BSH1 MEMORIAL PROFiLE PiC PiCK of the WEEK No. 33- HALLOWS

Author: oromagi ,

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John Barleycorn: A Ballad

There was three kings into the east,
Three kings both great and high,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn should die.

They took a plough and plough'd him down,
Put clods upon his head,
And they hae sworn a solemn oath
John Barleycorn was dead.

But the cheerful Spring came kindly on,
And show'rs began to fall;
John Barleycorn got up again,
And sore surpris'd them all.

The sultry suns of Summer came,
And he grew thick and strong;
His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears,
That no one should him wrong.

The sober Autumn enter'd mild,
When he grew wan and pale;
His bending joints and drooping head
Show'd he began to fail.

His colour sicken'd more and more,
He faded into age;
And then his enemies began
To show their deadly rage.

They've taen a weapon, long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgerie.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgell'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turned him o'er and o'er.

They filled up a darksome pit
With water to the brim;
They heaved in John Barleycorn,
There let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him farther woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame,
The marrow of his bones;
But a miller us'd him worst of all,
For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they hae taen his very heart's blood,
And drank it round and round;
And still the more and more they drank,
Their joy did more abound.

John Barleycorn was a hero bold,
Of noble enterprise;
For if you do but taste his blood,
'Twill make your courage rise.

'Twill make a man forget his woe;
'Twill heighten all his joy;
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing,
Tho' the tear were in her eye.

Then let us toast John Barleycorn,
Each man a glass in hand;
And may his great posterity
Ne'er fail in old Scotland!
-Robert Burns
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The prophet is a fool
The spiritual man is mad
For the multitude of thy iniquity
And the great hatred...

Everyone's tryin
To decide
Where to go
When theres no place to hide

I follow the bombs
as theyre coming down
This must have been
Hallowed Ground

No matter what
They decide to have done
Burn up the clouds
Block out the sun

My hope is in
One they cant bring down
My soul is in
Hallowed Ground

I see the fear
Its on the rise
Lets catch the enemy
By surprise

Bury your treasure
Where it cant be found
Bury it deep
In Hallowed Ground
-Violent Femmes
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All Hallows

Even now this landscape is assembling.
The hills darken. The oxen
sleep in their blue yoke,
the fields having been
picked clean, the sheaves
bound evenly and piled at the roadside
among cinquefoil, as the toothed moon rises:

This is the barrenness
of harvest or pestilence.
And the wife leaning out the window
with her hand extended, as in payment,
and the seeds
distinct, gold, calling
Come here
Come here, little one

And the soul creeps out of the tree.

-Louise Gluck


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The Hollow Men

Mistah Kurtz-he dead
            A penny for the Old Guy


                        I

    We are the hollow men
    We are the stuffed men
    Leaning together
    Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
    Our dried voices, when
    We whisper together
    Are quiet and meaningless
    As wind in dry grass
    Or rats' feet over broken glass
    In our dry cellar
   
    Shape without form, shade without colour,
    Paralysed force, gesture without motion;
   
    Those who have crossed
    With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
    Remember us-if at all-not as lost
    Violent souls, but only
    As the hollow men
    The stuffed men.

   
                              II

    Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
    In death's dream kingdom
    These do not appear:
    There, the eyes are
    Sunlight on a broken column
    There, is a tree swinging
    And voices are
    In the wind's singing
    More distant and more solemn
    Than a fading star.
   
    Let me be no nearer
    In death's dream kingdom
    Let me also wear
    Such deliberate disguises
    Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
    In a field
    Behaving as the wind behaves
    No nearer-
   
    Not that final meeting
    In the twilight kingdom

   
                     III

    This is the dead land
    This is cactus land
    Here the stone images
    Are raised, here they receive
    The supplication of a dead man's hand
    Under the twinkle of a fading star.
   
    Is it like this
    In death's other kingdom
    Waking alone
    At the hour when we are
    Trembling with tenderness
    Lips that would kiss
    Form prayers to broken stone.

   
                      IV

    The eyes are not here
    There are no eyes here
    In this valley of dying stars
    In this hollow valley
    This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms
   
    In this last of meeting places
    We grope together
    And avoid speech
    Gathered on this beach of the tumid river
   
    Sightless, unless
    The eyes reappear
    As the perpetual star
    Multifoliate rose
    Of death's twilight kingdom
    The hope only
    Of empty men.

   
                            V

    Here we go round the prickly pear
    Prickly pear prickly pear
    Here we go round the prickly pear
    At five o'clock in the morning.
   
    Between the idea
    And the reality
    Between the motion
    And the act
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
    Between the conception
    And the creation
    Between the emotion
    And the response
    Falls the Shadow
                                    Life is very long
    Between the desire
    And the spasm
    Between the potency
    And the existence
    Between the essence
    And the descent
    Falls the Shadow
                                    For Thine is the Kingdom
   
    For Thine is
    Life is
    For Thine is the
   
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

-TS Eliot
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Monster Mash

I was working in the lab, late one night
When my eyes beheld an eerie sight
For my monster from his slab, began to rise
And suddenly to my surprise
He did the monster mash
(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash
(He did the mash) It caught on in a flash
(He did the mash) He did the monster mash
From my laboratory in the castle east
To the master bedroom where the vampires feast
The ghouls all came from their humble abodes
To get a jolt from my electrodes
They did the monster mash
(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash
(They did the mash) It caught on in a flash
(They did the mash) They did the monster mash
The zombies were having fun (Wa hoo, tennis shoe)
The party had just begun (Wa hoo, tennis shoe)
The guests included Wolfman, Dracula and his son
The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds
The coffin-bangers were about to arrive
With their vocal group, 'The Crypt-Kicker Five'
They played the monster mash
(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash
(They played the mash) It caught on in a flash
(They played the mash) They played the monster mash
Out from his coffin, Drac's voice did ring
Seems he was troubled by just one thing
He opened the lid and shook his fist and said
"Whatever happened to my Transylvania Twist?
It's now the monster mash
(The monster mash) And it's a graveyard smash
(It's now the mash) It's caught on in a flash
(It's now the mash) It's now the monster mash
Now everything's cool, Drac's a part of the band
And my Monster Mash is the hit of the land
For you, the living, this mash was meant too
When you get to my door, tell them Boris sent you
Then you can monster mash
(The monster mash) And do my graveyard smash
(Then you can mash) You'll catch on in a flash
(Then you can mash) Then you can monster mash
Easy Igor, you impetuous young boy (Wa hoo, monster mash)
(Wa hoo, monster mash)
(Wa hoo, monster mash)
(Wa hoo, monster mash)
(Wa hoo, monster mash)
-Leonard Rosenman
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The next morning the old horse was found without his saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly cropping the grass at his master’s gate. Ichabod did not make his appearance at breakfast; dinner-hour came, but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the schoolhouse, and strolled idly about the banks of the brook; but no schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt; the tracks of horses’ hoofs deeply dented in the road, and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, where the water ran deep and black, was found the hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a shattered pumpkin.

The brook was searched, but the body of the schoolmaster was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper as executor of his estate, examined the bundle which contained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of worsted stockings; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes; a rusty razor; a book of psalm tunes full of dog’s-ears; and a broken pitch-pipe. As to the books and furniture of the schoolhouse, they belonged to the community, excepting Cotton Mather’s “History of Witchcraft,” a “New England Almanac,” and a book of dreams and fortune-telling; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make a copy of verses in honor of the heiress of Van Tassel. These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper; who, from that time forward, determined to send his children no more to school, observing that he never knew any good come of this same reading and writing.
-Washington Irving
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Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
You know I'm tryin' to please to the calling
Of your heartstrings that play soft and low
You know the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
You know the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love?
Well, I wanna make love to you tonight
I can't wait 'til the mornin' has come
You know, I know now the time is just right
And straight into my arms you will run
And when you come, my heart will be waiting
To make sure that you're never alone
There and then all my dreams will come true, dear
There and then I will make you my own
And every time I touch you, you just tremble inside
And I know how much you want me, that you can't hide
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love?
Well, it's a marvelous night for a moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
You know I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heartstrings that play soft and low
You know the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
You know the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush
Can I just have one more moondance with you, my love?
Can I just make some more romance with a-you, my love?
One more moondance with you
In the moonlight
On a magic night
La, la, la, la, la, in the moonlight
On a magic night
Can't I just have one more, more dance with you, my love?
-Van Morrison
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-Van Morrison

My much younger than me friend, a singer performer type, found Van Morrison music and he fell in love with it, as most of did.

So he pays $200. bucks ---this is about 2013 or so---    to go to a Van Morrison concert within driving distance of us.  The next day he tells us how, Van came out and maybe attempted one song then left the stage, and the concert was cancelled.  I forget all the details but my friend felt that Van had ripped them all off from good time and money.

I remmber some years earlier I had see and interview with Van on 60 minutes { maybe }, and Van was saying how he hates the public and hates doing concerts etc.  Wow, I think a lot of people were surprised to find out more about what is going on this mans head.

..." a 28-track double album that includes eyebrow-raising song titles such as “Where Have All the Rebels Gone,” “Why Are You on Facebook?” and “Stop Bitching, Do Something.” This album is now very much news: Variety published a list of “The 10 Craziest Lyrics” from the record, while the Jerusalem Post rounded up all of the claims of anti-Semitism implied in his song called “They Own the Media” and other lyrics scattered throughout.

....This turn toward the alt-right didn’t come out of nowhere. Broadly speaking, Morrison’s career arc looks something like this: He went from being a brash teenage wunderkind with his band Them, to a promising young solo artist (“Brown Eyed Girl”), to a moody, soulful poet casually creating masterpieces (“Astral Weeks” and “Moondance”),

....to a middle-aged curmudgeon showcasing occasional moments of brilliance (“Common One”),

....until he slowly devolved into a boozy-uncle type, cranking out boilerplate blues LPs while leaning on his earlier legacy to fill concert halls.

....Morrison’s unpredictability, temper and bitterness have become the stuff of legend, including everything from smashing someone else’s guitar onstage during a show to firing members of his band with little notice or cause and confronting a journalist about their credentials during an interview."....


...Back in the fall of 2020, Morrison announced three topical singles protesting COVID-19 restrictions plus a petition to end the temporary ban on live concerts. In one of these songs, “No More Lockdown,” he crooned about scientists “making up crooked facts,” labeling the perpetrators of these measures “fascist bullies.” In an unprecedented turn of events, the songs became cause for Northern Ireland’s health minister, Robin Swann, to pen an op-ed for Rolling Stone, calling Morrison’s new lyrics “dangerous” and a great comfort to “the tinfoil hat brigade who crusade against masks and vaccines and think this is all a huge global plot to remove freedoms.”....
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While I have sort of picked up from punchlines that Morrison has descended into cranky excrementalism, I haven't actually encountered that current personality on view and hope not to.  I either heard about your friend's concert or he's blown off more than one performance, either way merits a refund and apology, at least.  I try not to let an artist's biography color my critique of his art and I don't suppose I will ever stop loving  Morrison.

That love was reinforced by a recent viewing of Kenneth Branagh's new film Belfast, the soundtrack for which is about 80% Van Morrison- mostly  good olds but some new. 
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...I don't suppose I will ever stop loving  Morrison.....

I understand, as I stated, we all love or loved his music.  Now we know that some of the time[s} he hates performing and he is not so nice to be around.

Who was he painting artist who was schizophrenic and went crazy? Picasso maybe. 

Knowing and acknowledging our errors and abilities is half way to sanity.

Another friend of mine, who was not always so nice, stated to me once, ...were born, we live a while, then we die...kinda of Zen-like for sure.

However, it is that ....' we live a while '...,   that humans make music, merriment, poetry, love, dance { motion } and release of the energy within us, for what ever amount of time we have it simmering rising to the top of our game. Then settling back lower for renewal.

the sine-wave /\/\/\/\/\/ pattern associated with reality

the spin (  *)(  *)  left and right (*  )(*  ), pulling us in, only to be pushed back out

* i * am the center of my Universe

8 billion *i's*  predicted by 2023 - 2026.








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The trouble with the Van thing was:
He represented something that appealed to a certain audience. But the phenomena wasn't actually accompanied with good vocals.

Van was a bit like buying a super trendy looking car, but with an elastic band under the hood.

The fact of the matter was:
Separate the mysticism from the sound, and you were and your left with a hideous noise.

Sorry Van fans.
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Sorry Van fans.

The amount of fans speak to his talent of poetry and music.  It was years before I found he was the singer of Gloria G.L.O.R.I.A.

Love that song as well as Moondance.  Obviously you have differrent auditory tastes.

I remmeber when the Police won the Billboard band of the  year award, and I remmber one pundit saying that, The Talking Heads would have won that year, except of the fact, that, The Police sold more albums that year.

Does more fans translate to more album sales? Maybe yes, maybe no. I saw both The Police and Talking Heads in concert.

Tough call either way.
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a wasn't actually accompanied with good vocals.
Good vocals is a relative concept, thricely for poets.

I am a huge fan of many voices that many call ugly- Tom Waits, Nick Cave, Patti Smith, Leonard Cohen, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Joe Cocker, etc. etc. etc.  

Many a pretty voice can obscure a clunky lyric but a voice that's all lung and no head leaves no hiding place for the poem.