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APOD

April 21^st, 2005

Historical Poetry - With this week being the 229th anniversary of the start of the Revolutionary War, what other poem could I highlight besides Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere?

Listen my children and you shall hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere,
On the eighteenth of April, in Seventy-five;
Hardly a man is now alive
Who remembers that famous day and year.

He said to his friend, "If the British march
By land or sea from the town to-night,
Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch
Of the North Church tower as a signal light,--
One if by land, and two if by sea;
And I on the opposite shore will be,
Ready to ride and spread the alarm
Through every Middlesex village and farm,
For the country folk to be up and to arm."

Then he said "Good-night!" and with muffled oar
Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore,
Just as the moon rose over the bay,
Where swinging wide at her moorings lay
The Somerset, British man-of-war;
A phantom ship, with each mast and spar
Across the moon like a prison bar,
And a huge black hulk, that was magnified
By its own reflection in the tide.

Meanwhile, his friend through alley and street
Wanders and watches, with eager ears,
Till in the silence around him he hears
The muster of men at the barrack door,
The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet,
And the measured tread of the grenadiers,
Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church,
By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,
To the belfry chamber overhead,
And startled the pigeons from their perch
On the sombre rafters, that round him made
Masses and moving shapes of shade,--
By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,
To the highest window in the wall,
Where he paused to listen and look down
A moment on the roofs of the town
And the moonlight flowing over all.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead,
In their night encampment on the hill,
Wrapped in silence so deep and still
That he could hear, like a sentinel's tread,
The watchful night-wind, as it went
Creeping along from tent to tent,
And seeming to whisper, "All is well!"
A moment only he feels the spell
Of the place and the hour, and the secret dread
Of the lonely belfry and the dead;
For suddenly all his thoughts are bent
On a shadowy something far away,
Where the river widens to meet the bay,--
A line of black that bends and floats
On the rising tide like a bridge of boats.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride,
Booted and spurred, with a heavy stride
On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.
Now he patted his horse's side,
Now he gazed at the landscape far and near,
Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,
And turned and tightened his saddle girth;
But mostly he watched with eager search
The belfry tower of the Old North Church,
As it rose above the graves on the hill,
Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.
And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height
A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!
He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns,
But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight
A second lamp in the belfry burns.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,
A shape in the moonlight, a bulk in the dark,
And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark
Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet;
That was all! And yet, through the gloom and the light,
The fate of a nation was riding that night;
And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight,
Kindled the land into flame with its heat.
He has left the village and mounted the steep,
And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,
Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;
And under the alders that skirt its edge,
Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,
Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

It was twelve by the village clock
When he crossed the bridge into Medford town.
He heard the crowing of the cock,
And the barking of the farmer's dog,
And felt the damp of the river fog,
That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,
When he galloped into Lexington.
He saw the gilded weathercock
Swim in the moonlight as he passed,
And the meeting-house windows, black and bare,
Gaze at him with a spectral glare,
As if they already stood aghast
At the bloody work they would look upon.

It was two by the village clock,
When he came to the bridge in Concord town.
He heard the bleating of the flock,
And the twitter of birds among the trees,
And felt the breath of the morning breeze
Blowing over the meadow brown.
And one was safe and asleep in his bed
Who at the bridge would be first to fall,
Who that day would be lying dead,
Pierced by a British musket ball.

You know the rest. In the books you have read
How the British Regulars fired and fled,---
How the farmers gave them ball for ball,
>From behind each fence and farmyard wall,
Chasing the redcoats down the lane,
Then crossing the fields to emerge again
Under the trees at the turn of the road,
And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;
And so through the night went his cry of alarm
To every Middlesex village and farm,---
A cry of defiance, and not of fear,
A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,
And a word that shall echo for evermore!
For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,
Through all our history, to the last,
In the hour of darkness and peril and need,
The people will waken and listen to hear
The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,
And the midnight message of Paul Revere.

Quite an interesting name for a war, don't you think? Revolutionary War - should "Revolutionary" refer to the manner of fighting in the war, or to what it was fought over? Despite popular history, the fighting was mostly according to the conventions of the time; that is, most of it was not hit and run, shoot from behind rocks, trees, & everywhere. They fought each other mostly in lines because that's what they knew how to do, and that's what their weapons were best at. The rifles did not have that much larger a range than the smoothbore muskets, and they loaded slower. They were also not as plentiful. The Americans mostly lost, but because of a handful of strategic victories at the right places and right times, we came out on top.

No, the Revolution was in the manner that ignored grievances were forced to be addressed. Having lived a life where both England and the Colonies ignored the mutual wills and needs of each other, is it little wonder that the Americans rejected abusive authority when it tried to reassert itself violently? No. What is revolutionary about the whole thing is that instead of giving up, knuckling under, and crawling to lick the palm of those who beat us, like so many others had done before, we stood up and pushed back, taking a grievous hit in the meantime, but eventually earning the ability to fend for ourselves. The revolution was in not only applying truth to the relationship, but not backing down when the truth was ignored. It is a singular moment in history, and deserves to be remembered here and emulated abroad.

Deep Wounds Heal Slowly - Very slowly, apparently.

My Guilty Pleasure - The Contender. Tonight I saw a guy with a gimpy leg come back in the final round and beat his opponent like a bass drum. He had a lot of problems with confidence, but overcame them with inspiration from his family.

Mark Burnett has come up with a pair of equally addictive TV serials that are diametrically opposed - on the one hand the Contenders are people willing to lay down their physical comfort for the sake of their families, and on the other the Apprentices are willing to throw down with anyone who gets in the way of their pursuit of the top of the executive world. The fact that The Apprentice routinely garners more audience than The Contender gives testimony to the fact that the nation identifies more with the young, hip self-promoters than the young, self-sacrificing athletes.

It's a bit sad, really. Whatever happened to laying down your life for another? It apparently went out of style. Fortunately, its not out of substance, which is all that really matters.

Apparently I've been labeled again - The elites are desperate to pigeonhole my generation so they can study us more closely. The latest term to describe those in my generation is the creative class, which apparently means they are curiously piqued about our ability to come up with original ideas - not exactly something unknown in history. From the article, referring to the growth of the Phoenix area:

Having lived in Mesa, the largest suburb of Phoenix, for almost two decades I can tell you both what is driving people into the Phoenix area and what is keeping them away. On the one hand we have a fast growing population powered by good jobs and relatively affordable housing, especially when compared with California. Arizonans also have lower taxes, and the typical bevy of services and social functions that serve as entertainment. But the one thing that drives away people from the Phoenix area is the size of the place. In square miles its larger than the Los Angeles area, when you include all the suburbs, which you must - except for the street signs, you can't tell where the borders of the individual cities are. It takes more than half an hour to get from Mesa to north Phoenix, and that's on the freeway. People (like Jen & I) move away from Phoenix to get away from the sheer largeness of the place.

But there are simpler reasons why people don't like to come to Phoenix. With frequent Summer high temperatures above 110, its easy to understand why backyard pool construction in Arizona is a growth industry. You want to overcome the coolness deficit? Get some air conditioners, seriously. The culture is fine, but disregarded by cultural elites, which means it takes a lot of effort to draw big names like Yo Yo Ma and Broadway plays. Leave it to the people to create the atmosphere that will attract others.

Being a member of the "creative class", I take it I'm expected to be mobile, especially towards the "cool urban experiences". Yawn. My creativity does not take inspiration from the dandyish narcissism in love with not only itself, but also the urban lifestyle. I thought the creative class was called that because of their ability to create new and innovative things, not their ability to follow a predetermined mindset. I don't own the future, but I do take custody of it for my posterity, because someone has to create a world they can live in without fear.

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