Mussorgsky for the Weekend

Daily Whitman


To the Man-of-War-Bird

  Thou who hast slept all night upon the storm,
  Waking renew'd on thy prodigious pinions,
  (Burst the wild storm? above it thou ascended'st,
  And rested on the sky, thy slave that cradled thee,)
  Now a blue point, far, far in heaven floating,
  As to the light emerging here on deck I watch thee,
  (Myself a speck, a point on the world's floating vast.)

  Far, far at sea,
  After the night's fierce drifts have strewn the shore with wrecks,
  With re-appearing day as now so happy and serene,
  The rosy and elastic dawn, the flashing sun,
  The limpid spread of air cerulean,
  Thou also re-appearest.

  Thou born to match the gale, (thou art all wings,)
  To cope with heaven and earth and sea and hurricane,
  Thou ship of air that never furl'st thy sails,
  Days, even weeks untired and onward, through spaces, realms gyrating,
  At dusk that lookist on Senegal, at morn America,
  That sport'st amid the lightning-flash and thunder-cloud,
  In them, in thy experiences, had'st thou my soul,
  What joys! what joys were thine!



Daily Whitman



  Tears! tears! tears!
  In the night, in solitude, tears,
  On the white shore dripping, dripping, suck'd in by the sand,
  Tears, not a star shining, all dark and desolate,
  Moist tears from the eyes of a muffled head;
  O who is that ghost? that form in the dark, with tears?
  What shapeless lump is that, bent, crouch'd there on the sand?
  Streaming tears, sobbing tears, throes, choked with wild cries;
  O storm, embodied, rising, careering with swift steps along the beach!
  O wild and dismal night storm, with wind—O belching and desperate!
  O shade so sedate and decorous by day, with calm countenance and
      regulated pace,
  But away at night as you fly, none looking—O then the unloosen'd ocean,
  Of tears! tears! tears!


Daily Whitman


As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life

  Ebb, ocean of life, (the flow will return,)
  Cease not your moaning you fierce old mother,
  Endlessly cry for your castaways, but fear not, deny not me,
  Rustle not up so hoarse and angry against my feet as I touch you or
      gather from you.

  I mean tenderly by you and all,
  I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we lead,
      and following me and mine.

  Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses,
  Froth, snowy white, and bubbles,
  (See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last,
  See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,)
  Tufts of straw, sands, fragments,
  Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another,
  From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell,
  Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil,
  Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown,
  A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating,
      drifted at random,
  Just as much for us that sobbing dirge of Nature,
  Just as much whence we come that blare of the cloud-trumpets,
  We, capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you,
  You up there walking or sitting,
  Whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.


Daily Whitman


As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life

  You oceans both, I close with you,
  We murmur alike reproachfully rolling sands and drift, knowing not why,
  These little shreds indeed standing for you and me and all.

  You friable shore with trails of debris,
  You fish-shaped island, I take what is underfoot,
  What is yours is mine my father.

  I too Paumanok,
  I too have bubbled up, floated the measureless float, and been
      wash'd on your shores,
  I too am but a trail of drift and debris,
  I too leave little wrecks upon you, you fish-shaped island.

  I throw myself upon your breast my father,
  I cling to you so that you cannot unloose me,
  I hold you so firm till you answer me something.

  Kiss me my father,
  Touch me with your lips as I touch those I love,
  Breathe to me while I hold you close the secret of the murmuring I envy.


Daily Whitman

Mysterious Ocean

As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life

  As I wend to the shores I know not,
  As I list to the dirge, the voices of men and women wreck'd,
  As I inhale the impalpable breezes that set in upon me,
  As the ocean so mysterious rolls toward me closer and closer,
  I too but signify at the utmost a little wash'd-up drift,
  A few sands and dead leaves to gather,
  Gather, and merge myself as part of the sands and drift.

  O baffled, balk'd, bent to the very earth,
  Oppress'd with myself that I have dared to open my mouth,
  Aware now that amid all that blab whose echoes recoil upon me I have
      not once had the least idea who or what I am,
  But that before all my arrogant poems the real Me stands yet
      untouch'd, untold, altogether unreach'd,
  Withdrawn far, mocking me with mock-congratulatory signs and bows,
  With peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written,
  Pointing in silence to these songs, and then to the sand beneath.

  I perceive I have not really understood any thing, not a single
      object, and that no man ever can,
  Nature here in sight of the sea taking advantage of me to dart upon
      me and sting me,
  Because I have dared to open my mouth to sing at all.

Quote for the Week


There is a spiritual obligation, there is a task to be done. It is not, however, something as simple as following a set of somebody else’s rules. The noetic enterprise is a primary obligation toward being. Our salvation is linked to it. Not everyone has to read alchemical texts or study superconducting biomolecules to make the transition. Most people make it naively by thinking clearly about the present at hand, but we intellectuals are trapped in a world of too much information. Innocence is gone for us. We cannot expect to cross the rainbow bridge through a good act of contrition; that will not be sufficient.
We have to understand.

–Terence McKenna, “New Maps of Hyperspace”; courtesy of Wikiquote

(Belated) Holst for the Weekend

Daily Whitman


As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life

  As I ebb'd with the ocean of life,
  As I wended the shores I know,
  As I walk'd where the ripples continually wash you Paumanok,
  Where they rustle up hoarse and sibilant,
  Where the fierce old mother endlessly cries for her castaways,
  I musing late in the autumn day, gazing off southward,
  Held by this electric self out of the pride of which I utter poems,
  Was seiz'd by the spirit that trails in the lines underfoot,
  The rim, the sediment that stands for all the water and all the land
      of the globe.

  Fascinated, my eyes reverting from the south, dropt, to follow those
      slender windrows,
  Chaff, straw, splinters of wood, weeds, and the sea-gluten,
  Scum, scales from shining rocks, leaves of salt-lettuce, left by the tide,
  Miles walking, the sound of breaking waves the other side of me,
  Paumanok there and then as I thought the old thought of likenesses,
  These you presented to me you fish-shaped island,
  As I wended the shores I know,
  As I walk'd with that electric self seeking types.


Daily Whitman



Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

  Out of the cradle endlessly rocking,
  Out of the mocking-bird's throat, the musical shuttle,
  Out of the Ninth-month midnight,
  Over the sterile sands and the fields beyond, where the child
      leaving his bed wander'd alone, bareheaded, barefoot,
  Down from the shower'd halo,
  Up from the mystic play of shadows twining and twisting as if they
      were alive,
  Out from the patches of briers and blackberries,
  From the memories of the bird that chanted to me,
  From your memories sad brother, from the fitful risings and fallings I heard,
  From under that yellow half-moon late-risen and swollen as if with tears,
  From those beginning notes of yearning and love there in the mist,
  From the thousand responses of my heart never to cease,
  From the myriad thence-arous'd words,
  From the word stronger and more delicious than any,
  From such as now they start the scene revisiting,
  As a flock, twittering, rising, or overhead passing,
  Borne hither, ere all eludes me, hurriedly,
  A man, yet by these tears a little boy again,
  Throwing myself on the sand, confronting the waves,
  I, chanter of pains and joys, uniter of here and hereafter,
  Taking all hints to use them, but swiftly leaping beyond them,
  A reminiscence sing.

  Once Paumanok,
  When the lilac-scent was in the air and Fifth-month grass was growing,
  Up this seashore in some briers,
  Two feather'd guests from Alabama, two together,
  And their nest, and four light-green eggs spotted with brown,
  And every day the he-bird to and fro near at hand,
  And every day the she-bird crouch'd on her nest, silent, with bright eyes,
  And every day I, a curious boy, never too close, never disturbing
  Cautiously peering, absorbing, translating.

  Shine! shine! shine!
  Pour down your warmth, great sun.'
  While we bask, we two together.

  Two together!
  Winds blow south, or winds blow north,
  Day come white, or night come black,
  Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
  Singing all time, minding no time,
  While we two keep together.

  Till of a sudden,
  May-be kill'd, unknown to her mate,
  One forenoon the she-bird crouch'd not on the nest,
  Nor return'd that afternoon, nor the next,
  Nor ever appear'd again.

  And thenceforward all summer in the sound of the sea,
  And at night under the full of the moon in calmer weather,
  Over the hoarse surging of the sea,
  Or flitting from brier to brier by day,
  I saw, I heard at intervals the remaining one, the he-bird,
  The solitary guest from Alabama.

  Blow! blow! blow!
  Blow up sea-winds along Paumanok's shore;
  I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

  Yes, when the stars glisten'd,
  All night long on the prong of a moss-scallop'd stake,
  Down almost amid the slapping waves,
  Sat the lone singer wonderful causing tears.

  He call'd on his mate,
  He pour'd forth the meanings which I of all men know.

  Yes my brother I know,
  The rest might not, but I have treasur'd every note,
  For more than once dimly down to the beach gliding,
  Silent, avoiding the moonbeams, blending myself with the shadows,
  Recalling now the obscure shapes, the echoes, the sounds and sights
      after their sorts,
  The white arms out in the breakers tirelessly tossing,
  I, with bare feet, a child, the wind wafting my hair,
  Listen'd long and long.

  Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
  Following you my brother.

  Soothe! soothe! soothe!
  Close on its wave soothes the wave behind,
  And again another behind embracing and lapping, every one close,
  But my love soothes not me, not me.

  Low hangs the moon, it rose late,
  It is lagging—O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

  O madly the sea pushes upon the land,
  With love, with love.

  O night! do I not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
  What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

  Loud! loud! loud!
  Loud I call to you, my love!
  High and clear I shoot my voice over the waves,
  Surely you must know who is here, is here,
  You must know who I am, my love.

  Low-hanging moon!
  What is that dusky spot in your brown yellow?
  O it is the shape, the shape of my mate.'
  O moon do not keep her from me any longer.

  Land! land! O land!
  Whichever way I turn, O I think you could give me my mate back again
      if you only would,
  For I am almost sure I see her dimly whichever way I look.

  O rising stars!
  Perhaps the one I want so much will rise, will rise with some of you.

  O throat! O trembling throat!
  Sound clearer through the atmosphere!
  Pierce the woods, the earth,
  Somewhere listening to catch you must be the one I want.

  Shake out carols!
  Solitary here, the night's carols!
  Carols of lonesome love! death's carols!
  Carols under that lagging, yellow, waning moon!
  O under that moon where she droops almost down into the sea!
  O reckless despairing carols.

  But soft! sink low!
  Soft! let me just murmur,
  And do you wait a moment you husky-nois'd sea,
  For somewhere I believe I heard my mate responding to me,
  So faint, I must be still, be still to listen,
  But not altogether still, for then she might not come immediately to me.

  Hither my love!
  Here I am! here!
  With this just-sustain'd note I announce myself to you,
  This gentle call is for you my love, for you.

  Do not be decoy'd elsewhere,
  That is the whistle of the wind, it is not my voice,
  That is the fluttering, the fluttering of the spray,
  Those are the shadows of leaves.

  O darkness! O in vain!
  O I am very sick and sorrowful

  O brown halo in the sky near the moon, drooping upon the sea!
  O troubled reflection in the sea!
  O throat! O throbbing heart!
  And I singing uselessly, uselessly all the night.

  O past! O happy life! O songs of joy!
  In the air, in the woods, over fields,
  Loved! loved! loved! loved! loved!
  But my mate no more, no more with me!
  We two together no more.

  The aria sinking,
  All else continuing, the stars shining,
  The winds blowing, the notes of the bird continuous echoing,
  With angry moans the fierce old mother incessantly moaning,
  On the sands of Paumanok's shore gray and rustling,
  The yellow half-moon enlarged, sagging down, drooping, the face of
      the sea almost touching,
  The boy ecstatic, with his bare feet the waves, with his hair the
      atmosphere dallying,
  The love in the heart long pent, now loose, now at last tumultuously
  The aria's meaning, the ears, the soul, swiftly depositing,
  The strange tears down the cheeks coursing,
  The colloquy there, the trio, each uttering,
  The undertone, the savage old mother incessantly crying,
  To the boy's soul's questions sullenly timing, some drown'd secret hissing,
  To the outsetting bard.

  Demon or bird! (said the boy's soul,)
  Is it indeed toward your mate you sing? or is it really to me?
  For I, that was a child, my tongue's use sleeping, now I have heard you,
  Now in a moment I know what I am for, I awake,
  And already a thousand singers, a thousand songs, clearer, louder
      and more sorrowful than yours,
  A thousand warbling echoes have started to life within me, never to die.

  O you singer solitary, singing by yourself, projecting me,
  O solitary me listening, never more shall I cease perpetuating you,
  Never more shall I escape, never more the reverberations,
  Never more the cries of unsatisfied love be absent from me,
  Never again leave me to be the peaceful child I was before what
      there in the night,
  By the sea under the yellow and sagging moon,
  The messenger there arous'd, the fire, the sweet hell within,
  The unknown want, the destiny of me.

  O give me the clue! (it lurks in the night here somewhere,)
  O if I am to have so much, let me have more!

  A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
  The word final, superior to all,
  Subtle, sent up—what is it?—I listen;
  Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you sea-waves?
  Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?

  Whereto answering, the sea,
  Delaying not, hurrying not,
  Whisper'd me through the night, and very plainly before daybreak,
  Lisp'd to me the low and delicious word death,
  And again death, death, death, death
  Hissing melodious, neither like the bird nor like my arous'd child's heart,
  But edging near as privately for me rustling at my feet,
  Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over,
  Death, death, death, death, death.

  Which I do not forget.
  But fuse the song of my dusky demon and brother,
  That he sang to me in the moonlight on Paumanok's gray beach,
  With the thousand responsive songs at random,
  My own songs awaked from that hour,
  And with them the key, the word up from the waves,
  The word of the sweetest song and all songs,
  That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
  (Or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet
      garments, bending aside,)
  The sea whisper'd me.



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