Three Ravens

I'm teaching the Medieval Period.  One of my favorite days of the year is coming up tomorrow and Friday, when we discuss some medieval alehouse ballads.  Here's one of my favorites, "The Three Ravens," performed by Peter, Paul, and Mary:

I'll also be playing and singing "A Hard Rain's a-Gonna Fall" by Bob Dylan.  It's a version this old alehouse ballad, "Lord Randall":

"O where ha you been, Lord Randal, my son! 
And where ha you been, my handsome young man!" 
"I ha been at the greenwood; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"An wha met ye there, Lord Randal, my son? 
An wha met you there, my handsome young man?" 
"O I met wi my true-love; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down."

"And what did she give you, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what did she give you, my handsome young man?" 
"Eels fried in a pan; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And wha gat your leavins, Lord Randal, my son? 
And wha gat your leavins, my handsome young man?" 
"My hawks and my hounds; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm wearied wi hunting, and fain wad lie down." 

"And what becam of them, Lord Randal, my son? 
And what becam of them, my handsome young man?" 
"They stretched their legs out and died; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm wearied wi huntin, and fain wad lie down." 

"O I fear you are poisoned, Lord Randal, my son! 
I fear you are poisoned, my handsome young man!" 
"O yes, I am poisoned; mother, mak my bed soon, 
For I'm sick at the heart, and I fain wad lie down." 

"What d'ye leave to your mother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your mother, my handsome young man?"
"Four and twenty milk kye; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your sister, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your sister, my handsome young man?"
"My gold and my silver; ; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your brother, Lord Randal, my son?
What d'ye leave to your brother, my handsome young man?"
"My houses and my lands; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

"What d'ye leave to your true-love, Lord Randal my son?
What d'ye leave to your true-love, my handsome young man?
"I leave her hell and fire; mother, mak my bed soon,
For I'm sick at heart, and I fain wad lie down"

Uncle Matt

I'd like to take this opportunity to welcome my nephew, Matthew, into this wonderful world. My li'l sis had a precious baby boy on August first. All of us who love her and her fantastic husband are bustin' buttons with pride. Especially me. I'm gonna be the best uncle--since ever (to use a line from my favorite new music group). I know I have some tough competition out there.

Take a minute to send some love out to your family today.

Creative Writing at Central High

Jasmine is in my Creative Writing class. Last week, she performed on BET. This is a video of her performance.

Joke of the Day

Q: How many rhythm guitarists does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A: They can't do it without their lead guitarist.

Joke of the Day

Q: How many lead guitarists does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

A: One. The guitarist holds the bulb, and the world revolves around him.

Vic Chesnutt (11/12/1964-12/25/2009)-Cobbham Blues

The Baby Huey Story

Just close your eyes and listen for a while.

Yes, We Can.

My buddy The Wiz sent me this note.  I highly recommend that you click on the link and put it on the "full screen function" by clicking the window box near the bottom right-hand-corner of the video screen:

Dude,
I've just been goofing off on my computer and I ran across this.  I know you've seen it and you have the location saved, but this is just a reminder to look at it every now and then.  I have been and I'm still as inspired by it as I was when I first saw it.  I'm going to try and listen to it tomorrow morning before going to work.  Everything is gonna be alright.

Love you bro,

The Wiz

PLEASE WATCH IT AND THINK ABOUT IT.  TURN UP THE VOLUME.

Elizabeth Alexander and Colbert

Elizabeth Alexander and her inaugural poem "Praise Song for the Day"  have been raked across the coals by just about everyone I know and everything I've read.  I was not horrified by her poem.  I even liked it.  She.  could.  have.  done.  a better.  job.  with the.  presentation, sure.  But remember, she was following up Obama's speech.  That's like Jimi Hendrix opening for The Jonas Brothers.  She has fun and even briefly explains what she was doing with the poem in this interview on The Colbert Report.  Check it out.  It's funny. 

Natural Burial

I started 17th Century Metaphysical Poetry this week with my classes, and yesterday one of the poems we discussed was "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne.  It goes like this:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadful, for, thou art not so,

For, those, whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,

Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.

From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee do go,

Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well,

And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then;

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, 

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

The poem is one of Donne's Holy Sonnets.  He had unenthusiastically entered the ministry at the insistence of King James, and his quick wit, his flair for the dramatic, and his rolling intellect had established him as the mega-rock star preacher of his era.  In the poem, the speaker condescendingly confronts Death and personifies him as a tool, a cocksure pawn of Fate, Chance, and desperate men.  For the believer, death is really a peaceful little nap at the start of eternal life.  Yet he runs around like a bluffing bully.  The cacophonous  couplet at the end reveals that the joke is on Death.  While we wake eternally, death dies.

I'm not sure about all that, but what I do know is that I dig the gist.  

So naturally, I had a dream last night about my death.  It wasn't a morbid or a disturbing dream.  It was one of those dreams where I was thinking, sort of awake.  I was contemplating my own little nap and how I hope it goes down.  Here's what I dreamt:  

When I die, dig a hole in the woods about two meters deep in Newton County, Arkansas or in the Blue Ridge somewhere, 20 or 30 yards away from a waterfall or a bluff or a big, old tree where woodpeckers hang out.  Wrap my body in a linen shroud and place it in the hole.  No embalming fluids, no incineration, no concrete vault.  Cover me up with some soil and relocate a dogwood, a wild blueberry bush, blackberries and raspberries for the bears, some dwarf lilies, mayapples, and ferns.  I love ferns.  Or just spread some rich duff and fallen leaves; it doesn't matter.  One short sleep past, I'll wake eternally and death shall be no more.  Visit the waterfall, the bluff, the tree and see what I become. 

I'll send you off with a tune in your head if you know the Dave Matthews Band:

Gravedigger,

When you dig my grave,

Could you make it shallow

So that I can feel the rain?  

                                 --David John Matthews 

Auld Lang Syne

for H

by Robbie Burns

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And never brought to min'?

Should auld acquaintance be forgot,

  And days o' lang syne?

We twa rin about the braes,

  And pu'd the gowans fine;

But we've wander'd monie a weary fit

  Sin' auld lang syne.

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn,

  Frae mornin' sun till dine

But seas between us braid hae roar'd

  Sin' auld lang syne.

And here's a hand, my trusty fiere,

  And gie's a hand o' thine;

And we'll tak a right guid-willie waught

  For auld lang syne.

And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp,

  And surely I'll be mine;

And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

  For auld lang syne!

For auld lang syne, my dear,

  For auld lang syne,

We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 

  for auld lang syne.

 

for all my homies

by Jimi Hendrix, Live at the Fillmore, 1/1/1970

(Click on the link and scroll down to the music player.  Hit play.)

http://www.playlist.com/HAPPYNEWYEAR2009

--MJF