Poetry Sunday

If you've been with me for long, you know that I enjoy writing (and receiving) ink-on-paper, handwritten letters. I haven't been the best correspondent over the last year or so, but I need to get back into the swing of letter writing before Mr DeJoy's Postal Service prices the pastime out of reach for us old retired folks.

I recently ran across this great poem by Wystan Hugh (W. H.) Auden that speaks to those of us who still treasure the good old letter ... 

Night Mail

by W. H. Auden

This is the night mail crossing the Border,

Bringing the cheque and the postal order,

Letters for the rich, letters for the poor,

The shop at the corner, the girl next door.

Pulling up Beattock, a steady climb:

The gradient's against her, but she's on time.

Past cotton-grass and moorland boulder

Shovelling white steam over her shoulder,

Snorting noisily as she passes

Silent miles of wind-bent grasses.

Birds turn their heads as she approaches,

Stare from bushes at her blank-faced coaches.

Sheep-dogs cannot turn her course;

They slumber on with paws across.

In the farm she passes no one wakes,

But a jug in a bedroom gently shakes.

Dawn freshens, Her climb is done.

Down towards Glasgow she descends,

Towards the steam tugs yelping down a glade of cranes

Towards the fields of apparatus, the furnaces

Set on the dark plain like gigantic chessmen.

All Scotland waits for her:

In dark glens, beside pale-green lochs

Men long for news.

Letters of thanks, letters from banks,

Letters of joy from girl and boy,

Receipted bills and invitations

To inspect new stock or to visit relations,

And applications for situations,

And timid lovers' declarations,

And gossip, gossip from all the nations,

News circumstantial, news financial,

Letters with holiday snaps to enlarge in,

Letters with faces scrawled on the margin,

Letters from uncles, cousins, and aunts,

Letters to Scotland from the South of France,

Letters of condolence to Highlands and Lowlands

Written on paper of every hue,

The pink, the violet, the white and the blue,

The chatty, the catty, the boring, the adoring,

The cold and official and the heart's outpouring,

Clever, stupid, short and long,

The typed and the printed and the spelt all wrong.

Thousands are still asleep,

Dreaming of terrifying monsters

Or of friendly tea beside the band in Cranston's or Crawford's:

Asleep in working Glasgow, asleep in well-set Edinburgh,

Asleep in granite Aberdeen,

They continue their dreams,

But shall wake soon and hope for letters,

And none will hear the postman's knock

Without a quickening of the heart,

For who can bear to feel himself forgotten? 

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. I'll get back to writing more thoughts to you sooner or later.

Bilbo

Poetry Sunday

Today's poem is not a poem, per se, but the lyrics to one of my favorite songs. If you've never heard it before, give it a listen ... I've attached the video at the end.

Dance Me to the End of Love

by Leonard Cohen

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in

Lift me like an olive branch and be my homeward dove

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Oh, let me see your beauty when the witnesses are gone

Let me feel you moving like they do in Babylon

Show me slowly what I only know the limits of

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the wedding now, dance me on and on

Dance me very tenderly and dance me very long

We're both of us beneath our love, we're both of us above

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the children who are asking to be born

Dance me through the curtains that our kisses have outworn

Raise a tent of shelter now, though every thread is torn

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to your beauty with a burning violin

Dance me through the panic till I'm gathered safely in

Touch me with your naked hand or touch me with your glove

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

Dance me to the end of love

I love dancing and I love good music. And music doesn't come much better than with lyrics by the late, great Leonard Cohen. Want to see the video? Here it is ...

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts coming.

Bilbo

Poetry Sunday

Thanksgiving is over for another year, but I remain thankful for many things. This poem is a wonderful summation of the way we ought to look at life ... as opposed to the way many of us usually do.

I Am Thankful – A Poem of Thanksgiving

Author Unknown

I am thankful:

For the wife

Who says it’s hot dogs tonight

Because she is home with me

And not out with someone else.

For the husband

Who is on the sofa

Being a couch potato

Because he is home with me

And not out at the bars.

For the teenager

Who is complaining about doing dishes

Because it means she is at home,

Not on the streets.

For the taxes I pay

Because it means

I am employed.

For the mess to clean after a party

Because it means I have

Been surrounded by friends.

For the clothes that fit a little too snug

Because it means

I have enough to eat.

For my shadow that watches me work

Because it means

I am out in the sunshine.

For a lawn that needs mowing,

Windows that need cleaning,

And gutters that need fixing

Because it means that I have a home.

For all the complaining

I hear about the government

Because it means

We have freedom of speech.

For the parking spot

I find at the far end of the parking lot

Because it means

I am capable of walking,

And I have been blessed with transportation.

For my huge heating bill

Because it means

I am warm.

For the lady behind me in church

Who sings off key

Because it means I can hear.

For the pile of laundry and ironing

Because it means

I have clothes to wear.

For weariness and aching muscles

At the end of the day

Because it means I have been

Capable of working.

For the alarm that goes off

In the early morning hours

Because it means

I am alive.

I am alive, and so is my Very Best Beloved. Things aren't so bad after all, are they?

Have a good day and enjoy the rest of your weekend. More thoughts coming.

Bilbo

Poetry Interlude

I've previously admitted to being a fan of poetry, and have shared a number of poems with you in this space. Here's another great one I ran across a short while ago ...

Questionnaire

by Wendell Berry

How much poison are you willing

to eat for the success of the free

market and global trade? Please

name your preferred poisons.

For the sake of goodness, how much

evil are you willing to do?

Fill in the following blanks

with the names of your favorite

evils and acts of hatred.

What sacrifices are you prepared

to make for culture and civilization?

Please list the monuments, shrines,

and works of art you would

most willingly destroy

In the name of patriotism and

the flag, how much of our beloved

land are you willing to desecrate?

List in the following spaces

the mountains, rivers, towns, farms

you could most readily do without.

State briefly the ideas, ideals, or hopes,

the energy sources, the kinds of security;

for which you would kill a child.

Name, please, the children whom

you would be willing to kill.

The best poetry, like the best essays, derive their power from the thinking they force you to do. I think this one does a lot of forcing.

Have a good day. Think about how you'd answer the questionnaire.

More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

Sam Had the Right Idea

I have a lot of things to do this morning, including putting on eighteen layers of heavy clothes for the arctic trek to the bus stop, so in honor of the Polar Vortex I'll just share this version of one of my favorite poems - the classic Yukon tall tale The Cremation of Sam McGee. I do a much better reading of it myself* [pats self on back], but this one's not bad ...

Have a good day. Stay warm. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

* I enjoy reading poetry aloud ... a few of my favorites to read are Ernest Lawrence Thayer's Casey at the Bat, Edward R. Sill's The Fool's Prayer, Dylan Thomas's Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, and - as you now know - The Cremation of Sam McGee.

Something for Your Soul

Many years ago there was a prose poem that was very popular for a while. It showed up on posters, usually in a faux-antique format that implied it had been "found in Old Saint Paul's Church, Baltimore AD 1692," was reprinted everywhere, and was also a popular spoken recording. The poem, Desiderata, was actually written by Max Ehrmann in 1927, and is meant to be a calm reflection on the things you should desire (desiderata is Latin for desired things).

In a time of social and political turmoil, perhaps we need to dust off Desiderata again ... but be sure to read all the way to the end of the post before you get turned off by the sappy part ...

Desiderata

Go placidly amidst the noise and haste, and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible without surrender be on good terms with all persons. Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others, even the dull and the ignorant; they too have their story.

Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexatious to the spirit. If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain or bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans. Keep interested in your own career, however humble; it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs; for the world is full of trickery. But let this not blind you to what virtue there is; many persons strive for high ideals; and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially, do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love; for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth. Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune. But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings. Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself. You are a child of the universe, no less than the trees and the stars; you have a right to be here.

And whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should. Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be, and whatever your labours and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul. With all its shams, drudgery, and broken dreams, it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful.

Strive to be happy.

Do you feel uplifted? Peaceful? Happy?

I thought not.

That being the case, you may prefer this updated version of the poem, published by the Harvard Lampoon in 1972 and perhaps more suited for the present state of affairs ...

Deteriorata

Go placidly amid the noise and waste, and remember what comfort there may be in owning a piece thereof.

Avoid quiet and passive persons unless you are in need of sleep.

Rotate your tires.

Speak glowingly of those greater than yourself, and heed well their advice, even though they be turkeys.

Know what to kiss and when.

Consider that two wrongs never make a right, but that three do.

Wherever possible put people on hold.

Be comforted that in the face of all aridity and disillusionment, and despite the changing fortunes of time, there is always a big future in computer maintenance.

Remember the Pueblo.

Strive at all times to bend, fold, spindle and mutilate.

Know yourself. If you need help, call the FBI.

Exercise caution in your daily affairs, especially with those persons closest to you; that lemon on your left for instance.

Be assured that a walk through the ocean of most souls would scarcely get your feet wet.

Fall not in love therefore; it will stick to your face.

Gracefully surrender the things of youth: birds, clean air, tuna, Taiwan.

And let not the sands of time get in your lunch.

Hire people with hooks.

For a good time, call 606-4311 ... ask for Ken.

Take heart amid the deepening gloom that your dog is finally getting enough cheese, and reflect that whatever fortune may be your lot, it could only be worse in Milwaukee.

You are a fluke of the Universe. You have no right to be here, and whether you can hear it or not, the Universe is laughing behind your back.

Therefore make peace with your God whatever you conceive him to be: Hairy Thunderer or Cosmic Muffin.

With all its hopes, dreams, promises, and urban renewal, the world continues to deteriorate.

Give up.

Don't you feel better?

Now, go placidly amid the noise of the presidential campaign and the waste of the money we spend paying the clueless louts in Congress and have a good day.

More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

Desire

I noted yesterday in this space the old adage that in the spring, a young man's thoughts turn to love. Well, to sex, actually, but love sounds better in an all-audiences blog. Wouldn't want to make some hardshell Republican's head explode, you know.

In the spring, the air grows warm, the grass grows, the flowers bloom, the birds sing in the trees, and we pay our income taxes. The ladies wear more revealing clothes (not applicable in Saudi Arabia, Iran, and Pakistan, and other hyperconservative and sexually repressed places). We think about renewal - the blossoming of new life for a new year before we begin the long slide to the dead of the next winter.

Ah, spring! The time when we think about new life and applied desire.

But as we think about that new life and applied desire, we don't always think about what it means for the long term. And this morning my daily Writer's Almanac e-mail offered this wonderful poem by George Bilgere that pretty much sums it up ...

Desire

by George Bilgere

The slim, suntanned legs
of the woman in front of me in the checkout line
fill me with yearning
to provide her with health insurance
and a sporty little car with personalized plates.

The way her dark hair
falls straight to her slender waist
makes me ache
to pay for a washer/dryer combo
and yearly ski trips to Aspen, not to mention
her weekly visits to the spa
and nail salon.

And the delicate rise of her breasts
under her thin blouse
kindles my desire
to purchase a blue minivan with a car seat,
and soon another car seat, and eventually
piano lessons and braces
for two teenage girls who will hate me.

Finally, her full, pouting lips
make me long to take out a second mortgage
in order to put both kids through college
at first- or second-tier institutions,
then cover their wedding expenses
and help out financially with the grandchildren
as generously as possible before I die
and leave them everything.

But now the cashier rings her up
and she walks out of my life forever,
leaving me alone
with my beer and toilet paper and frozen pizzas.

All you men out there will understand.

Have a good day. Enjoy the scenery. More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

P.S. - apropos of today's topic, I note that today is also the birthday (in 1725) of renowned libertine Giacomo Casanova. In addition to being a noted lover and seducer of women (his name is now defined in the dictionary as "A man who is amorously and gallantly attentive to women; a promiscuous man; a philanderer"), Casanova was a soldier, poet, gambler, lawyer, librarian, and spy. One wonders how he had the time to fit in all that seduction.

B.

Tommy

Although it might damage my carefully-nurtured image as a hairy-chested he-man, I have a confession to make:

I love poetry.

I have a large collection of poems which speak to me for one reason or another, and there are many poems I enjoy reading aloud (you haven't lived until you've heard my renditions of The Cremation of Sam McGee, by Robert W. Service and Casey at the Bat, by Ernest Thayer). I love reading in general, but there are times when a great poem is the only thing that will hit the spot.

As we lurch into another week, I thought I'd share one of my favorite poems with you. You may know Tommy as the rock opera by Pete Townshend, but that Tommy (and the classic song "Pinball Wizard") was preceded by many years by Rudyard Kipling's poem of the same name.

You may know that "Tommy" (short for "Thomas Atkins") is a generic term for a common British soldier (much as the American term "GI"), and Rudyard Kipling's homage to that common soldier looks at the love-hate relationship between the soldier and the people he (and she, now) is sworn to defend. Having entered the Air Force during the war in Vietnam, I saw the ugly downside of how America viewed its military; things are much different today, when most people go all-out to honor those who put their lives on the line for the nation.

Another great poem to be read aloud...but only if you can do the lower-class British accent...

Tommy
by Rudyard Kipling

I went into a public-'ouse to get a pint o' beer,
The publican 'e up an' sez, "We serve no red-coats here."
The girls be'ind the bar they laughed an' giggled fit to die,
I outs into the street again an' to myself sez I:
O it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, go away";
But it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play,
The band begins to play, my boys, the band begins to play,
O it's "Thank you, Mister Atkins", when the band begins to play.

I went into a theatre as sober as could be,
They gave a drunk civilian room, but 'adn't none for me;
They sent me to the gallery or round the music-'alls,
But when it comes to fightin', Lord! they'll shove me in the stalls!
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, wait outside";
But it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide,
The troopship's on the tide, my boys, the troopship's on the tide,
O it's "Special train for Atkins" when the trooper's on the tide.

Yes, makin' mock o' uniforms that guard you while you sleep
Is cheaper than them uniforms, an' they're starvation cheap;
An' hustlin' drunken soldiers when they're goin' large a bit
Is five times better business than paradin' in full kit.
Then it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, 'ow's yer soul?"
But it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll,
The drums begin to roll, my boys, the drums begin to roll,
O it's "Thin red line of 'eroes" when the drums begin to roll.

We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.

You talk o' better food for us, an' schools, an' fires, an' all:
We'll wait for extry rations if you treat us rational.
Don't mess about the cook-room slops, but prove it to our face
The Widow's Uniform is not the soldier-man's disgrace.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!

Have a good day. Read a great poem aloud. For suggestions, just ask me.

More thoughts tomorrow.

Bilbo

More Latin

We linguists don't get much respect. After all, how many times can you grin while some witty buffoon tells you you must be a cunning linguist? But every once in a while, I'm able to generate some respect and interest with a language-oriented post. Since my post this past Monday on Useful Latin got such a great response, I figured I might as well stick with linguistic success and share some more Latin with you, in the form of this great poem I discovered today in my daily "Writers' Almanac" e-mail from Garrison Keillor (for those of you who have never studied Latin, the title means, "I Love, You Love")...

Amo, Amas
by John O'Keefe

Amo, Amas, I love a lass
As a cedar tall and slender;
Sweet cowslip's grace is her nominative case,
And she's of the feminine gender.

Rorum, Corum, sunt divorum,
Harum, Scarum divo;
Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band
Hic hoc horum genitivo.

Can I decline a Nymph divine?
Her voice as a flute is dulcis.
Her oculus bright, her manus white,
And soft, when I tacto, her pulse is.

Rorum, Corum, sunt divorum,
Harum, Scarum divo;
Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band
Hic hoc horum genitivo.

Oh, how bella my puella,
I'll kiss secula seculorum.
If I've luck, sir, she's my uxor,
O dies benedictorum.

Rorum, Corum, sunt divorum,
Harum, Scarum divo;
Tag-rag, merry-derry, periwig and hat-band
Hic hoc horum genitivo.

And since tempus is fugiting, it's time to go.

Have a good day. It's Friday, after all.

More thoughts tomorrow...be here for Cartoon Saturday

Bilbo

P.S. - by the way, I actually am a cunning ... uh ... never mind.

B.