"December" by John Clare

 

While snow the window-panes bedim,
The fire curls up a sunny charm,
Where, creaming o'er the pitcher's rim,
The flowering ale is set to warm;
Mirth, full of joy as summer bees,
Sits there, its pleasures to impart,
And children, 'tween their parent's knees,
Sing scraps of carols o'er by heart.

And some, to view the winter weathers,
Climb up the window-seat with glee,
Likening the snow to falling feathers,
In fancy infant ecstasy;
Laughing, with superstitious love,
O'er visions wild that youth supplies,
Of people pulling geese above,
And keeping Christmas in the skies.

As tho' the homestead trees were drest,
In lieu of snow, with dancing leaves,
As tho' the sun-dried martin's nest,
Instead of ickles, hung the eaves,
The children hail the happy day -
As if the snow were April's grass,
And pleas'd, as 'neath the warmth of May,
Sport o'er the water froze as glass.

"the nation is divided . . ."

 

The Unicorn Rests in a Garden
(or The Unicorn in Captivity)
by an unknown artist, 1495–1505

When the nation is divided

there is no nation: when history is discarded

the old regret what life has become;

there is no nation when people

have lost belief in the soul; there is no nation

when people are divided and turn on each other;

when the nation turns its back 

on what made it a nation

there is no nation:

    ships don't reach harbour,

    cod fish so plentiful off Nfld's coast are gone,

    the massacre of buffalos, a mountain of bones 

    on a bleak autumn morning,

    flash mobs stealing everything from stores,

    crows, carrion, and crowds of people

    live in darkness, 

    goodness is ridiculed, vulgarity         

    celebrated, macabre faces in clouds, 

    mobs pounding on old people's front doors:

what is old is cancelled

as decreed, as legislated; 

and people love ignorance and renounce

their own culture; 

they are crossing the bridge

cities burn and the ruins 

are ploughed into dust—

                                            11 May 2023

First snow, 9 November 2023

Posters of hostages

                                “The evil that men do lives after them;
                             The good is oft interred with their bones.”

                                                ― William Shakespeare, Julius Caesar

All of the posters shown in a previous post, "Remember the hostages", have been torn down; I saw an older man meticulously peeling and scraping one of the posters from where it had been glued, he was using an exacto knife to do this. Indeed, in reaction to the tearing down of these posters, a neighbouring community has said that anyone removing similar posters will be fined up to $1K.  

     A few days ago, while walking by Concordia University on Sherbrooke Street West, I found posters with fairly offensive and ignorant comments scrawled across them. Whoever this person with a felt pen is he doesn't care about freedom of speech or that there are still over two hundred innocent people being held by terrorists; the person who wrote on the posters doesn't care about the hostages, or about freedom, or about truth, or about decency, he is full of righteous indignation, hate, and ignorance. Freedom of speech seems minor when placed in the context of war and people held as hostages; but freedom of speech is always significant and many people have lost their lives defending this freedom, defending it against censorship and cancellation. If we deny freedom of speech, in this case including destroying posters and writing on posters, we have descended to the level of this person who has written over hostage posters. In many respects we have moved into a very dark age and, I suspect, this darkness will last a very long time. This dark age hasn’t just begun but it has certainly gotten much worse.

I think not . . .
The evidence is to the opposite view . . .

Revised: 08-11-2023

"St, Michael the Weigher" by James Russell Lowell

 

James Russell Lowell

Stood the tall Archangel weighing
All man’s dreaming, doing, saying,
All the failure and the pain,
All the triumph and the gain,
In the unimagined years,
Full of hopes, more full of tears,
Since old Adam’s hopeless eyes
Backward searched for Paradise,
And, instead, the flame-blade saw
Of inexorable Law.

Waking, I beheld him there,
With his fire-gold, flickering hair,
In his blinding armor stand,
And the scales were in his hand:
Mighty were they, and full well
They could poise both heaven and hell
“Angel,” asked I humbly then,
“Weighest thou the souls of men?

That thine office is, I know.”
“Nay,” he answered me, “not so;
But I weigh the hope of Man
Since the power of choice began,
In the world, of good or ill.”
Then I waited and was still.

In one scale I saw him place
All the glories of our race,
Cups that lit Belshazzar’s feast,
Gems, the lightning of the East,
Kublai’s sceptre, Caesar’s sword,
Many a poet’s golden word,
Many a skill of science, vain
To make men as gods again.

In the other scale he threw
Things regardless, outcast, few,
Martyr-ash, arena sand,
Of St. Francis’ cord a strand,
Beechen cups of men whose need
Fasted that the poor might feed,
Disillusions and despairs
Of young saints with grief-grayed hairs,
Broken hearts that brake for Man.

Marvel through my pulses ran
Seeing then the beam divine
Swiftly on this hand decline,
While Earth’s splendor and renown
Mounted light as thistle-down.

Stood the tall Archangel weighing
All man’s dreaming, doing, saying,
All the failure and the pain,
All the triumph and the gain,
In the unimagined years,
Full of hopes, more full of tears,
Since old Adam’s hopeless eyes
Backward searched for Paradise,
And, instead, the flame-blade saw
Of inexorable Law.

Waking, I beheld him there,
With his fire-gold, flickering hair,
In his blinding armor stand,
And the scales were in his hand:
Mighty were they, and full well
They could poise both heaven and hell
“Angel,” asked I humbly then,
“Weighest thou the souls of men?

That thine office is, I know.”
“Nay, ” he answered me,” not so;
But I weigh the hope of Man
Since the power of choice began,
In the world, of good or ill.”
Then I waited and was still.

In one scale I saw him place
All the glories of our race,
Cups that lit Belshazzar’s feast,
Gems, the lightning of the East,
Kublai’s sceptre, Caesar’s sword,
Many a poet’s golden word,
Many a skill of science, vain
To make men as gods again.

In the other scale he threw
Things regardless, outcast, few,
Martyr-ash, arena sand,
Of St. Francis’ cord a strand,
Beechen cups of men whose need
Fasted that the poor might feed,
Disillusions and despairs
Of young saints with grief-grayed hairs,
Broken hearts that brake for Man.

Marvel through my pulses ran
Seeing then the beam divine
Swiftly on this hand decline,
While Earth’s splendor and renown
Mounted light as thistle-down.

The Zeppelin Crash of Billericay, 24 Septemer 1916

 

My friend R.R. Skinner was born in June or July 1908. Reg grew up in Bethnal Green, UK, and one day he told me about the German Zeppelin that crashed at Billericay, in September 1916, during World War One. Reg said that he was appalled by the reaction of the crowd, they cheered when the Zeppelin caught on fire and crashed killing all on board; this event, he said, showed him man's inhumanity to man.

And now let us move up to the present moment and, reading Kathleen Raine's Autobiographies, published in the 1970s, in which she discusses this same event. She writes:

I saw, from the front window of West View, the Billericay Zeppelin pass, a great pencil-like shape, and then a jet of flame, then a blaze that lit up the windows of West View. 'Are there men in it?' I asked; and when I was told 'Yes'  I cried. My father told me afterwards that a dead German officer had been found by a farmer in a field, lying near his path. The man had beautiful teeth, and the farmer stamped on his face, breaking them. (p. 51)

And then Raine discusses seeing a second Zeppelin burn and crash near her home. This was a profound experience for the young Kathleen Raine, who, like my friend Reg Skinner, remembered the event many years later; both were born in June or July 1908. But could Kathleen Raine have seen a Zeppelin, a burning Zeppelin, at her home in Ilford? I suppose this is possible, her home was named West View and Billericay is west of Ilford. Could Reg have seen a burning Zeppelin at Bethnal Green; would citizens in Bethnal Green, perhaps looking up from the street, have cheered as the burning Zeppelin moved across the sky? Bethnal Green is 8.9 miles from Ilford and Billericay is 28.2 miles from Ilford; Bethnal Green to Billericay is 31.3 miles by road. Whatever the case the Zeppelin crash of Billericay was a significant wartime experience for both children.

I remember when a plane crashed near Montreal, in November 1963, and that some of the locals descended on the crash site and stole rings and other possessions from the victims whose body parts had not yet been collected by the authorities. I still remember with disgust that people could steal from these people who had died so violently. Here is a passage from a Toronto Star article published on 29 November 2013: 

Rodgers also said no intact body was found either, only parts. There were 111 passengers and seven crew aboard the flight. Authorities scrambled to get organized.

“In what was the parish of Ste- Thérèse -de-Blainville, there was one police officer, Mr. Aubertin, who somehow maintained security,” said Rodgers, who also oversees recreation for the town.

“But he was quick with people who tried to rob the dead and it’s said he even had to fire a few shots into the air to deter some people from making off with watches or wallets.”

Well, that's also man's inhumanity to man . . .  

Vincelli's Garden Centre

The entrepreneur who wanted to build a 12 story mixed condo/commercial building on this site was defeated in a referendum.The fact is this is a poor location for luxury living, it's beside a huge rail yard with the noise of trains shunting, trains coming and going, and cars and trucks entering and leaving the area; as well, the small strip mall across the street from the proposed condo has never been a success, it's maybe half occupied, so who will shop at the stores in the proposed condo/commercial area? And, finally, this is a low density area of single family dwellings, not condos, not apartments, but families with parents, children, the elderly, working people, all living in homes they rent or own; it is an isolated location unless you have a car. The local residents are hostile to the proposed building they attempted to impose on their neighbourhood, they voted against it; who would vote in favour of a year or longer of construction -- danger to their children caused by large trucks, noise, and dirt -- followed by a needlessly large 12 story, or even a six story, building looming over one's home and community and an influx of strangers? How does that affect one's property taxes? How does that affect the quality of one's life? It doesn't. The age of the 12 story complex in this area has come to an end, but what will be proposed next?

Do not forget the hostages

Do not forget the hostages. Posters on Westminster Avenue.

The apologists for evil

 

       

        

To listen to the apologists

for evil, they have become

evil themselves, with excuses,

doublespeak, and out and out

lies; all the lies they tell, 

these will come back 

for them, like terrorists

    (for every lie

    is a terrorist

    killing truth)

--these apologists

for evil will be visited

by evil, they will know

what they've done

as they drink tea

or coffee, as they sit

in their homes

with the doors exploding

letting in the terror 

and war cries 

celebrating death, the terrorists

with faces covered, 

with their guns 

& holy books,

with their conviction 

in their beliefs,

their absolute conviction

in the order of life

they adhere to, with

their absolute conviction

and belief in killing anyone

who stands in their 

way--

                25 October 2023

"False Prophet" by Bob Dylan

 

In 2008

Another day that don't end
Another ship goin' out
Another day of anger, bitterness, and doubt
I know how it happened
I saw it begin
I opened my heart to the world and the world came in

Hello Mary Lou
Hello Miss Pearl
My fleet-footed guides from the underworld
No stars in the sky shine brighter than you
You girls mean business, and I do too

Well I'm the enemy of treason
Enemy of strife
I'm the enemy of the unlived meaningless life
I ain't no false prophet
I just know what I know
I go where only the lonely can go

I'm first among equals
Second to none
The last of the best
You can bury the rest
Bury 'em naked with their silver and gold
Put them six feet under and I pray for their souls

What are you lookin' at?
There's nothing to see
Just a cool breeze that's encircling me
Let's go for a walk in the garden
So far and so wide
We can sit in the shade by the fountain-side

I've search the world over
For the Holy Grail
I sing songs of love
I sing songs of betrayal
Don't care what I drink
I don't care what I eat
I climbed the mountain of swords on my bare feet

You don't know me, darlin'
You never would guess
I'm nothing like my ghostly appearance would suggest
I ain't no false prophet
I just said what I said
I'm just here to bring vengeance on somebody's head

Put out your hand
There's nothing to hold
Open your mouth
I'll stuff it with gold
Oh, you poor devil, look up if you will
The city of God is there on the hill

Hello stranger
A long goodbye
You ruled the land
But so do I
You lost your mule
You got a poison brain
I'll marry you to a ball and chain

You know darlin'
The kind of life that I live
When your smile meets my smile
A something's got to give
I ain't no false prophet
No, I'm nobody's bride
Can't remember, when I was born
And I forgot when I died

"October" by Robert Frost

 

Gilbert Layton Park in October 2012

O hushed October morning mild,

Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;

Tomorrow’s wind, if it be wild,

Should waste them all.

The crows above the forest call;

Tomorrow they may form and go.

O hushed October morning mild,

Begin the hours of this day slow.

Make the day seem to us less brief.

Hearts not averse to being beguiled,

Beguile us in the way you know.

Release one leaf at break of day;

At noon release another leaf;

One from our trees, one far away.

Retard the sun with gentle mist;

Enchant the land with amethyst.

Slow, slow!

For the grapes’ sake, if they were all,

Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,

Whose clustered fruit must else be lost—

For the grapes’ sake along the wall.

"No More Lockdown" by Van Morrison

 

In NYC

No more lockdown
No more government overreach
No more fascist police
Disturbing our peace
No more taking of our freedom
And our God-given rights
Pretending it's for our safety
When it's really to enslave
Who's running our country?
Who's running our world?
Examine it closely
And watch it unfurl

No more lockdown
No more threats
No more imperial college
Scientists making up crooked facts
No more lockdown
No more pulling the wool over our eyes
No more celebrities telling us
Telling us what we're supposed to feel
No more status quo
Put your shoulder to the wind

No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown

No more lockdown
No more government overreach
No more fascist police
Disturbing our peace
No more taking our freedom
And our God-given rights
Pretending it's for our safety
When it's really to enslave
Who's running our country?
Who's running our world?
Examine it closely
And watch it unfurl

No more lockdown
No more threats
No more imperial college scientists
Making up crooked facts
No more lockdown
No more pulling the wool over our eyes
No more celebrities telling us
How we're supposed to feel
No more status quo
Gotta put your shoulder to the wind

No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown

No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown
No more lockdown

A tiny garden

 On the corner of Nelson and Westminster.

Honey bees and asters

    It’s October, summer has ended and with it early daylight. I noticed these asters full of honey bees and decided I will plant asters in my garden next year. 

On a life of fearless writing

 

I've spent a lifetime writing: a diary I've kept everyday since January 1965, books, poetry, book reviews, criticism, and correspondence.  Why did I do so much writing? On one hand, I enjoy solitude and being creative. On the other hand, there were things that happened in my life that I understood better in the act of writing; writing helped me to understand something about life and expressing this in a poem was both to discover something new and to have a numinous experience.

    This writing I am talking about has to be fearless, the writer is going to a place that is marked with signs saying "No Trespassing", "Do Not Enter", and "Enter at Your Own Risk". The important things in life are not easy and they aren’t free, they are a lot of work. You may be afraid to write something down, or afraid to follow where your thinking is going, you may be inclined to censor your writing; just remember that no one else need ever read what you are writing, you can tear it up after you've written whatever you want to say, but you need to have courage and be fearless to do the writing. How could it be otherwise? Writing has to be a precise expression of what the soul has to say, what the soul perceives; this is more difficult than you might think.

    What I am saying will mean very little to most people, but this is not meant for most people, it is meant for poets. A poet wants to write an authentic poem, a poem that is authentic to what the poet wants to say, to be true to the poet's inner being, and this requires years of writing and rewriting poems. All of a poet's work can be seen as one long poem, it is the poem of one's life, continuous and unbroken. You don't just sit down one day and write something you call a poem and think that makes you a poet, there is a lot more to it than this. 

    Writing poetry is not an obsession or even a compulsion, it is that there is no alternative but to do the writing that presents itself to you; it is what one does and to do anything else is to deny the Call to do this work; if you deny the Call you have betrayed your life, betrayed your mission in life. Not even God is as important as your soul, you can live very nicely without God but if you betray your soul you will have no life at all, just confusion and denial. Don't worry, God will forgive you for not believing in Him, He doesn't need your belief, He doesn't even need you. To see life, the particulars of life, and to express them, is to communicate things of the soul and poetry is the voice of the soul. Writing is always a movement in the direction of wholeness and understanding, of creativity, of making something new. It is a triumph of formulating and expressing in an exact way the thing you want to write, it is the achievement of wholeness over division. So, at the basis of writing is finding wholeness, truth, and Oneness with life. That's how important writing is to a poet and why poets need to be fearless when writing poems.