Less talk, more pictures
At the beach
Also this weekend, at the Chapel, three o'clock, we are planning to hear "Facade"
I don't remember who it's by or who's playing it.
"Facade" is one of Meredith's favorites
I've never heard it before.
Less talk, more pictures
This isn't Arizona, it's Oregon, I think.
There might be scenes like this in Arizona, but the Volvo won't be there.
We're taking the train.
I won't have to drive, for what it's worth.
There's always some kind of trade off.
The Volvo used to be named "Leah" because the license plate had a LYA in it.
Since then the plates have been changed twice, last time it was LUU
Now its XGE, make a name out of that.
How do you like your browneyedstationwagon now, Mr death?.
Tracks off the end of the earth.
The choice, sky or sea?
A lone figure contemplates
Meredith faces the sea,
where will it all end?
I take a picture for you.
Also this weekend, at the Chapel, three o'clock, we are planning to hear "Facade"
I don't remember who it's by or who's playing it.
"Facade" is one of Meredith's favorites
I've never heard it before.
Less talk, more pictures
Planked road, foot traffic only.
Volvos can't come here.
We look back to our way home.
Look at those hills, those valleys.
The earth is not flat.
No matter what my uncle says
This isn't Arizona, it's Oregon, I think.
There might be scenes like this in Arizona, but the Volvo won't be there.
We're taking the train.
I won't have to drive, for what it's worth.
There's always some kind of trade off.
The Volvo used to be named "Leah" because the license plate had a LYA in it.
Since then the plates have been changed twice, last time it was LUU
Now its XGE, make a name out of that.
How do you like your browneyedstationwagon now, Mr death?.
posted by Lane Savant at 8:30 AM
43 Comments:
Do not know what Meredith's plans are, in terms of visiting Anasatsi ruins, and other tribes from 1000 years ago--but we found you must travel to the NE corner of Arizona before you find some good ones.
The almost unknown tribe built hundreds of cliff homes in Walnut Canyon, S of Flagstaff on H40. We loved those. A real hike too. Melva went down and up. I watched with 10x50 eyes. Then on H160, just before Kayenta, on the way to Monument Valley, near the Navajo National Monument, there were the Betatakin ruins. There were a few ruins within Monument Valley if you pay to go on the Navajo jeep and truck tour, out on their Rez, where John Ford shot so many of his films. Then you could head to Four Corners, AZ, Utah, NM, and Col. In NM, there are the Salmon Ruins near Bloomfield on Hwy 550, and then S of that is the famous Chako canyon, S of Blanco. The mother of all ruins are in Mesa Verde, Colorado, just into the SW corner above Four corners. There are complete small cliff cities to peruse there. And there are several more on the W border, W of Mesa Verde in the Canyon of the Ancients. We liked those. They were easier to hike to.
I love the pics, per usual, and I managed to corral some poetry, to twist some similes, and stroke some clauses, and this is what I discovered:
On the Beach Lass
At the beach,
tracks off the end
of the earth.
The choice—
sky or sea?
A lone figure
contemplates.
Meredith
faces the sea—
where will it all
end?
I take a picture
for you.
No Swedes Allowed
Then
planked road,
foot traffic only—
Volvo cannot come
here.
We look back
to our way
home.
Look at
those hills,
those valleys!
The earth is not
flat—
no matter what
my uncle
says.
Doug Palmer April 2008
Pretty good Poetica, sir; kind of haiku-ish, kind of teasing us with the threat of rhyming line, yet free, unfettered; all Palmer.
Kudos and cheers from the peanut gallery, and from old friends, who people the army of the few, God bless them, in all their hubris, with all their warts, idiocynchrocies, and egos.
Glenn
I forgot to say Via Con Dios, and to add Yah Ta Hey, which is Navajo, and lots of Indian tribes use it like Aloha, hello and good bye, and have a safe trip, and go with God, and keep your powder dry, and don't let the bedbugs bite, and keep your top knot, and chill, hope the trip is popping, and just do it Already.
I wish Melva and I were going with you. We do adore the Southwest.
Glenn
Yes, dear smart ass, who brought a smile to my dead lips, the earth is important to me. I sleep in it, and no one should crap where they sleep, right?
if you want more of my fine poetry to garnish your blogsite, just pop some more on here. There still many days left for this wonderful Poetry month.
Emily
Dude:
Like maybe you cats could like buy some cool silver and turquiose jewelry and shit--you know, the Navajos have tons of it, and they are camped out along the road, and on the edges of all the parks, selling the stuff. But beware, some of it ain't the real deal, made in Taiwan, they say, or China for Christ's sake.
Eddy
Palmer:
Be respectful to our Native American brothers. Or they will smack you around and bury your ass at Wounded Knee, enit?
Sacheen Littlefeather
Come on Satch:
Get a life already, or a death! I mean you have great tits, and I loved letting you do the Oscar coup for me after the Apocalypse win, no, hell, it was THE GODFATHER wasn't it? It is so hard to remember that trivial stuff now that I have crossed over and have really had to accept what a selfish prick I was, so boorish and randy, and I tipped the scale at 365 at one point; a real leading man. I think all elementary school aged kids should have to weatch THE ISLAND OF DR. MOREAU as an assignment, just to screw with their minds.
Bud Brando
For God's sake, Emily, have a little dignity in your death. The way you tease and titilate Palmer and Savant is scandelous! And get over being the Great Poetess who must keep pumping her poems into our faces, even though they are no longer relevant.
Edgar A. Poo
Poo:
Once more you have butted into business that is not yours! The infinite and special relationship that Doug and I have is not for you to comment on! Keep your lip zipped, cokehead, drunk, manic depressive, and hack writer. The word was that you liked little boys too when you had a snootful. Who showed you the ropes, your parish priest? I bet you have every album Michael Jackson ever released, don't you? What a crippled little milksop faggot he turned out to be.
..........Emily
If you and Meredith take some extra time, you can make it over to part of Wyoming and South Dakota, where we filmed DANCES WITH WOLVES. Won several Oscars with that one. I did tons of research for it. Have you watched it lately?
Kevin Costner
I must tell you, I can never get used to being over here on this side. We all look the same, even men and women, so no racism, no sexism, no vulgarity. Can you imagine such a boring place? There are no Indians and no dead Indians. I spend a lot of time wishing I had made several better decisions at the Little Big Horn. You might visit the National Park there too, if you have the time.
George A. Custer
You jus' keep dose pics coming, Dougie! I love dose pics youse share wid uz. Vido says Hey, and if you do not get good enuff serviss on dat train, kick some black and Mexican ass. Dat always gets der attention. We should never educate dose losers. They will steal our country, da bastards!
Guido Provolone
Vido's man.
On the edge of Monument Valley, there is a piece of the set we used for Duke's house on THE SEARCHERS. It is off to the left from the turnoff to the Navajo Rez headquarters. You should not be in that country without taking a Navajo jeep tour into the sites of more than ten of my movies. I insist.
John Ford
If you stay in Kayenta, beware of the motel prices! Man, they are sky high. Melva and I had to take a smoking room on the third floor of a dump for 150 bucks a night. Come to think of it, with gas heading toward 4 bucks a gallon (don't get me started) it is probably prudient and very wise of you two to take the train. I hope it is a very cool adventure, and we will wait patiently for the pics to arrive on the blog.
Glenn
After Papa passed on, I never really wanted to return to Monument Valley or Mohab to shoot a picture. I was happy to just go south into Mexico with my crews to shoot most of the last dozen of my Westerns--except for TRUE GRIT, which we shot in the mountains of Colorado, north of Mesa Verde. If you get a chance to take a gander at the Black Canyon on the Gunnison, do yourself a favor, pilgrim, and get it done!
Marion Morrison
I am still very pissed off that Iron Eyes Cody got the famous crying Indian commercial for littering. He made a ton on that one afternoon's work, and I got Buddkus! You know that asshole Clayton Moore wore his Lone Ranger costume at events until he was in his 80's. What a loser clown he was! Sherman Alexie got it right when he wrote LONE RANGER AND TONTO FISTFIGHT IN HEAVEN, and I alway kick his skinny white ass; for Lenny Bruce was right too, and the Lone Ranger preferred it that way, for a faggot he was, and still is, even here. It does sadden me that Alexie contents he hates Tonto. Hell, that is my rice bowl!
Jay Silverheels
I once rode the Southwest stoned on my Harley, man--and it rained most of the time. It was a bummer, and it was real hard to score weed from the Navajos. The hippy communes were all abandoned by the time I rode by; damned shame; sex, drugs, and rock n' roll, dude! You know that is what I am talking about!
Eddy Emerald
Is it time to mount up, Mommie? I hear that Doug and Meredith are taking the scenic route on some super train deep into the Southwest. Can I go too? Please, Nancy, I could show them the sights, and use my celebrity to get good service for them. You know I always loved the Indians.
Ronnie Reagan
Beware of those sand storms, man. This time of year they swirl out of nowhere, and will take your hide off. Maybe this trip will get you into some trippy tunes, Doug. Stranger things have happened. Many of us are watching you, and waiting for your "breakthrough". Hell, man, listen to Eddy. It is all closer than you think.
Bob Dylan
Hey, dis trip of yurs is somewat ill-timed, kid. I need you to deliver a package for me, you know what I mean? You been a good mule for me in the days of past, and I wanna use you again. Maybe I'll have Guido and his cousin, Guiseppe, bring over some parcels, with directions on 'em,so's when you and da littel woman returns, you can takes care of bizness.
Vido
Hello Douglas:
I have been reading your blog site faithfully for a couple of years now, and this is the first time I have had the courage to contact you. I have had sad times, my friend, tragedy was my constant companion. But I certainly remember those halcyon high school days, hanging out with you and Buttkus, and little bro Ray. I have been very proud of what you have done with your life. I almost came into Palmer Automotive one time, to have you work on my VW Bus, but at the last minute I chickened out. I have had plastic surgery so I doubt that you would recognize me. You still look the same, buddy boy. Maybe I will drop by again some time. Squeeze it easy, and say hey to Glenn.
Al Kistenmacher
I am always so pleased, Doug, to see that you spend a lot of time reading the bible when you go on these trips with your second wife. Although, you and Kristi were very close; perhaps too close--you know what I mean? I cost you a Porsche! Then she went out and lived in sin with Glenn for seven years. You have managed our properties very well, son. Keep up the good work. Enjoy your time in the sun with Meredith. She is a good woman.
Your Mother
I know that you are the wise ass that I decked in that bar in Fairbanks in the early 60's. I have stalked you, and you are the dude; the geniune article. You got shit-faced drunk that night and made some "comments" about my date, who happened to be one of the Inuit lovelies from the town. She had at least ten teeth, and you claimed she only had three. I knocked you on your ass then, and I would be glad to do it today. There is the small inconvenience of me being in a wheel chair, a double amputee, suffering from PTSD (for I stayed in the Army, became a lifer, and soaked my shit in country, in the Nam, man). I married than Indian maiden, you know, and the union lasted four glorious months. I nearly got tossed out of this man's Army over her. She hung out in the EM Club at Wainwright, doing tricks for beers. I thought it was cute at first, then I didn't. So quit lying about our encounter.
Staff Sgt. Brian Dzienkowski
Hey Doug!
Did you see TORCHWOOD last Saturday? How in hell can they get away killing off two of the three lead characters like that? Mybe they will resurrect them in the next season? It brought a tear to my eye, man.
Glenn
Did you notice I took your latest poetry and placed it hot on FFTR? Found a great pic to hang over it too. So, if you are getting ready to beat it to the Great Southwest via tracks, does this mean the kitchen is now 100% completed?
glenn
Well dearest, you have not actually invited me to post more of my fabulous poetry, but then, you did not expressly deny me that privledge either. These few lines are about Love, something we know a little about, dear one:
Epigram
IT ’S all I have to bring to-day,
This, and my heart beside,
This, and my heart, and all the fields,
And all the meadows wide.
Be sure you count, should I forget,— 5
Some one the sun could tell,—
This, and my heart, and all the bees
Which in the clover dwell.
I
MINE by the right of the white election!
Mine by the royal seal!
Mine by the sign in the scarlet prison
Bars cannot conceal!
Mine, here in vision and in veto! 5
Mine, by the grave’s repeal
Titled, confirmed,—delirious charter!
Mine, while the ages steal!
II
YOU left me, sweet, two legacies,—
A legacy of love
A Heavenly Father would content,
Had He the offer of;
You left me boundaries of pain 5
Capacious as the sea,
Between eternity and time,
Your consciousness and me.
III
ALTER? When the hills do.
Falter? When the sun
Question if his glory
Be the perfect one.
Surfeit? When the daffodil 5
Doth of the dew:
Even as herself, O friend!
I will of you!
.........Emily
Let us try again, sir. When I went to post this zinger, the cue was BLOGGER NOT AVAILABLE. Whatever in hell does that mean?
This is a response to Emily, who is a priggish punative prissy little wimp who constantly clogs up your blog with her insipid three to five lines dittys. It you are interested in a "man's" poetry, I send you one of my meaty ones.
Al Aaraaf
PART I
O! nothing earthly save the ray
(Thrown back from flowers) of Beauty's eye,
As in those gardens where the day
Springs from the gems of Circassy-
O! nothing earthly save the thrill
Of melody in woodland rill-
Or (music of the passion-hearted)
Joy's voice so peacefully departed
That like the murmur in the shell,
Its echo dwelleth and will dwell-
Oh, nothing of the dross of ours-
Yet all the beauty- all the flowers
That list our Love, and deck our bowers-
Adorn yon world afar, afar-
The wandering star.
'Twas a sweet time for Nesace- for there
Her world lay lolling on the golden air,
Near four bright suns- a temporary rest-
An oasis in desert of the blest.
Away- away- 'mid seas of rays that roll
Empyrean splendor o'er th' unchained soul-
The soul that scarce (the billows are so dense)
Can struggle to its destin'd eminence,-
To distant spheres, from time to time, she rode
And late to ours, the favor'd one of God-
But, now, the ruler of an anchor'd realm,
She throws aside the sceptre- leaves the helm,
And, amid incense and high spiritual hymns,
Laves in quadruple light her angel limbs.
Now happiest, loveliest in yon lovely Earth,
Whence sprang the "Idea of Beauty" into birth,
(Falling in wreaths thro' many a startled star,
Like woman's hair 'mid pearls, until, afar,
It lit on hills Achaian, and there dwelt)
She looked into Infinity- and knelt.
Rich clouds, for canopies, about her curled-
Fit emblems of the model of her world-
Seen but in beauty- not impeding sight
Of other beauty glittering thro' the light-
A wreath that twined each starry form around,
And all the opal'd air in color bound.
All hurriedly she knelt upon a bed
Of flowers: of lilies such as rear'd the head
On the fair Capo Deucato, and sprang
So eagerly around about to hang
Upon the flying footsteps of- deep pride-
Of her who lov'd a mortal- and so died.
The Sephalica, budding with young bees,
Upreared its purple stem around her knees:-
And gemmy flower, of Trebizond misnam'd-
Inmate of highest stars, where erst it sham'd
All other loveliness:- its honied dew
(The fabled nectar that the heathen knew)
Deliriously sweet, was dropp'd from Heaven,
And fell on gardens of the unforgiven
In Trebizond- and on a sunny flower
So like its own above that, to this hour,
It still remaineth, torturing the bee
With madness, and unwonted reverie:
In Heaven, and all its environs, the leaf
And blossom of the fairy plant in grief
Disconsolate linger- grief that hangs her head,
Repenting follies that full long have Red,
Heaving her white breast to the balmy air,
Like guilty beauty, chasten'd and more fair:
Nyctanthes too, as sacred as the light
She fears to perfume, perfuming the night:
And Clytia, pondering between many a sun,
While pettish tears adown her petals run:
And that aspiring flower that sprang on Earth,
And died, ere scarce exalted into birth,
Bursting its odorous heart in spirit to wing
Its way to Heaven, from garden of a king:
And Valisnerian lotus, thither flown"
From struggling with the waters of the Rhone:
And thy most lovely purple perfume, Zante!
Isola d'oro!- Fior di Levante!
And the Nelumbo bud that floats for ever
With Indian Cupid down the holy river-
Fair flowers, and fairy! to whose care is given
To bear the Goddess' song, in odors, up to Heaven:
"Spirit! that dwellest where,
In the deep sky,
The terrible and fair,
In beauty vie!
Beyond the line of blue-
The boundary of the star
Which turneth at the view
Of thy barrier and thy bar-
Of the barrier overgone
By the comets who were cast
From their pride and from their throne
To be drudges till the last-
To be carriers of fire
(The red fire of their heart)
With speed that may not tire
And with pain that shall not part-
Who livest- that we know-
In Eternity- we feel-
But the shadow of whose brow
What spirit shall reveal?
Tho' the beings whom thy Nesace,
Thy messenger hath known
Have dream'd for thy Infinity
A model of their own-
Thy will is done, O God!
The star hath ridden high
Thro' many a tempest, but she rode
Beneath thy burning eye;
And here, in thought, to thee-
In thought that can alone
Ascend thy empire and so be
A partner of thy throne-
By winged Fantasy,
My embassy is given,
Till secrecy shall knowledge be
In the environs of Heaven."
She ceas'd- and buried then her burning cheek
Abash'd, amid the lilies there, to seek
A shelter from the fervor of His eye;
For the stars trembled at the Deity.
She stirr'd not- breath'd not- for a voice was there
How solemnly pervading the calm air!
A sound of silence on the startled ear
Which dreamy poets name "the music of the sphere."
Ours is a world of words: Quiet we call
"Silence"- which is the merest word of all.
All Nature speaks, and ev'n ideal things
Flap shadowy sounds from visionary wings-
But ah! not so when, thus, in realms on high
The eternal voice of God is passing by,
And the red winds are withering in the sky:-
"What tho 'in worlds which sightless cycles run,
Linked to a little system, and one sun-
Where all my love is folly and the crowd
Still think my terrors but the thunder cloud,
The storm, the earthquake, and the ocean-wrath-
(Ah! will they cross me in my angrier path?)
What tho' in worlds which own a single sun
The sands of Time grow dimmer as they run,
Yet thine is my resplendency, so given
To bear my secrets thro' the upper Heaven!
Leave tenantless thy crystal home, and fly,
With all thy train, athwart the moony sky-
Apart- like fire-flies in Sicilian night,
And wing to other worlds another light!
Divulge the secrets of thy embassy
To the proud orbs that twinkle- and so be
To ev'ry heart a barrier and a ban
Lest the stars totter in the guilt of man!"
Up rose the maiden in the yellow night,
The single-mooned eve!- on Earth we plight
Our faith to one love- and one moon adore-
The birth-place of young Beauty had no more.
As sprang that yellow star from downy hours
Up rose the maiden from her shrine of flowers,
And bent o'er sheeny mountains and dim plain
Her way, but left not yet her Therasaean reign.
PART II
High on a mountain of enamell'd head-
Such as the drowsy shepherd on his bed
Of giant pasturage lying at his ease,
Raising his heavy eyelid, starts and sees
With many a mutter'd "hope to be forgiven"
What time the moon is quadrated in Heaven-
Of rosy head that, towering far away
Into the sunlit ether, caught the ray
Of sunken suns at eve- at noon of night,
While the moon danc'd with the fair stranger light-
Uprear'd upon such height arose a pile
Of gorgeous columns on th' unburthen'd air,
Flashing from Parian marble that twin smile
Far down upon the wave that sparkled there,
And nursled the young mountain in its lair.
Of molten stars their pavement, such as fall
Thro' the ebon air, besilvering the pall
Of their own dissolution, while they die-
Adorning then the dwellings of the sky.
A dome, by linked light from Heaven let down,
Sat gently on these columns as a crown-
A window of one circular diamond, there,
Look'd out above into the purple air,
And rays from God shot down that meteor chain
And hallow'd all the beauty twice again,
Save, when, between th' empyrean and that ring,
Some eager spirit Flapp'd his dusky wing.
But on the pillars Seraph eyes have seen
The dimness of this world: that greyish green
That Nature loves the best Beauty's grave
Lurk'd in each cornice, round each architrave-
And every sculptur'd cherub thereabout
That from his marble dwelling peered out,
Seem'd earthly in the shadow of his niche-
Achaian statues in a world so rich!
Friezes from Tadmor and Persepolis-
From Balbec, and the stilly, clear abyss
Of beautiful Gomorrah! O, the wave
Is now upon thee- but too late to save!
Sound loves to revel in a summer night:
Witness the murmur of the grey twilight
That stole upon the ear, in Eyraco,
Of many a wild star-gazer long ago-
That stealeth ever on the ear of him
Who, musing, gazeth on the distance dim,
And sees the darkness coming as a cloud-
Is not its form- its voice- most palpable and loud?
But what is this?- it cometh, and it brings
A music with it- 'tis the rush of wings-
A pause- and then a sweeping, falling strain
And Nesace is in her halls again.
From the wild energy of wanton haste
Her cheeks were flushing, and her lips apart;
And zone that clung around her gentle waist
Had burst beneath the heaving of her heart.
Within the centre of that hall to breathe,
She paused and panted, Zanthe! all beneath,
The fairy light that kiss'd her golden hair
And long'd to rest, yet could but sparkle there.
Young flowers were whispering in melody
To happy flowers that night- and tree to tree;
Fountains were gushing music as they fell
In many a star-lit grove, or moon-lit dell;
Yet silence came upon material things-
Fair flowers, bright waterfalls and angel wings-
And sound alone that from the spirit sprang
Bore burthen to the charm the maiden sang:
"'Neath the blue-bell or streamer-
Or tufted wild spray
That keeps, from the dreamer,
The moonbeam away-
Bright beings! that ponder,
With half closing eyes,
On the stars which your wonder
Hath drawn from the skies,
Till they glance thro' the shade, and
Come down to your brow
Like- eyes of the maiden
Who calls on you now-
Arise! from your dreaming
In violet bowers,
To duty beseeming
These star-litten hours-
And shake from your tresses
Encumber'd with dew
The breath of those kisses
That cumber them too-
(O! how, without you, Love!
Could angels be blest?)
Those kisses of true Love
That lull'd ye to rest!
Up!- shake from your wing
Each hindering thing:
The dew of the night-
It would weigh down your flight
And true love caresses-
O, leave them apart!
They are light on the tresses,
But lead on the heart.
Ligeia! Ligeia!
My beautiful one!
Whose harshest idea
Will to melody run,
O! is it thy will
On the breezes to toss?
Or, capriciously still,
Like the lone Albatros,
Incumbent on night
(As she on the air)
To keep watch with delight
On the harmony there?
Ligeia! wherever
Thy image may be,
No magic shall sever
Thy music from thee.
Thou hast bound many eyes
In a dreamy sleep-
But the strains still arise
Which thy vigilance keep-
The sound of the rain,
Which leaps down to the flower-
And dances again
In the rhythm of the shower-
The murmur that springs
From the growing of grass
Are the music of things-
But are modell'd, alas!-
Away, then, my dearest,
Oh! hie thee away
To the springs that lie clearest
Beneath the moon-ray-
To lone lake that smiles,
In its dream of deep rest,
At the many star-isles
That enjewel its breast-
Where wild flowers, creeping,
Have mingled their shade,
On its margin is sleeping
Full many a maid-
Some have left the cool glade, and
Have slept with the bee-
Arouse them, my maiden,
On moorland and lea-
Go! breathe on their slumber,
All softly in ear,
Thy musical number
They slumbered to hear-
For what can awaken
An angel so soon,
Whose sleep hath been taken
Beneath the cold moon,
As the spell which no slumber
Of witchery may test,
The rhythmical number
Which lull'd him to rest?"
Spirits in wing, and angels to the view,
A thousand seraphs burst th' Empyrean thro',
Young dreams still hovering on their drowsy flight-
Seraphs in all but "Knowledge," the keen light
That fell, refracted, thro' thy bounds, afar,
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error- sweeter still that death-
Sweet was that error- even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy-
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy-
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood- or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death- with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life-
Beyond that death no immortality-
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be'!-
And there- oh! may my weary spirit dwell-
Apart from Heaven's Eternity- and yet how far from Hell!
What guilty spirit, in what shrubbery dim,
Heard not the stirring summons of that hymn?
But two: they fell: for Heaven no grace imparts
To those who hear not for their beating hearts.
A maiden-angel and her seraph-lover-
O! where (and ye may seek the wide skies over)
Was Love, the blind, near sober Duty known?
Unguided Love hath fallen- 'mid "tears of perfect moan."
He was a goodly spirit- he who fell:
A wanderer by moss-y-mantled well-
A gazer on the lights that shine above-
A dreamer in the moonbeam by his love:
What wonder? for each star is eye-like there,
And looks so sweetly down on Beauty's hair-
And they, and ev'ry mossy spring were holy
To his love-haunted heart and melancholy.
The night had found (to him a night of woe)
Upon a mountain crag, young Angelo-
Beetling it bends athwart the solemn sky,
And scowls on starry worlds that down beneath it lie.
Here sat he with his love- his dark eye bent
With eagle gaze along the firmament:
Now turn'd it upon her- but ever then
It trembled to the orb of EARTH again.
"Ianthe, dearest, see- how dim that ray!
How lovely 'tis to look so far away!
She seem'd not thus upon that autumn eve
I left her gorgeous halls- nor mourn'd to leave.
That eve- that eve- I should remember well-
The sun-ray dropp'd in Lemnos, with a spell
On th' arabesque carving of a gilded hall
Wherein I sate, and on the draperied wall-
And on my eyelids- O the heavy light!
How drowsily it weigh'd them into night!
On flowers, before, and mist, and love they ran
With Persian Saadi in his Gulistan:
But O that light!- I slumber'd- Death, the while,
Stole o'er my senses in that lovely isle
So softly that no single silken hair
Awoke that slept- or knew that he was there.
"The last spot of Earth's orb I trod upon
Was a proud temple call'd the Parthenon;
More beauty clung around her column'd wall
Than ev'n thy glowing bosom beats withal,
And when old Time my wing did disenthral
Thence sprang I- as the eagle from his tower,
And years I left behind me in an hour.
What time upon her airy bounds I hung,
One half the garden of her globe was flung
Unrolling as a chart unto my view-
Tenantless cities of the desert too!
Ianthe, beauty crowded on me then,
And half I wish'd to be again of men."
"My Angelo! and why of them to be?
A brighter dwelling-place is here for thee-
And greener fields than in yon world above,
And woman's loveliness- and passionate love."
"But, list, Ianthe! when the air so soft
Fail'd, as my pennon'd spirit leapt aloft,
Perhaps my brain grew dizzy- but the world
I left so late was into chaos hurl'd-
Sprang from her station, on the winds apart.
And roll'd, a flame, the fiery Heaven athwart.
Methought, my sweet one, then I ceased to soar
And fell- not swiftly as I rose before,
But with a downward, tremulous motion thro'
Light, brazen rays, this golden star unto!
Nor long the measure of my falling hours,
For nearest of all stars was thine to ours-
Dread star! that came, amid a night of mirth,
A red Daedalion on the timid Earth."
"We came- and to thy Earth- but not to us
Be given our lady's bidding to discuss:
We came, my love; around, above, below,
Gay fire-fly of the night we come and go,
Nor ask a reason save the angel-nod
She grants to us, as granted by her God-
But, Angelo, than thine grey Time unfurl'd
Never his fairy wing O'er fairier world!
Dim was its little disk, and angel eyes
Alone could see the phantom in the skies,
When first Al Aaraaf knew her course to be
Headlong thitherward o'er the starry sea-
But when its glory swell'd upon the sky,
As glowing Beauty's bust beneath man's eye,
We paused before the heritage of men,
And thy star trembled- as doth Beauty then!"
Thus, in discourse, the lovers whiled away
The night that waned and waned and brought no day.
They fell: for Heaven to them no hope imparts
Who hear not for the beating of their hearts.
Edgar Allen Poo
I went back to re-read your posting, and behold the pale poetry that had eluded me heretofore, but not presently:
Volusian Rhapsody
The Volvo
used to be named
Leah,
because the license plate
had a LVA
in it.
Since then
the plates have been
changed twice—
last time
it was LUU,
like Long-lasting Universal Umbrage,
or some such affect.
Now it is
XGE—
make a name
out of that!
Something
like Xenogenesis Granulomian Evelyn,
perhaps—
Evie for short?
How do you like
your brown-eyed
station wagon
now,
Mr. Death?
Doug Palmer April 2008
This too will go to FFTR for the world to peruse and praise.
Glenn
This is weirdness, Dude. In the middle of the day yesterday, you did manage to post a bunch of comments, literally as I was preparing yet another one; some more of the Palmer poetry,etc. And yet, I guess you never returned to check your goody box for more comments. Hopefully those comments were not "lost" in your spam folder or into the vastness of cyber space.
I had stayed home yesterday nursing this virus. I do feel better today. I think, though I could be mistaken, that there are "several" questions to respond to in this latest batch of comments. So don't let us down,sir. Get to it.
Glenn
Poo:
What a show off you are, even in your present state! I did like your long and turgid poem, though. You just have to recognize the fact that we were different kinds of poets, that our muses were vastly different. You were the darkness and I was the light. So get over it.
.......Emily
Did youse get my message, punk? Youse bedder pay some close attention, cuz I can be holy hell on knee caps, son.
Vido
Douglas:
I wish you were less of a misanthrope. If you vote for me, and I am elected your next President, maybe I could see fit to arrange some government funds to underwrite breaking ground for the Palmer Palace of the Arts. That would please you wouldn't it? Your vote is important. Don't waste it.
H. Clinton
Dugless;
There is a landlord here in the City of Angels that has brought a complaint to my office. It seems that back in the 60's, when you were a resident here--you remember the Watt's riots, right?--you skipped out on the last month's rent. He has been on the lookout for you all these years, and now thanks to this blogsite, he has tracked you down. I think it is a matter of $350.00 smackers. So don't be a sissy boy, and own up to your obligations. I know where you live, and my people will visit you if necessary.
Gov. A. Schwartzenegger
I did a little snooping on Ms. Dickinson. It seems that she was not looking for the glory hole, nor the limelight. I was surprised by that.
Dickinson was a prolific private poet, choosing to publish fewer than a dozen of her nearly eighteen hundred poems.[1] The work that was published during her lifetime was usually altered significantly by the publishers to fit the conventional poetic rules of the time. Dickinson's poems are unique for the era in which she wrote; they contain short lines, typically lack titles, and often utilize slant rhyme as well as unconventional capitalization and punctuation.[2] Her poems also tend to deal with themes of death and immortality, two subjects which infused her letters to friends.
Although most of her acquaintances were probably aware of Dickinson's writing, it was not until after her death in 1886—when Lavinia, Emily's younger sister, discovered her cache of poems—that the breadth of Dickinson's work became apparent. Her first collection of poetry was published in 1890 by personal acquaintances Thomas Wentworth Higginson and Mabel Loomis Todd, both of whom heavily edited the content. A complete and mostly unaltered collection of her poetry became available for the first time in 1955 when The Poems of Emily Dickinson was published by scholar Thomas H. Johnson. Despite unfavorable reviews and skepticism of her literary prowess during the late 19th and early 20th century, critics now consider Dickinson to be a major American poet.[3]
Dickinson delighted in dramatic self-characterization and mystery in her letters to Higginson.[63] She said of herself: "I am small, like the wren, and my hair is bold, like the chestnut bur, and my eyes like the sherry in the glass that the guest leaves."[64] She stressed her solitary nature, stating that her only real companions were the hills, the sundown and her dog, Carlo. She also mentioned that whereas her mother did not "care for Thought", her father bought her books, but begged her "not to read them – because he fears they joggle the Mind".[65] Dickinson valued his advice, going from calling him "Mr. Higginson" to "Dear friend" as well as signing her letters "Your Gnome" and "Your Scholar".[66] His interest in her work certainly provided great moral support; many years later, Dickinson exaggeratedly told Higginson that he had saved her life in 1862.[67] They corresponded until her death.[68]
Around this time, Dickinson's behavior began to change. She did not leave the Homestead unless it was absolutely necessary and as early as 1867, she began to talk to visitors from the other side of a door rather than speaking to them face to face.[73] She acquired local notoriety; she was rarely seen and when she was, she was usually clothed in white. Dickinson's one surviving article of clothing is a white cotton dress, possibly sewn circa 1878–1882.[74] Few of the locals who exchanged messages with Dickinson during her last fifteen years ever saw her in person.[75] Austin and his family began to protect Emily's privacy, deciding that she was not to be a subject of discussion with outsiders.[76] Despite her physical seclusion, however, Dickinson was socially active and expressive through what makes up two-thirds of her surviving notes and letters. When visitors came to either the Homestead or the Evergreens, she would often leave or send over small gifts of poems or flowers.[77] Dickinson also had a good rapport with the children in her life. Mattie Dickinson, the second child of Austin and Sue, later said that "Aunt Emily stood for indulgence."[78] MacGregor (Mac) Jenkins, the son of family friends who later wrote a short article in 1891 called "A Child's Recollection of Emily Dickinson", thought of her as always offering support to the neighborhood children.[78]
An odd creature this overly sensitive Ms. Dickinson. Interesting that she has become so special to you, and that through you, her memory is revived and survives.
Glenn
Are you and Meredith going to have sleeper accommodations on the train? If not, sleeping in your clothes in the seat will get old fast, man. I never took no train trips like this one coming up for you, dude. I'll bet it will be relaxing and informative, and it will give you a chance to catch up on your reading, and maybe start some new tunes in that noggin of yours.
........Eddy
1,800 poems for Christ's Sake? I guess one could amass such a vast number of poems if they only wrote little short ones, shallow ones, insipid and bitchy ones. Emily, you were always a strange ducky, and your fame came post mortum for you, so perhaps I have been too harsh in my criticisms of you and your tiny poems. It's just that you seem to get under my skin, and it pisses me off. I will endeavor to do better in terms of our relationship.
Edgar Allen Poo
When it comes to Emily, I never had sex with that woman--but as far as I can tell, no one else did either.
William Jefferson Clinton
I was able to post two poems for Alex this morning, and one for Janet Leigh. Old FFTR is growing in leaps and bounds. I am so grateful that you decided to assist me in this blogging endeavor. I might never have taken the initiative otherwise. I tried to register as your MySpace friend, but the *&^%$ thing kept kicking me out, and reasking the same data. After ten times I gave up on it. Will try again later.
Glenn
Dougie and Emily:
I feel obligated to submit some of my deeper poems too. Here's a snappy number I hope you enjoy.
The City In the Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
No rays from the holy heaven come down
On the long night-time of that town;
But light from out the lurid sea
Streams up the turrets silently-
Gleams up the pinnacles far and free-
Up domes- up spires- up kingly halls-
Up fanes- up Babylon-like walls-
Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers
Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers-
Up many and many a marvellous shrine
Whose wreathed friezes intertwine
The viol, the violet, and the vine.
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
So blend the turrets and shadows there
That all seem pendulous in air,
While from a proud tower in the town
Death looks gigantically down.
There open fanes and gaping graves
Yawn level with the luminous waves;
But not the riches there that lie
In each idol's diamond eye-
Not the gaily-jewelled dead
Tempt the waters from their bed;
For no ripples curl, alas!
Along that wilderness of glass-
No swellings tell that winds may be
Upon some far-off happier sea-
No heavings hint that winds have been
On seas less hideously serene.
But lo, a stir is in the air!
The wave- there is a movement there!
As if the towers had thrust aside,
In slightly sinking, the dull tide-
As if their tops had feebly given
A void within the filmy Heaven.
The waves have now a redder glow-
The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.
E. A. Poo
So dark, so vile, so deep, so boooring! Really Poo, didn't you ever write a "light poem"? Just look at the poems I wrote in 1826 for some inspiration.
......Emily
For Christ's sake, Emily. Maybe this poem of mine will fit your criterion!
The Bridal Ballad
The ring is on my hand,
And the wreath is on my brow;
Satin and jewels grand
Are all at my command,
And I am happy now.
And my lord he loves me well;
But, when first he breathed his vow,
I felt my bosom swell-
For the words rang as a knell,
And the voice seemed his who fell
In the battle down the dell,
And who is happy now.
But he spoke to re-assure me,
And he kissed my pallid brow,
While a reverie came o'er me,
And to the church-yard bore me,
And I sighed to him before me,
Thinking him dead D'Elormie,
"Oh, I am happy now!"
And thus the words were spoken,
And this the plighted vow,
And, though my faith be broken,
And, though my heart be broken,
Here is a ring, as token
That I am happy now!
Would God I could awaken!
For I dream I know not how!
And my soul is sorely shaken
Lest an evil step be taken,-
Lest the dead who is forsaken
May not be happy now.
Now that's what I call "light poetry"!
Edgar Allen Poo
For your information, dear sir, and dearest bloggers, LAUGHTER is essential for our health.
Laughter is an audible expression or appearance of merriment or amusement or an inward feeling of joy and pleasure (laughing on the inside). It may ensue (as a physiological reaction) from jokes, tickling and other stimuli. Inhaling nitrous oxide can also induce laughter; other drugs, such as cannabis, can also induce episodes of strong laughter. Strong laughter can sometimes bring an onset of tears or even moderate muscular pain as a physical response to the act.
Laughter is a part of human behaviour regulated by the brain. It helps humans clarify their intentions in social interaction and provides an emotional context to conversations. Laughter is used as a signal for being part of a group — it signals acceptance and positive interactions with others. Laughter is sometimes seemingly contagious, and the laughter of one person can itself provoke laughter from others. This may account in part for the popularity of laugh tracks in situation comedy television shows.
The study of humor and laughter, and its psychological and physiological effects on the human body is called gelotology.
Laughter is a mechanism everyone has; laughter is part of universal human vocabulary. There are thousands of languages, hundreds of thousands of dialects, but everyone speaks laughter in pretty much the same way.” Everyone can laugh. Babies have the ability to laugh before they ever speak. Children who are born blind and deaf still retain the ability to laugh. “Even apes have a form of ‘pant-pant-pant’ laughter.”
Provine argues that “Laughter is primitive, an unconscious vocalization.” And if it seems you laugh more than others, Provine argues that it probably is genetic. In a study of the “Giggle Twins,” two exceptionally happy twins were separated at birth and not reunited until 40 years later. Provine reports that “until they met each other, neither of these exceptionally happy ladies had known anyone who laughed as much as she did.” They reported this even though they both had been reared by adoptive parents they indicated were “undemonstrative and dour.” Provine indicates that the twins “inherited some aspects of their laugh sound and pattern, readiness to laugh, and perhaps even taste in humor.” WebMD 2002
Raju Mandhyan states "The physical and psychological benefits of laughter come second only to the physical and psychological benefits of sex."
Although there is no known 'laugh center' in the brain, its neural mechanism has been the subject of much, albeit inconclusive, speculation. It is evident that its expression depends on neural paths arising in close association with the telencephalic and diencephalic centers concerned with respiration. Wilson considered the mechanism to be in the region of the mesial thalamus, hypothalamus, and subthalamus. Kelly and co-workers, in turn, postulated that the tegmentum near the periaqueductal grey contains the integrating mechanism for emotional expression. Thus, supranuclear pathways, including those from the limbic system that Papez hypothesised to mediate emotional expressions such as laughter, probably come into synaptic relation in the reticular core of the brain stem. So while purely emotional responses such as laughter are mediated by subcortical structures, especially the hypothalamus, and are stereotyped, the cerebral cortex can modulate or suppress them."
How about them apples? Makes you laugh, doesn't it?
Glenn
To general G. A Custer, E. Emerald, et al.
If there's no sex in heaven, what the heck is going on between Emily and E.A.P?
Are you guys sure you ended up where you think you are?
Thanks for the contemplative picture of Meredith contemplating.
The LL doesn't contemplate about "sky or sea" but jumps in the sea with all fins flying.
Tschüß,
Anonomann
Post a Comment
<< Home