Once more unto the breach...

Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more;
Or close the wall up with our English dead.
In peace there's nothing so becomes a man
As modest stillness and humility:
But when the blast of war blows in our ears,
Then imitate the action of the tiger;
Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood,
Disguise fair nature with hard-favour'd rage;
Then lend the eye a terrible aspect;
Let pry through the portage of the head
Like the brass cannon; let the brow o'erwhelm it
As fearfully as doth a galled rock
O'erhang and jutty his confounded base, 
Swill'd with the wild and wasteful ocean.
Now set the teeth and stretch the nostril wide,
Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit
To his full height. On, on, you noblest English.
Whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof!
Fathers that, like so many Alexanders,
Have in these parts from morn till even fought
And sheathed their swords for lack of argument:
Dishonour not your mothers; now attest
That those whom you call'd fathers did beget you.
Be copy now to men of grosser blood,
And teach them how to war. And you, good yeoman,
Whose limbs were made in England, show us here
The mettle of your pasture; let us swear
That you are worth your breeding; which I doubt not;
For there is none of you so mean and base,
That hath not noble lustre in your eyes.
I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips,
Straining upon the start. The game's afoot:
Follow your spirit, and upon this charge
Cry 'God for Harry, England, and Saint George!'
                                                         …Henry V, Act III

 

   All-grown-up Prince Hal/King Henry a Jersey guy?  Well, not at all, really.  I chose this passage today because it's about being brave, trying the same thing again and hoping for a victory this time, and heading the call to "follow your spirit."  On this wet and wintry day on what were once the fields of Middlesex, I am seated across from my own Agincourt, a populated box as active as Harfleur and just as daunting. I am trying, as overwhelmed as I am by the great numbers of other writers, the lousy weather, the lack of respect I have been shown lately, and the great many St. Crispian's Days I have passed,  to be a writer.  
     I used to tell my students that the only difference between them and writers was that writers actually wrote something.  Neil Gaiman, it seems, would agree.  Now it is time for me to face that fact myself.
     So, I am a Jersey Writer, too.  I will still report to you about the great work of the great writers from our great state, but I will also keep you informed about the writing process as I go through it myself.  "It's never too late to be what you might have been."  I will also return to my "Today's Writing Prompt" element .  I hope that they help you to think and make you read and write.  First word of advice?  Don't think so much that you forget to write anything!

Today's Writing Prompt:

We are being visited by various mushy forms of snow, sleet, and rain here in the Garden State.  It's nothing like e.e. cummings' "mud-luscious" and "puddle-wonderful" spring day.  Write a short poem in which you play around with the word slush.  (Is it a noun or a verb?  A command?  What does the dictionary say? ) Send me your poem with an image attached.

Keep reading and writing, my band of brothers,

Maureen