Poetry Friday: The Moon's the North Wind's Cooky

The Moon's the North Wind's cooky.
He bites it, day by day,
Until there's but a rim of scraps
That crumble all away.

The South Wind is a baker.
He kneads clouds in his den,
And bakes a crisp new moon that . . . greedy
North . . . Wind . . . eats . . . again!

-- Vachel Lindsay



Today, Poetry Friday is being hosted at Elaine's blog The Wild Rose Reader. Click here to get there!

Self-Discipline the Joyce Cary Way

It's something I struggle with daily -- finding the will to write. The work is hard. It's sometimes isolating. There are days when it seems hopeless to even consider myself talented enough. And so I find ways to distract myself until I gather the courage to finally stop avoiding it. The only person who will write my books is me. Life is too short and the work too long . . .

During these times, I often turn to a description of the author Joyce Cary's last months and days of writing. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS) struck Cary and he died in 1957. I wish I could credit the writer, but I have been unable to locate that information.

So, how dedicated are you to your craft?

He ceased working in the top attic as the stairs became impossible for him and began to use Trudy's old private sitting-room on the ground floor as his study. He had metal grips fitted into the walls of the passages at various strategic points and with their aid and that of a stick could for a time get about without other help. When the disease attacked his hands he contrived a sling with an elastic band which could take the weight of his wrist and leave him free to write . . .

He was in bed all the time now and working under heartbreakingly difficult conditions. He now had a bed-desk invented by himself and made for him by his next-door neighbor, a magistrate whom Joyce called "the Judge". A roll of blank paper ran underneath which led across the desk to another roll on which the used paper was wound.

At first, he still had enough movement in his right hand to be able to push the paper forward as it was used. When this, too, became impossible his son Tristram devised an electrical switch by which Joyce dropped his wrist on a button and the paper moved forward automatically. The hand itself was supported by a sling and the pen or pencil was fastened to the fingers.
You can read more about Joyce Cary here.

Germans in the Woods from Rauch Brothers on Vimeo.

Grimbro: 13 Nights

I came across Grimbro's art by chance. I don't know much about him, except that he's an artist from New England. The challenge he gave himself this year was to paint (quickly) -- in the thirteen days preceding Halloween -- the icons of great horror films.

I like his work. Check it out here. Best viewed by clicking the image for a larger version.

Happy Halloween!

You Tell Me: Is This PSA Too Graphic?

A friend sent me this link -- a PSA from Wales. Not for the faint of heart.

What do you think?

Bob Dylan: Nettie Moore

I wasn't a big Bob Dylan fan as a youngster, but I'm a big one now -- especially of his later works on Modern Times. Here are the lyrics to one of my favorites on the album. It loses something in the reading, so I think it's far better to listen to it -- you can check it out at bobdylan.com where all his songs are featured. Go out and buy this album or download it!


Nettie Moore

Lost John's sittin' on a railroad track
Something's out of whack
Blues this mornin' fallin' down like hail
Gonna leave a greasy trail

Gonna travel the world is what I'm gonna do
Then come back and see you.
All I ever do is struggle and strive.
If I don't do anybody any harm, I might make it back home alive.

I'm the oldest son of a crazy man,
I'm in a cowboy band
Got a pile of sins to pay for and I ain't got time to hide
I'd walk through a blazing fire, baby, if I knew you was on the other side

Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore
And my happiness is o'r
Winter's gone, the river's on the rise
I loved you then, and ever shall
But there's no one left here to tell
The world has gone black before my eyes

Well, the world of research has gone berserk
Too much paperwork
Albert's in the graveyard, Frankie's raising hell
I'm beginning to believe what the scriptures tell

I've gone where the Southern crosses The Yellow Dog
Get away from all these demagogues
And these bad luck women stick like glue
It's either one or the other or neither of the two

She says, "Look out, daddy, don't want you to tear your pants
You could get wrecked in this dance."
They say whisky'll kill you, but I don't think it will
I'm ridin' with you to the top of the hill

Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore
And my happiness is o'r
Winter's gone, the river's on the rise
I loved you then, and ever shall
But there's no one left here to tell
The world has gone black before my eyes

Don't know why my baby never looked so good before
Don't have to wonder no more
She been cooking all day, it gonna take me all night
I can't eat all that stuff in a single bite

The judge's coming in, everybody rise
Lift up your eyes
You can do what you please, you don't need my advice
'Fore you call me any dirty names, you better think twice

Gettin' light outside, the temperature dropped
I think the rain has stopped
I'm gonna make you come to grips with fate
When I'm through with you, you'll learn to keep your business straight

Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore
And my happiness is o'r
Winter's gone, the river's on the rise
I loved you then, and ever shall
But there's no one left here to tell
The world has gone black before my eyes

The bright spark of the steady lights
Has dimmed my sights
When you're around me all my grief gives 'way
A life time with you is like some heavenly day

Everything I've ever known to be right has been proven wrong
I'll be drifting along
The woman I'm loving she rules my heart
No knife could ever cut our love apart.

Today I'll stand in faith and raise
The voice of praise
The sun is strong, I'm standing in the light
I wish to God that it were night

Oh, I miss you, Nettie Moore
And my happiness is o'r
Winter's gone, the river's on the rise
I loved you then, and ever shall
But there's no one here left to tell
The world has gone black before my eyes

Men's League Softball, Gillette, Wyoming

Out of the broad, open land they come.
Out of a coal seam's
$!
hundred-thousand tons

of overburden, out of shit-reek barns
and shearing pens,

or down from the powder blue

derrick platforms of howling Cyclone rigs
they rung by rung descend.

They come bearing the weight

of lives and labor on their boot heels,
a week of night shifts,

of the prairie sun's relentless arc.

But here, beneath the lights of Bicentennial Park,
these men work the stiffness

from their shoulders,

crow-hop and sling the ball sharply
around the horn. No matter

who they've become

in the years since boyhood, the game's
muscular beauty remains.


-- Lucas Howell











This is Lucas at the right.
My apologies to him for the wrong formatting of his
poem. Blogger won't let me justify the single lines.
They're supposed to be over to the right.

You can see the original formatting here.
You can read his Primitive Road here.


Today's Poetry Friday is being hosted at music-loving Kelly Polark at her blog here.

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