Quotemail's Silver Jubilee: 1995-2020!

Hello everyone –

 

Sunday, November 8^th marks the 25^th birthday (Silver Jubilee) of the Quotemail emailing list AND the 25^h birthday of my younger cousin, Zenaida. In honor of these two birthdays, and the longstanding interest in astronomy that I share with many of our listmembers, here’s a selection of my favorite poems about the Pleiades star cluster (a/k/a M45, the Seven Sisters, etc.), which is visible all night long during the month of November. We begin with an invocation to Urania, the Greek Muse of Astronomy, and we conclude with an epigram by the greatest Greek philosopher of  all time, Plato, in honor of his birthday on November 7^th. 😊

 

From Paradise Lost: Book 7, Lines 1-20

By John Milton (1608-1674)

 

Descend from Heaven, Urania, by that name
If rightly thou art called, whose voice divine
Following, above the Olympian hill I soar,
Above the flight of Pegasean wing!
The meaning, not the name, I call: for thou
Nor of the Muses nine, nor on the top
Of old Olympus dwellest; but, heavenly-born,
Before the hills appeared, or fountain flowed,
Thou with eternal Wisdom didst converse,
Wisdom thy sister, and with her didst play
In presence of the Almighty Father, pleased
With thy celestial song. Up led by thee
Into the Heaven of Heavens I have presumed,
An earthly guest, and drawn empyreal air,
Thy tempering: with like safety guided down
Return me to my native element:
Lest from this flying steed unreined, (as once
Bellerophon, though from a lower clime,)
Dismounted, on the Aleian field I fall,
Erroneous there to wander, and forlorn.

 

“On the Beach at Night”

By Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

 

On the beach at night,

Stands a child with her father,

Watching the east, the autumn sky.

 

Up through the darkness,

While ravening clouds, the burial clouds, in black masses spreading,

Lower sullen and fast athwart and down the sky,

Amid a transparent clear belt of ether yet left in the east,

Ascends large and calm the lord-star Jupiter,

And nigh at hand, only a very little above,

Swim the delicate sisters the Pleiades.

 

From the beach the child holding the hand of her father,

Those burial-clouds that lower victorious soon to devour all,

Watching, silently weeps.

 

Weep not, child,
Weep not, my darling,

With these kisses let me remove your tears,

The ravening clouds shall not long be victorious,

They shall not long possess the sky, they devour the stars only in apparition,

Jupiter shall emerge, be patient, watch again another night, the Pleiades shall emerge,

They are immortal, all those stars both silvery and golden shall shine out again,

The great stars and the little ones shall shine out again, they endure,

The vast immortal suns and the long-enduring pensive moons shall again shine.

 

Then dearest child mournest thou only for Jupiter?

Considerest thou alone the burial of the stars?

 

Something there is,

(With my lips soothing thee, adding I whisper,

I give thee the first suggestion, the problem and indirection,)

Something there is more immortal even than the stars,

(Many the burials, many the days and nights, passing away,)

Something that shall endure longer even than lustrous Jupiter

Longer than sun or any revolving satellite,

Or the radiant sisters the Pleiades.

 

From The Works and Days (Lines 383 ff.)

By Hesiod (fl. 8^th century BCE)

 

“When the Pleiades, Atlas’ daughters, start to rise, begin your harvest; plough when they go down. For forty days and nights, they hide themselves, and as the year rolls round, appear again when you begin to sharpen sickle-blades; this law holds on the plains and by the sea, and in the mountain valleys, fertile lands far from the swelling sea.”

 

Poem #48 by Sappho (ca. 630-570 BCE)

The sinking Moon has left the sky,
The Pleiades have also gone.
Midnight comes – and goes, the hours fly
And solitary still, I lie.

 

The Pleiades (Photo Credit: NASA – Public Domain)

 

An Epigram Attributed to Plato (427-347 BCE)

16. Some say there are nine Muses. How thoughtless! Look at Sappho of Lesbos; she makes a tenth.

 

HAPPY 25^TH BIRTHDAY TO QUOTEMAIL AND TO MY COUSIN, ZENAIDA!

 

Cheers,

Rob

 

October Tales, Part 3: Brutus the Trojan

Hello, everyone –

 

Last Halloween, I was discussing the poems of Taliesin (fl. 6th century CE), a legendary Welsh bard, with one of our ACES James Scholars who is also a published poet. She was wondering about the meaning of a line in one of his poems, in which he says to his listeners, “Now I am come to the remnant of Troia” (i.e., Troy). Here’s the answer to that question – and thereby hangs a tale – my final October Tale for this year!

 

With the month of October now hurtling toward its inevitable conclusion – the Keltik New Year’s Eve, a/k/a Halloween – I’d like to present a story that has captivated my imagination since the late 1980s, which saw me fall in love with my Keltik heritage! Every culture has a foundational legend or cycle of legends – stories that explain how and why the culture was founded, and by whom. Such stories exemplify the values and beliefs of the people who transmit them from one generation to the next. For medieval Britons, their foundational legend is grounded in the classical poetry of Homer and Virgil, as can be seen from the story of Brutus the Trojan, the legendary first King of Britain, as retold below.

 

We begin with a summary of the legend from the first stanza of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, a 14th-century Middle English poem, which is a classic of Arthurian literature:

 

Soon as the siege and assault had ceased at Troy,

the burg broken and burnt to brands and ashes,

the traitor who trammels of treason there wrought

was tried for his treachery, the foulest on earth.

It was Aeneas the noble and his high kin

who then subdued provinces, lords they became,

well-nigh of all the wealth in the Western Isles:

forth rich Romulus to Rome rapidly came,

with great business that burg he builds up first,

and names it with his name, as now it has;

Ticius to Tuscany, and townships begins;

Langobard in Lombardy lifts up homes;

and fared over the French flood Felix Brutus

on many banks all broad Britain he settles then,

            where war and wreck and wonder

            betimes have worked within,

            and oft both bliss and blunder

            have held sway swiftly since.

 

The Legend of Brutus the Trojan

By Thomas Bulfinch (1796-1867)

Excerpted from The Age of Chivalry (1858) – Chapter II: “The Mythical History of England”

 

Note: In honor of the KeltiK New Year (which falls on November 1), here is the legend of Brutus the Trojan – an exiled prince who eventually became King Brutus I Felix of Britain.  The legendary migration of the Trojan exiles from Greece to Britain is supposed to have taken place around 1100 BCE.

 

        The illustrious poet, [John] Milton, in his History of England, is the author whom we chiefly follow in this chapter. According to the earliest accounts, Albion, a giant, and son of Neptune, a contemporary of Hercules, ruled over the island, to which he gave his name. Presuming to oppose the progress of Hercules in his western march, he was slain by him. Milton gives more regard to the story of Brutus, the Trojan, which, he says, is supported by “descents of ancestry long continued, laws and exploits not plainly seeming to be borrowed or devised, which on the common belief have wrought no small impression; defended by many, denied utterly by few.” The principal authority is Geoffrey of Monmouth, whose history, written in the twelfth century, purports to be a translation of a history of Britain brought over from the opposite shore of France, which, under the name of Brittany, was chiefly peopled by natives of Britain who, from time to time, emigrated thither, driven from their own country by the inroads of the Picts and Scots.

        Brutus was the son of Silvius, and he of Ascanius, the son of Aeneas, whose flight from Troy and settlement in Italy are narrated in Stories of Gods and Heroes. Brutus, at the age of fifteen, attending his father to the chase, unfortunately killed him with an arrow. Banished therefore by his kindred, he sought refuge in that part of Greece where Helenus, with a band of Trojan exiles, had become established. But Helenus was now dead, and the descendants of the Trojans were oppressed by Pandrasus, the king of the country. Brutus, being kindly received among them, so throve in virtue and in arms as to win the regard of all the eminent of the land above all others of his age. In consequence of this, the Trojans not only began to hope, but secretly to persuade him to lead them the way to liberty. To encourage them, they had the promise of help from Assaracus, a noble Greek youth, whose mother was a Trojan. He had suffered wrong at the hands of the king, and for that reason he more willingly cast in his lot with the Trojan exiles.

        Choosing a fit opportunity, Brutus with his countrymen withdrew to the woods and hills, as the safest place from which to expostulate, and sent this message to Pandrasus: “That the Trojans, holding it unworthy of their ancestors to serve in a foreign land, had retreated to the woods, choosing rather a savage life than a slavish one. If that displeased him, then, with his leave, they would depart to some other country.” Pandrasus, not expecting so bold a message from the sons of captives, went in pursuit of them, with such forces as he could gather, and met them on the banks of the Achelous, where Brutus got the advantage and took the king captive. The result was that the terms demanded by the Trojans were granted; the king gave his daughter Imogen in marriage to Brutus and furnished shipping, money, and fit provision for them all to depart from the land.

        The marriage being solemnized, and shipping from all parts got together, the Trojans, in a fleet of no less than three hundred and twenty sail, betook themselves to the sea. On the third day, they arrived at a certain island, which they found destitute of inhabitants, though there were appearances of former habitation, and among the ruins a temple of Diana. Brutus, here performing sacrifice at the shrine of the goddess, invoked an oracle for his guidance, in these lines:

 

“Goddess of shades, and huntress, who at will

Walks on the rolling sphere, and through the deep;

On thy third realm, the Earth, look now, and tell

What land, what seat of rest, thou bids me seek;

What certain seat where I may worship thee

For aye, with temples vowed and virgin choirs.”

 

To whom, sleeping before the altar, Diana in a vision thus answered:

 

“Brutus! Far to the west, in the ocean wide,

Beyond the realm of Gaul, a land there lies,

Seat-girt it lies, where giants dwelt of old;

Now, void, it fits thy people; thither bend

Thy course; there shall thou find a lasting seat;

There to thy sons another Troy shall rise,

And kings be born of these, whose dreaded might

Shall awe the world, and conquer nations bold.”

 

        Brutus, guided now, as he thought, by divine direction, sped his course towards the west, and, arriving at a place on the Tyrrhenian Sea, found there the descendants of certain Trojans who, with Antenor, came into Italy, of whom Corineus was the chief. These joined company, and the ships pursued their way till they arrived at the mouth of the river Loire, in France, where the expedition landed, with a view to a settlement; but [they] were so rudely assaulted by the inhabitants that they put to sea again and arrived at a part of the coast of Britain, now called Devonshire, where Brutus felt convinced that he had found the promised end of his voyage, landed his colony, and took possession.

        The island, not yet Britain, but Albion, was in a manner desert and inhospitable, occupied only by a remnant of the giant race whose excessive force and tyranny had destroyed the others. The Trojans encountered these and extirpated them, Corineus, in particular, signalizing himself by his exploits against them; from whom Cornwall takes its name, for that region fell to his lot, and there the hugest giants dwelt, lurking in rocks and caves, till Corineus rid the land of them. Brutus built his capital city and called it Troja Nova (New Troy), changed in time to Trinovantum, now London; and, having governed the isle 24 years, died, leaving three sons, Locrinus, Albanactus, and Camber. Locrinus had the middle part [England], Camber the west, called Cambria [Wales] from him, and Albanactus Albany, now Scotland.

 

Happy Keltik New Year! 😊

Rob

 

October Tales, Part 2: Cyrus the Great

Hello everyone –

 

In the second installment of my October Tales series, I’d like to call to your attention a holiday that is rising in popularity throughout the world, which occurs next Thursday. October 29^th is International Cyrus the Great Day, marking the date that Cyrus and his Persian army took over the city of Babylon without violence. Cyrus was the founding Emperor of the Persian Empire, and his benevolence toward his native and conquered subjects was both exceptional and long-remembered. The Greek historian Xenophon, writing in the 4^th century BCE, remarked his biography of the great king:

 

“And those who were subject to him, he treated with esteem and regard, as if they were his own children, while his subjects themselves respected Cyrus as their "Father" ... What other man but 'Cyrus', after having overturned an empire, ever died with the title of "The Father" from the people whom he had brought under his power? For it is plain fact that this is a name for one that bestows, rather than for one that takes away!”

 

Cyrus was renowned in his own time as a liberator of the oppressed, a promoter of religious toleration and cultural diversity, and an early champion of what we could call human rights. These characteristics of his personality, and some of his heroic deeds, are recorded in the Cyrus Cylinder, a proclamation made after Cyrus conquered Babylon in 538 BCE without bloodshed. The text of this world-famous decree can be found @ https://web.archive.org/web/20180311235804/https://www.livius.org/ct-cz/cyrus_I/cyrus_cylinder2.html. Cyrus is also remembered as a heroic figure to this very day by Zoroastrians (his coreligionists), Jews, Christians, and Muslims.

 

And so, after all these preliminaries, I present this week’s October Tale – an excerpt from a poem about the Persian Empire by the first published poet in Britain’s North American colonies – Anne Bradstreet (1612-1672), making generous use of both reliable and legendary material drawn from her vast learning.

 

The Second Monarchy, being the Persian, began under Cyrus, Darius being his Uncle and Father-in-law reigned with him about two years.

Cyrus Cambyses’ Son of Persia King,

Whom Lady Mandana did to him bring,

She daughter unto great Astyages,

He in descent the seventh from Arbaces.

Cambyses was of Achaemenes’ race,

Who had in Persia the Lieutenant’s place

When Sardanapalus was overthrown,

And from that time had held it as his own.

Cyrus, Darius’ Daughter took to wife,

And so unites two Kingdoms without strife.

Darius unto Mandana was brother

Adopts her son for his having no other.

This is of Cyrus the true pedigree,

Whose Ancestors were royal in degree:

His Mother’s dream and Grand-Sires cruelty,

His preservation, in his misery,

His nourishment afforded by a switch,

Are fit for such, whose ears for Fables itch.

He in his younger days an Army led,

Against great Croesus then of Lydia head;

Who over-curious of wars event,

For information to Apollo went:

And the ambiguous Oracle did trust,

So overthrown by Cyrus, as was just;

Who him pursues to Sardis, takes the Town,

Where all that dare resist, are slaughtered down;

Disguised Croesus hoped to escape in the throng,

Who had no might to right from wrong,

But as he past, his Son who was born dumb,

With pressing grief and sorrow overcome:

Among the tumult, blood-shed, and the strife

Brake his long silence, cried, spare Croesus’ life:

Croesus thus known, it was great Cyrus’ doom,

(A hard decree) to ashes he consume;

Then on a wood-pile set, where all might eye,

He Solon, Solon, Solon, thrice did cry.

The Reason of those words Cyrus demands,

Who Solon was? to whom he lifts his hands;

Then to the King he makes this true report,

That Solon sometimes at his stately Court,

His Treasures, pleasures pomp and power did fee,

And viewing all, at all nought moved was he:

That Croesus angry, urged him to express,

If ever King equaled his happiness.

(Quoth he) that man for happy we commend,

Whose happy life attains an happy end.

Cyrus with pity moved knowing Kings stand,

Now up and down, as fortune turns her hand,

Weighing the Age, and greatness of the Prince,

(His Mother’s Uncle) stories do evince:

Gave him his life, and took him for a friend,

Did to him still his chief designs commend.

Next war the restless Cyrus thought upon,

Was conquest of the stately Babylon.

Now treble walled, and moated so about,

That all the world they need not fear nor doubt;

To drain this ditch he many Sluices cut,

But till convenient time their heads kept shut;

That night Belshazzar feasted all his rout,

He cut those banks, and let the River out,

And to the walls securely marches on,

Not finding a defendant thereupon;

Enters the town, the sottish King he slays,

Upon Earth’s richest spoils his Soldiers preys;

Here twenty years provision good he found,

Forty five miles this City scarce could round;

This head of Kingdoms Chaldees excellence,

For Owls and Satyrs made a residence,

Yet wondrous monuments this stately Queen,

A thousand years had after to be seen.

Cyrus doth now the Jewish Captives free

An Edict made, the Temple builded be,

He with his Uncle Daniel sets on high,

And caused his foes in Lions’ Den to dye.

Long after this he against the Scythians goes,

And Tomris’ Son and Army overthrows;

Which to revenge he hires a mighty power,

And sets on Cyrus, in a fatal hour;

There routs his Host, himself she prisoner takes,

And at one blow (world’s head) she headless makes

The which she bathed, within a Bit of blood,

Using such taunting words, as she thought good.

But Xenophon reports he died in his bed,

In honor, peace and wealth, with a grey head;

And in his Town of Pasargadae lies,

Where some long after sought in vain for prize,

But in his Tomb was only to be found

Two Scythian boys, a Sword and Target round:

And Alexander coming to the same,

With honors great, did celebrate his fame.

Three daughters and two Sons he left behind,

Ennobled more by birth then by their mind;

Thirty two years in all this Prince did reign,

But eight whilst Babylon, he did retain:

And though his conquests made the earth to groan,

Now quiet lies under one marble stone.

And with an Epitaph, himself did make,

To shew how little Land he then should take.

 

Until next time –

Rob 😊

 

October Tales, Part 1: Beowulf

Hello everyone –

Today, I’m featuring the first of three “October Tales” for your enjoyment as Halloween is just two weeks away (and with it, the arrival of the Keltik New Year!). This week’s tale is not Keltik in origin – instead, it’s a Continental tale that originated in Scandinavia and then migrated across the English Channel to England, where it was written down in epic verse by an anonymous Anglo-Saxon poet, sometime during the 8^th century CE.

 

Bulfinch’s Mythology

By Thomas Bulfinch (1796–1867)

Volume III: The Age of Chivalry (1913 Edition)

Beowulf

        1. Notable among the names of heroes of the British race is that of Beowulf, which appeals to all English-speaking people in a very special way, since he is the one hero in whose story we may see the ideals of our English forefathers before they left their Continental home to cross to the islands of Britain.

        2. Although this hero had distinguished himself by numerous feats of strength during his boyhood and early youth, it was as the deliverer of Hrothgar, king of Denmark, from the monster Grendel that he first gained wide renown. Grendel was half monster and half man, and had his abode in the fen-fastnesses in the vicinity of Hrothgar’s residence. Night after night he would steal into the king’s great palace called Heorot and slay sometimes as many as thirty at one time of the knights sleeping there.

        3. Beowulf put himself at the head of a selected band of warriors, went against the monster, and after a terrible fight slew it. The following night Grendel’s mother, a fiend scarcely less terrible than her son, carried off one of Hrothgar’s boldest thanes. Once more Beowulf went to the help of the Danish king, followed the she-monster to her lair at the bottom of a muddy lake in the midst of the swamp, and with his good sword Hrunting and his own muscular arms broke the sea-woman’s neck.

        4. Upon his return to his own country of the Geats, loaded with honors bestowed upon him by Hrothgar. Beowulf served the king of Geatland as the latter’s most trusted counsellor and champion. When, after many years, the king fell before an enemy, the Geats unanimously chose Beowulf for their new king. His fame as a warrior kept his country free from invasion, and his wisdom as a statesman increased its prosperity and happiness.

        5. In the fiftieth year of Beowulf’s reign, however, a great terror fell upon the land in the way of a monstrous fire-dragon, which flew forth by night from its den in the rocks, lighting up the blackness with its blazing breath, and burning houses and homesteads, men and cattle, with the flames from its mouth. When the news came to Beowulf that his people were suffering and dying, and that no warrior dared to risk his life in an effort to deliver the country from this deadly devastation, the aged king took up his shield and sword and went forth to his last fight. At the entrance of the dragon’s cave Beowulf raised his voice and shouted a furious defiance to the awesome guardian of the den. Roaring hideously and flapping his glowing wings together, the dragon rushed forth and half flew, half sprang, on Beowulf. Then began a fearful combat, which ended in Beowulf’s piercing the dragon’s scaly armor and inflicting a mortal wound, but alas! in himself being given a gash in the neck by his opponent’s poisoned fangs which resulted in his death. As he lay stretched on the ground, his head supported by Wiglaf, an honored warrior who had helped in the fight with the dragon, Beowulf roused himself to say, as he grasped Wiglaf’s hand:

        “Thou must now look to    the needs of the nation;

        Here dwell I no longer,    for Destiny calleth me!

        Bid thou my warriors    after my funeral pyre

        Build me a burial-cairn    high on the sea-cliff’s head;

        So that the seafarers    Beowulf’s Barrow

        Henceforth shall name it,    they who drive far and wide

        Over the mighty flood    their foamy keels.

        Thou art the last of all    the kindred of Wagmund!

        Wyrd has swept all my kin,    all the brave chiefs away!

        Now must I follow them!”

        6. These last words spoken, the king of the Geats, brave to seek danger and brave to look on death and Fate undaunted, fell back dead. According to his last desires, his followers gathered wood and piled it on the cliff-head. Upon this funeral pyre was laid Beowulf’s body and consumed to ashes. Then, upon the same cliff of Hronesness, was erected a huge burial cairn, widespread and lofty, to be known thereafter as Beowulf’s Barrow.

 

The Scandinavian warrior-hero Beowulf (fl. ca. 6th century CE) battles a fire-breathing dragon in this painting by J. R. Skelton (1908).  (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

Next week, I’ll more October Tales to share in part two of this three-part series! J

 

Merry Midterm Day!

 

Rob

 

Celebrating the Full Harvest Moon!

Hello everyone –

 

The Full Harvest Moon shone brightly over East Central Illinois last night, enchanting the landscape and atmosphere with its silvery-blue-gray light. Here are some lesser-known poems about the Moon to celebrate the Harvest Moon, which will rise over your horizon for the next several evenings…

 

“The Moon”

By Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894)

 

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

She shines on thieves on the garden wall,

On streets and fields and harbor 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.

 

“Eldorado”

By Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)

 

Gaily bedight, a gallant knight,

In sunshine and in shadow,

Had journeyed long, singing a song,

In search of Eldorado.

But he grew old — this knight so bold —

And o’er his heart a shadow —

Fell as he found no spot of ground

That looked like Eldorado.

And, as his strength failed him at length,

He met a pilgrim shadow —

“Shadow,” said he, “Where can it be —

This land of Eldorado?”

“Over the Mountains of the Moon,

Down the Valley of the Shadow,

Ride, boldly ride,” the shade replied, —

“If you seek for Eldorado!”

 

“The Harvest Moon”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

It is the Harvest Moon! On gilded vanes

And roofs of villages, on woodland crests

And their aerial neighborhoods of nests

Deserted, on the curtained window-panes

Of rooms where children sleep, on country lanes

And harvest-fields, its mystic splendor rests!

 

Gone are the birds that were our summer guests,

With the last sheaves return the laboring wains!

All things are symbols: the external shows

Of Nature have their image in the mind,

As flowers and fruits and falling of the leaves;

The song-birds leave us at the summer's close,

Only the empty nests are left behind,

And pipings of the quail among the sheaves.

 

“Moonrise”

By Bliss Carman (1861-1929)

 

At the end of the road through the wood

I see the great Moon rise.

The fields are flooded with shine,

And my soul with surmise.

 

What if that mystic orb

With her shadowy beams,

Should be the revealer at last

Of my darkest dreams!

 

What if this tender fire

In my heart’s deep hold

Should be wiser than all the lore

Of the sages of old!

 

Until next time – keep looking up! 😊

 

Rob

 

Fall Is (Almost) Here!

Hello everyone –

 

The September Equinox arrives on Tuesday, September 22^nd @ 8:31 AM (CDT), bringing with it the new season of autumn. Here is a quartet of classic poems to celebrate the arrival of autumn in the Midwest.

 

“Autumn” (1845)

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

Thou comest, Autumn, heralded by the rain,

With banners, by great gales incessant fanned,

Brighter than brightest silks of Samarkand,

And stately oxen harnessed to thy wain!

Thou standest, like imperial Charlemagne,

Upon thy bridge of gold; thy royal hand

Outstretched with benedictions o’er the land,

Blessing the farms through all thy vast domain!

Thy shield is the red Harvest Moon, suspended

So long beneath the heaven’s o’er-hanging eaves;

Thy steps are by the farmer’s prayers attended;

Like flames upon an altar shine the sheaves;

And, following thee, in thy ovation splendid,

Thine almoner, the wind, scatters the golden leaves!

 

“A Lyric of Autumn” (1904)

By William Stanley Braithwaite (1878-1962)

 

There is music in the meadows, in the air --

Autumn is here;

Skies are gray, but hearts are mellow,

Leaves are crimson, brown, and yellow;

Pines are soughing, birches stir,

And the Gypsy trail is fresh beneath the fir.

 

There is rhythm in the woods, and in the fields,

Nature yields:

And the harvest voices crying,

Blend with Autumn zephyrs sighing;

Tone and color, frost and fire,

Wings the nocturne Nature plays upon her lyre.

 

FROM THE POEMS OF H. P. LOVECRAFT (1890-1937)

[Editor’s Note: H. P. Lovecraft is regarded by literary scholars as the “Edgar Allan Poe” of the 20^th century. He was an imaginative author of “weird fiction” – a genre that combines science fiction, fantasy, and horror – and also an accomplished poet. His work has inspired, among others, the creators/writers of Babylon 5 and Doctor Who.]

 

Fungi from Yuggoth (A Sonnet Cycle)

By H. P. Lovecraft (1890-1937)

(Yuggoth is the name of Pluto in HPL’s “weird fiction” and poetic writings. Fomalhaut, known as the “Lonely Star,” is the only bright star in the southern sky on autumn evenings as seen from the Midwest. It is known to have a planetary system and two dim companion stars, too.)

 

Sonnet XIV: “Star-Winds”

It is a certain hour of twilight glooms,

Mostly in autumn, when the star-wind pours

Down hilltop streets, deserted out-of-doors,

But shewing early lamplight from snug rooms.

The dead leaves rush in strange, fantastic twists,

And chimney-smoke whirls round with alien grace,

Heeding geometries of outer space,

While Fomalhaut peers in through southward mists.

This is the hour when moonstruck poets know

What fungi sprout in Yuggoth, and what scents

And tints of flowers fill Nithon’s continents,

Such as in no poor earthly garden blow.

Yet for each dream these winds to us convey,

A dozen more of ours they sweep away!

 

“Fall Is Here” by Helen H. Moore

Fall is here. Another year is coming to an end.

Summer’s finished, summer’s gone, winter’s round the bend.

Fall is piles of crunchy leaves, orange, gold, and red.

Fall is sweaters with long sleeves and blankets on the bed.

Fall is football, fall is pumpkins, fall’s where summer ends;

And fall is coming back to school, and seeing all my friends.

 

 

Happy Fall, y’all! 😊

 

Rob

 

Happy Ancient Egyptian New Year on August 29th!

Hello everyone –

 

Since the ancient Egyptian New Year takes place tomorrow (Saturday, August 29), what better time could there be to reflect on the rich legacy of science, history, and culture that Egypt has bequeathed to us?

 

Gerald Massey (1828-1907), a Victorian Egyptologist, penned this tribute to the ancient Egyptians and their colossal achievements.

 

“Egypt” by Gerald Massey (1882)

Egypt!  How I have dwelt with you in dreams,

So long, so intimately, that it seems

As if you had borne me; though I could not know

It was so many thousand years ago!

And in my gropings darkly underground

The long-lost memory at last is found

Of motherhood – you mother of us all!

And to my fellowmen I must recall

The memory too; that common motherhood

May help to make the common brotherhood.

Egypt!  It lies there in the far-off past,

Opening with depths profound and growths as vast

As the great valley of Yosemite;

The birthplace out of darkness into day;

The shaping matrix of the human mind;

The cradle and the nursery of our kind.

This was the land created from the flood,

The land of Atum, made of the red mud,

Where Num sat in his Teba throned on high,

And saw the deluge once a year go by,

Each brimming with the blessing that it brought,

And by that waterway, in Egypt’s thought,

The gods descended; but they never hurled

The deluge that should desolate the world.

There the vast hewers of the early time

Built, as if that way they would surely climb

The heavens, and left their labors without name –

Colossal as their carelessness of fame –

Sole likeness of themselves – that heavenward

Forever look with statuesque regard,

As if some vision of the eternal grown

Petrific, was forever fixed in stone!

They watched the moon re-orb, the stars go round,

And drew the circle; thought’s primordial bound.

The heavens looked into them with living eyes

To kindle starry thoughts in other skies,

For us reflected in the image-scroll,

That night by night the stars for aye unroll.

The royal heads of language bow them down

To lay in Egypt’s lap each borrowed crown.

The glory of Greece was but the afterglow

Of her forgotten greatness lying low;

Her hieroglyphics buried dark as night,

Or coal deposits filled with future light,

Are mines of meaning; by their light we see

Through many an overshadowing mystery.

The nursing Nile is living Egypt still,

And as her lowlands with its freshness fill,

And heave with double-breasted bounteousness,

So doth the old hidden source of mind yet bless

The nations; secretly she brought to birth,

And Egypt still enriches all the earth.

 

And here’s a poem about my favorite legendary sage from ancient Egypt – Hermes Trismegistus!

 

“Hermes Trismegistus”

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)

 

Still through Egypt's desert places
Flows the lordly Nile,
From its banks the great stone faces
Gaze with patient smile.
Still the pyramids imperious
Pierce the cloudless skies,
And the Sphinx stares with mysterious,
Solemn, stony eyes.

But where are the old Egyptian
Demi-gods and kings?
Nothing left but an inscription
Graven on stones and rings.
Where are Helios and Hephaestus,
Gods of eldest eld?
Where is Hermes Trismegistus,
Who their secrets held?

Where are now the many hundred
Thousand books he wrote?
By the Thaumaturgists plundered,
Lost in lands remote;
In oblivion sunk forever,
As when o'er the land
Blows a storm-wind, in the river
Sinks the scattered sand.

Something unsubstantial, ghostly,
Seems this Theurgist,
In deep meditation mostly
Wrapped, as in a mist.
Vague, phantasmal, and unreal
To our thought he seems,
Walking in a world ideal,
In a land of dreams.

Was he one, or many, merging
Name and fame in one,
Like a stream, to which, converging
Many streamlets run?
Till, with gathered power proceeding,
Ampler sweep it takes,
Downward the sweet waters leading
From unnumbered lakes.

By the Nile I see him wandering,
Pausing now and then,
On the mystic union pondering
Between gods and men;
Half believing, wholly feeling,
With supreme delight,
How the gods, themselves concealing,
Lift men to their height.

Or in Thebes, the hundred-gated,
In the thoroughfare
Breathing, as if consecrated,
A diviner air;
And amid discordant noises,
In the jostling throng,
Hearing far, celestial voices
Of Olympian song.

Who shall call his dreams fallacious?
Who has searched or sought
All the unexplored and spacious
Universe of thought?
Who, in his own skill confiding,
Shall with rule and line
Mark the border-land dividing
Human and divine?

Trismegistus! three times greatest!
How thy name sublime
Has descended to this latest
Progeny of time!
Happy they whose written pages
Perish with their lives,
If amid the crumbling ages
Still their name survives!

Thine, O priest of Egypt, lately
Found I in the vast,
Weed-encumbered somber, stately,
Grave-yard of the Past;
And a presence moved before me
On that gloomy shore,
As a waft of wind, that o'er me
Breathed, and was no more.

 

Happy Egyptian New Year tomorrow! J

 

Rob