Just as my fingers on these keys Make music, so the self-same sounds On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound; And thus it is that what I feel, Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk, Is music. It is like the strain Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm, She bathed in her still garden, while The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb In witching chords, and their thin blood Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
__________ II __________
In the green water, clear and warm, Susanna lay. She searched The touch of springs, And found Concealed imaginings. She sighed, For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood In the cool Of spent emotions. She felt, among the leaves, The dew Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass, Still quavering. The winds were like her maids, On timid feet, Fetching her woven scarves, Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand Muted the night. She turned — A cymbal crashed, And roaring horns.
__________ III __________
Soon, with a noise like tambourines, Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
___________ IV __________
Beauty is momentary in the mind — The fitful tracing of a portal; But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives. So evenings die, in their green going, A wave, interminably flowing. So gardens die, their meek breath scenting The cowl of winter, done repenting. So maidens die, to the auroral Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
Such glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes, Dear little friend of mine, I never knew. All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise. (For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!) You look about, and all you see is fair; This mighty globe was made for you alone. Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir. (Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)
A skeptic world you face with steady gaze; High in young pride you hold your noble head, Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days. (Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?) Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong, Yours the white rapture of a winged soul, Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song. (God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)
"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed. You wear your joy of living like a crown. Love lights your simplest act, your every deed. (Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!) You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend. Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt, You ask but leave to follow to the end. (Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
"Labor Day in the United States is a public holiday celebrated on the first Monday in September. It honors the American labor movement and the contributions that workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of the country."
So we take the long weekend off. After summer vacations. I can dig it.
Happy times when done within your means. Overspending can, of course, bring grief. Mendacious workmen too, who play the thief, Erode faith when they act like feckless teens. Raging at injustice makes them laugh. Expect integrity and you will weep. Not many have a conscience that would keep Outrageous overreaching down by half. Value in the process is still great. A transformation from a dreary hovel To a jewel-like place where soon we’ll shovel Inspiring garden beds due to await Our joy in planting shrubbery and flowers Nestled in the dooryard’s leafy bowers.
I have a special love for container gardens. ____ Something about clustering pots of varying sizes to best advantage –– ____ and portability –– adds great appeal.
I also love raffishly untidy herbaceous borders. ____ Formal parterres fascinate, ________ but frankly make me nervous,
Yet long-established espaliered fruit trees ____ on ancient stone, brick or stuccoed walls ________ make a notable exception.
Courtyard gardens ____ in old European monasteries ________ and collegiate quadrangles ____________ at Oxford and Cambridge Have about them an unmistakable aura ____ of eternal renewal, and of ________ Eternity, itself.
Growing things beautifully ____ indicates –– to me –– ________ a love and a reverence ____________ for Life.
Could it be We need our fantasies And fond illusions More than we need Mundane reality?
Did ancient astronauts Visit Earth aeons ago, Plant Colonies - perform Wondrous Feats of Engineering
Still unexplained?
The eternal Mystery of The Pyramids - The Sphinx Stonehenge - Gigantic Chalk Figures, Discernible only from great heights - Easter Island - Machu Pichu?
The Origin of Man - The miracles of Music - Painting - Sculpture - Poetry and Thought.
The Star of Bethlehem - The Virgin Birth - The Magi - Betrayal, Death and Resurrection?
Parked beside a lane with lilies lined Instinct drives us to the fragrant fields Carrying buckets to our task resigned. Keeping up with Nature’s bounty yields In summer morning’s warm, earth-scented mist Nostalgic sweet refreshment from the soil. Gleefully we gather berries kissed By sunshine, plump with rain before they spoil. Edible, these gems that fill our pails Remain, once tasted, as a lifelong treat. Remembrance fond at “Realism” rails. It knows behind our stated urge to eat, Each one of us who picks collects delights Stored to ease the future’s endless nights.
May God bless the practical women and men, Who rise from the hay every day, and then Produce what we need Without rancor or greed, Make things run, Get things done, Keep things clean, So they're fit to be seen, And continuously smooth the way So that we may live comfortably every day.
Come, labor on. Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain while all around us waves the golden grain? And to each servant does the Master say, "Go work today."
Come, labor on. The enemy is watching night and day, to sow the tares, to snatch the seed away; while we in sleep our duty have forgot, he slumbers not.
Come, labor on. Away with gloomy doubts and faithless fear! No arm so weak but may do service here: by feeblest agents may our God fulfill his righteous will.
Come, labor on. Claim the high calling angels cannot share: to young and old the gospel gladness bear. Redeem the time its hours so swiftly fly the night draws nigh.
Come, labor on. No time for rest, till glows the western sky, till the long shadows o'er our pathway lie and a glad sound comes with the setting sun: "Servants, well done."
He who strives to be respected Probably will be rejected. If his mood become dejected, He don't deserve to be elected. One who hopes for Recognition Soon will end up in Perdition.
In other words if you don't do good things based on Love, you are not doing good things at all. You are only massaging your ego, instead.
Or as Duke Ellington put it:
"It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing. ..."
St. Paul said it best in his famous letter to the Corinthians which begins, "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not Love (Charity) ...
Look well upon the men who dig in mines, And work machines in mills and factories grim. Be aware that those who tend the vines Or till the soil give much for wages slim. Reaping sowing, weeding, hoeing make Full the nation’s store of nutriment. Overland the burly truckers take Rich provisions and accoutrement Coast to coast. The teamsters load and haul Enormous hordes of stuff that we’ve empowered, Shipped in freighters, stored in silos tall, Delivered, well-displayed, and then devoured. Awards are due the goods and who supplies them, Yet the wise despise the guys who advertise them.
Nestled in a quiet glad so still One could hear a fluttering sparrow’s wing, Immersed in prayerful thought, I’d like to kill that Squawking, howling, growling, thumping thing Engrossing –– eating up –– my sacred space, Projecting Social Cancer at my head. Overtaking prayer it chokes like mace. Like mace it stings then stuns. My mind, well-fed, Leaps to battle the Invading Force, Usurping all my rights to meditate. The minions of the militantly coarse Idolize the fiends who violate Our right to think and feel from deep within Negating all that’s good with fearful din.
Foul-minded, ill-intentioned –– your Ugly disposition longs to battle. Caring only to distress not cure, Kicking at the sky you shake your rattle
In defiance of Propriety. Noxious noise is all that you produce –– Grotesque behavior seeking notoriety –– Bad smelling like a long-uncleansed prepuce.
A soul in torment must be what you are –– Suffering with the fear you are inferior. Too bad! A fine intelligence you mar Assaulting with produce from your posterior.
Redemption might be earned should you relent, Desist your endless insults, and repent.
AOW, your point is well taken, –– IF the poem is to be interpreted in a strictly LITERAL basis ––, which of course my stuff never is.
The willful obtusity of leftists in striving always to miss the point when someone of whom they don't approve attempts to communicate is simply stunning. I have to accuse these types of being disingenuous, because I can't believe any reasonably intelligent person could be THAT stupid.
The habitual stance of leftists never fails to be thoroughly dishonest. The only thing these people are capable of being ABOUT is their HATRED of TRUTH.
I haven't participated much in this thread -- or anywhere else on the web -- the past several days. Here's why...
Alarming bruising of the skin around my right eye popped up on Saturday morning. No itch, no pain (except for a dull headache above the eyebrow, but the headache could be unrelated).
The eye itself is fine: no change in vision, no redness, no tearing.
My ophthalmologist of the past eight years retired on August 31, and my primary care doctor is on vacation. And, of course, it's a holiday weekend!
Thanks to my beloved Chinese client, I had an immediate phone consult with a urologist in NYC. His best guess? Skin hemorrhage due to all the ibuprofen I've been taking as part of my pain-management regimen. The doctor on call from my urologist's group concurred. So, no more ibuprofen for a while.
It's been rough not having ibuprofen in my pain-management regimen. Pain to the point of nausea between the doses of the other medication for pain.
To top it all off, I've been having trouble with controlling my blood pressure. Dangerously low with severe edema of the ankles and feet! However, the primary care doc and I came up with a solution just before he left on vacation.
If our helper TJP, a former student of mine from some 30 years ago, weren't here, I don't know Mr. AOW and would manage this Summer of Suffering.
I should start a blog called "My Summer of Suffering." Heh.
We welcome civil dialogue at Always on Watch. Comments that include any of the following are subject to deletion: 1. Any use of profanity or abusive language 2. Off topic comments and spam 3. Use of personal invective
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.
I could go for a whole bottle or two... ;)
ReplyDeletePeter Quince at the Clavier
ReplyDelete__________ I __________
Just as my fingers on these keys
Make music, so the self-same sounds
On my spirit make a music, too.
Music is feeling, then, not sound;
And thus it is that what I feel,
Here in this room, desiring you,
Thinking of your blue-shadowed silk,
Is music. It is like the strain
Waked in the elders by Susanna;
Of a green evening, clear and warm,
She bathed in her still garden, while
The red-eyed elders, watching, felt
The basses of their beings throb
In witching chords, and their thin blood
Pulse pizzicati of Hosanna.
__________ II __________
In the green water, clear and warm,
Susanna lay.
She searched
The touch of springs,
And found
Concealed imaginings.
She sighed,
For so much melody.
Upon the bank, she stood
In the cool
Of spent emotions.
She felt, among the leaves,
The dew
Of old devotions.
She walked upon the grass,
Still quavering.
The winds were like her maids,
On timid feet,
Fetching her woven scarves,
Yet wavering.
A breath upon her hand
Muted the night.
She turned —
A cymbal crashed,
And roaring horns.
__________ III __________
Soon, with a noise like tambourines,
Came her attendant Byzantines.
They wondered why Susanna cried
Against the elders by her side;
And as they whispered, the refrain
Was like a willow swept by rain.
Anon, their lamps' uplifted flame
Revealed Susanna and her shame.
And then, the simpering Byzantines
Fled, with a noise like tambourines.
___________ IV __________
Beauty is momentary in the mind —
The fitful tracing of a portal;
But in the flesh it is immortal.
The body dies; the body's beauty lives.
So evenings die, in their green going,
A wave, interminably flowing.
So gardens die, their meek breath scenting
The cowl of winter, done repenting.
So maidens die, to the auroral
Celebration of a maiden's choral.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings
Of those white elders; but, escaping,
Left only Death's ironic scraping.
Now, in its immortality, it plays
On the clear viol of her memory,
And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
~ Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)
_______ SEPTEMBER _______
ReplyDeleteDer Garten trauert,
kühl sinkt in die Blumen der Regen.
Der Sommer schauert
still seinem Ende entgegen.
Golden tropft Blatt um Blatt
nieder vom hohen Akazienbaum.
Sommer lächelt erstaunt und matt
in den sterbenden Gartentraum.
Lange noch bei den Rosen
bleibt er stehen, sehnt sich nach Ruh.
Langsam tut er die großen
müdgewordnen Augen zu.
__________ ~ § ~ __________
ENGLISH TRANSLATION
The garden saddens
Cool rain sinks into the flowers.
Summer shudders
___ as it quietly meets its end.
Golden leaf by leaf drops
down from the tall acacia tree.
Summer smiles astonished and exhausted
___ in the dying garden dream
Lingering still by the roses
it remains standing, longing for peace
Slowly it closes its great
___ weary-laden eyes.
~ Hermann Hesse (1877-1953)
________ Verse For a Certain Dog _________
ReplyDeleteSuch glorious faith as fills your limpid eyes,
Dear little friend of mine, I never knew.
All-innocent are you, and yet all-wise.
(For Heaven's sake, stop worrying that shoe!)
You look about, and all you see is fair;
This mighty globe was made for you alone.
Of all the thunderous ages, you're the heir.
(Get off the pillow with that dirty bone!)
A skeptic world you face with steady gaze;
High in young pride you hold your noble head,
Gayly you meet the rush of roaring days.
(Must you eat puppy biscuit on the bed?)
Lancelike your courage, gleaming swift and strong,
Yours the white rapture of a winged soul,
Yours is a spirit like a Mayday song.
(God help you, if you break the goldfish bowl!)
"Whatever is, is good" - your gracious creed.
You wear your joy of living like a crown.
Love lights your simplest act, your every deed.
(Drop it, I tell you- put that kitten down!)
You are God's kindliest gift of all - a friend.
Your shining loyalty unflecked by doubt,
You ask but leave to follow to the end.
(Couldn't you wait until I took you out?)
~ Dorothy Parker (1893-1967)
[That, of course, is the REAL Dorothy Parker, an incredibly brilliant, rather dear soul who hid her true self behind a fusillade of brittle repartée -- because in truth she was tremendously vulnerable -- and knew it -- poor dear!]
"Labor Day in the United States is a public holiday celebrated on the first Monday in September. It honors the American labor movement and the contributions that workers have made to the strength, prosperity, and well-being of the country."
ReplyDeleteSo we take the long weekend off. After summer vacations.
I can dig it.
Ed,
DeleteNot all of us get summer vacations. **sigh**
_________ Dooryard Gardens _________
ReplyDeleteHappy times when done within your means.
Overspending can, of course, bring grief.
Mendacious workmen too, who play the thief,
Erode faith when they act like feckless teens.
Raging at injustice makes them laugh.
Expect integrity and you will weep.
Not many have a conscience that would keep
Outrageous overreaching down by half.
Value in the process is still great.
A transformation from a dreary hovel
To a jewel-like place where soon we’ll shovel
Inspiring garden beds due to await
Our joy in planting shrubbery and flowers
Nestled in the dooryard’s leafy bowers.
~ FreeThinke
_________ Contained Gardens _________
ReplyDeleteI have a special love for container gardens.
____ Something about clustering pots
of varying sizes to best advantage ––
____ and portability –– adds great appeal.
I also love raffishly untidy herbaceous borders.
____ Formal parterres fascinate,
________ but frankly make me nervous,
Yet long-established espaliered fruit trees
____ on ancient stone, brick or stuccoed walls
________ make a notable exception.
Courtyard gardens
____ in old European monasteries
________ and collegiate quadrangles
____________ at Oxford and Cambridge
Have about them an unmistakable aura
____ of eternal renewal, and of
________ Eternity, itself.
Growing things beautifully
____ indicates –– to me ––
________ a love and a reverence
____________ for Life.
~ FreeThinke
___ COULD IT BE ___
ReplyDeleteCould it be
We need our fantasies
And fond illusions
More than we need
Mundane reality?
Did ancient astronauts
Visit Earth aeons ago,
Plant Colonies - perform
Wondrous Feats of Engineering
Still unexplained?
The eternal Mystery of
The Pyramids - The Sphinx
Stonehenge - Gigantic Chalk Figures,
Discernible only from great heights -
Easter Island - Machu Pichu?
The Origin of Man -
The miracles of Music -
Painting - Sculpture -
Poetry and Thought.
The Star of Bethlehem -
The Virgin Birth - The Magi -
Betrayal, Death and Resurrection?
Patterns of Migration?
Courtship Rituals?
Attachment - Dependency -
Illness - Abandonment -
Grief - Tedium -
Decline - Decay -
The eternal Search
For Acceptance - Appreciation -
Affection - Understanding -
ESCAPE!
~ FreeThinke
__________ Picking Berries _________
ReplyDeleteParked beside a lane with lilies lined
Instinct drives us to the fragrant fields
Carrying buckets to our task resigned.
Keeping up with Nature’s bounty yields
In summer morning’s warm, earth-scented mist
Nostalgic sweet refreshment from the soil.
Gleefully we gather berries kissed
By sunshine, plump with rain before they spoil.
Edible, these gems that fill our pails
Remain, once tasted, as a lifelong treat.
Remembrance fond at “Realism” rails.
It knows behind our stated urge to eat,
Each one of us who picks collects delights
Stored to ease the future’s endless nights.
~ FreeThinke - The Sandpiper - Summer 1995
______ TO THOSE WHO HELP ______
ReplyDeleteMay God bless the practical women and men,
Who rise from the hay every day, and then
Produce what we need
Without rancor or greed,
Make things run,
Get things done,
Keep things clean,
So they're fit to be seen,
And continuously smooth the way
So that we may live comfortably every day.
~ FreeThinke
_______ COME, LABOR ON _______
ReplyDeleteCome, labor on.
Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain
while all around us waves the golden grain?
And to each servant does the Master say,
"Go work today."
Come, labor on.
The enemy is watching night and day,
to sow the tares, to snatch the seed away;
while we in sleep our duty have forgot,
he slumbers not.
Come, labor on.
Away with gloomy doubts and faithless fear!
No arm so weak but may do service here:
by feeblest agents may our God fulfill
his righteous will.
Come, labor on.
Claim the high calling angels cannot share:
to young and old the gospel gladness bear.
Redeem the time its hours so swiftly fly
the night draws nigh.
Come, labor on.
No time for rest, till glows the western sky,
till the long shadows o'er our pathway lie
and a glad sound comes with the setting sun:
"Servants, well done."
~ T. Tertius Noble
Such a beautiful poem and hymn!
Delete_____ COLLOQUIAL QUIP _____
ReplyDeleteHe who strives to be respected
Probably will be rejected.
If his mood become dejected,
He don't deserve to be elected.
One who hopes for Recognition
Soon will end up in Perdition.
In other words if you don't do good things based on Love, you are not doing good things at all. You are only massaging your ego, instead.
Or as Duke Ellington put it:
"It don't mean a thing, if it ain't got that swing. ..."
St. Paul said it best in his famous letter to the Corinthians which begins, "Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels and have not Love (Charity) ...
Commenters: please note that THIS is not a political thread.
ReplyDelete________ PRIMARY SOURCES ________
ReplyDeleteLook well upon the men who dig in mines,
And work machines in mills and factories grim.
Be aware that those who tend the vines
Or till the soil give much for wages slim.
Reaping sowing, weeding, hoeing make
Full the nation’s store of nutriment.
Overland the burly truckers take
Rich provisions and accoutrement
Coast to coast. The teamsters load and haul
Enormous hordes of stuff that we’ve empowered,
Shipped in freighters, stored in silos tall,
Delivered, well-displayed, and then devoured.
Awards are due the goods and who supplies them,
Yet the wise despise the guys who advertise them.
~ FreeThinke - The Sandpiper, Summer, 1996
Respect the blue collar workers!
Delete_______ THE BOOMBOX _______
ReplyDeleteNestled in a quiet glad so still
One could hear a fluttering sparrow’s wing,
Immersed in prayerful thought, I’d like to kill that
Squawking, howling, growling, thumping thing
Engrossing –– eating up –– my sacred space,
Projecting Social Cancer at my head.
Overtaking prayer it chokes like mace.
Like mace it stings then stuns. My mind, well-fed,
Leaps to battle the Invading Force,
Usurping all my rights to meditate.
The minions of the militantly coarse
Idolize the fiends who violate
Our right to think and feel from deep within
Negating all that’s good with fearful din.
~ FreeThinke - The Sandpiper
Haven't heard a boom box in ages.
DeleteFT & Duck,
DeleteOne good thing about iPhones. They've replaced the boom box so that the listeners are disturbing only themselves.
WRITTEN for CANARDO:
Delete______ A Soul in Torment ______
Foul-minded, ill-intentioned –– your
Ugly disposition longs to battle.
Caring only to distress not cure,
Kicking at the sky you shake your rattle
In defiance of Propriety.
Noxious noise is all that you produce ––
Grotesque behavior seeking notoriety ––
Bad smelling like a long-uncleansed prepuce.
A soul in torment must be what you are ––
Suffering with the fear you are inferior.
Too bad! A fine intelligence you mar
Assaulting with produce from your posterior.
Redemption might be earned should you relent,
Desist your endless insults, and repent.
~ FreeThinke
AOW, your point is well taken, –– IF the poem is to be interpreted in a strictly LITERAL basis ––, which of course my stuff never is.
DeleteThe willful obtusity of leftists in striving always to miss the point when someone of whom they don't approve attempts to communicate is simply stunning. I have to accuse these types of being disingenuous, because I can't believe any reasonably intelligent person could be THAT stupid.
The habitual stance of leftists never fails to be thoroughly dishonest. The only thing these people are capable of being ABOUT is their HATRED of TRUTH.
Wishing you and Mr. AOW a day of rest.
ReplyDeleteBunkerville,
DeleteMy Chinese client and her husband took us to an Asian buffet today for lunch. Both Mr. AOW and I have been in a food coma ever since.
I haven't participated much in this thread -- or anywhere else on the web -- the past several days. Here's why...
ReplyDeleteAlarming bruising of the skin around my right eye popped up on Saturday morning. No itch, no pain (except for a dull headache above the eyebrow, but the headache could be unrelated).
The eye itself is fine: no change in vision, no redness, no tearing.
My ophthalmologist of the past eight years retired on August 31, and my primary care doctor is on vacation. And, of course, it's a holiday weekend!
Thanks to my beloved Chinese client, I had an immediate phone consult with a urologist in NYC. His best guess? Skin hemorrhage due to all the ibuprofen I've been taking as part of my pain-management regimen. The doctor on call from my urologist's group concurred. So, no more ibuprofen for a while.
It's been rough not having ibuprofen in my pain-management regimen. Pain to the point of nausea between the doses of the other medication for pain.
To top it all off, I've been having trouble with controlling my blood pressure. Dangerously low with severe edema of the ankles and feet! However, the primary care doc and I came up with a solution just before he left on vacation.
If our helper TJP, a former student of mine from some 30 years ago, weren't here, I don't know Mr. AOW and would manage this Summer of Suffering.
I should start a blog called "My Summer of Suffering." Heh.