I was told there would be no Dylan

I have longed to move away

From the hissing of the spent lie
And the old terrors' continual cry
Growing more terrible as the day
Goes over the hill into the deep sea;
I have longed to move away
From the repetition of salutes,
For there are ghosts in the air
And ghostly echoes on paper,
And the thunder of calls and notes.

I have longed to move away but am afraid;
Some life, yet unspent, might explode
Out of the old lie burning on the ground,
And, crackling into the air, leave me half-blind.
Neither by night's ancient fear,
The parting of hat from hair,
Pursed lips at the receiver,
Shall I fall to death's feather.
By these I would not care to die,
Half convention and half lie.

He was a good man

The Great Game

 

Unto whose use the pregnant suns are poised,
With idiot moons and stars retracting stars?
Creep thou between -- thy coming's all unnoised.
Heaven hath her high, as Earth her baser, wars.
Heir to these tumults, this affright, that fray
(By Adam's, fathers', own, sin bound alway);
Peer up, draw out thy horoscope and say
Which planet mends thy threadbare fate, or mars

(Kim by Rudyard Kipling)

Blossom By Blossom

For winter's rains and ruins are over,

    And all the season of snows and sins;

The days dividing lover and lover,

    The light that loses, the night that wins;

And time remember'd is grief forgotten,

And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,

And in green underwood and cover

    Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

                 --A.G. Swinburne, Chorus from Atalanta in Calydon, 1865

Spring's Here

                             Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

                             Is hung with bloom along the bough,

                             And stands about the woodland ride

                             Wearing white for Eastertide.

                             Now, of my threescore years and ten,

                             Twenty will not come again,

                             And take from seventy springs a score,

                             It only leaves me fifty more.

                             And since to look at things in bloom

                             Fifty springs are little room,

                             About the woodlands I will go

                             To see the cherry hung with snow.

                             A.E. Housman, A Shropshire Lad, 1896

 

Panda Sex with Charles Bukowski

 

 it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street

I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

Panda Sex with Charles Bukowski plus sandwiches

 having the low down blues and going

into a restaurant to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
she's dumpy. her ass is too big.
she radiates kindness and sympathy.
live with her 3 months and a man would no real agony.
o.k., you'll tip her 15 percent.
you order a turkey sandwich and a
beer.
the man at the table across from you
has watery blue eyes and
a head like an elephant.
at a table further down are 3 men
with very tiny heads
and long necks
like ostriches.
they talk loudly of land development.
why, you think, did I ever come
in here when I have the low-down
blues?
then the the waitress comes back with the sandwich
and she asks you if there will be anything
else?
and you tell her, no no, this will be
fine.
then somebody behind you laughs.
it's a cork laugh filled with sand and
broken glass.

you begin eating the sandwich.

it's something.
it's a minor, difficult,
sensible action
like composing a popular song
to make a 14-year old
weep.
you order another beer.
jesus, look at that guy
his hands hang down almost to his knees and he's
whistling.
well, time to get out.
pick up the bill.
tip.
go to the register.
pay.
pick up a toothpick.
go out the door.
your car is still there.
and there are 3 men with heads
and necks
like ostriches all getting into one
car.
they each have a toothpick and now
they are talking about women.
they drive away first
they drive away fast.
they're best i guess.
it's an unbearably hot day.
there's a first-stage smog alert.
all the birds and plants are dead
or dying.

you start the engine.

Panda Sex with Charles Bukowski

 

the words have come and gone,
I sit ill.
the phone rings, the cats sleep.
Linda vacuums up my soul.
I am wanting to live,
waiting to die.       

Winter's Here

 

Ezra Pound's response to “Sumer Is Icumen In”:

Winter is icummen in,
Lhude sing Goddamm.
Raineth drop and staineth slop,
And how the wind doth ramm!
Sing: Goddamm.

Skiddeth bus and sloppeth us,
An ague hath my ham.
Freezeth river, turneth liver,
Damn you, sing: Goddamm.

Goddamm, Goddamm, 'tis why I am, Goddamm,
So 'gainst the winter's balm.

Sing goddamm, damm, sing Goddamm.
Sing goddamm, sing goddamm, DAMM.

Here's another (rather bizarre) picture from the site where I swiped the one at the top.

Love in Winter

I translated the first stanza of this poem for my Fall's Here post, and noted then that the poem was actually about winter. Now that it's winter, here's the whole thing.

          De ramis cadunt folia,               The leaves fall from the branches,

          nam viror totus periit,              The green world fades to brown. 
          iam calor liquit omnia               The warmth of summer steals away
               et abiit;                                      and goes to ground.
          nam signa coeli ultima              The sun seeks out the farthest signs 
               sol petiit.                                    upon his round.

          Iam nocet frigus teneris,           The days are short and bitter,

          et avis bruma leditur,                And wound each tender thing.

          et philomena ceteris                 The nightingale and all his kin

               conqueritur,                                refuse to sing

          quod illis ignis etheris                Now that the day-star's fires are hid

               adimitur.                                      from everything.

          Nec lympha caret alveus,          The stream is full: it tumbles

          nec prata virent herbida,          Through fields once green, now white.

          sol nostra fugit aureus               Since from our land the golden sun

               confinia;                                      has taken flight,

          est inde dies niveus,                  Now winter sends us snow by day

               nox frigida.                                  and frost by night.

          Modo frigescit quidquid est,      Though all that is, is frozen,

          sed solus ego caleo;                   A fire burns in me:

          immo sic mihi cordi est              My heart is kindled by desire

               quod ardeo;                                  and misery.

          hic ignis tamen virgo est,           All for a girl -- the girl I love

               qua langueo.                                 most desperately.

          Nutritur ignis osculo                   That fire is fed by kisses,

          et leni tactu virginis;                  By touch, and by the light

          in suo lucet oculo                       That shines upon me from her eyes,

               lux luminis,                                   supremely bright.

           nec est in toto seculo                Nowhere in all the world is such

               plus numinis.                                a heavenly sight.

          Ignis graecus extinguitur             Greek fire can be extinguished

          cum vino iam acerrimo;              By bitter wine, it's said.

          sed iste non extinguitur              This fire of mine, alas, cannot,

               miserrimo:                                     for it is fed

          immo fomento alitur                   By fuel that grows abundantly

               uberrimo.                                       in winter's bed.

             --Anon. ca 1200 AD                                        --Transl. Mumpsimus 2020 AD

Helen Waddell says the notion that Greek Fire could be extinguished by vinegar is "nonsense," and I agree. (You can read her translation here.)

Fall's Here

          De ramis cadunt folia,              The leaves fall from the branches,

          nam viror totus periit,              The green world fades to brown. 
          iam calor liquit omnia               The warmth of summer steals away
               et abiit;                                      and goes to ground.
          nam signa coeli ultima              The sun seeks out the farthest signs 
               sol petiit.                                    upon his round.
             --Anon. ca 1200 AD                                    --Transl. Mumpsimus 2020 AD

"farthest signs" = the winter signs of the Zodiac.

This is the first stanza of a poem which is actually about winter; but the lines seem perfect for fall. You can see the whole poem, with Helen Waddell's translation, here.

Lepanto: October 7, 1571

449 years ago tomorrow, the fleet of the Holy League, mostly warships from Venice and the Spanish Empire, met and crushed a large Ottoman fleet off the Western coast of Greece in the Battle of Lepanto. This victory decisively checked the expansion of the Ottoman Empire and, maybe, saved the Christian West and the achievements of the Renaissance.

Americans know of this battle, if at all, mostly from G.K. Chesterton's marvelous poem Lepanto, which was a staple in English Lit textbooks for many decades. It's a great piece of work, full of dazzling and memorable lines, from beginning:

               White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
               And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;

to end:

               Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
               White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Among the soldiers who fought at Lepanto was one Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, who suffered three wounds. The envoi of Chesterton's poem reads:

               Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
               (Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
               And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,
               Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,
               And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
               (But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

These days, the mere idea of teaching Chesterton's Lepanto to schoolchildren would have entire School Boards cowering under their desks. Just the word "Crusade" would make their teeth chatter.

Political Discourse

                    The Ogre does what ogres can,

                    Deeds quite impossible for Man,

                    But one prize is beyond his reach,

                    The Ogre cannot master Speech:

                    About a subjugated plain,

                    Among its desperate and slain,

                    The Ogre stalks with hands on hips,

                    While drivel gushes from his lips.

                         --WH Auden, August 1968

When I saw the remarkable picture above, and in particular the mostly-peaceful young gentleman in the silvery mask, I thought of Auden's ogre. Auden wrote his poem in response to the Soviets' crushing of the Prague Spring in 1968. Our ogres, like his, are very good at causing chaos and destruction, but utterly incapable of, and uninterested in, speaking clearly and understandably.

KLEM FM

Bonzoleum, the maker of the video, clowns around, but I am entertained. He notes the stamina required to play the 12 minute song. I know because I was captivated by that very song as a 15 year-old when it first came out. I still consider it peak Bonham. That song alone probably took a point off my high school GPA: I liked nothing more than to skip school, go home, and practice songs in the basement much like in the video. It was addictive. I especially liked the shuffle beat that Bonham laid out in the middle during Page's guitar solos and also the snare drum marching fill at 9m 55s which is the direct precursor to every anthemic drum beat by U2. Bonzoleum nails the cover with only a few errors. I recently tried "air drumming" the whole thing and I'm thinking of doing this as aerobic exercise; air drums are even more strenuous because there is no bounce there.

Bob Dylan recorded a cover of "In My Time Of Dying" on his very first (1962) album:

Dylan's version traces back to recordings by various black southern artists, notably one by Blind Willie Johnson. The song's refrain "Jesus gonna make up my dying bed" in turn goes back to Psalms 41:3:

The Lord will strengthen him upon the bed of languishing, Thou wilt make all his bed in his sickness.

Our word Psalm derives from the Ancient Greek word ψαλμός (psalmos), said to describe the twitchy twangy plucking sound made by a harp or zither.* The Greek word in turn is a translation of the Hebrew word מזמור (mizmor) which is also rooted in "pluck." Psalms were sacred songs, poems, or poetic compositions used by worshippers.

Early Frost Bite

Columbus may have worked the wind
A new and better way to Ind
And also proved the world a ball,
But how about the wherewithal?
Not just for scientific news
Had the Queen backed him for a cruise.

Remember he had made the test
Finding the East by sailing West. 
But had he found it?
Here he was Without one trinket from Ormuz
To save the Queen from family censure
For her investment in his future.

There had been something strangely wrong
With every coast he tried along.
He could imagine nothing barrener.
The trouble was with him the mariner.
He wasn’t off a mere degree;
His reckoning was off a sea.

And to intensify the drama
Another mariner Da Gama

 ~ Robert Frost

Poetry corner

This morning's poem, excerpted from the movie "Through Deaf Eyes".

The natural musical interlude for this would be John Cage's 4'33", but that is trite bordering on cruel, so rather I shall try something with a groove going on.

Who doesn't like cantaloupes, eh?

When you live long enough...

...you start to lose those you have known for decades. Yet another brother-in-law died recently, this one was world-renowned - famous, even, with many ex-wives, plenty of children and Krugerrands piled up like cordwood. His third ex-wife's father was a famous sculptor who left an estate worth an estimated 600 million dollars. Bigly famous, indeed.

Since this is poetry corner over here, I will include a poem that was used in his eulogy:

Dis altyd jy, net altyd jy,
die een gedagte bly my by
soos skadu's onder bome bly,
net altyd jy, net altyd jy.

Langs baie weë gaan my smart,
blind is my oë en verward,
is alle dinge in my hart.

Maar dit sal een en enkeld bly,
en aards en diep sy laafnis kry,
al staan dit winter, kaal in my,
die liefde in my, die liefde in my.

That is Afrikaans, and I am not the guy to translate it.

He was a book collector, specifically poetry books, and the bulk of his poetry collection, something like 60,000 volumes, was left to Emory University. What can I say - he traveled a long, at times rocky road, from the Bronx to Capetown. He enjoyed life, was endlessly fascinating to talk to and he will be missed by those of us who knew him.

Godspeed, Raymond, I am a better person for having known you.

This really doesn't directly relate, but there you go.

from "anyone lived in a pretty how town"

Gustav Jahn. Hiver, c.1902

when by now and tree by leaf

she laughed his joy she cried his grief

bird by snow and stir by still

anyone’s any was all to her

-e.e. cummings

KLEM FM

Overheard:  "alternate-nostril breathing."

Whore's Lassitudes:

link

Lyrics after the jump.

KLEM FM

Ashley Judd recited a "Beat poem" at the Washington Women's March called "#NastyWoman." Intrigued, I looked for the original. I couldn't find the text but I did find a reading by the teenaged poet, Nina Mariah:

linkage

Where did the "Beat" label come from? Perhaps one of our beret-wearing readers can help me, daddio.

My first thought, as a codger, was:

Beatniks and politics, nothing is new

A yardstick for lunatics, one point of view

linkage

The song that went viral for The Strawberry Alarm Clock in 1967 was not sung by the drummer, but instead by 16 year-old Greg Munford, who was attending the recording session as a visitor.

Full lyrics after the jump. Test your knowledge/memory