Happy Thanksgiving everyone. i will probably not be posting this weekend, as i will be at my parents' house, helping to cook, eating, drinking and watching football.

i'll leave you with a very nice holiday poem about the historical Thanksgiving, by 19th Century American poet, Hezekiah Butterworth.

The Thanksgiving in Boston Harbor

"Praise ye the Lord!" The psalm to-day
  Still rises on our ears,
Borne from the hills of Boston Bay
  Through five times fifty years,
When Winthrop's fleet from Yarmouth crept
  Out to the open main,
And through the widening waters swept,
  In April sun and rain.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      The leader shouted, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships
      As faded Yarmouth Bay.

They passed the Scilly Isles that day,
  And May-days came, and June,
And thrice upon the ocean lay
  The full orb of the moon.
And as that day, on Yarmouth Bay,
  Ere England sunk from view,
While yet the rippling Solent lay
  In April skies of blue,
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      Each morn was shouted, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships,
      As first in Yarmouth Bay;

Blew warm the breeze o'er Western seas,
  Through Maytime morns, and June,
Till hailed these souls the Isles of Shoals,
  Low 'neath the summer moon;
And as Cape Ann arose to view,
  And Norman's Woe they passed,
The wood-doves came the white mists through,
  And circled round each mast.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      Then called the leader, "pray;"
    And prayer arose from all the ships,
      As first in Yarmouth Bay.

Above the sea the hill-tops fair—
  God's towers—began to rise,
And odors rare breathe through the air,
  Like balms of Paradise.
Through burning skies the ospreys flew,
  And near the pine-cooled shores
Danced airy boat and thin canoe,
  To flash of sunlit oars.
    "Pray to the Lord with fervent lips,"
      The leader shouted, "pray!"
    Then prayer arose, and all the ships
      Sailed into Boston Bay.

The white wings folded, anchors down,
  The sea-worn fleet in line,
Fair rose the hills where Boston town
  Should rise from clouds of pine;
Fair was the harbor, summit-walled,
  And placid lay the sea.
"Praise ye the Lord," the leader called;
  "Praise ye the Lord," spake he.
    "Give thanks to God with fervent lips,
      Give thanks to God to-day,"
    The anthem rose from all the ships,
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

  "Praise ye the Lord!" Primeval woods
  First heard the ancient song,
And summer hills and solitudes
  The echoes rolled along.
The Red Cross flag of England blew
  Above the fleet that day,
While Shawmut's triple peaks in view
  In amber hazes lay.
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day,"
    The anthem rose from all the ships
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

The Arabella leads the song—
  The Mayflower sings below,
That erst the Pilgrims bore along
  The Plymouth reefs of snow.
Oh! never be that psalm forgot
  That rose o'er Boston Bay,
When Winthrop sang, and Endicott,
  And Saltonstall, that day:
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
    And praise arose from all the ships,
      Like prayers in Yarmouth Bay.

That psalm our fathers sang we sing,
  That psalm of peace and wars,
While o'er our heads unfolds its wing
  The flag of forty stars.
And while the nation finds a tongue
  For nobler gifts to pray,
'T will ever sing the song they sung
  That first Thanksgiving Day:
    "Praise ye the Lord with fervent lips,
      Praise ye the Lord to-day;"
    So rose the song from all the ships,
      Safe moored in Boston Bay.

Our fathers' prayers have changed to psalms,
  As David's treasures old
Turned, on the Temple's giant arms,
  To lily-work of gold.
Ho! vanished ships from Yarmouth's tide,
  Ho! ships of Boston Bay,
Your prayers have crossed the centuries wide
  To this Thanksgiving Day!
    We pray to God with fervent lips,
      We praise the Lord to-day,
    As prayers arose from Yarmouth ships,
      But psalms from Boston Bay.

Posted by: annika at 12:02 AM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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In honor of the opening of Clinton's Little Rock library, i'd like to reprint a few stanzas from a dirty limerick by Cameron of Way Off Bass.

. . .

While Bill on the podium dropped trou,
Making sounds like an amorous cow,
A fat intern walked by
Catching ClintonÂ’s glazed eye;
“I’m the piglet, and there goes my sow!”

So the Horn Dog rolled off of the stage
(For his belt did his ankles engage).
As he crawled on the floor,
Up came Al “Mad Dog” Gore,
And the stick up his ass he called Rage.

. . .

Posted by: annika at 07:48 AM | Comments (20) | Add Comment
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1 Well, liberals can respond A world-class statesman named Bill Was the target of wrath on the Hill with venom and bile his enemies vile misjudged and misjudge him still ;-)

Posted by: Hugo at November 18, 2004 08:01 AM (hDybU)

2 He's got some good stuff

Posted by: Scof at November 18, 2004 08:06 AM (+OiAc)

3 Semi-off topic. It is raining here today for the CLinton Lie-bray opening. The local media and police have been saying that, in the event of rain: NO UMBRELLAS. NO EXCEPTIONS. If you happen to see the coverage, please note that the people sitting in front all have umbrellas. Apparently, the "No Umbrellas" rule only applies to the common folk. Rich folks and celebrities are allowed umbrellas. The Democrats really are the party of equality and the little man.

Posted by: Steve L. at November 18, 2004 09:46 AM (hpZf2)

4 Annika, Thanks for the link and, because I like ol' Mark Russell, the compliment.

Posted by: ccwbass at November 18, 2004 12:25 PM (s+fLr)

5 Why yall so nasty?!

Posted by: ken at November 18, 2004 03:43 PM (xD5ND)

6 I had a dream about Monica Lewinsky recently. In my dream, she was looking for a husband. I was not interested.

Posted by: Ontario Emperor at November 18, 2004 04:44 PM (c6rOB)

7 And a haiku: Cool November rain remember our golden age? President Clinton

Posted by: Hugo at November 18, 2004 07:22 PM (F66V9)

8 Haiku right back at you: Took a young intern, Used her like a redlight whore. Threw her to the wolves. -------------------- And what really hurts is that I voted for the sumbitch in '96, so I figure I have sniping rights.

Posted by: ccwbass at November 18, 2004 08:19 PM (Dg6ty)

9 A wretched old fella named Starr Our Billy's fine name did tar He reveled in slime but revealed no crime his perfidy left quite a scar From a small southern town called Hope Came a leader of great breadth and scope For eight years he shone -- but now we all moan in this dark time,liberals mope

Posted by: Hugo at November 18, 2004 09:03 PM (F66V9)

10 "For eight years he shone"? Uh huh. Go towards the light, Hugo. It's time to pass on.

Posted by: ccwbass at November 18, 2004 11:58 PM (YOHrm)

11 How 'bout the Tom Lehrer of his age?

Posted by: Smallholder at November 19, 2004 05:30 AM (EKkB8)

12 Hugo, I ask, in all sincerity, just what do you see in Clinton? I admit, I voted for the SOB the first time he ran...but in less than a week I was regretting it! I think annika will vouch for me that this is a sincere question; I've left my Munuvian URL out of the personal info so that you may reply to my question privately (if you so choose--obviously you may ignore this question), or perhaps you'd like to do so on your blog. Thanks for your time. Billy's winning was the happiest of days: "I'll make the military safe for gays!" That promise he did break, Saying, "Oops! A mistake!" And he had only been Prez for three days! No one told him you're supposed to wait at least a week before you start breaking promises!

Posted by: Victor at November 19, 2004 10:33 AM (L3qPK)

13 Hugo, I now see you anticipated my question and already answered on your blog Thanks for a thoughtful reply.

Posted by: Victor at November 19, 2004 10:37 AM (L3qPK)

14 One more comment: Did anyone else notice someone was missing from the ceremonies?

Posted by: Victor at November 19, 2004 10:39 AM (L3qPK)

15 Ford's health prevented his attendance, but he sent his regards.

Posted by: annika at November 19, 2004 11:42 AM (zAOEU)

16 Oh. Thanks, annika!

Posted by: Victor at November 19, 2004 12:14 PM (L3qPK)

17 Smallholder, I figure as long as I haven't slid into William Shatner's "The Transformed Man" territory I'm doing OK.

Posted by: ccwbass at November 19, 2004 12:50 PM (avnPS)

18 How about that all-time classic, Two Sides Of Leonard Nimoy? ("The Ballad of Bilbo Baggins?" Grrroaaan!)

Posted by: annika-geek at November 19, 2004 01:06 PM (zAOEU)

19 Ahh - Nimoy! The Bad-Music-Appreciator's patron saint!

Posted by: ccwbass at November 19, 2004 03:43 PM (1w3km)

20 I like Russell, but I think he was better when he was younger. He seems to have lost a little something lately. And I have ALL of Tom Leher's music (In a boxed set, even!). Tom's humour was more than just political. Who else would have though to sing the periodic table of elements to the tune of 'I am the Model of a Modern Major General' (Gilbert and Sullivan, for those who don't know).

Posted by: Keith at November 19, 2004 09:13 PM (lRq/d)

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Here we are in the middle of November. Although in California the weather is indistinguishable from almost any other time of year, i think i'm ready for a seasonal poem. This one is by Robert Frost, 1913.

My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
       Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
       She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
       She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
       Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
       The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
       And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
       The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
       And they are better for her praise.

Posted by: annika at 07:42 AM | Comments (6) | Add Comment
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When you think of the United Sates Marine Corps and the Korean War, one epic battle always comes to mind. Chosin Reservoir. Here's a selection by poet John Kent, which captures the bitter -25° cold experienced by marines during that battle.

Chosin

How deep the cold takes us down,
into the searing frost of hell;
where mountain snows,
unyielding winds, strip our flesh,
bare our bones.

The trembling of uncertain hearts,
scream out to echoes not impressed,
as swirling mists of laughing death,
reach out their fingers to compress.

How white the withered skin exposed,
turns into black and brittle flesh,
and limbs cast out from conscious thought,
still stagger on the arctic frost.

Immobile does the breath extend
as crystal on the mountain wind,
and eyes now fixed in layers of ice,
see nothing through the dawning light.

This road that leads down to the sea,
twists and turns at every bend,
and Chosin's ice that molds like steel,
rains the fire that seeks our end.

The trucks cry out a dirge refrain,
their brittle gears roll on in pain;
upon their beds, the silent dead,
in grateful and serene repose.

Still the mind resists the call,
to lie and die in final pose,
where blood in stillness warms the soul,
and renders nil the will to rise.

The battle carries through the night,
give witness to the dead betrayed,
when frozen weapons fail to fire,
their metal stressed by winter's might.

Still we fight to reach Hungnam,
in solemn oath and brotherhood,
as every able-bodied man,
will bring our dead and wounded home.

Uphold traditions earned in blood,
break through the hordes that press us in,
depress their numbers to the place,
where waves of dead deny their quest.

And on to the sea...

Posted by: annika at 07:00 PM | Comments (7) | Add Comment
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These days, my thoughts and prayers return often to our men in Fallujah. While the battle rages, i wanted to post a martial poem that might honor the brave marines and soldiers in combat as we speak. In that regard, i can think of no better poet than Shakespeare himself, and the most famous martial speech of all, from Henry V:

Henry V, Act IV, Scene III
(the English camp at Agincourt, before the battle, King Henry speaking)


This day is called the feast of Crispian:
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when the day is named,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian:'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars.
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispin's day.'
Old men forget: yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember with advantages
What feats he did that day: then shall our names.
Familiar in his mouth as household words
Harry the king, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester,
Be in their flowing cups freshly remember'd.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remember'd;
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition:
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

Oh, and Happy Birthday to the United States Marine Corps! Semper Fidelis!

More: Matt posts Lt. Gen. Jim Amos's birthday message to the 2nd MEF. Smash posts a 1776 recruiting ad for the Continental Marines. And Mike's USMC birthday tribute is full of cool links.

Posted by: annika at 07:29 AM | Comments (9) | Add Comment
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From Scottish poet Robert Burns (1759-1796), a poem first published in 1793:

Commemoration of RodneyÂ’s Victory

INSTEAD of a Song, boyÂ’s, IÂ’ll give you a Toast;
Here’s to the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost!—
That we lost, did I say?—nay, by Heav’n, that we found;
For their fame it will last while the world goes round.
The next in succession IÂ’ll give youÂ’s THE KING!
WhoeÂ’er would betray him, on high may he swing!
And hereÂ’s the grand fabric, our free CONSTITUTION,
As built on the base of our great Revolution!
And longer with Politics not to be crammÂ’d,
Be ANARCHY cursÂ’d, and TYRANNY damnÂ’d!
And who would to LIBERTY eÂ’er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman—and he his first trial!

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Especially to Californians.

The polls are still open. Don't believe what you read in Drudge, it has been debunked already. Stick with HughHewitt.com for your news. He's based on the West Coast, and his site is still working.

Go out and vote. The fact that our state will end up being blue is no excuse for not doing everything we can to increase the popular vote, and thereby increase Bush's mandate.

Remember, today is more than just a Presidential election. It's a referendum between toughness and weakness. Toughness must win. And tough people don't mind standing in long lines to do what is right.

A virtual blogosphere smooch goes out to all who've already voted Bush today! (Even the girls, except it's on the cheek.)

It's not Poetry Wednesday, but here's an Election Day Special for y'all. It's by John Greenleaf Whittier, the 19th Century American poet, abolitionist and friend to William Lloyd Garrison.

The Poor Voter on Election Day

To-day, of all the weary year,
A king of men am I.
To-day, alike are great and small,
The nameless and the known;
My palace is the people's hall,
The ballot-box my throne!
The rich is level with the poor,
The weak is strong to-day;
And sleekest broadcloth counts no more
Than homespun frock of gray.
To-day let pomp and vain pretence
My stubborn right abide;
I set a plain man's common sense
Against the pedant's pride.
The wide world has not wealth to buy
The power in my right hand!

Posted by: annika at 04:39 PM | Comments (5) | Add Comment
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