Walt Whitman: On Being In America

The American poet and essayist, Walt Whitman, was born on this day in 1819 in West Hills, Long Island, New York. His formal education ended after six years but his insatiable desire to learn immersed him in libraries, museums, lectures, salons, and landscapes in and around New York. His life as a poet, essayist, journalist and humanitarian would take him to New Orleans, Washington, Boston, and Camden, New Jersey, but his associations in New York would make the greater metropolitan area the hub of his career.

Whitman in 1887

A free spirit easily recognized as the most extraordinary poet of his time, Whitman bridged the American experience from the early Romantic period in literature to the advent of hard realism as the end of the century approached. I'm not sure what presence he has these days in public school systems across the country but baby boomers - born between 1946 and 1964 - had a full dose of his poetry beginning in elementary school. For more information on Whitman, including an extensive biography, visit the outstanding resources at the Walt Whitman Archive.

For an example of his work here is "One's-Self I Sing," the introductory poem to the third and last section of his collection, Leaves of Grass, as published in 1867.

ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person,

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.

Of Physiology from top to toe I sing;

Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the

Form complete is worthier far;

The Female equally with the male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine,

The Modern Man I sing.

Much of Whitman's poetry has been set to music. Sometimes the blend of music and existing poetry as opposed to lyric has limited success and authors often do not think favorably of such adaptations. I believe Whitman would have approved especially with the music coming from a fellow impressionist, in this case Frederick Delius. This composition has been a personal favorite for forty years. The recording features the superb Welsh baritone, Bryn Terfel, and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra and Chorus under the baton of Richard Hickox. If you want to follow the text it's available here.

Here is a brief, well-known poem brought to a new generation through it's use in the 1989 film, Dead Poets Society.

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
public domain photo, George Collins Cox, restored by Adam Cuerden, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division

Text:
whitmanarchive.org
Walt Whitman entry, wikipedia.org
One's Self I Sing, wikipedia.org

Burns Night 2025

Today Scottish organizations and communities around the world are celebrating Burns Day, the 264th anniversary of the birth of Robert (Rabbie) Burns (1759-1796), the Bard of Scotland. Soon after the light fades, attention turns to Burns Night, a supper commemorating his life and work. In 2016 the International Business Times UK edition said this about him:

Burns is one of Scotland's most important literary figures, best known for his famous – and often humorous – songs and poetry. His most recognised works include Auld Lang Syne, which is often sung at Hogmanay on New Year's Eve, and Scots Wha Hae, which has become an unofficial Scottish national anthem.

Burns, commonly known as Rabbie, was born to a poor family in Alloway, Ayr, on 25 January 1759 and began his working life on the family farm. His father hired a local teacher to tutor Burns, who showed signs of having a natural talent for writing from a young age.

As Burns grew older, his passion for Scotland and his contemporary vision played important roles in inspiring the founders of socialism and liberalism. His first work, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect – later known as the Kilmarnock Edition – was published in 1786.He also wrote in English and is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement. Burns' poetry drew on references to classical, biblical and English literature, as well as the Scottish Makar tradition – a term from Scottish literature for a poet or bard.

Burns died in Dumfries at the age of 37. Inspired by Scottish history and culture, as well as Scotland's countryside, Burns remains one of the most celebrated figures in the country's history – as demonstrated by the annual Burns Night celebrations.

Here are interpretations of three of Burns's best known poems. The first two are by the late, great Scottish folk singer and educator, Jean Redpath:

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In every hour that passes, O

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

The warl'y race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O,

An' warl'y cares an' war'ly men

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O

Her prentice han' she try'd on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

Cauld is the e'enin blast,

O' Boreus o'er the pool,

An' dawin' it is dreary,

When birks are bare at Yule.

Cauld blaws the e'enin blast,

When bitter bites the frost,

And, in the mirk and dreary drift,

The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night,

That drifted o'er the hill,

But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay

Gat grist in her mill.

Every Burns Night ends with the singing of Auld Lang Syne, a poem written by Burns in 1788 from old song fragments and his own words and set to a Scottish folk melody. This version has the complete and original lyrics.

For everything you ever wanted to know about Robert Burns and Burns Night go here. If you were fortunate enough to attend a Burns Supper tonight we trust you enjoyed the haggis and the extra dram or two of fine single malt whisky to wash it down.

Alba gu brath - Scotland forever

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
Alexander Reid, miniature portrait, ca, 1795, National Portrait Gallery Scotland

Text:
poems are public domain

Happy Halloween 2024!

It's here!. An evening that promises to bring lots of fun to kids, and those who remember being kids, has finally arrived. Have a safe and happy Halloween and don't eat too much candy before the trick or treaters get to it!.

The Adventures of Ichabod and Mister Toad, a Walt Disney film classic was released in 1949. The Ichabod adventure appeared again in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a 1955 production for the television series, Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color. I turned nine years old in 1955, still the perfect age for the big event. By that year, our gang on Wood Street had already been veterans at looking out for the Headless Horseman and his fiery pumpkin on Halloween. In western Maryland the night was always an adventure with freezing winds, sometimes rain, and even heavy snow showers that roared off Lake Erie about 140 miles to the northwest. Those Halloweens were unforgettable rites of passage for us.

Hallowe'en

by Joel Benton (1832-1911)

Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite

All are on their rounds to-night,—

In the wan moon’s silver ray

Thrives their helter-skelter play.

Fond of cellar, barn, or stack

True unto the almanac,

They present to credulous eyes

Strange hobgoblin mysteries.

Cabbage-stumps—straws wet with dew—

Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,

And a mirror for some lass

Show what wonders come to pass.

Doors they move, and gates they hide

Mischiefs that on moonbeams ride

Are their deeds,—and, by their spells,

Love records its oracles.

Don’t we all, of long ago

By the ruddy fireplace glow,

In the kitchen and the hall,

Those queer, coof-like pranks recall?

Every shadows were they then—

But to-night they come again;

Were we once more but sixteen

Precious would be Hallowe’en.

Paul Smith worked for Walt Disney Productions for over thirty years beginning in 1930. In 1939 he won an Academy Award for his collaborative work on music for the film, Pinocchio. In following years he had seven additional Academy Award nominations for work on films, including Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, Song of the South, and Three Caballeros. In all, Smith provided arrangements and scores for more than eighty animated and theatrical film projects for the Disney company. I was ten years old when this cartoon appeared and just beyond the peak of my trick or treating days. It's now a classic in the Disney archive and one I've enjoyed for over 65 years. It's never aged and still makes me laugh.

Happy Halloween 2024!

Dylan Thomas: "...Joy To The Trees And The Stones And The Fish In The Tide..."

Two of the most lyrical writers of the past century were born in this last week of October. The American writer, Pat Conroy, was the subject of a post a few day ago. Today we remember Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914), an artist whose work reflected his immersion in the themes and images of living on the coast of his beloved homeland, Wales . His lyrical descriptive writing, poetry and unforgettable voice brought him great fame in the United States in the decade prior to his untimely death in New York in 1953.

Thomas in a London park

Both the writer and his native land have special meaning to me. My great grandparents on my father's side immigrated from Cardiff, Wales, to the United States in the 1870's. Though I never knew my grandmother - she died before my second year - my father often recalled how she took pride in her Celtic roots and the Welsh love for song and singing.

It is interesting that he should remember the talk of song and singing. Many critics and authorities write that Thomas's recitations are spoken words that approach song. Readers can reach their own conclusion by listening to the poet reading Poem in October, his recollections of his thirtieth birthday. Audio quality isn't the best. I suggest earphones and closed eyes for this sound journey.

Poem in October


It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth

My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke

A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds

And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood

O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning



What an unforgettable voice. I first heard a recording of Thomas reading his work - very likely A Child's Christmas In Wales - sometime in elementary school. There's a good chance few students in any grade have that opportunity today. How unfortunate. We often think education has come a long way over the last seven decades. Perhaps it has, but somewhere on that journey we have undoubtedly lost some very precious cultural experiences. If we could hear Thomas's truth singing every year, we would know so much better who we are as individuals and as a people.

Here is Thomas reciting what is often called his most famous poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a powerful, emotion-filled villanelle addressing the end of earthly life.

My family likely became aware of Thomas through his trips to the U.S. made over a span of about four years beginning in 1950. The journeys here always made sensational news for he was not only a rising star worshiped in metropolitan and university salons but also a boisterous character prone to drunkenness, colorful language, and wild behavior. Indeed, his trip to New York in 1953 ended in death from pneumonia likely brought on by his well-known excesses. One could say he covered the full spectrum of life and when he spoke of it in verse or prose he made music. It has been a pleasure to experience that music for 70 years.

Hunter's Supermoon Rising Tonight

Tonight we usher the full Hunter's Supermoon into the twilight of a mid-October evening. From Angle-European traditions many say the moom takes its name from the beginning of hunting season. It's a logical progression from last month's Harvest Moon - also a supermoon - when farmers could gather their crops under the moonlight. This month they could hunt a variety of game feeding on remants in the empty fields.

The Moon

by Robert Louis Stevenson

The moon has a face like the clock in the hall;

She shines on thieves on the garden wall,

On streets and fields and harbour quays,

And birdies asleep in the forks of the trees.

The squalling cat and the squeaking mouse,

The howling dog by the door of the house,

The bat that lies in bed at noon,

All love to be out by the light of the moon.

But all of the things that belong to the day

Cuddle to sleep to be out of her way;

And flowers and children close their eyes

Till up in the morning the sun shall arise.

I always enjoy the Hunter's Moon because its arrival also means that the constllation, Orion the Hunter, rises out of the eastern horizon around midnight and domininates the southern sky until dawn.

You may recognize Orion even better without all the imagination. You won't be alone as Orion is the by far as the world's best known constellation. It's hard to miss the belt and scabbard.

October also brings us three important meteor showers. The Draconid shower peaked about a week ago. The waning Hunter's Moon coincides with the peak of the  Orionid shower on October 21 when you can expect to see up to twenty meteors per hour. The Taurid shower - actually two overlapping showers - is slowly building to a peak from late October to early November. The moon will have a minimal impact on viewing so you have a good opportunity to see some fireballs expected this year.

Into late October northern hemisphere sky viewers have an opportunity to see Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS (also known as C/2023 A3 or simply as Comet A3) which hasn't been seen from Earth for 80,000 years. It's at its brightest now and will be easy to spot as a naked eye object by looking toward the western horizon about about 45 minutes after sunset.

Hope you enjoy this double treat tonight. It's going to be a long wait to see this event again. 

See Tonight's Harvest Moon, A Supermoon, And A Partial Eclipse

 

The moon, like a flower in heaven's bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

                                                                William Blake

This full moon is special because it coincides with its orbital perigee or closest approach to Earth. That makes our moon appear larger, thus, we know it as a supermoon. They actually occur about four times a year and tonight you'll be able to enjoy it along with a partial eclipse beginning just after 10:00pm Eastern Time.

From the mountains to the sea Georgians should have a spectacular view of the Harvest Moon this year. For many years I was fortunate to witness September's full moon emerge from the sea. It was always a sublime event powered by the realization that you were a witness to a sensory immersion experienced by coastal inhabitants for thousands of years. The simplicity always amazed me. Here was a man, a strip of sand, a plain of water, all under a dome of sky and caressed by the touch of wind and the sound of surf. Add the rising moon and expect the surreal. The experience was so powerful even when friends were along the conversations almost always stopped in homage when the first moon sliver rose out of the sea.

Lowcountry moonrise, McQueens Island, Savannah, Georgia, 1951

. . .Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,

Her mouth as sweet as red-rose-musk;

And when she dances his young heart swells

With flutes and viols and silver bells;

His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,

When she slants her ragtime eyes at him.

Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,

Move no more silently than she.

It was this way, he says, she came,

Into his cold heart, bearing flame.

And now that his heart is all on fire

Will she refuse his heart's desire? . . . .

Tonight when the harvest moon is climbing high, go outside. Take a friend or someone you love. Get lost in it.




Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
National Park Service, Fort Pulaski National Monument Handbook, 1954

Text:
intro quotation, William Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience, originally published in 1789.
poem excerpt, Conrad Aiken, "Turns and Movies: VI. Violet Moore and Bert Moore"

Walt Whitman: He Was America Singing

The American poet and essayist, Walt Whitman, was born on this day in 1819 in West Hills, Long Island, New York. His formal education ended after six years but his insatiable desire to learn immersed him in libraries, museums, lectures, salons, and landscapes in and around New York. His life as a poet, essayist, journalist and humanitarian would take him to New Orleans, Washington, Boston, and Camden, New Jersey, but his associations in New York would make the greater metropolitan area the hub of his career.

Whitman in 1887

A free spirit easily recognized as the most extraordinary poet of his time, Whitman bridged the American experience from the early Romantic period in literature to the advent of hard realism as the end of the century approached. I'm not sure what presence he has these days in public school systems across the country but baby boomers - born between 1946 and 1964 - had a full dose of his poetry beginning in elementary school. For more information on Whitman, including an extensive biography, visit the outstanding resources at the Walt Whitman Archive.

For an example of his work here is "One's-Self I Sing," the introductory poem to the third and last section of his collection, Leaves of Grass, as published in 1867.

ONE’S-SELF I sing—a simple, separate Person,

Yet utter the word Democratic, the word En-masse.

Of Physiology from top to toe I sing;

Not physiognomy alone, nor brain alone, is worthy for the muse—I say the

Form complete is worthier far;

The Female equally with the male I sing.

Of Life immense in passion, pulse, and power,

Cheerful—for freest action form’d, under the laws divine,

The Modern Man I sing.

Much of Whitman's poetry has been set to music. Sometimes the blend of music and existing poetry as opposed to lyric has limited success and authors often do not think favorably of such adaptations. I believe Whitman would have approved especially with the music coming from a fellow impressionist, in this case Frederick Delius. This composition has been a personal favorite for forty years. The recording features the superb Welsh baritone, Bryn Terfel, and the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra and Chorus under the baton of Richard Hickox. If you want to follow the text it's available here.

Here is a brief, well-known poem brought to a new generation through it's use in the 1989 film, Dead Poets Society.

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
public domain photo, George Collins Cox, restored by Adam Cuerden, Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division

Text:
whitmanarchive.org
Walt Whitman entry, wikipedia.org
One's Self I Sing, wikipedia.org

How Many Roads...Bob Dylan Turns 83

Yesterday the legendary songwriter, Bob Dylan, turned 83. As expected, Scott Johnson, the outstanding cultural observer writing at Powerline, treated his readers to a revision of his Dylan tributes. Johnson conveys the message so well I won't begin to add to the story. His first post, Not Dark Yet, discusses the man and his significance in the world of music and beyond. In past years he's posted Not Dark Yet, Cont., is a nostalgic look at Dylan the songwriter and features several likely unfamiliar covers of the master's work.

Bob Dylan was only 21 on July 9, 1962 when he walked into the Columbia Recording Studios in New York to record a song to be included on his second album. The song, Blowin' in the Wind, brought him fame and recognition as one of the nation's leading folk poets in the twentieth century. Dylan has this to say about the song in the June 1962 issue of the folk journal, Sing Out:

Too many of these hip people are telling me where the answer is but oh I won’t believe that. I still say it’s in the wind and just like a restless piece of paper it’s got to come down some ...But the only trouble is that no one picks up the answer when it comes down so not too many people get to see and know . . . and then it flies away.

 

The music critic, Andy Gill, said this about the song in his book, Classic Bob Dylan, 1962-1969: My Back Pages:

Blowin' in the Wind marked a huge jump in Dylan's songwriting. Prior to this, efforts like The Ballad of Donald White and The Death of Emmett Till had been fairly simplistic bouts of reportage songwriting. Blowin' in the Wind was different: for the first time, Dylan discovered the effectiveness of moving from the particular to the general. Whereas The Ballad of Donald White would become completely redundant as soon as the eponymous criminal was executed, a song as vague as Blowin' in the Wind could be applied to just about any freedom issue. It remains the song with which Dylan's name is most inextricably linked, and safeguarded his reputation as a civil libertarian through any number of changes in style and attitude.

 

Undoubtedly the song remains a poem for our time, perhaps all time. And Dylan just keeps rolling as well,

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
public domain photo, 1964 Yearbook, St. Lawrence University, New York

Text:
Bob Dylan entry, Wikipedia.org
history.com

A Toast To Robert Burns, The Bard Of Scotland

Today Scottish organizations and communities around the world are celebrating Burns Day, the 264th anniversary of the birth of Robert (Rabbie) Burns (1759-1796), the Bard of Scotland. Soon after the light fades, attention turns to Burns Night, a supper commemorating his life and work. In 2016 the International Business Times UK edition said this about him:

Burns is one of Scotland's most important literary figures, best known for his famous – and often humorous – songs and poetry. His most recognised works include Auld Lang Syne, which is often sung at Hogmanay on New Year's Eve, and Scots Wha Hae, which has become an unofficial Scottish national anthem.

Burns, commonly known as Rabbie, was born to a poor family in Alloway, Ayr, on 25 January 1759 and began his working life on the family farm. His father hired a local teacher to tutor Burns, who showed signs of having a natural talent for writing from a young age.

As Burns grew older, his passion for Scotland and his contemporary vision played important roles in inspiring the founders of socialism and liberalism. His first work, Poems, Chiefly in the Scottish Dialect – later known as the Kilmarnock Edition – was published in 1786.He also wrote in English and is regarded as a pioneer of the Romantic movement. Burns' poetry drew on references to classical, biblical and English literature, as well as the Scottish Makar tradition – a term from Scottish literature for a poet or bard.

Burns died in Dumfries at the age of 37. Inspired by Scottish history and culture, as well as Scotland's countryside, Burns remains one of the most celebrated figures in the country's history – as demonstrated by the annual Burns Night celebrations.

Here are interpretations of three of Burns's best known poems. The first two are by the late, great Scottish folk singer and educator, Jean Redpath:

There's nought but care on ev'ry han',

In every hour that passes, O

What signifies the life o' man,

An' 'twere na for the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

The warl'y race may riches chase,

An' riches still may fly them, O

An' tho' at last they catch them fast,

Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

But gie me a cannie hour at e'en,

My arms about my dearie, O,

An' warl'y cares an' war'ly men

May a' gae tapsalteerie, O!

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

For you sae douce, ye sneer at this

Ye're nought but senseless asses, O

The wisest man the warl' e'er saw,

He dearly lov'd the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears

Her noblest work she classes, O

Her prentice han' she try'd on man,

An' then she made the lasses, O.

Green grow the rashes, O

Green grow the rashes, O

The sweetest hours that e'er I spend,

Are spent among the lasses, O

Cauld is the e'enin blast,

O' Boreus o'er the pool,

An' dawin' it is dreary,

When birks are bare at Yule.

Cauld blaws the e'enin blast,

When bitter bites the frost,

And, in the mirk and dreary drift,

The hills and glens are lost.

Ne'er sae murky blew the night,

That drifted o'er the hill,

But bonie Peg-a-Ramsay

Gat grist in her mill.

Every Burns Night ends with the singing of Auld Lang Syne, a poem written by Burns in 1788 from old song fragments and his own words and set to a Scottish folk melody. This version has the complete and original lyrics.

For everything you ever wanted to know about Robert Burns and Burns Night go here. If you were fortunate enough to attend a Burns Supper tonight we trust you enjoyed the haggis and the extra dram or two of fine single malt whisky to wash it down.

Alba gu brath - Scotland forever

Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
Alexander Reid, miniature portrait, ca, 1795, National Portrait Gallery Scotland

Text:
poems are public domain

Halloween 2023

It's here!. An evening that promises to bring lots of fun to kids, and those who remember being kids, has finally arrived. Have a safe and happy Halloween and don't eat too much of your kid or grandkids treats.

The Adventures of Ichabod and Mister Toad, a Walt Disney film classic was released in 1949. The Ichabod adventure appeared again in The Legend of Sleepy Hollow, a 1955 production for the television series, Walt Disney's Wonderful World of Color. I turned nine years old in 1955, still the perfect age for the big event. By that year, our gang on Wood Street had already been veterans at looking out for the Headless Horseman and his fiery pumpkin on Halloween. In western Maryland the night was always an adventure with freezing winds, sometimes rain, and even heavy snow showers that roared off Lake Erie about 140 miles to the northwest. Those Halloweens were unforgettable rites of passage for us.

Hallowe'en

by Joel Benton (1832-1911)

Pixie, kobold, elf, and sprite

All are on their rounds to-night,—

In the wan moon’s silver ray

Thrives their helter-skelter play.

Fond of cellar, barn, or stack

True unto the almanac,

They present to credulous eyes

Strange hobgoblin mysteries.

Cabbage-stumps—straws wet with dew—

Apple-skins, and chestnuts too,

And a mirror for some lass

Show what wonders come to pass.

Doors they move, and gates they hide

Mischiefs that on moonbeams ride

Are their deeds,—and, by their spells,

Love records its oracles.

Don’t we all, of long ago

By the ruddy fireplace glow,

In the kitchen and the hall,

Those queer, coof-like pranks recall?

Every shadows were they then—

But to-night they come again;

Were we once more but sixteen

Precious would be Hallowe’en.

Paul Smith worked for Walt Disney Productions for over thirty years beginning in 1930. In 1939 he won an Academy Award for his collaborative work on music for the film, Pinocchio. In following years he had seven additional Academy Award nominations for work on films, including Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Cinderella, Song of the South, and Three Caballeros. In all, Smith provided arrangements and scores for more than eighty animated and theatrical film projects for the Disney company. I was ten years old when this cartoon appeared and just beyond the peak of my trick or treating days. It's now a classic in the Disney archive and one I've enjoyed for over 65 years. It's never aged and still makes me laugh.

Happy Halloween!

Dylan Thomas: A Man So Washed In October Blood

 

Two of the most lyrical writers of the past century were born in this last week of October. The American writer, Pat Conroy, was the subject of a post a few day ago. Today we remember Dylan Thomas (born October 27, 1914), an artist whose work reflected his immersion in the themes and images of living on the coast of his beloved homeland, Wales . His lyrical descriptive writing, poetry and unforgettable voice brought him great fame in the United States in the decade prior to his untimely death in New York in 1953.

Thomas in a London park

Both the writer and his native land have special meaning to me. My great grandparents on my father's side immigrated from Cardiff, Wales, to the United States in the 1870's. Though I never knew my grandmother - she died before my second year - my father often recalled how she took pride in her Celtic roots and the Welsh love for song and singing.

It is interesting that he should remember the talk of song and singing. Many critics and authorities write that Thomas's recitations are spoken words that approach song. Readers can reach their own conclusion by listening to the poet reading Poem in October, his recollections of his thirtieth birthday. Audio quality isn't the best. I suggest earphones and closed eyes for this sound journey.

Poem in October

It was my thirtieth year to heaven
Woke to my hearing from harbour and neighbour wood
And the mussel pooled and the heron priested shore
The morning beckoned with water praying and call of seagull and rook
And the knock of sailing boats on the net-webbed wall
Myself to set foot that second
In the still sleeping town and set forth

My birthday began with the water birds
And the birds of the winged trees flying my name
Above the farms and the white horses
And I rose in a rainy autumn
And walked abroad in shower of all my days
High tide and the heron dived
When I took the road over the border
And the gates of the town closed as the town awoke

A springful of larks in a rolling cloud
And the roadside bushes brimming with whistling blackbirds
And the sun of October, summery on the hill's shoulder
Here were fond climates and sweet singers suddenly come in the morning
Where I wandered and listened to the rain wringing wind blow cold
In the wood faraway under me

Pale rain over the dwindling harbour
And over the sea-wet church the size of a snail
With its horns through mist and the castle brown as owls
But all the gardens of spring and summer
Were blooming in the tall tales beyond the border
And under the lark full cloud
There could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around

It turned away from the blithe country
And down the other air and the blue altered sky
Streamed again a wonder of summer
With apples, pears and red currants
And I saw in the turning, so clearly, a child's forgotten mornings
When he walked with his mother through the parables of sunlight
And the legends of the green chapels

And the twice-told fields of infancy
That his tears burned my cheeks, and his heart moved in mine
These were the woods the river and the sea
Where a boy in the listening summertime of the dead
Whispered the truth of his joy to the trees and the stones and the fish in the tide
And the mystery sang alive
Still in the water and singing birds

And there could I marvel my birthday away
But the weather turned around
And the true joy of the long dead child sang burning in the sun
It was my thirtieth Year to heaven stood there then in the summer noon
Though the town below lay leaved with October blood

O may my heart's truth
Still be sung
On this high hill in a year's turning

What an unforgettable voice. I first heard a recording of Thomas sometime in elementary school. There's a good chance few students in any grade have that opportunity today. How unfortunate. We often think education has come a long way over the last seven decades. Perhaps it has, but somewhere on that journey we have undoubtedly lost some very precious cultural experiences. If we could hear Thomas's truth singing every year, we would know so much better who we are as individuals and as a people.

Here is Thomas reciting most famous poem, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night, a powerful, emotion-filled villanelle addressing the end of earthly life.

My family likely became aware of Thomas through his trips to the U.S. made over a span of about four years beginning in 1950. The journeys here always made sensational news for he was not only a rising star worshiped in metropolitan and university salons but also a boisterous character prone to drunkenness, colorful language, and wild behavior. Indeed, his trip to New York in 1953 ended in death from pneumonia likely brought on by his well-known excesses. One could say he covered the full spectrum of life and when he spoke of it in verse or prose he made music. It has been a pleasure to experience Thomas and his work for almost 70 years.

A Full Harvest Supermoon 2023

The moon, like a flower in heaven's bower, with silent delight sits and smiles on the night.

                                                               William Blake

A few hours before sunrise on September 29 the Harvest Moon reaches 100% percent or full illumination. This full moon is special because it coincides with its orbital perigee or closest approach to Earth. That makes our moon appear larger, thus, we know it as a supermoon. They actually occur about four times a year and tonight you'll be able to enjoy the last supermoon of 2023.

From the mountains to the sea Georgians should have a spectacular view of the Harvest Moon this year.  For many years I was fortunate to witness September's full moon emerge from the sea. It was always a sublime event powered by the realization that you were a witness to a sensory immersion experienced by coastal inhabitants for thousands of years. The simplicity always amazed me. Here was a man, a strip of sand, a plain of water, all under a dome of sky and caressed by the touch of wind and the sound of surf. Add the rising moon and expect the surreal. The experience was so powerful even when friends were along the conversations almost always stopped in homage when the first moon sliver rose out of the sea.

Lowcountry moonrise, McQueens Island, Savannah, Georgia, 1951

. . .Her eyes, he says, are stars at dusk,

Her mouth as sweet as red-rose-musk;

And when she dances his young heart swells

With flutes and viols and silver bells;

His brain is dizzy, his senses swim,

When she slants her ragtime eyes at him.

Moonlight shadows, he bids her see,

Move no more silently than she.

It was this way, he says, she came,

Into his cold heart, bearing flame.

And now that his heart is all on fire

Will she refuse his heart's desire? . . . .

Tonight when the harvest moon is climbing high, go outside. Take a friend or someone you love. Get lost in it.




Sources

Photos and Illustrations:
National Park Service, Fort Pulaski National Monument Handbook, 1954

Text:
intro quotation, William Blake, Songs of Innocence and Experience, originally published in 1789.
poem excerpt, Conrad Aiken, Turns and Movies: VI. Violet Moore and Bert Moore

Storytelling: "My Soul Is Wrought To Sing Of Forms Transformed To Bodies New And Strange."

 

Every now and then I'm moved to let friends know what I'm reading especially when it's a significant experience and one I think others may want to enjoy for themselves. This month I opened two books, one and impressive favorite, the other its original source. 

We start by going back sixty years to a survey course in western civilization that introduced me to Elizabeth Hamilton's landmark work, Mythology: Timeless Tales of Gods and Heroes. It became an instant favorite reinforced a few years later by an in-depth study of the book in a graduate course. 

Since then I returned to the book to answer my own questions as well as those from my three children whose interests in history and western civilization have closely parallelled those of Mom and Dad. Earlier this summer some videos on Greco-Roman themes revived my interest in Hamilton's work and I decided to read it one more time. Neither a hasty nor detailed search of the library - I feel like I live in one - led to the book. Good books have a habit of disappearing but I don't mind when they've gone on to enrich someone's knowledge and reading experience. Not to worry. My tattered and browned paperback was soon replaced with a beautiful hardbound copy of the 75th anniversary illustrated edition published in 2017. Revisiting Mythology was nothing less than a conversation with an old friend whose presence was long overdue. 

Shortly after finishing Hamilton's book I began thinking about reading more than a synopsis of the 250 myths. Finding the original stories would be easy because Hamilton used Ovid's Metamorphoses as the foundation for most of her book. My quest was to find a highly appreciated interpretation soon ended with Stanley Lombardo's 2010  translation written as a most readable, lyrical poem. 

Ovid, a Roman poet, wrote his 12,000 line verse in Latin around 8 CE. He wrote it as a continuos narrative of transformation and change in the Greco-Roman world from the creation of the world itself through the life of Julius Caesar (44 BCE). It is considered the first application of the concept of history to a people, place, and time. Essentially it is western civilization's first history book and one that has exercised profound influence on western art, literature and culture in general to this very day. 

Revisiting Mythology and reading Metamorphoses for the first time led me to add a few more Greco-Roman classics to my reading list. Better yet I'm adding a few novels both old and new and a poetry book or two. For the most part, reading novels will be a new direction for me. If you're interested in reading something different you may want to consider Mythology and Metamorphoses as a starting point. They definitely led me in new directions and reinforced familiar territory in my reading habits. I'm looking forward to the journey. Perhaps you too will find some new paths as well.

Sources

Text:

title quote, first line of Ovid's invocation to Metamorphoses

A Day For Pirate Speak

Blackbeard the Pirate Engraving, Benjamin Cole, ca. 1724

I like exploring words and word origins but I especially like spoken words so I'm really pleased to let readers know that today is International Talk Like A Pirate Day. Without a doubt the number of "arrrrrhhs" and "shiver me timbers" heard throughout the day brought out some smiles and responses. Undoubtedly some of you never want to hear anymore pirate speak until next year, perhaps at the earliest. There's nothing wrong with enjoying the lighter intentions of the day but being so fond of the topic I decided to share some information about the who, what, when, where, and how of pirate talk. If you enjoy the topic as much as I do you're going to like the following links:

Arrr Matey! The Origins of the Pirate Accent A strong case for the origin of pirate talk.

Pirate R As In I R Eland? This is a potential alternate explanation to the link above.

West Country Dialects A comprehensive resource on speech in Southwest England.

Bristolian Dictionary A long entertaining list from a 2009 post on Smarty's Blog.

Sid Totter (b. 1877): Listen to him speak in a 1950's West Country dialect.


If you find the above list a bit of a challenge and bypassed it, spend a few minutes with Robert Newton, a.k.a. Long John Silver, displaying his Dorset accent in a reading of a short poem. Earphones will be helpful:

And now enjoy Newton as Long John Silver:

Shiver me timbers! Not sure I care much about the origins after hearing Newton's performance again. I was four years-old when he appeared in Walt Disney's Treasure Island (1950). And yes, me hearties, he'll always be my personification of the perfect pirate.