I think it's poems such as that one, that are the reason I never could 
appreciate poetry. That one there doesn't make a bit of sense to me. The words 
are all wrong. But obviously a lot of people love poetry. So I'm sure it's just 
me.
I'm glad you guys are enjoying those poems anyway.

--- On Fri, 12/25/09, DON BERTOLETTE <[email protected]> wrote:


From: DON BERTOLETTE <[email protected]>
Subject: RE: [ENTS] A little story
To: [email protected]
Date: Friday, December 25, 2009, 8:30 AM




Bob/Steve-
Your "DT" selection especially resonated with me, as my father at 92 is 
not "raging against the dying of the light", but with some fear embracing it...
Perhaps in response to this, I am recalling another DT poem called Fern Hill, 
which has wonderful imagery seen with childlike wonder...
 




Fern Hill 
  

by Dylan Thomas 




Now as I was young and easy under the apple boughs
About the lilting house and happy as the grass was green,
     The night above the dingle starry,
          Time let me hail and climb
     Golden in the heydays of his eyes,
And honoured among wagons I was prince of the apple towns
And once below a time I lordly had the trees and leaves
          Trail with daisies and barley
     Down the rivers of the windfall light.

And as I was green and carefree, famous among the barns
About the happy yard and singing as the farm was home,
     In the sun that is young once only,
          Time let me play and be 
     Golden in the mercy of his means,
And green and golden I was huntsman and herdsman, the calves
Sang to my horn, the foxes on the hills barked clear and cold,
          And the sabbath rang slowly
     In the pebbles of the holy streams.

All the sun long it was running, it was lovely, the hay
Fields high as the house, the tunes from the chimneys, it was air
     And playing, lovely and watery
          And fire green as grass.
     And nightly under the simple stars
As I rode to sleep the owls were bearing the farm away,
All the moon long I heard, blessed among stables, the nightjars
     Flying with the ricks, and the horses
          Flashing into the dark.

And then to awake, and the farm, like a wanderer white
With the dew, come back, the cock on his shoulder: it was all
     Shining, it was Adam and maiden,
          The sky gathered again
     And the sun grew round that very day.
So it must have been after the birth of the simple light
In the first, spinning place, the spellbound horses walking warm
     Out of the whinnying green stable
          On to the fields of praise.

And honoured among foxes and pheasants by the gay house
Under the new made clouds and happy as the heart was long,
     In the sun born over and over,
          I ran my heedless ways,
     My wishes raced through the house high hay
And nothing I cared, at my sky blue trades, that time allows
In all his tuneful turning so few and such morning songs
     Before the children green and golden
          Follow him out of grace,

Nothing I cared, in the lamb white days, that time would take me
Up to the swallow thronged loft by the shadow of my hand,
     In the moon that is always rising,
          Nor that riding to sleep
     I should hear him fly with the high fields
And wake to the farm forever fled from the childless land.
Oh as I was young and easy in the mercy of his means,
          Time held me green and dying
     Though I sang in my chains like the sea.
May you and yours all, have a wonderful holiday season and another happy year 
of renewal!
-Don
 


Date: Mon, 21 Dec 2009 23:52:52 -0500
Subject: Re: [ENTS] A little story
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]

Bob-

Game shows are the best example of our cultural wasteland, other than the 
distorted AM broadcasts of cretins Rush Limbaugh and Glenn Beck.  Any relection 
of aging reminds me of this DT(Dylan Thomas, not Delerium tremens) poem, since 
we've been on a poetic trend lately:



"Do not go gentle into that good night, 
Old age should burn and rave at close of day; 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. Though wise men at their end know 
dark is right, 
Because their words had forked no lightning they 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright 
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight, 
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way, 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight 
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay, 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light. 
And you, my father, there on the sad height, 
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray. 
Do not go gentle into that good night. 
Rage, rage against the dying of the light"


Trees help us live longer.


Steve






On Mon, Dec 21, 2009 at 11:08 PM, Gary A Beluzo <[email protected]> wrote:



I really hope so Darian and Barry.  I like "Cluster Fox"...very appropriate.

Sent from my iPhone




On Dec 21, 2009, at 10:45 PM, Darian <[email protected]> wrote:





Barry, you're kidding, right?



Sent from my iPhone

On Dec 21, 2009, at 10:12 PM, Barry Caselli <[email protected]> wrote:








You say "Fox Network". Are you referring to the local Fox affiliate, or The Fox 
News Channel? The Fox News Channel is one of my all-time favorite channels.

--- On Mon, 12/21/09, Lee Frelich <[email protected]> wrote:


From: Lee Frelich <[email protected]>
Subject: Re: [ENTS] A little story
To: [email protected]
Date: Monday, December 21, 2009, 5:55 PM


Bob:

Similar thing happened to me at the Buick dealer in Minneapolis two 
weeks ago, except the TV was set on Fox network.  I had no idea that TV 
was such irrational nonsense. If I though it would do any good, I would 
write in and tell the FCC that Fox should not be relicensed to broadcast 
when their current license expires.

Lee

[email protected] wrote:
> ENTS,
>
> Back when I was younger, before my hair turned gray and starting 
> falling out, I imagined how I might recognize the onset of decline 
> into old age with its attendant feelings of powerlessness and the 
> eventual oblivion? 
>
> This morning I think I discovered the metric needed, while waiting for 
> my car to be serviced at the local Buick dealer. It was a little too 
> raw to go outside and wander around looking at trees, so I stuck it 
> out in the waiting room, which meant I was exposed to the T.V. set. 
> Game shows. Horror of horrors. Two little old ladies had copped the 
> set were glued to the wins and losses. They discouraged any thoughts 
> of channel changing with piercing looks. I audibly mumbled my 
> displeasure, but wasn't about to chance getting swatted by an old 
> lady's purse. I sullenly set through the hoopla.
>
> Game shows. What better measure of mental decline than a tally of the 
> number of hours spent watching giddy contestants alternately scream 
> and bawl and confirm our addiction to materialism. Where do we cast 
> our ballots for euthanasia? 
>
> Bob
>
> -- 
> Eastern Native Tree Society http://www.nativetreesociety.org
> Send email to [email protected]
> Visit this group at http://groups.google.com/group/entstrees?hl=en
> To unsubscribe send email to [email protected]

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