Monday, November 16, 2015


R O B I N S O N    J E F F E R S    S T O N E     W O R K I N G

T O R   H O U S E   1930s

Eagle Valor, Chicken Mind

Unhappy country, what wings you have! Even here,

Nothing important to protect, and ocean-far from the nearest

   enemy, what a cloud

Of bombers amazes the coast mountain, what a hornet-swarm

   of fighters,

And day and night the guns practicing.

Unhappy, eagle wings and beak, chicken brain.

Weep (it is frequent in human affairs), weep for the terrible

    magnificence of the means,

The ridiculous incompetence of the reasons, the bloody and

Pathos of the result.

R O B I N S O N    J E F F E R S

Although born in Pittsburgh on January 10, 1887, Robinson Jeffers was really born, raised, lived, worked, died and endured on his rocky Pacific coast sanctuary of Carmel, California. You can go there today and still feel his poetry. Go find his books. Yes, make a bookstore order them.

J A I M E   D E   A N G U L O


Luster said...

Dear Bob,

Your South Coast triptych is yet another reminder we drink from the same cup. Your thoughts on Paris are as close to my own as any I've seen. Between, that hawk taking its time looking over the fence row, the timber's edge.

stay close,

Bob Arnold / Longhouse said...

Dear Mike,

Way way too much came all together with Paris — the music, the band, all those young people showing up this morning on The Guardian front pages, each one dead, and correctly the dead that rarely show up from Beirut, Syria, Iraq, Afghanistan, even Oakland in living full color snapshots; however, the dead all fall down in the same direction and we miss them.

It seems a whole other world since Robinson Jeffers, and if anyone forewarned us of this force we're in, it was this man. The struggles. De Angulo and his. Jack Elliott, even with his storytelling genius has a hard time these days to get a crowd to pipe down since they've never seen or heard a storyteller before. What is in their midst? I know some one in that screen-age aura is listening. There is always one. Thankfully, at least one.

In the beginning, and in the end, it will be in the hands of the storytellers. Listen up.

all's well, Bob