The Voice before the Void: Arcana, Story, Poetry

Springtime Special:

Oiseau et printemps.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“The Throstle”

Alfred, Lord Tennyson

“Summer is coming, summer is coming,

I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, love again.”

Yes, my wild little poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue.

Last year you sang it as gladly.

“New, new, new, new!” Is it then so new

That you should carol so madly?

“Love again, song again, nest again, young again,”–

Never a prophet so crazy!

And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend;

See, there is hardly a daisy.

“Here again, here, here, here, happy year!”

O warble unchidden, unbidden!

Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,

And all the winters are hidden.

Springtime Special:

Amour et mort et printemps.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“I Shall Not Care”

Sara Teasdale

When I am dead and over me bright April

Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,

Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,

I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful

When rain bends down the bough;

And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted

Than you are now.

I love too much; I am a river

Surging with spring that seeks the sea,

I am too generous a giver,

Love will not stoop to drink of me.

His feet will turn to desert places

Shadowless, reft of rain and dew,

Where stars stare down with sharpened faces

From heavens pitilessly blue.

And there at midnight sick with faring,

He will stoop down in his desire

To slake the thirst grown past all bearing

In stagnant water keen as fire.

Springtime Special:

Caprice et printemps.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Song”

William Watson

April, April,

Laugh thy girlish laughter;

Then, the moment after,

Weep thy girlish tears,

April, that mine ears

Like a lover greetest,

If I tell thee, sweetest,

All my hopes and fears.

April, April,

Laugh thy golden laughter,

But, the moment after,

Weep thy golden tears!

Battle of Shiloh Anniversary Special:

So many ever dead.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Shiloh: A Requiem”

Herman Melville

Skimming lightly, wheeling still,

The swallows fly low

O’er the field in clouded days,

The forest-field of Shiloh —

Over the field where April rain

Solaced the parched ones stretched in pain,

Through the pauses of the night —

That followed the Sunday fight

Around the church of Shiloh —

The church so lone, the log-built one,

That echoed to many a parting groan

And natural prayer

Of dying foemen mingled there —

Foemen at morn, but friends at eve —

Fame or country least their care:

(What like a bullet can undeceive!)

But now they lie low,

While over them the swallows skim,

And all is hushed at Shiloh.

Battle of Shiloh Anniversary Special:

The sounds of war are deafening as Bierce mesmerizes to the end. Bierce fires his shocking cynicism at Americans, at Christians, at soldiers, and ultimately at all humans as he denotes his own dark place in our dark world.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“What I Saw of Shiloh”

Ambrose Bierce

part 2

VI

I suppose the country lying between Corinth and Pittsburg Landing could boast a few inhabitants other than alligators. What manner of people they were it is impossible to say, inasmuch as the fighting dispersed, or possibly exterminated them; perhaps in merely classing them as non-saurian I shall describe them with sufficient particularity and at the same time avert from myself the natural suspicion attaching to a writer who points out to persons who do not know him the peculiarities of persons whom he does not know. One thing, however, I hope I may without offense affirm of these swamp-dwellers—they were pious. To what deity their veneration was given—whether, like the Egyptians, they worshiped the crocodile, or, like other Americans, adored themselves, I do not presume to guess. But whoever, or whatever, may have been the divinity whose ends they shaped, unto Him, or It, they had builded a temple. This humble edifice, centrally situated in the heart of a solitude, and conveniently accessible to the supersylvan crow, had been christened Shiloh Chapel, whence the name of the battle. The fact of a Christian church—assuming it to have been a Christian church—giving name to a wholesale cutting of Christian throats by Christian hands need not be dwelt on here; the frequency of its recurrence in the history of our species has somewhat abated the moral interest that would otherwise attach to it.

VII

Owing to the darkness, the storm and the absence of a road, it had been impossible to move the artillery from the open ground about the Landing. The privation was much greater in a moral than in a material sense. The infantry soldier feels a confidence in this cumbrous arm quite unwarranted by its actual achievements in thinning out the opposition. There is something that inspires confidence in the way a gun dashes up to the front, shoving fifty or a hundred men to one side as if it said, “Permit me!” Then it squares its shoulders, calmly dislocates a joint in its back, sends away its twenty-four legs and settles down with a quiet rattle which says as plainly as possible, “I’ve come to stay.” There is a superb scorn in its grimly defiant attitude, with its nose in the air; it appears not so much to threaten the enemy as deride him.

Our batteries were probably toiling after us somewhere; we could only hope the enemy might delay his attack until they should arrive. “He may delay his defense if he like,” said a sententious young officer to whom I had imparted this natural wish. He had read the signs aright; the words were hardly spoken when a group of staff officers about the brigade commander shot away in divergent lines as if scattered by a whirlwind, and galloping each to the commander of a regiment gave the word. There was a momentary confusion of tongues, a thin line of skirmishers detached itself from the compact front and pushed forward, followed by its diminutive reserves of half a company each—one of which platoons it was my fortune to command. When the straggling line of skirmishers had swept four or five hundred yards ahead, “See,” said one of my comrades, “she moves!” She did indeed, and in fine style, her front as straight as a string, her reserve regiments in columns doubled on the center, following in true subordination; no braying of brass to apprise the enemy, no fifing and drumming to amuse him; no ostentation of gaudy flags; no nonsense. This was a matter of business.

In a few moments we had passed out of the singular oasis that had so marvelously escaped the desolation of battle,

Battle of Shiloh Anniversary Special:

The sights of war are incredible as Bierce builds the tension. Bierce describes, with artistry and clarity, an historic battle and his own fearsome marching into it, at night, in a thunderstorm.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“What I Saw of Shiloh”

Ambrose Bierce

part 1

I

This is a simple story of a battle; such a tale as may be told by a soldier who is no writer to a reader who is no soldier.

The morning of Sunday, the sixth day of April, 1862, was bright and warm. Reveille had been sounded rather late, for the troops, wearied with long marching, were to have a day of rest. The men were idling about the embers of their bivouac fires; some preparing breakfast, others looking carelessly to the condition of their arms and accoutrements, against the inevitable inspection; still others were chatting with indolent dogmatism on that never-failing theme, the end and object of the campaign. Sentinels paced up and down the confused front with a lounging freedom of mien and stride that would not have been tolerated at another time. A few of them limped unsoldierly in deference to blistered feet. At a little distance in rear of the stacked arms were a few tents out of which frowsy-headed officers occasionally peered, languidly calling to their servants to fetch a basin of water, dust a coat or polish a scabbard. Trim young mounted orderlies, bearing dispatches obviously unimportant, urged their lazy nags by devious ways amongst the men, enduring with unconcern their good-humored raillery, the penalty of superior station. Little negroes of not very clearly defined status and function lolled on their stomachs, kicking their long, bare heels in the sunshine, or slumbered peacefully, unaware of the practical waggery prepared by white hands for their undoing.

Presently the flag hanging limp and lifeless at headquarters was seen to lift itself spiritedly from the staff. At the same instant was heard a dull, distant sound like the heavy breathing of some great animal below the horizon. The flag had lifted its head to listen. There was a momentary lull in the hum of the human swarm; then, as the flag drooped the hush passed away. But there were some hundreds more men on their feet than before; some thousands of hearts beating with a quicker pulse.

Again the flag made a warning sign, and again the breeze bore to our ears the long, deep sighing of iron lungs. The division, as if it had received the sharp word of command, sprang to its feet, and stood in groups at “attention.” Even the little blacks got up. I have since seen similar effects produced by earthquakes; I am not sure but the ground was trembling then. The mess-cooks, wise in their generation, lifted the steaming camp-kettles off the fire and stood by to cast out. The mounted orderlies had somehow disappeared. Officers came ducking from beneath their tents and gathered in groups. Headquarters had become a swarming hive.

The sound of the great guns now came in regular throbbings—the strong, full pulse of the fever of battle. The flag flapped excitedly, shaking out its blazonry of stars and stripes with a sort of fierce delight. Toward the knot of officers in its shadow dashed from somewhere—he seemed to have burst out of the ground in a cloud of dust—a mounted aide-de-camp, and on the instant rose the sharp, clear notes of a bugle, caught up and repeated, and passed on by other bugles, until the level reaches of brown fields, the line of woods trending away to far hills, and the unseen valleys beyond were “telling of the sound,” the farther, fainter strains half drowned in ringing cheers as the men ran to range themselves behind the stacks of arms. For this call was not the wearisome “general” before which the tents go down; it was the exhilarating “assembly,” which goes to the heart as wine and stirs the blood like the kisses of a beautiful woman.

Springtime Special:

The month of April returns and fleets.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“April Afternoons”

The Voice before the Void

A Wednesday

Young men die in April

The time of the spring offensives

Sortying south of the wall

Or over the top into the mud

A Friday

It is a feat to survive the guileless aimless lust-surge of youth

It is a feat to be old and lonely

It is a feat to be deaf for years of powerful motors and popular music

It is a feat to be lonely and maybe a little syphilitic

A Monday

I kissed her once in autumnal April in West Australia

In April-month, snow falls in North Dakota

A Saturday

While being the link tween wint and sum

April is unto itself

April births lambs and kittens

And April kills lambs and kittens

April is old enough and knows well

April is yet young and still tries

April is wrenches readying bicycles

April awakens flies

A Tuesday

April makes promises and makes memories

April reminisces and April longs

We all live to see one more April

We all die too young

April Fools’ Day Special:

Oh, you know.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Ole and Lena”

Wikipedia

Ole and Lena (along with Sven and Helga and Lars) are central characters in jokes by Scandinavian Americans, particularly in the Upper Midwest region of the United States, particularly in Minnesota, Wisconsin, Iowa, South Dakota, and North Dakota where Scandinavian immigrant traditions are common. The popularity of the jokes was enhanced by the numerous Ole and Lena joke books authored by Red Stangland.

Ole and Lena jokes can be long and drawn-out stories, or as short as two or three sentences. Ole and Lena are typically Norwegian, and Sven and his wife are Swedish.

One would not find Ole and Lena jokes in Sweden or Norway. Rather, they are an outgrowth of an immigrant experience. Language mistakes are a frequent source of Ole and Lena joke material. The characters of the jokes speak with the marring accent and fractured English of the recently arrived immigrant. Turning misunderstandings and mistakes into jokes enabled people to jest about their American immigrant experience.

The core of this folk humor may lie in the strongly egalitarian code that permeates the culture of the Nordic countries. Maybe.

Examples

Ole is on his deathbed. The doctor has told him he has only a few hours to live. He catches the scent of his favorite bars wafting through the air. With all the strength he can muster, he drags himself into the kitchen and sees a fresh pan cooling on the rack. He cuts one out and bites into the scrumptious cookie. Lena comes in, smacks his hand, and says, “Shame on you, Ole! These are for after the funeral!”

Ole and Sven are out deer hunting. Ole bags a buck. After they tag the deer and dress it, they grab it by its hind legs and start dragging it through the woods back to the car. A game warden happens upon the pair and, after checking their tags and admiring the buck, tells them that they’re dragging out the deer all wrong. By dragging it by the rear legs, snow, dirt, and leaves are getting caught in the animal’s fur, and the horns are getting tangled in the brush. The warden suggests that they drag it by the front legs. They agree to try this and much to their surprise, it is much easier dragging the deer this way. About an hour later, Sven turns to Ole and says, “Boy that game warden sure was right, it sure is easier dragging the deer this way!” And Ole replies, “That’s true, but you know, Sven, we are getting further away from the car.”

Ole went to the Sons of Norway Hall one night and finally won the door prize, which was a toilet brush. He was so excited that he brought it home and used it often. At the next meeting, Lars asked Ole how he liked the toilet brush. Ole replied, “Oh, yah, you know, I like the toilet brush sure, but, you know, just the same, I think I am going to go back to using paper.”

Ole goes out one day to use the outhouse, and he finds Sven there. Sven has his wallet out, and he’s throwing money down into the hole of the outhouse. Ole asks, “Uff da! Sven, what you doing there? You’re throwing the five-dollar bill and the ten-dollar bill down into the hole of the outhouse! What you doing that for?” Sven answers, “Well, when I pulled up my trousers I dropped a quarter down there—and I’m not going to go down there for just a quarter!”

Sven and Ole are roofing a house. Ole picks a nail out of the pan, examines it, and with a “nope” tosses it over his shoulder, then picks up another nail and does the same thing, then picks up a third nail and after examining it, uses it to nail in the shingle. Sven, seeing all of this, exclaims, “Ole! What you doing there, throwing away nails like that?” Ole replies, “Well, you see, these nails,

Francisco Goya’s Birthday Special:

Power astonishing and fully painful.

⁓The Voice before the Void

The Dog by Francisco Goya

Wikipedia

The Dog is the name usually given to a painting by Spanish artist Francisco Goya, now in the Museo del Prado, Madrid. It shows the head of a small black dog gazing upwards. The dog itself is almost lost in the vastness of the rest of the image, which is empty except for a dark sloping area near the bottom of the picture: an unidentifiable mass which conceals the animal’s body.

The Dog is one of the Black Paintings Goya painted directly onto the walls of his house sometime between 1819 and 1823. He did not intend the paintings for public exhibition (they were not removed from the house until 50 years after Goya had left), so it is unlikely that he gave them titles.

Background

In 1819, Goya purchased a house named “Quinta del Sordo” (“Villa of the Deaf Man”) on the banks of the Manzanares near Madrid. It was a small two-story house which was named after a previous occupant who had been deaf, though Goya also happened to be functionally deaf, as a result of an illness he had contracted (probably lead poisoning) in 1792. Between 1819 and 1823, when he moved to Bordeaux, Goya produced a series of 14 works, which he painted with oils directly onto the walls of the house. At the age of 73, and having survived two life-threatening illnesses, Goya was likely to have been concerned with his own mortality, and was increasingly embittered by the conflicts that had engulfed Spain in the decade preceding his move to the Quinta del Sordo, and the developing civil strife–indeed, Goya was completing the plates that formed his series The Disasters of War during this period. Although he initially decorated the rooms of the house with more inspiring images, in time he overpainted all of them with the intense haunting pictures known today as the Black Paintings. Uncommissioned and never meant for public display, these pictures reflect his darkening mood, with their depictions of intense scenes of malevolence, conflict, and despair.

If Goya gave titles to the works he produced at the Quinta del Sordo he never revealed what they were; the names by which they are now known were assigned by others after his death, and this painting is often identified by variations on the common title: A Dog, Head of a Dog, The Buried Dog, The Half-Drowned Dog, The Half-Submerged Dog; more colloquially as “Goya’s Dog”; or by the Spanish names El Perro or Perro Semihundido.

Painting

The painting is divided into two unequal sections: an upper, dirty ochre “sky” and a smaller sloping curved dark brown section which fades to black as it slopes up to the right. Over the top of this lower section the dog’s head can be seen, its snout lifted, its ears pulled back and its eyes looking up and towards the right. A faint dark shape looms over the dog; this is sometimes considered to be damage or an intentional inclusion, but is generally seen as an artefact from the earlier painting that decorated the wall before Goya overpainted it with The Dog.

The enigmatic depiction of the dog has led to myriad interpretations of Goya’s intentions. The painting is often seen a symbolic depiction of man’s futile struggle against malevolent forces; the black sloping mass which envelopes the dog is imagined to be quicksand, earth, or some other material in which the dog has become buried. Having struggled unsuccessfully to free itself, it can now do nothing but look skywards hoping for a divine intervention that will never come. The vast swathe of “sky” which makes up the bulk of the picture intensifies the fe...

War, still not gone.

⁓The Voice before the Void

“Very Unhealthy”

Sean Barnett

I double, then triple

painkiller prescription.

Under my blankets

I float

a foot above my bed

my mind moves

out of the desert

and onto beaches with friends.

The sound of gunfire

The smell of blood

The shrapnel in my knee,

The ocean waves take me

away from it all

for a moment.

A friend is shot and dying.

Another has stepped on a mine

in front of me.

I’m squeezing onto the bloody leg

of one of my young soldiers.

And I am killing

the same little boy

Everyday.

They tell me I shouldn’t abuse

my medications. They say

I drink too much and it’s all

very unhealthy.

I wonder what they

really know about

very unhealthy.