stoutfellow

I've begun reading George Stewart's _Storm_. So far, it seems to have the same characteristics as _Earth Abides_, a mix of (informative!) didacticism with solid human interest. The passage I just read had a pleasing multidirectional allusion. A meteorologist, analyzing data (with hand-annotated map and slide rule) that point to the just-emerging storm, recalls the relevant equations, and Stewart comments "To a well-trained mathematical meteorologist, they were more beautiful than Grecian urns." Of course, that's a reference to Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" ("Beauty is truth, truth beauty - that is all ye know on Earth, and all ye need to know"), but it also called Edna St. Vincent Millay to my mind ("Euclid alone has looked on Beauty bare. Fortunate they Who, though once only and then but far away, Have heard her massive sandal set on stone.").

I was going to say a few words about the aesthetics of mathematics, but Edna has done that job better than I could.

If memory serves, Andre Gide (I'm almost certain it was him) wrote a piece - poem, essay, short story, I don't recall - in which a (dying?) man reflects on the good things of life. I have heard of it, but have not read it, and would like to. Does what I've said, skimpy though it is, ring a bell with anyone?

There is a movie entitled "Reuben, Reuben". There is also a movie entitled "Rachel, Rachel". Alas, they are not genderflipped versions of each other.

Ursula Vernon (whom I adore) attributes the following quote to Nesbit. (She doesn't source it, so I can't verify, and Google is useless.)

”There are two great powers on our side, the power of love and the power of mathematics. Those two are stronger than anything in the world.”

Some time back I commented on the Kenny Rogers / Whitney Duncan duet "My World Is Over", which I love. Over on Ta-Nehisi Coates' blog, they're discussing poetry, and someone just brought up - and quoted in full - W. H. Auden's "Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone". It seems obvious that the songwriter (Rogers, I assume) knew the Auden poem. The lyrics aren't a close match, but they're close enough.

Auden:

The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

Rogers:

So sweep away the sand and dry the ocean,
And just pack the moon and stars up in a cardboard box
And stop the clocks from chiming
Block the sun from shining
And paint the sky a deeper shade of blue
'Cause my world's over without you

(Auden's poem also, as the title suggests, makes mention of stopping clocks.)

Since it's National Poetry Month, I thought I'd bring out one of my old favorites. Yes, it's one of the standards, but I love the imagery and the mouth-feel. (It's also one of the few poems I've recited in public.)

Andrew Marvell, "To His Coy Mistress"

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long-preserved virginity,
And your quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life;
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet will we make him run.

All Quiet Along the Potomac To-Night

"All quiet along the Potomac," they say,
"Except here and there a stray picket
Is shot, as he walks on his beat, to and fro,
By a rifleman hid in the thicket.
'Tis nothing - a private or two now and then
Will not count in the news of the battle;
Not an officer lost, only one of the men
Moaning out all alone the death rattle."

All quiet along the Potomac to-night,
Where the soldiers lie peacefully dreaming,
Their tents in the rays of the clear autumn moon,
And the light of their watch-fires are gleaming.
A tremulous sigh, as the gentle night wind
Through the forest leaves softly is creeping,
While the stars up above, with their glittering eyes,
Keep guard, for the army is sleeping.

There's only the sound of the lone sentry's tread,
As he tramps from the rock to the fountain,
And thinks of the two on the low trundle bed,
Far away in the cot on the mountain.
His musket falls slack - his face, dark and grim,
Grows gentle with memories tender,
As he mutters a prayer for the children asleep,
And their mother - "may Heaven defend her."

Then drawing his sleeve roughly over his eyes,
He dashes off tears that are welling;
And gathers his gun closer up to his breast,
As if to keep down the heart's swelling.
He passes the fountain, the blasted pine tree,
And his footstep is lagging and weary,
Yet onward he goes, through the broad belt of light,
Toward the shades of the forest so dreary.

Hark! was it the night wind that rustles the leaves?
Was it the moonlight so wondrously flashing?
It looked like a rifle! "Ha! Mary, good-bye!"
And his lifeblood is ebbing and splashing.
"All quiet along the Potomac tonight,"
No sound save the rush of the river;
While soft falls the dew on the face of the dead,
The picket's off duty forever.

(Ethel Lynn Beers, 1861)

I missed National Poetry Month. Nonetheless, for some reason, I feel like posting this, which is one of my favorite poems.

"To His Coy Mistress", Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day;
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood;
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow.
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.

        But at my back I always hear
Time's winged chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preserv'd virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust.
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none I think do there embrace.

        Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may;
And now, like am'rous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour,
Than languish in his slow-chapp'd power.
Let us roll all our strength, and all
Our sweetness, up into one ball;
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life.
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.

Mark Kleiman makes a very good point: poetry has never stopped mattering, and it never will.

For your delectation: The Fúfumál. (Hat tip to sivi_volk.)