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When one hand is injured the other nurses it, when both hands are injured they nurse each other.

African proverbs
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The Only Way To Control Things

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Water on rock
a fist can't do anything to stop the rain
that keeps washing its bloody knuckles
by kissing the raw red buds
of the pain-killing poppies clean.
Anger grows ashamed of itself
in the presence of unopposable compassion
just as planets are humbled by their atmospheres.
The soft supple things of life insist
and the hard brittle ones comply.
Bullies are the broken toys of wimps.
Power limps.
But space is an open hand.
Mass may shape it
but it teaches matter how to move
just as the sky converts its openness
into a cloud and a bird
or the silence nurtures
the embryo of a blue word
in the empty womb of the dark mother
like the echo of something that can't be said.

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
Not a posture of giving.
Not a posture of receiving.
Not a posture of greeting or farewell.
Not hanging on or letting go
but the single bridge they both make
when they're both at peace with the flow.
It's not the branch it's not the trunk
it's not the root it's not the fruit
but the open handedness of its leaves
that is a tree's consummate passion.
Isis tattoos her star on their palms
like sailors and sails
to keep them from drowning
and into the valleys of their open hands
that lie at the foot of their crook-backed mountains
the aloof stars risk the intimacy of fireflies
and fate flows down like tributaries into the mindstream
as life roots its wildflowers on both shores
as if there were no sides to the flowing
of our binary lifelines.

The only way to control things is with an open hand.
You cannot bind the knower to the knowing
as if time had to know where eternity was going
before anything could change.
X marks the spot where all maps are born

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poem by Patrick White
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Adelaida: A Cuban Cinderella

Adelaida: A Cuban Cinderella
Written by Ana Monnar


{PAGE 1}
Once upon a time, on the island of Cuba lived two sisters named Adelaida and Marisol. Although identical twins in appearance, their personalities were as different as night and day. Adelaida was noble and loved to help others. She understood that the situation at home was not easy. Their father worked 14 hours a day and their mother was frail and very ill. So Adelaida would wake up very early every morning to cook breakfast and have it ready for her father before he’d go to work. They would eat together while they talked about many different matters.

{PAGE 2}
Adelaida would then prepare a tray for her mother; with love and tenderness she fed her each meal of the day. She also insisted on helping the nurse care for her much-loved mother. She spent time brushing her mami’s hair and would take pleasure in it.

{PAGE 3}
On the other hand, Marisol believed that the world revolved around her. After sleeping until noon, she expected a breakfast menu. From the moment that she stepped out of her bed, she would holler, “Adelaida, bring me my breakfast! ”
Adelaida would serve her sister bacon, eggs, toast, juice, and milk. She would hurry to take the plate to the table and cater to her sister. But Marisol always complained that the food was not hot enough, or the drinks not cold enough. No matter how much Adelaida would try to please her, it never seemed to be enough. Marisol often wanted favors during the very moment that her sister was caring for their mother, and so Adelaida would ignore her sister’s whining and tend to her mother first.

{PAGE 4}
During the long hours of each day Adelaida would sweep the floor, wash, iron, and do the dishes. In between chores, she would hurry each time Marisol rang a bell demanding her services. Marisol would command, “Curl my hair! ” “Wash and iron my clothes! ” “Make my bed! ” “I’m hungry! ” “I want chicken and yellow rice, salad, and custard for dinner! ”
Adelaida would just give in to her sister’s demands to avoid confrontations that would disturb their mother’s peace. Luckily Adelaida had dogs, cats, and birds that adored her and followed her around. Even the mice would come to keep her company and help out. Little Maria the mouse carried the napkin on top of her head to set the table. Sometimes Adelaida and her critters would have fun together carving a giant pumpkin to make pumpkin soup, pumpkin pie, and pumpkin custard.

{PAGE 5}
One evening when their father came home from work he called both of his daughters. Adelaida and Marisol both kissed him and listened to what he had to say. With a frown, he mumbled, “My boss is having a dinner at his mansion and he wants our family to attend. Mr. Perez wishes to reward me for being the employee of the year. He also is very proud of his son who just finished his internship and graduated as a doctor. He is coming home just in time for the Christmas holidays and he would like for us to meet him.' In his mind he was thinking, ‘How am I going to get my wife to go? She is so weak and frail.’

{Page 6}
Adelaida, who felt and shared her father’s concern and sorrow, read his mind and replied, “Papi, you go ahead and enjoy the party and take Marisol with you. I will stay home with Mami and I promise to call the nurse if I need the extra help.”
Marisol leaped and yelped, “It sounds like a great plan to me! Take me shopping for a new dress, shoes, purse, and jewelry.” Deep in her mind she was scheming to snatch the young doctor. If she married rich she could have servants, a chef, and a chauffeur.
Their father tried to coax Adelaida into going with them. He said, “Adelaida, please come along with us and I will call the nurse to care for your mother during the few hours that we will be gone.” Adelaida gently but firmly begged her dad to let her stay. He finally agreed.

{Page 7}
The dinner was only two weeks away and Marisol continued nagging about a dress, pair of shoes, purse, jewelry, and now even added perfume to her inventory. Finally, even after working 14-hour shifts, Papi took Marisol out on several occasions to buy her luxuries. If Adelaida, their mother, or the nurse tried to reason with her insistent demands, Marisol would weep and whine until she got her way. Their father looked fatigued and could barely keep his feet firmly on the ground. Adelaida hugged her father and whispered, “Papi, I love you.” He cracked a slight grin and kissed her on the top of her head.

{Page 8}
Adelaida felt sorry for her father and hoped her sister would grow up and mature someday. They were both 23 years old and even though they were twins, their actions and values were poles apart. Adelaida often proved to be as wise as an owl perched up high in a tree as the moon glistened and sparkled above.

{Page 9}
Finally the day of the invitation arrived and Marisol was ecstatic. This would be her big break for securing her future husband! She just wanted to get away from their home, which reeked of medicines, antiseptic, and illness. Adelaida helped Marisol into her gown, but instead of showing gratitude, Marisol's whimpering continued. Marisol applied globs of make-up. If someone were to wet a couple of fingers and roll them against her foundation, rouge, and eye shadow, they would have enough watercolors to cover a canvas with frolicking ocean waves. When she put on her big gold hoop earrings and dabbed on cologne, Marisol was thrilled by the look and smell created by these finishing touches.

{Page 10}
Marisol scurried to her mother’s room and waved good-bye from the door. The nurse could have been knocked over by a feather after observing such selfishness from Marisol. She pondered how one sister could be so kind, loving, and gentle, while the other was egotistical and self-centered. The nurse had been coming to the house for weeks, having been hired when the mother began to feel weaker and was confined to bed. She was a dutiful and observant nurse who continuously nourished those who needed her help. When the nurse went home for the evening, Adelaida would sit by her mother and hold her hand as she sang to her. Her soothing voice would help her mother fall asleep.

{Page 11}
Adelaida’s father kissed his wife’s forehead and then thanked Adelaida for being so caring and devoted. Marisol yelled from across the corridor, “Papi, hurry up or we’ll be late! ” Although he loved both his daughters equally and played no favorites, he could clearly see the difference in their behaviors.

{Page 12}
Marisol and her father arrived at the mansion. The butler greeted them and announced their appearance. Mr. Garcia’s gentle boss, wife, and son welcomed them. Mr. and Mrs. Perez inquired about the whereabouts of his wife and his other twin daughter. The humble Mr. Garcia replied softly with sad and shameful eyes, “My wife is ill, weak, frail, and bedridden so my other daughter Adelaida stayed home caring for her. She insisted that we come and have an evening out.” Young Dr. Perez did not even glance at Marisol. He just thought it odd that one sister was out partying, while the other was looking after her mother. Mr. and Mrs. Perez felt sorry for the family’s suffering and offered to take the meal to the Garcias’ home and eat there instead. Marisol was flabbergasted! ‘This can’t be happening! I must be having a nightmare! ’ she thought.



{Page 13}
Both families drove to the Garcia residence. The servants and chauffeur carried the meal inside. The Perez family members were guided to the master bedroom where Adelaida was brushing her mother’s hair as she sang so sweetly. Although Adelaida had no make-up and was wearing simple clothes, she looked cool, calm, collected, and as faithful as a saint. Young Dr. Perez looked at Adelaida’s emerald-green eyes and realized that this was one young lady that he would love to befriend. At the end of the corridor Marisol’s green eyes displayed her jealousy and envy.
They sat down around the ill Mrs. Garcia, spoke softly, and ate holding their plates with one hand and their forks with the other. They ate black beans, rice, pork, and fried plantains. Adelaida did not begin eating until she slowly and gently fed her mother first. By this point Marisol was starving, so she devoured her food.
After this very enlightening visit, the young doctor asked Mr. Garcia if he could come regularly to check up on Mrs. Garcia and visit Adelaida. Mr. Garcia was very grateful for his interest and agreed.

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poem by Ana Monnar
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Hafbur And Signy

TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH.

King Hafbur & King Siward
They needs must stir up strife,
All about the sweetling Signy
Who was so fair a wife.
O wilt thou win me then,
or as fair a maid as I be?

It was the King’s son Hafbur
Woke up amid the night,
And ’gan to tell of a wondrous dream
In swift words nowise light.

“Me-dreamed I was in Heaven
Amid that fair abode,
And my true-love lay upon mine arm
And we fell from cloud to cloud.”

As there they sat, the dames and maids,
Of his words they took no keep,
Only his mother well-beloved
Heeded his dreamful sleep.

“Go get thee gone to the mountain,
And make no long delay;
To the elve’s eldest daughter
For thy dream’s areding pray.”

So the King’s son, even Hafbur,
Took his sword in his left hand,
And he’s away to the mountain
To get speech of that Lily-wand.

He beat thereon with hand all bare,
With fingers small and fine,
And there she lay, the elve’s daughter,
And well wotted of that sign.

“Bide hail, Elve’s sweetest daughter,
As on skins thou liest fair,
I pray thee by the God of Heaven
My dream arede thou clear.

“Me-dreamed I was in heaven,
Yea amid that fair abode,
And my true-love lay upon mine arm
And we fell from cloud to cloud.”

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poem by William Morris
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Under The Rose

'The iniquity of the fathers upon the children.'

Oh the rose of keenest thorn!
One hidden summer morn
Under the rose I was born.

I do not guess his name
Who wrought my Mother's shame,
And gave me life forlorn,
But my Mother, Mother, Mother,
I know her from all other.
My Mother pale and mild,
Fair as ever was seen,
She was but scarce sixteen,
Little more than a child,
When I was born
To work her scorn.
With secret bitter throes,
In a passion of secret woes,
She bore me under the rose.

One who my Mother nursed
Took me from the first:—
'O nurse, let me look upon
This babe that costs so dear;
To-morrow she will be gone:
Other mothers may keep
Their babes awake and asleep,
But I must not keep her here.'—
Whether I know or guess,
I know this not the less.

So I was sent away
That none might spy the truth:
And my childhood waxed to youth
And I left off childish play.
I never cared to play
With the village boys and girls;
And I think they thought me proud,
I found so little to say
And kept so from the crowd:
But I had the longest curls
And I had the largest eyes
And my teeth were small like pearls;
The girls might flout and scout me,
But the boys would hang about me
In sheepish mooning wise.

Our one-street village stood
A long mile from the town,

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poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 12

WHEN Turnus saw the Latins leave the field,
Their armies broken, and their courage quell’d,
Himself become the mark of public spite,
His honor question’d for the promis’d fight;
The more he was with vulgar hate oppress’d, 5
The more his fury boil’d within his breast:
He rous’d his vigor for the last debate,
And rais’d his haughty soul to meet his fate.
As, when the swains the Libyan lion chase,
He makes a sour retreat, nor mends his pace; 10
But, if the pointed jav’lin pierce his side,
The lordly beast returns with double pride:
He wrenches out the steel, he roars for pain;
His sides he lashes, and erects his mane:
So Turnus fares; his eyeballs flash with fire, 15
Thro’ his wide nostrils clouds of smoke expire.
Trembling with rage, around the court he ran,
At length approach’d the king, and thus began:
“No more excuses or delays: I stand
In arms prepar’d to combat, hand to hand, 20
This base deserter of his native land.
The Trojan, by his word, is bound to take
The same conditions which himself did make.
Renew the truce; the solemn rites prepare,
And to my single virtue trust the war. 25
The Latians unconcern’d shall see the fight;
This arm unaided shall assert your right:
Then, if my prostrate body press the plain,
To him the crown and beauteous bride remain.”
To whom the king sedately thus replied: 30
“Brave youth, the more your valor has been tried,
The more becomes it us, with due respect,
To weigh the chance of war, which you neglect.
You want not wealth, or a successive throne,
Or cities which your arms have made your own: 35
My towns and treasures are at your command,
And stor’d with blooming beauties is my land;
Laurentum more than one Lavinia sees,
Unmarried, fair, of noble families.
Now let me speak, and you with patience hear, 40
Things which perhaps may grate a lover’s ear,
But sound advice, proceeding from a heart
Sincerely yours, and free from fraudful art.
The gods, by signs, have manifestly shown,
No prince Italian born should heir my throne: 45
Oft have our augurs, in prediction skill’d,
And oft our priests, a foreign son reveal’d.
Yet, won by worth that cannot be withstood,
Brib’d by my kindness to my kindred blood,
Urg’d by my wife, who would not be denied, 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Metamorphoses: Book The Tenth

THENCE, in his saffron robe, for distant Thrace,
Hymen departs, thro' air's unmeasur'd space;
By Orpheus call'd, the nuptial Pow'r attends,
But with ill-omen'd augury descends;
Nor chearful look'd the God, nor prosp'rous spoke,
Nor blaz'd his torch, but wept in hissing smoke.
In vain they whirl it round, in vain they shake,
No rapid motion can its flames awake.
The Story of With dread these inauspicious signs were view'd,
Orpheus And soon a more disastrous end ensu'd;
and Eurydice For as the bride, amid the Naiad train,
Ran joyful, sporting o'er the flow'ry plain,
A venom'd viper bit her as she pass'd;
Instant she fell, and sudden breath'd her last.
When long his loss the Thracian had deplor'd,
Not by superior Pow'rs to be restor'd;
Inflam'd by love, and urg'd by deep despair,
He leaves the realms of light, and upper air;
Daring to tread the dark Tenarian road,
And tempt the shades in their obscure abode;
Thro' gliding spectres of th' interr'd to go,
And phantom people of the world below:
Persephone he seeks, and him who reigns
O'er ghosts, and Hell's uncomfortable plains.
Arriv'd, he, tuning to his voice his strings,
Thus to the king and queen of shadows sings.
Ye Pow'rs, who under Earth your realms extend,
To whom all mortals must one day descend;
If here 'tis granted sacred truth to tell:
I come not curious to explore your Hell;
Nor come to boast (by vain ambition fir'd)
How Cerberus at my approach retir'd.
My wife alone I seek; for her lov'd sake
These terrors I support, this journey take.
She, luckless wandring, or by fate mis-led,
Chanc'd on a lurking viper's crest to tread;
The vengeful beast, enflam'd with fury, starts,
And thro' her heel his deathful venom darts.
Thus was she snatch'd untimely to her tomb;
Her growing years cut short, and springing bloom.
Long I my loss endeavour'd to sustain,
And strongly strove, but strove, alas, in vain:
At length I yielded, won by mighty love;
Well known is that omnipotence above!
But here, I doubt, his unfelt influence fails;
And yet a hope within my heart prevails.
That here, ev'n here, he has been known of old;
At least if truth be by tradition told;
If fame of former rapes belief may find,
You both by love, and love alone, were join'd.

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poem by Ovid
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Night Nurse

Tell her try her best just to make it quick
Woman tend to the sick
Because there must be something she can do
This heart is broken in two
Tell her its a case of emergency
Theres a patient by the name of mickey
Night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse oh god
Oh the pain is getting worse
I dont want to see no doc
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock
Because theres no prescription for me
Shes the one the only remedy
My night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse
Oh the pain is getting worse
Im hurt my love
I dont want to see no doc
I need attendance from my nurse around the clock
Because there s no prescription for me
Shes the one the only remedy
Night nurse
Only you alone can quench this here thirst
My night nurse
Oh the pain is getting worse
Im hurt my love
And Im sure no no doctor got a cure
My night nurse
My night nurse
My night nurse

song performed by Simply Red
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Three Women

My love is young, so young;
Young is her cheek, and her throat,
And life is a song to be sung
With love the word for each note.

Young is her cheek and her throat;
Her eyes have the smile o' May.
And love is the word for each note
In the song of my life to-day.

Her eyes have the smile o' May;
Her heart is the heart of a dove,
And the song of my life to-day
Is love, beautiful love.

Her heart is the heart of a dove,
Ah, would it but fly to my breast
Where love, beautiful love,
Has made it a downy nest.

Ah, would she but fly to my breast,
My love who is young, so young;
I have made her a downy nest
And life is a song to be sung.

1
I.
A dull little station, a man with the eye
Of a dreamer; a bevy of girls moving by;
A swift moving train and a hot Summer sun,
The curtain goes up, and our play is begun.
The drama of passion, of sorrow, of strife,
Which always is billed for the theatre Life.
It runs on forever, from year unto year,
With scarcely a change when new actors appear.
It is old as the world is-far older in truth,
For the world is a crude little planet of youth.
And back in the eras before it was formed,
The passions of hearts through the Universe stormed.

Maurice Somerville passed the cluster of girls
Who twisted their ribbons and fluttered their curls
In vain to attract him; his mind it was plain
Was wholly intent on the incoming train.
That great one eyed monster puffed out its black breath,
Shrieked, snorted and hissed, like a thing bent on death,

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poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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Metamorphoses: Book The Ninth

Theseus requests the God to tell his woes,
Whence his maim'd brow, and whence his groans arose
Whence thus the Calydonian stream reply'd,
With twining reeds his careless tresses ty'd:
Ungrateful is the tale; for who can bear,
When conquer'd, to rehearse the shameful war?
Yet I'll the melancholy story trace;
So great a conqu'ror softens the disgrace:
Nor was it still so mean the prize to yield,
As great, and glorious to dispute the field.
The Story of Perhaps you've heard of Deianira's name,
Achelous and For all the country spoke her beauty's fame.
Hercules Long was the nymph by num'rous suitors woo'd,
Each with address his envy'd hopes pursu'd:
I joyn'd the loving band; to gain the fair,
Reveal'd my passion to her father's ear.
Their vain pretensions all the rest resign,
Alcides only strove to equal mine;
He boasts his birth from Jove, recounts his spoils,
His step-dame's hate subdu'd, and finish'd toils.
Can mortals then (said I), with Gods compare?
Behold a God; mine is the watry care:
Through your wide realms I take my mazy way,
Branch into streams, and o'er the region stray:
No foreign guest your daughter's charms adores,
But one who rises in your native shores.
Let not his punishment your pity move;
Is Juno's hate an argument for love?
Though you your life from fair Alcmena drew,
Jove's a feign'd father, or by fraud a true.
Chuse then; confess thy mother's honour lost,
Or thy descent from Jove no longer boast.
While thus I spoke, he look'd with stern disdain,
Nor could the sallies of his wrath restrain,
Which thus break forth. This arm decides our right;
Vanquish in words, be mine the prize in fight.
Bold he rush'd on. My honour to maintain,
I fling my verdant garments on the plain,
My arms stretch forth, my pliant limbs prepare,
And with bent hands expect the furious war.
O'er my sleek skin now gather'd dust he throws,
And yellow sand his mighty muscles strows.
Oft he my neck, and nimble legs assails,
He seems to grasp me, but as often fails.
Each part he now invades with eager hand;
Safe in my bulk, immoveable I stand.
So when loud storms break high, and foam and roar
Against some mole that stretches from the shore;
The firm foundation lasting tempests braves,
Defies the warring winds, and driving waves.

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poem by Ovid
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Lady Clare

IT was the time when lilies blow,
And clouds are highest up in air,
Lord Ronald brought a lily-white doe
To give his cousin, Lady Clare.

I trow they did not part in scorn-
Lovers long-betroth'd were they:
They too will wed the morrow morn:
God's blessing on the day !

'He does not love me for my birth,
Nor for my lands so broad and fair;
He loves me for my own true worth,
And that is well,' said Lady Clare.

In there came old Alice the nurse,
Said, 'Who was this that went from thee?'
'It was my cousin,' said Lady Clare,
'To-morrow he weds vith me.'

'O God be thank'd!' said Alice the nurse,
' That all comes round so just and fair:
Lord Ronald is heir of all your lands,
And you are not the Lady Clare.'

'Are ye out of your mind, my nurse, my nurse?'
Said Lady Clare, 'that ye speak so wild?'
'As God's above,' said Alice the nurse,
' I speak the truth: you are my child.

'The old Earl's daughter died at my breast;
I speak the truth, as I live by bread!
I buried her like my own sweet child,
And put my child in her stead.'

'Falsely, falsely have ye done,
O mother,' she said, ' if this be true,
To keep the best man under the sun
So many years from his due.'

'Nay now, my child,' said Alice the nurse,
'But keep the secret for your life,
And all you have will be Lord Ronald's,
When you are man and wife.'

' If I'm a beggar born,' she said,
'I will speak out, for I dare not lie.
Pull off, pull off, the brooch of gold,
And fling the diamond necklace by.'

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poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 10

THE GATES of heav’n unfold: Jove summons all
The gods to council in the common hall.
Sublimely seated, he surveys from far
The fields, the camp, the fortune of the war,
And all th’ inferior world. From first to last, 5
The sov’reign senate in degrees are plac’d.
Then thus th’ almighty sire began: “Ye gods,
Natives or denizens of blest abodes,
From whence these murmurs, and this change of mind,
This backward fate from what was first design’d? 10
Why this protracted war, when my commands
Pronounc’d a peace, and gave the Latian lands?
What fear or hope on either part divides
Our heav’ns, and arms our powers on diff’rent sides?
A lawful time of war at length will come, 15
(Nor need your haste anticipate the doom),
When Carthage shall contend the world with Rome,
Shall force the rigid rocks and Alpine chains,
And, like a flood, come pouring on the plains.
Then is your time for faction and debate, 20
For partial favor, and permitted hate.
Let now your immature dissension cease;
Sit quiet, and compose your souls to peace.”
Thus Jupiter in few unfolds the charge;
But lovely Venus thus replies at large: 25
“O pow’r immense, eternal energy,
(For to what else protection can we fly?)
Seest thou the proud Rutulians, how they dare
In fields, unpunish’d, and insult my care?
How lofty Turnus vaunts amidst his train, 30
In shining arms, triumphant on the plain?
Ev’n in their lines and trenches they contend,
And scarce their walls the Trojan troops defend:
The town is fill’d with slaughter, and o’erfloats,
With a red deluge, their increasing moats. 35
Æneas, ignorant, and far from thence,
Has left a camp expos’d, without defense.
This endless outrage shall they still sustain?
Shall Troy renew’d be forc’d and fir’d again?
A second siege my banish’d issue fears, 40
And a new Diomede in arms appears.
One more audacious mortal will be found;
And I, thy daughter, wait another wound.
Yet, if with fates averse, without thy leave,
The Latian lands my progeny receive, 45
Bear they the pains of violated law,
And thy protection from their aid withdraw.
But, if the gods their sure success foretell;
If those of heav’n consent with those of hell,
To promise Italy; who dare debate 50

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Forsaking All Others Part 5

I

TRAINED nurses, trained nurses everywhere­
Trained nurses by night, trained nurses by day -
In the corridors, on the stair,
Looking for towels, carrying a tray;
Saying, 'you mustn't,' 'you must,' 'you may.'
Smooth as to hair, stiff as to skirt,
Kind in a cool, impersonal way,­
Angels of mercy, bright-eyed, alert,
Hard young angels, sent to avert
That older angel of dark despair ­
Stiff starched angels, a trifle curt ­
Trained nurses, trained nurses everywhere.

II

A WHITE figure spoke from the doorway
In a tone deliberately bright:
'Would you like to see the patient
For a moment, and say goodnight?'

Shepherded in like a stranger
He stood beside her bed,
Gazed at those pale, blank eyelids
In that carven ivory head.

Took her hand and heard her
Murmur: 'Is that you, Jim?'
But he knew she was very tired ­
Tired even of him.

Too much spent with the struggle
Of drawing breath to afford
A brief smile - utterly weary,
And more than utterly bored.

III

NEVER before had Ruth been out of reach:
Barriers had been - but only of his making.
Now she had passed beyond the power of speech,
Quite, quite indifferent that his heart was breaking.

Here in the bedroom that he used to share
She lived day after day, averse to living,
Indifferent, unforgiving, unaware
That he had any need of her forgiving.

IV

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poem by Alice Duer Miller
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The Moat House

PART I

I

UNDER the shade of convent towers,
Where fast and vigil mark the hours,
From childhood into youth there grew
A maid as fresh as April dew,
And sweet as May's ideal flowers,

Brighter than dawn in wind-swept skies,
Like children's dreams most pure, unwise,
Yet with a slumbering soul-fire too,
That sometimes shone a moment through
Her wondrous unawakened eyes.

The nuns, who loved her coldly, meant
The twig should grow as it was bent;
That she, like them, should watch youth's bier,
Should watch her day-dreams disappear,
And go the loveless way they went.

The convent walls were high and grey;
How could Love hope to find a way
Into that citadel forlorn,
Where his dear name was put to scorn,
Or called a sinful thing to say?

Yet Love did come; what need to tell
Of flowers downcast, that sometimes fell
Across her feet when dreamily
She paced, with unused breviary,
Down paths made still with August's spell--

Of looks cast through the chapel grate,
Of letters helped by Love and Fate,
That to cold fingers did not come
But lay within a warmer home,
Upon her heart inviolate?

Somehow he loved her--she loved him:
Then filled her soul's cup to the brim,
And all her daily life grew bright
With such a flood of rosy light
As turned the altar candles dim.

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poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Coast

A family of musicians took shelter for the night
In the little harbor church of st. cecilia
Two guitars, bata, bass drum and tambourine
Rose of jericho and bougainvillea
This is a lonely life
Sorrows everywhere you turn
And thats worth something
When you think about it
Thats worth some money
Thats worth something
When you think about it
That is worth some money
A trip to the market
A trip into the pearl gray morning sunlight
That settles over washington
A trip to the market
A trip around the world
Where the evening meal
Is negotiable, if there is one.
This is a lonely-lone, lonely life
Sorrows everywhere you turn
And thats worth something
When you think about it
Thats worth some money
Thats worth something
When you think about it
That is worth some money
To prove that I love you
Because I believe in you
Summer skies, stars are falling
All along the injured coast
If I have money
If I have children
Summer skies, stars are falling
All along the injured coast
Oo-wah oo-wah doo-wop a doo-wah
Summer skies and stars are falling
All along the injured coast
Oo-wah oo-wah doo-wop a doo-wah
Summer skies and the stars are falling
All along the injured coast
We are standing in the sunlight
The early morning sunlight
In the harbor church of st. cecilia
To praise a souls returning to the earth
To the rose of jericho and the bougainvillea
To prove that I love you
Because I believe in you
Summer skies, stars are falling
All along the injured coast

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song performed by Paul Simon
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The Tower Beyond Tragedy

I
You'd never have thought the Queen was Helen's sister- Troy's
burning-flower from Sparta, the beautiful sea-flower
Cut in clear stone, crowned with the fragrant golden mane, she
the ageless, the uncontaminable-
This Clytemnestra was her sister, low-statured, fierce-lipped, not
dark nor blonde, greenish-gray-eyed,
Sinewed with strength, you saw, under the purple folds of the
queen-cloak, but craftier than queenly,
Standing between the gilded wooden porch-pillars, great steps of
stone above the steep street,
Awaiting the King.
Most of his men were quartered on the town;
he, clanking bronze, with fifty
And certain captives, came to the stair. The Queen's men were
a hundred in the street and a hundred
Lining the ramp, eighty on the great flags of the porch; she
raising her white arms the spear-butts
Thundered on the stone, and the shields clashed; eight shining
clarions
Let fly from the wide window over the entrance the wildbirds of
their metal throats, air-cleaving
Over the King come home. He raised his thick burnt-colored
beard and smiled; then Clytemnestra,
Gathering the robe, setting the golden-sandaled feet carefully,
stone by stone, descended
One half the stair. But one of the captives marred the comeliness
of that embrace with a cry
Gull-shrill, blade-sharp, cutting between the purple cloak and
the bronze plates, then Clytemnestra:
Who was it? The King answered: A piece of our goods out of
the snatch of Asia, a daughter of the king,
So treat her kindly and she may come into her wits again. Eh,
you keep state here my queen.
You've not been the poorer for me.- In heart, in the widowed
chamber, dear, she pale replied, though the slaves
Toiled, the spearmen were faithful. What's her name, the slavegirl's?
AGAMEMNON Come up the stair. They tell me my kinsman's
Lodged himself on you.
CLYTEMNESTRA Your cousin Aegisthus? He was out of refuge,
flits between here and Tiryns.
Dear: the girl's name?
AGAMEMNON Cassandra. We've a hundred or so other
captives; besides two hundred
Rotted in the hulls, they tell odd stories about you and your
guest: eh? no matter: the ships
Ooze pitch and the August road smokes dirt, I smell like an
old shepherd's goatskin, you'll have bath-water?
CLYTEMNESTRA
They're making it hot. Come, my lord. My hands will pour it.

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poem by Robinson Jeffers
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The House Of Dust: Complete

I.

The sun goes down in a cold pale flare of light.
The trees grow dark: the shadows lean to the east:
And lights wink out through the windows, one by one.
A clamor of frosty sirens mourns at the night.
Pale slate-grey clouds whirl up from the sunken sun.

And the wandering one, the inquisitive dreamer of dreams,
The eternal asker of answers, stands in the street,
And lifts his palms for the first cold ghost of rain.
The purple lights leap down the hill before him.
The gorgeous night has begun again.

'I will ask them all, I will ask them all their dreams,
I will hold my light above them and seek their faces.
I will hear them whisper, invisible in their veins . . .'
The eternal asker of answers becomes as the darkness,
Or as a wind blown over a myriad forest,
Or as the numberless voices of long-drawn rains.

We hear him and take him among us, like a wind of music,
Like the ghost of a music we have somewhere heard;
We crowd through the streets in a dazzle of pallid lamplight,
We pour in a sinister wave, ascend a stair,
With laughter and cry, and word upon murmured word;
We flow, we descend, we turn . . . and the eternal dreamer
Moves among us like light, like evening air . . .

Good-night! Good-night! Good-night! We go our ways,
The rain runs over the pavement before our feet,
The cold rain falls, the rain sings.
We walk, we run, we ride. We turn our faces
To what the eternal evening brings.

Our hands are hot and raw with the stones we have laid,
We have built a tower of stone high into the sky,
We have built a city of towers.

Our hands are light, they are singing with emptiness.
Our souls are light; they have shaken a burden of hours . . .
What did we build it for? Was it all a dream? . . .
Ghostly above us in lamplight the towers gleam . . .
And after a while they will fall to dust and rain;
Or else we will tear them down with impatient hands;
And hew rock out of the earth, and build them again.

II.

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poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
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Throw Your Hands Up

1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,90 aaliyahs in the house so check,check it out
1,2,3,4,5,6,7,8,90 aaliyahs in the house so check,check it out
The time has finally come to save my beats with the funky hip hop swing
(the funky swing I might add) oh check it
No holding back now is the time, to get busy
So take me to the bridge
I work hard for mine, spending all my time
To give you what you need
So if you down with this funky flavor thorw your hands up
And if you got fever for aaliyah throw your hands up
And if you down with blackground thorw your hands up
And if it got soul let me see your hands up
If you got bass in your jeeps thorw your hands up
If your not down with the crack thorw your hands up
And if you think your hyper enough to swing it thorw your hands up
And if your down with the second chapter thorw your hands up
Straight from the streets is where Im coming from (sraight out the streets)
With the touch of jazz in me, check it
Take in no shorts when it comes down to shows
I got to reck it, so take me to the bridge
I work hard for mine spending all my time
To give what you need
Where you at, where you at
So if your down with the pa let me see your hands up
And if your head is bobin to the track throw your hands up
And if you got loot in your pocket throw your hands up
And if you not foul let me see your hands up
And if your protected and you know it throw your hands up
And if r kellys record is sharp let me see your hands up
And if your body swing to the track throw your hands up
And if you want some more of the flover throw your hands up
Uh,uh,uh yeah,yeah
Aaliyah bust a free style
This is for the jeeps
Strictly for the jeeps
This is for the jeeps
(repeat)
So if your down with the funky flover thorw your hands up
And if you got the fever for aaliyah throw your hands up
And if you down with blackground throw your hands up
And if you got bass in your jeeps throw your hands up
If your not down with the crack throw your hands up
And if you think your hyper enough to swing it throw your hands up
And if your down with the second chapter throw your hands up
So if your down with the pa let me see your hands up
And if your head is bobin to the track throw your hands up
And if you got loot in your pocket throw your hands up
And if you not foul let me see your hands up
And if your protected and you know it throw your hands up
And if r kellys record is sharp let me see your hands up

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song performed by Aaliyah
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Negro Heroines

Down in history we find it and in grandest works of art,
How the men on fields of battle play so well the soldier's part,
But I come to tell the story of relief from care and pain
Rendered them by Negro women in the Cuban War with Spain.

When the scourge of yellow fever fell upon the boys in blue.
And the nation stood in wonder scarcely knowing what to do,
There was found a Negro woman, Mrs. Curtis was her name,
Wife, she was, of a physician with the highest social fame.

When the name of Mrs. Curtis fell upon the nation's ear
And her worth on such occasions had been shown in language clear,
She was summoned by McKinley to the White House—there to plan
How to change the dread condition; how to stay the soldier's ban.

By him there she was commissioned, given fullest oversight
Of relieving fever-stricken in the famous Cuban fight;
With a confidence unfailing, she her preparations made—
Uncle Sam his backing promised true success could not be stayed.

When a call she made for helpers, from the nation's busy throng,
The response from Negro nurses came three hundred eighty strong,
In the Catholics were also, found one hundred twenty nuns,
Who would brave the field as nurses for the fever-stricken ones.

In this noble work of mercy were their duties done so well
That a halo of enchantment round them all is made to dwell,
When we search the war department no complaint of them is found,
Not a word to their discredit and to truth that record's bound.

While upon the field of battle helping stem the fever's tide,
While upon that angel mission seven Negro nurses died,
In this work the nuns had fallen till the same had numbered four;
Thus on snowy, angel pinions they the news to heaven bore.

When our boys had thrashed the Spaniards, Mrs. Curtis straightway sent
A petition into congress praying that a monument
Be at Arlington erected out of sacred memory
Of the nurses who in Cuba died to make the island free.

Mrs. Curtis went in person, she in congress did appear,
Told the story of her labors, of her precious deeds of cheer,
She convincingly impressed it in the nation's congress true,
That for those who fell on duty still a monument was due.

An apportionment by congress for the same at once was made,
Yea, to make a fit memorial for the nation's honored dead;
Twenty-five will name the thousands of the dollars that were spent—
In the nation's cemetery stands the nurses' monument.

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poem by Lizelia Augusta Jenkins Moorer
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The Bride's Prelude

“Sister,” said busy Amelotte
To listless Aloÿse;
“Along your wedding-road the wheat
Bends as to hear your horse's feet,
And the noonday stands still for heat.”
Amelotte laughed into the air
With eyes that sought the sun:
But where the walls in long brocade
Were screened, as one who is afraid
Sat Aloÿse within the shade.
And even in shade was gleam enough
To shut out full repose
From the bride's 'tiring-chamber, which
Was like the inner altar-niche
Whose dimness worship has made rich.
Within the window's heaped recess
The light was counterchanged
In blent reflexes manifold
From perfume-caskets of wrought gold
And gems the bride's hair could not hold,
All thrust together: and with these
A slim-curved lute, which now,
At Amelotte's sudden passing there,
Was swept in somewise unaware,
And shook to music the close air.
Against the haloed lattice-panes
The bridesmaid sunned her breast;
Then to the glass turned tall and free,
And braced and shifted daintily
Her loin-belt through her côte-hardie.
The belt was silver, and the clasp
Of lozenged arm-bearings;
A world of mirrored tints minute
The rippling sunshine wrought into 't,
That flushed her hand and warmed her foot.
At least an hour had Aloÿse—
Her jewels in her hair—
Her white gown, as became a bride,
Quartered in silver at each side—
Sat thus aloof, as if to hide.
Over her bosom, that lay still,
The vest was rich in grain,
With close pearls wholly overset:
Around her throat the fastenings met
Of chevesayle and mantelet.
Her arms were laid along her lap
With the hands open: life
Itself did seem at fault in her:
Beneath the drooping brows, the stir
Of thought made noonday heavier.

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poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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The Iliad: Book 5

Then Pallas Minerva put valour into the heart of Diomed, son of
Tydeus, that he might excel all the other Argives, and cover himself
with glory. She made a stream of fire flare from his shield and helmet
like the star that shines most brilliantly in summer after its bath in
the waters of Oceanus- even such a fire did she kindle upon his head
and shoulders as she bade him speed into the thickest hurly-burly of
the fight.
Now there was a certain rich and honourable man among the Trojans,
priest of Vulcan, and his name was Dares. He had two sons, Phegeus and
Idaeus, both of them skilled in all the arts of war. These two came
forward from the main body of Trojans, and set upon Diomed, he being
on foot, while they fought from their chariot. When they were close up
to one another, Phegeus took aim first, but his spear went over
Diomed's left shoulder without hitting him. Diomed then threw, and his
spear sped not in vain, for it hit Phegeus on the breast near the
nipple, and he fell from his chariot. Idaeus did not dare to
bestride his brother's body, but sprang from the chariot and took to
flight, or he would have shared his brother's fate; whereon Vulcan
saved him by wrapping him in a cloud of darkness, that his old
father might not be utterly overwhelmed with grief; but the son of
Tydeus drove off with the horses, and bade his followers take them
to the ships. The Trojans were scared when they saw the two sons of
Dares, one of them in fright and the other lying dead by his
chariot. Minerva, therefore, took Mars by the hand and said, "Mars,
Mars, bane of men, bloodstained stormer of cities, may we not now
leave the Trojans and Achaeans to fight it out, and see to which of
the two Jove will vouchsafe the victory? Let us go away, and thus
avoid his anger."
So saying, she drew Mars out of the battle, and set him down upon
the steep banks of the Scamander. Upon this the Danaans drove the
Trojans back, and each one of their chieftains killed his man. First
King Agamemnon flung mighty Odius, captain of the Halizoni, from his
chariot. The spear of Agamemnon caught him on the broad of his back,
just as he was turning in flight; it struck him between the
shoulders and went right through his chest, and his armour rang
rattling round him as he fell heavily to the ground.
Then Idomeneus killed Phaesus, son of Borus the Meonian, who had
come from Varne. Mighty Idomeneus speared him on the right shoulder as
he was mounting his chariot, and the darkness of death enshrouded
him as he fell heavily from the car.
The squires of Idomeneus spoiled him of his armour, while
Menelaus, son of Atreus, killed Scamandrius the son of Strophius, a
mighty huntsman and keen lover of the chase. Diana herself had
taught him how to kill every kind of wild creature that is bred in
mountain forests, but neither she nor his famed skill in archery could
now save him, for the spear of Menelaus struck him in the back as he
was flying; it struck him between the shoulders and went right through
his chest, so that he fell headlong and his armour rang rattling round
him.
Meriones then killed Phereclus the son of Tecton, who was the son of

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poem by Homer, translated by Samuel Butler
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