#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/10/26 -- Happy Halloween!

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 52: October 26, 2022

 

 

Happy Halloween & Happy 1^st Birthday to Winged Words Windsday!

 

“Dusk in Autumn”

By Sara Teasdale (1884-1933)

 

The Moon is like a scimitar,

A little silver scimitar,

A-drifting down the sky.

And near beside it is a star,

A timid twinkling golden star,

That watches like an eye.

 

And through the nursery window-pane

The witches have a fire again,

Just like the ones we make, —

And now I know they’re having tea,

I wish they’d give a cup to me,

With witches’ currant cake.

 

“A Forest Child”

By Madison Julius Cawein (1865-1914)

 

There is a place I search for still,

Sequestered as the world of dreams,

A bushy hollow, and a hill

That whispers with descending streams,

Cool, careless waters, wandering down,

Like Innocence who runs to town,

Leaving the wildwood and its dreams,

And prattling like the forest streams.

 

But still in dreams I meet again

The child who bound me, heart and hand,

And led me with a wildflower chain

Far from our world, to Faeryland:

Who made me see and made me know

The lovely Land of Long-Ago,

Leading me with her little hand

Into the world of Wonderland.

 

The years have passed: how far away

The day when there I met the child,

The little maid, who was a fay,

Whose eyes were dark and undefiled

And crystal as a woodland well,

That holds within its depths a spell,

Enchantments, featured like a child,

A dream, a poetry undefiled.

 

Around my heart she wrapped her hair,

And bound my soul with lips and eyes,

And led me to a cavern, where

Grey Legend dwelt in kingly guise,

Her kinsman, dreamier than the moon,

Who called her Fancy, read her rune,

And bade her with paternal eyes

Divest herself of her disguise.

 

And still I walk with her in dreams,

Though many years have passed since then,

And that high hill and its wild streams

Are lost as is that faery glen.

And as the years go swiftly by

I find it harder, when I try,

To meet with her, who led me then

Into the wildness of that glen.

 

“Halloween”

By John Kendrick Bangs (1862-1922)

 

The ghosts of all things past parade,

Emerging from the mist and shade

That hid them from our gaze,

And, full of song and ringing mirth,

In one glad moment of rebirth,

And again they walk the ways of earth

As in the ancient days.

 

The beacon light shines on the hill,

The will-o'-wisps the forests fill

With flashes filched from noon;

And witches on their broomsticks spry

Speed here and yonder in the sky,

And lift their strident voices high

Unto the Hunter's Moon.

 

The air resounds with tuneful notes

From myriads of straining throats,

All hailing Folly Queen;

So join the swelling choral throng,

Forget your sorrow and your wrong,

In one glad hour of joyous song

To honor Halloween!

 

“The Shadow on the Stone”

By Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)

 

I went by the Druid stone

That broods in the garden white and lone,  

And I stopped and looked at the shifting shadows  

That at some moments fall thereon

From the tree hard by with a rhythmic swing,  

And they shaped in my imagining

To the shade that a well-known head and shoulders  

Threw there when she was gardening.

 

I thought her behind my back,

Yea, her I long had learned to lack,

And I said: ‘I am sure you are standing behind me,  

Though how do you get into this old track?’  

And there was no sound but the fall of a leaf  

As a sad response; and to keep down grief

I would not turn my head to discover

That there was nothing in my belief.

 

Yet I wanted to look and see

That nobody stood at the back of me;

But I thought once more: ‘Nay, I’ll not unvision  

A shape which, somehow, there may be.’  

So I went on softly from the glade,

And left her behind me throwing her shade,  

As she were indeed an apparition—

My head unturned lest my dream should fade.

 

“The Kraken”

By Alfred, Lord Tennyson (1809-1892)

 

Below the thunders of the upper deep,

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

His ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep

The Kraken sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About his shadowy sides; above him swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

 

There hath he lain for ages, and will lie

Battening upon huge sea worms in his sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

In roaring he shall rise and on the surface die.

 

The constellation Cetus (the Sea-Dragon or Kraken) is visible from the American Midwest in the southern sky on autumn evenings. (Image Credit: Samuel Leigh [1824] – Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

 

#WingedWordsWindsday: 2022/10/19 -- Cyrus the Great

 WINGED WORDS WINDSDAY

Compiled by Rob Chappell (@RHCLambengolmo)

Vol. 1, No. 51: October 19, 2022

 

 

The International Day of Cyrus the Great: October 29

 

Editor’s Note

                This week, I’d like to call to your attention a holiday that is rising in popularity throughout the world, which occurs on Saturday. October 29^th: International Cyrus the Great Day, marking the date that King Cyrus and his Persian army took over the city of Babylon without meeting any resistance. King Cyrus was the founding monarch 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 4th century BCE, remarked in the Cyropaedia, 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!”

 

                King 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 basic human rights. These characteristics of his personality, and some of his heroic deeds, are recorded in the Cyrus Cylinder, a proclamation made after King Cyrus had conquered Babylon in 538 BCE. The text of this world-famous decree can be found at https://web.archive.org/web/20180311235804/https://www.livius.org/ct-cz/cyrus_I/cyrus_cylinder2.html. King Cyrus is also remembered as a heroic figure to this very day by Zoroastrians (his own community of faith), Jews, Christians, and Muslims – and his generous support for rebuilding the Jerusalem Temple is recounted in Ezra 1.

                And so, after all these preliminaries, I present this week’s poetical gem – 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 historical 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 see,

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.

 

Cyrus the Great enthroned at his royal court. Painting by Jean Fouquet (1420-1481). Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons

 

Edgar Allan Poe: A Trio of Numinous Poems

Hello everyone – 

It’s the month of October, a time for Otherworldly poems and tales, so this time, I’m sharing with you a trio of numinous poems by Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), who is well-known as a short-story writer in the genres of horror, science fiction, and fantasy – but he is not as well-known as a poet.

“Eldorado”

 

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!”

 

“Evening Star”

(Editor’s Note: Poe is referring here to the planet Venus, which can appear as either the Morning Star before dawn, or as the Evening Star at dusk, depending on the alignments of Earth’s and Venus’ orbits around the Sun at any given time.)

 

‘Twas noontide of summer,

And mid-time of night;

And stars, in their orbits,

Shone pale, through the light

Of the brighter, cold Moon,

'Mid planets her slaves,

Herself in the Heavens,

Her beam on the waves.

 

I gazed awhile

On her cold smile;

Too cold- too cold for me –

There passed, as a shroud,

A fleecy cloud,

And I turned away to thee,

Proud Evening Star,

In thy glory afar,

And dearer thy beam shall be;

For joy to my heart

Is the proud part

Thou bearest in Heaven at night,

And more I admire

Thy distant fire,

Than that colder, lowly light.

 

“Israfel”

“And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lute, and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”

[Editor’s Note: In Islamic lore, it is said that the Archangel Israfel will blow the Last Trumpet at the consummation of human history. This angel is known as Uriel in Jewish and Christian traditions, where he appears as an interpreting angel to Ezra the scribe in 2 Esdras 3-14, and as the heavenly herald who was sent to warn Noah of the impending deluge in 1 Enoch 10.)

 

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

“Whose heart-strings are a lute”;

None sing so wildly well

As the angel Israfel,

And the giddy stars (so legends tell),

Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

Of his voice, all mute.

 

Tottering above

In her highest noon,

The enamored moon

Blushes with love,

While, to listen, the red levin

(With the rapid Pleiads, even,

Which were seven,)

Pauses in Heaven.

 

And they say (the starry choir

And the other listening things)

That Israfeli’s fire

Is owing to that lyre

By which he sits and sings —

The trembling living wire

Of those unusual strings.

 

But the skies that angel trod,

Where deep thoughts are a duty,

Where Love’s a grown-up God,

Where the Houri glances are

Imbued with all the beauty

Which we worship in a star.

 

Therefore, thou art not wrong,

Israfeli, who despisest

An unimpassioned song;

To thee the laurels belong,

Best bard, because the wisest!

Merrily live, and long!

 

The ecstasies above

With thy burning measures suit —

Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

With the fervor of thy lute —

Well may the stars be mute!

 

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

Is a world of sweets and sours;

Our flowers are merely — flowers,

And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

Is the sunshine of ours.

 

If I could dwell

Where Israfel

Hath dwelt, and he where I,

He might not sing so wildly well

A mortal melody,

While a bolder note than this might swell

From my lyre within the sky.

 

Mosaic of the archangel Uriel (a/k/a Israfel) in St John’s Church, Boreham Road, Warminster, Wiltshire, England. (Image Credit: Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons)

Until next time –

Rob