Proto-Tagonist

In 1667 John Milton wrote "Paradise Lost", a romping ten-book philosophical poem, in an explicit attempt to "justify the ways of god to man." It occurs to me that perhaps the real purpose of philosophy, however, is and always has been to justify the ways of man to god.

Or whatever.

Pro Patria Mori

In a recent introduction at a Hillary Clinton rally, Tom Buffenbarger, President of the International Association of Machinists and Aerospace Workers, had the following to say about Barack Obama's supporters:

"Give me a break! I've got news for all the latte-drinking, Prius-driving, Birkenstock-wearing, trust fund babies crowding in to hear him speak! This guy won't last a round against the Republican attack machine. He's a poet, not a fighter."

Putting aside the fact that my husband possesses neither Prius nor Birkenstock and may possibly not be entirely clear on exactly what a trust fund is**, I take particular offense to the last line — "Hes a poet, not a fighter." This is not because I am a great lover of poetry (in fact, I prefer a good commie joke), but rather because the mascot of my alma mater is The Poet.

There are better reasons to find Buffenbarger's assertion offensive, though, not the least of which is the fact that "poet" and "fighter" are hardly mutually exclusive terms. As Exhibit A, I offer World War One soldier and honorary latte-drinker Wilfred Owen, a.k.a. the guy who wrote one of the handful of poems in the world that I truly love. I suspect Mr. Tom "I Build Weapons for Other People to Use" Buffenbarger would find it edifying:

"Dulce Et Decorum Est"

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs
And towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of disappointed shells that dropped behind.

GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim, through the misty panes and thick green light
As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.

** Disclaimer: Yes, my husband knows what a trust fund is. I think he's trying to set one up for the dog.

It was all very well to say 'Drink me' ...

When I was searching for poetry quotes the other day, I came across the following:

"Wine is bottled poetry." — Robert Louis Stevenson

If Stevenson is correct, I assert that the Chileans have casked "Paradise Regained". I'm sure Milton would be shocked to discover salvation can purchased for a mere ten dollars. And yet — Exhibit A.

In vino veritas.

License Rescinded

According to Carl Sandburg, "Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance." Ask Thomas Gray, and you'll find that, "Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn."

One assumes that such philosophies have moved pen to page to produce

Do you believe in always,the wind
said to the rain
I am too busy with
my flowers to believe,the rain answered

and

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand dare seize the fire?

and

If suddenly you do not exist,
if suddenly you no longer live,
I shall live on.

I do not dare,
I do not dare to write it,
if you die.

I shall live on.

Arguably, worth writing down.

I don't even like poetry (much), but I do like words to be arranged such that my brain doesn't feel compelled buy a pair of dark sunglasses, hitchhike its way down to my spleen and enter the Witness Protection Program. Why, then, do I find myself entrenched in a world in which "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard" passes for fine balladry?

It seems an unnecessary cruelty.