Space VI
crows fan from the railroad yard
dip and drip not water, lake or
bells tree to tree but along
curbs
posted by Michael Rerick @ 9:40 PM
6 comments
Sellekhana-Glutton
To bold the underword or underword bold wordings. Or just so. Or feasting fast unto death.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
dip and drip not water, lake or
bells tree to tree but along
curbs
6 Comments:
Weird. I think I've seen this somewhere before. I mean. For a moment, I could swear this same twenty words appeared on a green sleeve in another blog spot. Hmmm. I drink too much.
What I was going to say was, I love this poem! I loved it on the green sleeve and i love it here now.
Thank you!
That was gay, wasn't it.
What I said.
About loving it. It was.
Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn's early light,
What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming?
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro' the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watch'd, were so gallantly streaming?
And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof thro' the night that our flag was still there.
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?
On the shore dimly seen thro' the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam,
In full glory reflected, now shines on the stream:
'T is the star-spangled banner: O, long may it wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
A home and a country should leave us no more?
Their blood has wash'd out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave
From the terror of flight or the gloom of the grave:
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.
O, thus be it ever when freemen shall stand,
Between their lov'd homes and the war's desolation;
Blest with vict'ry and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land
Praise the Pow'r that hath made and preserv'd us as a nation!
Then conquer we must, when our cause is just,
And this be our motto: "In God is our trust"
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
Opening excerpt from Anthem, by Ayn Rand
It is a sin to write this. It is a sin to think words no others
think and to put them down upon a paper no others are to see. It
is base and evil. It is as if we were speaking alone to no ears
but our own. And we know well that there is no transgression
blacker than to do or think alone. We have broken the laws. The
laws say that men may not write unless the Council of Vocations
bid them so. May we be forgiven!
But this is not the only sin upon us. We have committed a greater
crime, and for this crime there is no name. What punishment
awaits us if it be discovered we know not, for no such crime has
come in the memory of men and there are no laws to provide for it.
It is dark here. The flame of the candle stands still in the air.
Nothing moves in this tunnel save our hand on the paper. We are
alone here under the earth. It is a fearful word, alone. The laws
say that none among men may be alone, ever and at any time, for
this is the great transgression and the root of all evil. But we
have broken many laws. And now there is nothing here save our one
body, and it is strange to see only two legs stretched on the
ground, and on the wall before us the shadow of our one head.
The walls are cracked and water runs upon them in thin threads
without sound, black and glistening as blood. We stole the candle
from the larder of the Home of the Street Sweepers. We shall be
sentenced to ten years in the Palace of Corrective Detention if
it be discovered. But this matters not. It matters only that the
light is precious and we should not waste it to write when we
need it for that work which is our crime. Nothing matters save
the work, our secret, our evil, our precious work. Still, we must
also write, for--may the Council have mercy upon us!--we wish to
speak for once to no ears but our own.
Our name is Equality 7-2521, as it is written on the iron
bracelet which all men wear on their left wrists with their names
upon it. We are twenty-one years old. We are six feet tall, and
this is a burden, for there are not many men who are six feet
tall. Ever have the Teachers and the Leaders pointed to us and
frowned and said: "There is evil in your bones, Equality 7-2521,
for your body has grown beyond the bodies of your brothers." But
we cannot change our bones nor our body.
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