War Poetry Remembrance Week

“¹If you're not familiar with Cabaret, it's an interesting play to revive now. Depicting the denizens of a decadent Berlin night club sleep walking their way through life as the Nazis rise to power, it's a cautionary tale of the need to be on guard against the naive belief that the worst can never happen and others will take care of society's problems for us.

Choosing to ignore the spread of brutal, reactionary and racist ideologies, we end up abetting the contagion. There are times when we have to take a stand, no matter how much we'd rather be dancing our lives away.”

I’ve quoted the above from Francis at Caught In The Stream as an introduction to the subject War. On Sunday November 4th, the blog site Classic Poetry Aloud will be running a week of “²War Poems to coincide with Remembrance Week, the week leading up to the 11th of November. In the Uk on the 11th of November, People traditionally will pause for two minutes at 11 O’clock in the morning which is the exact time on that day that the Declaration of Peace was signed at the end of the first World War in 1918.” The goal by Classic Poetry Aloud is to read War Poems by 7 Poets in these 7 days leading up to November 11th.

Classic Poetry Aloud will begin on Sunday November 4th with an Occasional Miscellany that introduces the week to include poetry from Samuel Coleridge, Katherine Mansfield, Herman Melville, William Shakespeare, Rupert Brooke, Wilfred Owen and Lawrence Binyon.

We “²hope you will be able to join us during this week to take the time to listen and perhaps take some time on November 11th to reflect on where the poems have led you to that week.”

Thank You



1. A Fall Night Out in Rogers Park: Catching Cabaret, Carving Pumpkins (consent to quote granted to Binding Ink)

2. Occasional Miscellany Number 2

Guest Post Featuring Franscud

Blog Site: Caught In The Stream

Dated: Wednesday, September 26, 2007

Not wasting a chance to reference T.S. Eliot

Today marks the 119th anniversary of the birth of Thomas Stearns Eliot, the great modernist poet and dramatist probably best remembered for his controversial work The Waste Land. Published in 1922 and arising out of the devastation of World War I, many associate the poem with a post-bellum European mood of despair and a sense of societal spiritual decay. Hidden in the complex verse is a seed of hope, however; one that I too try to grasp in our own time of overwhelming cynicism.

There is much about life in 21st century America that makes me imagine a wasted future: Our economy mired in fossil-fueled denial; Our resources consumed by endless war; Our fears stoked in hate filled fantasies; Our rights eroded by violence addicted leaders; Our minds undone by our own indifference; Our souls corrupted by false righteousness.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
(Lines 19-30)

Within that seemingly barren context, though, there is a real possibility for change and growth. Our fatalistic attitudes lag behind the pace of positive social developments; feeling alienated, isolated, and alone behind our self-built prison walls we are blind to the new empowering opportunities for connection, belonging and shared experience. For within the dying carcass of old habits grows the germ of a new idea. By casting aside our former modes of seeing, we can envision a new world sprouting through the cracked and arid earth.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain
(Lines 385-394)

Click here to see the full text of the poem

Originally Written and Posted by franscud

Permission to Reprint Granted to Binding Ink

Poem Death of A Star

Long ago whence the World initially formed

Lady Love fell atop the blanketed blackness

Embracing all Lovers who were to be left heartbroken, in hopeless despair, with trampled dreams

Her jagged nails grasped achingly into the night, parting holes throughout the ebony sky

Peering down onto Earth with questions of why rummaging in her head

She wept an eternity as the first rain quenched the barren ground far below

And with every single tear drop, one crystallized star molded in each desolate opening

Throughout history, to some the stars are a delight, a wish I may – I wish I might, a guide in the night

But these twinkling ornaments are clearly from her above

Whence in eons, fueled by smoldering embers of loves nevermore, many stars simply die

Shattering exploded pieces of broken hearts across the sky

And so when I per chance see their stellar remains, I’m reminded that Lady Love weeps for those like me.

By © - Jeane Michelle Culp

Related Posts:
Abuzz over dying stars by Francis Scudellari

Smoking Addiction

Not something Santa would approve of, however; I do smoke cigarettes despite being diagnosed and treated for bronchitis, asthma, borderline COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), and knowing one Family Member has emphysema. Throat cancer Patients have a laryngectomy, “which involves removing the larynx, inserting a one-way valve in its place and diverting the air flow to a hole cut into the back of the throat ¹." Many People have seen or heard about these Patients whom smoke, simply cover this hole in their throat and continue to inhale the tempting rolled substance.

The fact is that cigarette smoking is more than a habit. Smoking is an addiction. A habit is “a behavior pattern acquired by frequent repetition or physiologic exposure that shows itself in regularity or increased facility of performance ²." Where as an addiction is a “compulsive need for and use of a habit-forming substance (as heroin, nicotine, or alcohol) characterized by tolerance and by well-defined physiological symptoms upon withdrawal; broadly : persistent compulsive use of a substance known by the user to be harmful ³." Without the poisonous psychoactive drug nicotine, smoking would merely be a habit.

A Friend of mine, currently 67 years old; has smoked for over 40 years. Recently she tried the prescription Chantix to help her quit smoking. The drug caused a few nightmares, treatable oral blisters, and bland taste buds. However; within less than a month she had succeeded in not smoking. Quickly her oral blisters healed, her taste buds returned to normal, and to date she has not smoked.

“How does CHANTIX work? First, you have to know how nicotine works. There are receptors for nicotine in the brain. When smoke is inhaled, nicotine attaches to these receptors. This sends a message to a different part of the brain to release a chemical called dopamine. Dopamine gives a feeling of pleasure. But it only lasts for a short time. The body wants to repeat this feeling. Based on research, it is believed that CHANTIX™ (varenicline) works by activating these receptors and blocking nicotine from attaching to them. However, CHANTIX does not contain nicotine ⁴."

In other words, Chantix blocks the pleasure factor in the brain. I am uncertain in doing so, what other pleasures this medicine may block; such as over indulging in food… Perhaps Chantix is a modern oral lobotomy. The fact is, the drug worked for my Friend and I am in hopes to soon try this prescription.

Meanwhile, these memories plague my mind. A Co-Worker had minor chest pains. Thinking such maybe a heart attack, he drove himself to the Emergency Room. However; before going in, he admitted wanting one more cigarette, so he sat in his truck and smoked. Later that day, after his initial examination, he underwent heart surgery for a placement of two stents.

Once, a Gentleman in a wheelchair whom also merely had the use of two arms from the shoulder blade to above the elbow, had taped on one of his arms a fork. He asked me to place a cigarette in-between the fork prongs so he could smoke.

Perhaps you have similar stories or posts about smoking. If so please share them here.

Ultimately, I think Dennis Leary, (“a Golden Globe and Emmy Award-nominated American actor, comedian, writer and director. He is known for his often angry comedic style and his frequent chain smoking⁵.”) surmised this addiction best when he said:

“You could have cigarettes that come in a black pack, with a skull and a cross bones on the front, called tumors and smokers would be lined up around the block going, "I can't wait to get my hands on these f** things! ⁶"

Related Posts:

Thank yourself by not smoking by Francis Scudellari




Footnotes:
1. United Bristol Healthcare
2. Merriam-Webster's Dictionary
3. Merriam-Webster's Dictionary
4. CHANTIX™
5. Wikipedia
6. Dennis Leary

Out Of The Box! M.P.H.

In 1998, I had called my Aunt and Uncle to let them know that my Mother’s Husband had departed from his battle with cancer. To this day I still remember my Aunt’s voice as she broke the news to me on the phone, my Uncle died unexpectedly in his sleep of a brain aneurysm. Serendipitously, both men died within 24 hours of one another. A few years later while sorting through the baited rat trap of boxes I had accumulated over the years, I had to face and embrace the memories of my Uncle Bill. Each photo found, showed him as a tall lanky Gentleman whom never seemed to age. Amidst my collection were letters from him and my Aunt; places they had been, things they were doing. A wonderful assortment of cherished birthday and holiday cards from them - expanding from my youth to that of an adult. And with each memorabilia, I found myself on a journey down memory lane filled with echoing heart felt laughter and love. My Uncle Bill made his living painting homes and in-between his brush decorated canvases with beautiful pictures. My favorite are those of trees and covered bridges. Recently franscud; Francis Scudellari Author of Caught In The Stream posted about Mr. Potato Head. I mention this because one of my fondest childhood memories is when my Aunt and Uncle took me on a trip with them to Tennessee, for their Daughter’s wedding. First, one must envision such a tall man being the owner of and driving a VW, back in the days when these adorable beetle bugs were petite. As a child, I always found it humorous and amazing how my Uncle Bill fit himself into this car. In Tennessee, Uncle Bill took me for my first double dipped ice cream cone! Outside the snack bar, my top scoop plummeted to the ground immediately. Uncle Bill merely smiled; gently taking my hand, he walked me into the ice cream shop again, for another delicious dip atop my cone! On our way back from the wedding, the heater in the VW decided to quit. When Uncle Bill stopped to get a few repair supplies, he made a side stop into a near by store where he bought me, yes – Mr. Potato Head! And so, with permission from Francis; for all those boxes that couldn’t hold all my treasures of yesterday; I present to you my Readers, Mr. Potato Head, for all to enjoy! May such a photo be liken a feather duster on the memory box in your minds and bring you treasured smiles also.

When putting things back together again was simple:


Here’s to you, my Uncle Bill!

In Loving Memory, Here's to you Aunt Ella December 30, 1925-April 9, 2011