Head on over to the Book Marketing Network for another edition of “What I Am Reading.” 4-LAN the Friendly Robot is reviewing E.G. Manetti’s “The Cartel.”
http://thebookmarketingnetwork.com/profiles/blogs/what-i-am-reading-12
Head on over to the Book Marketing Network for another edition of “What I Am Reading.” 4-LAN the Friendly Robot is reviewing E.G. Manetti’s “The Cartel.”
http://thebookmarketingnetwork.com/profiles/blogs/what-i-am-reading-12
Celebrate National Poetry Month — here is one of the greatest poems of all time, W.H. Auden’s “Lullaby.”
by W. H. Auden
Lay your sleeping head, my love, Human on my faithless arm; Time and fevers burn away Individual beauty from Thoughtful children, and the grave Proves the child ephemeral: But in my arms till break of day Let the living creature lie, Mortal, guilty, but to me The entirely beautiful. Soul and body have no bounds: To lovers as they lie upon Her tolerant enchanted slope In their ordinary swoon, Grave the vision Venus sends Of supernatural sympathy, Universal love and hope; While an abstract insight wakes Among the glaciers and the rocks The hermit's carnal ecstasy. Certainty, fidelity On the stroke of midnight pass Like vibrations of a bell, And fashionable madmen raise Their pedantic boring cry: Every farthing of the cost, All the dreaded cards foretell, Shall be paid, but from this night Not a whisper, not a thought, Not a kiss nor look be lost. Beauty, midnight, vision dies: Let the winds of dawn that blow Softly round your dreaming head Such a day of welcome show Eye and knocking heart may bless, Find the mortal world enough; Noons of dryness find you fed By the involuntary powers, Nights of insult let you pass Watched by every human love.
– See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15542#sthash.5TV828Ab.dpuf
Thanks, Academy of American Poets
“Under the Bed” is an outstanding horror magazine that pleasantly reminds me of the ones I grew up snatching off the newstands and begging my parents to buy me. It’s a great source of horror reviews, interviews, news, opinion pieces, and much more. For good old fashioned, creepy fun, check it out and peruse it just before bedtime. Monthly subscriptions are just $1.99 an issue:
https://www.fictionmagazines.com/shop/subs/under-the-bed-monthly-subscription/
I was honored recently to have my supernatural horror story, “The Song of the Wheat,” selected for publication. It will appear in Under the Bed’s next issue, which will be released on May 5. Managing Editor Wednesday Lee Friday, who has a keen eye for story revision and who is a pleasure to work with, shared the issue’s cover image with contributing writers today. (If you’re a zombiephile like me, you’ll love it.)
I’d like to thank Ms. Friday and her colleagues for allowing me to be among the fun group of readers and writers of Under the Bed!
My big brother and Mary Washington College Alum, Russel Morgan, visited campus recently and took some terrific photos — MWC has changed a LOT since 1994, but there are still many places I recognize.
The first picture is of the dining hall where I worked as a student employee — horsing around with the other kids, constantly drinking coffee and that sweet red “bug juice” punch, and adopting cookies, cheeseburgers and tater tots as staple foods. It is also where I worked countless hours on “Dishline,” the assembly-line-like workspace where I and the other kids cleaned all the dishes that were returned. Wow. That was a lot of wet work. I believe that I still smell of ketchup to this day. I indeed capitalize “Dishline,” as it is both famous and infamous, and figured largely in the formative years of many past students. If you attended Mary Wash and you know what being “on carts” was, then you are a “Seacobeck Alum.”
Also pictured, in the second photo, are New Hall and Alvey Hall. (I’m certain new Hall must have been dubbed with a donor’s name in the intervening years since I graduated.) The men and women I lived among here are among the finest I’ve ever met. To quote the Mystery Science Theater 3000 episode, “I Accuse My Parents,” “I threw some kickass parties here.”
In the third photo are Mason and Randolph Halls. My college girlfriend (and possibly the sweetest person I’ve ever met), Kim Haun, lived in Mason. That low-lying structure linking the two was a literal tunnel, where dorm rooms existed at the time. (We quite creatively nicknamed it “The Tunnel.”) Here is where I partied as a Freshman with Steve Miller. (No, not the musician, Steve Miller — but the irony here is that my pal Steve was a huge fan of the eponymous star and played all of his albums while we sipped rum and cokes on the weekends.) My college experience would never have been the same if Steve and his upperclassmen friends hadn’t taken me under their wing.
[EDIT — It was actually MWC Janet Walbroehl Winston who took these photos!! Russ, you scene-stealer!!!]
Seacobeck Dining Hall.
New Hall and Alvey Hall.
Mason and Randolph Halls, with”The Tunnel” in the middle.
Ball Hall.
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
“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.
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