*LITTLE GIDDING *(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
*T.S. Eliot* ** *V*
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS - anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best Jump into work head first Without dallying in the shallows And swim of with sure strokes Almost out of sight. They seem to become natives of that element, The black sleek heads of seals Bouncing like half-submerged balls. I love people who harness themselves, An ox to a heavy cart, Who pull like water buffalo, with Massive patience, Who strain in the mud and the Muck to move things forward, Who do what has to be done, Again and again. I want to be with people who submerge In the task, who go into the Fields to harvest And work in a row and pass The bags along, Who are not parlor generals And field deserters But move in a common rhythm When the food must come in Or the fire put out. The work of the world is Common as mud. Botched, it smears the hands, Crumbles to dust. But the thing worth doing well done Has a shape that satisfies, Clean and evident. Greek amphoras for wine or oil, Hopi vases that held corn, are Put in museums But you know they were made To be used. The pitcher cries for water to carry And a person for work that is real.
From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of katey gilligan Sent: Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM To: alums Subject: [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always- A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
Thank you, Eric -- I love that poem! - Leigh
On Thu, Aug 19, 2010 at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric Eric.Thomas@uth.tmc.eduwrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
*From:* winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] *On Behalf Of *katey gilligan *Sent:* Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM *To:* alums
*Subject:* [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
*LITTLE GIDDING*
*(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
*T.S. Eliot*
*V*
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
From The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchen:
Tom O'Bedlam's Song
From the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, All the saints that stand by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye.
That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
Chorus: While I do sing: "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing. Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure no one.
With a thought I took for maudlin And a cruise of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I scarcely waken, Till the roguish boy of love Me found and stripped me naked.
The moon's my constant mistress And the lonely owl my marrow, The flaming drake and nightcrow make Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars And the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly farrier.
The gypsies Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's companions The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn And the raging boy's bravado.
[something missing here]
With a Host of Furious Fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney. Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey.
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l- bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of katey gilligan Sent: Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM To: alums Subject: [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l
Hi all --
Enjoying the poetry exchange. In the meantime I find myself wondering if folks have favorite films that remind them of Winedale in some way. (And let's save some time and just say up front that "Fitzcarraldo" is not eligible, okay...?!)
The first one that comes to mind for me is "A Month in the Country," made in 1987 with Colin Firth, a young Kenneth Branagh and a heartbreakingly lovely Natasha Richardson. Unfortunately it has fallen into neglect and I hear on Wikipedia that the one remaining print is finally being restored for a DVD release. I won't attempt to describe the film right here, but if you get a chance to land a copy on VHS, or it if pops up on a cable channel (unlikely), check it out and see if the ending doesn't hit you with that leaving-Winedale feeling right in the gut.
cs
On Aug 19, 2010, at 10:53 AM, Ernie S. wrote:
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
From The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchen:
Tom O'Bedlam's Song
From the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, All the saints that stand by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye.
That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
Chorus: While I do sing: "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing. Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure no one.
With a thought I took for maudlin And a cruise of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I scarcely waken, Till the roguish boy of love Me found and stripped me naked.
The moon's my constant mistress And the lonely owl my marrow, The flaming drake and nightcrow make Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars And the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly farrier.
The gypsies Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's companions The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn And the raging boy's bravado.
[something missing here]
With a Host of Furious Fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney. Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey.
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of katey gilligan Sent: Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM To: alums Subject: [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l
Winedale-l mailing list Winedale-l@lists.wikimedia.org https://lists.wikimedia.org/mailman/listinfo/winedale-l
Clayton Stromberger Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale College of Liberal Arts, University of Texas at Austin www.shakespeare-winedale.org cell: 512-228-1055, cell #2 (backup): 512-363-6864 UT Sh. at W. office: 512-471-4726
Maybe the unofficial Winedale documentary called A Muse of Fire? Does that count? It documents the summer of 2000 and Doc's final year as director.
Clayton, you've already seen it, anyone in Austin interested in a screening?
Daniel M Sacks
Sent from my phone; please forgive abbrevs, misspelings, poor punctuation etc
On Aug 19, 2010, at 1:32 PM, Clay Stromberger cstromberger@mail.utexas.edu wrote:
Hi all --
Enjoying the poetry exchange. In the meantime I find myself wondering if folks have favorite films that remind them of Winedale in some way. (And let's save some time and just say up front that "Fitzcarraldo" is not eligible, okay...?!)
The first one that comes to mind for me is "A Month in the Country," made in 1987 with Colin Firth, a young Kenneth Branagh and a heartbreakingly lovely Natasha Richardson. Unfortunately it has fallen into neglect and I hear on Wikipedia that the one remaining print is finally being restored for a DVD release. I won't attempt to describe the film right here, but if you get a chance to land a copy on VHS, or it if pops up on a cable channel (unlikely), check it out and see if the ending doesn't hit you with that leaving-Winedale feeling right in the gut.
cs
On Aug 19, 2010, at 10:53 AM, Ernie S. wrote:
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
From *The Journal of Albion Moonlight *by Kenneth Patchen:
Tom O'Bedlam's Song
From the hag and hungry goblin
That into rags would rend ye, All the saints that stand by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye.
That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
Chorus: While I do sing: "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing. Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure no one.
With a thought I took for maudlin And a cruise of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I scarcely waken, Till the roguish boy of love Me found and stripped me naked.
The moon's my constant mistress And the lonely owl my marrow, The flaming drake and nightcrow make Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars And the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly farrier.
The gypsies Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's companions The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn And the raging boy's bravado.
*[something missing here]*
With a Host of Furious Fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney. Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey.
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
*From:* winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [ mailto:winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.orgwinedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.orgwinedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] *On Behalf Of *katey gilligan *Sent:* Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM *To:* alums *Subject:* [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
*LITTLE GIDDING** *(No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
*T.S. Eliot*
*V*
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
yes!
On Aug 20, 2010, at 6:31 PM, Daniel Sacks danielmsacks@gmail.com wrote:
Maybe the unofficial Winedale documentary called A Muse of Fire? Does that count? It documents the summer of 2000 and Doc's final year as director.
Clayton, you've already seen it, anyone in Austin interested in a screening?
Daniel M Sacks
Sent from my phone; please forgive abbrevs, misspelings, poor punctuation etc
On Aug 19, 2010, at 1:32 PM, Clay Stromberger <cstromberger@mail.utexas.edu
wrote:
Hi all --
Enjoying the poetry exchange. In the meantime I find myself wondering if folks have favorite films that remind them of Winedale in some way. (And let's save some time and just say up front that "Fitzcarraldo" is not eligible, okay...?!)
The first one that comes to mind for me is "A Month in the Country," made in 1987 with Colin Firth, a young Kenneth Branagh and a heartbreakingly lovely Natasha Richardson. Unfortunately it has fallen into neglect and I hear on Wikipedia that the one remaining print is finally being restored for a DVD release. I won't attempt to describe the film right here, but if you get a chance to land a copy on VHS, or it if pops up on a cable channel (unlikely), check it out and see if the ending doesn't hit you with that leaving-Winedale feeling right in the gut.
cs
On Aug 19, 2010, at 10:53 AM, Ernie S. wrote:
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
From The Journal of Albion Moonlight by Kenneth Patchen:
Tom O'Bedlam's Song
From the hag and hungry goblin That into rags would rend ye, All the saints that stand by the naked man In the Book of Moons defend ye.
That of your five sound senses You never be forsaken Nor wander from yourselves with Tom Abroad to beg your bacon.
Chorus: While I do sing: "Any food, any feeding, Feeding, drink or clothing. Come dame or maid, be not afraid. Poor Tom will injure no one.
With a thought I took for maudlin And a cruise of cockle pottage, With a thing thus tall, Sky bless you all, I fell into this dotage.
I slept not since the Conquest, Till then I scarcely waken, Till the roguish boy of love Me found and stripped me naked.
The moon's my constant mistress And the lonely owl my marrow, The flaming drake and nightcrow make Me music to my sorrow.
I know more than Apollo, For oft when he lies sleeping I see the stars at mortal wars And the wounded welkin weeping.
The moon embrace her shepherd And the Queen of Love her warrior, While the first doth horn the star of morn, And the next the heavenly farrier.
The gypsies Snap and Pedro Are none of Tom's companions The punk I scorn and the cutpurse sworn And the raging boy's bravado.
[something missing here]
With a Host of Furious Fancies Whereof I am commander, With a burning spear and a horse of air, To the wilderness I wander.
By a knight of ghosts and shadows, I summoned am to tourney. Ten leagues beyond the wide world's end, Methinks it is no journey.
On Aug 19, 2010, at 9:24 AM, Thomas, Eric wrote:
Thanks Katey. There are two poems that remind me of Winedale. Little Gidding is one, here is the other.
Eric
PS – anyone still have their Kenneth Patchen poem memorized?
To Be of Use, Marge Piercy
The people I love the best
Jump into work head first
Without dallying in the shallows
And swim of with sure strokes
Almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
The black sleek heads of seals
Bouncing like half-submerged balls.
I love people who harness themselves,
An ox to a heavy cart,
Who pull like water buffalo, with
Massive patience,
Who strain in the mud and the
Muck to move things forward,
Who do what has to be done,
Again and again.
I want to be with people who submerge
In the task, who go into the
Fields to harvest
And work in a row and pass
The bags along,
Who are not parlor generals
And field deserters
But move in a common rhythm
When the food must come in
Or the fire put out.
The work of the world is
Common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands,
Crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
Has a shape that satisfies,
Clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are
Put in museums
But you know they were made
To be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
And a person for work that is real.
From: winedale-l-bounces@lists.wikimedia.org [mailto:winedale-l- bounces@lists.wikimedia.org] On Behalf Of katey gilligan Sent: Thursday, August 19, 2010 12:52 AM To: alums Subject: [Winedale-l] Poetry Doc Read to Us in 1994, I Remember Now, Here's for You
LITTLE GIDDING (No. 4 of 'Four Quartets')
T.S. Eliot
V
What we call the beginning is often the end And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from. And every phrase And sentence that is right (where every word is at home, Taking its place to support the others, The word neither diffident nor ostentatious, An easy commerce of the old and the new, The common word exact without vulgarity, The formal word precise but not pedantic, The complete consort dancing together) Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning, Every poem an epitaph. And any action Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea's throat Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start. We die with the dying: See, they depart, and we go with them. We are born with the dead: See, they return, and bring us with them. The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree Are of equal duration. A people without history Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails On a winter's afternoon, in a secluded chapel History is now and England.
With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration And the end of all our exploring Will be to arrive where we started And know the place for the first time. Through the unknown, unremembered gate When the last of earth left to discover Is that which was the beginning; At the source of the longest river The voice of the hidden waterfall And the children in the apple-tree Not known, because not looked for But heard, half-heard, in the stillness Between two waves of the sea. Quick now, here, now, always— A condition of complete simplicity (Costing not less than everything) And all shall be well and All manner of thing shall be well When the tongues of flame are in-folded Into the crowned knot of fire And the fire and the rose are one.
-- Katey Gilligan Masters in Science Technology Commercialization Red McCombs School of Business The University of Texas at Austin
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Clayton Stromberger Outreach Coordinator, UT Shakespeare at Winedale College of Liberal Arts, University of Texas at Austin www.shakespeare-winedale.org cell: 512-228-1055, cell #2 (backup): 512-363-6864 UT Sh. at W. office: 512-471-4726
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Found, summer 1988, on lined yellow legal paper in the loft of Hazel's (where costumes and wasps were stored prior to the construction of the new classroom near the dorm):
On Leaving Winedale, 1987, David Ziegler Robert Frost (1874–1963). A Boy’s Will. 1915.
32. Reluctance
OUT through the fields and the woods And over the walls I have wended; I have climbed the hills of view And looked at the world, and descended; I have come by the highway home, And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground, Save those that the oak is keeping To ravel them one by one And let them go scraping and creeping Out over the crusted snow, When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still, No longer blown hither and thither; The last lone aster is gone; The flowers of the witch-hazel wither; The heart is still aching to seek, But the feet question ‘Whither?’
Ah, when to the heart of man Was it ever less than a treason To go with the drift of things, To yield with a grace to reason, And bow and accept the end Of a love or a season?
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