Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September 3, 1802

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

Earth has not anything to show more fair:

Dull would he be of soul who could pass by

A sight so touching in its majesty:

This City now doth, like a garment, wear

The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,

Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie

Open unto the fields, and to the sky;

All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

Never did sun more beautifully steep

In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;

Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!

The river glideth at his own sweet will:

Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;

And all that mighty heart is lying still!

Lean out the window,
    Goldenhair,
I heard you singing,
    A merry air.

My book was closed;
   I read no more,
Watching the fire dance
   On the floor.

I have left my book,
   I have left my room,
For I heard you singing,
   Through the gloom,

Singing and singing
   A merry air.
Lean out the window,
   Goldenhair.

(why the last word above is appearing larger than the others, I don't know)



 

this picture is of the sink at the New Morning Bakery, my workplace for years and years, washing dishes.

She asked a dime of me

I wrote this long ago, probably late nineties.  altered it slightly



She asked a dime of me
I could not reach my pocket
She asked me for the time
I could not raise my arm
She turned to go, I thought to smile
but could not change my face
I finally reached, it seemed to me,
quite a sorry place.

 keep rewriting this, but the idea's the same

I have an idea of living out in some small valley in the coast range, surrounded by the beauty of nature, living simply, doing a lot of gardening, and living in proximity to many friends. I would have a place with a wood floor to teach yoga, tai chi, kempo, karate, aikido, if the instructor is good. Me and anyone who wanted to would play music or do art.
People would stop by from far-off places, and there would be great discussions in rooms fueled by wood fires, and mellow parties with music on special occasions, but music would be happening all of the time, as would art of all kinds. We would all be living in close proximity, so we could bicycle or walk everywhere. This would be in a valley in the coast range, and would not be any sort of cult, because people would live there voluntarily, and there would be no conflict with the laws and policies of the local government, for the most part. Those of us that wanted to spend a lot of time gardening could do so. Privacy and space would be respected, but there would be a constant social environment with good conversation and good things happening, to take part in or not, and hopefully some good writing would result from it. Sort of like the next step up from the famous parties at Ken Kesey's place in La Honda that Jerry Garcia and the Dead attended. It would be a similar beautiful environment, but a step forward from the drugs and chaos of the past, to an environment where we could talk about the kind of world this should be. And safer in terms of keeping control of excessive drug use, in some way.
I know there are such hippies hiding out in the coast range already (definitely know that now!), but maybe we could take it to the next level, beyond where it is now. Many people live out there at peace with themselves and surrounded by beauty, but in my mind, the interactions of people living there and people visiting can have a real effect on the course of events and negotiations in the real world of wars and politics.
I always hoped to live in a place where good social interactions occurred on a daily basis.
This type of thing already happens every year in the form of the Oregon Country Fair, but I was thinking of a permanent community with many visitors and no sense of stress...and much time to live in a quiet way in tune with nature. Quiet would be a big part of it. I’d like to live in a quiet place and work on gardening more than now.

Tell me if you want to be untagged, but it seems like a good idea, right?

Good discussions would be nice. It's like that Henry James story where he and certain people greet each other and acknowledge that they were both at a place, hosted by somebody, where great, or substantive in some way, discussions took place. Collin's the only guy who remembers those Berkeley days, but those days weren't all great, that's for sure.

Here's a little aside about yoga and karate:
Doing a lot more yoga would be great. It's a very important aspect, in that it sorts out the connections and strengths in the body, and yoga people understand those ideas and go beyond what we know in karate, because although we stretch, most of the class is movement, some of it fast. Still, doing the forms in karate is, like tai chi, meditation in movement, or they can be done that way. People are put off karate because they see strength and anger and fighting, but in our style it's affectionate anger. We always shake hands after a

Highland Reaper  (mostly but not all borrowed from a Wordsworth poem.  However, some of the words are based on my experiences, that's for sure)

v1

   C                F           

behold her, single in the field, 

   C                 G

scattered highland reaper,,

  c               F

alone she cuts and binds the grain

 g          C

and sings a melacholy strain

v2

will no one tell me what she sings

perhaps of plaintive far off things

or some more humbe pain

which may be or be again

chorus

dm              em               

she wears a coat of blue

f                  g

oh too deep,  oh too true

dm              em

 f                 g

more than I can find    

V3

F C 

she sang her song as it had no ending

as when she cut and binds the grain

and I listened motionless and still

as the song came through the hills

V4

when I think over those days

through the earth’s fire and flame

the music echoing tthrough the trees

and the song came through the hills

The Song the Idiot Sings

They don’t bother about me.  They let me be.

They say, “Nothing can happen.”

That’s good.

Nothing can happen.  It all comes and wheels 

steadily around the Holy Ghost,

always around that same Ghost (you know)-

that’s good.

No, of course not, one mustn’t think any danger

could come in that way.

Of course the blood exists.

Blood is the heaviest.  Blood is heavy

Sometimes I think I’ve had too much.

(That’s good.)

Oh, isn’t that a wonderful ball!

round and red as nothing at all.

Good things that you created it.

But will it come if you call?

How strangely this whole thing behaves,

into each other driving, out of each other swimming,

friendly, a touch uncertain.

That’s good.

   

Keats

I stood tiptoe upon a little hill,

The air was cooling, and so very still, 

That the sweet buds which with a modest pride

Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,

Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,

Had not yet lost those starrry diadems

Caught from the early sobbing of the morn

highland reaper

The Solitary Reaper

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland Lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,	5
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the Vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.
No Nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands	10
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:
A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas	15
Among the farthest Hebrides.
Will no one tell me what she sings?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:	20
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?
Whate'er the theme, the Maiden sang	25
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;—
I listen'd, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,	30
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more. I used parts of this poem and wrote a new song based on it recently.  Here it is: Highland Reaper v1    C                F            behold her, single in the field,     C                 G scattered highland reaper,,   c               F alone she cuts and binds the grain  g          C and sings a melacholy strain v2 will no one tell me what she sings perhaps of plaintive far off things or some more humble pain which may be or be again chorus dm              em                she wears a coat of blue f                  g oh too deep,  oh too true dm              em  f                 g more than I can find     V3 F C  she sang her song as it had no ending as when she cut and binds the grain and I listened motionless and still as the song came through the hills V4 when I think over those days through the earth’s fire and flame the music echoing tthrough the trees and the song came through the hills It's gonna be a huge hit.  (well, that would actually be a drag because I'd get accosted by fans....)