Showing posts with label love. Show all posts
Showing posts with label love. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 20, 2018

Voices of the Future

If the kids can see the future
Can you see the future too?
If the kids can be the future
Then what are we to do -
But stand up with our voices
And do all we can today,
To remember their tomorrows,
And not let their lives be swept away.

A.J. Ponder

There are so many issues that affect the children of today, and the world tomorrow. We need to be doing something about them now. And that's not necessarily big things. Every little thing will help, from not using a plastic bag, to having sensible gun control legislation, sensible legislation of drugs,  improving voting rights... The list is endless. Individually we can't do everything. But if we can remember one thing, I'd say it should be love and compassion for our fellow human beings, and holding out an open hand in times of trouble.

But whatever we do, we must not let the next generations' voices be silenced -


"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that." MLK

Best wishes to you all
A.J. 

Tuesday, October 31, 2017

George Gordon, Lord Byron,“Darkness” (1816) is the holloween poem this year

I had a dream, which was not all a dream.
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space,
Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth
Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air;
Morn came, and went - and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires - and the thrones,
The palaces of crowned kings - the huts,
The habitations of all things which dwell,
Were burnt for beacons; cities were consumed,
And men were gathered round their blazing homes
To look once more into each other's face;
Happy were those who dwelt within the eye
Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch:
A fearful hope was all the world contain'd;
Forests were set on fire - but hour by hour
They fell and faded - and the crackling trunks
Extinguish'd with a crash - and all was black.
The brows of men by the despairing light
Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits
The flashes fell upon them; some lay down
And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest
Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smiled;
And others hurried to and fro, and fed
Their funeral piles with fuel, and looked up
With mad disquietude on the dull sky,
The pall of a past world; and then again
With curses cast them down upon the dust,
And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: The wild birds shriek'd,
And, terrified, did flutter on the ground,
And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes
Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd
And twined themselves among the multitude,
Hissing, but stingless - they were slain for food:
And War, which for a moment was no more,
Did glut himself again; - a meal was bought
With blood, and each sate sullenly apart
Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left;
All earth was but one thought - and that was death,
Immediate and inglorious; and the pang
Of famine fed upon all entrails - men
Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh;
The meagre by the meagre were devoured,
Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one,
And he was faithful to a corse, and kept
The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay,
Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead
Lured their lank jaws; himself sought out no food,
But with a piteous and perpetual moan,
And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand
Which answered not with a caress - he died.
The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two
Of an enormous city did survive,
And they were enemies; they met beside
The dying embers of an alter-place,
Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things
For an unholy usage; they raked up,
And shivering scraped with their cold skeleton hands
The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath
Blew for a little life, and made a flame
Which was a mockery; then they lifted up
Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld
Each other's aspects - saw, and shriek'd, and died -
Even of their mutual hideousness they died,
Unknowing who he was upon whose brow
Famine had written Fiend. The world was void,
The populous and the powerful -was a lump,
Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-
A lump of death - a chaos of hard clay.
The rivers, lakes, and ocean all stood still,
And nothing stirred within their silent depths;
Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea,
And their masts fell down piecemeal; as they dropp'd
They slept on the abyss without a surge-
The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave,
The moon their mistress had expired before;
The winds were withered in the stagnant air,
And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need
Of aid from them - She was the universe.

I was instructed in no uncertain terms that because it was halloween this Tuesday, that it was essential to post an apropriately themed piece.
I can't help but think a modern version would have the sun burning. But that would totally ruin the halloween spirit ;)

Have a great week everyone, I hope you have a great week, and enjoy the fun of All Hallows Eve - or manage to avoid it - whichever you prefer :)

A.J.

Tuesday, December 2, 2014

Tuesday Poem: How do I love thee? (Sonnet 43, 1845) Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 - 1861

Another poem from Elizabeth Barrett Browning, campaigner for human rights - including the abolition of slavery and improving child labour laws. The first poem I posted of hers is The Cry of the Children, a truly remarkable piece showing the horror of the conditions many children faced at the time, while retaining a lyricism and beauty around the core of unease.

On the other hand this is a love poem, with an inner core of strength, and a sense of the inevitable, possibly obtained from having battled illness most of her life.

Enjoy!


How do I love thee? (Sonnet 43, 1845)  Elizabeth Barrett Browning

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints – I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! – and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.



For more great poetry, check out the Tuesday poem hub here.








Tuesday, November 25, 2014

Tuesday Poem: Ursula Le Guin's acceptance speech for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters


This carefully crafted piece may not be everyone's idea of a poem, but I believe it is, it is rebellious, hopeful, generous, and inimicable.  So without more ado - Ursula Le Guin's acceptance speech for the National Book Foundation's Medal for Distinguished Contribution to American Letters. The transcript is below - but hearing it - that is the thing.



"Thank you Neil, and to the givers of this beautiful reward, my thanks from the heart. My family, my agent, editors, know that my being here is their doing as well as mine, and that the beautiful reward is theirs as much as mine. And I rejoice at accepting it for, and sharing it with, all the writers who were excluded from literature for so long, my fellow authors of fantasy and science fiction—writers of the imagination, who for the last 50 years watched the beautiful rewards go to the so-called realists.

I think hard times are coming when we will be wanting the voices of writers who can see alternatives to how we live now, and can see through our fear-stricken society and its obsessive technologies to other ways of being - and even imagine some real grounds for hope. We will need writers who can remember freedom. Poets, visionaries - the realists of a larger reality.

Right now I think we need writers who know the difference between the production of a market commodity and the practice of an art. Developing written material to suit sales strategies in order to maximize corporate profit and advertising revenue is not quite the same thing as responsible book publishing or authorship. (Thank you, brave applauders.) Yet I see sales departments given control over editorial, I see my own publishers in a silly panic of ignorance and greed, charging public libraries for an ebook six or seven times more than they charge customers. We just saw a profiteer try to punish a publisher for disobedience and writers threatened by corporate fatwa, and I see a lot of us, the producers who write the books, and make the books, accepting this. Letting commodity profiteers sell us like deodorant, and tell us what to publish and what to write. Well... [I love you, Ursula!]  (I love you too, darling.) ...books, you know, they’re not just commodities. The profit motive often is in conflict with the aims of art. We live in capitalism. Its power seems inescapable - so did the divine right of kings. Any human power can be resisted and changed by human beings. Resistance and change often begin in art, and very often in our art - the art of words.

I have had a long career and a good one. In good company. Now here, at the end of it, I really don’t want to watch American literature get sold down the river. We who live by writing and publishing want, and should demand, our fair share of the proceeds. But the name of our beautiful reward is not profit. Its name is freedom.
Thank you.

Have a great week - and for more poetry the Tuesday Poem hub is always full of surprises.