christopher lee, narrating the poem “the nightmare before Cchristmas” by tim burton
After the Water, the Clouds by René Magritte, 1926. Oil on canvas, 120 x 80 cm.
After the water, the
clouds. After clouds
the telephone. Then
the hope that
someone will hear it
ring. After the answer
the question. Who
picked the flowers?1
8th stanza from “my lost youth” longfellow poem in the movie “in the bedroom”
full poem here
Obligatory Tune of the Day: My favorite Thanksgiving tradition: Gathering around the ol’ Victrola and spinning Arlo Guthrie’s iconic musical monologue, “Alice’s Restaurant Massacree.”
You wanna end war and stuff? You gotta sing loud.
Part 2 below:
Do you have a favorite Thanksgiving tradition?
In silent night when rest I took,
For sorrow neer I did not look,
I waken’d was with thundring nois
And Piteous shreiks of dreadfull voice.
That fearfull sound of fire and fire,
Let no man know is my Desire.
I, starting up, the light did spye,
And to my God my heart did cry
To strengthen me in my Distresse
And not to leave me succourlesse.
Then coming out beheld a space,
The flame consume my dwelling place.
And, when I could no longer look,
I blest his Name that gave and took,
That layd my goods now in the dust:
Yea so it was, and so ‘twas just.
It was his own: it was not mine;
Far be it that I should repine.
He might of All justly bereft,
But yet sufficient for us left.
When by the Ruines oft I past,
My sorrowing eyes aside did cast,
And here and there the places spye
Where oft I sate, and long did lye.
Here stood that Trunk, and there that chest;
There lay that store I counted best:
My pleasant things in ashes lye,
And them behold no more shall I.
Under thy roof no guest shall sitt,
Nor at thy Table eat a bitt.
No pleasant tale shall ‘ere be told,
Nor things recounted done of old.
No Candle ‘ere shall shine in Thee,
Nor bridegroom’s voice ere heard shall bee.
In silence ever shalt thou lye;
Adieu, Adeiu; All’s vanity.
Then streight I gin my heart to chide,
And didst thy wealth on earth abide?
Didst fix thy hope on mouldring dust,
The arm of flesh didst make thy trust?
Raise up thy thoughts above the skye
That dunghill mists away may flie.
Thou hast an house on high erect
Fram’d by that mighty Architect,
With glory richly furnished,
Stands permanent tho’ this bee fled.
It’s purchased, and paid for too
By him who hath enough to doe.
A Prise so vast as is unknown,
Yet, by his Gift, is made thine own.
Ther’s wealth enough, I need no more;
Farewell my Pelf, farewell my Store.
The world no longer let me Love,
My hope and Treasure lyes Above.
- Anne Bradstreet
I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public man, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.
Alan Rickman reads Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130
My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Lights Out: In a provocative spoken-word piece entitled “The God Or The Man,” Jamie DeWolf, great-grandson of Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard, excoriates his great-grandfather for the “legacy of lies I still carries in my last name.”
Posting on Reddit, DeWolf writes:
i knew this story would die with me as no one else in my family will go on the record anymore about it. it’s a Scientology symbol on my right arm, the Zodiac Killer on my left, they both represent to me reminders of what happens when artists go wrong and all of us have gods and killers inside us. plus I’m a fan of irony. and it’s an awesome thing to expose to a Scientologist when they try to sell me a dianetics book.
Running and slipping on a rock so wet
A flying creature I did meet.
But it did not seem common in its flight,
So I asked it why?
You Are Tired (I Think)
You are tired,
Of the always puzzle of living and doing;
And so am I.
Come with me, then,
And we’ll leave it far and far away
(Only you and I, understand!)
You have played,
And broke the toys you were fondest of,
And are a little tired now;
Tired of things that break, and
So am I.
But I come with a dream in my eyes tonight,
And I knock with a rose at the hopeless gate of your heart
Open to me!
For I will show you places Nobody knows,
And, if you like,
The perfect places of Sleep.
Ah, come with me!
I’ll blow you that wonderful bubble, the moon,
That floats forever and a day;
I’ll sing you the jacinth song
Of the probable stars;
I will attempt the unstartled steppes of dream,
Until I find the Only Flower,
Which shall keep (I think) your little heart
While the moon comes out of the sea.
Nescio, sed fieri sentio, et excrucior.
catullus - poem 85
“I hate and I love. Perhaps you ask me why?
I don’t know, but I feel it now and I am tortured.”
Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.
We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.
Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.
We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.
Since then ‘tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses’ heads
Were toward eternity.
emily dickinson - poem 712
same meter as hymns so it can be sung to the battle hymn of the republic(guitar cover here), amazing grace (jeff beck cover here), yellow rose of texas (karaoke version here), gilligan’s island(ukulele cover here) and stairway to heaven(here)
actual analysis of the poem here
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To know that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.
fire and ice by robert frost
(from harper’s magazine, december 1920.)
more analysis here