by baldilocks

In honor of Pushkin’s birthday, June 6.alexander_sergeyevich_pushkin

It is one of the ironies of life and history that Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin (Russian: Алекса́ндр Серге́евич Пу́шкин)—a Russian man partially of African descent–is considered the founder of Russian literature. It is as though the influence of Other was meant to be added to a society which has demonstrated well-documented xenophobia and antipathy toward non- Russians.

 

Pushkin pioneered the use of vernacular speech in his poems and plays, creating a style of storytelling—mixing drama, romance, and satire— associated with Russian literature ever since and greatly influencing later Russian writers. He also wrote historical fiction. His The Captain’s Daughter provides insight into Russia during the reign of Catherine the Great.

Born in Moscow, Russia, Pushkin published his first poem at the age of fifteen, and was widely recognized by the literary establishment by the time of his graduation from the Imperial Lyceum in Tsarskoye Selo. Pushkin gradually became committed to social reform and emerged as a spokesman for literary radicals; in the early 1820s he clashed with the government, which sent him into exile in southern Russia. While under the strict surveillance of government censors and unable to travel or publish at will, he wrote his most famous play, the drama Boris Godunov, but could not publish it until years later. His novel in verse, Eugene Onegin, was published serially from 1825 to 1832.

In other words, Pushkin penned his works in a manner that the normal, every-day Russian could understand and, by doing so, shaped the Russian language in his own image thereafter. Two and a half centuries before him, William Shakespeare played an identical role for the English language. Continue reading “Sons of Russia and of Africa”

With apologies to Kipling

It is always a temptation;
when you live on agitation
To call upon a business and to say; —
“We protested you last night
 — back with media tonight
“Unless you pay us cash to go away”

Once that was called the Dane-geld
And the leftists who ask for it explain
That you’ve only to pay ’em modern Dane-Gled
And you’ll be rid of protests that very day

It is always a temptation
for a company that’s craven,
To puff and look important and to say: —
“Though we don’t support your actions
 , we don’t want the press distraction
So we’ll pay you guys to simply go away.

Once that was called paying the Dane-geld
And Al Sharpton & Jess Jackson did explain:
That ’til you come across with modern Dane-Geld
The cry of “racist” never goes away.

It’s always a Temptation,
To a pol, for Vindication
To feed supporters and an Angry base
Chick-Fil-A, its Christian leanings,
Kept the Left, it kept them seething:
So the Mayor of old Beantown was to say:

“Chick-Fil-A I demand a Dane-Geld
Maybe call it Gay-Geld coin a phrase
To open you here you must pay this Gay-Geld
And toss those Christian principles away

It is always a Temptation,
when the media it shakes ’em
To avoid a cry: “You guys are anti-gay”
But Chick’s customers objected
and one Wednesday they came venting
And blew all sales records, just to say:

“Chick-Fil-A you must not pay this Gay-Geld
Don’t act to feed a pandering pols ways
We’ll stand in line to save you from that Gay-Geld
For Christ and for our Free speech we will pay

And as promised they kept coming,
making registers a hummin
Saying you don’t have to give in on this day
Yet Chicago is attractive,
Hungry People it’s not lackin’
So a power tripping Alderman did say:

Chick-Fil-A pay unto me this Gay-Geld
Don’t let those Christian principles hold sway
There’s lots of chicken lovers in Chicago
And our deal don’t have to see da light of day

It is always a temptation
To employ some obfuscation
Advancing your agenda just that way
So the Alderman went crowing
On the media unloading
That he had brought around ole Chick-Fil-A

So the media reported on the Gay-Geld
That Chick-Fil-a seemingly had paid
A great win with the payment of this Gay-Geld
And all the left did shout “Hip Hip hooray!”

It is always a temptation
To vent your great frustration
When you feel you have been horribly betrayed
So the people started tweeting
Or on Facebook it was wreaking
Massive havoc as in one voice they proclaimed

“So you decided to go and pay the Gay Geld,
Just To sell some extra chicken in one place
And for a single new Restaurant location
We thousand thousand folks will go away

It is always a temptation
To give some clarification
When the news reports aren’t right in what they say
But words too diplomatic
Can turn all parties frantic
And double all your trouble right away

Till everyone cries “did you pay the Dane Geld
Or did you not? don’t play these silly games
Just tell us strait did you pay that dane-geld
‘for we all think that we are being played

So if temptation comes a wisperin’,
take the lesson Fil-A missin’
No deal, no talk just don’t negotiate
When the left it comes a callin’
threatening protest at the mails in
Your Business will find it better just to say: —

“We’ll neither pay a Dane-Geld nor a Gay-geld,
No matter how trifling the cost;
‘Cause the price is our oppression
or confusion never endin’
So you and yours can simply just get lost”

Sarah’s Emails and the MSM’s Ride

 

Listen my readers and you shall now hear
Of the weekend slide of the MSM’s cheer.
On a weekend in June in Two Thousand Eleven;
The Papers assumed they would achieve heaven.
From e-mails in storage from Yesteryear.

The Times and the Washington Post said to friends:
“Before the Palin e-mails come to light
Fill out our form; join our common end
For our staffs are cut by the internet’s might
Be our hands, and new eyes to see
And we in our newsrooms awaiting will be
Ready to declare and spread the alarm
Through every media outlet, urban or farm
Protecting America from Palin’s odd charms.”

On their webform and blog they invited the hoard
A tactic quite different from accepted norm,
For they knew where once old AOL lay
Arianna in e-mail blast had asked the same.
The Huffpo, a new-media man-o-war;
A virtual juggernaut with modern guile
Where payment of writers was not their style,
A huge hit engine, that was magnified
By a big money merger and a wink of her eye.

For the Media burned for revenge and relief
As their writers and Newscasters , with eager ears,
Had languished in the silence around them to hear,
The muster of riders of a bus tour.
A tip a hint, an IM or tweet.
On the measured tread, of bus-tires clear
Rolling from DC to where? To what shore?

They had climbed in their cars, cellphones prepared
Charged laptops, blackberries and Ipods to tread,
To locations unknown, in utter dread,
For the Palins neither worried nor cared
Of the mess of all their schedules they made
No set shots, no prepwork, no judgement of shade
Just follow the bus get the story and shot
We don’t care if the media keeps up or not
We won’t pause to listen or look down
If the 4th estate is not anywhere ’round
For a lead-in for their 6 p.m. slot

Via facebook, and tweet, silent as the dead
The Palin fans found path and hill
Though wrapped in secret so deep and still
That the media could not hear their tread
Through Tornado and pizza, the caravan went
Rolling along from event to event
Seeming to suddenly shout “We are here”
And lo, like a flash mob, supporters would cheer
Of the place and the hour; no Soros foot tread
No pre-arranged counter-protest to cover instead
No SEIU call No union lament
To arrange coordination of an AstroTurf view
No “Palin is booed” on the Evening News
Frustratingly, the template the MSM wrote
Is not effective as an offsite remote

Though painful the chase of her foolish bus tour
The MSM believed, soon would be the cure
Though Wiener indiscretions dominated the waves
And his tweets and photos had provided a lure,
The Alaskan e-mails would provide them the save!
Her idiocy would shine. her incompetence shown
Cross country all of this could be known
Though information requests did surely take time
MSM’s full vindication would now soon arrive
(Perhaps even as Andrew did sagely pursue
Of Trigs parentage at last we would know the full truth)
All of this new info of months of misrule
With Sarah’s own words she’ll make her the fool
The bumpkin unmasked by our readers with glee
Our readers are anxious to do this work too
And best of all it will be done for us free!

Yet some words of caution did now arise.
From allies of sober experience known
Whose senses of PR were firmly honed.
Would not an attempt to recruit such new eyes;
When once we decided to avert our gaze
At the friends candidate Obama once made
Their tapes still locked within our safes.
Might this be a move, not so wise?
Could it strengthen that worst of Brietbart crowd’s lies?
Of media Bias, their ultimate prize?
Though the danger of Palin we minimize not
It’s a bridge much too far, a hill too steep?
Nay! The Times and the Post continued their leap
The die had been cast, whatever the cost

It was one Eastern Standard by the clock
The mails were released, now what can be ’round?
They would not falter they would not stop
Though the first batch was fruitless more would they download
They’d continuing examining with a fine tooth comb
Till at close of day, nary a story found

On Saturday morning they sprung up anew
The volunteers started with a loud yawn
Plenty more e-mails to process and chew
Lots more to read, now slightly aghast
As the minutes and hours fruitlessly bared
And their gaze grew dim there, was there NAUGHT there?
They day was near finished the hours had passed
And still not a story worth looking upon

By evening, they had gone through the lot
Dismayed that ’twas no smoking gun found
For this? Hours of weekend for naught?
Where was the bombshell to spill on the web?
The goods upon Palin? Huge Memeorandm threads?
For this we gave our night on the town?
No incriminating email, no message of dread?
We signed up eagerly awaiting her fall
Yet instead twas our template lying dead
And disappointment awaiting us all!

How could this be, the books we have read?
John Stewart had proclaimed her a massive air head
On Colbert and Conan the audience did roar
Morning Joe and George Will dismissed her and more
Did not Katie Couric show her so lame?
(Now where is Katie reporting again?)
Instead of the simpleton insipid and slow
Once again is the Palin of Lock and Load?

So thus was the media forced to report
After days of warning and cries of alarm
That the Palin e-mails would do her much harm;
The voluminous emails gave no support
To their voice of darkness their cry of fear
That something quite evil was lurking here
That hidden in all those e-mails past
Was the secret likely to foil her at last!
That from their templates, so careful built
The people would waken, and listen to hear
Discarding MSM spin convention and tilt
The message of Palin; unfiltered and clear

With Apologies to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow and thanks to the MSM without whose obsession this would not have been possible

Update: I totally forgot that I did this once before this year concerning the Wisconsin Senate but considering the current Palin news what other poem could be used?

Update: In Honor of the anniversary of the fleebagging members of the Wisconsin Senate I’m promoting this poem written for the occasion.

With apologies to Longfellow

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the daylight ride of Democrats here,
On the seventeenth of Feb, in Two thousand eleven;
Hardly a tweeter now alive
Who doesn’t remembers that famous day and year.

The protesters said to their friends inside, “If the GOP calls for a vote
count the heads in that chamber to-night,
Keep a bus near the exit ramp
By the side of the steps where we setup our Amps,–
If down by One is what we see;
Then soon to a different state we’ll be,
Ready to ride to foil the plan
Through every village and farm,
For the Union folk to be up and to arm.”

Continue reading “The Wisconsin Senate’s ride”

As the TV droned the Nurses aide
Came to clear the tray
No note of the ancient
Who seemed a world away

Down at the park the gang hung out
Sampling their weed
With no thought to the wizened guy
Whose bench was near the tree

The teller felt her day crawl on
As the customer line grew long
It was a pain that people waited
As the old man counted wrong

On the subway the teen rocked on
His earbuds rang its din
Noting of his ancient fellow
an unripe smell within

The code came through
and DNR was stamped upon the chart
a waste of dough the panel said
to fix his creaky heart

So many times when they go by
Do we avert our gaze
Forgetting what these men accomplished
In their Halcyon days

Noting not the beaches
Dyed a bloody red
That age before through firestorm
The man before them tread

Through sky and bursts
With steady eye upon the bomber sight
Ignoring their fellows fall
Through the terror of the night

At station stood upon his quad
While cruising through the slot
Upon a wet and oily death
The seaman. he dwelt not.

Those old eyes that we ignore
Avenged the dead at Pearl
But for them South Korea
Would be unknown to the world

In cold peacetime
They did confine
The iron curtain reach
And twas by their M1 Garands
The 1000 year Reich ceased

Yet every day we walk away
We have no time you see
What interest does that gray ole mane
Have for the likes of me?

If but a word
was asked them: “Sir
What happened in those days?”
Then first hand we’d know the path
They trod for all our sakes

So give a thought
To that old lot
Not just on Veterans Day
For in their youth
They gave to you
A gift you can’t repay

I often read from the 1936 Volume The Best loved Poems of the American People. It’s amazing how much quality poetry has likely been forgotten by my generation.

So in that spirit I’d like over the next month or two share a few poems for the next few Tuesdays.  Let’s start with  Myra Brooks Welch

The Touch of the Masters Hand

Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer
thought it scarcely worth his while to waste much time on the old violin,
but held it up with a smile;

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,
“Who’ll start the bidding for me?” “A dollar, a dollar”; then two!” “Only
two? Two dollars, and who’ll make it three? Three dollars, once; three
dollars twice; going for three..”

But no, from the room, far back, a
gray-haired man came forward and picked up the bow; Then, wiping the dust
from the old violin, and tightening the loose strings, he played a melody
pure and sweet as caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer, with a voice that was quiet and low,
said; “What am I bid for the old violin?” And he held it up with the bow.

A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two? Two thousand! And who’ll make
it three? Three thousand, once, three thousand, twice, and going and
gone,” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried, “We do not
quite understnad what changed its worth.” Swift came the reply: “The touch
of a master’s hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune, and battered and scarred with sin,
Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd, much like the old violin

, A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine; a game – and he travels on. “He is
going” once, and “going twice, He’s going and almost gone.” But the Master
comes, and the foolish crowd never can quite understand the worth of a soul
and the change that’s wrought by the touch of the Master’s hand.

With thanks to Tim Blair for the idea and Kipling who did all the work.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Send forth the best ye breed–
Go bind your children to exile
To serve your planet’s need;
To wait in conference meetings,
And airports expanses–
To change the western masses,
From carbon them to wean.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
In patience to abide,
To ease the fear of Polar Bears
And all the creatures mild;
By dire speech and warnings,
A hundred times made plain
To stop that corporate profit,
For mother Gaia’s gain.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Impose your ways to bring,
And end for planets glory–
Those common comfort things.
Escew the modern toilet,
Water/paper,that they use,
And change to greener lightbulbs,
In cool neat windy tubes.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
And reap his old reward:
The jobs at Boards and NGO,
And make old Berkley proud–
At dinners, conferences and parties
express your deep concern:–
“And oh that private Jet I took…
From Carbon Credits earned!”

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Ye dare not stoop to less–
Nor worry too loud on Freedom
The movement it knows best;
By all ye cry or whisper,
By all ye leave or do,
Make the masses one with nature
As ‘fore population grew.

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
Remove their childish ways–
The electricity, heat, and travel,
Those common people crave.
In schools and Media make them see
That Red, oops green is true.
Then they will learn to live and love,
The benevolence of your rule!

Take up the Green Man’s burden–
The savage ways of green–
Cull surplus population
For Earth’s abiding need;
And when your goal is nearest
The end that Al Gore sought,
Watch e-mails and true science
Bring all your hopes to naught.

Update: Camp of the Saints links, thanks muchly.

Update 2: Mad Minerva links too, thanks.