Game of the week

Poem of the day

The Wreck of the Julie Plante
A LEGEND OF LAC ST. PIERRE
by William Henry Drummond (1854-1907)

On wan dark night on Lac St. Pierre,
      De win’ she blow, blow, blow,
An’ de crew of de wood scow “Julie Plante”
      Got scar’t an’ run below—
For de win’ she blow lak hurricane
      Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow bus’ up on Lac St. Pierre
      Wan arpent from de shore.

De captinne walk on de fronte deck,
      An’ walk de hin’ deck too–
He call de crew from up de hole
      He call de cook also.
De cook she’s name was Rosie,
      She come from Montreal,
Was chambre maid on lumber barge,
      On de Grande Lachine Canal.

De win’ she blow from nor’-eas’-wes,’—a
      De sout’ win’ she blow too,
W’en Rosie cry “Mon cher captinne,
      Mon cher, w’at I shall do?”
Den de Captinne t’row de big ankerre,
      But still the scow she dreef,
De crew he can’t pass on de shore,
      Becos’ he los’ hees skeef.

De night was dark lak’ wan black cat,
      De wave run high an’ fas’,
W’en de captinne tak’ de Rosie girl
      An’ tie her to de mas’.
Den he also tak’ de life preserve,
      An’ jomp off on de lak’,
An’ say, “Good-bye, ma Rosie dear,
      I go drown for your sak’.”

Nex’ morning very early
      ’Bout ha’f-pas’ two–t’ree–four–
De captinne–scow–an’ de poor Rosie
      Was corpses on de shore,
For de win’ she blow lak’ hurricane
      Bimeby she blow some more,
An’ de scow bus’ up on Lac St. Pierre,
      Wan arpent from de shore.

Moral

Now all good wood scow sailor man
      Tak’ warning by dat storm
An’ go an’ marry some nice French girl
      An’ leev on wan beeg farm.
De win’ can blow lak’ hurricane
      An’ s’pose she blow some more,
You can’t get drown on Lac St. Pierre
      So long you stay on shore.

Poem of the day

The New Colossus
by Emma Lazarus (1849-1887)

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
“Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!” cries she
With silent lips. “Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!”

Game of the week

Poem of the day

“when god lets my body be”
by E.E. Cummings (1892-1969)

when god lets my body be

From each brave eye shall sprout a tree
fruit that dangles therefrom

the purpled world will dance upon
Between my lips which did sing

a rose shall beget the spring
that maidens whom passion wastes

will lay between their little breasts
My strong fingers beneath the snow

Into strenuous birds shall go
my love walking in the grass

their wings will touch with her face
and all the while shall my heart be

With the bulge and nuzzle of the sea

Game of the week

In memory of Jeremy Silman, who passed away recently.

Poem of the day

When the Frost Is on the Punkin
by James Whitcomb Riley (1849—1916)

When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock,
And you hear the kyouck and the gobble of the struttin’ turkey-cock,
And the clackin’; of the guineys and the cluckin’ of the hens
And the rooster’s hallylooyer as he tiptoes on the fence;
O it’s then the times a feller is a-feelin’ at his best,
With the risin’ sun to greet him from a night of peaceful rest,
As he leaves the house, bareheaded, and goes out to feed the stock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock.

They’s somethin kindo’ harty-like about the atmusfere
When the heat of summer’s over and the coolin’ fall is here —
Of course we miss the flowers, and the blossums on the trees
And the mumble of the hummin’-birds and buzzin’ of the bees;
But the air’s so appetizin’; and the landscape through the haze
Of a crisp and sunny morning of the airly autumn days
Is a pictur’ that no painter has the colorin’ to mock —
When the frost is on the punkin and fodder’s in the shock.

The husky, rusty russel of the tossels of the corn,
And the raspin’ of the tangled leaves, as golden as the morn;
The stubble in the furries — kindo’ lonesome-like, but still
A preachin’ sermons to us of the barns they growed to fill;
The strawstack in the medder, and the reaper in the shed;
The hosses in theyr stalls below — the clover overhead! —
O, it sets my hart a—clickin’ like the tickin’ of a clock,
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!

Then your apples all is gethered, and the ones a feller keeps
Is poured around the celler-floor in red and yeller heaps;
And your cider-makin’s over, and your wimmern-folks is through
With their mince and apple-butter, and theyr souse and saussage, too!
I don’t know how to tell it — but if sich a thing could be
As the Angels wantin’ boardin’, and they’d call around on me —
I’d want to ‘commodate ’em — all the whole—indurin’ flock —
When the frost is on the punkin and the fodder’s in the shock!