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In museums and palaces we are alternate radicals and conservatives.

quote by Henry James
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Young Conservatives

Have you heard the word?
The revolution's over.
Now the anger's disappeared
And the rebels are much older.
And the schools and universities
Are turning out a brand new breed of young conservatives.
Get yourself a brand new scene,
Keep your collars white and clean,
It's time to come and join the young conservatives.
Revolution used to be cool,
But now it's out of fashion.
Politeness is the rule,
And not an angry young man's passion.
And they've used up all the alternatives,
And they're rushing down the street to join
The young conservatives.
Conservatives.
Ban the bomb, oh how contemporary,
In your parents' car.
Another chip off the block, is that all that you are?
Look at all the young conservatives
Hanging out in the bars.
It's got to stop before it goes to fa-fa-fa-fa-far.
Get yourself some new attire,
Set your sights a little higher,
You're going to join the young conservatives.
The establishment is winning,
Now the battle's nearly won.
The rebels are conforming,
See the father, now the sons.
All the urgency and energy
Have turned into complacency,
Now the schools and universities are turning out a
Brand new breed of young conservatives.
Conservatives.
Rebel, rebel found a cause,
Now it's hampstead not east end
And now he's such a well respected man.
The only action that you see
Is in the sunday times.
Content to sit in bed and read between the lines.
Rebel, rebel join the young conservatives.
Be a devil join the new conservatives.
It's a victory for order
Now they've beaten everyone.
The rebels are too old now,
And the young just want to be young.
All the urgency and energy
Have turned into complacency.
Now the schools and universities are turning out a

[...] Read more

song performed by Kinks
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The Free Radicals With A Lonely Electron! !

just want to be beautiful,
stay away from free radicals,
radicals are singles and charged,
neighbor's electrons it fancied,
cheated neighbor become a free radical,
agitated with a lone electron in the outer shell:
the process becomes continuous,
looking for their pair in our cells.
If the free radical steals an electron,
from the base pair molecule of DNA,
the DNA will become cross linked,
cross link leads to aging,
Cross link occur between fat and protein,
yes, the fat and protein cross link,
the free radicals are the reason,
for this intrusion and the affection,
the polished, silky smooth surface,
that is cleaned, masked and moisturized,
the mirror on the wall reflected,
quarter of the salary spent on it,
the first thing that we like to look at,
after we wake up and the last thing,
that we admire before we sleep,
that is our FACE will get wrinkled.

complete absence of free radicals,
is the question of ignorance,
controlling of free radicals,
through abstinence is intelligence,
stay away from alcohol, as it makes you hot,
your heart beats faster to supply oxygen,
When we are completely burnt or oxidized,
the death of this body occur, you are taught,
the liver can process one ounce an hour,
and it prefers to get rid of alcohol quicker,
leaving other vital functions aside:
so fatty liver is shown as beer belly,
your body is filled with radicals the free,
that may lead to the frontal lobe shrinkage,
reason for your subordinate look at you, crossed,
as your intellectual impairment is displayed,
Lack of exercise and unhealthy eating habits,
are the reasons for the free flow of free radicals,
apart from our genetic make up and destiny,
your hormones are just enough to make you a hot chick,
stay away from the fermented poison,
to care your children when they are young,
to care your parents when they are old,
to care yourself as a human, the bold.

poem by Veeraiyah Subbulakshmi
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The Remembering: High The Memory

As the silence of seasons on
We relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light the soul shall sing
Of the velvet sailors course on
Of the velvet sailors course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail
Oer days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer
Into a time that we've all seen on
Into a time that we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream, dream as one
And I do think very well that the son might take you silently
They move fast, they tell me
There's someone, rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summer so long
We danced as evening sang their song
We wander out the day so long
And I do feel very well that the evenings take you silently
They move round, sunlight
Seeing ground
Whispers of clay, alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light
To a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
Schoolgates remind us of our class
Chase all confusion away with us
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returnig ways
As certain as we walk today

[...] Read more

song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Remembering

SURITIS: The Remembering. All our thoughts, impressions, knowledge,
fears, have been developing for millions of years. What we can relate
to is our own past, our own life, our own history. Here, it is especially
Rick's keyboards which bring alive the ebb and flow and depth of
our mind's eye; the topographic ocean. Hopefully we should appreciate
that given points in time are not so significant as the nature of
what is impressed on the mind, and how it is retained and used.
As the silence of the seasons on we relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light to the soul shall sing of the velvet sailors' course on
Of the velvet sailors' course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail over days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer into a time we've all seen on
Into a time we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also the ends meet the river's on
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream! Dream as one
And I do think very well
That the song might take you silently
They move fast
They tell me
There's someone rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summers so long
We danced as evenings sang their song
We wander out the days so long
And I do feel very well
That the evenings take you
Silently, they move round
Sunlight, seeing ground
Whispers of clay
Alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light to a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak todiffer also the ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past we start anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
School gates remind us of our class

[...] Read more

song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Remembering: High The Memory

As the silence of seasons on
We relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light the soul shall sing
Of the velvet sailors course on
Of the velvet sailors course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail
Oer days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer
Into a time that we've all seen on
Into a time that we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream, dream as one
And I do think very well that the son might take you silently
They move fast, they tell me
There's someone, rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summer so long
We danced as evening sang their song
We wander out the day so long
And I do feel very well that the evenings take you silently
They move round, sunlight
Seeing ground
Whispers of clay, alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light
To a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak to differ also
The ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
Schoolgates remind us of our class
Chase all confusion away with us
Stand on hills of long forgotten yesterdays
Pass amongst your memories told returnig ways
As certain as we walk today

[...] Read more

song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

The Remembering

SURITIS: The Remembering. All our thoughts, impressions, knowledge,
fears, have been developing for millions of years. What we can relate
to is our own past, our own life, our own history. Here, it is especially
Rick's keyboards which bring alive the ebb and flow and depth of
our mind's eye; the topographic ocean. Hopefully we should appreciate
that given points in time are not so significant as the nature of
what is impressed on the mind, and how it is retained and used.
As the silence of the seasons on we relive abridge sails afloat
As to call light to the soul shall sing of the velvet sailors' course on
Of the velvet sailors' course on
Shine or moons send me memories trail over days of forgotten tales
Course the compass to offer into a time we've all seen on
Into a time we've all seen on
High the memory carry on
While the moments start to linger
Sail away among your dreams
The strength regains us in between our time
The strength regains us in between our time
As we shall speak to differ also the ends meet the river's on
So the ends meet the river's son
Ours the story shall we carry on
And search the forest of the sun
We dream as we dream! Dream as one
And I do think very well
That the song might take you silently
They move fast
They tell me
There's someone rainbow
Alternate tune
In the days of summers so long
We danced as evenings sang their song
We wander out the days so long
And I do feel very well
That the evenings take you
Silently, they move round
Sunlight, seeing ground
Whispers of clay
Alternate ways
Softer messages bringing light to a truth long forgotten on
As we shall speak todiffer also the ends meet the river's son
So the ends meet the river's son
I reach over and the fruit of life stands still
Stand awhile we search our past we start anew
The music sings of love you knew
We walk around the story
Out in the city running free
Sands of companions sides that be
The strength of the meeting lies with you
Wait all the more regard your past
School gates remind us of our class

[...] Read more

song performed by Yes
Added by Lucian Velea
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La Muse Vénale (The Venal Muse)

Ô muse de mon coeur, amante des palais,
Auras-tu, quand Janvier lâchera ses Borées,
Durant les noirs ennuis des neigeuses soirées,
Un tison pour chauffer tes deux pieds violets?

Ranimeras-tu donc tes épaules marbrées
Aux nocturnes rayons qui percent les volets?
Sentant ta bourse à sec autant que ton palais
Récolteras-tu l'or des voûtes azurées?

II te faut, pour gagner ton pain de chaque soir,
Comme un enfant de choeur, jouer de l'encensoir,
Chanter des Te Deum auxquels tu ne crois guère,

Ou, saltimbanque à jeun, étaler tes appas
Et ton rire trempé de pleurs qu'on ne voit pas,
Pour faire épanouir la rate du vulgaire.

The Venal Muse

Muse of my heart, you who love palaces,
When January frees his north winds, will you have,
During the black ennui of snowy evenings,
An ember to warm your two feet blue with cold?

Will you bring the warmth back to your mottled shoulders,
With the nocturnal beams that pass through the shutters?
Knowing that your purse is as dry as your palate,
Will you harvest the gold of the blue, vaulted sky?

To earn your daily bread you are obliged
To swing the censer like an altar boy,
And to sing Te Deums in which you don't believe,

Or, hungry mountebank, to put up for sale your charm,
Your laughter wet with tears which people do not see,
To make the vulgar herd shake with laughter.

— Translated by William Aggeler

The Venal Muse

Muse of my heart, of palaces the lover,
Where will you, when the blast of winter blows
In the black boredom of snowed lights, discover
A glowing brand to warm your violet toes?

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Baudelaire
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Reactionism is not the same thing as conservatism. It’s far more potent a brew. Reactionary thought begins, usually, with acute despair at the present moment and a memory of a previous golden age. It then posits a moment in the past when everything went to hell and proposes to turn things back to what they once were. It is not simply a conservative preference for things as they are, with a few nudges back, but a passionate loathing of the status quo and a desire to return to the past in one emotionally cathartic revolt. If conservatives are pessimistic, reactionaries are apocalyptic. If conservatives value elites, reactionaries seethe with contempt for them. If conservatives believe in institutions, reactionaries want to blow them up. If conservatives tend to resist too radical a change, reactionaries want a revolution. Though it took some time to reveal itself, today’s Republican Party — from Newt Gingrich’s Republican Revolution to today’s Age of Trump — is not a conservative party. It is a reactionary party that is now at the peak of its political power.

quote by Andrew Sullivan
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Ruins of Rome, by Bellay

1

Ye heavenly spirits, whose ashy cinders lie
Under deep ruins, with huge walls opprest,
But not your praise, the which shall never die
Through your fair verses, ne in ashes rest;
If so be shrilling voice of wight alive
May reach from hence to depth of darkest hell,
Then let those deep Abysses open rive,
That ye may understand my shreiking yell.
Thrice having seen under the heavens' vail
Your tomb's devoted compass over all,
Thrice unto you with loud voice I appeal,
And for your antique fury here do call,
The whiles that I with sacred horror sing,
Your glory, fairest of all earthly thing.

2

Great Babylon her haughty walls will praise,
And sharpèd steeples high shot up in air;
Greece will the old Ephesian buildings blaze;
And Nylus' nurslings their Pyramids fair;
The same yet vaunting Greece will tell the story
Of Jove's great image in Olympus placed,
Mausolus' work will be the Carian's glory,
And Crete will boast the Labybrinth, now 'rased;
The antique Rhodian will likewise set forth
The great Colosse, erect to Memory;
And what else in the world is of like worth,
Some greater learnèd wit will magnify.
But I will sing above all monuments
Seven Roman Hills, the world's seven wonderments.

3

Thou stranger, which for Rome in Rome here seekest,
And nought of Rome in Rome perceiv'st at all,
These same old walls, old arches, which thou seest,
Old Palaces, is that which Rome men call.
Behold what wreak, what ruin, and what waste,
And how that she, which with her mighty power
Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herself at last,
The prey of time, which all things doth devour.
Rome now of Rome is th' only funeral,
And only Rome of Rome hath victory;
Ne ought save Tyber hastening to his fall
Remains of all: O world's inconstancy.

[...] Read more

poem by Edmund Spenser
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Palace in the Sky

Forever lost inside my own world-never to come out of hiding
I am building palaces in the sky though I can only see the stars.
I can only see the stars, and
The quarter moon's light shining dimly upon the horizon
Casting its shadows upon the places of my dreams-
How I wish to escape the misfortunes of life upon this planet and
Make my home inside a palace somewhere in the sky.
I had built a million palaces, so it seems-
Every day and every night, I find myself rapidly losing my grasp upon
What is real and what is not- I am running a marathon toward someplace
Between the land where grasses and flowers grow and the
Trees, from the ground reaching upward to touch the clouds,
I can feel the gentleness of the late spring's breeze
Blowing against my cheeks, damp from tears that have I have cried, as
This world has not been kind to me.
People are heartless, and only laugh when I am weeping,
Looking into my eyes reading my thoughts, and
Ridiculing me as I converse with the voices inside of my mind,
Which have become my only consoling realities while inside this world of my fantasies,
I have become a dove with broken wings-which with deep gratefulness can still fly.
Lost inside some sort of trance, I am building palaces in the sky.
Placid breezes rustle the leaves upon the trees, almost making music-
Creating tunes about nature, peace of mind and are never threatening-
However, I know that one day these trees will all be cut down to fabricate homes
For thousands of people- people who have no heart or no spirit of patience or kindness
So I know that I must continue building my palaces in the sky.
Summer storms shall rip across the sky and I know I must use all my strength
To stay alive so I may lift my broken wings to find a palace which I have built-
The quarter moon is casting its light upon the world and about the sky-
I am glancing repeatedly towards the sky searching for my palace, my home-
Flying bravely about to the best of my ability, on
My endless search for freedom and safety, praying to a God I am not certain that exists-
My hope is to see my golden palace glistening beneath the light of the quarter moon,
All I can see are the stars- what lurks behind those stars I may never know,
But I shall continue to fight the clouds and build my palaces, my castles.
May the stars illuminate the darkness and guide me towards some redeeming veracity,
Even if I never find my palace- in the meantime I shall keep on
Looking upward and forward and even if my dreams never do come true-
I know I can always continue to travel about the sky and I know that
I shall forever behold the splendor of the moon and always count upon the stars
To elucidate the direction upon which I travel and for always be my guiding lights…

poem by Claudia Krizay
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The City Streets

A CITY of Palaces! Yes, that's true: a city of palaces built for trade;
Look down this street—what a splendid view of the temples where fabulous gains are made.
Just glance at the wealth of a single pile, the marble pillars, the miles of glass,
The carving and cornice in gaudy style, the massive show of the polished brass;
And think of the acres of inner floors, where the wealth of the world is spread for sale;
Why, the treasures inclosed by those ponderous doors are richer than ever a fairy tale.
Pass on the next, it is still the same, another Aladdin the scene repeats;
The silks are unrolled and the jewels flame for leagues and leagues of the city streets!

Now turn away from the teeming town, and pass to the homes of the merchant kings,
Wide squares where the stately porches frown, where the flowers are bright and the fountain sings;
Look up at the lights in that brilliant room, with its chandelier of a hundred flames!
See the carpeted street where the ladies come whose husbands have millions or famous names;
For whom are the jewels and silks, behold: on those exquisite bosoms and throats they burn;
Art challenges Nature in color and gold and the gracious presence of every turn.
So the winters fly past in a joyous rout, and the summers bring marvelous cool retreats;
These are civilized wonders we're finding out as we walk through the beautiful city streets.

A City of Palaces!—Hush! not quite: a, city where palaces are, is best;
No need to speak of what's out of sight: let us take what is pleasant, and leave the rest:
The men of the city who travel and write, whose fame and credit are known abroad,
The people who, move in the ranks polite, the cultured women whom all applaud.
It is true, there are only ten thousand here, but the other half million are vulgar clod;
And a soul well-bred is eternally dear—it counts so much more on the books of God.
The others have use in their place, no doubt; but why speak of a class one never meets?
They are gloomy things to be talked about, those common lives of the city streets.

Well, then, if you will, let us look at both: let us weigh the pleasure against the pain,
The gentleman's smile with the bar-room oath, the luminous square with the tenement lane.
Look round you now; 'tis another sphere, of thin-clad women and grimy men;
There are over ten thousand huddled here, where a hundred would live of our upper ten.
Take care of that child: here, look at her face, a baby who carries a baby brother;
They are early helpers in this poor plane, and the infant must often nurse the mother.

Come up those stairs where the little ones went: five flights they groped and climbed in the dark;
There are dozens of homes on the steep ascent, and homes that are filled with children—hark!
Did you hear that laugh, with its manly tones, and the joyous ring of the baby voice?
'Tis the father who gathers his little ones, the nurse and her brother, and all rejoice.
Yes, human nature is much the same when you come to the heart and count its beats;
The workman is proud of his home's dear name as the richest man on the city streets.

God pity them all! God pity the worst! for the worst are reckless, and need it most:
When we trace the causes why lives are curst with the criminal taint, let no man boast:
The race is not run with an equal chance: the poor man's son carries double weight;
Who have not, are tempted; inheritance is a blight or a blessing of man's estate.
No matter that poor men sometimes sweep the prize from the sons of the millionaire:
What is good to win must be good to keep, else the virtue dies on the topmost stair;

When the winners can keep their golden prize, still darker the day of the laboring poor:
The strong and the selfish are sure to rise, while the simple and generous die obscure.

[...] Read more

poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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Vida's Game Of Chess

TRANSLATED

ARMIES of box that sportively engage
And mimic real battles in their rage,
Pleased I recount; how, smit with glory's charms,
Two mighty Monarchs met in adverse arms,
Sable and white; assist me to explore,
Ye Serian Nymphs, what ne'er was sung before.
No path appears: yet resolute I stray
Where youth undaunted bids me force my way.
O'er rocks and cliffs while I the task pursue,
Guide me, ye Nymphs, with your unerring clue.
For you the rise of this diversion know,
You first were pleased in Italy to show
This studious sport; from Scacchis was its name,
The pleasing record of your Sister's fame.

When Jove through Ethiopia's parch'd extent
To grace the nuptials of old Ocean went,
Each god was there; and mirth and joy around
To shores remote diffused their happy sound.
Then when their hunger and their thirst no more
Claim'd their attention, and the feast was o'er;
Ocean with pastime to divert the thought,
Commands a painted table to be brought.
Sixty-four spaces fill the chequer'd square;
Eight in each rank eight equal limits share.
Alike their form, but different are their dyes,
They fade alternate, and alternate rise,
White after black; such various stains as those
The shelving backs of tortoises disclose.
Then to the gods that mute and wondering sate,
You see (says he) the field prepared for fate.
Here will the little armies please your sight,
With adverse colours hurrying to the fight:
On which so oft, with silent sweet surprise,
The Nymphs and Nereids used to feast their eyes,
And all the neighbours of the hoary deep,
When calm the sea, and winds were lull'd asleep
But see, the mimic heroes tread the board;
He said, and straightway from an urn he pour'd
The sculptured box, that neatly seem'd to ape
The graceful figure of a human shape:--
Equal the strength and number of each foe,
Sixteen appear'd like jet, sixteen like snow.
As their shape varies various is the name,
Different their posts, nor is their strength the same.
There might you see two Kings with equal pride
Gird on their arms, their Consorts by their side;
Here the Foot-warriors glowing after fame,

[...] Read more

poem by Oliver Goldsmith
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Having The Flu And With Nothing Else To Do

I read a book about John Dos Passos and according to
the book once radical-communist
John ended up in the Hollywood Hills living off investments
and reading the
Wall Street Journal

this seems to happen all too often.

what hardly ever happens is
a man going from being a young conservative to becoming an
old wild-ass radical

however:
young conservatives always seem to become old
conservatives.
it's a kind of lifelong mental vapor-lock.

but when a young radical ends up an
old radical
the critics
and the conservatives
treat him as if he escaped from a mental
institution.

such is our politics and you can have it
all.

keep it.

sail it up your
ass.

poem by Charles Bukowski
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Don't Alarm The Passengers

Steward...
Is it my imagination,
Or is the plane flying without a pilot?

'Don't alarm the passengers,
But yes.
The conservatives aboard,
Have decided those liberal...
Are in too many positions of control.
And wish to replace the pilot,
Because it is assumed...
He is a Muslim, born in a different country.
And determined he is no longer qualified to fly.'

But don't they realize all of us might die?

'I have been promised a high paying position,
By them...
When the new pilot is found and we land.
However...
No one else aboard has the guts,
To sit in the pilot's seat.
So I'm doing my best to keep all of you calm.'

Are you NUTS?

'Sir,
I must beg of you to lower your voice.
We have many conservatives flying first class.
And they will be distubed by your outbursts! '

But we all will die without a pilot!

'Hopefully not.
Many are now praying to have someone appear,
Who poses no threat to their stolen traditions.
And that person not be of color.'

What difference does that make?

'Many on board...
Rather die than be saved by a Negro! '

Are they all INSANE?

'Sir,
I must beg of you to lower your voice.
Don't alarm the passengers,
But yes.
The conservatives aboard,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Smooth And Amiable, Opaque

Smooth and amiable, opaque,
with facades like scrims, genteel,
my friends are ones you ought to take
unseriously, and for a meal
just when you think you’ve nothing better
to do, like watching television,
or sending the White House a letter,
or working out with great precision
your taxes for another audit.
Should it be that you don’t wish
to do these things and can afford it,
invite your friends to where the fish
is tastier than what you eat
at home, and then, when you come back,
resolve that you will not repeat
such invitations till you crack,
or there is nothing on TV,
and you’re not writing letters to
the President––since you can see,
unusually, his point of view––
and you’ve heard from the IRS
that you don’t owe them––this time! ––taxes.
At times like these your friends, I guess,
won’t cause you anticlimaxes.

Inspired by an article in the NYT Book Review, by Ross Dothat, January 18,2009 (“When Buckley Met Reagan”) :
On the night that William F. Buckley met Ronald Reagan, the future president of the United States put his elbow through a plate-glass window. The year was 1961, and the two men were in Beverly Hills, where Buckley, perhaps the most famous conservative in America at the tender age of 35, was giving an address at a school auditorium. Reagan, a former Hollywood leading man dabbling in political activism — the Tim Robbins or Alec Baldwin of his day — had been asked to do the introductions. But the microphone was dead, the technician was nowhere to be found and the control room was locked. As the crowd began to grumble, Reagan coolly opened one of the auditorium windows, stepped onto a ledge two stories above the street and inched his way around to the control room. He smashed his elbow through the glass and clambered in through the broken window. “In a minute there was light in the upstairs room, ” Buckley later wrote, “and then we could hear the crackling of the newly animated microphone.” This anecdote kicks off The Reagan I Knew (Basic Books, $25) , a slight and padded reminiscence published posthumously this past autumn, nine months after Buckley’s death. As a personal portrait of the 40th president, the narrative is sketchy at best: the Reagan whom Buckley knew turns out to be the Reagan most of his friends and allies knew — amiable, smooth and ultimately opaque.
What the book does offer, though, is an expansion on the theme lurking in that opening vignette, in which the man of ideas came face to face with the man of action, and the intellectual famous for describing the world met the future president eager to change it. At its most interesting, “The Reagan I Knew” provides a case study on the relationship between intellectuals and power, and specifically on the marriage between right-wing thinkers and populist politicians that has defined the modern right from the Goldwater era to our own. This union occasioned a great deal of comment during 2008, which turned out to be an annus horribilis for conservatism, and little of it was positive. Populism’s corrosive influence on the conservative mind — or the conservative mind’s cynical manipulation of populism — was cited in briefs against Sarah Palin, against the record of George W. Bush and against the entire run of conservative governance going back to Richard Nixon. Sometimes it was liberals arguing that an earlier generation of high-minded conservatives (Buckley being the prime example) would be horrified by the anti-intellectual spirit that had overtaken their movement in the age of Bush and Palin. Sometimes it was conservatives, your David Frums and Peggy Noonans, hinting at the same. And sometimes it was left-wingers — like Rick Perlstein, in his teeming history “Nixonland” — arguing that conservatives had always been cynical manipulators of populist sentiment: the mask might have slipped a bit more in the Bush era, but beneath the genteel facade provided by wordsmiths like Buckley (or William Safire or George Will or whomever) , the modern right has been Palins all the way down.

1/18/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Little Palaces

In chocolate town all the trains are painted brown
On the silver paper of the wrapper
Theres a dapper little man
And he wears a wax moustache
That he twists with nicotine fingers
As he drops his cigarette ash
And someone comes and sweeps it up
And then he doffs his cap
And theres a rat in someones bedroom
And theyre shutting someones trap
And theyll soon be pulling down the little palaces
And the doors swing back and forward, from the past into the present
And the bedside crucifixion turns from wood to phosphorescent.
And theyre moving problem families from the south up to the north,
Mothers crying over some soft soap opera divorce,
And you say you didnt do it, but you know you did of course,
And theyll soon be pulling down the little palaces.
Its like shouting in a matchbox, filled with plasterboard and hope,
Like a picture of prince william in the arms of john the pope.
Theres a world of good intentions, and pity in their eyes,
The sedated homes of england, are theirs to vandalize.
So you knock the kids about a bit, because theyve got your name,
And you knock the kids about a bit, until they feel the same.
And they feel like knocking down the little palaces.
Youre the twinkle in your daddys eye, a name you spray and scribble,
You made the girls all turn their heads, and in turn they made you miserable.
To be the heir apparent, to the kingdom of the invisible.
So you knock the kids about a bit, because theyve got your name,
And you knock the kids about a bit, until they feel the same.
And they feel like knocking down the little palaces.

song performed by Elvis Costello
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Sale of Saint Thomas

A quay with vessels moored

Thomas
To India! Yea, here I may take ship;
From here the courses go over the seas,
Along which the intent prows wonderfully
Nose like lean hounds, and tack their journeys out,
Making for harbours as some sleuth was laid
For them to follow on their shifting road.
Again I front my appointed ministry. --
But why the Indian lot to me? Why mine
Such fearful gospelling? For the Lord knew
What a frail soul He gave me, and a heart
Lame and unlikely for the large events. --
And this is worse than Baghdad! though that was
A fearful brink of travel. But if the lots,
That gave to me the Indian duty, were
Shuffled by the unseen skill of Heaven, surely
That fear of mine in Baghdad was the same
Marvellous Hand working again, to guard
The landward gate of India from me. There
I stood, waiting in the weak early dawn
To start my journey; the great caravan's
Strange cattle with their snoring breaths made steam
Upon the air, and (as I thought) sadly
The beasts at market-booths and awnings gay
Of shops, the city's comfortable trade,
Lookt, and then into months of plodding lookt.
And swiftly on my brain there came a wind
Of vision; and I saw the road mapt out
Along the desert with a chalk of bones;
I saw a famine and the Afghan greed
Waiting for us, spears at our throats, all we
Made women by our hunger; and I saw
Gigantic thirst grieving our mouths with dust,
Scattering up against our breathing salt
Of blown dried dung, till the taste eat like fires
Of a wild vinegar into our sheathèd marrows;
And a sudden decay thicken'd all our bloods
As rotten leaves in fall will baulk a stream;
Then my kill'd life the muncht food of jackals. --
The wind of vision died in my brain; and lo,
The jangling of the caravan's long gait
Was small as the luting of a breeze in grass
Upon my ears. Into the waiting thirst
Camels and merchants all were gone, while I
Had been in my amazement. Was this not
A sign? God with a vision tript me, lest
Those tall fiends that ken for my approach

[...] Read more

poem by Lascelles Abercrombie
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Generally young men are regarded as radicals. This is a popular misconception. The most conservative persons I ever met are college undergraduates. The radicals are the men past middle life.

quote by Woodrow Wilson
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Village: Book I

The Village Life, and every care that reigns
O'er youthful peasants and declining swains;
What labour yields, and what, that labour past,
Age, in its hour of languor, finds at last;
What form the real picture of the poor,
Demand a song--the Muse can give no more.

Fled are those times, when, in harmonious strains,
The rustic poet praised his native plains:
No shepherds now, in smooth alternate verse,
Their country's beauty or their nymphs' rehearse;
Yet still for these we frame the tender strain,
Still in our lays fond Corydons complain,
And shepherds' boys their amorous pains reveal,
The only pains, alas! they never feel.

On Mincio's banks, in Caesar's bounteous reign,
If Tityrus found the Golden Age again,
Must sleepy bards the flattering dream prolong,
Mechanic echoes of the Mantuan song?
From Truth and Nature shall we widely stray,
Where Virgil, not where Fancy, leads the way?

Yes, thus the Muses sing of happy swains,
Because the Muses never knew their pains:
They boast their peasants' pipes; but peasants now
Resign their pipes and plod behind the plough;
And few, amid the rural-tribe, have time
To number syllables, and play with rhyme;
Save honest Duck, what son of verse could share
The poet's rapture, and the peasant's care?
Or the great labours of the field degrade,
With the new peril of a poorer trade?

From this chief cause these idle praises spring,
That themes so easy few forbear to sing;
For no deep thought the trifling subjects ask;
To sing of shepherds is an easy task:
The happy youth assumes the common strain,
A nymph his mistress, and himself a swain;
With no sad scenes he clouds his tuneful prayer
But all, to look like her, is painted fair.

I grant indeed that fields and flocks have charms
For him that grazes or for him that farms;
But when amid such pleasing scenes I trace
The poor laborious natives of the place,
And see the mid-day sun, with fervid ray,
On their bare heads and dewy temples play;
While some with feebler heads and fainter hearts,

[...] Read more

poem by George Crabbe
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Diamond in the rough

My teammates don’t know.
Surely none can suspect-
When I leave from the game
I don’t go home direct.

My lockers my closet,
And in it I hide
my alternate lifestyle
That some wear with pride

Reporters surround me
on the locker-room prowl
I patiently answer,
dripping wet, in a towel.

I’m a likeable guy
And I don’t duck the press
And they never suspect
How I look in a dress.

My lockers my closet,
And in it I hide
my alternate lifestyle
That some wear with pride.

I’ve been a star
in the City for years.
If fans knew what I’m hiding
Would I still hear the cheers?

Sure, you see me around
With a girl on my arm-
But if they want more
I back off in alarm.

It’s kind of ironic-
fans wish they were me-
Could they live with the fear
of chance publicity?

My lockers my closet,
And in it I hide
my alternate lifestyle
That some wear with pride.

poem by John F. McCullagh
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