Morning Open Thread: Grab History’s Tail Once More

Welcome to MORNING OPEN THREAD, a daily post with a MOTley crew of hosts who choose the topic for the day's posting. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.

This author, who is on Pacific Coast Time, may sometimes show up later than when the post is published. That is a feature, not a bug. Other than that, site rulz rule.

So grab your cuppa, and join in.

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November 2 is the birth day of the Greek poet Odysseas Elytis, and the International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists.

Odysseas Elytis (1911-1996), Greek poet, essayist and translator, major figure in modern Greek poetry. From 1969 to 1972, he went into exile during the Greek military junta takeover of the Greek government. He was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature in 1979. Elytis died of a heart attack in 1996 at the age of 84. Though he never worked as a journalist, I am sure some of his poems were published in many newspapers after he won the Nobel Prize.

He described himself:

This then is I,

born for small Korai and the islands of the Aegean;

lover of the deer’s leaping

and priest of the olive leaves;

drinker of sun and killer of grasshoppers.

– Odysseas Elytis, from Axion Esti,

translated by Ruth Whitman

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2013– A U.N. resolution establishes November 2 as International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists. Between 2006 and 2017, over 1,000 journalists have been killed for reporting the news and informing the public. It’s estimated that only one in ten cases of violent crimes against journalists result in convictions. UNESCO believes that this escalating violence with impunity means that serious human rights abuses, corruption in government and business, and organized crime may go unreported and unchecked.

2020 UPDATE: According to the Committee to Protect Journalists, 1,387 journalists have been killed while working between 1992 and 2020. 885 of them were murdered. 101 of them were tortured before they were killed.

In honor of the International Day to End Impunity for Crimes against Journalists, here are some writers of poetry who also earned paychecks writing for newspapers.

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Rudyard Kipling was in India from 1883 to 1889 working for The Civil and Military Gazette in Lahore, and as a correspondent The Pioneer in Allahabad. In addition to news stories, he also wrote short stories and verse for the papers.

The Ballad of East and West

by Rudyard Kipling

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the twain shall meet,
Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great Judgment Seat;
But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor Breed, nor Birth,
When two strong men stand face to face, though they come from the ends of the earth!

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border side,
And he has lifted the Colonel's mare that is the Colonel's pride.
He has lifted her out of the stable-door between the dawn and day
And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden her far away.

Then up and spoke the Colonel's son that led a troop of the Guides
Is there never a man of all my men can say where Kamal hides? "
Then up and spoke Mohammed Khan, the son of the Ressaldar:
"If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye know where his pickets are.
"At dusk he harries the Abazai - at dawn he is into Bonair,
"But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place to fare.
"So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird can fly,
"By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he win to the Tongue of Jagai.
"But if he be past the Tongue of Jagai, right swiftly turn ye then,
"For the length and the breadth of that grisly plain is sown with Kamal's men.
"There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
"And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never a man is seen."

The Colonel's son has taken horse, and a raw rough dun was he,
With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell and the head of a gallows-tree.
The Colonel's son to the Fort has won, they bid him stay to eat
Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not long at his meat.
He's up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he can fly,
Till he was aware of his father's mare in the gut of the Tongue of Jagai,
Till he was aware of his father's mare with Kamal upon her back,
And when he could spy the white of her eye, he made the Pistol crack.
He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the whistling ball went wide.
Ye shoot like a soldier," Kamal said. " Show now if ye can ride!
It's up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown dust-devils go
The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare like a barren doe.
The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his head above,
But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a maiden plays with a glove.
There was rock to the left and rock to the right, and low lean thorn between,
And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho' never a man was seen.

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, their hoofs drum up the dawn,
The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare like a new-roused fawn.
The dun he fell at a water-course - in a woeful heap fell he,
And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and pulled the rider free.
He has knocked the pistol out of his hand - small room was there to strive,
'Twas only by favour of mine," quoth he, " ye rode so long alive:
"There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was not a clump of tree,
"But covered a man of my own men with his rifle cocked on his knee.
"If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it low,
"The little jackals that flee so fast were feasting all in a row.
"If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have held it high,
"The kite that whistles above us now were gorged till she could not fly."
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: "Do good to bird and beast,
"But count who come for the broken meats before thou makest a feast.
"If there should follow a thousand swords to carry my bones away.
"Belike the price of a jackal's meal were more than a thief could pay.
"They will feed their horse on the standing crop, their men on the garnered grain.
"The thatch of the byres will serve their fires when all the cattle are slain.
"But if thou thinkest the price be fair - thy brethren wait to sup,
"The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn - howl, dog, and call them up!
"And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer and gear and stack,
"Give me my father's mare again, and I'll fight my own way back! "

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him upon his feet.
"No talk shall be of dogs," said he, "when wolf and grey wolf meet.
"May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or breath;
"What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at the dawn with Death?"
Lightly answered the Colonel's son: " I hold by the blood of my clan:
Take up the mare for my father's gift - by God, she has carried a man!"
The red mare ran to the Colonel's son, and nuzzled against his breast;
"We be two strong men," said Kamal then, "but she loveth the younger best.
"So she shall go with a lifter's dower, my turquoise-studded rein,
"My 'broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver stirrup twain."
The Colonel's son a pistol drew, and held it muzzle-end,
"Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he. "Will ye take the mate from a friend?"
"A gift for a gift," said Kamal straight; "a limb for the risk of a limb.
"Thy father has sent his son to me, I'll send my son to him!"
With that he whistled his only son, that dropped from a mountain-crest
He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he looked like a lance in rest.
"Now here is thy master," Kamal said, "who leads a troop of the Guides,
"And thou must ride at his left side as shield on shoulder rides.
"Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and board and bed,
"Thy life is his - thy fate it is to guard him with thy head.
"So, thou must eat the White Queen's meat, and all her foes are thine,
"And thou must harry thy father's hold for the peace of the Border-line.
"And thou must make a trooper tough and hack thy way to power
"Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I am hanged in Peshawur! "

They have looked each other between the eyes, and there they found no fault.
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on leavened bread and salt:
They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood on fire and fresh-cut sod,
On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and the Wondrous Names of God.

The Colonel's son he rides the mare and Kamal's boy the dun,
And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where there went forth but one.
And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full twenty swords flew clear
There was not a man but carried his feud with the blood of the mountaineer.
Ha' done! ha' done! " said the Colonel's son. " Put up the steel at your sides!
Last night ye had struck at a Border thief - to-night 't is a man of the Guides!"

“The Ballad of East and West” from The Collected Poems of Rudyard Kipling – Wordsworth Editions – 1999

Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936) was born in Bombay, India, but returned with his parents to England at the age of five; English novelist, poet, short-story writer, children’s author, and journalist. In the late 19^th and early 20^th centuries, he was an immensely popular author. In 1907, he was awarded the Nobel Prize in Literature, as the first English-language writer to receive the prize, and at 41, was its youngest recipient to that date. His reputation has since suffered – George Orwell called him a “jingo imperialist” who was “morally insensitive”– but he remains in print because he is a consummate story-teller. Noted for Kim, The Jungle Book, Just So Stories, Captains Courageous, and his poems If, Gunga Din, and Recessional.

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L.M. Montgomery was best known as the author Anne of Green Gables, but before the book’s publication made her a famous author, from 1901 to 1902, she worked in Halifax as a substitute proofreader for the newspapers Morning Chronicle and The Daily Echo, and also wrote poetry. Many of her short stories and poems were first published in newspapers.

To My Enemy

by L.M. Montgomery

Let those who will of friendship sing,
And to its guerdon grateful be,
But I a lyric garland bring
To crown thee, O, mine enemy!
_.

Thanks, endless thanks, to thee I owe
For that my lifelong journey through
Thine honest hate has done for me
What love perchance had failed to do.
_.

I had not scaled such weary heights
But that I held thy scorn in fear,
And never keenest lure might match
The subtle goading of thy sneer.

Thine anger struck from me a fire
That purged all dull content away,
Our mortal strife to me has been
Unflagging spur from day to day.

And thus, while all the world may laud
The gifts of love and loyalty,
I lay my meed of gratitude
Before thy feet, mine enemy!

“To My Enemy” from The Poetry of Lucy Maud Montgomery, 1999 edition – Fitzhenry & Whiteside Ltd

L.M. Montgomery (1874-1942) born as Lucy Maud Montgomery, Canadian novelist, short story writer, poet, and essayist. In 1908, her first novel, Anne of Green Gables, was an immediate success, and was followed by several sequels. Many of her stories are set in Prince Edward Island, Canada’s smallest province, and her books made it a popular tourist destination. She was raised there by her maternal grandparents because her mother died when she was an infant. It was a lonely childhood, and she created imaginary friends and make-believe places. She went to Prince of Wales College to earn a teacher’s license, completing the two-program in one year, then studied literature at Dalhousie University in Halifax, Nova Scotia. She worked as a teacher, but didn’t enjoy it, and spent her spare time writing. She became engaged, but broke off the engagement, and in 1898, moved back to Cavendish to live with her widowed grandmother, until she died in 1911. The press portrayed her as the “ideal young woman author”– a shy school teacher, wanting to write only part-time, her femininity “unspoiled.” The portrait was not much like the real Montgomery, who wrote a friend, "I am frankly in literature to make a living out of it." Shortly after her grandmother’s death, at the age of 37, she married Ewen MacDonald, a Presbyterian minister, with whom she had little in common. The marriage was difficult from the start - the ‘manse’ provided by the church lacked a toilet and bathroom, and her husband became increasingly depressed. Convinced that he was not of ‘the Elect’ chosen by God to go to heaven, he would sit for hours staring into space. He did nothing to help raise their children, and Montgomery suffered from bouts of depression herself. Writing was her solace. She died in 1942 of coronary thrombosis, at the age of 67. Her husband outlived her by about a year.

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Langston Hughes wrote a weekly column from 1942 to 1962 for one of the major black newspapers, The Chicago Defender

Night Funeral in Harlem

by Langston Hughes

Night funeral
In Harlem:

Where did they get
Them two fine cars?

Insurance man, he did not pay—
His insurance lapsed the other day—
Yet they got a satin box
for his head to lay.

Night funeral
In Harlem:

Who was it sent
That wreath of flowers?

Them flowers came
from that poor boy's friends—
They'll want flowers, too,
When they meet their ends.

Night funeral
in Harlem:

Who preached that
Black boy to his grave?

Old preacher man
Preached that boy away—
Charged Five Dollars
His girl friend had to pay.

Night funeral
In Harlem:

When it was all over
And the lid shut on his head
and the organ had done played
and the last prayers been said
and six pallbearers
Carried him out for dead
And off down Lenox Avenue
That long black hearse done sped,
The street light
At his corner
Shined just like a tear— That boy that they was mournin'
Was so dear, so dear
To them folks that brought the flowers,
To that girl who paid the preacher man—
It was all their tears that made
That poor boy's
Funeral grand.

Night funeral
In Harlem.

Langston Hughes (1902-1967) was born in Joplin Missouri. After working his way to Europe as a ship’s crewman, he spent time in Paris, and London, then returned to the states, spending time in Washington DC, where he met Vachel Lindsay, who helped him gain recognition. He became one of the leaders of the Harlem Renaissance in New York City. In 1954, Hughes was awarded the Spingarn Medal by the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).

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Maya Angelou was a journalist in the 1960s, working for The Arab Observer and TheAfrican Review.

A Plagued Journey

by Maya Angelou

There is no warning rattle at the door
nor heavy feet to stomp the foyer boards.
Safe in the dark prison, I know that
light slides over
the fingered work of a toothless
woman in Pakistan.
Happy prints of
an invisible time are illumined.
My mouth agape
rejects the solid air and
lungs hold. The invader takes
direction and
through the plaster walls.
It is at my chamber, entering
the keyhole, pushing
through the padding of the door.
I cannot scream. A bone
of fear clogs my throat.
It is upon me. It is
sunrise, with Hope
its arrogant rider.
My mind, formerly quiescent
in its snug encasement, is strained
to look upon their rapturous visages,
to let them enter even into me.
I am forced
outside myself to
mount the light and ride joined with Hope.

Through all the bright hours
I cling to expectation, until
darkness comes to reclaim me
as its own. Hope fades, day is gone
into its irredeemable place
and I am thrown back into the familiar
bonds of disconsolation.
Gloom crawls around
lapping lasciviously
between my toes, at my ankles,
and it sucks the strands of my
hair. It forgives my heady
fling with Hope. I am
joined again into its
greedy arms.

Maya Angelou (1928-2014) was born Marguerite Annie Johnson in St. Louis Missouri. She was an American poet, memoirist and civil rights activist. She published three books of essays, several books of poetry, and also wrote plays, movies, and television shows spanning over 50 years. Her best-known work remains the first of her seven memoirs, I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings. She is also noted for “On the Pulse of Morning,” the poem she recited at the 2009 inauguration of President Barack Obama. Angelou was honored in 2011 with the Presidential Medal of Freedom.

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