RoadWriter

Heart, Soul, and Rough Edges — A Gypsy Journey of Words and Wonder

Archive for the month “April, 2013”

My Birthday and Paul Revere's Horse

I promised myself I would memorize Henry Wadsworth Longfellow’s poem, “Paul Revere’s Ride” by the time I reached my ninth birthday.

I’d already mastered the spelling of “antidisestablishmentarianism” — I had no clue of its meaning, but someone bet my third grade teacher that she couldn’t teach at least one of her students to spell it. My memory is that she asked me, the star speller in our class, if I’d like to give it a try.

I loved school, loved Miss Elliott, was an obsessive reader well beyond my grade level, and was excited to be picked. To this day, I can rattle off the letters correctly, as long as I do it quickly and don’t over-think.

When we read “Paul Revere’s Ride” in class, it was immediately my favorite because that famous ride happened on my birthday, “the eighteenth of April”. I mean, how cool is it to share my day with Paul Revere and his horse? I still remember several stanzas.

This past birthday occurred in the middle of a critical week in Boston. Broken-hearted, I watched, read and listened to more news reports than I’d done for several years. The courage and resilience Boston and the rest of the country showed touched me deeply.

I had planned to post a wacky “coming of age” poem, about what it means to turn sixty-five. (That’s 455 dog years, if you we’re wondering.) I’ll hold that for another time.

Instead, I decided to share Longfellow’s poem, written in 1860, at another critical point in our history. Yes, Longfellow took some poetic liberties in this work, but his message shines through. As you read it, see if the strong spirit that moved me nudges you a bit, too — especially the first and last few stanzas.

Michele

Paul Revere’s Ride

Listen, my children, and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, “If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,–
One, if by land, and two, if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm.”

Then he said, “Good night!” and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street,
Wanders and watches with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry-chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,–
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town,
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night-encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel’s tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, “All is well!”
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,–
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide, like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse’s side,
Now gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry-tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry’s height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns!

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet:
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.

He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders, that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock,
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer’s dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadows brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket-ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,
How the British Regulars fired and fled,–
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,
Chasing the red-coats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,–
A cry of defiance and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo forevermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

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Boston Marathon

The Boston Marathon turned tragic this past Monday when two bombs went off near the finish line of the race. Two of our kids were downtown when it happened. Both are, thank God, safe, but others were not so lucky. Our hearts go out to all.

Boston Marathon

Participants in the 2010 Boston Marathon in We...

Participants in the 2010 Boston Marathon in Wellesley, just after the halfway mark (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Blank page accuses me

but I’m wordless,
my mind stuck in the moment
I heard the explosion,

the second glass shattered,

viewing stands collapsed,
runners crashed to the street
from the bomb’s blast

A pressure cooker,
a timer,
nails and such

from the hardware store

Anyone could buy
at the Ace on the corner

put together in the garage.
No one would suspect a thing.

We have the method,
but not the motive:
neither who nor why,
and it leaves us wrecked.

We toss and turn,
wake at 2 AM,
imagined footsteps
clomp by our door.

Only a dream,

a stand-in for the worry
we are vulnerable,
fragile,

and anyone
with a few dollars,
a little know-how,
a stain on their soul,

could, in a moment,
change our lives forever.

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Poetry Month: Book Spine Poetry

If you’re not aware, April is National Poetry Month. Next week is also National Library Week. AtYourLibrary.org is celebrating both with a contest. Use the books from your library to compose a Book Spine Poem telling why the library matters to you (deadline April 20). I haven’t made it out to my library yet, but wanted to make my own book spine poem. This isn’t themed about the library, and was made using my personal library.

A book spine poem is made by stacking book spines so the titles make a free verse poem.

Mary's Book Spine Poem

Mary’s Book Spine Poem

In case that’s hard to read, or the image doesn’t load, it reads:

The Shadow Warrior
Exile

Out of Avalon
Through Stone and Sea
Too Stubborn to Die

It was a fun challenge going through all my books, pulling and mixing and shifting trying to find something I liked and that told a story. I’d lvoe to see what you come up with from your own libraries.

Mary Butterfly Signature

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Make Visible: Love and Attraction

I’m a poet with a particular point of view. In these next blog posts I’ll post poems on different subjects from my point of view. Each poem is an expression, through me, of inspiration or Spirit or emotion. What you see in this light is what you bring to the poem.

This particular poem, “Valentine,” was written in response to a challenge to write a Villanelle, a form of poetry. It was also written as a Valentine for someone I was attracted to at the time. Poetry, classically, portrays love and attraction. It’s not unusual to write a love poem. Some of our first attempts at writing poetry are love poems. Please try your hand at love poetry if you haven’t already.

IMG_2394

Valentine (Villanelle)

Cupid’s arrows pierce my heart,
Despite love’s shifting sands
Never will we two part

Card stolen from Wal-Mart
More than eruptions from my glands
Cupid’s arrows pierce my heart

To get to you I took the BART *
IPOD plays my favorite bands,
Never will we two part

I feel the sting of his golden darts
Make of me any demands
Cupid’s arrows pierce my heart

Dressed up like a dime-store tart
You held me in your gentle hands
Never will we two part

Your eyes travel my Holy Lands
Ready for your commands
Cupid’s arrows pierce my heart
Never will we two part.

* BART-Bay Area Rapid Transit

© Anne Westlund

Come back on Friday, May 3 for Make Visible: Organization.

“Make visible what, without you, might perhaps never have been seen.”~Robert Bresson, French Film Director

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