prolost

vivere est cogitare

Tag: poetry

july 5

God speed the year of jubilee
The wide world o’er!
When from their galling chains set free,
Th’ oppress’d shall vilely bend the knee,
And wear the yoke of tyranny
Like brutes no more.
That year will come, and freedom’s reign,
To man his plundered rights again
Restore.

God speed the day when human blood
Shall cease to flow!
In every clime be understood,
The claims of human brotherhood,
And each return for evil, good,
Not blow for blow;
That day will come all feuds to end,
And change into a faithful friend
Each foe.

God speed the hour, the glorious hour,
When none on earth
Shall exercise a lordly power,
Nor in a tyrant’s presence cower;
But to all manhood’s stature tower,
By equal birth!
That hour will come, to each, to all,
And from his Prison-house, to thrall
Go forth.

Until that year, day, hour, arrive,
With head, and heart, and hand I’ll strive,
To break the rod, and rend the gyve,
The spoiler of his prey deprive –
So witness Heaven!
And never from my chosen post,
Whate’er the peril or the cost,
Be driven.

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hocus focus

arm is moved
hat is different
leaf is missing
foot is moved
skirt is shorter
sleeve is shorter
summer is shorter
temper is shorter
something is different
heart on sleeve is missing
heart fell off shorter sleeve
chest is different
chest is emptier
smile is smaller
hand is missing
john is patrick
hot is colder
time is longer
life is shorter
young is older
you are missing
you are moved
i am not
everything is different

by Rebecca Hoogs (rendered as faithfully as possible from a recording)

stopping by woods on a snowy evening

The lack of awareness or respect for the arts amongst youth of our day is rather staggering and terribly depressing. Last night, Marion Oliver McCaw Hall was nearly full of mostly affluent, mostly white, and mostly middle-aged or older patrons of Seattle Opera. Yet while Nuccia Focile and Antonello Palombi related Leoncavallo’s tragic tale of Canio and Nedda (and her lover Silvio), thousands of young Seattleites sat no more than a few hundred yards away, packed into Key Arena to watch a terrible basketball team (owned by a terrible businessman from Oklahoma) lose another terrible game.

And even in Vermont’s Middlebury, home to one of the nation’s leading liberal arts colleges and a tremendously prestigious writers’ conference, and a region inexorably tied to the poet Robert Frost, things like this happen.

Finally, through the state police barracks, where Sergeant Hodsden had more than two dozen young people photographed, fingerprinted and cited for unlawful trespass, with a few also cited for unlawful mischief. He cannot shake the indifference of one youth in particular, who asked whether he could use his mug shot on his Facebook page.

In conveying his disgust over this communal breach, the police sergeant employed the Frostian technique of repetition.

“They should have known,” he said. “They should have known.”

That’s pretty sick. Seriously, kids these days….