Monthly Archives: December 2014

Daily Whitman


Beat! Beat! Drums!

  Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
  Through the windows—through doors—burst like a ruthless force,
  Into the solemn church, and scatter the congregation,
  Into the school where the scholar is studying;
  Leave not the bridegroom quiet—no happiness must he have now with
      his bride,
  Nor the peaceful farmer any peace, ploughing his field or gathering
      his grain,
  So fierce you whirr and pound you drums—so shrill you bugles blow.

  Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
  Over the traffic of cities—over the rumble of wheels in the streets;
  Are beds prepared for sleepers at night in the houses? no sleepers
      must sleep in those beds,
  No bargainers' bargains by day—no brokers or speculators—would
      they continue?
  Would the talkers be talking? would the singer attempt to sing?
  Would the lawyer rise in the court to state his case before the judge?
  Then rattle quicker, heavier drums—you bugles wilder blow.

  Beat! beat! drums!—blow! bugles! blow!
  Make no parley—stop for no expostulation,
  Mind not the timid—mind not the weeper or prayer,
  Mind not the old man beseeching the young man,
  Let not the child's voice be heard, nor the mother's entreaties,
  Make even the trestles to shake the dead where they lie awaiting the
  So strong you thump O terrible drums—so loud you bugles blow.

2014 in review

The stats helper monkeys prepared a 2014 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

The concert hall at the Sydney Opera House holds 2,700 people. This blog was viewed about 13,000 times in 2014. If it were a concert at Sydney Opera House, it would take about 5 sold-out performances for that many people to see it.

Click here to see the complete report.

Daily Whitman


Eighteen Sixty-One

  Arm'd year—year of the struggle,
  No dainty rhymes or sentimental love verses for you terrible year,
  Not you as some pale poetling seated at a desk lisping cadenzas piano,
  But as a strong man erect, clothed in blue clothes, advancing,
      carrying rifle on your shoulder,
  With well-gristled body and sunburnt face and hands, with a knife in
      the belt at your side,
  As I heard you shouting loud, your sonorous voice ringing across the
  Your masculine voice O year, as rising amid the great cities,
  Amid the men of Manhattan I saw you as one of the workmen, the
      dwellers in Manhattan,
  Or with large steps crossing the prairies out of Illinois and Indiana,
  Rapidly crossing the West with springy gait and descending the Allghanies,
  Or down from the great lakes or in Pennsylvania, or on deck along
      the Ohio river,
  Or southward along the Tennessee or Cumberland rivers, or at
      Chattanooga on the mountain top,
  Saw I your gait and saw I your sinewy limbs clothed in blue, bearing
      weapons, robust year,
  Heard your determin'd voice launch'd forth again and again,
  Year that suddenly sang by the mouths of the round-lipp'd cannon,
  I repeat you, hurrying, crashing, sad, distracted year.

Daily Whitman



First O Songs for a Prelude

  First O songs for a prelude,
  Lightly strike on the stretch'd tympanum pride and joy in my city,
  How she led the rest to arms, how she gave the cue,
  How at once with lithe limbs unwaiting a moment she sprang,
  (O superb! O Manhattan, my own, my peerless!
  O strongest you in the hour of danger, in crisis! O truer than steel!)
  How you sprang—how you threw off the costumes of peace with
      indifferent hand,
  How your soft opera-music changed, and the drum and fife were heard
      in their stead,
  How you led to the war, (that shall serve for our prelude, songs of
  How Manhattan drum-taps led.

  Forty years had I in my city seen soldiers parading,
  Forty years as a pageant, till unawares the lady of this teeming and
      turbulent city,
  Sleepless amid her ships, her houses, her incalculable wealth,
  With her million children around her, suddenly,
  At dead of night, at news from the south,
  Incens'd struck with clinch'd hand the pavement.

  A shock electric, the night sustain'd it,
  Till with ominous hum our hive at daybreak pour'd out its myriads.

  From the houses then and the workshops, and through all the doorways,
  Leapt they tumultuous, and lo! Manhattan arming.

  To the drum-taps prompt,
  The young men falling in and arming,
  The mechanics arming, (the trowel, the jack-plane, the blacksmith's
      hammer, tost aside with precipitation,)
  The lawyer leaving his office and arming, the judge leaving the court,
  The driver deserting his wagon in the street, jumping down, throwing
      the reins abruptly down on the horses' backs,
  The salesman leaving the store, the boss, book-keeper, porter, all leaving;
  Squads gather everywhere by common consent and arm,
  The new recruits, even boys, the old men show them how to wear their
      accoutrements, they buckle the straps carefully,
  Outdoors arming, indoors arming, the flash of the musket-barrels,
  The white tents cluster in camps, the arm'd sentries around, the
      sunrise cannon and again at sunset,
  Arm'd regiments arrive every day, pass through the city, and embark
      from the wharves,
  (How good they look as they tramp down to the river, sweaty, with
      their guns on their shoulders!
  How I love them! how I could hug them, with their brown faces and
      their clothes and knapsacks cover'd with dust!)
  The blood of the city up-arm'd! arm'd! the cry everywhere,
  The flags flung out from the steeples of churches and from all the
      public buildings and stores,
  The tearful parting, the mother kisses her son, the son kisses his mother,
  (Loth is the mother to part, yet not a word does she speak to detain him,)
  The tumultuous escort, the ranks of policemen preceding, clearing the way,
  The unpent enthusiasm, the wild cheers of the crowd for their favorites,
  The artillery, the silent cannons bright as gold, drawn along,
      rumble lightly over the stones,
  (Silent cannons, soon to cease your silence,
  Soon unlimber'd to begin the red business;)
  All the mutter of preparation, all the determin'd arming,
  The hospital service, the lint, bandages and medicines,
  The women volunteering for nurses, the work begun for in earnest, no
      mere parade now;
  War! an arm'd race is advancing! the welcome for battle, no turning away!
  War! be it weeks, months, or years, an arm'd race is advancing to
      welcome it.

  Mannahatta a-march—and it's O to sing it well!
  It's O for a manly life in the camp.

  And the sturdy artillery,
  The guns bright as gold, the work for giants, to serve well the guns,
  Unlimber them! (no more as the past forty years for salutes for
      courtesies merely,
  Put in something now besides powder and wadding.)

  And you lady of ships, you Mannahatta,
  Old matron of this proud, friendly, turbulent city,
  Often in peace and wealth you were pensive or covertly frown'd amid
      all your children,
  But now you smile with joy exulting old Mannahatta.

A Song for the Holy Family

The Feast of the Holy Family is celebrated on the Sunday in the Octave of Christmas (i.e., the next Sunday after Christmas), which is today this year.

Quote for the Week


For the first time since I had been in Barcelona I went to have a look at the cathedral–a modern cathedral, and one of the most hideous buildings in the world. It has four crenellated spires exactly the shape of hock bottles. Unlike most of the churches in Barcelona it was not damaged during the revolution–it was spared because of its ‘artistic value’, people said. I think the Anarchists showed bad taste in not blowing it up when they had the chance, though they did hang a red and black banner between its spires.

–George Orwell on [Antoni Gaudí’s Cathedral] Sagrada Familia, Homage to Catalonia, 1938; courtesy of Wikiquote

For what it’s worth, while Sagrada Família is indeed a bit Surrealist and—well, out there–I do not agree with Orwell’s assessment of it.  Then again, I’m somewhat sympathetic to Surrealism.  In any case, the picture’s here–draw your own conclusions.

Daily Whitman


To The States [To Identify the 16th, 17th, or 18th Presidentiad]

  Why reclining, interrogating? why myself and all drowsing?
  What deepening twilight-scum floating atop of the waters,
  Who are they as bats and night-dogs askant in the capitol?
  What a filthy Presidentiad! (O South, your torrid suns! O North,
      your arctic freezings!)
  Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that
      the President?
  Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep, for
  (With gathering murk, with muttering thunder and lambent shoots we
      all duly awake,
  South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will surely awake.)

Daily Whitman



  A thousand perfect men and women appear,
  Around each gathers a cluster of friends, and gay children and
      youths, with offerings.

For the Feast of St. John the Apostle

The first is a brief talk about the Feast of Saint John the Apostle–which is today–and the second is the movie The Gospel of John, a critically acclaimed movie about the life of Christ, which is based on the aforementioned Gospel.

Chopin for the Weekend