Poetry for you gun nuts out there. From Wadcutter.

An ode to short recoil

When cases wonÂ’t split
because the pressure is low,
no delay is needed
and the slide rearward can go.

But for a little more power,
the breech must then lock.
Even for a moment
Or youÂ’ll kB your Glock.

As they recoil together
slide and barrel do mate:
the big blocky lug
joined with ejection gate.

Down swings the lug
and the barrel stops short.
The slide continues back
and flings brass from the port

The spring is compressed
and the slide does rebound,
coming back forward
with a fresh shiny round.

ThatÂ’s how it works,
at least you get the gist.
Now pull the trigger again
and double-tap that rapist.

Posted by: annika at 06:46 AM | Comments (2) | Add Comment
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Hugo asked for more Burns. So I can't think of a more appropriate poem for today than this one.

Ode for General WashingtonÂ’s Birthday

No Spartan tube, no Attic shell,
No lyre Æolian I awake;
Â’Tis libertyÂ’s bold note I swell,
Thy harp, Columbia, let me take!
See gathering thousands, while I sing,
A broken chain exulting bring,
And dash it in a tyrantÂ’s face,
And dare him to his very beard,
And tell him he no more is feared—
No more the despot of ColumbiaÂ’s race!
A tyrantÂ’s proudest insults bravÂ’d,
They shout—a People freed! They hail an Empire saved.

Where is manÂ’s god-like form?
Where is that brow erect and bold—
That eye that can unmovÂ’d behold
The wildest rage, the loudest storm
That eÂ’er created fury dared to raise?
Avaunt! thou caitiff, servile, base,
That tremblest at a despotÂ’s nod,
Yet, crouching under the iron rod,
Canst laud the hand that struck thÂ’ insulting blow!
Art thou of manÂ’s Imperial line?
Dost boast that countenance divine?
Each skulking feature answers, No!
But come, ye sons of Liberty,
ColumbiaÂ’s offspring, brave as free,
In dangerÂ’s hour still flaming in the van,
Ye know, and dare maintain, the Royalty of Man!

Alfred! on thy starry throne,
Surrounded by the tuneful choir,
The bards that erst have struck the patriot lyre,
And rousÂ’d the freeborn BritonÂ’s soul of fire,
No more thy England own!
Dare injured nations form the great design,
To make detested tyrants bleed?
Thy England execrates the glorious deed!
Beneath her hostile banners waving,
Every pang of honour braving,
England in thunder calls, “The tyrant’s cause is mine!”
That hour accurst how did the fiends rejoice
And hell, throÂ’ all her confines, raise the exulting voice,
That hour which saw the generous English name
Linkt with such damned deeds of everlasting shame!

Thee, Caledonia! thy wild heaths among,
FamÂ’d for the martial deed, the heaven-taught song,
To thee I turn with swimming eyes;
Where is that soul of Freedom fled?
Immingled with the mighty dead,
Beneath that hallowÂ’d turf where Wallace lies
Hear it not, WALLACE! in thy bed of death.
Ye babbling winds! in silence sweep,
Disturb not ye the heroÂ’s sleep,
Nor give the coward secret breath!
Is this the ancient Caledonian form,
Firm as the rock, resistless as the storm?
Show me that eye which shot immortal hate,
Blasting the despotÂ’s proudest bearing;
Show me that arm which, nervÂ’d with thundering fate,
Crush’d Usurpation’s boldest daring!—
Dark-quenchÂ’d as yonder sinking star,
No more that glance lightens afar;
That palsied arm no more whirls on the waste of war.

Posted by: annika at 08:56 AM | Comments (1) | Add Comment
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David Foster has a post about The Collings Foundation Wings of Freedom Tour, where a B-17, a B-25, and a B-24 are visiting various cities around the country this spring. The schedule is here. I would sure love to ride in one of those things, if they give me a parachute.

In addition, David excerpts some wonderful WWII bomber poetry. I bet you didn't think there was such a thing.

Posted by: annika at 01:05 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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It must be pitiful.

Come on, a haiku is 5 syllables, 7 syllables, then 5 syllables. How hard is that, now?

Posted by: annika at 07:09 PM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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I stopped in Springfield Illinois a few years ago, just to pay my respects to President Lincoln. Here's an account of a visit by Carl Sandburg, from 1918.

Knucks

In Abraham LincolnÂ’s city,
Where they remember his lawyerÂ’s shingle,
The place where they brought him
Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories
From Tallahassee to the Yukon,
The place now where the shaft of his tomb
Points white against the blue prairie dome,
In Abraham LincolnÂ’s city Â… I saw knucks
In the window of Mister FischmanÂ’s second-hand store
On Second Street.

I went in and asked, “How much?”
“Thirty cents apiece,” answered Mister Fischman.
And taking a box of new ones off a shelf
He filled anew the box in the showcase
And said incidentally, most casually
And incidentally:
“I sell a carload a month of these.”

I slipped my fingers into a set of knucks,
Cast-iron knucks molded in a foundry pattern,
And there came to me a set of thoughts like these:
Mister Fischman is for Abe and the “malice to none” stuff,
And the street car strikers and the strike-breakers,
And the sluggers, gunmen, detectives, policemen,
Judges, utility heads, newspapers, priests, lawyers,
They are all for Abe and the “malice to none” stuff.

I started for the door.
“Maybe you want a lighter pair,”
Came Mister FischmanÂ’s voice.
I opened the door Â… and the voice again:
“You are a funny customer.”

Wrapped in battle flags,
Wrapped in the smoke of memories,
This is the place they brought him,
This is Abraham LincolnÂ’s home town.

Posted by: annika at 08:38 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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Today is Jules Verne's birthday. Here is a translation of one of his poems. Warning: it's a sad one.

Greenland Song

Dark Is the sky,
The sun sinks wearily;
My trembling heart, with sorrow filled,
Aches drearily !
My sweet child at my songs is smiling still,
While at his tender heart the icicles lie chill.
Child of my dreams I
Thy love doth cheer me;
The cruel biting frost I brave
But to be near thee!
Ah me, Ah me, could these hot tears of mine
But melt the icicles around that heart of thine!
Could we once more
Meet heart to heart,
Thy little hands close clasped in mine,
No more to part.
Then on thy chill heart rays from heaven above
Should fall, and softly melt it with the warmth of love!

Posted by: annika at 11:17 AM | Comments (3) | Add Comment
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1 Now, Annie, this is almost maudlin -- it's a bit sophomoric, don't you think? I mean, it's Jules Verne, but the imagery isn't exactly original... I'm being cantankerous, sorry. I love your poem selections, but I'll gripe from time to time. More Burns, sister! And more of YOUR poetry!

Posted by: Hugo at February 09, 2006 03:11 PM (Yu24L)

2 Really, Hugo. On the man's birthday you gotta call him sophmoric! It's a good thing he's dead. ; ) I, too, thought that this poem was somewhat Poe-esque in tone without any of Poe's genius.

Posted by: annika at February 09, 2006 04:51 PM (zAOEU)

3 Annika, that's a devastating line of yours... see? You're a better writer than Verne!

Posted by: Hugo at February 10, 2006 09:23 AM (Yu24L)

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