A milestone

Well, today was an (almost) first for me. I almost cried in a movie. I've never cried in a book or movie before, but I welled up in Hachi: A Dog's Tale. There's not really much to say about that. I guess being a farm girl I learned to love animals. I had a dog; she was perfect. I bawled like a baby when she died. I actually will admit to still crying sometimes over that dog. Finally, I feel like I am ready to give my heart to a new puppy. Unfortunately, living arrangements and lack of means don't allow me to act on this instinct. I wish that everyone could know the love a good dog gives. Well this is rather ramble-y. Anyway, I thought I would find a poem about dogs to post, and I did. "The Best Place to Bury a Dog" is touching. Maybe you aren't like me and don't connect to animals more than people. If so, just ignore this rambling of a devoted animal lover. That shouldn't be too hard to do. But if, like me, you have been changed and tempered by the loyalty, love, and absolute trust that only a dog can give, I hope you find solace in these words.

THE BEST PLACE TO BURY A DOG

"There is one best place to bury a dog.
"If you bury him in this spot, he will
come to you when you call - come to you
over the grim, dim frontier of death,
and down the well-remembered path,
and to your side again.

"And though you call a dozen living
dogs to heel, they shall not growl at
him, nor resent his coming,
for he belongs there.

"People may scoff at you, who see
no lightest blade of grass bent by his
footfall, who hear no whimper, people
who may never really have had a dog.
Smile at them, for you shall know
something that is hidden from them,
and which is well worth the knowing.

"The one best place to bury a good
dog is in the heart of his master."

--- Ben Hur Lampman ---
from the Portland Oregonian Sept. 11, 1925
[AKA "If A Dog Be Well Remembered"]
[AKA "Where TO Bury A Dog"]

RIP Kaya, You are always in my heart.

It's three a.m. I must be lonely

Okay, technically, it's not three a.m. It was that accursed hour four hours ago when I was up and thinking what delightfully witty post I could come up with for today. Then I got sidetracked by Netflix instant watch, and, whoa! look at the time. I'm somewhat wishing I had my morning back (Mainly so I could sleep through it). So, not actually coming up with something witty at three this morning, I have decided to cop out a bit. I will simply use a short poem entitled "Woman" by Eaton Stannard Barrett.

There really isn't that much to find about good ol' Eaton. Most of what is online is about his book The Heroine, which sounds rather delightful, and I do believe I must go out and find a copy. He was a satirist born in Ireland. Actually, the lines that are on Thomas Moore's daughter's headstone, which are usually attributed to Joseph Atkinson, are by Barrett. So I guess that gives me double points for tying two posts (and poets) together (sort of). I found "Woman" in the same Book of Irish Verse that I found "All That's Bright Must Fade".

Woman

Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
Not she denied Him with unholy tongue;
She, while apostles shrank, could dangers brave,
Last at the cross and earliest at the grave.

Taking a detour

Today, instead of posting something by a revolutionary poet, I thought I would try something a little different. I thought I would post something I wrote. Since, not a lot of people read my blog, this is the perfect time for me to put down something of my own. This way I won't get too scared by all the criticism. Maybe I can make this a bit of a tradition. Once a week I could put out something of my own. Please don't run, gentle reader, I promise I will put out good poetry for the rest of the week!

Were I a sparrow on the breeze
With just my own and mine to please
I would not tarry nor would I wait
For life's long journey to mark my fate
I would embark on summer's eve
To make my fortune among the leaves

Were I a leaf upon a tree
With no ears to hear nor eyes to see
I would be blown from north to south
Upon a fancy and turned about
I'd have no choices of my own to make
I would exist for life's own sake

But I am not so fortune free
To live my life upon a tree
Nor wing about without a care
You will not find my temper there
But this my happiness I'll own
That I am I and I alone

Of ships and shoes and sealing wax

I was 14, I believe, when I fell thoroughly in love with the Spanish language. I had taken beginning Spanish courses in middle school, but it wasn't until high school and getting into more advanced courses that I realized that I needed this to be a part of my life. It sounds slightly melodramatic, but it opened up whole new worlds of peoples and literature and culture that I had never known before. I love the challenge of learning something new and different.

What started in high school only grew in college. I had an amazing professor, and I learned so much about the world that I would never have known otherwise. He introduced his class to Hispanic music and poetry and life in general, and I will always be grateful for that. I wish I could have found the poem he first introduced us to, since it is one of my favorites. However, it's been three years, and I don't remember the author's name. So, I had to make do with finding a new poem and poet. I am glad I did. "Canción: Si mi voz muriera en tierra" (Song: If my voice dies on land) is a beautiful and haunting piece by Rafael Alberti.

Rafael Alberti is thought of today as one of the most influential modern Spanish poets. He was a part of the group of poets called "Generation of 1927"; a group that brought modern Spanish poetry back to the quality of the 16th century. Continuing with my apparent fixation on politically involved poets, Alberti became very involved in politics and in 1934 began publishing the revolutionary journal Octubre with his wife María Teresa León. They stayed in Spain throughout almost all of the Spanish Civil War until, after the fall of Madrid, they were evacuated. He made friends with several other famous expatriates. My own favorites from among them were Pablo Picasso, Boris Pasternak (author of Dr. Zhivago), and Sergei Prokofiev (composer best known for Peter and the Wolf and Romeo and Juliet). Finally, after nearly 40 years of exile, Alberti returned home to Spain.

Song

If my voice dies on land...

If my voice dies on land,
take it down to the sea
and leave it on the shore.

Take it down to the sea
and make it captain
of a white man-of-war.

Honor it with
a sailor’s medal:
over its heart an anchor,
and on the anchor a star,
and on the star the wind,
and on the wind a sail!

Translated by Mark Strand

Going back a little further

When I lived with my parents, the nearest, dare I say, town was a little burg with an even smaller library. Oddly enough, they had a very wide variety of books to choose from if not a lot of options. One of the books I picked up was an Oxford book of Irish verse. It was there that I first met Thomas Moore.

Thomas Moore was an amazing poet of the late 18th and early 19th century. He was born in Dublin in 1779 to Roman Catholic parents. Consequently, he also was filled with national pride and became a member of the United Irishmen. His politics led him to turn down a job as "Irish Poet Laureate" as he felt that taking such a post would require him to be less outspoken in that which he believed. The poem that to me was the most beautiful goes by the title "All That's Bright Must Fade".

All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest.
Stars that shine and fall;--
The flower that drops in springing;--
These, alas! are types of all
To which our hearts are clinging.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest?

Who would seek our prize
Delights that end in aching?
Who would trust to ties
That every hour are breaking?
Better far to be
In utter darkness lying,
Than to be blest with light and see
That light for ever flying.
All that's bright must fade,--
The brightest still the fleetest;
All that's sweet was made
But to be lost when sweetest!

FINALLY!

Well, here it has been over a year since I have touched this. There have been many reasons why I have forsaken (if you can forsake something that you have barely started) this blog. The one underlying cause has been lack of reliable internet connection. I consider that a rather large stumbling block, which has finally been overcome.
Boring details aside, there is a poem I would like to share. It was written by a man named José Rizal the night before he was to be executed. I say "man" generally, but he was in fact a phenom. I have read him to be compared to Leonardo da Vinci and Benjamin Franklin. He was a genius, highly educated, artistic, and humble. He mastered 22 languages. He was falsely accused of sedition and rebellion. His only crime apparently that of questioning the governing authorities (Spain's) and publishing revolutionary works. I would highly suggest anyone researching this great man. Following his death, the United States was kicked into action and invaded the Philippines in order to expel the Spanish. His final work entitled "Mi Ultimo Adios" (My last goodbye) is as follows:

Farewell, my adored Land, region of the sun caressed, Pearl of the Orient Sea, our Eden lost, With gladness I give you my Life, sad and repressed; And were it more brilliant, more fresh and at its best, I would still give it to you for your welfare at most. On the fields of battle, in the fury of fight, Others give you their lives without pain or hesitancy, The place does not matter: cypress laurel, lily white, Scaffold, open field, conflict or martyrdom's site, It is the same if asked by home and Country. I die as I see tints on the sky b'gin to show And at last announce the day, after a gloomy night; If you need a hue to dye your matutinal glow, Pour my blood and at the right moment spread it so, And gild it with a reflection of your nascent light! My dreams, when scarcely a lad adolescent, My dreams when already a youth, full of vigor to attain, Were to see you, gem of the sea of the Orient, Your dark eyes dry, smooth brow held to a high plane Without frown, without wrinkles and of shame without stain. My life's fancy, my ardent, passionate desire, Hail! Cries out the soul to you, that will soon part from thee; Hail! How sweet 'tis to fall that fullness you may acquire; To die to give you life, 'neath your skies to expire, And in your mystic land to sleep through eternity! If over my tomb some day, you would see blow, A simple humble flow'r amidst thick grasses, Bring it up to your lips and kiss my soul so, And under the cold tomb, I may feel on my brow, Warmth of your breath, a whiff of your tenderness. Let the moon with soft, gentle light me descry, Let the dawn send forth its fleeting, brilliant light, In murmurs grave allow the wind to sigh, And should a bird descend on my cross and alight, Let the bird intone a song of peace o'er my site. Let the burning sun the raindrops vaporize And with my clamor behind return pure to the sky; Let a friend shed tears over my early demise; And on quiet afternoons when one prays for me on high, Pray too, oh, my Motherland, that in God may rest I. Pray thee for all the hapless who have died, For all those who unequalled torments have undergone; For our poor mothers who in bitterness have cried; For orphans, widows and captives to tortures were shied, And pray too that you may see your own redemption. And when the dark night wraps the cemet'ry And only the dead to vigil there are left alone, Don't disturb their repose, don't disturb the mystery: If you hear the sounds of cittern or psaltery, It is I, dear Country, who, a song t'you intone. And when my grave by all is no more remembered, With neither cross nor stone to mark its place, Let it be plowed by man, with spade let it be scattered And my ashes ere to nothingness are restored, Let them turn to dust to cover your earthly space. Then it doesn't matter that you should forget me: Your atmosphere, your skies, your vales I'll sweep; Vibrant and clear note to your ears I shall be: Aroma, light, hues, murmur, song, moanings deep, Constantly repeating the essence of the faith I keep. My idolized Country, for whom I most gravely pine, Dear Philippines, to my last goodbye, oh, harken There I leave all: my parents, loves of mine, I'll go where there are no slaves, tyrants or hangmen Where faith does not kill and where God alone does reign. Farewell, parents, brothers, beloved by me, Friends of my childhood, in the home distressed; Give thanks that now I rest from the wearisome day; Farewell, sweet stranger, my friend, who brightened my way; Farewell, to all I love. To die is to rest.