Monday, September 5, 2011
Why We Do This
Hello everyone, Below is a letter I just received from Chris Harmer, an American friend on his second tour in the Peace Corps after a 30+ years hiatus. He was in Thailand the first time and now is working on a hydraulic project in Mali. He is asking people to send a poem or short piece ofyour favorite prose for a friend of his who is studying English and likes to to memorize poetry. Chris explains all in his short letter below. I am sending this on to over 100 people on my mailing list (including teachers, doctors, vagabonds, lawyers, cops, soldiers, right wing, left wing, rich and poor) because I think the poem is a neat and inexpensive gift to give and it gives us all a few minutes to reflect on something besides the oil spill, the wars, the mortgage crisis etc. Instead it offers us a chance to reflect on the things that give us meaning and time to look at some good things in the life around us. If you wish, you can copy your poem to me, and maybe a brief comment. I'll compile the poems and comments and send the collection back to you. This is going out to Argentina, Canada, U.S., Rwanda, England, Germany, Australia, and many other places. Let's see what comes back. All the best to all of you. Hoping you have time to respond. Have fun. George Brose Send your thoughts to Chris Harmer at the address below and backto me.
Friends,
an odd but possibly enjoyable request from your friend in west africa....
I am tutoring a really nice guy who worked his way up to be a diesel mechanic, and then blew that off to come to the country and work as a primary school teacher. He is trying to improve his quite passable english so he can test well enough to prepare to teach english in middle school. He teaches French. English is his 5th language...
The Malian educational system has its roots in the French colonial system, which unfortunately relies much more on memorization, or "recitation" than ours does today. The good side of that is he enjoys memorizing prose and poetry that gives a sense of our dreams and aspirations, of how-- in our best moments--life can and should be lived. He has asked me to ask you (knowing so well I am an uncouth lout with but little regard for such things) to send your favorite, most meaingful poem or prose (I'll add song lyrics), or chunk thereof . I think something in the 20-50 lines would be right, and remember, he's been memorizing French poets, so this is not Doctor Seuss-level stuff (send that for me).
He tests in August. If you have something, please e-mail it before the 1st of July.
My next missive will come later in the summer, but all is busy, hard, and interesting and every day is a surprise.
Love
Chris
Thx
Monday, September 5, 2011
Spirit unknown
Spirit
I know not whether middle age can fight again to win
'Tis possible that youth alone can sand the battle's din,
Perhaps man's courage fades with time and 60 is too late
To have to start a second bout with all the odds of fate.
But this I know: that man islost,
thogh young or old he be.
Who says: I'm sure it's vain to try;
that task is too hard for me.
But long ago was failure known, and in history appears
An endless tales of men who rose
to fame when old in years.
One fact of life is sure and 'tis the weakling soonest dies,
And in the dust that man must stay who will not try to rise.
Too old to start anew? Ah, no!
While health and will remain,
Time locks no door against the man
who wants to start again!
Though some from thinning brows may turn,
By history is it told,
Full many a task has been done
by men the world called old.
'Tis not the years that cut us down,
but fear and failing will,
And who has spirit for the fight may live to conquer still.
I know not whether middle age can fight again to win
'Tis possible that youth alone can sand the battle's din,
Perhaps man's courage fades with time and 60 is too late
To have to start a second bout with all the odds of fate.
But this I know: that man islost,
thogh young or old he be.
Who says: I'm sure it's vain to try;
that task is too hard for me.
But long ago was failure known, and in history appears
An endless tales of men who rose
to fame when old in years.
One fact of life is sure and 'tis the weakling soonest dies,
And in the dust that man must stay who will not try to rise.
Too old to start anew? Ah, no!
While health and will remain,
Time locks no door against the man
who wants to start again!
Though some from thinning brows may turn,
By history is it told,
Full many a task has been done
by men the world called old.
'Tis not the years that cut us down,
but fear and failing will,
And who has spirit for the fight may live to conquer still.
Inside Where I Live by Marie Brose from Marie Brose
INSIDE WHERE I LIVE
Sometimes I feel so alive inside
Like creation has been through six days
And is headed toward the seventh
All inside where I live.
And there has been darkness and is light
And multiplied fits the feeling
As if there are multifarious facets of
Deeper awakenings to all sorts of connections.
All that has been created is alive in me
And I feel awakened to more than I knew
For I am a part of the tiniest creation
And like new.
Sometimes I feel so alive inside
Like creation has been through six days
And is headed toward the seventh
All inside where I live.
And there has been darkness and is light
And multiplied fits the feeling
As if there are multifarious facets of
Deeper awakenings to all sorts of connections.
All that has been created is alive in me
And I feel awakened to more than I knew
For I am a part of the tiniest creation
And like new.
Abou Ben Adhem by James Henry Leigh Hunt from Trudy Abrams
Abou Ben Adhem (James Henry Leigh Hunt, 1784-1859)
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the Presence in the room he said
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still, and said "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Invictus by William Ernest Henley, The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, Oh Captain, My Captain by Walt Whitman, Unwanted Compensation by Trudy Abrams from Trudy Abrams
Hi George,
Attached are a few poems... three favorites from my childhood that I always thought amazing for the rhythm (meter), rhyme and other poetic devices, and a short original (no match for the others, but with some meter and emotion, and more whimsy).
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to revisit and reread those old favorites! I downloaded them from the Internet and did only minor reformatting; hope they are useful for your purposes.
Cheers and Regards,
Trudy
Invictus (William Ernest Henley, 1849–1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the Shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes, 1880-1958)
Part One
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman, 1819–1892)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Unwanted Compensation (TQSA)
Rich died and I became a great poet.
But I went and found Erato and I said
Listen,
Take back your Inspiration or Expiration or Exasperation,
Or whatever it is you give me.
I don't want to be a poet.
I don't even want to be a Great Poet.
I just want Rich.
But The Great Muse said, It's not a trade.
Think of it as side effect, or compensation,
Whatever.
I can't bring Rich back, I can't undo death.
I can't change the way things are and
I don't even care.
And I lay down and sobbed and cried,
And cursed and beat the earth, because
I knew
I could have been a great poet
Without Rich dying.
Attached are a few poems... three favorites from my childhood that I always thought amazing for the rhythm (meter), rhyme and other poetic devices, and a short original (no match for the others, but with some meter and emotion, and more whimsy).
Thanks for giving me the opportunity to revisit and reread those old favorites! I downloaded them from the Internet and did only minor reformatting; hope they are useful for your purposes.
Cheers and Regards,
Trudy
Invictus (William Ernest Henley, 1849–1903)
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the Shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.
The Highwayman (Alfred Noyes, 1880-1958)
Part One
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding—
Riding—riding—
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim the ostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say—
"One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonliglt, and galloped away to the West.
Part Two
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out o' the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching—
Marching—marching—
King George's men came matching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
"Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
She heard the dead man say—
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the barrel beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter,
The landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs i' the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding—
Riding—riding—
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord's daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
O Captain! My Captain! (Walt Whitman, 1819–1892)
O CAPTAIN! my Captain! our fearful trip is done;
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won;
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring:
But O heart! heart! heart!
O the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills;
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding;
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;
Here Captain! dear father!
This arm beneath your head;
It is some dream that on the deck,
You’ve fallen cold and dead.
My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;
My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;
The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;
From fearful trip, the victor ship, comes in with object won;
Exult, O shores, and ring, O bells!
But I, with mournful tread,
Walk the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
Unwanted Compensation (TQSA)
Rich died and I became a great poet.
But I went and found Erato and I said
Listen,
Take back your Inspiration or Expiration or Exasperation,
Or whatever it is you give me.
I don't want to be a poet.
I don't even want to be a Great Poet.
I just want Rich.
But The Great Muse said, It's not a trade.
Think of it as side effect, or compensation,
Whatever.
I can't bring Rich back, I can't undo death.
I can't change the way things are and
I don't even care.
And I lay down and sobbed and cried,
And cursed and beat the earth, because
I knew
I could have been a great poet
Without Rich dying.
Aids Aids by Jared Ouma Jomo age 10 from David Zarembka Turbo, Kenya
Double Joy is an orphanage in Nyanza Province on the shore of Lake Victoria. It was founded and is run by a retired English woman named, Mary Hinde. Her daughter, Crissie Hinde, is a Friend from Sheffield, England. The orphanage is "double" because it means that both parents must have died, many I suspect of AIDS. There are 90 orphans living there. Their latest newsletter included the poem below, written by one of the orphans. I liked it and thought I would send it on to you for your thoughts.
Peace,
Dave
--
Webpage: www.aglifpt.org
Email: dave@aglifpt.org
David Zarembka, Coordinator
African Great Lakes Initiative of the Friends Peace Teams
P. O. Box 189, Kipkarren River 50241 Kenya
Phone in Kenya: 254 (0)726 590 783 in US: 240/543-1172
Office in US:1001 Park Avenue, St Louis, MO 63104 USA 314/647-1287
Poem by Jared Ouma Jomo - age 10 years
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Are you a bird?
Are you an insect?
Are you a big squary animal?
What do you want from us?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Do you have ears and hear us cry?
Do you have a head or a heart?
Where are you coming from?
What colour are you?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone.
Peace,
Dave
--
Webpage: www.aglifpt.org
Email: dave@aglifpt.org
David Zarembka, Coordinator
African Great Lakes Initiative of the Friends Peace Teams
P. O. Box 189, Kipkarren River 50241 Kenya
Phone in Kenya: 254 (0)726 590 783 in US: 240/543-1172
Office in US:1001 Park Avenue, St Louis, MO 63104 USA 314/647-1287
Poem by Jared Ouma Jomo - age 10 years
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Are you a bird?
Are you an insect?
Are you a big squary animal?
What do you want from us?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone
AIDS! AIDS! Who are you?
Do you have ears and hear us cry?
Do you have a head or a heart?
Where are you coming from?
What colour are you?
AIDS OH AIDS! Leave us alone.
Bald Is Beautiful from Michelle St. Denis St. Adele, Quebec
Salut George,
Si j ai bien compris, tu veux un poeme en langue anglaise. ]The Doctor is blad
Un medecin chauve porte ce T-Shirt ce matin:
Advice from an eagle ( The Americain bald Eagle)
Let your spirit soar
See the big picture
Cherish freedom
Honor the earth and sky
Keep your goals in sight
Bald is beautiful
ciao
Michelle
Si j ai bien compris, tu veux un poeme en langue anglaise. ]The Doctor is blad
Un medecin chauve porte ce T-Shirt ce matin:
Advice from an eagle ( The Americain bald Eagle)
Let your spirit soar
See the big picture
Cherish freedom
Honor the earth and sky
Keep your goals in sight
Bald is beautiful
ciao
Michelle
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)