The Poetry Thread

[Lofgeornost]

While it's still April, I though I should post the beginning of "The Waste Land."

T. S. Eliot, "The Waste Land."

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the arch-duke’s,
My cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?
“You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
“They called me the hyacinth girl.”
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Oed’ und leer das Meer.

This actually has an RPG connection for me; I once had a crazed-holy-man NPC speak the lines beginning with "There is shadow" and ending "fear in a handful of dust" to a the PCs. Fortunately for me, none of them knew the lines, but I was happy to see that they produced a clear emotional effect.

Back when I was in college in the late 14th century, we used to parody the beginning of the poem:
April is cruellest month, bringing
Papers in the hard courses, piling
Lab reports on quizzes, keeping
Dull brains up all night.

 

[Lofgeornost]

Spurred by a recent thread in the roleplaying section of the forum

The Iliad, beginning of book 1, translated by Robert Fagles.

Rage—Goddess, sing the rage of Peleus’ son Achilles,
murderous, doomed, that cost the Achaeans countless losses,
hurling down to the House of Death so many sturdy souls,
great fighters’ souls, but made their bodies carrion,
feasts for the dogs and birds,
and the will of Zeus was moving toward its end.
Begin, Muse, when the two first broke and clashed,
Agamemnon lord of men and brilliant Achilles.

What god drove them to fight with such a fury?
Apollo the son of Zeus and Leto. Incensed at the king
he swept a fatal plague through the army—men were dying
and all because Agamemnon spurned Apollo’s priest.
Yes, Chryses approached the Achaeans’ fast ships
to win his daughter back, bringing a priceless ransom
and bearing high in hand, wound on a golden staff,
the wreaths of the god, the distant deadly Archer.
He begged the whole Achaean army but most of all
the two supreme commanders, Atreus’ two sons,
“Agamemnon, Menelaus—all Argives geared for war!
May the gods who hold the halls of Olympus give you
Priam’s city to plunder, then safe passage home.
Just set my daughter free, my dear one . . . here,
accept these gifts, this ransom. Honor the god
who strikes from worlds away—the son of Zeus, Apollo!”

And all ranks of Achaeans cried out their assent:
“Respect the priest, accept the shining ransom!”
But it brought no joy to the heart of Agamemnon.
The king dismissed the priest with a brutal order
ringing in his ears: “Never again, old man,
let me catch sight of you by the hollow ships!
Not loitering now, not slinking back tomorrow.
The staff and the wreaths of god will never save you then.
The girl—I won’t give up the girl. Long before that,
old age will overtake her in my house, in Argos,
far from her fatherland, slaving back and forth
at the loom, forced to share my bed!
Now go,
don’t tempt my wrath—and you may depart alive.”

The old man was terrified. He obeyed the order,
turning, trailing away in silence down the shore
where the battle lines of breakers crash and drag.
And moving off to a safe distance, over and over
the old priest prayed to son of sleek-haired Leto,
lord Apollo, “Hear me, Apollo! God of the silver bow
who strides the walls of Chryse and Cilla sacrosanct—
lord in power of Tenedos—Smintheus, god of the plague!
If I ever roofed a shrine to please your heart,
ever burned the long rich bones of bulls and goats
on your holy altar, now, now bring my prayer to pass.
Pay the Danaans back—your arrows for my tears!”

 

[Lofgeornost]

"This is Sparta!" got mentioned in a thread in the roleplaying forum, and that got me thinking about Thermopylae and the famous epitaph for the Spartans there. It is sometimes attributed to Simonides, but I guess the consensus is that he did not write it. It's a short couplet that has been translated many times; here are a few examples:

Epitaph for the Spartans at Thermopylae

Go, tell the Spartans, stranger passing by
That here, obedient to their laws, we lie. (Steven Pressfield, but really an updating of William Bowles)

Stranger, tell the Spartans that we behaved
As they would wish us to, and are buried here. (William Golding)

Go, stranger, and to Lacedaemon tell
That here, obeying her behests, we fell. (George Rawlinson)

Go tell the Spartans, you who read:
We took their orders, and here lie dead. (Aubrey de Sélincourt)

The epitaph inspired some interesting poems in World War I, for example--

H.W. Garrod, “Epitaph: Neuve Chapelle,"

Tell them at home, there's nothing here to hide:
We took our orders, asked no questions, died.

It probably also was an influence on a famous poem of Housman's about the B.E.F. in 1914:

A.E. Housman, “Epitaph on an Army of Mercenaries,”

These, in the day when heaven was falling,
The hour when earth's foundations fled,
Followed their mercenary calling
And took their wages and are dead.

Their shoulders held the sky suspended;
They stood, and earth's foundations stay;
What God abandoned, these defended,
And saved the sum of things for pay.

 

[Voros]

If you're interested in learning more about the amazing and deep tradition of Arabic poetry I highly recommend anything translated by Michael Sells.

I was excited to see he just released a new translation of Ibn 'Arabi's The Translator of Desires, which you can read more about here.

Sells does a great job of making these poems feel fresh and lyrical in a modern idiom without sentimentality or watering them down for easy consumption.

Tigris Song

BY IBN AL-`ARABI
Moringa of the flood bed
on the banks of the river Tigris.

A dove on a swaying bough's mournful cooing
has turned me sad,

Her song like the song
of the queen of the gathering—

When she touches her triple chord
you can forget the maestro brother of the caliph al-Hádi!

And when she sings!—who was Ánjash
that camel driver with the mesmerizing chant, anyway?

In Hadimát, Sálma's direction,
and Sindád, I swear it,

I'm in love, far gone,
with a girl who lives in Ájyadi.

Wrong, she lives in the obsidian black
of the membrane of my liver.

Through her, in a rush of musk
and saffron, beauty falls
into disarray.

 

[Voros]

There was a recent article on the trend of New-Agey translations of Rumi and other Sufi poets here, so beware when seeking out a book.

Of what I've read I'd recommend A.J. Arberry's translations from the 40s/50s although I've heard the work of Kabir and Camille Helminski is quite good as well.

 

[Lofgeornost]

All translated poetry relies on the skill of the translator, both as a translator and as a poet. But it seems particularly hard to capture the aesthetic qualities of Arabic in other languages, or at least in English. I don't know enough about the language or its poetic traditions to explain why this is so, but I've read translations of Arabic texts that are renowned in the original for their beauty only to find them fall a little flat.

Or maybe I've just been reading the wrong translations...

 

[Séadna]

It's very hard to get Semitic poetry into any Indo-European language as the grammars and even how poetry works on a stylistic and phonetic level is so different. Huge pile of words can be generated from a given (usually three consonant) root causing a web of associations that can't really be transferred. The Akkadian of Mesopotamia is difficult to translate for the same reason, a professor once told me that there basically isn't a good translation of Gilgamesh in existence for this reason.

Of what I've read I'd recommend A.J. Arberry's translations from the 40s/50s although I've heard the work of Kabir and Camille Helminski is quite good as well.

My brother who learned Persian says there's very little effort needed to read Rumi after you can handle Modern Persian as the language has changed very little. One of the reasons I'd like to learn it soon.

 

[Lofgeornost]

It's very hard to get Semitic poetry into any Indo-European language as the grammars and even how poetry works on a stylistic and phonetic level is so different. Huge pile of words can be generated from a given (usually three consonant) root causing a web of associations that can't really be transferred. The Akkadian of Mesopotamia is difficult to translate for the same reason, a professor once told me that there basically isn't a good translation of Gilgamesh in existence for this reason.

I’m sure that’s true. I haven’t noticed the effect being as strong in translations from Hebrew, but that may be because there is a much longer and richer tradition of translations from the language into English—and some of that material has worked its way into the bones of English style and poetry.

 

[Séadna]

I’m sure that’s true. I haven’t noticed the effect being as strong in translations from Hebrew, but that may be because there is a much longer and richer tradition of translations from the language into English—and some of that material has worked its way into the bones of English style and poetry.

What kind of Hebrew poetry or prose do you have in mind?

 

[Voros]

While recognizing the difficulty of translation when done right it produces another piece of art, different or even distinct from the original. I've read that some think the French translations of Poe are actually superior to the English!

And I can't imagine what English literature would be like without Tolstoy and Flaubert translated into English.

I think translations are important to expand the scope of literature and subvert provincial chauvinism. I realize in Europe multi-lingualism is more common but in the UK, US and even Canada it is far too easy for people to overrate English-language writers with nothing to compare them to.

The mainstream English-language 'Canlit' discourse in Canada for instance is usually stunningly middlebrow, provincial, even philistine. At the same time also snobbish! At least when it comes to fiction (most of my favourite Canadian fiction is French-Canadian), I find the poetry tradition in Canada much more vital, at least through the 60s to the 80s. I'll see if I can find some of the better English language Canadian poets online to post here.

 

[Voros]

Okay so I'm going to start with probably my favourite Canadian poet, Gwendolyn Macewan, within Canada widely recognized as one of our best, she died relatively young from alcoholism and left behind highly lyrical but witty poems that drew on Arabic, Hebrew and Greek poetry, gnosticism, the occult, surrealism and fantasy.

In fact she wrote a wonderful book of fantasy, the fable-like Julian the Magician (which reminds me of the dark fantasies of the French Canadians Anne Hebert and Marie-Claire Blais who I highly recommend).

THE DRUNKEN CLOCK

Gwendolyn MacEwen
From: The Drunken Clock. Toronto: Aleph Press, 1961


The bells ring more than Sunday; Eve,
orchards and high wishes meet the bells
with grace and speed. The staggered
clocks only cousin the bells; after
the timed food, the urgent breakfeasts,
we lean to other seasons,
seasons

of the first temple
of a basic Babel
of Sumer
of meek amoeba

Clocks count forward with craze, but
bells count backward with sober grade.
Tell us, in the high minute after they
sing, where the temple is, where
the bell's beat breaks all our hour-
glasses, where the jungled flesh is tied, bloodroots

 

[Voros]

A big secret among the Canadian poetry scene is that Atwood is considered by many to be a competent but uninspired fiction writer (and typical Toronto WASP snob, check her comments on sf) but a first rate poet.

I remember one of my professors in university, a well known (and very good) Canadian poet, commenting that 'Peggy needs to stop writing that second-rate stuff and get back to poetry.'

Her poems of the 60s and 70s are excellent and decades later she finally published a new book of poems in 2009 and it was very good. She just published a new book of poetry in 2020 that I've yet to checkout.

The animals in that country

BY MARGARET ATWOOD
In that country the animals
have the faces of people:

the ceremonial
cats possessing the streets

the fox run
politely to earth, the huntsmen
standing around him, fixed
in their tapestry of manners

the bull, embroidered
with blood and given
an elegant death, trumpets, his name
stamped on him, heraldic brand
because

(when he rolled
on the sand, sword in his heart, the teeth
in his blue mouth were human)

he is really a man

even the wolves, holding resonant
conversations in their
forests thickened with legend.

In this country the animals
have the faces of
animals.

Their eyes
flash once in car headlights
and are gone.

Their deaths are not elegant.

They have the faces of
no-one.

Margaret Atwood, “The animals in that country” from Selected Poems 1965-1975.

 

[Voros]

The Canadian writer Michael Ondaatjee is now famous for the merely okay novel The English Patient but for decades before that he was the avant-garde enfant terrible of English-language poetry with grotesque and memorable poetry collections with titles like Dainty Monsters and Rat Jelly (a truly disturbing poem I can't find online!).

His The Collected Works of Billy the Kid is a Canadian classic and one of my all-time favourites, a mashup of rough hewn poetry and fragmented prose about the titular character. All his early remarkable 'novels' like Coming Through Slaughter (about the unrecorded jazz musician Buddy Bolden and the remarkable photographer of sex worker, Bellocq, in New Orleans) are in this style. In the Skin of a Lion, one of the best Canadian novels in English I think, is a transitional work before he arrived at the finely crafted but rather inert English Patient. From there I find all the energy leaks out of his fiction writing although he did return to poetry later I've yet to read it.

The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje

(excerpts)

These are the killed.

(By me)–
Morton, Baker, early friends of mine.
Joe Bernstein. 3 Indians.
A blacksmith when I was twelve, with a knife.
5 Indians in self defence (behind a very safe rock).
One man who bit me during a robbery.
Brady, Hindman, Beckwith, Joe Clark,
Deputy Jim Carlyle, Deputy Sheriff J.W. Bell.
And Bob Ollinger. A rabid cat,
birds during practice,

These are the killed.

(By them)–
Charlie, Tom O’Folliard
Angela D’s split arm,

and Pat Garrett

sliced off my head.
Blood a necklace on me all my life.

....

In Boot Hill there are over 400 graves. It takes
the space of 7 acres. There is an elaborate gate
but the path keeps to no main route for it tangles
like branches of a tree among the gravestones.

300 of the dead in Boot Hill died violently
200 by guns, over 50 by knives
some were pushed under trains–a popular
and overlooked form of murder in the west.
Some from brain haemorrhages resulting from bar fights
at least 10 killed in barbed wire.

In Boot Hill there are only 2 graves that belong to women
and they are the only known suicides in that graveyard

...

Mmmmmmmm mm thinking
moving across the world on horses
body split at the edge of their necks
neck sweat eating at my jeans
moving across the world on horses
so if I had a newsman’s brain I’d say
well some morals are physical
must be clear and open
like diagram of watch or star
one must eliminate much
that is one turns when the bullet leaves you
walk off see none of the thrashing
the very eyes welling up like bad drains
believing then the moral of newspapers or gun
where bodies are mindless as paper flowers you dont feed
or give to drink
that is why I can watch the stomach of clocks
shift their wheels and pins into each other
and emerge living, for hours

 

[Klibbix!]

The Canadian writer Michael Ondaatjee is now famous for the merely okay novel The English Patient but for decades before that he was the avant-garde enfant terrible of English-language poetry with grotesque and memorable poetry collections with titles like Dainty Monsters and Rat Jelly (a truly disturbing poem I can't find online!).

His The Collected Works of Billy the Kid is a Canadian classic and one of my all-time favourites, a mashup of rough hewn poetry and fragmented prose about the titular character. All his early remarkable 'novels' like Coming Through Slaughter (about the unrecorded jazz musician Buddy Bolden and the remarkable photographer of sex worker, Bellocq, in New Orleans) are in this style. In the Skin of a Lion, one of the best Canadian novels in English I think, is a transitional work before he arrived at the finely crafted but rather inert English Patient. From there I find all the energy leaks out of his fiction writing although he did return to poetry later I've yet to read it.

The Collected Works of Billy the Kid by Michael Ondaatje

(excerpts)

These are the killed.

(By me)–
Morton, Baker, early friends of mine.
Joe Bernstein. 3 Indians.
A blacksmith when I was twelve, with a knife.
5 Indians in self defence (behind a very safe rock).
One man who bit me during a robbery.
Brady, Hindman, Beckwith, Joe Clark,
Deputy Jim Carlyle, Deputy Sheriff J.W. Bell.
And Bob Ollinger. A rabid cat,
birds during practice,

These are the killed.

(By them)–
Charlie, Tom O’Folliard
Angela D’s split arm,

and Pat Garrett

sliced off my head.
Blood a necklace on me all my life.

....

In Boot Hill there are over 400 graves. It takes
the space of 7 acres. There is an elaborate gate
but the path keeps to no main route for it tangles
like branches of a tree among the gravestones.

300 of the dead in Boot Hill died violently
200 by guns, over 50 by knives
some were pushed under trains–a popular
and overlooked form of murder in the west.
Some from brain haemorrhages resulting from bar fights
at least 10 killed in barbed wire.

In Boot Hill there are only 2 graves that belong to women
and they are the only known suicides in that graveyard

...

Mmmmmmmm mm thinking
moving across the world on horses
body split at the edge of their necks
neck sweat eating at my jeans
moving across the world on horses
so if I had a newsman’s brain I’d say
well some morals are physical
must be clear and open
like diagram of watch or star
one must eliminate much
that is one turns when the bullet leaves you
walk off see none of the thrashing
the very eyes welling up like bad drains
believing then the moral of newspapers or gun
where bodies are mindless as paper flowers you dont feed
or give to drink
that is why I can watch the stomach of clocks
shift their wheels and pins into each other
and emerge living, for hours

As a Torontonian myself, I'm really appreciating the Canadian content here!

 

[Lofgeornost]

While recognizing the difficulty of translation when done right it produces another piece of art, different or even distinct from the original. I've read that some think the French translations of Poe are actually superior to the English!

And I can't imagine what English literature would be like without Tolstoy and Flaubert translated into English.

I think translations are important to expand the scope of literature and subvert provincial chauvinism. I realize in Europe multi-lingualism is more common but in the UK, US and even Canada it is far too easy for people to overrate English-language writers with nothing to compare them to.

Yes; I’d never question the value of translation. I’m a big believer in it. I just meant that, from the translations I’d read, it seems that Arabic poetry must be particularly hard to translate effectively. I’m very glad that people are doing it, though, since I cannot read any Arabic!

I suppose it is true that to fully appreciate a work of poetry, you need to read it in the original language, but given how much interesting literature has been written in so many different languages, no-one could do that. And reading widely in translation allows more scope, as you say.

 

[Lofgeornost]

What kind of Hebrew poetry or prose do you have in mind?

Biblical, of course. The Psalms in particular have influenced English-language poetry a good deal.

 

[Séadna]

Biblical, of course. The Psalms in particular have influenced English-language poetry a good deal.

Thanks, I suspected as much but just wanted to be sure you weren't including modern Hebrew works which tend to share the same issues with Arabic translations.

Yeah I think then it's a combination of what you and Voros have said. There is a much deeper art of translating Biblical Hebrew that has developed over the years. Even when they don't/can't hew that close to the Hebrew the translators manage to create poems that work well in English. The Psalms in King James for example are sometimes not that close to the Hebrew, not in terms of inaccuracy I more mean how they function as poems, i.e. what ornamentation and poetic devices they use, but they are rendered in beautiful English.

I think with the Bible the only thing one misses is not so much the language but the cultural context. For example without extensive footnotes one would miss that early Genesis is a sort of refutation of/contrast with Enūma Eliš.

 

[Séadna]

most of my favourite Canadian fiction is French-Canadian

I've only read writing in French from France, who are some good French-Canadian writers and what works?

 

[Voros]

I've only read writing in French from France, who are some good French-Canadian writers and what works?

The Oxford Book of French-Canadian Short Stories is, as usual for Oxford's collections, a really good selection and starting place if you can find a copy.

Personally, Marie-Claire Blais and Anne Hebert are my favourites.

Blais' best known, and it is remarkable, novel is A Season in the Life of Emmanule and her first novel Mad Shadows is also very good even though Blais wrote it when she was only 20.

Hebert's wonderful novella about a vampire, Heloise is a great place to start with her. The Torrent is another typically intense novella that I really liked. Her best known novel in English is Kamoursaka, which is very good but as is typical of English Canada it is also her least fantastic. Children of the Sabbath is terrific as is her much later novel Am I Disturbing You?

Her later work is mostly translated by Sheila Fischman, who I think is first rate. She is like Richard Howard, if I see she translates something I pick it up as I trust her taste and know she is an excellent writer and translator.

Fischman also translated Hubert Aquin's Next Episode, a rightful classic by the failed terrorist and suicide. His later novels are supposed to be just as good but I've yet to read them.

Nicole Brossard is the most overtly avant-garde of the Quebecois writers I've read and also a major poet. I quite like her early experimental books, which are very political, sexy and funny: A Book and French Kiss. The English translations used to be insanely hard to find (when I found A Book is was quite the feat of years haunting used book shops) but they were thankfully reissued by Coach House with another novella under the title The Blue Books a few years ago. I need to read more of her, including her poetry.

Quebec also has a great film tradition from the 60s to at least 90s btw, both arthouse and s/exploitation. As did English Canada to a lesser degree, but in English Canada actual Canadian films largely died off sometime in the 90s once the government decided that Americans shooting American TV shows in Canada somehow was Canadian content. But that will have to be for another thread!

 

[Séadna]

Wow, cheers! I see I can get quite a few of those from the French bookstore I buy from and I got a little dictionary of Quebecois specific words.

Quebec also has a great film tradition from the 60s to at least 90s btw, both arthouse and s/exploitation. As did English Canada to a lesser degree, but in English Canada actual Canadian films largely died off sometime in the 90s once the government decided that Americans shooting American TV shows in Canada somehow was Canadian content. But that will have to be for another thread!

That'd be interesting to hear about sometime.

 

[Lofgeornost]

Okay so I'm going to start with probably my favourite Canadian poet, Gwendolyn Macewan, within Canada widely recognized as one of our best, she died relatively young from alcoholism and left behind highly lyrical but witty poems that drew on Arabic, Hebrew and Greek poetry, gnosticism, the occult, surrealism and fantasy.

In fact she wrote a wonderful book of fantasy, the fable-like Julian the Magician (which reminds me of the dark fantasies of the French Canadians Anne Hebert and Marie-Claire Blais who I highly recommend).

Based on the blurb, Julian the Magician looks very interesting. I've ordered it ILL, since I can't seem to find a copy for sale at a decent price.

 

[Klibbix!]

Wow, cheers! I see I can get quite a few of those from the French bookstore I buy from and I got a little dictionary of Quebecois specific words.


That'd be interesting to hear about sometime.

Seconded. I know virtually nothing about Canadian film...apart from The Incubus, of course

 

[Lofgeornost]

There are some poems I only like a section of. Eliot's "Sweeney among the Nightingales" is a good example. Most of it does nothing for me--"the silent vertebrate in brown" and all that--but I really like the conclusion:

Last 6 lines of "Sweeney among the Nightingales" by T.S. Eliot

The nightingales are singing near
The Convent of the Sacred Heart

And sang within the bloodied wood
When Agamemnon cried aloud
And let their liquid siftings fall
To stain the stiff dishonored shroud.

I always thought the 'liquid siftings' were the birds' song, but I recently learned that an earlier version of the poem substituted 'droppings' for 'siftings.' So I'm inclined to view it both as their music and their excrement, though only the latter could literally stain a shroud.

 

[Lofgeornost]

I've liked "The Song of Roland" since I first read it as a teenager, but it really is a poem of cumulative effect--short excerpts from it tend to be pretty 'blah.' The final laisse, though, can stand on its own, I think.

Laisse 291 of "The Song of Roland," translated by Patricia Terry:

The Emperor Charles once justice has been done,
And his great anger is finally appeased,
Has Bramimonde baptized into the Faith.
The day is over, and in the dark of night
The king lies sleeping in his high vaulted room.
Saint Gabriel is sent by God to say:
“Charlemagne, summon your empire’s mighty hosts!
You’ll march in force into the land of Bire;
You must relieve King Vivien at Imphe
Where pagans hold his city under siege,
And Christian voices are crying for your help.”
The Emperor Charles has no desire to go.
“God!” says the king, “how weary is my life!”
He pulls his beard, the tears flow from his eyes.
Here ends the poem, for Turoldus declines.

The final line, Ci falt le geste que Turoldus declinet is very ambiguous, and personally I prefer "Here ends the poem that Turoldus recites." Unfortunately, this medium won't allow me to show the midline breaks.

 

[Giganotosaurus]

I knew a man, who had a dream.
He wanted to build a house on a lake.
But one sunny day, in what was Babylon.
He took a wrong step and became a pink mist.
That was 10 years ago, he still haunts my dreams.
-Original

 

[Giganotosaurus]

Cassandra

Being truly aware is a curse.
You see an overwhelming amount of everything.
At first it is nice, you can learn a lot by just observing.
But then you realize that the universe doesn't care about you or anything else.
Eventually you realize that you are incapable of controlling anything.
A powerless speck whose existence will be erased by the grand cosmic forces.
It overwhelms your soul.
So you distract yourself with something you can control.
TV, Food, Hobbies, Raising a family.
And that relieves the mind for a while.
But we all have to wake up sometime.
Gotta go to work. Gotta pay the bills. Gotta drive the kids to school.
It's a delicate balance.
One that if interrupted can break the cycle.
Death, Loss, Pain.
Then you're trapped in the awake.
Unable to escape you try and drown yourself with distractions.
Hoping that maybe this time I can numb the pain.
Until you are nothing but a ruined, shriveled, husk with no control.
Totally aware of your deterioration.
Or worse, you trap yourself in the distraction.
Living forever in the delusion.
Unwilling to leave because you have tricked yourself into thinking that you are in control.
Unaware of your own deterioration.
Balance and moderation is the key.
---Original

 

[Atelerix]

Winged Rumour spreading stories through Carthage, from Book IV of Virgil's Aeneid:

Rumour raced at once through Libya’s great cities,
Rumour, compared with whom no other is as swift.
She flourishes by speed, and gains strength as she goes:
first limited by fear, she soon reaches into the sky,
walks on the ground, and hides her head in the clouds.
Earth, incited to anger against the gods, so they say,
bore her last, a monster, vast and terrible, fleet-winged
and swift-footed, sister to Coeus and Enceladus,
who for every feather on her body has as many
watchful eyes below (marvellous to tell), as many
tongues speaking, as many listening ears.
She flies, screeching, by night through the shadows
between earth and sky, never closing her eyelids
in sweet sleep: by day she sits on guard on tall roof-tops
or high towers, and scares great cities, as tenacious
of lies and evil, as she is messenger of truth.
Now in delight she filled the ears of the nations
with endless gossip, singing fact and fiction alike:
Aeneas has come, born of Trojan blood, a man whom
lovely Dido deigns to unite with: now they’re spending
the whole winter together in indulgence, forgetting
their royalty, trapped by shameless passion.
The vile goddess spread this here and there on men’s lips.
Immediately she slanted her course towards King Iarbas
and inflamed his mind with words and fuelled his anger.

I had to translate the whole of Book IV for a Latin exam (it was still commonly taught in the Scottish school system back in the 80s).

Warhammer players will, of course, recognise the description of Rumour as a Lord of Change, a demon of Tzeentch that takes the form of a great bird.

 

[Lofgeornost]

Winged Rumour spreading stories through Carthage, from Book IV of Virgil's Aeneid:

Rumour raced at once through Libya’s great cities...

I had to translate the whole of Book IV for a Latin exam (it was still commonly taught in the Scottish school system back in the 80s).

Warhammer players will, of course, recognise the description of Rumour as a Lord of Change, a demon of Tzeentch that takes the form of a great bird.

That must have been some exam! I remember translating just that passage for a Latin test in a course I took on the Aeneid; I think we had an hour to do it.

 

[Atelerix]

That came out wrong - the year-long course included translating book IV, the exam was a few hundred lines. Trying to work the hexameter into the translation was tough!

 

[Giganotosaurus]

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.
Sea-Fever, by John Masefield

 

[David Johansen]

Richard Cory
BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON
Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

 

[David Johansen]

Richard Cory
BY EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king—
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

The Owl Critic (always reminds me of internet discussions)

'Who stuffed that white owl?' No one spoke in the shop,
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The 'Daily,' the 'Herald,' the 'Post,' little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.

'Don't you see, Mr. Brown,'
Cried the youth, with a frown,

'How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is,
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is --
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!
I make no apology;
I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mr. Brown!
Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughingstock all over town!'
And the barber kept on shaving.

'I've
studied
owls,
And other night-fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true;
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He cant
do
it, because
'Tis against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That
can't
turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
Mr. Brown, I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To
look
at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
The man who
stuffed
him don't half know his business!'
And the barber kept shaving.

'Examine those eyes
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down;
Have him stuffed again, Brown!'
And the barber kept on shaving!

'With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about
him
there's not one natural feather.'

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked around, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
'Your learning's at fault
this
time, anyway:
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!'
And the barber kept on shaving.

James Thomas Fields

 

[Lofgeornost]

Inspired by my viewing last night, Lewis Carroll's poem:

"Jabberwocky"

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Beyond the 'vorpal blade' of D&D, the Bandersnatch is an alien beast that inhabits Jinx (IIRC) in Larry Niven's Known Space series, and Henry Kuttner wrote a short story entitled "All Mimsy were the Borogoves," which I think inspired the film The Last Mimsy.

 

[Lofgeornost]

October 4 is the anniversary of my father's death, which happened long ago--decades, actually. But it put me in mind of one of e.e. cummings' poems. It's long, so I'll just give the initial verse and the last four, which are my favorites. Cummings wrote it in honor of his father, who died unexpectedly in an automobile accident.

e.e. cummings, "My Father Moved Through Dooms of Love,"

my father moved through dooms of love
through sames of am through haves of give,
singing each morning out of each night
my father moved through depths of height...

then let men kill which cannot share,
let blood and flesh be mud and mire,
scheming imagine, passion willed,
freedom a drug that’s bought and sold

giving to steal and cruel kind,
a heart to fear, to doubt a mind,
to differ a disease of same,
conform the pinnacle of am

though dull were all we taste as bright,
bitter all utterly things sweet,
maggoty minus and dumb death
all we inherit, all bequeath

and nothing quite so least as truth
—i say though hate were why men breathe—
because my Father lived his soul
love is the whole and more than all.

I especially like the phrase "nothing quite so least as truth" and find myself quoting it more often than you might think.

 

[David Johansen]

Horatius by Thomas Babington Macaulay

Lars Porsena of Clusium, by the Nine Gods he swore
That the great house of Tarquin should suffer wrong no more.
By the Nine Gods he swore it, and named a trysting day,
And bade his messengers ride forth,
East and West and South and North,
To summon his array.
East and West and South and North the messengers ride fast,
And tower and town and cottage have heard the trumpet's blast.
Shame on the false Etruscan who lingers in his home,
When Porsena of Clusium is on the march for Rome!


The horsemen and the footmen are pouring in amain
From many a stately market-place, from many a fruitful plain;
From many a lonely hamlet which, hid by beech and pine
Like an eagle's nest hangs on the crest of purple Apennine;
From lordly Volaterrae, where scowls the far-famed hold
Piled by the hands of giants for god-like kings of old;
From sea-girt Populonia, whose sentinels descry
Sardinia's snowy mountain-tops fringing the southern sky;
From the proud mart of Pisae, queen of the western waves,
Where ride Massilia's triremes, heavy with fair-haired slaves;
From where sweet Clanis wanders through corn and vines and flowers;
From where Cortona lifts to heaven her diadem of towers.
Tall are the oaks whose acorns drop in dark Auser's rill;
Fat are the stags that champ the boughs of the Ciminian hill;
Beyond all streams Clitumnus is to the herdsman dear;
Best of all pools the fowler loves the great Volsinian mere.


But now no stroke of woodman is heard by Auser's rill;
No hunter tracks the stag's green path up the Ciminian hill;
Unwatched along Clitumnus grazes the milk-white steer;
Unharmed the water fowl may dip in the Volsinian mere.
The harvests of Arretium, this year, old men shall reap;
This year, young boys in Umbro shall plunge the struggling sheep;
And in the vats of Luna, this year, the must shall foam
Round the white feet of laughing girls whose sires have marched to Rome.


There be thirty chosen prophets, the wisest of the land,
Who always by Lars Porsena both morn and evening stand:
Evening and morn the Thirty have turned the verses o'er,
Traced from the right on linen white by mighty seers of yore;
And with one voice the Thirty have their glad answer given:
"Go forth, go forth, Lars Porsena! Go forth, beloved of Heaven!
Go, and return in glory to Clusium's round dome,
And hang round Nurscia's altars the golden shields of Rome."
And now hath every city sent up her tale of men;
The foot are fourscore thousand; the horse are thousands ten.
Before the gates of Sutrium is met the great array.
A proud man was Lars Porsena upon the trysting day.
For all the Tuscan armies were ranged beneath his eye,
And many a banished Roman, and many a stout ally;
And with a mighty following to join the muster came
The Tusculan Mamilius, Prince of the Latian name.
But by the yellow Tiber was tumult and affright:
From all the spacious champaign to Rome men took their flight.
A mile around the city the throng stopped up the ways:
A fearful sight it was to see through two long nights and days
For aged folks on crutches, and women great with child,
And mothers sobbing over babes that clung to them and smiled.


And sick men borne in litters high on the necks of slaves,
And troops of sun-burned husbandmen with reaping-hooks and staves,
And droves of mules and asses laden with skins of wine,
And endless flocks of goats and sheep, and endless herds of kine,
And endless trains of wagons that creaked beneath the weight
Of corn-sacks and of household goods choked every roaring gate.
Now, from the rock Tarpeian, could the wan burghers spy
The line of blazing villages red in the midnight sky.
The Fathers of the City, they sat all night and day,
For every hour some horseman came with tidings of dismay.
To eastward and to westward have spread the Tuscan bands;
Nor house, nor fence, nor dovecote in Crustumerium stands.
Verbenna down to Ostia hath wasted all the plain;
Astur hath stormed Janiculum, and the stout guards are slain.

I wis, in all the Senate, there was no heart so bold,
But sore it ached, and fast it beat, when that ill news was told.
Forthwith up rose the Consul, up rose the Fathers all;
In haste they girded up their gowns and hied them to the wall.
They held a council standing before the River-Gate;
Short time was there, ye well may guess, for musing or debate.
Out spake the Consul roundly: "The bridge must straight go down;
For since Janiculum is lost, naught else can save the town..."
Just then, a scout came flying, all wild with haste and fear:
"To arms! To arms, Sir Consul! Lars Porsena is here!"
On the low hills to westward the Consul fixed his eye,
And saw the swarthy storm of dust rise fast along the sky,
And nearer fast and nearer doth the red whirlwind come;
And louder still and still more loud, from underneath that whirling cloud,
Is heard the trumpet's war-note proud, the trampling and the hum.
And plainly and more plainly now through the gloom appears,
Far to left and far to right, in broken gleams of dark-blue light,
The long array of helmets bright, the long array of spears.
And plainly and more plainly, above that glimmering line,
Now might ye see the banners of twelve fair cities shine;
But the banner of proud Clusium was highest of them all,
The terror of the Umbrian; the terror of the Gaul.
And plainly and more plainly now might the burghers know,
By port and vest, by horse and crest, each warlike Lucumo.
There Cilnius of Arretium on his fleet roan was seen;
And Astur of the four-fold shield, girt with the brand none else may wield,
Tolumnius with the belt of gold, and dark Verbenna from the hold
By reedy Thrasymene.
Fast by the royal standard, o'erlooking all the war,
Lars Porsena of Clusium sat in his ivory car.
By the right wheel rode Mamilius, prince of the Latian name,
And by the left false Sextus, who wrought the deed of shame.
But when the face of Sextus was seen among the foes,
A yell that rent the firmament from all the town arose.
On the house-tops was no woman but spat toward him and hissed,
No child but screamed out curses, and shook its little first.

But the Consul's brow was sad, and the Consul's speech was low,
And darkly looked he at the wall, and darkly at the foe.
"Their van will be upon us before the bridge goes down;
And if they once might win the bridge, what hope to save the town?"
Then out spoke brave Horatius, the Captain of the Gate:
"To every man upon this earth, death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better than facing fearful odds,
For the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his Gods,
"And for the tender mother who dandled him to rest,
And for the wife who nurses his baby at her breast,
And for the holy maidens who feed the eternal flame,
To save them from false Sextus, that wrought the deed of shame?
"Hew down the bridge, Sir Consul, with all the speed ye may!
I, with two more to help me, will hold the foe in play.
In yon strait path, a thousand may well be stopped by three:
Now, who will stand on either hand and keep the bridge with me?'
Then out spake Spurius Lartius; a Ramnian proud was he:
"Lo, I will stand at thy right hand and keep the bridge with thee."
And out spake strong Herminius; of Titian blood was he:
"I will abide on thy left side, and keep the bridge with thee."
"Horatius," quoth the Consul, "as thou sayest, so let it be."
And straight against that great array forth went the dauntless Three.
For Romans in Rome's quarrel spared neither land nor gold,
Nor son nor wife, nor limb nor life, in the brave days of old.
Then none was for a party; then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor, and the poor man loved the great.
Then lands were fairly portioned; then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers in the brave days of old.
Now Roman is to Roman more hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high, and the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction, in battle we wax cold:
Wherefore men fight not as they fought in the brave days of old.
Now while the Three were tightening their harness on their backs,
The Consul was the foremost man to take in hand an axe:
And Fathers mixed with Commons seized hatchet, bar and crow,
And smote upon the planks above and loosed the props below.
Meanwhile the Tuscan army, right glorious to behold,
Came flashing back the noonday light,
Rank behind rank, like surges bright of a broad sea of gold.
Four hundred trumpets sounded a peal of warlike glee,
As that great host, with measured tread, and spears advanced, and ensigns spread,
Rolled slowly towards the bridge's head where stood the dauntless Three.
The Three stood calm and silent, and looked upon the foes,
And a great shout of laughter from all the vanguard rose:
And forth three chiefs came spurring before that deep array;
To earth they sprang, their swords they drew, and lifted high their shields, and flew
To win the narrow way;
Aunus from green Tifernum, Lord of the Hill of Vines;
And Seius, whose eight hundred slaves sicken in Ilva's mines;
And Picus, long to Clusium vassal in peace and war,
Who led to fight his Umbrian powers from that grey crag where, girt with towers,
The fortress of Naquinum lowers o'er the pale waves of Nar.
Stout Lartius hurled down Aunus into the stream beneath:
Herminius struck at Seius, and clove him to the teeth:
At Picus brave Horatius darted one fiery thrust;
And the proud Umbrian's golden arms clashed in the bloody dust.
Then Ocnus of Falerii rushed on the Roman Three;
And Lausulus of Urgo, the rover of the sea,
And Aruns of Volsinium, who slew the great wild boar,
The great wild boar that had his den amidst the reeds of Cosa's fen,
And wasted fields, and slaughtered men, along Albinia's shore.
Herminius smote down Aruns; Lartius laid Ocnus low:
Right to the heart of Lausulus Horatius sent a blow.
"Lie there," he cried, "fell pirate! No more, aghast and pale,
From Ostia's walls the crowd shall mark the track of thy destroying bark.
No more Campania's hinds shall fly to woods and caverns when they spy
Thy thrice-accursed sail."
But now no sound of laughter was heard among the foes.
A wild and wrathful clamour from all the vanguard rose.
Six spears' lengths from the entrance halted that deep array,
And for a space no man came forth to win the narrow way.
But hark! the cry is Astur, and lo! the ranks divide;
And the great Lord of Luna comes with his stately stride.
Upon his ample shoulders clangs loud the four-fold shield,
And in his hand he shakes the brand which none but he can wield.
He smiled on those bold Romans a smile serene and high;
He eyed the flinching Tuscans, and scorn was in his eye.
Quoth he, "The she-wolf's litter stand savagely at bay:
But will ye dare to follow, if Astur clears the way?"
Then, whirling up his broadsword with both hands to the height,
He rushed against Horatius and smote with all his might.
With shield and blade Horatius right deftly turned the blow.
The blow, yet turned, came yet too nigh;
It missed his helm, but gashed his thigh:
The Tuscans raised a joyful cry to see the red blood flow.
He reeled, and on Herminius he leaned one breathing-space;
Then, like a wild-cat mad with wounds, sprang right at Astur's face.
Through teeth, and skull, and helmet so fierce a thrust he sped,
The good sword stood a hand-breadth out behind the Tuscan's head.
And the great Lord of Luna fell at that deadly stroke,
As falls on Mount Alvernus a thunder-smited oak.
Far o'er the crashing forest the giant arms lay spread;
And the pale augurs, muttering low, gaze on the blasted head.
On Astur's throat Horatius right firmly pressed his heel,
And thrice and four times tugged amain, ere he wrenched out the steel.
"And see," he cried, "the welcome, fair guests, that waits you here!
What noble Lucumo comes next to taste our Roman cheer?"
But at his haughty challenge a sullen murmur ran,
Mingled of wrath, and shame, and dread, along that glittering van.
There lacked not men of prowess, nor men of lordly race;
For all Etruria's noblest were round the fatal place.
But all Etruria's noblest felt their hearts sink to see
On the earth the bloody corpses; in their path the dauntless Three;
And, from the ghastly entrance where those bold Romans stood,
All shrank, like boys who unaware, ranging the woods to start a hare,
Come to the mouth of a dark lair where, growling low, a fierce old bear
Lies amidst bones and blood.
Was none who would be foremost to lead such dire attack?
But those behind cried "Forward!", and those before cried "Back!"
And backward now and forward wavers the deep array;
And on the tossing sea of steel, to and fro the standards reel;
And the victorious trumpet-peal dies fitfully away.
Yet one man for one moment strode out before the crowd;
Well known was he to all the Three, and they gave him greeting loud.
"Now welcome, welcome, Sextus! Now welcome to thy home!
Why dost thou stay, and turn away? Here lies the road to Rome."
Thrice looked he at the city; thrice looked he at the dead;
And thrice came on in fury, and thrice turned back in dread:
And, white with fear and hatred, scowled at the narrow way
Where, wallowing in a pool of blood, the bravest Tuscans lay.
But meanwhile axe and lever have manfully been plied;
And now the bridge hangs tottering above the boiling tide.
"Come back, come back, Horatius!" loud cried the Fathers all.
"Back, Lartius! Back, Herminius! Back, ere the ruin fall!"
Back darted Spurius Lartius; Herminius darted back:
And as they passed, beneath their feet they felt the timbers crack.
But when they turned their faces, and on the further shore
Saw brave Horatius stand alone, they would have crossed once more.
But with a crash like thunder fell every loosened beam,
And, like a dam, the mighty wreck lay right athwart the stream:
And a loud shout of triumph rose from the walls of Rome,
As to the highest turret-tops was splashed the yellow foam.
And, like a horse unbroken, when first he feels the rein,
The furious river struggled hard, and tossed his tawny mane,
And burst the curb, and bounded, rejoicing to be free,
And whirling down, in fierce career, battlement, and plank, and pier
Rushed headlong to the sea.
Alone stood brave Horatius, but constant still in mind;
Thrice thirty thousand foes before, and the broad flood behind.
"Down with him!" cried false Sextus, with a smile on his pale face.
"Now yield thee", cried Lars Porsena, "now yield thee to our grace!"
Round turned he, as not deigning those craven ranks to see;
Nought spake he to Lars Porsena, to Sextus nought spake he;
But he saw on Palatinus the white porch of his home;
And he spake to the noble river that rolls by the towers of Rome.
"Oh Tiber, father Tiber, to whom the Romans pray,
A Roman's life, a Roman's arms, take thou in charge this day!"
So he spake and, speaking, sheathed the good sword by his side,
And, with his harness on his back, plunged headlong in the tide.
No sound of joy or sorrow was heard from either bank;
But friends and foes in dumb surprise, with parted lips and straining eyes,
Stood gazing where he sank;
And when above the surges they saw his crest appear,
All Rome sent forth a rapturous cry, and even the ranks of Tuscany
Could scarce forbear to cheer.
But fiercely ran the current, swollen high by months of rain:
And fast his blood was flowing; and he was sore in pain,
And heavy with his armour, and spent with changing blows:
And oft they thought him sinking, but still again he rose.
Never, I ween, did swimmer, in such an evil case,
Struggle through such a raging flood safe to the landing place:
But his limbs were borne up bravely by the brave heart within,
And our good father Tiber bare bravely up his chin

"Curse on him!" quoth false Sextus, "will not the villain drown?
But for this stay, ere close of day, we would have sacked the town!"
"Heaven help him!" quoth Lars Porsena, "and bring him safe to shore;
For such a gallant feat of arms was never seen before."
And now he feels the bottom: now on dry earth he stands;
Now round him throng the Fathers, to press his gory hands;
And now, with shouts and clapping, and noise of weeping loud,
He enters through the River-Gate, borne by the joyous crowd.
They gave him of the corn-land, that was of public right,
As much as two strong oxen could plough from morn till night;
And they made a molten image, and set it up on high,
And there it stands unto this day to witness if I lie.
It stands in the Comitium, plain for all folk to see;
Horatius in his harness, halting upon one knee:
And underneath is written, in letters all of gold,
How valiantly he kept the bridge in the brave days of old.
And still his name sounds stirring unto the men of Rome,
As the trumpet-blast that calls to them to charge the Volscian home;
And wives still pray to Juno for boys with hearts as bold
As his who kept the bridge so well in the brave days of old.
And in the nights of winter, when the cold north winds blow,
And the long howling of the wolves is heard amidst the snow;
When round the lonely cottage roars loud the tempest's din,
And the good logs of Algidus roar louder yet within;
When the oldest cask is opened, and the largest lamp is lit;
When the chestnuts glow in the embers, and the kid turns on the spit;
When young and old in circle around the firebrands close;
When the girls are weaving baskets and the lads are shaping bows
When the goodman mends his armour, and trims his helmet's plume,
And the goodwife's shuttle merrily goes flashing through the loom;
With weeping and with laughter still is the story told,
How well Horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.

 

[Fenris-77]

Witch of the Westmorland - Stan Rogers

Pale was the wounded knight, that bore the rowan shield
Loud and cruel were the raven's cries that feasted on the field
Saying "Beck water cold and clear will never clean your wound
There's none but the witch of the Westmoreland can make thee hale and soond"

So turn, turn your stallion's head 'til his red mane flies in the wind
And the rider of the moon goes by and the bright star falls behind
And clear was the paley moon when his shadow passed him by
Below the hills were the brightest stars when he heard the owlet cry

Saying "Why do you ride this way, and wherefore came you here?"
"I seek the Witch of the Westmorland that dwells by the winding mere"
And it's weary by the Ullswater and the misty brake fern way
Til through the cleft in the Kirkstane Pass the winding water lay

He said "Lie down, by brindled hound and rest ye, my good grey hawk
And thee, my steed may graze thy fill for I must dismount and walk
But come when you hear my horn and answer swift the call
For I fear ere the sun will rise this morn ye will serve me best of all"

And it's down to the water's brim he's born the rowan shield
And the goldenrod he has cast in to see what the lake might yield
And wet rose she from the lake, and fast and fleet went she
One half the form of a maiden fair with a jet black mare's body

And loud, long and shrill he blew til his steed was by his side
High overhead the grey hawk flew and swiftly did he ride
Saying "Course well, my brindled hound, and fetch me the jet black mare
Stoop and strike, my good grey hawk, and bring me the maiden fair"

She said "Pray, sheathe thy silvery sword. Lay down thy rowan shield
For I see by the briny blood that flows you've been wounded in the field"
And she stood in a gown of the velvet blue, bound round with a silver chain
And she's kissed his pale lips once and twice and three times round again

And she's bound his wounds with the goldenrod, full fast in her arms he lay
And he has risen hale and sound with the sun high in the day
She said "Ride with your brindled hound at heel, and your good grey hawk in hand
There's none can harm the knight who's lain with the Witch of the Westmorland. "

 

[Fenris-77]

The above is possibly my favorite song, of any genre, ever.

 

[Giganotosaurus]

The above is possibly my favorite song, of any genre, ever.

Gotta love Stan Rogers.

 

[Fenris-77]

He says, just as Barrett's Privateers comes up on a random playlist.

 

[Giganotosaurus]

He says, just as Barrett's Privateers comes up on a random playlist.

My personal favorite is "The Mary Ellen Carter". It's gotten me through really difficult days at work this past year.