OFF-TOPIC, BUT IMPORTANT TO NOTE IN THE INTERESTS OF BASIC DECENCY. CANCER IS THE COMMON ENEMY OF ALL MANKIND. IT RESPECTS NO RACE, RELIGION, AGE, SEX, SOCIAL POSITIN, OR DEGREES OF BEAUTY OR UGLINESS, NO POLITICAL PARTY OR IDEOLOGICAL POINT OF VIEW.
In honor of Congressman and Civil Rights Activist John Lewis (1940-2020) who died last night of pancreatic cancer at the age of eighty. May he Rest In Peace.
For Whom the Bell Tolls
No man is an island, Entire of itself. Each is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thine own Or of thine friend's were. Each man's death diminishes me, For I am involved in mankind. Therefore, send not to know For whom the bell tolls, It tolls for thee.
Rest softly in your plumage, golden friend. I found you warm, yet lifeless, though your eyes Pierced my heart as though you wished to send Longings still my way. A rude surprise It was to find that you so quickly passed –– Taken leave –– without the faintest sound. The twenty years we had went by so fast. Love grew slowly ‘tween us, but once found Evolved into a rather poignant thing. Despite your squawks, and shrill, ill-timed demands, Even your envy of the cats was touching. Vain, inane, your comical commands Inspired chuckles, while your innocence Leaves a scar upon my conscience.
No sound beyond the dropping of the leaves Or shushing in the treetops of the stirring In the air and periodic whirring Soft of wings and bundling of sheaves ––
Every now and then a bird may call Looking for or longing for his mate; Escaping still the hunter’s dinner plate. Scythes swish steadily as grain grown tall
Submits to delicate compelling force. Workers silently bent to their task Over whom hot sunshine spills its rays
Reap swiftly knowing pain could come, of course. Later, in the afterglow they’ll bask Dreaming –– foolishly –– of better days.
~ FreeThinke
[NOTE: This poem was inspired by Pieter Brueghel's painting The Reapers c.1555,]
Chew-chew chew-chew" and higher still, "Cheer-cheer cheer-cheer" more loud and shrill, "Cheer-up cheer-up cheer-up"—and dropped Low—"Tweet tweet jug jug jug"—and stopped One moment just to drink the sound Her music made, and then a round Of stranger witching notes was heard As if it was a stranger bird: "Wew-wew wew-wew chur-chur chur-chur Woo-it woo-it"—could this be her? "Tee-rew tee-rew tee-rew tee-rew Chew-rit chew-rit"—and ever new— "Will-will will-will grig-grig grig-grig." - John Clare, "The Progress of Rhyme"
"A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.” - Percy Shelly, "Defense of Poetry"
Thank you for that beautiful quotation from Shelley. FJ. It's a keeper.
I have found that even in my darkest hours a determination to focus on beautiful thoughts, beautiful images, and beautiful music can transport me to higher realms where joy and gladness prevail.
And as Thomas Gray said in his famous Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
"If ignorance is bliss 'Tis folly to be wise."
The ever-wry, but eminently tender-hearted Oscar Wilde put it this way:
"Illusion sthe greatest of all pleasures."
I don't like to think of Beauty as illusory, however. Most probably don't think this way, but I have found that PRAYER has the same tonic effect as the contemplation of Beauty in Nature, and the Poetry, Music Objects of Art it has inspired.
Though I llove the mystery and the musicality inherent in the reference I feel compelled to explain that PHILOMELA is an old English word meaning NIGHTINGALE.
A quiet winter’s day –– The sky a luminescent gray –– A light dusting of snow Adding to the winter’s glow Covered the bricks on my kitchen window sill
Little sparrows darted to and fro Perching on the branches white with snow Joining them a tiny finch or two shared the branches too In the frosty air. Their twittering not shrill
Was delightful up until I saw upon that kitchen window sill One of the little finches –– Not larger than two inches –– Charming till I saw he’d just one leg!
My heart went out to him So tiny on the rim Where warmth and comfort waited To welcome this ill-fated Little fellow much too dignified to beg.
I wanted him inside Where with me could abide In the safety of a cage with no fear of Nature’s rage –– An impractical idea I knew, but even so
My empathy for him would grow Until it filledme with great woe, But the finch thought all my pain Was perfectly inane So off he flew to live back in the snow!
Thank you, dear friend. I've corrected and revised it, since writing it here in place yesterday. Here for your archives is the improved version:
A Birdie on the Windowsill
A quiet winter’s day –– The sky a luminescent gray –– A light dusting of snow Adding to the winter’s glow Covered the icy bricks upon my kitchen window sill
Little sparrows darted to and fro Perching on the branches white with snow Joining them a tiny finch or two shared the branches too In the frosty winter air. Their twittering not shrill
Was delightful up until I saw on that old window sill One of the little finches –– Not larger than two inches –– Charming till I noticed that he only had one leg!
My heart went out to him –– So tiny on the rim –- Where warmth and comfort waited To welcome this ill-fated Little fellow much too brave and dignified to beg.
I wanted him inside Where with me he could abide In the safety of a cage with no fear of Nature’s rage –– A vain impractical idea I knew, but even so
My empathy for him would grow Until it filled me with great woe, But the finch thought all my pain Was perfectly inane –– So abruply off he flew to live back in the snow!
I'll do it for you AOW, "No politics today, please."
Here's a nice piece of violin for today. I kind of fell in love with this young lady the other day. She has quite a lot on YouTube, but "Sound of Silence" is my favorite.
When icicles hang by the wall, __ And Dick the shepherd blows his nail, And Tom bears logs into the hall, __ And milk comes frozen home in pail, When blood is nipped, and ways be foul, Then nightly sings the staring owl, ________ To-whoo; To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow, __ And coughing drowns the parson’s saw, And birds sit brooding in the snow, __ And Marian’s nose looks red and raw, When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl, Then nightly sings the staring owl, _______ To-whoo; To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note, While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
~ William Shakespeare (1564-1616) from “Love’s Labor ’s Lost,” Act V. Sc. 2.
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert, That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run; Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of Heaven, In the broad day-light Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its a{:e}real hue Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, Sprite or Bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn Hate, and pride, and fear; If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know, Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
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
OFF-TOPIC, BUT IMPORTANT TO NOTE IN THE INTERESTS OF BASIC DECENCY. CANCER IS THE COMMON ENEMY OF ALL MANKIND. IT RESPECTS NO RACE, RELIGION, AGE, SEX, SOCIAL POSITIN, OR DEGREES OF BEAUTY OR UGLINESS, NO POLITICAL PARTY OR IDEOLOGICAL POINT OF VIEW.
ReplyDeleteIn honor of Congressman and Civil Rights Activist John Lewis (1940-2020) who died last night of pancreatic cancer at the age of eighty. May he Rest In Peace.
For Whom the Bell Tolls
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend's were.
Each man's death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
~ John Donne (1572-1631)
Franco,
DeleteMy friend, let's stay on topic. This blog post is a break from the news cycle.
Amen..... loved the beautiful sounds of Nature's best singers..
Delete_______ A MINOR BIRD _______
ReplyDeleteI have wished a bird would fly away,
And not sing by my house all day;
Have clapped my hands at him from the door
When it seemed as if I could bear no more.
The fault must partly have been in me.
The bird was not to blame for his key.
And of course there must be something wrong
In wanting to silence any song.
~ robert Frost (1874-1963)
__ To A Superior Parrot - January 24, 2010 __
ReplyDeleteRest softly in your plumage, golden friend.
I found you warm, yet lifeless, though your eyes
Pierced my heart as though you wished to send
Longings still my way. A rude surprise
It was to find that you so quickly passed ––
Taken leave –– without the faintest sound.
The twenty years we had went by so fast.
Love grew slowly ‘tween us, but once found
Evolved into a rather poignant thing.
Despite your squawks, and shrill, ill-timed demands,
Even your envy of the cats was touching.
Vain, inane, your comical commands
Inspired chuckles, while your innocence
Leaves a scar upon my conscience.
~ FreeThinke - January 26, 2010
A Bird, came down the Walk --
ReplyDeleteHe did not know I saw ––
He bit an Angle Worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then, he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass ––
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass ––
He glanced with rapid eyes,
That hurried all abroad ––
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought,
He stirred his Velvet Head. ––
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers,
And rowed him softer Home ––
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.
~ Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
_____________ STILLNESS _____________
ReplyDeleteNo sound beyond the dropping of the leaves
Or shushing in the treetops of the stirring
In the air and periodic whirring
Soft of wings and bundling of sheaves ––
Every now and then a bird may call
Looking for or longing for his mate;
Escaping still the hunter’s dinner plate.
Scythes swish steadily as grain grown tall
Submits to delicate compelling force.
Workers silently bent to their task
Over whom hot sunshine spills its rays
Reap swiftly knowing pain could come, of course.
Later, in the afterglow they’ll bask
Dreaming –– foolishly –– of better days.
~ FreeThinke
[NOTE: This poem was inspired by Pieter Brueghel's painting The Reapers c.1555,]
Chew-chew chew-chew" and higher still,
ReplyDelete"Cheer-cheer cheer-cheer" more loud and shrill,
"Cheer-up cheer-up cheer-up"—and dropped
Low—"Tweet tweet jug jug jug"—and stopped
One moment just to drink the sound
Her music made, and then a round
Of stranger witching notes was heard
As if it was a stranger bird:
"Wew-wew wew-wew chur-chur chur-chur
Woo-it woo-it"—could this be her?
"Tee-rew tee-rew tee-rew tee-rew
Chew-rit chew-rit"—and ever new—
"Will-will will-will grig-grig grig-grig."
- John Clare, "The Progress of Rhyme"
How cleverly onomatopoetic!
DeleteHow do you manage always to find recondite material that so oftn piques our interest? You are a Master at Disovering and Uncovering the Abstruse
"A poet is a nightingale who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are moved and softened, yet know not whence or why.”
ReplyDelete- Percy Shelly, "Defense of Poetry"
DeleteThank you for that beautiful quotation from Shelley. FJ. It's a keeper.
I have found that even in my darkest hours a determination to focus on beautiful thoughts, beautiful images, and beautiful music can transport me to higher realms where joy and gladness prevail.
And as Thomas Gray said in his famous Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard
"If ignorance is bliss
'Tis folly to be wise."
The ever-wry, but eminently tender-hearted Oscar Wilde put it this way:
"Illusion sthe greatest of all pleasures."
I don't like to think of Beauty as illusory, however. Most probably don't think this way, but I have found that PRAYER has the same tonic effect as the contemplation of Beauty in Nature, and the Poetry, Music Objects of Art it has inspired.
Thomas Morley (1557-1602/3), "Madrigal":
ReplyDeleteThough Philomela lost her love
fresh note she warbleth yes again
Fa la la la fa la la la...
He is a fool that lovers prove
and leaves to sing, to live in pain
Fa la la la fa la la ...
Though I llove the mystery and the musicality inherent in the reference I feel compelled to explain that PHILOMELA is an old English word meaning NIGHTINGALE.
Delete...derived from a Roman myth of humans (Philomela, Procne-swallow, Tereus-hoopoe) transformed into birds.
DeleteMore 'Green' language.
Delete;p
A Birdie on the Windowsill
ReplyDeleteA quiet winter’s day ––
The sky a luminescent gray ––
A light dusting of snow
Adding to the winter’s glow
Covered the bricks on my kitchen window sill
Little sparrows darted to and fro
Perching on the branches white with snow
Joining them a tiny finch or two
shared the branches too
In the frosty air. Their twittering not shrill
Was delightful up until
I saw upon that kitchen window sill
One of the little finches ––
Not larger than two inches ––
Charming till I saw he’d just one leg!
My heart went out to him
So tiny on the rim
Where warmth and comfort waited
To welcome this ill-fated
Little fellow much too dignified to beg.
I wanted him inside
Where with me could abide
In the safety of a cage
with no fear of Nature’s rage ––
An impractical idea I knew, but even so
My empathy for him would grow
Until it filledme with great woe,
But the finch thought all my pain
Was perfectly inane
So off he flew to live back in the snow!
~ FreeThinke (7/18/2020)
Very nice!
DeleteThank you, dear friend. I've corrected and revised it, since writing it here in place yesterday. Here for your archives is the improved version:
DeleteA Birdie on the Windowsill
A quiet winter’s day ––
The sky a luminescent gray ––
A light dusting of snow
Adding to the winter’s glow
Covered the icy bricks upon my kitchen window sill
Little sparrows darted to and fro
Perching on the branches white with snow
Joining them a tiny finch or two
shared the branches too
In the frosty winter air. Their twittering not shrill
Was delightful up until
I saw on that old window sill
One of the little finches ––
Not larger than two inches ––
Charming till I noticed that he only had one leg!
My heart went out to him ––
So tiny on the rim –-
Where warmth and comfort waited
To welcome this ill-fated
Little fellow much too brave and dignified to beg.
I wanted him inside
Where with me he could abide
In the safety of a cage
with no fear of Nature’s rage ––
A vain impractical idea I knew, but even so
My empathy for him would grow
Until it filled me with great woe,
But the finch thought all my pain
Was perfectly inane ––
So abruply off he flew to live back in the snow!
~ FreeThinke (7/18/2020)
This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.
ReplyDeleteI'll do it for you AOW, "No politics today, please."
DeleteHere's a nice piece of violin for today. I kind of fell in love with this young lady the other day. She has quite a lot on YouTube, but "Sound of Silence" is my favorite.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Buu5AgGnUzk&t=36s
Jayhawk,
DeleteHow lovely! Thank you for alerting me to that rendition.
When icicles hang by the wall,
ReplyDelete__ And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
__ And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipped, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
________ To-whoo;
To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
__ And coughing drowns the parson’s saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
__ And Marian’s nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl,
_______ To-whoo;
To-whit, to-whoo, a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
~ William Shakespeare (1564-1616)
from “Love’s Labor ’s Lost,” Act V. Sc. 2.
____ TO A SKYLARK ____
ReplyDeleteHail to thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Higher still and higher
From the earth thou springest
Like a cloud of fire;
The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning
Of the sunken sun,
O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even
Melts around thy flight;
Like a star of Heaven,
In the broad day-light
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrows
Of that silver sphere,
Whose intense lamp narrows
In the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
All the earth and air
With thy voice is loud,
As, when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
What thou art we know not;
What is most like thee?
From rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops so bright to see
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
Like a Poet hidden
In the light of thought,
Singing hymns unbidden,
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace-tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love,
which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its a{:e}real hue
Among the flowers and grass,
which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet
those heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh,
thy music doth surpass.
Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
What sweet thoughts are thine:
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood
of rapture so divine.
Chorus Hymeneal,
Or triumphal chant,
Match'd with thine would be all
But an empty vaunt,
A thing wherein we feel
there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind?
what ignorance of pain?
With thy clear keen joyance
Languor cannot be:
Shadow of annoyance
Never came near thee:
Thou lovest: but ne'er knew
love's sad satiety.
Waking or asleep,
Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes
flow in such a crystal stream?
We look before and after,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those
that tell of saddest thought.
Yet if we could scorn
Hate, and pride, and fear;
If we were things born
Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy
we ever should come near.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were,
thou scorner of the ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then,
as I am listening now.
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley