Quaff, oh quaff!

William Shatner recites/performs "The Raven." With some kind of weird zombie face make-up or something.

Not something I ever expected to see...

A stanza of one of my poems translated into Hungarian. I hope it sounds better to Hungarian ears than it does to an online translator I found.

Halloween by Harry Behn

Halloween
by Harry Behn

Tonight is the night
When dead leaves fly
Like witches on switches
Across the sky,
When elf and sprite
Flit through the night
On a moony sheen.

Tonight is the night
When leaves make a sound
Like a gnome in his home
Under the ground,
When spooks and trolls
Creep out of holes
Mossy and green.

Tonight is the night
When pumpkins stare
Through sheaves and leaves
Everywhere,
When ghoul and ghost
And goblin host
Dance round their queen.
It's Halloween!

I memorized this little poem from my fourth-grade reading book. I didn't remember the author, but thanks to the internet, I punched in a verse and got the missing information.

Illustration "The Pumpkin-Man" by my son.

Update

Another update for those two or three of you who are following Nightgaunt's Realm. I have pretty much finished the next installment, but I'm going to hold off posting for a few days at least because I'm sure I'll want to change or add something.

In the fiction I have written before, it was always for fun and something I just enjoyed, and I am enjoying this also (or I wouldn't be doing it), but this time I am finding it to also be emotionally draining. I don't know if that means it's better or worse, but the effect it has on me is something new to me.

Here is a poem by Tennyson that I read several times while working on it.

Song

I.

A spirit haunts the year's last hours,
Dwelling amid these yellowing bowers:
To himself he talks;
For at eventide, listening earnestly,
At his work you may hear him sob and sigh
In the walks;
Earthward he boweth the heavy stalks
Of the mouldering flowers:
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

II.

The air is damp, and hushed, and close,
As a sick man's room when he taketh repose
An hour before death;
My very heart faints and my whole soul grieves
At the moist rich smell of the rotting leaves,
And the breath
Of the fading edges of box beneath,
And the year's last rose.
Heavily hangs the broad sunflower
Over its grave i' the earth so chilly;
Heavily hangs the hollyhock,
Heavily hangs the tiger-lily.

Okay...

The next installment is up, check the link at the top right sidebar. Many thanks to Albatross for posting Longfellow's "The Cross of Snow at his blog Painted Ocean.

That is the kind of poetry that speaks to me.

I will not take these things for granted

When I think of all the mediocre (and sometimes downright lousy) groups that have achieved enormous popularity, I always wonder why Toad the Wet Sprocket didn't become more famous. I can only conclude that their lyrics aren't stupid enough.

I would put Toad right up at the top of my own personal list of The Greatest Bands of All Time without hesitation. Their lyrics tend toward the sad and sometimes cynical, which is probably why they appeal to me so much. Here is one of my favorites.

One part of me just wants to tell you everything
One part just needs the quiet
And if I'm lonely here, I'm lonely here
And on the telephone
You offer reassurance

I will not take these things for granted

How can I hold the part of me that only you can carry
It needs a strength I haven't found
But if it's frightening, I'll bear the cold
And on the telephone
You offer warm asylum

I'm listening
Flowers in the garden
Laughter in the hall
Children in the park
I will not take these things for granted
Anymore

To crawl inside the wire and feel something near me
To feel this accepting
That it is lonely here, but not alone
And on the telephone
You offer visions dancing

I'm listening
Music in the bedroom
Laughter in the hall
Dive into the ocean
Singing by the fire
Running through the forest
And standing in the wind
In rolling canyons

I will not take these things for granted

--I Will Not Take These Things for Granted
Toad the Wet Sprocket

Silent Running

Still listening to some 80s songs. This was a song I liked at the time, but a song that seems to have gained a lot of power since 1985.

Take the children and yourself
And hide out in the cellar
By now the fighting will be close at hand
Dont believe the church and state
And everything they tell you
Believe in me, I'm with the high command

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

There's a gun and ammunition
Just inside the doorway
Use it only in emergency
Better you should pray to God
The father and the spirit
Will guide you and protect from up here

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

Swear allegiance to the flag
Whatever flag they offer
Never hint at what you really feel
Teach the children quietly
For some day sons and daughters
Will rise up and fight while we stood still

Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?
Can you hear me, can you hear me running?
Can you hear me running, can you hear me calling you?

--Silent Running
Mike + the Mechanics

Sunday lyrics

Some beautiful lyrics for your Sunday morning. A true modern hymn.

My life goes on in endless song
Above earths lamentations,
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife
I hear its music ringing,
It sounds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

While though the tempest loudly roars,
I hear the truth, it liveth.
And though the darkness round me close,
Songs in the night it giveth.

No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I'm clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth
How can I keep from singing?

When tyrants tremble in their fear
And hear their death knell ringing,
When friends rejoice both far and near
How can I keep from singing?

In prison cell and dungeon vile
Our thoughts to them are winging,
When friends by shame are undefiled
How can I keep from singing?

--Eithne Ní Bhraonáin
1991, Shepherd Moons

He wonder'd...

Brer at PowerOfBabel recently posted an old poem by Eugene Field that echoed some of the sentiments I have expressed on occasion. Not to be completely outdone, I would like to offer this poem by John Keats.

The Naughty Boy

There was a naughty boy,
And a naughty boy was he,
He ran away to Scotland
The people for to see--
Then he found
That the ground
Was as hard,
That a yard
Was as long,
That a song
Was as merry,
That a cherry
Was as red,
That lead
Was as weighty,
That fourscore
Was as eighty,
That a door
Was as wooden
As in England--
So he stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd,
He wonder'd,
He stood in his shoes
And he wonder'd.

"Grendel"

Written by Derek Dick (Fish), recorded by Marillion. Interesting take on the story. I'd say it could have been inspired by the John Gardner book, if I had to take a guess.

I. Heorot's plea and Grendel's awakening

Midnight suns bid moors farewell, retreats from charging dusk
Mountain echo, curfews bell, signal ending tasks
They place their faith in oaken doors, cower in candlelight
The panic seeps through bloodstained floors as Grendel stalks the night

Earth rim walker seeks his meals
Prepare the funeral pyres
The shapers songs no longer heal the fear
Within their eyes, [their eyes]

Wooden figures, pagan gods, stare blindly cross the sea
Appeal for help from ocean fogs, for saviour born of dreams
They know their lives are forfeit now, priestly head they bow in shame
They cannot face the trembling crowd that flinch in Grendels name

Earth rim walker seeks his meals
Prepare the funeral pyres
The shapers songs no longer heal the fear
Within their eyes, [their eyes]

As Grendel leaves his mossy home beneath the stagnant mere
Along the forest path he roams to Hrothgars hall so clear
He knows that victory is secured, his charm will testify
His claws will drip with mortal blood as moonbeams haunt the sky

As Grendel leaves his mossy home beneath the stagnant mere
Along the forest path he roams to Hrothgars hall so clear
He knows that victory is secured, his charm will testify
His claws will drip with mortal blood, as moonbeams haunt the sky

Earth rim walker seeks his meals
Prepare the funeral pyres
The shapers songs no longer heal the fear
Within their eyes, [their eyes]

II. Grendel's journey

Silken membranes span his path, fingerprints in dew
Denizens of twilight lands humbly beg him through
Mother natures bastard child shunned by leaf and stream
An alien in an alien land seeks solace within dreams
The shapers lies his poisoned tongue malign with mocking harp
Beguiling queen her innocence offends his icy heart

III. lurker at the threshold

Hounds freeze in silence bewitched by the reptile spell
Sulphurous essence pervades round the grassy dell
Heorot awaits him like lamb to the butchers knife
Stellular heavens ignore even childrens cries

Screams are his music, lightning his guide
Raping the darkness, death by his side

Chants rise in terror, free round the oaken beams
Flickering firelight portraying the grisly scene
Warriors advance, prepare for the nightmare foe
Futile their sacrifice as even their hearts must know

Heroes delusion, with feet in the grave
Lurker at the threshold, he cares not for the brave, he cares not for the brave

IV. finale

So you thought that your bolts and your locks would keep me out
You should have known better after all this time
You're gonna pay in blood for all your vicious slander
With your ugly pale skins and your putrid blue eyes
Why should I feel pity when you kill your own and feel no shame
Gods on my side, sure as hell
I'm gonna take no blame
I'm gonna take no blame
I'm gonna take no blame

So you say you believe in all of mother natures laws
You lust for gold with your sharpened knives
Oh when your hoards are gathered and your enemies left to rot
You pray with your bloodstained hands at the feet of your pagan gods

Then you try to place the killers blade in my hand
You call for justice and distort the truth
Well Ive had enough of all your pretty pretty speeches
Receive your punishment
Expose your throats to my righteous claws
And let the blood flow, and [let the blood flow], flow, flow, flow.

Ssshhh...

Deafening silence.
I can hear the laptop's fan.
Kids are at grandpa's.

Texas Winter Haiku

winter yesterday
winter again tomorrow
but today, summer

Little Orphant Annie by James Whitcomb Riley

Little Orphant Annie's come to our house to stay,
An' wash the cups an' saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,
An' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,
An' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;
An' all us other childern, when the supper-things is done,
We set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun
A-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at Annie tells about,
An' the Gobble-uns 'at git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

Wunst they wuz a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,--
An' when he went to bed at night, away up-stairs,
His Mammy heerd him holler, an' his Daddy heerd him bawl,
An' when they turn't the kivvers down, he wuzn't there at all!
An' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubby-hole, an' press,
An' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'-wheres, I guess;
But all they ever found wuz jist his pants an' roundabout:--
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,
An' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood-an'-kin;
An' wunst, when they was "company," an' ole folks wuz there,
She mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
An' jist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,
They wuz two great big Black Things a-standin' by her side,
An' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
An' the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

An' little Orphant Annie says, when the blaze is blue,
An' the lamp-wick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
An' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,
An' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,--
You better mind yer parunts, an' yer teachurs fond an' dear,
An' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,
An' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,
Er the Gobble-uns 'll git you
Ef you
Don't
Watch
Out!

---

Something a little creepy for Halloween. This poem and the accompanying illustration of spectral goblins with clawed arms as long as their bodies scared the snot out of me when I was 4 or 5 years old.

Saturday Night Poetry: Nemesis by H.P. Lovecraft

Nemesis

by H.P. Lovecraft

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.

I have whirled with the earth at the dawning,
When the sky was a vaporous flame;
I have seen the dark universe yawning
Where the black planets roll without aim,
Where they roll in their horror unheeded, without knowledge or lustre or name.

I had drifted o'er seas without ending,
Under sinister grey-clouded skies,
That the many-forked lightning is rending,
That resound with hysterical cries;
With the moans of invisible daemons, that out of the green waters rise.

I have plunged like a deer through the arches
Of the hoary primoridal grove,
Where the oaks feel the presence that marches,
And stalks on where no spirit dares rove,
And I flee from a thing that surrounds me, and leers through dead branches above.

I have stumbled by cave-ridden mountains
That rise barren and bleak from the plain,
I have drunk of the fog-foetid fountains
That ooze down to the marsh and the main;
And in hot cursed tarns I have seen things, I care not to gaze on again.

I have scanned the vast ivy-clad palace,
I have trod its untenanted hall,
Where the moon rising up from the valleys
Shows the tapestried things on the wall;
Strange figures discordantly woven, that I cannot endure to recall.

I have peered from the casements in wonder
At the mouldering meadows around,
At the many-roofed village laid under
The curse of a grave-girdled ground;
And from rows of white urn-carven marble, I listen intently for sound.

I have haunted the tombs of the ages,
I have flown on the pinions of fear,
Where the smoke-belching Erebus rages;
Where the jokulls loom snow-clad and drear:
And in realms where the sun of the desert consumes what it never can cheer.

I was old when the pharaohs first mounted
The jewel-decked throne by the Nile;
I was old in those epochs uncounted
When I, and I only, was vile;
And Man, yet untainted and happy, dwelt in bliss on the far Arctic isle.

Oh, great was the sin of my spirit,
And great is the reach of its doom;
Not the pity of Heaven can cheer it,
Nor can respite be found in the tomb:
Down the infinite aeons come beating the wings of unmerciful gloom.

Through the ghoul-guarded gateways of slumber,
Past the wan-mooned abysses of night,
I have lived o'er my lives without number,
I have sounded all things with my sight;
And I struggle and shriek ere the daybreak, being driven to madness with fright.