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
Tuesday, June 14. 2016
A garden at the HQ this week
What is so rare as a day in June?
And what is so rare as a day in June?
Saturday, June 4. 2016
The Sicilian Mariner's Prayer
O Sanctissima O Piissima
Tota pulchraes O Maria
Sicut lilium inter spinas
In miseria in angustia
Monday, May 30. 2016
William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more, methinks, would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made
And crowns for convoy put into his purse:
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbors,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’
Then he will strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispin’s day.’
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names
Familiar in his mouth as household words:
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember’d,
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition.
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.
Saturday, April 23. 2016
A few clarifying notes on # 74
Saturday, April 9. 2016
In Memoriam A.H.H.
(It's a lengthy piece about the death of his best friend, with many oft-quoted lines, which Tennyson wrote over 17 years. The remarkable work begins like this - the whole poem is here)
Strong Son of God, immortal Love,
Thine are these orbs of light and shade;
Thou wilt not leave us in the dust:
Thou seemest human and divine,
Our little systems have their day;
We have but faith: we cannot know;
Let knowledge grow from more to more,
But vaster. We are fools and slight;
Forgive what seemed my sin in me;
Forgive my grief for one removed,
Forgive these wild and wandering cries,
Saturday, March 19. 2016
Reading together one day for delight
Here's a good brief essay on Dante translations: Dante: The Most Vivid Version.
Image on top is Domenico di Michelino: Dante Reading from the ‘Divine Comedy,’ 1465. Note that the lantern on top of Brunelleschi's dome is completed.
Saturday, February 6. 2016
Notes On The Art Of Poetry
I could never have dreamt that there were such goings-on
in the world between the covers of books,
such sandstorms and ice blasts of words,
such staggering peace, such enormous laughter,
such and so many blinding bright lights,
splashing all over the pages
in a million bits and pieces
all of which were words, words, words,
and each of which were alive forever
in its own delight and glory and oddity and light.
Saturday, January 30. 2016
Sailing to Byzantium (1933)
(Neoneo was reminded of this poem, here.) The first verse feels stolen from Hopkins, doesn't it?
Saturday, January 23. 2016
I love you, though I rage at it,
Saturday, January 16. 2016
Dover Beach (c. 1867)
The sea is calm to-night.
Sophocles long ago
The Sea of Faith
Saturday, January 9. 2016
Good Bye and Keep Cold
This saying good-bye on the edge of the dark
I wish I could promise to lie in the night
Friday, December 25. 2015
The Journey of the Magi, T. S. Eliot (1927)
'A cold coming we had of it,
(Some commentary here.)
Painting above is Fra Angelico's Adoration of the Magi
Saturday, December 19. 2015
Christmas Party at the South Danbury Church
Saturday, December 12. 2015
Re-posted every December, if I remember:
Written as prose, A Child's Christmas in Wales might as well be verse. It begins thus:
Saturday, December 5. 2015
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Saturday, November 21. 2015
The Stranger (1912) - (h/t When Foreigners Were Funny)
The Stranger within my gate,
Saturday, November 14. 2015
Where are you tonight? (Journey Through Black Heat), 1978
There’s a long-distance train rolling through the rain
Tears on the letter I write
There’s a woman I long to touch and I miss her so much
But she’s drifting like a satellite
There’s a neon light ablaze in this green smoky haze
Laughter down on Elizabeth Street
And a lonesome bell tone in that valley of stone
Where she bathed in a stream of pure heat
Her father would emphasize you got to be more than streetwise
But he practiced what he preached from the heart
A full-blooded Cherokee, he predicted to me
The time and the place that the trouble would start
There’s a babe in the arms of a woman in a rage
And a longtime golden-haired stripper onstage
And she winds back the clock and she turns back the page
Of a book that no one can write
Oh, where are you tonight?
The truth was obscure, too profound and too pure
To live it you have to explode
In that last hour of need, we entirely agreed
Sacrifice was the code of the road
I left town at dawn, with Marcel and St. John
Strong men belittled by doubt
I couldn’t tell her what my private thoughts were
But she had some way of finding them out
He took dead-center aim but he missed just the same
She was waiting, putting flowers on the shelf
She could feel my despair as I climbed up her hair
And discovered her invisible self
There’s a lion in the road, there’s a demon escaped
There’s a million dreams gone, there’s a landscape being raped
As her beauty fades and I watch her undrape
I won’t but then again, maybe I might
Oh, if I could just find you tonight
I fought with my twin, that enemy within
’Til both of us fell by the way
Horseplay and disease is killing me by degrees
While the law looks the other way
Your partners in crime hit me up for nickels and dimes
The guy you were lovin’ couldn’t stay clean
It felt outa place, my foot in his face
But he should-a stayed where his money was green
I bit into the root of forbidden fruit
With the juice running down my leg
Then I dealt with your boss, who’d never known about loss
And who always was too proud to beg
There’s a white diamond gloom on the dark side of this room
And a pathway that leads up to the stars
If you don’t believe there’s a price for this sweet paradise
Remind me to show you the scars
There’s a new day at dawn and I’ve finally arrived
If I’m there in the morning, baby, you’ll know I’ve survived
I can’t believe it, I can’t believe I’m alive
But without you it just doesn’t seem right
Oh, where are you tonight?
Saturday, November 7. 2015
Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame
Saturday, October 31. 2015
(h/t, David Warren)
Lyrics, John Bunyan
Who would true Valour see
Who so beset him round,
Hobgoblin, nor foul Fiend,
Saturday, October 24. 2015
A Rabbit as King of the Ghosts (1937)
The difficulty to think at the end of day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur
There was the cat slopping its milk all day,
Fat cat, red tongue, green mind, white milk
And August the most peaceful month.
To be, in the grass, in the peacefullest time,
Without that monument of cat,
The cat forgotten in the moon;
And to feel that the light is a rabbit-light,
In which everything is meant for you
And nothing need be explained;
Then there is nothing to think of. It comes of itself;
And east rushes west and west rushes down,
No matter. The grass is full
And full of yourself. The trees around are for you,
The whole of the wideness of night is for you,
A self that touches all edges,
You become a self that fills the four corners of night.
The red cat hides away in the fur-light
And there you are humped high, humped up,
You are humped higher and higher, black as stone
Brief bio of the Hartford, CT resident and NYC lawyer here.
Saturday, October 3. 2015
Saturday, September 19. 2015
Many animals, like birds and reptiles, have a cloaca (or "vent" - hence the word "venting"), which combines urinary, defecatory and sexual functions. (Most birds copulate via a "cloacal kiss," but a few lucky birds, notably ducks, swans and ostriches, have penises.)
This reminds me of the Yeats:
Vl: Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop
Saturday, September 12. 2015
It looks long to those with ADD, but well worth reading, full of gems
Hymn to Proserpine (After the Proclamation in Rome of the Christian Faith) - 1866
I have lived long enough, having seen one thing, that love hath an end;
A stunning lament to the lost Greco-Roman gods. The epigraph at the beginning of the poem is the phrase Vicisti, Galilaee, Latin for "You have conquered, O Galilean", the apocryphal defeated dying words of the Emperor Julian. Related: Who the @#$% is Proserpine? The decline and fall of the Greco-Roman legacy in America.
Saturday, September 5. 2015
And death shall have no dominion
And death shall have no dominion.
You can hear Thomas reading the poem here.
Saturday, August 29. 2015
Ode on the Death of a Favorite Cat Drowned in a Tub of Goldfishes
'Twas on a lofty vase's side,