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Terence McGovern
35/M/NewEngland


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  • Art Copyright Jimmy Ruska




    to me, a fool


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-11-21 19:53:08


       The Fool's Prayer
    by Edward Rowland Sill
    (1841-87)
    The Royal feast was done; the King
    Sought some new sport to banish care,
    And to his jester cried, "Sir Fool,
    Kneel now, and make for us a prayer!"
    The jester doffed his cap and bells,
    And stood the mocking court before;
    They could not see the bitter smile
    Behind the painted grin he wore.
    He bowed his head, and bent his knee
    Upon the monarch's silken stool;
    His pleading voice arose: "O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!
    "No pity, Lord could change the heart
    From red with wrong to white as wool:
    The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!
    "'Tis not by guilt the onward sweep
    Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay;
    'Tis by our follies that so long
    We hold the earth from heaven away.
    "These clumsey feet, still in the mire,
    Go crushing blossoms without end;
    These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust
    Among the heart-strings of a friend.
    "The ill-timed truth we might have kept-
    Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung!
    The word we had not sense to say-
    Who knows how grandly it had rung!
    "Our faults no tenderness should ask,
    The chastening stripes must cleanse them all;
    But for our blunders - oh, in shame
    Before the eyes of heaven we fall.
    "Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;
    Men crown the Knave, and scourge the tool
    That did his will; but Thou, O Lord,
    Be merciful to me, a fool!"
    The room was hushed, in silence rose
    The King, and sought his gardens cool,
    And walked apart, and murmured low,
    "Be merciful to me, a fool!"

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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: The Usual

    Posted on 2005-08-02 17:02:19


        Speech of the High One

    I know I hung on that windswept tree,
    Swung there for nine long nights,
    Wounded by my own blade,
    Bloodied for Odin,
    Myself an offering to myself:
    Bound to the tree
    That no man knows
    Whither the roots of it run.

    None gave me bread,
    None gave me drink,
    Down to the deepest depths I peered
    until I spied the Runes.
    With a roaring cry I seized them up,
    Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.

    Well-being I won
    and wisdom too.
    I grew and took joy in my growth:
    From a word to a word
    I was lead to a word,
    from a deed to another deed.

    The Poetic Edda (ca. A.D 1200)


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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: Thinking...

    Posted on 2005-08-02 17:00:04


        Speech of the High One

    I know I hung on that windswept tree,
    Swung there for nine long nights,
    Wounded by my own blade,
    Bloodied for Odin,
    Myself an offering to myself:
    Bound to the tree
    That no man knows
    Whither the roots of it run.

    None gave me bread,
    None gave me drink,
    Down to the deepest depths I peered
    until I spied the Runes.
    With a roaring cry I seized them up,
    Then dizzy and fainting, I fell.

    Well-being I won
    and wisdom too.
    I grew and took joy in my growth:
    From a word to a word
    I was lead to a word,
    from a deed to another deed.

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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: Thinking...

    Posted on 2005-06-02 22:57:35


       "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, creeps in this petty pace from day to day to the last syllable of recorded time, and all our yesterdays have lighted fools the way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more: It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing."

    {Macbeth< in a moment of clarity in Dunsinane Castle> Act 5 Scene 5.}

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    Untitled Entry


    Mood: ZZzzzz,,,...___

    Posted on 2004-05-28 19:24:20


       
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