Poem of the Week

To the Sea

To step over the low wall that divides
Road from concrete walk above the shore
Brings sharply back something known long before—
The miniature gaiety of seasides.
Everything crowds under the low horizon:
Steep beach, blue water, towels, red bathing caps,
The small hushed waves’ repeated fresh collapse
Up the warm yellow sand, and further off
A white steamer stuck in the afternoon—
Still going on, all of it, still going on!
To lie, eat, sleep in hearing of the surf
(Ears to transistors, that sound tame enough
Under the sky), or gently up and down
Lead the uncertain children, frilled in white
And grasping at enormous air, or wheel
The rigid old along for them to feel
A final summer, plainly still occurs
As half an annual pleasure, half a rite,
As when, happy at being on my own,
I searched the sand for Famous Cricketers,
Or, farther back, my parents, listeners
To the same seaside quack, first became known.
Strange to it now, I watch the cloudless scene:
The same clear water over smoothed pebbles,
The distant bathers’ weak protesting trebles
Down at its edge, and then the cheap cigars,
The chocolate-papers, tea-leaves, and, between
The rocks, the rusting soup-tins, till the first
Few families start the trek back to the cars.
The white steamer has gone. Like breathed-on glass
The sunlight has turned milky. If the worst
Of flawless weather is our falling short,
It may be that through habit these do best,
Coming to the water clumsily undressed
Yearly; teaching their children by a sort
Of clowning; helping the old, too, as they ought.

Tom’s SCREWTAPE contribution to F&F — Focusing on Film

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See below to find my Act One friend’s clever contribution to a C.S. Lewis’ publication. I love how he writes about all aspects of social media and the news’ effect on us.

Here’s the “Screwtape” article I wrote for “Fellowship and Fairydust.”

via Tom’s SCREWTAPE contribution to F&F — Focusing on Film

Beijing Bicycle

Based on the classic Bicycle Thieves, (1948)  Beijing Bicycle (2001) has some funny moments, some touching moments and shows the local color of the hutong neighborhood of Dongcheng, but I just couldn’t watch the whole thing.

I got the DVD from the library and had no idea that it was a Chinese version of Vittorio De Sica’s earlier film. At first this story of a poor boy who comes to the big city and gets a job as a messenger pulled me in. His boss hires several new messengers and they get nifty uniforms and new bikes which they can buy once they work a certain amount. His one friend in the city, tells him this is a really good job. Yet it’s not easy to keep it. There’s plenty of trouble getting across this labyrinth of a city and dealing with hard to find customers.

As in the original, just as the boy’s about to own the bike, he comes out of an office and it’s gone. He looks high and low and it’s been stolen. It’s catastrophic.

I sympathized with the hero when his bike was stolen. I was impressed by his perseverance in tracking down the bike (though in a city as vast and populous as modern Beijing, I didn’t entirely buy that). But after watching scene after scene when the boy’s beaten by the thuggish friends of a kid whom he found with the bike. This other boy’s dad had promised him a bike, but then tells him he couldn’t buy the bike because his younger sister has tested into a good school so the father decides to use the money for her tuition. This second boy, who attends a private school, where his pals are all wealthier. They all have bikes. So this kid steals from his father and buys the bike at a second hand bike shop. There’s a lot of conflict over the bike and the hero is beaten and harassed by the second boy’s thuggish friends.

Eventually, I reached a point where I couldn’t take any more of the film. I couldn’t imagine a way for the film to end and satisfy me. It was a portrait of a society or sub-culture of people with no morals. Everyone learns that the second boy stole money to buy this bike, yet his pals still beat the other kids and hold him hostage for hours. I reached a point where if felt like punishment.

WPC: Twisted

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Paintings at the Shandong Art Museum by a painter whose lines twist a lot.
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1. Each week, WordPress will provide a theme for creative inspiration. You take photographs based on your interpretation of the theme, and post them on your blog (a new post!) anytime before the following Wednesday when the next photo theme will be announced.

2. To make it easy for others to check out your photos, title your blog post “Weekly Photo Challenge: (theme of the week)” and be sure to use the “postaday″ tag.

3. Follow The Daily Post so that you don’t miss out on weekly challenge announcements, and subscribe to our newsletter – we’ll highlight great posts. Add Media photos from each month’s most popular challenge.

Just a few wonderful posts:

 

Poem of the Week

An Irish Airman Forsees his Death

W.B. Yeats

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan’s poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seemed waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.

Poem of the Week

Ode to Medieval Poets

W.H. Auden

Chaucer, Langland, Douglas, Dunbar, with all your
brother Anons, how on earth did you ever manage,
without anaesthetics or plumbing,
in daily peril from witches, warlocks,

lepers, The Holy Office, foreign mercenaries
burning as they came, to write so cheerfully,
with no grimaces of self-pathos?
Long-winded you could be but not vulgar,

bawdy but not grubby, your raucous flytings
sheer high-spirited fun, whereas our makers,
beset by every creature comfort,
immune, they believe, to all superstitions,

even at their best are so often morose or
kinky, petrified by their gorgon egos.
We all ask, but I doubt if anyone
can really say why all age-groups should find our

Age quite so repulsive. Without its heartless
engines, though, you could not tenant my book-shelves,
on hand to delect my ear and chuckle
my sad flesh: I would gladly just now be

turning out verses to applaud a thundery
jovial June when the judas-tree is in blossom,
but am forbidden by the knowledge
that you would have wrought them so much better.