10 The LORD thy God, O Sion, shall be King for evermore, * and throughout all generations.
2 O put not your trust in princes, nor in any child of man; * for there is no help in them.
3 For when the breath of man goeth forth, he shall turn again to his earth, * and then all his thoughts perish.
4 Blessed is he that hath the God of Jacob for his help, * and whose hope is in the LORD his God:
5 Who made heaven and earth, the sea, and all that therein is; * who keepeth his promise for ever;
6 Who helpeth them to right that suffer wrong; * who feedeth the hungry.
7 The LORD looseth men out of prison; * the LORD giveth sight to the blind.
8 The LORD helpeth them that are fallen; * the LORD careth for the righteous.
9 The LORD careth for the strangers; he defendeth the fatherless and widow: * as for the way of the ungodly, he turneth it upside down.
10 The LORD thy God, O Sion, shall be King for evermore, * and throughout all generations.
Sonnet IX
by Pablo Neruda (1904-73)
Al golpe de la ola contra la piedra indócil
la claridad estalla y establece su rosa
y el cÃrculo del mar se reduce a un racimo,
a una sola gota de sal azul que cae.
Oh radiante magnolia desatada en la espuma,
magnética viajera cuya muerte florece
y eternamente vuelve a ser y a no ser nada:
sal rota, deslumbrante movimiento marino.
Juntos tú y yo, amor mÃo, sellamos el silencio,
mientras destruye el mar sus constantes estatuas
y derrumba sus torres de arrebato y blancura,
porque en la trama de estos tejidos invisibles
del agua desbocada, de la incesante arena,
sostenemos la única y acosada ternura.
*
There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
to one drop of blue salt, falling.
O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
magnetic transient whose death blooms
and vanishes--being, nothingness--forever:
broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.
You and I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:
because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand,
we make the only permanent tenderness.
(trans. S. Tapscott)
Al golpe de la ola contra la piedra indócil
la claridad estalla y establece su rosa
y el cÃrculo del mar se reduce a un racimo,
a una sola gota de sal azul que cae.
Oh radiante magnolia desatada en la espuma,
magnética viajera cuya muerte florece
y eternamente vuelve a ser y a no ser nada:
sal rota, deslumbrante movimiento marino.
Juntos tú y yo, amor mÃo, sellamos el silencio,
mientras destruye el mar sus constantes estatuas
y derrumba sus torres de arrebato y blancura,
porque en la trama de estos tejidos invisibles
del agua desbocada, de la incesante arena,
sostenemos la única y acosada ternura.
*
There where the waves shatter on the restless rocks
the clear light bursts and enacts its rose,
and the sea-circle shrinks to a cluster of buds,
to one drop of blue salt, falling.
O bright magnolia bursting in the foam,
magnetic transient whose death blooms
and vanishes--being, nothingness--forever:
broken salt, dazzling lurch of the sea.
You and I, Love, together we ratify the silence,
while the sea destroys its perpetual statues,
collapses its towers of wild speed and whiteness:
because in the weavings of those invisible fabrics,
galloping water, incessant sand,
we make the only permanent tenderness.
(trans. S. Tapscott)
November 9, 2008
Sunday brings the feast of the Dedication of St John Lateran, omnium urbis et orbis ecclesiarum mater et caput.
Saturday, November 08, 2008
Sonnet LXIX
by Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
Tal vez no ser es ser sin que tú seas,
sin que vayas cortando el mediodÃa
como una flor azul, sin que camines
más tarde por la niebla y los ladrillos,
sin esa luz que llevas en la mano
que tal vez otros no verán dorada,
que tal vez nadie supo que crecÃa
como el origen rojo de la rosa,
sin que seas, en fin, sin que vinieras
brusca, incitante, a conocer mi vida,
ráfaga de rosal, trigo del viento,
y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,
y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,
y por amor seré, serás, seremos.
*
Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence,
without you moving, slicing the noon
like a blue flower, without you walking
later through the fog and the cobbles,
without the light you carry in your hand,
golden, which maybe others will not see,
which maybe no one knew was growing
like the red beginnings of a rose.
In short, without your presence: without your coming
suddenly, incitingly, to know my life,
gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind:
since then I am because you are,
since then you are, I am, we are,
and through love I will be, you will be, we'll be.
(trans. Stephen Tapscott)
Tal vez no ser es ser sin que tú seas,
sin que vayas cortando el mediodÃa
como una flor azul, sin que camines
más tarde por la niebla y los ladrillos,
sin esa luz que llevas en la mano
que tal vez otros no verán dorada,
que tal vez nadie supo que crecÃa
como el origen rojo de la rosa,
sin que seas, en fin, sin que vinieras
brusca, incitante, a conocer mi vida,
ráfaga de rosal, trigo del viento,
y desde entonces soy porque tú eres,
y desde entonces eres, soy y somos,
y por amor seré, serás, seremos.
*
Maybe nothingness is to be without your presence,
without you moving, slicing the noon
like a blue flower, without you walking
later through the fog and the cobbles,
without the light you carry in your hand,
golden, which maybe others will not see,
which maybe no one knew was growing
like the red beginnings of a rose.
In short, without your presence: without your coming
suddenly, incitingly, to know my life,
gust of a rosebush, wheat of wind:
since then I am because you are,
since then you are, I am, we are,
and through love I will be, you will be, we'll be.
(trans. Stephen Tapscott)
Cummings
if(touched by love's own secret)we,like homing
through welcoming sweet miracles of air
(and joyfully all truths of wing resuming)
selves,into infinite tomorrow steer
--souls under whom flow(mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one(wholly strange;familiar wholly)dearest
more than reality of more than dream--
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom?yet,among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision,
you'll(silently alighting)and i'll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars
through welcoming sweet miracles of air
(and joyfully all truths of wing resuming)
selves,into infinite tomorrow steer
--souls under whom flow(mountain valley forest)
a million wheres which never may become
one(wholly strange;familiar wholly)dearest
more than reality of more than dream--
how should contented fools of fact envision
the mystery of freedom?yet,among
their loud exactitudes of imprecision,
you'll(silently alighting)and i'll sing
while at us very deafly a most stares
colossal hoax of clocks and calendars
Quotation of note
Let us resist the temptation to fall back on the same partisanship and pettiness and immaturity that has poisoned our politics for so long.
President-elect Barack Obama, November 4, 2008
---------------
Yes, but can we resist the temptation to describe our political opponents as petty, poisonous and immature?
Just wondering.
President-elect Barack Obama, November 4, 2008
---------------
Yes, but can we resist the temptation to describe our political opponents as petty, poisonous and immature?
Just wondering.
Friday, November 07, 2008
To hell with terza rima!
The Guardian blog (UK) has a poetry challenge which is, to coin a plagiarism, above my pay grade.
(Hat tip: Poetry Foundation.)
(Hat tip: Poetry Foundation.)
Encumbrances
Shortly after the election of Bill Clinton in 1992, the illustrious conservative writer William F. Buckley, Jr. was asked if he was in a despairing mood. Buckley noted that despair is a mortal sin, but went on to add, "I am not confident that the president-elect will be able to transcend his encumbrances."
Yes, that's about the size of it -- although "encumbrance" is perhaps a too polite word for "advocacy of a policy that promotes intrinsic evil."
Yes, that's about the size of it -- although "encumbrance" is perhaps a too polite word for "advocacy of a policy that promotes intrinsic evil."
Thursday, November 06, 2008
The never-ending saga of the cough
OK, so it's day 17, and I still have the cough, a little, a dry tickle in the throat, but no violent chest pain or head pain, and the ears don't seem all blocked up anymore. Saw my doctor today and he prescribed something called Tessalon Pearls (perles?) for the cough, but didn't offer any clue as to how I got this thing. He also recommended sleeping near a humidifier or a vaporizer.
The long and the short of it is: I'm 90-95% better. Thanks to all of you who sent kind thoughts heavenward on my behalf.
The long and the short of it is: I'm 90-95% better. Thanks to all of you who sent kind thoughts heavenward on my behalf.
Post-election beverages
MCNS of Irish Elk asked his readers to provide the name of their Election Night potent potable. Alas, I regret to report that I was stone cold sober for the election and its immediate aftermath. But right now, it's Christian Brothers brandy.
On the direction of this blog
Well, I don't know where it's going, to be honest. Much of my blogging energy is currently going into an unpublic three-person collaborative effort. All the good stuff, you might say, is going there. (Well, maybe not good stuff, but the opinions about politics and other ephemera.)
There will probably continue to be poetry hereabouts, but I'm going through a slow patch -- not only in terms of writing poetry (for all intents and purposes, I've stopped) but in terms of finding poetry to post and share with the faithful readers of this page.
I'm currently reading an anthology recommended by a longtime visitor to this spot. Flowers of Heaven: One Thousand Years of Christian Verse (Ignatius Press), edited by Joseph Pearce, who has written fine books on Lewis, Tolkien, Wilde, etc. There seem to be quite a few gems in this volume, even if the 20th century is a bit underrepresented.
I've heard about another anthology called Place of Passage, described in a subtitle as an anthology of "Contemporary Catholic Poetry." Have not investigated that one yet. But it may compensate for the deficit that I perceive in Mr Pearce's otherwise excellent compilation.
So. Be on the lookout for some poetry -- eventually! I don't know when. And maybe I'll see if I can cause some of my political posts at the other blog to "bilocate" -- there and here. But you have my sincerest apologies if the pace here has gotten a little too slow.
There will probably continue to be poetry hereabouts, but I'm going through a slow patch -- not only in terms of writing poetry (for all intents and purposes, I've stopped) but in terms of finding poetry to post and share with the faithful readers of this page.
I'm currently reading an anthology recommended by a longtime visitor to this spot. Flowers of Heaven: One Thousand Years of Christian Verse (Ignatius Press), edited by Joseph Pearce, who has written fine books on Lewis, Tolkien, Wilde, etc. There seem to be quite a few gems in this volume, even if the 20th century is a bit underrepresented.
I've heard about another anthology called Place of Passage, described in a subtitle as an anthology of "Contemporary Catholic Poetry." Have not investigated that one yet. But it may compensate for the deficit that I perceive in Mr Pearce's otherwise excellent compilation.
So. Be on the lookout for some poetry -- eventually! I don't know when. And maybe I'll see if I can cause some of my political posts at the other blog to "bilocate" -- there and here. But you have my sincerest apologies if the pace here has gotten a little too slow.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
November 5, 2008
Wednesday of the 31st Week in Ordinary Time. And at catholicculture.org, a meditation on death.
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Monday, November 03, 2008
Sunday, November 02, 2008
Brain-dead left-wing communist morons
Saturday, November 01, 2008
November
by Hartley Coleridge (1796-1849)
The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows.
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define;
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.
The mellow year is hasting to its close;
The little birds have almost sung their last,
Their small notes twitter in the dreary blast --
That shrill-piped harbinger of early snows;
The patient beauty of the scentless rose,
Oft with the morn's hoar crystal quaintly glassed,
Hangs, a pale mourner for the summer past,
And makes a little summer where it grows.
In the chill sunbeam of the faint brief day
The dusky waters shudder as they shine;
The russet leaves obstruct the straggling way
Of oozy brooks, which no deep banks define;
And the gaunt woods, in ragged, scant array,
Wrap their old limbs with sombre ivy-twine.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Catherine de Hueck Doherty
from the "Spring" section of I Live on an Island (Ave Maria Press, 1979):
A priest to me is Christ wishing to be present in our midst in and through this man he has called to be his priest. It doesn't seem to affect me at all if priests are sinful or holy, or anything in between. I understand that they are men. But frankly, if I am in need of one of them and know that he is living a sinful life, I would still crawl to him to get absolution for my sins, or to receive Viaticum if I were in danger of death.
---------------
These words, first posted here five and a half years ago, came to my mind this evening for some ineffable reason.
A priest to me is Christ wishing to be present in our midst in and through this man he has called to be his priest. It doesn't seem to affect me at all if priests are sinful or holy, or anything in between. I understand that they are men. But frankly, if I am in need of one of them and know that he is living a sinful life, I would still crawl to him to get absolution for my sins, or to receive Viaticum if I were in danger of death.
---------------
These words, first posted here five and a half years ago, came to my mind this evening for some ineffable reason.
Sonnet sequence
Thirteen sonnets by Geoffrey Hill (b. 1932), "An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England."
Read slowly, and enjoy.
Read slowly, and enjoy.
The title
... of this book (which I saw today for the first time at the Harvard Coop) makes me think, for some reason, of this blogger.
La santé: an update
Still not 100%. Still have this hacking cough, now accompanied by discomfort in the left side of the chest. This is day eleven. The most recent doctor I saw recommended cough syrup. The cough syrup made for a most unpleasant night. (The label on the bottle says, not for coughs that last longer than 7 days.)
Oh, and both doctors I've seen say that my lungs are as clear as a bell. I don't have pneumonia, as far as they know.
Pray, if you will, that the cure for what ails me is apparent to the next doctor I see.
Oh, and both doctors I've seen say that my lungs are as clear as a bell. I don't have pneumonia, as far as they know.
Pray, if you will, that the cure for what ails me is apparent to the next doctor I see.
To Sleep
by John Keats (1795-1821)
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
____________________
John Keats was born on this date in 1795.
O soft embalmer of the still midnight!
Shutting with careful fingers and benign
Our gloom-pleased eyes, embower'd from the light,
Enshaded in forgetfulness divine;
O soothest Sleep! if so it please thee, close,
In midst of this thine hymn, my willing eyes,
Or wait the amen, ere thy poppy throws
Around my bed its lulling charities;
Then save me, or the passèd day will shine
Upon my pillow, breeding many woes;
Save me from curious conscience, that still lords
Its strength for darkness, burrowing like a mole;
Turn the key deftly in the oilèd wards,
And seal the hushèd casket of my soul.
____________________
John Keats was born on this date in 1795.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Ballygunnian
The only boy, almost, who "played" (but not at games) was our Irish earl. But then he was an exception to all rules; not because of his earldom but because he was an untamable Irishman, anarch in grain, whom no society could iron out. He smoked a pipe in his first term. He went off by night on strange expeditions to a neighboring city; not, I believe, for women, but for harmless rowdyism, low life, and adventure. He always carried a revolver. I remember it well, for he had a habit of loading one chamber only, rushing into your study, and then firing off (if that is the right word) all the others at you, so that your life depended on his counting accurately. I felt at the time, and I feel still, that this (unlike the fagging) was the sort of thing no sensible boy could object to. It was done in defiance both of masters and Bloods, it was wholly useless, and there was no malice in it. I liked Ballygunnian; he, too, was killed in France.
C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life (Harcourt, Brace), pp. 98 & 99
C. S. Lewis, Surprised by Joy: The Shape of My Early Life (Harcourt, Brace), pp. 98 & 99
October 29, 2008
Today is Wednesday of the 30th Week in Ordinary Time, and at catholicculture.org there is a meditation on the Rosary and the Liturgy.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
October 27, 2008
Monday of the 30th week in Ordinary Time. At catholicculture.org, a meditation on the rosary.
Born this day in 1914
Prologue
by Dylan Thomas (1914-53)
This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and sails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
This rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spinning man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark : I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage red, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
Over the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The dingle furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
In the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooing the woods' praise,
Who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
Ho, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On a tongued puffball)
But animals thick as thieves
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist! in hogsback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms in a throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbours, finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone, and then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multitudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move,
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old sea-legged fox,
Tom tit and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.
by Dylan Thomas (1914-53)
This day winding down now
At God speeded summer's end
In the torrent salmon sun,
In my seashaken house
On a breakneck of rocks
Tangled with chirrup and fruit,
Froth, flute, fin and quill
At a wood's dancing hoof,
By scummed, starfish sands
With their fishwife cross
Gulls, pipers, cockles, and sails,
Out there, crow black, men
Tackled with clouds, who kneel
To the sunset nets,
Geese nearly in heaven, boys
Stabbing, and herons, and shells
That speak seven seas,
Eternal waters away
From the cities of nine
Days' night whose towers will catch
In the religious wind
Like stalks of tall, dry straw,
At poor peace I sing
To you strangers (though song
Is a burning and crested act,
The fire of birds in
The world's turning wood,
For my sawn, splay sounds),
Out of these seathumbed leaves
That will fly and fall
Like leaves of trees and as soon
Crumble and undie
Into the dogdayed night.
Seaward the salmon, sucked sun slips,
And the dumb swans drub blue
My dabbed bay's dusk, as I hack
This rumpus of shapes
For you to know
How I, a spinning man,
Glory also this star, bird
Roared, sea born, man torn, blood blest.
Hark : I trumpet the place,
From fish to jumping hill! Look:
I build my bellowing ark
To the best of my love
As the flood begins,
Out of the fountainhead
Of fear, rage red, manalive,
Molten and mountainous to stream
Over the wound asleep
Sheep white hollow farms
To Wales in my arms.
Hoo, there, in castle keep,
You king singsong owls, who moonbeam
The flickering runs and dive
The dingle furred deer dead!
Huloo, on plumbed bryns,
O my ruffled ring dove
In the hooting, nearly dark
With Welsh and reverent rook,
Coo rooing the woods' praise,
Who moons her blue notes from her nest
Down to the curlew herd!
Ho, hullaballoing clan
Agape, with woe
In your beaks, on the gabbing capes!
Heigh, on horseback hill, jack
Whisking hare! who
Hears there, this fox light, my flood ship's
Clangour as I hew and smite
(A clash of anvils for my
Hubbub and fiddle, this tune
On a tongued puffball)
But animals thick as thieves
On God's rough tumbling grounds
(Hail to His beasthood!).
Beasts who sleep good and thin,
Hist! in hogsback woods! The haystacked
Hollow farms in a throng
Of waters cluck and cling,
And barnroofs cockcrow war!
O kingdom of neighbours, finned
Felled and quilled, flash to my patch
Work ark and the moonshine
Drinking Noah of the bay,
With pelt, and scale, and fleece:
Only the drowned deep bells
Of sheep and churches noise
Poor peace as the sun sets
And dark shoals every holy field.
We will ride out alone, and then,
Under the stars of Wales,
Cry, Multitudes of arks! Across
The water lidded lands,
Manned with their loves they'll move,
Like wooden islands, hill to hill.
Huloo, my prowed dove with a flute!
Ahoy, old sea-legged fox,
Tom tit and Dai mouse!
My ark sings in the sun
At God speeded summer's end
And the flood flowers now.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Cummings
so many selves(so many fiends and gods
each greedier than every)is a man
(so easily one in another hides;
yet man can,being all,escape from none)
so huge a tumult is the simplest wish:
so pitiless a massacre the hope
most innocent(so deep's the mind of flesh
and so awake what waking calls asleep)
so never is most lonely man alone
(his briefest breathing lives some planet's year,
his longest life's a heartbeat of some sun;
his least unmotion roams the youngest star)
--how should a fool that calls him "I" presume
to comprehend not numerable whom?
each greedier than every)is a man
(so easily one in another hides;
yet man can,being all,escape from none)
so huge a tumult is the simplest wish:
so pitiless a massacre the hope
most innocent(so deep's the mind of flesh
and so awake what waking calls asleep)
so never is most lonely man alone
(his briefest breathing lives some planet's year,
his longest life's a heartbeat of some sun;
his least unmotion roams the youngest star)
--how should a fool that calls him "I" presume
to comprehend not numerable whom?
Drat!
The sun came out at about eleven, while I was at Mass. Wish it had stayed cloudy and gray. I must have ancestors from some cool and gloomy climes.
Still, only about 61 degrees. Could be much worse.
Did I mention that autumn rocks?
Still, only about 61 degrees. Could be much worse.
Did I mention that autumn rocks?
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