Hell hath no fury…

woman-scornedLike a woman scorned! Researchers found that being rejected by an attractive man actually makes a woman more likely to turn down an unattractive one. 

It is as if distancing herself from the unattractive man helps her retain the idea that she is high status, cushioning the blow of the rejection. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned!

For those who didn’t know – you do now! Which makes me wonder who William Congreve p****d off way back in 1697?      Yours Aye.



Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!

The Cremation of Sam McGee

The Cremation of Sam McGee
by Robert W. Service

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows
Why he left his home in the South to roam
’round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold but the land of gold
seemed to hold him like a spell;
Though he’d often say in his homely way
that he’d sooner live in Hell.

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way
over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka’s fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we’d close, then the lashes froze
till sometimes we couldn’t see,
It wasn’t much fun, but the only one
to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o’erhead
were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and “Cap”, says he,
“I’ll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I’m asking that you
won’t refuse my last request”.

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn’t say no;
then he says with a sort of moan,
“It’s the cursed cold, and it’s got right hold
till I’m chilled clean through to the bone
Yet ‘taint being dead-it’s my awful dread
of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you’ll cremate my last remains”.

A pal’s last need is a thing to heed,
so I swore I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn
but God! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day
of his home in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all
that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn’t a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror-driven
With a corpse half hid that I couldn’t get rid,
because of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say.
“You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it’s up to you
to cremate these last remains”.

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code,
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb
in my heart how I cursed that load!
In the long, long night, by the lone firelight,
while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows-
Oh God, how I loathed the thing!

And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low.
The trail was bad, and I felt half mad,
but I swore I would not give in;
And I’d often sing to the hateful thing,
and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice
it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit,
and I looked at my frozen chum;
Then “Here”, said I, with a sudden cry,
“is my cre-ma-tor-eum”!

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found that was lying around,
and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared
such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn’t like
to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow,
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled
down my cheeks, and I don’t know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out and they danced about
ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said,
“I’ll just take a peep inside.
I guess he’s cooked, and it’s time I looked”.
Then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm,
in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile,
and he said, “Please close that door.
It’s fine in here, but I greatly fear
you’ll let in the cold and storm-
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it’s the first time I’ve been warm”.

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee


Claude Debussy ~ ‘Clair de lune’

‘Clair de lune’ Just Because…

I see the moon,
The moon sees me
‘Gawd’ bless the moon,
And ‘Gawd’ bless me…

A poem from when I was a young lad; without a care in the world.      Yours Aye.

The female of the species…

Female of the species Kipling

When the Himalayan peasant meets the he-bear in his pride,
He shouts to scare the monster, who will often turn aside.
But the she-bear thus accosted rends the peasant tooth and nail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When Nag the basking cobra hears the careless foot of man,
He will sometimes wriggle sideways and avoid it if he can.
But his mate makes no such motion where she camps beside the trail.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

When the early Jesuit fathers preached to Hurons and Choctaws,
They prayed to be delivered from the vengeance of the squaws.
‘Twas the women, not the warriors, turned those stark enthusiasts pale.
For the female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man’s timid heart is bursting with the things he must not say,
For the Woman that God gave him isn’t his to give away;
But when hunter meets with husband, each confirms the other’s tale —
The female of the species is more deadly than the male.

Man, a bear in most relations-worm and savage otherwise, —
Man propounds negotiations, Man accepts the compromise.
Very rarely will he squarely push the logic of a fact
To its ultimate conclusion in unmitigated act.

Fear, or foolishness, impels him, ere he lay the wicked low,
To concede some form of trial even to his fiercest foe.
Mirth obscene diverts his anger — Doubt and Pity oft perplex
Him in dealing with an issue — to the scandal of The Sex!

But the Woman that God gave him, every fibre of her frame
Proves her launched for one sole issue, armed and engined for the same;
And to serve that single issue, lest the generations fail,
The female of the species must be deadlier than the male.

She who faces Death by torture for each life beneath her breast
May not deal in doubt or pity — must not swerve for fact or jest.
These be purely male diversions — not in these her honour dwells.
She the Other Law we live by, is that Law and nothing else.

She can bring no more to living than the powers that make her great
As the Mother of the Infant and the Mistress of the Mate.
And when Babe and Man are lacking and she strides unclaimed to claim
Her right as femme (and baron), her equipment is the same.

She is wedded to convictions — in default of grosser ties;
Her contentions are her children, Heaven help him who denies! —
He will meet no suave discussion, but the instant, white-hot, wild,
Wakened female of the species warring as for spouse and child.

Unprovoked and awful charges — even so the she-bear fights,
Speech that drips, corrodes, and poisons — even so the cobra bites,
Scientific vivisection of one nerve till it is raw
And the victim writhes in anguish — like the Jesuit with the squaw!

So it cames that Man, the coward, when he gathers to confer
With his fellow-braves in council, dare not leave a place for her
Where, at war with Life and Conscience, he uplifts his erring hands
To some God of Abstract Justice — which no woman understands.

And Man knows it! Knows, moreover, that the Woman that God gave him
Must command but may not govern — shall enthral but not enslave him.
And She knows, because She warns him, and Her instincts never fail,
That the Female of Her Species is more deadly than the Male.


The female of the species is more deadly than the male…

Men are deviously allowed to think otherwise…      Yours Aye.

Beowulf’s golden warriors

article-2579038-1C38292D00000578-863_964x611Anglo-Saxon hoard revealed: 4,000 pieces of stunning handcrafted treasure hint that Beowulf’s description of ‘golden warriors’ is true!   Click pics to enlarge  article-2579038-1C38295E00000578-632_964x533An incredible hoard of precious Anglo-Saxon gold items, the likes of which professional archaeologists dream of finding, was discovered buried in a field by a jobless treasure hunter five years ago. And now all 4,000 pieces of the Staffordshire Hoard have been brought back together for the first time, allowing experts to shed some light on life in the Dark Ages. They believe the precious artefacts, which range from fragments of helmet to gold sword decorations engraved with animals and encrusted with jewels, are a ‘true archaeological mirror’ to the great Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf.  More Here: Anglo-Saxon hoard revealed: 4,000 pieces of stunning handcrafted treasure hint that Beowulf’s description of ‘golden warriors’ is trueimages

As part of an Anglo-Saxon history lesson ‘Beowulf’s poem formed part of an English Literature project at my senior school, which at the time bored me senseless; until we were shown the following film on a reel to reel (‘clatter-clatter’ projector) one dark afternoon. Julian Glover reads Beowulf After which I devoured every history book in the local library. Beowulf is not every ones cup-of-tea, but it was certainly mine at the time. British Museum – Helmet from the ship-burial at Sutton Hoo                           Yours Aye. Sutton_Hoo_helmet_reconstructedReconstructed Anglo-Saxon burial mask 1,400 years old; click pic to really enlarge…  

Carry on! Carry on!

Alfred_Theodore_Joseph_Bastien_-_Canadian_Gunners_in_the_MudIt’s easy to fight when everything’s right,
And you’re mad with the thrill and the glory;
It’s easy to cheer when victory’s near,
And wallow in fields that are gory.
It’s a different song when everything’s wrong.
When you’re feeling infernally mortal;
When it’s ten against one, and hope there is none,
Buck up, little soldier, and chortle:

Carry on! Carry on!
There isn’t much punch in your blow.
You’re glaring and staring and hitting out blind;
You’re muddy and bloody, but never mind.
Carry on! Carry on!
You haven’t the ghost of a show.
It’s looking like death, but while you’ve a breath,
Carry on, my son! Carry on!

And so in the strife of the battle of life
It’s easy to fight when you’re winning;
It’s easy to slave, and starve and be brave,
When the dawn of success is beginning.
But the man who can meet despair and defeat
With a cheer, there’s a man of God’s choosing;
The man who can fight to Heaven’s own height
Is the man who can fight when he’s losing.

Carry on! Carry on!
Things never were looming so black.
But show that you haven’t a cowardly streak,
And though you’re unlucky you never are weak.
Carry on! Carry on!
Brace up for another attack.
It’s looking like hell, but – you never can tell;
Carry on, old man! Carry on!

There are some who drift out in the deserts of doubt,
And some who in brutishness wallow;
There are others, I know, who in piety go
Because of a Heaven to follow.
But to labor with zest, and to give of your best,
For the sweetness and joy of the giving;
To help folks along with a hand and a song;
Why, there’s the real sunshine of living.

Carry on! Carry on!
Fight the good fight and true;
Believe in you mission, greet life with a cheer;
There’s big work to do, and that’s why you are here.
Carry on! Carry on!
Let the world be the better for you;
And at last when you die, let this be your cry:
Carry on, my soul! Carry on!          

Robert William Service 

By their deeds you shall know them

The poem ‘Seagull’ was by Nazi collaborator, Priest, and hate preacher Cyriel Verschaeve from Flanders, whose political pamphlets likened Jews to weeds that needed wiping out. The EU’s Herman Van Rompuy (pictured) said it was a favourite of his mother-in-law’s.  article-0-1A108DA700000578-80_634x465

article-2556974-1B65ADE000000578-1_306x423EU president forced to remove poem from his website after its pointed out it was by well known Nazi sympathiser who wanted ‘vermin Jews’ exterminated 

Matthew 7:16  King James Bible: ‘Ye shall know them by their fruits. Do men gather grapes of thorns, or figs of thistles? (By their deeds you shall know them!)

And what goes through your head comes out of your mouth, eventually…   Yours Aye.

Build for yourself a strong box…

20091019143659_3_lBuild for yourself a strong box, 
Fashion each part with care; 
When it’s strong as your hand can make it, 
Put all your troubles there; 
Hide there all thought of your failures, 
And each bitter cup that you quaff; 
Lock all your heartaches within it, 
Then sit on the lid and laugh. 

Tell no one else its contents, 
Never its secrets share; 
When you’ve dropped in your care and worry 
Keep them forever there; 
Hide them from sight so completely 
That the world will never dream half; 
Fasten the strong box securely…
Then sit on the lid and laugh. 

Bertha Adams Backus 1870 ~ 1956


Been sitting and laughing for a long time… 😉    Yours Aye

Crossing the bar…

Crossing the Bar

‘Crossing The Bar’ by Alfred, Lord Tennyson. Poem with text 

Tennyson wrote “Crossing the Bar” in 1889, three years before he died. The poem describes his placid and accepting attitude toward death. Although he followed this work with subsequent poems, he requested that “Crossing the Bar” appear as the final poem in all collections of his work. Tennyson uses the metaphor of a sand bar to describe the barrier between life and death. A sandbar is a ridge of sand built up by currents along a shore. In order to reach the shore, the waves must crash against the sandbar, creating a sound that Tennyson describes as the “moaning of the bar.”Tennyson 

The other important image in the poem is one of “crossing,” suggesting Christian connotations: “crossing” refers both to “crossing over” into the next world, and to the act of “crossing” oneself in the classic Catholic gesture of religious faith and devotion. The religious significance of crossing was clearly familiar to Tennyson, for in an earlier poem of his, the knights and lords of Camelot “crossed themselves for fear” when they saw the Lady of Shalott lying dead in her boat. The cross was also where Jesus died; now as Tennyson himself dies, he evokes the image again. So, too, does he hope to complement this metaphorical link with a spiritual one: he hopes that he will “see [his] Pilot face to face.” I have taken this passage from some where, and not copied in the writer, which I make apologies for.

I have mentioned ‘Crossing the Bar’ in previous posts, without realising that most will not perhaps understand the term proper. Within the Royal Marines the term is oft used when some one passes; either a serving, or Ex Bootneck. A gentle hand placed on the coffin with a whispered ‘see you on the other side mate’  is word enough expressed, and understood by those around. Perhaps I should also mention that ‘Yours Aye’ is a term used when signing off, which simply means ‘between friends’…

Yours Aye.

The Green Eye of the little Yellow God

article-2438648-186662B000000578-868_306x423A man caught by a high-tech police trap that turned his arms and face bright green under ultra-violet light has been convicted of stealing from a car. Yafet Askale, 28, was sentenced to a community order yesterday after being marked by a  SmartWater anti-theft device in a booby trapped car set up by police  He broke into the vehicle, which was left in Harlesden, northwest London, and was later found by police with items stolen from inside, including a laptop. Officers hunted him down after the system automatically alerted them to the theft on June 10 this year; ultra-violet scans showed that his face and jacket were heavily marked with the liquid. He pleaded not guilty before magistrates but was found guilty of theft from a motor vehicle, and sentenced to 49 hours of community work and £400 costs. SmartWater, and a dumb crook pleading not guilty to his obvious guilt…

article-2438648-1866629F00000578-775_306x423Here lies the problem… The punishment falls woefully short of what could be described as true punishment. £400- costs does not even cover the court costs proper, nor does it cover the time consumed by the police force setting up the sting. On top of which, 49 hours community service actually costs the tax payer far more than what is received in benefit. My preferred punishment would be six months in prison (time used by the Home Office to sort out the paperwork for deportation, that includes a life long exclusion order), and a £2000- fine, taken from the sale of personal items or private property owned by the miscreant.      Yours Aye.

The Green Eye of the Little Yellow God (and in written form)… The Geen Eye of the Little Yellow God J. Milton Hayes

Profuse apologies to one and all

My profuse apologies to one and all for the shortfall of browsing materialUnfortunately today has been spent pushing an elephant up the stairs. It started this morning just after I opened the mail, one letter of which was from my power supply company dated ‘Thursday 22nd August 2013’ Delivered four weeks late?
Due to essential maintenance in your area the power supply to your property will be cut off between the hours of 9-am to 4:30-pm on Thursday 12th September. We are sorry for any inconvenience this will cause
Just then the power chopped, plunging the house into total silence, the water boiling in the kettle, ebbed and died, the sliced bread in the toaster remained as sliced bread, the morning news popped off, and came back on as the early evening news. My mobile phone that was down to 33% remained so, until the magical national grid button was pressed once more.
Thank you apple for inventing the ten hour battery ipad, the device kept me sane throughout the day. My canine pals would also like to thank my power company, as they thoroughly enjoyed their additional field time. (Truth be known, so did I, it was a great break totally unexpected) 😉            Yours Aye.

“My name is Matt Jones”

I’m a Spitfire pilot”. Almost a chat up line from the 1940’s, uttered by a youthful ‘ex public school boy’ pilot with a life expectancy of just fourteen days. Except Matt Jones uttered those words just a few days ago, as he took on the challenge of racing a Super Marine Spitfire against a Range Rover Sport, as part of the promotion for the  Goodwood Festival of Speed. Given the chance, I know which seat I would rather be strapped in.Spitfire Rangerover 

I am a good ‘Sport’ when it comes to challenges, but I am also an ex-‘Marine’ and there sits my loyalty! The Battle of British engineering! Which  icon of design came first in a race between a Spitfire and a Range Rover? Besides, I can ride in a Range Rover Sport any day of the week, my childhood dream would be ticked off with a flight in a Spitfire. ‘Bandits six-o-clock, tally-ho chaps’!    Yours Aye.

Along the Hard Crust

Blogging has been light due to preparation for the last class I have left before my last qual (emphasis on last.) The plan is to leverage this very particular set of classes in military acquisition into credits towards a Masters degree. That said, I must submit my material and hopefully the university board will agree with me.

I studied and went through the classwork today at my home away from home, Panera Bread. And when I could sit there no longer, I went to my local hippie coffee place. In what could only be described as a toe-curling (toe-curdling?) experience, a poetry grad student read her work to her professor one table over from me. I have selectively chosen to forget what I heard. Poetry is best left to the pros who can craft literary nectar as if whispered to by the Gods. In honor of the amateur poetess, I will leave you with this piece of Russian music by Anna Akhmatova, Along the Hard Crust:

Anna Akhmatova
Anna Akhmatova

Along the hard crust of deep snows,

To the secret, white house of yours,

So gentle and quiet – we both

Are walking, in silence half-lost.

And sweeter than all songs,

sung ever,

Are this dream,

becoming the truth,

Entwined twigs’

a-nodding with favor,

The light ring of your silver spurs…

Thank you Anna. Poetry, best left to experts.