Stuff and nonsense!

Lear

Born May 12th in 1812 Edward Lear he was.  Born in a war between Britain and France, born in a War with the USA when the guns roared out for all the day, and the great flag flew despite rockets and bombs, still flew in the morning inspiring a song that the Nation still sings today.

Famous for writing “nonsense poetry”.  But when I read his poems I see in them a pretty good description of democratic parliamentary business the world over.

“How wise we are! though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long, yet we never can think we were rash or wrong, while round in our Sieve we spin!”

Of course, one of the greatest features of democracy is that we can openly criticize our governments.  It is only in repressive regimes that the populace fear to criticize the glorious leader.

The Jumblies; by Edward Lear

They went to sea in a Sieve, they did,

in a Sieve they went to sea:

in spite of all their friends could say,

on a winter’s morn, on a stormy day,

in a Sieve they went to sea!

And when the Sieve turned round and round,

and every one cried, `You’ll all be drowned!’

they called aloud, `Our Sieve ain’t big,

but we don’t care a button! we don’t care a fig!

in a Sieve we’ll go to sea!’

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed away in a Sieve, they did,

in a Sieve they sailed so fast,

with only a beautiful pea-green veil

tied with a riband by way of a sail,

to a small tobacco-pipe mast;

and every one said, who saw them go,

`O won’t they be soon upset, you know!

For the sky is dark, and the voyage is long,

and happen what may, it’s extremely wrong

in a Sieve to sail so fast!’

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

The water it soon came in, it did,

the water it soon came in;

so to keep them dry, they wrapped their feet

in a pinky paper all folded neat,

and they fastened it down with a pin.

and they passed the night in a crockery-jar,

and each of them said, `How wise we are!

though the sky be dark, and the voyage be long,

yet we never can think we were rash or wrong,

while round in our Sieve we spin!’

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

And all night long they sailed away;

and when the sun went down,

they whistled and warbled a moony song

to the echoing sound of a coppery gong,

in the shade of the mountains brown.

`O Timballo! How happy we are,

when we live in a Sieve and a crockery-jar,

and all night long in the moonlight pale,

we sail away with a pea-green sail,

in the shade of the mountains brown!’

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

They sailed to the Western Sea, they did,

to a land all covered with trees,

and they bought an Owl, and a useful Cart,

and a pound of Rice, and a Cranberry Tart,

and a hive of silvery Bees.

And they bought a Pig, and some green Jack-daws,

and a lovely Monkey with lollipop paws,

and forty bottles of Ring-Bo-Ree,

and no end of Stilton Cheese.

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

And in twenty years they all came back,

In twenty years or more,

And every one said, `How tall they’ve grown!

for they’ve been to the Lakes, and the Torrible Zone,

and the hills of the Chankly Bore!’

And they drank their health, and gave them a feast

of dumplings made of beautiful yeast;

and every one said, `If we only live,

we too will go to sea in a Sieve,—

to the hills of the Chankly Bore!’

Far and few, far and few,

are the lands where the Jumblies live;

their heads are green, and their hands are blue,

and they went to sea in a Sieve.

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A hymn for the defeated

FraVIre

Better remembered as a sculptor William Wetmore Story was born on this day in 1819, so next year he will celebrate the 200th anniversary of his birth.  When I saw this poem it immediately called to mind the image above.  If ever a photograph can capture the moment when victory turned to defeat this is it.  Look at those French faces.

Io Victis :by William Wetmore Story

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,
the hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;
Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim
of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,
but the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,
who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,
from whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day
with the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,
with Death swooping down o’er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown,

while the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its paean for those who have won;
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun
glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,
in the shadow, with those who have fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there
chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,
hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, “They only the victory win,
who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight, if need be, to die.”

Speak, History! who are Life’s victors? Unroll thy long annals, and say,
are they those whom the world called the victors — who won the success of a day?
The martyrs, or Nero? Spartans, who fell at Thermopylae’s tryst,
or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

Arnemuiden

carrack_161043578_250

On this day in 1338 a French fleet of galleys attacked a flotilla of five large carracks out of England.  The English were carrying a large wool cargo purchased by Edward III to trade in the Netherlands.

England made good money in the middle ages exporting wool to Europe.  Flanders was the hub of cloth production in Northern Europe.  They converted the raw wool bales into fine cloth carrying out the carding, spinning, dyeing and weaving before passing it onwards for a hefty profit.

The huge French fleet swept down on the English at Arnemuiden in Flanders when they were unloading the cargo.

The English fought back bravely.  John Kingston, captain of the flagship, the Christopher, had three cannon and a handgun on board.  It is the first recorded use of artillery in a European naval battle.

Carracks are sailing vessels, easily outclassing galleys in the open sea, but no match for them in a tight harbour.  The huge French fleet overwhelmed the English, seized the ships and cargo and slaughtered the prisoners.  This was the opening naval action of the 100 years war.

 

Winding Wool: by Robert William Service

She’d bring to me a skein of wool
And beg me to hold out my hands;
so on my pipe I cease to pull
And watch her twine the shining strands
Into a ball so snug and neat,
Perchance a pair of socks to knit
To comfort my unworthy feet,
Or pullover my girth to fit.

As to the winding I would sway,
A poem in my head would sing,
And I would watch in dreamy way
The bright yarn swiftly slendering.
The best I liked were coloured strands
I let my pensive pipe grow cool . . .
Two active and two passive hands,
So busy wining shining wool.

Alas! Two of those hands are cold,
And in these days of wrath and wrong,
I am so wearyful and old,
I wonder if I’ve lived too long.
So in my loneliness I sit
And dream of sweet domestic rule . . .
When gentle women used to knit,
And men were happy winding wool.

Farewell to June

Royalty - Queen Elizabeth II State Visit to Ireland

May 2011 visit by Queen Elizabeth acknowledged at last Irelands WW1 legacy

As June 2017 draws to a close in broken showers and typical Irish summer weather I give you a poem about closing and June from the Poet of the Blackbirds.  By rights Ledwidge is a war poet, but it became unfashionable in post revolutionary Ireland to admit to a career in the British Military.  It took 100 years before the Irish nation could honour those Irish who responded to the call of John Redmond and spilled their blood on Flanders fields.

In a neat stroke of marketing Francis Ledwidge was cast as a poet of field and stream, of nature and songbirds.  His Lament for the Irish patriot Thomas MacDonagh was given pride of place while his poems from the French and Turkish trenches in which he fought were swept under the carpet.  Sadly even Poetry is not immune from politics.

June: by Francis Ledwidge

Broom out the floor now, lay the fender by,
and plant this bee-sucked bough of woodbine there,
and let the window down. The butterfly
floats in upon the sunbeam, and the fair
tanned face of June, the nomad gipsy, laughs
above her widespread wares, the while she tells
the farmers’ fortunes in the fields, and quaffs
the water from the spider-peopled wells.
The hedges are all drowned in green grass seas,
and bobbing poppies flare like Elmo’s light,
while siren-like the pollen-stained bees
drone in the clover depths.  And up the height
the cuckoo’s voice is hoarse and broke with joy.
And on the lowland crops the crows make raid,
nor fear the clappers of the farmer’s boy,
who sleeps, like drunken Noah, in the shade.
And loop this red rose in that hazel ring
that snares your little ear, for June is short
and we must joy in it and dance and sing,
and from her bounty draw her rosy worth.
Ay! soon the swallows will be flying south,
the wind wheel north to gather in the snow,
even the roses spilt on youth’s red mouth
will soon blow down the road all roses go.

Poxy King

charlesviii

Charles VIII of France, who was known by his subjects as Charles the Affable.  For me he is the Monarch of the morbus gallicus, the Sovereign of syphilis, the prince of pox.

In 1494 on the death of his relative he exercised his “right” to the throne of Naples.  In a swift campaign he swept through Italy and seized Naples (on this day in 1495) without a siege.   On the way through Italy his French and Swiss troops deported themselves in the usual manner of invading soldiers and raped their way down the peninsula.

The Italians rapidly formed the League of Venice, or the Holy League in 1495 with support mainly from the Neapolitans, Milan, Venice, the Papal States, the Holy Roman Empire and the Kingdoms of Spain.

There is a “pre-Columbian” theory that syphilis was present in Europe in some form before this point, but it is also known that it was in the New World.  The popular theory is that the Spanish contingent contained some soldiers and sailors who had been with Columbus in the new world.  Or perhaps they shared the same brothels as the Sailors of Columbus before they departed for Italy.

Whatever the origination there is no doubt that the full blown and virulent explosion of syphilis into Europe can be traced to the war in Naples.

In 1495 the French and Swiss were driven out of Italy by the Holy League, but they brought the disease with them.  They raped and pillaged their way back through Italy to France and then brought the disease home.  It spread throughout the world and was initially a highly virulent disease that resulted in early death.  This supports the theory that it came from the New World for the Europe of the 15th Century had no immunity to the illness.

England had the misfortune to join the League of Venice in 1496. By 1497 the disease had reached England and Scotland.

To this day it remains one of the most horrible and contagious diseases in existence.  Modern antibiotics kept it in check for the last 60 years, but now it is having a resurgence in a world of relaxed sexual mores, anti-biotic resistant strains and low immune conditions such as Aids.

The disease recedes in times of peace, but resurges every time there is a major war.  War is the friend of the Sexually Transmitted Disease.

Dedication

Trappist

In 1664 in La Trappe Abbey, Normandy, France, a religious reform movement began.  Monks who were dismayed by the relaxation of rules formed the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance.  The went back to the original monastic rules of St. Benedict.

The 48th Rule of St Benedict states ‘for then are they monks in truth, if they live by the work of their hands’ and the OCSO set out early on to devote themselves to excellence in what they did.  They made goods for sale, including cheese, bread, clothing etc.  They hit the jackpot when they moved into brewing.  OCSO is a bit of a mouthful, and so is the beer they made.  They rebranded as “Trappists” and continue to make some of the best beers in the world.

Last night I nipped over to the barn and bottled up my latest brew.  12 litres of trappist style beer.  A mahogany coloured ale, rich and malty, thick and foamy already even though it needs in bottle fermentation to condition it.  I can’t wait till it’s ready.

There is a lot to be said for dedication to excellence in your work.  Then again there’s more to be said for drinking beer.

Some people think Trappists take a vow of silence.  This is not true.  They just don’t waste words.  It has all been said, but there is plenty left to drink.

 

Beer; by Charles Bukowski

I don’t know how many bottles of beer
I have consumed while waiting for things
to get better
I dont know how much wine and whisky
and beer
mostly beer
I have consumed after
splits with women-
waiting for the phone to ring
waiting for the sound of footsteps,
and the phone to ring
waiting for the sounds of footsteps,
and the phone never rings
until much later
and the footsteps never arrive
until much later
when my stomach is coming up
out of my mouth
they arrive as fresh as spring flowers:
“what the hell have you done to yourself?
it will be 3 days before you can fuck me!”

the female is durable
she lives seven and one half years longer
than the male, and she drinks very little beer
because she knows its bad for the figure.

while we are going mad
they are out
dancing and laughing
with horney cowboys.

well, there’s beer
sacks and sacks of empty beer bottles
and when you pick one up
the bottle fall through the wet bottom
of the paper sack
rolling
clanking
spilling gray wet ash
and stale beer,
or the sacks fall over at 4 a.m.
in the morning
making the only sound in your life.

beer
rivers and seas of beer
the radio singing love songs
as the phone remains silent
and the walls stand
straight up and down
and beer is all there is.

Bjorking Brilliant

Iceland

Oh yeah, they all laughed in the office when I drew Iceland.  Euro 2016 championship sweepstakes and I got the team that was considered the total no-hoper.

Well who’s laughing now suckers?  Spain, Austria and Croatia all gone.  Ireland, heads high, good effort, but gone.  England….embarrassed, humiliated, shocked.  Brexit 2.

Iceland, a country with a population that could just about fill a decent stadium if you let them stand on the pitch.  Iceland, who have 21 players from their national league in their squad and only 2 players who made it on the international stage.

Iceland may get no further in the competition, but they have been worth every penny of my entry fee.  Come on the land of fire and ice.  Or ice and fire if you are a Game of Thrones fan.  July 3rd we take on the French on their own doorstep.  L’hiver arrive!

Fire and Ice; by Robert Frost

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if it had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.