Kipling Friday

The Storm Cone
1932

This is the midnight-let no star
Delude us-dawn is very far.
This is the tempest long foretold-
Slow to make head but sure to hold

Stand by! The lull ‘twixt blast and blast
Signals the storm is near, not past;
And worse than present jeopardy
May our forlorn to-morrow be.

If we have cleared the expectant reef,
Let no man look for his relief.
Only the darkness hides the shape
Of further peril to escape.

It is decreed that we abide
The weight of gale against the tide
And those huge waves the outer main
Sends in to set us back again.

They fall and whelm. We strain to hear
The pulses of her labouring gear,
Till the deep throb beneath us proves,
After each shudder and check, she moves!

She moves, with all save purpose lost,
To make her offing from the coast;
But, till she fetches open sea,
Let no man deem that he is free!

Fantastic Contraption

I have a fondness for time-wasting internet games. I don’t know what it is, but they’re simple design and their ability to entertain me are unparalleled — not to mention that they are free. So a friend recently pointed me towards a wonderful little game called “Fantastic Contraption.” The physics are realistic and the goal is simple: figure out a way to move an object from point A to point B. It’s a great exercise in engineering, and I doubt I need to explain how much I love engineering.

An example of one of my designs: The Junker.

Kipling Friday

Rebirth
1914-18
“The Edge of the Evening”–A Diversity of Creatures

If any God should say,
“I will restore
The world her yesterday
Whole as before
My Judgment blasted it”–who would not lift
Heart, eye, and hand in passion o’er the gift?

If any God should will
To wipe from mind
The memory of this ill
Which is Mankind
In soul and substance now–who would not bless
Even to tears His loving-tenderness?

If any God should give
Us leave to fly
These present deaths we live,
And safely die
In those lost lives we lived ere we were born–
What man but would not laugh the excuse to scorn?

For we are what we are–
So broke to blood
And the strict works of war–
So long subdued
To sacrifice, that threadbare Death commands
Hardly observance at our busier hands.

Yet we were what we were,
And, fashioned so,
It pleases us to stare
At the far show
Of unbelievable years and shapes that flit,
In our own likeness, on the edge of it.

Kipling Friday

The Rabbi’s Song

“The House Surgeon”–Actions and Reactions
2 Samuel XIV. 14.

If Thought can reach to Heaven,
On Heaven let it dwell,
For fear the Thought be given
Like power to reach to Hell.
For fear the desolation
And darkness of thy mind
Perplex an habitation
Which thou hast left behind.

Let nothing linger after–
No whimpering gost remain,
In wall, or beam, or rafter,
Of any hate or pain.
Cleans and call home thy spirit,
Deny her leave to cast,
On aught thy heirs inherit,
The shadow of her past.

For think, in all thy sadness,
What road our griefs may take;
Whose brain reflect our madness,
Or whom our terrors shake:
For think, lest any languish
By cause of thy distress–
The arrows of our anguish
Fly farther than we guess.

Our lives, our tears, as water,
Are spilled upon the ground;
God giveth no man quarter,
Yet God a means hath found,
Though Faith and Hope have vanished,
And even Love grows dim–
A means whereby His banished
Be not expelled from Him!

Kipling Friday

More Kipling to start the weekend. This is a bit somber.

A Recantation
1917

(To Lyde of the Music Halls)

What boots it on the Gods to call?
Since, answered or unheard,
We perish with the Gods and all
Things made–except the Word.

Ere certain Fate had touched a heart
By fifty years made cold,
I judged thee, Lyde, and thy art
O’erblown and over-bold.

But he–but he, of whom bereft
I suffer vacant days–
He on his shield not meanly left
He cherished all thy lays.

Witness the magic coffer stocked
With convoluted runes
Wherein thy very voice was locked
And linked to circling tunes.

Witness thy portrait, smoke-defiled,
That decked his shelter-place.
Life seemed more present, wrote the child,
Beneath thy well-known face.

And when the grudging days restored
Him for a breath to home,
He, with fresh crowds of youth, adored
Thee making mirth in Rome.

Therefore, I humble, join the hosts,
Loyal and loud, who bow
To thee as Queen of Song–and ghosts,
For I remember how

Never more rampant rose the Hall
At thy audacious line
Than when the news came in from Gaul
Thy son had–followed mine.

But thou didst hide it in thy breast
And, capering, took the brunt
Of blaze and blare, and launched the jest
That swept next week the front.

Singer to children! Ours possessed
Sleep before noon–but thee,
Wakeful each midnight for the rest,
No holocaust shall free!

Yet they who use the Word assigned,
To hearten and make whole,
Not less than Gods have served mankind,
Though vultures rend their soul.

Happy Independence Day

Happy Independence Day, everyone. Hope you enjoy it. God Bless America.

July 4th Kipling

Happy Independence Day. I thought it fitting to provide a poem from Kipling in my usual fashion.

The American Rebellion
1776
Before

Twas not while England’s sword unsheathed
Put half a world to flight,
Nor while their new-built cities breathed
Secure behind her might;
Not while she poured from Pole to Line
Treasure and ships and men–
These worshippers at Freedoms shrine
They did not quit her then!

Not till their foes were driven forth
By England o’er the main–
Not till the Frenchman from the North
Had gone with shattered Spain;
Not till the clean-swept oceans showed
No hostile flag unrolled,
Did they remember that they owed
To Freedom–and were bold!

After

The snow lies thick on Valley Forge,
The ice on the Delaware,
But the poor dead soldiers of King George
They neither know nor care.

Not though the earliest primrose break
On the sunny side of the lane,
And scuffling rookeries awake
Their England’ s spring again.

They will not stir when the drifts are gone,
Or the ice melts out of the bay:
And the men that served with Washington
Lie all as still as they.

They will not stir though the mayflower blows
In the moist dark woods of pine,
And every rock-strewn pasture shows
Mullein and columbine.

Each for his land, in a fair fight,
Encountered strove, and died,
And the kindly earth that knows no spite
Covers them side by side.

She is too busy to think of war;
She has all the world to make gay;
And, behold, the yearly flowers are
Where they were in our fathers’ day!

Golden-rod by the pasture-wall
When the columbine is dead,
And sumach leaves that turn, in fall,
Bright as the blood they shed.

When We Left Earth

I’ve been glued to my television for the last few Sunday nights as I watched When We Left Earth. As you may know, I’m a bit of a science enthusiast (read: “enginerd”), and as long as I can remember I have been fascinated by the manned space-flight program and just about everything NASA has ever done. I don’t really know why exactly, maybe it’s the appeal to my sense of adventure or my natural curiousity about how the world works, but I do know that ever since I saw the images of the first men landing on the moon, I knew that I wanted to be an astronaut. It’s one of the things that prompted me to get an engineering degree and is a natural extension to my love of flight.

One day I’ll get there. Until then, I’ve got my fingers crossed and I’m waiting for this show to come out on DVD.

Kipling Friday

It’s that time again. So sit back, relax, and enjoy a poem from Kipling.

The Prairie

I see the grass shake in the sun for leagues on either hand,
I see a river loop and run about a treeless land –
An empty plain, a steely pond, a distance diamond-clear,
And low blue naked hills beyond. And what is that to fear?”

“Go softly by that river-side or, when you would depart,
You’ll find its every winding tied and knotted round your heart.
Be wary as the seasons pass, or you may ne’er outrun
The wind that sets that yellowed grass a-shiver ‘neath the Sun.”

I hear the summer storm outblown — the drip of the grateful wheat.
I hear the hard trail telephone a far-off horse’s feet.
I hear the horns of Autumn blow to the wild-fowl overhead;
And I hear the hush before the snow. And what is that to dread?”

“Take heed what spell the lightning weaves — what charm the echoes shape –
Or, bound among a million sheaves, your soul shall not escape.
Bar home the door of summer nights lest those high planets drown
The memory of near delights in all the longed-for town.”

“What need have I to long or fear? Now, friendly, I behold
My faithful seasons robe the year in silver and in gold.
Now I possess and am possessed of the land where I would be,
And the curve of half Earth’s generous breast shall soothe and ravish me!”

Kipling Friday

Time to share more Kipling, as I’m wont to do.

Belts

There was a row in Silver Street that’s near to Dublin Quay,
Between an Irish regiment an’ English cavalree;
It started at Revelly an’ it lasted on till dark:
The first man dropped at Harrison’s, the last forninst the Park.
For it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
An’ it was “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
O buckle an’ tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison’s down to the Park!

There was a row in Silver Street — the regiments was out,
They called us “Delhi Rebels”, an’ we answered “Threes about!”
That drew them like a hornet’s nest — we met them good an’ large,
The English at the double an’ the Irish at the charge.
Then it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — an’ I was in it too;
We passed the time o’ day, an’ then the belts went whirraru!
I misremember what occurred, but subsequint the storm,
A Freeman’s Journal Supplemint was all my uniform.
O it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — they sent the Polis there,
The English were too drunk to know, the Irish didn’t care;
But when they grew impertinint we simultaneous rose,
Till half o’ them was Liffey mud an’ half was tatthered clo’es.
For it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — it might ha’ raged till now,
But some one drew his side-arm clear, an’ nobody knew how;
‘Twas Hogan took the point an’ dropped; we saw the red blood run:
An’ so we all was murderers that started out in fun.
While it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — but that put down the shine,
Wid each man whisperin’ to his next: “‘Twas never work o’ mine!”
We went away like beaten dogs, an’ down the street we bore him,
The poor dumb corpse that couldn’t tell the bhoys were sorry for him.
When it was: — “Belts, &c.”

There was a row in Silver Street — it isn’t over yet,
For half of us are under guard wid punishments to get;
‘Tis all a merricle to me as in the Clink I lie:
There was a row in Silver Street — begod, I wonder why!
But it was: — “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s one for you!”
An’ it was “Belts, belts, belts, an’ that’s done for you!”
O buckle an’ tongue
Was the song that we sung
From Harrison’s down to the Park!

Global Warming & Solar Activity

I stumbled upon an interesting blog article concerning trends of solar activity. I found it interesting — your mileage may vary — as I like to ponder deep thoughts of a scientific nature from time to time. Usually, I crack open physics texts or partake in some engineering problem-solving, but it’s one of those things that keeps me going. The author raises an interesting hypothesis stating that the sun has more to do with long-term temperature and climate changes of the Earth than any other factor. Certainly it’s not humans. While we definitely contribute, there is no possible way that it is any where near the amount that the politicians and fear-mongers say it is; and the sun is a huge driving force of most other things in our solar system. If it wasn’t the exact size it is, life would not be possible and we wouldn’t have nine planets and a bunch of micro-planets or however the scientific community is referring to them these days. It just makes sense, which is more than I can say about Al Gore and the rest of his cronies.
On a related tangent, one of my largest pet peeves is the need of everyone in the “green” movement to point the finger at humans, when there is no evidence to back up the claim that we make all that much of a difference. It’s rather egotistical to say that, and to force people to drastically alter their lives because of some false pretense. Now, that’s not to say that I dislike hybrids and the like. Really, I’m all about better efficiency, technological innovation, and making as small an impact as is practical, but there comes a point when logic should step in and say “Hey, cut this out!” But maybe it’s just me.
As a final note, make sure you read the comments, if you are of a similar scientific bent. There is some really interesting stuff, including some theoretical physicists discussing their own thoughts, but then again, theoretical physics isn’t everybody’s cup of tea.

Kipling Friday

Posted without any hemming or hawing on my part.

Recessional

God of our fathers, known of old,
Lord of our far-flung battle-line,
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies;
The Captains and the Kings depart:
Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget lest we forget!

Far-called, our navies melt away;
On dune and headland sinks the fire:
Lo, all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!
Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,
Lest we forget lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe,
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard,
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding, calls not Thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word
Thy mercy on Thy People, Lord!