Saturday, November 30, 2013

Extraordinary Discourse 149

In Other Words

The public sphere is where competing storylines slug their way out, it’s where politicians, journalists, experts and yakkers connect the dots, find patterns and fashion narratives.  We take all that in, spoiler-free, in a state of genre-blindness, not knowing whether we’re watching a tragedy or an adventure play out.
It's Important to Know How the Stories We Tell Ourselves -- True, or Not-- Shape our World... for Better or Worse
AlterNet / By Marty Kaplan

Let The Slave

(Incorporating The Price Of Experience. Text: William Blake)

Let the slave grinding at the mill run out into the field
Let him look up into the heavens and laugh in the bright air
Let the enchained soul, shut up in darkness and in sighing
Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years
Rise and look up; his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open;
And let his wife and children return from the oppressors scourge
They look behind at every step and believe it is a dream
Singing: the sun has left his blackness and has found a fresher morning
And the fair moon rejoices in the clear and cloudless night

For empire is no more and now the lion and wolf shall cease
For everything that lives is holy
For everything that lives is holy
For everything that lives is holy
For everything that lives is holy

What is the price of experience? do men buy it for a song?
Or wisdom for a dance in the street? no, it is bought with the price
Of all that a man hath, his house, his wife, his children
Wisdom is sold in the desolate market where none come to buy
And in the witherd field where the farmer plows for bread in vain
It is an easy thing to triumph in the summers sun
And in the vintage and to sing on the waggon loaded with corn
It is an easy thing to talk of patience to the afflicted
To speak the laws of prudence to the homeless wanderer
To listen to the hungry ravens cry in wintry season
When the red blood is filld with wine and with the marrow of lambs

It is an easy thing to laugh at wrathful elements
To hear the dog howl at the wintry door, the ox in the slaughter house moan;
To see a God on every wind and a blessing on every blast
To hear sounds of love in the thunder storm that destroys our enemies house;
To rejoice in the blight that covers his field
And the sickness that cuts off his children

While our olive and vine sing and laugh round our door
And our children bring fruits and flowers

Then the groan and the dolor are quite forgotten
And the slave grinding at the mill
And the captive in chains and the poor in the prison

And the soldier in the field
When the shattered bone hath laid him groaning among the happier dead
It is an easy thing to rejoice in the tents of prosperity:

Thus could I sing and thus rejoice: but it is not so with me.

Van Morrison, Let The Slave