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A Year of Poetry – Day 290

BEFORE I trust my fate to thee,
Or place my hand in thine,
Before I let thy future give
Color and form to mine,
Before I peril all for thee, question thy soul to-night for me.

I break all slighter bonds, nor feel
A shadow of regret:
Is there one link within the Past
That holds thy spirit yet?
Or is thy faith as clear and free as that which I can pledge to thee?

Does there within thy dimmest dreams
A possible future shine,
Wherein thy life could henceforth breathe,
Untouch’d, unshar’d by mine?
If so, at any pain or cost, O, tell me before all is lost.

Look deeper still. If thou canst feel,
Within thy inmost soul,
That thou hast kept a portion back,
While I have stak’d the whole;
Let no false pity spare the blow, but in true mercy tell me so.

Is there within thy heart a need
That mine cannot fulfil?
One chord that any other hand
Could better wake or still?
Speak now—lest at some future day my whole life wither and decay.

Lives there within thy nature hid
The demon-spirit Change,
Shedding a passing glory still
On all things new and strange?
It may not be thy fault alone—but shield my heart against thy own.

Couldst thou withdraw thy hand one day
And answer to my claim,
That Fate, and that to-day’s mistake—
Not thou—had been to blame?
Some soothe their conscience thus; but thou wilt surely warn and save me now.

Nay, answer not,—I dare not hear,
The words would come too late;
Yet I would spare thee all remorse,
So, comfort thee, my fate—
Whatever on my heart may fall—remember, I would risk it all!

— Adelaide Anne Procter, A Woman’s Question

A Year of Poetry – Day 289

Celebrate our anniversary – can’t you see
tonight the snowy night of our first winter
comes back again in every road and tree –
that winter night of diamantine splendour.

Steam is pouring out of yellow stables,
the Moika river’s sinking under snow,
the moonlight’s misted as it is in fables,
and where we are heading – I don’t know.

There are icebergs on the Marsovo Pole.
The Lebyazh’ya’s crazed with crystal art…..
Whose soul can compare with my soul,
if joy and fear are in my heart? –

And if your voice, a marvellous bird’s,
quivers at my shoulder, in the night,
and the snow shines with a silver light,
warmed by a sudden ray, by your words?

— Anna Akhmatova, Celebrate

A Year of Poetry – Day 288

Alas! and am I born for this,
To wear this slavish chain?
Deprived of all created bliss,
Through hardship, toil and pain!

How long have I in bondage lain,
And languished to be free!
Alas! and must I still complain—
Deprived of liberty.

Oh, Heaven! and is there no relief
This side the silent grave—
To soothe the pain—to quell the grief
And anguish of a slave?

Come Liberty, thou cheerful sound,
Roll through my ravished ears!
Come, let my grief in joys be drowned,
And drive away my fears.

Say unto foul oppression, Cease:
Ye tyrants rage no more,
And let the joyful trump of peace,
Now bid the vassal soar.

Soar on the pinions of that dove
Which long has cooed for thee,
And breathed her notes from Afric’s grove,
The sound of Liberty.

Oh, Liberty! thou golden prize,
So often sought by blood—
We crave thy sacred sun to rise,
The gift of nature’s God!

Bid Slavery hide her haggard face,
And barbarism fly:
I scorn to see the sad disgrace
In which enslaved I lie.

Dear Liberty! upon thy breast,
I languish to respire;
And like the Swan unto her nest,
I’d like to thy smiles retire.

Oh, blest asylum—heavenly balm!
Unto thy boughs I flee—
And in thy shades the storm shall calm,
With songs of Liberty!

— George Moses Horton, On Liberty and Slavery

A Year of Poetry – Day 287

Old Man, by your broad contented grin
And the gleam in your quiet eyes,
You are back with ‘Jorrocks’ and ‘Binjimin’
In the land where the good fun lies;
You are riding where rifles reach you not
On a line both safe and sure
From the meet at the ‘Cat and Custard Pot’
To the kill on Wandermoor.
In vain do the cannon of memory call
From the Flanders fields forlorn,
When you hear by the stacks of Barley Hall
The twang of the ”ard un’s’ horn;
And little you reck of a broken thigh
And a bandaged arm to boot,
When the old comedian canters by
On his ‘henterpriseless brute.’
For, back to you comes each sound and sight
At a touch of the magic pen,
Till you take your place in the old first flight,
With a lead on the grass again,
And Surtees, the sage with the jester’s art,
Would be proud had he lived to know
He had brightened an hour for your gallant heart
With the ring of his ‘Tally-ho!’

–William Henry Ogilvie, To One of our Wounded

You Say You Want A Revolution

 

Since about this time last year, the vitriol and bile in American politics has gone from a low simmer to just short of a boil.  On one side, we have celebrities on social media and crowds in the street calling for violent action.  On the other, we’ve got folks believing that one gentleman can take ten rascals, so let the bastards come.

The left seems to think that we will see a glorious revolution of the human spirit brought about by denying a stage to folks who profit by being shouted down, massive demonstrations with no cogent point, and maybe a little violence around the edges, just to show the other side they mean business.

The right, on the other hand, well, I’m not sure what the right believes on this one.  At the moment, the people I listen to are pointing and laughing at the left.  I am finding it difficult to find anything more than an attitude that they’d rather not have a civil war, but they’ll have one if the other side insists.    Not saying there aren’t whackjobs calling for the use of CAS to clear out the quad at Berkeley, but they’re not part of my personal political echo chamber.  The things I’m reading and hearing do tend to lean toward the “It’ll be easy, because we’ve got the guns” side of the counter-argument, and more than a few seem to be poking the left just to see them twitch.

The one thing I think both sides are saying is that violent revolution, no matter who starts it, will be quick, clean, and productive.

They’re both wrong.  If we continue down this road, both rhetorically and politically, what we will create will make the Civil War of the 1860’s look like a rather unpleasant dust-up.

There is no “North/South” or “Free/Slave” geographic dichotomy.  Densely populated liberal counties are sprinkled across the continent.  Granted, they are more prevalent along the periphery of the country, but they aren’t remotely as contiguous as the Confederacy ever was.

In other words, enemy territory just might be a couple of blocks over for much of the country.  There will likely be no true safe areas, no matter how red or blue they are.

The second Civil War will probably start when heated words turn to violence that is reciprocated.  What will happen when a store owner shoots the guy in a black mask who’s smashing his windows?  What happens when the fires from a protest consume a middle-class neighborhood?  What happens when all of this is broadcast over every cable network and the Internet, inflaming everyone on both sides who has had quite enough and just wants it to be over? What happens when some demagogue harnesses that anger and calls for a crusade?

I doubt that we will get many Gettysburgs, but I guarantee that we will get a bushel full of Srebrenica’s and Beslans.  Our war against each other will more closely resemble The Troubles than The Wilderness.  If you think abuse of civil rights is bad now, just wait until middle America is worried that some jerk is going to throw a molotov cocktail in the foyer of their kids’ school. In the end, it will rend our nation apart.

After a time, the sides may coalesce into geographically contiguous entities as areas are cleansed of the unbeliever, but in the beginning, it will be as easy to find someone from the other side as it is to go to Kroger for milk and eggs.   This will be a war of gangs and squads and flash mobs.  It will be a war of bombings, assassinations, and massacres. It will be a tit-for-tat, score-settling family fight where the memory of a political sign on somebody’s lawn gets their house burned to the ground.

The war will gain steam as folks who would normally turn away from the violence are struck with it.  It’s hard to convince someone whose children have been harmed that they can’t blame an entire block of other people for the crime.  It’s even harder to do when atrocities become commonplace.  Folks who normally wouldn’t harm a fly will revert to savagery against their neighbor when they’re scared or angry, and they won’t much care if that neighbor is actually their enemy.

In the end, we will all lose.  The slave/no slave, federal power/states’ rights argument of 1860 was simple compared to the gobblety-gook we have now.  We aren’t arguing about what the other side is doing, we are attacking the other side for who they are.  We have all gone a long way toward dehumanizing the other side already, and when you do that, it’s not a long walk to where our cities are burning and we’re filling in pits with bodies at the bottom.

So, to wind this up, I’m begging all of you – slow down.  I’ve seen the innocents hurt by civil war, and I know what the aftermath looks like.  It’s not where anyone wants our people to go.  If we do not turn from our current path, we will soon come to the place where folks will want the killing to start just to get it over with, and few of us will come way from that unscathed.

For the sake of our nation and our children, please don’t run toward our destruction.

A Year of Poetry – Day 286

The time of youth is to be spent,
But vice in it should be forfent.
Pastimes there be, I note truly
Which one may use and vice deny.
And they be pleasant to God and man:
Those should we covet3 when we can,
As feats of arms, and such other
Whereby activeness one may utter.
Comparisons in them may lawfully be set,
For, thereby, courage is surely out fet.
Virtue it is, then, youth for to spend
In good disports which it does fend.

— King Henry VIII, The time of youth is to be spent

A Year of Poetry – Day 285

All day I hear the noise of waters
Making moan,
Sad as the sea-bird is when, going
Forth alone,
He hears the winds cry to the water’s
Monotone.

The grey winds, the cold winds are blowing
Where I go.
I hear the noise of many waters
Far below.
All day, all night, I hear them flowing
To and fro.

— James Joyce, All Day I Hear The Noise Of Waters

A Year of Poetry – Day 284

AT dawn the ridge emerges massed and dun
In the wild purple of the glow’ring sun,
Smouldering through spouts of drifting smoke that shroud
The menacing scarred slope; and, one by one,
Tanks creep and topple forward to the wire.
The barrage roars and lifts. Then, clumsily bowed
With bombs and guns and shovels and battle-gear,
Men jostle and climb to meet the bristling fire.
Lines of grey, muttering faces, masked with fear,
They leave their trenches, going over the top,
While time ticks blank and busy on their wrists,
And hope, with furtive eyes and grappling fists,
Flounders in mud. O Jesus, make it stop!

— Siegfried Sassoon, Attack

Musings

  • I’m sad to say that, even after months of lobbying on my behalf, I will not be chosen as President Trump’s pick to take the open seat on the Supreme Court.
    • That’s probably a good thing.
    • That whole “Fell asleep trying to read the statutes on distilling of spirits while doing research for Irish Woman” thing is probably what torpedoed my eligibility.
  • Recently, our cable company gave Irish Woman a great deal on internet, TV, and phone which brought our bill down lower than just having Internet.  So, we’ve gone back to cable TV.
    • I’m thrilled to say that now we have access to all of the infomercials, political rants on sports channels, and television shows about home decorating, making illegal moonshine, and sifting through the over-stuffed homes of dead people that we could ever want.
    • No, really, I’m thrilled.  Can’t you tell?
  • Girlie Bear asked me to purchase this tee shirt for her today.
    • Being the indulgent father I am, I purchased it.
    • I also wished her luck doing all of the pushups she would be told to do for wearing it.
    • When she asked why she would be doing pushups, I replied that her ROTC instructors were actually good at war, while she was merely an energetic puppy showing her teeth.

A Year of Poetry – Day 283

Oft, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Fond memory brings the light
Of other days around me;
The smiles, the tears,
Of boyhood’s years,
The words of love then spoken;
The eyes that shone,
Now dimm’d and gone,
The cheerful hearts now broken!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain hath bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

When I remember all
The friends, so link’d together,
I’ve seen around me fall,
Like leaves in wintry weather;
I feel like one
Who treads alone
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus, in the stilly night,
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad memory brings the light
Of other days around me.

— Thomas Moore, Oft in the Stilly Night