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    • Michael Stuart Kelly

      Major Update to OL (please click to open)   02/09/2016

      Sorry for the inconvenience, but we had to update OL and there have been some serious changes made by IPB. The real bad news is that they had to merge User Names and Display Names. This meant that I had to choose between bad and bad. I opted to keep the log-on information the same, so you can get on OL like you always did, but now your User Name is displayed. If your User Name and Display Name were the same, you will not feel the change. If they were different, you are probably irritated right now. I will figure out how you can change this so you can revert to the Display Name you used before if you like, however this may entail a change in how you log-on. The good news is that OL is now searchable from the very beginning. This means all the old posts from the A-Team in Objectivism (and everybody else) will finally show up when you search for something. I will keep changing this announcement as we adapt to these new changes. It's a pain, I know, but after looking around the backend for a bit, I believe the benefits will far, far outweigh the current irritation. They changed things in a hamhanded way and I don't like that, but I can't do anything about it. Benefit-wise, they actually did a good job, so please bear with us. In addition to this change, many good things are coming over time. You are the reason OL exists and I am sorry you have to go through this. Think of it like birth pangs... (All right, all right, that's forcing it.  ) Michael
caroljane

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36 posts in this topic

Daunce wrote:

O tide! Neap not until thou neap'st the Doc

Upon the pate, and then the proud buttock!

end quote

What does that mean? Time should not stop until it shrinks your bald spot and makes your butt less noticeable? You do know that time stops for no one don’t you? And I like women with proud buttocks. Well, you got a rise out of me, Miss Saucy Pants.

Peter Taylor

lol, it's the tide not the time, which arrives every two weeks and waits for no man.

Saucy Bloomers if you don't mind, inherited long johns in winter.

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What does that mean?

It means she didn't like the additions I made to her poem. I forced it into sonnet form by adding a few self-serving lines. Now she invokes the tides to do their worst to both my top and bottom.

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What does that mean?

It means she didn't like the additions I made to her poem. I forced it into sonnet form by adding a few self-serving lines. Now she invokes the tides to do their worst to both my top and bottom.

No, it doesn't! It means I was pretending to resent the additions and seizing the occasion you provided to improvise a suitable retort - the daleks made me do it.

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No, it doesn't! It means I was pretending to resent the additions and seizing the occasion you provided to improvise a suitable retort - the daleks made me do it.

Like I can't identify hostility when I see it!

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No, it doesn't! It means I was pretending to resent the additions and seizing the occasion you provided to improvise a suitable retort - the daleks made me do it.

Like I can't identify hostility when I see it!

Do not retreat into the Order of Induction! That way lies madness, mon amiennemi.

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What does that mean?

It means she didn't like the additions I made to her poem. I forced it into sonnet form by adding a few self-serving lines. Now she invokes the tides to do their worst to both my top and bottom.

Those tides at Hopewell Rocks are the highest tides in the world. Check them out. No pate is too high nor any bottom too low for them to savage! Mwahhahaha!

"Those are pearls that were his eyes"..

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A Neaps and Tatties feast

is nae the joy of most

but a' the guests, as man not beast,,

dine hearty o' the fare, at least,

without the fear o' bein' roast

by yon most reasonable host

.

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I just saw this. Yes, life and death and love.

Do I forget you? Dear one, I have tried

just sometimes not to let you bring the tide

so low beneath the rocks I cannot climb,

the caverns of unmasterable time,

so high in flow I swim, I thrash, then drown

in what I cannot believe that so

as the tide ebbs, I swim to go

where far beyond belief or memory,

or darks of lies, or candles that are true,

there is a place where always you must be,

where so am I, that I could be with you.

Yes, life and death and love. The story.

Thanks, Carol, for sharing this wonderful poem.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

One summer during college, Jerry and I rode along with a friend from college in Oklahoma to Montreal, where our friend Jennifer was to spend a few days with her folks. Leaving Jen there, Jer and I drove her car on through New Brunswick, and I remember along our way a high overlook into the Bay of Fundy, near Saint John, if I recall correctly. I do not recall stopping at the Hopewell Rocks. Our destination was Prince Edward Island. We had little money, which was needed for gas. We slept in the station wagon and got food only at a grocery store. We walked in the water along a beautiful endless beach. My feet got burned through the water and swelled up. We made love in a concavity in the top of a sand dune, under the bright sun.

A couple decades later, together with some friends, I spread Jerry’s ashes in the lake at some boulders lining the shore of Lake Michigan. That was at sunrise, but it was overcast, and there was a light rain. I went there at sunrise on his day each summer for the next twenty years. The sun came up out of the lake every time. No rain. I always put peonies, a favorite of his, into the water to drift out. And I read some verse aloud. My friends will put my ashes there some day. The last time I was there was so painful and so magical. I had traveled by train from Virginia to Chicago. (I use sleeper trains because of bad back.) I got the peonies into my hotel room by evening, clipped them the next morning, and walked to the lake before sunrise. I was to the pink-pebbled path that leads to the embankment and the boulders. From there you don’t see them. You see only the level ground before you to a clear break, as at a cliff, with pure lake and sky beyond. There as I approached the path, there was something so beautiful and mysterious. All the ground had a thick mist hovering over it that was uniform and very close to the ground. Or so it seemed in that light before the sun. As I got close enough, I saw it was clover, a carpet of white clover. Oh the colors of the pre-dawn sky and the misty blooms, oh that it was not his, only me alone with him.

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Thank you for knowing, Stephen. I think of you as a neo-Metaphysical poet, and I can't really follow the cerebral serenity of your verse, but it speaks to me of beauty.

We scattered Eddie's ashes, his brother and sons and I, as per his wish, on the soccer field where most lately he had run that lifelong necessary joy. Andy complained later that I marched forward like I was strewing birdseed (those weren't his exact words but i got the idea). Probably I did not cut a very elegant figure. but I don't thinki Eddie would have minded.

We are lucky, with our not really lost ones at play in the fields of the lord., leaving us such legacies.

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Carol,

The poem Still One is metaphysical, and I imagine that would be rare were I to resume writing poetry regularly. It had always been against my rules to write poetry about abstract things. Actually, it has long been against my rules to slip into writing a poem rather than working on my studies and philosophy writing. But on 27 July, I slipped into it. The opening line came to me, with the tone of Parmenides’ poem on truth. I was drawn into it, couldn’t resist. It was time for that one. I touched it up next couple of mornings, and though it was imperfect in rhythm, I was done with it. I still like it fine.

Some of my friends have wanted me to write more poetry. I’ll keep trying to resist for now. I want to show you a poem I wrote a long time ago; I have just now added it to the thread for my collection. It has been on the web before and has been warmly received. No metaphysics or mystery to this one. Its title is Placement. I had walked along the highway from the little country town where my mom lived and where my father and she had grown up. I walked across a pasture into a stand of trees preserved in its middle. There I wrote Placement.

Stephen

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Yesterday, or thirty years ago

We promised what we wanted and would keep.

Not knowing much, or caring, what would grow

But sowing seeds that spread out roots so deep

That time and seasons took them much for granted;

We hardly tended what was there, but planted

New each season, when the fancy took us.

And learned but little when the seasons shook us.

Today I love the rain and watch the sky

And plant (I'll never learn) against the season,

And never know how is it comes that I

Should still live more by rhyme than by clear reason.

What has been most,that should have been the least?

I ask the founder of my harvest feast.

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