Just one more...

William Blake's Holy Thursday poems (scroll down a bit)

(And a revival of Poetry Thursday!)

The Dream of Atlanta

Ever more lives the dream of Atlanta!

Ever more her eternal pride!

Strong and sure is the dream of Atlanta!

When her brothers are unified!

And the sound of her voice is clearer

When her people are proud and free!

Not a star in the sky could be nearer

Than my heart is, Atlanta, to thee!

"The Old Red Hills of Home"

(the Parade opener) 

YOUNG SOLDIER: 

Farewell, my Lila

I'll write every evening

I've carved our names in the trunk of this tree. 

Farewell, my Lila

I miss you already

And dream of the day

When I'll hold you again

In a home safe from fear

When the Southland is free.

I go to fight 

for the old hills behind me

The old red hills of home

I go to fight

for the old hills remind me

Of a way of life that's pure

Of a truth that must endure

In a town called Marietta in the old red hills of home. 

Pray on this day

As I journey beyond them

The old red hills of home

Let all the blood of the north spill upon them

Till they've paid for what they've wrought

Taken back the lies they've taught

And there's peace in Marietta and we're safe again Georgia

In the land where honor lives and breathes

The old red hills of home!

Farewell, my Lila. 

Farewell....

OLD SOLDIER:

Look there, my Lila

They call me to tell it

The lives that we lead 

When the Southland was free

We gave our lives for the old hills of Georgia

The old red hills of home. 

Not much survives of the old hills of Georgia

But I close my eyes and hear

All the treasures we held dear...

The rustlin of the Chatahochee

The rustlin in the wind

And mama in the kitchen singin'

And me and Lila swingin' in a tree

Oh, I hear it calling, calling

And I would gladly give my good right leg again!

ENSEMBLE:

Again!

God bless the sight of the old hills of Georgia

The old red hills of home

Praise those who'd fight for the old hills of Georgia

For those proud and valiant men

We'll sing "Dixie" once again. 

For the men of Marietta (for the brothers of Cobb County)

For the fathers of Atlanta (for the patriarchs)

Who gave everything for Georgia and

The old red hills of home!

"That's What He Said"

(No, really, he did!)

Tonight we spent the entire two hour rehearsal on "That's What He Said," Jim Conley's testimony in the first act that basically convinces everyone Leo is guilty of Mary's murder. Jim (played by my friend LaRon from J&H) tells about Leo's other dalliances in the factory, with women, girls, and a "young black man from Chicago". The crowd reacts with disbelief and, then, absolute hatred (we get to sing fun things like "Hang the Jew!" and "bastard!" Not family-friendly language, right there). By the end we're calling for him to be hanged. 

And right after this, Leo gets to tell us why he's not guilty. Somehow I don't think the crowd's going to buy it. (His soliloquy, "It's Hard to Speak My Heart" is absolutely heart-wrenching. I can't wait to hear Jon--our Leo--sing it.) But really, he's singing it to Lucille, to convince her. And he does. 

So the crowd vocal line for this number is the most involved piece we've done so far; ergo, it's probably the hardest in the show. We are all over the place, with solo voices, Jim singing, us under him, Leo chiming in at the end. It will sound great, and by the end of rehearsal we managed to get through the entire thing (with Kristen playing the orchestral reduction) without a train wreck. Amazing. 

Next week is call for separate groups; my only rehearsal is on Wednesday, where me and the other factory girls will learn "The Factory Girls/Come Up To My Office". We have a reprise in the second act, but I'm not sure if we're going to sing that (it's right before our scene with the Governor and Lucille). So Parade notes next week will be light. 

And, in honor of Poetry Thursday, I shall give you the lyrics to Leo's "It's Hard to Speak My Heart":

It's hard to speak my heart

I'm not a man who bares his soul.

I let the moment pass me by

I stay where I am in control.

I hide behind my work

Safe, and sure of what to say.

I know I must seem hard. 

I know I must seem cold. 

I never touched that girl. 

You think I'd hurt a child yet?

I'd hardly seen her face before.

I swear--I swore--we'd barely met. 

These people try to scare you

With things I never said!

I know it makes no sense. 

I swear I don't know why...

You see me as I am. 

You can't believe I'd lie. 

You can't believe I'd do these deeds.

A little man who's scared and blind,

Too lost to find the words he needs.

I never touched that child--God!

I never raised my hand!

I stand before you now

Incredibly afraid. 

I pray you understand. 

Poetry for Winter

"Stopping By The Woods On A Snowy Evening"--Robert Frost

Whose woods these are I think I know

His house is in the village though;

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow. 

My little horse must think it's queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake

To ask if there is some mistake. 

The only other sound's the sweep 

Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep. 

And miles to go before I sleep. 

Poetry Thursday

The Lady of Shalott

Poetry Thursday X

"People, Look East" (Advent carol)

People look East, the time is near!

Of the crowning of the year

Make your house fair as you are able

Trim the hearth and set the table. 

People look East, and sing today.

Love the Guest is on the way.

Furrows be glad, though Earth is bare

One more seed is planted there

Give us the strength the seed to nourish

That in the course the flower may flourish

People look East, and sing today. 

Love the Rose is on the way!

Poetry Thursday IX

A good Advent/ Christmas poem--this was always read at Capital's Christmas Festival. 

"Pied Beauty"

Glory be to God for dappled things--

For skies of couple-color as a brinded cow;

for rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches' wings;

Lanscape plotted and pierced--fold, fallow and plow; 

And all trades, their gear and tackle and trim. 

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

Praise him. 

Poetry Thursday VII

This poem was set to music and sung by the women of the Ohio All-State Choir, of which I was a part, in January of 2000, under the direction of Jerry Ulrich.

"Introduction" to Songs of Innocence--William Blake

Piping down the valleys wild,

Piping songs of pleasant glee,

On a cloud I saw a child,

And he laughing said to me:

"Pipe a song about a Lamb."

So I piped with merry cheer.

"Piper, pipe that song again."

So I piped; he wept to hear.

"Drop they pipe, thy happy pipe;

Sing thy songs of happy cheer."

So I sung the same again

While he wept with joy to hear.

"Piper, sit thee down and write

In a book that all may read."

So he vanished from my sight,

And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,

And I stained the water clear,

And I wrote my happy songs

Every child may joy to hear. 

Poetry Thursday VI

"Nothing Gold Can Stay"--Robert Frost

Nature's first hue is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf's a flower;

But only so an hour. 

The leaf subsides to leaf. 

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day,

Nothing gold can stay. 

Poetry Thursday V

That night when joy began--W.H. Auden

That night when joy began

Our narrowest veins to flush,

We wait for the flash 

Of morning's level gun. 

But morning let us pass,

And day by day relief

Outgrows his nervous laugh,

Grown credulous of peace,

As mile by mile is seen

No trespasser's reproach,

And love's best classes reach

No fields are best his own. 

Poetry Thursday IV

To counter last week's poem...

"Leda's Sister and the Geese"--Katharyn Howd Machan

All the boys always wanted her, do

it was no surprise about the swan--

man, god, whatever he was. That day

I was stuck at home, as usual, while

she got to moon around the lake

supposedly picking lilies for dye. Think I

would have let some pair of wings catch me,

bury me under the weight of the sky? 

She came home whimpering, whined out

the whole story, said she was "sore afraid"

she'd got pregnant. Hunh. "Sore"

I'll bet, the size she describe, and

pregnant figures: no guess who'll get 

to help her with that kid, or Hera forbid, 

more than one (twins run in our damned

family). "Never you mind, dear," Mother said. 

"Your sister will take on your chores."

Sure. As though I wasn't already doing

twice as many of my own. So now 

I clean, I spin, I weave, I bake,

fling crusts to feed the birds I wish

to Hades every day; while she sits smug

in a wicker chair, and eats sweetmeats,

and combs and combs that ratty golden hair. 

Poetry Thursday III

"Leda and the Swan"--William Butler Yeats

A sudden blow: the great wings beating still

Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed

By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,

He holds her helpless breast upon his breast. 

How can those terrified vague fingers push

The feathered glory from her loosening thighs?

And how can body, laid in that white rush, 

But feel the strange heat beating where it lies?

A shudder in the loins engenders there

The broken wall, the burning rood and tower

And Agamemnon dead.

Being so caught up,

So mastered by the brute blood of the air,

Did she put in his knowledge with his power

Before the indifferent beak could let her drop? 

Poetry Thursday II

"On His Blindness"--John Donne

When I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wife,

And that one talent which is death to hide

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bend

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest he returning chide,

"Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?" 

I fondly ask, But Patience, to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, "God doth not need

Either man's work or his owngifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

is Kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who stand and wait. 

Poetry Thursday I

A new BOP feature!

I found my old college English texts, and will now (in the hope of enlightening us all, lol) provide you all with my favorite poems on Thursday!

This week: "Ozymandis" by Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert...Near then, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, 

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;

And on the pedestal these words appear: 

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kinds; 

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.