Doe The Next Thynge - Fear not tomorrows, Child of the King

A friend of mine shared this with me a couple weeks ago and it moved me so much that I thought I would share it with you:

"From an old English parsonage down by the sea
There came in the twilight a message to me;
It’s quaint Saxon legend, deeply engraven,
Hath, it seems to me, teaching from Heaven.
And on through the hours the quiet words ring
Like a low inspiration: “DOE THE NEXT THYNGE.”
Many a questioning, many a fear,
Many a doubt, hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from Heaven,
Time, opportunity, guidance, are given.
Fear not tomorrows, child of the King."
-Elizabeth Eliot

I'm not going to try to elaborate on that. I think the poetry says it all.

I wrote this one myself, a couple days later, trying to capture the power in the phrase, "Doe The Next Thynge" (it's best in Old English:) ).

But there is another thing too. There is "much expected of those to whom much is given," and there is the horrible thought that one day we might look back on our lives and say, "I wasted it." That scares me more than anything else and I wanted to express that in the poem.

Goethe says, "Nothing is worth more than this day" and although that may not be strictly true, I think there is a lot more in that line than we realize. After all, in my own life it will always be "now." It will never be "tomorrow" - that would be absurd. So ultimately, the way I live my life RIGHT NOW is the way I live my future...

THE WAITING

It’s the waiting that takes so long,
It’s the waiting that wastes your life.
And you don’t know till you’re old and bitter,
And look back on your life of lonely winters
And see your dreams in a million splinters
Buried beneath the snow.

It’s the waiting that takes so long,
It’s the waiting that wastes your life.
And you don’t know till you break the rhythm,
And death swings by and takes you with him
Then at last you’ll finally listen
But then it will be too late.

It’s the waiting that takes so long,
It’s the waiting that wastes your life.
And you don’t know till your heart’s been stripped
Of zeal for the for One who rescued it,
And you realize that somewhere along you slipped
And didn’t get up and deal with it
And you lost your life in an iron grip
And finally you say, “I wasted it.”
But you can’t have it back.

It’s the waiting that takes so long,
It’s the waiting that wastes your life.
Don’t wait until the glass is full,
Pour out what you have of love and skill,
If you don’t do it now, you never will.
This is your life, so LIVE!

Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

Almost Perfect...But Not Quite

I think this is one of Shel Silverstein's best works...I love the irony in the poem and the way he was able to get such a great point across to us through this simple poetry.

ALMOST PERFECT BUT NOT QUITE
"Almost perfect… but not quite."
Those were the words of Mary Hume
At her seventh birthday party,
Looking ‘round the ribboned room."
This table cloth is pink not white—
Almost perfect… but not quite."

"Almost perfect… but not quite."
Those were the words of grown-up Mary
Talking about her handsome beau,
The one she wasn’t gonna marry.
"Squeezes me a bit too tight—
Almost perfect… but not quite."

"Almost perfect… but not quite."
Those were the words of ol’ Miss Hume
Teaching in the seventh grade,
Grading papers in the gloom
Late at night up in her room.
"They never cross their t’s just right—
Almost perfect… but not quite."

Ninety-eight the day she died
Complainin’ ‘bout the spotless floor.
People shook their heads and sighed,
"Guess that she’ll like heaven more.
"Up went her soul on feathered wings,
Out the door, up out of sight.
Another voice from heaven came—
"Almost perfect… but not quite."
-Shel Silverstein

And yes, I regret to announce that I will be traveling AGAIN for the next two weeks, so I may not get around to the computer too much for a little while....


Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

Yes, I'm Still Here

Sorry it's been so long, folks! After we landed in the US and got over jetlag, we still didn't have an internet connection, so we haven't been able to keep up with anything over the web. It's been awfully hectic around here lately. In fact, when I sat down to work on my blog, I heard Enya and was refreshed. I haven't heard Enya in two weeks and, since I was introduced to her, that's the longest I've ever lived without her:) Anyway, I am back now, and trying to catch up on everything. To all of you who have sent me comments or e-mails this week, thanks for being so patient.

One of the best things I have done since I got to the US was to go to a bookstore, where I found a book of the complete works of Emily Dickinson. I was amazed to find how much poetry she actually wrote! There are 1782 poems in this book! I also learned that in my old Emily Dickinson book, her original punctuation, spelling, capitalization, and even some rhyme, had been changed, as was once an accepted way to publish Emily Dickinson poetry. Although the original poems are a little more confusing sometimes, I much prefer them to the "doctored" poetry. How audacious of them to CHANGE her poems!

Here's one of my favorites from the new book, with the original spelling, puctuation and capitalization:

"To fight aloud is very brave,
But gallanter, I know
Who charge within the bosom
The Calvary of Wo -

Who win, and nations to do not see -
Who fall, and none observe -
Whose dying eyes, no Country
Regards with patriot love -

We trust, in plumed procession
For such, the Angels go -
Rank after Rank, with even feet -
And Uniforms of snow."
-Emily Dickinson

Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

Tolkien's Best Poem?

W.H. Auden, a contemporary poet of Tolkien's time, said that this was Tolkien's best poem. It is true that it is beautiful but I wasn't able to make a whole lot of sense out of it. I was wondering if any of you smart readers could give me some enlightening comments.

Wikipedia says, "It is a piece of great metrical and rhythmical complexity that recounts a journey to a strange land beyond the sea. Drawing on medieval 'dream vision' poetry and Irish 'imram' poems the piece is markedly melancholic and the final note is one of alienation and disillusion." I'm not sure that's a very good synopsis...

"The Sea Bell"or "Frodo's Dreme"

I walked by the sea, and there came to me,
as a star-beam on the wet sand,
a white shell like a sea-bell;
trembling it lay in my wet hand.

In my fingers shaken I heard waken
a ding within, by a harbour bar
a buoy swinging, a call ringing
over endless seas, faint now and far.

Then I saw a boat silently float
on the night-tide, empty and grey.
'It is later than late! Why do we wait?'
I leapt in and cried: 'Bear me away!'

It bore me away, wetted with spray,
wrapped in a mist, wound in a sleep,
to a forgotten strand in a strange land.
In the twilight beyond the deep

I heard a sea-bell swing in the swell,
dinging, dinging, and the breakers roar
on the hidden teeth of a perilous reef;
and at last I came to a long shore.

White it glimmered, and the sea simmered
with star-mirrors in a silver net;
cliffs of stone pale as ruel-bone
in the moon-foam were gleaming wet.

Glittering sand slid through my hand,
dust of pearl and jewel-grist,
trumpets of opal, roses of coral,
flutes of green and amethyst.

But under cliff-eaves there were glooming caves,
weed-curtained, dark and grey;
a cold air stirred in my hair,
and the light waned, as I hurried away.

Down from a hill ran a green rill;
its water I drank to my heart's ease.
Up its fountain-stair to a country fair
of ever-eve I came, far from the seas,

climbing into meadows of fluttering shadows:
flowers lay there like fallen stars,
and on a blue pool, glassy and cool,
like floating moons the nenuphars.

Alders were sleeping, and willows weeping
by a slow river of rippling weeds;
gladdon-swords guarded the fords,
and green spears, and arrow-reeds.

There was echo of song all the evening long
down in the valley; many a thing
running to and fro: hares white as snow,
voles out of holes; moths on the wing

with lantern-eyes; in quiet surprise
brocks were staring out of dark doors.
I heard dancing there, music in the air,
feet going quick on the green floors.

But whenever I came it was ever the same:
the feet fled, and all was still;
never a greeting, only the fleeting pipes,
voices, horns on the hill.

Of river-leaves and the rush-sheaves
I made me a mantle of jewel-green,
a tall wand to hold, and a flag of gold;
my eyes shone like the star-sheen.

With flowers crowned I stood on a mound,
and shrill as a call at cock-crow
proudly I cried: 'Why do you hide?
Why do none speak, wherever I go?

Here now I stand, king of this land,
with gladdon-sword and reed-mace.
Answer my call! Come forth all!
Speak to me words! Show me a face!'

Black came a cloud as a night-shroud.
Like a dark mole groping I went,
to the ground falling, on my hands crawling
with eyes blind and my back bent.

I crept to a wood: silent it stood
in its dead leaves, bare were its boughs.
There must I sit, wandering in wit,
while owls snored in their hollow house.

For a year and a day there must I stay:
beetles were tapping in the rotten trees,
spiders were weaving, in the mould heaving
puffballs loomed about my knees.

At last there came light in my long night,

and I saw my hair hanging grey.

'Bent though I be, I must find the sea!

I have lost myself, and I know not the way,

but let me be gone!' Then I stumbled on;

like a hunting bat shadow was over me;

in my ears dinned a withering wind,

and with ragged briars I tried to cover me.

My hands were torn and my knees worn,

and years were heavy upon my back,

when the rain in my face took a salt taste,

and I smelled the smell of sea-wrack.

Birds came sailing, mewing, wailing;

I heard voices in cold caves,

seals barking, and rocks snarling,

and in spout-holes the gulping of waves.

Winter came fast; into a mist I passed,

to land's end my years I bore;

snow was in the air, ice in my hair,

darkness was lying on the last shore.

There still afloat waited the boat,

in the tide lifting, its prow tossing.

Weary I lay, as it bore me away,

the waves climbing, the seas crossing,

passing old hulls clustered with gulls

and great ships laden with light,

coming to haven, dark as a raven,

silent as snow, deep in the night.

Houses were shuttered, wind round them muttered,

roads were empty. I sat by a door,

and where drizzling rain poured down a drain

I cast away all that I bore:

in my clutching hand some grains of sand,

and a sea-shell silent and dead.

Never will my ear that bell hear,

never my feet that shore tread.

Never again, as in sad lane,

in blind alley and in long street

ragged I walk. To myself I talk;

for still they speak not, men that I meet.

-J.R.R. Tolkien

Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

Sonnet XXIX

I'm always a little suspicious of sonnets. They tend to follow a similar pattern of admiring nature and then mourning one's rejection by one's lady-love. Furthermore, the said lady-love was very often not someone the poet cared for in the least, though, of course, many earnest lovers must have written sonnets as well.

However, despite all of these stains upon the reputation of the sonnet, I do believe that Shakespeare has very nearly managed to redeem it with his many contributions to the world of sonnets. Here is one of my favorites:

SONNET XXIX
“When in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyes,
I all alone beweep my outcast state,
And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
And look upon myself and curse my fate,
Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,
Desiring this man’s art and that man’s scope,
With what I most enjoy contented least;
Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,
Haply, I think on thee, -- and then my state,
Like to the lark at break of day arising
From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;
For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings
That then I scorn to change my place with kings.”
-William Shakespeare

Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

The King's Picture

I love this because it is a beautiful reminder of the fact that we are every one of us made in His image and, for that reason, if no other, we are all precious in His sight...

THE KING'S PICTURE
The king from the council chamber

Came weary and sore of heart;

He called to Cliff, the painter,

And spoke to him thus apart:

"I'm sickened of faces ignoble,

Hypocrites, cowards, and knaves;

I shall shrink to their shrunken measure,

Chief slave in a realm of slaves.

Paint me a true man's picture,

Gracious and wise and good,

Dowered with the strength of heroes

And the beauty of womanhood.

It shall hang in my inmost chamber,

That, thither when I retire,

It may fill my soul with its grandeur,

And warm it with sacred fires."

So the artist painted the picture,

And it hung in the palace hall;

Never a thing so lovely

Had garnished the stately wall.

The King, with head uncovered,

Gazed on it with rapt delight,

Till it suddenly wore strange meaning -

Baffled his questioning sight.

For the form was the supplest courtier's,

Perfect in every limb;

But the bearing was that of the henchman

Who filled the flagons for him;

The brow was a priest's who pondered

His parchment early and late;

The eye was the wandering minstrel's

Who sang at the palace gate.

The lips, half sad and half mirthful,

With a fitful trembling grace,

Were the very lips of a woman

He had kissed in the market place;

But the smiles which curves transfigured,

As a rose with its shimmer of dew,

Was the smile of the wife who loved him,

Queen Ethelyn, good and true.

"Then learn, O King," said the artist,

"this truth that the picture tells-

That in every form of the human
Some hint of the highest dwells;

That scanning each living temple

For the place that the veil is thin,

We may gather by beautiful glimpses

The form of the God within."

-Helen L.B. Bostwick

-Seize The Day!

-StrongJoy

"Ceaseless Rosemary"

Emily Dickinson has a clever trick of writing absolute nonsense. (Perhaps this is part of the reason why her poetry expresses so much of the inexpressible.) She also breaks the rules of writing by inventing new phrases. These are usually phrases we have never heard before -- phrases that don't make sense. How then, is it that we know exactly what she means?

"Essential oils -- are wrung --
The Attar from the Rose
Be not expressed by Suns -- alone --
It is the gift of Screws.

The General Rose -- decay--
But this -- in Lady’s Drawer,
Makes Summer -- When the lady lies
In Ceaseless Rosemary."
-Emily Dickinson

In reading the poem above, I found something particularly intriguing about the beautiful phrase at the end of the poem: "Ceaseless Rosemary." It's certainly a new phrase- I mean, who ever heard of Eternity referred to as "Ceaseless Rosemary"? I decided to do some research on the topic and came up with interesting results: It turns out that the word "Rosemary" is actually commonly used in old literature to symbolize remembrance. Shakespeare says: “There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance; pray, love, remember;" "Ceaseless" is literally defined as "endless" or "constant." Hmm...so I guess that "Ceaseless Rosemary" not only sounds good , but it makes sense too!

If I researched every unusual phrase in Emily Dickinson's poetry, I'd probably end up with quite a tidy little collection of facts...


Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

"The Road Not Taken"

This poem has long been one of my favorites...

THE ROAD NOT TAKEN

"Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And, sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having, perhaps, the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though, as for that, the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet, knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I--
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference."

-Robert Frost

Seize The Day!

-StrongJoy

"Loved Once"

I read this last night and it reminded me of my previous post. As Anya said, in her response to that post, "God commands us to love... that command wouldn't even make sense if love was simply an emotion. Sometimes it is good to put concious effort into loving people who are hard to love." Very good point, Anya.

I

"I classed, appraising once,

Earth's lamentable sounds, - the welladay,

The jarring yea and nay,

The fall of kisses on unanswering clay,

The sobbed farewell, the welcome mournfuller,-

But all did leaven the air

With a less bitter leaven of sure despair

Than these words- "I loved ONCE."

II
And who saith "I loved ONCE"?

Not angels- whose clear eyes, love, love forsee,

Love, through eternity,

And by To Love do apprehend To Be.

Not God, called LOVE, His noble crown-name, casting

A light too broad for blasting!

The great God changing not from everlasting,

Saith never, "I loved ONCE."

III
Oh never is "Loved Once" Thy word,

Thou Victim-Christ, misprized friend!

Thy cross and curse may rend,

But having loved Thou lovest to the end.

This is man's saying - man's. Too weak to move

One sphered star above,

Man desecrates the eternal God-word Love

By his No More, and Once.

IV
How say ye "We loved once,"
Blasphemers? Is your earth not cold enow,
Mourners, without that snow?
Ah, friends! and would ye wrong each other so?
And could ye say of some whose love is known,
Whose prayers have met your own,
Whose tears have fallen for you, whose smiles have shone
So long, - "We loved them ONCE"?

V
Could ye "We loved her once"
Say calm of me, sweet friends, when out of sight?
When hearts of better right
Stand in between me and your happy light?
Or when, as flowers kept too long in the shade,
Ye find my colours fade,
And all that is not love in me, decayed?
Such words- Ye loved me ONCE!

VI
Could ye "We loved her once"
Say cold of me when further put away
In earth's sepulchral clay, -
When mute the lips which deprecate to-day?
Not so! not then -least then.
When life is shriven,
Of those who sit and love you up in Heaven,
Say not, "We loved them once."

VII
Say never, ye loved ONCE.
God is too near above, the grave, beneath,
And all our moments breathe
Too quick in mysteries of life and death,
For such a word. The eternities avenge
Affections of light range.
There comes no change to justify that change,
Whatever comes - Loved ONCE.

VIII
And yet that same word ONCE
Is humanly acceptive. Kings have said,
Shaking a discrowned head,
"We ruled once," - dotards, "We taught once and led."
Cripples once danced i' the vines- and bards approved
Were once by scornings moved:
But love strikes one hour - LOVE! those never loved
Who dream that they loved ONCE."
-Elizabeth Barret Browning

Seize The Day!
-StrongJoy

What We See...

"To hear an oriole sing
May be a common thing,
Or only a divine.

It is not of the bird,
Who sings the same, unheard,
As unto crowd.

The fashion of the ear
Attireth that it hear
In dun or fair.

So whether it be rune,
Or whether it be none,
Is of within.

The “tune is in the tree”
The skeptic showeth thee
'No sir! In thee!'"

-Emily Dickinson

To make a comment on that lovely observation written by one of my favorite poets, I can only say that "What we see, depends mainly on what we are looking for." -Sir John Lubbock

Seize The Day!

-StrongJoy

"Idols" - One Of The Best Poems Written In The English Language

“Idols”
How weak the gods of this world are-
And weaker their worship made me!
For I have been an idolater of three-
And three times they betrayed me.

Mine oldest worshipping was given
To natural Beauty, ay, residing
In bowery earth and starry heaven,
In ebbing sea and river gliding.

But natural Beauty shuts her bosom
To what the natural feelings tell!
Albeit I sighed, the trees would blossom-
Albeit I smiled the blossoms fell.

Then left I earthly sights to wander
Amid a grove of name divine,
Where bay-reflecting streams meander
And Moloch Fame hath reared a shrine.

Not green but black is that reflection;
On rocky beds those waters lie;
That grove hath chillness and dejection-
How could I sing? I had to sigh.

Last, human Love, thy Lares greeting,
To rest and warmth I vowed my years
To rest? How wild my pulse is beating!
To warmth? Ah, me! My burning tears!

Aye, they may burn-though thou be frozen
By death and changes wintering on
Fame!- Beauty!- idols madly chosen-
Were yet of gold; but thou art STONE!

Crumble like stone! My voice no longer
Shall wail their names who silent be:
There is a voice that soundeth stronger-
“My daughter, give thine heart to Me.

Lord! Take mine heart! O first and fairest
Whom all creation’s ends shall hear;
Who deathless love in death declarest!
Non else is beauteous-famous-dear!
-Elizabeth Barret Browning

Seize The Day!

-StrongJoy