To A Mouse

Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim’rous beastie,
O, what a panic’s in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty,
Wi’ bickering brattle!
I wad be laith to rin an’ chase thee,
Wi’ murd’ring pattle!

I’m truly sorry Man’s dominion
Has broken Nature’s social union,
An’ justifies that ill opinion,
Which makes thee startle,
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion,
An’ fellow-mortal!

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!
A daimen-icker in a thrave ‘S a sma’ request:
I’ll get a blessin wi’ the lave,
An’ never miss’t!

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
It’s silly wa’s the win’s are strewin!
An’ naething, now, to big a new ane,
O’ foggage green!
An’ bleak December’s winds ensuin,
Baith snell an’ keen!

Thou saw the fields laid bare an’ wast,
An’ weary Winter comin fast,
An’ cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro’ thy cell.

That wee-bit heap o’ leaves an’ stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou’s turn’d out, for a’ thy trouble,
But house or hald.
To thole the Winter’s sleety dribble,
An’ cranreuch cauld!

But Mousie, thou are no thy-lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men,
Gang aft agley,
An’ lea’e us nought but grief an’ pain,
For promis’d joy!

Still, thou art blest, compar’d wi’ me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But Och! I backward cast my e’e,
On prospects drear!
An’ forward, tho’ I canna see,
I guess an’ fear!

I don’t care if it is only two words, don’t touch them.

Holy Barackshit! This has to be one of the most bizarre concepts I’ve ever seen…

Cracked’s 5 Insane Barack Obama Comic Books You Won’t Believe Are Real.

A comic book about Barack Obama?!?

Is casting Barack as a comic book superhero the stupidest way you’ve seen yet to glorify this complete doofus of a president?

They say Thursday is the most productive day of the week, but I don’t see how. After the requisite morning news roundup I started reading poetry, which is a superb way to cleanse the mental palate. Dylan Thomas just suffered through another dead birthday, so I started there… and happened upon an old friend, Charles Bukowski.

Wes introduced us sometime in the 80′s and I fell instantly in love with the rough, drunk asshole. That’s okay; he knew he was an asshole. Used to have some of his books but got rid of them in a fit of pique, which is usually how I divest myself of things. Whether sent on to my friend or sold on eBay, they are gone. It’s no matter, since everything is available online now.

Bukowski lived from 1920 to 1994. He existed, created, lamented, writhed within the confines of his creativity. I wouldn’t say he was obsessed with death, but it was a common theme. The basest of our instincts, the ills of humanity all fodder. Regardless of that, when asked in a 1963 interview if one should abandon hope altogether, he replied “OK, well, I would say no. We do not abandon ship. I say, as corny as it may sound, through the strength and spirit and fire and dare and gamble of a few men in a few ways we can save the carcass of humanity from drowning. No light goes out until it goes out. Let’s fight as men, not rats. Period. No further addition.”

The History Of One Tough Motherfucker
he came to the door one night wet thin beaten and
terrorized
a white cross-eyed tailless cat
I took him in and fed him and he stayed
grew to trust me until a friend drove up the driveway
and ran him over
I took what was left to a vet who said,”not much
chance…give him these pills…his backbone
is crushed, but is was crushed before and somehow
mended, if he lives he’ll never walk, look at
these x-rays, he’s been shot, look here, the pellets
are still there…also, he once had a tail, somebody
cut it off…”
I took the cat back, it was a hot summer, one of the
hottest in decades, I put him on the bathroom
floor, gave him water and pills, he wouldn’t eat, he
wouldn’t touch the water, I dipped my finger into it
and wet his mouth and I talked to him, I didn’t go any-
where, I put in a lot of bathroom time and talked to
him and gently touched him and he looked back at
me with those pale blue crossed eyes and as the days went
by he made his first move
dragging himself forward by his front legs
(the rear ones wouldn’t work)
he made it to the litter box
crawled over and in,
it was like the trumpet of possible victory
blowing in that bathroom and into the city, I
related to that cat-I’d had it bad, not that
bad but bad enough
one morning he got up, stood up, fell back down and
just looked at me.
“you can make it,” I said to him.
he kept trying, getting up falling down, finally
he walked a few steps, he was like a drunk, the
rear legs just didn’t want to do it and he fell again, rested,
then got up.
you know the rest: now he’s better than ever, cross-eyed
almost toothless, but the grace is back, and that look in
his eyes never left…
and now sometimes I’m interviewed, they want to hear about
life and literature and I get drunk and hold up my cross-eyed,
shot, runover de-tailed cat and I say,”look, look
at this!”
but they don’t understand, they say something like,”you
say you’ve been influenced by Celine?”
“no,” I hold the cat up,”by what happens, by
things like this, by this, by this!”
I shake the cat, hold him up in
the smoky and drunken light, he’s relaxed he knows…
it’s then that the interviews end
although I am proud sometimes when I see the pictures
later and there I am and there is the cat and we are photo-
graphed together.
he too knows it’s bullshit but that somehow it all helps.

I finally finished Sharon Kay Penman’s When Christ and His Saints Slept.
It’s a large, complex book, this first of the Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine trilogy and covers the years from 1135 to 1154. Luckily Penman made both the characters and story quite accessible to the reader.

From the author’s website:

In When Christ and His Saints Slept, the newest addition to her highly acclaimed novels of the middle ages, and the first of a trilogy that will tell the story of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine, master storyteller and historian Sharon Kay Penman illuminates one of the less-known but fascinating periods of English history. It begins with the death of King Henry I, son of William the Conqueror and father of Maude, his only living legitimate offspring.

Penman portrays Maude as a strong-willed woman, fearless, incapable of obeisance, determined to wield sovereign power at a time when the primary function of women of royalty, no matter how intelligent or capable, was as dynastic pawns. Having endured two forced marriages, she was intent on seizing control of her destiny and of the crown she claimed was hers by birthright. Still, she was thwarted, not only by men lusting for power but by men fearful of the power of women.

Each side had its brief triumphs, its calamitous losses, its betrayals by seemingly loyal followers. But the greater betrayal was of the country itself, as warring armies cut bloody swaths the length and breadth of England and as first one side and then the other seized advantage, while the people themselves were held hostage, caring little who should wear the crown, yearning only for peace.

Maude and Stephen took center stage during these tumultuous years, but the supporting cast was an equally demanding and often dangerous lot: Geoffrey of Anjou, Maude’s despised second husband, unfaithful and unpredictable; the hot-headed Earl of Chester, who swung like a weathercock in a high wind; Stephen’s brother Henry, Bishop of Winchester, a power broker for both sides and trusted by neither. Of all the high-stakes players, only Robert of Gloucester, Maude’s bastard half-brother, emerged with his honor intact and was, perhaps, the only one among them who might have been worthy of the crown.

And then there was Henry, Maude’s son and heir. As Stephen and Maude battled each other to a war-weary draw, it was Henry who became the ultimate victor. Intelligent, energetic, groomed from birth for kingship, he wanted two things above all else: the English crown and Eleanor of Aquitaine, wife of Louis, the French king. And indeed, he won both.

One of the things I admired most about Penman’s portrayal of Matilda (Maude) and Stephen was their humanity. She painted neither of them as especially evil or good, they were simply people caught in a war of their own making. Penman did a credible job of advancing the characters development and portrayed a world in which individual victories and defeats, over time, fundamentally changed them as people. The reader could only wish that they’d had the requisite maturity and wisdom at the outset.

Every time I paused to check on historical accuracy, she was right – I never caught her misleading the reader with her own embellishments, aside from the obvious- details about their daily life or small character traits.

Book 2 of the trilogy, Time and Chance, has already been purchased and is simply awaiting my attention. The only drawback might be that history has already been written; Henry II and Eleanor’s fate is known. But as they say, it’s all in the journey.

Archy the cockroach, once a ‘vers libre bard’ and his feline friend Mehitabel, who claims to be a reincarnation of Cleopatra, were unlikely childhood friends of mine.

Mrs. Strauss* made our introductions and would even recite their exploits if the mood took her. So when I ran across the books by Don Marquis at Amazon I bought a copy of the original, based on his newspaper column. After 40 years I once more delighted in this particular entry last night.

archy interviews a pharaoh

By Don Marquis, in “archy and mehitabel,” 1927

boss i went
and interviewed the mummy
of the egyptian pharaoh
in the metropolitan museum
as you bade me to do

what ho
my regal leatherface
says i

greetings
little scatter footed
scarab
says he

kingly has been
says i
what was your ambition
when you had any

insignificant
and journalistic insect
says the royal crackling
in my tender prime
i was too dignified
to have anything as vulgar
as ambition
the ra ra boys
in the seti set
were too haughty
to be ambitious
we used to spend our time
feeding the ibises
and ordering
pyramids sent home to try on
but if i had my life
to live over again
i would give dignity
the regal razz
and hire myself out
to work in a brewery

old tan and tarry
says i
i detect in your speech
the overtones
of melancholy

yes i am sad
says the majestic mackerel
i am as sad
as the song
of a soudanese jackal
who is wailing for the blood red
he cannot reach and rip

on what are you brooding
with such a wistful
wishfulness
there in the silences
confide in me
my perial pretzel
says i

i brood on beer
my scampering whiffle snoot
on beer says he

my sympathies
are with your royal
dryness says i

my little pest
says he
you must be respectful
in the presence
of a mighty desolation
little archy
forty centuries of thirst
look down upon you

oh by isis
and by osiris
says the princely raisin
and by pish and phthush and phthah
by the sacred book perembru
and all the gods
that rule from the upper
cataract of the nile
to the delta of the duodenum
i am dry
i am as dry
as the next morning mouth
of a dissipated desert
as dry as the hoofs
of the camels of timbuctoo
little fussy face
i am as dry as the heart
of a sand storm
at high noon in hell
i have been lying here
and there
for four thousand years
with silicon in my esophagus
as gravel in my gizzard
thinking
thinking
thinking
of beer

divine drouth
says i
imperial fritter
continue to think
there is no law against
that in this country
old salt codfish
if you keep quiet about it
not yet

what country is this
asks the poor prune

my reverend juicelessness
this is a beerless country
says i

well well said the royal
desiccation
my political opponents back home
always maintained
that i would wind up in hell
and it seems they had the right dope

and with these hopeless words
the unfortunate residuum
gave a great cough of despair
and turned to dust and debris
right in my face
it being the only time
i ever actually saw anybody
put the cough
into sarcophagus

dear boss as i scurry about
i hear of a great many
tragedies in our midsts
personally i yearn
for some dear friend to pass over
and leave to me
a boot legacy
yours for the second coming
of gambrinus

archy

Archy doesn’t have the strength to make capitals…

*The post in which I remember my mentor Mrs. Strauss was lost with the rest of my archives.

Owing to Patti’s generosity I’m currently reading Exodus by Leon Uris.

Exodus by American novelist Leon Uris is about the founding of the State of Israel. Published in 1958, it is based on the name of the 1947 immigration ship Exodus.

In 1956, Uris covered the Arab-Israeli fighting as a war correspondent. Two years later, Exodus was published by Doubleday. Exodus became an international publishing phenomenon, the biggest bestseller in the United States since Gone with the Wind. Uris had sold the film rights in advance.

The story unfolds with the protagonist, Ari Ben Canaan, hatching a plot to transport Jewish refugees from a British detention camp in Cyprus to Palestine. The operation is carried out under the auspices of the Mossad Le’aliyah Bet. The book then goes on to trace the histories of the various main characters and the ties of their personal lives to the birth of the new Jewish state.

A film based on the novel was directed by Otto Preminger in 1960 featuring Paul Newman as Ari Ben Canaan. It focused mainly on the escape from Cyprus and subsequent events in Palestine.

The old adage ‘the more I learn the more I realize how little I actually know’ applies here.

Only vaguely aware of the book Exodus, I certainly didn’t know that it told the true story of the British run Jewish detention camps in Cyprus post WWII.

Friends of Cyprus has more:

We came to learn that the British authorities held Jewish “illegal” immigrants in detention camps on Cyprus from 1946 to 1949. This policy was part of an effort to deter Jewish immigration to Palestine, under British control, as was Cyprus. During that time over 53,000 Jews passed through the barbed wire camps, held against their will, with a quota of only 1,500 per month permitted to leave Cyprus for Palestine.

The Jews considered illegal immigrants by the British were intercepted by British naval forces and turned back from the shores of Palestine and escorted to Cyprus or temporarily imprisoned in Palestine (Atlit) before being deposited in the camps of Cyprus.

The two major camps were Caraolos, north of Famagusta, and in Dekhelia, outside of Larnaca. The compounds stretched for several miles.

Anecdotes tell of Cypriots working in the camps, smuggling in potatoes to the undernourished internees, assisting in escapes from the camps through underground tunnels. Local Cypriots from laborers to doctors worked in the camps. Translators were British employees. The Jews were prisoners living in overcrowded tents and barracks under harsh conditions with inadequate food supply. The barbed wire camp was also a vibrant community with marriages, illness, deaths, and celebrations. 2,200 children were born in the camps during this period – pregnancy moved the family up on the Palestine waiting list.

Mind boggling. So some Jews went from the hellholes of German concentration camps to the hellholes of British camps…

The book is well written, the characters believable and the story engrossing; I highly recommend it, even though I’m not even halfway through yet… and who knows what else I’ll learn along the way…?

I finished Velociman’s book yesterday. It comes off as vaguely autobiographical, so I’d love to see an author Q&A sometime in the near future.
Here’s my take…

Often crude and frequently funny, A Trip of Goats is about the human condition, in all its humble glory and pathetic excess, seen through the eyes of an innocent. Jule is just old enough to begin to understand that both can exist in people; the sacred and the profane. We take this ride of discovery with him, always on the periphery of the other characters, always at danger of perhaps learning too much about them. With Jule we learn that human beings are flawed creatures and that personal responsibility rules our actions.
And then some are just criminally insane.

The state of Georgia looms as a larger than life character. She provides shelter and entertainment for the cast of this southern passion play, never intruding yet always there, like a mother who would take them all to her bosom in time of need.

One need not be southern to enjoy this book, but possibly to fully appreciate it… because, dear friend, the South is just different.

A final caveat: This is not Velociman’s blog. It is not a series of flashes of brilliance. Some have shown irritation with this fact, but the book… is a book. Maybe Kim can bind the collected posts of his blog and sell that, but he authored a different work altogether here and it stands on its own merit.

Not a bad idea for VMan. If HST could sell books full of vitriolic letters containing only a few lines [to wit: "Ralph, you cocksucker! Come to Colorado!"] then Kim’s ‘letters’ should sell like hotcakes.

I enjoyed the book and actually laughed out loud a few times. I bought the softcover, but a downloaded version is only $5 and well worth the money!