I thought that it was a Sunday morning in May, that it was Easter Sunday,
and as yet very early in the morning. I was standing, as it seemed to me, at the door of my own cottage. Right before me lay the very scene which could really be commanded from that situation, but exalted, as was usual, and solemnised by the power of dreams. There were the same mountains, and the same lovely valley at their feet; but the mountains were raised to more than Alpine height, and there was interspace far larger between them of meadows and forest lawns; the hedges were rich with white roses; and no living creature was to be seen, excepting that in the green churchyard there were cattle tranquilly reposing upon the verdant graves, and particularly round about the grave of a child whom I had tenderly loved, just as I had really beheld them, a little before sunrise in the same summer, when that child died. I gazed upon the well-known scene, and I said aloud (as I thought) to myself, “It yet wants much of sunrise, and it is Easter Sunday; and that is the day on which they celebrate the first fruits of resurrection. I will walk abroad; old griefs shall be forgotten to-day; for the air is cool and still, and the hills are high and stretch away to heaven; and the forest glades are as quiet as the churchyard, and with the dew I can wash the fever from my forehead, and then I shall be unhappy no longer.”
And I turned as if to open my garden gate, and immediately I saw upon the left a scene far different, but which yet the power of dreams had reconciled into harmony with the other. The scene was an Oriental one, and there also it was Easter Sunday, and very early in the morning. And at a vast distance were visible, as a stain upon the horizon, the domes and cupolas of a great city—an image or faint abstraction, caught perhaps in childhood from some picture of Jerusalem. And not a bow-shot from me, upon a stone and shaded by Judean palms, there sat a woman, and I looked, and it was—Ann! She fixed her eyes upon me earnestly, and I said to her at length: “So, then, I have found you at last.” I waited, but she answered me not a word. Her face was the same as when I saw it last, and yet again how different! Seventeen years ago, when the lamplight fell upon her face, as for the last time I kissed her lips (lips, Ann, that to me were not polluted), her eyes were streaming with tears: the tears were now wiped away; she seemed more beautiful than she was at that time, but in all other points the same, and not older. Her looks were tranquil, but with unusual solemnity of expression, and I now gazed upon her with some awe; but suddenly her countenance grew dim, and turning to the mountains I perceived vapours rolling between us. In a moment all had vanished, thick darkness came on, and in the twinkling of an eye I was far away from mountains, and by lamplight in Oxford Street, walking again with Ann—just as we walked seventeen years before, when we were both children.
From:Confessions of an English Opium Eater by Thomas De Quincey, 1821.
If there be no mercy left in the world,
The doors of heaven will never be barred.
The Creator reigns supreme, and is higher
than the angels
All, in His spirit, will rise
By His nearness, His life-giving breath
flows through them.
And they glory in His name
From the moment of genesis,
His creations grow,
Captivating and more beautiful.
The wheel in his circle thunders
Acclaiming His Holy name
Clothed in the glory of His radiance,
The six-winged cherubs surround Him,
Whirling in His honor
WHEN I survey the bright
Celestial sphere;
So rich with jewels hung, that Night
Doth like an Ethiop bride appear:
My soul her wings doth spread
And heavenward flies,
Th’ Almighty’s mysteries to read
In the large volumes of the skies.
For the bright firmament
Shoots forth no flame
So silent, but is eloquent
In speaking the Creator’s name.
No unregarded star
Contracts its light
Into so small a character,
Removed far from our human sight,
But if we steadfast look
We shall discern
In it, as in some holy book,
How man may heavenly knowledge learn.
It tells the conqueror
That far-stretch’d power,
Which his proud dangers traffic for,
Is but the triumph of an hour:
That from the farthest North,
Some nation may,
Yet undiscover’d, issue forth,
And o’er his new-got conquest sway:
Some nation yet shut in
With hills of ice
May be let out to scourge his sin,
Till they shall equal him in vice.
And then they likewise shall
Their ruin have;
For as yourselves your empires fall,
And every kingdom hath a grave.
Thus those celestial fires,
Though seeming mute,
The fallacy of our desires
And all the pride of life confute:–
For they have watch’d since first
The World had birth:
And found sin in itself accurst,
And nothing permanent on Earth.
The Night
Henry Vaughn (1621-1695)
Through that pure Virgin-shrine,
That sacred veil drawn o’er thy glorious noon
That men might look and live as glow-worms shine,
And face the moon:
Wise Nicodemus saw such light
As made him know his God by night.
Most blest believer he!
Who in that land of darkness and blind eyes
Thy long expected healing wings could see,
When thou didst rise,
And what can never more be done,
Did at mid-night speak with the Sun!
O who will tell me, where
He found thee at that dead and silent hour!
What hallowed solitary ground did bear
So rare a flower,
Within whose sacred leaves did lie
The fullness of the Deity.
No mercy-seat of gold,
No dead and dusty Cherub, nor carved stone,
But his own living works did my Lord hold
And lodge alone;
Where trees and herbs did watch and peep
And wonder, while the Jews did sleep.
Dear night! this world’s defeat;
The stop to busy fools; care’s check and curb;
The day of Spirits; my soul’s calm retreat
Which none disturb!
Christ’s progress, and his prayer time;
The hours to which high Heaven doth chime.
God’s silent, searching flight:
When my Lord’s head is filled with dew, and all
His locks are wet with the clear drops of night;
His still, soft call;
His knocking time; the soul’s dumb watch,
When Spirits their fair kindred catch.
Were all my loud, evil days
Calm and unhaunted as is thy dark Tent,
Whose peace but by some Angel’s wing or voice
Is seldom rent;
Then I in Heaven all the long year
Would keep, and never wander here.
But living where the sun
Doth all things wake, and where all mix and tire
Themselves and others, I consent and run
To every mire,
And by this world’s ill-guiding light,
Err more than I can do by night.
There is in God (some say)
A deep, but dazzling darkness; as men here
Say it is late and dusky, because they
See not all clear;
O for that night! where I in him
Might live invisible and dim.
I wanted to visit the San Andreas fault once,
but when I got there it was closed.
Aerosmith’s lyrics may or may not stand as poetry without electric instruments backing up the words. Here is one of my favorite songs with lyrics and links for your perusal. The tribute video is interesting in itself.
The brooding notes at the onset of the song remind me of the last lines of Poe’s The City in the Sea:
But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave — there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide — As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow — The hours are breathing faint and low — And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.
There are so many diverging sub-texts in this harrowing song. Seismologic/apocalyptic panic is the dominant theme – but one can find Creation vs. the Evolutionary hypothesis (Three million years or just a story), and the apostasy of Israel’s false prophets as mentioned in Isaiah 28:7 & 8:
“And these also reel with wine and stagger from strong drink: The priest and the prophet reel with strong drink, They are confused by wine, they stagger from strong drink; They reel while having visions…” We even catch a bloody glimpse of the Levite’s butchered concubine from Judges. OK all you armchair theologians – tell me if this song lines up with God’s prophetic Word or not…
For years I tried to figure out the lyrics by the way they sounded – but the internet has deprived me of that joy and I now know that in verse 5, “Holy lands are sinking / Bursting through the sky…” is not QUITE what Brad W. and Steven T. had written. The song is full of disturbing imagery nonetheless (just like the Bible).
So sleep well everyone and I’ll see you at the great white throne -
or maybe in the psych ward…
Nobody’s Fault by Aerosmith (1976)
Lord I must be dreaming What else could this be ? Everybody’s screaming Running’ for the sea
Eyes are full of desire Mind is so ill at ease Everything is on fire Shit piled up to the knees Out of rhyme or reason Everyone’s to blame Children of the season Don’t be lame
Sorry, you’re so sorry Don’t be sorry Man has known And now he’s blown it Upside down andhell’s the only sound We did an awful job And now they say it’s nobody’s fault
Old St. Andreas Seven years ago Shove it up their richters Red lines stop and go Noblemen of courage Listen with their ears Spoke but how discouraging When no one really hears
One of these days you’ll be sorry Too many houses on the stilt Three million years or just a story Four on the floor up to the hilt
Out of rhyme or reason Everyone’s to blame Children of the season Don’t be lame
Sorry, we’re so sorry Don’t be sorry Man has known And now he’s blown it Upside down and hell’s the only sound We did an awful job And now we’re just a little too late
Eyes are full of desire Mind is so ill at ease Everything is on fire Shit piled up in debris
California showtime Five o’clock’s the news Everybody’s concubine Was going to take a snooze
Sorry, we’re so sorry Don’t be sorry Man has known And now he’s blown it Upside down and hell’s the only sound We did an awful job And now we’re just a little too late…
☻And don’t forget to look for poetry in Rock’n'Roll lyrics as well as in the Holy Bible…
God has still His hidden secrets, hidden from the wise and prudent.
Do not fear them; be content to accept things that you cannot understand; wait patiently. Presently He will reveal to you the treasures of darkness, the riches of the glory of the mystery. Mystery is only the veil of God’s face [...] God is nigh. He is in the dark cloud. Plunge into the blackness of its darkness without flinching; under the shrouding curtain of His pavilion you will find God awaiting you.
Hast thou a cloud? Something that is dark and full of dread; A messenger of tempest overhead? A something that is darkening the sky; A something growing darker bye and bye; A something that thou fear’st will burst at last; A cloud that doth a deep, long shadow cast, God cometh in that cloud.
Hast thou a cloud? It is Jehovah’s triumph car: in this He rideth to thee, o’er the wide abyss. It is the robe in which He wraps His form; For He doth gird Him
with the flashing storm. It is the veil in which He hides the light Of His fair face, too dazzling for thy sight. God cometh in that cloud.
Hast thou a cloud? A trial that is terrible to thee? A black temptation threatening to see? A loss of some dear one long thine own? A mist, a veiling, bringing the unknown? A mystery that unsubstantial seems: A cloud between thee
and the sun’s bright beams? God cometh in that cloud.
Hast thou a cloud? A sickness–weak old age–distress and death? These clouds will scatter at thy last faint breath. Fear not the clouds that hover o’er thy barque, Making the harbour’s entrance dire and dark; The cloud of death, though misty, chill and cold, Will yet grow radiant with a fringe of gold. GOD cometh in that cloud.
I live and work with Latinos from many different nations, but the overwhelming majority are Puerto Ricans. As a gringo who is interested in cultural history, I am furthering my knowledge of Puerto Rico bit by bit.
I recently learned that there are 2 different anthems for the island of the Tainos known before Columbus as Borinquen.
I present both to you today. First, the original lyrics from 1868 which are extremely militant. It was written as a revolutionary poem by Lola Rodríguez de Tió before the second, later version became official.
The name of the anthem is La Borinqueña
¡Despierta, borinqueño
que han dado la señal!
¡Despierta de ese sueño
que es hora de luchar!
A ese llamar patriótico
¿no arde tu corazón?
¡Ven! Nos será simpático
el ruido del cañón.
Mira, ya el cubano
libre será;
le dará el machete
su libertad…
le dará el machete
su libertad.
Ya el tambor guerrero
dice en su son,
que es la manigua el sitio,
el sitio de la reunión,
de la reunión…
de la reunión.
El Grito de Lares
se ha de repetir,
y entonces sabremos
vencer o morir.
Bellísima Borinquén,
a Cuba hay que seguir;
tú tienes bravos hijos
que quieren combatir.
ya por más tiempo impávido
no podemos estar,
ya no queremos, tímidos
dejarnos subyugar.
Nosotros queremos
ser libre ya,
y nuestro machete
afilado está.
y nuestro machete
afilado está.
¿Por qué, entonces, nosotros
hemos de estar,
tan dormidos y sordos
y sordos a esa señal?
a esa señal, a esa señal?
No hay que temer, riqueños
al ruido del cañón,
que salvar a la patria
es deber del corazón!
ya no queremos déspotas,
caiga el tirano ya,
las mujeres indómitas
también sabrán luchar.
Nosotros queremos
la libertad,
y nuestros machetes
nos la darán…
y nuestro machete
nos la dará…
Vámonos, borinqueños,
vámonos ya,
que nos espera ansiosa,
ansiosa la libertad.
¡La libertad, la libertad!
Arise, Boricua!
The call to arms has sounded!
Awake from the slumber,
it is time to fight!
Doesn’t this patriotic
call set your heart alight?
Come! We are in tune with
the roar of the cannon.
Come, the Cuban will soon be free;
the machete will give him his liberty,
the machete will give him his liberty.
Now the war drum says with its sound,
that the countryside is the place of the meeting.
The Cry of Lares must be repeated,
and then we will know: victory or death.
Beautiful Borinquén must follow Cuba;
you have brave sons who wish to fight.
Now, no longer can we be unmoved;
now we do not want timidly to let them subjugate us.
We want to be free now,
and our machete has been sharpened.
Why then have we been so sleepy and deaf to the call?
There is no need to fear,
‘Ricans, the roar of the cannon;
saving the nation is the duty of the heart.
We no longer want despots,
tyranny shall fall now;
the unconquerable women also will know how to fight.
We want liberty,
and our machetes will give it to us.
Come, Boricuas, come now,
since freedom awaits us anxiously,
freedom, freedom!
We want Freedom,
And our machetes will give it to us …
And our machete will give it to us…
Come on, Borinquen, let’s go,
Liberty awaits us anxiously,
Freedom, freedom!
The modern lyrics, from 1903 and made official in 1952 by Luis Muñoz Marín are toned-down and speak of tropical gardens and sunny beaches:
La tierra de Borinquen
donde he nacido yo
es un jardín florido
de mágico primor.
Un cielo siempre nítido
le sirve de dosel
y dan arrullos plácidos
las olas a sus pies.
Cuando a sus playas llegó Colón exclamó lleno de admiración:
“Oh!, oh!, oh!, ésta es la linda tierra
que busco yo.”
Es Borinquen la hija, la hija del mar y el sol,
del mar y el sol, del mar y el sol, del mar y el sol,
del mar y el sol.
Parece que se llama Marisol...
The land of Borinquen
where I was born
is a flowery garden
of magical beauty.
A constant clear sky
serves as its canopy
and placid lullabies are sung
by the waves at its feet.
When at her beaches Columbus arrived
full of awe he exclaimed,
“Oh!, oh!, oh!, this is the lovely land that I seek.”
Borinquen is the daughter,
the daughter of the sea and the sun.
Of the sea and the sun, of the sea and the sun,
of the sea and the sun, of the sea and the sun.
Somewhere between these 2 versions is the present day reality of PR.
This video is a rather cynical appraisal of the current state of affairs…
…Thy inoffensive satires never bite. In thy felonious heart though venom lies, It does but touch thy Irish pen, and dies. Thy genius calls thee not to purchase fame In keen iambics, but mild anagram. Leave writing plays, and choose for thy command Some peaceful province in acrostic land. There thou mayst wings display and altars raise, And torture one poor word ten thousand ways…
John Dryden: MacFlecknoe
Yes – it could be said of me and my scrawling.
(I dabble in acrostics as my long-suffering poetry acquaintances can testify).
John Dryden wrote lines 3 centuries ago that still sting half-baked poetasters like me. It hurts so good.
In fact, he could have been writing part of my unapproved biography here (just call me Zimri):
…In the first rank of these did Zimri stand: A man so various, that he seem’d to be Not one, but all Mankind’s Epitome. Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong; Was everything by starts, and nothing long: But in the course of one revolving moon, Was chemist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon: Then all for women, painting, rhyming, drinking; Besides ten thousand freaks that died in thinking. Blest madman, who could every hour employ, With something new to wish, or to enjoy! Railing and praising were his usual themes; And both (to show his judgment) in extremes: So over violent, or over civil, That every man, with him, was god or devil…
from John Dryden: Absalom and Achitophel
John Dryden was a great poet. Not only could he write nasty satires about the political movers and shakers of his day thinly disguised as Old Testament history; he also wrote thunderous lyrics such as one of my all-time favorite poems A Song For St. Cecelia’s Day, 1687.
Talk about a true Rock Star !
He was Poet Laureate of England for a while.
Dryden was born of Puritan parents and became an Anglican – only to convert to Roman Catholicism later in his life. We can forgive him for that.
You can learn way too much about his poetry here -
really funny stuff, some of it.
I leave you with the final celestially stupendous lines of the above-mentioned Song for St. Cecelia:
♪♫ Grand Chorus ♪♫♪
As from the power of sacred lays
The spheres began to move,
And sung the great Creator’s praise
To all the bless’d above;
So when the last and dreadful hour
This crumbling pageant shall devour,
The trumpet shall be heard on high,
The dead shall live, the living die,
And Music shall untune the sky.
♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪ ♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪♫♪
