Spinifex

i go to the wild

taking my cares and sorrow

i return alone

 

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© ARF

No Cure

I loved you for a long, long time
I know this love is real
It don’t matter how it all went wrong
That don’t change the way I feel
And I can’t believe that time’s
Gonna heal this wound I’m speaking of
There ain’t no cure,
There ain’t no cure,
There ain’t no cure for love.

Leonard Cohen

 

 

Happy Birthday.

To Sail Beyond the Sunset

 

 

Ulysses

It little profits that an idle king,

By this still hearth, among these barren crags,

Match’d with an aged wife, I mete and dole

Unequal laws unto a savage race,

That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink

Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy’d

Greatly, have suffer’d greatly, both with those

That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when

Thro’ scudding drifts the rainy Hyades

Vext the dim sea: I am become a name;

For always roaming with a hungry heart

Much have I seen and known; cities of men

And manners, climates, councils, governments,

Myself not least, but honour’d of them all;

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am a part of all that I have met;

Yet all experience is an arch wherethro’

Gleams that untravell’d world whose margin fades

For ever and forever when I move.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use!

As tho’ to breathe were life! Life piled on life

Were all too little, and of one to me

Little remains: but every hour is saved

From that eternal silence, something more,

A bringer of new things; and vile it were

For some three suns to store and hoard myself,

And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

 

 

This is my son, mine own Telemachus,

To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,—

Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil

This labour, by slow prudence to make mild

A rugged people, and thro’ soft degrees

Subdue them to the useful and the good.

Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere

Of common duties, decent not to fail

In offices of tenderness, and pay

Meet adoration to my household gods,

When I am gone. He works his work, I mine.

 

There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail:

There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners,

Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me—

That ever with a frolic welcome took

The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed

Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old;

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil;

Death closes all: but something ere the end,

Some work of noble note, may yet be done,

Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.

The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep

Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,

‘T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

 

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

  1. Ulysses Waterhouse.jpg

No Man’s Land

poppies

Well, how do you do, Private William McBride,

Do you mind if I sit down here by your graveside?

And rest for a while in the warm summer sun,

I’ve been walking all day, and I’m nearly done.

I see by your gravestone you were only 19

When you joined the great fallen in 1916,

Well, I hope you died quick and I hope you died clean

Or, Willie McBride, was it slow and obscene?

 

Did they Beat the drum slowly, did the play the pipes lowly?

Did the rifles fire o’er you as they lowered you down?

Did the bugles sound The Last Post in chorus?

Did the pipes play The Flowers of the Forest?

 

Did you leave a young wife or a sweetheart behind?

In some loyal heart is your memory enshrined?

And, though you died back in 1916,

To that faithful heart are you forever 19?

Or are you a stranger without even a name,

Forever enshrined behind some glass pane,

In an old photograph, torn and tattered and stained,

And fading to yellow in a brown leather frame?

 

The sun’s shining down on these green fields of France;

The warm wind blows gently, and the red poppies dance.

The trenches have vanished long under the plow;

No gas and no barbed wire, no guns firing now.

But here in this graveyard that’s still No Man’s Land

The countless white crosses in mute witness stand

To man’s blind indifference to his fellow-man.

And a whole generation who were butchered and damned.

 

And I can’t help but wonder, young Willie McBride,

Do all those who lie here know why they died?

Did you really believe them when they told you “The Cause?”

Did you really believe that this war would end wars?

Well. The suffering, the sorrow, the glory, the shame

The killing, the dying, t’was all done in vain,

For Willie McBride, it all happened again,

And again, and again, and again, and again.

 Eric Bogle
Scottish-born Australian singer-songwriter Eric Bogle also wrote the poignantly sad song And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda

Philosophy

Calvin: Isn’t it strange that evolution would give us a sense of humour? When you think about it, it’s weird that we have a physiological response to absurdity. We laugh at nonsense. We like it. We think it’s funny. Don’t you think it’s odd that we appreciate absurdity? Why would we develop that way? How does it benefit us?

Hobbes: I suppose if we couldn’t laugh at things that don’t make sense, we couldn’t react to a lot of life.

Calvin: (after a long pause) I can’t tell if that’s funny or really scary.

I Ain’t Got No Home.

I ain’t got no home, I’m just a-roamin’ ’round,

Just a wandrin’ worker, I go from town to town.

And the police make it hard wherever I may go

And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

My brothers and my sisters are stranded on this road,

A hot and dusty road that a million feet have trod;

Rich man took my home and drove me from my door

And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

Was a-farmin’ on the shares, and always I was poor;

My crops I lay into the banker’s store.

My wife took down and died upon the cabin floor,

And I ain’t got no home in this world anymore.

I mined in your mines and I gathered in your corn

I been working, mister, since the day I was born

Now I worry all the time like I never did before

‘Cause I ain’t got no home in this world anymore

Woody Guthrie