"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations
"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy
I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike
"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti
[Note - If any article requires updating or correction please notate this in the comment section. Thank you. - res]
This page was entered to help facilitate a Google or Blogger Internet search for any published writings I might submit at some future date when I decide to produce them to the public. Before I do I must consult with a publisher to determine the best course of action for my hard-earned efforts. At present I am focused on writing new pieces, re-editing some I've completed, working through rough outlines and jotting down odd bits of stray thoughts.
In lieu of mine own handiwork I will place other poems or articles on this blog site that may mark my progress or my poetic burdens in one fashion or another. For instance, some of my poems deal with the concept of "time" and when discovering that TS Eliot had worked on this in similar fashion I listed a couple of his poems that felt similar to my own thoughts. And like some of mine own, Daisy Turner's poem had a touch of sadness and truth in it, and so, I thought to put that up on my blog as well.
Some poems I just like and have no correlation whatsoever to my own writings other than as bright goals reminding me just how good a poet can be with his or her words, phrases, concise thoughts, insights, and such like. Dylan Thomas, Sylvia Plath and Wilfred Owen can fall into these camps as forgotten poets of old that need remembering, in my estimation, by us, their poetic readers.
Initially I wanted to mark my writing progress and tell of the background and development of select pieces I am producing - to give them a kind of "literary history" that would make them more personal when later discovered and read. And so, from time-to-time, I will do this but without the poem itself these will only be incomplete histories and I apologize beforehand that I can do no better.
Summer now approaches and I find myself worn down a bit or too easily distracted from my daily routine of poem development; causing me to slow down or quit altogether these past several months. It seems that my little writer's room has closed in on me and I've lost the inspiration - or the motivation - that has driven me to produce so many thoughts and words these past several years. There seems to be the never-ending minutia of personal responsibilities requiring my attention so that I must simply stop awhile and address them.
As such, these sallow, callous demands placed on my creative time and thinking have caused my soul to feel "stretched and thinned," to wander, having stayed my hand too long from its pen making me wish for a writer's retreat. A place where I might systematically re-dedicate myself to my hopes and ambitions, to the written word and page, to the inter-weaving of thoughts and expressions. And yet, however I might wish it, I question whether it were so easy to leave one's now tangled life for a simpler one and for so selfish a purpose. Thus I suspect that I must attain this re-invention in a steadier, more purposeful evacuation of the old life to a one requiring an enforced bohemian existence of writing and "seeming" personal irresponsibility. For however hastily I may wish it, while continuing to question whether it is the most proper, the most wise course of action, it is perhaps my only course of action, and the one that tirelessly fights against my personal dreads and reluctance to publish.
For neither time nor opportunity are endless, each must be used efficiently to accomplish, to read and understand, to express and enjoin, all that I would. Nor can there be found the natural literary outlets or social bonds that my new interests now demand as I suffer alone in my private world to create story lines in an other-worldly existence foreign to those friendships around me. And yet the goal is to finish what I have started in the short years ahead and someday share with you my poems and stories, delights and wonders, wanderings and journeys in that strange and marvelous land of words and ideas.
In October 2008 I decided to finally start writing. It is a task I had wanted to try all my lifetime and had consistently put off for one reason or another, mostly because, I believe, that I misjudged myself to the task I thought I couldn't do, so that when the day came that I should begin and stop making excuses, it was like a godsend long overdue. And so, I started. Which seems remarkably silly in a fashion, but after waiting a lifetime to write, the concept of "now" being this exact moment to begin, seemed quite surreal to me.
To help me along the way was a Michigan economy that was slowing down so that I found myself, as a self-employed trades worker, fast becoming under-employed (and I must admit, losing interest after 25 years). Added to this was the gradual preoccupation of raising a family, now grown, and becoming more independent from my industry in their lives. Such that, I could begin collecting old notes and earlier poems, created years earlier, and dedicate the fall of 2008 to writing exhaustively every day, from dawn to dusk. I found it to be an intensively creative period in my life, and as I worked, began recapturing moments of lucidity unbelieved. By Christmas Eve, three months later, I had produced 35 poems, with 15-20 more in production, and had also completed a long, reflective, narrative - my pride and joy - of some 20+ pages in final draft and ready to be read by relatives and friends.
And because I had no idea what my writing style would be like - or should be like - I attempted as many different styles in as many different pieces as I could entertain, to discover what felt most comfortable to me, or seemed most mine own. My only thought was that perhaps a collected portfolio of completed works would help me determine my literary voice (of this truth I later would find unhelpful for I rather enjoyed varying my style and forcing my pen to try new adaptations). And yet, the one thing I didn't wish to do, was to copy another poet's style until I first learned mine own. And developed it to be mine own. Then, and then only, would I dare read past literary authors and see if I could learn a little more from the master poets of centuries past.
Consequently, three months later, on Christmas Eve, I had to stop and rest until January's end of the next year, having become completely worn from writing (or thinking) of so many words and phrases swimming around in my head or dancing from my breast. And when I began again I did so at a much reduced pace from the previous months - or so I thought. But my mid-February had created even more original pieces and needed now to stop to take the time to edit earlier productions. By early July I had completed, and re-edited, about 50 poems to date. To this I had added another 40 pieces that were in various stages of arrangement, requiring roughing-out, completion, or finalization, making me happy with my progress thus far, but as burdened within myself at the same time. For there seemed no end. And when reading my finalized pieces (or so I thought) several months later I discovered flaws that I wished to excise out of them. Flaws that interrupted rhythm and flow; that left the main topic and wandered off; that didn't stick to the style I had chosen; or became unworkable in that style and required a completely new style. Flaws (whether true or imagined) that I suppose is to be expected being new to the literary discipline of writing communiques at once personal and intended later for public benefit and engagement.
Curiously, the more I wrote the more I found that I have something to say, which I didn't think was possible to imagine. Literally hundreds of subjects have come to my consciousness making me wish that I had applied my pen and mind more diligently to this task of enlivenment years earlier. Through this time I practiced using a number of different forms and styles, writing both in prose and in lyrical poems; trying various verse and meters; attempting my hand at narrative tales, legends, ballads, homilies and even haiku; and then to short story creation by-and-by. It was my hope that by the following Christmas a hundred pieces could be etched out and reviewed by several friends whom I trusted to independently review these samplings with me. But whether I found a later readership or not, my more humble goal was to continue writing about things that interested me; that I might understand a little of; or could offer a glimpse of insight, profundity, or humor to. And to some small degree I believe I have and have, in the offering, provided some moving poems and stories from out of the emotions of my being and the questions that have stayed long upon my heart and mind.
In many ways I'm an old soul caught out-of-time, living in a new world, who is trying to express long forgotten journeys and neglected thoughts of a lost world past time-and-remembrance. And from these imaginative recitations have been fashioning a postmodern world which is as similarly out-of-sync with today's present society-and-culture as were mine own ancient past comparatively. Thus, making the old new, and the new old, and all things in-between as out-of-step and off-balanced. A very curious development indeed! For myself, I fear my poems may be too belatedly written from the wells of my soul to attempt complete examination in the light of these present days and nights that I have left to me. Moreover, I seem to most enjoying writing of the simple wonders of life around us - no large thoughts per se, or at least no larger than what most people have thought or felt - but insights that could be written about in a way that may produce enlightenment and reflection on the simple things of life that live about us every day and in every way. My initial reviews seem to indicate a modicum of hope for all the hard work I've poured into these tasks while I hope that this undertaking may be as useful to others as it has been to myself. As a novice, with no formal training, and with even less literary application, my desire to write and to share my words, is an avocation I wished I had started years earlier. But I will have to be content with that period of life I am now in, and with the shortness of life I left to me, in my attempts to convey my impressions and knowledge of a world that has perplexed and intrigued me since as a youth. A youth full of curiosities and examinations. One that I hope to someday share with you through spellbound drafts and essays.
Saint Ralph Movie Summary Saint Ralph is a 2004 Canadian drama film written and directed by Michael McGowan. Its central character is a teenaged boy who trains for the 1954 Boston Marathon in the hope a victory will be the miracle his mother needs to awaken from a coma. The film premiered at the 2004 Toronto International Film Festival and was given a theatrical release in 2005. This fictional story centers on Ralph Walker, a teenager attending a Catholic private school. His father was killed in World War II and his mother is hospitalized with an unidentified illness. Ralph is naturally prone to mischief and often finds himself an outcast among his classmates. Labeled a troublemaker, Ralph is forced to join the school's cross country team to relieve him of his excess energy, but when Ralph's mother falls into a coma, he is told it will take a miracle for her to survive. Then running coach Father Hibbert, a former world class marathoner who was forced to quit running when he injured his knee, claims it would be a miracle if a member of his team won the Boston Marathon, Ralph begins training in earnest....
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Movie & Song Review The film, St. Ralph, must be one of the ultimate runner films next to "Chariots of Fire". The climax was beyond words when intemixed with the Hallelujah song and I could only have wished that the writers had written less of the sexual lusts of Ralph's adolescence and focused more on his broken and unhappy family life as a lost, fatherless, boy in a closed society of Catholic families and friends. Since Gordon Downie's version of "Hallelujah" has not been released I thought I'd compare "YouTube's" renditions of the Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah soundtrack. I found that I best liked the singers ranked below. Overall, I thought Kate Voegele's was superb. She had great spot-on tone and texture; the kids were excellent runner-ups to Kate's rendition; then Allison Crowe, Lee DeWyze and Alexandra Burke; and finally, the maestro himself, Leonard Cohen. Please enjoy my picks until Downie's original version someday becomes available (see Toronto_Mike's blog at end of this blog for the latest info).
R.E. Slater July 3, 2009 *addendum - my fav no. 2 pick must be "3 girls sing Hallelujah" found at the end of this posting. **Tied with the girls (if not a shade better) is the stirring heart-and-soul rendition by a Jewish youth group found immediately after the "three girls" video as well as on my other website Relevancy22. - הללויה להקת חינוך - Hallelujah. Enjoy.
Saint Ralph Movie Trailer
(spoiler alert) The following movie clip contains the ending to the movie (spoiler alert) Gord Downie "Hallelujah"
I frequently see Saint Ralph on the crappy movie channels that come with my cable package. It’s an incredibly sentimental Canadian film about a 14-year-old who tries to win the Boston marathon. During the climactic race, the soundtrack features Gordon Downie (the lead singer of the Tragically Hip) singing a pretty gorgeous version of Leonard Cohen’s seminal “Hallelujah’”.
Ever since hearing Downie’s version, I’ve been looking for the song online. I eventually got it from Mike, who explains:
There seemed to be only one way to get this version of the song in MP3 and that’s to create an MP3 from the audio output of “Saint Ralph”. Sophie, a Hip fan from Germany, saw my comment on the site sharing the Downie covers and offerred to help. She rented the DVD, created an MP3 and emailed it to me early this morning. Hallelujah!
This will tide me over nicely until Downie releases something official. I know a lot of people have been trying to locate this song as I’ve heard your empathetic pleas since I first wrote about the cover last August. If that’s you, leave a comment and I’ll email you the MP3 Sophie shared with me this morning.
Unfortunately, there’s a lot of film audio over the track, but it’s worth a listen. Hopefully they’ll eventually release it for sale:
I think Downie’s version rivals the most famous cover of the song by the late Jeff Buckley. You can hear Buckley’s version, along with 33 others, on My Old Kentucky Blog.
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A Blog dedicated to finding GordDownie's Hallelujah
I ran into Gord Downie in Toronto in summer of 2005. My friends and I walked past as he stood in the entryway of a cathedral on Bloor. I said aloud "Hey, that was Gord Downie. Lets say hi". While the others were hesitant, I had a question I wanted to ask him: where can I get a copy of your cover of Hallelujah from Saint Ralph? (I had just seen the film 2 weeks before at the Review Cinema) He was very approachable but was not pleased when I told him that I had exhausted my search for the soundtrack and had come up empty. He said he was told that there would be a soundtrack. I told him it was the best version of the song I had ever heard. He replied, to my surprise, that he had never actually heard the original before he recorded it himself. I suggested he put the track on his next solo project but he said he'd look into the Saint Ralph soundtrack first, thanked me for bringing this to his attention and shook our hands. He's had 3 solo albums since...
I've wanted to ask Gord about this song for a while now, and Nik's comment was quite revealing. I wonder why "Hallelujah" has yet to see the light of day?
I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty in the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
There was a time when you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Maybe there’s a God above
But all I’ve ever learned from love
Was how to shoot at someone who outdrew you
It’s not a cry you can hear at night
It’s not somebody who has seen the light
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well, really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light in every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though it all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah
English Standard Version (ESV) Rejoicing in Heaven 19 After this I heard what seemed to be the loud voice of a great multitude in heaven, crying out,
“Hallelujah!
Salvation and glory and power belong to our God,
2 for his judgments are true and just; for he has judged the great prostitute who corrupted the earth with her immorality, and has avenged on her the blood of his servants.”[a]
3 Once more they cried out,
“Hallelujah! The smoke from her goes up forever and ever.”
4 And the twenty-four elders and the four living creatures fell down and worshiped God who was seated on the throne, saying, “Amen. Hallelujah!”5 And from the throne came a voice saying,
“Praise our God, all you his servants, you who fear him, small and great.” The Marriage Supper of the Lamb 6 Then I heard what seemed to be the voice of a great multitude, like the roar of many waters and like the sound of mighty peals of thunder, crying out,
“Hallelujah!
For the Lord our God the Almighty reigns. 7 Let us rejoice and exult and give him the glory, for the marriage of the Lamb has come, and his Bride has made herself ready; 8 it was granted her to clothe herself with fine linen, bright and pure”—
for the fine linen is the righteous deeds of the saints. 9 And the angel said[b] to me, “Write this: Blessed are those who are invited to the marriage supper of the Lamb.” And he said to me, “These are the true words of God.”10 Then I fell down at his feet to worship him, but he said to me, “You must not do that! I am a fellow servant[c] with you and your brothers who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God.” For the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy. The Rider on a White Horse 11 Then I saw heaven opened, and behold, a white horse! The one sitting on it is called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he judges and makes war.12 His eyes are like a flame of fire, and on his head are many diadems, and he has a name written that no one knows but himself.13 He is clothed in a robe dipped in[d] blood, and the name by which he is called is The Word of God.14 And the armies of heaven, arrayed in fine linen, white and pure, were following him on white horses.15 From his mouth comes a sharp sword with which to strike down the nations, and he will rule them with a rod of iron. He will tread the winepress of the fury of the wrath of God the Almighty.16 On his robe and on his thigh he has a name written, King of kings and Lord of lords.
17 Then I saw an angel standing in the sun, and with a loud voice he called to all the birds that fly directly overhead, “Come, gather for the great supper of God,18 to eat the flesh of kings, the flesh of captains, the flesh of mighty men, the flesh of horses and their riders, and the flesh of all men, both free and slave,[e] both small and great.”19 And I saw the beast and the kings of the earth with their armies gathered to make war against him who was sitting on the horse and against his army.20 And the beast was captured, and with it the false prophet who in its presence[f] had done the signs by which he deceived those who had received the mark of the beast and those who worshiped its image. These two were thrown alive into the lake of fire that burns with sulfur.21 And the rest were slain by the sword that came from the mouth of him who was sitting on the horse, and all the birds were gorged with their flesh.
