We are a commune of inquiring, skeptical, politically centrist, capitalist, anglophile, traditionalist New England Yankee humans, humanoids, and animals with many interests beyond and above politics. Each of us has had a high-school education (or GED), but all had ADD so didn't pay attention very well, especially the dogs. Each one of us does "try my best to be just like I am," and none of us enjoys working for others, including for Maggie, from whom we receive neither a nickel nor a dime. Freedom from nags, cranks, government, do-gooders, control-freaks and idiots is all that we ask for.
Our Recent Essays Behind the Front Page
Saturday, September 27. 2014
When You Are Old
When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
Saturday, September 20. 2014
After Apple Picking
My long two-pointed ladder's sticking through a tree
Toward heaven still,
And there's a barrel that I didn't fill
Beside it, and there may be two or three
Apples I didn't pick upon some bough.
But I am done with apple-picking now.
Essence of winter sleep is on the night,
The scent of apples: I am drowsing off.
I cannot rub the strangeness from my sight
I got from looking through a pane of glass
I skimmed this morning from the drinking trough
And held against the world of hoary grass.
It melted, and I let it fall and break.
But I was well
Upon my way to sleep before it fell,
And I could tell
What form my dreaming was about to take.
Magnified apples appear and disappear,
Stem end and blossom end,
And every fleck of russet showing clear.
My instep arch not only keeps the ache,
It keeps the pressure of a ladder-round.
I feel the ladder sway as the boughs bend.
And I keep hearing from the cellar bin
The rumbling sound
Of load on load of apples coming in.
For I have had too much
Of apple-picking: I am overtired
Of the great harvest I myself desired.
There were ten thousand thousand fruit to touch,
Cherish in hand, lift down, and not let fall.
That struck the earth,
No matter if not bruised or spiked with stubble,
Went surely to the cider-apple heap
As of no worth.
One can see what will trouble
This sleep of mine, whatever sleep it is.
Were he not gone,
The woodchuck could say whether it's like his
Long sleep, as I describe its coming on,
Or just some human sleep.
Saturday, September 13. 2014
A hungry feeling
This song was written by Irish playwright Brendan Behan for his play The Quare Fellow (slang for a condemned man). A lag is slang for a new prisoner. The song has been performed by The Dubliners, The Clancy Brothers, and The Pogues, and is recorded on one of Bob Dylan's practice "basement tapes" with The Band in a folk-rock style.
Photo: Behan with Jackie Gleason, 1960.
Saturday, September 6. 2014
She was a phantom of delight (1804)
SHE was a Phantom of delight
Saturday, August 30. 2014
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
WS was right about that, wasn't he? How did he know how long his lines would live?
Saturday, August 23. 2014
The Betrothed, by Kipling
"You must choose between me and your cigar."
Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout,
Saturday, August 16. 2014
The Female of the Species
When the Himalayan peasant meets the
When Nag the basking cobra hears the
When the early Jesuit fathers preached
Man's timid heart is bursting with the
Man, a bear in most relations -
Fear, or foolishness, impels him,
But the Woman that God gave him,
Continue reading "Saturday Verse: Rudyard Kipling"
Saturday, August 2. 2014
We only have fragments of Archilochus' lyric poetry (ie accompanied by a lyre), which have been found over the years on shreds of papyrus. Here are a few of those fragments:
- My one great talent lies in making
- I am the servant of Ares, Lord of Battle,
- Some Thracian is delighted with the shield, which beside a bush
- Not many bowstrings will be stretched nor slingshot
- I long for a fight with you, just as a thirsty man longs for drink.
- The fox knows many things,
- There is no country fair and desirable
- I have no interest in the business of Gyges and all his gold,
Here's a brief piece on his poetry.
Here's a brief bit on Greek lyric poetry.
Here are the types of Greek lyric poetry. Most names quite familiar to us.
Saturday, July 26. 2014
The year's at the spring
Those famous lines are from Browning's 1841 Pippa Passes. It's Pippa's song. Pippa is a silk mill worker in Asolo, and has three holidays per year. The poem goes through the morning, noon, evening and night of Pippa's day off. She treasures her precious free time. This is from "Morning":
Oh, Day, if I squander a wavelet of thee,
O'er Jules and Phene, what care bride and groom
Worship whom else? For am I not, this day,
The entire piece is here. Yes, Browning specialized in the dramatic monologue. I can easily imagine Pippa as a one-person stage performance. Off topic, but I always got a kick out of the name of Pippa Passes, KY, aka Caney Creek.
Saturday, July 19. 2014
Break of Day
'Tis true, 'tis day; what though it be?
Image is Picasso's Meditation, 1904
Saturday, July 12. 2014
All I know is a door into the dark.
Saturday, June 28. 2014
I am as lovely as a dream in stone;
Before my monumental attitudes,
For I, to fold enchantment round their hearts,
Saturday, June 21. 2014
The Ballad of East and West
Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet
Rest of his poem below on Continuation page
Continue reading "Saturday Verse: Kipling"
Saturday, June 7. 2014
Nights on Lake Como
What do you take from these starry nights,
(translation by William Ruleman - details here)
Saturday, May 31. 2014
A Considerable Speck
A speck that would have been beneath my sight
Saturday, May 24. 2014
A Miracle for Breakfast
At six o'clock we were waiting for coffee,
A piece about Bishop in the WSJ
Saturday, May 17. 2014
Saturday, May 10. 2014
The Fiddler of Dooney
WHEN I play on my fiddle in Dooney,
You can listen to Yeats reading it, here.
Saturday, May 3. 2014
A Radio With Guts
it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.
Saturday, April 26. 2014
All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
Saturday, April 12. 2014
Hours before dawn we were woken by the quake.
And far too large for my feet to step by.
It seemed quite safe till she got up and dressed.
The language problem but you have to try.
None of these deaths were her point at all.
I slept, and blank as that I would yet lie.
Tell me again about Europe and her pains,
A bedshift flight to a Far Eastern sky.
Tell me more quickly what I lost by this,
But as to risings, I can tell you why.
The poem is partly about WW2, I think. An "aubade" is a lyric poem about lovers separating at dawn. Sir William Empson, a poet and great literary critic, wrote the fascinating and masterful 7 Types of Ambiguity (when he was 21), which I recommend to anyone who enjoys language and writing.
Saturday, April 5. 2014
ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD
The rest of the poem is below the fold. Dalrymple recently discussed Grey: Fifty Shades of Grey)
Continue reading "Saturday Verse: Thomas Grey (1717-1771)"
Saturday, March 15. 2014
The evening comes, the fields are still
Part II (below) is even better
Continue reading "Saturday Verse: Matthew Arnold (1822-1888)"
Saturday, March 8. 2014
My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Saturday, March 1. 2014
To A Skylark
Hail to thee blithe spirit!
Higher still and higher
Continue reading "Saturday Verse: Percy Bysshe Shelley "
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