Junior Ganymede
We endeavor to give satisfaction

Blessed is the Road

February 12th, 2016 by G.

Blessed is the road that keeps us homeless.
Blessed is the mountain that blocks our way.

Blessed are hunger and thirst, loneliness and all forms of desire.
Blessed is the labor that exhausts us without end.

Blessed are the night and the darkness that blinds us.
Blessed is the cold that teaches us to feel.

-Gioia. From a review by blog friend Huston. I ordered Gioia’s collection on the strength of the review.

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February 12th, 2016 09:37:24

Tennyson Tolkien

February 05th, 2016 by G.

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February 05th, 2016 08:53:42

A Father Sees a Son Nearing Manhood

December 11th, 2015 by G.

A father sees a son nearing manhood.
What shall he tell that son?
‘Life is hard; be steel; be a rock.’
And this might stand him for the storms
and serve him for humdrum and monotony
and guide him amid sudden betrayals
and tighten him for slack moments.
‘Life is a soft loam; be gentle; go easy.’
And this too might serve him.
Brutes have been gentled where lashes failed.
The growth of a frail flower in a path up
has sometimes shattered and split a rock.
A tough will counts. So does desire.
So does a rich soft wanting.

Without rich wanting nothing arrives.
Tell him too much money has killed men
And left them dead years before burial:
The quest of lucre beyond a few easy needs
Has twisted good enough men
Sometimes into dry thwarted worms.
Tell him time as a stuff can be wasted.
Tell him to be a fool every so often
and to have no shame over having been a fool
yet learning something out of every folly
hoping to repeat none of the cheap follies
thus arriving at intimate understanding
of a world numbering many fools.

Tell him to be alone often and get at himself
and above all tell himself no lies about himself
whatever the white lies and protective fronts
he may use amongst other people.
Tell him solitude is creative if he is strong
and the final decisions are made in silent rooms.
Tell him to be different from other people
if it comes natural and easy being different.
Let him have lazy days seeking his deeper motives.
Let him seek deep for where he is a born natural.
Then he may understand Shakespeare
and the Wright brothers, Pasteur, Pavlov,
Michael Faraday and free imaginations
bringing changes into a world resenting change.
He will be lonely enough
to have time for the work
he knows as his own.

-thus Carl Sandberg

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December 11th, 2015 09:19:09

In dream I met the Faery Queen

November 20th, 2015 by G.

Centuries passed on Middle Earth – My story
Remains, inspires, enchants – is garbled.
But truth persists. The Eildon Hills
Still cast enchantment wide into the world.

-from Bruce Charlton

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November 20th, 2015 10:56:14


September 19th, 2015 by G.

I AM riding on a limited express, one of the crack trains of the nation.
Hurtling across the prairie into blue haze and dark air go fifteen all-steel coaches holding a thousand people.
(All the coaches shall be scrap and rust and all the men and women laughing in the diners and sleepers shall pass to ashes.)
I ask a man in the smoker where he is going and he answers: “Omaha.”

Limited, by Carl Sandburg.  Hat tip to Leo.

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September 19th, 2015 10:45:52

One of Frost’s Lovely Poems

February 11th, 2015 by G.

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February 11th, 2015 10:21:29

Trial by Existence, Frost

December 16th, 2014 by G.


Even the bravest that are slain
Shall not dissemble their surprise
On waking to find valor reign,
Even as on earth, in paradise;
And where they sought without the sword
Wide fields of asphodel fore’er,
To find that the utmost reward
Of daring should be still to dare.

The light of heaven falls whole and white
And is not shattered into dyes,
The light for ever is morning light;
The hills are verdured pasture-wise;
The angel hosts with freshness go,
And seek with laughter what to brave;—

-thus Frost. The poem goes on, but not nearly so well. In fairness, though, anything would be letdown after the line ‘wide fields of asphodel forever.’

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December 16th, 2014 12:30:24

Cold iron

December 14th, 2014 by Vader

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December 14th, 2014 22:41:04

Thanksgiving Poetry of a Sort

November 27th, 2014 by G.

Inside every Thanksgiving there is a bout of bad poetry struggling to get out. So my muse informed me yesterday. Behold, my chickadees, and give thanks you were not also so afflicted. (more…)

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November 27th, 2014 09:59:26

Scratching the Itch for Rhyme

June 04th, 2014 by G.

Me and the girls are reciting Ogden Nash to each other these days. I’ve always liked him (him and Barbara Fritchie) and now the girls are liking him too. (more…)

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June 04th, 2014 08:30:32

If by God’s Mercy Progress Ever Ends

March 18th, 2014 by G.

I will not walk with your progressive apes,
erect and sapient. Before them gapes
the dark abyss to which their progress tends
if by God’s mercy progress ever ends.

-thus J. R. R. Tolkien, Mythopoeia.

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March 18th, 2014 12:21:33

Biology, and Love and Glory

February 13th, 2014 by G.

George Cochran Lambdin - The Consecration

Love and glory are of the fundamental attributes of God and reality. Love is unconditional whereas glory is earned respect, or conditional love. They are deeply intertwined and complementary. (more…)

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February 13th, 2014 13:54:34

After Prayers, Lie Cold

February 07th, 2014 by G.

Arise my body, my small body, we have striven
Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven.
Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go,
White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow,
Undress with small, cold fingers and put out the light,
And be alone, hush’d mortal, in the sacred night,
-A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup
Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up,
Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness
By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness.
Be not too quickly warm again. Lie cold; consent
To weariness’ and pardon’s watery element.
Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death;
Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath.

Thus C.S. Lewis.

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February 07th, 2014 12:01:43

For the Last Time

January 29th, 2014 by G.

Jorge Luis Borges (1899-1986), “Límites” (tr. Kenneth Krabbenhoft):

There is a line by Verlaine that I will not remember again.
There is a street nearby that is off limits to my feet.
There is a mirror that has seen me for the last time.
There is a door I have closed until the end of the world.
Among the books in my library (I’m looking at them now) are some I will never open.
This summer I will be fifty years old.
Death is using me up, relentlessly.
—from Inscriptions (Montevideo, 1923) by Julio Platero Haedo

Hay una línea de Verlaine que no volveré a recordar.
Hay una calle próxima que está vedada a mis pasos,
Hay un espejo que me ha visto por última vez,
Hay una puerta que he cerrado hasta el fin del mundo.
Entre los libros de mi biblioteca (estoy viéndolos)
Hay alguno que ya nunca abriré.
Este verano cumpliré cincuenta años;
La muerte me desgasta, incesante.

From here.

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January 29th, 2014 13:55:45

Last Call

October 08th, 2013 by Pecos Bill

O life is a game of poker
And I’ve played it straight to the end;
But the last chip’s down on the table
And I’m done with the game, my friend.

The deck was stacked by the Dealer
Before he would let me in;
The cards were marked, and I knew it—
There was never a chance to win.

Sharlot Hall

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October 08th, 2013 06:21:43