http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/ en Copyright 2011 Sat, 24 Sep 2011 08:48:34 -0600 http://www.sixapart.com/movabletype/ http://www.rssboard.org/rss-specification A discussion at the Caledon Library
September 28  2011, 4pm SLT.
Caledon Library Meeting Room
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/155/118/23

This is the 150-year anniversary of the American Civil War. Historians continue to tell its story, but at the bottom of the historians’ accounts are the voices of the men and women who experienced it first hand.Soldiers, nurses, slaves, and mothers all expressed the tragedies and triumphs of war, regardless of where their loyalties resided. Through letters, diaries, essays and excerpts, the Voices from the Civil War series will explore many of these voices and will help us gain insight into one of the defining events in American history. On the 4th Wednesday of each month we’ll meet to discuss a contemporary account of the war, and what it tells us about the war and the people who lived through it.

This week we'll discuss the reminiscences of Elijah P. Marrs, an African-American who fought with the Union Army during the latter part of the war.  All history buffs, Civil War enthusiasts, people interested in this defining period for the US, and lovers of good conversation are cordially invited to join us.

The reading for this week's discussion is taken from  Life and History of the Rev. Elijah P. Marrs, published in 1885
http://docsouth.unc.edu/neh/marrs/marrs.html#p17

your servant

JJ Drinkwater
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2011/09/voices-from-the-civil-war-wedn.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2011/09/voices-from-the-civil-war-wedn.html Sat, 24 Sep 2011 08:48:34 -0600 Wednesday, January 26
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.

Here are our poems for this month:

Percy Bysshe Shelley  1792-1822

Mutability

We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon;
How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly! -yet soon
Night closes round, and they are lost for ever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest. -A dream has power to poison sleep;
We rise. -One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same! -For, be it joy or sorrow,
The path of its departure still is free:
Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow;
Nought may endure but Mutablilty.




Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away".

]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2011/01/poetic-ponderings-at-the-caled.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2011/01/poetic-ponderings-at-the-caled.html Ozymandias Percy Bysshe Shelley Mon, 24 Jan 2011 16:48:49 -0600 Wednesday, November 24
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.

Here is our poem for this month:

William Butler Yeats (1865-1939)

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland
Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,
There lies a leafy island
Where flapping herons wake
The drowsy water rats;
There we've hid our faery vats,
Full of berrys
And of reddest stolen cherries.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wave of moonlight glosses
The dim gray sands with light,
Far off by furthest Rosses
We foot it all the night,
Weaving olden dances
Mingling hands and mingling glances
Till the moon has taken flight;
To and fro we leap
And chase the frothy bubbles,
While the world is full of troubles
And anxious in its sleep.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Where the wandering water gushes
From the hills above Glen-Car,
In pools among the rushes
That scarce could bathe a star,
We seek for slumbering trout
And whispering in their ears
Give them unquiet dreams;
Leaning softly out
From ferns that drop their tears
Over the young streams.
Come away, O human child!
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Away with us he's going,
The solemn-eyed:
He'll hear no more the lowing
Of the calves on the warm hillside
Or the kettle on the hob
Sing peace into his breast,
Or see the brown mice bob
Round and round the oatmeal chest.
For he comes, the human child,
To the waters and the wild
With a faery, hand in hand,
For the world's more full of weeping than he can understand.


]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/11/poetic-ponderings-for-november.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/11/poetic-ponderings-for-november.html Wed, 17 Nov 2010 16:02:15 -0600 Wednesday, October  27
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.

Here is our poem for this month:

La Belle Dame Sans Merci
 
John Keats (1795-1821)
 
 
I.

O WHAT can ail thee, knight-at-arms,   
  Alone and palely loitering?   
The sedge has wither’d from the lake,   
  And no birds sing.   
 
II.

O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms!           
  So haggard and so woe-begone?   
The squirrel’s granary is full,   
  And the harvest’s done.   
 
III.

I see a lily on thy brow   
  With anguish moist and fever dew,           
And on thy cheeks a fading rose   
  Fast withereth too.   
 
IV.

I met a lady in the meads,   
  Full beautiful—a faery’s child,   
Her hair was long, her foot was light,          
  And her eyes were wild.   
 
V.

I made a garland for her head,   
  And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;   
She look’d at me as she did love,   
  And made sweet moan.          
 
VI.

I set her on my pacing steed,   
  And nothing else saw all day long,   
For sidelong would she bend, and sing   
  A faery’s song.   
 
VII.

She found me roots of relish sweet,           
  And honey wild, and manna dew,   
And sure in language strange she said—   
  “I love thee true.”   
 
VIII.

She took me to her elfin grot,   
  And there she wept, and sigh’d fill sore,          
And there I shut her wild wild eyes   
  With kisses four.   
 
IX.

And there she lulled me asleep,   
  And there I dream’d—Ah! woe betide!   
The latest dream I ever dream’d          
  On the cold hill’s side.   
 
X.

I saw pale kings and princes too,   
  Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;   
They cried—“La Belle Dame sans Merci   
  Hath thee in thrall!”          
 
XI.

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,   
  With horrid warning gaped wide,   
And I awoke and found me here,   
  On the cold hill’s side.   
 
XII.

And this is why I sojourn here,          
  Alone and palely loitering,   
Though the sedge is wither’d from the lake,   
  And no birds sing.
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/10/poetic-ponderings-october-27th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/10/poetic-ponderings-october-27th.html Tue, 26 Oct 2010 17:25:07 -0600 Wednesday, September  22
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.

Here is our poem for this month:

She Walks in Beauty
by Lord Byron

She walks in beauty, like the night
   Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that’s best of dark and bright
   Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowed to that tender light
   Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
   Had half impaired the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
   Or softly lightens o’er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express,
   How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
   So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
   But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
   A heart whose love is innocent!
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/09/poetic-ponderings-september-22.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/09/poetic-ponderings-september-22.html Sun, 19 Sep 2010 10:57:25 -0600
With "A Study in Scarlet" Arthur Conan Doyle established the character
of Sherlock Holmes, and through 56 short stories and 4 novels, created
the first iconic detective in English literature. This summer
Bookstacks, West of Ireland Library, and the Alexandrian Free Library
are delving into Holmes greatest cases. We'd like to invite you to
join us.

The group will meet to discuss Holmes' work on the first and third
Wednesdays of the month at 9:00 pm. The meeting locations will range
from the Bookstacks' Pub to various libraries in the Alexandrian Free
Library system.

Wednesday August 4th, 6pm SLT
Discussion of The Adventure of the Empty House
HG Wells Memorial Branch Library, Caledon Wellsian.
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Wellsian/225/236/23
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/08/discussion-of-the-adventure-of.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/08/discussion-of-the-adventure-of.html Discussion_Series Tue, 03 Aug 2010 18:04:35 -0600 Poetic Ponderings at the Caledon Library
Robert Frost's "Home Burial"
July 28th
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.

This month, we'll discuss "Home Burial" by Robert Frost

Home Burial on Bartleby
http://www.bartleby.com/118/6.html


Commentary on and interpretations of the poem
http://www.english.illinois.edu/maps/poets/a_f/frost/burial.htm

]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/07/poetic-ponderings-july-28th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/07/poetic-ponderings-july-28th.html 19th century Discussion_Series Poetry Sun, 25 Jul 2010 12:59:09 -0600
With "A Study in Scarlet" Arthur Conan Doyle established the character
of Sherlock Holmes, and through 56 short stories and 4 novels, created
the first iconic detective in English literature. This summer
Bookstacks, West of Ireland Library, and the Alexandrian Free Library
are delving into Holmes greatest cases. We'd like to invite you to
join us.

The group will meet to discuss Holmes' work on the first and third
Wednesdays of the month at 9:00 pm. The meeting locations will range
from the Bookstacks' Pub to various libraries in the Alexandrian Free
Library system.

• July 7 - 'Speckled Band' discussion
 6pm SLT
The Caledon Library Welcome Centre and Meeting Room
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Victoria%20City/155/118/23
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/07/discussion-of-the-speckled-ban.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/07/discussion-of-the-speckled-ban.html Mon, 05 Jul 2010 12:32:06 -0600 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 ]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/06/poem-of-the-month-series-begin.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/06/poem-of-the-month-series-begin.html News & Events Discussion_Series Sun, 20 Jun 2010 09:43:34 -0600 Story Session at the Falling Anvil
Stories of Miracles and the Miraculous
Monday, May 17th, 4pm SLT
http://slurl.com/secondlife/Caledon%20Tamrannoch/230/108/23

Have you ever seen or been told of a situation that seemed like the outcome was inevitable...and then something happened?  Something so unlikely, it would be considered a “miracle.”

Miracles do happen everyday (the continued regular functioning of the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway is proof of that).  But some are more spectacular or remarkable than others.  Whether it is brought about by Divine Intervention, the Great Sprit, Providence, really freakin’ good karma, human fortitude and determination, or pure Dumb Luck, the miraculous can inspire us to not give up, to persevere, to ignore the odds.

Come share your tale of a miraculous event on May 17th at XPM SLT at the Falling Anvil pub in Tamranch, Caledon, the oldest continuously operating social/cultural venue in the steamlands. ]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/05/story-session-may-17th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/05/story-session-may-17th.html Falling_Anvil Story_Sessions Sat, 08 May 2010 13:01:16 -0600 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.
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/by-whitman-biweekly-april-27th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/by-whitman-biweekly-april-27th.html News & Events Book_Discussion Discussion_Series Whitman_Weekly Sun, 25 Apr 2010 16:49:14 -0600 Tuesday April 6th,  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:

WHO learns my lesson complete?
Boss and journeyman and apprentice? . . . . churchman and atheist?
The stupid and the wise thinker . . . . parents and offspring . . . . merchant and clerk
         and porter and customer  . . . . editor, author, artist and schoolboy?

Draw nigh and commence,
It is no lesson . . . . it lets down the bars to a good lesson,
And that to another . . . . and every one to another still.

The great laws take and effuse without argument,
I am of the same style, for I am their friend,
I love them quits and quits . . . . I do not halt and make salaams.

I lie abstracted and hear beautiful tales of things and the reasons of things,
They are so beautiful I nudge myself to listen.

I cannot say to any person what I hear . . . . I cannot say it to myself . . . . it is
         very wonderful.

It is no little matter, this round and delicious globe, moving so exactly in its orbit
         forever and ever, without one jolt or the untruth of a single second;
I do not think it was made in six days, nor in ten thousand years, nor ten decillions
         of years,
Nor planned and built one thing after another, as an architect plans and builds a house.

I do not think seventy years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that seventy millions of years is the time of a man or woman,
Nor that years will ever stop the existence of me or any one else.
Is it wonderful that I should be immortal? as every one is immortal,
I know it is wonderful . . . . but my eyesight is equally wonderful . . . . and how I was
         conceived in my mother's womb is equally wonderful,
And how I was not palpable once but am now . . . . and was born on the last day of
         May 1819 . . . . and passed from a babe in the creeping trance of three summers
         and three winters to articulate and walk . . . . are all equally wonderful.

And that I grew six feet high . . . . and that I have become a man thirty-six years old
         in 1855 . . . . and that I am here anyhow—are all equally wonderful;
And that my soul embraces you this hour, and we affect each other without ever
         seeing each other, and never perhaps to see each other, is every bit as
         wonderful:
And that I can think such thoughts as these is just as wonderful,
And that I can remind you, and you think them and know them to be true is just as
         wonderful,
And that the moon spins round the earth and on with the earth is equally wonderful,
And that they balance themselves with the sun and stars is equally wonderful.

Come I should like to hear you tell me what there is in yourself that is not just as
         wonderful,
And I should like to hear the name of anything between Sunday morning and
         Saturday night that is not just as wonderful.
        
GREAT are the myths . . . . I too delight in them,
Great are Adam and Eve . . . . I too look back and accept them;
Great the risen and fallen nations, and their poets, women, sages, inventors, rulers,
         warriors and priests.

Great is liberty! Great is equality! I am their follower,
Helmsmen of nations, choose your craft . . . . where you sail I sail,
Yours is the muscle of life or death . . . . yours is the perfect science . . . . in you I
         have absolute faith.

Great is today, and beautiful,
It is good to live in this age . . . . there never was any better.

Great are the plunges and throes and triumphs and falls of democracy,
Great the reformers with their lapses and screams,
Great the daring and venture of sailors on new explorations.

Great are yourself and myself,
We are just as good and bad as the oldest and youngest or any,
What the best and worst did we could do,
What they felt . . do not we feel it in ourselves?
What they wished . . do we not wish the same?

Great is youth, and equally great is old age . . . . great are the day and night;
Great is wealth and great is poverty . . . . great is expression and great is silence.

Youth large lusty and loving . . . . youth full of grace and force and fascination,
Do you know that old age may come after you with equal grace and force and
         fascination?

Day fullblown and splendid . . . . day of the immense sun, and action and ambition
         and laughter,
The night follows close, with millions of suns, and sleep and restoring darkness.
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/by-whitman-biweekly-april-6th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/by-whitman-biweekly-april-6th.html Book_Discussion Discussion_Series Whitman_Weekly Sun, 04 Apr 2010 18:25:23 -0600 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
]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/bookbindings-0-a-new-exhibit-a.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/04/bookbindings-0-a-new-exhibit-a.html Exhibits News & Events Fri, 02 Apr 2010 15:56:53 -0600 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.

]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/03/by-whitman-biweekly-march-23rd.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/03/by-whitman-biweekly-march-23rd.html News & Events Discussion_Series Whitman_Weekly Sat, 20 Mar 2010 14:52:08 -0600 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.

]]> http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/03/by-whitman-biweekly-march-9th.html http://www.thelibrarymilitant.net/blog/2010/03/by-whitman-biweekly-march-9th.html News & Events Book_Discussion Discussion_Series Whitman_Weekly Mon, 08 Mar 2010 16:48:39 -0600