It seems I share a birthday ...

… with a poet. I have mentioned Gerard Manley Hopkins here before. For an appreciation, and another poem, go visit Sheila O'Malley. You won't regret it.

Seen on a hospital wall

Tomorrow is not promised us
So let us take today
And make the very most of it
The once we pass this way.

Just speak aloud the kindly thought
And do the kindly deed
And try to see and understand
Some other creature's need.

Tomorrow is not promised us
Nor any other day
So let us make the most of it
The once we pass this way.

On the wall of Four South at Wayne Memorial in Honesdale, Pennsylvania. There was no author or title given.

Sunday afternoon concert, second set

A couple of Henry Lawson's poems, set to music. Get out your hankies.

Priscilla Herdman sings "Do You Think That I Do Not Know." Sometimes I allude to this as if everyone else knew it, too. If you hear me say "in the days when our hair was brown," I am referring to this.



Another: Walter McDonough sings "The Outside Track." No video for this. I looked all over Youtube for a version I liked at least as much as this, but could not find one. Full text here, including some bits that Walter does not sing. I love the phrase, "the last of the careless men."

Autumn's come again

This, by Gerard Manley Hopkins, is about a hundred years old, and eternal.



Spring and Fall:
to a Young Child

Márgarét, áre you grieving
Over Goldengrove unleaving?
Leáves, like the things of man, you
With your fresh thoughts care for, can you?
Áh! ás the heart grows older
It will come to such sights colder
By and by, nor spare a sigh
Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie;
And yet you will weep and know why.
Now no matter, child, the name:
Sórrow's springs áre the same.
Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed
What héart héard of, ghóst guéssed:
It is the blight man was born for,
It is Margaret you mourn for.
___________________________________
(Photo by Ann Althouse, used under Creative Commons licence.)

A lot of fun for the Tolkeinish nerd

Kate Nevpeu's re-reading of The Lord of the Rings. At the rate of a chapter a week, or fortnight, depending on Kate. I have read this many times, but never discussed it with such focus.

I think this is a portulaca

Flower in the driveway crack,
I leave you there, bravely blooming;—
Weed or no, I'll stay my hand,
Little flower — so small, and yet so grand
A show of color on the pavement black,
Steadfast and unassuming.

Althouse, pushing the envelope of pithiness

Possibly the shortest blog post ever?

My comment was much too long.

Sweet bird of youth, you must be laughing

The song. (First version is the one from the album, second from a live performance, sort of eerie.)

The play, which the song is referring to.

The bird.

The bird.

Up at the mountains, we watched the old Studio One production of "The Trial of John Peter Zenger," from this set of movies. We had a pretty good conversation about the importance of the Zenger verdict to American jurisprudence. I think I said, "This was the case that established freedom of the press in America, even before America existed." I thought there should have been a few more minutes to it, to give some attention to the jury's deliberations. The way it was presented made it look like Andrew Hamilton simply won Zenger's case, but the way the jury reached their verdict was just about as important as the verdict itself. The film skipped over that entirely.

But much more conversation resulted from the fact that this old TV show included three Westinghouse commercials, with Betty Furness selling a refrigerator, of course, and a TV, and something else, an air conditioner, it might have been.

So the daughter said, of Betty Furness, "When was it that people stopped wanting to look like that?" Like adults, she went on to explain. Which I thought was a good question, and we went down a winding conversational path having to do with neotenic behavior among baby-boomers.

Now I'm back in the world which includes an Internet, and I see that Morgan Freeberg has done some redecorating at The House of Eratosthenes, and that he has a post there with a clip from the late night Scot, dealing with this very issue. So check it out.

At play in the files of the Jargon

In the New Yorker, a poem by Heather McHugh:

Hackers Can Sidejack Cookies
A collage-homage to Guy L. Steele and Eric S. Raymond.

A beige toaster is a maggotbox.
A bit bucket is a data sink.
Farkled is a synonym for hosed.
Flamage is a weenie problem.

A berserker wizard gets no score for treasure.
In MUDs one acknowledges
a bonk with an oif.
(There’s a cosmic bonk/oif balance.)

Ooblick is play sludge.
A buttonhook is a hunchback.
Logic bombs can get inside
back doors. There were published bang paths
ten hops long. Designs succumbing
to creeping featuritis
are banana problems.
(“I know how to spell banana,
but I don’t know when to stop.”)

That's just a taste, the whole thing is here.

For those who have not laughed and nodded the whole way through The New Hacker's Dictionary, paper or online versions, or its online progenitor, The Jargon File, here is a little bit of exegesis.

Found at Eric S. Raymond's own blog site, referenced by commenter Jeff Read in the course of a discussion of the Danish language.

Fleeing flies

Does the title above mean that I am escaping from the diptera, or that they, the insects, are getting away from something? A swatter, perhaps? A bat? It's hard to kill flies with a bat, though it's easy to hit flies with a bat, but it's easy for a bat to kill flies.

A Jeopardy question a few days ago:

TEMPUS FUGIT
(MEANING THIS)
WHEN YOU'RE
HAVING FUN

The phrase they wanted was "time flies," of course. But I wonder if the college student contestant knew that the flying in the old saying was running away, or escaping, not necessarily something done at altitude.

Time flies like an arrow.
Fruit flies like bananas.

are the customary pair of sentences used to demonstrate that you can't tell English parts of speech from a superficial examination of a sentence. But the first one would be better as

Time flies like a thief.

If, that is, "tempus fugit" had anything to do with it.

Or, you could time flies with a stopwatch.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

And speaking of flies, I have been seeing this lately:

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "Let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

--Ogden Nash

That's fly and flee and flea and flew and flue, but not flu. However, Karen at Karen's Poetry Spot has something along that line, also by Nash:

The Germ

A mighty creature is the germ,
Though smaller than the pachyderm.
His customary dwelling place
Is deep within the human race.
His childish pride he often pleases
By giving people strange diseases.
Do you, my poppet, feel infirm?
You probably contain a germ.

--Ogden Nash

There now. Flew, flue, and flu, all in one post. I'm afraid that "Floo" is simply a misspelling, so I won't mention it. No, I won't.

The very model

Compare, contrast:

Pat Sky plays it straight, listen so you'll know what the tune sounds like:



Commenter Stephen at Accuracy in Media contributes this bit of genius:

I Am The Very Model Of A Modern Media-Journalist

(with thanks in perpetuity to William Schwenck Gilbert)


I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist,
I‘ve information biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I know the talking heads and every bureau puke and oracle
from A-B-C to C-N-N in order categorical;
I’m very well acquainted, too, with schedules for sabbatical,
I live to write a sentence that’s both simple and grammatical,
I’m good at leading questions, and my team puts out a lot o’ news,
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
ALL:
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not in use!
With many damning facts for which, at times, fact-checking’s not, oh not in use!

I’m very good at racial stereotyping and diversity,
I know the ‘scientific names’ endorsing this perversity,
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

I’m full of mythic history, rewritten so it’s ‘relevant’;
I like my coffee caustic, I’ve a pretty taste for Volauvent,
I quote in daily articles the views of quasi socialists,
In columns I accede to notions from post-modern notionalists;
I can tell un-Dowded talking points from those in New York Magazine,
I help the croaking chorus bitch at ‘nonsequences’ unforeseen!
Then I am in a business you’d mistake for Gilbert’s Pinafore,
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what I’m in it for!
ALL:
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it for!
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it for!
If not for validation, it’s a mystery what he’s in it, in it for!

Then I can write a memo with Orwellian verisimilitude,
And tell you ev’ry detail of how Donaldson’s toupee is glued:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
In short, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

In fact, when I know what is meant by “permalink” and “Blogosphere,”
When I can tell at sight a hunting rifle from a frogging spear,
When I know Stars’ affaires ain’t news and how our coverage went awry,
And when I know precisely what is meant by who, what, where ‘n why.
When I have learnt what progress has been made in free economy,
When I know more of ethics, real science, and isonomy,
In short, when I’ve a smattering of what is news, not punditry,
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!
ALL:
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead-tree!.
You’ll say a better Media-Journalist has never done dead, done dead-tree!

For my journalistic knowledge, though not firm or evidentiary,
Is what I learned in Journal’ School and really so last century,
But still, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
I am the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.
ALL:
But still, in matters biased, bogus, banal and paternalist,
He is the very model of a modern Media-Journalist.

Gleanings

The mystery of Ireland's worst driver. (via)

25 things you may not know about Robert Burns.

How in the world did Ted Rall get to be the president of the American Association of Editorial Cartoonists?

Kate at small dead animals beat me to both of these, and put them in one post: The Reagan vs. Obama debate, and Michael Ledeen's "We Are All Fascists Now."

A new use for limericks

Thanks to Barbara Wallraff at The Atlantic for the pointer to the Omnificent English Dictionary in Limerick Form, or OEDILF.

"Can you use it in a sentence?"
"How about in a limerick?"

Which has nothing to do with a lime rickey.

I think if I just had the skill for it
And somehow could muster the will for it
I'd rhyme "global warming"
With something alarming
And find room in the O-E-D-ILF for it.

I enjoy occasional blogging
But regular posting's just slogging.
So I'll post on a day
When I've something to say
Or have some idea that I'm flogging.

I'll give this a "poetry" tag simply to avoid having to deal with different tags for poetry, verse, light verse, and doggerel.

Update: I see from the year-end roundup at Making Light that the OEDILF was mentioned there back in July, occasioning a comment thread rich in varied versification: am-phi-brach (n) + am-phi-brach (n) + i-amb (n).

Orpheus

Leonard Cohen

Touring again, at 74. No stops in the States. What a pity. Neo-neocon has a post with a couple of videos, and links to more. The second one, from the early '60's, includes a standup routine. It's subtle stuff. A few more: Closing Time. The Future. Again: The Future, "Natural Born Killers" movie version, slightly different lyrics, very different video. An anthem for cynics: Everybody Knows. If this one were more recent, I dare say it would have included references to the US government or the Mossad being responsible for 9-11, and something about "Bush Lied!" (In this [musical] context, that looks like "a German song about an azalea.") Because everybody knows. Nice oud solo on this one. Bird On a Wire, with uncanonical lyrics. Suzanne, of course. That's No Way To Say Goodbye. So Long, Marianne (karaoke!). So Long, Marianne again, live. Famous Blue Raincoat. The Tower of Song: "I was born like this, I had no choice. I was born with the gift of a golden voice." Irony, much? Everybody knows.

Here's Neo-neocon's picture of Leonard Cohen:
Here's a recently discovered bust of Julius Caesar: Mere coincidence? You be the judge.

Update: Cohen started out as a poet, went on to write novels, and is now best known as a singer-songwriter. An interesting evolution. It's all good.

Another update: Some don't see the irony.

Yet another update: I have had to change some of the links, mostly for less satisfactory ones. YouTubes, they come and go.

And another update: Neo-neocon has another Cohen gem, which we might call "I'm the Man Who Wrote Suzanne."

Memorial Day sidelight on Francis Scott Key

Or, "everything old is new again." While looking around for something for a Memorial Day note elsewhere (I finally settled on "Decoration Day" by Longfellow), I came across an 1805 piece by Francis Scott Key.

Song

WHEN the warrior returns, from the battle afar,
    To the home and the country he nobly defended,
O! warm be the welcome to gladden his ear,
    And loud be the joy that his perils are ended;
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Columbians! a band of your brothers behold,
    Who claim the reward of your hearts' warm emotion,
When your cause, when your honor, urged onward the bold,
    In vain frowned the desert, in vain raged the ocean:
To a far distant shore, to the battle's wild roar,
They rushed, your fair fame and your rights to secure:
Then, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

In the conflict resistless, each toil they endured,
    'Till their foes fled dismayed from the war's desolation;
And pale beamed the Crescent, its splendor obscured
    By the light of the Star Spangled flag of our nation.
Where each radiant star gleamed a meteor of war,
And the turbaned heads bowed to its terrible glare,
Now, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Our fathers, who stand on the summit of fame,
    Shall exultingly hear of their sons the proud story:
How their young bosoms glow'd with the patriot flame,
    How they fought, how they fell, in the blaze of their glory,
How triumphant they rode o'er the wondering flood,
And stained the blue waters with infidel blood;
How, mixed with the olive, the laurel did wave,
And formed a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

Then welcome the warrior returned from afar
    To the home and the country he nobly defended;
Let the thanks due to valor now gladden his ear,
    And loud be the joy that his perils are ended.
In the full tide of song let his fame roll along,
To the feast-flowing board let us gratefully throng,
Where, mixed with the olive, the laurel shall wave,
And form a bright wreath for the brows of the brave.

This one might be due for a revival. Everybody knows the tune.

States of consciousness

Have you ever wondered: What Does Your Drink Say About You? If I ever hear my drink talking about me, I'm going to obliterate it so fast… The link in this article to "Ten Drinks Men Should Never Order" doesn't work, go here instead. The link to "Ten Things Your Bartender Won't Tell You" is still good. And a commenter there links to Top Ten Myths About Bartenders, which includes

Myth 3: You can out-drink the bartender.

A more wrong statement has never been uttered; you can't, so don't even try. But, if you're buying, I'll certainly entertain the challenge. I don't care how much you think you can drink—any bartender anytime, anywhere can put you under the table, period.

Words to remember.

But then, some bartenders may take a different approach:

Strict Wildness

Music so poignant it wakes the dead,
We passion poets eke it from wine, not bread;
From wonder, not logic; heart, not head,—
But need clear heads to mix your heady brew.
We kitsch it if we swig it too.
Inspired insanity won't do.
Nor thin-lipped sane respectability.
Rigor lone is rigor mortis.
Rigor-plus-wild is the right-bank tortoise
That beats the chic hare of Rive Gaucherie.
Are poems magic? Sure. Till magic
Believes itself. Then it's bunk.
Art, being bartender, is never drunk.

— Peter Viereck

Before I Google'd up that poem, I had remembered that last line as "Art, like the bartender, is never drunk." Now I suppose I'll be the only source for that quote on the whole darn Interweb. Is that actually a different line, from another work? Anyone who can set me straight on this, please do.

All this brings to mind the ancient Persian custom of considering decisions in different states of consciousness:

It is also their general practice to deliberate upon affairs of weight when they are drunk; and then on the morrow, when they are sober, the decision to which they came the night before is put before them by the master of the house in which it was made; and if it is then approved of, they act on it; if not, they set it aside. Sometimes, however, they are sober at their first deliberation, but in this case they always reconsider the matter under the influence of wine.

If Iranians would still do this today, they might have a more sensible take on the world. Do MADD and their prohibitionist fellow-travelers ever notice how toxic becomes the worldview of whole societies where drink is prohibited? I suspect not.

Teresa Nielsen Hayden recently linked to a description of Narcissistic Personality Disorder. She was intending to say that Internet trolls display this syndrome, and I'm sure that many of them do. But as I look through the document, I see Arafat and Ahmadinejad in every paragraph. I wonder if an entire culture can suffer from a personality disorder.

=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=

Update, Nov. 2009: Aha! It was Fritz Leiber who misquoted the Viereck line, in The Pale Brown Thing, which appeared in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction in January


and February of 1977. That's where I would have read it. The longer, full version of the novel was later published as Our Lady of Darkness. Cover image swiped from SciFi Buys, an amazing (!) source of vintage magazines, to which I shall be returning, now that I've found it.

How can hypallage help you as a wirter?

What? you say. The answer is here. Try to keep from laughing so hard that you hurt yourself. This may be the secret to poetry.

Happy New Year

In case we want to sing this, later:

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And never brought to min'?
Should auld acquaintance be forgot,
And days o' auld lang syne?

Chorus:
For auld lang syne, my dear,
For auld lang syne,
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet,
For auld lang syne.

We twa hae run about the braes,
And pou'd the gowans fine;
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot,
Sin auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,
Frae morning sun till dine,
But seas between us braid hae roar'd
Sin auld lang syne.

And there's a hand, my trusty fiere,
And gie's a hand o' thine,
And we'll tak a right guid willie waught,
For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,
And surely I'll be mine;
And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet
For auld lang syne.

Robert Burns World Federation offers this side-by-side.

To your health!

Magic, can we have magic

Fantasy can be cruel.
It's difficult for some people to admit to themselves that there is a war going on.
But then, something happens…

Ginsberg , by Julia Vinograd

No blame. Anyone who wrote Howl and Kaddish
earned the right to make any possible mistake
for the rest of his life.
I just wish I hadn't made this mistake with him.
It was during the Vietnam war
and he was giving a great protest reading
in Washington Square Park
and nobody wanted to leave.
So Ginsberg got the idea, "I'm going to shout
"the war is over" as loud as I can," he said
"and all of you run over the city
in different directions
yelling the war is over, shout it in offices,
shops, everywhere and when enough people
believe the war is over
why, not even the politicians
will be able to keep it going."
I thought it was a great idea at the time
a truly poetic idea.
So when Ginsberg yelled I ran down the street
and leaned in the doorway
of the sort of respectable down on its luck cafeteria
where librarians and minor clerks have lunch
and I yelled "the war is over."
And a little old lady looked up
from her cottage cheese and fruit salad.
She was so ordinary she would have been invisible
except for the terrible light
filling her face as she whispered
"My son. My son is coming home."
I got myself out of there and was sick in some bushes.
That was the first time I believed there was a war.

Thanks to mazzie and Lee.