All posts by Eric Robert Nolan

Eric Robert Nolan graduated from Mary Washington College in 1994 with a Bachelor of Science in Psychology. He spent several years a news reporter and editorial writer for the Culpeper Star Exponent in Culpeper, Virginia. His work has also appeared on the front pages of numerous newspapers in Virginia, including The Free Lance – Star and The Daily Progress. Eric entered the field of philanthropy in 1996, as a grant writer for nonprofit healthcare organizations. Eric’s poetry has been featured by Dead Beats Literary Blog, Dagda Publishing, The International War Veterans’ Poetry Archive, and elsewhere. His poetry will also be published by Illumen Magazine in its Spring 2014 issue.

“Dover Beach,” by Matthew Arnold

Celebrate National Poetry Month — here is another favorite poem of mine from my college days, Matthew Arnold’s “Dover Beach.”

Thanks to The Victorian Web for the text.

Dover Beach

The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.

Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.

The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.

Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.

 

http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/arnold/writings/doverbeach.html

FEET, DON’T FAIL ME NOW.

“The funk, the whole funk, and nothing but the funk.”

This song was recently shared with me by my editor in Britain.

If people abroad derive their image of Americans based entirely on this song, I am more or less on board with that.

 

Easter on LV-426 — where the eggs hunt for YOU!!!

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“From the Journals of the Journals of the Frog Prince,” by Susan Mitchell

Celebrate National Poetry Month — this piece, hands down, is my favorite poem that I read in my classes at Mary Washington College.  I love it to this day.

Thanks to Inward Bound Poetry for the text.

 

“From the Journals of the Frog Prince”

In March I dreamed of mud,
sheets of mud over the ballroom chairs and table,
rainbow slicks of mud under the throne.
In April I saw mud of clouds and mud of sun.
Now in May I find excuses to linger in the kitchen
for wafts of silt and ale,
cinnamon and river bottom,
tender scallion and sour underlog.

At night I cannot sleep.
I am listening for the dribble of mud
climbing the stairs to our bedroom
as if a child in a wet bathing suit ran
up them in the dark.

Last night I said, “Face it, you’re bored
How many times can you live over
with the same excitement
that moment when the princess leans
into the well, her face a petal
falling to the surface of the water
as you rise like a bubble to her lips,
the golden ball bursting from your mouth?”
Remember how she hurled you against the wall,
your body cracking open,
skin shriveling to the bone,
the green pod of your heart splitting in two,
and her face imprinted with every moment
of your transformation?

I no longer tremble.

Night after night I lie beside her.
“Why is your forehead so cool and damp?” she asks.
Her breasts are soft and dry as flour.
The hand that brushes my head is feverish.
At her touch I long for wet leaves,
the slap of water against rocks.

“What are you thinking of?” she asks.
How can I tell her
I am thinking of the green skin
shoved like wet pants behind the Directoire desk? 
Or tell her I am mortgaged to the hilt
of my sword, to the leek-green tip of my soul?
Someday I will drag her by her hair
to the river—and what? Drown her?
Show her the green flame of my self rising at her feet?
But there’s no more violence in her
than in a fence or a gate.

“What are you thinking of? she whispers.
I am staring into the garden.
I am watching the moon
wind its trail of golden slime around the oak,
over the stone basin of the fountain.
How can I tell her
I am thinking that transformations are not forever?

 

http://inwardboundpoetry.blogspot.com/2005/11/22-from-journals-of-frog-prince-susan.html

To all of my Christian friends — I wish you a fun and joyous Easter! :-)

 

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They … tore down Chandler Hall?! I HAVE been out of the loop.

This is a picture from The Free Lance-Star in 2013.  It shows the site of my undergraduate psychology classes at Mary Washington College.

Perhaps the demolition of the building will finally silence the demons connected with that D I got in Statistics of Psychology in 1993. 

http://news.fredericksburg.com/newsdesk/2013/06/17/chandler-hall-to-be-razed-at-umw-in-fredericksburg/

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Another funny sent to me by a reader. :-)

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Wattpad Contest for Fiction and Nonfiction — Free to Enter

If you’ve got a self-published story on Wattpad, you can enter into Wattpad’s contest just by tagging it “Wattpadprize14” and making sure it is set as “completed.”  The deadline is April 30.

http://www.wattpad.com/wattpad-prize?utm_source=mkt&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=wprize14

“Lil’ Red Riding Hood”

A reader of “The Dogs Don’t Bark In Brooklyn Any More” sent me this link.

The name of the group is Sam the Sham & the Pharoahs.

Another Irish Ballad

Chloe Agnew from Celtic Woman sings “Danny Boy.”