The Fiddle and the Drum -- Joni Mitchell

Guest poem submitted by Mac Robb:

(Poem #1676) The Fiddle and the Drum And so once again My dear Johnny my dear friend And so once again you are fightin' us all And when I ask you why You raise your sticks and cry, and I fall Oh, my friend How did you come To trade the fiddle for the drum You say I have turned Like the enemies you've earned But I can remember All the good things you are And so I ask you please Can I help you find the peace and the star Oh, my friend What time is this To trade the handshake for the fist And so once again Oh, America my friend And so once again You are fighting us all And when we ask you why You raise your sticks and cry and we fall Oh, my friend How did you come To trade the fiddle for the drum You say we have turned Like the enemies you've earned But we can remember All the good things you are And so we ask you please Can we help you find the peace and the star Oh my friend We have all come To fear the beating of your drum -- Joni Mitchell

The posting of Ogden Nash's "Custard the Dragon" took me back for the first
time in many years to the grade 3 classroom at Queen Elizabeth II public
school in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan, where I first heard that delightful
doggerel. And that recollection in turn sent me searching in the Minstrels
archive for songs by that famous alumna of my school, Joni Mitchell (Joan
Anderson, as she was in Saskatoon).

"Both Sides Now," I discover, was posted on 5 November 2004 and is Poem
#1556 in the archive but other songs from "Clouds" (1969) haven't yet made
it. "The Fiddle and the Drum" jumps out as being, alas, again very timely.

Joni Mitchell arrived on the American -- and international -- music scene at
the height of the Vietnam war; this song takes us back to that
politics-charged era and the mutual perplexity of those who were pro- and
anti-war. (That War in particular, at least.) Then as now hawks perceived
both domestic and foreign opposition as betrayal: criticism was met with
belligerance; foreign friends of America found it a tricky business
affirming their continuing admiration for the fiddle while tactfully
disdaining the drum.

The song, like many of Joni Mitchell's (and of her co-nationals Ian Tyson,
Gordon Lightfood and kd lang) is not unmistakably in any one contemporary
genre -- it is neither folk nor rock nor country-and-western. Perhaps
actually it's a little old fashioned and hearkens back to the roots of
country-and-western music in the Scottish and Scotch-Irish secular folk
music and Protestant hymnody of both Appalachia and rural Canada. Think of
the Scotch-Gaelic Ceilidh, the plangent part-sung hymn sung by Donald
Sutherland's congregation in the movie "Cold Mountain" and the Scotch-Gaelic
Christmas carol "Child in the manger" popularised on the hit parade some
years ago by Cat Stevens to the words of the Eleanor Farjeon's
Congregationalist hymn "Morning has broken."

Mac Robb
Brisbane, Australia

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Spring Wedding -- Andrew Motion

Guest poem sent in by Sally Canzoneri

(Poem #1675) Spring Wedding I took your news outdoors, and strolled a while In silence on my square of garden-ground Where I could dim the roar of arguments, Ignore the scandal-flywheel whirring round, And hear instead the green fuse in the flower Ignite, the breeze stretch out a shadow-hand To ruffle blossom on its sticking points, The blackbirds sing, and singing take their stand. I took your news outdoors, and found the Spring Had honored all its promises to start Disclosing how the principles of earth Can make a common purpose with the heart. The heart which slips and sidles like a stream Weighed down by winter-wreckage near its source - But given time, and come the clearing rain, Breaks loose to revel in its proper course. -- Andrew Motion

Note: By Andrew Motion, Britain's Poet Laureate, on the occasion of Prince
Charles's marriage to Camilla Parker-Bowles.

I heard a commentator on the radio this week say that if, as Samuel Johnson
said, second marriages are "the triumph of hope over experience," then
Prince Charles' and Camilla Parker Bowles' union is the exception, as this
is clearly a case of experience triumphing over hope.  Charles' wedding to
Princess Diana was the stuff of fairy tales, with a fairy tale vision of
glittering, easily won love.  This time the wedding is the stuff of real
life -- two rather homely, middle aged people who have made the kind of
mistakes that most people have made by the time they are middle aged.  At
the same time, there is a wonderful romance to this wedding in the way these
two seem to have been meant for one another all along, in the way their love
has endured through the years, and in Charles' determination to overcome
obstacles to finally make Camilla his wife.

The poet laureate is responsible for producing verse to mark events of
national significance.  I think Motion has done his job wonderfully in this
instance.  This is an intimate poem that has a tone of being spoken very
directly to the happy couple. It is more a lovely gift to the bride and
groom than a celebration of a state occasion. That, and the emphasis on
nature, seems appropriate for a wedding that was meant to be quiet and
private and a couple who, apparently, are happiest in the countryside. Yet,
this poem isn't only about Charles and Camilla. It could as easily have been
written for an ordinary, unfamous couple. In this poem, Motion has captures
and celebrates the special beauty of hard-won, real world love -- love that
is private and personal to each couple, whatever their social status.

Andrew Motion was appointed Poet Laureate in 1999 upon the death of Ted
Hughes.

Sally Canzoneri

[Martin adds]

When we ran Motion's "Regime Change" [Poem #1215], Brian Probert commented that

  I feel he has rather wasted what could have been a brilliant poem about
  the eternal violent nature of man to make a partisan statement about
  what, in historical terms is just a transient affair.

It is interesting, I think, to contrast the essentially universal nature of
today's poem with the slightly[1] more immediate tinge of "Regime Change" -
perhaps it is that loving couples are all alike, but each war torn nation is
war torn in its own way.

[1] but only slightly - I don't fully agree with Brian, though I see his point

martin

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The Lion For Real -- Allen Ginsberg

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:

(Poem #1674) The Lion For Real 'Soyez muette pour moi, Idole contemplative...' I came home and found a lion in my living room Rushed out on the fire escape screaming Lion! Lion! Two stenographers pulled their brunnette hair and banged the window shut I hurried home to Paterson and stayed two days Called up old Reichian analyst who'd kicked me out of therapy for smoking marijuana 'It's happened' I panted 'There's a Lion in my living room' 'I'm afraid any discussion would have no value' he hung up I went to my old boyfriend we got drunk with his girlfriend I kissed him and announced I had a lion with a mad gleam in my eye We wound up fighting on the floor I bit his eyebrow & he kicked me out I ended up masturbating in his jeep parked in the street moaning 'Lion.' Found Joey my novelist friend and roared at him 'Lion!' He looked at me interested and read me his spontaneous ignu high poetries I listened for lions all I heard was Elephant Tiglon Hippogriff Unicorn Ants But figured he really understood me when we made it in Ignaz Wisdom's bathroom. But next day he sent me a leaf from his Smoky Mountain retreat 'I love you little Bo-Bo with your delicate golden lions But there being no Self and No Bars therefore the Zoo of your dear Father hath no lion You said your mother was mad don't expect me to produce the Monster for your Bridegroom.' Confused dazed and exalted bethought me of real lion starved in his stink in Harlem Opened the door the room was filled with the bomb blast of his anger He roaring hungrily at the plaster walls but nobody could hear outside thru the window My eye caught the edge of the red neighbor apartment building standing in deafening stillness We gazed at each other his implacable yellow eye in the red halo of fur Waxed rhuemy on my own but he stopped roaring and bared a fang greeting. I turned my back and cooked broccoli for supper on an iron gas stove Boilt water and took a hot bath in the old tub under the sink board. He didn't eat me, tho I regretted him starving in my presence. Next week he wasted away a sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling out enraged and reddening eye as he lay aching huge hairy head on his paws by the egg-crate bookcase filled up with thin volumes of Plato, & Buddha. Sat by his side every night averting my eyes from his hungry motheaten face stopped eating myself he got weaker and roared at night while I had nightmares Eaten by lion in bookstore on Cosmic Campus, a lion myself starved by Professor Kandisky, dying in a lion's flophouse circus, I woke up mornings the lion still added dying on the floor -- 'Terrible Presence!' I cried 'Eat me or die!' It got up that afternoon -- walked to the door with its paw on the wall to steady its trembling body Let out a soul-rending creak from the bottomless roof of his mouth thundering from my floor to heaven heavier than a volcano at night in Mexico Pushed the door open and said in a gravelly voice "Not this time Baby -- but I will be back again." Lion that eats my mind now for a decade knowing only your hunger Not the bliss of your satisfaction O roar of the universe how am I chosen In this life I have heard your promise I am ready to die I have served Your starved and ancient Presence O Lord I wait in my room at your Mercy. -- Allen Ginsberg

        Paris, March 1958.

As long as we are doing poems about Poets and Lions....

This is easily one of my favourite Ginsberg poems - largely because I think
it captures so well the entire spirit of Ginsberg's poetic enterprise. It
has everything - a visionary idea worthy of Blake; sly touches of humour;
references to sex and drugs; references to Plato and the Buddha; a finely
crafted image of the raw power of a lion trapped in a small apartment; a
marvellously accurate description that brings out so clearly the sights and
smells of the beast's presence (sick rug full of bones wheaten hair falling
out); a metaphysical, almost mystic engagement with the world and to end it
all, a stanza of breathtaking, almost biblical proportion. A large part of
the brilliance of this poem is in the development - what starts off as a
clever gag turns into an intensely physical experience before finally
becoming a spiritual epiphany.

As an evocation of the Muse this is an almost unparalleled poem - combining
a sense of wonderous disbelief  and whimsy with a feeling of trapped
frustration and pathos mingled with majesty (just writing this sense makes
me review the many different emotions the poem not only conjures up but
manages to balance so perfectly). In Preludes, Eliot speaks of "the notion
of some infinitely gentle / infinitely suffering thing" - Ginsberg's muse is
more savage than that, but for all that no less exquisite.

Aseem.

P.S. I'm not really sure where the epigraph for this poem comes from.
Anyone?

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Ode On the Death of Pius the Twelfth -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by Eloise Wright

I came across this poem yesterday and though it was an appropriate one to
share, given recent events:

(Poem #1673) Ode On the Death of Pius the Twelfth To every season its proper act of joy, To every age its natural mode of grace, Each vision its hour, each talent we employ Its destined time and place. I was at Amherst when this great pope died; The northern year was wearing towards the cold; The ancient trees were in their autumn pride Of russet, flame and gold. Amherst in Massachusetts in the Fall: I ranged the college campus to admire Maple and beech, poplar and ash in all Their panoply of fire. Something that since a child I longed to see, This miracle of the other hemisphere: Whole forests in their annual ecstasty Waked by the dying year. Not budding Spring, not Summer's green parade Clothed in such glory these resplendant trees; The lilies of the field were not arrayed In riches such as these. Nature evolves their colours as a call, A lure which serves to fertilise the seed; How strange then that the splendour of the Fall Should serve no natural need And, having no end in nature, yet can yield Such exquisite natural pleasure to the eye! Who could have guessed in summer's green concealed The leaf's resolve to die? Yet from the first spring shoots through all the year, Masked in the chlorophyll's intenser green, The feast of crimson was already there, These yellows blazed unseen. Now in the bright October sun the clear Translucent colours trembled overhead And as I walked, a voice I chanced to hear Announced: The Pope is dead! A human voice, yet there the place became Bethel: each bough with pentecost was crowned; The great trunks rapt in unconusming flame Stood as on holy ground. I thought of this old man whose life was past, Who in himself and his great office stood Against the secular tempest as a vast Oak spans the underwood; Who in the age of Armageddon found A voice that caused all men to hear it plain, The blood of Abel crying from the ground To stay the hand of Cain; Who found from that great task small time to spare: - For him and for mankind the hour was late - So much to snatch, to save, so much to bear That Mary's part must wait, Until in his last years the change began: A strange illumination of the heart, Voices and visions such as mark the man Chosen and set apart. His death, they said, was slow, grotesque and hard, Yet in that gross decay, until the end Untroubled in his joy, he saw the Word Made spirit and ascend. Those glorious woods and that triumphant death Prompted me there to join their mysteries: This Brother Albert, this great oak of faith, Those fire-enchanted trees. Seven years have passed, and still, at times I ask Whether in man, as in those plants, may be A splendour, which his human virtues mask, Not given to us to see? If to some lives at least comes a stage When, all active man now left behind, They enter on the treasure of old age, This autumn of the mind. Then, while the heart stands still, beyond desire The dying animal knows a strange serene: Emerging in its ecstasy of fire The burning soul is seen. Who sees it? Since old age appears to men Senility, decreptitude, disease, What Spririt walks among us, past our ken, As we among these trees, Whose unknown nature, blessed with keener sense Catches its breath in wonder at the sight And feels its being flood with that immense Epiphany of light? -- A D Hope

It is autumn in the southern hemisphere at the moment, and here in Canberra
(where Hope spent much of his life) the autumn leaves are out in force. The
similarity of the careers of Pius XII and John Paul II - a long and highly
active reign followed by a gradual decline into ill-health - completes the
parallel.

Two things I wanted to pull out: the Mary in stanza 13 is, I think, the
sister of Martha and Lazarus (whose 'part' was contemplation rather than
Martha's activity). I was also wondering whether the use of 'Fall' for
autumn, which seems odd to me, given Hope's nationality, might be a
reference to the biblical Fall, said to have introduced death into the
world.

I found this poem a nice contrast to the media merry-go-round which has
seemed almost unavoidable these past days.

Eloise.

[Links]

Bio of A. D. Hope: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A._D._Hope

Bio of Pope Pius XII: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pius_XII

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The Tale of Custard the Dragon -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Vivian Eden:

(Poem #1672) The Tale of Custard the Dragon Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard. Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon. Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good. Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm. The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit. Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage. -- Ogden Nash

If the theme is beasts gobbling people, then Custard is essential. I think
chidren love this poem so much because it ends with everything satisfyingly
back to normal after all the excitement and they can fall asleep free of
fears of dragons and pirates, and grownups love it because it is very acute
in its psychology -- Doesn't everyone know people like all the characters in
this poem, including Custard? -- and because it is so much fun to read
aloud. And of course keeping a cowardly pet dragon around is an excellent
way to tame fears and at the same time to get rid of unwanted intruders,
especially if you are a brave little girl like Belinda. As for the poetry,
my favorite lines are: "Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,  /
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed." The verb for Ink is
brilliant, and the rhyme is priceless, with "mouseholed" a wink at the habit
that American English at least has of taking a noun and making a verb of it
-- "to backpack," "to party."

On the Internet, an Ogden Nash site  with good links is at
        http://www.poetrymagazine.com/archives/2001/May01/nash.htm

Vivian.

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The Lion and Albert -- Marriott Edgar

Martin Alexander sends in a followup to yestarday's
poem...

(Poem #1671) The Lion and Albert There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool, That's noted for fresh-air and fun, And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Went there with young Albert, their son. A grand little lad was their Albert All dressed in his best; quite a swell 'E'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle The finest that Woolworth's could sell. They didn't think much to the ocean The waves, they was fiddlin' and small There was no wrecks... nobody drownded 'Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all. So, seeking for further amusement They paid and went into the zoo Where they'd lions and tigers and cam-els And old ale and sandwiches too. There were one great big lion called Wallace His nose were all covered with scars He lay in a som-no-lent posture With the side of his face to the bars. Now Albert had heard about lions How they were ferocious and wild And to see Wallace lying so peaceful Well... it didn't seem right to the child. So straight 'way the brave little feller Not showing a morsel of fear Took 'is stick with the'orse's 'ead 'andle And pushed it in Wallace's ear! You could see that the lion didn't like it For giving a kind of a roll He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im And swallowed the little lad... whole! Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence And didn't know what to do next Said, "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert" And Mother said "Eeh, I am vexed!" So Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Quite rightly, when all's said and done Complained to the Animal Keeper That the lion had eaten their son. The keeper was quite nice about it He said, "What a nasty mishap Are you sure that it's your lad he's eaten?" Pa said, "Am I sure? There's his cap!" So the manager had to be sent for He came and he said, "What's to do?" Pa said, "Yon lion's 'eaten our Albert And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too." Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller I think it's a shame and a sin For a lion to go and eat Albert And after we've paid to come in!" The manager wanted no trouble He took out his purse right away And said, "How much to settle the matter?" And Pa said "What do you usually pay?" But Mother had turned a bit awkward When she thought where her Albert had gone She said, "No! someone's got to be summonsed" So that were decided upon. Round they went to the Police Station In front of a Magistrate chap They told 'im what happened to Albert And proved it by showing his cap. The Magistrate gave his o-pinion That no-one was really to blame He said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms Would have further sons to their name. At that Mother got proper blazing "And thank you, sir, kindly," said she "What waste all our lives raising children To feed ruddy lions? Not me!" -- Marriott Edgar

      (1880-1951)

Great poem [Poem #1671] and wonderful introduction to Trelease, which has
delayed coffee and toast this Hong Kong Sunday morning....

My first thought was of Edgar Marriot's famous monologue, The Lion and
Albert (in spite of the word order below, the Lion is clearly neither a
secondary character nor the villain of the tale):

[broken link] http://www.monologues.co.uk/Albert_and_the_Lion.htm

The site includes the poem below and a (currently broken) link to the
original 'Marriott Edgar' recording... I had a quick look on the Minstrels
site, and to my consternation found that the poem isn't yet included.
Perhaps it should be - and perhaps Silverstein's poem is a natural (and
deliberate?) appendix.

(Your glaring omission is, of course, evidence only of the huge, growing and
generally benevolent beast that poetry is - not a reflection of any poverty
of content in the Magnificent Minstrels!)

Martin

[Links]

There's a very brief biography up at
  http://oldpoetry.com/authors/Marriott%20Edgar

Edgar appears to have been fairly prolific - check out some of his other
monologues at [broken link] http://monologues.co.uk/

[I don't believe this piece directly inspired Silverstein, since lions as a
whole are a ravenous lot, and Death of Being Eaten By a Lion makes its
appearance in several children's stories and poems. It's still a charming poem,
though, and I'm delighted to be introduced to Marriott Edgar. -- martin (the
other one)]

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It's Dark in Here -- Shel Silverstein

(Poem #1670) It's Dark in Here I am writing these poems From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear. But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near. And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. -- Shel Silverstein

A bit of nostalgia attached to today's piece - it's the first Silverstein
poem I ever read, thanks to it being included in one of my school poetry
books. This was way back in my early childhood, when I had no idea who
Silverstein was, but my siblings and I all adored the poem and can, to this
day, quote it with much glee and amusement.

It appears to have started life as a song - you can see the lyrics at
[broken link] http://www.banned-width.com/shel/works/lion.html - and there's a charming
illustration alongside, though not the one I remember from my textbook.

And speaking of Silverstein and textbooks, I'd like to quote a marvellous
excerpt from Jim Trelease's "Read Aloud Handbook" that I discovered when
searching for today's poem:

    'Where the Sidewalk Ends', by Shel Silverstein, is so popular with
    children, librarians and teachers insist it is the book most frequently
    stolen from their schools and libraries. Over the last eight years I've
    asked eighty thousand teachers if they know 'Where the Sidewalk Ends'
    (two million copies in print), and three-quarters of the teachers raise
    their hands. "Wonderful!" I say. "Now, who has enough copies of this
    book for every child in your room?" Nobody raises a hand. In eight
    years, only eighteen teachers out of eighty thousand had enough copies
    in their rooms for every child.

    I continue, "Do each of you know the books in your classroom no child
    would ever consider stealing?" They nod in recognition. "Do you have
    enough copies of those books for every child in the room?" Reluctantly,
    they nod agreement. Here we've got a book kids love to read so much
    they'll steal it right and left and we haven't got enough copies; but
    every year we've got twenty-eight copies of a book they hate.

       -- Jim Trelease, "What's Right or Wrong With Poetry"
                         [broken link] http://www.poets.org/exh/parts.cfm?prmID=81

Check Trelease's website [http://www.trelease-on-reading.com/] out - I think
he's just become one of my heroes.

martin

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