Go to the 32:45 mark (autocorrect capitalized that Mark, gospel truth) to watch this shitty blog's Official Bleggalgazing Anthem, May 31st this shitty blog's Bleggalgazing Day for reasons I forget and reasons I remember but don't type this time, two days late this year because I no longer adhere to this shitty blog's rites as religiously as once, and this one now posted primarily for its Anthem and three related Theme Songs
The gleggalbaze: this project has evolved into aiding me process and cope and protest and document the world our sociopath shitlord owners brazenly and hastily, like time is running out, are openly attempting to impose on us, so it's therapeutic, yes, but more importantly I still enjoy making these poems. Also too:
And while bot-hits now outnumber people hits by a factor of tens of thousands a day (so there's no point my quitting the blog for fear of AI bots ripping me off or shitlords' ubiquitous surveillance of my treason), THANK YOU YOU WHO VISIT, there is still a community of sorts here in Dead, Blegsylvania, and very thank you to yinz that reach out with emails, comments, words, art, Kindness
Clarence Hawkes
ReplyDeleteGOD'S MIRACLES
Why talk of wondrous miracles of yore,
When June comes whisp'ring at thy lattice door,—
Are not the springing grass and op'ning flowers
God's miracles through all the summer hours?
GREAT AND SMALL
The grain of dust that dances in the sun
Obeys that law that guides the heavenly spheres,
And all the stellar bodies, one by one,
Go swinging round, obedient to the years.
ENVIRONMENT
A wondrous shell was thrown up from the deep,
Where it had lain long centuries asleep—
But, in a day, the sunlight and the dew
Had cracked and stained this shell of wondrous hue.
MY AVIARY
My aviary is the deep green wood,—
I would not cage its songsters if I could.
Sweeter the song of one wild bird to me
Than all the notes of sad captivity.
from the description of the 2009 book by James A. Freeman Clarence Hawkes: America's Blind Naturalist and the World He Lived In:
Once-prominent author of nearly 60 books of poetry and prose, naturalist Clarence Hawkes (1869-1954) survived rural poverty, lost half a leg at age nine and was blinded at thirteen. With unfailing enthusiasm and optimism he transmuted pain into art and became an immensely prolific and popular writer. In this book James A. Freeman explores Hawkes' life and works in fascinating detail, giving us a close look at both his personal trials and accomplishments as well as a thorough study of the context in which his works were written and published. Writing with uncanny accuracy and empathy about people and a natural world he could not see, Clarence Hawkes lived most of his life in western Massachusetts, where he was known as the "Blind Poet of Hadley." Appropriately enough for the celebration of the 350th anniversary of the town, we hear current Hadley residents reminisce about the hard-working, gentlemanly, friendly neighbor with clouded glasses who seemed always to be at his typewriter.
a poem, sometimes recited by my late father of blessed memory, even in the last years of his long life. He learned it in the early part of the twentieth century, as a Canadian schoolboy. It appears in the 1909 edition of The Ontario Readers Second Book. I regret that I have been unable to find any more information about the poem or the author. You will note that, unlike the frogs in the drawing here, the frog in the poem had never read anything. Some learn from the experience of others, while others can draw conclusions only from events they encounter themselves.
ReplyDeleteThe Daring Froggie
-- by [Clarence Hawkes - misattributed to James Clarence Hawer --
Once upon a time
On the border of a brook,
A wicked little froggie,
Who had never read a book --
Who had never read a story,
Or a funny little rhyme,
Had a sad and tragic ending,
Once upon a time.
This little froggie, sad to say,
Was very fond of flies,
And thought on this unlucky day
That he had found a prize.
"Up, up I go," said Froggie,
"I can climb as well as hop;
I only hope he'll stay right there
Until I reach the top."
"I wish this wouldn't bend so much."
Said Froggie, going higher;
"I wish that flies would shut their eyes
And come a little nigher.
But he is such a good one
And he looks so very fine,
I think I must have him,
For it's time for me to dine."
So up he went regardless
Of the danger he was in;
He saw a duck below him,
But he didn't care a pin;
Till suddenly behind his back
The reed began to crack.
And all he heard was just one word --
And that one word was "Quack!"
see https://fafblog.blogspot.com/2011/11/out-occupyin.html
DeleteAnother poem from the long ago, referenced in a blog from the less-long-ago - please overlook - or enjoy - the improbability of the author's surname, and the captain's given name. We begin with a quote from our friends at Wikipedia: Casabianca" is a poem by the English poet Felicia Dorothea Hemans (1793-1835), first published in The Monthly Magazine, Vol 2, August 1826. It is about the true story of a boy who was obedient enough to wait for his father's orders, not knowing that his father is no longer alive. It is perhaps not widely realised that the boy in the poem is French and not English; his nationality is not mentioned.
ReplyDeleteThe poem commemorates an actual incident that occurred in 1798 during the Battle of the Nile between British and French fleets on 1 August aboard the French flagship L'Orient. Giocante, the young son (his age is variously given as ten, twelve, and thirteen) of the ship's commander Luc-Julien-Joseph Casabianca remained at his post and perished when at 22:00 the fire reached the magazine and the Orient was destroyed by a massive explosion which damaged nearby ships.
The boy stood on the burning deck
Whence all but he had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go
Without his Father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'say, Father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath,
And in his waving hair,
And looked from that lone post of death
In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud,
'My father! must I stay?'
While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud,
The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,
They caught the flag on high,
And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound–
The boy–oh! where was he?
Ask of the winds that far around
With fragments strewed the sea!–
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part–
But the noblest thing which perished there
Was that young faithful heart.
speaking of poets popular in the victorian era, and of nobility of spirit, here are some lines from "the politician" by canadian poet william wilfred campbell:
ReplyDeleteKnowing no right, save power's grim right-of-way;
No nobleness, save life's ignoble praise;
No future, save this sordid day to day;
He is the curse of these material days:
Juggling with mighty wrongs and mightier lies,
This worshipper of Dagon and his flies!