Cordelia Redux

The burden of knowledge my daughter says, is upon the writer and not the reader. Sometimes the burden is described as follows: "As we accumulate more knowledge, more knowledge must be known before new contributors can contribute." Here is it is simply that the reader must know who Cordelia is to appreciate the words.

So I explain...

The youngest and favorite daughter of King Lear is Cordelia, who struggles to find kind words to say about her father. William Shakespeare made a play out of it, which is correctly called a tragedy. Its first known performance was on St. Stephen's Day, December 26th, in 1606.

Cordelia Redux 

My lord and father, 

I am the last to speak, with the least to say 

Sad am I, I cannot heave 

My heart into my mouth, I love your majesty 

I love my father more, according to my bond, 

Not more nor less, I confess

Like any good daughter, I would love and be silent 

Leave me to my duty, I have no need to boast 

That the truth is so untender 

To obey and love and honor 

And nothing can I add

Dear Dad,
Okay, It is sad, but

Every daughter does what she should do

Nothing more nor less need be said

To obey and love and honor is the past

The truth is

I have no time to stay

I need the keys, the car, some cash

I’ve got to dash

Cordelia, a painting by William Frederick Yeames

Back in the saddle again.

I see it has been awhile.

I've been wondering if you wondered where I've been. Well, I've been here and there, mostly there, but now I am back, back in the saddle again.

Back in the saddle

I don't suppose I have much new to add.

Just remember, no matter how much time passes between our meetings, no matter what takes place in meanwhile, there are some things we can never assign to the trashcan, memories are like embers in the fireplace, and there is always a spark to rekindle the flame.

But I will leave you with Gene Autry's lyrics from Back in the Saddle Again. Take from them what you will.

I`m back in the saddle again
Out where a friend is a friend
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly gypsum weed
Back in the saddle again

Ridin` the range once more
Totin` my old .44
Where you sleep out every night
And the only law is right
Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-oh
Rockin` to and fro
Back in the saddle again
Whoopi-ty-aye-yay
I go my way
Back in the saddle again

I`m back in the saddle again
Out where a friend is a friend
Where the longhorn cattle feed
On the lowly gypsum weed
Back in the saddle again

Ridin` the range once more
Totin` my old .44
Where you sleep out every night
And the only law is right
Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-oh

Rockin` to and fro

Back in the saddle again

Whoopi-ty-aye-yay

I go my way

Back in the saddle again

Waiting

Out there something incredible is waiting to be known, look for it.

Winter's Pie

Kansas Blackbird

Sing a Song of Sixpence
By Mother Goose

Sing a song of sixpence, 
A pocket full of rye, 
Four and twenty blackbirds 
Baked in a pie. 
When the pie was opened 
The birds began to sing— 
Wasn't that a dainty dish 
To set before the king? 
The king was in the counting-house 
Counting out his money, The queen was in the parlor 
Eating bread and honey, 
The maid was in the garden 
Hanging out the clothes. 
Along came a blackbird 
And snipped off her nose.

Bede's Advice

Female Sparrow, England, image diliff, cc

Bede’s Advice

 

"O’ King,

It seems to me

The life of man on earth

Is short and swift

Like the flight of the sparrow

In the darkest winter

That flies through the room wherein you sit at supper,

With your earlmen and thegns,

As the fire blazes in your midst,

As the meadhall is warmed,

As drinks are raised about

In salute of your wealth and health

As the wintry storms of snow rage about. 

The tiny sparrow, black and brown, grey and white

Unarmed except for wings

And a chest to boast its prowess

With feathers loosely fitting

As if it forgot to tuck in his shirt

As indescript as the twigs

With which it makes its house

As grimy as the dirt wherein it finds its food

The life of man, O’ King, is short

As this tiny sparrow, who

Flying in the door at once is quickly out the window

O’ King,

While within he’s safe

From the wintry tempest,

From his kith and kin who plot,

From his neighbors who covet his lot,

And would steal his kingdom

So, this life, O’ King, of ours,

Appears for a little while

And what may follow or went before

Is uncertain

[Note. This poem is based a passage from Bede's Ecclesiastical History of England, Chapter XIII, (Bede c. 673-735). The pagan King Edwin of Northumberland wishing to marry a Christian princess was told he must convert. He assembled his advisors and, after listening to the Christian Paulinus, one of Edwin's advisors recited the parable of the sparrow, concluding that if this new Christian teaching brings knowledge more certain, it seems right that the king should follow it.]

Non-sequitur

Childhood is a time when a goose could write rhymes and it would all make sense.

So where is the dog, where is the dish, Where is the star with which to make a wish?

I had a dream about non-sequiturs. I was a cow, you were the moon, my little dog laughed, and the dish ran away with the spoon.

And somehow it all made poetic dianoetic sense.

Consider present tense.

I have a plan, I am a cow, might I jump over the moon and would my little dog laugh to see such a sight, let the dish run away with the spoon.

Doesn’t follow does it?

The Violinist

Writing poetry, you start with and idea. There you are with your mum... and where does it take you?

violin from 1658 by Jakob Stainer

The Violinist 

There you are
With your mum inside her tum
She stops
In a second hand shop in Notting Hill
What will she buy while you wait?
Something vintage, something quaint,
Perhaps a brush, some tubes with which to paint
Something to inspire
A work of art as beautiful as Renoir
If she dares something rare and not a coffee cup

Something quirky as a turkey
Stuffed and mounted
Made up by a taxidermy
All the while you squirm all wormy
Worried
With thoughts
Of who knows what
Hoping that her choice is socially acceptable
Something conventional
Perhaps a book to while away the hours
Waiting patiently for you

You listen
Imprisoned as you are
For some apparition of the future
And her dreams of what is to come for you
Finally, her indecision is over
And you hear
In your still unformed ear
The gentle sound of the strings of a violin
And within the mother’s tum
Stirs the ambition to be a musician