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A Year of Poetry – Day 46

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;–then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

— John Keats, When I Have Fears

A Year of Poetry – Day 45

PAST the town’s clamour is a garden full
Of loneness and old greenery; at noon
When birds are hush’d, save one dim cushat’s croon,
A ripen’d silence hangs beneath the cool
Great branches; basking roses dream and drop
A petal, and dream still; and summer’s boon
Of mellow grasses, to be levell’d soon
By a dew-drenched scythe, will hardly stop
At the uprunning mounds of chestnut trees.
Still let me muse in this rich haunt by day,
And know all night in dusky placidness
It lies beneath the summer, while great ease
Broods in the leaves, and every light wind’s stress
Lifts a faint odour down the verdurous way.

— Edward Dowden, In The Garden I: The Garden

Musings

  • Time to write “She had dark blonde hair.” – 8 seconds, including visualization.
    • Time to write “She had hair the color of burnished bronze.” – 37 minutes, not including time spent cursing.
  • Chapter outline:  Unexpected meeting. Transfer of deep knowledge.  Foretelling of future exploits.
    • Chapter draft:  “Hey, bro, ‘sup?”  “Not much.  How’s your mama?”  “Fine, man, fine.”  “Cool.  See you later.”
  • Girlie Bear worked her first day of adultish employment today.
    • She was doing well to stay awake through dinner.
    • She was not amused when I hugged her, told her I was proud of her, and that she only had half a century or so until she could stop.
  • Did y’all know that if you tip a push mower on its side so that you can clean the clippings out of the exhaust chute, it will probably destroy the engine by leaking buckets of oil?
    • Neither did I, until yesterday.
    • My neighbors should be glad to know that my lawn mower has thoroughly fumigated our street through a prodigious application of thick, white smoke.
    • In other, totally unrelated news, $BIGBOXHOMEIMPROVEMENTSTORE is having a sale this week.

A Year of Poetry – Day 44

Buried in a cemetery on Normandy’s hallowed ground
are the remains of many soldiers who faced a crucial test,
and made the supreme sacrifice while invasion bound.
Today, their simple grave sites can be readily found,
Unfortunate victims of the conflict – their grave markers attest.

There were many soldiers on June 6th of 1944 who stood
nervously aboard landing crafts that fateful day,
where many gallant and courageous soldiers constantly would
openly pray and promise to alter their life if they could
while participating in the invasion of Normandy on D-Day.

Everywhere along the beach the enemy artillery shelled
the invading forces with deadly explosives where they lay.
Yet, not many soldiers complained or quailed
when their wounded comrades around them wailed
their death cries in Normandy on D- Day.

On and on the determined and weary forces swept
through the artillery barrage that didn’t wither away.
When the dead and wounded fell, the living stepped,
attempting to charge the enemy’s stronghold which kept
them bogged down on the beaches of Normandy on D-Day.

The enemy eventually fell back under pressure at last
by successfully attacking them where their strength lay,
Moving with a sweep of their flanking batteries fast,
and withstanding their constant artillery blast,
Stormed their fortifications in Normandy on D- Day.

There aren’t many soldiers alive today – those who pressed
beside their fellow country men who perished that day –
but the surviving veterans have always confessed
they would prefer to keep tales of their experiences at rest
when they were involved in the invasion of Normandy on D- Day.

The symbolic flags on the gravesites still wave,
and there are occasions when bugles still play,
Where white, permanent crosses on each grave
keep alive the memory of the Nation’s brave
who fought and died in Normandy on D- Day.

— Joseph T. Renaldi, D-Day – Invasion of Normandy

A Year of Poetry – Day 43

Remember me when I am gone away,
Gone far away into the silent land;
When you can no more hold me by the hand,
Nor I half turn to go yet turning stay.
Remember me when no more day by day
You tell me of our future that you plann’d:
Only remember me; you understand
It will be late to counsel then or pray.
Yet if you should forget me for a while
And afterwards remember, do not grieve:
For if the darkness and corruption leave
A vestige of the thoughts that once I had,
Better by far you should forget and smile
Than that you should remember and be sad.

— Christina Georgina Rossetti, Remember

100 Years On – Brusilov

On June 4, 1916, the Russian Imperial Army launched a massive attack against Austro-Hungarian forces in Galicia, driving them back to the Carpathian mountains and negating them as a credible force on the Eastern Front for the remainder of the war.  The offensive, named for its designer and leader, General Alexei Brusilov, was designed to draw German and Austrian forces away from the fighting in France and Italy, and to some extent, it did.

However, the costs were staggering.  The Russians lost half a million men, with the Germans and Austrians losing a million and a half.  Austria became useless to her ally, Germany, who began to take on more and more responsibility for fighting the war on all fronts.  Russia, on the other hand, was never able to take the offensive on such a scale again, and the loss of so many of her best soldiers gutted her armies.

Europe was bleeding itself white, and there was no end to the carnage in sight.

A Year of Poetry – Day 42

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

— Edgar Allen Poe, A Dream Within A Dream

A Year of Poetry – Day 41

I speak of love that comes to mind:
The moon is faithful, although blind;
She moves in thought she cannot speak.
Perfect care has made her bleak.

I never dreamed the sea so deep,
The earth so dark; so long my sleep,
I have become another child.
I wake to see the world go wild.

— Allen Ginsberg, An Eastern Ballad

Musings

  • I’m not a superstitious man, but I swear that a section of smooth, clean sidewalk came alive today, reached up, grabbed my leg, and forced my right ankle to roll over far enough that the sole of my boot touched my calf.
    • The sound my ankle made as it rotated back was rather unpleasant, although at the time I was just trying to stay vertical.
  • Note to self – Before picking up the snow-shovel in the garage to put it away for the season, check to make sure Mr. Wasp is not resting on the handle.
    • Secondary note – While I am not allergic to wasp bites, they do not make for a fun long weekend.
    • Tertiary note – Find where we tucked the benadryl away during the kitchen remodel.
  • As an independent voter, I’m appalled.
    • The two major parties are running an  overbearing bint, who has spent most of my lifetime acting more like the overbearing head of an HOA than as a statesman, and the jerk who pulls down his pants and does the watusi on the subway to get little old ladies to move and give him a seat.
    • The Democrats are still having fun trying to get their crazy uncle who had too much of the brown acid at Woodstock to sit down and be quiet.  Amazingly enough, he has a lot of people who think his quotes from Das Kapital are worthy of their attention.
    • The Libertarians have nominated a guy who uses a double entendre as a campaign slogan, backed up by a guy who was for gun control until he was against it.  They stand on a platform that seems to have been put together in a dorm room after somebody scored a dime bag of pure kush and an eight-ball of coke.
    • The other parties are turning into the usual quadrennial mish-mash of cranks, commies, and just plain annoying twits.
    • There are over 300 million of us.  Is this really the best we can do?
    • It occurs to me that never in my adult life (I was too late to vote for Reagan) has there been a presidential candidate I wanted to vote for.  All of the election choices I’ve made have been to vote against someone.
  • How to make it rain on a Thursday – Wednesday at dinner, tell your wife that there’s only a 30% chance of rain and you’ll mow after work tomorrow.

A Year of Poetry – Day 40

A little kingdom I possess
where thoughts and feelings dwell,
And very hard I find the task
of governing it well;
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my words and deeds.

How can I learn to rule myself,
to be the child I should,
Honest and brave, nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life’s way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?

Dear Father, help me with the love
that casteth out my fear;
Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
That thou art very near,
That no temptation is unseen
No childish grief too small,
Since thou, with patience infinite,
Doth soothe and comfort all.

I do not ask for any crown
But that which all may win
Nor seek to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be thou my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself
And dare to take command.

— Louisa May Alcott, My Kingdom