A change of pace. The main concentration is one ancient Irish poem.
We have Links, and an Article (good ones I assure you) , but the Poem is it.
I hope you enjoy todays’ offerings.
Al Gore on The Threat to American Democracy (Thanks Deva!)
2nd Edition of Sub Rosa available!
Link O’ The Day!
Fight Mind Control!
Many people would rather die than think.
– Bertrand Russell
Poetry, in essence, is a form of cognitive thought, of knowledge, of philosophy.
– Mikhail Katkov, 1856
To see the world with severed eyelids.
– Heinrich von Kleist
There is no document of civilisation that is not also a document of barbarism.
– Walter Benjamin
A poet can only warn.
– Wilfred Owen
We only think and believe what we want to believe and think.
– Diogenes of Sinope
ARTICLE: 68th Anniversary of Marijuana Prohibition
The First Pot POW
After a decade of U.S. government scare propaganda that convinced Americans that crazed Mexicans, blacks and fans of jazz clubs were pushing marijuana “reefers” on school children and honest youths, turning them into raving murderers, politicians decided to act.
The U.S. Congress passed the Marijuana Tax Stamp Act. Growing and selling marijuana were still legal, but only if you bought a $1 government stamp. And that stamp was not for sale.
On the day the Marijuana Tax Stamp Act was enacted — Oct. 2, 1937 — the FBI and Denver, Colo., police raided the Lexington Hotel and arrested Samuel R. Caldwell, 58, an unemployed labourer and Moses Baca, 26. On Oct. 5, Caldwell went into the history trivia books as the first marijuana seller convicted under U.S. federal law. His customer, Baca, was found guilty of possession.
Caldwell’s wares, two marijuana cigarettes, deeply offended Judge Foster Symes, who said: “I consider marijuana the worst of all narcotics, far worse than the use of morphine or cocaine. Under its influence men become beasts. Marijuana destroys life itself. I have no sympathy with those who sell this weed. The government is going to enforce this new law to the letter.”
Caldwell was sentenced to four years of hard labour in Leavenworth Penitentiary, plus a $1,000 fine. Baca received 18 months incarceration. Both men served every day of their sentence. A year after Caldwell was released from prison, he died. (From Cannabis News)
THE EARTH MOTHER’S LAMENTATION
My life is ebbing: let it drain –
unlike the sea which flows again,
The boiling, unbegotten sea.
I whose gown was always new
am now so pitifully thin
that this old shift will outlive me.
They want only money now.
When I was young, love was what
I wanted – and so richly got.
People then were generous,
and in return they asked a lot.
They ask and give so little now.
I had chariots and horses then,
given by admiring kings.
I drank mead and wine with them.
Now among old onion-skins
of withered women I drink whey,
myself a withered onion-skin.
My hands are bony now, and thin;
once they plied their loving trade
upon the bodies of great kings.
My hands are bony, wasted things,
unfit to stroke an old man’s head,
much less a young man’s glowing skin
Young girls are happy in the Spring,
but I am sad and worse than sad,
for I’m an old and useless thing.
Nobody round me is glad;
My hair is grey and going thin.
My veil conceals what is well hid.
I once had bright cloth on my head
and went with kings – now I dread
the going to the king of kings.
The winter winds ravish the sea.
No nobleman will visit me
no, not even a slave will come.
It’s long ago I sailed the sea
of youth and beauty wantonly.
Now my Passion too has gone.
Even in Summer I wear a shawl
It’s many a day since I was warm.
The Spring of youth has turned to Fall.
Wintry age’s smothering pall
is wrapping slowly round my limbs.
My hair’s like lichen, my paps like galls.
I don’t regret my lust and rage,
for even had I been demure
I still would wear the cloak of age.
The cloak that wooded hillsides wear
is beautiful; their foliage
is woven with eternal care.
I am old: the eyes that once
burned bright for men are now decayed:
the torch has burned out its sconce.
My life is ebbing; let it drain
unlike the sea which flows again,
the man-torn and tormented sea.
Flow and ebb: what the flow brings
the ebb soon takes away again
– the flow and the ebb following.
The flow and the ebb following:
the flow’s joy and the ebb’s pain,
the flow’s honey, the ebb’s sting.
The flow has not quite flooded me.
There is a recess still quite dry
though many were my company.
Well might Jesus come to me
in my recess – could I deny
a man my only hospitality?
A hand is laid upon them all
whose ebb always succeeds their flow,
whose rising sinks into their fall.
If my veiled and sunken eyes
could see more than their own ebb
there’s nothing they would recognise.
Happy the island of the sea
where flow always comes after ebb:
What flow will follow ebb in me?
I am wretched. What was flow
is now all ebb. Ebbing I go.
After the Tide, the Undertow.
(translated from the Old Irish by Anthony Weir)
A Blessing on You and Yours…