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Poetic Ponderings at the Caledon Library
Fourth Wednesday of the Month
Beginning June 23 2010
4pm SLT
Caledon Library Meeting Rooms, Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/155/118/23
The 19th century was a time of poetic inspiration and innovation. In both style and subject, poets experimented with characterizing their emotions and perceptions within the frame of verse. At the beginning of the century the Romantic school, in reaction against Enlightenment ideals, sought inspiration in the workings of intuition and in pastoral settings. In mid-century, Emily Dickinson wrote of death and immortality, drawing on her own rarefied sensibility and using the unconventional device of slant rhyme. At the end of the century William Butler Yeats made the Celtic twilight come alive for his readers. Our series will read and consider these poets and more, focusing on the force and individuality of the poetic voice. Join us for a new poem each month.
June 23
My Last Duchess by Robert Browning
http://barney.gonzaga.edu/~jdavis6/poem.html
Fourth Wednesday of the Month
Beginning June 23 2010
4pm SLT
Caledon Library Meeting Rooms, Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/155/118/23
The 19th century was a time of poetic inspiration and innovation. In both style and subject, poets experimented with characterizing their emotions and perceptions within the frame of verse. At the beginning of the century the Romantic school, in reaction against Enlightenment ideals, sought inspiration in the workings of intuition and in pastoral settings. In mid-century, Emily Dickinson wrote of death and immortality, drawing on her own rarefied sensibility and using the unconventional device of slant rhyme. At the end of the century William Butler Yeats made the Celtic twilight come alive for his readers. Our series will read and consider these poets and more, focusing on the force and individuality of the poetic voice. Join us for a new poem each month.
June 23
My Last Duchess by Robert Browning
http://barney.gonzaga.edu/~jdavis6/poem.html
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday April 27th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gherardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" provides an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series also gives those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week, but we will also be discussing the work as a whole, as our tribute to both the poet and the poetry lovers who have participated in this year-long series.
Wealth with the flush hand and fine clothes and hospitality:
But then the soul's wealth—which is candor and knowledge and pride and enfolding
love:
Who goes for men and women showing poverty richer than wealth?
Expression of speech . . in what is written or said forget not that silence is also
expressive,
That anguish as hot as the hottest and contempt as cold as the coldest may be with-
out words,
That the true adoration is likewise without words and without kneeling.
Great is the greatest nation . . the nation of clusters of equal nations.
Great is the earth, and the way it became what it is,
Do you imagine it is stopped at this? . . . . and the increase abandoned?
Understand then that it goes as far onward from this as this is from the times when
it lay in covering waters and gases.
Great is the quality of truth in man,
The quality of truth in man supports itself through all changes,
It is inevitably in the man . . . . He and it are in love, and never leave each other.
The truth in man is no dictum . . . . it is vital as eyesight,
If there be any soul there is truth . . . . if there be man or woman there is truth . . . .
If there be physical or moral there is truth,
If there be equilibrium or volition there is truth . . . . if there be things at all upon the
earth there is truth.
O truth of the earth! O truth of things! I am determined to press the whole way
toward you,
Sound your voice! I scale mountains or dive in the sea after you.
Great is language . . . . it is the mightiest of the sciences,
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth . . . . and of men and
women . . . . and of all qualities and processes;
It is greater than wealth . . . . it is greater than buildings or ships or religions or
paintings or music.
Great is the English speech . . . . What speech is so great as the English?
Great is the English brood . . . . What brood has so vast a destiny as the English?
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the new rule,
The new rule shall rule as the soul rules, and as the love and justice and equality
that are in the soul rule.
Great is the law . . . . Great are the old few landmarks of the law . . . . they are the
same in all times and shall not be disturbed.
Great are marriage, commerce, newspapers, books, freetrade, railroads, steamers,
international mails and telegraphs and exchanges.
Great is Justice;
Justice is not settled by legislators and laws . . . . it is in the soul,
It cannot be varied by statutes any more than love or pride or the attraction of
gravity can,
It is immutable . . it does not depend on majorities . . . . majorities or what not come
at last before the same passionless and exact tribunal.
For justice are the grand natural lawyers and perfect judges . . . . it is in their souls,
It is well assorted . . . . they have not studied for nothing . . . . the great includes the
less,
They rule on the highest grounds . . . . they oversee all eras and states and
administrations.
The perfect judge fears nothing . . . . he could go front to front before God,
Before the perfect judge all shall stand back . . . . life and death shall stand back
. . . . heaven and hell shall stand back.
Great is goodness;
I do not know what it is any more than I know what health is . . . . but I know it is
great.
Great is wickedness . . . . I find I often admire it just as much as I admire good-
ness:
Do you call that a paradox? It certainly is a paradox.
The eternal equilibrium of things is great, and the eternal overthrow of things is
great,
And there is another paradox.
Great is life . . and real and mystical . . wherever and whoever,
Great is death . . . . Sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts
together;
Sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, death is great as life.
Tuesday April 27th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gherardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" provides an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series also gives those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week, but we will also be discussing the work as a whole, as our tribute to both the poet and the poetry lovers who have participated in this year-long series.
Wealth with the flush hand and fine clothes and hospitality:
But then the soul's wealth—which is candor and knowledge and pride and enfolding
love:
Who goes for men and women showing poverty richer than wealth?
Expression of speech . . in what is written or said forget not that silence is also
expressive,
That anguish as hot as the hottest and contempt as cold as the coldest may be with-
out words,
That the true adoration is likewise without words and without kneeling.
Great is the greatest nation . . the nation of clusters of equal nations.
Great is the earth, and the way it became what it is,
Do you imagine it is stopped at this? . . . . and the increase abandoned?
Understand then that it goes as far onward from this as this is from the times when
it lay in covering waters and gases.
Great is the quality of truth in man,
The quality of truth in man supports itself through all changes,
It is inevitably in the man . . . . He and it are in love, and never leave each other.
The truth in man is no dictum . . . . it is vital as eyesight,
If there be any soul there is truth . . . . if there be man or woman there is truth . . . .
If there be physical or moral there is truth,
If there be equilibrium or volition there is truth . . . . if there be things at all upon the
earth there is truth.
O truth of the earth! O truth of things! I am determined to press the whole way
toward you,
Sound your voice! I scale mountains or dive in the sea after you.
Great is language . . . . it is the mightiest of the sciences,
It is the fulness and color and form and diversity of the earth . . . . and of men and
women . . . . and of all qualities and processes;
It is greater than wealth . . . . it is greater than buildings or ships or religions or
paintings or music.
Great is the English speech . . . . What speech is so great as the English?
Great is the English brood . . . . What brood has so vast a destiny as the English?
It is the mother of the brood that must rule the earth with the new rule,
The new rule shall rule as the soul rules, and as the love and justice and equality
that are in the soul rule.
Great is the law . . . . Great are the old few landmarks of the law . . . . they are the
same in all times and shall not be disturbed.
Great are marriage, commerce, newspapers, books, freetrade, railroads, steamers,
international mails and telegraphs and exchanges.
Great is Justice;
Justice is not settled by legislators and laws . . . . it is in the soul,
It cannot be varied by statutes any more than love or pride or the attraction of
gravity can,
It is immutable . . it does not depend on majorities . . . . majorities or what not come
at last before the same passionless and exact tribunal.
For justice are the grand natural lawyers and perfect judges . . . . it is in their souls,
It is well assorted . . . . they have not studied for nothing . . . . the great includes the
less,
They rule on the highest grounds . . . . they oversee all eras and states and
administrations.
The perfect judge fears nothing . . . . he could go front to front before God,
Before the perfect judge all shall stand back . . . . life and death shall stand back
. . . . heaven and hell shall stand back.
Great is goodness;
I do not know what it is any more than I know what health is . . . . but I know it is
great.
Great is wickedness . . . . I find I often admire it just as much as I admire good-
ness:
Do you call that a paradox? It certainly is a paradox.
The eternal equilibrium of things is great, and the eternal overthrow of things is
great,
And there is another paradox.
Great is life . . and real and mystical . . wherever and whoever,
Great is death . . . . Sure as life holds all parts together, death holds all parts
together;
Sure as the stars return again after they merge in the light, death is great as life.
Bookbindings & What They Might Lead To
A Book Arts Exhibit at the Caledon Library
Curated by Incunable Sorbet
April - September 2010
Jack and Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library
Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/55/202/23
In the 18th Century, Mr. Laurence Sterne experimented with typography in his famous book, "Tristram Shandy". Towards the end of that century, William and Catherine Blake developed illuminated printing. In the 19th century, cover designs on books went from a simple title stamped in gold to multicolor graphic illustrations designed by well known artists. These examples expand our ideas of what a book is supposed to look like. In this exhibit we will endeavor to trace the evolution of artistic bookbinding, and speculate on how it may evolve in the future. Works include Louis Mileman's tabloid circle book, Incunable Sorbet's animated Penny Dreadfuls, and Trilby Minotaur's "Book Oasis."
Join us April 4th at 1pm SLT for an Exhibit Opening and Conversation with the Curator
Jack and Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library
Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/55/202/23
A Book Arts Exhibit at the Caledon Library
Curated by Incunable Sorbet
April - September 2010
Jack and Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library
Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/55/202/23
In the 18th Century, Mr. Laurence Sterne experimented with typography in his famous book, "Tristram Shandy". Towards the end of that century, William and Catherine Blake developed illuminated printing. In the 19th century, cover designs on books went from a simple title stamped in gold to multicolor graphic illustrations designed by well known artists. These examples expand our ideas of what a book is supposed to look like. In this exhibit we will endeavor to trace the evolution of artistic bookbinding, and speculate on how it may evolve in the future. Works include Louis Mileman's tabloid circle book, Incunable Sorbet's animated Penny Dreadfuls, and Trilby Minotaur's "Book Oasis."
Join us April 4th at 1pm SLT for an Exhibit Opening and Conversation with the Curator
Jack and Elaine Whitehorn Memorial Library
Caledon Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/55/202/23
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday March 23rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gherardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
CLEAR the way there Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the federal foot and dragoons . . . . and the phantoms afterward.
I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston town;
Here's a good place at the corner . . . . I must stand and see the show.
I love to look on the stars and stripes . . . . I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
How bright shine the foremost with cutlasses,
Every man holds his revolver . . . . marching stiff through Boston town.
A fog follows . . . . antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged and some appear bandaged and bloodless.
Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of the earth,
The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see;
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear of it,
Cocked hats of mothy mould and crutches made of mist,
Arms in slings and old men leaning on young men's shoulders.
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for firelocks,
and level them?
If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see the President's marshal,
If you groan such groans you might balk the government cannon.
For shame old maniacs! . . . . Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white
hair be;
Here gape your smart grandsons . . . . their wives gaze at them from the windows,
See how well-dressed . . . . see how orderly they conduct themselves.
Worse and worse . . . . Can't you stand it? Are you retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?
Retreat then! Pell-mell! . . . . Back to the hills, old limpers!
I do not think you belong here anyhow.
But there is one thing that belongs here . . . . Shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of
Boston?
I will whisper it to the Mayor . . . . he shall send a committee to England,
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, and go with a cart to the royal vault,
Dig out King George's coffin . . . . unwrap him quick from the graveclothes . . . .
box up his bones for a journey:
Find a swift Yankee clipper . . . . here is freight for you blackbellied clipper,
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! . . . . steer straight toward Boston bay.
Now call the President's marshal again, and bring out the government cannon,
And fetch home the roarers from Congress, and make another procession and guard
it with foot and dragoons.
Here is a centrepiece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens . . . . look from the windows women.
The committee open the box and set up the regal ribs and glue those that will not
stay,
And clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.
You have got your revenge old buster! . . . . The crown is come to its own and more
than its own.
Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan . . . . you are a made man from this day,
You are mighty cute . . . . and here is one of your bargains.
THERE was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love
or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or
for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song
of the phoebe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and
the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-
side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . and the
beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . .
all became part of him.
And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him . . . . wintergrain sprouts,
and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and wood-
berries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he
had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys
that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and freshcheeked girls . .
and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents . . he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him . .
and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this
child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,
The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown . . . . a wholesome odor
falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, selfsufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and
swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought
if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime . . . the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so . . . . Or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets . . if they are not flashes and specks
what are they?
The streets themselves, and the facades of houses . . . . the goods in the windows,
Vehicles . . teams . . the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset . . . . the river between,
Shadows . . aureola and mist . . light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown,
three miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide . . the little boat slacktowed
astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds . . . . the long bar of maroontint away solitary by
itself . . . . the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and
will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.
Tuesday March 23rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gherardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
CLEAR the way there Jonathan!
Way for the President's marshal! Way for the government cannon!
Way for the federal foot and dragoons . . . . and the phantoms afterward.
I rose this morning early to get betimes in Boston town;
Here's a good place at the corner . . . . I must stand and see the show.
I love to look on the stars and stripes . . . . I hope the fifes will play Yankee Doodle.
How bright shine the foremost with cutlasses,
Every man holds his revolver . . . . marching stiff through Boston town.
A fog follows . . . . antiques of the same come limping,
Some appear wooden-legged and some appear bandaged and bloodless.
Why this is a show! It has called the dead out of the earth,
The old graveyards of the hills have hurried to see;
Uncountable phantoms gather by flank and rear of it,
Cocked hats of mothy mould and crutches made of mist,
Arms in slings and old men leaning on young men's shoulders.
What troubles you, Yankee phantoms? What is all this chattering of bare gums?
Does the ague convulse your limbs? Do you mistake your crutches for firelocks,
and level them?
If you blind your eyes with tears you will not see the President's marshal,
If you groan such groans you might balk the government cannon.
For shame old maniacs! . . . . Bring down those tossed arms, and let your white
hair be;
Here gape your smart grandsons . . . . their wives gaze at them from the windows,
See how well-dressed . . . . see how orderly they conduct themselves.
Worse and worse . . . . Can't you stand it? Are you retreating?
Is this hour with the living too dead for you?
Retreat then! Pell-mell! . . . . Back to the hills, old limpers!
I do not think you belong here anyhow.
But there is one thing that belongs here . . . . Shall I tell you what it is, gentlemen of
Boston?
I will whisper it to the Mayor . . . . he shall send a committee to England,
They shall get a grant from the Parliament, and go with a cart to the royal vault,
Dig out King George's coffin . . . . unwrap him quick from the graveclothes . . . .
box up his bones for a journey:
Find a swift Yankee clipper . . . . here is freight for you blackbellied clipper,
Up with your anchor! shake out your sails! . . . . steer straight toward Boston bay.
Now call the President's marshal again, and bring out the government cannon,
And fetch home the roarers from Congress, and make another procession and guard
it with foot and dragoons.
Here is a centrepiece for them:
Look! all orderly citizens . . . . look from the windows women.
The committee open the box and set up the regal ribs and glue those that will not
stay,
And clap the skull on top of the ribs, and clap a crown on top of the skull.
You have got your revenge old buster! . . . . The crown is come to its own and more
than its own.
Stick your hands in your pockets Jonathan . . . . you are a made man from this day,
You are mighty cute . . . . and here is one of your bargains.
THERE was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he looked upon and received with wonder or pity or love
or dread, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a certain part of the day . . . . or
for many years or stretching cycles of years.
The early lilacs became part of this child,
And grass, and white and red morningglories, and white and red clover, and the song
of the phoebe-bird,
And the March-born lambs, and the sow's pink-faint litter, and the mare's foal, and
the cow's calf, and the noisy brood of the barnyard or by the mire of the pond-
side . . and the fish suspending themselves so curiously below there . . and the
beautiful curious liquid . . and the water-plants with their graceful flat heads . .
all became part of him.
And the field-sprouts of April and May became part of him . . . . wintergrain sprouts,
and those of the light-yellow corn, and of the esculent roots of the garden,
And the appletrees covered with blossoms, and the fruit afterward . . . . and wood-
berries . . and the commonest weeds by the road;
And the old drunkard staggering home from the outhouse of the tavern whence he
had lately risen,
And the schoolmistress that passed on her way to the school . . and the friendly boys
that passed . . and the quarrelsome boys . . and the tidy and freshcheeked girls . .
and the barefoot negro boy and girl,
And all the changes of city and country wherever he went.
His own parents . . he that had propelled the fatherstuff at night, and fathered him . .
and she that conceived him in her womb and birthed him . . . . they gave this
child more of themselves than that,
They gave him afterward every day . . . . they and of them became part of him.
The mother at home quietly placing the dishes on the suppertable,
The mother with mild words . . . . clean her cap and gown . . . . a wholesome odor
falling off her person and clothes as she walks by:
The father, strong, selfsufficient, manly, mean, angered, unjust,
The blow, the quick loud word, the tight bargain, the crafty lure,
The family usages, the language, the company, the furniture . . . . the yearning and
swelling heart,
Affection that will not be gainsayed . . . . The sense of what is real . . . . the thought
if after all it should prove unreal,
The doubts of daytime and the doubts of nighttime . . . the curious whether and how,
Whether that which appears so is so . . . . Or is it all flashes and specks?
Men and women crowding fast in the streets . . if they are not flashes and specks
what are they?
The streets themselves, and the facades of houses . . . . the goods in the windows,
Vehicles . . teams . . the tiered wharves, and the huge crossing at the ferries;
The village on the highland seen from afar at sunset . . . . the river between,
Shadows . . aureola and mist . . light falling on roofs and gables of white or brown,
three miles off,
The schooner near by sleepily dropping down the tide . . the little boat slacktowed
astern,
The hurrying tumbling waves and quickbroken crests and slapping;
The strata of colored clouds . . . . the long bar of maroontint away solitary by
itself . . . . the spread of purity it lies motionless in,
The horizon's edge, the flying seacrow, the fragrance of saltmarsh and shoremud;
These became part of that child who went forth every day, and who now goes and
will always go forth every day,
And these become of him or her that peruses them now.
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday March 9th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
SUDDENLY out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
Like lightning Europe le'pt forth . . . . half startled at itself,
Its feet upon the ashes and the rags . . . . Its hands tight to the throats of kings.
O hope and faith! O aching close of lives! O many a sickened heart!
Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.
And you, paid to defile the People . . . . you liars mark:
Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
For court thieving in its manifold mean forms,
Worming from his simplicity the poor man's wages;
For many a promise sworn by royal lips, And broken, and laughed at in the breaking,
Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike of personal revenge . . or
the heads of the nobles fall;
The People scorned the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come
back:
Each comes in state with his train . . . . hangman, priest and tax-gatherer . . . .
soldier, lawyer, jailer and sycophant.
Yet behind all, lo, a Shape,
Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front and form in scarlet folds,
Whose face and eyes none may see,
Out of its robes only this . . . . the red robes, lifted by the arm,
One finger pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.
Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves . . . . bloody corpses of young men:
The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily . . . . the bullets of princes are flying . . . .
the creatures of power laugh aloud,
And all these things bear fruits . . . . and they are good.
Those corpses of young men,
Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets . . . those hearts pierced by the gray lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem . . live elsewhere with unslaughter'd vitality.
They live in other young men, O kings,
They live in brothers, again ready to defy you:
They were purified by death . . . . They were taught and exalted.
Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom . . . . in its
turn to bear seed,
Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.
Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
But it stalks invisibly over the earth . . whispering counseling cautioning.
Liberty let others despair of you . . . . I never despair of you.
Is the house shut? Is the master away?
Nevertheless be ready . . . . be not weary of watching,
He will soon return . . . . his messengers come anon.
Tuesday March 9th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
SUDDENLY out of its stale and drowsy lair, the lair of slaves,
Like lightning Europe le'pt forth . . . . half startled at itself,
Its feet upon the ashes and the rags . . . . Its hands tight to the throats of kings.
O hope and faith! O aching close of lives! O many a sickened heart!
Turn back unto this day, and make yourselves afresh.
And you, paid to defile the People . . . . you liars mark:
Not for numberless agonies, murders, lusts,
For court thieving in its manifold mean forms,
Worming from his simplicity the poor man's wages;
For many a promise sworn by royal lips, And broken, and laughed at in the breaking,
Then in their power not for all these did the blows strike of personal revenge . . or
the heads of the nobles fall;
The People scorned the ferocity of kings.
But the sweetness of mercy brewed bitter destruction, and the frightened rulers come
back:
Each comes in state with his train . . . . hangman, priest and tax-gatherer . . . .
soldier, lawyer, jailer and sycophant.
Yet behind all, lo, a Shape,
Vague as the night, draped interminably, head front and form in scarlet folds,
Whose face and eyes none may see,
Out of its robes only this . . . . the red robes, lifted by the arm,
One finger pointed high over the top, like the head of a snake appears.
Meanwhile corpses lie in new-made graves . . . . bloody corpses of young men:
The rope of the gibbet hangs heavily . . . . the bullets of princes are flying . . . .
the creatures of power laugh aloud,
And all these things bear fruits . . . . and they are good.
Those corpses of young men,
Those martyrs that hang from the gibbets . . . those hearts pierced by the gray lead,
Cold and motionless as they seem . . live elsewhere with unslaughter'd vitality.
They live in other young men, O kings,
They live in brothers, again ready to defy you:
They were purified by death . . . . They were taught and exalted.
Not a grave of the murdered for freedom but grows seed for freedom . . . . in its
turn to bear seed,
Which the winds carry afar and re-sow, and the rains and the snows nourish.
Not a disembodied spirit can the weapons of tyrants let loose,
But it stalks invisibly over the earth . . whispering counseling cautioning.
Liberty let others despair of you . . . . I never despair of you.
Is the house shut? Is the master away?
Nevertheless be ready . . . . be not weary of watching,
He will soon return . . . . his messengers come anon.
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday February 23rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
A YOUNG man came to me with a message from his brother,
How should the young man know the whether and when of his brother?
Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stood before the young man face to face, and took his right hand in my left
hand and his left hand in my right hand,
And I answered for his brother and for men . . . . and I answered for the poet, and
sent these signs.
Him all wait for . . . . him all yield up to . . . . his word is decisive and final,
Him they accept . . . . in him lave . . . . in him perceive themselves as amid light,
Him they immerse, and he immerses them.
Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people and animals,
The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean,
All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will buy,
The best farms . . . . others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps,
The noblest and costliest cities . . . . others grading and building, and he domiciles
there;
Nothing for any one but what is for him . . . . near and far are for him,
The ships in the offing . . . . the perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if
they are for any body.
He puts things in their attitudes,
He puts today out of himself with plasticity and love,
He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associ-
ations employment and politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward,
nor assume to command them.
He is the answerer,
What can be answered he answers, and what cannot be answered he shows how it
cannot be answered.
A man is a summons and challenge,
It is vain to skulk . . . . Do you hear that mocking and laughter? Do you hear the
ironical echoes?
Books friendships philosophers priests action pleasure pride beat up and down
seeking to give satisfaction;
He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also.
Whichever the sex . . . whatever the season or place he may go freshly and gently
and safely by day or by night,
He has the passkey of hearts . . . . to him the response of the prying of hands on the
knobs.
His welcome is universal . . . . the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal
than he is,
The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.
Every existence has its idiom . . . . every thing has an idiom and tongue;
He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it upon men . . and any man
translates . . and any man translates himself also:
One part does not counteract another part . . . . He is the joiner . . he sees how they
join.
He says indifferently and alike, How are you friend? to the President at his levee,
And he says Good day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the sugarfield;
And both understand him and know that his speech is right.
He walks with perfect ease in the capitol,
He walks among the Congress . . . . and one representative says to another, Here is
our equal appearing and new.
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic,
And the soldiers suppose him to be a captain . . . . and the sailors that he has
followed the sea,
And the authors take him for an author . . . . and the artists for an artist,
And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them;
No matter what the work is, that he is one to follow it or has followed it,
No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there.
The English believe he comes of their English stock,
A Jew to the Jew he seems . . . . a Russ to the Russ . . . . usual and near . .
removed from none.
Whoever he looks at in the traveler's coffeehouse claims him,
The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is
sure . . . . and the island Cuban is sure.
The engineer, the deckhand on the great lakes or on the Mississippi or St Law-
rence or Sacramento or Hudson or Delaware claims him.
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,
The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways
of him . . . . he strangely transmutes them,
They are not vile any more . . . . they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
You think it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses,
Well it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses;
But what are verses beyond the flowing character you could have? . . . . or
beyond beautiful manners and behaviour?
Or beyond one manly or affectionate deed of an apprenticeboy? . . or old woman? . .
or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?
Tuesday February 23rd, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
A YOUNG man came to me with a message from his brother,
How should the young man know the whether and when of his brother?
Tell him to send me the signs.
And I stood before the young man face to face, and took his right hand in my left
hand and his left hand in my right hand,
And I answered for his brother and for men . . . . and I answered for the poet, and
sent these signs.
Him all wait for . . . . him all yield up to . . . . his word is decisive and final,
Him they accept . . . . in him lave . . . . in him perceive themselves as amid light,
Him they immerse, and he immerses them.
Beautiful women, the haughtiest nations, laws, the landscape, people and animals,
The profound earth and its attributes, and the unquiet ocean,
All enjoyments and properties, and money, and whatever money will buy,
The best farms . . . . others toiling and planting, and he unavoidably reaps,
The noblest and costliest cities . . . . others grading and building, and he domiciles
there;
Nothing for any one but what is for him . . . . near and far are for him,
The ships in the offing . . . . the perpetual shows and marches on land are for him if
they are for any body.
He puts things in their attitudes,
He puts today out of himself with plasticity and love,
He places his own city, times, reminiscences, parents, brothers and sisters, associ-
ations employment and politics, so that the rest never shame them afterward,
nor assume to command them.
He is the answerer,
What can be answered he answers, and what cannot be answered he shows how it
cannot be answered.
A man is a summons and challenge,
It is vain to skulk . . . . Do you hear that mocking and laughter? Do you hear the
ironical echoes?
Books friendships philosophers priests action pleasure pride beat up and down
seeking to give satisfaction;
He indicates the satisfaction, and indicates them that beat up and down also.
Whichever the sex . . . whatever the season or place he may go freshly and gently
and safely by day or by night,
He has the passkey of hearts . . . . to him the response of the prying of hands on the
knobs.
His welcome is universal . . . . the flow of beauty is not more welcome or universal
than he is,
The person he favors by day or sleeps with at night is blessed.
Every existence has its idiom . . . . every thing has an idiom and tongue;
He resolves all tongues into his own, and bestows it upon men . . and any man
translates . . and any man translates himself also:
One part does not counteract another part . . . . He is the joiner . . he sees how they
join.
He says indifferently and alike, How are you friend? to the President at his levee,
And he says Good day my brother, to Cudge that hoes in the sugarfield;
And both understand him and know that his speech is right.
He walks with perfect ease in the capitol,
He walks among the Congress . . . . and one representative says to another, Here is
our equal appearing and new.
Then the mechanics take him for a mechanic,
And the soldiers suppose him to be a captain . . . . and the sailors that he has
followed the sea,
And the authors take him for an author . . . . and the artists for an artist,
And the laborers perceive he could labor with them and love them;
No matter what the work is, that he is one to follow it or has followed it,
No matter what the nation, that he might find his brothers and sisters there.
The English believe he comes of their English stock,
A Jew to the Jew he seems . . . . a Russ to the Russ . . . . usual and near . .
removed from none.
Whoever he looks at in the traveler's coffeehouse claims him,
The Italian or Frenchman is sure, and the German is sure, and the Spaniard is
sure . . . . and the island Cuban is sure.
The engineer, the deckhand on the great lakes or on the Mississippi or St Law-
rence or Sacramento or Hudson or Delaware claims him.
The gentleman of perfect blood acknowledges his perfect blood,
The insulter, the prostitute, the angry person, the beggar, see themselves in the ways
of him . . . . he strangely transmutes them,
They are not vile any more . . . . they hardly know themselves, they are so grown.
You think it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses,
Well it would be good to be the writer of melodious verses;
But what are verses beyond the flowing character you could have? . . . . or
beyond beautiful manners and behaviour?
Or beyond one manly or affectionate deed of an apprenticeboy? . . or old woman? . .
or man that has been in prison or is likely to be in prison?
By Whitman, Biweekly!
Tuesday January 26th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
This is the nucleus . . . after the child is born of woman the man is born of woman,
This is the bath of birth . . . this is the merge of small and large and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women . . your privilege encloses the rest . . it is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them . . . . she is in her place . . . .
she moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veiled . . . . she is both passive and active . . . . she is to con-
ceive daughters as well as sons and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in nature . . . . as I see through a mist one with inexpress-
ible completeness and beauty . . . . see the bent head and arms folded over the
breast . . . . the female I see,
I see the bearer of the great fruit which is immortality . . . . the good thereof is
not tasted by roues, and never can be.
The male is not less the soul, nor more . . . . he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities . . . . he is action and power . . . . the flush of the known
universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well and appetite and defiance become him well,
The fiercest largest passions . . bliss that is utmost and sorrow that is utmost be-
come him well . . . . pride is for him,
The fullspread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul;
Knowledge becomes him . . . . he likes it always . . . . he brings everything to the
test of himself,
Whatever the survey . . whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes soundings at last
only here,
Where else does he strike soundings except here?
The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred . . . . it is no matter who,
Is it a slave? Is it one of the dullfaced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the welloff . . . . just as much as
you,
Each has his or her place in the procession.
All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
Do you know so much that you call the slave or the dullface ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight . . . and he or she has no
right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffused float, and the soil is
on the surface and water runs and vegetation sprouts for you . . and not for
him and her?
A slave at auction!
I help the auctioneer . . . . the sloven does not half know his business.
Gentlemen look on this curious creature,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for him,
For him the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,
For him the revolving cycles truly and steadily rolled.
In that head the allbaffling brain,
In it and below it the making of the attributes of heroes.
Examine these limbs, red black or white . . . . they are very cunning in tendon and
nerve;
They shall be stript that you may see them.
Exquisite senses, lifelit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breastmuscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, goodsized arms
and legs,
And wonders within there yet.
Within there runs his blood . . . . the same old blood . . the same red running blood;
There swells and jets his heart . . . . There all passions and desires . . all reachings
and aspirations:
Do you think they are not there because they are not expressed in parlors and
lecture-rooms?
This is not only one man . . . . he is the father of those who shall be fathers in their
turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich republics,
Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.
How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the
centuries?
Who might you find you have come from yourself if you could trace back through
the centuries?
A woman at auction,
She too is not only herself . . . . she is the teeming mother of mothers,
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.
Her daughters or their daughters' daughters . . who knows who shall mate with
them?
Who knows through the centuries what heroes may come from them?
In them and of them natal love . . . . in them the divine mystery . . . . the same old
beautiful mystery.
Have you ever loved a woman?
Your mother . . . . is she living? . . . . Have you been much with her? and has she
been much with you?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all
over the earth?
If life and the soul are sacred the human body is sacred;
And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
And in man or woman a clean strong firmfibred body is beautiful as the most
beautiful face.
Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted
her own live body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.
Who degrades or defiles the living human body is cursed,
Who degrades or defiles the body of the dead is not more
cursed.
Tuesday January 26th, 4pm SLT
Caledon Library, on the Hub in Victoria City
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/160/117/23
A Discussion led by Dame Kghia Gheardi of the works of Walt Whitman
Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass is one of the works at the foundations of American poetry. Its expansive attempt to capture the spirit and landscape of the 19th century United States has influenced an entire culture's self-concept, and its rich language continues to inspire readers today as it has for the century and a half of its existence.
"By Whitman, BI-Weekly" will provide an opportunity to look closely at this beloved work. Each time we'll spend an hour discussing its context and examining the poetry of the 1855 first edition.
The series will also give those who love Leaves of Grass, and those who would like to learn more, an opportunity to explore Whitman's vigorous and heartfelt poetry together.
Below is the text we'll discuss this week:
This is the nucleus . . . after the child is born of woman the man is born of woman,
This is the bath of birth . . . this is the merge of small and large and the outlet again.
Be not ashamed women . . your privilege encloses the rest . . it is the exit of the rest,
You are the gates of the body and you are the gates of the soul.
The female contains all qualities and tempers them . . . . she is in her place . . . .
she moves with perfect balance,
She is all things duly veiled . . . . she is both passive and active . . . . she is to con-
ceive daughters as well as sons and sons as well as daughters.
As I see my soul reflected in nature . . . . as I see through a mist one with inexpress-
ible completeness and beauty . . . . see the bent head and arms folded over the
breast . . . . the female I see,
I see the bearer of the great fruit which is immortality . . . . the good thereof is
not tasted by roues, and never can be.
The male is not less the soul, nor more . . . . he too is in his place,
He too is all qualities . . . . he is action and power . . . . the flush of the known
universe is in him,
Scorn becomes him well and appetite and defiance become him well,
The fiercest largest passions . . bliss that is utmost and sorrow that is utmost be-
come him well . . . . pride is for him,
The fullspread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul;
Knowledge becomes him . . . . he likes it always . . . . he brings everything to the
test of himself,
Whatever the survey . . whatever the sea and the sail, he strikes soundings at last
only here,
Where else does he strike soundings except here?
The man's body is sacred and the woman's body is sacred . . . . it is no matter who,
Is it a slave? Is it one of the dullfaced immigrants just landed on the wharf?
Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the welloff . . . . just as much as
you,
Each has his or her place in the procession.
All is a procession,
The universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.
Do you know so much that you call the slave or the dullface ignorant?
Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight . . . and he or she has no
right to a sight?
Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffused float, and the soil is
on the surface and water runs and vegetation sprouts for you . . and not for
him and her?
A slave at auction!
I help the auctioneer . . . . the sloven does not half know his business.
Gentlemen look on this curious creature,
Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for him,
For him the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant,
For him the revolving cycles truly and steadily rolled.
In that head the allbaffling brain,
In it and below it the making of the attributes of heroes.
Examine these limbs, red black or white . . . . they are very cunning in tendon and
nerve;
They shall be stript that you may see them.
Exquisite senses, lifelit eyes, pluck, volition,
Flakes of breastmuscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, goodsized arms
and legs,
And wonders within there yet.
Within there runs his blood . . . . the same old blood . . the same red running blood;
There swells and jets his heart . . . . There all passions and desires . . all reachings
and aspirations:
Do you think they are not there because they are not expressed in parlors and
lecture-rooms?
This is not only one man . . . . he is the father of those who shall be fathers in their
turns,
In him the start of populous states and rich republics,
Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments.
How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the
centuries?
Who might you find you have come from yourself if you could trace back through
the centuries?
A woman at auction,
She too is not only herself . . . . she is the teeming mother of mothers,
She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers.
Her daughters or their daughters' daughters . . who knows who shall mate with
them?
Who knows through the centuries what heroes may come from them?
In them and of them natal love . . . . in them the divine mystery . . . . the same old
beautiful mystery.
Have you ever loved a woman?
Your mother . . . . is she living? . . . . Have you been much with her? and has she
been much with you?
Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all
over the earth?
If life and the soul are sacred the human body is sacred;
And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted,
And in man or woman a clean strong firmfibred body is beautiful as the most
beautiful face.
Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted
her own live body?
For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves.
Who degrades or defiles the living human body is cursed,
Who degrades or defiles the body of the dead is not more
cursed.
Wind in the Willows Listening Party
Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
Saturday, October 10th 10am-11am SLT
On the Riverbank, A Willowy Place, Caledon Tanglewood
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/18/167/23
Come as a character from Kenneth Grahame's novel, The Wind in the Willows, and join us as we listen to, and discuss, a new chapter each month of the adventures of the shy but loyal Mole, the poetical Water Rat, the brave Otter, the gruff but kindly Mr. Badger, the vainglorious Toad, and all the other creatures of wood, stream, and field who populate this much-loved story
This month, we follow Toad, newly escaped from the clutches of The Law, as he travels by Barge, Horse, and, alas, Motorcar, and fails to endear himself to, well, to pretty much anybody.
Big People may join us in Tinyville, or repose in comfort at the Oxbridge Library in Caledon Oxbridge
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Oxbridge/196/96/24
Those who can't be with us in-world are invited to tune in at http://music.radioriel.org
This is a year-long series, the second Saturday of each month, 2009. Sponsored by the Caledon Library and Rachelville, and produced by Radio Riel
Schedule
* Jan 10: The River Bank
* Feb 14: The Open Road
* March 14: The Wild Wood
* April 11: Mr. Badger
* May 9: Dulce Domum
* June 13: Mr. Toad
* July 11: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
* Aug 8: Toad's Adventures
* Sept 12: Wayfarers All
* Oct 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
* Nov 14: Like Summer Tempests came his Tears
* Dec 12: The Return of Ulysses
* Jan 9, 2010: All Day Programming of the entire book
gentlebeings, your servant
JJ Drinkwater
Chapter 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
Saturday, October 10th 10am-11am SLT
On the Riverbank, A Willowy Place, Caledon Tanglewood
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/18/167/23
Come as a character from Kenneth Grahame's novel, The Wind in the Willows, and join us as we listen to, and discuss, a new chapter each month of the adventures of the shy but loyal Mole, the poetical Water Rat, the brave Otter, the gruff but kindly Mr. Badger, the vainglorious Toad, and all the other creatures of wood, stream, and field who populate this much-loved story
This month, we follow Toad, newly escaped from the clutches of The Law, as he travels by Barge, Horse, and, alas, Motorcar, and fails to endear himself to, well, to pretty much anybody.
He glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him. On he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily. He did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs were short, and still they gained. He could hear them close behind him now. Ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air, and, splash! he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the river!
Big People may join us in Tinyville, or repose in comfort at the Oxbridge Library in Caledon Oxbridge
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Oxbridge/196/96/24
Those who can't be with us in-world are invited to tune in at http://music.radioriel.org
This is a year-long series, the second Saturday of each month, 2009. Sponsored by the Caledon Library and Rachelville, and produced by Radio Riel
Schedule
* Jan 10: The River Bank
* Feb 14: The Open Road
* March 14: The Wild Wood
* April 11: Mr. Badger
* May 9: Dulce Domum
* June 13: Mr. Toad
* July 11: The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
* Aug 8: Toad's Adventures
* Sept 12: Wayfarers All
* Oct 10: The Further Adventures of Toad
* Nov 14: Like Summer Tempests came his Tears
* Dec 12: The Return of Ulysses
* Jan 9, 2010: All Day Programming of the entire book
gentlebeings, your servant
JJ Drinkwater
Caledon Library Folklore lecture by Afsaneh Metaluna
Jack Tales!
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/23/214/23
Folklorist Afsenah Metaluna will guide us in a new exploration each month; with illustrative stories and her own commentary she'll expose to our understanding some facet of the rich and varied folklore of the British Isles.
These lectures will feature brave heroics and wonder tales from the Celtic regions, Welsh lore including the tales of Arthur and Merlin, stories of the wise and the uncanny from Scotland, and folklore from England comprised of local legends that combine references to beliefs and customs and aspects of daily life, particularly rural life as well as the English ballads and broadsides, which have a strong tradition of their own.
This month, we'll hear stories of the "Jack Tales" variety, where a young hero (often the supposedly foolish youngest son) makes his way in the world by being quick-witted, resourceful, respectful, and courteous to the powers of nature and magic.
Schedule of Lectures
Each of these dates, 4:30pm SLT
Sept 15
Oct 13
Nov 10
Jack Tales!
Tue, Sept 15th, 4:30pm - 5:30pm
Tinyville Library, Tinyville, Caledon Tanglewoodhttp://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tanglewood/23/214/23
Folklorist Afsenah Metaluna will guide us in a new exploration each month; with illustrative stories and her own commentary she'll expose to our understanding some facet of the rich and varied folklore of the British Isles.
These lectures will feature brave heroics and wonder tales from the Celtic regions, Welsh lore including the tales of Arthur and Merlin, stories of the wise and the uncanny from Scotland, and folklore from England comprised of local legends that combine references to beliefs and customs and aspects of daily life, particularly rural life as well as the English ballads and broadsides, which have a strong tradition of their own.
This month, we'll hear stories of the "Jack Tales" variety, where a young hero (often the supposedly foolish youngest son) makes his way in the world by being quick-witted, resourceful, respectful, and courteous to the powers of nature and magic.
Schedule of Lectures
Each of these dates, 4:30pm SLT
Sept 15
Oct 13
Nov 10
The Heart of the Tale: Key Moments from Your SL Roleplaying Stories
Summer Storytelling Session at the Falling Anvil, Caledon Tamrannoch
August 24, 2009 at 5:00 PM SLT
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tamrannoch/230/108/22
Sponsored by the Clan of Seafarers and Storytellers, The Falling Anvil Public House, and the Caledon Library.
If you create and tell stories utilizing the tools of roleplaying (RP) in Second Life, do you have a favorite character you have developed? Can you tell a tale that would help us understand who that character is and what motivates them?
A growing element of roleplaying community in Second Life is involved in “RP Storytelling” -- the use of rp to develop or advance plot lines for stories that cross over into written stories, to explore character interactions and relationships for these stories, and in many cases, to act out scenes from stories to be recorded visually. At the heart of a successful RP storytelling project are well developed, engaging characters, and in most cases, what makes a character work is their backstory. And at the core of that backstory there often lies a seminal moment -- a key story -- that provides essential insights into who the character is, and how they became who and what they are.
RP storytellers from throughout Second Life are invited to come to the Falling Anvil to tell a short tale that encompasses a seminal moment from their favorite character’s backstory.
Each tale should take no more than ten minutes to present, and will be presented in text form (no voice). If you wish to take part, please contact JJ Drinkwater or Aldo Stern to be be included in the lineup of storytellers. While pre-registering is encouraged, drop-ins are still welcome the night of the session and will not be turned away: you’ll just get added on to the end of the list and go in order you sign up
Summer Storytelling Session at the Falling Anvil, Caledon Tamrannoch
August 24, 2009 at 5:00 PM SLT
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tamrannoch/230/108/22
Sponsored by the Clan of Seafarers and Storytellers, The Falling Anvil Public House, and the Caledon Library.
If you create and tell stories utilizing the tools of roleplaying (RP) in Second Life, do you have a favorite character you have developed? Can you tell a tale that would help us understand who that character is and what motivates them?
A growing element of roleplaying community in Second Life is involved in “RP Storytelling” -- the use of rp to develop or advance plot lines for stories that cross over into written stories, to explore character interactions and relationships for these stories, and in many cases, to act out scenes from stories to be recorded visually. At the heart of a successful RP storytelling project are well developed, engaging characters, and in most cases, what makes a character work is their backstory. And at the core of that backstory there often lies a seminal moment -- a key story -- that provides essential insights into who the character is, and how they became who and what they are.
RP storytellers from throughout Second Life are invited to come to the Falling Anvil to tell a short tale that encompasses a seminal moment from their favorite character’s backstory.
Each tale should take no more than ten minutes to present, and will be presented in text form (no voice). If you wish to take part, please contact JJ Drinkwater or Aldo Stern to be be included in the lineup of storytellers. While pre-registering is encouraged, drop-ins are still welcome the night of the session and will not be turned away: you’ll just get added on to the end of the list and go in order you sign up