There are a lot of old, boring, easily offended, humorless  people out there who don’t care much for the excitement, the wonder, the sparkles and reflections and tinsel and candles and suspense and giggles and hand-clapping and jammied children and ribbons and pretty paper and surprises, and this makes me sad for them. However, I also figure they were pretty much the same when they were young younger.

I think the ability or tendency to glow and laugh and clap and appreciate things is there in all of us, and whether we let the light of these things shine through us – or not – is a choice we make. Scrooge was Scrooge because he chose to be Scrooge. Yes, certain childhood happenings helped mold him, but ultimately, he chose his life. Free will choice. All of our lives are that way. We can’t always control the circumstances, and sometimes Karma really hits us below the belt, but we can always control the way we deal with it. Most of us go up and down, back and forth, hot and cold with our reactions; even-keeled people are rare and actually rather boring. But whether we reel from the blows and get back up, or stay down and cover our heads and wait for more, is up to us. We’ve all been there.

Me, I love Christmas. What, you didn’t know?

Christmas Eve is such a magical time. It’s all ahead of us, you see. To paraphrase Katie, age 8, in my all-time favorite Christmas novel  What Child Is This, by Caroline Cooney, the night before Christmas isn’t called a ‘night,’ it’s called ‘eve,’ and Christmas morning isn’t called ‘morning,’ it’s ‘morn.’ Eve and morn: two special words to highlight two special times.  All the other times of the year have mornings and evenings, and New Year’s has “eve,”  but only Christmas has both eve and morn.

Eve and morn are special.

How special are they? They are special already, in their own right, but how you make them special for yourself and for your children is entirely up to you. I hope you give them memories they will cherish all their lives, so much so that they will pass the glory along to their own children.

Children flourish with roots, but they soar with wings.

May your Eve be full of anticipation and warmth, and may your Morn be all you hoped it would be.

Mamacita says: It makes me sad that so many parents are not allowing their children to dwell in the world of innocent fantasy.  These parents feel that to allow it is equivalent to lying to their children about what is real and what isn’t.

Don’t they understand that to a child, both worlds are real?  I’ll go one further: to all people of any age who retain their believing hearts, and who use their brains as God (and biology) intended, both worlds are real, too.

My daughter was seven when she asked the question I’d been dreading for seven years: “Mommy, is there really a Santa Claus?”

However, thanks to Caroline Quiner Ingalls, I knew exactly how to answer her. And, this answer fully satisfied my little child, and me.

Laura and Mary’s Ma knew how to explain to her children about Santa Claus without destroying their faith in miracles and magic:

. . . then Laura had a chance to speak without interrupting. She said “There isn’t any fireplace.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Ma asked her.

“Santa Claus,” Laura answered.

“Eat your supper, Laura, and let’s not cross bridges till we come to them,” said Ma.

Laura and Mary knew that Santa Claus could not come down a chimney when there was no chimney. One day Mary asked Ma how Santa Claus could come. Ma did not answer. Instead, she asked, “What do you girls want for Christmas?”

. . . “Ma!” (Laura) cried. “there IS a Santa Claus, isn’t there?”

“Of course there’s a Santa Claus, said Ma. She set the iron on the stove to heat again.

“The older you are, the more you know about Santa Claus,” she said. “You are so big now, you know he can’t be just one man, don’t you? You know he is everywhere on Christmas Eve. He is in the Big Woods, and in Indian Territory, and far away in York State, and here. He comes down all the chimneys at the same time. You know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Ma,” said Mary and Laura.

“Well,” said Ma. “then you see – “

“I guess he is like angels,” Mary said, slowly. And Laura could see that, just as well as Mary could.

Then Ma told them something else about Santa Claus. He was everywhere, and besides that, he was all the time.

Whenever anyone was unselfish, that was Santa Claus.

Christmas Eve was the time when everybody was unselfish. On that one night, Santa Claus was everywhere, because everybody, all together, stopped being selfish and wanted other people to be happy. And in the morning you saw what that had done.

“If everybody wanted everybody else to be happy, all the time, then would it be Christmas all the time?” Laura asked, and Ma said, “Yes, Laura.”

–from On the Banks of Plum Creek, by Laura Ingalls Wilder

You’re welcome.

In my classes, I jump on almost any excuse to highlight a particular word and force my students to take it back to its point of origin. I’ve done this for a zillion years, and I’m still doing this.

It is , of course, the high point of their day something they’re used to now, and have even come to expect. Well, today it might have been a high point.

Today, we were discussing grammar via a selection in the text that highlighted legal precedures. The words ‘testimony,’ ‘testify,’ and ‘testimonial’ kept coming up.

Coming up. Mwahahahahahaha. . . . .

Although there are some who do not agree, many scholars, theologians, and historians DO agree that the word in all its aspects hearkens back to. . . . testicles.

Some of the ancients swore in court by holding on to their testicles. In the Old Testament, Abraham’s servant swore an oath by placing his hand “under the thigh” of his master. (This is a euphemism for ‘penis.’ The ancients seldom used the word itself because it was considered sacred.) (See laughter above.)

Jacob tricked his brother out of his inheritance, but he didn’t get blessed until after he wrestled with the angel -  when an oath was made for a blessing – by putting his hands on the angel’s testicles. And many scholars believe that the “sinew that shrank” was actually. . . .well, you know. And we are advised not to eat it.

Hey, no problem here.

Well, actually, there is a problem here. The problem is that now I have this stupid Twisted Christmas song running through my head:

Grahbe Yahbalz like Michael Jackson,
Fa la la la la, la la la la. . . .

Well, you get the picture. Now try to remove the picture. Not so easy, is it.

I am really not a crude person, at least not most of the time. I am really a gentle person. But life can be so darn funny, it would be inconsiderate not to laugh.

P.S. Do not confuse ‘testicles’ with any of his brothers, such as Pericles, Sophocles, or Heracles.

P.P.S. Yes, I said Heracles. Hercules is just. . . . wrong. I’d blame Disney, because even though I love Disney I like to blame Disney for plotlines gone perverted, but people were saying and spelling it wrong long before Disney stepped in. The word is “Heracles.” Not “Hercules.” He was named for Hera. Heracles.   Hera hated him, as she hated all her husband’s children by other women, but he was her namesake, nevertheless.

This is how I lecture.  Come on over.

You may now go back to your usual programming.

Thank you, Miz Roberts.

This poem refers to World War One soldiers, killed and buried overseas.  Their families had no body to bury.  They gave their lives so our children won’t have to give theirs.  The war to end all wars.  The Big War.  The one Colonel Potter fought before he fought World War Two and Korea.

Sadly, there were and will be bigger wars.  However, I also fear that Einstein was correct when he said, “I know not with what weapons World War III will be fought, but World War IV will be fought with sticks and stones.”

And then it will no doubt start up all over again.

Let us hope not.

Whatever your opinion of the military might be, please remember that because of them, you are free to hold that opinion, and make it public.

Thank you, veterans.

Mom and Dad interacted with us, just enough to make it special.

I do NOT, however, recall my parents being at my beck and call. I knew kids whose parents were at their beck and call, and we made fun of them – both kids and parents.  Even when we were really little, we knew such a relationship just wasn’t, well, RIGHT.

When my parents got down and played with me, it was a big deal, partly because it was such super extra fun, and partly because it was rare enough to be a genuine treat.

Mom was busy. I remember her ironing in front of the tv while the kids played all around her. Was she playing with them? No, she was busy. But it was all right, because we knew where she was and what she was doing, and we knew if we needed her she would drop everything and come.

We played outside in the yard. Our house was on a VERY busy corner, and the wide street was dangerous. We did not go near it because we had been told not to. Period. We played with each other and with the neighbor kids. If a parent had tried to play with us, we would have been frightened and we would have gone into the house. I mean, jeepers. All the parents in the neighborhood, however, watched over us and never hesitated to tattle if there was something they thought another parent would want to know.

I did not expect my parents to play with me constantly; why should they? The world is not supposed to be a 100% blend of adult-child things; there is an adult world and there is a child’s world. Frequently, they interact; mostly, they do not.

Nowadays, however, I guess I should phrase that last: mostly, they SHOULD not. Because in many households today, the children are in charge.

“Play wif me, watch Barney wif me, sit wif me, stack blocks wif me. . . .” And the parent drops everything and lets the child be the person in charge of the household, because to deny a child immediate pleasure is to be a bad, bad parent.

Children do NOT need a parent to play with them every minute of the day. Children need to be forced to acquire the inner resources to entertain themselves. Most kids own enough toys to stock a store; put the kid in there and tell him he’s on his own because you’ve got grown-up things you simply must do. Be sure you can keep a close eye on him, if he’s tiny, but make him do some exploring on his own, for crying out loud. And speaking of crying out loud, don’t fall for THAT one, either.

A child who doesn’t have the inner resources to entertain himself becomes an adult who requires outside stimulation (shut up) at all times because they don’t have what it takes to sit quietly and dream, or think, or draw, or read, or open the damn toy box and find something to play with. Requiring your children to learn to entertain themselves encourages them to become imaginative and creative. Being at your child’s beck and call discourages these things.

Far too many parents give up and turn on the tv for hours, every day.   That creates yet another generation of adults who can’t entertain themselves; it has to come from OUTSIDE themselves. How many adults do you know who MUST keep the tv on pretty much 24/7 because they CAN’T function without some sitcom or show on, always? I know several. Listening to background music isn’t the same thing at all, because there is no picture – often not child-friendly – for a kid to be captivated by.

Do not become your child’s on-call playmate. Make your child entertain himself. Whenever you can, sit down and play with him, but honestly? Your kid does not need a grownup play buddy. Your child needs to learn how to figure out how to play by himself.

Is your child more important than housework or yard work or home office work, etc? Absolutely. But your child also needs to learn that Mommy or Daddy is NOT at their beck and call, 24/7.

“Playpen” is a dirty word for many parents, but the fact is, with a playpen, you can put your tiny tiny toddler in there with some toys and get some work done. “But he cries when I put him in there!” So what? Let him cry a while, and eventually he’ll see he’s getting nowhere and he’ll start to play, by himself. This isn’t a sad pitiful thing, poor lonely child, etc; it’s a step towards independence and a step towards becoming a person who has what it takes to keep himself occupied and entertain himself, and become resourceful, so he won’t grow up to become a person so in need of outside stimulation and affirmation and so “entitled” to attention in all aspects of life that he talks out loud in the theater, bellows in a restaurant, talks on his cell phone in public, is at a loss if he finishes a test early and is told to just sit there and read for ten minutes, doesn’t have any homework and can’t handle the free time in study hall, etc.

Play with your kids whenever you can. But don’t let your kids rule your home, and don’t deny yourselves your share of the “adult” world you are so very much entitled to by reason of your ever-advancing age. And yes, those ARE grey hairs and yes, they appeared AFTER you had kids.

Seriously? There is something sad and creepy about a parent so involved with her kids and their activities that her feelings are hurt when the kids don’t invite her to play, too. It’s almost as creepy as the kids who have no conception of figuring anything out themselves because a parent is ALWAYS there to explain every. single. little.thing.

The children’s novel “Understood Betsy,” which is one of my favorites, has this to say:

“. . . Elizabeth Ann had always before thought it an essential part of railway journeys to be much kissed at the end and asked a great many times how you had ‘stood the trip.’

She st very still on the high lumber seat, feeling very forlorn and neglected. Her feet dangled high above the floor of the wagon. She felt herself to be in the most dangerous place she had ever dreamed of in her worst dreams. Oh, why wasn’t Aunt Frances there to take care of her! It was just like one of her bad dreams – yes, it was horrible! She would fall, she would roll under the wheels and be crushed to. . . She looked up at Uncle Henry with the wild eyes of nervous terror which always brought Aunt Frances to her in a rush to ‘hear all about it,’ to sympathize, to reassure.

Uncle Henry looked down at her soberly, his hard, weather-beaten old face unmoved. “Here, you drive, will you, for a piece?” he said briefly, putting the reins into her hands, hooking his spectacles over his ears, and drawing out a stubby pencil and a bit of paper. “I’ve got some figgering to do. You pull on the left-hand rein to make ‘em go to the left and t’other way for ‘other way, though ’tain’t likely we’ll meet any teams.”

Elizabeth Ann had been so near one of her wild screams of terror that now, in spite of her instant absorbed interest in the reins, she gave a queer little yelp. She was all ready with the explanations, her conversations with Aunt Frances having made her very fluent in explanations of her own emotions. She would tell Uncle Henry about how scared she had been, and how she had just been about to scream and couldn’t keep back that one little. . . But Uncle Henry seemed not to have heard her little howl, or, if he had, didn’t think it worth conversation, for he. . . oh, the horses were CERTAINLY going to one side! She hastily decided which was her right hand (she had never been forced to know it so quickly before) and pulled on that rein. The horses turned their hanging heads a little, and, miraculously, there they were in the middle of the road again.

Elizabeth Ann drew a long breath of relief and pride, and looked to Uncle Henry for praise. But he was busily setting down figures as though he were getting his ‘rithmetic lesson tor the next day and had not noticed. . . OH, there were were going to the left again! This time, in her flurry, she made a mistake about which hand was which and pulled wildly on the left line! The horses docilely walked off the road into a shallow ditch, the wagon tilted. . . help! Why didn’t Uncle Henry help! Uncle Henry continued intently figuring on the back of his envelope.

Elizabeth Ann, the perspiration starting out on her forehead, pulled on the other line. The horses turned back up the little slope, the wheel grated sickeningly against the wagon-box – she was SURE they would tip over! But there! Somehow there they were in the road, safe and sound, with Uncle Henry adding up a column of figures. If he only knew, thought the little girl, if he only KNEW the danger he had been in, and how he had been saved. . . ! But she must think of some way to remember, for sure, which her right hand was, and avoid that hideous mistake again.

And then suddenly something inside Elizabeth Ann’s head stirred and moved. It came to her, like a clap, that she needn’t know which was right or left. If she just pulled the way she wanted them to go – the horses would never know whether it was the right or the left rein!

It is possible that what stirred inside her head at that moment was her brain, waking up. She was nine years old, and she was in the third A grade at school, but that was the first time she had ever had a whole thought of her very own. At home, Aunt Frances had always known exactly what she was doing, and had helped her over the hard places before she even knew they were there; and at school her teachers had been carefully trained to think faster than the scholars. Somebody had always been explaining things to Elizabeth Ann so carefully that she had never found out a single thing for herself before. This was a very small discovery, but it was her own. Elizabeth Ann was as excited about it as a mother-bird over the first egg she hatches.

She forgot how afraid she was of Uncle Henry, and poured out to him her discovery. “It’s not right or left that matters! she ended triumphantly; “it’s which way you want to go!” Uncle Henry looked at her attentively as she talked, eyeing her sidewise over the top of one spectacle-glass. When she finished – “Well, now, that’s so,” he admitted, and returned to his arithmetic.

It was a short remark, shorter than any Elizabeth Ann had ever heard before. Aunt Frances and her teachers had always explained matters at length. But it had a weighty, satisfying ring to it. The little girl felt the importance of having her statement recognized. She turned back to her driving.”

If you’re not familiar with Understood Betsy, by Dorothy Canfield, run out and get it immediately! It’s a charming story, full of delight.

Parents, you also don’t need to tiptoe around the house and speak in whispers when the baby naps. Let the baby learn to sleep through the natural noises of a busy household, and you’ll save yourselves and everyone who lives with you YEARS of tip-toeing and whispering. You’ll also end up with a child who has learned not to wake up every time a feather falls to the floor.

I remember when Mom was teaching my brother to stay in his own bed all night. That first night, his crying broke all of our hearts, and it lasted pretty much all night, too. The next night, he went right to sleep and stayed in his bed all night.  Today, he is a highly successful university professor.  I see no signs of own-bed-trauma in his life.

They test us. They test us constantly. As they get older, the tests get harder. During the first years, they cry a lot to try and break us. As they get older, we cry a lot because sometimes, they do. But we can’t let it show, or we’ve lost.

Oh, and that curse all mothers put on their kids, the one that goes “I hope, when you grow up and get married and have kids, that you have a kid who is JUST LIKE YOU.”

That curse works.

By the way, the biggest problem with childrearing advice is that the best advice often comes from someone who has learned these things the hard way and wants to spare young parents from the same battles. The second biggest problem with the best childrearing advice is that young parents don’t know what these old people could possibly know about raising children.

Times change. Babies don’t.

Unless, by “change,” you are referring to diapers, in which case, starting saving your money now. Oh, and if you’ve got a sensitivity to bad smells, buck up and get over it.

My point? Do I have to have one?

You are not obligated to play with your children every waking minute. You are an adult and you have things to do, too. Kids will learn if you give them no choice. Make sure they know you’re nearby and can hear them, but require them to learn to develop inner resources for themselves. We’ve already got more than enough adults who don’t have what it takes to keep themselves internally entertained; we certainly don’t need any more.

One of them usually sits by me on a plane.

P.S. I’m not talking about newborns here; heck, I used to wear my newborns,  although I also used to put them in the playpen to keep the cat off them when I went downstairs to do laundry.  I was glad to have that playpen when the big snake got into the house, I’m tellin’ ya.

(Rerun.  Yes.)

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charge with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

==

Mamacita says:  This is one of many poems Mrs. Chandler made us memorize in Junior English.  I am still amazed at the number of students who simply refused to do it and took a zero and didn’t give a tinker’s dam about it.

I know that many people do not believe in memorizing poetry or anything else because we can always look something up if we want or need to know it.  I am sorry for these people.

I love memorizing things and can sit back in my airplane seat, close my eyes, and read entire books in my head.  When we memorize something, we have it with us always.  We can entertain ourselves from within.  We are never bored.  We don’t need batteries.

Even cooler than those things:  we have tons of “stuff” to make connections with.  Remember, education is all about the connections.  The more we know, the more connections we can make.

I pity the little kids whose parents don’t help them learn nursery rhymes, poems, stories, and cool trivia before they begin kindergarten.  I don’t think a child can ever make up for all that lost and wasted time, and parents who don’t do this are selfish dysfunctional assholes lazy know-nothings.

Then again, we can’t miss Days or Oprah or the big game; sheesh.

I still despise the father who refused to drive his spelling Bee winning son to the radio station to compete against the winners from the other schools because he was tired and didn’t want to miss the big game on TV.  Whenever I see this man, I think of this.  Whenever I picture this man in my mind, I see a fat dirty guy in a wifebeater shirt, belching, stinking, and demanding beer after beer to be brought to him because he’s too worthless to get up off his ugly ass to get it himself.  This man is a prominent citizen (hahahahahaha), but I know what he really is.

He’s a selfish jerk who puts himself and his own wishes before the welfare of his children.

I hate this man, to be quite honest.

And this was over ten years ago.  Yes, I tend to hold a grudge against people who don’t do right by a child.

I frankly don’t care WHAT this man says or does now.  He may have changed his ways and become a nice guy, a model citizen, but I will never believe it.  He put himself before his son, and that is all I will ever think of when I see him.

Don’t piss me off.

I fear that my personality type goes against the grain of the poems I love best.  Wishful thinking on my part, maybe.

Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

==

Mamacita says:  So much of Poe’s works are gruesome without the saving romantic touch, but Annabel Lee is both gruesome AND romantic, and I’ve liked it since I was a very little girl.

Sure, sure, we could parse it within an inch of its life, but poetry is never the same once it’s been dissected, labeled, and sewn together again.

Savor this one.  Picture it.  Sense it.

Poe’s Annabel Lee is a page of emotional macabre.  Dig it.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands,
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamed of his pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue.
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
And the smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.

====

Mamacita says:  This one still makes me cry.

I remember when I first understood that this poem was about a little boy whose heartbroken toys were faithfully waiting for him to come back, not understanding that the child was dead.  I think perhaps this poem is the main reason why the Toy Story films make me apprehensive.

This poem is also why angels scared me for many years. I was so afraid that an angel would try to wake me, too.

Again, we could talk about rhyme scheme and symbolism and nicknames and references and first person narratives and quotations and the tragic fact that an awful lot of toddlers died for no apparent reason back in Victorian times.

But I think this poem is best appreciated for its very personal, very sweet, very sad, and very vivid description of a deserted toyroom full of rusting, dusty, once-beloved toys that are waiting for a little boy who will never enter that room again.

You’ve Got To Be Taught

You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught from year to year,
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of People whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a different shade
You’ve got to be carefully taught,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late.
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

—–from South Pacific

==

Mamacita says:  South Pacific was a landmark show for many reasons, the main one of which (in my opinion) is the attitude it took regarding race.  Imagine the looks on the prunes-and-prisms bigots when Lt. Joe Cable fell in love with the beautiful Tonkinese girl, Liat, whose mother turns out to be Bloody Mary.  Just think of the shock when prejudiced America discovered that the two little half-breed children were the offspring of the Frenchman, Emile De Becque and his native islander wife, who is deceased.  Nellie Forbush, the naive little nurse from Little Rock, can’t deal with it; it’s too far removed from what she knows.

Characters we are supposed to love turn out to harbor horrendous racial prejudices that threaten their futures.  I suppose there are still people who think this way; it’s hard for me to comprehend.

The point, I think, is that nobody is born with these, or any other kind, of prejudices.  Prejudices are taught to us from an early age by prejudiced people.

Let me repeat:  NOBODY IS BORN WITH PREJUDICES.  Ever.  Carved in stone.  Fact.

We fear and hate what we are taught by others to fear and hate, and people who feel it is their duty to teach children to fear and hate are among the worst of humankind.  I hope there is a specially horrible circle of hell for parents who deliberately teach their children to hate, fear, and suspect people who are in any way different from themselves.

I had a conversation once, several years ago, with an older lady I loved very much, but any respect I might have had for her convictions was absolutely and 100% negated when she told me that it was possible to be prejudiced AND Christian, for she was both.

I could not, and still can not, sanction that combination.  No. I would love this lady always, but nothing she said to me about her religion meant anything after that revelation.

These lyrics are, of course, song lyrics, but my students MIGHT be able to remind you that all songs are also poems, and that anyone who likes even one song likes one poem, too.  Each song you like equals another poem you like.  I’d wager money, if I had any, that a lot of people who swear they hate poetry would also state that they loved music.

Hypocrites.    You can’t have one without the other.

I love South Pacific.  I love most Broadway musicals, in fact.   But these particular lyrics have always hit me in a sensitive spot, and helped me to understand that no, nobody is born prejudiced, and all of those who ARE prejudiced were taught to be so and have actively chosen to remain so.

In other words:  no viable excuse, whatsoever.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

=====

Mamacita says:  I remember the day I discovered this poem.  The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?”  I was actually angry!

Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier.  It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.

I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .

Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry?  To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know.  And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.

You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney.   In other words, stupid people.

Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect?  The truth often is.

Now let us all point and laugh at such.  We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years.  Nobody misses them.  Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.

This poem is about a song, about a melody.  This poem is itself a song.  This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs.  Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!

Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got?  The lyrics.  And what are lyrics?  Poems.