Sociology > Education > A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA
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Sociology > Education |
| User: |
"Captain Ranger McCoy" |
| Date: |
31 Jul 2005 02:08:57 PM |
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A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
http://classicalpoetryforums.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
I met a girl with eyes of ocean blue,
I tried to pull her from the pagan realm,
But it was something this sailor couldn't do,
And before I knew it, she had the helm.
I went down fighting for something I believed,
While my soul never strayed from the pinnacle,
And that, my friend, is what made it hard to grieve,
For flesh is but a temporary shackle.
Those eyes-- they bound me to a dreary day,
For they could never see the words I spoke,
Without a soul to anchor things she'd say,
Soft promises drifted when she awoke.
With no constraints, unrequited temptation,
Conversations drowned out by her TV,
On the pill to counter God's creation,
A long time before she ever knew me.
She said stop twice and called it modesty,
Like getting trashed for our anniversary,
Tight skirts and bars-- she needed all to see,
Her subtle, endearing humility.
Surrounded by her friends, all so astute,
With their profound sitcoms and MBAs,
they laughed at my jokes, they thought I was cute,
and cast aspersion on my quiet ways.
They worshipped all those who treated them wrong,
They believed in nothing but what they felt,
In their context Christ's kindness wasn't strong,
They needed to share the pain they'd been dealt.
To me love is a painting, poetry,
A relationship is a work of art,
Where actions embroider the tapestry,
To her it was but a strategic chart.
I enjoyed the work, she wanted the pay,
A part-time player in her transactions,
Her friends told her that I got in the way,
Of their suave and superior abstractions.
Guess I'm a simple guy, the starred night sky,
And of the pristine feminine I'm a fan,
But this culture taught her to live a lie,
To trade her virtue and become a man.
I wanted the romance our forefathers knew,
The deep romance they teach us to deny,
But the Book I found, I knew it was true,
When the words shook my soul and made me cry.
But there were moments where I pulled her free,
And I know she felt her eternal soul,
But then again, it could've just been me,
We kept afloat because I filled a hole.
I wanted mountains, she needed to ski,
I spoke of marriage, she just needed now,
Somewhere within, she confused being free,
With a sinful love that God can't allow.
I read Shakespeare while she watched the movie,
I loved the sunflowers, she needed museums,
Like Van Gogh I guess I felt art was free,
While she religiously bought all that seems.
Where most would feel shame, she created a game,
kept her parents and friends laughing at me,
while I strove to light an eternal flame,
she thought it healthier to just sleep with me.
Postmodernism's queen, she'd poll her friends,
take phone surveys on the right thing to do,
as long as it was a means to an end,
abortion if a child just wouldn't do.
Demanding forgiveness without judgement,
I watched her cut the prophets' souls in two,
What ever she believed, that's what God meant,
And thus whispering prudence wasn't true.
And every time that I sought to explain,
she clicked call waiting to the other line,
I told the silence what I couldn't feign,
and I told her that I was feeling fine.
Against their culture called economy,
Against Cosmo and all they advertise,
They dressed up licentiousness as liberty,
Virgin Mary in a bulimic's disguise.
And all these things that I could never say,
The bold Truth she'd always seek to deny,
Not out here, where her innocence would fray,
Her soul belonged somewhere warm, safe, and dry.
And so I'd tried to make her a Christian,
Gently and subtly, without any pain,
While I endured the judgements of a pagan,
Those sky blue eyes and a cold soul of rain.
And I guess it was that rain that I saw,
two puddles reflecting an honest sky,
Such infinite beauty, I held in awe,
And leapt to give eternity a try.
It hurt to dive into those deepest eyes,
And find out that they were just shallow pools,
For her deeper soul, where true beauty lies,
They'd made a kingdom for pagans and fools.
I know, my Lord, this sailor went astray,
Drifted meself, trying to make her whole,
For something more I thought I heard her pray,
But the Truth broke my heart and saved my soul.
And Lord, I feel that I have done my time,
Ready to kneel before a Virgin heart,
With reason and rhyme, I'll confess my crime,
And by God's great grace, make a brand new start.
Now she's crying, but there's a silver lining,
Out of the fog, an angel walks my way,
These words ran with her tears, now the sun's shining,
Blue eyes cleared of the postmodern fog's grey.
O' the forgotten power of a poem,
The mirror of the spirit's reflection,
For love, faith, and honor, a sturdy home,
This noble vessel of vital redemption.
http://classicalpoetryforums.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
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| User: "Michael Cook" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
31 Jul 2005 06:32:13 PM |
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"Captain Ranger McCoy" <mobydickmovie@yahoo.com> wrote in message
news:1122836937.456464.308860@g44g2000cwa.googlegroups.com...
http://classicalpoetryforums.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
I met a girl with eyes of ocean blue,
mercy snip, "eyes of blue", and just in time.
"A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE
CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA"
That's an oxymoron, aint it?
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| User: "" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
01 Aug 2005 06:39:21 AM |
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http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
THE HIGHER LAW RESIDES IN SHAKESPEARE & THE BIBLE
I would suggest that you awaken with the sunrise as often as possible,
or at least as often as you stay out late at the Box or Brotherhood of
Thieves. Rent a bike from Young's Bikeshop if ye've forgotten yer own,
and ride on past the rotunda and down Polpis to the Sankaty Head
lighthouse. Take a dip in the shadow of the red and white sentinel,
before anyone else steps foot upon the shore. Then circle around
through Sconset and stop for lunch, before heading back along Milestone
Rd. to Madaket Rd., whereabout you'll pass streets with ominous names
such as Ahab Rd. and Starbuck Ln. before finally happening upon Madaket
beach. Thus in less than a day ye will have completed an approximate
orbit of the fourteen-mile island, and ye'll see that its physical
presence is relatively small when compared to Melville's soul, which
might take years to circumnavigate.
To truly discover a place, one must discover all its personalities and
come to know of all its shades, hues, dispositions, and nuances
throughout all four seasons. I would suggest that you spend several
solitary afternoons windsurfing in all conditions, learning of the
whimsical ways of the wind and rain, and something about the fear which
spawns the sailor's superstition. Take a walk on a brisk December dusk
a few days before Christmas, and witness the woodsmoke in the wind, the
sparkling lights along Union street, and the crossed oars and harpoons
gracing the monuments and inns. It would be best if you sought to serve
the Nantucket community in some way, to take a job and work for a
living while there, whatever your occupation might be, for only in
cheerful servitude and loyal labor does that all precious character
emerge-- both your own and other's. Far more is learned by the sailor
than the passenger, as duty's privilege introduces one to the majority
of the memorable, meaningful situations in this life. For it has always
been the sailor who has manned the mastheads, mate, not the passengers.
To travel as a tourist is to stay in but one place, and one shall never
glimpse the second Nantucket from such a vantage point. I taught tennis
for a couple summers at the Brant Point Raquet Club, but I would become
a landscaper for the summer, were I you, so as to befriend the rocks
and roses, the trees and trellises, and the weeds and wheelbarrows--
for these native elements are sure to be privy to the deeper
Nantucket's secrets.
Drop by the girl who works at the Nibset Inn, and pen a poem for her if
she's still there, and if you should miss her by a few years, wait a
few more, and by then someone as fair shall have replaced her, for that
is the way of things on Nantucket. And I'll pray for ye that she's as
honest and subtle as she is pretty. Or if you're lucky enough to find
yourself missing someone yet even more serene, write them a poem.
Capture the crisp, clear, carefree, colonial afternoon's sentiments on
Main Street, and preserve them with a paper and pen-- write yer own
ticket to eternity. To set your feelings down in ink is to think in a
most profound manner, and thinking can only bring you closer to that
second Nantucket. And more likely than not, any poem composed under
such cherished conditions shall converge upon the sharp contrast
between the two Nantuckets:
Compasses, weathervanes, and cobblestones,
I paused to rest against a great Oak tree,
Weathervane crowned the church, church crowned the stones,
The compass I held out in front of me,
The wind rose, the golden weathervane showed,
A Nantucket Northeaster blowing in,
The thunder roared while the horizon glowed,
I sat there, 'til I was soaked to my skin.
My thoughts turned towards a girl down in DC,
and how I'd once been like the weathervane,
But now I felt a compass within me,
where she was some force beyond wind and rain.
For though wind I feel, and the sun I see,
The wind shifts, and the sun sets everyday,
But governed by an unseen entity,
The iron needle shall point the same way.
I stayed 'til the storm broke with red at night,
And golden rays shot 'cross the deep blue sea,
And I'll say, beyond this sailor's delight,
The greater things are those we never see.
For politicians on pulpits shall twist,
Point where vice and vanity's winds command,
And if ye follow weathervanes in mist,
In this postmodern fog, ye shall be damned.
But instead mate, if ye should navigate,
by Faith, ye'll steer clear of temptation's shoal,
It's not the golden crown that makes men great,
But it's the iron deep within their soul.
Perhaps it was on a similar tempestuous afternoon, while passing
through Nantucket on a whaling voyage, that Herman Melville also began
to differentiate between the sincere and superficial Nantuckets:
But this august dignity I treat of, is not the dignity of kings and
robes, but that abounding dignity which has no robed investiture. Thou
shalt see it shining in the arm that wields a pick or drives a spike;
that democratic dignity which, on all hands, radiates without end from
God; Himself! The great God absolute! The centre and circumference of
all democracy! His omnipresence, our divine equality!
--Chapter 26, Knights and Squires, MOBY *****
And as all poets and philosophers wander this same earth, it's no
mystery that their prophetic souls are often inspired to record the
same entities. Emerson alluded to the deeper Nantucket with:
O poet! a new nobility is conferred in groves and pastures, and not
in castles or by the sword-blade any longer. --Ralph Waldo Emerson's
Poetry
This second Nantucket is that far rarer, haunted Nantucket known best
by the young and young at heart. It is more a feeling than a place, and
its ubiquity in the human soul is better captured in sentences than
postcards. A mozaic of the resplendent Autumn colors highlighted by the
blood-red October cranberry bogs, the blanketing ocean mists which can
suddenly cast a pale grey shroud across the bright blue sky and a damp
chill upon your skin, only to dissipate with the same immediacy, and
leave the rolling moors as vividly green as the skies are immaculately
blue. This definitive clarity belies the nature of that deeper
Nantucket which so unexpectedly became so that one summer, as it gained
an immutable permanence, now forever cemented in hindsight, and within
A Nantucket Ghost Story. It all left me breathless as I returned to
Hyannisport on the 6:30 AM ferry, as the sun rose before me, and my
teenage years and Nantucket set behind me, joining the great leveling
blue of Noah's lingering flood, which yet covers a good two-thirds of
the earth.
http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
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| User: "Dennis M. Hammes" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILLSAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
02 Aug 2005 08:15:21 PM |
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wrote:
http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
THE HIGHER LAW RESIDES IN SHAKESPEARE & THE BIBLE
Too bad it moved to Shadowville, where it died of starvation.
--
-------(m+
~/:o)_|
The defense of liberty is no momentary enthusiasm.
-- Ross Mackenzie
http://scrawlmark.org
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| User: "" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
04 Aug 2005 08:00:57 AM |
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SEMPER FI!!!
http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com/penpals
NAVIGATING AN AMERICAN RENAISSANCE!!
It's good to be back on shore for the moment, as we always shall be
whenever a fellow seafarer reads this introduction. Perhaps ye'll
meet us out tonight at The Jolly Roger Piano & Poetry Pub or our Great
Books Brewery, before we arise at the crack of dawn to ferry ye on out
towards the greatest treasure of this silicon revolution-the eternity
in a grain of sand. We have seen the future away out there, in yer
hearts and spirits, and it belongs to the honest, while the poetry
belongs to the profound.
In 1995 Jollyroger.com set sail from Hatteras as a labor of love, and
now, by the Grace of God and the loyalty of all our intrepid readers,
the Good Ship has evolved into a profitable venture that allows us to
do that which we were born to do-write. Unlike most dot-com startups
originating from MBA homework assignments, jollyroger.com was not
launched to line the pockets of venture capitalists, but rather she set
sail to serve the eternal popular culture with a renaissance-an
entity which the bankers could not afford to invest in, as enduring
literature must be funded by the courage of poetic passion. Very few
MBAs ever comprehend the business of eternity-the subtleties of how a
world may be born from a grain of sand-and thus it is left up to CEO
Statesmen and Poets to captain literary ships. Business ventures tend
to be considered in terms of monetary risks and rewards, whereas words
of eternity must be written, come hell or high water. It was not mere
information that the Good Ship sought to deliver over the internet, but
poetry, and so instead heading West to Silicon Valley and raising VC,
we raised The Jolly Roger to strike fear into the hearts of Truth's
opponents, and we sailed forth from Hatteras one pristine September
day, beneath a Carolina-blue sky. And we never looked back.
In an era where cool has been commodified and postmodernism has
triumphed in the literary, cultural, and financial arenas, where
inherent worth is oft dismissed and new-age hype rules the day,
jollyroger.com has stuck by the guns of fundamental principle. She has
sailed steadily along her foreordained course, signing aboard loyal
crew members one by one, firing broadsides from the Western Canon to
defend the embattled Great Books, and laying the foundations of the
world's classical portal with the most valuable kind of seed
capital-heartfelt poetry.
In the postmodern culture's pervasive gray, it's often difficult to
perceive the Permanent Things; and thus on the foggier nights over the
past five years, faith in the ancient's words came in handy upon this
deck. In the deepest darkness of the most ironic ironies, where the fog
itself is concealed, there yet exists an inner light in the form of a
classical yearning for Truths greater than ourselves-many know her as
Faith. And like the wind and waves of an approaching hurricane, the
Bible, Plato, Shakespeare, the Founding Fathers, and Melville reminded
us of her-the Words of the Greats let us know that something
all-powerful and great existed just beyond our mortal sight. And by
Faith's inner light and the steady winds of immortal words, we were
able to navigate beyond the postmodern fog, through the popular
culture's sound and fury, on towards the center of our souls-the
placid eye of existence's storm-on towards the eternal peace of
immutable words written and read in the solitude and splendor of
Truth's Freedom. Thus we know firsthand that the greatest literature
serves a higher purpose than the bottom line or the advancement of
political causes-words exist not only to entertain, advertise,
exhort, and explain, but also to light Faith's beacons and fill the
sails of God's Grace. From Words we have fashioned the Jolly
Roger's Oak planks of reason, riveted them with rhyme, and designed a
ship to voyage across all of time.
All generations are united by the classical elements, and the poets and
prophets of each age are those who perform the timeless truths in the
living language, adding to and enriching the context of the eternal
popular culture heralded by the Great Books. Joining in this venture
has always been a risky endeavor, and thus few prudent parents have
ever encouraged their children to become poets. But in this era
especially, ambitious proponents of the postmodern ideology actively
seek to scuttle the souls of young poets embarking on eternity's
favorite venture. The postmodern blockade serves to protect the
degraded trade of the liberal industrial cultural complex, while their
fog shrouds the beacons of timeless truth, thereby rendering the
context for contemporary classical literature all but impossible to
navigate, while endangering the very hulls of morality and Western
Civilization.
Postmodernism is the corruption of democracy, just as deconstruction is
the violence of the weak-both cultural movements owe their popularity
to their ability to empower anyone harboring intellectual or artistic
ambitions overshadowing their talents. Postmodern culture is like an
internet pyramid scheme, wherein cultural creations possessing no
inherent worth are given vast valuations by the insider critics and
cliques who subsist upon and profit from the ephemeral hype, which is
often tax, tuition, and smut subsidized. But eventually all true art,
like all true companies, must create real and lasting benefits for the
public, or fade away, like communism. "One cannot pray a lie," noted
Huckleberry Finn, but without faith in God's Invisible Hand,
postmodernists believe that it's possible, as long as the requisite
mob is assembled and promised a cut. And while the insiders benefit in
the short-term when worthless companies, fallacious systems of
government, and meaningless art are hyped and sold to a duped public,
the public is oft left holding the bag, with their investments
diminished, their classical religions tarnished, their armies
demoralized, the sacred institution of marriage defiled, and the
curriculums of their children's schools gutted.
When the higher ideals and fundamental precepts are forsaken, the
entire democratic ship of state may drift along happily through the
fog, navigating by polls reminiscent of the one given by Pontius
Pilate, not aware of the nature nor consequences of the errant
direction. And when a few in the rising generation begin to seek the
fixed stars above, which they've read about in antiquity's forsaken
myths and felt deep within their souls, they will be branded crazy. And
when the classical rebels see the stars through the breaking fog, and
seek to navigate a straighter course by the Permanent Things, they will
encounter violent opposition from the postmodern culture czars who
benefit from the lack of higher standards, who prefer their arbitrary
will to the rule of Law in cultural entities ranging from politics, to
architecture, to education, to poetry. The relativistic oligarchy shall
view the rising poets' loyalty to God as insolent rebellion, and the
postmodern media shall be commanded to destroy them. And on that day,
the postmodern critics' souls shall be tested, as they choose to be
loyal to tyrants or Truths greater than themselves, as they choose to
remain upon postmodern liberalism's sinking ship or sign aboard a
fighting frigate bound for eternity.
One could spend several volumes chronicling the nature of
postmodernism's adherents and their predilection for bureaucracy, and
the dark character of their political, cultural, and literary ponzi
schemes, but that is not jollyroger.com's destination. We all know
what the fog looks like-too many know nothing else-and the nobler
and more pertinent task becomes taking us beyond it. To criticize
nihilism is to exalt it to undeserved heights, and rather than studying
the ephemeral, poets would be wise to devoted themselves to penning the
eternal.
Whether it's inevitable as fate or it hinges upon perseverance and
free will, we do not know, but jollyroger.com must gain a popular
culture worthy of the Great Books' context. And the only way to do
that is to navigate by the same timeless beacon that yesterday's
poets navigated by-honesty's courage.
The contemporary poet's task is not only to pen the eternal verities
in the era's language, but it is also to resurrect the context in
which those timeless truths may freely navigate and gain the home ports
of the children's souls. And that is where the WWW has played an
invaluable role, for it has allowed us to establish a universe
perpendicular to the contemporary popular culture-a universe wherein
words mean things and the classical context thrives, but which also
intersects with the popular culture. For Great Books growing dusty upon
shelves are of little use, and the classical sentiments must be
continually performed in the living language. While the majority of
contemporary editors, agents, critics and literary officials yet remain
loyal to the degraded postmodern-MFA mentality and the fleeting
insta-classic literary fashions, the greater spirits of the rising
generation are classical in nature, as children's souls always are.
And by allowing The Jolly Roger to circumvent the literary
middleman's cynical vortex, the WWW has allowed a renaissance to set
sail.
Although all enduring truth must by definition be robust, history has
shown that its messengers have often been castigated and impugned. But
upon these American shores, it has ever been our right, as it has been
our duty, to continually foster and defend the classical context
wherein the foundational documents serve the people, come hell or high
water. The Greats have all agreed upon this-liberty demands eternal
vigilance. The pursuit of smaller government, less taxes, rhyming
poetry, and more freedom is as long and arduous a voyage as it is a
noble one.
As a beacon in history's darker contexts, America was founded as a
haven for truth's messengers, thereby becoming the world's
wellspring for science, religion, and freedom. The Declaration of
Independence and Constitution, which may be found at the end of this
book, were penned in tribute to higher principles superior to all
politics and time. Even though the Founding Fathers believed in the
existence of higher laws, they were humble about their ability to
discern them, and thus they presented us with a Constitution which
could be amended. They had as much faith in their children as they had
in the timeless truths, and thus they bestowed us with the tools to
pursue justice and happiness in a free marketplace of ideas, which they
perceived to be ultimately governed by Nature and Nature's God. The
eloquent words of America's founding documents provide for the civil
structure that protects and promotes the acknowledgement of higher
principles by which natural rights are defined, thereby preserving the
sacred freedom of all individuals who are humble before the higher
ideals. And thus upon these shores the honest have always been promised
the freedom to pursue the exalted American dream.
But when the language is degraded until the poetry no longer rhymes
except in vulgar rap, when sacred customs are honored more in the
breach than in the observance, when words and their meanings part on
their separate ways, when the bottom line is placed above the higher
ideals, when the base bass beats over the melody in the music we listen
to, in the clubs we frequent, and in our hearts and souls; when
innocence is lost before it is known, when cynicism is loaded upon hope
and hope is ballasted with irony, and we're exhorted by tax, tuition,
and smut-subsidized cultural officials to carry this pyramid's load
down the road to serfdom, shall we still be free to dream those greater
dreams? When under this burden America is then cut free from her
religious anchors in the name of secular economic freedom, and women
are sent off to raise the Dow Jones to pay taxes rather than raise
moral children, can America long survive and prosper as the flagship of
free republics, even if all the postmodern pyramid schemes never
collapse? Science and history have suggested otherwise-that where
God's morality is eroded, the eternal Bureaucracy marches forth to
become the stolid regulator of human interaction. When people cease to
govern themselves according to higher principles, they lose the ability
to be guarantors of their own wellness and happiness, and they soon
find themselves subject to a political order determined by other
mortals-the rule of Law gives way to the rule by men.
Where the Word-the sacred vessel of all poetry and politics-was
diminished or deconstructed, bullets and slogans oft became the new
brushes with which humanity painted upon history's canvas. And as the
past is prologue, any optimist of human affairs would be wise to aspire
to the wisdom of those who gave us not the gift of freedom, but the
documents which define and defend the freedom that they perceived as
being a gift from God.
In asking what is best for the future of a democratic republic, we are
really contemplating the best way in which to pass along freedom's
traditions. How might we rebuild the classical context wherein children
learn to love reading the Greats, and teachers are given the necessary
authority to teach them? How do we reinstall the killer-app open-source
software of the soul-the classics-which teach not by dictating how
to think, but by inspiring free thought in a rational context?
Today, too many of our peers reside in a superficial context of image
and sound, wherein the popular art, movies, music, and literature make
circular references to the same superficial brands in a self-contained
cultural whirlpool in history's greater context, where ephemeral
lusts, common degradation, and wayward feelings overrule rational
thought and the higher ideals. So how shall we introduce our friends to
a far more profound culture in the context of the Great Books? How
shall we revive the center and circumference of civilization, the crux
of conscience, the jury of justice, the romance of marriage, the honor
of honor, and the device by which we mark the pinnacles of our
aspirations-the written Word? We're not sure of the exact mechanism
nor means to accomplish this, but the crew here believes the answer
lies more in art than in scholarship, more in poetry than in politics.
For intellectuals study yesterday's renaissances far more often than
they inspire today's, and politicians follow the popular culture far
more often than they lead it.
At the dawn of the internet in 1995, the three sonneteers set out upon
a fleet frigate, seeking to pirate the profound and establish a brave
new website where the eternal optimism of the literary classics would
prevail-where the news of the day would always be that the world's
grown honest and Hamlet's gone mad. We saw the chance to marry the
greatest that has ever been written and spoken to the greatest
publishing medium ever known to the individual, and to create a
classical context wherein the glory of words would resound. We saw the
opportunity to circumnavigate the postmodern nonbelievers and cynics,
to appeal to the nobler aspects of humanity's conscience, and prove
that the world yet loves common sense embroidered in eloquence. We saw
the opportunity for a renaissance wherein dignity and honor would be
restored to public office, and the poetry would rhyme once again.
And with a little bit of that Midwest humor which walks hand-in-hand
with Midwest honor, we decided we'd have fun following the dream that
Providence had enabled. We would salute the passing postmodern era from
the decks of a pirate ship, acknowledging postmodernism's vast
success in pervading all aspects of contemporary culture; and with
broadsides of truth fired from the Western Canon, we'd let them know
we considered it good sport to play along with their irony-the irony
that a lover of the Great Books could be considered a barbarous
buccaneer upon Princeton's ivied campus. We were ruthless rebels
because we sought Truth's Traditions.
Postmodern liberalism had won the day, but as a fundamentally
secular-materialist philosophy, that was all that it had ever sought,
and tomorrow shall belong to the classics. For however fun the
postmodern era was, I don't think we'll be making a tradition out
of it. Political rhetoric is soon forgotten, while poetry is that which
endures.
We figured the best way to communicate our exalted vision would be to
combine the cutting-edge technology with the exact same literary
devices used by the sages of all ages. We'd use the common language
and the colloquial to sign sailors aboard, and we'd endow the poetry
at jollyroger.com with rhyme and meter. Whispering reason is far louder
than pompous pedantry, just as poetry is far more adept at winning a
girl's heart than polemics. The greatest writers had adorned their
works not with thesauruses, but with wit. If a preacher knows something
of poetry, then we'll listen, for they must know that deeper meaning
behind the sacred scripture-that law and order exist to protect
beauty's fundamental freedom.
A contemporary literary renaissance presents itself as a formidable
task-one cannot do it alone. For the fashionable relativists are
right in that truth and custom must have an appropriate societal
context within which to exist. And the concurrent relativistic societal
context, fortified with the entrenched prejudices of a maturing,
tenured generation that ushered in a Dionysian revolution via the
pre-internet electronic media, along with a plethora of ideological
"isms" to replace God's simple grace, coupled with a fading popular
culture centered about the printed word and an enforced cynicism
amongst a generation who for the most part only know of the Greats in
their deconstructed, corrupted form, makes the Apollonian renaissance
that jollyroger.com's sailing towards seem all but unreachable.
But then again, as the ancients noted, "post tenebras lux." After
darkness light. Just as God and the Greats originally sprang forth in
tradition's void, so it is that they might be born again in the midst
of a deconstructed culture. For poetry, religion, and romance are
sought by the immortal parts of all souls, and they never have greater
cause to be than when they are not. In the long run, without Truth men
cannot have those possessions most coveted by all deeper
souls-meaning and freedom. With this bold vision and humble hope,
jollyroger.com has set out to resurrect a classical context.
Though jollyroger.com's destination is pristine, the voyage has not
always been and will not always be so. It is a wonderful time to be
alive for the author and entrepreneur, with abundant wealth and
opportunity being fostered by the internet revolution, but even so, it
is a sobering mission to be called upon to serve poetry. For there are
those powerful elite today, and their ambitious disciples, who so
vehemently oppose the first Two Amendments of the United States
Constitution, who have it as their mission to prevent the honest from
lifting those pens which are mightier than the sword.
Neither Wall Street nor the postmodern academy nor publishing
industry-the iron triangle-will invest time nor money nor faith in
a renaissance, but that is OK, as a renaissance has little use for
money, and eternity's time will do just fine. Wall Street prudently
considers the poetry of a cultural renaissance a financial risk in
today's cultural conditions, while the academic MFA postmodernists
consider it a dire threat, and the corporate conglomerates of the
publishing industry have one foot in either camp. But we foresee the
dawn of a new era, wherein those who join in serving and enlightening
the public with the classical sentiments will profit immensely, both
spiritually and monetarily. It is time for a sea change, matey, and
time for the poetry to rhyme once again.
There have been and there are yet to be cruel nights out there in the
postmodern fog, where the Good Ship will seem all but lost, and where
the winds of elite and popular opinion will rage and blow in
opposition, while the critic's cannons blaze away with all the fury
of an MFA scorned. But such is the rugged nature of all greater
adventures, and as of late the seaward signs suggest that the wind is
shifting towards a more favorable direction.
Where men are yet free, they must have poetry equal to that freedom,
and where men yet have poetry, they must be free. Thus exalted poetry
is worth fighting for, and too, these are the reasons why those who
serve the darker powers shall always oppose pristine poetry. The
relativist's favorite tactic in cultural warfare is to redefine
sacred institutions as degraded, corrupted, political entities, from
poetry to the Presidency, until it appears that there is nothing to
defend, until only the dishonorable seem fit to slouch towards office.
Thus they win the war by convincing the common man that there is no war
to be fought, by deconstructing honor and chivalry, by proclaiming
poetry to be no more than politics, by teaching that Presidents were
always corrupt and will always be corrupt, and then enforcing their
dismal science throughout the culture. They deconstruct God and appoint
their friends to all the newly-minted bureaucracies which seek to
overrule His Decree, and which exacerbate the problems they seek to
solve, thereby providing coveted opportunities for more taxation, more
government programs, and more bureaucracy. With a snide smile they call
it irony and cynicism as they benefit in the shadows of the postmodern
fog, but we see it as something much darker than that, as their methods
rebel against God's Will.
Jefferson once stated that from time to time freedom's fields must be
fertilized with the blood of Tyrants and Patriots, and thus in order to
defend the profound prose of this renaissance, treacherous battles
shall be waged against the ferocious prejudices of pedants and
postmodernists for the right to write, publish, and disseminate poetry
written with words that rhyme and mean things. Postmodernists consider
the rhyming truth's shining light a violent assault upon their fogged
territory, and they will fight back viciously according to their
fundamental rules, which state that there are none but for what they
feel. A tyranny of liberal thought exists in the contemporary
publishing and academic industries, which is equal parts ignorance and
resentment, and which may best be defeated by light and truth rendered
with poetry and humor. God's Patriots must learn these gentle ways of
war.
Though these words will not be directly censored, pristine poetry may
be effectively banned by the erosion of the context which supports
it-when pornography is published, the sacred is censored. The Great
Books have been banned far more often by ignorance than by law. Many in
my generation shall never hear this melody as it's drowned out in the
base pounding bass of this week's corporate rock'n'roll, but it
shall be their loss, and not the words'. While we feel sympathy for
the cultural conformists lost in the apathy and cynicism of the
swirling fog, we nevertheless believe that as individuals it is
ultimately their choice, and may God help them find the Better Way. To
those who have, more shall be given, and to those who have not, even
that shall be taken away. May God inspire their moral imaginations to
dream beyond the gray on gray that has come to define their indifferent
universe, wherein spurious definitions of irony have become their
bigoted religion.
Postmodernists know that in order to defend their arbitrary power
structure, where exalted critics wield influence by hyping the value of
degraded literary works, they must defend to the death their
deconstructed context. They have learned that as long as the common
water source is poisoned with their politics, nothing will be allowed
to grow upon the private property of our souls but for barren cynicism.
They know that were the fog to break, the ideals of fidelity, honor,
and lasting romance would begin to blossom in the rising generation's
spirits. As the powerful architects of contemporary corruption, they
must disparage and destroy all who do not ultimately agree that black
is white and white is black, and thus noble romance and honest
innocence are their dire enemies.
The greatest postmodernists have never been the most beautiful nor
talented nor honest-they have ever been those with the least to lose
in the absence of beauty's truth and truth's beauty. Having little
in the way of the fundamental decencies and Natural private property,
as relativist critics they seek to gain by deconstructing others'
private property. And eventually there comes a time when there is
nothing left to deconstruct, but for the true living poets, who shall
be invincibly wicked in seeking vengeance for the razing of their
spiritual heritage and the cold-blooded murders of their cultural
fathers. So it is that the entire postmodern army of deans, agents,
editors, critics, and publishers today fear a lone poet by the name of
Drake Raft. For last night I saw his ghost in midtown Manhattan,
crossing Madison Avenue in cowboy boots, with his hat's brim hiding
his eyes.
Convoluted ironies and swirling vortexes will be encountered on the
high seas of postmodern culture, wherein it will yet once more be
observed that institutions which purport to cherish and transmit the
truth can easily be turned right around in the fog and become those
entities which most oppose it. As it must take an honest stand before
reality, some of the poetry and prose contained herein details the more
macabre customs particular to this generation, raised in the jaded wake
of free love, a declining reverence for the eternal soul, the
crassification of the popular cultural and political arena, and the
spiritual casualties of abortion.
At times aboard the decks of jollyroger.com, we peered a bit too deeply
into the fog's void, and as it looked back into us, we learned
firsthand how postmodern cynicism may breed the most powerful
enemy-one's very own conscience. For even when a man has slain all
the external demons, often the battle is only beginning, and never has
the enemy within known a better ally than postmodern relativism. We
kind of know where a lot of the postmodern priests are coming from. We
were in a grunge band and all that-we saw what the theories sung from
the secular pulpits on high could do to the souls of one's friends,
and we lost more than a few friends at the edge-to the classic
clich=E9s of drinking and drugs, to the all-out pursuit of the material
high, to a few too many girls, and to the
Freudian-Darwinian-Nietzschean cynicism that God is no more than a
myth, and that we're no more than random chemical reactions, sans
intrinsic nor extrinsic meaning. Alas, without faith they joined the
living dead. Raised in the gray void sans tradition nor religion, they
never could discern the very grayness of the void, and so certain of
postmodern indifference, they were convinced that the eternal soul did
not exist, and they sold out for nothing at all. Such is the arrogance
of the small mind which never knows a context greater than itself, and
though conscious, never apprehends conscience.
We'd tasted that pseudo-scientific-secular atheism as physics majors
at Princeton, and we'll tell you that it was a natural faith in
something greater that saved us-wherefrom we also learned that virtue
is not to be found within revenge, but rather it is to be gained by
forgiving one's enemies. Never shall one prevail against the darkness
by answering with darkness, but only by lighting a light. We bear the
postmodern oligarchy and army-the deans, editors, professors,
lifetime politicians, cultural czars, MFA officials, professional
administrators, and all their eager students of decline-no malice,
but we only wish to inspire a literary movement that will grant the
children something greater than was given our generation.
This renaissance is by no means a generational war, but rather it's a
generational peace, as classics are written for all generations. It is
a recent marketing myth which ordains that every fifteen minutes the
new generation must be different (consume different things) from the
preceding one, for there is no difference in the continuum of eternal
souls. Justice is justice is justice, as it has always been, and as it
shall always be. By no means are the boomers in general to be held
responsible for postmodernism's obligatory cynicism, for I sense that
most of them are on our side, such as my mother and father, and the
high school teachers back in Ohio, who were humble before Shakespeare
and taught him by setting his words free within our souls.
And never forget-no matter what postmodernism's fading oligarchy
ordains, they cannot keep young poets from enjoying aesthetic freedom.
They can degrade the romantic to no end, assaulting the ideals of
pristine femininity and noble masculinity in the greater culture, but
young lovers' hearts belong to God alone, and the poetry of this
renaissance shall blossom in their souls. For I saw it in her deep
brown eyes just last night, walking the streets of Davidson, North
Carolina. If ye manage to keep objectivity's even keel-as our
conscientious teachers and parents did-knowing that the Greats are
yer crew members and God is the captain, then the eternal treasures at
jollyroger.com shall be yers for the keeping.
Poets are the fundamental leaders of all cultural transitions, and all
noble leaders must begin by voyaging beyond the contemporary in their
dreams, on towards the higher ideals; and from these spiritual
pinnacles they can hope to appeal to the better angels of human nature.
Fortune and chance play a decisive role in setting the stage, but once
set, all those who follow the call to set the truth down in words
proceed by creative endeavor and luck, on towards the same immutable,
classical elements that all poets and prophets have ever sought. Though
ye might sometimes feel yer walking the straight and narrow alone, know
ye that this voyage is eternity's most popular journey amongst the
Greats, and thus yer always in good company.
We were fortunate in that we began harboring dreams of a literary
renaissance at the dawn of the internet revolution, and too, we were
fortunate to be living in beautiful North Carolina, where we could meld
the natural romance emanating from places like Kill Devil Hill and
Chapel Hill and Boone, and the majestic lighthouses and mountains-all
reaching for the Carolina blue skies-into the jollyroger.com aura.
And the power and fury of September's hurricanes always served to
remind us of beauty's fundamental fragility.
Back in 1994, rejection slips were piling up for our more traditional
and refined literature, when suddenly a channel out towards a popular
renaissance opened upon the internet. We took advantage of the Linux
knowledge which becomes second nature to all physicists, and we set
about creating a classical context in the popular culture. And out upon
the web, we found that greatest treasure of all-a live global
audience to serve. Upon the open seas, all yer appreciative emails
combined to form the favorable winds that filled jollyroger.com's
sails in its formative years. And never for a moment do we
forget-were it not for all of ye out there, we might've made it out
beyond the postmodern fog, but we would've never made it back to
shore. For writing is the voyage out, and being read is the voyage back
on home.
While the revolutions in online commerce have been trumpeted far and
wide, and while jollyroger.com has certainly benefited from them, we
see a spiritual revolution in the culture as a nobler opportunity. As
the ecommerce infrastructure solidifies, with the thousands of
high-tech pyramid schemes collapsing, and the useful websites achieving
global dominance, the renaissance beyond the postmodern fog shall take
a bit longer to realize, as it is easier to change how people shop for
books rather than change the books they shop for, and the context they
read books in. It is perhaps impossible to change an aging
generations' heart, and thus the culture must wait for the rising
generation to resurrect those permanent beacons which endow life with
its richer meanings. Have faith we will, mate, for God springs eternal.
Before the internet, it was difficult to imagine a locale upon this
globe where people from all walks of life could gather to discuss the
Great Books, but now such a timeless, ubiquitous entity exists, an
equidistant one-click away from everywhere in the world. And though the
conversations range in quality and tenor, the Great Books don't seem
to mind, as they have changed not one word, nor their unyielding,
eternal context of Freedom's Truths. And now and then we receive the
email that makes it all worthwhile: "Thanks for inspiring me to read
Moby *****. . ."
Some critics contend that literature serves no moral purpose and that
words should be read for mere enjoyment, and we hope that they enjoy
these words. And too, we hope jollyroger.com serves as a map that helps
the reader find a safe passage out towards their dreams. Always
remember this-even though our greater dreams are sometimes
unobtainable, there is yet vast beauty left in the wake of their
pursuit. For although Einstein, Socrates, and Captain Ahab never
apprehended the white whales they originally set sail seeking, they yet
left behind immortal art and science within the records of their
pursuit of the Truth.
It hasn't always been smooth sailing away out here, but it would have
been far more perilous had we not had the vast inheritance of the
priceless maps created by all the poets and philosophers who have
sailed before us. If ye haven't read the Greats, let jollyroger.com
be the portal out to great adventures, and if ye have read them, may
these words accompany ye on yer next voyage; for the Great Books are
the ones worth returning to time and again. From Hamlet, to the
Declaration of Independence, to the Bible-those were the charts by
which we navigated the Good Ship, and ye'll find many of the same
prominent markers throughout the words which follow.
Contained herein are essays, articles, and poetry written during the
five years we've spent before the mast of jollyroger.com-many of
the passages and poems were composed close to land's end, in places
like Ocracoke, Kill Devil Hills, Hatteras, and Nantucket, and perhaps
the words would best be read in close proximity to the wind and waves.
The final chapter was written as our band was being evacuated from the
Outer Banks during Hurricane Floyd-the last major hurricane of the
millennium-and though there's no need to duplicate those extreme
conditions while perusing this prose, there's certainly a
poetry-enhancing magic to be found a stone's-throw from the ocean.
The vastness of eternity becalms the spirit, and the ocean's expanse
reflects the eternal dimensions of our souls, reminding us that our
spirits are far greater than the daily trifles and worries which so
often obscure life's grander picture.
Some of the passages are a bit more angst-ridden or satirical than we
would write now, but at the same time, many of the youthful sentiments
we could never quite express again, so we have left them mostly intact.
For that which seems trite or na=EFve to the more experienced conscience
is often beautiful to those just setting sail-and after all, what is
angst but vital hope that yet perseveres in the midst of overarching
irony and corruption? At any rate, passion did most of the work for us,
and thus we should be grateful to her and not overstep our bounds in
editing someone else's work. We have faith that with the great
diversity of readers out there, of all ages and from all continents,
the words which follow shall find appropriate minds and spirits to
reside within.
Although jollyroger.com is a profitable business, the words which
follow constitute the most valuable treasures ever transported within
the Good Ship's holds. They are the intangible, eternal, ungraspable
part-we set out not to make money, but to publish these verities
which we felt would be of use to others also harboring dreams of a
cultural resurgence. Each chapter views an aspect of contemporary
society from the deeper context of the classics; and as relationships,
art, the environment, poetry, ghost stories, business, music,
philosophy, science, the classics, publishing, politics, breweries,
piano pubs, and God are all inextricably woven into the quilt of
existence, the chapters share many common elements.
The chief aim of science and literature are to unify and explain the
mysterious without denying it-to make everything as simple as
possible, but not more so. And in its simplest form this renaissance
must be a collection of renaissances-literary, political,
technological, architectural, and spiritual-within the poet and the
reader alike. For we only know the definition of a word within the
context of others. Hence our new domain: renaissances.com.
Once upon a time, when we would have sent this manuscript out to agents
and publishers, our journey on out towards yer deeper souls would have
ended at the blockade of their reluctance to believe in the prospects
or possibility of this renaissance. But today the revolutions in
electronic publishing are rendering the postmodern literary bureaucrats
insignificant. Neither Plato nor Shakespeare nor Thoreau nor Jefferson
nor Melville ever had to work through MFA agents and editors who must
relentlessly publish and hype temporal books so as to earn their keep.
The contemporary abundance of literary middlemen and general literary
decline is in part a symptom of the plethora of creative writing
workshops, which mass produce marketers and critics who are sympathetic
to the postmodern cause. Sensing the threat to their elite culture
clubs and lumbering bureaucracies, which are as close to eternity as
they'll ever come, the literary elite must try to convince themselves
that these words shall be unable to find a market within the hearts and
souls of the public-that is their job. By devaluing Truth and the
Word, they were able to temporarily enhance the relative worth of their
liberal politics. As uncreative administrators and redistributors of
literary wealth, they are of course sympathetic to relativistic and
communistic causes, as these are the ideologies by which the untalented
ambitious can band together and share the spoils of others' labor and
craftsmanship, or spoil others' labor and craftsmanship, and hype
vulgar nihilism. The postmodern era has been the golden era of
middlemen critics and politicians, but it is foolish for them to
believe that it can last forever, especially when they failed in their
central task of deconstructing the Permanent Things, which are now
again beginning to blossom.
The internet, by providing a clear passage out towards a classical
renaissance, has exposed their arrogant uselessness in eternal matters
better than any words ever could have. They had ample chance to sign
aboard, or even set up renaissance sites of their own, and they'll
always be welcome aboard as deckhands, but for now jollyroger.com sails
on towards eternity without them. All artists must make choices, to
serve the fleeting fashions or the thundering eternities felt deep
within their souls, and it are those rarer spirits, who have the
courage and strength to follow eternity's calling rather than the
critic's ephemeral editorials and the banker's temporal lusts, who
end up penning the poetry for eternity's popular culture. It's
nothing more than fate, matey, and it would be hubris to fight it.
We've hung out in New York enough to know how the future is presented
in the slackademic MFA/MBA marketing departments' PowerPoint
presentations, but from high atop the crow's nest, we've glimpsed
the dawn beyond the breaking fog. Literature in its most sublime form
has never been about following markets, but it has ever been about
creating them. The hundreds of thousands of visitors to jollyroger.com
may receive these words immediately with a simple click, and these
words of optimism may be forwarded and downloaded endlessly about the
watery globe, spreading like wildfire throughout the contemporary
conscience. So it is that in the internet age we no longer approach
publishers so much as to ask to have a book published, but instead we
invite them to join us aboard an entire context-for this ship has
left port.
We know it's just a small ship, and its contribution towards any
renaissance will be far smaller than the daily contributions of all the
hard-working, innovative people who make this country work. Machiavelli
once stated that a man's intelligence can be assessed by the quality
of men he surrounds himself with, and in that regard, the three
sonneteers have been very fortunate. And if we can be of any assistance
in helping parents inspire their children to read, or entertaining and
exalting a cynical college student with a few words of contemporary
wisdom from their peers, then all the better. If jollyroger.com serves
to introduce a couple of people to the beauty of the classics, then
I'll know the Good Ship is headed in the right direction. If the
rising generations seek to engage in the Apollonian arts and once again
return to rhyming, metered verse; and narratives with plots, and heroes
with moral dreams and flawed natures rather than anti-heroes with
perfect cynicism; and if a new scholarship arises, wherein words once
again mean things, promises are made to be kept, and professors
illuminate the greater moral truths in the Great Books; and if politics
follows the poetry's lead, and just beauty is again found in
eternity's higher order, and tomorrow's statesmen are again
schooled amongst the Greats, then jollyroger.com shall be well on her
way. And we think she is.
There's a poem which scrolls across the bottom of the jollyroger.com
pages, which has scrolled hundreds of thousands of times over the past
five years. Now a lot of sailors have expressed admiration for it, and
many have requested printouts, so we would like to conclude this
introduction with the poem, which also opens our first volume of
collected jollyroger.com poetry entitled Eternity in a Grain of Sand:
The Most Perfect Silence of Jollyroger.com Poetry. Neither this
manuscript nor the volume of poetry were ever even sent off to the
traditional publishers for consideration, but instead they were both
sent directly to you, via a myriad of new technologies ranging from
HTML to XML to PDF to print-on-demand. The lumbering conglomerate
fleet, anchored by postmodern prejudices and loaded with thousands of
faceless middlemen hypesters, has proven too dilatory and demented to
navigate a renaissance upon the high seas of the WWW. They had their
chance to get in on the ground floor, but now it's going to cost them
millions, and even then, maybe something that you just can't buy.
Again, poetry's profound peril and glory, and literature's wondrous
risks and rewards, are left to the rugged individual-the rugged
individual who one day awakens to realize that they have no choice but
to follow God's Will.
Not only were we the first to pen these sentiments, but we were also
the first to publish them, which of course will be viewed as a
liability by our critics. But we contend that if yer man enough to
write a book yerself, ye might as well be man enough to publish it
yerself.
In lecturing about the purpose and beauty of poetry, in defending the
rational foundations of noble civility and exalted existence, we pledge
to never forget the most perfect silence which resides at the center
and circumference of jollyroger.com's reason to be-eternal poetry
for all the stalwart sailors. In war, one must never forget the peace
one is fighting for. Welcome aboard an American Renaissance, mate.
-At yer service, Captain Becket Knottingham
Standing on Hatteras, North Carolina
The Most Perfect Silence
I know where the most perfect silence is,
Seen it in the wild blue off Hatteras,
A mile out, rainbowed sails in silent bliss,
Looked like they'd collide, but they safely passed.
I know when the most perfect silence is,
Down a dusty Ohio road, high noon,
No shirt on, being burned by the sun's kiss,
Sixteen, takin' my time-it was still June.
I know what the most perfect silence is,
It's what we say when falling out of love,
It roars and thunders right through the kiss,
Says all that no words can ever speak of.
I know why the most perfect silence is,
It is there for the whisper to be born,
The whisper in her ear became the kiss,
Just a dream in DC early one morn.
I know who the perfect silence is for,
It is for the ones whom we love the best,
It is there to protect them from our core,
By the silent trust we all seek to rest.
And I know how rare that silence can be,
With everyone talkin', it's hard to hear,
But I know I felt it, on the streets of DC,
The sound in her eyes-it was crystal clear.
And it brought back to mind the rainbowed sails,
And the way it looked like they would collide,
Like two souls set upon fate's iron rails,
But the most perfect silence never died.
FORWARD ME TO A MARINE!!
http://jollyroger.com/penpals
http://jollyrogerwest.com
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
20 Aug 2005 06:13:49 AM |
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http://jollyroger.com/penpals
http://jollyrogerwest.com : JOIN THE RENAISSANCE!!
ETERNITY IN A GRAIN OF SAND
(WYOMING IN MANHATTAN)
by Becket Knottingham
Flew out of Charlotte to go spread the word,
I'd heard trying to sleep through the spring thunder,
As the stormy March sky drew lightning's sword,
I dreamed it was God beginning to wonder.
And I dreamed I was captain of a ship,
I dreamed of a loyal crew about me,
Sailing the world wide web at a great clip,
With my soul's keel thundering across the sea.
And I dreamed poetry rhymed once again,
And they were building marriages to last,
That lovers set flowing verse down in pen,
Children didn't have to grow up so fast.
And when I awoke, I saw it could be,
I could break through the fog with poetry.
So I packed my pack with some old sonnets,
And bought a ticket to New York City,
A fisher of men, from words I weave nets,
Bid farewell to the Southern spring so pretty.
And I watched America's city recede,
As I rose in the Carolina blue,
And I recalled all we ever really need,
Are those deep-down things that we always knew.
Away up there--I'd never felt so free,
The tide was turning, and this was my chance,
No denying what spring'd thundered to me,
Beyond the fog I'd glimpsed a renaissance.
I wanted peace, but I knew it would take war,
To gain the eternal soul's pristine shore.
For I knew well the cynics' cruel weapons,
How postmodernists kill with irony,
But yet, their best--it only ever stuns,
While they burn so fast in rhyming beauty.
To gain the rainbow you must know the storm,
And fierce, dark clouds swirled rain at JFK,
It's only by winter that spring is warm,
And a cold March wind blew through the subway.
The Taxi driver said he did not know,
Where Central Park's ducks went in the winter,
But my friend was in Cats, and after the show,
We went out in Chelsea and I asked her.
But before she could answer, she was high,
She'd given up--didn't even know why.
And if someone has to go it alone,
If it's for poetry, I'll volunteer,
If somebody has to remain unknown,
Then I'll take the helm, you can stay right here.
For working for money's too great a risk,
A poet doesn't need an IPO,
For the same wind that carries truth shall whisk
these poems about the globe, and all shall know.
Out here the internet's not 'bout money,
And words aren't about building a brand,
Beyond the irony where one can see,
The eternity in a grain of sand.
And if, and if I can show it to you,
It's only because this you always knew.
An undercover rebel, on the run,
Amongst the tourists touring through Time's Square,
With the dazzling lights brighter than the sun,
It could be hard to hear her solemn prayer.
For something a little bit deeper now,
For a promise, a promise that would last,
For an ideal a bit higher than the Dow,
Which would endure when all else joined the past.
I didn't say it, but I saw it there,
Deep within, behind her soft, subtle eyes,
And to say it, you know I didn't dare,
For I was undercover, in disguise.
It was too dangerous to write her a line,
For in New York rhyming truth is a crime.
Then I was on the Tribecca rooftop,
Found her again, though she was someone new,
I wanted to go slow, wanted to stop,
And talk about all that we had been through.
And it's hard to describe a pretty girl,
There're so many levels, but I love the eyes,
Ageless and timeless, they'll never unfurl,
And deeper beauty in honesty lies.
But then I heard they were looking for me,
A posse of postmodern editors,
With their deputy critics after me,
And I saw feminists guarding the doors.
Outnumbered again, couldn't stand my ground,
And then I was gone when she turned around.
But in the East Village, I forget when,
Saw her again, pretty's easy to find,
She couldn't tell--I don't carry a pen,
But I write the poetry in my mind.
And it's funny how someone can hold you,
Without touching, but only with their eyes,
A smile, hearkening back to something true,
Wished I could stay, but I'd blow my disguise.
Then I'm lost--the Soho fog's gotten thick,
My friends all gone, walking night's streets alone,
Where Hope feels like a candle's dying wick,
And on the wind you can hear Faith's voice blown.
She whispers, "my friend, my friend, I believe,
For poetry's death I also do grieve."
And can't you see that it's all connected?
Rhyme, meter, romance, this great New York night,
That when our faith in God is neglected,
Life loses meaning and love becomes trite.
And I know that that was why she told me,
That today's poetry means naught to her,
The elite modern poets think they're free,
But life's a prison without honest prayer.
Then it's midnight, drinking wine with dinner,
With two pretty girls from Mississippi,
Then it's 3 A.M., and she's sitting near,
On a piano bench in the City.
And I dared not speak when she leaned too close,
Played Pachabel's Canon, maintained my pose.
I think I saw a ring on her finger,
Felt the romance of what would never be,
And how those we never kiss can linger,
The lost moment becomes eternity.
It was just before dawn when I realized,
That she had never given me her name,
So pretty sleeping, but she was disguised,
In hiding our hearts, we both were the same.
I guess we'd just heard it too many times,
Romance must die so cynicism can live,
Tired of being persecuted for our crimes,
We hid our judgment, asked God to forgive.
"My name's Wyoming," she awoke to say,
Then closed those sky eyes, and drifted away.
Late night Madison Ave. when ghosts arise,
Saw one over St. Patrick's Cathedral,
I ducked in the Waldorf, and closed my eyes,
And the sweet angel, she began to fall.
Followed me into the Helmsley Hotel,
All the extravagance and fineries,
Were a wooden frame to a Southern Belle,
Wearing all black, she could kill with such ease.
When you think of Venus she comes to mind,
And all the Met's paintings--they can't compete,
But I knew, I knew she could make me blind,
To the task I had come here to complete.
I'd learned the art of writing poetry,
To pen rather than touch her mystery.
Stood on her balcony, looking out West,
And she came up behind me, took my hand,
Said she knew the feeling--she couldn't rest,
When there were things she couldn't understand.
From Midtown, I could hear the West calling,
But I don't think it was Silicon Valley,
And in Manhattan the culture was falling,
Resounding throughout Silicon Alley.
And I wasn't all that sure, where to go,
Editors, VCs, they'll never believe,
In anything they don't already know,
But I knew, I knew it was time to leave.
And in the dawn's fog, I saw three tall masts,
He who signs aboard shall be he who lasts.
And the great ship docked on her balcony,
Flying a skull'n'bones, armed to the teeth,
I climbed aboard, and Wyoming joined me,
Headed West as New York awoke beneath.
And though I'd come to talk to editors,
It'd turned out I just didn't have the time,
To walk the fog down there, knocking on doors,
I'd been too busy dancing with New York's rhyme.
And so often it is that when we roam,
The new sights are things we see in ourselves,
It's on the road that we finally find home,
The poems in her heart were but closed books on shelves.
In silicon I saw eternity,
And the Jolly Roger--she set us free.
http://jollyroger.com/penpals
http://jollyrogerwest.com : JOIN THE RENAISSANCE!!
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| User: "Topaz" |
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| Title: Re: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
20 Aug 2005 10:52:54 AM |
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Article Winston Churchill wrote in 1920:
"This movement amongst the Jews (the Russian Revolution) is not new.
From the days of Spartacus Weishaupt to those of Karl Marx, and down
to Trotsky (Russia), Bela Kuhn (Hungary), Rosa Luxembourg (Germany)
and Emma Goldman (United States), this world wide conspiracy for the
overthrow of civilization and the reconstruction of society on the
basis of arrested development, of envious malevolence, and impossible
equality, has been steadily growing. It played, as a modern writer,
Mrs. Nesta Webster, has so ably shown, a definitely recognizable part
in the tragedy of the French Revolution. It has been the mainspring of
every subversive movement during the Nineteenth Century; and now at
last this band of extraordinary personalities has gripped the Russian
people by the hair of their heads and have become practically the
undisputed masters of that enormous empire. There is no need to
exaggerate the part played in the creation of Bolshevism and in the
actual bringing about of the Russian Revolution by these international
and for the most part atheistic Jews. Moreover, the principal
inspiration and driving power comes from Jewish leaders." (ibid)
Lev Trotzky wrote a book called "Stalin: An Appraisal of the Man
and His Influence", Harper Bros., New York and London, 1941,
translated by Charles Malamuth.
In this book he told who the principle members of the October
Central Committee were. This group was the leadership of the Bolshevik
Party during the October Revolution. This is what he wrote:
"In view of the Party's semi-legality the names of persons
elected by secret ballot were not announced at the Congress, with the
exception of the four who had recieved the largest number of votes.
Lenin--133 out of a possible 134, Zinoviev--132, Kamenev--131,
Trotzky--131."
Of these four top leaders of the Bolshevik Party the last three
were known Jews. Lenin was thought to be a gentile married to a
Jewess. It was later proven that he was one quarter Jewish, London
Jewish Chronicle April 21, 1995, Lenin: Life and Legacy.
David Francis, the American Ambassador to Russia at the time of the
Revolution, wrote:
"The Bolshevic leaders here, most of whom are Jews and 90 percent
of whom are returned exiles, care little for Russia or any other
country but are internationalists and they are trying to start a
world-wide revolution."
The Director of British Intelligence to the U.S. Secretary of State
wrote this:
"There is now definite evidence that Bolshevism is an international
movement controlled by Jews."
In 1945 the FBI arrested six individuals for stealing 1700 highly
confidential documents from State Department files. This was the
Amerasia case they were:
Philip Jaffe, a Russian Jew who came to the U.S. in 1905. He was at
one time the editor of the communist paper "Labor Defense" and the
ringleader of the group arrested.
Andrew Roth, a Jew.
Mark Gayn, a Jew, changed his name from Julius Ginsberg.
John Service, a gentile.
Emmanuel Larsen, nationality unknown
Kate Mitchel, nationality unknown.
In 1949 the Jewess Judith Coplin was caught passing classified
documents from Justice Department files to a Russian agent.
The highest ranking communist brought to trial in the U.S. was
Gerhart Eisler. He was a Jew. He was the secret boss of the Communist
Party in the U.S. and commuted regularly between the U.S. and Russia.
In 1950 there was the "Hollywood Ten" case. Ten leading film
writers of the Hollywood Film Colony were convicted for contempt of
Congress and sentanced to prison. Nine of the ten were Jews. Six of
the ten were communist party members and the other four were
flagrantly pro-communist.
One of the top new stories of 1949 was the trial of Eugene Dennis
and the Convicted Eleven. This group comprised the National
Secretariat of the American Communist Party. Six were Jews, two
gentiles, three nationality unknown.
Also in 1949 the German-born atomic scientist Klaus Fuchs was
convicted for passing atomic secrets to the Russians. Acting on
information obtained from Fuchs the FBI arrested nine other members of
the ring. All of them were convicted. Eight of the nine were Jews.
Here are some quotes from a very pro-Jewish book that was first
published in 1925. The book is "Stranger than Fiction" by Lewis
Browne.
"But save for such exceptions, the Jews who led or participated
in the heroic efforts to remold the world of the last century, were
neither Reform or Orthodox. Indeed, they were often not professing
Jews at all.
"For instance, there was Heinrich Heine and Ludwig Borne, both
unfaltering champions of freedom. And even more conspicuously, there
was Karl Marx, one of the great prophetic geniuses of modern times.
"Jewish historians rarely mention the name of this man, Karl
Marx, though in his life and spirit he was far truer to the mission of
Israel than most of those who were forever talking of it. He was born
in Germany in 1818, and belonged to an old rabbinic family. He was not
himself reared as a Jew, however, but while still a child was baptized
a Christian by his father. Yet the rebel soul of the Jew flamed in him
thoughout his days, for he was always a 'troubler' in Europe."
"Then, of course, there are Ludwig Borne and Heinrich Heine, two
men who by their merciless wit and sarcasm became leaders among the
revolutionary writers. Karl Marx, Ferdinand Lassalle, Johann Jacoby,
Gabriel Riesser, Adolphe Cremieux, Signora Nathan- all these of Jewish
lineage played important roles in the struggle that went thoughout
Europe in this period. Wherever the war for human liberty was being
waged, whether in France, Germany, Austria, Hungary, or Italy, there
the Jew was to be found. It was little wonder that the enemies of
social progress, the monarchists and the Churchmen, came to speak of
the whole liberal movement as nothing but a Jewish plot."
The book "Soviet Russia and the Jews" by Gregor Aronson and
published by the American Jewish League Against Communism, quotes
Stalin in an interview in 1931 with the Jewish Telegraph Agency.
Stalin said:
"...Communists cannot be anything but outspoken enemies of
Anti-Semitism. We fight anti-Semites by the strongest methods in the
Soviet Union. Active anti-Semites are punished by death under the
law."
The following quotes are taken directly from documents available from
the
U.S. Archives:
State Department document 861.00/1757 sent May 2, 1918 by U.S. consul
general in Moscow, Summers: "Jews prominant in local Soviet
government, anti-Jewish feeling growing among population...."
State Department document 861.00/2205 was sent from Vladivostok on
July 5, 1918 by U.S. consul Caldwell: "Fifty percent of Soviet
government in each town consists of Jews of the worst type."
From the Headquarters of the American Expeditionary Forces, Siberia
on
March 1, 1919, comes this telegram from Omsk by Chief of Staff, Capt.
Montgomey Shuyler: "It is probably unwise to say this loudly in the
United States but the Bolshevik movement is and has been since it's
beginning, guided and controlled by Russian Jews of the greasiest
type"
type."
A second Schuyler telegram, dated June 9, 1919 from Vladivostok,
reports on the make-up of the presiding Soviet government:
"...(T)here
were 384 `commissars' including 2 negroes, 13 Russians, 15 Chinamen,
22 Armenians, AND MORE THAN 300 JEWS. Of the latter number, 264 had
come to Russia from the United States since the downfall of the
Imperial Government.
The Netherlands' ambassador in Russia, Oudendyke, confirmed this:
"Unless Bolshevism is nipped in the bud immediately, it is bound to
spread in one form or another over Europe and the whole world as it
is
organized and worked by Jews who have no nationality, and whose one
object is to destroy for their own ends the existing order of
things."
"The Bolshevik revolution in Russia was the work of Jewish brains, of
Jewish dissatisfaction, of Jewish planning, whose goal is to create a
new order in the world. What was performed in so excellent a way in
Russia, thanks to Jewish brains, and because of Jewish
dissatisfaction
and by Jewish planning, shall also, through the same Jewish mental an
physical forces, become a reality all over the world." (The American
Hebrew, September 10, 1920
"In the Bolshevik era, 52 percent of the membership of the Soviet
communist party was Jewish, though Jews comprised only 1.8 percent of
the total population." (Stuart Kahan, The Wolf of the Kremlin, p. 81)
Interestingly, one of the first acts by the Bolsheviks was to make
so-called "anti-Semitism" a capital crime. This is confirmed by
Stalin
himself:
"National and racial chauvinism is a vestige of the misanthropic
customs characteristic of the period of cannibalism. Anti-semitism,
as
an extreme form of racial chauvinism, is the most dangerous vestige
of
cannibalism...under USSR law active anti-Semites are liable to the
death penalty." (Stalin, Collected Works, vol. 13, p. 30).
Here is a quote from Mein Kampf:
"Making an effort to overcome my natural reluctance, I tried
to
read articles of this nature published in the Marxist Press; but in
doing
so my aversion increased all the more. And then I set about learning
something of the people who wrote and published this mischievous
stuff.
From the publisher downwards, all of them were Jews. I recalled to
mind the
names of the public leaders of Marxism, and then I realized that most
of
them belonged to the Chosen Race- the Social Democratic
representatives in
the Imperial Cabinet as well as the secretaries if the Trades Unions
and
the street agitators. Everywhere the same sinister picture presented
itself. I shall never forget the row of names- Austerlitz, David,
Adler,
Ellonbogen, and others. One fact became quite evident to me. It was
that
this alien race held in its hands the leadership of that Social
Democratic
Party with whose minor representatives I had been disputing for
months
past."
Solzhenitsyn named in his book the six top administrators of the
Soviet death camps. All six of them were Jews.
Here is something the National Socialists wrote:
"The Soviet Union was in fact a paradise for one group: the Jews. Even
at times when for foreign policy reasons Jews were less evident in the
government, or when they ruled through straw men, the Jews were always
visible in the middle and lower levels of the administration."
www.spearhead-uk.com http://www.natvan.com
http://www.thebirdman.org http://www.RealNews247.com
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| User: "Captain Ranger McCoy" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
02 Sep 2005 09:12:57 AM |
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http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
Join the Classical Revival & Renaissance!!
In an era where cool has been commodified and postmodernism has
triumphed in the literary, cultural, and financial arenas, where
inherent worth is oft dismissed and new-age hype rules the day,
jollyroger.com has stuck by the guns of fundamental principle. She has
sailed steadily along her foreordained course, signing aboard loyal
crew members one by one, firing broadsides from the Western Canon to
defend the embattled Great Books, and laying the foundations of the
world's classical portal with the most valuable kind of seed
capital-heartfelt poetry.
In the postmodern culture's pervasive gray, it's often difficult to
perceive the Permanent Things; and thus on the foggier nights over the
past five years, faith in the ancient's words came in handy upon this
deck. In the deepest darkness of the most ironic ironies, where the fog
itself is concealed, there yet exists an inner light in the form of a
classical yearning for Truths greater than ourselves-many know her as
Faith. And like the wind and waves of an approaching hurricane, the
Bible, Plato, Shakespeare, the Founding Fathers, and Melville reminded
us of her-the Words of the Greats let us know that something
all-powerful and great existed just beyond our mortal sight. And by
Faith's inner light and the steady winds of immortal words, we were
able to navigate beyond the postmodern fog, through the popular
culture's sound and fury, on towards the center of our souls-the
placid eye of existence's storm-on towards the eternal peace of
immutable words written and read in the solitude and splendor of
Truth's Freedom. Thus we know firsthand that the greatest literature
serves a higher purpose than the bottom line or the advancement of
political causes-words exist not only to entertain, advertise,
exhort, and explain, but also to light Faith's beacons and fill the
sails of God's Grace. From Words we have fashioned the Jolly
Roger's Oak planks of reason, riveted them with rhyme, and designed a
ship to voyage across all of time.
All generations are united by the classical elements, and the poets and
prophets of each age are those who perform the timeless truths in the
living language, adding to and enriching the context of the eternal
popular culture heralded by the Great Books. Joining in this venture
has always been a risky endeavor, and thus few prudent parents have
ever encouraged their children to become poets. But in this era
especially, ambitious proponents of the postmodern ideology actively
seek to scuttle the souls of young poets embarking on eternity's
favorite venture. The postmodern blockade serves to protect the
degraded trade of the liberal industrial cultural complex, while their
fog shrouds the beacons of timeless truth, thereby rendering the
context for contemporary classical literature all but impossible to
navigate, while endangering the very hulls of morality and Western
Civilization.
Postmodernism is the corruption of democracy, just as deconstruction is
the violence of the weak-both cultural movements owe their popularity
to their ability to empower anyone harboring intellectual or artistic
ambitions overshadowing their talents. Postmodern culture is like an
internet pyramid scheme, wherein cultural creations possessing no
inherent worth are given vast valuations by the insider critics and
cliques who subsist upon and profit from the ephemeral hype, which is
often tax, tuition, and smut subsidized. But eventually all true art,
like all true companies, must create real and lasting benefits for the
public, or fade away, like communism. "One cannot pray a lie," noted
Huckleberry Finn, but without faith in God's Invisible Hand,
postmodernists believe that it's possible, as long as the requisite
mob is assembled and promised a cut. And while the insiders benefit in
the short-term when worthless companies, fallacious systems of
government, and meaningless art are hyped and sold to a duped public,
the public is oft left holding the bag, with their investments
diminished, their classical religions tarnished, their armies
demoralized, the sacred institution of marriage defiled, and the
curriculums of their children's schools gutted.
When the higher ideals and fundamental precepts are forsaken, the
entire democratic ship of state may drift along happily through the
fog, navigating by polls reminiscent of the one given by Pontius
Pilate, not aware of the nature nor consequences of the errant
direction. And when a few in the rising generation begin to seek the
fixed stars above, which they've read about in antiquity's forsaken
myths and felt deep within their souls, they will be branded crazy. And
when the classical rebels see the stars through the breaking fog, and
seek to navigate a straighter course by the Permanent Things, they will
encounter violent opposition from the postmodern culture czars who
benefit from the lack of higher standards, who prefer their arbitrary
will to the rule of Law in cultural entities ranging from politics, to
architecture, to education, to poetry. The relativistic oligarchy shall
view the rising poets' loyalty to God as insolent rebellion, and the
postmodern media shall be commanded to destroy them. And on that day,
the postmodern critics' souls shall be tested, as they choose to be
loyal to tyrants or Truths greater than themselves, as they choose to
remain upon postmodern liberalism's sinking ship or sign aboard a
fighting frigate bound for eternity.
One could spend several volumes chronicling the nature of
postmodernism's adherents and their predilection for bureaucracy, and
the dark character of their political, cultural, and literary ponzi
schemes, but that is not jollyroger.com's destination. We all know
what the fog looks like-too many know nothing else-and the nobler
and more pertinent task becomes taking us beyond it. To criticize
nihilism is to exalt it to undeserved heights, and rather than studying
the ephemeral, poets would be wise to devoted themselves to penning the
eternal.
Whether it's inevitable as fate or it hinges upon perseverance and
free will, we do not know, but jollyroger.com must gain a popular
culture worthy of the Great Books' context. And the only way to do
that is to navigate by the same timeless beacon that yesterday's
poets navigated by-honesty's courage.
The contemporary poet's task is not only to pen the eternal verities
in the era's language, but it is also to resurrect the context in
which those timeless truths may freely navigate and gain the home ports
of the children's souls. And that is where the WWW has played an
invaluable role, for it has allowed us to establish a universe
perpendicular to the contemporary popular culture-a universe wherein
words mean things and the classical context thrives, but which also
intersects with the popular culture. For Great Books growing dusty upon
shelves are of little use, and the classical sentiments must be
continually performed in the living language. While the majority of
contemporary editors, agents, critics and literary officials yet remain
loyal to the degraded postmodern-MFA mentality and the fleeting
insta-classic literary fashions, the greater spirits of the rising
generation are classical in nature, as children's souls always are.
And by allowing The Jolly Roger to circumvent the literary
middleman's cynical vortex, the WWW has allowed a renaissance to set
sail.
Although all enduring truth must by definition be robust, history has
shown that its messengers have often been castigated and impugned. But
upon these American shores, it has ever been our right, as it has been
our duty, to continually foster and defend the classical context
wherein the foundational documents serve the people, come hell or high
water. The Greats have all agreed upon this-liberty demands eternal
vigilance. The pursuit of smaller government, less taxes, rhyming
poetry, and more freedom is as long and arduous a voyage as it is a
noble one.
As a beacon in history's darker contexts, America was founded as a
haven for truth's messengers, thereby becoming the world's
wellspring for science, religion, and freedom. The Declaration of
Independence and Constitution, which may be found at the end of this
book, were penned in tribute to higher principles superior to all
politics and time. Even though the Founding Fathers believed in the
existence of higher laws, they were humble about their ability to
discern them, and thus they presented us with a Constitution which
could be amended. They had as much faith in their children as they had
in the timeless truths, and thus they bestowed us with the tools to
pursue justice and happiness in a free marketplace of ideas, which they
perceived to be ultimately governed by Nature and Nature's God. The
eloquent words of America's founding documents provide for the civil
structure that protects and promotes the acknowledgement of higher
principles by which natural rights are defined, thereby preserving the
sacred freedom of all individuals who are humble before the higher
ideals. And thus upon these shores the honest have always been promised
the freedom to pursue the exalted American dream.
But when the language is degraded until the poetry no longer rhymes
except in vulgar rap, when sacred customs are honored more in the
breach than in the observance, when words and their meanings part on
their separate ways, when the bottom line is placed above the higher
ideals, when the base bass beats over the melody in the music we listen
to, in the clubs we frequent, and in our hearts and souls; when
innocence is lost before it is known, when cynicism is loaded upon hope
and hope is ballasted with irony, and we're exhorted by tax, tuition,
and smut-subsidized cultural officials to carry this pyramid's load
down the road to serfdom, shall we still be free to dream those greater
dreams? When under this burden America is then cut free from her
religious anchors in the name of secular economic freedom, and women
are sent off to raise the Dow Jones to pay taxes rather than raise
moral children, can America long survive and prosper as the flagship of
free republics, even if all the postmodern pyramid schemes never
collapse? Science and history have suggested otherwise-that where
God's morality is eroded, the eternal Bureaucracy marches forth to
become the stolid regulator of human interaction. When people cease to
govern themselves according to higher principles, they lose the ability
to be guarantors of their own wellness and happiness, and they soon
find themselves subject to a political order determined by other
mortals-the rule of Law gives way to the rule by men.
http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
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| User: "CHRISTbusters" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
02 Sep 2005 09:57:37 AM |
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On Fri, 2 Sep 2005 07:12:57 -0700, Captain Ranger McCoy wrote
(in article <1125670377.197555.173450@o13g2000cwo.googlegroups.com>):
*****-off whack-o. We're in the middle of a WWIII-ocracy
between an evangelical American Presidunce and a bunch of
like-ilk Mooslimers on the flip side and you think Christinsanity
is going to save the Divided States???
BOOOOooooowwhhhhaaaaHAHAHAHAhahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha
hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha...
Just what Starship are you Captain of boy?
I got a question for ya': Can you tell us why a loving Christian God would
devastate so many people who are, I'm guessing, mostly Southern Baptist
revival freaks? (S.B.'s would be duh Jesus-phreaks on steroid-types down
der' in NuO'leans)
Why so much HORRIBLE MISERY for so many millions? Just tryin' to
thin the heard maybe? Weed out the worthless and weak? Just what
was your God's plan anyway?
Let's have an intelligent reply -eh? (snicker, choking back laughter,
uncuntrollable chortle-city)
--
Catholicism is nothing more than a *fairy tail* connected
to a *queer monster* known as Theocracy...
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| User: "" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
02 Aug 2005 09:43:44 PM |
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There's something I saw in the mountain mist,
That too I perceived in the thundering wave,
But then when I felt it, when we first kissed,
I knew it was something I had to save.
Nature's noble rapture, changing seasons,
Beauty owns the blossoms and falling leaves,
But man walks alone in owning reasons,
Reflected in all is what he believes.
I passed it last night, riding the warm wind,
I was out late, rebelling against time,
Against the wind I had set out to find,
Words to anchor eternity in rhyme.
O' Captain my Captain, hark, it's in me,
This thundering soul, creating to be free.
--Becket Knottingham
THE RENAISSANCE!! http://killdevilhill.com
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| User: "" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
03 Aug 2005 07:36:22 AM |
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http://KILLDEVILHILL.COM
On a bright blue, blustery February day, I'm standing on top of Kill
Devil Hill, looking out over towards Cape Point, Hatteras, witnessing
from afar the eternal battle being performed by two opposing oceans.
Just off Cape Point the northbound Gulf Stream and the cold currents
hailing from the Arctic meet head on, sending white spray over
one-hundred feet into the air. Over the years these conflicting
currents have been depositing sand off Hatteras, and the resulting
diamond-shaped sand bar has come to be known as the Diamond Shoals,
it's fang-like shifting sand bars pushing seaward to snare the unwary
mariner. While the shoals are the largest and most formidable hazard,
the entire Carolina coast is marked by such eternally shifting,
submerged features, and thus long ago sailors were inspired to call it,
"The Graveyard of the Atlantic." And as I look out over the clashing
currents, which are indiscernible but for the mist they throw
one-hundred feet into the air, I am reminded of how it are those
invisible inner conflicts between the polar opposites of our souls from
which the visible art departs, aspiring towards the heavens. Art is the
eternal piece of us striving to be free, and thus all generations seek
a renaissance, so as to join Edmund Burke's community of eternal souls.
I found out about Cape Point from a book my girlfriend gave me for
Christmas entitled, THE GRAVEYARD OF THE ATLANTIC. The book narrates
the stories of the numerous shipwrecks off the Carolina coast. She'd
also given me a poetry anthology, which is a cool one, because it's
small and there aren't any of those tedious introductions to the
poems-- there're only the poet's words. In it I finally found that one
Robert Frost poem about making your avocation your vocation, and that's
exactly what the WWW's allowing us to do-- to make our passion our
profession... CONTINUED
http://killdevilhill.com
http://jollyroger.com
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| User: "" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
01 Aug 2005 05:45:01 PM |
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THE GREAT BOOKS RENAISSANCE!!!!
http://classicalpoetryforums.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
http://jollyroger.com
Compasses, weathervanes, and cobblestones,
I paused to rest against a great Oak tree,
Weathervane crowned the church, church crowned the stones,
The compass I held out in front of me,
The wind rose, the golden weathervane showed,
A Nantucket Northeaster blowing in,
The thunder roared while the horizon glowed,
I sat there, 'til I was soaked to my skin.
My thoughts turned towards a girl down in DC,
and how I'd once been like the weathervane,
But now I felt a compass within me,
where she was some force beyond wind and rain.
For though wind I feel, and the sun I see,
The wind shifts, and the sun sets everyday,
But governed by an unseen entity,
The iron needle shall point the same way.
I stayed 'til the storm broke with red at night,
And golden rays shot 'cross the deep blue sea,
And I'll say, beyond this sailor's delight,
The greater things are those we never see.
For politicians on pulpits shall twist,
Point where vice and vanity's winds command,
And if ye follow weathervanes in mist,
In this postmodern fog, ye shall be damned.
But instead mate, if ye should navigate,
by Faith, ye'll steer clear of temptation's shoal,
It's not the golden crown that makes men great,
But it's the iron deep within their soul.
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| User: "GW Chimpzilla" |
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| Title: Re: A CLASSICAL JUDEU-CHRISTIAN CONSERVATIVE POETRY RENAISSANCE WILL SAVE THE CONSTITUTION, RELIGION, THE FAMILY, AND AMERICA |
31 Jul 2005 04:43:14 PM |
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Captain Ranger McCoy wrote:
http://classicalpoetryforums.com
http://jollyrogerwest.com
Have any conservative recipes for pig meat?
I met a girl with eyes of ocean blue,
I tried to pull her from the pagan realm,
But it was something this sailor couldn't do,
And before I knew it, she had the helm.
I went down fighting for something I believed,
While my soul never strayed from the pinnacle,
And that, my friend, is what made it hard to grieve,
For flesh is but a temporary shackle.
Those eyes-- they bound me to a dreary day,
For they could never see the words I spoke,
Without a soul to anchor things she'd say,
Soft promises drifted when she awoke.
With no constraints, unrequited temptation,
Conversations drowned out by her TV,
On the pill to counter God's creation,
A long time before she ever knew me.
She said stop twice and called it modesty,
Like getting trashed for our anniversary,
Tight skirts and bars-- she needed all to see,
Her subtle, endearing humility.
Surrounded by her friends, all so astute,
With their profound sitcoms and MBAs,
they laughed at my jokes, they thought I was cute,
and cast aspersion on my quiet ways.
They worshipped all those who treated them wrong,
They believed in nothing but what they felt,
In their context Christ's kindness wasn't strong,
They needed to share the pain they'd been dealt.
To me love is a painting, poetry,
A relationship is a work of art,
Where actions embroider the tapestry,
To her it was but a strategic chart.
I enjoyed the work, she wanted the pay,
A part-time player in her transactions,
Her friends told her that I got in the way,
Of their suave and superior abstractions.
Guess I'm a simple guy, the starred night sky,
And of the pristine feminine I'm a fan,
But this culture taught her to live a lie,
To trade her v | |
