Welcoem to posts!!
in the future - u will be able to do some more stuff here,,,!! like pat catgirl- i mean um yeah... for now u can only see others's posts :c
I’d like to thank all my subscribers for joining my channel. A warm welcome to all those who have just joined and my deepest appreciation to those you have stuck with me since the beginning, to those in Canada, in Old England, and across the Western World. My channel is now past the 200 mark! I hope my videos and the poems that I share are as inspiring to you as they are to me. There is a long and hard road ahead of us, but, if we persevere, I have no doubt we shall gain the victory. With firm hearts, we shall abide to the very end.
8 - 7
More slightly terrifying AI Art set to T. S. Eliot’s obscurely dark poetry 😅
2 - 0
I swore I’d never use AI art (at least not knowingly), but this is looking pretty good 🤔.
3 - 6
FOR THE FALLEN
Laurence Binyon (1869 -1943)
I believe this poem is known the entire British Commonwealth over, although only the fourth verse of it is read out on Remembrance Day. I found the rest of it. “In the time of our darkness, To the end, to the end, they remain.”
With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit, Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle; they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England's foam.
But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;
As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.
3 - 0
Persue The Roots
By John Marshall
~
Persue the roots
That are horizons that
Appear forever too far off.
Say that maps
Are drawn on a scrap of skin.
Or if we have come to be lost
We will be found
Needing the stars again.
Say that we long for
That which survives—
Skin that survives
These many graves.
Or use the urgent word
Survive,
To list local tints
Of immediacy.
There is no
Appropriate Country,
No landscape,
Or particular season
That can contain
The mind moving to recall,
What we can recall.
3 - 0
Just a couple days until the Solar eclipse. It won’t pass straight over but it still should be a good view if the clouds hold off. Perhaps a prescient event for our times? It will make a few people stop and take notice for a while anyway…
3 - 1
My video from a while ago. Check it out if you haven’t already. If you’ve been watching my videos for a while you may have noticed that I usually try to dedicate it to one of my ancestors, and that ancestors feature in the subjects of the poems. It’s is something I am honoured to do and I find it very meaningful to me. It’s one of the reasons I make these videos. I think honouring and perpetuating the memory of our ancestors is so important in our present day. Our own ancestors are some of the only figures of our history that we have left, as more and more historical figures and events are erased or held for revision by some new ideology. But they can’t touch our ancestors individual stories if we search hard enough to uncover them and keep them in mind. So much deeply needed inspiration can be garnered from even the vaguest record, a silent stare from an old photograph, or a touching half-remembered passed-down story. Even if you can only go back 3 or 4 generations or can reach as far back as 10 or 12, you’ll reap a great reward that is centuries in the making. It is not only for them but also for ourselves, in helping situate ourselves in history. We are not an insignificant blip in time, something that far too many people believe (several of whom I know), but are part of a vast and interconnected story, which we are the present embodiment of. You will find sadness, sorrow, strength, sacrifice and love. Much healing is to be done, and if it is fated to us to help exorcise that pain in our own time, than there is no more nobler a thing we can do, for ourselves and for them…
“Past agonies purify
And lay the sullen dust.
The anger will not away,
We hold our fathers trust,
Wrong, riches, sorrow and all,
Until they topple and fall,
And fallen, let in the day.”
1 - 0
One of my early videos, I found this poem in a tiny poetry book from the 1930s and I thought it very sad and moving. Have a watch if you haven’t already. Dedicated to my 3rd great grandfather Melvin Taylor of Woolford, Alberta, now a Ghost Town.
1 - 0
Canadian wildfire smoke drifting in from Kelowna, BC. I that hope everyone affected is alright. For some Canadian wildfire history, check out my Telegram Channel, “Canada The Unknown Country:” t.me/canada_the_unknown_country
0 - 0
To Powell River
I know a little town
Where the streets go up and down
And the mountains stand on edge
Beside the sea.
There’s a perfume in the air
From the flowers blooming there,
And a golden light is shining
On the sea.
I have climbed old Valentine
And have rested from the climb
By where the little old Powell River
Finds the sea.
I would like to roam once more
Where the hills forever soar
For I love that little town
Beside the sea.
-M. V. MacBeth
Of Lion’s Bat Ave,
West Vancouver
0 - 0
Welcome to my channel. I’m a Canadian living on the wild West Coast of British Columbia. Poetry is a powerful thing, and the World of Poetry can be a mighty fortress against the encroachments of the troubled societies we live in. The way is a Pilgrimage, Poetry is the way…
“Let us journey to a lonely land I know.
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling... let us go.”
-Robert Service