Of Us -

Don't take that line where it belongs;
It came all well, exhausted songs.
We end the day with poetry crass,
To grace our minds, critique at last.
With pen in hand,
Surveyed the land,
Did little justice to his creation.
With all forgot,
The young head hot,
Go on to write of their salvation.

Of their salvation they wrote too vague,
And so one lad went on, he said,
"Let us write to our lovers fair,
To all be men, the gentle we bear."
At that they laugh'd,
Then smiles half'd,
Then thirded, quartered then grinned no more.
Since they all had thought,
That only they sought,
A fine lady's love to breathe as feign'd before.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Hannay Discourses on America - Mr. Standfast

'Say Dick,' he said shyly, 'what do you truly think of our Americans? You've seen a lot of them, and I'd value your views.' His tone was that of a bashful author asking for an opinion on his first book.

'I'll tell you what I think. You're constructing a great middle class army, and that's the most formidable fighting machine on earth. This kind of war doesn't want the Berserker so much as the quiet fellow with a trained mind and a lot to fight for. The American ranks are filled with all sorts, from cow punchers to college boys, but mostly with decent lads that have good prospects in life before them and are fighting because they feel they're bound to, not because they like it. It was the same stock that pulled through in your Civil War. We have a middle class division, too - Scottish Territorials, mostly clerks and shopmen and engineers and farmer's sons. When I first struck them my only crab was that the officers weren't much better than the men. It's still true, but the men are super excellent, and consequently so are the officers. That division gets top marks in the Boche calender for sheer fighting devilment. . . . . And, please God, that's what your American Army's going to do. You can wash out the old idea of a regiment of scallawags commanded by dukes. That was right enough, maybe, in the days when you hurrooshed into battle waving a banner, but it don't do with high-explosives and a couple of million men on each side and a battle front of five hundred miles. The hero of this war is the plain man out of the middle classes, who wants to get back to his home and is going to use all the brains and grit he possesses to finish the job soon.'

- John Buchan

A Sign of Pretension

Recently film and TV actor, Hugh Laurie, released a Blues album that on select songs features Jazz and Blues legends such as Dr. John and Sir Tom Jones. This confuses people who have not followed Laurie's career; they may see an actor merely making a feeble attempt to be multi-talented in the arena of the liberal arts. How dare he. What audacity possesses an already wealthy man to venture into the musical realm without license or warrant or even a day pass? He just out right and did it. Inside the album booklet Laurie made a note of this; and it follows:

"I was not born in Alabama in the 1890s. You may as well know this one now. I've never eaten grits, cropped a share, or ridden a boxcar. No gypsy woman attended my birth and there's no hellhound on my trail, as far as I'm aware. Let this record show that I am a white, middle-class Englishman, openly trespassing on the music and myth of the American south.

if that weren't bad enough, I'm also an actor: one of those pampered ninnies who can't find his way through and airport without a babysitter. I wouldn't be surprised to find that I've got some Chinese characters tattooed on my arse. Or elbow. Same thing.

Worst of all, I've I have broken an important rule of art, music, and career paths: actors are supposed to act, and musicians are supposed to music. That's how it works. You don't buy fish from a dentist, or ask a plumber for financial advice, so why listen to an actor's music?

The answer is - there is no answer. If you care about pedigree then you should try elsewhere, because I have nothing in your size."

- Hugh Laurie

What was he communicating? That his Blues music is terrible? No, not at all. Simply, he says that if you are the kind of person who demands that Blues be done by troubled aging black men and acting be done by bratty self centered actors you had best not listen to his album, because you wont like it. Oh, the humanity! Or rather the pretension. Ought we demand that? Should we right off all paradoxical career breakers on the account that they are out of place? That since they aren't genuine they wont produce anything worth while? By no means! That would be the soul of pretension. You can imagine the hipster blabbing on about how they only listen to Robert Johnson (because that is the only Blues guitarist they have heard of), because he really "had the blues" or "walked the walk". Is great music reserved for specific feelings? I think not. Music as an art is a thing studied and not exclusively a thing felt. The sentiment may inspire the music and it may be the by product, but it does not write the music. Talent, skill and knowledge write the music; only that it may be good enough to evoke a particular feeling.

And so did Hugh Laurie. Listening to his album, which is not perfect, gave me a breath of fresh air. He had the Blues nailed. The man is a fantastic pianist. I never had the feeling that he was trying too hard. I hope for another record out of him; even in his comedy sketch show with Stephen Fry I was waiting for his regular musical performance not just for the humor but to catch his craft of a musician. Though he played the same song at the end of every episode I enjoyed it every time. I recognized his passion for the art.

So to Hugh Laurie I tip my hat with an expression that says, "Well done good and faithful artist". I urge you all (who enjoy the Blues) to give it a listen and post back what might be said of it.

From "Mr. Standfast"

Yes, they had these kind of folk in the early twentieth century. Much of the novel, Mr. Standfast, spends it's time describing these people of enlightenment. I can't help but remember the "tousle headed youth" that C.S. Lewis writes of in The Great Divorce. So demanding that people read their material and agree that it is great art; and never ought they say otherwise so as to lower the self esteem of these individual children. O, We of our old fashioned gatherings of objective reality that say, "Art has a definition." And with heavy sarcasm I say, "Grace us, new progressed modern mind, with your plentiful wisdom on the things of which you know little!" So anyway, here is the quote of which I speak:

"Aronson, the novelist, proved on acquaintance the worst kind of blighter. He considered himself a genius whom it was the duty of the country to support, and he sponged on his wretched relatives and anyone who would lend him money. He was always babbling about his sins, and pretty squalid they were. I should like to have flung him among a few good old fashioned full blooded sinners of my acquaintance; they would have scared him considerably. He told me that he sought 'reality' and 'life' and 'truth', but it was hard to see how he could know much about them, for he spent half the day in bed smoking cheap cigarettes, and the rest sunning himself in the admiration of half-witted girls. The creature was tuberculous in mind and body, and the only novel of his I read pretty well turned my stomach."

- John Buchan

Lord Ali the Lion (Lord Nevai)

Great Nevai, you troubled man,
A poor profession for one to take!
You left your duties to retrieve the lamb,
Of neglected poetry for poetry's sake.

Dull you knew, but requests came hard,
To blame thyself under govenor's name.
Figured quickly gave action's card,
Swiftly revealed the deciders fame.

Rest now, and rest well poor soul!
Know that we understand your call,
And only wish for your writings infull,
Which presently decay and fame with all.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

To Alexander -

This is a poem I wrote nearly right after I thought of the subject. It is to my first nephew; a creature that has only experienced this life for four weeks now. He abides with his parents on the opposite side of the country so I only know him through pictures. He knows not me, nor right now does he care to know. I have yet to well up any sentiment towards this kid, but perhaps I can start eighteen years from now and buy him his first cigar. Anyway, here goes:

You are the prime of the McEvan Clan,
Since a third generation was our demand.
Though the Wilsons are a pugnacious lot,
We pray you'll be grac'd; your sins forgot.
I know you so little, what is to be said,
But generic blessings that you will be fed.
Likely, I'll see you on occasions rare,
For a couple years you'll do nothing but stare.
Know thyself, and as well know thy name,
Know the man from whence it has fame.
Understand this: to be great is not far;
Live a pure life and then go to war.

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Pretense

I feign,
Thy look in main,
Pos'd with presented cane,
But well they see all me by lane.
She wants a man bearing a soft new vein,
So all these habits will belong to me ingrain'd.
Wilt thou keep with my clumsy walk, and I'll see you humane.
For women of the shallow lot do follow in a doting train,
As I strut with a swarthy walk, dressed full prim for defying all my pain.
Enlightened I am, cool for knowing secrets thee may hope to find; still thee I reign.
They begin to suspect my origins are falsely made to create a man level and sane.
My treatment seen as foolish talk, while deserters (once friends) call out my game.
But thee who had all seen it first did tell it me and made me plain,
Extend your thought for my repute paraphras'd you'd sain,
"Listen, young boy. It is a game where none doth gain;
That if you get wisdom in thy quick brain,
Rejected you become the bane,
Your presence they refrain.
These things inane,
Disdain."

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Love Letters

To Vicky -
"As you wish" cliche' may seem,
But Victoria's love, insubordinate's loss.
And if for other's love you deem,
Bring crusades to you as like the cross.

To your service,
Stu

---------------------------------

To Vicky -

At once when we had parted ways,
Your letters grew in length and mass.
So p'raps Victoria's love I may,
Take it full or leave it pass.

Formerly ignorant of thy love,
Steve

---------------------------------

To Stu -

How may I say with gracious response,
Of your kind, but grovelling tone;
That once I fell for your sweet ringing saunce,
A spine to be had, a submission of drones.

To be taken or left, with respect,
Vicky

---------------------------------

To Steve -

All at once by surprise you took,
My committed love, and received my honor.
Your gallantry met with no lustful look,
I exalt you high for not being the fawner.

At you will and discretion,
Vicky

By Evan Gunn Wilson

Hot Headed, Light Heart

The stubborn cannot view themselves as wrong, but what comes as more significant is whether or not others view them as wrong. The pride of life is a shallow thing and not much can be said about these people other than that their self serving tendencies have done them more wrong than right. Simply, when they become stubborn they are attempting to reverse the mounds of evidence that point towards them being wrong. In the end they only appear as a fool to the world and no dignified creature.

But I write not of that man. He may not learn anything till he admits he knows nothing. I write for another. Not in praise, but a clearing of the perspectives that have misinterpreted his actions. I write for the light hearted stubborn man. He who decides to hold to his position no matter what, while he has solemnly accepted his defeated stance. He loses the battle and still he fights for what he believes, but still he fights with resignation; with a smile on his face that says, "Gentle opponent, you have made me the unorthodox; good sir, you have made me taboo; gracious master, you have made me the insane. I, who am comically loyal to my stance, proved'st me wrong; for I lie here in the dirt and suck up the humors that may only make me weaker. Great victor, may I, by your leave, oppose you still in an arm wrestle that has predetermined consequences? I ask as a light hearted mule."

This supplication is all that must be understood when dealing with this man. How is he treating the loss? Does he attempt to return to it later to convince you still that he was right? Does he become embittered? No. Not this man of whom I speak. The experience for both parties should walk warily; all things said should be taken in good faith, provided that it is a discussion between Christians. And it should be noted that no hard feelings are solidified by the light hearted mule; but merely he plays a game.

Why is he this way? It is annoying. Well, quit being annoyed. He practices. Practice makes perfect. What is he practicing for, that warrants such blatant stubbornness? Sophistry. He wants to become a sophist. The sophist is a master of argument. His skill and talent in this typically cursed practice is so tuned, so precise, so threatening that he is able to argue any point regardless if he believes it, or regardless if it is objective truth. We will argue it and win. So, the youth that attempts such goals will lose and he will know it, but his stubbornness teaches him. It presents himself opportunity to practice (all in good fun and light hearts, if I can't stress that enough) the art of sophistry.

The Light Heart of the Youthful Opinionated

Tender young man on leave of thought,
Presents his case to the tiring room;
Not long after he starts, receives a shot,
Demoralized falls by that elder fume.
"Get thee gone, Boy! And do not Loom!",
Their aged epithets blocks his say,
Goes on, resigned, but seen to bray.

The rumors begin to flourish about,
That this young man's stubborn mind,
Cannot admit his wrong to the rout,
And rather is as the prideful kind.
But these family, friends he finds,
Cannot conceive the joy he brings,
For his opinions light hearted sings!

By Evan Gunn Wilson