Poetry Sunday: The Bridge by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow was one of the first poets I learned to like as a child when I was just beginning to appreciate poetry. He was easy enough to understand unlike some other poets, and I liked how his poems progressed in a logical way. In my search for a poem to feature this week I came across this one that I vaguely remembered from those early years and immediately recognized that my search had ended.

The Bridge

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

I stood on the bridge at midnight, 

As the clocks were striking the hour,
And the moon rose o'er the city,
Behind the dark church-tower.

I saw her bright reflection

   In the waters under me,

Like a golden goblet falling

   And sinking into the sea.

And far in the hazy distance

   Of that lovely night in June,

The blaze of the flaming furnace

   Gleamed redder than the moon.

Among the long, black rafters

   The wavering shadows lay,

And the current that came from the ocean

   Seemed to lift and bear them away;

As, sweeping and eddying through them,

   Rose the belated tide,

And, streaming into the moonlight,

   The seaweed floated wide.

And like those waters rushing

   Among the wooden piers,

A flood of thoughts came o’er me

   That filled my eyes with tears.

How often, O, how often,

   In the days that had gone by,

I had stood on that bridge at midnight

   And gazed on that wave and sky!

How often, O, how often,

   I had wished that the ebbing tide

Would bear me away on its bosom

   O’er the ocean wild and wide!

For my heart was hot and restless,

   And my life was full of care,

And the burden laid upon me

   Seemed greater than I could bear.

But now it has fallen from me,

   It is buried in the sea;

And only the sorrow of others

   Throws its shadow over me.

Yet whenever I cross the river

   On its bridge with wooden piers,

Like the odor of brine from the ocean

   Comes the thought of other years.

And I think how many thousands

   Of care-encumbered men,

Each bearing his burden of sorrow,

   Have crossed the bridge since then.

I see the long procession

   Still passing to and fro,

The young heart hot and restless,

   And the old subdued and slow!

And forever and forever,

   As long as the river flows,

As long as the heart has passions,

   As long as life has woes;

The moon and its broken reflection

   And its shadows shall appear,

As the symbol of love in heaven,

   And its wavering image here.

This week in birds - #667

 A roundup of the week's news of birds and the environment:

This little cutie is the Mountain Chickadee, a resident throughout much of western North America from Canada right down into Baja Mexico and it is the American Bird Conservancy's Bird of the Week. Much of its range overlaps with that of its close cousin, the Black-capped Chickadee. Its conservation status is currently of least concern although its population is decreasing. Climate change and loss of habitat pose the greatest threats to its continued survival.

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A new study has found that bird declines are accelerating.

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Livestock in many areas of Central Texas are protected from coyotes by dogs who live among the herds.

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The oldest state park in the country is the Niagara State Park in western New York and it is about to get much bigger.

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Most of us still have Neanderthal DNA as part of our genome and that actually highlights some interesting differences between them and modern humans such as why we have chins when they did not.

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Giant tortoises vanished from Floreana Island in the Galapagos more than 150 years ago but now conservationists are bringing them back.

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An 80-year-old disc at Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution contains what is likely the oldest recording of a whale song.

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Symbols on 40,000-year-old artifacts found in caves in southwest Germany may be a precursor to the first written language. 

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Scientists are still learning things about Archaeopteryx, the ancient dinosaur that is believed to have flown like a bird and there is likely still much more to learn.

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An image of the elusive southern sleeper shark had never been caught on film but now it has been.

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How do horses whinny? Scientists think they've figured it out.

Post notes

The Washington Post online is one of my favorite sources for the news of the day as well as for opinion about the news of the day. Moreover, the books section is a site that I turn to for reviews and recommendations. Thus it was with some consternation and sadness that I read (in The New York Times) that The Post's book section supplement is being scuppered. But it is not just the supplement that is being decimated. This week The Post has laid off one-third of its employees.

As many will remember, The Washington Post was bought by Jeff Bezos in 2013. The paper was in trouble and Bezos "bought it to save it." But that was a gentler time. The world and (perhaps) Jeff Bezos have changed since then. Bezos had already reduced the newsroom in recent years and now he has put an end to the book section that so many of his readers have relied on.

As Marty Baron, The Post's former chief editor from the Watergate era was quoted as saying, "It is difficult to contemplate, and hard to forgive, a decision to sever The Post’s relationship with books." But here we are. We are at the mercy of an owner who evidently feels no obligation to honor the past or meet the needs of the readers by continuing to publish a book section. I guess the thinking is "Who reads books in this age of videos?"

Abandoned

What kind of defect in the personality must it take for a human to simply abandon an animal that has been a companion and has been dependent upon the human for its home, food, and care? I suspect that it might be the same kind of personality defect that we experience writ large on the national stage - a selfishness that only cares for one's own comfort and wishes. It's a defect that causes enormous suffering and thank goodness for those humans who do their best to alleviate such suffering.

Locally, some humans who are most devoted in their care are those who work with Abandoned Animal Rescue. They make our community better for their presence and I salute them today. They are one of my favorite charities and, if you feel so inclined, I invite you to also become one of their supporters or to support similar charities wherever you may be located. Let us never become a member of that selfish tribe that can so easily abandon a living creature who is dependent upon them. 

Here is the story of one abandoned animal who found a home and a family that cared.

Say it with cartoons

I find that quite often the political cartoonists are able to explain issues more explicitly and succinctly than the most eloquent pundits can. Here are some of the cartoons that I have collected recently that spoke to me of perhaps the most urgent issue facing the country today.

Poetry Sunday: My Hispanitude by Darrel Alejandro Holnes

"My Spanish is the color of rust in a sugar boiler." That line grabbed me as I was searching for a poem to feature this week. Spanish is very much a part of the culture where I live. One hears it spoken in the stores while shopping, in restaurants by the other patrons who are eating, in any place where people gather. I'm not Hispanic but it is something I find comforting and familiar. It is all a part of "Hispanitude" and it says "home" to me. I like it! 

My Hispanitude

by Darrel Alejandro Holnes

I speak in the fold of the map— 

creased between empire and salt. 

Mother braided three names into my hair, 

none of them white. 

I carry a chair made of silence— 

its legs, the Grito de Dolores, 

its seat, a tongue bitten in school. 

My voice is a garden 

planted in the ruins 

of a burned-down convent, 

mint growing wild in the mouth of a well. 

They said my Spanish was broken. 

But what they heard was 

Arabic echoing through stone, 

a gitano’s guitar wailing in the square, 

Yemayá surfacing between syllables, 

the baobab tree’s roots itching for a stretch, 

the duppy eating akee and saltfish in my voice. 

My Spanish is the color of rust in a sugar boiler. 

It smells like tamarind and the sweat of mango pickers,

ginger for saril and sap from the sugarcane. 

Each word I say contains another— 

one for the father who kissed their child goodbye in Yoruba,

and one for the conquistador who renamed him Juan. 

I showed them my skin, 

called it a palimpsest. 

I opened my mouth 

and invented bolero with 

a hundred eguns in my breath— 

some who danced, some who prayed, 

some who never made it off the boat. 

I write with the red pen they used to grade me wrong,

and eat the drunken fruit that fell from the family tree

they said I didn’t belong to. 

Only as a scar belongs to the blade. 

Do not bow 

to the marble statues of the crown 

or kiss the cracks.

My Hispanitude is not your cathedral.

It is the shadow behind the altar, greater than the thing itself.

The laugh that survives translation. 

I return to the page like a field after fire—

charred, yes, but stubborn.

Full of many seeds in my locs 

that they intended to never survive,

where every rejection 

birthed a refrain. 

Call it exile. Call it inheritance. 

Call it what remains 

when nothing fits

but the mouth that says it anyway

and becomes its own unplace.