A song, a poem, a whiny young man

Crimson Underground

It's a friday night, so turn down the lights
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-stained London, brutal claws flashing bright
In the Crimson Underground

Little old boxer got mutilated late last night
In the Crimson Underground
Blood-money, money's funny
In the Crimson Underground

Heh, draw some blood, yeah draw blood
In the Crimson Underground
Contender dreams with matted fur
In the, in the,
In the Crimson Underground
In the Crimson Underground

This is the kind of supermarket that ghosts live in.

This is the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in, bathed in early morning gospel-light
Sunday-morning gospel-light
Or born in Monday-morning rush-hour fights
For supremacy on the highway
First to the job
Or the scene of the crime
The plaza's empty as blue and white
Alike rush to their meaniality
As the age-old masses watch
Mindless unmindful descendents
From the kind of supermarket
Ghosts live in

In other news, I think I've met a girl I really like and I hope things work out well with her. I'm very much anxious and excited to meet her sometime soon!

(I'm sure something terrible will happen and she'll hate me, though.).
"They say love is a risk / that you might always get hit out of nowhere / by some wave and end / up on your own."...

Last Night

Last night I dreamt a howling windy painful poem
And when I awoke I could not remember it
Except to say it had
Carl Solomon and Jacob Oliviera and Nelson Algrien
And was about
Painful screaming poets burning up with life
Lions in a cage of passion
And talent
And lovelorn love
Love
Love
And now I'm writing it's shadow
Here
Here
Three cheers for a morose ghost
Of a Poem
I'm writing it here
Without benefit of format or
Formal formations of
Words
No format
Reformat
Reformat my mind so I can start anew
Brand New mind
Brand New
Brand New
Brand Nubians and Public Enemies
And yes I remember the music of the city
The streets
The crowded bustling urbanities
Just as I remember the soul of the mountains
Folk music, flutes, guitars, warmth of life
Not electricty
I remember loud rebellious screaming fire punks
And soft autumn warmths of singer-songwriters
And I remember that music is a kind of poetry, too

So I guess even if I don't remember
The Dream
The Poem
Of passion and fire burning us up
A lesson
A lesson
A lesson
Thrice learned is that
Music is a kind of poetry, too

Three poems at Davol Square

This is what it
is to be
alive

To wonder if gnarled, twisted
trees far below are as well
alive

Or Byzantian things, men acting
as gods and falsifying green
while gods walk as men
red bricks
glass
red pipes
glass

Sunlight, all above
Is this what it is
to be
Alive?

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

What are you, or who,
or once 'gain what
That dances, ephemeral,
Just out of my sight?

Who are you, so haunting
to dance in my dreams, and dare
me to speak
of ineffable things?

As I called you to answer
unformable things, unspeakable things, unkowable
things -
Your feelings now flying
or dancing
Like birds without
Wings

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Old Water Tower
Or something like it
Rusted Monolith, surely
out of use and
patio chairs on
a first story
roof

and glass and brick
and plant and life
and people
walk and talk
and
hustle and bustle

Signs of new life
haunting the slumbering bones
of a dying age.

Rain

She asked me to shop for her; my ankles, knees, elbows, hands ached so badly.

Never less have I wanted to go.
Nevertheless, I went.

As I walked out the door, it began to drip-drop upon my skin sharp and cool.
"Rain! Damnable rain! The damnable rain in all of Spain! Damn it down the drain! Not for all the tea in Spain would I walk in this rain!".

I think those were my exact words - I don't know why I bothered to rhyme in such a mundane time.
Look, there's another hiding.

But then, I recalled how you said you liked the rain. And I realized it wasn't so bad.

The rain wasn't just getting me wet, you see...
...
...
...
It was cooling my anger, washing clean my consciousness, waking me from the sleep of drudgery, and... the pin-prick cuts of cool-hot water pierced me like tiny needles sowing together my fragile heart.

I thought of you and hoped for the best.

Walking

(This one's kinda long, but I like it. It's got the allusions and references I love so much. How many can you recognize? Hah... Also, it's helped me clear my mind. Read and enjoy, people of the world.)

I went walking by the river and I called to some friends...
And as I walked through the city they met up with me one by one.

First Johnny M came to see me, and he told me not to fall in love. He told me about the orange leaves hitting the ground and where to watch for snakes and worms. He told me about the evils of censorship, but the five-o put out an APB on him and he went and hid 'round the corner and I never saw him again - I heard his kidneys crapped him when he drank too much wine.

So then I called up Nicky - his name was Leo but we called him Nicky - and he came and met me and told me 'bout the kingdom and rebellion and follies of the heart. He told me about his home, and he told me about war and he told me about peace... Martin and some Indian walked with us and heard Nicky's words... He told me about leaving his family, his money, his home - it hurt him, but he knew he had to. But he slipped on the ice by the river and fell in and by the time we fished him out his lungs were gone.

(Marty and the Indian (I think his name was Moe) went off back home and left me all alone, but I heard they woulda made old Nicky proud.)

Then my buddy Phil from years ago, I saw him on a corner. He told me there was no kingdom, told me 'bout the republic and how we need to work here and now. He told me not to be afraid of love, he told me 'bout marzipan. He said Johnny was wrong, and maybe Nicky too, but I don't think he hated 'em... Just didn't agree. He spoke to the kids and he spoke to the old folks, and he told us to make stories of our lives. 'course, he was a busy man, and he had to go home to finish his book.

Towards the end of the night and the end of the river, as I came upon the Narragansett bay (where I heard there'd be some folks skinny-dipping, strange as it sounds), I realized I wasn't alone. Someone was followin' me, singin' all rough and handsome. I couldn't recognize the voice, but the stories told me it was Finn... He told me what to celebrate, 'bout redemption and resurrection and staying positive.

I walked home past the townies and the hood rats and I knew that I couldn't be afraid of love, but I couldn't let it hurt me either. I'll never stop loving, but I can stop wanting.

Johnny and Nicky told me not to love, and that clever kid - I think he said to love too much. But Phil, I think Phil had it right when he told me about two different parks and the rise of man. He reminded me of the flight of a woodpigeon and talking two walks in two different cities.

He reminded me that love is stronger than want.

Imperialist Bastard XIII: If

If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream -- and not make dreams your master;
If you can think -- and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings -- nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run --
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And -- which is more -- you'll be a Man, my son!

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I skipped out of order here, but it's important for me to keep this one in mind.
I don't have much to say except I love this poem.

Imperialist Bastard XII: As The Bell Clinks

As the Bell Clinks

As I left the Halls at Lumley, rose the vision of a comely
Maid last season worshipped dumbly, watched with fervor from afar;
And I wondered idly, blindly, if the maid would greet me kindly.
That was all -- the rest was settled by the clinking tonga-bar.
Yea, my life and hers were coupled by the tonga coupling-bar.

For my misty meditation, at the second changing-station,
Suffered sudden dislocation, fled before the tuneless jar
Of a Wagner obbligato, scherzo, doublehand staccato,
Played on either pony's saddle by the clacking tonga-bar --
Played with human speech, I fancied, by the jigging, jolting bar.

"She was sweet," thought I, "last season, but 'twere surely wild unreason
Such tiny hope to freeze on as was offered by my Star,
When she whispered, something sadly: 'I -- we feel your going badly!'"
"And you let the chance escape you?" rapped the rattling tonga-bar.
"What a chance and what an idiot!" clicked the vicious tonga-bar.

Heart of man -- O heart of putty! Had I gone by Kakahutti,
On the old Hill-road and rutty, I had 'scaped that fatal car.
But his fortune each must bide by, so I watched the milestones slide by,
To "You call on Her to-morrow!" -- no fugue with cymbals by the bar --
You must call on Her to-morrow!" -- post-horn gallop by the bar.

Yet a further stage my goal on -- we were whirling down to Solon,
With a double lurch and roll on, best foot foremost, ganz und gar --
"She was very sweet," I hinted. "If a kiss had been imprinted?" --
"'Would ha' saved a world of trouble!" clashed the busy tonga-bar.
"'Been accepted or rejected!" banged and clanged the tonga-bar.

Then a notion wild and daring, 'spite the income tax's paring,
And a hasty thought of sharing -- less than many incomes are,
Made me put a question private, you can guess what I would drive at.
"You must work the sum to prove it," clanked the careless tonga-bar.
"Simple Rule of Two will prove it," lilted back the tonga-bar.

It was under Khyraghaut I mused. "Suppose the maid be haughty --
There are lovers rich -- and forty -- wait some wealthy Avatar?
Answer, monitor untiring, 'twixt the ponies twain perspiring!"
"Faint heart never won fair lady," creaked the straining tonga-bar.
"Can I tell you ere you ask Her?" pounded slow the tonga-bar.

Last, the Tara Devi turning showed the lights of Simla burning,
Lit my little lazy yearning to a fiercer flame by far.
As below the Mall we jingled, through my very heart it tingled --
Did the iterated order of the threshing tonga-bar --
Try your luck -- you can't do better!" twanged the loosened tongar-bar.

---

Am I getting this shit right?
A dude's talking about a girl he likes...
With a tonga-bar?
WTF is a tonga-bar, and why would someone ask it for advice in his love life???

I thought I was nuts!

Imperialist Bastard XI: Arterial

Arterial

Early Chinese
--The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)

                           I

Frost upon small rain--the ebony-lacquered avenue
 Reflecting lamps as a pool shows goldfish.
The sight suddenly emptied out of the young man's eyes
 Entering upon it sideways.

                         II

In youth, by hazard, I killed an old man.
       In age I maimed a little child.
Dead leaves under foot reproach not:
But the lop-sided cherry-branch--whenever the sun rises,
       How black a shadow!

---

The subtitle "Early Chinese" makes sense, here. This feels sort of zen. Almost, but not quite, haiku-ish.

Which isn't Chinese, it's Japanese. Still, at the turn of the century, many people weren't making that distinction.

Anyhow, I like this.

Also, I find it funny that a road named after Kipling (Kipling Avenue in Toronto) is considered an Arterial road.

Just sayin'.

Imperialist Bastard X: Army Headquarters

Army Headquarters

 Old is the song that I sing --
   Old as my unpaid bills --
 Old as the chicken that khitmutgars bring
   Men at dak-bungalows -- old as the Hills.  

AHASUERUS JENKINS of the "Operatic Own,"
Was dowered with a tenor voice of super-Santley tone.
His views on equitation were, perhaps, a trifle queer.
He had no seat worth mentioning, but oh! he had an ear.

He clubbed his wretched company a dozen times a day;
He used to quit his charger in a parabolic way;
His method of saluting was the joy of all beholders,
But Ahasuerus Jenkins had a head upon his shoulders.

He took two months at Simla when the year was at the spring,
And underneath the deodars eternally did sing.
He warbled like a bul-bul but particularly at
Cornelia Agrippina, who was musical and fat.

She controlled a humble husband, who, in turn, controlled a Dept.
Where Cornelia Agrippina's human singing-birds were kept
From April to October on a plump retaining-fee,
Supplied, of course, per mensem, by the Indian Treasury.

Cornelia used to sing with him, and Jenkins used to play;
He praised unblushingly her notes, for he was false as they;
So when the winds of April turned the budding roses brown,
Cornelia told her husband: -- "Tom, you mustn't send him down."

They haled him from his regiment, which didn't much regret him;
They found for him an office-stool, and on that stool they set him
To play with maps and catalogues three idle hours a day,
And draw his plump retaining-fee -- which means his double pay.

Now, ever after dinner, when the coffee-cups are brought,
Ahasuerus waileth o'er the grand pianoforte;
And, thanks to fair Cornelia, his fame hath waxen great,
And Ahasuerus Jenkins is a Power in the State!


* Khitmutgars -- Waiters.
bul-bul -- Nightingale.

---

Flattery can indeed get you far in this life.
I'm not quite sure whether I like that fact or not.

Imperialist Bastard IX: Arithmetic on the Frontier

Arithmetic on the Frontier

A great and glorious thing it is
To learn, for seven years or so,
The Lord knows what of that and this,
Ere reckoned fit to face the foe --
The flying bullet down the Pass,
That whistles clear: "All flesh is grass."

Three hundred pounds per annum spent
On making brain and body meeter
For all the murderous intent
Comprised in "villanous saltpetre!"
And after -- ask the Yusufzaies
What comes of all our 'ologies.

A scrimmage in a Border Station --
A canter down some dark defile --
Two thousand pounds of education
Drops to a ten-rupee jezail --
The Crammer's boast, the Squadron's pride,
Shot like a rabbit in a ride!

No proposition Euclid wrote,
No formulae the text-books know,
Will turn the bullet from your coat,
Or ward the tulwar's downward blow
Strike hard who cares -- shoot straight who can --
The odds are on the cheaper man.

One sword-knot stolen from the camp
Will pay for all the school expenses
Of any Kurrum Valley scamp
Who knows no word of moods and tenses,
But, being blessed with perfect sight,
Picks off our messmates left and right.

With home-bred hordes the hillsides teem,
The troopships bring us one by one,
At vast expense of time and steam,
To slay Afridis where they run.
The "captives of our bow and spear"
Are cheap, alas! as we are dear.

---

This is something I need to remember.
Just because I'm smart doesn't mean I should get in a fight.

I should figure ways to avoid them.

Imperialist Bastard VIII: The Appeal

The Appeal

It I have given you delight
By aught that I have done,
Let me lie quiet in that night
Which shall be yours anon:

And for the little, little, span
The dead are born in mind,
Seek not to question other than
The books I leave behind.

---

He wanted to be remembered for what he wrote. A noble goal.

And that's what happened. Many people have spoken of his work in a positive manner, and many others have spoken of it in a negative manner. However, I rarely see question or comment of him himself.

And I guess that's how he wanted it.

Imperialist Bastard VII: The Anvil

The Anvil

Norman Conquest, 1066

ENGLAND'S on the anvil--hear the hammers ring--
   Clanging from the Severn to the Tyne!
Never was a blacksmith like our Norman King--
   England's being hammered, hammered, hammered into line!

England's on the anvil!  Heavy are the blows!
   (But the work will be a marvel when it's done.)
Little bits of Kingdoms cannot stand against their foes.
   England's being   hammered  hammered, hammered into one!

There shall be one people--it shall serve one Lord--
    (Neither Priest nor Baron shall escape!)
It shall have one  speech  and  law,  soul  and  strength  and  sword.
   England's  being  hammered,  hammered,  hammered  into
      shape!

---

I like this metaphor. Even though an invasion's something bad, it had a unifying effect.
England came out changed, yes. But stronger.

So too are our lives. We are like iron on the anvil.
It is the blows of life that make us stronger.

Imperialist Bastard VI: The Answer

The Answer

A Rose, in tatters on the garden path,
Cried out to God and murmured 'gainst His Wrath,
Because a sudden wind at twilight's hush
Had snapped her stem alone of all the bush.
And God, Who hears both sun-dried dust and sun,
Had pity, whispering to that luckless one,
"Sister, in that thou sayest We did not well --
What voices heardst thou when thy petals fell?"
And the Rose answered, "In that evil hour
A voice said, `Father, wherefore falls the flower?
For lo, the very gossamers are still.'
And a voice answered, `Son, by Allah's will!'"

Then softly as a rain-mist on the sward,
Came to the Rose the Answer of the Lord:
"Sister, before We smote the Dark in twain,
Ere yet the stars saw one another plain,
Time, Tide, and Space, We bound unto the task
That thou shouldst fall, and such an one should ask."
Whereat the withered flower, all content,
Died as they die whose days are innocent;
While he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell.

---

It's hard to properly express how much I love this poem.

Once, a while back, I told someone I care about... we'll call her Cat. I told Cat about something I had read. At the time, I couldn't recall the source. It was a picture of the back of Misspent Youth, with a quote from George Carlin. About how it's beautiful to see a rose or tuft of grass growing up out of concrete, fighting against it's environment to live.

And... I'm not sure I said it. I might have. But I was thinking that she was like that rose.

And now this?

"While he who questioned why the flower fell
Caught hold of God and saved his soul from Hell."

Yeah. Sometimes it seems like I can see her falling. I can see her dieing. And everytime I know she's sad, I ask God why.
I just want to reach out and catch her when she's falling. Sometimes I think she wants me too. Other times, I'm not sure.

But this isn't just a blog post anymore. It's a prayer to God. I only hope he hears it and sends me an answer.

Imperialist Bastard V: Angutivuan Taina

"Angutivaun Taina"

Song of the Returning Hunter (Esquimaux)
"Quiquern"--The Second Jungle Book

Our gloves are stiff with the frozen blood,
Our furs with the drifted snow,
As we come in with the seal--the seal!
In from the edge of the floe.

Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
And the yelping dog-teams go;
And the long whips crack, and the men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!

We tracked our seal to his secret place,
We heard him scratch below,
We made our mark, and we watched beside,
Out on the edge of the floe.

We raised our lance when he rose to breathe,
We drove it downward--so!
And we played him thus, and we killed him thus,
Out on the edge of the floe.

Our gloves are glued with the frozen blood,
Our eyes with the drifting snow;
But we come back to our wives again,
Back from the edge of the floe!

Au jana! Aua! Oha! Haq!
And the loaded dog-teams go;
And the wives can hear their men come back,
Back from the edge of the floe!

---

When I first read the title, quickly, I thought it said "Antiguavan Tuna". I didn't understand why someone would cook guava and tuna together. I also didn't understand what the IB had against such a dish.

Then I reread the title. Now it makes even less sense.

But I like this. Google tells me it's a quite loose translation of an Inuit hunting song, which makes sense.

Imperialist Bastard IV: Anchor Song

Anchor Song

Heh! Walk her round. Heave, ah, heave her short again!
Over, snatch her over, there, and hold her on the pawl.
Loose all sail, and brace your yards aback and full --
Ready jib to pay her off and heave short all!
Well, ah, fare you well; we can stay no more with you, my love --
 Down, set down your liquor and your girl from off your knee;
       For the wind has come to say:
       "You must take me while you may,
    If you'd go to Mother Carey
    (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
 Oh, we're bound to Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!"

Heh! Walk her round. Break, ah, break it out o' that!
Break our starboard-bower out, apeak, awash, and clear!
Port -- port she casts, with the harbour-mud beneath her foot,
And that's the last o' bottom we shall see this year!
Well, ah, fare you well, for we've got to take her out again --
 Take her out in ballast, riding light and cargo-free.
    And it's time to clear and quit
    When the hawser grips the bitt,
 So we'll pay you with the foresheet and a promise from the sea!

Heh! Tally on. Aft and walk away with her!
Handsome to the cathead, now; O tally on the fall!
Stop, seize and fish, and easy on the davit-guy.
Up, well up the fluke of her, and inboard haul!
Well, ah, fare you well, for the Channel wind's took hold of us,
 Choking down our voices as we snatch the gaskets free.
    And it's blowing up for night,
    And she's dropping light on light,
 And she's snorting under bonnets for a breath of open sea,

Wheel, full and by; but she'll smell her road alone to-night.
Sick she is and harbour-sick -- Oh, sick to clear the land!
Roll down to Brest with the old Red Ensign over us --
Carry on and thrash her out with all she'll stand!
Well, ah, fare you well, and it's Ushant slams the door on us,
 Whirling like a windmill through the dirty scud to lee:
       Till the last, last flicker goes
       From the tumbling water-rows,
    And we're off to Mother Carey
    (Walk her down to Mother Carey!),
 Oh, we're bound for Mother Carey where she feeds her chicks at sea!

---

This one confuses the fuck out of me. It's about sailing, right?

Imperialist Bastard III: The American Rebellion

The American Rebellion

1776
Before

          Twas not while England's sword unsheathed
        Put half a world to flight,
     Nor while their new-built cities breathed
        Secure behind her might;
     Not while she poured from Pole to Line
        Treasure and ships and men--
     These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
        They did not quit her then!

     Not till their foes were driven forth
        By England o'er the main--
     Not till the Frenchman from the North
       Had gone with shattered Spain;
     Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
        No hostile flag unrolled,
     Did they remember that they owed
        To Freedom--and were bold!


After

The  snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
The ice on the Delaware, 
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.

Not though the earliest primrose break
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England' s spring again.

They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.

They will  not  stir  though  the mayflower blows
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.

Each for his land, in a fair fight,
Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
Covers them side by side.

She is too busy to think of war;
She has all the world to make gay;
And,  behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers' day!

Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.

---

I really like the imagery and meaning of the second one.
We all die as brothers. We should strive to live as brothers.

But still, it scares me.
Pollution, global warming, deforestation, urbanization.

Will our children and our children's children still see the flowers where they were in our fathers' days when we sit in graves, finally at one with our enemies?

It scares me.

Imperialist Bastard II: The American

An American

1894

The American Spirit speaks:

If the Led Striker call it a strike,
Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
Nor what he is, My Avatar.

Through many roads, by me possessed,
He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
He guards the Redskin's dry reserve

His easy unswept hearth he lends
From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood -- his heart
Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

But, through the shift of mood and mood,
Mine ancient humour saves him whole --
The cynic devil in his blood
That bids him mock his hurrying soul;

That bids him flout the Law he makes,
That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
The drumming guns that -- have no doubts;

That checks him foolish-hot and fond,
That chuckles through his deepest ire,
That gilds the slough of his despond
But dims the goal of his desire;

Inopportune, shrill-accented,
The acrid Asiatic mirth
That leaves him, careless 'mid his dead,
The scandal of the elder earth.

How shall he clear himself, how reach
Your bar or weighed defence prefer --
A brother hedged with alien speech
And lacking all interpreter?

Which knowledge vexes him a space;
But, while Reproof around him rings,
He turns a keen untroubled face
Home, to the instant need of things.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,
He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo, imperturbable he rules,
Unkempt, desreputable, vast --
And, in the teeth of all the schools,
I -- I shall save him at the last!

---

I did some research on this one. Kipling lived in America while it was written, and was enamored of the American outdoors.

Through many roads, by me possessed,
He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
And he the Text himself applies.

>>> The Avatar of the American Spirit is a wanderer, one with a good sense of humor... Not afraid to be the butt of a joke, either. He does not preach, but instead lives by his beliefs (The Text, I assume, means here the bible).

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;

>>> The Avatar combines the best features of both the Gaul & Celt.

His easy unswept hearth he lends
From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

>>> The Avatar lends his home freely to his friends, even if there is no room for himself.

Calm-eyed he scoffs at Sword and Crown,
Or, panic-blinded, stabs and slays:
Blatant he bids the world bow down,
Or cringing begs a crust of praise;

Or, sombre-drunk, at mine and mart,
He dubs his dreary brethren Kings.
His hands are black with blood -- his heart
Leaps, as a babe's, at little things.

>>> These are clearly reference to the revolution. It seems kind of ambiguous, though. Both good and bad.

That bids him flout the Law he makes,
That bids him make the Law he flouts,
Till, dazed by many doubts, he wakes
The drumming guns that -- have no doubts;

>>> I really like this bit. I'm not sure why.

Enslaved, illogical, elate,
He greets the embarrassed Gods, nor fears
To shake the iron hand of Fate
Or match with Destiny for beers.

Lo, imperturbable he rules,
Unkempt, desreputable, vast --

>>> The Avatar faces all things bravely.

---

So, yeah. I'm not sure why, but I like this, in general. It's about America, circa 1894.
Why do you think about it?

Imperialist Bastard I: The Advertisement

The Advertisement

In the Manner of the Earlier English
--The Muse Among the Motors (1900-1930)

Whether to wend through straight streets strictly,
Trimly by towns perfectly paved;
Or after office, as fitteth thy fancy,
Faring with friends far among fields;
There is none other equal in action,
Sith she  is silent,  nimble,  unnoisome,
Lordly of leather, gaudily gilded,
Burgeoning brightly in a brass bonnet,
Certain to steer well between wains.

---

So... WTF? I really don't get this one. I think it's an advertisement for a car (It's from a collection entitled The Muse Among the Motors), and by the subtitle it's meant to be in an old-fashioned style. Which does make it a bit troublesome to read, but it's cool anyway.

I didn't like this until I got what it was about. I'm still not sure I do. What about you lot?

Imperialist Bastard: I Analyze The Complete Collection of Poems By Rudyard Kipling

Ok. So yeah. I promised something productive or some such shit. Well, Rudyard Kipling wrote some pretty damn interesting things. And you can read most of them over at A Complete Collection Of Poems By Rudyard Kipling. But you don't have to go there, 'cause I'm going to repost them and add my comments. Fun, huh?

And yeah, the title? It's from the intro to a Sowing Season (Yeah) / Untitled 08 Hybrid by Jesse Lacey, where he mentions Kipling.

So here goes!