On Armistice Day

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Armistice Day, Day of Remembrance, Flanders Fields, Veteran's Day

Today is a solemn occasion around the world. Whether you honor Armistice Day, Remembrance Day, or Veteran’s Day here in the States, we remember those who have served and continue to serve and say thank you for all you have done and all that you continue to do and sacrifice so that the rest of us may enjoy our freedoms. On days like these, only poetry will properly serve, so I give you one of the most famous WWI masterpieces of poetry: In Flanders Fields.

In Flanders Fields – Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, 1915

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Poetry Post: The Stolen Child, by W. B. Yeats

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Loreena McKennitt, poetry post, Stolen Child, w.b. yeats

It’s been another difficult week for this world, and our hearts are heavy for those lost in the Navy Yard Shootings.  This morning I woke up with poetry in my head, ringing over and over like a ghostly refrain:

“Come away, O human child… to the waters and the wild…With a faery, hand in hand…for the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand….

Written in 1886 and published in in 1889 in The Wanderings of Oisin and Other Poems, Yeats’ poem is full of longing for innocence and a desire for freedom from earthly fears and dissatisfaction, “[w]hile the world is full of troubles/And anxious in its sleep.” Yet, there’s a great sense of danger and of loss as well, for the child being lured away with promises of paradise. Will the playful games with the slumbering trout near the waterfall pictured above be enough to replace the sounds of cattle lowing near his home? Still, for me, in times like these, his words are comforting in their fantasy and their acknowledgement that the “world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.”

“The Stolen Child”

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we’ve hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he’s going,
The solemn-eyed:
He’ll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world’s more full of weeping than he can understand.

A favorite Celtic singer of mine, Loreena McKennitt, did an incredible version of this poem in song on her album Elemental (highly recommended), a live version of which, just as good as the original, is shown below. Watch it: I dare you not to cry at the mere sound of her voice. It is truly unearthly.

Poem for Earth Day

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Earth Day, God's Grandeur, Hopkins

The Holy Spirit, Corrado Giaquinto 1750s

Imagine living in London or New York City during the Industrial Revolution – the cities are overflowing with filthy people, public sanitation is severely lacking, and the air is thick with black smoke and soot. It’s no wonder the Victorians may have felt a spiritual disconnection from Nature. This feeling of separation is expressed beautifully in G. M. Hopkins’s poem, God’s Grandeur. This is one of my favorite poems – the rhythm and imagery are so striking. I love how he expresses that the act of wearing shoes breaks our spiritual connection with the Earth (not that I don’t appreciate the blessing of having shoes to wear!). And throughout it all, the grandeur of the Creator shows through as the sun rises everyday. Whether or not you believe the planet was a gift from our Creator, I think we all agree that it is a gift, and it should be cherished. Happy (Belated) Earth Day!

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.
-G. M. Hopkins, 1877

Happy Birthday, Charles Baudelaire

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charles baudelaire, fleurs du mal, literary boyfriends, main man

A love of literature runs deep in my veins. Books and poetry are as necessary to my existence as oxygen, water, or tea. I love many many authors and many many works of art, but I have two main literary men in my life (the other going by the initials EAP), and this one may be my Main Man. Few affect me as this one does and I wrote my Master’s Thesis around his works. He is Charles Baudelaire, my literary soulmate, and today is his birthday.

He led a wild life, a full life, a bitter life, a drunken life, a talented life (his self portrait is reproduced below), a brilliant, inspired life. I’ll celebrate it, as I always do, with a journey back through his works, his journals, and Les Fleurs du Mal, the entirety of which, including translations is available at this link. My Main Man also draws me back to my other literary boyfriend: Baudelaire loved Poe and spent most of 1846 through 1865 at work translating the works of Poe into French; they are widely considered among the absolute best. Both lived hard, wild lives, struggled with illness, depression, and poverty and died in their 40’s. As he says in the following poem (Translation at the link in the title), “Angel full of gaity: have you known anguish?” Yet, he turned sorrow into beauty and as he says in his epilogue to the 2nd edition of Fleurs du Mal, “Tu m’as donné ta boue et j’en ai fait de l’or.”

You gave me your mud and with it I made gold.

Réversibilité

Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l’angoisse,
La honte, les remords, les sanglots, les ennuis,
Et les vagues terreurs de ces affreuses nuits
Qui compriment le coeur comme un papier qu’on froisse?
Ange plein de gaieté, connaissez-vous l’angoisse?

Ange plein de bonté, connaissez-vous la haine,
Les poings crispés dans l’ombre et les larmes de fiel,
Quand la Vengeance bat son infernal rappel,
Et de nos facultés se fait le capitaine?
Ange plein de bonté connaissez-vous la haine?

Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres,
Qui, le long des grands murs de l’hospice blafard,
Comme des exilés, s’en vont d’un pied traînard,
Cherchant le soleil rare et remuant les lèvres?
Ange plein de santé, connaissez-vous les Fièvres?

Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides,
Et la peur de vieillir, et ce hideux tourment
De lire la secrète horreur du dévouement
Dans des yeux où longtemps burent nos yeux avide!
Ange plein de beauté, connaissez-vous les rides?

Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières,
David mourant aurait demandé la santé
Aux émanations de ton corps enchanté;
Mais de toi je n’implore, ange, que tes prières,
Ange plein de bonheur, de joie et de lumières!

A Day Married to Mr. Bingley

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5000 pounds a yeaaah, A Day Married To, charles bingley, Jane Austen, pride and prejudice

Thanks to Life’s infinite variety, I’ve been a bit low these past few weeks. What better to brighten one’s outlook than a day married to Mr. Charles Bingley, he of the FIVE THOUSAND POUNDS A YEEEAH.

You wake up in the morning: “My dear Charles, what shall we do today? Would you like tea?”

The day goes on and wonderful tea is had. “My dear, shall we go riding with your best friend around your ginormous estate?”

“My dear, there’s another ball tonight where we can prance around strangely and forgo all attempts at dignity! Shall we go?”

“My dear, my horrible sister is about to ruin the family’s already somewhat spotty reputation by running off with a ridiculous libertine. Can you call your best friend up and tell him on the sly to deal with it?”

Gosh, you’re adorable.

Poetry Post #3: Robert Browning – “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came”

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childe roland to the dark tower came, poetry post, Robert Browning

Just yesterday I was deep in discussion with a friend of mine about Stephen King and his Dark Tower series, which I’ve been meaning to read for some time. He made me aware that the entire series was based upon a poem by Robert Browning, and a favorite one of mine at that.  “Childe Roland to the Dark Tower Came” is a fantastic work describing the journey of the protagonist hero to this Dark Tower on some heroic quest, which is never clearly explained. One gets the impression that the “Childe” Roland (‘childe’ in this context serves as a title, a medieval term for an untested knight) of Browning’s poem is also the Roland of the famous Chanson de Roland or Song of Roland, which tells the tale of a famous knight fighting for Charlemagne against the Muslims in Spain.

While Stephen King took his inspiration from Browning, Browning took his inspiration from Shakespeare; King Lear to be precise.

Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
His word was still ‘Fie, foh, and fum
I smell the blood of a British man.
King Lear, Act 3, scene 4

It’s a wonderful phrase and it gives me chills whenever I read it.  It feels heroic and unearthly and speaks of legendary, nameless deeds in a land out of time.  Some claim that the poem demonstrates the conquering of despair through faith to the Ideal. Others still claim that the poem is indicative of the importance and psychological nature and impact of the journey itself as opposed to focusing on the heroic endgame of the deed itself.  I personally relish it for its insight into the human psyche as it fights itself to survive in the face of despair and insurmountable odds, natural and otherwise.

What do you see in it? Come and find out. This one is a long one, so here it is behind the cut.

Victorian Vinegar Valentines

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dark humor, trolling, Valentine's Day, vinegar valentines

Valentine’s Day, while meant to celebrate love and togetherness, can be a divisive and uncomfortable holiday, full of pain and sober reflection.  We here at the Vicky A’s wish all the love in the world to our fantastic readers and would like to gift you all with Valentines. Vinegar Valentines.

Vinegar Valentines were created around 1840 in America and had quite the run in popularity throughout the Victorian Era and culminating in the 1940’s and 1950’s.  As described, they are the antithesis of the Valentine’s cards that we normally give out today and are more akin to hate mail. They would appear as short poems or unfortunate personal descriptions of the receiver, be they an old maid, a vain rooster, a dandy, a loose woman, etc.  Who came up with the idea of trolling someone on Valentine’s Day? Only the Victorian’s, people. Unfortunately, some of them could get REALLY really hateful; too hateful even for me to post (I found one that basically told the receiver that they were such a loser they should go hang themselves and the image featured a rope around the individuals neck!! And we feel that bullying is so much worse these days?).  So, here are a few of the more wacky and amusing ones.

From Wikipedia: “The unflattering cards reportedly created a stir throughout all social levels, sometimes provoking fistfights and arguments. Ironically, the receiver, not the sender, was responsible for the cost of postage up until the 1840s. A person in those days paid for the privilege of being insulted by an often anonymous “admirer.” Millions of vinegar valentines, with verses that insulted a person’s looks, intelligence, or occupation, were sold between the 19th and 20th centuries.”

Seriously?? You had to be the one paying to be insulted anonymously or otherwise?? And look! Someone actually SIGNED this one!!! Who does that??

It’s a horribly mean-spirited trend but you must admit, it’s also pretty outrageous and hilarious in the fact that the whole idea IS so outrageous, a caricature and bastardization of a holiday about love. It also seems to disparage men and women rather equally.  Yay, I guess?

This one is a personal favorite.

Happy Valentine’s Day, dear readers! Let not this day lead you to fisticuffs and may your day be full of honey and warmth rather than vinegar. XOXO

Presenting: Edgar Allan Poe, Astronaut

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anachronism, astronauts, edgar allan poe, poetry post

Rarely do I come across something that so fully embodies our glorious theme of Victorianachronism as this amazing image right here.

I give you Edgar Allan Poe as an Astronaut, by Baltimore street artist TOVEN, originally seen on BoingBoing. He so frequently mused on the stars and the heavens, so it seems only appropriate that he might find himself out there one day.

Evening Star, 1827

‘Twas noontide of summer,
And mid-time of night;
And stars, in their orbits,
Shone pale, thro’ the light
Of the brighter, cold moon,
‘Mid planets her slaves,
Herself in the Heavens,
Her beam on the waves.
I gazed awhile
On her cold smile;
Too cold—too cold for me—
There pass’d, as a shroud,
A fleecy cloud,
And I turned away to thee,
Proud Evening Star,
In thy glory afar,
And dearer thy beam shall be;
For joy to my heart
Is the proud part
Thou bearest in Heaven at night,
And more I admire
Thy distant fire,
Than that colder, lowly light.

Poetry Post #2: In Memoriam, A.H.H., Verses V and XVI and Some Words on Newtown

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in memoriam, poetry post, tennyson

We here at the Vicky A’s went silent on Friday upon hearing of the tragedy at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, CT. Our hearts, thoughts, and prayers go out to the grieving families and educators and those in their extended community. This link lists a few ways in which you can help, including links to family and mental health counseling networks and a link to the official Sandy Hook School Support Fund, sponsored by the United Way.

Words at a time like this seem meaningless and empty, and yet, few words seem more appropriate in moments of grief than Tennyson. Rest in Peace, sweet children and heroic teachers.

V.

I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel;
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.

But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.

In words, like weeds, I’ll wrap me o’er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold:
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.

XVI
What words are these have falle’n from me?
Can calm despair and wild unrest
Be tenants of a single breast,
Or sorrow such a changeling be?

Or cloth she only seem to take
The touch of change in calm or storm;
But knows no more of transient form
In her deep self, than some dead lake

That holds the shadow of a lark
Hung in the shadow of a heaven?
Or has the shock, so harshly given,
Confused me like the unhappy bark

That strikes by night a craggy shelf,
And staggers blindly ere she sink?
And stunn’d me from my power to think
And all my knowledge of myself;

And made me that delirious man
Whose fancy fuses old and new,
And flashes into false and true,
And mingles all without a plan?

Poetry Post #1: Oscar Wilde, “Impression du Matin”

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oscar wilde, poetry post

Impression du Matin

The Thames nocturne of blue and gold
Changed to a Harmony in grey:
A barge with ochre-coloured hay
Dropt from the wharf: and chill and cold

The yellow fog came creeping down
The bridges, till the houses’ walls
Seemed changed to shadows and St. Paul’s
Loomed like a bubble o’er the town.

Then suddenly arose the clang
Of waking life; the streets were stirred
With country waggons: and a bird
Flew to the glistening roofs and sang.

But one pale woman all alone,
The daylight kissing her wan hair,
Loitered beneath the gas lamps’ flare,
With lips of flame and heart of stone.

~Oscar Wilde, 1881