B. Royce

Perhaps the writer has capitalized those words which, in his mind, he would emphasize if he were speaking aloud.

I think the Star Gazer is beautiful. The stars themselves express a sense of adventurous wonder, but they do not dwarf the supreme value of the woman. She is larger in importance than they are, and the most important thing about her is her focused, thinking mind. She is not worried, she is CONCENTRATING on the object of her thought. Thus, it is the highest human value which is represented here so strongly and cleanly, and one could search far and wide before discovering another painting which exalts man's mind in such an apparently simple way.

What is worse, in my opinion, is the first story in the article Dismuke refers to: the 6 year old boy who is charged with sexual harassment for jumping out of his bathtub to shout to the bus driver to wait. What sick educators there are here in America!

I have just published another book of poetry. The link is http://www.lulu.com/content/582065

You're welcome. My 8-year-old friend started out by following the pattern of my "One knock-knock, Two knock-knock, Three knock-knock, Four, Who's knock knock knocking At my castle door?" with One writing, Two writings, Three writings, Four, Who has been writing All over my floor? After a few more that rhymed with four he went to eight, with Five cartwheels, Six cartwheels, Seven cartwheels, Eight, I am cartwheeling Right out the gate! I've found that most children love the rhythm. It is that initial enjoyment of the music of verse which, if not forsaken as one gets older and modernistically (sarcastically?) "wiser", can lead to a life-long love of poetry.

As the old saying goes, "the more the merrier". Here's one for an energetic 8 year old boy I knew who was starting to write his own poems. The Happy Poet I bend down low to tie my shoe. I jump straight up to the sky so blue. I lift my arms and pretend to fly. I soar up over the clouds so high. I return to earth with a big loud Splash! Out in the pool I'm taking a bath. I dive like a whale, grind teeth like a shark, And then dog-paddle with a friendly bark. I stand up tall to say my poem. My mother's listening, working at home. My father's friends clap him on the back, "It's a real fine thing to have a son like that. "For strong the spirit and strong the brain That can each day a poem attain. The moon may pale and the sun fall down, But all is bright when a poet's around."

I used to live in Philly. I used to love my early morning walks through the fish market. Sometimes at 6 in the morning, even in the winter, I could find a cozy step near a corner and, with a cup of coffee, work on a poem. Now I'm in California, but I still love watching the Eagles win. Hi Stella. Brian Faulkner

Most of us have probably felt pessimistic at different times. I, too. No Room For Doom "Oh, the gloom, And the doom, doom, doom, Of the low slow times to come. "Oh, the night, And its last, sad light, And the streets bleak, dark, and cold. "Oh, the death Of the brief, brief breath, When there's no strong songs to sing. "Oh, the slain, And the wet bright stain, When the full red blood runs free." But ah, the leap, When these dooms sink deep, And the high fast days fly back. And ah, the life Of the clang, clang, clang! When the fired men's minds attack! Then see! The light! (As the old gloom creaks)--- It's a fair wide flare a-bloom! And hear! The right! As a glad man speaks, "There's no more room for doom! "No room for doom, No room for gloom, But only underground. "Pack off, you clods, Go back to gods, Way down there, underground. "Now die, I said, Be double dead, You two of lost hopes' aim. "You doom, go down, Go down, you gloom, And claim your tomb of shame!" _____________________________ Now that I've got that out of my system, I'll just be Scuffling Along I was standing outside On a downtown street, Listening to the sound Of the people's feet. A tap tap here, And a clop clop there, A tip-tap clip-clop Everywhere. Then a scuffle through some leaves, Feather-scuffling, full of ease, And a smiling, bright-eyed face Above the shoes. Up into the sunny skies She had set her laughing eyes And she didn't seem to have A single care. And the clip-clops ceased to be, Or at least, inside of me, As I fixed on her a mighty Spellbound stare. Then I found me in her wake, And I was sure 'twas no mistake, For I followed that gay leaf-flag In her hair. It was just a week ago That I stood a-listening, oh, And what a glorious seven days Have passed! Now I scuffle in my ease With my scuffler of the leaves, Two gold rings around our fingers Tightly cast! Oh, you tap taps here, And you clop clops there, Oh, you tip-tap clip-clops Everywhere, I do love you for your sound, For the girl you brought around, For the town and street and walking You make fair! ____________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I think there can be a kind of mockery toward things, as when they present a challenge to you, but you are confident in your ability to solve the problem or to overcome the difficulty. It is somewhat the feeling I have in mind in this stanza from my "The Mind Of Man". The "It" in the second line is the earth. I blast, and I drill, I drive endless still; It gives me nothing easy. I laugh and I sing for this very thing; I am the mind of man.

Mercury, thank you for finding that cheery, optimistic poem by Angela Morgan. The poem by Hugo I have seen before, but it is good to read it again. The following is a spirited poem by an anonymous woman writing in the 1730's in England. The magazine editor who published her eventually dubbed her "The Amorous Lady". Here she replies to her male critics. On Being Charged With Writing Incorrectly I'm incorrect: the learn-ed say That I write well, but not their way. For this to every star I bend: From their dull method heaven defend, Who labor up the hill of fame, And pant and struggle for a name! My free-born thoughts I'll not confine, Though all Parnassus could be mine. No, let my genius have its way, My genius I will still obey: Nor with their stupid rules control The sacred pulse that beats within my soul. I from my very heart despise These mighty dull, these mighty wise, Who were the slaves of Busby's nod, And learned their methods from his rod. Shall bright Apollo drudge at school, And whimper till he grows a fool? Apollo, to the learn-ed coy, In nouns and verbs finds little joy. The tuneful Sisters still he leads To silver streams, and flowery meads. He glories in an artless breast, And loves the goddess Nature best. Let Dennis haunt me with his spite; Let me read Dennis every night, Or any punishment sustain, To 'scape the labour of the brain. Let the dull think, or let 'em mend The trifling errors they pretend; Writing's my pleasure, which my Muse Would not for all their glory lose: With transport I the pen employ, And every line reveals my joy. No pangs of thought I undergo; My words descend, my numbers flow; Though disallowed, my friend, I swear I would not think, I would not care, If I a pleasure can impart, Or to my own, or thy dear heart, If I thy gentle passions move, 'Tis all I ask of fame or love. This to the very learn-ed say, If they are angry-----why, they may: I from my very soul despise These mighty dull, these mighty wise.

Merry Christmas, Happy Midas Day, Happy Capitalism Day, Happy Happy Day to each and all!

Thanks for the link. It's good to see ARI's efforts coming through.

Good (rhetorical?) question, Jennifer. The passivity could even INCREASE on such a trip, if the tripper blindly follows someone else's lead. Now, if you went hiking by yourself, or took a trip (alone) to a new city and were totally self-reliant in investigating it, you might better be able to help, and "find", yourself.

Mercury, since a person cannot really love another until he loves himself, and since the purpose of your girlfriend's trip is fuller self-knowledge and/or self-acceptance, why not give her a copy of Chapter eleven of Anthem as your letter? If you are in her thoughts while she is out hiking, fine; if not, so be it, you'll just have to take that chance.

A poem of spring for the beginning of winter. The Light Of Day The light of day is streaking forth into the towered town, The might of May is leaping north with waking scent and sound, And down each road and up each street Objectivists do drive, With love of work, and far-out plans, that keep the town alive. And stepping up from underground, their faces diamond bright, Objectivists who came in trains now bid the night "Goodnight". They're businessmen, investmentmen, whose purposes are pure--- To make the most of every trade, increasing profit's store. Along the walks, in-out of shops, they swing so free and swift, Briefcase in hand, true news from stand, and coffee-cup's sweet lift. And smiling nods, and winking eyes----those destinies of day--- Surround the sounds of "Hi!" "Hello", "Let's go", "I'm on my way!" And on they pass to palaces that wait the soul of man---- His holy, selfish motive, "I'll do what new I can." And polished brass swings open, and clearest glass does spin, As hands-on, firm, lightheartedness Objectivists lead in. Then taking hallways, floor by floor, up to the very top, Come master traders---profiteers!---whose engines never stop! Through windows high above the town they look, they think, they see That all they've built is good, so far, but less than what will be! The light of day is streaking forth into the towered town, The might of May is leaping north with waking scent and sound, And down each road and up each street Objectivists do drive, With love of work, and far-out plans, that keep the town alive! ________________________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I, for one, love your unsmiling women. I love that sketch, too. I can imagine her standing atop the Empire State Building, glancing down at the city below her. Will she find something or someone in that city to rise up to her high level of self value? Her naked honesty and the honesty of the stone against which she leans and puts her hand upon are hard and intractable, unyielding, open and free. I look forward to seeing your new work.

Laugh away, then Consider it a Christmas gift. I didn't think you were attacking Olex, either. (Either? Just like you didn't think you were? Time for more laughs?) Ho, Ho, Ho! Merry Christmas!

My relationship to my writing and people was something I discovered when I was eight years old. I had written my first poem. It rhymed, it was musical, with a cheerful, delightful meaning. I walked around outside the house for about an hour reciting it; the poem and I were ends in ourselves. Then I thought that I would I would recite it to my family. I did so, but, to my puzzlement, instead of delight being expressed for the poem, attention was directed at me. As in, "Oh how wonderful YOU are for having written a poem". Neither of my parents sought to say the poem themselves, or even asked to hear it again. Their focus was on me, for having written it, not on the thing itself. From then on I never shared my poems, for attention to me was not my aim, and would have felt like a sacrilege to seek it. I would add that my parents' attention to me was a selfless one, instead of a selfish concern with their own delight and enjoyment. Of course, I did not make these identifications till years later.

Ifat, that is beautifully said. It's a high value to read such a thing. The knowledge that someone who thinks like you do might enjoy my poetry means more to me than if no such people existed, although I don't write FOR other people.

Insanity Plea Jim the killer sat in his cell, Thinking what he the judge would tell. "I'll say I'd been drinking, And it weren't really me; In fact, I'd a touch touch of insanity." They took him to court Where he spoke with a slur, Rolled his eyes all 'round And growled out a "Grrr!" The judge looked him over, Then made his decree: "It's so plain to see That crooked you're made with insanity, I'll tell the hangman, And he's got clout, With the rope of justice To straighten you out."

The Killer's Fair Fight Bert the gunslinger got word at the bar Was a man down the street wearin' a star Said Bert was a murderer (and it was true) And he was gonna hang for an hour or two. Bert the gunslinger sent word then and there That he'd meet the Marshall and fight him fair. So out in the dusty street walked he, Lookin' at the jail where the Marshall should be. Close up behind him, calm, like the sun, The Marshall stepped with his pointed gun. "Bert, this is fair as you deserve", he said. "You murdered, you're evil, and now you're dead". Four shots rang out in the hot dry air, And Bert almost said, "But that ain't..." But two more bullets split his heart, And Justice, fair Justice, played his part. _____________________________________ Brian Faulkner

You make a good point. The best orchestra for Rachmaninoff's works is Rachmaninoff's personal favorite, The Philadelphia Orchestra, with Eugene Ormandy conducting. For some of Rachmaninoff's shorter piano pieces, no one is better than Rachmaninoff himself; his clarity, fine touch, and exciting speed is beyond compare. Listening to a popular modern pianist play his works, then listening to Rachmaninoff himself play them, is like going from a barren planet to one on which life has been discovered.

Correction. That last piece is called Spring Waters. It was written for piano, though I have heard it beautifully orchestrated as well.

Rachmaninoff's Symphony #3 is, to me, extremely beautiful and uplifting, and his Symphonic dances are full of power and passion. His Spring song is a most beautiful jewel of joyous innocense.

Since the romantic composers (usually 19th to early 20th century) were generally more emotionally expressive than their classical predecessors, and what you want to do is feel some strong emotions, but at the same time not be overwhelmed by complexity, you might listen to the shorter works first, such as the etudes of Chopin, the preludes of Rachmaninoff, the overtures of Brahms, Finlandia by Sibelius. Just listen, following the music, letting yourself feel, or think, or imagine whatever the music suggests. Then you might listen to some longer works, such as piano concertoes by Grieg, Tchaikovsky and Rachmaninoff. Myself, first visiting New York when I was 19, and knowing nothing but rock n roll and church music, I went to an outdoor concert and heard Tchaikovsky's 4th symphony. I had never felt such exhilaration in my life. I remember thinking something like "Damn, I have finally heard MUSIC!"