Rebel
– do not accept
– do not comply
– be weird
– be a freak
– be yourself
– stay true to your cause
– do not conform
– be an outcast
– be a snowflake
– be bold
– be naughty
– be an outsider
– a tall poppy
– make your own tune
Be strong, humble & kind
We are all musical animals
– no matter
how we play
sing
hear
dance.
each has rhythm
beat
tone
pitch
cadence
melody
– no matter
what we profess
how much dissonance we make.
So
are you composing
performing
or
waiting?
Unless we collaborate we die.
The foundation of love is
collaboration.
It takes two & more for love to
flower.
We don’t collaborate in a
vacuum.
We don’t love without
companions.
Be a better
lover.
Be a better
collaborator.
First, a recording of a fine actor, Will Geer, reading “Pioneers! O Pioneers!
Second, a recording of this poem being live streamed.
The Walt Whitman Show on Periscope
(saved via Katch)
https://katch.me/embed/v/d7bce79c-57b7-328d-a2cd-40526034fc9d?sync=1
_____________________
Pioneers! O Pioneers!
COME, my tan-faced children,
Follow well in order, get your weapons ready;
Have you your pistols? have you your sharp edged axes?
Pioneers! O pioneers!
For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt of danger,
We, the youthful sinewy races, all the rest on us depend,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you youths, western youths,
So impatient, full of action, full of manly pride and friendship, 10
Plain I see you, western youths, see you tramping with the foremost,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Have the elder races halted?
Do they droop and end their lesson, wearied, over there beyond the
seas?
We take up the task eternal, and the burden, and the lesson,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the past we leave behind;
We debouch upon a newer, mightier world, varied world,
Fresh and strong the world we seize, world of labor and the march,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We detachments steady throwing,
Down the edges, through the passes, up the mountains steep,
Conquering, holding, daring, venturing, as we go, the unknown ways,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
We primeval forests felling,
We the rivers stemming, vexing we, and piercing deep the mines
within;
We the surface broad surveying, we the virgin soil upheaving,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Colorado men are we,
From the peaks gigantic, from the great sierras and the high
plateaus,
From the mine and from the gully, from the hunting trail we come,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
From Nebraska, from Arkansas,
Central inland race are we, from Missouri, with the continental blood
intervein’d;
All the hands of comrades clasping, all the Southern, all the
Northern,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O resistless, restless race!
O beloved race in all! O my breast aches with tender love for all!
O I mourn and yet exult–I am rapt with love for all,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Raise the mighty mother mistress,
Waving high the delicate mistress, over all the starry mistress,
(bend your heads all,)
Raise the fang’d and warlike mistress, stern, impassive, weapon’d
mistress,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
See, my children, resolute children,
By those swarms upon our rear, we must never yield or falter,
Ages back in ghostly millions, frowning there behind us urging,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
On and on, the compact ranks,
With accessions ever waiting, with the places of the dead quickly
fill’d,
Through the battle, through defeat, moving yet and never stopping,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O to die advancing on!
Are there some of us to droop and die? has the hour come?
Then upon the march we fittest die, soon and sure the gap is fill’d,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the pulses of the world,
Falling in, they beat for us, with the western movement beat;
Holding single or together, steady moving, to the front, all for us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Life’s involv’d and varied pageants,
All the forms and shows, all the workmen at their work,
All the seamen and the landsmen, all the masters with their slaves,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
All the hapless silent lovers,
All the prisoners in the prisons, all the righteous and the wicked,
All the joyous, all the sorrowing, all the living, all the dying,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
I too with my soul and body,
We, a curious trio, picking, wandering on our way,
Through these shores, amid the shadows, with the apparitions
pressing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Lo! the darting bowling orb!
Lo! the brother orbs around! all the clustering suns and planets,
All the dazzling days, all the mystic nights with dreams,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
These are of us, they are with us,
All for primal needed work, while the followers there in embryo wait
behind,
We to-day’s procession heading, we the route for travel clearing,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
O you daughters of the west!
O you young and elder daughters! O you mothers and you wives!
Never must you be divided, in our ranks you move united,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Minstrels latent on the prairies!
(Shrouded bards of other lands! you may sleep–you have done your
work;)
Soon I hear you coming warbling, soon you rise and tramp amid us,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Not for delectations sweet;
Not the cushion and the slipper, not the peaceful and the
studious;
Not the riches safe and palling, not for us the tame enjoyment,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Do the feasters gluttonous feast?
Do the corpulent sleepers sleep? have they lock’d and bolted doors?
Still be ours the diet hard, and the blanket on the ground,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Has the night descended?
Was the road of late so toilsome? did we stop discouraged, nodding on
our way?
Yet a passing hour I yield you, in your tracks to pause oblivious,
Pioneers! O pioneers!
Till with sound of trumpet,
Far, far off the day-break call–hark! how loud and clear I hear it
wind;
Swift! to the head of the army!–swift! spring to your places, Pioneers! O pioneers.
__________________
Notes:
“This is the full version of the poem that was used in the Levi “Go Forth” commercial. I added the backing music to spice it up a bit (thanks Garage Band) You can find the vocal portion of this (and other Whitman poems) on iTunes. I do not own the vocals – however to take it down for copyright violation would be to down a little piece of America… Whitman….America…think about it”
2. The Walt Whitman Show is live streamed on Periscope. I use the January 1892 “Death Bed Edition” of Leaves of Grass. Walt died on 26 March 1892
When you’re struggling
when everything feels lousy
when your thoughts are jumbled
like a messy room
when optimism feels
like a foreign language
keep on breathing
– this too will pass
Another day
means
a fresh start
dawned opportunities
and
forgiving yourself for past failures.
what i liked about e.e. cummings
was that he cut away from
the holiness of the
word
and with charm
and gamble
gave us lines
that sliced through the
dung.
how it was needed!
how we were withering
away
in the old
tired
manner.
of course, then came all
the e.e. cummings
copyists.
they copied him then
as the others had
copied Keats, Shelly,
Swinburne, Byron, et
al.
but there was only
one
e.e. cummings.
of course.
one sun.
one moon.
There isn’t enough short- term thinking
like :
why should I improve my world – today?
like:
how can I make a better world in the next hour?
like:
what do I do now to make a difference?
Think short-term.
Weather
Love your weather
You have no control over it.
The more you love
the weather you’ve been sent
the more love you have
for what means most to you.
Get an umbrella.
We are meaning-making machines.
Cogito ergo sum
Even when I feel
v ulnerable & delicate
– I am
Imagine …
There’s a new discovery
– an imagination machine
you carry round with you.
It generates
daydreams & fairytales
at the flick of a switch.
Will you use it today?
Note: I found this (via Google) published on Every Writer (1 November 2010)
_____________________
THE PLACE GRATITUDE FILLS IN A FINE CHARACTER
by Walt Whitman
From the Philadelphia Press, Nov. 27, 1884, (Thanksgiving number)
Scene.—A large family supper party, a night or two ago, with voices and laughter of the young, mellow faces of the old, and a by-and-by pause in the general joviality. “Now, Mr. Whitman,” spoke up one of the girls, “what have you to say about Thanksgiving? Won’t you give us a sermon in advance, to sober us down?” The sage nodded smilingly, look’d a moment at the blaze of the great wood fire, ran his forefinger right and left through the heavy white mustache that might have otherwise impeded his voice, and began: “Thanksgiving goes probably far deeper than you folks suppose. I am not sure but it is the source of the highest poetry—as in parts of the Bible. Ruskin, indeed, makes the central source of all great art to be praise (gratitude) to the Almighty for life, and the universe with its objects and play of action.
“We Americans devote an official day to it every year; yet I sometimes fear the real article is almost dead or dying in our self-sufficient, independent Republic. Gratitude, anyhow, has never been made half enough of by the moralists; it is indispensable to a complete character, man’s or woman’s—the disposition to be appreciative, thankful. That is the main matter, the element, inclination—what geologists call the trend. Of my own life and writings I estimate the giving thanks part, with what it infers, as essentially the best item. I should say the quality of gratitude rounds the whole emotional nature; I should say love and faith would quite lack vitality without it. There are people— shall I call them even religious people, as things go?— who have no such trend to their disposition.”
sometimes our thank you is said so casually
or quickly that it is nearly meaningless.
(Martin Seligman)
______________
I was never thankful
to my father
or my mother
I wasn’t even thankful
to the Universe
for what I had.
the house, clothes, water, food, shoes, shirts, bath,
garden, roses, grass, apples, hens, cabbage, loganberries,
hedgehog, lizard, bushes, even the bees
tortoise, trees, dogs, cats, fire, pocket-money, prayers,
holy water, statues, carpets, paintings, music, jelly, eggcups,
fireplaces,books, radiogram, even the plums
school, transport, brothers, sisters, God, cod-liver oil, mass,
chickens, eggs, lamb, salmon, ox-tongue, bread and butter pudding,
golf clubs, cut glass, even the gooseberries
ice cream, pancakes, rice pudding, red currants, peaches, pears,
record player, transistor radio, Luxembourg, milk, football, rashers,
cards, chess, rugby, even the blackberries
dobbers, conkers, tiddlywinks, compendium of games, holidays,
stories, photographs, confession, friends, short trousers, novenas,
nuns, thermometers, even the wagtails
pillows, pencils, bicycles, blazers, socks, sweets, pepper, porridge,
underpants, sandals, gospels, rules, knives, teaspoons, commandments,
gongs, conversations, birthdays, even the earthworms
If you asked me then whether I was grateful
I’d have said ‘yes’
If you ask me now whether I was thankful
I shall stay silent.
If you’re curious to know whether I am thankful today
I am more full of thanks than ever
– for all that and more.
If I was a creative
I’d put three syllables after my name
If I was a muse
I’d go amusing
If I was inspired
You’d find me high on a church.
Being kind to others is fluffy
sweet
noble
soft-hearted
an aspiration
like living a sin-less life
admirable & saintly
apt for heroic souls bound for salvation.
Horse-shit.
Avoidance of the issue …
What kind act will I do today?
I made the poem ‘one day’ after a period of not being able to write anything I thought was good enough.
No matter what, it ended up with me being frustrated or disappointed.
It left me with two choices.
I could give up trying to write because I wasn’t the new Whitman – just an average guy that actually needed to practice and make mistakes to learn and improve.
To actually believe that two months of writing would place me anywhere near what others have taken years to master is ridiculous…. I know.
Nevertheless, it was exactly what I hoped for. Being good at something without doing any kind of effort to achieve it.
But maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe that’s what stops us from giving up before we even begin.
My second choice was to face the facts and just carry on practicing. To keep writing no matter how lousy the outcome would be.
I choose the last.
Now give me 10 years and I will write you a masterpiece. In the meantime, here’s a hell of a try😉
Thank you for taking your time to read this.
_______________
I used to love hating poetry.
Written by those who failed
living the expected life themselves.
Now wrapping-up words
in riddles and fancy glitter.
To attain the unattainable.
Narcissistic socialists
breathing the universe
while reminding the masses
to be satisfied just looking at the sun.
I did.
I looked at the sun.
Astonishing…
Perhaps I was wrong.
Perhaps I was the failure.
I started writing.
It felt refreshing.
Pats on the back,
Polite comments and praises.
I was seduced,
intoxicated by appreciation.
Soon I would be the lump of coal
transforming into a diamond
The winning ticket
The one in a million.
Flawless.
Unique.
Without practice.
Without effort.
A unicum.
This “new” me..
A thinker..
A writer..
A word wrapper..
A poet..
What I loved to hate,
I now hated to love.
Thinking like a child,
naive like a child,
I believed the sun turned around me.
One day I might grow up.
One day I might loose this spirit.
Hopefully it won’t be soon.
________________________
Note:
A big thank you to Lars Blichfeldt
How young are you?
You look so fresh.
So free of the cares of life.
What desires flourish in those soft folds?
How long have you sucked on milk?
How young are you?
Clung to your Mother the Earth?
How childish your spirit?
How lively your smile?
The most attractive story
you can tell
about yourself
is
how
you went from
corrupting to trustworthy
rags to riches
carnal to holy
alpha to omega
– thanks to a force outside your control
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 