Poem of the Day - To A Child Dancing In The Wind

To A Child Dancing In The Wind

by William Butler Yeats

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind!

Poem of the Day - Ecce Puer

Ecce Puer

by James Joyce

Of the dark past
A child is born;
With joy and grief
My heart is torn.

Calm in his cradle
The living lies.
May love and mercy
Unclose his eyes!

Young life is breathed
On the glass;
The world that was not
Comes to pass.

A child is sleeping:
An old man gone.
O, father forsaken,
Forgive your son!


Note: This poem was written "on the occasion of his grandson's [Stephen's] birth and soon after his father's death." (Levin) The title in Latin means "lo! a boy."

More about James Joyce.

Poem of the Day - The Fisherman

The Fisherman

by William Butler Yeats

Although I can see him still.
The freckled man who goes
To a grey place on a hill
In grey Connemara clothes
At dawn to cast his flies,
It's long since I began
To call up to the eyes
This wise and simple man.
All day I'd looked in the face
What I had hoped 'twould be
To write for my own race
And the reality;
The living men that I hate,
The dead man that I loved,
The craven man in his seat,
The insolent unreproved,
And no knave brought to book
Who has won a drunken cheer,
The witty man and his joke
Aimed at the commonest ear,
The clever man who cries
The catch-cries of the clown,
The beating down of the wise
And great Art beaten down.
Maybe a twelvemonth since
Suddenly I began,
In scorn of this audience,
Imagining a man,
And his sun-freckled face,
And grey Connemara cloth,
Climbing up to a place
Where stone is dark under froth,
And the down-turn of his wrist
When the flies drop in the stream;
A man who does not exist,
A man who is but a dream;
And cried, "Before I am old
I shall have written him one
poem maybe as cold
And passionate as the dawn.

Poem of the Day - The Circus Animals' Desertion

The Circus Animals' Desertion

by William Butler Yeats

I sought a theme and sought for it in vain,
I sought it daily for six weeks or so.
Maybe at last, being but a broken man,
I must be satisfied with my heart, although
Winter and summer till old age began
My circus animals were all on show,
Those stilted boys, that burnished chariot,
Lion and woman and the Lord knows what.

What can I but enumerate old themes,
First that sea-rider Oisin led by the nose
Through three enchanted islands, allegorical dreams,
Vain gaiety, vain battle, vain repose,
Themes of the embittered heart, or so it seems,
That might adorn old songs or courtly shows;
But what cared I that set him on to ride,
I, starved for the bosom of his faery bride.

And then a counter-truth filled out its play,
'The Countess Cathleen' was the name I gave it;
She, pity-crazed, had given her soul away,
But masterful Heaven had intervened to save it.
I thought my dear must her own soul destroy
So did fanaticism and hate enslave it,
And this brought forth a dream and soon enough
This dream itself had all my thought and love.

And when the Fool and Blind Man stole the bread
Cuchulain fought the ungovernable sea;
Heart-mysteries there, and yet when all is said
It was the dream itself enchanted me:
Character isolated by a deed
To engross the present and dominate memory.
Players and painted stage took all my love,
And not those things that they were emblems of.

Those masterful images because complete
Grew in pure mind, but out of what began?
A mound of refuse or the sweepings of a street,
Old kettles, old bottles, and a broken can,
Old iron, old bones, old rags, that raving slut
Who keeps the till. Now that my ladder's gone,
I must lie down where all the ladders start
In the foul rag and bone shop of the heart.

Poem of the Day - Cill Aodain

Cill Aodain
(Killeadin)

by Antoine Ó Raifteirí

translated by Gerard Cunningham

Now Spring is here, the days will grow shorter,
And after Bridgets Day, I'll head for the hills,
I'm set in my head, and I won't rest again,
'Til the day that I stand in the middle of Mayo.
First to Claremorris, there I'll spend the first night,
And then nearby Balla, where I'll start drinking,
In Kiltimagh then, I'll hold court for a month,
Close to two mile from nearby Ballinamore.

Now that the cream has rose up in my heart,
Same as wind rises and same as fog clears
When I'm thinking of Carra or Gallen below it
Or of Sgahaghaveele or of the sweet plains of Mayo
Of Killeadin, the place where everything grows,
Blackberries, strawberries, everyberries
And if I was there in the midst of my people
Age would rise from me, I'd be young again.

Poem of the Day - The Workmans Friend

The Workmans Friend

by Flann O'Brien (Brian O'Nolan)

When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night -
A pint of plain is your only man.

When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt -
A pint of plain is your only man.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A pint of plain is your only man.

When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare -
A pint of plain is your only man.

In time of trouble and lousey strife,
You have still got a darlint plan
You still can turn to a brighter life -
A pint of plain is your only man.

More about Flann O'Brien.

Stop! Listen.....

The man in the baseball cap with a violin played six Bach pieces in a Washington DC train station on a chilly January morning in 2007. During that time of day, over 2,000 people walk through the station on their way to work.

3 minutes into his performance, a middle aged man slowed his pace, stopped for a few moments and then hurried on to his destination.

4 minutes into his performance, the violinist received his first dollar from a woman who threw the money in the violin case hat without stopping.

6 minutes into his performance, a young man leaned against the wall to listen for a minute or two, then looked at his watch and moved on.

10 minutes into his performance, a 3-year old boy stopped and watched in fascination but his mother tugged him along. This action was repeated by several other children. However, every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly.

Over the next 45 minutes only six people stopped and listened for a minute or two. About 20 people gave money but continued to walk on without stopping. The man collected a total of $32.

The man in the baseball cap with a violin was Joshua Bell, one of the greatest musicians in the world. There in the train station he flawlessly performed some of the most intricate pieces ever written on a violin worth $3.5 million dollars. Two days prior, Bell had sold out a theater in Boston where seats averaged $100 each.

This social experiment was organized by the Washington Post to examine perception, taste and priorities.

Here's video of Joshua's experiment/performance.

Lawyer Paradox

(5th century BC)

Ascribed to the sophist philosopher Protagoras (c.490-420 BC).

A lawyer teaches law to a student without fee on condition that the student will pay him when he qualifies and wins his first case.

However, when the student qualifies he takes up another profession. The lawyer sues him for his fees, on the grounds that if he wins, he is paid and if he loses, the student has won and so must pay by the agreement.

The student is unperturbed because if he wins he need not pay the fees, and if he loses he does not owe them. There is some confusion concerning the agreement here, but logical rules preventing the application of a condition to itself certainly resolve the paradox.

Poem of the Day - Spraying the Potatoes

Spraying the Potatoes

by Patrick Kavanagh

The barrels of blue potato-spray
Stood on a headland in July
Beside an orchard wall where roses
Were young girls hanging from the sky.

The flocks of green potato stalks
Were blossom spread for sudden flight,
The Kerr's Pinks in frivelled blue,
The Arran Banners wearing white.

And over that potato-field
A lazy veil of woven sun,
Dandelions growing on headlands, showing
Their unloved hearts to everyone.

And I was there with a knapsack sprayer
On the barrel's edge poised. A wasp was floating
Dead on a sunken briar leaf
Over a copper-poisoned ocean.

The axle-roll of a rut-locked cart
Broke the burnt stick of noon in two.
An old man came through a cornfield
Remembering his youth and some Ruth he knew.

He turned my way. 'God further the work'.
He echoed an ancient farming prayer.
I thanked him. He eyed the potato drills.
He said: 'You are bound to have good ones there'.

We talked and our talk was a theme of kings,
A theme for strings. He hunkered down
In the shade of the orchard wall. O roses
The old man dies in the young girl's frown.

And poet lost to potato-fields,
Remembering the lime and copper smell
Of the spraying barrels he is not lost
Or till blossomed stalks cannot weave a spell.