Life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea.
And love is a thing that can never go wrong,
And I am Marie of Roumania.
Just one of many little "ditty" type poems from my favorite, Dorothy Parker.
I love some of the more nonsensical stuff, which is why I also adore Ogden Nash.
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Summing It Up
THE CHARGE OF THE LIGHT BRIGADE
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Tonight on JEOPARD! the final category answer was "historical poetry". The moment that they posted the clue, I had the answer. I've always been a fan of this poem, and many other rousing historical poems (see earlier post re: The Highwayman), but something about it made me look it up, and read it again tonight. The clue was the following lines. It was of course, the fact that I knew the poem that told me, but the last line's rhyme also made it a shoe-in.
"Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd."
Both the gents in the final got the answer. I reminded my Mother that it referred to the battle of the Crimean War and that was that.
But the poem remained with me tonight. As I watched the evening news, and the various political shows - all of which are hovering around the Iranian elections and the subsequent unrest, with hundreds of thousands of protestors - many being beaten, some being killed. There are people Twittering, blogging, posting on Facebook and MySpace. Reporters without inside sources are gathering their news from the internet. I am amazed at the use to which the technology, normally used so frivolously, is being put for the benefit of the country. To expose what is happening so that the world knows.
But mostly what I am thinking was the bravery and courage of the protesters. In the US many of us do not recognize the value of our liberty. Or the cost that it took of our ancestors.
And while the Crimean War was not a US war, the sacrifice, the valor and the horror of the massacre of the Light Brigade drives home most clearly the question of human loss. Of human desire for freedom and the willingness to pay the price to achieve it.
The poem rings and resonates for me tonight. What was an exhilharating poem in my youth carries a far heavier connotation tonight.
"Into the valley of death
rode the six hundred."
Bless the people living and dying for freedom, anywhere in the world. May their sacrifieces reap the benefit for their children and their countries.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd?
Not tho' the soldiers knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Their's not to make reply,
Their's not to reason why,
Their's but to do and die:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Tonight on JEOPARD! the final category answer was "historical poetry". The moment that they posted the clue, I had the answer. I've always been a fan of this poem, and many other rousing historical poems (see earlier post re: The Highwayman), but something about it made me look it up, and read it again tonight. The clue was the following lines. It was of course, the fact that I knew the poem that told me, but the last line's rhyme also made it a shoe-in.
"Cossack and Russian
Reel'd from the sabre stroke
Shatter'd and sunder'd."
Both the gents in the final got the answer. I reminded my Mother that it referred to the battle of the Crimean War and that was that.
But the poem remained with me tonight. As I watched the evening news, and the various political shows - all of which are hovering around the Iranian elections and the subsequent unrest, with hundreds of thousands of protestors - many being beaten, some being killed. There are people Twittering, blogging, posting on Facebook and MySpace. Reporters without inside sources are gathering their news from the internet. I am amazed at the use to which the technology, normally used so frivolously, is being put for the benefit of the country. To expose what is happening so that the world knows.
But mostly what I am thinking was the bravery and courage of the protesters. In the US many of us do not recognize the value of our liberty. Or the cost that it took of our ancestors.
And while the Crimean War was not a US war, the sacrifice, the valor and the horror of the massacre of the Light Brigade drives home most clearly the question of human loss. Of human desire for freedom and the willingness to pay the price to achieve it.
The poem rings and resonates for me tonight. What was an exhilharating poem in my youth carries a far heavier connotation tonight.
"Into the valley of death
rode the six hundred."
Bless the people living and dying for freedom, anywhere in the world. May their sacrifieces reap the benefit for their children and their countries.
Thursday, June 11, 2009
The Beauty Of It All
"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that's best of dark and night
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
I love this poem by George Gordon, Lord Byron. I love many poems. I learned numerous rousing poems like The Highwayman (my romantic favorite!), Gunga Din, Danny Deever, The Charge of the Light Brigade. Lots of eerie, odd poems like The Jabberwocky and The Raven, Annabel Lee and others.
I studied poetry one semester in college. It was less than stellar (my professor thought that I, alone among a class of folk who had memorized the entire canon of poetry from Homer to Ginsberg, was a cerebral lightweight). I don't ever recall any poetry work in high school, although I have a vague memory of attempting to write haiku.
Nonetheless, Ogden Nash, Dorothy Parker, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Christina Rossetti, Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Wadsworth, even Dante and his ilk, are some of my favorite authors among all those fiction types, historians, biographers and romance writers.
Why?
Well, maybe it is because it is the one form where words are used in concert to conjure up whole worlds in just a few short lines. Where words can be wild, witty, wonderful and evocative - creating an emotional response in a reader that is sharp, immediate and lasting.
I'd bet cash money that nearly everyone you could find and ask - could recite a line or two (at least) of their favorite poem, or one that has always stuck with them. And most couldn't quote a line of a book of any other sort.
Now THAT's magic!
So. What's your favorite poem? Is it a little ode - about nightengales or urns? Is it a strident scream of protest or a witty little ditty on the existence of the ant? Or a yearning, passionate plea for love - or death - by an eccentric lady named Emily?
Of cloudless climes and starry skies
And all that's best of dark and night
Meet in her aspect and her eyes."
I love this poem by George Gordon, Lord Byron. I love many poems. I learned numerous rousing poems like The Highwayman (my romantic favorite!), Gunga Din, Danny Deever, The Charge of the Light Brigade. Lots of eerie, odd poems like The Jabberwocky and The Raven, Annabel Lee and others.
I studied poetry one semester in college. It was less than stellar (my professor thought that I, alone among a class of folk who had memorized the entire canon of poetry from Homer to Ginsberg, was a cerebral lightweight). I don't ever recall any poetry work in high school, although I have a vague memory of attempting to write haiku.
Nonetheless, Ogden Nash, Dorothy Parker, Walt Whitman, Robert Frost, Christina Rossetti, Shakespeare, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Wadsworth, even Dante and his ilk, are some of my favorite authors among all those fiction types, historians, biographers and romance writers.
Why?
Well, maybe it is because it is the one form where words are used in concert to conjure up whole worlds in just a few short lines. Where words can be wild, witty, wonderful and evocative - creating an emotional response in a reader that is sharp, immediate and lasting.
I'd bet cash money that nearly everyone you could find and ask - could recite a line or two (at least) of their favorite poem, or one that has always stuck with them. And most couldn't quote a line of a book of any other sort.
Now THAT's magic!
So. What's your favorite poem? Is it a little ode - about nightengales or urns? Is it a strident scream of protest or a witty little ditty on the existence of the ant? Or a yearning, passionate plea for love - or death - by an eccentric lady named Emily?
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