& JOLLYROGER.COM'S FIRST POETRY COLLECTION:
ETERNITY IN A GRAIN OF SAND
Tell yer friends about the Jollyroger.com Renaissance!
Order From Fatbrain.com!
by Drake Raft
I know where the most perfect silence is,
Seen it in the wild blue off Hatteras,
A mile out, rainbowed sails in silent bliss,
Looked like they'd collide, but they safely passed.
I know when the most perfect silence is,
Down a dusty Ohio road, high noon,
No shirt on, being burned by the sun's kiss,
Sixteen, taking my time--it was still June.
I know what the most perfect silence is,
It's what we say when falling out of love,
It roars and thunders right through the kiss,
Says all that no words can ever speak of.
I know why the most perfect silence is,
It is there for the whisper to be born,
The whisper in her ear became the kiss,
Just a dream in DC early one morn.
I know who the perfect silence is for,
It is for the ones whom we love the best,
It is there to protect them from our core,
By the silent trust we all seek to rest.
And I know how rare that silence can be,
With everyone talking, it's hard to hear,
But I know I felt it, on the streets of DC,
The sound in her eyes--it was crystal clear.
And it brought back to mind the rainbowed sails,
And the way it looked like they would collide,
Like two souls set upon fate's iron rails,
But the most perfect silence never died.
ETERNITY IN A GRAIN OF SAND
And I knew the silent sentiment now in reality as I had known it then in a dream--jollyroger.com was the flagship of the WWW Renaissance. It was a pretty magnificent brewery, with over a million dollars worth of great copper tanks and tubing, capable of producing dozens of fine beers, from Blackbeard's Brew, to Pirate's Pale Ale, to Crow's Nest Cider. And the funny thing was was that it was all kind of beside the point--it was all an advertisement for jollyroger.com's first collection of poetry--Eternity in a Grain of Sand: The Most Perfect Silence of Jollyroger.com Poetry (1995-2000). I never even really drank all that much, to tell you the truth, and I would've been just as content building a church. But there was a greater chance of introducing this generation to the Word on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights than there was on Sunday mornings.
We hadn't put that part in the business plan, that the center and circumference of jollyroger.com was and would always be poetry, as we'd learned that the mere mention of literary aesthetics elicited pompous shrugs from the silicon Venture Capitalists. Whenever we started talking about the glorious opportunity the internet presented to the rising generation to captain a cultural renaissance, to return reason, rhyme, and meter to poetry, to live richer lives in the context of the Great Books, they'd yawn. They were almost as bad as the postmodern editorial elite in that regard--although whereas VC's didn't mind making an honest buck now and then, the New York editorial elite would rather lose money following their offline egos than make money by publishing and promoting the words of a Renaissance. They had a chip on their shoulder, and it wasn't a Pentium. At least the VCs didn't hate us for reasoning like Jefferson and rhyming like Shakespeare. They were just indifferently aloof because they didn't see the money, at first.
The dominant cultural leaders of the passing era haven't been all that good at appreciating the practical beauty of the classics and God, although the Divine Traditions are from where all true, lasting wealth derives. Life without Honor isn't life, and so many of the eminent boomers have joined the walking dead, with all the institutions they touched now rotting on the inside, from marriage, to the New Yorker, to the Universities, to the Presidency, leaving but a characterless, soulless facade for all the postmodernists and pagans to fall on their knees and worship. But literature without Honor isn't as easy as politics without Honor, and thus while they sat high on the thrones of popular culture, they would have no place in Eternity. So it is that the first shall be last, and the last shall be first. Upon the back of every dollar is written "In God We Trust," so how much would all their paper stock options be worth if God's Truths were forgotten?
The girl from Indiana--I hadn't told you this yet, but she was kinda beautiful in that free-spirited sort of way which is sometimes confused with grrrrl power, but which is really just a deeper reverence for life's greater mysteries--that profoundly American sentiment of noble indepedence, which in its correct form is expressed in sublime virtue, and in its corrupted form expressed in grrrrrl power debauchery as dark as the prisitine virtue is white. I'd known a few of them, and I know of one that I'd saved. She'd been wearing these black pants, and I'd asked her if they were on backwards, because they had those two back pockets in the front, kind of, and she'd said, "No! You think I'm Kris Cross?" And that's right about when I fell in love. She was pretty drunk, but she had the Kris Cross moves down. She had to be pretty old to remeber Kris Cross.
For the past five years the WWW has allowed Jollyroger.com's patented Great Books sentiments to sail freely about the globe, unimpeded by small socialist committees and elite culture clubs, and with the seeds now sown, it has become feasible to open Great Books Breweries, and Classicals Coffee Shops, and Jollyroger.com Piano & Poetry Pubs across the fruited plane. And as we open these lighthouses in every state, each one shall become a physical manifestation of the original online beacon, and enable the renaissance fleet of the rising generation's souls to navigate beyond the postmodern fog. I hope to see each and every one of ye there, fellow voyagers aboard the Good Ship. Spread the word far and wide that our fleet shall be coming to town, wherever these words are read.
The major universities and popular culture had unanimously rejected the regal spirit of the classics, thereby creating an immense dearth in the free marketplace of ideas, and thus people shall welcome these new institutions of higher learning. For at the end of the day, the mark of humanity is that we want to stand before God and know the Words of Truth which set us all Free.
During the intense negotiatons preceding the final term sheet, it always rubbed me the wrong way when I heard the VCs associating the word "risk" with jollyroger.com, for there was no risk involved--we were prepared to do anything and everything to make her succeed, whether as a novel, a collection of essays, a website, a brewery, a coffee shop, a press, a community, a screenplay, or even a collection of poetry. They didn't comprehend living one's life for poetry, of investing not mere money, but one's entire soul--and so we were discreet. The only place the concept of "poetry" actually appeared in the business plan was where we decreed that Elliot, Becket, and I would retain full rights and ownership to all jollyroger.com literature, past, present, and future. We figured they wouldn't miss it. And they didn't.
Basically we got the VC's to put up twenty million dollars without giving up any equity in jollyroger.com's greatest asset--poetry. Initially they were offering about ten million to sign aboard, but we all knew that they needed jollyroger.com's eternal brand more than jollyroger.com needed their money, so we held out for double the initial offer, for which we gave them twenty percent ownership of jollyroger.com, minus all the poetry. We knew we had an Ace in the hole, as you can only get so much mileage out of high-tech pyramid schemes, before you just have to invest in something profound. Out in Silicon Valley one often hears that there's too much money chasing too few good ideas, but since when has a good idea needed money? How much VC did Thoreau raise so as to write Walden, which opens with a section entitled Economy:
When I wrote the following pages, or rather the bulk of them, I lived alone, in the woods, a mile from any neighbor, in a house which I had built myself, on the shore of Walden Pond, in Concord, Massachusetts, and earned my living by the labor of my hands only. I lived there two years and two months. --Henry David ThoreauAnd last night, as Becket, Elliot, and I packed up our gear after windsurfing the Pacific at Coyote Point, we put the value of our new book Eternity in a Grain of Sand: The Most Perfect Silence of Jollyroger.com Poetry (1995-2000) at somewhere around ten million. We figured that if the insiders at money-losing, ephemeral, intrinsically worthless dot-com companies could sell hundreds of millions of stock in their hyped companies to the duped public, then surely the Eternity in a Grain of Sand must be worth at least ten million, if not far more. If billions could be made off of adding a "dot com" to a noun and building a pyramid scheme upon it, and patenting the obvious after the true innovators and inventors had built it for free, then surely subtlety and sublime silence would be worth a few million. For the foundations of a cultural renaissance are destined to become a keystone in history, and to be able to retain full ownership in the foundational words is pretty cool. Now I'm not an MBA or anything, but that's what I'd call a good deal.
By and by we learned the art disguising the renaissance as a dot com business and a coffee shop and a brewery. And that's why I wanted to find that girl from Indiana again, to tell her the more secretive and profound nature of this project. I didn't even know her, but I wanted to tell her that divorce wasn't all that mandatory away out here, that living with one's heart and soul dedicated to the higher ideals was the source of a far higher freedom than the postmodern freedom which was so popular, the freedom from the higher ideals which enslaved one to the cynicism. I'd never seen the Grand Canyon, and she'd reminded me that I wanted to. She'd reminded me that hope is what keeps us forever young, and that vigilantly following Truth's beaty to the ends of this earth is what allows us to hope.
Becket, Elliot, and I had perceived that the popular culture worshipped money at the deeper soul's expense, and thus we were going to have to make a lot of cash pretty quickly so as to get our poetry to show up on our peer's radar. In order to teach we were going to have to quit our professorships and serve up coffee and beer, as even the small college I'd taught at had held money in higher regard than the spirit of the Great Books. More than one of the professors had had a TV in their office playing CNNFN all day long, with all those pretty analysts full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. In order to introduce poetry within the ivied halls, we were going to have to get jollyroger.com's ticker symbol up there, rolling across the bottom of the screen.
As a new professor, I had had to attend a week of orientation, and at every session the speaker would trumpet the size of the college's endowment. I kept waiting for them to acknowledge ideals higher than the bottom line, to quote Plato, or Socrates, or Jefferson, to acknowledge the vast and glorious monuments of wisdom which it was our duty to introduce the students to. In addition to the student's average SAT scores and the college's ranking in U.S. News and World Report, I kept waiting to hear things like:
"Instead of an aristocracy of wealth, of more harm and danger than benefit to society, to make an opening for the aristocracy of virtue and talent, which nature has wisely provided for the direction of the interests of society and scattered with equal hand through all its conditions, was deemed essential to a well-ordered republic." --Thomas Jefferson: Autobiography, 1821.But I never heard the words--I just kept hearing how fantastic the endowment was. By the end of the week, I felt like I was working for a mutual fund--a socialist mutual fund, where the tenured shared the wealth. All I knew was that having no higher common Authority took the fun out of teaching. When the teachers no longer respected the Greats, the students would no longer respect the teachers. It was easy to see how the curriculum would be divided into narrow vocations, with all types of postmodern niches finding permanence in the rudderless bureaucracy, and the students would be left without a deep, common culture for their souls to resound within. But anyway, I soon sailed away on The Jolly Roger, as I had dedicated myself to resolving Thoreau's dilemma:
"If a nation expects to be ignorant and free in a state of civilization, it expects what never was and never will be." --Thomas Jefferson to Charles Yancey, 1816.
"Light and liberty go together." --Thomas Jefferson to Tench Coxe, 1795.
"Above all things I hope the education of the common people will be attended to, convinced that on their good sense we may rely with the most security for the preservation of a due degree of liberty." --Thomas Jefferson to James Madison, 1787. Madison Version
The best books are not read even by those who are called good readers. What does our Concord culture amount to? There is in this town, with a very few exceptions, no taste for the best or for very good books even in English literature, whose words all can read and spell. Even the college-bred and so-called liberally educated men here and elsewhere have really little or no acquaintance with the English classics; and as for the recorded wisdom of mankind, the ancient classics and Bibles, which are accessible to all who will know of them, there are the feeblest efforts anywhere made to become acquainted with them. . . . One who has just come from reading perhaps one of the best English books will find how many with whom he can converse about it? Or suppose he comes from reading a Greek or Latin classic in the original, whose praises are familiar even to the so-called illiterate; he will find nobody at all to speak to, but must keep silence about it. Indeed, there is hardly the professor in our colleges, who, if he has mastered the difficulties of the language, has proportionally mastered the difficulties of the wit and poetry of a Greek poet, and has any sympathy to impart to the alert and heroic reader; and as for the sacred Scriptures, or Bibles of mankind, who in this town can tell me even their titles? --Thoreau, Walden Pond
Men sometimes speak as if the study of the classics would at length make way for more modern and practical studies; but the adventurous student will always study classics, in whatever language they may be written and however ancient they may be. For what are the classics but the noblest recorded thoughts of man? They are the only oracles which are not decayed, and there are such answers to the most modern inquiry in them as Delphi and Dodona never gave. We might as well omit to study Nature because she is old. To read well, that is, to read true books in a true spirit, is a noble exercise, and one that will task the reader more than any exercise which the customs of the day esteem. It requires a training such as the athletes underwent, the steady intention almost of the whole life to this object. Books must be read as deliberately and reservedly as they were written. . . . However much we may admire the orator's occasional bursts of eloquence, the noblest written words are commonly as far behind or above the fleeting spoken language as the firmament with its stars is behind the clouds. There are the stars, and they who can may read them. The astronomers forever comment on and observe them. They are not exhalations like our daily colloquies and vaporous breath. What is called eloquence in the forum is commonly found to be rhetoric in the study. The orator yields to the inspiration of a transient occasion, and speaks to the mob before him, to those who can hear him; but the writer, whose more equable life is his occasion, and who would be distracted by the event and the crowd which inspire the orator, speaks to the intellect and health of mankind, to all in any age who can understand him.And the MBAs obviously didn't play all that much poker either, as they never saw beyond our poker faces during the PowerPoint presentations. They'd mastered e-commerce, e-marketing, e-finance, and e-pyramid schemes, but they didn't comprehend the deeper art of the poetic bluff which I'd studied in high school on Friday nights, sitting around a card table. They'd own the majority of the physical premises, and the servers and ecommerce infrastructure, but we'd own the soul. We'd own that entity which because science could not apprehend it, technologists believed that it did not matter.
And as I stood there against the wall, looking for the girl from Indiana that I'd already lost in the first few moments of this Jollyroger.com brewery, I began to wonder just how many at the opening night party could hear the sublime silence of the approaching storm. From face to face of the dancing strangers my gaze wandered, looking for echoes of the profound quietude amongst the Wired reporters and the Salon.com crowd we'd invited--could they hear the renaissance's rising wind? There was Bill Joy from Sun Microsytems who'd recently penned that in a few years man would be replaced by machines, from which I had to conclude that he'd never understood the Declaration of Independence, nor the Gospels, nor Shakespeare, to believe that a machine could create such beauty. Technologists were always creating God in their own image, and thus it was a God without poetry. How about John and Samantha--our new venture capitalist friends? Could they hear the most perfect silence? They were fresh out of Stanford business school, and they were now working with Weston, Smith & Remington--they'd just put up millions for the jollyroger.com piano & poetry pubs, and I'm not sure they even knew what iambic pentameter was. It was pretty funny. John was standing there with his hand on Samantha's ass--he kept patting her to the rhythm of Jack Daniels Salinger, and it was getting on my nerves--Samantha was pretty hot, wearing a short dress, and trashed too, but it probably would've gotten on my nerves anyway. And he wasn't just tapping her--John was banging the hell out of her, like she was a bongo. And this wasn't even the IPO party or anything.
It didn't take a genius to see that if you let the MBA's and venture capitalists stand at the helm for too long, Jollyroger.com would turn into just another postmodern cash-burning dot-com joke or something. It was kinda funny watching them navigate out of their natural element of financing high-tech pyramid schemes. It'd been John's idea to get Jack Daniel's Salinger--he'd known the lead singer Ryan back during his Stanford undergrad years--Ryan was some sort of a rebel because he conformed to all the sixties codes of dress, and he had a bunch of crap in his face. He looked like Stewart from those Ameritrade ads, and John wanted to give the band stock options to become the official jollyroger.com band, but we were able to talk him out of it.
Becket and Elliot and I had planned on hosting a poetry reading on the opening night of the Jollyroger.com Great Books Brewery, but John had told us they'd be expecting us to rock, so we were going to get our band Drake's Raft together, and then have a poetry reading anyway, but then John went ahead and hired his own bands. He was afraid we'd do something cool, like read sonnets. John was a good guy, and he knew everything and more about NPATs and IPOs and structuring ownership and equity and vesting, and he'd read thousands upon thousands of business plans, but that's no way to build a soul. I didn't quite get it--John understood that the most perfect silence was attracting people, and yet as soon as his firm had invested in it, he wanted to shout over it. We were kinda off to a bad start, but at least they were paying for it. And at least John hadn't hired William Shatner for the opening night gig.
Not only did we have the shareholder's interests to protect, but we also had the reader's. And thus I was relieved that John had won out over Samantha. When she'd heard that we wanted to do a poetry reading, she'd scheduled David Foster Wallace--her sister was in one of his creative writing classes. It seemed like the VCs were intent on making us a non-profit organization--jollyroger.org. They were kind of dot-communists in that way--profits weren't important in their postmodern economy, in the same way rhyme, meter, and meaning were no longer important in postmodern poetry. It was everyone's duty to buy into it, to believe the postmodern hype, to line the VC's pockets in the postmodern pyramid schemes where profits and Truth and value and law and reason and order no longer mattered. It was an inside joke, of course, as profits mattered very much to the VC's--they just advertised that profits didn't matter so they could make vast profits when the public bought into the hype during the IPO, assuming all the risk of a profitless company that was once assumed by the VCs. And make no mistake--the tenured postmodern elite believe very much in law and order, as far as it preserves their own freedom and paychecks. They believe very much that words mean things every time they get in their tax and tuition subsidized BMW's and drive to work--they want you to stop at all the stop signs.
Like the educational administrators, the spreadsheet bureaucrats didn't understand the vast value of God-inspired poetry, and that's why we were able to retain full ownership. They didn't understand that when all the castles built on silicon crumbled to the sea, there'd yet be poetry. They thought that because they understood how to lose vast sums of money, they understood how to run a business, just as modern pedants thought that because they could opine, they could teach, that because they could deconstruct they could create. They thought that because they could invest in poetry, they could write it. Such is the common disposition of those who have never seen action on the frontlines of creativity and entrepreneurship--those who have never sailed in the first principles' wind nor been inspired by higher Truths in an Indiana girl's smile, but have only ever worked in the shadow of the bottom line. They'd never been in the line of fire and come out alive by baring their soul with eloquence. They'd never built anything from the ground up for the sake of beauty's inspiration alone. They'd never lost themselves in a moment of eternity, and then turned around and found eternity in the moment.
And as Jack Daniels Salinger played on and the brew flowed, I got that same feeling that I often get before I write--I felt like I had to get away. The Great Books Brewery was rapidly changing into one of those places that I was always wanting to leave so as to walk the streets and set down a poem or two. A prophet will not be known in his own home, it has been said, and I'll admit I was beginning to feel like Odysseus, when he returned home after his years of adventure on the high seas to find everyone partying in his house, hitting on his wife. And like Odysseus, I too was in disguise, for nobody knew of the most perfect silence thundering through my soul. We'd been so good at dressing jollyroger.com as a dot-com brewery that sometimes the poetry was hard to see, but beneath the mask she was transporting the WWW Renaissance. And all we had to do was wait for time herself to engrave her deeper nature upon eternity.
Time is far more valuable than venture capital when it comes to poetry, as time alone can erode and conquer the mighty administrator's ego, the proud man's contumely, the inflated value of a worthless company, the politician's rhetoric, the false prophet's blasphemies, the cultural elite's insignificant art which elevates the ambitious critic by its utter meaninglessness, and replace them all with the poetry that means something to tomorrow's children.
And as the crowd danced on to Jack Daniels Salinger, I knew that Becket and Elliot were thinking the same exact things--Becket was standing there totally bored, with his girlfriend Wyoming, but I couldn't see where Elliot had wandered off to--he'd probably taken off to go walk the streets. I laughed when it hit me--he'd probably taken off with the girl from Indiana--there weren't all that many to go around. This was turning into just another dot-com café, another good-time rock'n'roll Starbucks, and there was nothing I could do, but stand and watch John playing the bongos.
And then with a blinding flash and a deep crack of thunder I felt in my bones before I heard it, the power went out. I saw the lightning's jagged blue fork touch down just outside the window, and the band went silent and the room went black. And in a moment people began cheering and getting their lighters out. I remembered the boxes of candles we'd bought but hadn't had time to set up on all the tables, and I hopped behind the bar, found them, and started passing them out.
And suddenly Becket was up on the stage.
"All-right everyone. This was all part of the schedule here. We're going to do a poetry reading now. As many of you well know, we just published our latest book, Eternity in a Grain of Sand: The Most Perfect Silence of Jollyroger.com Poetry (1995-2000). So if I can invite Drake Raft up here to kick it off--there he is--to kick it off with a poem he wrote awhile back, which kinda started all this. The Most Perfect Silence."
And how I wish you could have been there for what followed. I read the opening poem, and then Becket read on for over half an hour to the most perfectly silent crowd, most of them holding candles, and sitting on the hardwood floor. And as I stood there, I felt a presence beside me. It was the girl from Indiana. And I leaned on towards her as she started saying something, and it'd been so long since I'd lost myself in a natural, soft kiss--one of those melting high school ones--which was brief, like the soul of wit, but which would endure forever in memory.
"Thanks," she said, smiling, surprised, "I really could use that." I didn't really know what to say either.
And we just stood there and enjoyed the rest of Becket's show, sharing the most perfect silence of not quite knowing each other's names. And how I wish the man who'd called us from Alaska and left a message on the jollyroger.com voice mail a few weeks ago could've been there. "I'm calling from Alaska here, America's final frontier--my wife turned me on to your site--she's the surfer in our house--I'm fired up to see what you youngsters are doing. God bless you." He hadn't left a name nor a number. And how I wish the thousands of jollyroger.com crew members could've been there, as all the poetry had been written with them in mind. For it was the constant, favorable wind of their email responses by which jollyroger.com had sailed so far so fast. They weren't deans, nor professors, nor investment bankers, nor prominent VCs, nor high cultural officials, but they were the true owners of poetry--the people who read it, enjoyed it, and lived it in the most perfect silence of our comprehension of those mysteries greater than ourselves. And to all of ye, I dedicate this Great Books Brewery, and all the poetry that lines her deeper decks, past, present, and future.
God bless ye, and God bless America.
I wanted to know, who is Becket Knottingham? Also, in this last poem he/she implied that he/she was not a post-modernist. I would like to know, What Becket Knottingham considers himself/herself to be?
If you would, please let me know!
Thank you for your time.
student at The University of Southern Mississippi
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Becket Knottingham is one of the three sonneteers.
Hey Beckett Loved the poem "Wyoming in New York". Won't make it to the piano and poetry pub in New York as it is a little to far away for me being in England but if i ever return to the States for a visit i will be sure to look it up. Keep the Poetry coming and Rhyming too. cheers jai
THANKS por me escrever,uma gota de prana dourado para voce......
i read right through your story about new york and the waldorf astoria
and though i know that the real reason that you are starting up the new york
pub is to gather eyeballs and advertising space for your deal with cbs
and though your analysis of those girls was mysogynistic
and the reference to axl rose and constant use of the word "totally" was
jarring to the romance of the piece
it's a really really lovely story
i even got a bit teary
sitting here at work at 9am
on a friday morning
Mallesons Stephen Jaques Sydney
To the cap'n et al,
just to say that it's refreshing to read some spiel re-affirming the classic traditions and heartfelt truths, and rejecting the commercial bombardments of modern culture. As a 23 yr old student from England count me in on your revolution - if you'll have me.
I really liked reading your sophisticated emphasis of the need for honest, intellectual stimulus. Aspiring to something greater in oneself rather than giving in to modern culture is surely a great cause.
captain&crew;flagship jollyroger, Ahoy! And AMEN to that!It's good to know,finally, that I'm not alone on this sea of classical liturature and culture. I've been so for so long, that I was afeared all like minded souls of my generation(if there were any) had long since drowned in the hurricane force of "postmodern liberal pop-culture" that I've strained against myself these long twenty some years. But for one who was weaned on Shakespeare,Scott and Stevenson as I, succumbing to it has never been an option.
one, that on a lonesome road doth walk in fear and
and having once turned round walks on, and turns no more his head;
Because he knows a frightful fiend doth close behind him tread."
My 6yr old son begs me to read to him from two books every night: His own Bible and Knowles'King Arthur. He'll have nothing to do with the common fare of his classmates. (Just to let you know that not every child of the upcoming generation is doomed to indolence or ignorance or both.) Anyway I'm delighted for the company and enjoyed the sample of your work. I've not written much since I took upon myself the enormous and joyful task of motherhood, but I will try to submit something soon to earn my keep. Cary On!
PS. I'm looking forward to reading Drakeraft, but I don't buy off the web if I can avoid it.Is it available in bookstores?
Bluebeard, Hail to thee blithe spirit! And to the crew as well. I just lost several hours worth of work by accidentally hitting the wrong button with my mouse so if my message is short and not written all that well, forgive me-I'm tired.that's why I prefer a pencil to a keyboard. Aaarrrghh! Are you familiar with epic poem by Sir Walter Scott named in the above subject? I've not seen any mention of Scott's work on your web site that I can recall. Anyway, it's one of my favorites and when I read more of your work today on both the site and the "Eternity in a Grain of Sand" bit that a "Misty Waters" mailed to me from jollyroger today; (I can only assume that you took the title from Wm. Blake's verse, which has long been one of my favorites too. As a younger lass I took it literally and spent hours in the high meadows and forests of Mt. Hood and the rocky coastlines of Oregon attempting to do just that - and I succeded. But that is another story and beside the point of this letter.)
I knew that for the first time in ages, outside of the written word and my pastor, that I'd found another human being worthy to be called by that noble standard when I encountered you guys on the www earlier this week. For the first time in ten years I'm starting to believe that by the grace of almighty God, there is hope for our generation and thus our world. Gramercy!
Keep the faith, and keep sailing on- remember Daniel and Moses and all those who were here before- (if your not sure just what I mean by that, check out the new FFH cd-found a place-Jeromy and Michael are pretty decent poets too). Catch ya later.
Ahoy!ancient mariner here. I was treasure hunting on yer site again and I noticed that the same work that is attributed to Becket in some places is attributed to Drake in others. So what gives? Are ye one and the same? Are there three of you or two? Or is it all the work of one squire Elliot? I've seen the pictures of a group of guys and also the ones of just Becket and Misty. The ones of Drake selling sonnets at Duke look suspiciously like the back of Becket's head.If that is the case, please forgive my last email as I wrote it ignorant of this possibility. I know you must get swamped with mail, so I really do appreciate it any time I hear from you. I have one other question; If you all are my age, where the heck were you when I was 18 and going thru about the same thing you encountred at Princeton in the UC system in California 1989-90-91? The only guys I met in HS and college besides the one I married who is 12yrs my sr. and had long since graduated from LSU, who had any spirit or intelligence (who weren't also gay), were the international students there on visas that I played chess with. The thing that haunts me most about your sonnets is that like one of those girls I had/have long auburn hair and stormy blue eyes. But I didn't turn out like her. I'm just your basic granola girl from the west coast; seldom wear any make-up and never worn highheels.Just as comfortable in a victorian gunnesax dresses as bluejeans and a t-shirt. Trying to be that American girl you described so well and lamented for; trying to survive marriage and raising kids with a biblical foundation.Glad to have found another kid with the same interests, values and ideals to share friendship with. Whoever you are,I hope you'll stick around for a while.
PS.Remember the Motley Crue song-City Boy Blues? the story about the beginings of the pub in New York reminds me of that song. Even though I haven't heard it in years and don't remember most of the lyrics, that's what came to mind.
Thanks for the welcome aboard. I am a bit overwhelmed with your site and all it has to offer. It is indeed written with words that mean things. In your welcome, you have a poem, The Most Perfect Silence. I tried to find this on your site, but there is so much there I couldn't track it down. I'd like to share it with my creative writing class -- yes, I am one of those instructors you heeded to stay away from your site. Alas, I do not adhere to the traditional teaching methods and would say I'm the exception to the rule every time! Needless to say, I have developed a following in my class and word is out that I'm not the establishment!
Anyway, I'd like permission to use this poem for discussion and if that's ok, I'd like to give the author credit. Please advise.
Thanks much and I look forward to many voyages!
P.S. I live in Ohio and absolutely loved the dedication to the greeting card site -- us Ohio girls do tend to show in the art!
Date: Mon, 27 Mar 2000 19:38:29 -0500
I forgot to tell you why I would like to use this poem in my class. In
of national poetry month, each student will be required to bring in 1 poem
(with copies for everyone in class) and read it; then give their
interpretation of it - why it touched them, etc. I had only read the first
lines of this poem and knew it was going to be with me always.
Please pass on my thanks to Drake.
Ahoy Becket (Elliot),
Just wanted to let you know that I read Drake Raft's poem, "The Most
Perfect Silence," to my class last night. Everyone loved it and wanted to
know where they could find more of his work. Of course, I steered them to
jollyroger! We celebrated National Poetry Month, and it was quite
interesting to see the poets each student selected. We had everything
from Dr. Suess to Poe.
Again thanks for the ok to use the poem. I am still trying to find more
of Drake's poetry on your site, but end up getting lost in the maze of
cool places to go. Do you have a book of poetry out? I'd love to read
more of your work.
Keep your sails up!
Desertwind (Debi Buettner)
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy mate! Check out ETERNITY IN A GRAIN OF SAND:
THE MOST PERFECT SILENCE OF JOLLYROGER.COM POETRY (1995-2000).
to your majesty,
i am left in tears and with the most extraordinary bewilderment when i
a short while ago it was featured on the bottom of the killdevilhill.com
page...... it is now gone and i have tried desperately to find it... but
i can't. if you could send me a copy i would be most grateful.
thank you for your uplifiting and strong works
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy mate! And thank ye for yer uplifting and strong words!
From: Debi Buettner
Subject: The Most Perfect Silence
Subject: The Most Perfect Silence
Date: Tue, 18 Apr 2000 15:08:39 +1000
Subject: your poetry of a wonder
o' but wonderous beckett knottingham
it is a feast to lay my eyes upon your poetry
i am desperate to re-lay my eyes them upon just one of them.......
i look forward to hearing from you
I forgot to tell you why I would like to use this poem in my class. In honor of national poetry month, each student will be required to bring in 1 poem (with copies for everyone in class) and read it; then give their interpretation of it - why it touched them, etc. I had only read the first 3 lines of this poem and knew it was going to be with me always.
Please pass on my thanks to Drake.
Best, Debi Buettner
Ahoy Becket (Elliot),
Just wanted to let you know that I read Drake Raft's poem, "The Most Perfect Silence," to my class last night. Everyone loved it and wanted to know where they could find more of his work. Of course, I steered them to jollyroger! We celebrated National Poetry Month, and it was quite interesting to see the poets each student selected. We had everything from Dr. Suess to Poe.
Again thanks for the ok to use the poem. I am still trying to find more of Drake's poetry on your site, but end up getting lost in the maze of cool places to go. Do you have a book of poetry out? I'd love to read more of your work.
Keep your sails up!
Desertwind (Debi Buettner)
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy mate! Check out ETERNITY IN A GRAIN OF SAND: THE MOST PERFECT SILENCE OF JOLLYROGER.COM POETRY (1995-2000).
to your majesty,
i am left in tears and with the most extraordinary bewilderment when i
a short while ago it was featured on the bottom of the killdevilhill.com page...... it is now gone and i have tried desperately to find it... but i can't. if you could send me a copy i would be most grateful.
thank you for your uplifiting and strong works
THE CAPTAIN RESPONDS: Ahoy mate! And thank ye for yer uplifting and strong words!