“Be a good steward of your gifts. Protect your time. Feed your inner life. Avoid too much noise. Read good books, have good sentences in your ears. Be by yourself as often as you can. Walk. Take the phone off the hook. Work regular hours.”
by Jane Kenyon
When I take the chilly tools from the shed’s darkness, I come out to a world made new by heat and light.
The snake basks and dozes on a large flat stone. It reared and scolded me for raking too close to its hole.
Like a mad red brain the involute rhubarb leaf thinks its way up through loam.
by Jane Kenyon
The dog and I push through the ring of dripping junipers to enter the open space high on the hill where I let him off the leash.
He vaults, snuffling, between tufts of moss; twigs snap beneath his weight; he rolls and rubs his jowls on the aromatic earth; his pink tongue lolls.
I look for sticks of proper heft to throw for him, while he sits, prim and earnest in his love, if it is love.
All night a soaking rain, and now the hill exhales relief, and the fragrance of warm earth. The sedges have grown an inch since yesterday, and ferns unfurled, and even if they try the lilacs by the barn can’t keep from opening today.
I longed for spring’s thousand tender greens, and the white-throated sparrow’s call that borders on rudeness. Do you know— since you went away I’ve done little but wait for you to come back to me.
Life is some kind of loathsome hag who is forever threatening to turn beautiful.
Accidents of Birth
By William Meredith
Je vois les effroyables espaces de l’Univers qui m’enferment, et je me trouve attaché à un coin de cette vaste étendue, sans savoir pourquoi je suis plutôt en ce lieu qu’en un autre, ni pourquoi ce peu de temps qui m’est donné à vivre m’est assigné à ce point plutôt qu’à un autre de toute l’éternité qui m’a précédé, et de toute qui me suit.
—Pascal, Pensées sur la religion
The approach of a man’s life out of the past is history, and the approach of time out of the future is mystery. Their meeting is the present, and it is consciousness, the only time life is alive. The endless wonder of this meeting is what causes the mind, in its inward liberty of a frozen morning, to turn back and question and remember. The world is full of places. Why is it that I am here?
—Wendell Berry, The Long-Legged House
Spared by a car or airplane crash or
cured of malignancy, people look
around with new eyes at a newly
praiseworthy world, blinking eyes like these.
For I’ve been brought back again from the
fine silt, the mud where our atoms lie
down for long naps. And I’ve also been
pardoned miraculously for years
by the lava of chance which runs down
the world’s gullies, silting us back.
Here I am, brought back, set up, not yet
But it’s not this random
life only, throwing its sensual
astonishments upside down on
the bloody membranes behind my eyeballs,
not just me being here again, old
needer, looking for someone to need,
but you, up from the clay yourself,
as luck would have it, and inching
over the same little segment of earth-
ball, in the same little eon, to
meet in a room, alive in our skins,
and the whole galaxy gaping there
and the centuries whining like gnats—
you, to teach me to see it, to see
it with you, and to offer somebody
uncomprehending, impudent thanks.
An Orson Of The Muse
by George Meredith
Her son, albeit the Muse’s livery And measured courtly paces rouse his taunts, Naked and hairy in his savage haunts, To Nature only will he bend the knee; Spouting the founts of her distillery Like rough rock-sources; and his woes and wants Being Nature’s, civil limitation daunts His utterance never; the nymphs blush, not he. Him, when he blows of Earth, and Man, and Fate, The Muse will hearken to with graver ear Than many of her train can waken: him Would fain have taught what fruitful things and dear Must sink beneath the tidewaves, of their weight, If in no vessel built for sea they swim.
If I wrote in a sonnet form, I would be distorting. Or if I had some great new idea for line breaks and I used it in a poem, but it’s really not right for that poem, but I wanted it, that would be distorting.
By Sharon Olds
The doctor said to my father, “You asked me
to tell you when nothing more could be done.
That’s what I’m telling you now.” My father
sat quite still, as he always did,
especially not moving his eyes. I had thought
he would rave if he understood he would die,
wave his arms and cry out. He sat up,
thin, and clean, in his clean gown,
like a holy man. The doctor said,
“There are things we can do which might give you time,
but we cannot cure you.” My father said,
“Thank you.” And he sat, motionless, alone,
with the dignity of a foreign leader.
I sat beside him. This was my father.
He had known he was mortal. I had feared they would have to
tie him down. I had not remembered
he had always held still and kept quiet to bear things,
the liquor a way to keep still. I had not
known him. My father had dignity. At the
end of his life his life began
to wake in me.
I wonder what the divorce rate is among poets? In particular how many first marriages survive? No matter what a poet writes, whether autobiographical or not, there is a tendency for readers to think it is, particularly family members. It’s why poems written in the style of confessional poetry, in first person, can be difficult reading, there is little wiggle room for the reader, unless you view every poem as fiction, a product of imagination. Who is the greater exhibitionist; the painter or the nude, the poet or the reader, the artist or the gallery?
I find it interesting that Olds views the sonnet form as stifling and I find it liberating. I like structured verse because it provides a canopy under which I can get out of the bright sun and allows fiction to mingle with experience more readily into a nice rosy shade of pink reading glasses.
There are many sides to every failed marriage, particularly if there are children involved and the marriage went on and on, well into their young adulthood; then every member of the family will have their opinion on the matter. When a poet eulogizes their failed marriage in poetry, it takes on a whole new level of sentimentality, there becomes multiple deaths, the death of possibilities. I wrote a number of poems about my failed marriage. None of them were any good. I am not as talented a poet as Olds in that regard. Poetry of failure is not as inspiring as the poetry of discovery, but maybe it’s equally as important. The poetry of failure serves as a glue, to remind us all, that life is complicated. We all fail in our lifetimes, particularly in our marriages. Its just a matter of degrees. Olds’ poem below was a good reminder to myself, to not be so quick to burn the past without forethought as to the portent of the memories that go up in that rich smoke of the lives that were worth living long ago. Even those lives that ended in divorce.
by Sharon Olds
When I build a fire, I feel purposeful – proud I can unscrew the wing-nuts from off the rusted bolts, dis- assembling one of the things my ex left when he left right left. And laying its narrow, polished, maple bones across the fire, providing for updraft – good. Then by flame-light I see: I am burning his old easel. How can that be, after the hours and hours – all told, maybe weeks, a month of stillness – modelling for him, our first years together, smell of acrylic, stretch of treated canvas. I am burning his left-behind craft, he who was the first to turn our family, naked, into art. What if someone had told me, thirty years ago: If you give up, now, wanting to be an artist, he might love you all your life – just put your gifts into the heart’s domestic service. What would I have said? I didn’t even have an art, it would come to me from out of our family’s life – what could I have said?
I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels,
Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me’s.
It is not enough to be in one cage with one self;
I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole.
Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang!
The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell.
The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking,
Fingerprints left lying on black inky gravestones,
Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing
Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever.
Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops,
Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo
Destined for ports of accusations, harbors of guilt.
What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?
Bob Kaufman has a unique bio, even for a beat poet. The 10th of 13 children, he left home and joined the Merchant Marines when he was 13, a profession he would continue late into his 20’s. In the 1940’s he moved to New York and went to the New York School, studying literature. He became active in the beat poet’s movement, mostly performing his poems live. It wasn’t until the late 1950’s that several books of his poetry were published by City Lights in San Francisco, where he would eventually move, with the aid of friends, like Allen Ginsburg. His wife helped compile Kaufman compile and record his poetry, assisting with its publication.
Kaufman spent several stints in prison on Riker’s Island while still in New York, for mostly minor charges. He was unfairly committed to a mental institution for unruly behavior and given electro-shock therapy against his will. During this time he found Buddhism. When John F. Kennedy was killed he took an oath of silence that lasted 10 years, a profound sacrifice for a man who was best known artistically as an oral poet. Though he would end his silence for a time, he would return to it at the end of his life.
If you want to hear more of Kaufman’s work, check out the video below:
A poet is somebody who feels, and who expresses his feelings through words.
This may sound easy. It isn’t.A lot of people think or believe or know they feel — but that’s thinking or believing or knowing; not feeling. And poetry is feeling — not knowing or believing or thinking.Almost anybody can learn to think or believe or know, but not a single human being can be taught to feel. Why? Because whenever you think or you believe or you know, you’re a lot of other people: but the moment you feel, you’re nobody-but-yourself.To be nobody-but-yourself — in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else — means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight; and never stop fighting.”
e. e. cummings
Cumming mystique as a poet was both the reason for his success and the cause of the inconsistency with which some of his poems have aged. Some of Cummings published and unpublished work reads more like shear gibberish than the highly nuanced and stylized literature that is among his best. Even Edna St. Vincent Millay, at the height of her popularity on powers, wrote on his behalf the following for the Guggenheim Fellowship that he was eventually awarded in 1933;
“[I]f he prints and offers for sale poetry which he is quite content should be, after hours of sweating concentration, inexplicable from any point of view to a person as intelligent as myself, then he does so with a motive which is frivolous from the point of view of art, and should not be helped or encouraged by any serious person or group of persons… there is fine writing and powerful writing (as well as some of the most pompous nonsense I ever let slip to the floor with a wide yawn)… What I propose, then, is this: that you give Mr. Cummings enough rope. He may hang himself; or he may lasso a unicorn.”
Edna St. Vincent Millay
What I find funny about Millay’s assessment is both sides of the coin she presents are true. Cummings lassoed a unicorn more than once with his poems that touch me, electrify me. However, the poems that I most enjoy might not be yours, so brilliance is relative in the eye of the reader. But in reading Cummings entire collected works, he also wrote a lot of clunkers, truly forgettable poems that are utterly unfathomable.
In truth, even with my most favorite poets, the actual poems of theirs that I enjoy is a tiny subset of their entire lifetime of work. Take Wallace Stevens or William Carlos Williams for example. I don’t like the vast majority of their work, particularly some of their most famous poems, that everyone else gushes over. I absolutely detest William Carlos Williams The Red Wheelbarrow, one of the most anthologized poems written in the 20th century;
so much depends
a red wheel
glazed with rain
beside the white
William Carlos Williams, The Red Wheelbarrow
There is absolutely nothing going on for me in that poem. I don’t find it funny, or interesting. It’s not poetry in my opinion, there are no ideas passed from Williams’ words to me. But there are plenty of other things William Carlos Williams wrote that I find intriguing and brilliant. I think for even the most gifted poet, to write 50 great poems, you have to write 500 or maybe even 5,000. And maybe you have to surround your greatness with a plethora of mediocrity or even stupidity so that when a reader finds a great one, (to them), it stands out.
It could be that the only poets that bat a high average of brilliance are those that didn’t write very many; Keats for example. If Keats had written until he was 80, likely we would think differently about him, as there would be a body of poetry during his inevitable dry spell that might not reflect very kindly upon him in the mirror of time. But he died young and brilliant, which is partly the cause of his unsullied reputation. Apparently the key to immorality as an artist is a tragic, untimely death.
A reader in a previous post, shared a great comment, that Cummings “star has fallen” out of favor in the past 20 years, partly because of his use of terms that would be considered racist today in a few of his poems. I am not going to be an apologist. Cummings words are there for all to judge if you want to find the literary criticism that is advocating ghosting Cummings. I am not in that camp. I don’t think we should judge Cummings, or any other artist on their worst work, particularly when it is not aligned with his entire body of work. A more troubling truth about Cummings, expressed not in his poetry, but in his personal correspondence, is antisemitism, despite many personal friendships with Jewish artists and writers. Cummings was opinionated, and could be course in his language, particularly when drinking. Cummings left plenty of ammunition for today’s critics, if your intent is to unseat him from his place in literary history.
Cummings published 800 poems and is reputed to have written 2800. Poems dealing with issues on politics, social justice and equity, outside of a couple of his anti-war poems and a few others, are not themes he dealt with very often, particularly civil rights. He touches on it once in a while, but by and large it is not a focus of his writing. He was a highly educated white man, surrounded by highly educated white men. Yes, I think he had cultural blinders on, so did the majority of the poets of his era, but it doesn’t mean he didn’t capture some of the human condition in his art. I agree with critics that point out that several of his poems contain offensive language by today’s standards and that we shouldn’t give him a pass. Cummings was a New York City poet, just like Langston Hughes and Claude McKay, writing during the same period, both of which used the same words in their poetry, in fact quite a bit more frequently. The difference obviously is African American poets of that period bring a different tilt to things in how we relate to that writing. Ultimately every reader has to bring their own slant to it. I personally don’t find evidence in Cummings entire body of work that he was racist. I do think he was a bit tone deaf in a small subset of his poems.
You will have to decide for yourself. And in doing so, ask yourself, do you want to judge or dismiss Cummings on the basis of his worst work through the cultural standards of 2022, or accept him for his best? Ask yourself how you, yourself would like to be judged in your own writing, your own social media posts, your own blog? Forgiveness and grace and the human condition are an integral part of Cummings philosophy of art and themes in his writing. Consider as you decide how to relate to his work, the responsibility in the interaction each of us have with artwork and the artists we choose to engage throughout history. If we engage in the theme of grace, because it interests us, than do we not have some obligation to extend some amount of actual grace in return to artists and artwork? I hope you will forgive me, for the inevitable thing I have written that set your teeth on edge during this journey on Fourteenlines. Cummings interests me precisely because he was flawed, because he was human. It is in the margins around his flaws and brilliance I most relate.
I dwelled in Hell on earth to write this rhyme, I live in stillness now, in living flame: I witness Heaven in unholy time I room in the renown-ed city, am Unknown. The fame I dwell in is not mine. I would not have it. Angels in the air Serenade my senses in delight Intelligence of poets, saints and fair Characters converse with me all night, But all the streets are burning everywhere, The city is burning these multitudes that climb Her buildings. Their inferno is the same I scaled as a stupendous blazing stair. They vanish as I look into the light.
Queer poetry has come a long way since the 17th century. If you are surprised to see a sonnet from Ginsburg, so was I. The poem above is truly a unicorn in Ginsburg’s body of writing. But as I have commented before, one of the fun things about this blog is almost every poet, regardless of their dominant style, wrote at least one sonnet like poem along the way, a testimony as to how incredibly pervasive the sonnet form is in literature.
I debated sharing an excerpt from Howl and decided against it. I found it difficult to find a portion that contained the spirit of Howl that also fit the style of this blog. I think one of the reasons that Howl is so successful is that Ginsburg didn’t shy away from discussing his sexuality and emotions in terms that were not common at the time. He brought all of it to the page, the raunchiness and the simplicity of gay sex and his outlook on life. I have had the same internal debate around Auden’s poem The Platonic Blow. I think The Platonic Blow is the best poem ever written about a blow job, but it strays a bit too far into the realm of pornography that some readers would find it offensive.
Richard Barnfield has only recently caught the attention of the reading public again, in part because he was forthright for his day in his courageous themes around homosexuality given the stigma and potential punishment. Barnfield is a unique character; he praised Shakespeare before Shakespeare’s writing had caught the public’s attention and wrote several poems that for a period of time following both men’s deaths were incorrectly attributed to Shakespeare. Modern anthologies have sorted things out, based on careful research and documentation, but to have a poem or two of your own thought to be tied to one of the greatest literary mind’s in history is quite the back handed compliment.
There has been lots in the news lately about the big business of art forgery and the murky provenances of missing paintings that suddenly appear on the market. The Knoedler gallery scandal makes for entertaining reading but is problematic about why is some art considered valuable and the incentives that value then creates to cheat. It made me wonder how often writers forge the work of other poets and try and fit it in to the literary canon so that it becomes accepted as the work of that famous writer? How many literary scholars who toil away in academic obscurity have been tempted to “uncover” a new poem that they secretly took great pleasure in writing, knowing if it was attributed to them it would be ignored, but as a long lost poem of a famous writer it suddenly becomes a career enhancing “discovery”? The less inventive and more common fraud is someone stealing another’s writing and claiming they wrote it and putting their name on it. Is anyone aware of a case where poetry was forged by someone else, and if so, for what purpose was the forgery perpetrated? How was it uncovered? If you aware of such a case, please share.
By Richard Barnfield (1574-1620)
Long have I long’d to see my love againe, Still have I wisht, but never could obtaine it; Rather than all the world (if I might gaine it) Would I desire my love’s sweet precious gaine. Yet in my soule I see him everie day, See him, and see his still sterne countenaunce, But (ah) what is of long continuance, Where majestie and beautie beares the sway? Sometimes, when I imagine that I see him, (As love is full of foolish fantasies) Weening to kisse his lips, as my love’s fees, I feele but aire: nothing but aire to bee him. Thus with Ixion, kisse I clouds in vaine: Thus with Ixion, feele I endles paine.
No matter where the body is the mind is free to go elsewhere.
William Henry Davies
by William Henry Davies
What is this life if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare. No time to stand beneath the boughs And stare as long as sheep or cows. No time to see, when woods we pass, Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass. No time to see, in broad daylight, Streams full of stars, like skies at night. No time to turn at Beauty’s glance, And watch her feet, how they can dance. No time to wait till her mouth can Enrich that smile her eyes began. A poor life this if, full of care, We have no time to stand and stare.
All in June
by William Henry Davies
A week ago I had a fire To warm my feet, my hands and face; Cold winds, that never make a friend, Crept in and out of every place.
Today the fields are rich in grass, And buttercups in thousands grow; I’ll show the world where I have been– With gold-dust seen on either shoe.
Till to my garden back I come, Where bumble-bees for hours and hours Sit on their soft, fat, velvet bums, To wriggle out of hollow flowers.
How does one happen to write a poem, where does it come from? That is the question asked by the psychologists or the geneticists of poetry.
Sonnets of The Blood (Excerpt)
by Alan Tate
The fire I praise was once perduring flame—
Till it snuffs with our generation out;
No matter, it’s all one, it’s but a name
Not as late honeysuckle half so stout;
So think upon it how the fire burns blue,
Its hottest, when the flame is all but spent;
Thank God the fuel is low, we’ll not renew
That length of flame into our firmament;
Think too the rooftree crackles and will fall
On us, who saw the sacred fury’s height—
Seated in her tall chair, with the black shawl
From head to foot, burning with motherly light
More spectral than November dusk could mix
With sunset, to blaze on her pale crucifix.
On the first read of Words for Hart Crane, its hard to tell if it is intended as a homage. an ode to a departed friend or a put down. It maybe because its likely Lowell intended it be both. There are certain words, in certain poems, whose meaning and context can be pivot points of understanding. For someone who prided himself on craftsmanship, Lowell’s use of Catullus redivivus is interesting. Catullus was a Latin poet in the late Roman empire, who in some ways was one of the first “confessional” poets, writing about his own life experience, rather than gods, goddesses and heroes. Inferring that Hart was the “Catullus” of his generation and the Shelley, sets him in esteemed company, but does it imply he was also outdated? Is it intended as a compliment? I am not sure. Potentially unravelling this sonnet further requires a little history.
Although Alan Tates legacy is mostly tied to his influence at Vanderbilt University, Princeton University and the University of Minnesota, his literary influence was much broader through friends and colleagues. After graduating from Vanderbilt, Alan Tate moved to New York City where he became good friends with Hart Crane. The two of them and Tate’s soon to be wife Caroline Gordon moved from Greenwich Village to a house in Patterson, New York (home of William Carlos Williams). The three of them lived together for several years and shortly after, Caroline and Tate married and Caroline gave birth to their daughter. Though their marriage was bumpy, they largely stuck it out, despite divorcing and remarrying and separating again over the years. Crane, sadly did not, stick it out. He died while on a ship in 1932 at the age of 33 in the Caribbean by throwing himself overboard. The connections between Hart Crane, Alan Tate, Robert Penn Warren, John Crowe Ransom, John Berryman and Robert Lowell are intricate. There is a quadrangle that runs from Vanderbilt, to Kenyon to Princeton, Yale and Harvard and the University of Minnesota where these men moved, sometimes interchangeably, during their careers.
When Lowell was dropped off by Merrill Moore on the door step of Alan Tate’s home in the 1930’s, it wasn’t a two bedroom flat of a penniless professor. It was at the steps of a charming 185 acre Tennessee estate called Benfolly, which Tate’s brother had purchased for him after making a fortune on coal. Benfolly was one of the centers of American literature in its day, a place of comfort for frequent visits by Ford Madox Ford, Edmund Wilson, Louise Bogan, Stark Young, Malcolm Cowley and his wife, John Ransom and his wife and Robert Penn Warren and his wife. Talk about an amazing book group. It sounds like a bushel of fun!
Students like Lowell and Randall Jarrel, who had the good fortune to be allowed into this literary and stimulating circle, realized the incredible opportunity that was opened for them. Alan Tate is quoted multiple times that the only thing you can take as a reader and as a writer are the words on the page. What does something mean? There is no one meaning of any poem and what Lowell intended may have been only sheer gratitude and to honor his friendship with Crane. What do you take from Lowell’s poem; Words For Hart Crane?
Words For Hart Crane
By Robert Lowell
When the Pulitzers showered on some dope or screw who flushed our dry mouths out with soap, few people would consider why I took to stalking sailors, and scattered Uncle Sam’s phoney gold-plated laurels to birds. Because I knew my Whitman like a book, stranger in America, tell my country; I, Catullus redivivus, once the rage of the Village and Paris, used to play my role of homosexual, wolfing the stray lambs who hungered by the Place de la Concorde. My profit was a pocket with a hole. Who asks for me, the Shelley of my age, must lay his heart out for my bed and board.
November is the month, Most trees are brown and bare The leaves are down, They’ve lost gold crowns It seems almost unfair.
The tree invested time In nurturing each leaf Then let them go Next spring to grow New ones in relief.
Do the barren trees Rest in a belief; It’s better to live Like it’s better to give, Than be the ones to receive?
The brown leaves all objected, Lying lifeless in the dirt; “We fed the tree Sugar for free, We gave until it hurt.”
I am a fan of nursery rhymes, parables and general silliness with words. Word play, puns and rhymes are ways our brains smile. How many of you can remember the pledge of allegiance by heart versus Humpty Dumpty? We remember silly rhymes far better than we do free verse because the rhyme and meter guide our memory.
Nursery rhymes also have a long history of subversion, a way for people to rebel, to hide political satire or treason in plain sight and teach it to their children.
Humpty Trumpty sat on a wall, Humpty Trumpty had a great fall, All of his lawyers and all of his men, Couldn’t put Trumpty in the White House again.
I have been working on a draft of a children’s book the past couple of weeks, cooped up at home because of COVID. November kind of popped out of my brain one morning a couple weeks ago and although it doesn’t fit the current children’s book I am writing I am fond of it as a parable.
History is generally on the side of the victor and eventually the law. I am confident history will not be kind to Mr. Trump. Starting January 20th, he will no longer have the legal protections afforded him as President and will have to give an account for himself as a civilian. I believe the sheer lunacy of his claims around winning the election and the constant lies he and his lawyers Tweet on a daily basis are not because they believe he will prevail in the courts and remain President. I don’t think that’s his intention. I think he is trying to solidify his dwindling cult following and whip those that remain into a such a frenzy around a conspiracy so far fetched, so impossible, that it either has to be believed as faith or rejected, because no actual evidence exists. Trump’s defense of claiming victory is like writing a mathematical theorem on the existence of God, it can’t be done, no physical proof exists. Trump’s lies are so far beyond the realm of common sense that they become a test of faith. Trump is like a child standing before his Mother with chocolate on his face, claiming to know nothing about a missing cake, wanting to know if Mother country loves him more than the lie he is telling?
Trump is hoping to solidify his status as a cult leader and in some way that will protect him when federal prosecutors file charges and eventually convict him of serious crimes. Trump is not interested in politics or being the leader of the GOP. I don’t believe he is interested in leading the government. Trump is interested only in being the leader of his cult. Trump is hoping to subvert the law’s of this country in ways that are far more sinister than messing around with the transition of power between administrations, far worse than being rude or shrewd or rejecting the norms of our Democracy and generally being difficult. Let’s call what Trump is doing what it is; fascism. Trump is conducting a a very real civil war for his own personal gain. The question is whether it will remain a war of words or something far more dire, something far more consequential than it has already become in the damage it has done to our democracy and our unity as a nation.
I find the definition of civilian prophetic, given Mr. Trump’s civil and criminal legal predicaments hanging over this head, not the least of which are his fraudulent tax filings. I hope the vast majority of Americans will look at the golden leaves of our democracy on the ground, turning brown and realize it is the tax payers and common stockholders in their 401K and pensions, who bail out companies and individuals like Trump when they go bankrupt. It is the person working as a cashier in the grocery store who pays their full share of their taxes who finance the shenanigan’s of rich men’s accountants, who do not pay their fair share. Ultimately it is we, as citizens of a society, who pay for the repeated business failures of men like Trump; the cost of those losses are taken out of the pockets of all, in higher costs for goods and services.
Let us hope as a civilian he will be seen as unprofessional by the vast majority of Americans, not just the 80 plus million majority of legal voters who cast legal votes for democracy, who voted for Biden. Let us hope that Trump will be seen as the emperor with no clothes, with no golden crown, who has fallen from his ledge of power. I hope main stream Republicans will start to look on Trump as a criminal who does not belong in the GOP. I hope they will realize that it is unbecoming of the traditions of our nation to support a fascist who wants to rewrite an election in his own favor for his own personal reasons. Its time we all distance ourselves from this man, a man unworthy of anyone’s loyalty. Biden is offering a flower of peace, a white lily. Let’s hope we can all put it in a vase to admire while its still in bloom.
[ si-vil-yuhn ]
a person who is not on active duty with a military, naval, police, or fire fighting organization.
Informal. anyone regarded by members of a profession, interest group, society, etc., as not belonging; nonprofessional; outsider.
My Pretty Rose Tree
by William Blake
A flower was offered to me, Such a flower as May never bore; But I said, ‘I’ve a pretty rose tree,’ And I passed the sweet flower o’er.
Then I went to my pretty rose tree, To tend her by day and by night; But my rose turned away with jealousy, And her thorns were my only delight.
A boat beneath a sunny sky,
Lingering onward dreamily
In an evening of July —
Children three that nestle near,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Pleased a simple tale to hear —
Long has paled that sunny sky:
Echoes fade and memories die:
Autumn frosts have slain July.
Still she haunts me, phantomwise,
Alice moving under skies
Never seen by waking eyes.
Children yet, the tale to hear,
Eager eye and willing ear,
Lovingly shall nestle near.
In a Wonderland they lie,
Dreaming as the days go by,
Dreaming as the summers die:
Ever drifting down the stream —
Lingering in the golden gleam —
Life, what is it but a dream?
Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, better known under his pen name Lewis Carroll, authored some of the most complicated and inventive poems and stories in the last 200 years. Both Jabberwocky and The Hunting Of The Snark are unfairly in my mind categorized as nonsensical poems or pigeon holed as “children’s” literature. Yet, I have met more than one grown adult who knew only one poem by memory and that poem was Jabberwocky and could recite it brilliantly after a couple of beers.
What about Carroll’s imagination continues to connect with generation after generation of readers? I believe it’s because his “nonsensical” literature actually makes more sense than some of our real life experiences. Danger and unfairness abounds in Alice in Wonderland but in the end she returns safe and sound to her sister’s side to share her adventure. Carroll turns the world upside down and topsy-turvy not as a parody but because that is how life can feel for many of us. Crafting all of his writing as “children’s” stories is the real brilliance of his subversive literature, allowing readers of all ages to identify with the humor and inventiveness while letting each of us decide how it connects to our imaginations. If you haven’t read Jabberwocky recently, here is a link.
Carroll’s ability to make up words is a gift limited to very few writers. I have only attempted it a couple of times in my own writing and nothing as bold or timeless as Carroll’s additions to the English language. The tradition of using made up words is a hallmark of poets that goes back to oral traditions by story tellers from the beginning of time. Maybe all new words start out as nonsense. And only become respected members of dialogue as time passes. Do you or your family have a made up word that fits perfectly in your vocabulary? Is it alive and well and have you immortalized it in a poem?
The Voice Of The Lobster
by Lewis Carroll
”Tis the voice of the Lobster: I heard him declare
‘You have baked me too brown, I must sugar my hair.’
As a duck with its eyelids, so he with his nose
Trims his belt and his buttons, and turns out his toes.
When the sands are all dry, he is gay as a lark,
And will talk in contemptuous tones of the Shark:
But, when the tide rises and sharks are around,
His voice has a timid and tremulous sound.’
‘I passed by his garden, and marked, with one eye,
How the Owl and the Panter were sharing a pie:
The Panther took pie-crust, and gravy, and meat,
While the Old had the dish as its share of the treat.
When the pie was all finished, the Owl, as a boon,
Was kindly permitted to pocket the spoon:
While the Panther received knife and fork with a growl,
And concluded the banquet by [eating the owl.]