The Grammar Lesson -- Steve Kowit

(Poem #1948) The Grammar Lesson A noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does. An adjective is what describes the noun. In "The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz" *of* and *with* are prepositions. *The's* an article, a *can's* a noun, a noun's a thing. A verb's the thing it does. A can *can* roll - or not. What isn't was or might be, *might* meaning not yet known. "Our can of beets *is* filled with purple fuzz" is present tense. While words like our and us are pronouns - i.e. *it* is moldy, *they* are icky brown. A noun's a thing; a verb's the thing it does. Is is a helping verb. It helps because *filled* isn't a full verb. *Can's* what *our* owns in "Our can of beets is filled with purple fuzz." See? There's almost nothing to it. Just memorize these rules...or write them down! A noun's a thing, a verb's the thing it does. The can of beets is filled with purple fuzz. -- Steve Kowit

What always fascinates me about villanelles is the various ways poets deal
with the repetition inherent in the form. The one inescapable thing is that
this repetition *does* have to be dealt with, and that it is often a major
force in the shaping of the poem - pronouncements about form not dictating
content notwithstanding.

Dylan Thomas's "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" is without doubt the
most celebrated example of the English villanelle, and with reason - it is,
to my mind, a perfect study in how to make the form work to reinforce the
content and tone, with never a hint of awkwardness or constraint. Along
other axes, humorous poets have used the structure of the villanelle to poke
fun at itself, experimentalists have seen how much they can bend the form
without it breaking, and, of course, countless poets have simply ignored the
fact that the form does and should influence the content, and repeated the
end lines mechanically and without regard to their contribution to the flow
and progress of the poem.

Today's poem caught my eye for yet another clever take on making the
repetition work for the theme - in the context of a grammar lesson,
repeating a sentence again and again with minor changes rung upon it makes
perfect sense - is, indeed, almost inevitable. I love the way Kowit makes it
seem that the villanelle form itself fell out of the requirements of the
subject, rather than the other way around.

In the grand scheme of things I'd say this poem falls somewhere between
'serious' and 'intellectual exercise' (with a dash of humour in the unexpected
image of "this can of beets is filled with purple fuzz") - not by any means an
immortal poem, but a very well crafted one, and definitely worth reading.

martin

[Links]

Biography:
  http://www.flagstaffcentral.com/bookfest2000/Authors/kowit.html

Kowit on deliberately difficult poetry [long but brilliant essay]:
  [broken link] http://www-rohan.sdsu.edu/dept/press/kowit.html

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Dead Man's Chest -- Robert Louis Stevenson

(Poem #1943) Dead Man's Chest Fifteen men on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! Drink and the devil had done for the rest-- Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum! -- Robert Louis Stevenson

Given that "poetry included in works of fiction" is a genre that both Thomas
and I rate very highly, it is surprising that this little scrap of verse has
not been run before. Written as part of Stevenson's classic (and brilliant -
if you haven't read it yet, do so!) "Treasure Island", it has become the
canonical pirate song, with a fame and popularity that almost eclipses that
of the book itself.

Wikipedia has a bit of research on the song that is worth quoting in full:

  In the novel Treasure Island, the full song is not reported. The chorus
  is given in full.

  The book records only one other phrase from the song, near its end:
  "But one man of her crew alive, What put to sea with seventy-five."

  According to research done by Skip Henderson there is an actual
  "legend" behind the song. The legend, which was possibly devised by
  Stevenson himself, says that the rhyme tells the tale of a time when
  Edward Teach, also known as Blackbeard, marooned a shipload of
  mutineers on Dead Man's Chest Island, a barren rock in Deadman's Bay
  on Peter Island near Tortola. The island has high cliffs, no trees,
  sparse vegetation and no fresh water. The men were equipped with only
  a single cutlass and a bottle of rum each. The intent was, one would
  assume, that the men would either starve or kill each other in a
  drunken brawl. A month later Teach returned to find that despite the
  blazing Caribbean sun and lack of supplies, fifteen men had survived.
  The shanty tells in part what became of the rest.

The richness and attention to detail involved in constructing an entire
iceberg to push four lines of verse to the surface are reminiscent of
Tolkien, and they give the song a similar appeal, making it both an
integral and organic part of the book and an excellent piece of verse in
its own right.

martin

[Links]

The complete text of Treasure Island:
  http://www.literatureproject.com/treasure-island/

Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dead_Man's_Chest

An expansion of Stevenson's fragment:
  http://oldpoetry.com/opoem/45732-Young-Ewing-Allison-Derelict

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Did I Miss Anything -- Tom Wayman

(Poem #1940) Did I Miss Anything Question frequently asked by students after missing a class Nothing. When we realized you weren't here we sat with our hands folded on our desks in silence, for the full two hours Everything. I gave an exam worth 40 per cent of the grade for this term and assigned some reading due today on which I'm about to hand out a quiz worth 50 per cent Nothing. None of the content of this course has value or meaning Take as many days off as you like: any activities we undertake as a class I assure you will not matter either to you or me and are without purpose Everything. A few minutes after we began last time a shaft of light descended and an angel or other heavenly being appeared and revealed to us what each woman or man must do to attain divine wisdom in this life and the hereafter This is the last time the class will meet before we disperse to bring this good news to all people on earth Nothing. When you are not present how could something significant occur? Everything. Contained in this classroom is a microcosm of human existence assembled for you to query and examine and ponder This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered but it was one place And you weren't here -- Tom Wayman

Being a teacher has its rewards, yes, but it has its frustrations too, as so
perfectly summed up by this marvellous poem. For sheer, undiluted annoyance,
"did I miss anything" has to rank up there with "will this be on the test?",
and Wayman surely speaks for every teacher, everywhere, when he replies with
this dryly sarcastic, amusing and yet heartfelt monologue.

And I love the power of the ending, where the tone changes, the flow of
words slowing and sarcasm giving way to deeper emotion, as the narrator has
one, final attempt at the possibly hopeless task of explaining just what the
student *did* miss...

     This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered

     but it was one place

     And you weren't here

martin

[Links]

Wayman's homepage [including biography and writing philosophy]:
  http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/wayman/index.html

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Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour -- Thomas Moore

(Poem #1938) Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov'd a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die! -- Thomas Moore

   (from 'Lalla Rookh, An Oriental Romance')

There is about "old" poetry - particularly that of the Romantic and Georgian
periods - a quality that I find sadly absent in more modern verse: the
underlying sense that rhymed and metrical verse is a *natural* medium in
which to express one's thoughts and writings. Today's excerpt is a wonderful
example of this sort of unselfconsciousness - the verse flows easily and
naturally, but the primary focus is the dialogue between Moore and the
reader, and at no point do we stop and feel that what he has to say is in
any way constrained by the requirements of the form.

While "Lalla Rookh" itself has faded into relative obscurity, the above
quoted lines - particularly the second quatrain - have remained both
well-known and popular. (In particular, no fan of Wodehouse can fail to be
familiar with the "dear gazelle"!). And though it is a verse that has
inevitably attracted its share of parodies, this is more due to its
distinctiveness than to any inherent mockability. (That said, some of the
parodies are truly delightful, such as Tom Hood Jr.'s

  I never nursed a dear gazelle,
     To glad me with its dappled hide,
  But when it came to know me well,
     It fell upon the buttered side.

or Henry Leigh's

  My rich and aged Uncle John
    Has known me long and loves me well
  But still persists in living on -
    I would he were a young gazelle.
)

I've remarked, about some of Moore's other works, that their salient feature
is their musicality; today's piece does exhibit the same wonderful sense of
the sound and flow of the words, but it is more of a background quality.
Also, the fact that this is not a standalone poem but part of an extended
epic lends it a very different character (and indeed, by choosing to excerpt
such a small piece, I have inevitably sacrificed some of that character). To
convey some idea of the tradeoff involved,
http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1492.html for instance has a longer
excerpt that loses some of the distinctive beauty of the shorter piece, but
gives far more of the flavour of its setting.

martin

[Links]

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Moore

Full text of "Lalla Rookh"
  http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00generallinks/lallarookh/index.html

A bit about Lalla Rookh:
  [broken link] http://www.wwnorton.com/nto/romantic/topic_4/moore.htm

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September Twelfth, 2001 -- X J Kennedy

Guest poem sent in by a contributor who wishes to remain anonymous

(Poem #1929) September Twelfth, 2001 Two caught on film who hurtle from the eighty-second floor, choosing between a fireball and to jump holding hands, aren't us. I wake beside you, stretch, scratch, taste the air, the incredible joy of coffee and the morning light. Alive we open eyelids on our pitiful share of time, we bubbles rising and bursting in a boiling pot. -- X J Kennedy

Kennedy's poem is featured in a volume, "Good Poems for Hard Times"
selected and introduced by Garrison Keillor. Without being trite,
dramatic, verbose or clever, the twelve lines (and especially the
"aren't us" capture the essence of being spared, and the thoughts
that spin through the mind each time another image of disaster is
broadcast on a billion TV screens: What did they feel? It wasn't
me! What would I have felt? Why am I still here? More coffee?

[Links]

Academy of American Poets page on X. J. Kennedy:
  http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/634

Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/X._J._Kennedy

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Nice To Be Here -- Ray Thomas

Guest poem sent in by Don Case

(Poem #1924) Nice To Be Here Nice to be here hope you agree Lying in the sun Lovely weather, must climb a tree The show has just begun All the leaves start swaying To the breeze that's playing On a thousand violins And the bees are humming To a frog sat strumming On a guitar with only one string I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight And it seems worth noting Water rats were boating As a lark began to sing The sounds kept coming With Jack Rabbit loudly drumming On the side of a biscuit tin I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight Silver minnows were devising Water ballet so surprising A mouse played a daffodil A mole came up blinking Underneath an owl who's thinking How he came to be sat on a hill I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight I know you won't believe me But I'm certain that I did see A mouse playing daffodil All the band was really jumping With Jack Rabbit in there thumping I found that I couldn't sit still I just had to make it with them Cause they played my kind of rhythm And the bees hummed in harmony And the owl played his oboe Then the frog's guitar solo It was all just too much for me I know you won't believe me But I'm certain that I did see A mouse playing daffodil All the band was really jumping With Jack Rabbit in there thumping I found that I couldn't sit still -- Ray Thomas

   (of the Moody Blues)

Note: From the album Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, 1971

This song has always been uplifting to me even out of the context of the
album.  In the album it follows "One More Time To Live" by John Lodge, a
heavy song musically. Then this light hearted melody comes on and delivers
the twinkle in the eye of Mother Earth that is longed for. The Moody Blues
have made some great albums and this one deserves a listen.

Don Case

[Links]

Wikipedia on the Moody Blues:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moody_Blues

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The Betrothed -- Rudyard Kipling

Inspired by yesterday's poem...

(Poem #1922) The Betrothed "You must choose between me and your cigar." --BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885. Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away-- Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty--gray and dour and old-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar-- The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider awhile-- Here is a mild Manilla--there is a wifely smile. Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close. This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, With only a Suttee's passion--to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best Vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter that gives me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box--let me consider anew-- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke. Light me another Cuba--I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse! -- Rudyard Kipling

This is one of those poems that I remembered mostly because I liked a
fragment of it, in this case the wonderfully flowing line

 And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

In truth, when I went to read it again, I was rather disappointed - the
premise is clever enough, and there are some nice lines, but overall the
poem felt like it was trying to squeeze too much out of a single idea, and
ended up sounding rather dull in consequence.

I do have to wonder, considering my usual high regard of Kipling's poetry,
whether this is at least in part because, not being a smoker myself, I have
no emotional or visceral reaction to anything in the poem, and that makes
potentially moving, stirring or humorous lines fall flat. What say those of
you who do indulge? Is this actually one of Kipling's nail-on-the-head poems
that I simply lack the context to appreciate? Or is this indeed one of the
rare times when he has simply missed the mark?

martin

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Tobacco is a Dirty Weed -- Graham Lee Hemminger

Thans to readers Bob Williams and Tim Reynolds for pointing out that Adams was
riffing off the following Graham Lee Hemminger poem:

(Poem #1915) Tobacco is a Dirty Weed Tobacco is a dirty weed, I like it. It satisfies no normal need, I like it. It makes you thin, it makes you lean, It takes the hair right off your bean. It's the worst darn stuff I've ever seen. I like it. -- Graham Lee Hemminger

Hemminger in turn seems to have been poking fun at the far more solemn (and, as
far as I can find out, anonymous) verse:

 Tobacco is a filthy weed
 That from the devil doth proceed,
 That drains your purse,
 That burns your clothes,
 That makes a chimney of your nose.

However I still feel that while Hemminger's poem was merely an amusing parody,
Adams's had some undefinable element to it that lent it a touch of steel, and
which makes it far more trenchant than it appears at first glance.

martin

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Prohibition -- Franklin P Adams

(Poem #1914) Prohibition Prohibition is an awful flop. We like it. It can't stop what it's meant to stop. We like it. It's left a trail of graft and slime, It don't prohibit worth a dime, It's filled our land with vice and crime. Nevertheless, we're for it. -- Franklin P Adams

      (1931)

Note: Prohibition: The period (1920-1933) during which the 18th Amendment
  forbidding the manufacture and sale of alcoholic beverages was in force in
  the United States.

You'd think a 1931 poem about a long-since repealed law in a single country
would be badly dated by now. You'd be wrong. You'd think that a poem which
on the surface veers between nursery rhyme and doggerel would be at best a
passing, topical protest with little of enduring value. You'd be wrong
again. Despite Adams's reputation as a purveyor of light verse, I think
today's poem is actually a deeper and more significant poem than it first
appears.

"Prohibition" speaks out against every law, every regulation, and, indeed,
every custom that was instituted because it "seemed like a good idea at the
time", and retained with limpet-like tenacity because, despite evidence that
it wasn't helping, dropping it would invalidate someone's cherished theory
about the way things *should* work. And, almost needless to say, things are
little different today than they were back in Adams's 1930s - the specifics
vary but the principle is depressingly constant.

The nursery-rhyme form actually adds to the poem's impact - the repeated "we
like it" response is (without any explicit commentary) held up as both
simplistic and foolish. Again, the poem's quotability and memorability are
both greatly enhanced by its simple, singsong structure. Of course, the use
of doggerel and nursery rhymes for political protest has a long and
honourable tradition - the implication being that this is not a poet's poem,
but a people's poem - and "Prohibition" takes its place comfortably within
that tradition.

martin

[Links]

Biography: American journalist and radio personality (1881-1960)
  http://www.mgilleland.com/fpabio.htm

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Question -- Rabindranath Tagore

Guest poem sent in by Gavin Duley

(Poem #1910) Question God, again and again through the ages you have sent messengers To this pitiless world They have said, 'Forgive everyone', they have said, 'Love one another -- Rid your hearts of evil.' They are revered and remembered, yet still in these dark days We turn them away with hollow greetings, from outside the doors of our houses. And meanwhile I see secretive hatred murdering the helpless Under cover of night; And Justice weeping silently and furtively at power misused, No hope of redress. I see young men working themselves into a frenzy, In agony dashing their heads against stone to no avail. My voice is choked today; I have no music in my flute: Black moonless night Has imprisoned my world, plunged it into nightmare. And this is why, With tears in my eyes, I ask: Those who have poisoned your air, those who have extinguished your light, Can it be that you have forgiven them? Can it be that you love them? -- Rabindranath Tagore

I'm quite new to Tagore's work, but bought a book[1] of his poetry recently,
mainly because I found this one whilst flicking through it at the book shop.
The poem was written just after Gandhi's arrest following the break down of
the Second Round Table Conference in London, but is not really about any one
particular event or time. It seems very relevant at the moment, with Iraq,
Lebanon, and the terrorist attacks on London (successful and unsuccessful).

The notes[1] comment that the 'vulnerable, bewildered human being in Tagore
was increasingly to be the subject of his later poetry; but he never lapsed
into self-pity. The precision and vigour of the rhythm and phrasing of this
poem belie its content. A famous reading of it by Tagore himself on record
conveys strength not weakness, despair not courage. There is even a note of
wryness in his voice'.

As an extra note, the notes say that the phase 'dashing their heads against
stone' is a Bengali metaphor for fruitless activity, much like the English
'beating one's head against a brick wall'.

Gavin

[1] Tagore R (1985) 'Selected Poems', translated, edited and with
notes by  W Radice, Penguin, London.

[Links]

Biography:
  Bengali poet, philosopher, visual artist, playwright, composer, and
  novelist, 1861-1941
    http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rabindranath_Tagore

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I'm Going To Say It Now -- Phil Ochs

As promised, a more serious take on student affairs, by one of my favourite
singer/songwriters...

(Poem #1909) I'm Going To Say It Now Oh I am just a student, sir, and only want to learn But it's hard to read through the risin' smoke from the books that you like to burn So I'd like to make a promise and I'd like to make a vow That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now Oh you've given me a number and you've taken off my name To get around this campus why you almost need a plane And you're supporting Chang Kai-Shek, while I'm supporting Mao So when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now I wish that you'd make up your mind, I wish that you'd decide That I should live as freely as those who live outside Cause we also are entitled to the rights to be endowed And when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now Oh, you'd like to be my father you'd like to be my Dad And give me kisses when I'm good and spank me when I'm bad But since I've left my parents I've forgotten how to bow So when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now And things they might be different if I was here alone But I've got a friend or two who no longer live at home And we'll respect our elders just as long as they allow That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now I've read of other countries where the students take a stand Maybe even help to overthrow the leaders of the land Now I wouldn't go so far to say we're also learnin' how But when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now So keep right on a-talkin' and tell us what to do If nobody listens my apologies to you And I know that you were younger once 'cause you sure are older now And when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now Oh I am just a student sir, and only want to learn But it's hard to read through the risin' smoke from the books that you like to burn So I'd like to make a promise and I'd like to make a vow That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now -- Phil Ochs

Student activism has a long and complex history; in the United States of the
'60s it was a two-pronged affair, mainly concerning itself with the
educational system, but gaining increasing political focus and prominence.
Ochs addresses both these concerns in his typically edgy, sardonic style,
setting the tone immediately with the hard-hitting

 But it's hard to read through the risin' smoke from the books
 that you like to burn

and then throwing down the gauntlet with

 So I'd like to make a promise and I'd like to make a vow
 That when I've got something to say, sir, I'm gonna say it now

An interesting thing to note about today's song is the way that Ochs's
lyrics combine deceptively simple word choices with complex metrical
patterns and strong rhymes - a combination that suits both his music and the
nature and purpose of the folk song almost ideally. Like most of the poems
in the current "Bright College Days" theme, it has achieved a certain
measure of timelessness; the song became one of the anthems of the 1960s
free speech movement, but the problems it addresses are faced by students
today no less than those of fifty years ago.

martin

[Links]

A brief clip of Ochs singing the fourth verse:
  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_D5yTGzACc&search=phil%20ochs

Wikipedia on student activism:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Student_activism

An interesting discussion of the song:
  http://listserv.linguistlist.org/cgi-bin/wa?A2=ind0202d&L=ads-l&P=19728

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Bright College Days -- Tom Lehrer

And then there's the *other* set of college stereotypes...

(Poem #1906) Bright College Days Bright college days, oh, carefree days that fly, To thee we sing with our glasses raised on high. [holds up eyeglasses] Let's drink a toast as each of us recalls Ivy-covered professors in ivy-covered halls. Turn on the spigot, Pour the beer and swig it, And gaudeamus igit-itur. Here's to parties we tossed, To the games that we lost (We shall claim that we won them someday). To the girls, young and sweet, To the spacious back seat Of our roommate's beat up Chevrolet. To the beer and Benzedrine, To the way that the dean Tried so hard to be pals with us all. To excuses we fibbed, To the papers we cribbed From the genius who lived down the hall. To the tables down at Mory's (Wherever that may be), Let us drink a toast to all we love the best. We will sleep through all the lectures, And cheat on the exams, And we'll pass, and be forgotten with the rest. Oh, soon we'll be out amid the cold world's strife. Soon we'll be sliding down the razor blade of life. (Oooh!) (laughter) ... Ready? ... But as we go our sordid separate ways, We shall ne'er forget thee, thou golden college days. Hearts full of youth, Hearts full of truth, Six parts gin to one part vermouth. -- Tom Lehrer

Note: The song makes parodic reference to several other songs; see the links
  for an annotated version

A typically fun song from Tom Lehrer, sailing high-spiritedly through the
standard list of "party school" cliches, and cocking a snook at several
other songs on the way. The short, bouncy lines with their skilfully varied
rhymes (not to mention a very catchy tune - listen to it if you get a
chance!) at one send up the perky enthusiasm of more traditional college
songs, and make this one of those songs that sticks in your head.

Other random thoughts - "we'll pass and be forgotten with the rest" is an
enviably good pun; I dearly wish I'd thought of it myself. And the dean who
"tried so hard to be pals with us all" reminds me, appropriately enough, of
another passage from Kipling's "Stalky and Co.":

  Again, a man who has sincerely devoted himself to gaining the esteem of
  his charges does not like to hear himself described, even at a distance,
  as "Popularity Prout" by a dark and scowling Celt with a fluent tongue.

  [...]

    Oh, Prout he is a nobleman, a nobleman, a nobleman!
    Our Heffy is a nobleman¿
    He does an awful lot,
    Because his popularity
    Oh, pop-u-pop-u-larity¿
    His giddy popularity
    Would suffer did he not!

  The study door stood ajar; and the song, borne by twenty clear voices,
  came faint from a form-room. The fags rather liked the tune; the words
  were Beetle's.

martin

[Theme]

I'll wind up the theme tomorrow (unless someone wants to send in a
last-minute contribution, of course) with a somewhat more serious song -
feel free to guess which one.

[Links]

The annotated version of the song, including Lehrer's introductory patter:
  http://members.aol.com/quentncree/lehrer/college.htm

See also
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Whiffenpoofs
  http://quotations.about.com/cs/poemlyrics/a/Gentlemen_Ranke.htm

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Before an Examination (Campus Sonnets: 1) -- Stephen Vincent Benet

Carrying on with the theme...

(Poem #1904) Before an Examination (Campus Sonnets: 1) The little letters dance across the page, Flaunt and retire, and trick the tired eyes; Sick of the strain, the glaring light, I rise Yawning and stretching, full of empty rage At the dull maunderings of a long dead sage, Fling up the windows, fling aside his lies; Choosing to breathe, not stifle and be wise, And let the air pour in upon my cage. The breeze blows cool and there are stars and stars Beyond the dark, soft masses of the elms That whisper things in windy tones and light. They seem to wheel for dim, celestial wars; And I -- I hear the clash of silver helms Ring icy-clear from the far deeps of night. -- Stephen Vincent Benet

Another evocative trip down memory lane. "Before an Examination" has much
the same theme and tone as Whitman's "When I Heard the Learned Astronomer",
however, perhaps because I have indeed known the tedium of staying up all
night doggedly studying for an exam, I am far more inclined to sympathise
with Benet than I was with Whitman.

Benet's campus sonnets [see links for all four] form an oddly mismatched
set - the tone, the subject matter and the quality of the verse are all
surprisingly variable. They do have a certain indefinable something,
though - an occasional glimpse of the Benet who penned such masterpieces as
"Winged Man" and "The General Public" - that makes them worth a read.
Today's is arguably the best and definitely the smoothest of the lot; at
any rate it was the one I found the most enjoyable, though I felt "Talk"
had the potential to be a far better poem. I'd recommend going and reading
all four as a sequence - they are, as I noted, not really coherent, but they
complement each other nevertheless.

martin

[Links]

All four Campus Sonnets:
  http://www.theotherpages.org/poems/benet02.html#misc1.7

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stephen_Vincent_Ben%C3%A9t

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Baccalaureate -- Archibald MacLeish

This week's theme: Bright college days

(Poem #1903) Baccalaureate A year or two, and grey Euripides, And Horace and a Lydia or so, And Euclid and the brush of Angelo, Darwin on man, Vergilius on bees, The nose and Dialogues of Socrates, Don Quixote, Hudibras and Trinculo, How worlds are spawned and where the dead gods go,-- All shall be shard of broken memories. And there shall linger other, magic things,-- The fog that creeps in wanly from the sea, The rotten harbor smell, the mystery Of moonlit elms, the flash of pigeon wings, The sunny Green, the old-world peace that clings About the college yard, where endlessly The dead go up and down. These things shall be Enchantment of our heart's rememberings. And these are more than memories of youth Which earth's four winds of pain shall blow away; These are earth's symbols of eternal truth, Symbols of dream and imagery and flame, Symbols of those same verities that play Bright through the crumbling gold of a great name. -- Archibald MacLeish

One of the universals of the "college experience" - and pretty much everyone
I know who has attended college agrees with me - is that the actual
classroom education is the least part of it. Of course, that's not precisely
true; it's just that lectures are seldom the stuff of which memories are
made, and therefore loom progressively less significant in nostalgic
reveries. Nonetheless, college remains one of life's defining experiences,
and it is interesting to see what poets have made of the memories that *do*
linger and tint the time thereafter.

Today's poem tackles the theme head-on, with MacLeish's characteristically
beautiful phrases flowing like a wash of colour over the contrasting aspects
of college life. The sequence of images is exquisite; I'm tempted to say
that this is a poem that is more about atmosphere than message, but the
atmosphere is definitely part of the message here, and the list format works
very well indeed. And not just the imagery either - there is a slight
weightiness to the language that helps enhance the academic feel, perhaps
most evident in the phrase "symboks of those same verities", but present
throughout.

The other noteworthy thing is the painstaking attention MacLeish pays to the
sound of his poetry. With some poets, this is easy to see - the music of the
words takes over, and leaps out at the reader. MacLeish's verse is usually
more quietly euphonious, but none the less beautiful, and none the less
perfect for not being showy.

martin

p.s. Yes, the theme is named after the Tom Lehrer song. Yes, it will make an
appearance.

[Links]

Wikipedia:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Archibald_MacLeish

Academy of American Poets:
  http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/47

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On The Hurry Of This Time -- Henry Austin Dobson

(Poem #1900) On The Hurry Of This Time With slower pen men used to write, Of old, when "letters" were "polite"; In Anna's or in George's days, They could afford to turn a phrase, Or trim a struggling theme aright. They knew not steam; electric light Not yet had dazed their calmer sight; - They meted out both blame and praise With slower pen. Too swiftly now the Hours take flight! What's read at morn is dead at night: Scant space have we for Art's delays, Whose breathless thought so briefly stays, We may not work - ah! would we might! - With slower pen. -- Henry Austin Dobson

I remember, back in the nineties when email was just beginning to be
widespread, the flood of articles lamenting the inevitable demise of the
handwritten letter, and the creeping soullessness of the casually dashed-off
email that was replacing it. Come the next decade, and that has been
succeeded by laments for the inevitable demise of the printed book, and its
replacement by soulless e-books, expedient audiobooks and mindless
television. It's rather amusing, then, to read today's poem, and realise
that the hastier time Dobson was writing about was 1882.  Plus ça change,
plus c'est la même chose.

martin

Biography:
  English poet, 1840-1921
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Austin_Dobson

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Borderland -- Henry Lawson

Winding up the "summer heat" theme...

(Poem #1897) Borderland I am back from up the country -- very sorry that I went -- Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have lost a lot of idols, which were broken on the track -- Burnt a lot of fancy verses, and I'm glad that I am back. Further out may be the pleasant scenes of which our poets boast, But I think the country's rather more inviting round the coast -- Anyway, I'll stay at present at a boarding-house in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes, taking baths and cooling down. Sunny plains! Great Scot! -- those burning wastes of barren soil and sand With their everlasting fences stretching out across the land! Desolation where the crow is! Desert! where the eagle flies, Paddocks where the luny bullock starts and stares with reddened eyes; Where, in clouds of dust enveloped, roasted bullock-drivers creep Slowly past the sun-dried shepherd dragged behind his crawling sheep. Stunted "peak" of granite gleaming, glaring! like a molten mass Turned, from some infernal furnace, on a plain devoid of grass. Miles and miles of thirsty gutters -- strings of muddy waterholes In the place of "shining rivers" (walled by cliffs and forest boles). "Range!" of ridgs, gullies, ridges, barren! where the madden'd flies -- Fiercer than the plagues of Egypt -- swarm about your blighted eyes! Bush! where there is no horizon! where the buried bushman sees Nothing. Nothing! but the maddening sameness of the stunted trees! Lonely hut where drought's eternal -- suffocating atmosphere -- Where the God forgotten hatter dreams of city-life and beer. Treacherous tracks that trap the stranger, endless roads that gleam and glare, Dark and evil-looking gullies -- hiding secrets here and there! Dull, dumb flats and stony "rises," where the bullocks sweat and bake, And the sinister "gohanna," and the lizard, and the snake. Land of day and night -- no morning freshness, and no afternoon, For the great, white sun in rising brings with him the heat of noon. Dismal country for the exile, when the shades begin to fall From the sad, heart-breaking sunset, to the new-chum, worst of all. Dreary land in rainy weather, with the endless clouds that drift O'er the bushman like a blanket that the Lord will never lift -- Dismal land when it is raining -- growl of floods and oh! the "woosh" Of the rain and wind together on the dark bed of the bush -- Ghastly fires in lonely humpies where the granite rocks are pil'd On the rain-swept wildernesses that are wildest of the wild. Land where gaunt and haggard women live alone and work like men, Till their husbands, gone a-droving, will return to them again -- Homes of men! if homes had ever such a God-forgotten place, Where the wild selector's children fly before a stranger's face. Home of tragedy applauded by the dingoes' dismal yell, Heaven of the shanty-keeper -- fitting fiend for such a hell -- And the wallaroos and wombats, and, of course, the "curlew's call" -- And the lone sundowner tramping ever onward thro' it all! I am back from up the country -- up the country where I went Seeking for the Southern poets' land whereon to pitch my tent; I have left a lot of broken idols out along the track, Burnt a lot of fancy verses -- and I'm glad that I am back -- I believe the Southern poet's dream will not be realised Till the plains are irrigated and the land is humanised. I intend to stay at present -- as I said before -- in town Drinking beer and lemon-squashes -- taking baths and cooling down. -- Henry Lawson

When I embarked upon this theme, I knew that Lawson would have to be one of
the included poets - the searing Australian heat features prominently in
several of his poems, and he conveys its hellish nature more vividly and
consistently than most.

Today's poem leavens the diatribe with a touch of humour, but the underlying
impression is nonetheless one of a stark, overwhelming and inhospitable
climate. Lawson's vivid imagery and his graphic, almost hyperbolic language
are well suited to the subject - suffering beneath a blazing sun is an
experience most readers will be at least passingly familiar with, and the
verses are instantly evocative.

On another note, it's always nice to read a poem in "fifteener" rhythm -
especially combined with rhyming couplets, it gives the poem an easy,
hypnotic flow that carries the reader along, and lets the imagery "pile up"
and reinforce itself, unhindered by metrical speed bumps.  Attention to
formal detail is something that, if done right, can blend unobtrusively into
the poem-as-a-whole, often leading people to conclude that it is a
relatively unimportant part of "real" poetry (the good old form versus
content argument); however, a good ear for rhyme and metre can immeasurably
enhance a poem, and a bad one can ruin it. Here, Lawson gets it absolutely
right - neither jarringly irregular nor monotonously sing-song, making the
poem a pleasure to read aloud.

martin

Wikipedia on Lawson:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Lawson

An extensive collection of Lawson's poetry:

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Pagett, M.P. -- Rudyard Kipling

This week's theme: the summer heat

(Poem #1894) Pagett, M.P. The toad beneath the harrow knows Exactly where each tooth-point goes. The butterfly upon the road Preaches contentment to that toad. Pagett, M.P., was a liar, and a fluent liar therewith -- He spoke of the heat of India as the "Asian Solar Myth"; Came on a four months' visit, to "study the East," in November, And I got him to sign an agreement vowing to stay till September. March came in with the koil. Pagett was cool and gay, Called me a "bloated Brahmin," talked of my "princely pay." March went out with the roses. "Where is your heat?" said he. "Coming," said I to Pagett, "Skittles!" said Pagett, M.P. April began with the punkah, coolies, and prickly-heat, -- Pagett was dear to mosquitoes, sandflies found him a treat. He grew speckled and mumpy -- hammered, I grieve to say, Aryan brothers who fanned him, in an illiberal way. May set in with a dust-storm, -- Pagett went down with the sun. All the delights of the season tickled him one by one. Imprimis -- ten day's "liver" -- due to his drinking beer; Later, a dose of fever -- slight, but he called it severe. Dysent'ry touched him in June, after the Chota Bursat -- Lowered his portly person -- made him yearn to depart. He didn't call me a "Brahmin," or "bloated," or "overpaid," But seemed to think it a wonder that any one stayed. July was a trifle unhealthy, -- Pagett was ill with fear. 'Called it the "Cholera Morbus," hinted that life was dear. He babbled of "Eastern Exile," and mentioned his home with tears; But I haven't seen my children for close upon seven years. We reached a hundred and twenty once in the Court at noon, (I've mentioned Pagett was portly) Pagett, went off in a swoon. That was an end to the business; Pagett, the perjured, fled With a practical, working knowledge of "Solar Myths" in his head. And I laughed as I drove from the station, but the mirth died out on my lips As I thought of the fools like Pagett who write of their "Eastern trips," And the sneers of the traveled idiots who duly misgovern the land, And I prayed to the Lord to deliver another one into my hand. -- Rudyard Kipling

Notes:
 koil (usu. koel): Indian songbird
 punkah: fan
 Chota Bursat: the early rains

Kipling was never one to suffer fools lightly, and his intolerance has taken
the form of numerous highly satisfying poems and caricatures. Today's poem,
the predictable-as-a-train-wreck account of a pompous politician's visit to
a land notably lacking in the comforts of home, is typical - Kipling had a
deep and informed love for India, and was often openly contemptuous of those
who did not measure up to its rigours. (The theme is not uncommon - Robert
Service was later to write even more extreme poems along the same lines,
about the men who did not measure up to his beloved Yukon.)

This is Frontier poetry in the grand tradition, the division lines drawn
clearly between the Men of the Frontier and the effete pen-pushers back home
who would presume to govern them. And what shines through every line of the
poem is an unimstakable ring of authenticity, the pervasive feeling that
Kipling knows what he is talking about, and perhaps even that he has earned
the right to his mockery.

And yes, it really does get that hot over here :)

martin

[Links]

The short story to which the poem is attached:

[broken link] http://whitewolf.newcastle.edu.au/words/authors/K/KiplingRudyard/prose/UndertheDeodars/enlightenmentpagett.html

[Theme]

Thanks again to Bronson Stocker for suggesting this week's theme.
Contributions happily accepted till the theme winds up.

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A Ballade of Suicide -- G K Chesterton

(Poem #1892) A Ballade of Suicide The gallows in my garden, people say, Is new and neat and adequately tall. I tie the noose on in a knowing way As one that knots his necktie for a ball; But just as all the neighbors - on the wall - Are drawing a long breath to shout "Hurray!" The strangest whim has seized me . . . After all I think I will not hang myself to-day. To-morrow is the time I get my pay - My uncle's sword is hanging in the hall - I see a little cloud all pink and gray - Perhaps the rector's mother will not call - I fancy that I heard from Mr. Gall That mushrooms could be cooked another way - I never read the works of Juvenal - I think I will not hang myself to-day. The world will have another washing day; The decadents decay; the pedants pall; And H. G. Wells has found that children play, And Bernard Shaw discovered that they squall; Rationalists are growing rational - And through thick woods one finds a stream astray, So secret that the very sky seems small - I think I will not hang myself to-day. ENVOI Prince, I can hear the trumpet of Germinal, The tumbrils toiling up the terrible way; Even to-day your royal head may fall - I think I will not hang myself to-day. -- G K Chesterton

Note:
  The ballade (ba-LAHD, from the French) is a verse form consisting of three
  stanzas of 8 or 10 lines, each with the same metre, rhyme sounds and last
  line. A shorter concluding stanza (an envoi) is usually addressed to a
  prince.

It's not that great a shock to discover a Chesterton poem I haven't read
before - the man was a prolific poet (and writer) after all. Discovering
today's poem did surprise me, though - it's easily good enough, and easily
memorable enough that it should have been one of his popular poems, and
definitely one of his more anthologised ones.

One of the things that I find most noticeable about Chesterton's writing,
both his poetry and his prose, is how 'easy' it is, without any apparent
compromises. Chesterton has the rare talent of being able to write about
weighty matters, utilise a full and complex vocabulary, and nonetheless lead
the reader along effortlessly and indeed almost unnoticingly. Today's poem
illustrates this nicely - there is a surface lightness that bears the
narrative along, counterbalanced by an undercurrent of greyly philosophical
reflection that makes the superficially humorous phrasing "I think I will
not hang myself today" more sincere than flippant.

The repeated rhymes are used to very good effect, lending a cohesion to the
poem that allows the lines themselves to flit from topic to topic without
sounding disconnected. This, in turn, gives the narrator's stream of
consciousness a surprising density, so that the individual glimpses add up
very quickly to a picture of the man and his concerns. And then there's the
startlingly beautiful image in the last two lines:

  And through thick woods one finds a stream astray,
  So secret that the very sky seems small -

one that marks a sudden exaltation in tone from the banality of the earlier
verses, and prepares the way for the stern foreboding of the envoi.

Altogether, a marvellous poem and one I'm pleased to be doing my part to
spread.

martin

[Links]

Wikipedia on the ballade:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ballade

And on Chesterton:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/G.K._Chesterton

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A Modest Wit -- Selleck Osborn

(Poem #1890) A Modest Wit A supercilious nabob of the East - Haughty, being great - purse-proud, being rich - A governor, or general, at the least, I have forgotten which - Had in his family a humble youth, Who went from England in his patron's suit, An unassuming boy, in truth A lad of decent parts, and good repute. This youth had sense and spirit; But yet with all his sense, Excessive diffidence Obscured his merit. One day, at table, flushed with pride and wine, His Honor, proudly free, severely merry, Conceived it would be vastly fine To crack a joke upon his secretary. "Young man," he said, "by what art, craft, or trade, Did your good father gain a livelihood?" - "He was a saddler, sir," Modestus said, "And in his time was reckoned good." "A saddler, eh! and taught you Greek, Instead of teaching you to sew! Pray, why did not your father make A saddler, sir, of you?" Each parasite, then, as in duty bound, The joke applauded, and the laugh went round. At length Modestus, bowing low, Said (craving pardon, if too free he made), "Sir, by your leave, I fain would know Your father's trade!" "My father's trade! by heaven, that's too bad! My father's trade? Why, blockhead, are you mad? My father, sir, did never stoop so low - He was a gentleman, I'd have you know." "Excuse the liberty I take," Modestus said, with archness on his brow, "Pray, why did not your father make A gentleman of you?" -- Selleck Osborn

I have always enjoyed "anecdotal" poems like today's - short, pointed
stories that are all the more charming for being put into verse. (Perhaps
the best example is Leigh Hunt's "The Glove and the Lions", one of the few
such to attain wide acclaim.) Today's poem, I'll admit, is not even
particularly brilliant verse, just good enough to add to rather than detract
from the story being told, and to lend the punchline a little extra fillip.

Even at their most trivial, though, I think poems like this are not only fun
but important - important because they directly address the fact that one of
the purposes of poetry is to *entertain*. This is not to turn my nose up at
any of the other roles poetry fulfils - it is just that, far more so than
with prose, pure entertainment often seems to take a back seat to art,
emotion, cleverness, or even humour (which is not precisely the same
thing as entertainment). "A Modest Wit" has nothing particulary quotable or
polished, and indeed the language has not aged too well, but it amused me
and brightened up a dull moment, and in doing that I would say that it has
fulfilled its purpose admirably.

martin

Biography:
  Selleck Osborn, American journalist and poet (1783 - 1826)

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A Grievance -- J K Stephen

(Poem #1889) A Grievance After Byron Dear Mr. Editor: I wish to say - If you will not be angry at my, writing it - But I've been used, since childhood's happy day, When I have thought of something, to inditing it; I seldom think of things; and, by the way, Although this meter may not be exciting, it Enables one to be extremely terse, Which is not what one always is in verse. I used to know a man, - such things befall The observant wayfarer through Fate's domain - He was a man, take him for all in all, We shall not look upon his like again; I know that statement's not original; What statement is, since Shakespeare? or, since Cain, What murder? I believe 'twas Shakespeare said it, or Perhaps it may have been your Fighting Editor. Though why an Editor should fight, or why A Fighter should abase himself to edit, Are problems far too difficult and high For me to solve with any sort of credit. Some greatly more accomplished man than I Must tackle them: let's say then Shakespeare said it; And, if he did not, Lewis Morris may (Or even if he did). Some other day, When I have nothing pressing to impart, I should not mind dilating on this matter. I feel its import both in head and heart, And always did, - especially the latter. I could discuss it in the busy mart Or on the lonely housetop; hold! this chatter Diverts me from my purpose. To the point: The time, as Hamlet said, is out of joint, And perhaps I was born to set it right, - A fact I greet with perfect equanimity. I do not put it down to "cursed spite," I don't see any cause for cursing in it. I Have always taken very great delight In such pursuits since first I read divinity. Whoever will may write a nation's songs As long as I'm allowed to right its wrongs. What's Eton but a nursery of wrong-righters, A mighty mother of effective men; A training ground for amateur reciters, A sharpener of the sword as of the pen; A factory of orators and fighters, A forcing-house of genius? Now and then The world at large shrinks back, abashed and beaten, Unable to endure the glare of Eton. I think I said I knew a man: what then? I don't suppose such knowledge is forbid. We nearly all do, more or less, know men, - Or think we do; nor will a man get rid Of that delusion while he wields a pen. But who this man was, what, if aught, he did, Nor why I mentioned him, I do not know, Nor what I "wished to say" a while ago. -- J K Stephen

Most famous poets have attracted their share of parodies, and Byron was no
exception, but seldom have I seen a parody as perfect as today's. The
language, the tone, the metre, the sentiments, the construction, are all
spot on. Moreover, the mockery is subtle enough that there are very few
places one can point to and say "Byron would not have written that", though
the cumulative effect is unmistakably parodic. All in all a superbly
impressive piece of work, even for as consistently good a parodist as Stephen.

martin

[Links]

Byron's "Don Juan", an excellent example of the style today's poem parodies:
  [broken link] http://www.sensible.it/personal/resio/donjuan/byron/

Biography:
  http://www.bartleby.com/223/0615.html

More of Stephen's work:
  http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/310.html

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