The Children's Hour
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Between the dark and the daylight,
When the night is beginning to lower,
Comes a pause in the day's occupations,
That is known as the Children's Hour.
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.
From my study I see in the lamplight,
Descending the broad hall stair,
Grave Alice, and laughing Allegra,
And Edith with golden hair.
A whisper, and then a silence:
Yet I know by their merry eyes
They are plotting and planning together
To take me by surprise.
A sudden rush from the stairway,
A sudden raid from the hall!
By three doors left unguarded
They enter my castle wall!
They climb up into my turret
O'er the arms and back of my chair;
If I try to escape, they surround me;
They seem to be everywhere.
They almost devour me with kisses,
Their arms about me entwine,
Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine!
Do you think, O blue-eyed banditti,
Because you have scaled the wall,
Such an old mustache as I am
Is not a match for you all!
I have you fast in my fortress,
And will not let you depart,
But put you down into the dungeon
In the round-tower of my heart.
And there will I keep you forever,
Yes, forever and a day,
Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,
And moulder in dust away!
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Sunday, July 25, 2010
On Childhood: Before the "Dark Hour of Reason"
"Childhood," said English poet John Betjeman, "is measured out by sounds and smells and sights, before the dark hour of reason grows." Indeed, poems about childhood seem colored by innocence and naiveté, memories that make the rooms of a house more grand, the shadows near the bed at night more horrifying. In these works, poets document remembered people, places, and pastimes with an attention that children have for the world before ritual and maturity strips life of its daily magic.
In "A Replica of the Parthenon," for example, Mark Doty recounts a game he and a neighbor girl played without understanding the profound meaning of what they were doing:
Every night we took turns dying.
One would lie down while the other
folded the corpse's hands and,
with the true solemnity of children,
brought flowers.
In "A Happy Childhood," William Matthews captures another aspect of one’s early years: that not all memories are true. "It turns out you are the story of your childhood," Matthews wrote, "and you're under constant revision." In the poem, Matthews tries to reveal the contradictions that arise when one tries to remember the details of a far-off time:
He'll remember like a prayer
how his mother made breakfast for him
every morning before he trudged out
to snip the papers free. Just as
his mother will remember she felt
guilty never to wake up with him
to give him breakfast. It was Cream
of Wheat they always or never had together.
Sometimes a poet writes of childhood as a time of happiness, or sometimes as an uncomfortable period in which the child cannot yet live side-by-side with adults, as in James Merrill’s "The World and the Child," which describes the sweet pain of a child who lies in bed, separated from the adults, longing to be loved:
He lies awake in pain, he does not move,
He will not scream. Any who heard him scream
Would let their wisdom be the whole of love.
People have filled the room he lies above.
Their talk, mild variation, chilling theme,
Falls on the child...
And finally, of course, poems about childhood can be just plain fun. Take, for example, the springtime world E.E. Cummings creates in the poem "In Just," full of hop-scotch and jump-rope and rain, all "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful." Or the Lewis Carroll poem "Jabberwocky," which begins
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
From here.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Glimmer Train Short Fiction Contest
Glimmer Train VERY SHORT FICTION AWARD
Deadline: July 31
Prizes:
1st place wins $1,200, publication in Glimmer Train Stories, and 20 copies.
2nd-place: $500 and possible publication.
3rd-place: $300 and possible publication.
Other considerations:
Deadline: July 31
Prizes:
1st place wins $1,200, publication in Glimmer Train Stories, and 20 copies.
2nd-place: $500 and possible publication.
3rd-place: $300 and possible publication.
Other considerations:
- Open to all writers.
- Length not to exceed 3,000 words. Any shorter lengths are welcome.
- Reading fee is $15 per story.
- Results post on September 30. Winning story will be published in Issue 81.
- Editors' Take on Very Short Fiction Submissions.
Sunday, July 11, 2010
The First Ruler: Part 2
Alice C. Linsley
(To read Part One, go here.)
Ra's Morning at the Tree of Life
Ra was a tall man with black hair and reddish brown skin. His eyes were like chunks of agate, a dark honey color. His hands were strong. Once he had killed a giant cobra with his bare hands. He also was adept at weaving rope from grasses and making baskets from reeds. His large hands were capable of gentle handling of precious things like his son Ka and the fragile ostrich egg that he used for his daily prayers.
Ra said his prayers every morning. He came down from his cave in the hills to the edge of the lake and stood under an ancient tree with large grey roots only half buried under the ground. The roots were twisted so that from certain angles they looked like snakes rising up from the earth. Ra often sat on one of these roots while he waited for the first rays of light to flicker across the horizon. The great roots were like an elephant’s trunk, sucking water from the lake. Ra thought that this explained the thrumming that he sometimes felt when he sat on the roots. It seemed that the ancient tree pulsed with life from the tips of its boughs to the tips of its deepest roots.
Ra stood under the tree facing the east. It was early and the Sun had not begun to show its first rays upon the horizon. The pale pre-dawn light made the water appear darker than usual and all was quiet, the way it is when the night sounds have ceased but the morning sounds haven’t yet begun.
Ra’s stomach grumbled but it didn’t concern him. His wife would have something for him to eat when he returned to the cave. He never ate until he had completed his prayers to the Father who lived above. It was a small thing but it was the right way to show honor to the Father whose territory stretched in all directions. One day Ra hoped to give his son a kingdom, though it would be a small one, since Ra and his wife never ventured far from the cave and the water near the great tree. Perhaps from this small piece of land, there would come a bigger kingdom. It was something that Ra wanted, but what price would he have to pay for his ambition?
When the Sun began to rise it cast a lavender glow across the water and birds began to chirp and chatter in the tree branches over Ra’s head. That was when he stepped out from under the tree and walked to the water’s edge. He was carrying half of an ostrich egg and now he stooped down and used the egg shell to scoop up water. Then he stood very erect, his dark face radiant in the Sun’s light. When the Sun had risen so that he could see the full orb, Ra poured some of the water onto the ground in a straight line from west to east, between where he stood and the bank of the lake. He prayed:
“Father, I greet you as you come from your house in the east and begin your daily journey to your abode in the west.”
Ra then poured water in a line perpendicular to the first line, this one running north to south to form a cross. Then he prayed again:
“I have but one dwelling place as I am but dust and will return to dust. Father, grant that my territory might extend from the north to the south for as far as the eye can see.”
Then Ra stood at the center of the lines he had made with the water, at the center of the cross, and he poured the last of the water over his head and prayed:
“May I not give offense, since you see all things. Make me clean and shower me with blessings from the highest heaven. Make my house into a great house. Grant that my son may have a territory like you have, with two houses, that he too may go forth like a bright light.”
When Ra finished his prayers he returned to the great tree and gently wrapped to ostrich egg in a large leaf. He reached up and placed the bundle in the V formed by two large branches. Then he headed home for his breakfast, feeling content with his life and eager to see his young son.
When Ra arrived the fire was cold and he could not find his wife. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that something was wrong. He crouched toward the entrance of the cave and looked in but there was no sign of his wife and infant son. He heard a muffled sound above him and looked up. His wife was motioning to him from a cliff above the cave where she was laying flat against the stone. He could see fear in her eyes and before he could scramble up to her, he heard the angry roar of a lion. Ra braced himself for the attack, but the lion turned and leapt into the forest as if pursued. Then Ra heard voices. He signaled for his wife to put her head down and he moved behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. From there he could watch the approaching hunting party. He could hear them moving through the forest and knew that unless they picked up the animal’s tracks further up, they would surely come into his clearing.
You see, Ra was a Firstling but he was not the only Firstling. There were others and they now outnumbered his small family. It was best to avoid confrontation, if he could. So he hid himself, hoping that the strangers would not discover his cave. He waited until the hunting party had passed and then he climbed to where his wife was crouching. His son lay asleep in her lap, unaware of the dangers he faced in that time and place so long ago when his father prayed for blessings from heaven and a territory for his son.
Now Ra sat beside his wife and stroked the tender face of his son. He looked up to see that his wife was watching him. Then she smiled. Ra smiled back. That's when Ha told her husband that she was going to have another child. Ra laughed. Wasn't he blessed to have Ka? And now there would be another! They would wait until the child was 6 moon cycles old to name him. Ra was certain it would be another man child though Ha was hoping for a girl. Either way, a name could be given only once so they would wait to be sure that the baby lived. In those days many babies didn't live very long.
You've probably noticed that all the names in Ra's family are single syllable names. That's because Ra, Ha and Ka spoke a language with one and two syllable words. That is a trait of the languages still spoken in the place where they struggled to survive. Today we would consider their language a precursor of the Chadic languages. If you look on a map of Africa you will be able to find a country called Chad. But you must remember that there were no countries in Ra's time. That is why it is so remarkable that Ra imagined controlling a territory for his son.
If you are a boy, you probably think it is only natural that he'd want to control a piece of land. It would make it easier for him to protect Ha and Ka and the new baby. Girls don't think much about controlling land. Maybe because they have their hands full trying to control situations and relationships. But Ra was a man of vision and he always remembered the thoughts he had while he intended the tree where he prayed at the very center of his territory. Just as the roots of the great tree radiated from the tree's trunk, so his territory would stretch in all directions from the ancient tree that thrummed with life. He would find a way because the Creator wanted his clan to increase and to spread out. He was sure of that, and he was sure that the Creator would him him do it.
That's all for now.
Your loving Grandmother
Part 3
(To read Part One, go here.)
Ra's Morning at the Tree of Life
Ra was a tall man with black hair and reddish brown skin. His eyes were like chunks of agate, a dark honey color. His hands were strong. Once he had killed a giant cobra with his bare hands. He also was adept at weaving rope from grasses and making baskets from reeds. His large hands were capable of gentle handling of precious things like his son Ka and the fragile ostrich egg that he used for his daily prayers.
Ra said his prayers every morning. He came down from his cave in the hills to the edge of the lake and stood under an ancient tree with large grey roots only half buried under the ground. The roots were twisted so that from certain angles they looked like snakes rising up from the earth. Ra often sat on one of these roots while he waited for the first rays of light to flicker across the horizon. The great roots were like an elephant’s trunk, sucking water from the lake. Ra thought that this explained the thrumming that he sometimes felt when he sat on the roots. It seemed that the ancient tree pulsed with life from the tips of its boughs to the tips of its deepest roots.
Ra stood under the tree facing the east. It was early and the Sun had not begun to show its first rays upon the horizon. The pale pre-dawn light made the water appear darker than usual and all was quiet, the way it is when the night sounds have ceased but the morning sounds haven’t yet begun.
Ra’s stomach grumbled but it didn’t concern him. His wife would have something for him to eat when he returned to the cave. He never ate until he had completed his prayers to the Father who lived above. It was a small thing but it was the right way to show honor to the Father whose territory stretched in all directions. One day Ra hoped to give his son a kingdom, though it would be a small one, since Ra and his wife never ventured far from the cave and the water near the great tree. Perhaps from this small piece of land, there would come a bigger kingdom. It was something that Ra wanted, but what price would he have to pay for his ambition?
When the Sun began to rise it cast a lavender glow across the water and birds began to chirp and chatter in the tree branches over Ra’s head. That was when he stepped out from under the tree and walked to the water’s edge. He was carrying half of an ostrich egg and now he stooped down and used the egg shell to scoop up water. Then he stood very erect, his dark face radiant in the Sun’s light. When the Sun had risen so that he could see the full orb, Ra poured some of the water onto the ground in a straight line from west to east, between where he stood and the bank of the lake. He prayed:
“Father, I greet you as you come from your house in the east and begin your daily journey to your abode in the west.”
Ra then poured water in a line perpendicular to the first line, this one running north to south to form a cross. Then he prayed again:
“I have but one dwelling place as I am but dust and will return to dust. Father, grant that my territory might extend from the north to the south for as far as the eye can see.”
Then Ra stood at the center of the lines he had made with the water, at the center of the cross, and he poured the last of the water over his head and prayed:
“May I not give offense, since you see all things. Make me clean and shower me with blessings from the highest heaven. Make my house into a great house. Grant that my son may have a territory like you have, with two houses, that he too may go forth like a bright light.”
When Ra finished his prayers he returned to the great tree and gently wrapped to ostrich egg in a large leaf. He reached up and placed the bundle in the V formed by two large branches. Then he headed home for his breakfast, feeling content with his life and eager to see his young son.
When Ra arrived the fire was cold and he could not find his wife. A sick feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that something was wrong. He crouched toward the entrance of the cave and looked in but there was no sign of his wife and infant son. He heard a muffled sound above him and looked up. His wife was motioning to him from a cliff above the cave where she was laying flat against the stone. He could see fear in her eyes and before he could scramble up to her, he heard the angry roar of a lion. Ra braced himself for the attack, but the lion turned and leapt into the forest as if pursued. Then Ra heard voices. He signaled for his wife to put her head down and he moved behind a tree at the edge of the clearing. From there he could watch the approaching hunting party. He could hear them moving through the forest and knew that unless they picked up the animal’s tracks further up, they would surely come into his clearing.
You see, Ra was a Firstling but he was not the only Firstling. There were others and they now outnumbered his small family. It was best to avoid confrontation, if he could. So he hid himself, hoping that the strangers would not discover his cave. He waited until the hunting party had passed and then he climbed to where his wife was crouching. His son lay asleep in her lap, unaware of the dangers he faced in that time and place so long ago when his father prayed for blessings from heaven and a territory for his son.
Now Ra sat beside his wife and stroked the tender face of his son. He looked up to see that his wife was watching him. Then she smiled. Ra smiled back. That's when Ha told her husband that she was going to have another child. Ra laughed. Wasn't he blessed to have Ka? And now there would be another! They would wait until the child was 6 moon cycles old to name him. Ra was certain it would be another man child though Ha was hoping for a girl. Either way, a name could be given only once so they would wait to be sure that the baby lived. In those days many babies didn't live very long.
You've probably noticed that all the names in Ra's family are single syllable names. That's because Ra, Ha and Ka spoke a language with one and two syllable words. That is a trait of the languages still spoken in the place where they struggled to survive. Today we would consider their language a precursor of the Chadic languages. If you look on a map of Africa you will be able to find a country called Chad. But you must remember that there were no countries in Ra's time. That is why it is so remarkable that Ra imagined controlling a territory for his son.
If you are a boy, you probably think it is only natural that he'd want to control a piece of land. It would make it easier for him to protect Ha and Ka and the new baby. Girls don't think much about controlling land. Maybe because they have their hands full trying to control situations and relationships. But Ra was a man of vision and he always remembered the thoughts he had while he intended the tree where he prayed at the very center of his territory. Just as the roots of the great tree radiated from the tree's trunk, so his territory would stretch in all directions from the ancient tree that thrummed with life. He would find a way because the Creator wanted his clan to increase and to spread out. He was sure of that, and he was sure that the Creator would him him do it.
That's all for now.
Your loving Grandmother
Part 3
Monday, July 5, 2010
Mark Twain 100 Years Later
by Father Steven Reilly, LC
As Hemingway put it, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.” Even as we commemorate the 100th anniversary of Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ death this year, the novels he wrote as Mark Twain still hold an envied place in the annals of literature.
A great writer, and also a complex personality, Twain was the premier humorist of his day — the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts gives an annual award for humor named after him. Yet the laughter often carried a tinge of cynicism. He viewed the world with a jaundiced eye. Life, after all, had dealt him heavy blows, particularly with the deaths of his beloved wife, Olivia, and two of his daughters in their 20s.
Love for Joan of Arc
As for faith, generally he believed in an afterlife, but often it was conflicted and frequently wavering (“Faith is believing in what you know ain’t so.”). Still, Catholics may be impressed to know that Twain said that he liked his 1896 Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc “best of all my books; and it is the best; I know it perfectly well. And besides, it furnished me seven times the pleasure afforded me by any of the others; twelve years of preparation, and two years of writing. The others needed no preparation and got none.” Yes, the author of Huckleberry Finn, a book that frequently vies for “Great American Novel” status, held Joan of Arc in higher esteem. What was the source of this feeling?
Quite simply, Twain loved the medieval heroine and saint. In a separate essay in 1904, he wrote, “There is no blemish in that rounded and beautiful character. ... She is easily and by far the most extraordinary person the human race has ever produced.”
Twain originally published his novel serially in Harper’s Magazine under a different pseudonym, Louis de Conte. He feared the reactions of readers who had come to expect a certain kind of writing from him and so presented the book at first as the real memoir of Joan’s page and secretary recently translated to English. How long the ruse was maintained is hard to say, but the shining admiration of the fictional narrator, the elderly bachelor Louis de Conte, is pure Twain.
Read it all here.
As Hemingway put it, “All modern American literature comes from one book by Mark Twain called Huckleberry Finn.” Even as we commemorate the 100th anniversary of Samuel Langhorne Clemens’ death this year, the novels he wrote as Mark Twain still hold an envied place in the annals of literature.
A great writer, and also a complex personality, Twain was the premier humorist of his day — the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts gives an annual award for humor named after him. Yet the laughter often carried a tinge of cynicism. He viewed the world with a jaundiced eye. Life, after all, had dealt him heavy blows, particularly with the deaths of his beloved wife, Olivia, and two of his daughters in their 20s.
Love for Joan of Arc
As for faith, generally he believed in an afterlife, but often it was conflicted and frequently wavering (“Faith is believing in what you know ain’t so.”). Still, Catholics may be impressed to know that Twain said that he liked his 1896 Personal Recollections of Joan of Arc “best of all my books; and it is the best; I know it perfectly well. And besides, it furnished me seven times the pleasure afforded me by any of the others; twelve years of preparation, and two years of writing. The others needed no preparation and got none.” Yes, the author of Huckleberry Finn, a book that frequently vies for “Great American Novel” status, held Joan of Arc in higher esteem. What was the source of this feeling?
Quite simply, Twain loved the medieval heroine and saint. In a separate essay in 1904, he wrote, “There is no blemish in that rounded and beautiful character. ... She is easily and by far the most extraordinary person the human race has ever produced.”
Twain originally published his novel serially in Harper’s Magazine under a different pseudonym, Louis de Conte. He feared the reactions of readers who had come to expect a certain kind of writing from him and so presented the book at first as the real memoir of Joan’s page and secretary recently translated to English. How long the ruse was maintained is hard to say, but the shining admiration of the fictional narrator, the elderly bachelor Louis de Conte, is pure Twain.
Read it all here.
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