Boston Marathon Strava-verse: Paul Revere's ride

In seventh grade, Miss Phillips had me memorize "Paul Revere's Ride" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. So I did. After finishing "Jabberwocky" to start off the year of run naming, it seemed obvious what my next effort would be. I calculated that I could arrange to end it on the day of the Boston Marathon, thus neatly tying the verse with the running. And to top it off, the "18th of April" cited in the poem was exactly 250 years ago on Friday.

"Paul Revere's Ride" was first published
in The Atlantic Monthly in 1861.

On looking up the poem, also titled "The Landlord's Tale", I discovered the poem's political undertones. It was written in the leadup to the Civil War, and Longfellow had been outspoken as an abolishionist. The poem was a call to action to Northerners, recalling their role in the American Revolution. So not irrelevant to the current situation.

Listen my children and you shall hear

of the midnight ride of Paul Revere

and of my runs like this one here.

On the eighteenth of April, in seventy-five

Hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year,

or when the end of this poem shall arrive.

He said to his friend, "If the British march

By land or sea from the town to-night”

They be lost in New Jersey, no turnpike in sight.

Hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch

of the North Church tower as a signal light,—

One, if by land, and two, if by sea;

But if it be 'puter, then ye shall put three.

And I on the opposite shore will be,

ready to ride and spread the alarm

the royalists are coming and they mean to do harm!

Through every Middlesex village and farm,

For the country folk to be up and to arm.

On up the Park Street and down by the pond

to Chester, where merriment and good folk were found.

Then he said, "Good night!" and with muffled oar

Silently rowed to the Charlestown shore

safe from the royalists and and their childish roar.

Just as the moon rose over the bay,

Where swinging wide at her moorings lay

An emperor who would have his way

The Somerset, British man-of-war; A phantom ship

... with each mast and spar

across the moon like a prison bar,

that traitorous rogue will go too far.

And a huge black hulk, that was magnified

by its own reflection in the tide,

For the pacer and the patriot,

there's no place left to hide.

Meanwhile, his friend, through alley and street

Wanders and watches with eager ears,

wondering what we can do in these years.

Till in the silence around him he hears

the muster of men at the barrack door,

while the good folk of the country wish back on before.

Marching down to their boats on the shore.

Forgetting their watches, they ran point eight four.

The sound of arms, and the tramp of feet

and the measured tread of the grenadiers,

...already tired of the next few years.

Then he climbed the tower of the Old North Church

By the wooden stairs, with stealthy tread,

the view kept coming, no need to search

To the belfry-chamber overhead,

"Resist! Resist!" he angrily said

And startled the pigeons from their perch.

On the sombre rafters, that round him made masses

and moving shapes of shade,

seen through hay-air glasses.

By the trembling ladder, steep and tall,

to the highest window in the wall

for in the coming fateful brawl,

he will see the mighty fall.

Where he paused to listen and look down

A moment on the roofs of the town

the sun would soon rise and the breads would be round.

And the moonlight flowing over all.

Crescent and full, they're having a ball.

Beneath, in the churchyard, lay the dead

in their night-encampment on the hill

Warning lights blaring red,

this couldn't be a drill.

Wrapped in silence so deep and still

that he could hear,

like a sentinel's tread,

the muskrat's sneer

as he left them for dead.

The watchful night-wind, as it went

creeping along from tent to tent,

And seeming to whisper, "All is well!",

but veterans all, ’twas bad news to tell.

A moment only he feels the spell

of the place and the hour,

A code for unlocking the library’s power.

and the secret dread of the lonely belfry and the dead;

Sixteen falcons thundering overhead

For suddenly all his thoughts are bent

on a shadowy something far away

Put in the water, a drone menace on the quay.

Where the river widens to meet the bay,

three walkers ramble in a state of dismay.

A line of black that bends and floats on the rising tide

like a bridge of boats coming to destroy, despite our votes.

Meanwhile, impatient to mount and ride, booted and spurred

with a heavy stride he knew that those soldiers were on the wrong side.

On the opposite shore walked Paul Revere.

Now he patted his horse's side,

no yielding today,

he was wholly without fear.

Now gazed at the landscape far and near

Then, impetuous, stamped the earth,

Hoping present horrors would give way to rebirth.

And turned and tightened his saddle girth

But mostly he watched with eager search

Five or six hundred? He wondered the worth.

The belfry-tower of the Old North Church, as it rose

above the graves on the hill,

his fear for his country grows and grows.

Lonely and spectral and sombre and still.

And lo! as he looks, on the belfry's height,

a somber thought. might is not right.

A glimmer, and then a gleam of light!

He springs to the saddle, the bridle he turns;

danger approaches with heighted concerns.

But lingers and gazes, till full on his sight

a second lamp in the belfry burns!

By sea it will be

that good people defeat the tyrant's might.

A hurry of hoofs in a village street,

a shape in the moonlight,

a bulk in the dark,

a sheet on the mark.

And beneath, from the pebbles, in passing, a spark

Struck out by a steed flying fearless and fleet

Feet flying forward like a harley in heat.

That was all!

And yet, through the gloom and the light,

the fate of a nation was riding that night;

in two years or late, all will be put right.

And the spark struck out by that steed, in his flight

Kindled the land into flame with its heat

for justice and doing all that is right.

He has left the village and mounted the steep

And beneath him, tranquil and broad and deep,

are the values and promises we keep.

Is the Mystic, meeting the ocean tides;

And under the alders, that skirt its edge,

trouble may be coming but still hope resides

Now soft on the sand, now loud on the ledge,

Is heard the tramp of his steed as he rides.

Our trusty band stay true to their pledge.

It was twelve by the village clock

When he crossed the bridge into Medford town,

he heard the crowing of the cock,

running round and roun' the anserine flock

And the barking of the farmer's dog,

Who sniffed a rat come into town

And felt the damp of the river fog,

That rises after the sun goes down.

It was one by the village clock,

when he galloped into Lexington

while everything had gone amok,

way down in Washington

He saw the gilded weathercock swim

in the moonlight as he passed

No time for talk, too late now,

the tyranny would not last.

And the meeting-house windows, blank and bare,

gaze at him with a spectral glare

It was two by the village clock,

When he came to the bridge in Concord town.

With a figure of love he took the walk

He heard the bleating of the flock

and the twitter of birds among the trees

the sheep felt a shock

and the twitter said "Oh Please!"

And felt the breath of the morning breeze

blowing over the meadows brown.

Till the running faeries squeeze

colors over cap and gown.

And one was safe and asleep in his bed

Who at the bridge would be first to fall,

Not from the sleet pelting on his head

Nor from fog depressing us all

Who that day would be lying dead,

pierced by a British musket-ball.

Facing a taxing dread,

against a tyrant we must still stand tall.

You know the rest. In the books you have read,

how the British Regulars fired and fled,

They failed the test as shall we all,

if we don't heed the siren call.

How the farmers gave them ball for ball,

From behind each fence and farm-yard wall,

Poor souls trapped in the tyrant's thrall.

Chasing the red-coats down the lane,

Then crossing the fields to emerge again

Confused by the tumult of where and when.

Under the trees at the turn of the road

They’ve trampled good faith,

ignored all the code.

And only pausing to fire and load.

So through the night rode Paul Revere;

hoping to save values we hold dear.

And so through the night went his cry of alarm

To every Middlesex village and farm,

by Essex schools in hurried flight.

A cry of defiance and not of fear

Shouting a message so powerful, so clear.

A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,

And a word that shall echo forevermore!

Two hundred fifty years to the day

That echo rings, it won't go away.

For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,

Through all our history, to the last

The present is tiny, our future is vast.

In the hour of darkness and peril and need

The people will waken and listen to hear

No matter their sex, gender, color race or creed

A message so powerful, so urgent and clear.

The hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,

The crowds of townsfolk who shout and cheer

Those who run today and speed

the midnight message of Paul Revere.

I came up with a name for what I'm doing: "intercalated verse". Look it up.

Why I'm doing it? Sometimes I get an idea and I am unable not to do it.

Strava Verse

The internet gives us new ways to express ourselves. One of the more strenuously esoteric forms of artistic expression is Strava art, in which people do runs that, when mapped, draw pictures. None of my strava art was particularly good, but my running club friends in Stockholm regularly run "elefanten". I spent a year attempting "Found Strava Art", where you just run a new route and give the run a name based on what it looks like. I ran a lot of flowers and space ships, but meh. Last year I named each run with a line of a song that came up on my iPod. Too obscure.

This year I decided to serialize poems with my Strava runs. I didn't have a plan, but I started with Jabberwocky. It seemed appropriate to comment using nonsense words, because, Jabberwocky. I ended up with this:

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe

I love running with my slithy toves!

All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe.

My right knee was a grobble mimsy today, but mome what a rath!  

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

Also, the Jabberrun can be hard on the knees.

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

ERC hosted run had quiche to bite and George to catch.

He took his vorpal sword in hand

New York Sirens game. Women with vorpal sticks. Slain by the Charge 3-2.

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun the frumious Bandersnatch!

Definitely well salted and frumious out there today.

Long time the manxome foe he sought

But quick the manxless chill he caught

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

Covered with snow in filagree

And stood a while in thought.

Though clabbercing in a profunctional dot!

And, as in uffish thought he stood

Trolloping thru the Brookdale wood.

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame

Cheld and hord, a glistering name…

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood

And caught the two burblygums because he could.

And burbled as it came!

So late the Jabberrun slept

For Eight Muyibles passed as though aflame

O'er Curbles and Nonces the pluffy sheep leapt.

One, two! One, two! And through and through

Three four! Three four! Sankofa’s coffee’s fit to pour.

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

The Icebeest of Hoth kept blobbering back.

He went galumphing back.

He left it dead, and with its head

... the Garmind sprang to life

And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

The ice, the snow, it's hard as rock.

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

Think of my knees! Oy oy oy oy.

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

O jousbarf night! The fluss! The fright!

He chortled in his joy.

(And padoodled the rest of of the way!)

‘Twas brillig and the slithy toves

Did not, had not, could not loave.

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe

“Dunno.” said the wormly autoclave

All mimsy were the borogoves,

Again and again, beloo and aboave

And the mome raths outgrabe.

The end. Ooh ooh Babe!

Terrible right? But it has its moments.

I've started a new one. I fear it will get more topical.

Notes:

• I previously invented "clickstream poetry". It never caught on.

Copyrighted Clickstream Poetry to Stop ISP Click-Selling

Congress won't let the Federal Communications Commission (FCC) protect users from Internet Service Provider (ISP) snooping-for-cash. My ISP could decide to sell a list of all the websites I visit to advertisers, and the FCC can't stop them. I wondered if there was some way I could use copyright law to prevent my ISP from selling copies of my clickstream.

So I invented "clickstream poetry". Here is my first clickstream poem, entitled My clicks are mine:

{
    "content":       
        [
        "https://roses.com",
        "http://are.com",
        "https://reddit.com",
        "http://theultraviolets.net",
        "http://are.com",
        "https://moo.com",
        "http://this.is",
        "http://work.org",
        "http://is.com",
        "https://copyright.com",
        "https://ted.com",
        "https://www.so.ch",
        "http://verizon.com",
        "http://www.faa.gov",
        "https://kyu.com",
        "https://copyright.com",
        "http://2o17.com",
        "http://eric.org",
        "http://hellman.net",
        "https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/legalcode"
        ],
    "copyright": "2017 Eric Hellman",
    "license": "https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc/4.0/legalcode",
    "title": "My clicks are mine"
}

I wrote a python script that "performs" the poem for the benefit of anyone listening to my clickstream. The script requests the websites in the poem in a random order; the listener will see the website names requested, and this dataset comprises the "poem". I used a Creative Commons license that doesn't let anyone distribute copies of my poem for commercial purposes. If my ISP tries to sell a copy of my clickstream, they would be violating the license, and thus infringing my copyright to the poem. If you run the script to perform the poem (for non-commercial purposes, of course), your ISP would similarly be infringing my copyright if they try to sell your clickstream.

If I tried to sue an ISP for copyright infringement, they would likely argue that though my creation is original and used in its entirety, selling my clickstream is a "fair use". They would assert that advertising optimization (or whatever) is a "transformative use" and that it didn't affect the market for my poem. Who would pay anything for a stupid clickstream poem? How would a non-existent, hypothetical market for clickstream poetry be harmed by use in their big data algorithms?

That's why I'm offering commercial licenses to the clickstream poem My clicks are mine. This will demonstrate that a commercial market for clickstream poetry licenses exists. For only $10, you can use a copy of my poem for any purpose whatsoever, for a period of 24 hours. If an ad network wants to use my clickstream to optimize the ads they show me, more power to them, as long as they pay for a license. I imagine that, over the lifetime of my poem's copyright protection (into the 22nd century), clickstream poetry will become increasingly valuable because of uses that haven't been invented yet.

To acquire a commercial license to my poem, support my work at the Free Ebook Foundation, a 501(c)3 not-for-profit corporation, by making a donation. Or don't. I have no idea if a court would take my side against a big company (and against Congress). I'm told that judges are generally skeptical of clever "legal hacks" unless they are crafted by lawyers instead of engineers.

ISPs would probably figure out a legal or technical subterfuge around the copyright of my clickstream poem; but if they have to worry even a little, this effort will have been worth my time.

Update: I have now paid $35 to register my copyright to My clicks are mine.