Sherry Chandler

May Day

“Tis Beltane, that cross quarter celebration of spring, and I am reading a Stephen Booth novel about the Border Morris. Called Blind to the Bones, it was published in 2003 and I recommend it if you like that kind of thing at all.

And in what you might call a perfect storm, it is also Derby Day here in Kentucky. Although my julep syrup is chilling in the refrigerator, I plucked my mint in the rain. Rain may be an issue for the Derby, though as far as I know, it’s never been canceled.

So, here is a poem by Thomas More (1779–1852) with nary a horse, sprig of mint, or Morris dancer in it, nor is the moon new today. But I think the poem is in the right mood:

The Young May Moon

THE young May moon is beaming, love,
The glow-worm’s lamp is gleaming, love;
         How sweet to rove
        Through Morna’s grove,
When the drowsy world is dreaming, love!
Then awake!—the heavens look bright, my dear,
‘Tis never too late for delight, my dear;
        And the best of all ways
        To lengthen our days
Is to steal a few hours from the night, my dear!

Now all the world is sleeping, love,
But the Sage, his star-watch keeping, love,
        And I, whose star
        More glorious far
Is the eye from that casement peeping, love.
Then awake!—till rise of sun, my dear,
The Sage’s glass we’ll shun, my dear,
        Or in watching the flight
        Of bodies of light
He might happen to take thee for one, my dear!

— Thomas Moore, from Quiller-Couch, Arthur Thomas, Sir. The Oxford Book of English Verse. Oxford: Clarendon, 1919, [c1901]; Bartleby.com, 1999.

Thomas Moore is not Thomas More. Like Cinna the Poet in Shakespeare’s Julius Caesar, he might be thought unfortunate in his name.

Carl Sandburg

Remorse

The horse’s name was Remorse.
There were people said, �Gee, what a nag!�
And they were Edgar Allan Poe bugs and so
They called him Remorse.

When he was a gelding
He flashed his heels to other ponies
And threw dust in the noses of other ponies
And won his first race and his second
And another and another and hardly ever
Came under the wire behind the other runners.

And so, Remorse, who is gone, was the hero of a play
By Henry Blossom, who is now gone.

What is there to a monicker? Call me anything.
A nut, a cheese, something that the cat brought in.
Nick me with any old name.
Class me up for a fish, a gorilla, a slant head, an egg, a ham.
Only � slam me across the ears sometimes � and hunt for a white star
In my forehead and twist the bang of my forelock around it.
Make a wish for me. Maybe I will light out like a streak of wind.

—Carl Sandburg, from Smoke and Steel. New York: Harcourt, Brace and Howe, 1920; Bartleby.com, 2000.

Eight Belles

Few horses, male or female, inspire a nation shed tears at their deaths. Eight Belles won our hearts in two minutes.

Here’s her trainer, Larry Jones:

For Jones and the grooms and exercise riders who had cared for Eight Belles, it was a devastating end to what had been a wonderful weekend.

Before they began the long walk to the paddock for the Derby, Jones told his staff to remember that they already had an experience of a lifetime. �As long as she comes back to the barn, we�ve had a good weekend,� he said.

She was the only one in the pack who came anywhere near challenging Big Brown, who shows signs of being another super horse.

Horses are beautiful creatures. They love to run and their running is poetry.

Just bet on Stewball…

Derby Saturday dawns wet, at least here in Bourbon County where Big Brown was sired at Claiborne Farm (longtime home of Secretariat). I don�t know whether Big Brown is a mudder but I guess I�ll back the filly, Eight Belles.

I�m now following the Encyclopedia Brittanica on Twitter. Does that make you smile? EB compressed to 140 characters. However, since the widget below told me Danielle Steel is a poet, I may stick to Wikipedia.

I now officially give over this game of 100 word posts. If you like my truncated style, I will be tweeting in the right sidebar.