The Athenaeum

Robert Louis Stevenson- "Christmas At Sea"

The sheets were frozen hard, and they cut the naked hand;
The decks were like a slide, where a seaman scarce could stand;
The wind was a nor'wester, blowing squally off the sea;
And cliffs and spouting breakers were the only things a-lee.

They heard the surf a-roaring before the break of day;
But 'twas only with the peep of light we saw how ill we lay.
We tumbled every hand on deck instanter, with a shout,
And we gave her the maintops'l, and stood by to go about.

All day we tacked and tacked between the South Head and the North;
All day we hauled the frozen sheets, and got no further forth;
All day as cold as charity, in bitter pain and dread,
For very life and nature we tacked from head to head.

We gave the South a wider berth, for there the tide race roared;
But every tack we made we brought the North Head close aboard:
So's we saw the cliffs and houses, and the breakers running high,
And the coastguard in his garden, with his glass against his eye.

The frost was on the village roofs as white as ocean foam;
The good red fires were burning bright in every 'long-shore home;
The windows sparkled clear, and the chimneys volleyed out;
And I vow we sniffed the victuals as the vessel went about.

The bells upon the church were rung with a mighty jovial cheer;
For it's just that I should tell you how (of all days in the year)
This day of our adversity was blessed Christmas morn,
And the house above the coastguard's was the house where I was born.

O well I saw the pleasant room, the pleasant faces there,
My mother's silver spectacles, my father's silver hair;
And well I saw the firelight, like a flight of homely elves,
Go dancing round the china plates that stand upon the shelves.

And well I knew the talk they had, the talk that was of me,
Of the shadow on the household and the son that went to sea;
And O the wicked fool I seemed, in every kind of way,
To be here and hauling frozen ropes on blessed Christmas Day.

They lit the high sea-light, and the dark began to fall.
'All hands to loose top gallant sails,' I heard the captain call.
'By the Lord, she'll never stand it,' our first mate, Jackson, cried.
. . . 'It's the one way or the other, Mr. Jackson,' he replied.

She staggered to her bearings, but the sails were new and good,
And the ship smelt up to windward just as though she understood.
As the winter's day was ending, in the entry of the night,
'We cleared the weary headland, and passed below the light.

And they heaved a mighty breath, every soul on board but me,
As they saw her nose again pointing handsome out to sea;
But all that I could think of, in the darkness and the cold,
Was just that I was leaving home and my folks were growing old. 
(from Ballads, 1890)



-Maureen Lang

Veterans Day 2012

(originally published here on 11/11/10)

Dreamers    

Soldiers are citizens of death's grey land,

Drawing no dividend from time's to-morrows.   

In the great hour of destiny they stand,

Each with his feuds, and jealousies, and sorrows.   

Soldiers are sworn to action; they must win   

Some flaming, fatal climax with their lives.

Soldiers are dreamers; when the guns begin

They think of firelit homes, clean beds and wives.

I see them in foul dug-outs, gnawed by rats,

And in the ruined trenches, lashed with rain,   

Dreaming of things they did with balls and bats,

And mocked by hopeless longing to regain   

Bank-holidays, and picture shows, and spats,

And going to the office in the train.

-Siegfried Sassoon, 1918

         

         

                                

Joseph Ambrose, an 86-year-old World War I veteran, attends the dedication day parade for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in 1982. He is holding the flag that covered the casket of his son, who was killed in the Korean War.

Photo credit: U.S. Census Bureau.

 

 -Maureen Lang

"Red Fields" by Jason Poudrier

These poems by an Iraq War veteran speak truth to Alan Farrell and me.  We recommend them.  pl

Thanksgiving- 2011

 

A Thanksgiving To God, For His House

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell

         Wherein to dwell,

A little house, whose humble roof

         Is weather-proof:

Under the spars of which I lie

         Both soft, and dry;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward

         Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

         Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

         Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

         Is worn by th' poor,

Who thither come and freely get

         Good words, or meat.

Like as my parlour, so my hall

         And kitchen's small;

A little buttery, and therein

         A little bin,

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

         Unchipp'd, unflead;

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

         Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

         And glow like it.

Lord, I confess too, when I dine,

         The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits, that be

         There plac'd by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

         Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

         And my content

Makes those, and my beloved beet,

         To be more sweet.

'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth

         With guiltless mirth;

And giv'st me wassail-bowls to drink,

         Spic'd to the brink.

Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand

         That soils my land;

And giv'st me, for my bushel sown,

         Twice ten for one;

Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay

         Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear

         Me twins each year;

The while the conduits of my kine

         Run cream, for wine.

All these, and better, Thou dost send

         Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

         A thankful heart,

Which, fir'd with incense, I resign,

         As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

         My Christ, by Thee.

-Robert Herrick (1591-1674)

  www.poets.org

Wishing all Athenaeum/Sic Semper readers, commenters, & posters

a lovely Thanksgiving holiday spent with family & friends.

-Maureen Lang

 

"The Banshee"- Alice Guerin Crist

As we came down the old boreen,
Rose and I – Rose and I,
At vesper time on Sunday e’en,
We heard a banshee cry!
Beyond the churchyard dim and dark,
‘Neath whispering elms, and yew-trees stark,
Where our star shone-a corpse-like spark-
Against the wintry sky.

We heard and shuddered sick with dread,
Rose and I- Rose and I,
As the shrill keening rang o’erhead
Where cloud-wrack floated high.
Our two young hearts long, sorely tried,
By poverty and love denied
Still waiting for some favouring tide,
And now! Death come so nigh.

‘Which of us two is called away
You or I-You or I?”
I heard my patient poor love say,
With bitter plaintive sigh.
‘Neither, dear girl,” I bravely said,
‘To Mary Mother bow your head,
And cry for help to Her instead,
Nor heed the Banshee’s cry’.

We raised our hearts in fervent prayer,
Rose and I-Rose and I,
Nor knew our troubles ended there,
Our happiness came nigh.
For ‘twas the grim old farmer, he-
My only kin, rich, miserly,
Who, dying left his wealth to me-
For whom the banshee cried.

-Alice Guerin Crist (1876-1941)

http://www.usq.edu.au/pmrc/literaryhistory/writers/crist

 

Happy Halloween, Everyone!

Links to 2010 & 2009 Athenaeum Halloween posts:

"Hallowe'en in a Suburb"/Classics from the Crypt-

http://turcopolier.typepad.com/the_athenaeum/2010/10/halloween-in-a-suburbclassics-from-the-crypt.html

A Bit of Halloween History, Poetry, Music, & Ephemera-

http://turcopolier.typepad.com/the_athenaeum/2009/10/a-bit-of-halloween-history-poetry-music-ephemera.html

 

-Maureen Lang

 

"I Am A Poor Wayfaring Stranger"- Andreas Scholl with the Orpheus Chamber Orchestra

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o9nNr-dfOak

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

-Maureen Lang

A Moment in Time- FB Ali

After the last hockey match of the recent Stanley Cup finals, riots broke out in downtown Vancouver. In one of the police charges, a young woman was hit with a policeman’s shield and knocked down. Her boyfriend lay down besides her, trying to comfort the injured girl.

Someone took a picture.

              

 

                                                                A moment in time

                                                         When Time itself stood still

                                                       The world’s clamour died away

                                                               All Reality and Being

                                                            Reduced to a single point

                                                              You and I........locked

                                                           In this desperate embrace.

 

 

 -FB Ali

 

 

 

 

"Spring"- Gerard Manley Hopkins

 

 

Nothing is so beautiful as Spring –         

   When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;         

   Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush         

Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring         

The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;

   The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush         

   The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush         

With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.

        

What is all this juice and all this joy?         

   A strain of the earth’s sweet being in the beginning

In Eden garden. – Have, get, before it cloy,         

   Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,         

Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,         

   Most, O maid’s child, thy choice and worthy the winning.

(First published in Poems. London: Humphrey Milford, 1918)

        

 

 

Wishing all Athenaeum/Sic Semper readers, commenters, & posters a lovely Easter weekend spent with family & friends.

-Maureen Lang

 

 

"Hallowe'en in a Suburb"/Classics from the Crypt

 

The steeples are white in the wild moonlight,               
      And the trees have a silver glare;
Past the chimneys high see the vampires fly,
      And the harpies of upper air,
      That flutter and laugh and stare.

For the village dead to the moon outspread
      Never shone in the sunset’s gleam,
But grew out of the deep that the dead years keep
      Where the rivers of madness stream
      Down the gulfs to a pit of dream.

A chill wind weaves thro’ the rows of sheaves
      In the meadows that shimmer pale,
And comes to twine where the headstones shine
      And the ghouls of the churchyard wail
      For harvests that fly and fail.

Not a breath of the strange grey gods of change
      That tore from the past its own
Can quicken this hour, when a spectral pow’r              
     Spreads sleep o’er the cosmic throne
      And looses the vast unknown.

So here again stretch the vale and plain
      That moons long-forgotten saw,
And the dead leap gay in the pallid ray,
      Sprung out of the tomb’s black maw
      To shake all the world with awe.

And all that the morn shall greet forlorn,
      The ugliness and the pest
Of rows where thick rise the stones & brick,
      Shall some day be with the rest,
      And brood with the shades unblest.

Then wild in the dark let the lemurs bark,
      And the leprous spires ascend;
For new and old alike in the fold
      Of horror and death are penn’d,
      For the hounds of Time to rend.

- H.P. Lovecraft

"Hallowe'en in a Suburb" first published in The National Amateur, March 1926 (as “In a Suburb”)

 

 

An addendum to TA's '09 Halloween post music links: more "Classics from the Crypt"-

Nuages Gris- Franz Liszt

Toccata (from Suite Gothique)- L. Boellman

Pluto, Lord of the Underworld (from The Planets)- Gustav Holst

L'Escalier du Diable- Gyorgy Ligeti

Catacombs (from Pictures at an Exhibition)- Mussorgsky

March to the Scaffold (from Symphonie Fantastique)- Hector Berlioz

Infernal Dance (from the Firebird Suite)- Igor Stravinsky

Bonus Track: Toccata & Fugue in D Minor (youtube clip from Disney's Fantasia, 1940)- J.S. Bach

 

Happy Halloween, everyone.

-Maureen Lang

 
 

Labor Day 2010- A Song For Occupations/Fanfare For The Common Man

 
        
    Fanfare For The Common Man- Aaron Copland 

 

A Song For Occupations

-Walt Whitman

1

A song for occupations!

In the labor of engines and trades and the labor of fields I find the developments,

And find the eternal meanings.

Workmen and Workwomen!

Were all educations practical and ornamental well display'd out of me, what would it amount to?

Were I as the head teacher, charitable proprietor, wise statesman, what would it amount to?

Were I to you as the boss employing and paying you, would that satisfy you?

The learn'd, virtuous, benevolent, and the usual terms,

A man like me and never the usual terms.

Neither a servant nor a master I,

I take no sooner a large price than a small price, I will have my own whoever enjoys me,

I will be even with you and you shall be even with me.

If you stand at work in a shop I stand as nigh as the nighest in the same shop,

If you bestow gifts on your brother or dearest friend I demand as good as your brother or dearest friend,

If your lover, husband, wife, is welcome by day or night, I must be personally as welcome,

If you become degraded, criminal, ill, then I become so for your sake,

If you remember your foolish and outlaw'd deeds, do you think I cannot remember my own foolish and outlaw'd deeds?

If you carouse at the table I carouse at the opposite side of the table,

If you meet some stranger in the streets and love him or her, why I often meet strangers in the street and love them.

Why what have you thought of yourself?

Is it you then that thought yourself less?

Is it you that thought the President greater than you?

Or the rich better off than you? or the educated wiser than you?

(Because you are greasy or pimpled, or were once drunk, or a thief,

Or that you are diseas'd, or rheumatic, or a prostitute,

Or from frivolity or impotence, or that you are no scholar and never saw your name in print,

Do you give in that you are any less immortal?)

2

Souls of men and women! it is not you I call unseen, unheard, untouchable and untouching,

It is not you I go argue pro and con about, and to settle whether you are alive or no,

I own publicly who you are, if nobody else owns.

Grown, half-grown and babe, of this country and every country, in-doors and out-doors, one just as much as the other, I see,

And all else behind or through them.

The wife, and she is not one jot less than the husband,

The daughter, and she is just as good as the son,

The mother, and she is every bit as much as the father.

Offspring of ignorant and poor, boys apprenticed to trades,

Young fellows working on farms and old fellows working on farms,

Sailor-men, merchant-men, coasters, immigrants,

All these I see, but nigher and farther the same I see,

None shall escape me and none shall wish to escape me.

I bring what you much need yet always have,

Not money, amours, dress, eating, erudition, but as good,

I send no agent or medium, offer no representative of value, but offer the value itself.

There is something that comes to one now and perpetually,

It is not what is printed, preach'd, discussed, it eludes discussion and print,

It is not to be put in a book, it is not in this book,

It is for you whoever you are, it is no farther from you than your hearing and sight are from you,

It is hinted by nearest, commonest, readiest, it is ever provoked by them.

You may read in many languages, yet read nothing about it,

You may read the President's message and read nothing about it there,

Nothing in the reports from the State department or Treasury department, or in the daily papers or weekly papers,

Or in the census or revenue returns, prices current, or any accounts of stock.

3

The sun and stars that float in the open air,

The apple-shaped earth and we upon it, surely the drift of them is something grand,

I do not know what it is except that it is grand, and that it is happiness,

And that the enclosing purport of us here is not a speculation or bon-mot or reconnoissance,

And that it is not something which by luck may turn out well for us, and without luck must be a failure for us,

And not something which may yet be retracted in a certain contingency.

The light and shade, the curious sense of body and identity, the greed that with perfect complaisance devours all things,

The endless pride and outstretching of man, unspeakable joys and sorrows,

The wonder every one sees in every one else he sees, and the wonders that fill each minute of time forever,

What have you reckon'd them for, camerado?

Have you reckon'd them for your trade or farm-work? or for the profits of your store?

Or to achieve yourself a position? or to fill a gentleman's leisure, or a lady's leisure?

Have you reckon'd that the landscape took substance and form that it might be painted in a picture?

Or men and women that they might be written of, and songs sung?

Or the attraction of gravity, and the great laws and harmonious combinations and the fluids of the air, as subjects for the savans?

Or the brown land and the blue sea for maps and charts?

Or the stars to be put in constellations and named fancy names?

Or that the growth of seeds is for agricultural tables, or agriculture itself?

Old institutions, these arts, libraries, legends, collections, and the practice handed along in manufactures, will we rate them so high?

Will we rate our cash and business high? I have no objection,

I rate them as high as the highest--then a child born of a woman and man I rate beyond all rate.

We thought our Union grand, and our Constitution grand,

I do not say they are not grand and good, for they are,

I am this day just as much in love with them as you,

Then I am in love with You, and with all my fellows upon the earth.

We consider bibles and religions divine--I do not say they are not divine,

I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out of you still,

It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life,

Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from the earth, than they are shed out of you.