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- Writing Alone in a Toilet
- The King: the Ghost, a Princess, and a Robot, a Da...
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Thursday, March 29, 2012
The King: the Ghost, a Princess, and a Robot, a Dark Night and a Nightingale
Their father was a ghost in 1971, died in a motorcycle crash that year. She was 10 months old and a princess who loved her father, the King. He was three years old and there was a robot in the garage. Years later, when the little boy was 43 years old, his mother bought him a robot pencil sharpener that walked and held the pencil. Years later, when the little girl turned 40, her mother bought her a wine bottle with her name on it.
The King remained a ghost who haunted them because he wasn't there, had never been there, and waited in their minds to ambush all strangers.
Someone wrote a blog yesterday on despair. The Grocers of Despair, as though we were fed despair by an outside agency. Blame is endemic in the world. Where is the spirit of independence and liberty; free thinking?
The princess and the robot boy do not blame. They laugh together and are witty and bright. They despair in silence.
"Invictus" is one of the best known poems of despair in the English language. Does anyone know the lovely, joyful poem that follows, by the same author?
The King remained a ghost who haunted them because he wasn't there, had never been there, and waited in their minds to ambush all strangers.
Someone wrote a blog yesterday on despair. The Grocers of Despair, as though we were fed despair by an outside agency. Blame is endemic in the world. Where is the spirit of independence and liberty; free thinking?
The princess and the robot boy do not blame. They laugh together and are witty and bright. They despair in silence.
"Invictus" is one of the best known poems of despair in the English language. Does anyone know the lovely, joyful poem that follows, by the same author?
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
The Nightingale Has A Lyre Of Gold
The nightingale has a lyre of gold,
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
The lark's is a clarion-call,
And the blackbird plays but a boxwood flute,
But I love him best of all.
For his song is all of the joy of life,
And we in the mad, spring weather,
We two have listened till he sang
Our hearts and lips together.
The Queen, the Princess, and the Robot Boy waited until it got better. As it always does.
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