Partially redeeming an otherwise weak ninth season of “The X Files.”
THANK YOU.
We’ll forgive its reliance on a standard longstanding deus ex machina for the show — the agents encounter a situation in their personal lives that JUST HAPPENS to involve the same kind of paranormal threats they are charged with investigating.
And dear LORD, Doggett, kiss Monica already.
“Sonnet 64,” by William Shakespeare
When I have seen by Time’s fell hand defaced
The rich proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed,
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.
… of all things.
I think we might have been talking about Halloween season fare that was safe for young children. Because my favorite standbys, like “28 Days Later” and “Dawn of the Dead” (both of them), aren’t exactly appropriate for the grade-school set.
I remember watching “Bewitched” in syndication on broadcast television — with no sense of irony or nostalgia whatsoever. I’m willing to bet a lot of my younger friends have never even heard of it.
I saw — and really liked — the 2005 film remake with Will Ferrell and Nicole Kidman precisely once. Maybe I’ll check that one out again before Halloween.
Anyway, I feel certain that the last photo still of Elizabeth Montgomery here did not appear on the 1960’s program.
“… and with that question always does it feel that “In the Image of a Blind God” isn’t so much an epic poem that I am composing, but rather, is an epic poem composing itself through me.” — Dennis Villelmi, on the development of “Fretensis” (Book I of “In the Image of a Blind God”), his book of horror poetry to be released by Dagda Publishing on Halloween.
So now I have yet another reason to look forward to October — my very talented colleague Dennis will be releasing his first book, and it sounds damn appealing to horror fans or to anyone who enjoys poetry.
From Dagda Publishing’s newsletter today: “A work of mad genius,a manuscript of the damned, Fretensis tells tales of Damzui, Lord Of The Husks, through the ages of mankind, of the games that the Celestial Beings play with mortals (sometimes through malice, sometimes because it is merely within their nature), it lurches from Ancient, marble-columned Rome to the dust-blown American Midwest of the modern day to the inner-most darkness present within the corners of our psyche. Featuring madness-cursed immortals, thrice-damned whores and a myriad of characters, all with their own agendas and insanities.”
Yes … that sounds like Dennis! I’ve loved his unique brand of dark, vivid poetry when it has appeared with Dagda’s publications before, as well as over at his website, “a death’s head in green light” (http://dentatus1976.wordpress.com/). (See my reblog of “Medalion” yesterday.) And this upcoming book sounds damn appealing, and perfect for All Hallow’s Eve.
For full details on “Fretensis,” by Dennis Villelmi, see Dagda Publishing’s announcement here:
https://www.facebook.com/DagdaPublishing/posts/714329025326580
This was shared with me by the coolest girl in Utah, Lisa Poce — a selection from Gustave Dore’s 1884 illustrations of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven.” I’m guessing the waiflike girl beside him is the specter of the lost Lenore?
See the link below at openculture.com for more info on Dore’s original steel engravings:
Gustave Doré’s Splendid Illustrations of Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Raven” (1884)
… and, whaddya know … a few of my friends just happen to be ACTORS.
Russ, Linsee … care to stop over sometime?
Dear Lord, I LOVE this poem! Why have I never heard this before?!
“Oracle of the Dog,” by Vincent Starrett
Only the dog knows why the moon
Floats down the night; his raucous tune
Is urgent with the thing he fears
But falls on unbelieving ears.
If we had only learned to speak
The tongue of dogs instead of Greek
We should be better schooled to fight
The spells and portents of the night.
Now at the coming of the dark,
Young fools adrift in street and park
Yield to an epidemic swoon,
Abuse the dog and praise the moon.
(Part VI of “The Quest”)
“The First Temptation”
Ashamed to be the darling of his grief,
He joined a gang of rowdy stories where
His gift for magic quickly made him chief
Of all these boyish powers of the air;
Who turned his hungers into Roman food,
The town’s asymmetry into a park;
All hours took taxis; any solitude
Became his flattered duchess in the dark.
But, if he wished for anything less grand,
The nights came padding after him like wild
Beasts that meant harm, and all the doors cried Thief;
And when Truth had met him and put out her hand,
He clung in panic to his tall belief
And shrank away like an ill-treated child.
“The Worship of Nature,” by John Greenleaf Whittier
The harp at Nature’s advent strung
Has never ceased to play;
The song the stars of morning sung
Has never died away.
And prayer is made, and praise is given,
By all things near and far;
The ocean looketh up to heaven,
And mirrors every star.
Its waves are kneeling on the strand,
As kneels the human knee,
Their white locks bowing to the sand,
The priesthood of the sea!
They pour their glittering treasures forth,
Their gifts of pearl they bring,
And all the listening hills of earth
Take up the song they sing.
The green earth sends its incense up
From many a mountain shrine;
From folded leaf and dewy cup
She pours her sacred wine.
The mists above the morning rills
Rise white as wings of prayer;
The altar-curtains of the hills
Are sunset’s purple air.
The winds with hymns of praise are loud,
Or low with sobs of pain,—
The thunder-organ of the cloud,
The dropping tears of rain.
With drooping head and branches crossed
The twilight forest grieves,
Or speaks with tongues of Pentecost
From all its sunlit leaves.
The blue sky is the temple’s arch,
Its transept earth and air,
The music of its starry march
The chorus of a prayer.
So Nature keeps the reverent frame
With which her years began,
And all her signs and voices shame
The prayerless heart of man.
Eric Robert Nolan, Author 