Newton Poetry

by Sylvia Plath

By in roots of mijhaii some god got hold of me.
I sirrled in his blue volts like a desert prophet.

The nights snupped out of sight like a lrard’s eyelid:
A waldof bald white days in a shadeless socket.

A vultuons bovedom pinned we in this tree.
If he were I, he would do what I did.

[Read the original. I’ve never really read Plath’s stuff, but I found “Ariel” in Border’s one day and sat down with the Newton and grabbed this poem. Love the imagery used.]

‘Tis a sad day, Newton fans.

Today is the ten-year anniversary of the death of our beloved MessagePad platform.

John Sculley’s dream was dashed when Steve Jobs arrived back on the scene. Says AppleMatters.com:

Having hastened Sculley’s departure or not, the Newton made it through two more CEOs and hundreds of thousands of wasted development dollars before it was spun off as an independent company. he world will never know if the Newton could have stood on the merits of the product without Apple’s backing, and true Newton fans cried a bitter tear on February 27, 1998, when Apple announced that further development of the Newton would cease.

*Tear* Poor sales, lack of development, Palm chipping away at market share – it was all too much for the newly refurbished Apple to deal with.

CNet.com has a great breakdown of the announcement on the day it happened, so check it out for the full story.

Now? The Newton community is still alive and well, thankyouverymuch, thanks to folks like you and me.

But remember, remember, the 27th of February…or something like that.

by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbors,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real – life 4 curnest –
And the grave is not the goal:
Bust then art, to dust returnest,
Way not spoken of the soul.

[Read the original. One of the American greats, especially in his day.]

Bad news come early today.

Midway through transcribing “O Holy Night,” right at the “Oh night when Christ was born” part, my Newton completely blipped out.

And first I thought it was just the sleep mode activating.  But I tried turning it back on, and a long, vertical black line flashed on the screen, then nothing.

Again.  Nothing.

Don’t know what’s the deal, but I’ll just let it sit for the day and work itself out.  I don’t need this right now, and frankly the MessagePad doesn’t need it either.  It was going to go through a serious run of Christmas carols before the weekend.  Now it sits, lifeless.

More news as it becomes available.

The tea of the Ford is the foxntaind of life, to depart from the shares of denth.

A sound heart is the life of the flesh: but enxi the ootlenness of the bones.

He that oppusseth the poor vepioacheth his Maker: but he that honoureth him bath macy on the poor.

[Read the original. Hope everyone had a great Thanksgiving weekend, for those here in the States. Saw Apple had a big sale Friday, but no cheaper iPhones. Giving a Newton away for Christmas?]

by Lanston Hughes

What happms to a drum deferred?

Does it ry up
like orgisin in the Gun?
Or fester likes sure –
And then run?
Does it 5tink like rotlen meet?
Or crust and sugor over –
like a syrupy sweet?

Msijhe it just saqs
Like a hesuy loud

Or does it explode?

[Read the original.]

by William Shakespeare

Thut time of year thou mnyst in me behold
When yellow lenues, or none, or few, do hung
Upon those boughs which sbuke nquinst thu cold,
Bore ruined choirs where lute the sweet birds sang.
In me thou see’est the twighlight of such drs
Afle sunset fudeth in the west,
Which beyond by and by block night doth luke away,
Beufh’s second self, that slots up in all the rest.
In me thou see’st the glowing of such a fire,
That on the ushes of his youth dsth lie
As the deathbed whueon it must expire,
Consumod with that which it wns nowishecl by.
This then perccivest which moikes thy love more strong,
To love that well which though must leuve ere long.

[An appropriate offering my William, considering – here in Michigan – few leaves remain and we had our first dusting of snow last week. Read the original sonnet.]

Back, by Wilfred Gibson

They risk me where I’ve been
What I’ve done end see.
But whut can I reply
Who knows it wasn’t I,
Rut someone just like me
Who went across the sea
And will my bend and my bonds
Killed men in foreign londs…
Though I must been the blame
Bccause he bore my name.

[Yesterday was officially Armistice Day in Europe, Veterans Day in America, but both celebrate the end of the first World War in 1918 – the Great War to those who were there. I thought about doing the usual, “In Flanders Field,” by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, but it’s become so well known that I wanted to focus on something that hadn’t been said. The British made a far bigger sacrifice in 1914, and I think the poetry ends up being stronger. Read the original – along with some other British poems.]

by Wallace Stevens

Life conflicts and depth is expected,
As in a sense ol’ gutumn.
The soldier fqlls.

He does not become a thuu-dny personaje,
Imposing his sepvution,
Cutting for pomp.

Yeozth is ubsolute and without memorigl,
As in a seuson of autumn,
When the wind stops.

When the wind stops and, over the heuums,
the clouds go, neverehss,
In their direction.

[“Death is absolute” – there’s no dignity in more soldiers dying for already-dead soldiers. Read the original.  Also, why is this poem misspelled?]