Looking back at Lincoln: On February 25, 1847

On this day in 1847, Abraham Lincoln wrote a letter to his friend and fellow Whig lawyer, Andrew Johnston, granting him permission to publish a poem that Lincoln had written.

The poem is divided into sections called cantos, which Lincoln originally mailed to Johnston one at a time with an accompanying letter as each one was completed. It appears a third and final canto was included with this reply from Lincoln; although for some reason Johnston decided not to send it along to be published with the rest of the poem.

The poem's first two cantos were published anonymously - mailed in by Johnston - in the Quincy Whig on May 5, 1847. The poem was titled "The Return."

Springfield, February 25, 1847.

Dear Johnston: Yours of the 2d of December was duly delivered to me by Mr. Williams. [2] To say the least, I am not at all displeased with your proposal to publish the poetry, or doggerel, or whatever else it may be called, which I sent you. I consent that it may be done, together with the third canto, which I now send you. [3] Whether the prefatory remarks in my letter shall be published with the verses, I leave entirely to your discretion; but let names be suppressed by all means. I have not sufficient hope of the verses attracting any favorable notice to tempt me to risk being ridiculed for having written them.

Why not drop into the paper, at the same time, the ``half dozen stanzas of your own''? Or if, for any reason, it suit your feelings better, send them to me, and I will take pleasure in putting them in the paper here. Family well, and nothing new. Yours sincerely,

A. LINCOLN.

Christie's 6/8/90

When Lincoln had originally completed and sent Johnston the initial canto, he described the circumstances that inspired him to write the poem as follows:

"In the fall of 1844, thinking I might aid some to carry the State of Indiana for Mr. Clay, I went into the neighborhood in that State in which I was raised, where my mother and only sister were buried, and from which I had been absent about fifteen years. That part of the country is, within itself, as unpoetical as any spot of the earth; but still, seeing it and its objects and inhabitants aroused feelings in me which were certainly poetry; though whether my expression of those feelings is poetry is quite another question."

Lincoln described the topic of the second canto - the sudden madness that struck down childhood friend Matthew Gentry - in the canto's accompanying letter of September 6, 1846:

"The subject of the present one [canto] is an insane man. His name is Matthew Gentry. He is three years older than I, and when we were boys we went to school together. He was rather a bright lad, and the son of the rich man of our very poor neighbourhood. At the age of nineteen he unaccountably became furiously mad, from which condition he gradually settled down into harmless insanity. When, as I told you in my other letter I visited my old home in the fall of 1844, I found him still lingering in this wretched condition. In my poetizing mood I could not forget the impressions his case made upon me"

In the same letter, Lincoln also mentioned (of any future cantos) that if he 'should ever send another, the subject will be a 'Bear hunt.'"

Here is the poem, in two cantos, as it probably appeared in the Quincy Whig:

The Return

Part I---Reflection

My childhood's home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle,
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye,
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar --
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, how few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms;
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.

Part II---The Maniac

But here's an object more of dread
Than ought the grave contains --
A human form with reason fled,
While wretched life remains.

Poor Matthew! Once of genius bright,
A fortune-favored child --
Now locked for aye, in mental night,
A haggard mad-man wild.

Poor Matthew! I have ne'er forgot
When first, with maddened will,
Yourself you maimed, your father fought,
And mother strove to kill;

When terror spread, and neighbours ran,
Your dang'rous strength to bind;
And soon, a howling crazy man
Your limbs were fast confined.

How then you strove and shrieked aloud,
Your bones and sinnews bared;
And fiendish on the gazing crowd,
With burning eye-balls glared --

And begged, and swore, and wept and prayed
With maniac laughter joined --
How fearful were those signs displayed
By pangs that killed thy mind!

And when at length, tho' drear and long,
Time soothed thy fiercer woes,
How plaintively thy mournful song,
Upon the still night rose.

I've heard it oft, as if I dreamed,
Far-distant, sweet, and lone --
The funeral dirge, it ever seemed
Of reason dead and gone.

To drink its strains, I've stole away,
All stealthily and still,
Ere yet the rising God of day
Had streaked the Eastern hill.

Air held his breath; trees, with the spell,
Seemed sorrowing angels round,
Whose swelling tears in dew-drops fell
Upon the listening ground.

But this is past; and nought remains,
That raised thee o'er the brute.
Thy piercing shrieks, and soothing strains,
Are like, forever mute.

Now fare thee well -- more thou the cause,
Than subject now of woe.
All mental pangs, by time's kind laws,
Hast lost the power to know.

O death! Thou awe-inspiring prince,
That keepst the world in fear;
Why dost thou tear more blest ones hence,
And leave him ling'ring here?

And here is 'Bear Hunt,' mailed to Johnston with the above letter, and most likely intended as the third and final canto of the poem.

Bear Hunt

A wild-bear chace, didst never see?
Then hast thou lived in vain.
Thy richest bump of glorious glee,
Lies desert in thy brain.

When first my father settled here,
'Twas then the frontier line:
The panther's scream, filled night with fear
And bears preyed on the swine.

But wo for Bruin's short lived fun,
When rose the squealing cry;
Now man and horse, with dog and gun,
For vengeance, at him fly.

A sound of danger strikes his ear;
He gives the breeze a snuff:
Away he bounds, with little fear,
And seeks the tangled rough.

On press his foes, and reach the ground,
Where's left his half munched meal;
The dogs, in circles, scent around,
And find his fresh made trail.

With instant cry, away they dash,
And men as fast pursue;
O'er logs they leap, through water splash,
And shout the brisk halloo.

Now to elude the eager pack,
Bear shuns the open ground;
Through matted vines, he shapes his track
And runs it, round and round.

The tall fleet cur, with deep-mouthed voice,
Now speeds him, as the wind;
While half-grown pup, and short-legged fice,
Are yelping far behind.

And fresh recruits are dropping in
To join the merry corps:
With yelp and yell,---a mingled din---
The woods are in a roar.

And round, and round the chace now goes,
The world's alive with fun;
Nick Carter's horse, his rider throws,
And more, Hill drops his gun.

Now sorely pressed, bear glances back,
And lolls his tired tongue;
When as, to force him from his track,
An ambush on him sprung.

Across the glade he sweeps for flight,
And fully is in view.
The dogs, new-fired, by the sight,
Their cry, and speed, renew.

The foremost ones, now reach his rear,
He turns, they dash away;
And circling now, the wrathful bear,
They have him full at bay.

At top of speed, the horse-men come,
All screaming in a row.
``Whoop! Take him Tiger. Seize him Drum.''
Bang,---bang---the rifles go.

And furious now, the dogs he tears,
And crushes in his ire.
Wheels right and left, and upward rears,
With eyes of burning fire.

But leaden death is at his heart,
Vain all the strength he plies.
And, spouting blood from every part,
He reels, and sinks, and dies.

And now a dinsome clamor rose,
'Bout who should have his skin;
Who first draws blood, each hunter knows,
This prize must always win.

But who did this, and how to trace
What's true from what's a lie,
Like lawyers, in a murder case
They stoutly argufy.

Aforesaid fice, of blustering mood,
Behind, and quite forgot,
Just now emerging from the wood,
Arrives upon the spot.

With grinning teeth, and up-turned hair---
Brim full of spunk and wrath,
He growls, and seizes on dead bear,
And shakes for life and death.

And swells as if his skin would tear,
And growls and shakes again;
And swears, as plain as dog can swear,
That he has won the skin.

Conceited whelp! we laugh at thee---
Nor mind, that not a few
Of pompous, two-legged dogs there be,
Conceited quite as you.

eRain Dance (This better work)

Once again a massive line of storms full of precipitation has passed just to the North of us, leaving our poor gasping forests parched; the bushes brown and brittle, the soil dry as powder. The birds are gone -- probably to the lake. I leave water out for the squirrels. The daytime temperatures have been between 95-100 degrees. We haven't had a drop of rain here at our house in a month.

I see another line of rainstorms approaching from Illinois, but I already know the pattern: North by Northeast, up through Indy and towards the Great Lakes.

We're parched. We need rain.

The time has come to consult with the experts...

The rain dance is still an important part of Native American consciousness, just as we are concerned with the amount of rainfall even in the modern world.

In late August, when it is quite dry, especially in the Southwestern United States, Native American tribes used to do a rain dance. Many Native Americans still perform the ritual today, and it can be seen on several reservations in the United States. Men and women gathered together for a rain dance and wore special headdresses and clothing. The jewels used in the clothing, such as turquoise, had special significance, as well as the patterns on the clothing and the use of goat hair in the headdresses. These special clothes were worn every year for the rain dance, and usually were stored the entire year for this purpose.

Zuni Rain Dance

Last Night the Rain Spoke To Me
By Mary Oliver

Last night
the rain
spoke to me
slowly, saying,
what joy
to come falling
out of the brisk cloud,
to be happy again
in a new way
on the earth!
That’s what it said
as it dropped,
smelling of iron,
and vanished
like a dream of the ocean
into the branches
and the grass below.
Then it was over.
The sky cleared.
I was standing
under a tree.
The tree was a tree
with happy leaves,
and I was myself,
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain –
imagine! imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Very Quiet Native American Rain Dance

(But notice the clouds above! It's working!)

Rain Dance (Art Video with actual rain)


American Indian Flute - Rain Dance


African Rain Song

Rain Song
Imvula, Imvula (eem-voo'-lah)
Chapha, chapha, chapha (c=click sound with tongue in back of Chapha,
chapha, chapha front teeth,like the sound of exasperation) (cah'-pah)
Imanz'impahla yam'
Imanz'impahla yam' (ee-mahn'zeem pah'hla yahm)
Gqum, Gqum, Liyaduduma (q=click made when pulling tongue down Gqum, gqum, liyaduduma from roof of mouth) (gqoom lee-yah doo'-mah)
Imanz'impahla yam'
Imanz'impahla yam'

note: this is a very old and traditional rain song. The translation goes like this:

"It's raining, it's raining
Chapha, chapha, chapha
Chapha, chapha, chapha (sound of the rain falling)
My clothes are getting wet,
My clothes are getting wet.
Gqum, Gqum (sound of the thunder)
There's the thunder!
Gqum, gqum,
There's the thunder!
My clothes are getting wet,
My clothes are getting wet!"

Modern Rain Song

(Can be played in conjunction with Very Quiet American Indian Rain Dance above)



I'm dancing my feet off here in Southern Indiana... come on rain!

...

P.S. If I get desperate enough, I'm going to have to post THIS:

Proof that I will go to any lengths for rain

(Because yes -- you can find literally anything on YouTube.)

The darkness of the Neocon

The darkness grew
I had to know
And so I went where I dared not go
To the heartless land of Neocon
To the heartless land of Neocon

The things I saw
Have shocked my mind
And now I'm lost and cannot find
The door out of the Neocon
The door out of the Neocon

I long for light
For peace and sense
The mending of torn innocence
At the cruel hand of Neocon
At the cruel hand of Neocon

Bring back the joy!
Bring back the light!
The earth is wilting, sick with blight
The languishing land of Neocon
The languishing land of Neocon

Oh help me Sidhe
To Tir na nOg
I'm dazed and drifting in their fog
In the blackness of the Neocon
In the blackness of the Neocon

Lincoln's poetry: Memories of Indiana home

My Childhood's Home I See Again
By Abraham Lincoln

(Canto 1)

My childhood's home I see again,
And sadden with the view;
And still, as memory crowds my brain,
There's pleasure in it too.

O Memory! thou midway world
'Twixt earth and paradise,
Where things decayed and loved ones lost
In dreamy shadows rise,

And, freed from all that's earthly vile,
Seem hallowed, pure, and bright,
Like scenes in some enchanted isle,
All bathed in liquid light.

As dusky mountains please the eye,
When twilight chases day;
As bugle-notes that, passing by,
In distance die away;

As leaving some grand waterfall,
We, lingering, list its roar --
So memory will hallow all
We've known, but know no more.

Near twenty years have passed away
Since here I bid farewell
To woods and fields, and scenes of play,
And playmates loved so well.

Where many were, how few remain
Of old familiar things;
But seeing them, to mind again
The lost and absent brings.

The friends I left that parting day,
How changed, as time has sped!
Young childhood grown, strong manhood gray,
And half of all are dead.

I hear the loved survivors tell
How nought from death could save,
Till every sound appears a knell,
And every spot a grave.

I range the fields with pensive tread,
And pace the hollow rooms;
And feel (companion of the dead)
I'm living in the tombs.

Poems from Guantanamo

From the just released collection "Poems from Guantánamo: The Detainees Speak", here are three poems that were reprinted on Boston.com:

DEATH POEM by Jumah Al Dossari, a 33-year-old Bahraini national who has been held at Guantánamo Bay for more than five years. He has been subjected to a range of physical and psychological abuses, held in solitary confinement since the end of 2003, and has tried to kill himself 12 times:

Take my blood.
Take my death shroud and
The remnants of my body.
Take photographs of my corpse at the grave, lonely.
Send them to the world,
To the judges and
To the people of conscience,
Send them to the principled men and the fair-minded.
And let them bear the guilty burden, before the world,
Of this innocent soul.
Let them bear the burden, before their children and before history,
Of this wasted, sinless soul,
Of this soul which has suffered at the hands of the "protectors of peace."

HUMILIATED IN THE SHACKLES, by Sami al Haj, a journalist and Sudanese national covering the conflict in Afghanistan for the television station al-Jazeera. He was taken into custody in 2001 and stripped of his passport and press card. Haj was handed over to US forces in January 2002, tortured at both Bagram air base and Kandahar and then shipped off to Guantánamo Bay in June 2002:

When I heard pigeons cooing in the trees,
Hot tears covered my face.
When the lark chirped, my thoughts composed
A message for my son.
Mohammad, I am afflicted.
In my despair, I have no one but Allah for comfort.
The oppressors are playing with me,
As they move freely about the world.
They ask me to spy on my countrymen,
Claiming it would be a good deed.
They offer me money and land,
And freedom to go where I please.
Their temptations seize my attention
Like lightning in the sky.
But their gift is an evil snake,
Carry hypocrisy in its mouth like venom.
They have monuments to liberty
And freedom of opinion, which is well and good.
But I explained to them that
Architecture is not justice.
America, you ride on the backs of orphans,
And terrorize them daily.
Bush, beware.
The world recognizes an arrogant liar.
To Allah I direct my grievance and my tears.
I am homesick and oppressed.
Mohammad, do not forget me.
Support the cause of your father, a God-fearing man.
I was humiliated in the shackles.
How can I now compose verses? How can I now write?
After the shackles and the nights and the suffering and the tears,
How can I write poetry?
My soul is like a roiling sea, stirred by anguish,
Violent with passion.
I am a captive, but the crimes are my captors'.
I am overwhelmed with apprehension.
Lord, unite me with my son Mohammad.
Lord, grant success to the righteous.

IS IT TRUE? by Osama Abu Kabir, a Jordanian water truck driver who worked for the municipality of Greater Amman. Kabir joined an Islamic missionary organization called Jama'at al-Tablighi, and traveled to Afghanistan. He was detained by anti-Taliban forces and subsequently handed over to the US military, who moved him to Guantanamo:

Is it true that the grass grows up again after the rain?
Is it true that the flowers will rise up in the spring?
Is it true that birds will migrate home again?
Is it true that the salmon swim back up their stream?
It is true. This is true. These are all miracles.
But is it true that one day we'll leave Guantánamo Bay?
Is it true that one day we'll go back to our homes?
I sail in my dreams, I am dreaming of homes.
To be with my children, each one part of me;
To be with my wife and the ones that I love;
To be with my parents, my world's tenderest hearts.
I dream to be home, to be free from this cage.
But do you hear me, oh Judge, do you hear me at all?
We are innocent, here, we've committed no crime.
Set me free, set us free, if anywhere still
Justice and compassion remain in this world!

A Warning

I may have posted this here before, possibly last winter. I wrote it after having the strangest dream... Lincoln walked into a 'dream in progress' and gave a fiery oration about democracy.

It's hard to forget a dream like that.

I think I was still 'haunted' by a recent visit to the Lincoln Memorial, and the timeless words written on the walls of his shrine there. I noticed, for the first time, that he looks out across the Mall; directly at the Capitol Building. Directly at Congress.

Watching them.


A Warning

I had a dream, of darkness and despair;
And in that blackness I did see a man
And he, when saw me, reached out for my hand.
I knew the face, the countenance so bleak
And I: I could not face those anguished eyes.

He’s pacing now, his hands behind his back
His shoulders hunched, his agitation clear;
"Our Constitution tossed aside – and why?"
Dark eyes, deep pools of wisdom and of grief;
In quiet desperation search my face;

And I, reminded of the ponderous price,
The heavy weight he bore to keep his faith;
To save the Union and restore the peace
and now he does not rest, even in death,
But brings a dire warning for our time:



"Democracy bequeathed to you at birth
Exists to serve the people’s will and need;
Do you no longer want this precious gift?
Of what are you so fearful now - of whom?
Of shadows that perhaps may come to pass?

This is the strongest nation on the earth!
The biggest danger, always, was your fear;
And used against you, it has made you slaves!
Would you return at last to slavery?
Indenture unto corporate masters now?

This is your government! It’s yours!
And those who tell you 'no,' have robbed you blind
Defend it now, and stand while there is time!
Your freedom on this earth is in your hands;
For no one else can save you from your fate.

The time and place to serve your nation’s need
Is now; right here, and in this darkest hour.
Speak out, stand up, refuse the bitter pill
Of passive servitude and fearful doubt!
How can let your independence lapse?

You drain all meaning from their noble deaths;
The generations who before you fought
To keep the flame of liberty alight;
And now, their sacrifice - no consequence?
And this, from simple fear and ignorance?

And you - your education guaranteed;
Whereas, I learned to read by mine own will
And burning drive to know, then change my world.
Perhaps it is too easy for you now...
You have no concept of the price we paid.

Has too much time elapsed, that you forget?
You cannot see the armies, nor recall;
We faced the largest monarchy on earth!
With fierce desire for freedom we held on,
To live here free! To work this land in peace.

The story of our forefathers remains
In history books, available to all;
Thus any child of liberty can learn
Our nation's lineage and forward path.
If only you would seek to learn your past!

Democracy will pass into decay;
I would this fate had passed our children by.
This land, this government designed to last
Into eternity; and all we asked
Our children yet unborn, was vigilance.

We did not ask you light the fire yourselves;
But merely tend the flame lest it burn out,
or worse, be snuffed by malice and deceit.
For all bequeathed to you – for all we gave;
We died for you that you might know true peace.

Adversity is always at the door;
Alas, true character is forged in fire,
And thus, is often lost as embers cool.
The child that knows not of the father’s pain,
Embraces war; and all must bleed anew."