[lit-ideas] Re: End of Times
- From: "Mike Geary" <atlas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
- Date: Sun, 23 Jul 2006 17:55:03 -0500
Ach! You people a turning into nuns. A little Jeffers to stiffen your spine,
make you more Laurentian:
THE BLOODY SIRE
It is not bad. Let them play.
Let the guns bark and the bombing-plane
Speak his prodigious blasphemies.
It is not bad, it is high time,
Stark violence is still the sire of all the word's values.
What but the wolf's tooth whittled so fine
The fleet limbs of the antelope?
What but fear winged the birds, and hunger
Jeweled with such eyes the great goshawk's head:
Violence has been the sire of all the world's values.
Who would remember Helen's face
Lacking the terrible halo of spears?
Who formed Christ but Herod and Caesar,
The cruel and bloody victories of Caesar?
Violence, the bloody sire of all the world's values.
Never weep, let them play,
Old violence is not too old to beget new values.
-- Robinson Jeffers
***********
Mike Geary
feeling survivalistic
in Memphis
----- Original Message -----
From: "John McCreery" <john.mccreery@xxxxxxxxx>
To: <lit-ideas@xxxxxxxxxxxxx>
Sent: Sunday, July 23, 2006 3:29 PM
Subject: [lit-ideas] Re: End of Times
> Yeats seems even more prescient now than when the poem was written.
> Thanks, Helen.
>
> John
>
> On 7/23/06, Helen Wishart <hwishart@xxxxxxx> wrote:
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> The Second Coming
>>
>>
>>
>> Turning and turning in the widening gyre
>> The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
>> Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
>> Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
>> The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
>> The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
>> The best lack all conviction, while the worst
>> Are full of passionate intensity.
>>
>> Surely some revelation is at hand;
>> Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
>> The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
>> When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
>> Troubles my sight; somewhere in sands of the desert
>> A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
>> A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
>> Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
>> Reel shadows of indignant desert birds.
>> The darkness drops again; but now I know
>> That twenty centuries of stony sleep
>> Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
>> And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
>> Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
>>
>>
>>
>> January 1919
>>
>> W.B. Yeats
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> From: lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx [mailto:lit-ideas-bounce@xxxxxxxxxxxxx]
>> On Behalf Of Andy Amago
>> Sent: Sunday, July 23, 2006 1:54 AM
>> To: lit-ideas
>> Subject: [lit-ideas] End of Times
>>
>>
>>
>>
>> http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-endtimes22jun22,0,5277604,full.story?coll=la-headlines-california
>>
>>
>>
>>
>>
>
>
> --
> John McCreery
> The Word Works, Ltd., Yokohama, JAPAN
>
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