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Guest Larstrup

The Organ

By Guest Larstrup, in The Beer Bar

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MsAnn Veteran

MsAnn

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My humble contribution:

wurlitzer-de-luxe-organ-40-americanlisted_36547575.jpg

Growing up, Mom had one of these in the house, or something similar. It was a 700lb monster.  One January in 1969, after 7 days of relentless rains, the canyon wall let go and buried half the house and most of the road leading up the hill. The only way out was by a foot trail that was about an eighth of a mile long down a steep embankment that led to the main road. Dozens of people showed up to help us evacuate. After hours of gathering possessions that had survived the landslide and shuttling them down the hill,  it was determined that alas the organ could not be moved and would have to be left behind. Mom began crying uncontrollably. We stood around pondering  the fate of the organ and trying to console my mother. Out of the crowd of volunteers, an ex marine, 6' 2 and 250lbs if he was an once took charge. He pulled together 12 of the biggest guys in the group, wrapped the organ in moving blankets, then strapped 4 by 4 beams across the top and lashed them down. Three guys on each beam, front and back. To this day I can hear him say, "On the count of three we are going to lift, and then we're going to carry this bitch down the hill"....and he did. Mom had that organ until the day she died at 91.

 

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Suckrates Grand Master

Suckrates

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This thread is frustrating.... All this talk about Organs, and not a single 10 incher in sight...  And it appears Unicorn gave up posting his pic galleries,  so will someone PLEASE post some cock !    :cheer:

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MsAnn Veteran

MsAnn

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2 minutes ago, Suckrates said:

 

This thread is frustrating.... All this talk about Organs, and not a single 10 incher in sight...  And it appears Unicorn gave up posting his pic galleries,  so will someone PLEASE post some cock !    :cheer:

The ex marine most likely had a 10 incher, but I was 10 years old and wasn't really looking in those days...:D

Guest Larstrup

Guest Larstrup

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28f1b4877b86dad00841669800e1f8ab.jpg

Awww honey,  I remember that day so fondly, it was an early and beautiful, crystal clear day with calm seas, blue skies and light winds. My makeup was better than Grace's and Rosario had just told me she'd wring my neck, but she didn't want to be standing in a puddle of gin. Oh, the good times sweetie! But then suddenly and without warning,  just like a tale of a fateful trip, a terrible nightmare arose, and when you pleaded your case like a pro, in the end you won your case and dignity, but lost the sentencing phase.  I recall it going something like this:

:lol:

@AdamSmith

AdamSmith Grand Master

AdamSmith

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Posted
2 hours ago, Suckrates said:

This thread is frustrating.... All this talk about Organs, and not a single 10 incher in sight...  And it appears Unicorn gave up posting his pic galleries,  so will someone PLEASE post some cock !    :cheer:

Will a 32-foot Bombarde pipe-rank ( ;) ) suffice?

ab6542da076fa10a031773d7534d207b.jpg

:o:P

AdamSmith Grand Master

AdamSmith

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43 minutes ago, AdamSmith said:

Yeah, RIGHT.

:lol:

I have never been hornier in my LIFE than in fifth grade. :D

If I had only known how to go about it then, there in woebegotten 1970... :blink:

AdamSmith Grand Master

AdamSmith

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This seems kind of shallow, but then maybe not.

PROSE FROM POETRY MAGAZINE

Undead Eliot: How “The Waste Land” Sounds Now

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When reading a poet who found his own voice after 1922, I often come across a cadence or trick of diction which makes me say “Oh, he’s read Hardy, or Yeats, or Rilke,” but seldom, if ever, can I detect an immediate, direct influence from Eliot. His indirect influence has, of course, been immense, but I should be hard put to it to say exactly what it is.
— W.H. Auden

Thomas Sayers Ellis, or a version of him looping eternally on YouTube, is about to read “All Their Stanzas Look Alike,” a weirdly 
hypnotic indictment of academic and aesthetic politics. Before launching into the poem, he remarks:

I was beat digging at the artist’s colony, it’s kind of funny, and I heard “let us go then you and I when the evening is spread out against the sky in a red wheelbarrow and that has made all the difference.” The cadence of that decade became my new haint, the new thing that haunted me, and so I wrote this — this is an homage to that sound.

Imagine this pastiche declaimed in a deep-pitched monotone, as Ellis jiggles nonexistent jowls. He goes on to observe that during his childhood in Washington DC, “the voice that was on television all the time was Richard Nixon, and so when I began my formal training in poetry, you know, they all sounded like Nixon to me.”

Thomas Sayers Ellis reads Thomas Stearns Eliot (and Williams, and Frost) as Nixon, guilty spokesman for a corrupt establishment. This is part of what modernism means now, has meant for decades: not revolutionary art but stiff authority. Despite the stiffness and the guilt, though, Ellis describes enchantment by rhythm. Ellis was beat digging, riffling through old vinyl, haunted less by the denotation of the words than by their detonations. Auden is right that moments of Eliotic influence are hard to finger, but it’s precisely in cadence that Eliot’s work survives...

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poetrymagazine/articles/70143/undead-eliot-how-the-waste-land-sounds-now

 

AdamSmith Grand Master

AdamSmith

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On 10/31/2017 at 8:08 PM, Larstrup said:

 

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

 
The skies they were ashen and sober; 
      The leaves they were crispéd and sere— 
      The leaves they were withering and sere; 
It was night in the lonesome October 
      Of my most immemorial year; 
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber, 
      In the misty mid region of Weir— 
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber, 
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
Here once, through an alley Titanic, 
      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul— 
      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul. 
These were days when my heart was volcanic 
      As the scoriac rivers that roll— 
      As the lavas that restlessly roll 
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek 
      In the ultimate climes of the pole— 
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek 
      In the realms of the boreal pole. 
 
Our talk had been serious and sober, 
      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere— 
      Our memories were treacherous and sere— 
For we knew not the month was October, 
      And we marked not the night of the year— 
      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!) 
We noted not the dim lake of Auber— 
      (Though once we had journeyed down here)— 
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber, 
      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir. 
 
And now, as the night was senescent 
      And star-dials pointed to morn— 
      As the star-dials hinted of morn— 
At the end of our path a liquescent 
      And nebulous lustre was born, 
Out of which a miraculous crescent 
      Arose with a duplicate horn— 
Astarte's bediamonded crescent 
      Distinct with its duplicate horn. 
 
And I said—"She is warmer than Dian: 
      She rolls through an ether of sighs— 
      She revels in a region of sighs: 
She has seen that the tears are not dry on 
      These cheeks, where the worm never dies, 
And has come past the stars of the Lion 
      To point us the path to the skies— 
      To the Lethean peace of the skies— 
Come up, in despite of the Lion, 
      To shine on us with her bright eyes— 
Come up through the lair of the Lion, 
      With love in her luminous eyes." 
 
But Psyche, uplifting her finger, 
      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust— 
      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:— 
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger! 
      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must." 
In terror she spoke, letting sink her 
      Wings till they trailed in the dust— 
In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
      Plumes till they trailed in the dust— 
      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 
 
I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming: 
      Let us on by this tremulous light! 
      Let us bathe in this crystalline light! 
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming 
      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:— 
      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night! 
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming, 
      And be sure it will lead us aright— 
We safely may trust to a gleaming 
      That cannot but guide us aright, 
      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night." 
 
Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her, 
      And tempted her out of her gloom— 
      And conquered her scruples and gloom: 
And we passed to the end of the vista, 
      But were stopped by the door of a tomb— 
      By the door of a legended tomb; 
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister, 
      On the door of this legended tomb?" 
      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume— 
      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!" 
 
Then my heart it grew ashen and sober 
      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere— 
      As the leaves that were withering and sere, 
And I cried—"It was surely October 
      On this very night of last year 
      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here— 
      That I brought a dread burden down here— 
      On this night of all nights in the year, 
      Oh, what demon has tempted me here? 
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber— 
      This misty mid region of Weir— 
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber— 
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 
 
Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it 
      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls— 
      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls— 
To bar up our way and to ban it 
      From the secret that lies in these wolds— 
      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds— 
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet 
      From the limbo of lunary souls— 
This sinfully scintillant planet 
      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"
AdamSmith Grand Master

AdamSmith

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On 8/2/2017 at 7:41 PM, AdamSmith said:

Far better.

 

P.S.! One notes the organist's just slightly late pedal entrances will correct, once his teacher/registrant instructs (by spreading for him ^_^ ) how to become a correct TOP.

The only model for student/teacher relationships. ;)

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