Hymn For the 81%


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The Great Divide

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A Dragon’s Tale

Issue 7, Poetry
A Dragon’s Tale by Bruce Louis Dodson
January 1, 2020

Oh settle your tails and lift up your flagons
We’ll start a good fire and sing of great dragons
Of Rusty knight’s armor and fights in the forest
Adventures forgotten recalled by our chorus.

How few still remember the Knight of Trafulga
The time he attacked the green dragoness, Olga.
She lived south of Sherwood, a fine limestone house
She liked to play bridge and she kept a pet mouse.

One day it awoke from a nap on her tummy
And squeaked in alarm, “Something out there sounds crummy!”
She lifted an eyelid. “I think you are right.
I smell metal and horse breath. It must be a knight.”

She went to the doorway, then into the yard
Where atop of his mount sat Trafulga’s Bernard.
Sir Bernard reigned up, and tilted his visor.
“I’ve come for your life,” he began to advise her.

“What ho!” Olga chortled, “Knowest not who I am?”
“You great clunking bucket. You cheap can of spam.”
Bernard was enraged, and he lowered his lance
“Tally ho, you fat lizard. I’ll teach you to dance.”

The knight charged right at her, but six yards away
He encountered the flames that soon ruined his day
He sizzled and snapped inside hot armor metal
Burned quite to a crisp in his very own kettle.

She spared Bernard’s mare, whose name was, Black Nell
They played bridge and gin rummy, and poker as well
The mouse liked a game of high stakes now and then
He wagered his cheese, and they both let him win.

They passed their time leisurely, happily hoisting
With warm fires and card games and marshmallow roasting.

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Camus on Artists & Writers

By Albert Camus
October 29, 2019
When praying, a wise man from the East always implored his deity to spare him from living in interesting times. Since we are not wise men, our deity has not spared us, for we do live in interesting times. In any case, our era refuses to allow us to ignore it. The writers of today already know this. If they speak out, they are immediately criticized and attacked. If they remain silent out of humility, no one will ever speak of anything but their silence, to raucously reproach them.

Amid this blaring din, writers can no longer hope to stand on the sidelines to pursue the thoughts and reflections they cherish. Up until now, it has been more or less possible to remain detached from history. Anyone who disagreed with events could often remain silent, or speak of other things. Today, everything has changed: silence itself has taken on formidable meaning. The moment that remaining detached was considered a choice, and punished or praised as such, artists, whether they liked it or not, became involved. And in this, the word involved seems to me much more accurate than simply committed. In fact, it is not merely a matter of the artist’s voluntary commitment, but rather of obligatory military service. All artists today have embarked in the galley of the times. They must resign themselves to that fact, even if they feel their ship reeks of rotten fish, that there are really too many tyrannical overseers, and, what is more, that they are headed off course. We are adrift on the open seas. Artists, like everyone else, must take up their oars, without dying, if possible—that is to say, by continuing to live and create.
Every publication is a deliberate act, and that act makes us vulnerable to the passions of a century that forgives nothing.

To tell the truth, this is not easy, and I can understand how artists might miss their former comfortable life. The change has been rather brutal. Of course, in the amphitheater of history, there have always been martyrs and lions. The martyrs were given strength by the idea of eternal praise, the lions by very bloody historical fodder. But up until now, artists always remained on the sidelines. They sang for no reason, for their own pleasure, or, in the best of cases, to encourage the martyr and attempt to distract the lion from its prey. Now, on the contrary, artists find themselves trapped inside the amphitheater. Their voices, naturally, no longer sound the same: they are far less confident.

It is easy to see what art is at risk of losing in such continual involvement: their former comfort, mainly, and that divine freedom that lives and breathes in Mozart’s works. We can now better understand the tormented and tenacious atmosphere of our works of art, their furrowed brow and sudden debacles. And so, we tell ourselves we understand that this is why there are more journalists than writers, more amateur painters than Cézannes, and why children’s literature and murder mysteries have taken the place of Tolstoy’s War and Peace or Stendhal’s The Charterhouse of Parma. Of course, we can always counter this state of affairs with humanistic lamentation, to become what Stepan Trofimovich desperately wanted to symbolize in Dostoyevsky’s The Possessed: reproach personified. And just like that character, we might also experience bouts of civic despondency. But that despondency would change nothing about what is really happening.

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This is a good one.


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That Time of Year Thou Mayst in Me Behold

Sonnet 73: by William Shakespeare

That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’st the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west;
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish’ d by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

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