Slouching Towards Bethlehem

  

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert.

A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?  (WB Yeats, 1939)

President Barack Obama's inner circle says he remains defiant and unwilling to face the seismic post-election reality.

 

Memorial: They also serve who only stand and wait

 On His Blindness

When I consider how my light is spent
Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest He returning chide,
"Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?"
I fondly ask. But Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need
Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.

John Milton

The Saga of Pink Floyd

Pink Floyd, the flamin’ pink flamingo bird,
he flew the coop today, to search the land.
Into the skies of blue, poor Floyd was lured,
enticed, away from friendly keepers hands.

Captivity he fled, to seek his kind,
compounding his own natural mistake.
How seldom has a bird been proved so blind –
he roosted on the marge of Great Salt Lake.

For birds of like, sad Floyd has waited long.
Alas, his flock in Africa abides.
He wastes his days composing lover’s songs,
high hopes on languishing good fortune ride.

Pink Floyd, how long his lakeside vigil keeps,
in unrequited love, the lone bird weeps.

(Pink Floyd is an African flamingo who escaped
from Tracy Aviary and is now occasionally seen
along the shores of Great Salt Lake.)

The Deepest Sorrow of All

I often sing in my mind the refrain of the Tabernacle Choir singing "David's Lamentation" by William Billings.

David the King was grieved and moved;
He went to his his chamber,
His chamber and wept;
And as he went,
He wept and said,
"O my son!
O my son!
Would to God I had died!
Would to God I had died for thee!
O Absalom,
My son,
My son!"

Vic'try that day was turned into mourning
When the people did see how the King grieved for his son.
He covered his face, and in a loud voice cried,
"O my son!
O my son!
Would to God I had died!
Would to God I had died for thee!
O Absalom,
My son,
My son!"

My longing and regret is that I was an absent father for such a long time, and such a critical period in the lives of my sons. I am sad that I missed so much, and feel guilty that I was not there for them. I weep to know of times they needed a dad, and I was not there, and my heart aches. I can never make up for times lost, but can try to make some recompense for the damage I caused, and hopefully they will accept some benign advice and well-intentioned guidance from admittedly foolish and crippled old man.

I am searching in the darkness for the light of inspiration. I feel a real sense of urgency about this, because I think nothing is more important, and my time seems very limited.

There also seems to be much in the way of opposition to overcome. Most of it seems to be of my own doing, unfortunately.

In the horror of nightmares, one recurs. I never understood quite what it meant to me until now. Perhaps it seems more significant, given the current circumstances with myself and my family.

I am dreaming that I am in the woods with a group of young boys. They seem to be looking to me as their leader. We are all more or less outfitted in uniform green.

Somewhere along the trail, one of the group discovers a box that is labelled with a very old label I recognize. It is old explosives, and I tell the boys I see that it is old and weeping, and very dangerous.


I tell them all about handling explosives and primer cord safely, and leave them to experiment with the case of the unstable stuff. As I walk away, suddenly there is a flash and a huge detonation, and many screaming voices and cries of distress. I turn to look, and see the broken and agonized, suffering and begging me, pleading for help! And above all, the living, broken survivors suffering in such pain, and askng me, why didn't I stop them? Why?

I will do what I can.
I will do what I can.

Sitting around weeping never solved anything.

Again, my sorrows are my own.

The Charge Of The Light Brigade

Alfred, Lord Tennyson 1854


Half a league half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred:
'Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns' he said:
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

'Forward, the Light Brigade!'
Was there a man dismay'd ?
Not tho' the soldier knew
Some one had blunder'd:
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do & die,
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volley'd & thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred.

Flash'd all their sabres bare,
Flash'd as they turn'd in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army while
All the world wonder'd:
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right thro' the line they broke;
Cossack & Russian
Reel'd from the sabre-stroke,
Shatter'd & sunder'd.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.

Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volley'd and thunder'd;
Storm'd at with shot and shell,
While horse & hero fell,
They that had fought so well
Came thro' the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of Hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.

When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wonder'd.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!