Author Archives: David Emeron

I have done it!!!

Posted by David Emeron on

I have, indeed, completed all the “<— previous — view — next —>” links. I have been working on it a little at a time. And now I am done! Sometimes I would add the links from the older toward the newer. Sometimes, since I have been adding the links to all the new posts, I have added some at the front, slowly working my way from the newer to the older. Occasionally, I have done some editing on a sonnet or introduction somewhere in between, and have added the links while I was there, which made the process seem faster–like being dealt a wild card, or a free square in a crossword, or in “Scrabble.”

Now I can go back to archiving the site posts in skydrive, which had been my “do it when I have free time” project, prior to this.

 

The Job That Doesn’t Exist | mishaburnett

Posted by David Emeron on

I want to say, at the outset here, I mean no disrespect to the young lady above; however one thing I believe I didn’t make clear in the above post is that the business of writing, at its core hasn’t changed all that much. People who claim it has, have, most likely not made a study of writing as a profession throughout history. Continue reading →

Waterfall | Björn Rudbergs writings:

Posted by David Emeron on

Visiting Bjorn’s page I wrote the following as part of a comment.  There is something simple and rather stark and minimal, that I find myself liking, for some reason.

as i slept

by a veranda

open to the sea

on a cool night

just right

to let

the wind

and moonlight

and the stars

blow quietly

past me

as i slept

via Waterfall | Björn Rudbergs writings.
Continue reading →

Something old, something new…

Posted by David Emeron on

While I meditate on entry VI, which is a bit more demanding, here is V.   This was four short quatrains with no particular rhythm, but with the rhyme scheme you see here.  It was satisfying–and pleasureable–to expand the lines.  Now, they conatain what they were meant originally to express–though more minimal.  I like this result.  I’ll sleep on the next entry some more tonight.

By My Sweet Love’s Request:

Posted by David Emeron on

What’s he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark’d to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.

God’s will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.

But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God’s peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!

Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man’s company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call’d the feast of Crispian.

He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam’d,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say ‘To-morrow is Saint Crispian.’

Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day.’
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he’ll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb’red.

This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;

For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day.