6.17.2026 – out she swung – far out

out she swung – far out
twixt heaven and earth .. curfew
shall not ring tonight

According to Wikipedia, Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight is a narrative poem by Rose Hartwick Thorpe, written in 1867 and set in the 17th century.

Thorpe wrote her poem in 1867, following the American Civil War, while living in Litchfield, Michigan. She traded the manuscript to a Detroit newspaper in exchange for a subscription. The original newspaper printing has never been found, but the poem was widely printed before the first version in book form in 1882.

Thorpe’s poem, a favorite of Queen Victoria’s, was one of the most popular of the 19th century, but later faded into obscurity. An 8-foot monument in Litchfield, Michigan along State Highway 99 honors the poem and author’s connection to that town.

Litchfield adopted the title of the poem as a symbol, having fire trucks and the city website show the symbol of a bell reading “Curfew Shall Not Ring Tonight”. A bell in the center of Litchfield commemorates the poem and Thorpe’s time spent in the town

Oddly enough while Wikipedia entry for the poem, it mentions that the poem was written in Litchfield, Michigan and that a highway marker commemorates that fact, the Wikipedia entry for Litchfield does not list Rose Hartwick Thorpe under famous people from Litchfield.

But I digress.

Wikipedia does mention that An illustrated version of this poem is contained in Fables for Our Time and Famous Poems Illustrated by James Thurber (1940).

My research shows that the James Thurber’s Illustrated Poem first appeared in the New Yorker Magazine 87 years ago today, June 17, 1939.

In his book working at the New Yorker Magazine, The Years with Ross, Thurber writes that editor Harold Ross was fond of the Illustrated Poem series writing, “Why in God’s name did you stop doing the illustrated poems? There are forty million other verses in the English language, many of them unquestionably suitable for Thurber illustration.”

Thurber says he responded, “As for the illustrated poems, they began when I sent St. Clair McKelway, from Frederick, Maryland, the Barbara Frietchie drawings, and they ended when I tried Poe’s Raven, and it turned into a common cornfield crow.”

My research shows that The Raven never appeared in the magazine, but was published in the book, Thurber and Company, in 1966.

Here is the complete poem.

Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight

England’s sun was slowly setting oe’r the hilltops far away,
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one sad day;
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and maiden fair,–
He with steps so slow and weary; she with sunny, floating hair;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she, with lips all cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Sexton,” Bessie’s white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls dark, damp and cold,–
“I’ve a lover in the prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset;” and her lips grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

“Bessie,” calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced her young heart
Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly poisoned dart),
“Long, long years I’ve rung the curfew from that gloomy, shadowed tower;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twilight hour.
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right:
Now I’m old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must ring to-night!”

Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her secret bosom, Bessie made a solemn vow.
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
“At the ringing of the curfew, Basil Underwood must die.”
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew large and bright;
One low murmur, faintly spoken. “Curfew must not ring to-night!”

She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within the old church-door,
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he’d trod so oft before.
Not one moment paused the maiden, But with eye and cheek aglow,
Staggered up the gloomy tower, Where the bell swung to and fro;
As she climbed the slimy ladder, On which fell no ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

She has reached the topmost ladder, o’er her hangs the great dark bell;
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway down to hell.
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging; ’tis the hour of curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with sudden light,
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Out she swung,– far out. The city Seemed a speck of light below,–
There twixt heaven and earth suspended, As the bell swung to and fro.
And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard not the bell,
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil’s funeral knell.
“Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair face white,
Stilled her frightened heart’s wild throbbing: “Curfew shall not ring tonight!”

It was o’er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred years before,
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that she had done
Should be told long ages after. As the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with heads of white,
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one sad night.

O’er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; and her brow,
Lately white with sickening horror, has no anxious traces now.
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands, all bruised and torn;
And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the anguish it had worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light.
“Go! your lover lives,” said Cromwell. “Curfew shall not ring to-night!”

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die,
All his bright young life before him. Neath the darkening English sky,
Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with lovelight sweet;
Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet.
In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the face upturned and white,
Whispered, “Darling, you have saved me, curfew will not ring to-night.”

5.28.2026 – to shoot the wall clock

to shoot the wall clock
make it stop, better yet, keep
backing up slowly

It’s not so comic the way that clocks race themselves with us in fragile tow and it’s not enough to say “What are we waiting for?” or “Why are we holding back?” though that might occur to us later.

We are far less capable of those radical emotional moves advocated by magazines that specialize in puddle-deep psychologisms, the usual seven steps to a victorious emotional life, as if we could put ourselves on a figurative grease rack or automated assembly line for overhaul.

It was all so ordinary though I wanted to shoot the wall clock, over and over. Anything to make it stop or, better yet, keep backing up slowly.

From True North by Jim Harrison (New York, Grove Press, 2004).

I woke from a dream the other morning where all was as it was when I was a kid on the shore of Lake Michigan.

It was a disappointment when I woke and realized it was a dream.

It was all so ordinary though I wanted to shoot the wall clock, over and over.

Anything to make it stop or, better yet, keep backing up slowly.

You can’t can you?

5.23.2026 – asked her whether

asked her whether
she meant I hope or in a
hopeful frame of mind

The first time we heard the word “hopefully” used to mean something it doesn’t mean was from the lips of a pretty woman whom we were wining and dining in a restaurant.

We asked her when she expected to move into her apartment, and she answered, “Hopefully on Tuesday.” We laid down our fork and asked her whether she meant “I hope on Tuesday” or whether she meant “On Tuesday in a hopeful frame of mind.”

She then laid down her fork and wanted to know what the hell we were driving at.

She confessed that she saw nothing wrong with “Hopefully on Tuesday.”

Rather than labor the thing, we shifted subjects; it is not our policy to badger pretty women. Since that memorable occasion, we have encountered this use of “hopefully” at every turn.

It is all over the place and has, we suspect, come into the language.

Time, always elegant in its rhetoric, appeared not long ago with this sobering sentence: “The Government would like to bring the case to a quick trial, hopefully before the end of January.”

Lacking a fork to lay down, we simply laid down the magazine.

EB White in Notes and Comment, The New Yorker Magazine, March 27, 1965.

Not sure about but lunch with EB White and his wife, Katherine Angell White, the editor who made the New Yorker Magazine into the New Yorker Magazine … sounds terrifying.

I am full of hope not to ever have to explain these essays to them.

5.22.2026 – weren’t satisfied with

weren’t satisfied with
having money unless there
were many who didn’t

Oddly, it wasn’t the poverty that ground against the sensibilities so hard that depressed me the most but the attitude of many of the more fortunate who weren’t satisfied with having money unless there were many who didn’t have it.

Even quasi-religious people liked to quote Jesus as saying, “The poor you have with you always,” neglecting to add that he didn’t say to sit on your ass and don’t do anything about it.

The thought that my country accepts the idea that a quarter of its citizens are destined to be social mutants peels my nerves.

Our compassion quotient has seemed to lower a bit more every year of my adult life.

I never much minded when my colleagues would tease me for being a “bleeding heart” because if your heart doesn’t bleed you’re dead, and you’ve become just another greedy little shit factory on life’s way.

From The Road Home by Jim Harrison (New York, Grove Press, 2004).

Yes of late I have been drawing a lot of inspiration from Mr. Harrison and The Road Home of late.

You can guess that I am re-reading it again and wonder if the power of some of Mr. Harrison’s writing would have been lessened had he left some of the rawness out of it.

But this is like trying to draw life lessons from watching the Soprano’s and wishing they could have dropping the violence.

The life frustrations of Tony in his sessions with the psychiatrist (“If my calling is so important, PICK UP THE PHONE”) I guess need the contrast with the miserable life of a mobster.

But I digress.

Our compassion quotient has seemed to lower a bit more every year of my adult life.

I could start with the compassion quotient but you could add almost any other aspect of life and it has seemed to lower a bit more every year.

It seems that I have read stories that for the first time, the next generation of Americans are looking at a worse world then the previous generation had.

We could start with that current man in the oval office and go down hill from there.

I read books and poems about a filled with bird song and all I have around my house is the caw caw of crows.

I read books filled with exclamations of wonder and beauty over the salt sea breeze and where I live on the Atlantic Coast of South Carolina, what you get is the pluff mud of the salt march which smells of dirty diapers.

Sports are money pits with nothing to do about sports.

I am tired of raging against the machine.

There is just too much money, dead money, money that isn’t doing anything but sitting in banks in account and doing nothing.

I don’t like to go to Woody Allen but in Annie Hall, the artist (Max von Sydow) says:

Money, money, money! If Jesus came back, and saw what’s going on in his name, he’d never stop throwing up.

5.20.2026 – the question, of course

the question, of course,
is how you can make your soul
clap its hands and sing

The question, of course, is how you make your soul clap its hands and sing.

My bones seemed built out of incomprehension.

The road was rutted enough by winter rains so that the car drove itself.

I was ringed by four mountain ranges in this valley but then natural beauty seems to offer no more than you can bring to it. There was scarcely a patch in a thousand square miles I hadn’t covered on foot.

Looking down you see blue and black gama, side oats gama, curly mesquite, sprangle-top, and the grassy skin of the local earth.

Straight up is invariably sky.

Up in my own country it was apparently our nature to kill seventy million buffalo just as it was our nature to destroy the Native cultures.

History will not help your soul clap its hands and sing but it is unconscionable to proceed without knowing it.

From True North by Jim Harrison (New York, Grove Press, 2004).

Mr. Harrison is referencing the poem, Sailing to Byzantium by William Butler Yeats.

Mr. Harrison quotes the 2nd of 4 stanzas.

An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing
For every tatter in its mortal dress,
Nor is there singing school but studying
Monuments of its own magnificence;
And therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing.

And louder sing.

An aged man is but a paltry thing.

History will not help your soul clap its hands and sing but it is unconscionable to proceed without knowing it.

So much news of late.

How frail our constitution was.

How frail life is.

Therefore I have sailed the seas and come
To the holy city of Byzantium.

BTW – to make this work, I had to add a word to Mr. Harrison’s words … have a feeling he would not have been happy but when I do the same thing to Shakespeare and Sandburg …