#yes this poem is from 1871

[sensitiveuser]

Letters from Louise Michel to Théophile Ferré

[120 years ago almost to the day, Louise Michel died at the age of 75, taken by pneumonia. I find it necessary to pay tribute to her...

As we know, Louise Michel was in love with the blanquist Théophile Ferré... In september of 1871, Théophile Ferré is sentenced to death by the 3rd Council of War. He will be shot in Satory on November 28. Upon hearing the news, Louise Michel, who had been detained since June 15 at the Versailles correctional facility, tried to help him. She wrote him three letters, as well as two poems (Les Oeillets Rouges and A mes frères)].

First Letter (Versailles Correctional Facility, September 1871) :

"Since we can correspond today, may my first word be a word of happiness, our very dear delegate. You understand how, in this time of shame, one is happy to see the sons of the Republic so worthy of the cause.

If my letter does not have time to reach you, I too have the right not to see the rest of this life. In the meantime, let’s talk. I hope that in terms of opinions on women, you are no longer reactionary and that you recognise our right to choose peril and death. Moreover, that these rights apply to us broadly. I am writing to you under the oleanders and the orange trees because we have a garden here, but to get here, oh, the things I have seen.

Here is the scene of my arrest: they took my mother to be shot in my place, so I immediately went to set her free by taking her place, and if I was not to be shot there, I believe that I found myself in that spirit all the more calm, because I believed myself to be at my last hour and I thought that our cause was lost. I told them the truth almost as death could have told it, if dead women spoke.

How many things have I seen since. The route on foot they made us take between mounted soldiers, the Château de la Muette, Versailles, Satory and then Versailles again, at the Gare de l’Ouest, and here.

It was like scenes from Dante and paintings by Callot, a thousand times outdated, the agony of revolution mixed with I don’t know what hope. Nameless cowardice and magnificent deeds, this was the moment when you had to hold your hearts high so as not to soil them in the mire.

I await the Council of War. As for my interrogation, in summary I told them I loved and served the Commune with all my heart, from the first day until the last, because it wanted the happiness of the people. And for what I had to say in my defence, I said nothing, having acted according to my convictions. As for what I thought, I had the pleasure of conveying it and it is not a small thing, in certain circumstances, especially when one sees, as I saw, the cowards all shivering with fear, coming to accuse the Commune of everything they knew very well it did not do.

Brother, will we meet again? Will we see our friends again? It doesn’t matter.

I shake your hand wholeheartedly.

I have here with me some poor women whose only crime is to have sent me a little laundry to Neuilly. I have however certified many times that they were not guilty of anything, but I admit that after all I am not thinking of them at the moment.

Goodbye (or) in the life beyond.

Louise Michel".

Second letter (Versailles Correctional Facility, October 3, 1871):

To Citizen Th. Ferré,

Citizen Ferré, I still dare to ask our friend (the Father Foley) to kindly take charge of this letter, especially since he knows well (it’s a bit proud but it’s true) that there can be no exchange of ideas between the other prisoners and me, because they have, more or less, the qualities and the defects of women, and that, precisely, is what I do not have.

So I’m happy to talk to you. I wanted to start my letter by telling you the story of Monsieur Galifet at Bastion 37, but you will read it in my notebook. I prefer to send you the end of Versailles, I left it there:

Yes Versailles is capital. They are our triumphant lords. Dashed this rattling head On top of their crumbling walls. O old hairy Gaul With their bloody and hideous fingers, They took you by the hair, The hairy-handed executioners. But instead, the livid head Will feed the dark crows Who, at night, in their greedy bed, Will tear them to shreds. Reign, judge, you are masters To let us live or die, And the future can choose Between martyrs and traitors.

How capricious one becomes in prison! I speak of the future and these are the memories that come to me.

I am thinking of an evening at a club meeting where some sort of sounding imbecile had made a bloated and heartless proposal whose rather eloquent form drew support and applause. When, full of indignation, I was about to ask to speak, it was you who said everything I wanted to say. Poor crowd, how it needs to be enlightened by people of heart, instead of being deceived by selfish people!

Do you remember this brave man, so stupid, with a Roman profile and name? [Sometime later] he was also with me at a barricade that the three of us held for a long time. At that time I had the courage to help pick up a wounded man, crossing seven or eight times under a hail of bullets, but he was so heavy that I couldn’t help him take the few steps alone. It was our brave speaker who came to help me. It is true that I had called him nearly ten times and that he was not one of us three. But poor man, I haven’t seen him since. Not much remains of that vile, vile multitude of Montmartre, where last winter was so calm and so dignified in the face of provocations. It is true that, for all that, it took great pains to prevent him from believing the deceivers.

Today is the reward! If I say this with bitterness, it is above all for those towards whom I would like the enemies to have less unjust hatred, and the friends of the people to have courage.

In the meantime, goodbye. It seems to me that you are very sad, I send you all the hope I can see on the horizon.

Louise Michel.

(Written up the side: A rather strange thing: we have here a prisoner who was also a prisoner under the Commune, Hamel, I believe. She could tell them how different we were from the Executive.)

Third letter (Versailles Correctional Facility):

Although I have said to you, our dear prisoner, that I would no longer write to you at a time when one can, being alone, feel all the sadness of one’s soul, I love these sinister nights so much that I feel it’s now that I live more, and a time that I should send you my thoughts. Above all, don’t waste time reading my letter right away if you still find something to review in this unfair trial. Allow me to tell you that, according to two fragments of newspapers which had reached me by chance (since we do not read newspapers), that was my first idea. I saw the condemnation stopped in advance and all the prejudices of insult and hatred replacing even the judicial forms of which they have no idea. About that, there are articles they particularly like, article 91 for example; also they put it everywhere.

Two more poor wretches went on trial today: one acquitted; provided that she does not pay more than her life, the other sentenced to death because she says she set the fire out of jealousy. They call it politics!

My last interrogation was very benevolent. They finally seem to understand that the agents provocateurs could one day ask for their heads as they ask for ours and that, on the contrary, the Commune needed as much moderation as courage to resist these well-dressed snakes, because I remember the things they said; there was enough to arouse the indignation of an entire century.

One thing seemed to make an impression on them, it is that (don’t scold me for saying this) when I myself, in the face of all the betrayals which were leading us to defeat, proposed extreme and violent means, the very man who had been condemned to death as an assassin and an incendiary had stigmatised these things with all his energy as crimes against humanity and signs of weakness. It seems that my Captain prosecutor understood what I was saying because I had the honour of seeing two tears in this eyes; he even condescended to escort me to the door with a certain consideration; I confess to you that this surprised me.

Only write to me when there is nothing bad happening against you. But you know that I will always be happy to hear from you anyway. Because you’re condemned I want to say that you are the best amongst us, and above all I would like you to live. If that happens, I would forever forget prison, because my mother is safe and the only person I’m worried about is you and that’s enough.

While I think of it, you can keep the two volumes of the Peloponnese; they are mine.

Do you know why I am so talkative in my letters? It is because, all day, surrounded by our good state prisoners, I hear a host of things so insane which I almost never speak of, except to make some violent outing against the weakness and the lack of common sense of certain people. This does not extend to all, but how many, among these good hearts, have ideas so mad that one should be very ashamed to accuse them of politics.

There are other strange coincidences. Do you remember that I was confused, to my great indignation, with a teacher named Michel? Her sister is here with me. Another coincidence: I also found here the person that I accused of discrediting women at a meeting; both times, she was unfortunate.

You see how calm I am tonight; it seems to me that you are saved. Goodbye, brother. Do you believe it too?

Louise Michel.

[tentacledtherapist]

I find it so interesting that humans can grow hair in entirely different colors! Without having any sort of unusual coloration otherwise! It reminds me of how when animals get domesticated the three first things to show up are piebald or multicolor coloration, curly tails and floppy ears. Likely because the opposite of these things evolved for survival. Coats for camouflage, pointy or big ears to hear better, straight controlled tails for emoting and pheromone release. When they don't need these things to survive, of course they're easy to shed.

I mainly collect old books, though I do dabble in bookbinding myself. I am too anxious currently to try and repair any books myself without prior practice, despite knowing how to do so cover to cover. My oldest book is a bible from 1823. You'll find a lot of bibles survived because family records are often kept inside them. But honestly most of my books either hold personal significance or are fiction. My favorite... could it be a genre in a way? My favorite subject is everyday educational texts. I have old school books, books on cooking and sewing, flower meanings and gardening, tea parties and Ladies Etiquette. Books about how they used to live life. My current favorite, which I intend to read and reread, is a book on how to mourn your child from 1871. Each chapter is a question about grief and pain and love. It's sad, beautiful and sad, and a rare find.

As for poetry, I'm not a fan of one poet over another, really, though the romantics were like the first Goths so I have to give them credit. I tend to have the most impactful poems find me on their own, rather than by searching for them. I just find that poetry books hold a sort of emotional weight to them though, so I like to skim through them.

As for symbolism, I think I sort of understand the symbolism in it, beyond the obvious of "Trip to the Moon". You get the Frankenstein Bride hair which also emulates that of the animated woman at the beginning of the movie that Creature originally fell in love with. The Pabst dress probably is about how her experience that night was coated with alcohol and drugs. The scene mirrors the previous scene with Douchebag Doug, except shes with someone she actually wants to be with (the bust of Creature).They hold hands, differently to how Doug treated her by taking advantage of her weakness, where the gum is meant to be Creature taking care of her. The gum is because she threw up, and her accepting the gum is her accepting his affections.

The murderer under the bed was the same as the masked killer who killed her mom (I think?) It may be a sort of "I can't have nice things" feeling, mixed with "if he's already dead you can't kill him so I'm not afraid" hence why she has no reaction.

But this is just my thoughts.

- Creature

my white streak is a birthmark, i’m pretty sure. i’ve had it as long as i can remember? but it’s wild that these things just Happen sometimes. supposedly we do have stripes like a tiger or some other form of patterning, but it only shows up under uv light? i read that a while ago though, so take it with a grain of salt

yes yes yes on your analysis! i like hearing your thoughts about what all of it means. it’s nice to have more thoughts on it than just the ones inside my own head

it’s a scene that feels out of place at first and it’s so full of symbolism? i genuinely love it. the man under her bed is wearing the same mask as the man who killed her mom, and with the way he grabbed at their feet i always read lisa’s expression more as a “he’s here again/already?” for a split second, before swiftly being followed by “oh well. death is going to come eventually. at least i have this while it happens.” lisa does talk about her lack of fear of death later?

i like your thoughts on the gum. its the biggest thing i couldn’t quite figure out what i think it wanted to say, what i wanted it to say, ya know? i’m still pondering why it melted between their hands. maybe having something to do with the actual melty-sticky thing being a sort of ‘physical’ representation of their bond?

i like it. i like picking it apart. i notice new things every time i watch the movie, it’s great

on that same sort of thread: i think my favorite poet is probably john donne, because of how much you can dig into his poetry and peel it all apart at the seams. i like digging into things like that, though i don’t think there’s been any particular poem that’s fully rocked me to my core from him, though. like you said, it’s the poems you stumble into that really affect you

i think my oldest book is a worn down copy of ‘Les Mis’? i’m not sure of it’s exact print date off the top of my head, but it’s a favorite of mine. i dunno if it’s my favorite book of all time point blank period, but it’s up there! a lot of people get turned off of the book when i tell them there’s like 10 pages of ramblings about the parisian sewer system, but i genuinely like long winding prose. i like an author with a lot to say and a mind to do it. it’s in dire need of repair, but i sort of want to leather bind it, and i don’t currently have the skillset to do that

i’d call educational texts a genre! it’s got it’s own category at bookstores, so it’s genre enough for me. wild that it’s your favorite though. like a good wild. it’s not typical, but those books probably give the best insight into what life was like then. sort of like a window into, or back into, the past

- Lisa

[iomhair]

Count Bodies Like Sheep

It is almost quiet when Jacob walks through the night that surrounds London. The sound of firm steps over the cobblestone breaks the silence and holding the springs of his excitement all coiled up. He saw this city from above, he was an invisible witness to its secrets, he could run its roofs with the eyes closed, but now it was the time to face London from beneath. Jacob breathes in fully, watching the bright moon over the roofs, and touching his brass knuckles with the bare fingertips. The hood falls down and Jacob smirks into the darkness – tonight he is just Jacob Frye and he will claim this city once and for all.

He can already feel it – the growing sound of panic and disarray in the distance, the scent of fear and rage. But there was nothing that could stop him at this point. Strand was the last borough to claim, the Rooks were getting ready for this night and Jacob knew that he would not let them down.

The streets around him are slowly getting alive, and Jacob senses every single movement, sees every shadow, he even feels the vibration of the cobblestone. He stops for only a second and steps on the white armband with the bright red symbol on it, denting it into the dirt.

Jacob sees the light of torches as he keeps on walking forward, finally leaving the shadows behind, finally seeing his targets in the distance, finally ready to strike. The crowd of templars ahead is growing, it’s easy enough to notice them, but Jacob is not scared at the slightest. His smile is almost devilish, his hands are steady, and the beating of his heart matches the sound of his steps.

Ten.

- Isn’t that a Frye boy? Heard you’d be coming to play tonight. Should have brought your sister, I bet she is more fun. I heard that she-

The laughs in the distance are getting louder as Jacob walks forward, parting the live corridor of men and striking without any delay, not letting the templar finish the sentence and quickly cutting his throat.

Nine.

The lifeless body falls on the road in a complete silence. First blood is now flowing over the stone, colouring it crimson red and dissolving into the dirt.

- I don’t think you quite understand, lads. The price for talking out loud just got raised. And I doubt any of you could afford it.

The silence around him is almost deafening.

Eight.

The first hit is very much expected and Jacob dodges it, piercing the blade into the templar’s chest, quickly getting ready for the second strike, which follows almost immediately.

Jacob laughs as the next attempt to kill him fails miserably. The crowd of templars is getting bigger, but he moves through it graciously, striking with the absolute precision, seeing the blood dripping off his blade. The red trail follows Jacob further, deeper, it’s getting wider, it is covering his tracks and leaving absolutely no doubts in his intentions.

Seven.

His Rooks appear as if from nowhere, surrounding the Blighters. They run through empty streets and alleys, blocking all of the exits and sparing none of the templars, and the growing sound of his personal army is one of the best sounds that Jacob has ever heard in his life.

Six.

Jacob’s hands are soaked with someone else’s blood. Blood covers his jacket, drips off his face, getting mixed with sweat and soot. His head is spinning of this endless agitation, adrenaline kicks in and Jacob moves even faster, screaming with rage and some kind of euphoria, cutting through the crowd of templars on his way.

No one can match him. No one can stop him. And no one can survive his blade.

Five.

Jacob breathes in, looking around almost hazily through the eyelashes. Pile of bodies surround him, and he walks forward, stepping over the dead templars. The air is filled with the smell of gunpowder, smoke and explosives. Jacob already knows that London will never forget this night. It will stay on the streets of this city as another scar, cutting right through the middle of it and reminding the people of the newly crowned king of the streets. Oh, the stuff of legends.

Four.

The bright lights of Alhambra are getting closer and Jacob’s heart beats in the anticipation. Isn’t this why he is here? Isn’t this his final destination?

- You just wait…

The whispers slips off Jacob’s lips, and he licks them immediately, feeling the unmistakable taste of blood.  

Three.

He finally walks to Alhambra, raising up his head and seeing the familiar silhouette in one of the windows. Roth…

Two.

Jacob wants to run. Everything inside him beats in the burning excitement and a painful longing. The drums of war are almost deafening and Jacob knows that he needs to finish it here and now.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before.

One.

No one stops him when he enters the theatre and walks right to the open scene. The theatre is quiet, unlike the London streets, and almost none of the chaos that he has caused made its way into the gloomy halls of Alhambra. The darkness parts as Jacob walks forward, stepping through the heavy curtains and letting the chaos in with him.

And there he was.

Maxwell Roth was sitting on some sort of throne, surrounded by the flickering candlelight, holding the goblet in his hand. His thin fingers were running over the heavy metal cup, stroking the intricate ornament. He seemed to not even pay attention what was happening around, but Jacob realized that it was just an illusion – Roth saw everything what happened. He knew.

- And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

The hoarse voice echoes in the empty hall, making Jacob stop just for a second. He knows these lines, he has heard them before. Jacob smirks, touching the gauntlet and unsheathing the hidden blade, still stained with templar’s blood.  

- And not just one, - he shows off the blade, openly bragging, - You know, there are better weapons than the… vorpal sword if you ask me.

Jacob watches as Roth laughs out loud and raises his goblet before making a sip.

- Darling. I have never doubted your intelligence.

The power balance between them shifts before Jacob could even notice it. Each step brings him closer to Roth, and each step makes him lose the unspoken sense of control. The invisible strings are getting loose one by one - Jacob can feel them slipping through his fingers, dissolving into the shadows, burning in the dim light. It should make him panic – but it does not. He steps closer, now walking right to the scene, openly staring at Roth. Daring. Provoking.  

- I have just killed the last ones of your gang. Shouldn’t you be worried at the very least?

At this point Jacob does not even recognize his own voice. He is almost shaking when he walks to the dark throne, eagerly stepping into the shadows that surrounded Roth and watching the man from below, breathing in deeply, desperately trying to calm himself down. Jacob knows that he exists on a sheer adrenaline now. He is a match that needs a single sparkle. A bullet that is ready to be shot. A last drop of blood that balances the scales of life and death.  

- Not at the slightest, my dear. I always knew who you were. In fact… I welcomed you. I always will.  

Roth stands up, stepping to the edge of the scene and suddenly Jacob feels the cold hand on his cheek: delicate fingers are stroking his face, while gently removing the dried blood and smearing the dirt over. Their eyes meet and Jacob’s heart stops beating for a second. The tension is getting unbearable at this point, and just like that Jacob realizes that all his remaining confidence dissipates with a single touch, giving way to something unknown, something that he was terrified to even think about.

And Jacob succumbs.

With the quiet sigh he leans into Roth’s hand, allowing the touch, ready to accept whatever happens next, diving into the abyss, just like he did earlier on the streets of London. Roth’s fingers are stroking his temple, his cheek, they run down to Jacob’s lips, opening them oh so slightly, and Jacob tries his best to hold the needy moan, as he feeling the familiar taste of iron that was now somehow getting mixed with the taste of wine. He can’t even look away, getting completely lost in the gaze of the cold green eyes, staring back at him.

Roth’s fingers are now stroking his hair, letting the messy strands slide over this palm. The grip of his fist is getting tighter, but Jacob does not care. In fact, he welcomes it.

- My dear boy. So much I want to show you…

It is almost a ritual, some sort of a dark and twisted baptism, but Jacob is barely able to process this realization. Instead he is pressing his lips right to the Roth’s palm, gently sliding them down to his wrist just so he could feel the other man’s pulse, desperately wishing it to match his own.

- Come with me. Tonight we celebrate. 

And it does match.

OST: 

Counting Bodies Like Sheep To The Rhythm Of The War Drums

The Untold

My huge thanks to @jocobof and our nightly discussions <3 Oi, listen, it did not end up like I planned, but I hope you’ll enjoy it nonetheless. 

[scotianostra]

August 20th  1872, saw the death of the Scottish "the laureate of the nursery", William Miller.

Miller was born in Glasgow in 1810 and spent most of his boyhood in what is now the city’s Parkhead area. His ambition to become a surgeon was ended by serious illness and he was eventually apprenticed as a wood-turner. He became a skilled craftsman, developing a particular talent for cabinet-making. Early in his life he began writing poetry and children’s rhymes, mainly in the Scots language he used in everyday life.

His song Wee Willie Winkie along with other verse by Miller, first appeared in Whistle Binkie: Stories for the Fireside, a compendium of songs, in 1841, it went on to appear in further editions of that and many, many more publications since then. However it was not received well at first, indeed the editor of Whistle-Binkie,David Robertson was not keen on the grumpy figure personifying sleep and it was received with mixed opinions by Robertson’s friends. To settle the dissent, he dispatched the manuscript to R. M. Ballantyne of Edinburgh (who had himself contributed much to the publication and was the writer of over 100 books in his lifetime) who asserted, according to the Perthshire Advertiser that:

“There is not at this moment in the whole range of Scottish songs, anything more exquisite in its kind than that little Warlock of the Nursery, “Wee Willie Winkie.”

Miller suffered from ill health throughout his life and never managed to make a career solely as a poet and continued to work as a cabinet-maker and wood-turner for most of his life, most of the time from his own house, he did however have his fans, Lord Jeffrey, founder of the prestigious Edinburgh Review, being one, another was the Countess of Selkirk, and it was during one of his bouts of illness it became known she helped the erstwhile poet out when reported in The Glasgow Herald in 1846 that…:

“We learn that the Countess of Selkirk has transmitted to Mr David Robertson of this city, by the hands of the Rev.Mr Underwood of Kirkeudbright, the sum of £2, for behoof of William Miller, the author of “Wee Willie Winkie,” &c.; her Ladyship having been impressed with a favourable opinion of the poet from having perused his Nursery Rhymes. Mr Miller is so much improved, that he is now able to pursue his occupation of a wood-turner.”

In November 1871, an ulceration of the leg forced William give up his trade. Despite the increasing frailties of his body, his mind remained as sharp as ever and he continued to write and disseminate poetry, works which appeared in publications such as The Scotsman. Learning of his condition as an invalid, The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 1st March 1872 urged its readers to furnish monetary contributions ‘for this deserving old poet:

WILLIAM MILLER THE POET.

“Perhaps the most delicious nursery song that has been written by a modern minstrel for the delectation of the “bairns” in these northern regions is the song of “Wee Willie Winkie.” We are sorry to hear that the writer of it has for a long time past been an invalid, and that he is in poor circumstances. William Miller has a strong claim on the public for some help to smooth his declining years. He is now upwards of sixty, and at his advanced age, afflicted as he is with serious disease of the limbs, there is no prospect of his ever being able again to resume work. By trade he is a wood turner, and he resides in Glasgow, of which city he is a native. One who knows him says that his heart seems still young, his mind still vigorous; but he feels his position irksome and his spirit galled that he cannot now, as formerly, earn by the swear of his brow the bread of independence.”

You have to love the language of the day used in these newspapers!

The following July, Miller stayed at Blantyre for a time, hoping that the town’s airs – the settlement was 8 miles from Glasgow – would reinvigorate him. The trip proved futile and he was soon returned to his son’s house in the city, having suffered a paralysis of the lower limbs. He passed away, destitute, at the age of 62 on the 20th August, 1872.

The poet subsequently received a number of obituary notices in the newspapers lamenting the loss of this Scottish talent. The account below, in The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 22nd August, 1872), reports the grim news:

DEATH OF WILLIAM MILLER, THE POET

“The death is announced of William Miller, the nursery poet. He was born in Glasgow in August, 1810. He was early apprenticed to a wood turner, and by diligent application to business made himself one of the best workmen of his craft; and even in his later years there were few who could equal him in the quality of his work. It is, however, as a poet that he is known to fame. In his early youth he published several pieces in the Day and other newspapers; but from the fact that no record of these productions was observed, it is impossible to know when they issued from his pen. 

The first thing that brought him into public notice was the publication of the nursery song “Willie Winkie.” The MS. of this song was sent to Mr. Ballantine in Edinburgh, who gave it unqualified praise, as being the very best poem of its kind that he had ever seen. This led to the publication of the poem, and it at once attracted a large amount of attention. This was followed by a number of other pieces of a similar description, all of which were received with great favour, and led to the author’s acquaintance with Lord Jeffrey and other gentlemen of literary tastes. 

The best of his nursery songs which have obtained for him the well-earned title of the Laureate of the nursery were all written before he was 36 years of age; but it was not till 1863 that, at the request of several friends, he collected together and published a small volume, entitled “Nursery Songs and other Poems.” It had a wide circulation and has earned for the author a reputation that will never decay.

Miller is buried in Tollcross Cemetery in a plot that does not bear his name a sad state of  affairs that led to friends and admirers raising a memorial stone by public subscription and it stands in the Glasgow Necropolis, near the Bridge of Sighs.

In 2009, Glasgow City Council unveiled a tribute to the poet at his former dwelling, 4 Ark Lane in Dennistoun, erecting a bronze plaque on the wall of the Tennent’s Brewery which now sits on the site of William Miller’s house. A blue plaque in the Trongate also serves as a quirky tribute to his most famous creation, declaring that ‘Wee Willie Winkie was spotted here in his nightgown’ in 1841.

It is clear that, even now, William Miller’s pyjama-clad figure still urges children to get into their beds and sleep as a nursery song learnt and replayed the world over

Here is the  Scots version of ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ a rhyme anglicised very soon after its publication:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the toon,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-goon,

Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat’s singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, and disna gie a cheep,

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow’ring like the mune,

Rattling in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoone,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what, wauk’ning sleeping fock.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the wean’s in a creel,

Wambling aff a bodie’s knee like a very eel,

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and raveling a’ her thrums-

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!’

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.

[asfaltics]

A brown moth fluttered.

  The curtain was down, and the carpenters were rearranging the “No, no, no! I can’t breathe       1       volatile I can’t breathe.” And such a fit of suffocating       2   “I can’t breathe,” she would sometimes say       3 and the minisnever! I can’t breathe it in fast enough, nor hard enough, nor long enough.”       4   and started up up. to return to the tent, only to check him No, I can’t breathe the same air self in the act as often as he started, with ye to-night, but ye’ll go into the he lost consciousness in uneasy dreams       5 meet me at the station. I can’t breathe in this wretched       6   “sickening down there — I can’t breathe!  I can’t stand it, Drewe! It’s killing me!” — Tears       7 struggling to altitudes that I can’t breathe in.  I could help him when he was in despair, but he is the sort who       8   sometimes I find I can’t breathe in it.  Perhaps some folks will say “so much the worse for you”       9 it seems if I can’t breathe in the house. not dared hope       10   “Well, I won’t wear ’em. I can’t breathe” “Sure! Blame ’em!” “I can’t breathe a square breath.” Oh       11 things I regret I can’t breathe.       12   bramble bush. I can’t breathe. I can’t eat. I can’t do anything much. It’s clear to my knees.       13 I can't breathe, I can't talk,       14   lying on its “I can’t stay here I can’t breathe” side, the cork half-loosened. A brown moth fluttered.       15 “I can’t breathe beside you.”       16   the needs of any reasonable young lady. “I can't breathe there,       17 I can’t breathe — I really need the rush of this wintry air to restore me!”       18   I can’t breathe no more in that coop upstairs . tablet ; two he said is what you need.” of flame shoots through a stream of oil       19 no friction. It’s friction—rub- / asthmatically.] “I can’t breathe deep — I can light and of reason. But I’ve a notion       20   out of it. I can’t breathe in the dark. I can’t. I / She withdrew       21 “I can’t breathe or feel in”       22   Up a flight of stairs, and there was the girl, sitting on the edge of an untidy bed. The yellow sweater was on the floor. She had on an underskirt and a pink satin camisole. “I can't breathe !” she gasped.       23 I can’t breathe in the dark! I can’t! I can’t! I can’t live in the dark with my eyes open!       24   One never gets it back! How could one! And I can’t breathe just now, on account of       25 that old stuff, I could shriek. I can’t breathe in the same room with you. The very sound of       26   don’t! I can’t — breathe.... I’m all — and bitter howling.       27  

sources (pre-1923; approximately 90 in all, from which these 27 passages, all by women)

1 ex “Her Last Appearance,” in Peters’ Musical Monthly, And United States Musical Review 3:2 (New-York, February 1869), “from Belgravia” : 49-52 (51) “Her Last Appearance” appeared later, “by the author of Lady Audley’s Secret” (M.E. Braddon, 1835-1915 *), in Belgravia Annual (vol. 31; Christmas 1876) : 61-73 2 snippet view ex The Lady’s Friend (1873) : 15 evidently Frances Hodgson Burnett (1849-1924 *) her Vagabondia : A Love Story (New York, 1891) : 286 (Boston, 1884) : 286 (hathitrust) 3 ex “The Story of Valentine; and his Brother.” Part VI. Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine vol. 115 (June 1874) : 713-735 (715) authored by Mrs. [Margaret] Oliphant (1828-97 *), see her The Story of Valentine (1875; Stereotype edition, Edinburgh and London, 1876) : 144 4 OCR confusions at Olive A. Wadsworth, “Little Pilkins,” in Sunday Afternoon : A Monthly Magazine for the Household vol. 2 (July-December 1878) : 73-81 (74) OAW “Only A Woman” was a pseudonym of Katharine Floyd Dana (1835-1886), see spoonercentral. Katharine Floyd Dana also authored Our Phil and Other Stories (Boston and New York, 1889) : here, about which, a passage from a bookseller's description — Posthumously published fictional sketches of “negro character,” first published in the Atlantic Monthly under the pseudonym Olive A. Wadsworth. The title story paints a picture of plantation life Dana experienced growing up on her family’s estate in Mastic, Long Island. Although a work of fiction set in Maryland, the character of Phil may of been named for a slave once jointly owned by the Floyds and a neighboring family. source see also the William Buck and Katherine Floyd Dana collection, 1666-1912, 1843-1910, New York State Historical Documents (researchworks). 5 OCR cross-column misread, at M(ary). H(artwell). Catherwood (1847-1902 *), “The Primitive Couple,” in Lippincott’s Magazine of Popular Literature and Science 36 (August 1885) : 138-146 (145) author of historical romances, short stories and poetry, and dubbed the “Parkman of the West,” her papers are at the Newberry Library (Chicago) 6 ex Marie Corelli (Mary Mackay; 1855-1924 *), Thelma, A Norwegian Princess: A Novel, Book II. The Land of Mockery. Chapter 12 (New Edition, London, 1888) : 432 7 preview snippet (only), at Ada Cambridge (1844-1926 *), Fidelis, a Novel ( “Cheap Edition for the Colonies and India,” 1895) : 289 full scan, (New York, 1895) : 261 born and raised in England, spent much of her life in Australia (died in Melbourne); see biography (and 119 of her poems) at the Australia Poetry Library in particular, the striking poems from Unspoken Thoughts (1887) here (Thomas Hardy comes to mind) 8 snippet view (only) at F(rances). F(rederica), Montrésor (1862-1934), At the Cross-Roads (London, 1897) : 297 but same page (and scan of entirety) at hathitrust see her entry At the Circulating Library (Database of Victorian Fiction 1837-1901) an interesting family. Montrésor’s The Alien: A Story of Middle Age (1901) is dedicated to her sister, C(harlotte). A(nnetta). Phelips (1858-1925), who was devoted to work for the blind. See entry in The Beacon, A Monthly magazine devoted to the interests of the blind (May 1925) a great-granddaughter of John Montresor (1737-99), a British military engineer and cartographer, whose colorful (and unconventional) life is sketched at wikipedia. 9 Alice H. Putnam, “An Open Letter,” in Kindergarten Review 9:5 (Springfield, Massachusetts; January 1899) : 325-326 Alice Putnam (1841-1919) opened the first private kindergarten in Chicago; Froebel principles... (wikipedia); see also “In Memory of Alice H. Putnam” in The Kindergarten-primary Magazine 31:7 (March 1919) : 187 (hathitrust) 10 OCR cross-column misread, at Mabel Nelson Thurston (1869?-1965?), “The Palmer Name,” in The Congregationalist and Christian World 86:30 (27 July 1901) : 134-135 author of religiously inflected books (seven titles at LC); first female admitted for entry at George Washington University (in 1888). GWU archives 11 OCR cross-column misread, at Margaret Grant, “The Romance of Kit Dunlop,” Beauty and Health : Woman’s Physical Development 7:6 (March 1904): 494-501 (499 and 500) the episodic story starts at 6:8 (November 1903) : 342 12 ex Marie van Vorst (1867-1936), “Amanda of the Mill,” The Bookman : An illustrated magazine of literature and life 21 (April 1905) : 190-209 (191) “writer, researcher, painter, and volunteer nurse during World War I.” wikipedia 13 ex Maude Morrison Huey, “A Change of Heart,” in The Interior (The sword of the spirit which is the Word of God) 36 (Chicago, April 20, 1905) : 482-484 (483) little information on Huey, who is however mentioned in Paula Bernat Bennett, her Poets in the Public Sphere : The Emancipatory Project of American Women's Poetry, 1800-1900 (2003) : 190 14 ex Leila Burton Wells, “The Lesser Stain,” The Smart Set, A Magazine of Cleverness 19:3 (July 1906) : 145-154 (150) aside — set in the Philippines, where “The natives were silent, stolid, and uncompromising.” little information on Wells, some of whose stories found their way to the movie screen (see IMDB) The Smart Set ran from March 1900-June 1930; interesting story (and decline): wikipedia 15 OCR cross-column misread, at Josephine Daskam Bacon (1876-1961 *), “The Hut in the Wood: A Tale of the Bee Woman and the Artist,” in Collier’s, The National Weekly 41:12 (Saturday, June 13, 1908) : 12-14 16 ex E. H. Young, A Corn of Wheat (1910) : 90 Emily Hilda Daniell (1880-1949), novelist, children’s writer, mountaineer, suffragist... wrote under the pseudonym E. H. Young. (wikipedia) 17 ex Mary Heaton Vorse (1874-1966), “The Engagements of Jane,” in Woman’s Home Companion (May 1912) : 17-18, 92-93 Illustrated by Florence Scovel Shinn (1871-1940, artist and book illustrator who became a New Thought spiritual teacher and metaphysical writer in her middle years. (wikipedia)) Mary Heaton Vorse — journalist, labor activist, social critic, and novelist. “She was outspoken and active in peace and social justice causes, such as women's suffrage, civil rights, pacifism (such as opposition to World War I), socialism, child labor, infant mortality, labor disputes, and affordable housing.” (wikipedia). 18 ex snippet view, at “Voices,” by Runa, translated for the Companion by W. W. K., in Lutheran Companion 20:3 (Rock Island, Illinois; Saturday, January 20, 1912) : 8 full view at hathitrust same passage in separate publication as Voices, By Runa (pseud. of E. M. Beskow), from the Swedish by A. W. Kjellstrand (Rock Island, Illinois, 1912) : 292 E(lsa). M(aartman). Beskow (1874-1953), Swedish author and illustrator of children’s books (Voices seems rather for older children); see wikipedia 19 ex Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “The Good Provider,” in The Saturday Evening Post 187:1 (August 15, 1914) : 12-16, 34-35 20 OCR cross-column misread, at Anne O’Hagan, “Gospels of Hope for Women: A few new creeds, all of them modish—but expensive” in Vanity Fair (February 1915) : 32 Anne O’Hagan Shinn (1869-1933) — feminist, suffragist, journalist, and writer of short stories... “known for her writings detailing the exploitation of young women working as shop clerks in early 20th Century America... O’Hagan participated in several collaborative fiction projects...” (wikipedia) a mention of St. Anselm, whose “sittings” are free, vis-à-vis “Swami Bunkohkahnanda”... “Universal Harmonic Vibrations”... 21 OCR cross-column misread (three columns), at Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “White Goods” (Illustrations by May Wilson Preston) in Metropolitan Magazine 42:3 (July 1915) : 19-22, 53 repeated, different source and without OCR misread, at 24 below 22 ex Mary Patricia Willcocks, The Sleeping Partner (London, 1919) : 47 (snippet only) full at hathitrust see onlinebooks for this and other of her titles. something on Mary Patricia Willcocks (1869-1952) at ivybridge-heritage. in its tone and syntax, her prose brings Iris Murdoch to mind. 23 Katharine Wendell Pedersen, “Clingstones, A week in a California cannery.” in New Outlook vol. 124 (February 4, 1920) : 193-194 no information about the author. the journal began life as The Christian Union (1870-1893) and continued under the new title into 1928; it ceased publication in 1935; it was devoted to social and political issues, and was against Bolshevism (wikipedia) 24 ex Fannie Hurst (1885-1968 *), “White Goods,” in her Humoresque : A Laugh on Life with a Tear Behind it (1919, 1920) : 126-169 (155) 25 ex snippet view, at Letters and poems of Queen Elisabeth (Carmen Sylva), with an introduction and notes by Henry Howard Harper. Volume 2 (of 2; Boston, Printed for members only, The Bibliophile society, 1920) : 51 (hathitrust) Carmen Sylva was “the pen name of Elisabeth, queen consort of Charles I, king of Rumania” (1843-1916 *) 26 OCR cross-column misread, at Ruth Comfort Mitchell, “Corduroy” (Part Three; Illustrated by Frederick Anderson), in Woman’s Home Companion 49:8 (August 1922) : 21-23, 96-97 (hathitrust) Ruth Comfort Mitchell Young (1882-1954), poet, dramatist, etc., and owner of a remarkable house (in a “Chinese” style) in Los Gatos, California (wikipedia) 27 Helen Otis, “The Christmas Waits,” in Woman’s Home Companion 49:12 (Christmas 1922) : 36 probably Helen Otis Lamont (1897-1993), about whom little is found, save this “Alumna Interview: Helen Otis Lamont, Class of 1916” (Packer Collegiate Institute, Brooklyn, 1988) at archive.org (Brooklyn Historical Society)

—

prompted by : recent thoughts about respiration (marshes, etc.); Pfizer round-one recovery focus on the shape of one breath, then another; inhalation, exhalation and the pleasure of breathing; and for whom last breaths are no pleasure (far from it); last breaths (Robert Seelthaler The Field (2021) in the background).

1 of n

all tagged breath all tagged cento  

[thecoleopterawithana]

The Walrus

I Am The Walrus (1967): I am he as you are he as you are me / And we are all together [...] / I am the egg man / They are the egg men / I am the walrus

.

Glass Onion (1968): I told you about the walrus and me, man / You know we're as close as can be, man / Well here's another clue for you all / The walrus was Paul

.

God (1970): I don't believe in Beatles / I just believe in me / Yoko and me / And that's reality | The dream is over / What can I say? / The dream is over / Yesterday / I was the Dreamweaver / But now I'm reborn / I was the Walrus / But now I'm John

.

(Just Like) Starting Over [Take 2] (1980): Every day we used to make it, love / So why can’t we be making love, it’s easy / The time has come, the Walrus said, / For you and me to stay in bed again / It’ll be just like starting over

-

[T]hrowing in the line “the Walrus was Paul” just to confuse everybody a bit more. And because I felt slightly guilty because I’d got Yoko, and he’d got nothing, and I was gonna quit. [laughs; bleak] And so I thought ‘Walrus’ has now become [in] meaning, “I am the one.” It didn’t mean that in the song, originally. It just meant I’m the – it could have been I’m the – “I’m The Fox Terrier,” you know. I mean, it’s just a bit of poetry.

— John Lennon, interviewed by David Sheff for Playboy (August 1980).

-

We saw the movie in LA, and the Walrus was a big capitalist that ate all the fucking oysters. I always had the image of the Walrus in the garden and I loved it, and so I didn't ever check what the Walrus was. He's a fucking bastard - that's what he turns out to be. But the way it's written, everybody presumes that means something. I mean, even I did. We all just presumed that because I said 'I am the Walrus' that it must mean 'I am God' or something. It's just poetry, but it became symbolic of me.

— John Lennon (1970), in The Beatles’ Anthology (2000).

-

The camera work [in Let It Be] was set-up to show Paul and not anybody else. And that’s how I felt about it. On top of that, the people that cut it, did it as if Paul is God and we are just lyin’ around there. And that’s what I felt.

— John Lennon, interviewed by Jann Wenner for The Rolling Stone (December 1970).

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The Walrus and The Carpenter. Alice in Wonderland. And it was only years later that I went back to check what [it meant] – because I never went into that bit about what Lewis Carroll really meant, you know, like people are doing with The Beatles’ work, or anybody’s work. All that digging into— Lewis Carroll was commenting on the capitalist and socialist system at the time, with the walrus and the carpenter representing, uh, social positions. It had never dawned on me, anything like that. To me, it was just a beautiful poem.

And then I looked back, after ‘I Am The Walrus’, and people had gone into all this depth about what it really means and all that. It just meant nothing, you know. It was just an image. Just like asking – it’s like asking [Federico] Fellini, “What does that image two-thirds of the way through Juliet of the Spirits mean?” It doesn’t mean anything without the rest of it. You can isolate a frame and talk about it forever, but it’s just a game. So then I – but I did look back at ‘Walrus’ and realize – oh. I said, “I am the walrus,” but the carpenter’s the good guy in that story, apparently. I should have said, “I am the carpenter,” but it doesn’t make sense. “I am the carpenter.”

— John Lennon, interviewed by David Sheff for Playboy (August 1980).

-

‘You like poetry?’

‘Ye-es, pretty well—some poetry,’ Alice said doubtfully. ‘Would you tell me which road leads out of the wood?’ ‘What shall I repeat to her?’ said Tweedledee, looking round at Tweedledum with great solemn eyes, and not noticing Alice’s question. ‘“The Walrus and the Carpenter” is the longest,’ Tweedledum replied, giving his brother an affectionate hug. Tweedledee began instantly:       ‘The sun was shining—’ Here Alice ventured to interrupt him. ‘If it’s very long,’ she said, as politely as she could, ‘would you please tell me first which road—’ Tweedledee smiled gently, and began again:     

    ‘The sun was shining on the sea,      Shining with all his might:     He did his very best to make      The billows smooth and bright—     And this was odd, because it was      The middle of the night.

    The moon was shining sulkily,      Because she thought the sun     Had got no business to be there      After the day was done—     “It’s very rude of him,” she said,      “To come and spoil the fun!”

    The sea was wet as wet could be,      The sands were dry as dry.     You could not see a cloud, because      No cloud was in the sky:     No birds were flying over head—      There were no birds to fly.

    The Walrus and the Carpenter      Were walking close at hand;     They wept like anything to see      Such quantities of sand:     “If this were only cleared away,”       They said, “it would be grand!”

    “If seven maids with seven mops      Swept it for half a year,     Do you suppose,” the Walrus said,      “That they could get it clear?”      “I doubt it,” said the Carpenter,      And shed a bitter tear.

    “O Oysters, come and walk with us!”       The Walrus did beseech.     “A pleasant walk, a pleasant talk,      Along the briny beach:     We cannot do with more than four,      To give a hand to each.”

    The eldest Oyster looked at him.      But never a word he said:     The eldest Oyster winked his eye,      And shook his heavy head—     Meaning to say he did not choose      To leave the oyster-bed.

    But four young oysters hurried up,      All eager for the treat:     Their coats were brushed, their faces washed,      Their shoes were clean and neat—     And this was odd, because, you know,      They hadn’t any feet.

    Four other Oysters followed them,      And yet another four;     And thick and fast they came at last,      And more, and more, and more—     All hopping through the frothy waves,      And scrambling to the shore.

    The Walrus and the Carpenter      Walked on a mile or so,     And then they rested on a rock      Conveniently low:     And all the little Oysters stood      And waited in a row.

    “The time has come,” the Walrus said,      “To talk of many things:     Of shoes—and ships—and sealing-wax—      Of cabbages—and kings—     And why the sea is boiling hot—      And whether pigs have wings.”

    “But wait a bit,” the Oysters cried,      “Before we have our chat;     For some of us are out of breath,      And all of us are fat!”      “No hurry!” said the Carpenter.      They thanked him much for that.

    “A loaf of bread,” the Walrus said,      “Is what we chiefly need:     Pepper and vinegar besides      Are very good indeed—     Now if you’re ready Oysters dear,      We can begin to feed.”

     “But not on us!” the Oysters cried,      Turning a little blue,     “After such kindness, that would be      A dismal thing to do!”      “The night is fine,” the Walrus said      “Do you admire the view?

    “It was so kind of you to come!      And you are very nice!”      The Carpenter said nothing but      “Cut us another slice:     I wish you were not quite so deaf—      I’ve had to ask you twice!”

    “It seems a shame,” the Walrus said,      “To play them such a trick,     After we’ve brought them out so far,      And made them trot so quick!”      The Carpenter said nothing but      “The butter’s spread too thick!”

    “I weep for you,” the Walrus said.      “I deeply sympathize.”      With sobs and tears he sorted out      Those of the largest size.     Holding his pocket handkerchief      Before his streaming eyes.

    “O Oysters,” said the Carpenter.      “You’ve had a pleasant run!     Shall we be trotting home again?”       But answer came there none—     And that was scarcely odd, because      They’d eaten every one.’

‘I like the Walrus best,’ said Alice: ‘because you see he was a little sorry for the poor oysters.’ ‘He ate more than the Carpenter, though,’ said Tweedledee. ‘You see he held his handkerchief in front, so that the Carpenter couldn’t count how many he took: contrariwise.’ ‘That was mean!’ Alice said indignantly. ‘Then I like the Carpenter best—if he didn’t eat so many as the Walrus.’ ‘But he ate as many as he could get,’ said Tweedledum. This was a puzzler. After a pause, Alice began, ‘Well! They were both very unpleasant characters’

— in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (1871).

-

Bonus:

He and Yoko came round to Cavendish Avenue and John and I went out into the garden for half an hour, because there were a couple of things he needed me to finish up, but it was his song, his idea, and he worked on the arrangement with George Martin. It was a particularly good arrangement, I think. It was a nice song of John's. We had a fun moment when we were working on the bit, 'I've got news for you all, the walrus was Paul.' Because, although we'd never planned it, people read into our songs and little legends grew up about every item of so-called significance, so on this occasion we decided to plant one.

What John meant was that in Magical Mystery Tour, when we came to do the costumes on 'I Am the Walrus', it happened to be me in the walrus costume. It was not significant at all, but it was a nice little twist to the legend that we threw in.

— Paul McCartney, in Barry Miles’ Many Years From Now (1997).

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'Walrus' is just saying a dream - the words don't mean a lot. People draw so many conclusions and it's ridiculous.

— John Lennon (1969), in The Beatles’ Anthology (2000).

-

[T]he Red Queen said to Alice. ‘Always speak the truth—think before you speak—and write it down afterwards.’

‘I’m sure I didn’t mean—’ Alice was beginning, but the Red Queen interrupted her impatiently.

‘That’s just what I complain of! You should have meant! What do you suppose is the use of child without any meaning? Even a joke should have some meaning—and a child’s more important than a joke, I hope. You couldn’t deny that, even if you tried with both hands.’

—  in Lewis Carroll’s Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There (1871).

-

[P]eople’s expressions and feelings come out in their work whether they want it to or not. So I always express myself directly, or [in the] language of the streets, and other people don’t.

— John Lennon, interview with DJ Elliot Mintz (16 April 1973).

-

I think everything that comes out of the songs – even Paul’s songs now, which are apparently about nothing – the same way as calligraphy shows and your handwriting shows you everything about yourself. Or [Bob] Dylan too. Dylan might try to hide in a subterfuge of clever, Allen Ginsberg-type words, or hippie words, but it was always apparent, if you look below the surface, what is being said. Resentfulness, or love, or hate. And it’s apparent in all work. It’s just harder to see when it’s… written in gobbledy-gook.

— John Lennon, interviewed by David Sheff for Playboy (August 1980).

-

For more on the theme of merged identities, broken dreams and fallen idols: I Just Believe In Me | John’s Disillusionment

For more on meaning in songs: The Surrealist

For more Lewis Carroll

[historicalemily]

more tag games!!

seen on @that-history-student and it’s a fun tag game and I’m in a lull right now in back to school prep so I figured I’d give it a go 😂

Name: Emily 

Star Sign: Gemini

Height: 5 something?

Middle Name: Paige

Put your ITunes on shuffle. What are the first four songs that popped up?

Bring Them All/Holy Grime - Wiley

Give Me Love - Ed Sheeran

My Song - Alessia Cara

Don’t Blame Me - Taylor Swift

Grab the book nearest to you and turn to page 23. What’s line 17?

“...inevitable triumph in the unification of Germany in 1871. They...”

(In Defense of History, Richard J. Evans. I read some really interesting stuff guys)

Have you ever had a poem or song written about you?

...no

When was the last time you played air guitar?

two nights ago at the Taylor Swift reputation concert (!!!)

Who is your celebrity crush?

hmmm so I just finished watching Downton Abbey so I have to say Dan Stevens rn

What is a sound that you hate + love?

I HATE WHEN PEOPLE SMACK THEIR GUM + I love love love thunder?

Do you believe in ghosts?

if you watch buzzfeed unsolved this will probably make sense to you, but if you don’t it’s going to sound like nonsense 😂 I want to be a Shaniac and be super nonchalant because how could we ever prove ghosts exist? But then anything slightly spooky happens and I go full Boogara and panic and start looking for my holy water

How about aliens?

the universe is literally infinite (to our knowledge), how could we possibly be the only ones here?

Do you drive?

Yes (and I hate it)

If so, have you ever crashed?

I’ve had two people hit me and both times I was parked with my car off. But no I’ve never gotten into a crash. And now I need to go find some wood to frantically knock on

What was the last book you read?

I reread Fangirl because I was just in the mood, but the last book that I read for the first time was Faithful Place by Tana French (I’m taking a break from history books rn because I’m about to go back to school and I’ll be taking 3-4 history classes? Trying to avoid burn out)

Do you like the smell of gasoline?

YES

What was the last movie you saw?

Blindspotting

What’s the worst injury you had?

So my senior year of high school I started training for a half marathon in August and the race was in February and the week before the race I sprained my ankle but I RAN THE RACE ANYWAYS and it really messed up my ankle and knee and then a week after the race I was playing in a lacrosse game. My ankle has never been the same

Do you have any obsessions right now?

I’ve pretty much only been listening to Taylor Swift since the concert? But I wouldn’t say that it’s an obsession

Do you tend to hold grudges against people?

Holding grudges runs in my family, but I really try not to

Are you in a relationship?

nope I’m really trying to focus on school and getting my degree

tagging ~anybody~ who wants to do it!

[nam00n]

i'd love to!!! thank you sm again corn for tagging me :)

(it turned out to be much longer than i expected it to be so sorry abt that)

the first person would be arthur rimbaud. he first excelled at the age of 15 with his latin poems, quickly gaining fame. victor hugo called him the 'teenager shakespeare' and was known as the 'child genius' . the main theme of his poems is adolescent erotica, but he loved to write about freedom, hatred of tyranny, and social injustice. brazenness, discourteousness, satirizing his predecessors and how hot- tempered he was made him notorious.

the reason why he made me think of (esp hdb) laito was because of his relationship with verlaine.

in 1871, the 17 years old rimbaud sent the 27 years old verlaine letters with several of his poems. verlaine was intrigued and sent him a one-way ticket to paris. that's how their hectic, at-times-violent romantic relationship started which lasted nearly two years.

their stormy relationship eventually brought them to london in september 1872, a period over which rimbaud would later express regret. during this time, verlaine abandoned his wife and infant son (both of whom he had abused in his alcoholic rages). the relationship between the two poets grew increasingly bitter, and verlaine abandoned him to meet his wife.

here comes the most important part! they exchanged letters in which rimbaud is begging verlaine to come back to him while saying manipulative words:

“do you think that your life will be more pleasant with other people than it was with me? think about it! - oh! surely not!„

“think of what you were before you knew me!„

he suddenly changed his tone, wanting verlaine to think that he was the one having control over the other:

“come back, come back, dear friend, only friend, come back. i promise to be good” the letter opens, and ends “my life is yours”

in other letters, he goes back to making verlaine feel guilty, making him think that he is to blame and he has no other choice but to be with him:

“one single true word, is: come back, i want to be with you, i love you, if you listen to this, you will show courage and a sincere spirit. otherwise, i pity you„

“yes, dear little one, i shall stay one more week. and you will come, won't you?„

an extremely important line from one of verlaine's letter is:

“do you want me to kiss you with my dying breath?„

verlaine returned to paris alone, but quickly began to mourn rimbaud's absence. the reunion went badly, they argued continuously, and verlaine took refuge in heavy drinking. on the morning of 10 july, verlaine bought a revolver and ammunition. in a drunken rage, he fired two shots at rimbaud, one of them wounding the 18-year-old in the left wrist after rimbaud wanted to end the relationship between the two of them.

one of rimbaud's masterpieces “une saison en enfer” (a season in hell) could be read as a demonic diary of their relationship. in the work it is widely interpreted that he refers to verlaine as his "pitiful brother" (frère pitoyable) and the "foolish virgin" (vierge folle), and to himself as the "hellish husband" (l'époux infernal), and described their life together as a "domestic farce" (drôle de ménage). “He was very nearly a child,” says the foolish virgin of the hellish husband. “his mysterious ways seduced me... he’s doubtless a demon, for he is certainly not a man.„

the movie, total eclipse beautifully represented their relationship, i wouldn't recommend it to weak-hearted people tho because it was brutal at times

another poet i'd like to mention was one of rimbaud's inspiration and one of my favorite poets of all times, françois villon.

villon was involved in criminal behavior and had multiple encounters with law enforcement authorities. He was countless times arrested, inhumanly tortured and condemned to be hanged. he was accused of stealing, murdering and getting into fights, there were also times when he was punished due to misunderstanding.

the court and other civil documents reveal some information about his life, his two collections of poems, especially "le grand testament" have also traditionally been read as if they were autobiographical. le grand testament has generally been judged villon's greatest work, and there is evidence in the work itself that he felt the same.

the varied themes of his poems included mostly his life, the suffering he'd gone through, poverty, religion, getting drunk and put emphasis on women he'd been with.

he understood perfectly the medieval courtly ideal, but he often chose to write against the grain, reversing the values and celebrating the lowlifes destined for the gallows, falling happily into parody or lewd jokes, and constantly innovating in his diction and vocabulary; a few minor poems make extensive use of parisian thieves' slang and the underworld subculture in which he moved

his poems are sprinkled with mysteries and hidden jokes, full of names of real people – rich men, royal officials, lawyers, prostitutes, and policemen – he'd known

"mais où sont les neiges d'antan?" ("but where are the snows of yesteryear?") quoted from "ballade des dames du temps jadis" is one of the most famous lines of translated poetry which is used to express nostalgia, sadness, or regret for the time in one's past that one cannot revisit or reclaim.

although he loved to go to pubs and spent most of his time in brothels, he was a cultimated man. he knew the bible, virgil and other classics by heart. especially loved literature, history, arts, theology and astronomy. he was more intelligent than they give him credit for, the same could be said about laito

one of my favorite ballads from his is ballade des menus propos (which could be translated to 'ballad of small things') in which he's talking about how he knows everything there is to know, the only mystery, that he cannot comprehend is himself:

“prince, i know everything all in all

i know colored and pale ones

i know death which consumes everything

i know everything except for my own self„

he also loved to write in the perspective of a woman, being submissive in the relationship. it's canon that laito loves cross-dressing, i have no doubt that villon would have loved it as well:

“he could drag me through the dirt,

trample me underfoot, i'd love him,

break my back, whatever's worse,

if only he'd ask for a kiss again,

i'd soon forget then every pain.

a glutton, full of what he could win,

he'd embrace me – with him i've lain.

what's he left me? shame and sin„

(les regrets de la belle heaulmière)

despite having relationships with numerous women, innumerable one-night stands, heaven knows, one if his lovers even sent him to court, he had a heart which was capable of pure emotion and he did feel guilty for everything he did, he'd never seen himself as someone who deserved love or affection:

“... my name has since been 'the stabbed and denied lover'

so i refuse love, i loathe it with my whole soul,

it decides to put me in mortal danger,

and now i am nothing to it.

the days of amour has passed,

i am no longer interested in the suitors;

if i had been one in my days,

i declare, never again!„

“still - i'd rather kill love itself than her...

had she treated everyone the same way like she did to me?

i don't know and i don't care anymore„

(le grand testament)

the most important and perhaps even more interesting relationship of his was with margot, who appeared in a lot of his poems. margot was a prostitute who didn't love him at all and perhaps, villon never wanted to be loved by her. he knew that what they had was nowhere near a healthy connection, it was based on cheating on one another and didn't contain a bit of trust:

“we relish in filth, so does filth surround us,

we flee honour, so does honour flee us„

(ballade de la grosse margot)

another favorite of mine is called le débat du coeur et du corps de villon (the debate of villon's heart and body) in which his heart is slowly dying due to the life he's living, suffering the consequences of his actions while his body refuses to give up on that exact lifestyle which is destroying it

i hope my answer was fulfilling and also engrossing a bit! i had a lot of fun (maybe way too much, considering the length)

idk if this sounds stupid (i hope not lmao) but i was wondering, which character of literature (italian, english, french etc.) would you associate laito with? idk even slightly with some characteristic etc

Omg there's no such thing as a stupid question, and especially on this blog!!! I love answering questions like these as well, so don't worry! :) thanks for stopping by, anon!

Oh man, if you're talking about classic literature or even present day literature ngl I––I really only read comics nowadays (lmao I really have to get back into reading novels again) but from what I can remember from what I read in high school, I would relate the Underground Man from Notes from Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky! I'm also biased and haven't retained much of the knowledge of classics I read, and Notes from Underground is my favorite classic novel, tied with A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.

But if you haven't read it, it's basically this fictional man telling you about his life and some philosophy rants, and you come to find out he's this nihilistic, sadomasochistic man who just kinda hates humans. He's pretty complex from what I remember, and kinda reminds me of some of Laito's inner workings, especially in HDB where he projects a lot of his own feelings and trauma onto other people. But they can be vastly different in aspects, so I don't think the Underground Man is exactly like Laito, but I totally recommend reading it for some good philosophy reading!

I'm gonna toss this question to @nam00n who knows about classic literature way more than I do! And I'm pretty sure she also has an answer as well :) we've kinda talked about it!

if you don't wanna talk about it Bee that's totally fine tho!!!

But thanks again anon, this was a very interesting question! If anyone else has characters they relate Laito with in literature (and if I also think of any more I'll reblog this with my other answers!) feel free to let me know! I would love to see everyone's responses!

[second-year-film-sasha]

research folio questions

1: Where did my side come from?

- inspired by works of Lewis Carroll (Alice in wonderland, the Jabberwocky)

- elements of an original idea I had for a personal project

2: A few key points 

- genre: Fantasy (dark fantasy), fairy tale, Gothic

- what characters are in it: Jabberwocky, Girl, assortment of magical creatures (background)

- what is your intention: to create a visually appealing film that explores a particular storyline through dance. I would also like to challenge myself in stop motion animation and I think that dancing is a suitably challenging yet not overdone concept

- Audience: late teens to early adult women, members of the LGBTQA+ community (mostly w/w).

- where is it set: undecided at the moment, but I think either a ballroom or a forested alcove , both incorporating gothic and/or fantasy elements. somewhere with a lot of space for movement and maybe props to allow for shifts in comparative heights of the main characters.

- ethical considerations: the implication of both characters being LGBTQA+ should be handled with care so as not to misrepresent.

- are you adapting your idea from an existing story: yes, I am basing the story beats off of Lewis Carroll’s ‘The Jabberwocky’ which is in the public domain as the author died at least 100 years ago and the poem was published in 1871

3: do they resemble an existing story/concept?

- In terms of animation, most adaptions of the Jabberwocky are minimalistic and 2d/puppet animation, with the poem being read by a voiceover.

[senfonikankara]

Camille SAINT‑SAËNS (1835‑1921)

'I compose music', said Camille Saint-Saëns, 'as a tree produces apples.' A child prodigy, virtuoso pianist and accomplished travel writer, the prolific French composer came to embody the spirit of Classicism in an era of high Romantic creativity. Yet the elegance and formality of his music never overwhelm the unstoppable verve and spontaneity that make it so irresistible.

[ Yazının Türkçe Çevirisi ]

Saint-Saëns took pride in his family's Normandy roots, but his father had moved to Paris before his birth and Camille was thoroughly Parisian in his upbringing and outlook. After his father died of tuberculosis, he was brought up by his mother and an aunt. They encouraged the signs of genius that saw him deliver written compositions before he was four and make a public appearance aged five, playing the piano part in a Beethoven violin sonata.

By the age of ten, he was good enough to perform two concertos alongside several solo pieces in a legendary concert at the Salle Pleyel concert hall in Paris. Study at the Conservatoire followed, then a solo career to go alongside his composing work. This was bolstered by organist posts at prestigious Paris churches where his awe-inspiring improvisation skills had the chance to flourish.

For a while in the 1860s Saint-Saëns taught at the École Niedermeyer, an alternative to the Conservatoire that had more of an interest in early music, where the composers Gabriel Fauré and André Messager were among his students. He married in 1875, quickly fathering two sons. Both died in 1878, one by falling from a window. Saint-Saëns blamed his wife and left her three years later. Subsequently, he travelled widely and adventurously, frequently visiting Algeria.

Throughout his life he was an intellectual omnivore, especially in the sciences, writing intelligently and engagingly on a wide range of subjects, and maintained a vigorous presence on the Paris musical scene. In 1871 he was the driving force behind the new Société Nationale de Musique, formed to promote instrumental music in the face both of German pre-eminence - this was the year after the Franco-Prussian War - and of the city's obsession with opera.

Later he was an opponent of Wagner's influence and then of Debussy. But among composers, he held the respect not only of Fauré but of Maurice Ravel and the generation of composers led by Francis Poulenc that followed shortly. Clearly, Saint-Saëns was one of the great musicians of his time. His compositions are the fruit of an agile brain, finding unexpected colours in familiar instruments and treating standard musical forms in original ways.

His qualities are at their sharpest in his five piano concertos, all vehicles for his nimble playing. The Second, the most performed, opens with a Bach-like theme and continues at ever greater speeds. In the Fourth, the four movements merge into two pairs, linked by a tissue of developing themes. The Fifth is full of exotic effects and evocations of Egypt (he wrote the piece in Luxor, famous for its ruined temples), and ends with a ragtime romp. 

With Le Rouet d'Omphale (Omphale's Spinning Wheel, 1871) he composed the first French symphonic poem. And in his final symphony of 1886 he launched a new French interest in the form. This, the Third Symphony, also known as the 'Organ' Symphony, uses a two-movement plan similar to his Fourth Piano Concerto. Everything grows from two brief themes towards a spectacular culmination in accelerating rhythms, lavishly orchestrated with great skill.

One of the symphony's most fetching effects, a piano duet rippling against string harmonies, was recycled the same year in the movement titled 'Aquarium' in his Carnaval des Animaux ('Carnival of the Animals'). Saint-Saëns would only allow this satirical piece to be played in private in his lifetime as he feared its light-hearted character would tarnish his reputation as a serious composer. All, that is, except for one movement: 'The Swan'.

Played by a solo cello and piano duet, the lyrical melody has a depth of felling that is unusual for Saint-Saëns. In music and in person, he was affected by an emotional inhibition that limited the truly affecting moments in his work. Opera, in all its human and dramatic dimensions, was a struggle. He had great difficulty in securing performances of Samson et Dalila, only doing so when his friend Liszt came to the rescue with an 1877 production in Weimar. It soon became a fixture in the Paris Opera repertoire but its success was not to be repeated.

Of Saint-Saëns's later operas only Henry VIII survived for long. Even Samson, still popular today, relies on two arias that really capture Delilah's character, suggesting a complex mix of sensuality and scheming. Some of the rest is engaging to the ear, but the story is short of opportunities for theatrical thrills. Yes, the temple is brought crashing down at the climax, but everybody knew it this was going to happen anyway.

Living on for half a century after he founded the Société Nationale, Saint-Saëns was able to witness the great flowering of French chamber music that took place during the period, led by his pupil Fauré. Not everything was to his taste, however. As the dedicatee of César Franck's Piano Quintet (1880), he took part in the premiere, but walked out at the end leaving his inscribed score on the piano. Apparently its passionate expression, inspired by a controversial love interest of Franck's, was too much for him. Saint-Saëns made major contributions of his own to the chamber repertoire, including sonatas for violin and for cello and a superb Septet featuring solo trumpet. Then, right at the end of his life, he began a series of woodwind sonatas. In their understanding of the instruments' capabilities, their compact forms and their focused expression they are among his most perfect achievements.

Source: Sinfini Music

[lit387]

Tyehimba Jess, Reconstruction 2.0

 The Fisk Jubilee Singers began in 1871 as an acapella ensemble of students from Fisk University, established only six months after the end of the American Civil War.   The university was in need of funds, so the group of 11 students went on tour, singing traditional Negro spirituals.  They did not perform in the traditional minstrel show format made popular after the Reconstruction period; instead, they sang the songs of the black slaves and the newly freed slaves.  As they toured the US, they faced racism, but that did not deter them.  After a show in Chicago, they turned over their small earnings to the people displaced by the Chicago Fire of that same year.  After they had given themselves the name of The Fisk Jubilee Singers, they continued on their tour, eventually earning $40,000 for the University.  The Fisk Jubilee Singers still exist today, but the very first members were never recorded, having set out on their tour only five years after the end of the Civil War, during the time of Reconstruction which brought about more struggle for the newly freed slaves than their time during slavery.  The first recording of the Fisk Jubilee Singers was in 1909, but until that moment history has not heard their voices. "Olio" opens with a Fisk Jubilee Proclamation, a narrative which looks like a poem but breathes witness to the voices of the students still in the waning shadow of slavery. As they navigate their way through a country where Reconstruction is, at the time, nothing more than a social construct directed by the government, they come across racism. It had yet to enter into the hearts of the people.  Tyehimba Jess does this:  he creates a narrative in the form of interactive poetic forms to not only give voice to freed African Americans entertainers during that time of Reconstruction up until World War I but to give shape to the sound of their voices.

Tyehimba Jess did not introduce me to poetry, but he did teach me to like poetry.  His various shapes of a narrative are poems within the voice he gives to those who did not have a voice refreshed my opinion of poetics.  No, I wasn't a fan of poetry, my words need to mean what they say and say what they mean, and punctuation is important.  An odd thing to say for someone who majors in English Literature, but Jess comes from the same cloth.  Instead of maintaining the hard lines of iambic pentameter and the other 49 versions of poems, he manipulates those forms to shape the black experience he formulates as what could be the voices of the silent.  Olio is not Jess's first trip in the world of historical fact, his Lead Belly is the same content, if not as free with the shapes of his narratives within the text, but tells the story of Huddie William Leadbetter, otherwise known as Lead Belly.  Unlike the Fisk Jubilee Singers, Lead Belly was on record during his career, but his story is just as hard as those in Olio.  His story comes closer to World War I instead of the Civil War, and Jim Crow Laws were in effect.  Jess lends his voice to sections of Lead Belly's life where a voice is needed to fill in the facts of the life he leads, and this same premise carries over to Olio. In both works, the prevalent themes are a historical certainty:  the reader can not believe these words created by Jess did not come from the people he writes about, nor the various events surrounding the words.  Together, Olio is not merely a book, but a historical work of word-art.

Olio is more than poems:  there are interviews that leave the reader running for Wikipedia entries to see if the topics discussed are of historical fact.  In the section titled Bella Marie Jenkins, RN, the narrator is interviewing a nurse who cared for Scott Joplin in his last days, but the reader is brought face-to-face with history:

"You got a lot of gumption.  You get that in the war?  You one of the 369, am I right?"

This moment of reality shows randomly within the text, as a sort of separator between the various poems. These interviews read as if steeped in the history of the struggle Blacks had even at wartime. The nurse saying she wasn't allowed to work on white US soldiers has a Toni Morrison taste to it, yet there is disbelief that such a thing could happen, that even a war did not stop the machine of racism and segregation.  There is no hostility.  Throughout the various works, Jess misses the righteous indignation that is expected to raise its head within the various works, but that is part of his theme:  this was a way of life, be it right or wrong.  Black identification within a white structure leaves an empty feeling in the mouth which is not hunger, but a missing taste.  This narrative needs no poetic structure to get to the point. Yes, eventually the interview is about Scott Joplin, but the prose is not needed to shape the effect of the interview.

Olio contains several tear-out sections, furthering its interactiveness to place the reader into tactile interaction with the text. Again, there's history intermixed with the creative process.  In the "Dunbar-Booker Double Shovel" pages, the syncopated verse tears out of the book.  On the other side are two lists, one depicting numbers of black victims of lynching and below that, the 78 "Reasons for Black Lynchings." Paul Dunbar was a poet born in Ohio to parents who were slaves in Kentucky before the Civil War, and Booker T. Washington, a former slave, and educator.  The appendix gives interactive examples of how to form the page into various shapes to see how the two difference voices come together regardless of the shape the page manipulates.  The Black Lynching information, regardless of how the two voices fold, is not affected. This history, set in stone, has no amount of manipulation will make those figures change.  This is Jess at his finest, blending fiction and fact into a page of a verse of black words which remain powerful regardless the shape of the white page.

There is a ticker-tape of information located at the tops and bottoms of the Fisk Jubilee Singer's pages.  The information is simple:  the name of a church, the city, and a year.  The "tape" begins with Mother Emmanuel AME Church, Charleston, SC, 1822.  The tape ends nearly 200 pages later, with the same entry that began the narrative, but the date has changed.  Instead of 1822, the date is 2015. Mother Emmanuel AME Church.  Charleston, SC.  

2015.

This is not the end of the book.  In fact, Jess does not give Olio and official end because there is no end because history and verse are both circulars.  Just like the Dunbar-Booker Double Shovel tear-out-and-manipulate page, words are altered but the history on the back, the Lynchings, stay the same.    What is first is also last.  193 years later, Mother Emmanuel AME Church closes the list of all of the black churches that suffered some vandalism or crime.  This fact, this truth needs to thematic preparation, recorded history does not need a preface because it is seen, heard, felt, tasted.  The 2015 incident at Mother Emmanuel was all over the news for days.  The 1822 incident, when the church was burned down after several trials where various blacks, including Denmark Vesey, a founder, were thought to be part of a slave revolt and executed.

Olio is a wire-tap of the past to bring forward those who were not recorded, interviewed or even considered due to their color. Reconstruction was an idea that failed based on the soul-deep denial for blacks within society, and the pages of Olio give voice to the other side of that denial.

 Works Cited

 "Emanuel African Methodist Episcopal Church." Emanuelamechurch.org. Emanuel AME Church, n.d. Web. 20 Mar. 2017.

Jess, Tyehimba. Leadbelly. Amherst: Verse, 2005. Print.

Jess, Tyehimba. Olio. New York: Wave, 2016. Print.

Thompson, Ben. "Badass of the Week: Lead Belly." Badass of the Week: Lead Belly. Ben Thompson, n.d. Web. 20 Mar. 2017.

[scotianostra]

August 20th  1872, saw the death of the Scottish  poet William Miller.

Miller was born in Glasgow in 1810 and spent most of his boyhood in what is now the city's Parkhead area. His ambition to become a surgeon was ended by serious illness and he was eventually apprenticed as a wood-turner. He became a skilled craftsman, developing a particular talent for cabinet-making. Early in his life he began writing poetry and children’s rhymes, mainly in the Scots language he used in everyday life.

His song Wee Willie Winkie along with other verse by Miller, first appeared in Whistle Binkie: Stories for the Fireside, a compendium of songs, in 1841, it went on to appear in further editions of that and many, many more publications since then. However it was not received well at first, indeed the editor of Whistle-Binkie,David Robertson was not keen on the grumpy figure personifying sleep and it was received with mixed opinions by Robertson’s friends. To settle the dissent, he dispatched the manuscript to R. M. Ballantyne of Edinburgh (who had himself contributed much to the publication and was the writer of over 100 books in his lifetime) who asserted, according to the Perthshire Advertiser that:

“There is not at this moment in the whole range of Scottish songs, anything more exquisite in its kind than that little Warlock of the Nursery, “Wee Willie Winkie.”

Miller suffered from ill health throughout his life and never managed to make a career solely as a poet and continued to work as a cabinet-maker and wood-turner for most of his life, most of the time from his own house, he did however have his fans, Lord Jeffrey, founder of the prestigious Edinburgh Review, being one, another was the Countess of Selkirk, and it was during one of his bouts of illness it became known she helped the erstwhile poet out when reported in The Glasgow Herald in 1846 that...:

“We learn that the Countess of Selkirk has transmitted to Mr David Robertson of this city, by the hands of the Rev.Mr Underwood of Kirkeudbright, the sum of £2, for behoof of William Miller, the author of “Wee Willie Winkie,” &c.; her Ladyship having been impressed with a favourable opinion of the poet from having perused his Nursery Rhymes. Mr Miller is so much improved, that he is now able to pursue his occupation of a wood-turner.”

In November 1871, an ulceration of the leg forced William to cease his trade. Despite the increasing frailties of his body, his mind remained as sharp as ever and he continued to write and disseminate poetry, works which appeared in publications such as The Scotsman. Learning of his condition as an invalid, The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 1st March 1872 urged its readers to furnish monetary contributions ‘for this deserving old poet:

WILLIAM MILLER THE POET.

“Perhaps the most delicious nursery song that has been written by a modern minstrel for the delectation of the “bairns” in these northern regions is the song of “Wee Willie Winkie.” We are sorry to hear that the writer of it has for a long time past been an invalid, and that he is in poor circumstances. William Miller has a strong claim on the public for some help to smooth his declining years. He is now upwards of sixty, and at his advanced age, afflicted as he is with serious disease of the limbs, there is no prospect of his ever being able again to resume work. By trade he is a wood turner, and he resides in Glasgow, of which city he is a native. One who knows him says that his heart seems still young, his mind still vigorous; but he feels his position irksome and his spirit galled that he cannot now, as formerly, earn by the swear of his brow the bread of independence.”

You have to love the language of the day used in these newspapers!

The following July, Miller stayed at Blantyre for a time, hoping that the town’s airs – the settlement was 8 miles from Glasgow – would reinvigorate him. The trip proved futile and he was soon returned to his son’s house in the city, having suffered a paralysis of the lower limbs. He passed away, destitute, at the age of 62 on the 20th August, 1872.

The poet subsequently received a number of obituary notices in the newspapers lamenting the loss of this Scottish talent. The account below, in The Greenock Telegraph and Clyde Shipping Gazette on the 22nd August, 1872), reports the grim news:

DEATH OF WILLIAM MILLER, THE POET

“The death is announced of William Miller, the nursery poet. He was born in Glasgow in August, 1810. He was early apprenticed to a wood turner, and by diligent application to business made himself one of the best workmen of his craft; and even in his later years there were few who could equal him in the quality of his work. It is, however, as a poet that he is known to fame. In his early youth he published several pieces in the Day and other newspapers; but from the fact that no record of these productions was observed, it is impossible to know when they issued from his pen. The first thing that brought him into public notice was the publication of the nursery song “Willie Winkie.” The MS. of this song was sent to Mr. Ballantine in Edinburgh, who gave it unqualified praise, as being the very best poem of its kind that he had ever seen. This led to the publication of the poem, and it at once attracted a large amount of attention. This was followed by a number of other pieces of a similar description, all of which were received with great favour, and led to the author’s acquaintance with Lord Jeffrey and other gentlemen of literary tastes. The best of his nursery songs which have obtained for him the well-earned title of the Laureate of the nursery were all written before he was 36 years of age; but it was not till 1863 that, at the request of several friends, he collected together and published a small volume, entitled “Nursery Songs and other Poems.” It had a wide circulation and has earned for the author a reputation that will never decay.

William Miller is buried in Tollcross Cemetery in a plot that does not bear his name a sad state of  affairs that led to friends and admirers raising a memorial stone by public subscription and it stands in the Glasgow Necropolis, near the Bridge of Sighs.

In 2009, Glasgow City Council unveiled a tribute to the poet at his former dwelling, 4 Ark Lane in Dennistoun, erecting a bronze plaque on the wall of the Tennent’s Brewery which now sits on the site of William Miller’s house. A blue plaque in the Trongate also serves as a quirky tribute to his most famous creation, declaring that ‘Wee Willie Winkie was spotted here in his nightgown’ in 1841.

It is clear that, even now, William Miller’s pyjama-clad figure still urges children to get into their beds and sleep as a nursery song learnt and replayed the world over

Here is the  Scots version of ‘Wee Willie Winkie,’ a rhyme anglicised very soon after its publication:

Wee Willie Winkie runs through the toon,

Up stairs and doon stairs, in his nicht-goon,

Tirling at the window, cryin’ at the lock,

Are the weans in their bed, for it’s now ten o’clock?

Hey, Willie Winkie, are ye coming ben?

The cat’s singing grey thrums to the sleeping hen,

The dog’s spelder’d on the floor, and disna gie a cheep,

But here’s a waukrife laddie that winna fa’ asleep.

Onything but sleep, you rogue, glow’ring like the mune,

Rattling in an airn jug wi’ an airn spoone,

Rumbling, tumbling round about, crawing like a cock,

Skirlin’ like a kenna-what, wauk’ning sleeping fock.

Hey, Willie Winkie – the wean’s in a creel,

Wambling aff a bodie’s knee like a very eel,

Ruggin’ at the cat’s lug, and raveling a’ her thrums-

Hey, Willie Winkie – see, there he comes!’

Wearied is the mither that has a stoorie wean,

A wee stumple stoussie, that canna rin his lane,

That has a battle aye wi’ sleep before he’ll close an ee

But a kiss frae aff his rosy lips gies strength anew to me.