Tuesday

Dec. 31, 2002

Tomorrow

by David Budbill

Like Smoke from Our Campfire

by David Budbill

TUESDAY, 31 DECEMBER 2002
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Poem: "Like Smoke From Our Campfire" and "Tomorrow," by David Budbill.

Like Smoke From Our Campfire

All those plans for fame and fortune, honor and glory,
      where are they now?

Drifted away like smoke from our campfire, dissipated
      into the thin, night air,

the fire deserted and gone down to a few ashy coals,
      almost out.

And all of those who sat around the fire: gone away too
      into oblivion.


Tomorrow

Tomorrow
we are
bones and ash,
the roots of weeds
poking through
our skulls.

Today,
simple clothes,
empty mind,
full stomach,
alive, aware,
right here,
right now.

Drunk on music,
who needs wine?

Come on,
Sweetheart,
let's go dancing
while we've
still got feet.



Today is the last day of the year, New Year's Eve Day -- the celebration of which goes back to the Romans in 153 B.C. By their calendar, however, January 1st fell where April 1st falls now, toward the beginning of spring. The Romans gathered like we do now to dance and sing and, at the stroke of midnight, wish each other a happy and prosperous new year. Today we sing "Auld Lang Sine," which means "old long since," or "the good old days," written by Robert Burns in 1788.

On this night in 1897, a solemn ceremony was held to commemorate the final day of the existence of the city of Brooklyn before its incorporation into New York City. The rest of the city was jubilant; crowds gathered, fireworks were set off everywhere, and bands played "The One New York Two-Step."

It's the birthday of artist Henri Matisse, born in Le Cateau, France (1869). He's the author of the rare book Jazz (1947). At the end of his life, because he was an invalid, he stopped painting and began using cut paper to make collages.

It's the birthday of Catherine Read Williams, born in Providence, Rhode Island (1790). She wrote Fall River: An Authentic Narrative, one of the earliest examples of public reporting in the United States. It was an account of the mysterious death of Sarah Cornell, a young mill worker whose body was found hanging in a barn one winter day in 1832. She was several months pregnant, and her death was ruled a suicide until a note was found in her belongings: "If I am gone missing enquire of the Rev. Mr. Avery of Bristol; he will know where I am." Reverend Ephriam Avery was a prominent Methodist minister, a married man with several children. A posse found him hiding in New Hampshire and brought him back for trial, but Avery was acquitted on all counts. In her book about the murder, Williams had a lot to say about the corruption of the New England clergy, and it caused a great sensation when it was released.


Be well, do good work, and keep in touch.®

 

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