Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2019

[Post Coming Soon]

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2019

[Post coming soon]

Happy Bloomsday, 2018

An afterclang of Cowley’s chords closed, died on the air made richer.

And Richie Goulding drank his Power and Leopold Bloom his cider drank, Lidwell his Guinness, second gentleman said they would partake of two more tankards if she did not mind. Miss Kennedy smirked, disserving, coral lips, at first, at second. She did not mind.

—Ulysses

Happy Third Day of the Writing, 2018

The Ondt, that true and perfect host, a spiter aspinne, was  

making the greatest spass a body could with his queens lace-

swinging for he was spizzing all over him like thingsumanything

in formicolation, boundlessly blissfilled in an allallahbath of

houris. He was ameising himself hugely at crabround and mary-

pose, chasing Floh out of charity and tickling Luse, I hope too, 

and tackling Bienie, faith, as well, and jucking Vespatilla jukely

by the chimiche. Never did Dorsan from Dunshanagan dance it 

with more devilry! The veripatetic imago of the impossible

Gracehoper on his odderkop in the myre, after his thrice ephe- 

meral journeeys, sans mantis ne shooshooe, featherweighed 

animule, actually and presumptuably sinctifying chronic's de-

spair, was sufficiently and probably coocoo much for his chorous

of gravitates. Let him be Artalone the Weeps with his parisites

peeling off him I'll be Highfee the Crackasider. Flunkey Footle

furloughed foul, writing off his phoney, but Conte Carme makes

the melody that mints the money. Ad majorem l.s.d.! Divi gloriam.

A darkener of the threshold. Haru? Orimis, capsizer of his ant-

boat, sekketh rede from Evil-it-is, lord of loaves in Amongded.

Be it! So be it! Thou-who-thou-art, the fleet-as-spindhrift,

impfang thee of mine wideheight. Haru!

--Finnegans Wake

Happy Second Day of the Writing, 2018

…who could see at one

blick a saumon taken with a lance, hunters pursuing a doe, a

swallowship in full sail, a whyterobe lifting a host; faced flappery

like old King Cnut and turned his back like Cincinnatus; is a

farfar and morefar and a hoar father Nakedbucker in villas old as

new; squats aquart and cracks aquaint when it's flaggin in town

and on haven; blows whiskery around his summit but stehts

stout upon his footles; stutters fore he falls and goes mad entirely 

when he's waked; is Timb to the pearly mom and Tomb to the

mourning night; and an he had the best bunbaked bricks in bould 

Babylon for his pitching plays he'd be lost for the want of his 

wan wubblin wall?

    Answer: Finn MacCool! 

--Finnegans Wake

Happy First Day of the Writing, 2018

    Poor Isa sits a glooming so gleaming in the gloaming; the tin- 

celles a touch tarnished wind no lovelinoise awound her swan's.

Hey, lass! Woefear gleam she so glooming, this pooripathete I

solde? Her beauman's gone of a cool. Be good enough to symper-

ise. If he's at anywhere she's therefor to join him. If it's to no-

where she's going to too. Buf if he'll go to be a son to France's

she'll stay daughter of Clare. Bring tansy, throw myrtle, strew

rue, rue, rue. She is fading out like Journee's clothes so you can't

see her now. Still we know how Day the Dyer works, in dims

and deeps and dusks and darks. And among the shades that Eve's

now wearing she'll meet anew fiancy, tryst and trow. Mammy

was, Mimmy is, Minuscoline's to be. In the Dee dips a dame and

the dame desires a demselle but the demselle dresses dolly and

the dolly does a dulcydamble. The same renew. For though

she's unmerried she'll after truss up and help that hussyband how

to hop. Hip it and trip it and chirrub and sing. Lord Chuffy's sky  

sheraph and Glugg's got to swing.

    So and so, toe by toe, to and fro they go round, for they are the   

ingelles, scattering nods as girls who may, for they are an angel's  

garland.

--Finnegans Wake

Gems from the Forums: Crowley's "Hymn to Lucifer"

A few years ago, I made a post on Lashtal.com about Crowley's excellent poem "Hymn to Lucifer":

Hymn to Lucifer

 (by Aleister Crowley)

Ware, nor of good nor ill, what aim hath act?
Without its climax, death, what savour hath
Life? an impeccable machine, exact
He paces an inane and pointless path
To glut brute appetites, his sole content
How tedious were he fit to comprehend
Himself! More, this our noble element
Of fire in nature, love in spirit, unkenned
Life hath no spring, no axle, and no end.

His body a bloody-ruby radiant

With noble passion, sun-souled Lucifer
Swept through the dawn colossal, swift aslant
On Eden’s imbecile perimeter.
He blessed nonentity with every curse
And spiced with sorrow the dull soul of sense,
Breathed life into the sterile universe,
With Love and Knowledge drove out innocence
The Key of Joy is disobedience.
 __________________________________

My discussion of this poem appears after the jump.

Read on for more.