B. Royce

A couple of years ago I bought a book for 25 cents at a library sale. Its title is "Poems of Today"; it was published in 1924. There I found a poem by Angela Morgan (born 1875) titled "A Song Of Triumph". It is a truly splendid expression of the value and meaning of work. According to some brief notes she published a book of poems titled "Hail Man!", now out of print. The title, however, might be more promising than the content, as she apparently became more religious as she got older. Would be worth finding. I have taken the liberty of removing religious terms in the poem; easy to do, there not being many. I've replaced "God" with "Man", then "Maker" with "genius", "Spirit" with "thinker", and "Master" with "human"-----these last three occurring in the last stanza. A SONG OF TRIUMPH by Angela Morgan Work! Thank Man for the might of it, The ardor, the urge, the delight of it---- Work that springs from the heart's desire, Setting the brain and the soul on fire---- Oh, what is so good as the heat of it, And what is so glad as the beat of it, And what is so kind as the stern command, Challenging brain and heart and hand? Work! Thank Man for the pride of it, For the beautiful, conquering tide of it, Sweeping the life in its furious flood, Thrilling the arteries, cleansing the blood, Mastering stupor and dull despair, Moving the dreamer to do and dare. Oh, what is so good as the urge of it, And what is so glad as the surge of it, And what is so strong as the summons deep, Rousing the torpid soul from sleep? Work! THank Man for the pace of it, For the terrible, keen, swift race of it; Fiery steeds in full control. Nostrils a-quiver to meet the goal. Work, the Power that drives behind, Guiding the purposes, taming the mind, Holding the runaway wishes back, Reining the will to one steady track, Speeding the energies faster, faster, Triumphing over disaster. Oh, what is so good as the pain of it, And what is so great as the gain of it? And what is so kind as the cruel goad, Forcing us on through the rugged road? Work! Thank Man for the swing of it. For the clamoring, hammering ring of it, Passion of labor daily hurled On the mighty anvil of the world. Oh, what is so fierce as the flame of it? And what is so huge as the aim of it? Thundering on through dearth and doubt, Calling the plan of the genius out. Work, the Titan; Work, the friend, Shaping the earth to a glorious end, Draining the swamps and blasting the hills, Doing whatever the thinker wills---- Rending a continent apart, To answer the dream of the human heart. Thank Man for a world where none may shirk---- Thank Man for the splendor of work! Great job, Angela Morgan; bravo!

Yes, thank you!

Almost a new day, with more work to be done. My Own Here from my waist, going sailing on for glowing flowing miles---- O beautiful waving gold, O giant Wheat, My work of thought and hand and ringing dusty steel, My ocean of sunlight under the blue sky, O Wealthy Solitude, perfectioning of love, My real world's self, promised, fulfilled. Yes, O Wind, now lightly Flare out your melodies on these yellow fields, Earth staff and I bar. Stir and sway along in holy song of soil and you, And my great deed between. O Royalest Song I see, Whirling away like a hymn from me, I made you possible, and you fill me, All around me, waltzing of sweet heads o'er, Hearing the great plain floor, "Whispering wonder, glad to be under, The world's good, this lover of Man." Now soon to burn in long hours of thinking, In the fueling of builders for uptowering towns, Yes! and with grandest statues of heroic manhood---- Soon! O Wheat, soon! And one a woman, looking up, proud, independent. For rational ideas have been sown, And very real people choose light, And the glory of life is reknown, And the wave of the world is bright. O Song sailing at my waist, Waiting my word of thought, my hand, my whirling machine, My joy of triumph and my love of work, O Life cresting at my waist, My Own! Brian Faulkner

And my finale, just finished yesterday. The Anti-Valentine's Valentine For one who loves not Valentine's I break my bow in half, Nor shoot an arrow from Love's heart If she but mock and laugh. I'll not be Cupid, no, not I, For one whose sweet glance chills; I'd rather look at frozen sky Or die upon thorny hills. For one who loves not Valentine's All teddy bears I toss; And I shall only catch a kiss If it's shiny chocolate gloss. I shall not waste, no no, not I, A whole day's pay on roses, For she who only counts this day A thing of feints and poses. And yet, when all is said and done, And Valentine's is past, At night I'll string a dreamy bow And pierce her heart at last. But no! It's not enough! This airy nothing stuff. It spin cannot the key To engine her and me. In place of charm, A hand on arm, A grasp, a pulling in! Four lips that surge To urge a merge, More profiting to win! We'll double be Monopoly----- Insidership divine! Assert the real, Consume the deal, And buy up Valentine! ________________________ Happy Valentine's to all lovers of life! Brian Faulkner

Keating is not a tragic hero. He is not a man who is predominately virtuous and having a flaw in his character which he does not, or chooses not, to change. He does not "show some signs of living like Roark, ever. And we do not have to like him when when he makes his deal with Roark. I certainly didn't. A better choice for Keating, at that point, would have been to have gone out and gotten himself an honest job and to live as honestly as he could. Keating's mother not interrupting the conversation would have made no difference in Keating's character. He was the cause of him, not she.

Two simple poems for Valentine's Day. Song From the glory of your eyes To the story of your face Steel wings arise, Far-off lands have place. Truth you bear within you; Light goes shining forth; Only love can win you, Love of life on earth. The joy of one sharp place, The clean span of the skies---- In the story of your face, And the glory of your eyes. _____________________________ Profit Sunlight is flowing golden Over the rough ungiving ego-hands of love, And all is happiness and justice On the body reverential and the profit of. Brian Faulkner

JMeganSnow, why not try a new phrase, like investigating philosophy? You could still attribute "philosophical detection" to Ayn Rand and show how her ideas influence yours.

More than two thousand years ago the insatiable lover lover of women, the Roman poet Catullus, wrote To Lesbia For Kisses (trans. by John Langhorne, 1760) Lesbia, live to love and pleasure, Careless what the grave may say: When each moment is a treasure Why should lovers lose a day? Setting suns shall rise in glory, But when little life is o'er, There's an end of all the story---- We shall sleep, and wake no more. Give me, then, a thousand kisses, Twice ten thousand more bestow, Till the sum of boundless blisses Neither we nor envy know. ________________________________ Some twenty years ago, after reading this and a few other translations, I wrote Kiss (after Catullus) Kiss me but once, Sweet, And I'll be rapt away; Or kiss me a second time, Oh! away all day! Kiss me but thrice, Sweet, And I am gone for good; Or kiss me forever, Oh, Love! yes you should! Brian Faulkner

Well, I'll begin Valentine's day with a poem I wrote years ago when reading a lot of Elizabethan poetry. I Never Stop My darling sweeting No loving gives; For my defeat She gladly lives. My heart half-breaking She smiles to see; And songs I make Derideth she. She broke the flowers, The ones I bought; I worked four hours, And all for nought. She cannot 'bide My questing 'lorn, And throws aside My letters torn. I begged her once For a little kiss, She called me "Dunce", And threw a hiss. And when her dress I hap to touch, I must confess She sighs not much. And yet she sees me Every day; She loves to tease, She lives to play. But though she plot No heart to win, I never stop What I begin. Brian Faulkner

About a month ago I was searching through poetry links and found pure gold. Florence Earle Coates lived from 1850 to 1927. The following poem was published in The Little Book of Modern Verse. 1917. The Unconquered Air 1. Others endure Man's rule: he therefore deems I shall endure it----I, the unconquered Air! Imagines this triumphant strength may bear His paltry sway! yea, ignorantly dreams, Because proud Rhea now his vassal seems, And Neptune him obeys in billowy lair, That he a more sublime assault may dare, Where blown by tempest wild the vulture screams. Presumptuous, he mounts: I toss his bones Back from the height supernal he has braved: Ay, as his vessel nears my perilous zones, I blow the cockle-shell away like chaff And give him to the sea he has enslaved. He founders in its depths; and then I laugh! 2. Impregnable I held myself, secure Against intrusion. Who can measure Man? How should I guess his mortal will outran Defeat so far that danger could allure For its own sake?-----that he would all endure, All sacrifice, all suffer, rather than Forego the daring dreams Olympian That prophesy to him of victory sure? Ah, tameless courage!----dominating power That, all attempting, in a deathless hour Made earth-born Titans godlike, in revolt!---- Fear is the fire that melts Icarian wings: Who fears nor Fate, nor Time, nor what Time brings, May drive Apollo's steeds, or wield the thunderbolt! _________________________________________ Wonderful misdirection. A noble, manworshipping last stanza, ending in two proud, impassioned lines expressing the true unconquered----man's fearless spirit. One other poem of Miss Coates I like quite a bit is "SONG", published in her own book of poems in 1898. Song For me the jasmine buds unfold And silver daisies star the lea, The crocus hoards the sunset gold, And the wild rose breathes for me. I feel the sap through the bow returning, I share the skylark's transport fine, I know the fountain's wayward yearning, I love, and the world is mine! I love, and thoughts that sometime grieved, Still well remembered, grieve not me; From all that darkened and deceived Upsoars my spirit free. For soft the hours repeat one story, Sings the sea one strain divine; My clouds arise all flushed with glory,--- I love, and the world is mine! _________________________________ One other little gem I found, by Adelaide Crapsey--- Adventure (1917) Sun and wind and beat of sea, Great lands stretching endlessly..... Where be the bonds to bind the free? All the world was made for me!

carriew7, glad you like my poem. Yes, I have posted many more oems on the Poems You Like thread. I hope you will post some of your own. I'd love to read some new poetry! See you there.

Adzela, for where you are right now, I would suggest that you read "Anthem". Don't think it's of minor value because it's only a little book. When I read it, at age 18, it was the most spiritually uplifting experience I had ever had.

AMERICONORMAN, every normal, rational human being wants more than a mere emotional reaction about most things. A Woman's Last Word is most definitely not "jazzy" I know practically nothing about the relationship between the Brownings, and, in a good, independent poem, like with any work of art, the meaning should be found within itself. Here, the title gives the first clue, immediately suggesting the idea of "getting in the last word" of an argument. So, proceeding stanza by stanza I get, from the writer's point of view: 1. Let's stop arguing. 2. Words were spoken that hurt. 3. The "creature" (resentment?) can kill intimacy. 4. Truth that hurts is false. 5. Ignorance is bliss. 6. Just be charming, i.e., forget the truth. 7. Teach, ONLY teach, i.e., don't inquire or judge. 8. Forget full loving for tonight, for 9. your hurtful words have made me too sad. To a rational person, stanzas 4,5,6 and 7 are enough to dump this poem in the trashcan. If I had written it I would burn it and bury it besides! Can you imagine Dominique saying this? I can, however, imagine Peter Keating hearing and accepting it with a sigh of relief.

I walked outside and heard and saw a crow flying from tree to tree, and, having been thinking about a "God" problem in another thread, I made up Crow Song Crow in the palm, What is your psalm? "Caw! Caw! Caw! To God I do not belong." Crow in the evergreen, What do you mean? "Caw! Caw! Caw! I'm really here, I'm really seen." Crow in the day, What do you pray? "Caw! Caw! Caw! Get off my back, I am okay!" Crow in the night, Where do you 'light? "Caw! Caw! Caw! Up in the palm To sing my song. Caw! Caw! Caw!"

Adzela, look at what you wrote: "My belief is...empty of reason...that gives me a feeling identical to ...embracing reason". That is a contradiction, based on self-dishonesty. For, since you still have the irrational, "empty" belief, you cannot and do not know what it is to "embrace reason". Also, you are using your feeling ("enjoyed very much") as a reason to hold on to your belief and to not embrace your reason. Note, I said YOUR reason. It is not something floating out separate from you like your imagined God. Your feeling is what you must give up as the standard of how you use your mind. If your imagined God is perfect, all-wise, happy and proud, then you can never be, for in your mind you choose to disown the best possible to you. Why? What has religion been telling you all your life?---that you are not worthy. Ayn Rand says that you can make yourself worthy, but it is totally up to you.

Adleza, I was raised in a Baptist household. As a child I thought of---that is, IMAGINED---God to be a wise white-haired man upon whose knee I sat while he pointed down to the world below us and explained things. But at that age(somewhere between four and eight), if someone had asked me if I believed in God I would have said yes, instead of "God is my imagination". Somewhere in that period of time The process became so automatic that I forgot that God was my imagination. Then, when I was about thirteen, and feeling terribly depressed about something, I , alone in the house in my room, started to get angry at God. I began yelling and cursing him, and then I made a gesture with my finger and shouted, "if you're so strong, come down and do something about it!" and I looked up at the ceiling, saw a wiggly little surface crack, and burst out laughing. By switching so fast from looking in at my imagination to looking out at reality, and being aware of myself doing it, I rediscovered that God was my imagination. So, now, when someone asks me, "Do you believe in God?" I say "No, God exists, and I know just what it is. God is your imagination when you regard it as existing in reality and call it God". Believers don't mind arguing with people about whether God's existence "out there" can be proved or not, because it makes them feel safe; the real source of God in them never has to be dealt with. That's all I can tell you. That's all you need to know. The rest is up to you and your self-honesty.

The following poem was originally a song I wrote as a tribute to Ayn Rand's most beneficial influence on my life. I actually read her two greatest novels in the opposite order as here represented. Born To Win When I was younger I was so happy; My life was singing every day. But I grew older thinking dimly And couldn't see the straightaway. I walked alone along the sea And let the blues wash over me. I covered up my happy song so long. Then I found a sterling book And I took a second look. I knew I was not dead when I read The Fountainhead. And the author wrote again With a dauntless mighty pen. She praised the mind of man---- Atlas Shrugged! Ayn Rand! There's no more blues, They've gone away; A little blast Puts in its say. It's getting louder, It's coming in, "Read all about it! I'm born to win!" Never sad, Never "Woe"; I am glad Where'er I go! I'm alive now; I am Pride now; The news is in---- "I'm born to win!" When I was younger I was so starry, A brighter dream for every day. But I was distant from the practical And never burned the mist away. I walked alone along the sea And let the blues wash over me. I covered up my happy song so long. But, I found that sterling book And I took a second look. I knew I was not dead When I read The Fountainhead, Again and again and again! And that Great One wrote again With a sacred sovereign pen. She mapped the mind of man---- Atlas Shrugged! Ayn Rand! There's no more blues; They've gone away. A little blast Puts in its say. It's getting louder, It's coming in, "Read all about it! I'm born to win!" Never sad, Never "Woe", I am glad Where'er I go! I'm alive now; I am Pride now; The news is in---- "I'm born to win! A writer was up, A writer was up, A writer was up a way; A singer is up, A singer is up, A singer is up to stay; And we say, we say, And we say, "I'm born to win! Brian Faulkner

arimus, looking at "Evolution" a little more closely, I see that Mr. Smith's error is in regarding man and his achievements as a natural process independent of human volition. What are your thoughts? What do you like about the poem? Of the poems on this thread is there one you like especially? And why? Anything you don't like?

If libertarianism wishes to be beyond ethics, then it wishes to be beyond good and evil, AND wishes to be beyond being judged.

artimus, welcome. Are you a lover of the works of Ayn Rand? And, do you yourself write poetry? Here is my immediate response to Mr. Smith's "Evolution". The poem is written in a lively rhythm, well-structured throughout, and the descriptive words and phrases are excellent. It's just too bad Mr. Smith didn't evolve up to the level of being able to glorify man. He caves in to religion, and does not identify the "god" above God----Reason, as the cause of such an achievement as Delmonicos, let alone the greatness of New York. Now, I realize he did not have the benefit of Objectivism, but he did have the Renaissance behind him, and the Enlightenment. I can see , however, that this poem would be something of a cheerful brightness in one's sight if one was escaping a guilt-laden religious upbringing. In poetry, for me, that blazing torch was Swinburne. Do you know his work at all? First, I should ask, Do you have a favorite poet? Well, assuming you are here mainly to learn more about Objectivism, I wish you Man-speed!

A few weeks ago I wrote the following poem for my sister, who, after half a century of being a born-again-Christian divorced her minister husband, quit her church, and found herself a productive job. She loves tulips. The Tulip Brigade A hundred million tulips came marching in to town, They strode above the weeds and threw their joy around. They marched down every alley, they tramped down every street, With a big bold chorus, "Ain't life sweet!" A hundred million tulips went charging to the hills----- They're better on the flats, but they said they wanted thrills. They ran down little vallies that seemed to lie in wait, With a big bold chorus, "Ain't life great!" A hundred million tulips were gath'ring at a lake; They leaned a bit and saw it, and yes, was no mistake----- A hundred million tulips a-gath'ring in the sky, With a big bold chorus, "My oh my!" A hundred million tulips came marching back to town; They set up guards at gardenplots and nodded love around. They issued proclamations with a dandelion band And a big bold chorus, "Ain't life grand!" Brian Faulkner

Another week of earning, now time to spend. Good Deal I come to buy! I come to buy! The better goods are here! Regard me with a happy eye; I come to buy! I'm here! "Welcome then, New Customer; We both shall profit, see! Such perfect things I have for you, If you have gold for me". I've gold, indeed, and silver, too; My wallet rings and rings! And I will trade all that I've made If you will trade those things. "You have enough, you have enough; I am so glad to sell". And I to buy, to have the goods That all my wants do tell. "Shake hands, shake hands; you are my friend". And you are mine, agreed. I came to buy, you came to sell; What better good, indeed! Brian Faulkner

Damn their dispicable souls!

A few years ago, while working at a motel in Springfield, Pa., a darkly handsome middle-aged woman from the tiny country of Belize took on the job of front desk clerk; on her way to something better, she said. The motel had turned over three clerks in the last three weeks; she, Alice, was a magnificent departure from the trend. Alice Alice, working at dawn, Adding figures, answering calls; Double-checking, checking out; Working, working, working. Alice, talking on the phone, Alice, thoughtfully alone, Alice, gazing in space, Alice, Alice, Alice. Face so beautifully unique, Honest sincerity there does speak; Eyes dark as midnight specked with light---- Harmonies of music changed to sight. Voice low and calm With bits of laughter, clear; She can quickly frown Down irrelevant cheer. She's fast on her feet; Zoom! quicker than quick! Here, there, back, forth, Stops! Sits down to write. Alice, transcribing her soul; Alice, totally self-responsible; Alice, creating her life; Alice, my friend without strife. She'll find her a better job, And do what she loves to do---- Give worth to every place That has her face in view. Her competent mind will learn Each delicate thing it must To earn her those quiet thrills That are good and true and just. Alice, alive on her own; Alice, in love all day; Alice, working the meaning Of "doing it my own way". There is no woman on earth Who for all time is so right, Who bears in her spirit more worth Than a thousand stars shimm'ring with light. Alice, a name without malice; Alice, the jewel of life's chalice; Alice, friend's heart's grand palace, Alice, Alice, Alice. Brian Faulkner 2000

One way definitely not to begin the day is to turn on the radio and hear someone spouting the "glories" of self-sacrifice. I Do "The pure man plies not for himself one day". No! that is a bad bad moral! False! And also, in each soul-suck Ed'nish fiber, damned! Heed it not, O People; waste not life! Curious, examine out its root With star-blade logic and laser-beam sight. Now morning-glories of manhood scale the sky; Up, ye builders, lift! and ledges, shine! Sun, wind, feathers, hail together! See the Master soaring over worn-out night----- Truth-Master, Right-Climber, Self-Maker, Man! He loves to cry his immortal song, "I Can!" Day one, day two, and every day all through I work for me and what I love, I do! "The pure man plies not for himself one day?" Nay, then he is a weedy man, A faded, used up, baseless man. O trowels, flowers, towers, what say? Brian Faulkner