Tome: the New Metre Weblog

Medical College of Georgia Class Notes

2005-08-22T11:44:00.000-07:00

Okay, another new page (well, sub-site, really). Since I am a Ph.D. student at the Medical College of Georgia, I figured I could kill two birds with one stone and publish my notes from class lectures on my site. I figure that, besides attracting Google hits, putting all my personal class notes online as they happen should be a good study mechanism. I can't guarantee I'll put everything up, but I'd sure like to.

This semester, I'm taking Responsible Conduct of Research (SGS 8011), Scientific Communication (SGS 8012), Biochemistry (SGS 8021) Molecular Cell Biology (SGS 8022), Introduction to Faculty Research (SGS 8040), and Introduction to Research I (SGS 8050). Not all of them have notes (or a good deal of notes, anyway), but whatever I write down, I'll try to put up. I imagine it'll be a help for other students, both graduate and undergraduate, as well as people just trying to find out miscellaneous bits of information (which may be contained in the notes, if you're lucky *grin*).

Medical College of Georgia Biomedical Sciences Class Notes

'Twas Brillig: a Jabberwocky Site

2005-08-01T18:18:00.000-07:00

“The Jabberwocky” is perhaps the most well-known, well-loved, studied, and revered piece of nonsense literature in the English language (well, ostensibly English, anyway), and perhaps in any language. While it occupies a relatively minor position in Through the Looking Glass and What Alice Found There (commonly referred to as Alice Through the Looking Glass), its renown has spread far beyond that single opening chapter (well, and Humpty Dumpty's later expoundification thereof.

Its popularity has resulted in its translation into a number of languages, including French, German, and yes, even Latin.

Since The Jabberwocky has always been one of my favourite poems, I've recently inaugurated a shrine to the work by Lewis Carroll (aka. Rev. Charles Dodgson, Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) in my Alice in Wonderland pages. I'm collecting various translations of the work, along with some of the more clever and less stilted parodies. Hopefully it will grow to be a decent-sized site (though I'm sure not rivaling the Ultimate Jabberwocky Site to which I link in the shrine), and it will at least be a repository for my own thoughts and writings on subjects Jabberwockian.

So, do me a favour and visit 'Twas Brillig, which I think is as apt a name as any for the enshrinement of the ancient scrap of Anglo-Saxon poetry, eh? (For more info on the "Anglo-Saxon" bit, visit the site and look at the Anglo-Saxon translation.)

Danny Doyle, Where the Blarney Roses Grow, and C.

2005-07-20T01:47:00.000-07:00

I've just put up a new bit of content over at the Sehr Gut Web Codex:Celtic.

Spirit of the Gael (Danny Doyle)

A didgeridoo. In Irish music. Did Celts even have didgeridoos? Well, no matter, because in some surreal way, it actually works. In 2002, Cracker Barrel Old Country Store released this fabulous recording by the distinctive vocalist Danny Doyle as part of their Heritage Music collection.

With a diversity of styles from the high mournful tone of "The Fields of Athenry" to the low melancholy of "Kilkelly", from the bawdy good humour of "When the Boys Come Rolling Home" and "Danny Dougan's Jubilee" to the heady adolecent excitement of "Where the Blarney Roses Grow", there's a song to cover every inch of ground that can be covered on Celtic instruments — plus a didgeridoo.

Celtic Music

2005-07-13T01:02:00.000-07:00

New page here! I just put together the beginnings of a Celitc site (including a bit about my favourite song of all time.

I’ve always loved Celtic music, especially that of the Irish persuasion. Now, I am only 1/16th Ulster Scot (Scots-Irish, Scotch-Irish), but I figure that gives me enough Celtic blood to have some right to the music, eh? After all, I’ve been told that Celtic blood takes precedence over any other comers . . .

While I adore the music, I have a great love for all things Irish (odd, since I have more an excuse for Scottish), and hope to transmit a bit of that love of the Celts to you. Enjoy!

Celtic Music at Sehr Gut Web

Sehrgut Anachronism: New Site

2005-07-08T17:11:00.000-07:00

I’ve just launched a new subsection of Sehr Gut Web: Sehrgut Anachronism (housing the Codex Anachronisticus: Sehr Gut). Here I&rsqou;ll be depositing all my anachronistic researches and pursuits.

Currently, the Codex is comprised of some ink-related recipes: namely the preparation of yellow dextrine (“British gum”) from corn starch, testing gum solutions for starch using iodine, and the preparation of a dextrine-bound Prussian Blue writing ink using Mrs. Stewart's Bluing.

In Memoriam America

2005-07-01T21:26:00.000-07:00

In memory of those whose dreams and schemes gave us this land, of those who died for the freedom that was America, of those whose blood watered the Tree of Liberty.

We have not kept your dream. We have abandoned your hopes. We have sold the freedom you died for us to have. We have failed you.

Forgive us.

In memory of that for which which once she stood,
In hope of that for which she yet may stand.

*****

July Fourth, Two Thousand and Five, a mere two hundred and twenty-nine years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, found America in the later stages of giving up freedom for security and finding she had neither.

In Memoriam

Retiring

2005-01-17T20:31:00.000-08:00

It is both a joy and a regret to announce the retiring of both Tome: the New Metre Weblog and The Random Quill: Prose. However, they have been replaced by Passage to Serendipity, since I got hosted (by Livia of relatedworlds.net). I am running PS on Blosxom, so all my weblogs are able to roll, category-wise, into one weblog.

I do hope to continue to receive your readership at the new location. All extant weblogs and posts will remain for archival purposes.

Meet me at Passage to Serendipity.

Loneliness

2004-12-29T06:16:00.000-08:00

Loneliness

There is in loneliness an exquisiteness which longs to be imbibed unadulterated, like absinthe without sugar. Some delicate flavour among the varied bitterness demands to be tasted of unenwrapt in words or harmony. A call to such an inception of pleasure ensues wildly from the struck gong of a lost half-chance and whips through my hair, wailing from the fenestrations of Never.

At an Indecision

2004-10-07T20:06:00.000-07:00

At an Indecision

Nothing happens — quickly.
I look, and a moment goes.
’Tis just as quickly past:
how soon Nothing disappears!

I let go a thread
of false probability
screaming into stars.
Moonlight wavers on the puddle’s surface.

So soon a depth is plumbed at night
with honest moon and stars to right
what’s wrongly seen by sunlight.

Poem: Withhold Not, and Enter

2004-08-21T21:14:00.000-07:00

Withhold Not, and Enter

Another which is really untitled. Also posted on Mosaic Musings

Would thou withhold from me the thing
thy presence makes me know I need?
Cruel ‘twould be to shade me here,
and even shower mist around and one me,
and yet to grant no sating shower.

Chill to bone am I, or say
that only bones are chilled within,
and want the warmth thy smile swore.
My flesh, though warm, has not the warmth that bone
might take to quench its icy core.

Hollow ‘tis, this life that, sturdy, on thee must depend.
Hollow is a cave; would thou, warm, the chill explore?

Poem: Don't Worship a Reflection

2004-08-08T23:24:00.000-07:00

Don't Worship a Reflection

This really is untitled as yet. You can see it at Mosaic Musings as well.

In all, I see her reflection
(even in her own face she is reflected),
                                            and
in dreams
            (waking,
                     and otherwise).

(Seek and find)
I suppose if I wanted, I could see her smile
in the Mona Lisa
(who plays the violin).

Piano fingers eke
art
from eighty-eight wire drums,
when four would do
(and smile
more separate smiles);

so don’t worship
a reflection.

Poem: Stonelife

2004-07-24T21:37:00.000-07:00

Stonelife

"Life," they say,
but what is life?

Is life a moving,
and if so, what is a tree?

Perhaps life is merely needing something:
then is a stone alive?

A stone, I think,
has needs.
It just needs so little,
and can wait so long
to get it.

Poem: Quietly

2004-07-24T21:36:00.001-07:00

Quietly

Quietly
        I hear
               nothing.
I prick my ears,
                  but silence
is all that fills the wind;
and
        (a silent flap of wing)
    an owl.

Poem: What Chaos Means to Me

2004-07-24T21:36:00.000-07:00

What Chaos Means to Me

The lure
    (the chanting):
siren — pied
Hamlin-town piper —
call of
        (dire)
sweet most
disorder:

saysnothing
            (yet I speak)
isnothing
          (yet ink is black)
meansnothing
             (yet I mean what I say)
]

    if —
onlyonly if
    no is.

Poem: The Lamp Post

2004-07-24T21:35:00.000-07:00

The Lamp Post

Come dance in the fog
that swirls around,
and the dazzle of rain
that gladdens the ground.

The beams of the moon
that pick through the dew
now brighten the night
and frighten the gloom.

A shroud covers all,
and I see in the midst
of the cloud-douséd night
a release in the mist.

The clock tolls none,
and through the gloom —
or what was gloom —
the colors run.

Poem: In My Audacity

2004-07-24T21:34:00.000-07:00

"In my audacity . . ."

In my audacity, I have climbed
higher than most men ever dare:
so it must not surprise me if I must fall
deeper and farther than most men bear.

But the air I’ve breathed blows purer and freer
than most men ever know to breathe.

Poem: Improper to Publish

2004-07-24T21:21:00.000-07:00

Improper to Publish

We’ve made a terrible mistake!
Tybalt doesn’t die:
he gets the girl.
The Publisher must not have thought it proper
(they being cousins and all),
so he invented a Romeo
Shakespeare never knew.

Poem: Ex Cathedra

2004-07-24T21:15:00.000-07:00

Ex Cathedra

I speak ex cathedra
(infallible, I suppose)
of art;
yet I am not so much of what I say.

Poem: Evangelium Maris

2004-07-24T21:14:00.001-07:00

Evangelium Maris

I am constrainéd to look on the bay,
to see the rolling waves.
The Everlasting speaks to me
in unending ways.

The World grows upon the tide,
goes ever in and out;
but each time it returns again,
'tis low about.

Ever farther out,
ever lower down —
I sense the tide will not return,
but will drown.

I fetch a cup of ocean
to bring upon the strand.
Is this the last one
to land?

Poem: Hear a Cry

2004-07-24T21:14:00.000-07:00

Hear a Cry

The gathering now moves,
Apocalypse lamenting her children.
The storm speaks from unlearned pain.
Restless courage hearkens.

Poem: I Think that I Shall Die in Winter

2004-07-24T21:13:00.000-07:00

I Think that I Shall Die in Winter

I think that I shall die in winter,
for well drawn night the end of spring
my entrance made I in this world;
my stuff upon the earth did fling.

And then I think that all my stuff
will have been gathered from yonder winds,
whence it has blown, and on the earth,
the stuff which knit me 'gain will bind.

I think that I shall die in winter,
but snow shall be my Touching-stone.
I was born in vigil of the sun:
well meet is winter's sun-ward groan.

In winter shall I take my rest
from all my earth-born toil and blood.
Without the light my fate in birth,
I die without its happy flood.

From then 'till now I ne'er've wanted
joy or sun-shine over much.
I think that I shall die in winter:
I fain would die without Sol's touch.

Poem: Cacaphony

2004-07-24T21:12:00.002-07:00

Cacaphony

I want to write,
but every time I put a pen to page,
cacaphony
fills my mind
(or nothing).

               “Cacaphony:”
that’s one of those words
I never can purge
                  from my life —
it sounds poetic
    (which is why it’s not),
                  so I say it
(and don’t know what else
                            to say).

Poem: And Yet . . .

2004-07-24T21:12:00.001-07:00

And Yet

[To an Artist]

So few are Artists, really.
Many write just-so
(“pricksong”)
(like I say they should),
and yet
they say nothing).

You flout the creed I shout
(An Artist I consider myself:
     I speak.);
and yet
        I must admit
you speak,
           and they do not.

Though Craftsmen may decide
to follow artists’ lines
    (my lines),
Art is there or not;
and yet,
         seeming lineless, you speak
    (my language).

Poem: Andean Sunrise

2004-07-24T21:12:00.000-07:00

Andean Sunrise

Fog in the valley
like so much ocean brine,
or a September evening's frost,
swaddles the mountains,
leaving only the peaks
seen below the forest.

The sun is low --
not yet out of her damping bed --
but from the fog-sea at the horizon
is sending rays to chase the clouds
back to the forest.

Now I think,
while the forest is merely awak'ning,
and not yet awake and alive;
I stare at the fog-sea,
the sun's blanket,
and grip the mossy tree.

Poem: All Hands Clapping

2004-07-24T21:11:00.000-07:00

All Hands Clapping

Like all hands clapping
for the Great One,
back and forth
the palm fronds clip.

The grass is growing;
I can see it.
Trees are blooming
deep within,
tho' on their branches, not
a rosy petal blows.

An old one,
with an old one's crumpled look,
has young man's strength
somewhere within;
for leaves on what twigs still live
rival the glow of the young.

Old on bark,
and older still inside,
his heart has learned —
as old and wan —
the sap needs fresh within.