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Andrew Breitbart...American Hero
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14 comments:
What a completely fresh, powerful interpretation of a sunset, Z! Your vision is unique.
Your image is a little frightening, perhaps, but then Nature, while inspiringly beautiful, is a completely awe-inspiring, ego-dwarfing Thing when you stop to think about it, as you have done.
I love the strength in your perception.
FreeThinke
Our longtime friend and spiritual mentor Emily Dickinson, The Belle of Amherst, offers another view of a sunset–––a quieter, gentler, more reassuring event from mid-nineteenth-century New England:
She sweeps with many-colored Brooms–––
And leaves the Shreds behind–––
Oh Housewife of the Golden West–––
Come back, and dust the Pond!
You dropped a Purple Ravelling in
You dropped an Amber thread–––
And now you've littered all the East
With Duds of Emerald!
And still, she plies her spotted Brooms,
And still the Aprons fly,
Till Brooms fade softly into stars–––
And then I come away–––
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
What an unexpected last phrase on ED's poem. Thanks, FT. Very nice.
And, what a nice comment to my poem...it is a little frightening, I guess! It just hit me that it could be seen in that way!!?
Z,
Are you turning into a vampire?
beamish. yes.
ssshhhhh
Love that imagery, Z.
Again, I prefer tributes to Aurora... (again, it's a man thing... a prelude to "action")
Homer, "Iliad"... (Alexander Pope translation)
Now rosy Morn ascends the court of Jove,
Lifts up her light, and opens day above.
The king despatch'd his heralds with commands
To range the camp and summon all the bands:
The gathering hosts the monarch's word obey;
While to the fleet Atrides bends his way.
In his black ship the Pylian prince he found;
There calls a senate of the peers around:
The assembly placed, the king of men express'd
The counsels labouring in his artful breast.
;-)
Okay, JSG: It's a quick one, but....maybe this will make you (and Beamish?) happier.
Aurora, huh? (my mom's name is Aurora in Armenian....)
Aurora...here goes:
They unloosed her,
the whitening sky and the sea,
white arms became the morning light,
She smiled, growing brighter..
They let her go, to grasp the day
she left them both behind.
you happy now, oh besmirchers of the night?
Much!
And I don't besmirch the night, for I love all sublime "white armed" goddesses includimg Hera and other daughters of the moon and reflected light! Who else could conceal Nike (victory) from Zeus (Necessity's) sight? Man couldn't survive w/o them!
Hesiod, "Homerica"...
(ll. 17-20) Hail, white-armed goddess, bright Selene, mild,
bright-tressed queen! And now I will leave you and sing the
glories of men half-divine, whose deeds minstrels, the servants
of the Muses, celebrate with lovely lips. ;-)
...all hail Phoebus Apollo, god of the silver bow, and brother to Artemis, shooter of golden arrows!
...but as W.E.B DeBois would say in his "Souls of Black Folk", I do not slander dawn and the light of day, either...
Idle words; he might have borne his burden more bravely than we,--aye, and found it lighter too, some day; for surely, surely this is not the end. Surely there shall yet dawn some mighty morning to lift the Veil and set the prisoned free. Not for me,--I shall die in my bonds,--but for fresh young souls who have not known the night and waken to the morning; a morning when men ask of the workman, not "Is he white?" but "Can he work?" When men ask artists, not "Are they black?" but "Do they know?" Some morning this may be, long, long years to come. But now there wails, on that dark shore within the Veil, the same deep voice, THOU SHALT FOREGO! And all have I foregone at that command, and with small complaint,--all save that fair young form that lies so coldly wed with death in the nest I had builded.
If one must have gone, why not I? Why may I not rest me from this restlessness and sleep from this wide waking? Was not the world's alembic, Time, in his young hands, and is not my time waning? Are there so many workers in the vineyard that the fair promise of this little body could lightly be tossed away? The wretched of my race that line the alleys of the nation sit fatherless and unmothered; but Love sat beside his cradle, and in his ear Wisdom waited to speak. Perhaps now he knows the All-love, and needs not to be wise. Sleep, then, child,--sleep till I sleep and waken to a baby voice and the ceaseless patter of little feet--above the Veil.
Each deserve their rightful place in the pantheon.
I love that about the young death, JSG. Gorgeous poetry.
Hmmmm. Wow Z. Wowzers.
A sunset at sea has always made me feel a little odd.
I love seeing these facets of you.
Thanks for sharing, please keep it up.
thank you, Pinky...so kind of you. my husband is a sailor, or was, and FOG at sea freaks ME out..!! but, I do know what you mean. ...it always just did seem like the ocean swallowed that last little bit of light, you know?
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