Tuesday, June 11, 2013

For Music

Tonight a poem in celebration of music. Because I have Rolling Stones tickets (BOSTON BABY!). Because my daughter plays violin. Because where words fail, music speaks. Because the music I listen to will tell you more about me than my mouth ever could. Because to stop the flow of music would be like the stopping of time itself, incredible and inconceivable. (That last there isn't me - it's Aaron Copland.)


She cried for all the broken hearts, 
Painted everlasting winters -
Floral patterns etched in ice; 
A frozen tear to 
Soften up the bastard bones.

Bow made love to needy string
In cooing fling - wanton whispers 
Fondled under pianissimos, 
Caressing callous hearts.

Melodrama swayed in satin sound -
Yet the player wasn't there, 
Only creamy song - soothing, yearning, 
Teasing bitter minds.

I sensed her persevering loneliness
For beauty of an evening, 
Romance of a tune - laughing, 
Sobbing at the fire.

Then a climax - 
Writhing passion cutting deep -
Wounding macho flesh; 

And all in a work of musical art: 
Ephemeral stories, yarned of music 
Honed impossibly through her tones.

Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010

Monday, June 10, 2013

Welcome Bulgaria!

This afternoon I am pleased to welcome Bulgaria to
Dobre doshal!

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Booksellers in the US, 2013

Village Square Booksellers, Bellows Falls, VT
This is an excellent guide from Publisher's Weekly, everything you ever wanted to know about booksellers in  the United State. Among other things, many other things, you can find out which state has the most bookstores and which state has the most bookstores per capita. Answers: a tie between Texas and California; and Montana, respectively.

Excellent news: Most states have more traditional bookstores than big-box stores, and in 10 states, the ratio of traditional bookstores to big-box stores was 2:1 or greater. And check out the Queen of Traditional Booksellers: Vermont, where the ratio is 37:1!

Welcome India!

This afternoon I am delighted to welcome India to TexasBookLover. Aapka swaagat hai! 

Saturday, June 8, 2013

Welcome China!

Tonight I am so pleased to 
welcome China to

For World Ocean Day

For my daughter Autumn, who wants to be a mermaid and frolic with the otters...

By Henrietta Cordelia Ray

Far, far out lie the white sails all at rest;
Like spectral arms they seem to touch and cling
Unto the wide horizon. Not a wing
Of truant bird glides down the purpling west;
No breeze dares to intrude, e’en on a quest
To fan a lover’s brow; the waves to sing
Have quite forgotten till the deep shall fling
A bow across its vibrant chords. Then, lest
One moment of the sea’s repose we lose,
Nor furnish Fancy with a thousand themes
Of unimagined sweetness, let us gaze
On this serenity, for as we muse,
Lo! all is restless motion: life’s best dreams
Give changing moods to even halcyon days.

Thanks to the Poetry Foundation
Source: She Wields a Pen: American Women Poets of the Nineteenth Century (University of Iowa Press, 1997)
Here's how you can do your part to protect our oceans:

Thursday, June 6, 2013

Welcome Turkey!

This afternoon I am delighted to welcome Turkey to TexasBooklover. And by the way, TexasBookLover stands in solidarity with the people of Turkey. Hoş geldiniz!

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Welcome Italy!

This morning I am delighted to welcome Italy to TexasBookLover. Benvenuti!

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

The Doll

A Vanessa Michael Munroe Novel
By Taylor Stevens
Crown Publishers, 335 pgs
Submitted by Crown Publishers
Rating: 4.5

And they're off! The Doll bursts out of the starting gate like Secretariat at Aqueduct. This is no exaggeration: page one and our heroine is darted like a bear and kidnapped by homicidal Croatians masquerading as paramedics in an ambulance stolen from the city of Dallas. Miles Bradford, lover, PTSD-sufferer, spy extraordinaire and Boy Robin, witnesses the scene from his office window.

This sets off a vicious romp across countries, oceans and continents but not in search of Michael, oh no, Michael can more than handle herself. Turns out she's been "hired" by The Doll Maker, a bat-shit crazy, child-sex-slave trafficking, scum of the earth, who only passes as human because he has opposable thumbs. Michael is being coerced into delivering a particularly valuable "package" (read: kidnapped woman) to a client, as penance for what The Doll Maker sees as her past transgressions against his organization and revenue stream. The Doll Maker's minions have kidnapped Logan, the person Michael is closest to in all the world, in order to ensure her cooperation. But watch what happens when she turns the tables.

This is the third installment in the best-selling saga of Vanessa Michael Munroe - chameleon, language-savant, assassin, righteous dispenser of justice. The first volume is The Informationist, the second The Innocent, both of which have been reviewed on this blog previously. Michael is a female protagonist like none before. She is something truly new under the sun: physically, mentally and emotionally courageous, just like plenty of real women. There are no wasted pages spent on improbable romantic entanglements, no "female" squishiness here. There are facts and logic and strategy and tactics - good lord it's so freeing! And there is the necessary kill. Or a dozen, maybe, who's counting?

In evidence of Michael's reputation, instructions given to the kidnappers, page 22:
Do not let her hear your language, the source had said, she will use language as a weapon. Keep the area around her free of objects, everything will be used as a weapon. Stay clear of her reach, she doesn't need a weapon to kill you. Don't use restraints, she will find a way out of them, and they will only give a false sense of safety. Do not touch her, the source said. Leave her in peace, and treat her respectfully, only then will the violence stay muted. Disrespect these and make no mistake, she will kill you.
As long as I'm offering samples, here is an example of the way Michael absorbs and assimilates sensory information:
Not real speech, a recording. She could tell that even from this drug-induced haze. She stretched fingertips to the wall and heard from touch the same story told by the smell of this place. Dank. Damp. Buried.
One more. Michael has a knife fetish, upon lifting a knife off a bad guy:
The handle connected with her palm like a creation returning to its mold, metal against skin, familiar and soothing. 
Taylor Stevens
I really can't quibble with anything here. The writing is improving on schedule, as it should with a third book. The dialogue is genuine. The pacing is nearly perfect - there are no lulls in the action here. The characterizations are true. The plot is unique to the genre - exactly what genre is this? Taylor Stevens may be inventing a new one and how exciting is that?  Just when you think you know where the plot is headed, it arrives in another location entirely. You think you've got it figured out but there are a hundred pages left and what's up with that? And then the tale takes off again, racing onward to a conclusion unexpected, complicated and immensely satisfying.

Monday, June 3, 2013

LGBT Pride Month

It is Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) Pride Month. I have family members and friends who answer to one or more of those terms. And so do you. I understand that there are issues that effect the LGBT community disproportionately but I think it's a mistake to assume that these issues don't have anything to do with you if you are exclusively heterosexual. Because we are related to individuals of the LGBT community and count them among our friends, we must realize that these issues are questions of human rights. And that makes them everyones' concern.

Tolerance is a nice word but it doesn't get the job done. The word for today is empathy.

em·pa·thy noun  [em-puh-theethe action of understanding, being aware of, being sensitive to, and vicariously experiencing the feelings, thoughts, and experience of another of either the past or present

The Advocate has a lovely article on reasons to be proud, among them are:

  • Because 2.7 million on Facebook supported equality during the SCOTUS hearings in March
  • Because Christine Quinn has a very good chance of becoming the first out lesbian mayor of NYC 
  • Because relationship equality is spreading across the country - 13 states and counting
  • Because the community was kinky before kinky was cool - see Fifty Shades of Grey 
There are many, many more examples in a ten page article.

Oscar Wilde wrote "The Ballad of Reading Gaol" while serving prison time for homosexuality.

The Ballad of Reading Gaol
by Oscar Wilde

He did not wear his scarlet coat,
For blood and wine are red,
And blood and wine were on his hands
When they found him with the dead, 
The poor dead woman whom he loved,
And murdered in her bed.

He walked amongst the Trial Men
In a suit of shabby grey;
A cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay;
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every drifting cloud that went
With sails of silver by.

I walked, with other souls in pain,
Within another ring, 
And was wondering if the man had done
A great or little thing,
When a voice behind me whispered low,
"That fellows got to swing."

Dear Christ! the very prison walls
Suddenly seemed to reel,
And the sky above my head became
Like a casque of scorching steel;
And, though I was a soul in pain,
My pain I could not feel.

I only knew what hunted thought
Quickened his step, and why
He looked upon the garish day
With such a wistful eye;
The man had killed the thing he loved
And so he had to die.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

Some kill their love when they are young,
And some when they are old;
Some strangle with the hands of Lust,
Some with the hands of Gold:
The kindest use a knife, because
The dead so soon grow cold.

Some love too little, some too long,
Some sell, and others buy;
Some do the deed with many tears,
And some without a sigh:
For each man kills the thing he loves,
Yet each man does not die. 

He does not die a death of shame
On a day of dark disgrace,
Nor have a noose about his neck,
Nor a cloth upon his face,
Nor drop feet foremost through the floor
Into an empty place.

He does not sit with silent men
Who watch him night and day;
Who watch him when he tries to weep,
And when he tries to pray;
Who watch him lest himself should rob
The prison of its prey.

He does not wake at dawn to see
Dread figures throng his room,
The shivering Chaplain robed in white,
The Sheriff stern with gloom,
And the Governor all in shiny black,
With the yellow face of Doom.

He does not rise in piteous haste
To put on convict-clothes,
While some coarse-mouthed Doctor gloats, and notes
Each new and nerve-twitched pose,
Fingering a watch whose little ticks
Are like horrible hammer-blows.

He does not know that sickening thirst
That sands one's throat, before
The hangman with his gardener's gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs,
That the throat may thirst no more.

He does not bend his head to hear
The Burial Office read, 
Nor, while the terror of his soul
Tells him he is not dead,
Cross his own coffin, as he moves
Into the hideous shed. 

He does not stare upon the air
Through a little roof of glass;
He does not pray with lips of clay
For his agony to pass;
Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek
The kiss of Caiaphas.

Six weeks our guardsman walked the yard,
In a suit of shabby grey:
His cricket cap was on his head,
And his step seemed light and gay,
But I never saw a man who looked
So wistfully at the day.

I never saw a man who looked
With such a wistful eye
Upon that little tent of blue
Which prisoners call the sky,
And at every wandering cloud that trailed
Its raveled fleeces by. 

He did not wring his hands, as do
Those witless men who dare
To try to rear the changeling
Hope In the cave of black Despair:
He only looked upon the sun, 
And drank the morning air.

He did not wring his hands nor weep,
Nor did he peek or pine, 
But he drank the air as though it held
Some healthful anodyne;
With open mouth he drank the sun
As though it had been wine! 

And I and all the souls in pain,
Who tramped the other ring, 
Forgot if we ourselves had done
A great or little thing, 
And watched with gaze of dull amaze
The man who had to swing.

And strange it was to see him pass
With a step so light and gay, 
And strange it was to see him look
So wistfully at the day, 
And strange it was to think that he
Had such a debt to pay. 

For oak and elm have pleasant leaves
That in the spring-time shoot: 
But grim to see is the gallows-tree,
With its adder-bitten root, 
And, green or dry, a man must die 
Before it bears its fruit! 

The loftiest place is that seat of grace
For which all worldlings try: 
But who would stand in hempen band 
Upon a scaffold high, 
And through a murderer's collar take
His last look at the sky? 

It is sweet to dance to violins
When Love and Life are fair: 
To dance to flutes, to dance to lutes
Is delicate and rare: 
But it is not sweet with nimble feet 
To dance upon the air!

So with curious eyes and sick surmise
We watched him day by day, 
And wondered if each one of us 
Would end the self-same way, 
For none can tell to what red Hell 
His sightless soul may stray. 

At last the dead man walked no more
Amongst the Trial Men, 
And I knew that he was standing up
In the black dock's dreadful pen, 
And that never would I see his face 
In God's sweet world again. 

Like two doomed ships that pass in storm 
We had crossed each other's way: 
But we made no sign, we said no word, 
We had no word to say; 
For we did not meet in the holy night, 
But in the shameful day.

A prison wall was round us both, 
Two outcast men were we: 
The world had thrust us from its heart, 
And God from out His care: 
And the iron gin that waits for 
Sin Had caught us in its snare. 

In Debtors' Yard the stones are hard, 
And the dripping wall is high, 
So it was there he took the air 
Beneath the leaden sky, 
And by each side a Warder walked, 
For fear the man might die. 

Or else he sat with those who watched 
His anguish night and day; 
Who watched him when he rose to weep, 
And when he crouched to pray; 
Who watched him lest himself should rob 
Their scaffold of its prey. 

The Governor was strong upon 
The Regulations Act: 
The Doctor said that Death was but 
A scientific fact: 
And twice a day the Chaplain called
And left a little tract. 

And twice a day he smoked his pipe, 
And drank his quart of beer: 
His soul was resolute, and held 
No hiding-place for fear; 
He often said that he was glad 
The hangman's hands were near. 

But why he said so strange a thing 
No Warder dared to ask: 
For he to whom a watcher's doom 
Is given as his task, 
Must set a lock upon his lips, 
And make his face a mask. 

Or else he might be moved, and try 
To comfort or console: 
And what should Human Pity do 
Pent up in Murderers' Hole? 
What word of grace in such a place 
Could help a brother's soul? 

With slouch and swing around the ring 
We trod the Fool's Parade! 
We did not care: we knew we were 
The Devil's Own Brigade: 
And shaven head and feet of lead 
Make a merry masquerade. 

We tore the tarry rope to shreds 
With blunt and bleeding nails; 
We rubbed the doors, and scrubbed the floors, 
And cleaned the shining rails: 
And, rank by rank, we soaped the plank, 
And clattered with the pails. 

We sewed the sacks, we broke the stones, 
We turned the dusty drill: 
We banged the tins, and bawled the hymns, 
And sweated on the mill: 
But in the heart of every man 
Terror was lying still. 

So still it lay that every day 
Crawled like a weed-clogged wave: 
And we forgot the bitter lot 
That waits for fool and knave, 
Till once, as we tramped in from work, 
We passed an open grave. 

With yawning mouth the yellow hole 
Gaped for a living thing; 
The very mud cried out for blood 
To the thirsty asphalte ring: 
And we knew that ere one dawn grew fair 
Some prisoner had to swing. 

Right in we went, with soul intent 
On Death and Dread and Doom: 
The hangman, with his little bag, 
Went shuffling through the gloom 
And each man trembled as he crept 
Into his numbered tomb. 

That night the empty corridors 
Were full of forms of Fear, 
And up and down the iron town 
Stole feet we could not hear, 
And through the bars that hide the stars 
White faces seemed to peer. 

He lay as one who lies and dreams 
In a pleasant meadow-land, 
The watcher watched him as he slept, 
And could not understand 
How one could sleep so sweet a sleep 
With a hangman close at hand? 

But there is no sleep when men must weep 
Who never yet have wept: 
So we—the fool, the fraud, the knave— 
That endless vigil kept, 
And through each brain on hands of pain 
Another's terror crept. 

Alas! it is a fearful thing 
To feel another's guilt! 
For, right within, the sword of Sin 
Pierced to its poisoned hilt, 
And as molten lead were the tears we shed
For the blood we had not spilt. 

The Warders with their shoes of felt 
Crept by each padlocked door, 
And peeped and saw, with eyes of awe, 
Grey figures on the floor, 
And wondered why men knelt to pray 
Who never prayed before. 

All through the night we knelt and prayed, 
Mad mourners of a corpse! 
The troubled plumes of midnight were 
The plumes upon a hearse: 
And bitter wine upon a sponge 
Was the savior of Remorse. 

The cock crew, the red cock crew, 
But never came the day: 
And crooked shape of Terror crouched, 
In the corners where we lay: 
And each evil sprite that walks by night 
Before us seemed to play. 

They glided past, they glided fast, 
Like travelers through a mist: 
They mocked the moon in a rigadoon 
Of delicate turn and twist, 
And with formal pace and loathsome grace 
The phantoms kept their tryst. 

With mop and mow, we saw them go, 
Slim shadows hand in hand: 
About, about, in ghostly rout 
They trod a saraband: 
And the damned grotesques made arabesques, 
Like the wind upon the sand! 

With the pirouettes of marionettes, 
They tripped on pointed tread: 
But with flutes of Fear they filled the ear, 
As their grisly masque they led, 
And loud they sang, and loud they sang, 
For they sang to wake the dead. 

"Oho!" they cried, "The world is wide,
But fettered limbs go lame! 
And once, or twice, to throw the dice 
Is a gentlemanly game, 
But he does not win who plays with Sin
In the secret House of Shame." 

No things of air these antics were 
That frolicked with such glee: 
To men whose lives were held in gyves, 
And whose feet might not go free, 
Ah! wounds of Christ! they were living things, 
Most terrible to see. 

Around, around, they waltzed and wound; 
Some wheeled in smirking pairs: 
With the mincing step of demirep 
Some sidled up the stairs: 
And with subtle sneer, and fawning leer, 
Each helped us at our prayers. 

The morning wind began to moan, 
But still the night went on: 
Through its giant loom the web of gloom 
Crept till each thread was spun: 
And, as we prayed, we grew afraid 
Of the Justice of the Sun. 

The moaning wind went wandering round 
The weeping prison-wall: 
Till like a wheel of turning-steel 
We felt the minutes crawl: 
O moaning wind! what had we done 
To have such a seneschal? 

At last I saw the shadowed bars 
Like a lattice wrought in lead, 
Move right across the whitewashed wall 
That faced my three-plank bed, 
And I knew that somewhere in the world 
God's dreadful dawn was red. 

At six o'clock we cleaned our cells, 
At seven all was still, 
But the sough and swing of a mighty wing 
The prison seemed to fill, 
For the Lord of Death with icy breath 
Had entered in to kill. 

He did not pass in purple pomp, 
Nor ride a moon-white steed. 
Three yards of cord and a sliding board 
Are all the gallows' need: 
So with rope of shame the Herald came 
To do the secret deed. 

We were as men who through a fen
Of filthy darkness grope: 
We did not dare to breathe a prayer, 
Or give our anguish scope: 
Something was dead in each of us, 
And what was dead was Hope. 

For Man's grim Justice goes its way, 
And will not swerve aside: 
It slays the weak, it slays the strong, 
It has a deadly stride: 
With iron heel it slays the strong, 
The monstrous parricide! 

We waited for the stroke of eight: 
Each tongue was thick with thirst: 
For the stroke of eight is the stroke of Fate 
That makes a man accursed, 
And Fate will use a running noose 
For the best man and the worst. 

We had no other thing to do, 
Save to wait for the sign to come: 
So, like things of stone in a valley lone, 
Quiet we sat and dumb: 
But each man's heart beat thick and quick 
Like a madman on a drum! 

With sudden shock the prison-clock 
Smote on the shivering air, 
And from all the gaol rose up a wail 
Of impotent despair, 
Like the sound that frightened marshes hear 
From a leper in his lair. 

And as one sees most fearful things 
In the crystal of a dream, 
We saw the greasy hempen rope 
Hooked to the blackened beam, 
And heard the prayer the hangman's snare 
Strangled into a scream. 

And all the woe that moved him so 
That he gave that bitter cry, 
And the wild regrets, and the bloody sweats, 
None knew so well as I: 
For he who lives more lives than one 
More deaths than one must die. 

There is no chapel on the day 
On which they hang a man: 
The Chaplain's heart is far too sick, 
Or his face is far too wan, 
Or there is that written in his eyes 
Which none should look upon. 

So they kept us close till nigh on noon, 
And then they rang the bell, 
And the Warders with their jingling keys 
Opened each listening cell, 
And down the iron stair we tramped, 
Each from his separate Hell. 

Out into God's sweet air we went, 
But not in wonted way, 
For this man's face was white with fear, 
And that man's face was grey, 
And I never saw sad men who looked 
So wistfully at the day. 

I never saw sad men who looked 
With such a wistful eye 
Upon that little tent of blue 
We prisoners called the sky, 
And at every careless cloud that passed
In happy freedom by.

But there were those amongst us all 
Who walked with downcast head, 
And knew that, had each got his due, 
They should have died instead: 
He had but killed a thing that lived 
Whilst they had killed the dead. 

For he who sins a second time 
Wakes a dead soul to pain, 
And draws it from its spotted shroud, 
And makes it bleed again, 
And makes it bleed great gouts of blood 
And makes it bleed in vain! 

Like ape or clown, in monstrous garb 
With crooked arrows starred, 
Silently we went round and round 
The slippery asphalte yard; 
Silently we went round and round, 
And no man spoke a word. 

Silently we went round and round, 
And through each hollow mind 
The memory of dreadful things 
Rushed like a dreadful wind, 
And Horror stalked before each man, 
And terror crept behind. 

The Warders strutted up and down, 
And kept their herd of brutes, 
Their uniforms were spick and span, 
And they wore their Sunday suits, 
But we knew the work they had been at 
By the quicklime on their boots.

For where a grave had opened wide, 
There was no grave at all: 
Only a stretch of mud and sand
By the hideous prison-wall, 
And a little heap of burning lime, 
That the man should have his pall. 

For he has a pall, this wretched man, 
Such as few men can claim: 
Deep down below a prison-yard, 
Naked for greater shame, 
He lies, with fetters on each foot, 
Wrapt in a sheet of flame!

And all the while the burning lime 
Eats flesh and bone away, 
It eats the brittle bone by night, 
And the soft flesh by the day, 
It eats the flesh and bones by turns, 
But it eats the heart alway. 

For three long years they will not sow 
Or root or seedling there: 
For three long years the unblessed spot 
Will sterile be and bare, 
And look upon the wondering sky 
With unreproachful stare. 

They think a murderer's heart would taint 
Each simple seed they sow.
It is not true! God's kindly earth 
Is kindlier than men know, 
And the red rose would but blow more red, 
The white rose whiter blow. 

Out of his mouth a red, red rose! 
Out of his heart a white! 
For who can say by what strange way, 
Christ brings his will to light, 
Since the barren staff the pilgrim bore 
Bloomed in the great Pope's sight?

But neither milk-white rose nor red 
May bloom in prison air; 
The shard, the pebble, and the flint, 
Are what they give us there: 
For flowers have been known to heal 
A common man's despair. 

So never will wine-red rose or white, 
Petal by petal, fall 
On that stretch of mud and sand that lies 
By the hideous prison-wall, 
To tell the men who tramp the yard 
That God's Son died for all. 

Yet though the hideous prison-wall 
Still hems him round and round, 
And a spirit man not walk by night 
That is with fetters bound, 
And a spirit may not weep that lies 
In such unholy ground, 

He is at peace—this wretched man— 
At peace, or will be soon: 
There is no thing to make him mad, 
Nor does Terror walk at noon, 
For the lampless Earth in which he lies 
Has neither Sun nor Moon. 

They hanged him as a beast is hanged: 
They did not even toll 
A reguiem that might have brought 
Rest to his startled soul, 
But hurriedly they took him out, 
And hid him in a hole. 

They stripped him of his canvas clothes, 
And gave him to the flies; 
They mocked the swollen purple throat 
And the stark and staring eyes: 
And with laughter loud they heaped the shroud 
In which their convict lies. 

The Chaplain would not kneel to pray 
By his dishonored grave: 
Nor mark it with that blessed Cross 
That Christ for sinners gave, 
Because the man was one of those 
Whom Christ came down to save. 

Yet all is well; he has but passed 
To Life's appointed bourne: 
And alien tears will fill for him 
Pity's long-broken urn, 
For his mourner will be outcast men, 
And outcasts always mourn. 

I know not whether Laws be right, 
Or whether Laws be wrong; 
All that we know who lie in gaol 
Is that the wall is strong; 
And that each day is like a year, 
A year whose days are long. 

But this I know, that every Law 
That men have made for Man, 
Since first Man took his brother's life, 
And the sad world began, 
But straws the wheat and saves the chaff 
With a most evil fan.

This too I know—and wise it were 
If each could know the same— 
That every prison that men build 
Is built with bricks of shame, 
And bound with bars lest Christ should see 
How men their brothers maim. 

With bars they blur the gracious moon, 
And blind the goodly sun: 
And they do well to hide their Hell, 
For in it things are done 
That Son of God nor son of Man 
Ever should look upon! 

The vilest deeds like poison weeds 
Bloom well in prison-air:
It is only what is good in Man 
That wastes and withers there: 
Pale Anguish keeps the heavy gate, 
And the Warder is Despair 

For they starve the little frightened child 
Till it weeps both night and day: 
And they scourge the weak, and flog the fool, 
And gibe the old and grey, 
And some grow mad, and all grow bad, 
And none a word may say. 

Each narrow cell in which we dwell 
Is foul and dark latrine, 
And the fetid breath of living Death
Chokes up each grated screen, 
And all, but Lust, is turned to dust 
In Humanity's machine. 

The brackish water that we drink 
Creeps with a loathsome slime, 
And the bitter bread they weigh in scales 
Is full of chalk and lime, 
And Sleep will not lie down, but walks 
Wild-eyed and cries to Time. 

But though lean Hunger and green 
Thirst Like asp with adder fight, 
We have little care of prison fare, 
For what chills and kills outright 
Is that every stone one lifts by day 
Becomes one's heart by night. 

With midnight always in one's heart, 
And twilight in one's cell, 
We turn the crank, or tear the rope, 
Each in his separate Hell, 
And the silence is more awful far 
Than the sound of a brazen bell. 

And never a human voice comes near 
To speak a gentle word: 
And the eye that watches through the door 
Is pitiless and hard: 
And by all forgot, we rot and rot, 
With soul and body marred. 

And thus we rust Life's iron chain 
Degraded and alone: 
And some men curse, and some men weep, 
And some men make no moan: 
But God's eternal Laws are kind 
And break the heart of stone.

And every human heart that breaks, 
In prison-cell or yard, 
Is as that broken box that gave 
Its treasure to the Lord, 
And filled the unclean leper's house 
With the scent of costliest nard. 

Ah! happy day they whose hearts can break 
And peace of pardon win! 
How else may man make straight his plan 
And cleanse his soul from Sin? 
How else but through a broken heart 
May Lord Christ enter in? 

And he of the swollen purple throat. 
And the stark and staring eyes, 
Waits for the holy hands that took 
The Thief to Paradise; 
And a broken and a contrite heart 
The Lord will not despise. 

The man in red who reads the Law 
Gave him three weeks of life, 
Three little weeks in which to heal 
His soul of his soul's strife, 
And cleanse from every blot of blood 
The hand that held the knife. 

And with tears of blood he cleansed the hand, 
The hand that held the steel: 
For only blood can wipe out blood, 
And only tears can heal: 
And the crimson stain that was of Cain 
Became Christ's snow-white seal. 

In Reading gaol by Reading town 
There is a pit of shame, 
And in it lies a wretched man 
Eaten by teeth of flame, 
In burning winding-sheet he lies, 
And his grave has got no name. 

And there, till Christ call forth the dead, 
In silence let him lie: 
No need to waste the foolish tear, 
Or heave the windy sigh: 
The man had killed the thing he loved, 
And so he had to die. 

And all men kill the thing they love, 
By all let this be heard, 
Some do it with a bitter look, 
Some with a flattering word, 
The coward does it with a kiss, 
The brave man with a sword!

Sunday, June 2, 2013

A Poem for June 2nd

Anyone else feeling a little punch-drunk, a little giddy with June? Let's celebrate: 

More Than Enough

The first lily of June opens its red mouth.
All over the sand road where we walk
multiflora rose climbs trees cascading
white or pink blossoms, simple, intense
the scene drifting like colored mist.

The arrowhead is spreading its creamy
clumps of flower and the blackberries
are blooming in the thickets. Season of
joy for the bee. The green will never
again be so green, so purely and lushly

new, grass lifting its wheaty seedheads
into the wind. Rich fresh wine
of June, we stagger into you smeared
with pollen, overcome as the turtle
laying her eggs in roadside sand.

Saturday, June 1, 2013

Welcome Thailand!

Tonight I a delighted to welcome Thailand to TexasBookLover. Yin-dee-ton-rab!