Monday, April 25, 2016

Musing Mondays & Manga Monday

Musing Mondays 
Created & Hosted by Books And A Beat
Musing Mondays asks you to muse about one of the following each week…
I’m currently reading…
Up next I think I’ll read…
I bought the following book(s) in the past week…
I’m super excited to tell you about (book/author/bookish-news)…
I’m really upset by (book/author/bookish-news)…
I can’t wait to get a copy of…
I wish I could read ___, but…

I blogged about ____ this past week…
This week's question: 
Your favorite poem, or collection of poetry.

My Answer:
I'm not a huge poetry fan but I'm in love with this one. My grandmother used to read it to me when I was a little kid. I had to memorize it back in junior high and still remember most of it. 

My favorite poem is The Highway Man by Alfred Noyes


The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.   
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.   
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   
And the highwayman came riding— 
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door. 

He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,   
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin. 
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.   
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle, 
         His pistol butts a-twinkle, 
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky. 

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard. 
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.   
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair. 

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked 
Where Tim the ostler listened. His face was white and peaked.   
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,   
But he loved the landlord’s daughter, 
         The landlord’s red-lipped daughter. 
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say— 

“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night, 
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light; 
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,   
Then look for me by moonlight, 
         Watch for me by moonlight, 
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.” 

He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand, 
But she loosened her hair in the casement. His face burnt like a brand 
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;   
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight, 
         (O, sweet black waves in the moonlight!) 
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west. 


He did not come in the dawning. He did not come at noon;   
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,   
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon, looping the purple moor,   
A red-coat troop came marching— 
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door. 

They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.   
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed. 
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!   
There was death at every window; 
         And hell at one dark window; 
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride. 

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest. 
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast! 
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the doomed man say— 
Look for me by moonlight;
         Watch for me by moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good! 
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!   
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years 
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight, 
         Cold, on the stroke of midnight, 
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers! 

The tip of one finger touched it. She strove no more for the rest.   
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast.   
She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;   
For the road lay bare in the moonlight; 
         Blank and bare in the moonlight; 
And the blood of her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain. 

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horsehoofs ringing clear;   
Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear? 
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill, 
The highwayman came riding— 
The red coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still. 

Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!   
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light. 
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,   
Then her finger moved in the moonlight, 
         Her musket shattered the moonlight, 
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death. 

He turned. He spurred to the west; he did not know who stood   
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own blood!   
Not till the dawn he heard it, and his face grew grey to hear   
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
         The landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there. 

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky, 
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high. 
Blood red were his spurs in the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat; 
When they shot him down on the highway, 
         Down like a dog on the highway, 
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat. 

.       .       . 

And still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees, 
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,   
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,   
A highwayman comes riding— 
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door. 

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard. 
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred.   
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there   
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter, 
         Bess, the landlord’s daughter, 
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Manga Monday

Created by Alison Can Read
I don't see it as a current weekly on her blog but she does have a great list of manga's that she's read or reading. Be sure to check her out. 

 I'm new to the manga world this is only my third but I've fallen in love with them. Recently I've not had a lot of time to sit down and read like I would like so I'm hoping this will motivate me to read more of them. This month I'm hoping to read 10 volumes if not more. I would love to finish my current and start a new one.

Currently working on 
Dance in the Vampire Bund
Add to (Goodreads)

Didn't get as many read so far this month but hoping to finish off a few more this week. It's an interesting series and I want to see how it's going to play out. 

I want to start one of the new ones I've had suggested to me. 
Anyone else currently addicted to manga?

1 comment:

  1. Are you enjoying the *Dance in the Vampire Bund* manga series? I watched the anime series years ago, and I enjoyed it.