Here we are, "celebrating" the age of, I have rights, you don't. My lovely dog died two days ago from a cluster of seizures, which, it seems to me, is how our democracy is about to die. Or perhaps what is happening to our democracy could be better described as a cluster fuck of seizures.
I’m no sadder or more worried than I was three days ago. This is what I thought would happen and now it has. We have met the enemy and he is us.
But I will march in our local parade today, with the Dems and the beautiful young queer kids and the other old ladies, and I will hold my sign that says “Vote.” Or flip it over to the other side that says “dissent IS patriotic.”
I swore an oath to the constitution thirty years ago. I remember thinking “I dunno, is this even important?” as I signed the oath and then filled out a dozen other forms in order to join the National Park Service.
I have to say that oath is about all that is keeping me in the game right now, because dang it, I have come to believe it. And like some old guy on some church steps said one time, here I stand; I can do no other.
Having lived in small Southern towns for most of my life(NY dad and old Florida mom) I appreciate his thoughts and have known many fine southern folks, however, if you were the least bit aware, there was always that undercurrent of prejudice and “othering” of people “not like us” It’s extreme now but it has always been there
Ah, here we go again --- debating what is poetry. A pointless task. Is there a rhythm or meter, is it evocative and essentially musical in its use of words and its emotional nature? Close enough. A distinction without a meaningful difference. If it makes you feel better, call it prose poetry.
It’s a paean to what used to be the American ideal of manhood—strong, silent, authentic, unpolished, but always ready to stand up for those less powerful. It’s the polar opposite of what we worship today. It’s not Southern, it’s American. But you can’t get more American than the South, so maybe he’s right.
Couldn't tell you if it's really poetry or prose, but I can tell you it's truth, and that's something rare these days. How we can let modern day robber barons abuse those without their money and power and believe it when they say for the billionth time, no this won't increase the country's debt, is beyond disgusting and disheartening.
This is nitpicking, but I would have enjoyed it more if the sound had been synched with the video and the captions had been more accurate. Aside from that, very powerful.
I hear Mr. Arnold's message as an essay, not a poem. It has some clever turns of phrase that people will consider poetic, but it is built with sentences, not with lines.
I'm ready for "southern men" to just consider themselves "men" so we can chuck all that dixie vs yankee junk. The yankees won. That was 160 years ago. Let's just be Americans and stop trying to celebrate some fiction that men in the south are super special.
But the southern girls, with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there.
I'm reminded of the searing poetry of Wilfred Owen the British WWI voice of that "war to end all wars," who tragically died a week before the Armistice. This is part of the preface to his collection that was first published posthumously two years after his death and has echoed down the years since.
"This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them.
Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War.
My father's from Arkansas. I didn't grow up there, but it gave me some insight into Southern honor culture with its warts and excesses, and its stiff-necked, bellicose pride and self-reliance. So, yeah. Sing it, brother.
I didn't vote in the poll because I don't think Robert Arnold's piece can easily be categorized. It is poetic, but I can't call it poetry. It is prose but more poetic than pedestrian. It is an exposition in the musical sense, a collection of figures of speech and rhetoric that would impress the great orator Cicero. Please look below in the comments and read Dale's recitation of part of the preface to Wilfred Owen's posthumous collection of poems. I think that summarizes it. Robert Arnold has written a great piece of work, and has the perfect voice to bring it to life.
Mediocre poetry, excellent prose.
That's what I sometimes say about such things. I am a cynic about unrhymed and unmetered. But to me, this transcends prose.
It does transcend. It was extraordinary.
That's powerful, Gene. You could say that about Midwesterners, too.
It's so piercingly southern, though - it's just f'ing to the core of real.
You can kiss my midwestern ass, you East Coast POS snob.
Huh? What? Who? 🤔
Here we are, "celebrating" the age of, I have rights, you don't. My lovely dog died two days ago from a cluster of seizures, which, it seems to me, is how our democracy is about to die. Or perhaps what is happening to our democracy could be better described as a cluster fuck of seizures.
Sincere condolences to you.
Thank you. It was a horrific ending to an otherwise healthy life of a darling little dog. But at least it was over in a day.
My sincerest condolences on the death of your pet. I have been there. It is a gut-wrenching experience.
Thank you.
I’m no sadder or more worried than I was three days ago. This is what I thought would happen and now it has. We have met the enemy and he is us.
But I will march in our local parade today, with the Dems and the beautiful young queer kids and the other old ladies, and I will hold my sign that says “Vote.” Or flip it over to the other side that says “dissent IS patriotic.”
I swore an oath to the constitution thirty years ago. I remember thinking “I dunno, is this even important?” as I signed the oath and then filled out a dozen other forms in order to join the National Park Service.
I have to say that oath is about all that is keeping me in the game right now, because dang it, I have come to believe it. And like some old guy on some church steps said one time, here I stand; I can do no other.
Having lived in small Southern towns for most of my life(NY dad and old Florida mom) I appreciate his thoughts and have known many fine southern folks, however, if you were the least bit aware, there was always that undercurrent of prejudice and “othering” of people “not like us” It’s extreme now but it has always been there
He admits that freely, if you hear those parts again you'll see. It is not a paean to southern man, by any means.
“Southern Hospitality” is sweet on the surface, but it’s a thin veneer covering absolute hatred. And I say that as a son of the South.
Ah, here we go again --- debating what is poetry. A pointless task. Is there a rhythm or meter, is it evocative and essentially musical in its use of words and its emotional nature? Close enough. A distinction without a meaningful difference. If it makes you feel better, call it prose poetry.
It’s a paean to what used to be the American ideal of manhood—strong, silent, authentic, unpolished, but always ready to stand up for those less powerful. It’s the polar opposite of what we worship today. It’s not Southern, it’s American. But you can’t get more American than the South, so maybe he’s right.
Are you the Tracy Thompson who wrote “The Beast”? If so, thank you.
Guilty as charged! And you're welcome
Couldn't tell you if it's really poetry or prose, but I can tell you it's truth, and that's something rare these days. How we can let modern day robber barons abuse those without their money and power and believe it when they say for the billionth time, no this won't increase the country's debt, is beyond disgusting and disheartening.
I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear,
Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown,
The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing,
Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
--- Walt Whitman, "I Hear America Singing"
This is nitpicking, but I would have enjoyed it more if the sound had been synched with the video and the captions had been more accurate. Aside from that, very powerful.
Agreed. It appeared to me that the video was synched with the audio after recording.
That was powerful. Agree with you, Gene, this man should have more followers.
I hear Mr. Arnold's message as an essay, not a poem. It has some clever turns of phrase that people will consider poetic, but it is built with sentences, not with lines.
I'm ready for "southern men" to just consider themselves "men" so we can chuck all that dixie vs yankee junk. The yankees won. That was 160 years ago. Let's just be Americans and stop trying to celebrate some fiction that men in the south are super special.
But the southern girls, with the way they talk, they knock me out when I'm down there.
Alexandra Petri's latest from The Atlantic which she now calls home. The freebie link is via archive today.
Ah, Exactly What the Founders Wanted!
“Understandably, after almost 250 years, the legislature is tired of being a coequal branch of government and wants to take a nap.”
https://archive.is/KoG2Q
I'm reminded of the searing poetry of Wilfred Owen the British WWI voice of that "war to end all wars," who tragically died a week before the Armistice. This is part of the preface to his collection that was first published posthumously two years after his death and has echoed down the years since.
"This book is not about heroes. English poetry is not yet fit to speak of them.
Nor is it about deeds, or lands, nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power, except War.
Above all I am not concerned with Poetry.
My subject is War, and the pity of War.
The Poetry is in the pity."
Amen.
My father's from Arkansas. I didn't grow up there, but it gave me some insight into Southern honor culture with its warts and excesses, and its stiff-necked, bellicose pride and self-reliance. So, yeah. Sing it, brother.
I’m from the south and I’m clapping!👏👏 This guy had a Mammaw like mine.
I didn't vote in the poll because I don't think Robert Arnold's piece can easily be categorized. It is poetic, but I can't call it poetry. It is prose but more poetic than pedestrian. It is an exposition in the musical sense, a collection of figures of speech and rhetoric that would impress the great orator Cicero. Please look below in the comments and read Dale's recitation of part of the preface to Wilfred Owen's posthumous collection of poems. I think that summarizes it. Robert Arnold has written a great piece of work, and has the perfect voice to bring it to life.