Lepanto

In the late fifteen hundreds, the Ottoman Empire posed a massive threat to Europe, threatening to conquer all of Christendom, which then consisted of dozens of separate Latin kingdoms, constantly warring among each other and thus inevitably weakening themselves in the face of the Ottoman onslaught.

Christendom suffered defeat after defeat at the hands of the Turks, until in 1571, the tide turned at the Battle of Lepanto.

The Battle of Lepanto took place on the 7th of October, 1571. Commanded by Don John (or Juan) of Austria, a fleet of the Holy League, (that included a coalition of Spain, the Republic of Venice, the Papacy (under Pope St. Pius V) the Republic of Genoa, the Duchy of Savoy, the Knights Hospitaller and others,) decisively defeated Ali Pasha and the main Turkish fleet.

The five-hour battle was fought at the northern edge of the Gulf of Patra, off western Greece, where the Ottoman forces sailing westwards from their naval station in Lepanto met the Holy League forces, which had come from Messina. A glorious victory gave the Holy League temporary control over the Mediterranean, protected Rome from invasion, and prevented the Ottomans from advancing further into Europe. (However, such was the resources available to the Empire, that the Ottomans had rebuilt their entire fleet in the space of one year. It is truly a divine miracle that they did not obliterate Christendom in the sixteenth century and completely take over Europe.)

G.K. Chesterton has illustrated this epic battle with a marvelous poem.

Lepanto

White founts falling in the courts of the sun,

And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;

There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared

It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,

It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips,

For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.

They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,

They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,

And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,

And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross,

The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;

The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;

From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,

And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.

Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard,

Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,

Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half-attainted stall,

The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,

The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,

That once went singing southward when all the world was young.

In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,

Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.

Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,

Don John of Austria is going to the war,

Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold

In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,

Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,

Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.

Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,

Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world,

Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.

Love-light of Spain - hurrah!

Death-light of Africa!

Don John of Austria

Is riding to the sea.

Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

He moves a mighty turban on the timeless hour's knees,

His turban that is woven of the sunset and the seas.

He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease,

And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees,

And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring

Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.

Giants and the Genii,

Multiplex of wing and eye,

Whose strong obedience broke the sky

When Solomon was king.

They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,

From temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;

They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea

Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be;

On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,

Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;

They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground, -

They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound.

And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk may hide,

And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,

And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,

For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.

We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun,

Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done,

But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know

The voice that shook our palaces - four hundred years ago:

It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;

It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey in the gate!

It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,

Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."

For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,

(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)

Sudden and still - hurrah!

Bolt from Iberia!

Don John of Austria

Is gone by Alcalar.

St. Michael's on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north

(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.)

Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift

And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.

He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;

The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;

The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes

And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,

And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,

And Christian dreadeth Christ that bath a newer face of doom,

And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,

But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea.

Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse

Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,

Trumpet that sayeth ha!

Domino gloria!

Don John of Austria

Is shouting to the ships.

King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck

(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)

The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,

And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in.

He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,

He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,

And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey

Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,

And death is in the phial and the end of noble work,

But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.

Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed -

Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.

Gun upon gun, ha! ha!

Gun upon gun, hurrah!

Don John of Austria

Has loosed the cannonade.

The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,

(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)

The hidden room in a man's house where God sits all the year,

The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.

He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea

The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;

They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,

They veil the plumed lions on the galleys of St. Mark;

And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,

And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,

Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines

Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.

They are lost like slaves that swat, and in the skies of morning hung

The stairways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.

They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on

Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.

And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell

Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell,

And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign -

(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)

Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,

Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,

Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds,

Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,

Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea

White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.

Vivat Hispania!

Domino Gloria!

Don John of Austria

Has set his people free!

Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath

(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)

And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain,

Up which a lean and foolish knight forever rides in vain,

And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade. . .

(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)

- G.K. Chesterton

Agraulis vanillae

This is the Gulf Fritillary, sometimes called the Passion Butterfly. (Family Nymphalidae, sub-family Heliconiinae.) Earlier this month and throughout most of September there were quite a few around here. Evidently, they aren't easily startled, and were fairly easy to photograph. They fly pretty high above the ground compared to lots of other butterflies I've studied.

Here's a close up of the underside of both the upper and lower wings. Notice the dark 'eyespot' on the third and largest white oval marking on the lower wing. A very distinguishing characteristic.

Psyche

This picture was inspired by C.S. Lewis's novel, 'Till We Have Faces.' Though you may have noticed that it was modeled, to a degree, after Dante Rosseti's 'Astarte.' It was done with acrylics.

The Holy War

Out of the storm of the new born night

Down from the doorway of shadow,

Slung from the shore of the shining sea

Fashioned of beauty and brilliancy

The City of Splendor and Light.

They were the first of the Followers

Born of the dust of the darkness

Blessed with the gift of the lasting life

Clothed in the glory of unblemished white

The Children of Heaven and Earth.

Deep in the shade of the Undying Dead

Spirit of Shadow and Deathlight

From the depths of the void of the Universe

Bound with the plague of the Infinite Curse

The Demon of Darkness and Dread.

Up from the deeps of the Fallen Sea

He came to the city of Mansoul

City of Splendor and City of Light

Set on the crest of the Shining Heights

A city unsullied and free.

Into their city he sent them a Spell

He sent them a Word of Evil

They opened their gates to the Ultimate Lie

They slept with the Shade of the Lustful Night

And the First of the Followers Fell.

Beyond the edge of the Universe

High in the seat of Deep Heaven

The Lover looked down on the City of Light

And the Stars of the Morning watched Him cry

The King of the Last and the First.

The Rage of His Terrible Sword awoke

And He gathered the Army of God

But the Men who had fallen did not hear

They turned away from the Holy Tears

And the heart of the Lover broke.

They shut their doors in the Lover’s face

They closed their minds to His Name

But He splintered the walls of the city He loved

And He shattered the strength of the Evil One

And He burst the bars of their gates.

He took the Demon of Darkness and Hell

And flung him into the Void

They trembled before the wrath of his sword

But clear on the dawning wind they heard

The laughter of Immanuel.

- Written by S.J. aka Raora

　

Charles the First - A Character Sketch

I have spent a lot of time studying the English Civil Wars this past year, and I find them very interesting. As the instigator of the Civil Wars, Charles I provides intriguing discussion matter.

Responsible for one of the bloodiest periods in English history, and the first King in the history of England to be tried and executed by a court of law, Charles I deserves some examination. He was a devout man, by all appearances, and constantly assured himself and his followers that their side was the right and just one. It seemed that he was very convinced in the belief that his cause was right, but it is difficult to think that anyone could honestly believe the Royal Prerogative was worth dividing England in civil war over. Yet this he was willing to do.

Later on, when the war was well under way, he championed, in the eyes of the world, the finest elements of chivalrous Old England, the ancient tradition of the monarchy, and a large percentage of the nation - all these things gathered to make a noble stand against the rebellious, divided, greedy and unstable Parliament, Cromwell’s Ironside Army, and the threat of foreign invasion by the Scottish army. Then the conflict over Royal Prerogative was brushed aside, the original ideas of Pym were all but forgotten, and the King’s cause was for awhile seen as good and just by many - then even he may have been able to see it as simply crushing a rebellion, defending God’s chosen, the sovereign King.

But that was not how it started, and he, of all people, must have known it. Going back to the root of the matter, it was not so. Because the things the Parliament originally fought for were worthy things - the right of the freeman to be fairly tried in a court of law, the right of appeal, the freeman’s rights to his property, laws against arbitrary taxes levied by the King without the consent of Parliament, laws to avert the threat of Popery, prevention of absolute monarchical power, opposition to the Personal Rule. There is not a wide selection of explanations to justify the King’s hostility towards such rational and necessary reformation.

The conclusion we must draw is obvious. Charles wanted absolute power. He did not want to be governed or counseled. He had no justifiable reason to spill the blood of his own people, fighting for or against him in the unnecessary bloodshed that ravaged England for several years. He was a dictator. Not the first in the history of the world, nor in the history of England, but the bare facts are that his cause was not just in any sense of the word, and while we cannot know whether or not he believed it to be, we can make a reasonable guess.

Not that the King’s selfish intentions excuse the monstrous behavior of Cromwell and his henchmen. It is still quite impossible to choose sides. By the end of it, the war had become nothing more than a power struggle between two dictators - the only notable difference is that one of them had at least a hereditary right to the throne and the other did not. The original conflict was almost completely abandoned. But even during the dark hours of Cromwell’s reign, (in which we see that his means of governing the country were no different than his predecessor’s) hope is in sight. The Restoration of what the nation liked to think of as the Old Kingship, but what was really the New Monarchy, brought about the fulfillment of the original purpose of the Opposition.

The Justifiability of Irrational Numbers

I have been doing Algebra 1 this year, and I really enjoyed it - until I came to the chapter on irrational numbers. Now don’t be intimidated by my mentioning algebra/math. This is really going to be a very simple post. But I will warn you ahead of time, that you can’t get much out of it by skimming it. Get in, or stay out.

This post was inspired by a discussion I had with a clever young man, at a chess table at the 2009 Home school Book Fair. (Though I think I have had this conversation more than once, with more than one person.) Being multitaskers, we tried to have the discussion, with inserts from several other bystanders, and play chess at the same time. It was quite educational. I think it started with him trying to explain to me why one cannot know both the velocity of an object and the position of that object, and from there we got onto irrational numbers and the Theory of Relativity. (This post only covers irrational numbers.)

Irrational numbers are introduced with the Pythagorean theorem:

In other words: The square of the hypotenuse of a right triangle is equal to the sum of the squares of the other two sides.

This is true for any right triangle. Example:

hypotenuse = c

1 leg = a

2 leg = b

So we translate that as follows: 4² + 3² = ?²

4 squared really means 4 times itself, which comes out to be 4 x 4 = 16

3 squared comes out to be 3 x 3 = 9

16 + 9 = 25

25 now equals the hypotenuse, squared. In order to undo the square, we must find the square root of 25. If you have any algebra, it is not hard to figure out that the square root of 25 = 5. (5 x 5 = 25) All very well and fine. But it doesn’t always work. What if you do this?

Should be pretty easy, right?

1² + 1² = ? ²

1² = 1 (1 x 1 =1) so 1 + 1 = 2²

? ² = 2²

Thus, the square root of two is the length of the hypotenuse.

How in the wide and wild world does one ever find the square root of 2?

It doesn’t seem so complicated at first, unless you have already been through it before, and are already thoroughly aware of the scandalous problem. But if not, it won’t take long to become so. There can only be so many numbers, right? 1x1 = 1 which is too low. 2x2 = 4 which is two high. It must be a fraction/decimal. But you could spend weeks trying to find what fraction works, and never succeed. In other words, the square root of 2 cannot be represented by a whole number or a fraction.

1.4142135623730950488016887242097 etc. is the closest you can get. But it is still too low. What is more, that number does not end with the 7, but goes on into eternity, in an endless string of numbers that NEVER repeats itself. There is no pattern. It is absolutely random.

1.4142135623730950488016887242097 x 1.4142135623730950488016887242097 = 1.9, with a repeating 9 that disappears into eternity. Not quite 2. The square root of two is called an ‘irrational number.’ What’s more, there are hundreds of other ‘irrational numbers,’ and unfortunate high-school students all over the world are expected to put up with the infamous incongruity and use irrational numbers in their calculations like any other number.

But in spite of the best algebra teachers available, the theory still does not make sense. It defies reason. How can a finite length, in this case the hypotenuse of the above triangle, be nonexistent? Because if it is not a whole number or a fraction, how can it exist? How can that simple black line have no definite length? It simply cannot be.

You can take a ruler and measure that mysterious black line. No, you won’t get an exact number, the ruler isn’t precise enough for that, but surely an exact number must exist. To say that it does not defies the imagination. How can that line have NO exact length?

I don’t know quite how it works, but I have an idea. Let’s back up several decades and think of it this way. If you have an object, for the sake of illustration let us say you have a rectangular eraser, than you can split it in half. You can split it in half again, and again and again. Theoretically, you can split it in half eternally. There is always that one piece of matter, and there is always one half of it to split. Once you get to the atomic level things might get more complicated, I don’t know. Leave it at that.

Now, what if you use a number? This might be slightly more difficult to fathom, because a number is not a piece of matter. It is more like an idea. Let’s use the number 12. Split is once and you have 6, split it again and you have 3, split it again and you have 1.5, split it again and you have 0.75, split it again and you have 0.375 and so on. We need not say that, theoretically, you can split a number infinitely, because numbers as we are dealing with them are already theoretical, and you can certainly split them infinitely. You can split the number 12 until your head splits, but I don’t aim to go that far. The point, that I have taken a vastly long time to make, is that a number can be split infinitely. Let’s move on.

This is a very simple number line that I have created with the help of Microsoft Paint, (a certain software that I have a love/hate relationship with.)

Now, stare at that beautiful piece of art and think about this very carefully for a moment.

IF YOU CAN SPLIT A NUMBER INFINITELY, THAN INFINITY EXISTS WITHIN THIS NUMBER LINE.

Did it click? If it didn’t than I’ll spend one short paragraph trying to explain it a little better.

There are an infinite number of points on that number line, because the points can always get smaller and smaller and smaller, (since you can cut them in half eternally.) So even though the number line has a finite length, infinity exists within it – on a very small scale.

If you don’t agree that there is infinity within a line, than you may as well stop reading right here. You can write me a comment, asking me to do a better job of explaining, or telling me I am dead wrong, and I’ll try to help.

If you do agree, than we’ll go on to the final statement of Part One.

Try to relate ‘infinity within a line’ with ‘an infinite number that is not a whole number or a fraction and never reaches the square root of 2.’ If you think very hard for about three minutes, you will probably be able to fathom how an infinite number can exist within a line. How the length of a line can actually be an infinite number. It all hangs on relating the two concepts I just mentioned. If infinity exists within a line, than it might just possibly be able to imagine how a number can be infinite within a line and never quite reach a whole number or a fraction that, when multiplied by itself, equal 2. In a way, the square root of 2 does not exist. Almost, but not quite. There is just no point on that number line that is the square root of 2. To me, at least, that begins to make a shadow of sense.

When I first came to this conclusion, with the help of the Physicist, my first objection, – I like making objections – which may possibly be what is going on in your mind right now, was that the square root of 2 goes on and on forever, but the line doesn’t. There may be infinity within the line, but the line itself isn’t infinite. I have no proof either way, but if you think about it, all of the numbers that come after 1.4 get very small very fast and it is only reasonable that they correspond with the points on the line accordingly. If that didn’t make any sense, and doesn’t help you, than just leave it alone and go on.

This is all conjecture – none of it is proof – but I have not yet even conjectured, much less proven, that irrational numbers are at all justified. All I have done so far is given an argument for the existence of an infinite number within a finite line. Which fact most mathematicians accepted several thousand years ago. It seems quite simple, actually, once you have thought of it, but it was very hard for me to fathom at first. Well, actually, I have done a little more. I have given an argument for the existence of an infinite number within a finite line never reaches anything that is exactly the square root of two. In other words, it never reaches anything that, when squared, that is, multiplied by itself, will equal 2.

By the way, before we go on, let me clear something up. If my repeated reference to a number that ‘never reaches,’ bothers you, let me put that straight. Most numbers don’t reach anywhere, but if you have an infinite number, it is rather difficult to speak of it without using the word ‘reaches.’ Since it is infinite, and goes on and on and on, it is actually, in a way, ‘going’ somewhere. Thus the word ‘reaches.’

But anyway, the conclusion we came to above is not necessarily an irrational number, I don’t think. An irrational number is not only infinite, it also, supposedly, never repeats itself.

Infinity within a line posed a problem to me for a while, but once you get over it, it becomes minuscule in the presence of this colossal problem. Because now that we have got over the argument that it cannot be, we are faced with the much more significant argument that it should not be. The math books try to tell us that that number that never ends and never repeats itself is random - absolutely and eternally random, and for me, that is far more difficult to fathom than infinity within a line. The universe is NOT random!

But this post is already four pages long, and even if there is anyone who has read this far, they will probably not be inclined to read any farther just now, so the rest of this will have to wait for a future post.

One more thing. If you read this post thinking, yes, of course, or I knew that all along, or just what I was going to say, and were sorely disappointed at being unable to participate in a controversy simply because there was nothing to argue about, than here are a few other points that might trigger a cyber debate.

Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity – is there an absolute by which to measure the motion of objects, or can we never discover whether the ball that fell from the train was traveling straight or curved or both or neither?

The Nature of the Universe – Is the Universe finite – or not? Is a finite Universe fathomable? What exactly do we mean when we say ‘universe?’

The Andromeda Galaxy – Can we read history in the light of a galaxy 2.5 million light years away? If that figure is accurate, than what are we really seeing? Can we look back in time?

I don’t necessarily have opinions on any of them, but I would love to have it out with someone and create an opinion on any or all of them.

THE SONG OF THE CHILDREN

This is a poem written by Chesterton. I think it is simply beautiful.

The World is ours till sunset,
Holly and fire and snow;
And the name of our dead brother
Who loved us long ago.

The grown folk mighty and cunning,
They write his name in gold;
But we can tell a little
Of the million tales he told.

He taught them laws and watchwords,
To preach and struggle and pray;
But he taught us deep in the hayfield
The games that the angels play.

Had he stayed here for ever,
Their world would be wise as ours--
And the king be cutting capers,
And the priest be picking flowers.

But the dark day came: they gathered:
On their faces we could see
They had taken and slain our brother,
And hanged him on a tree.

Amazing Grace

Take a minute to watch this awesome video. It really is amazing. But you have to watch it all the way through.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YtrnB4F

Art

For the past several years I have studied dozens of artists and over two hundred paintings and have (finally) decided who my favorite artists are.

My three favorite artists of all time are Michaelangelo Buonarotti, John William Waterhouse, and William Bouguereau. I like all of them for the same reason - their paintings are realistic, and their subject matter is beautiful. Beauty is the number one quality that all art must have in order to deserve the title. The element of meaning that a picture contains is also important, but secondarily. There are plenty of 'meaningful' pictures today that are downright hideous.

Buonarotti, as my favorite Rennasaince artist, really represents my love for the Rennassiance painters, among them Bernini, Rembrandt, and Caravaggio. I like their colors, which are rather dark compared to more recent artwork - I generally prefer darker colors to bright ones - and I like their style. Art in those days was just breaking out of the medieval 'ice age' where all the figures are frozen onto the page and perspective is worse than a six year old's, but it retained the grace and elegance of the art that preceded it, something that more recent art has lost. The Sistine Chapel still has the half-frozen fairy tale look to it, but it is very much alive. And I think that, as a sculptor by trade, and thus being well acquainted with the human body, Buonarotti captured the art of making his figures look even more life-like than most other Rennaisannce painters.

Waterhouse represents my love for the Pre-Raphaelites. The Pre-Raphaelites are my favorite 'group' of painters. Their colors are a little bright, but I don't really mind. Waterhouse's subject matter is what is really appealing to me. He illustrated mythological stories, and loved to paint beautiful women from legends. Seeing that I can't hardly find a Pre-Raphaelite painting that I don't like, I have many, many favorites among the Pre-Raphaelites, and I recommend looking up some of their paintings, which are simply beautiful.

Bouguereau is maybe the most talented of the three when it comes to painting. Bouguereau's pictures are striking for their soft, smooth texture. They could almost pass for photographs. They are gorgeous.

Runners up are Jacques-Louis David, Frederick Leighton, Gian Lorenzo Bernini, Rembrandt, and Thomas Cole, among many others.

It took me a dreadful long time to decide what my favorite paintings were. The first one was fairly easy, the second one rather more difficult, and in all fairness I must say that I am still not completely sure about the third one. There are so many. Anyway, here they are, in order.

The Creation of Adam, by Michaelangelo Buonarotti. There is no doubt about this one. The power in this picture is awesome.

My second favorite is Napleon Bonaparte at St. Bernard's Pass, by Jacques-Louis DaVid. This is truly splendid. Not that I care that much for Napoleon himself, but the look on his face could change a world. This picture reminds me of Longfellow's poem, 'Excelsior.'

My third most favorite picture is probably Proserpine, by Dante Gabrielle Rossetti. This is a beautiful picture, but it really ties with several others for third place.

Five top runners up (in no particular order) are:

Tristam and Iseult, by William Waterhouse

David, by Gian Lorenzo Bernini

Hero Awaiting the Return of Leander, by Evelyn de Morgan

Innocence, by William Bouguereau

The Flagilation of Christ, by William Bouguereau

These paintings are what art is really supposed to be.

Contest Announcement

Hey. Hop on over to my sister's blog and see if you can win the contest she is having.

Cultural Literacy Contest and Goats

The Lady of Shallot

This is Loreena Mckennit singing Alfred Lord Tennyson's poem, The Lady of Shallot. I love this poem, and the way she sings it.

DAWN COLOR

This is a sestina that I wrote last week. No, I didn’t know what a sestina was either, but it sounded really neat when I looked it up, so I tried my hand at one. A sestina has six stanzas, with six lines each. Each line ends with one of six key words. It does not have to rhyme, but it can, if you think you’re that talented. I have an occasional slant rhyme in mine, which is purely accidental, but is kind of nice. Because I was also trying to write a sestina with a certain color theme - red - the words I chose were dawn, fire, sun, desire, blood and color. In the first stanza, the words are arranged however you want - after that it gets more complicated. This is the tricky part. The first line of the second verse must be the last line of the first verse. The second line of the second verse must be the first line of the first verse. The third line must be the fifth line of the first verse, and so on. It took me awhile to get the hang of this, so I made a table that might be helpful in case you ever feel like writing one. (It really is fun once you get started. If you ever do, I would love to read it!)

First Verse Second Verse Third verse
First Line dawn color sun
Second Line fire dawn color
Third Line sun blood desire
Fourth Line desire fire dawn
Fifth Line blood desire fire
Sixth Line color sun blood

The fourth verse will begin with blood. See the pattern. And so on…

That’s not all. The six verses are followed by a closing verse of three lines. All six key words must be included in this envoy.

Here’s mine.

I walked the edge of the newborn dawn
That wakened the world with fire
And I stood on the brink of the setting sun
In front of the world’s desire
And I realized that this is a world of blood
Because red is the only color.

And I realized that red is the only Color
In torches of silence at Dawn
In cardinal sunsets and roses of Blood
And wine-kissed lips in the Fire
In the sacrifice and the one Desire
When the eyes of the dragon burn like the Sun.

The morning is washed with the bleeding Sun
Because red is the only Color
In the burning gold of death’s Desire
And the blazing passion of Dawn
And the crimson jewels of the frozen Fire
Drenched in a poppies’ Blood.


The streets that ran red with the lover’s Blood
The sacrifice of the Sun
Because of the Tree of eternal Fire
Because red is the only Color
The ultimate Lie on the ultimate Dawn
And the apple of all Desire.

The ones who were caught in the one Desire
Were slain in the City of Blood
For the thing that brings the wind of Dawn
Is known as the Setting Sun
And they realized that red is the only Color
When they turned to face the Fire.

The sky sank into a lake of Fire
Burning in tears of Desire
And I realized that red is the only Color
And the world is made of Blood
And I turned my back on the setting Sun
And went out to look for Dawn.

But the Sun went free, and the Fire sang
And the Blood of the starlight was washed in the rain
And the Cursed Color of all Desire fled from the dying Dawn.

It doesn’t hang together very well, because of the color theme, so if you were thinking that you missed my message, don’t! I concentrated on imagery in this poem, not meaning. I personally like poetry to have a distinct, if subtle, message, but I was playing around with pictures this time, and I didn’t bother.

This isn’t actually my favorite kind of poetry. I don’t think it allows nearly enough freedom of expression. Even though it doesn’t rhyme, there are too many rules. It is probably as far as you can get from free-verse! I generally stick to something in between those two extremes. I like rhyme, rhythm, syllabic verse, and conforming stanzas, and I don’t tend to write without them, or to use white space creatively, but I don’t care for so many restrictions. Still it was fun, and I like exploring new kinds of poetry.

Namarie,
Raora

Utopia - The Land of Nowhere

In 1516, Sir Thomas More published his controversial work, Utopia, a book in which More's adventurer,Raphael Hythloday describes an imaginary land that he says he stumbled upon across the Atlantic somewhere in the New World which had just recently been discovered. Utopia is a perfect image of the ideal communistic world. Everyone lives in peace, everyone is equal, and there are a set of simple laws that hold the society together and cause everyone to work together as a community, thus making Utopia one of the richest and most successful countries in the world.

At first sight, Utopia is enticing. There are none of the evils that plague our own world. Everything works together perfectly. Crime is so rare that one may almost count Utopia to be free of it. The system works so well that no one need work more than six hours in the day. They pursue the arts and the sciences in their leisure and everyone has the chance to be educated. Everyone follows the law and go along with the way of things. They are rich, prosperous, learned, and - at least it seems so - happy.

As one goes deeper, there are things that turn one off. For instance, there is no such thing as individualism. At least, it is certainly discouraged. People are meant to be uniform products of the system. Educated and intelligent products perhaps, ‘good’ and ‘moral’ products perhaps, but no more. There is no such thing as private property - everything is shared among everyone. Everything that one produces must be handed over the ‘state’ to be shared out equally among everyone. One relies upon the system for everything. But then, one might say that, so long as the system works, it is well. One might say that through a kind of slavery the people have obtained true freedom. And then, one might say the opposite. That through the obtaining of freedom the people have become unwitting slaves to the system. An excellent system, maybe, but is it enough? Personally, I would throw my lot with the outside world with its grief and joy and risk utter slavery to obtain utter freedom.

To me, the Utopian’s alarming Epicurean philosophy is one of the worst aspects of their society. I have read little about their beliefs as yet, but their religion, or lack thereof, seems to me, to be nothing save a replica of that of the Romans. God(s) who are nothing save an image on the surface. When the cloak of religion is taken away, the starkness of their Epicureanism is truly frightful. Pleasure is their only goal. To follow after pleasure is their sole occupation. Thus their clever system that lessens their labor as much as possible. True, the Utopians follow only after pleasures that do not result in unpleasantness to anyone else. Also true, the Utopians follow only after ‘real’ pleasures. For example, there is no ‘real’ pleasure, according to them, in a piece of gold. One cannot eat it. They do not use money in their trade, so it has no way of giving pleasure. Hoarding treasure for its own sake is not pleasure. There is no wisdom in preferring purple cloth over plain cloth. If they are both equally soft, the one color does not give one pleasure over the other. One might say that there is good sense in the Utopian’s pursuing of ‘real’ pleasures. There is nothing else, with their façade of a religion. But one might say that is the ultimate reason why not. If there is nothing else, than pleasure will have to be enough. But what if it is not?

More seems to realize that such a revolutionary idea must remain nothing save an idea for a good time yet. He says that ‘this thing cannot come to pass until all men are good, and that, I think, will not come about for a good many years.’ The word Utopia means nowhere. But there were some who took the idea and left the last warning. The knowledge that men must be ‘good’ before Utopia can become a reality did not stop ambitious men such as Karl Marx and Vladimir Lenin. It is very probable that the whole terrible idea of Communism arose from More’s sixteenth century book, and there is little probability that it has left the world any better than it found it. There are plenty of controversial ideas in Utopia, of objectionable statements, of questionable conduct. But the question of whether or not Utopia would be what the world needs will never be answered. For that is the one ultimate flaw in Utopia. It is impossible to achieve.

I'm Back!

If there is anyone who still reads my blog - I'm back! During the holidays I took an extended break from blogging and I meant to start up again sooner, but I wasn't able to because of...
You guessed it! Goats! We had seven baby goats in one week! It was awesome!

The mother in this picture is Torfrida, named after Hereward the Wake's wife. She was the first to kid. She gave us triplets, but one of them died soon after it was born. The survivors were both girls, and we named them Luthien and Tinuviel, (from the Silmarillion). Luthien is the brown one and Tinuviel is the white one. (Luthien is my favorite!) We are bottle-feeding them twice a day.

Princess Leia, named after Star Wars, had the next babies. She originally had a boy and a girl, but the boy died a few days later. This is the girl. We named her Padme Amidala. I know, it is a little backwards - Amidala was Leia's mother in Star Wars....Oh well. She doesn't like us very much because she was sick the first couple days and we had to force feed her nasty-tasting medicine. I don't have that many pictures of her. Fortunately, she is smart enough to nurse from her mother, and her mother has plenty of milk, so we don't have to bottle-feed her.

Our Nubian goat, Brunhilde, (named after Wagner's Ring Opera) had twins as well, a girl and a boy. Both of them have survived; the girl's name is Freyda, and the boy's name is Odin. We are bottle-feeding them as well.

Aren't they cute?! We are having a great time with them! Hope you enjoyed the pictures!

Merry Christmas! (With A Capital C)