William Ernest Henley's Invictus by Kaye Spencer #poetry #firestarpress

I’m continuing this month with another of my favorite poems. My May article HERE was about My Papa’s Waltz by Theodore Roethke. My June article HERE was about Ernest Lawrence Thayer’s poem, Casey at the Bat.

The poem I’m writing today is Invictus by William Ernest Henley, which is one of several poems I’ve memorized. You can read the poem HERE.

William Ernest Henley-courtesy Wikipedia

 

Here is a bit about his life¹/² —

Henley was born in Gloucester, England in 1849 (d. 1903). When he was 12, he was diagnosed with tubercular arthritis that resulted in the amputation of one of his legs just below the knee. Years later, his other foot was saved due to the care of Dr. Joseph Lister. Henley spent three years in the hospital in the care of Dr. Lister, who treated his diseased foot with what was at that time a radical approach.

During this hospital stay, Henley began to write poems. This is also when he met, and became friends with, Robert Louis Stevenson. It is said that Stevenson based his Long John Silver character in Treasure Island on Henley.

Henley and his wife had a daughter, Margaret, but she was a sickly child and only lived to be five years old. J. M. Barrie, a friend of the family, was fond of Margaret. In her speech-challenged way, she called Barrie her fwendy-wendy, which inspired Barrie to use the name Wendy in his story of Peter Pan.

Henley wrote Invictus in 1875. He published it in 1888 in his first volume of poetry, A book of verses. Click HERE for more information. His poetry is available through Project Gutenberg. 

Invictus is a poem that speaks to us with a universal message that we must reach way down into our Will to Live, grab it with both hands, and never let go despite the challenges we’re facing or experiencing. It tells us to find the courage to go on in the face of hopelessness—whatever that hopelessness is on an individual and personal basis.

Another way to summarize this poem might be controlling what we can (our reactions and attitudes) when things around us are out of control (life’s not-so-pleasant challenges).

My reaction to this poem is this:

The first stanza is affirmation of the spiritual strength that keeps him going. It’s interesting that he doesn’t narrow his spiritual support to a particular denomination or belief. It’s spiritual strength that means something different to each person who reads this poem.

The second stanza explains his steadfast determination to meet adversity, hopelessness, and challenges head on and not only never back down, but to never complain. As my brother-in-law used to tell his kids when they played baseball and were hit in the chest by the pitcher’s fast ball: Don’t let that kid know he can throw hard enough to hurt you.

The third stanza is another affirmation of standing tall and courageous through it all, while also facing the unknown of the future, or even what comes after death, with dignity and fearlessness.

The fourth stanza (with allusion to a phrase from the King James Bible³) wraps up the poem with a declaration of pride that no matter the dire situation he faced in the past or will face in the future, which are both out of his control, he can control how he reacts. Hence, the famous lines…

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

This poem resonates with me because, like all of us, I’ve experienced hopelessness, heartache, injury, illness, and death. I’ve doubted my purpose in life, but I’ve soldiered on. I’ve put one foot in front of the other with the belief that tomorrow is another day.

Back in my teaching days, one of the graduating classes chose this poem as their creed. As a group, they recited Invictus to the audience on graduation day. It was a proud moment for me as their English teacher that the units we did on poetry all through junior high and high school (through which I dragged more than a few of students kicking and screaming) had been worth it.

Here is Morgan Freeman reciting Invictus. His reading is a tribute to Nelson Mandela, who reportedly relied upon this poem to help him through the ordeal he faced for so many years.

Until next time,
Kaye Spencer

 

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References:

1. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Ernest_Henley 

2. https://www.poetryoutloud.org/poem/invictus/

3. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Invictus

The Book Tour Episode Eighteen: Panama City, Pelicans, and Jim Bikeman

  

A winter morning in Panama City, and the temperature is hovering at around 90. I pass a pawn shop where a mink coat is for sale for $229. Mink?

“I’m originally from Mississippi,” says an American flag woman apropos of nothing: flag on the front of her t-shirt, flag on her baseball cap, flag trousers. In her arm is a large plant. “I’m here in town to see my son. He’s off to Koo – ate. Now I live in the Keys.”

“I knew the Keys years ago,” I say, a trifle unsure. Is she referring to the Florida Keys? “Back in the 1950s, they were quite wild and beautiful.”

“Now that’s all ruined,” she says. “All them tourists.”

“And malls. And roads,” I add.

“Malls? We got some beautiful malls. It’s the crimes that’s bad. We people have to be armed these days against the criminals. I got a permit for a concealed weapon in my car. All my friends do. We’re all widows.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” I say mildly.

“We have a great time.”

            Spanish explorers arrived here in the 1500s searching for gold, but there was none to be found. Hurricanes destroyed their colonies, and thanks to European-imported disease, there were too few natives round to be used for forced agricultural labor, therefore Florida remained a backwater. It was, however, a handy hidey-hole for pirates preying on ships traveling between Mexico and Spain, and they buried their treasure in the sandy beaches, then forgot to come back, or were killed off before they could: in the 1800s, there were still plenty of doubloons to be found.

The French arrived, built Fort Crevecoeur (broken heart), then left. The English settled, developed a thriving trade network with the local Chatot as well as Creeks pushed out of Alabama and Georgia by American settlers. After independence, the British departed, and American settlers decided that the native population was unnecessary. The natives naturally disagreed, and only after the long and violent Seminole Wars (1816 to 1868) were they evicted en masse and sent on to poverty and starvation in Oklahoma and Arkansas. Some managed to stay on, hiding in the forests, becoming trappers, farmers, and lumbermen: only recently have a few acknowledged their ancestry.

Panama City is now a modern holiday paradise and snowbird refuge, and condominiums, streets, restaurants, housing developments, and hotels all pay tribute to pelicans: Pelican Walk, Pelican’s Nest, Pelican Pointe, the Pelican Grill, the Pelican Ice Cream Bar, Pelican’s Peak. Pelicans are gregarious birds, traveling in flocks, hunting together, breeding in colonies, and nesting on the ground; and even enthusiastic tourist brochures cheerily encourage folks to go pelican sighting. What isn’t mentioned is the very rocky relationship between humans and these birds. Accused of competing with fishing, pelicans have been clubbed to death and shot by “sportsmen” from ship decks. Their eggs have been deliberately destroyed, and the young birds have been massacred. Feeding and nesting sites are degraded by water management schemes and wetland drainage, and in the 1950s and 1960s, DDT pollution was a major cause of decline. In Louisiana, the decrease in the pelican population was so drastic, 500 pelicans were imported from Florida: over 300 subsequently died from pesticide poisoning. In California in 1990 and 1991, 14,000 pelicans died perished from botulism or from eating fish contaminated with neurotoxic domoic acid, the result of environmental damage. Today’s threats include oil spills; fish hooks that are swallowed, caught in their skin and webbed feet; fishing lines that wind around their necks, feet, bills, and cause crippling, starvation, and death.

Once upon a time, where there are now condominiums, expensive homes, parking lots, and flashy hotels along the beach drive, there was a tiny private cemetery with the graves of John Clark (1766-1832), his wife Nancy (1874-1832), and several of their descendants. Clark, once governor of Georgia, had come here to protect the extensive oak forests used by the US navy for shipbuilding. But this was swampy mosquito-infested country, and in 1832, both Clark and his wife died of yellow fever. Their graves remained untouched for a hundred years until neighbors began complaining: they couldn’t sleep comfortably at night because they could hear haunted horses hooves clanking against the abandoned gravestones. The protests increased, and the Daughters of the American Revolution finally raised enough money to have the gravestones and coffins sent back to Georgia. However, when finally excavated, only coffin handles and one silver dime were found.

Most interestingly (for me) is Clark’s long-forgotten romance: In his younger days, he fell passionately in love with an orphan, a Miss Chivers. It was a bad choice: she was the sister-in-law of Jesse Mercer, a pastor, a fanatically religious born again Christian. Mercer disapproved of the match, but Clark defied him and eloped with his beloved. They rode for hours through a cold winter night looking for a preacher who would marry them (supposedly no one wanted to defy a man as influential as Mercer) until Miss Chivers took ill. The couple finally found refuge in a friend’s home, but it was too late: Miss Chivers died from pneumonia. Of course, Mercer held Clark responsible for her death.

I wander down Harrison Avenue, just another nondescript shopping street with the usual stores, and roaring traffic, but it was once lined with tall noble oaks. The local men despised these graceful giants, claiming they were a danger to cars and wagons, but the town ladies protested that they provided both beauty and shade, and rebelliously, mounted a guard to protect them. The men were not to be foiled: meeting secretly one night when the ladies were safely tucked away, they cut every single one down.

Some streets behind the city are still tree-lined and hint at a paradise lost: but a potentially lovely little stream stinks terribly and pushed under the tangled vegetation are Styrofoam cups, truck tires, used baby diapers, condoms, needles, and other horrors.

“Are you looking for a place to sleep?” asks a young, open-faced man in a cowboy hat. He has seen me poking around and decided I’m one of the homeless, about to cozy down.

“Well, you’ve missed the mission dinner,” says another. He’s wearing a baseball cap and pushing a bicycle with myriad sacks hanging from the handlebars and piled high with bundles, protest signs, a compass, large reflector light, and a small electric guitar, which he immediately unpacks to quietly serenade me. Of course, this is the one and only Jim Bikeman, local homeless celebrity, self-declared activist fighting police abuse, bad treatment of the homeless, and noise: His office is the local library where he reads up on things, learns all he can, checks his email, prepares to fight cases in court, and keeps up his website (https://dirtycopperstopper.com/). As he states in his, Poor Man’s Bill of Rights: I will at all times treat people in a manner that I would want to be treated and will expect that I will get treated just as harshly as I treat others, especially those who are harmless, homeless, financially poor, confused, and will never falsely arrest anybody out of hate, spite, power.

“Most people think I’m nuts, but here’s my main message.” He points to the sign strapped to the back of his bike: Be Nice.

 He’s right, of course. All we have to do is be as nice as possible. That doesn’t sound nuts to me.

More about my books and passionate life can be found at http://www.j-arleneculiner.com

and http://www.jill-culiner.com

and on my story podcast at https://soundcloud.com/j-arlene-culiner

COVID-BRAIN, by Mollie Hunt, Cat Writer

Are you feeling strange? A slump in energy? A change in writing habits? An excess of anxiety? Do you spend an inordinate amount of time on the couch watching movies? Maybe even old television series you would not have bothered with before this grand isolation came about? Do you eat at odd hours, wake during the night, sleep later than usual, take a nap (or two) during the day?

For a while, many eons ago last March and April, many of us went crazy cleaning, gardening, cooking, playing with pets. But that burst of savage energy wound down at some point, and here we are, dead in the water. A friend of mine calls it Covid-brain. It's not that we have the virus, but our lives are impacted by it just the same.

Some of us are sick with headaches, body aches, fatigue, stomach and gut issues. Do you wonder at times, Is this it? Do I have it? Am I going to die? Or has the situation induced an anxiety episode or brought on depression? Those of us who live with mental health issues are always on the brink of a fall. Since depression and anxiety can be triggered by nothing whatsoever, the fact life as we know it has changed, that a deadly virus threatens our lives and the lives of our loved ones, that leadership is lacking and the country is divided, the fact that we are not the only country to be falling apart, the fact that some people think it’s okay to threaten others... oh, God, need I go on? Yeah, if we don’t have anxiety by now, we’re not paying attention.

I am an optimist. I believe everything that’s happening is moving us on a path that needs to be taken if we are to find peace. But lately it’s been hard to see past the symptoms of upheaval to the better things to come.

I am writing 3 books. One is a sci-fantasy about cats changing the world. (Oh, how I wish those kitties could jump in and save us now!); one is the first of a new cozy series; and one is the seventh in another set of cozies. I can still do that, though for the first time, I find myself wondering why I bother. My sales aren’t great and I have no heart for advertising. I finally recognized the feeling I’d been carrying around for the past month as, “I give up.”

I give up.

But I’ll still keep on writing and taking care of cats.
I will be a good person.
I will not hate.
I will not ridicule.
I will try to empathize with every single person.
If that’s not enough in the face of global bedlam, tough.

Characters Making Surprise Visits by Sarah J. McNeal #TheWildingsSeries #TheViolin

15 Regiment Calvary

I took a character from a book outside my Wildings series, THE VIOLIN, and placed that character in FOR LOVE OF BANJO, the second book in the Wilding series. Actually, I could not resist the temptation because the time line overlapped. These two stories are not related, but they do both hold a time element that is related: World War I.

Banjo Wilding joins the U.S. Calvary to fight alongside our allies in Europe during the “Great War.” Because he’s in the Calvary, his loved ones believe him safe from the dreaded trenches in France. But Banjo’s fate is determined by Colonel William Hay (a real person) has other plans. As they sit astride their horses at the edge of the forest near the battlefield, Col. William Hay speaks to his men and gives them their orders.  

“Our English and American brothers have been fighting in those trenches for six months. They have endured every kind of discomfort for the sake of our country and freedom. I know you didn’t join the Regiment to fight in a trench, but you are brave men who know your duty. You will ride as fast as your horse can carry you toward the trenches. Some of you and your mounts won’t make it, but, for those who survive the first onslaught from America’s enemies, you will reach the trench. When you do, your orders are to dismount, and relieve a soldier, who will then ride your horse from the battlefield. You will take his place.”

This order was an historical truth.

Banjo, an experienced horseman rides Ajax to the trenches, leaps from his back, and finds a soldier to replace. Now just who is Banjo going to choose?

Left to Right: Donald, "Jimmy" (my dad), and John McNeal

Well, it came to me almost instantly. In my almost true time travel novel, THE VIOLIN, John Douglas, the hero, has a brother name Donald Lee Douglas who served in World War I. Shucks, I wasn’t about to pass up that opportunity so I slipped Donald into the scene.

EXCERPT:

Horses screamed in agony as bullets found them. Men cried out and fell to the ground with mortal wounds. Ajax sped forward, the trench just a few more yards ahead. Banjo’s heart raced; his breath hitched. Ajax moved like the wind, solid muscle and bravery beneath him.

  When they reached the trench, the stench of it gagged Banjo. He reined Ajax to a halt. A quick glance around told him only half the Regiment made it. Colonel Hay shouted the dreaded order. “Dismount!”

Banjo dismounted, grabbed his kit and gear then spoke his last words to his faithful horse. “You take this soldier out of this hell and back to his loved ones. You’re a good horse, Ajax. You take care of yourself now.” Banjo patted him one last time on the withers, then hurried to the ladder and made his way down into the pit. The soldiers in the trench were filthy and their smell almost made him retch. Their faces lit up when they saw him. Someone’s freedom had arrived. Banjo took a young soldier by the arm who couldn’t have been more than eighteen years of age.  His face was barely recognizable as human for the dirt and mud caked on it.

“What’s your name, soldier? Where do you call home?” Banjo had to raise his voice to a shout over the din of noise that surrounded him.

“Corporal Donald Lee Douglas, Sir, Thirty-second Battalion, Eighty-fifth Infantry Division under General Parker. My home is Numidia, Pennsylvania.” The lad saluted Banjo.

“No need to be formal, Corporal Douglas. I’m just a sergeant, and I’m here to relieve you.”

A white grin spread across the muddied face. He shook hands with Banjo. “Tell me the name of your family and I promise I’ll get word to them that I saw you here. It’s the least I can do for the man taking my place.”

“Maggie Wilding is my wife.” Banjo drew a piece of paper from his chest pocket. He had scribbled the address of the O’Leary ranch on it along with a short note that told Maggie he was in France, in good health, and that he loved her. “Send this note to that address and I’ll bless you every day.” Banjo glanced around at the mud and pools of rancid water in the floor of the trench illuminated by the sporadic glow of gunfire. He made a mental promise to himself and those he loved that would not die in this damned rotten ditch.

“Consider it done, Sergeant. I owe you a debt I can never repay.” The boy peered at Banjo with solemn eyes, a startling blue within his dirt-caked face.

“I hope you know how to ride a horse, Douglas. Just ride west for the tree line and you’ll be out of range.” Banjo clapped him on the shoulder. “Now, get the hell out of here before they shoot my horse.”

“Yes, sir…I mean—Sergeant.” He started up the ladder but paused on the fifth rail and turned to Banjo. “What did you say your name was? I don’t want to forget. I want to be able to tell my folks the name of the man who saved my life.”

“It’s Banjo Wilding. Now, get going, Corporal Douglas, before daylight catches you.”

The lad smiled. “Thank you, I won’t forget you—not ever.” 

Toward the end of the book Donald Douglas reappears for a short, but important scene. A word about THE VIOLIN: I mentioned it is an almost true story. Most of the characters in it are real from my own ancestry though the story is completely fictional. Donald Lee Douglas was my father’s oldest brother whom I never met. He died long before I was born. His real name was Donald Lee McNeal. He was a civil engineer who worked as an inventor for Westinghouse in Pittsburg, PA, and he did, indeed, serve in World War I.

As a writer, have you ever taken a character from an unrelated book and had he or she walk onto the pages of another book you wrote? If so, what compelled you to do it?

As a reader, have you ever read a book by an author you followed in which a character (not in a series) was reintroduced into a story by the author? Do you think that character drew you deeper into the story or do you wish the author hadn’t done it?

 Sarah J. McNeal

Diverse stories filled with heart

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