Archive for April, 2012

30
Apr
12

Manly Poetry V

This poem was written in the early 1800s and is taken from the events as described in 2 Kings 18-19

The Destruction of Sennacherib

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold;
And the sheen of their spears was like stars on the sea,
When the blue wave rolls nightly on deep Galilee.

Like the leaves of the forest when Summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen:
Like the leaves of the forest when Autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay withered and strown.

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed;
And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

And there lay the steed with his nostril all wide,
But through it there rolled not the breath of his pride;
And the foam of his gasping lay white on the turf,
And cold as the spray of the rock-beating surf.

And there lay the rider distorted and pale,
With the dew on his brow, and the rust on his mail:
And the tents were all silent, the banners alone,
The lances unlifted, the trumpet unblown.

And the widows of Ashur are loud in their wail,
And the idols are broke in the temple of Baal;
And the might of the Gentile, unsmote by the sword,
Hath melted like snow in the glance of the Lord!

— George Gordon, Lord Byron

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27
Apr
12

Cosplay Pics VI

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23
Apr
12

Poetry: The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay

The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay
Oliver Wendell Holmes

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay,
That was built in such a logical way
It ran a hundred years to a day,
And then of a sudden it — ah, but stay,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Scaring the parson into fits,
Frightening people out of their wits, –
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five.
Georgius Secundus was then alive, –
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock’s army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.
It was on that terrible Earthquake-day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now in building of shaises, I tell you what,
There is always a weakest spot, –
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In pannel or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, throughbrace, — lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will, –
Above or below, or within or without, –
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a chaise breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as deacons do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would build one shay to beat the taown
‘n’ the keounty ‘n’ all the kentry raoun’;
It should be so built that it couldn’ break daown:
“Fer,” said the Deacon, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ place mus’ stan’ the strain;
‘n’ the way t’ fix it, uz I maintain, is only jest
‘T’ make that place uz strong uz the rest.”

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That couldn’t be split nor bent nor broke, –
That was for spokes and floor and sills;
He sent for lancewood to make the thills;
The crossbars were ash, from the the straightest trees
The pannels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the “Settler’s ellum,” –
Last of its timber, — they couldn’t sell ‘em,
Never no axe had seen their chips,
And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;
Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,
Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin too,
Steel of the finest, bright and blue;
Throughbrace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide
Found in the pit when the tanner died.
That was the way he “put her through,”
“There!” said the Deacon, “naow she’ll dew!”

Do! I tell you, I rather guess
She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake-day!

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED; — it came and found
The Deacon’s masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hindred increased by ten; –
“Hahnsum kerridge” they called it then.
Eighteen hundred and twenty came; –
Running as usual; much the same.
Thirty and forty at last arive,
And then come fifty and FIFTY-FIVE.

Little of of all we value here
Wakes on the morn of its hundredth year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but a tree and truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

FIRST OF NOVEMBER, — the Earthquake-day, –
There are traces of age in the one-hoss shay,
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing local, as one may say.
There couldn’t be, — for the Deacon’s art
Had made it so like in every part
That there wasn’t a chance for one to start.
For the wheels were just as strong as the thills
And the floor was just as strong as the sills,
And the panels just as strong as the floor,
And the whippletree neither less or more,
And the back-crossbar as strong as the fore,
And the spring and axle and hub encore.
And yet, as a whole, it is past a doubt
In another hour it will be worn out!

First of November, fifty-five!
This morning the parson takes a drive.
Now, small boys get out of the way!
Here comes the wonderful one-hoss shay,
Drawn by a rat-tailed, ewe-necked bay.
“Huddup!” said the parson. — Off went they.

The parson was working his Sunday’s text, –
Had got to fifthly, and stopped perplexed
At what the — Moses — was coming next.
All at once the horse stood still,
Close by the meet’n’-house on the hill.
First a shiver, and then a thrill,
Then something decidedly like a spill, –
And the parson was sitting upon a rock,
At half past nine by the meet’n’-house clock, –
Just the hour of the earthquake shock!

What do you think the parson found,
When he got up and stared around?
The poor old chaise in a heap or mound,
As if it had been to the mill and ground!
You see, of course, if you’re not a dunce,
How it went to pieces all at once, –
All at once, and nothing first, –
Just as bubbles do when they burst.

End of the wonderful one-hoss shay.
Logic is logic. That’s all I say.

20
Apr
12

Cosplay Pics V

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17
Apr
12

Woman Trying To Escape Consequences

Much has been mentioned in the manosphere about how women are always seeking a way out of the consequences of their actions, often coupled with support from willing accomplices amongst the “manginas” and white knights. One can see numerous examples of this, from the female sentencing discount to people like pastor Mark Driscoll singing the praises of the choice single mommy.

This latest example is of a 29 y/o teacher at a Christian school who got pregnant out of wedlock. The school fired her citing the “moral clause” which would require good moral behavior from each of their employees. Now its hard to believe that she, being a teacher in a Christian school, did not know that sex outside of marriage is considered to be poor moral behavior by the church. And short of spending quite a few dollars that a private school teacher is unlikely to have for IVF, sex remains the likely, indeed the only, cause of pregnancy.

Now some would take responsibility for their actions and step down quietly. For instance, John James of the Newsboys stepped down from the lead position of the band in 1997 after admitting a problem with substance abuse. There was also a young Christian female artist who stepped away from her career after either a pregnancy or admitting to sexual activity (her name escapes my mind at the moment.) Mike Trout, who was the co-host of the the Focus on the Family broadcast and widely believed to be the next in line for the show (and a very nice guy I might add), stepped down after an affair. With these examples of “doing the right thing” does this teacher take the highest path available to her? Of course not. Her reaction is to consider suing the school. And she states “We all have different views and interpretations” as if the injunction against extra-marital sex was not quite clear.

Most likely she will be assisted by an organization that would be all too happy to see a Christian group pay for the audacity to hold to a standard that is different than those of the predominant religion: secular-humanism.

Some additional links can be found at the blog Culture Campaign

16
Apr
12

Heroic Females In Poetry

From my selection of poetry so far one might come to the conclusion that either there are no females in this type of poetry or I just ignore it. Not so. So I give you this offering, A Legend of Bregenz by Adelaide Procter. This is a rather large poem, my apologies. If its too long for ya just scroll down to the comments and flame me =oP

A Legend of Bregenz

Girt round with rugged mountains the fair Lake Constance lies;
In her blue heart reflected, shine back the starry skies;
And, watching each white cloudlet float silently and slow,
You think a piece of heaven lies on our earth below!

Midnight is there; and silence, enthroned in heaven, looks down
Upon her own calm mirror, upon a sleeping town:
For Bregenz, that quaint city upon the Tyrol shore,
Has stood above Lake Constance a thousand years and more.

Her battlements and towers, upon their rocky steep,
Have cast their trembling shadows for ages on the deep;
Mountain and lake and valley, a sacred legend know,
Of how the town was saved one night, three hundred years ago.

Far from her home and kindred a Tyrol maid had fled,
To serve in the Swiss valleys, and toil for daily bread;
And every year that fleeted so silently and fast
Seem’d to bear further from her the memory of the past.

She served kind, gentle masters, nor ask’d for rest or change;
Her friends seem’d no more new ones, their speech seem’d no more strange;
And, when she led her cattle to pasture every day,
She ceased to look and wonder on which side Bregenz lay.

She spoke no more of Bregenz, with longing and with tears;
Her Tyrol home seem’d faded in a deep mist of years;
She heeded not the rumors of Austrian war or strife;
Each day she rose, contented, to the calm toils of life.

Yet, when her master’s children would clustering round her stand,
She sang them the old ballads of her own native land;
And, when at morn and evening she knelt before God’s throne,
The accents of her childhood rose to her lips alone.

And so she dwelt: the valley more peaceful year by year;
When suddenly strange portents of some great deed seem’d near.
The golden corn was bending upon its fragile stalk,
While farmers, heedless of their fields, paced up and down in talk.

The men seem’d stern and alter’d, with looks cast on the ground;
With anxious faces, one by one, the women gather’d round;
All talk of flax, or spinning, or work, was put away;
The very children seem’d afraid to go alone to play.

One day, out in the meadow with strangers from the town,
Some secret plan discussing, the men walk’d up and down.
Yet now and then seem’d watching a strange, uncertain gleam,
That look’d like lances ‘mid the trees that stood below the stream.

At eve they all assembled, all care and doubt were fled;
With jovial laugh they feasted, the board was nobly spread.
The elder of the village rose up, his glass in hand,
And cried, “We drink the downfall of an accursed land!

“The night is growing darker; ere one more day is flown
Bregenz, our foeman’s stronghold, Bregenz shall be our own!”
The women shrank in terror, (yet pride, too, had her part,)
But one poor Tyrol maiden felt death within her heart.

Before her stood fair Bregenz, once more her towers arose;
What were the friends beside her? Only her country’s foes!
The faces of her kinsfolk, the days of childhood flown,
The echoes of her mountains, reclaim’d her as their own!

Nothing she heard around her, (though shouts rang forth again,)
Gone were the green Swiss valleys, the pasture, and the plain;
Before her eyes one vision, and in her heart one cry,
That said, “Go forth, save Bregenz, and then, if need be, die!”

With trembling haste and breathless, with noiseless step she sped;
Horses and weary cattle were standing in the shed;
She loosed the strong white charger, that fed from out her hand,
She mounted and she turn’d his head towards her native land.

Out — out into the darkness — faster, and still more fast;
The smooth grass flies behind her, the chestnut wood is pass’d;
She looks up; clouds are heavy: Why is her steed so slow? —
Scarcely the wind beside them can pass them as they go.

“Faster!” she cries, “O, faster!” Eleven the church-bells chime:
“O God,” she cries, “help Bregenz, and bring me there in time!”
But louder than bells’ ringing, or lowing of the kine,
Grows nearer in the midnight the rushing of the Rhine.

Shall not the roaring waters their headlong gallop check?
The steed draws back in terror, she leans above his neck
To watch the flowing darkness, the bank is high and steep;
One pause, — he staggers forward, and plunges in the deep.

She strives to pierce the blackness, and looser throws the rein;
Her steed must breast the waters that dash above his mane;
How gallantly, how nobly, he struggles through the foam,
And see, in the far distance shine out the lights of home!

Up the steep bank he bears her, and now they rush again
Toward the heights of Bregenz, that tower above the plain.
They reach the gate of Bregenz just as the midnight rings,
And out come serf and soldier to meet the news she brings.

Bregenz is saved! Ere daylight her battlements are mann’d;
Defiance greets the army that marches on the land:
And, if to deeds heroic should endless fame be paid,
Bregenz does well to honor the noble Tyrol maid.

Three hundred years are vanish’d, and yet upon the hill
An old stone gateway rises, to do her honor still.
And there, when Bregenz women sit spinning in the shade,
They see in quaint old carving the charger and the maid.

And when to guard old Bregenz, by gateway, street, and tower,
The warder paces all night long, and calls each passing hour:
“Nine,” “ten,” “eleven,” he cries aloud, and then (O crown of fame!)
When midnight pauses in the skies he calls the maiden’s name.

13
Apr
12

New Look

New but improved is debatable.

Changed the layout and moved the Category Cloud to the top and went thru quite a few of the posts to update them with a new category so as to be more easily searched. They were somewhat hastily thrown in to those categories so my apologies to anyone who uses them and finds some of the older posts less than a perfect match. But the new layout gives a lot more articles from the main page, sadly going back an entire year before this post goes up due to the lack of blogging

Overall I like the new look, but I may be applying a color scheme to it. Not sure that black and white is what I want to stick with. Darker backgrounds are my usual preference as I would much rather look at a darker screen than a super bright one.