​For Halloween: Robert Burns’ classic story of witches and warlocks . . . and a mare’s tail.

Note: While this poem is technically in English, a short summary with a few “translations” may be in order. (A quick Google search should supply further details.)

​Here goes . . .
 
One dark and stormy night, following an evening’s revelry with his pal “Souter (cobbler) Johnie” by the fireside (“ingle”) of the Lord’s House Inn at Ayr, and fortified by the landlady (“Kirkton Jean”) with many draughts of ale (“nappy” or “reaming swats”), our hero Tam, with his faithful mare Maggie, ventures forth on his long road home (“hame”).
 
As he nears the end of his journey, and approaches the bridge over the River Doon (“brig o’ Doon”), his path takes him by the ruins of the old haunted church (“kirk”) at Alloway, where Tom observes a gathering of warlocks and witches (“carlins”) dancing about in their nightshirts (“sarks”) to the tune of the piper - none other than “Auld Nick” himself, in the shape of a large shaggy dog (“towzie tyke”) at the window seat (“winnock bunker”).
 
Tam’s attention is riveted by the dancing and capering - and rather short nightshirt (“cutty sark”) - of Nannie, a particularly “winsome wench”. As the festivities reach their peak, Tam can no longer contain his admiration as he roars out his approval: “Weel done, cutty-sark!”
 
Mayhem ensues. Nannie and the “hellish legion” give chase, while Tam and Maggie make a mad dash for the keystone (“key-stain”) of the bridge, hoping to reach the safety of the other side. (“A running stream they dare na cross.”)
 
. . . and thereby hangs a tail.

A little more Poe for Halloween . . .

A little seasonal Poe to brighten up your day . . .

Footnote: “Nemo me impune lacessit”  = “No one provokes me with impunity”

​James Joyce: Finnegans Wake (Introduction)

Some years ago, I had a dream that took place in a combination library-pub. Several people were gathered around a table participating in The Great Finnegans Wake Challenge, or Read-Off, or if you will . . . Drinking Game.

The first contestant opened his copy of Finnegans Wake to the beginning, downed a pint of Guinness, and read as far as he could without stumbling.

(Yeah, I know . . . You’re probably thinking: “How could they tell?”
Well . . . judging is strictly hypothetical.)

Bluffing is permitted.

In fact, it’s mandatory.

My advice, while reading Joyce (and just about everyone else) . . . 
“When in doubt, read with authority and no one will call your bluff.”

After a successful “challenge” the book was handed off to the next contender, who in turn downed a pint of Guinness, and continued reading.

The Wake and the Guinness meandered around the table during the course of the evening and the festivities continued . . . not until the book was finished (it is, after all, 628 pages) but until the Guinness worked its magic and the bloody thing started to make sense.

Sometime in the late ’90s, after several false starts during the preceding decades, I finally read Joyce’s epic in its entirety. (Or more accurately, I looked at every single word in it. There is a difference.) And I can proudly boast, with only slight exaggeration, that I understand . . . maybe about 1% of it. (Something about a bricklayer falling off his ladder and rising from the dead after a bottle of whiskey is spilled over his corpse.) But even “the other 99%” makes for a fun read.

So, in honor of Saint Patrick’s Day, and without the aid of Guinness (it’s early in the day), here is my stone cold sober assault on the first couple pages.

After that . . . you’re on your own.