The Pilgrim -- John Bunyan

(Poem #1699) The Pilgrim Who would true valour see, Let him come hither; One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather There's no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first avowed intent To be a pilgrim. Whoso beset him round With dismal stories Do but themselves confound; His strength the more is. No lion can him fright, He'll with a giant fight, He will have a right To be a pilgrim. Hobgoblin nor foul fiend Can daunt his spirit, He knows he at the end Shall life inherit. Then fancies fly away, He'll fear not what men say, He'll labour night and day To be a pilgrim. -- John Bunyan

Continuing with the theme of poems known by heart, I submit this song from
Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. Not worthy-to-be memorised so much as
impossible, once heard, not to recall line-for-line, I think.

Time was, we are often told, that even the least literate household in the
English-speaking world contained the King James Bible, Pilgrim's Progress
and a set of Shakespeare. I am mildly sceptical; my first acquaintance with
Bunyan came from primary schoolteachers reading Louisa May Alcott's Little
Women aloud in class, and the New England Transcendentalists were hardly
among the least literate of folk. But then my grandparents - Victorians,
certainly, by birthdate -- were the first generation of their respective
families to be native Anglophones and their bookshelves were more likely to
contain in addition to the King James Bible (of course), travelling salesman
encyclopedias and the collected William Cowper.

I first encountered Pilgrim's Song when I played the organ in Anglican
churches in Canada; set to the cheerful Sussex tune Monks Gate, which was
among the many folk tunes rescued and collected by Ralph Vaughan Williams,
Percy Dearmer and others in the closing years of the 19th century and
popularised by being set to hymn texts in the English Hymnal. Actually, come
to think of it, I first heard it at Ottawa Cathedral in the company of a
prelate friend; the preacher was Chief Buthelezei and the pilgrimage alluded
to was that of the South African people to freedom.

Once heard to that tune, Pilgrim's Song is, as I say, unforgettable; I later
played the organ in Australian churches and taught in an Australian private
school. A substantial proportion of Australians are educated in
church-affiliated private schools, and the result is that choosing Pilgrim's
Song for a funeral in Australia guarantees a lusty congregational response.
Odd that it is so little known among evangelical Protestants, whether
liberal (it is unknown in the United Church of Canada) or conservative
(equally unknown by American Baptists), when Bunyan was a Strict Baptist who
spent years in prison for refusing to conform to the Church of England after
the Restoration of the monarchy in 1660 when the intolerance of the Puritans
during the Commonwealth was amply compensated for when the Church of England
returned to episcopacy. Pity; it makes for a wonderfully hearty and vigorous
funeral when the congregation knows it and therefore sings it heartily. And
when the obligatory scripture readings are supplemented by "Fear no more the
heat o' the sun" from Shakespeare's "Cymbeline" and maybe Auden's "Stop all
the clocks" (though, alas, the movie "Four Weddings and a Funeral" has
somewhat reduced its novelty) well,..

There is a rather anemic "modernised" version in some American hymnals; it
is deservedly obscure. Who could possibly be moved by this dross in
comparison with lions, giants, hobgoblins and foul fiends?

 He who would valiant be 'gainst all disaster,
 Let him in constancy follow the Master.
 There's no discouragement shall make him once relent
 His first avowed intent to be a pilgrim.

 Who so beset him round with dismal stories
 Do but themselves confound-his strength the more is.
 No foes shall stay his might; though he with giants fight,
 He will make good his right to be a pilgrim.

 Since, Lord, Thou dost defend us with Thy Spirit,
 We know we at the end, shall life inherit.
 Then fancies flee away! I'll fear not what men say,
 I'll labour night and day to be a pilgrim.

Mac Robb
Brisbane, Australia

Read More

When I was Young and Ignorant -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1698) When I was Young and Ignorant When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall, Our days were spent in happiness, although our means were frugal; We did not sigh for worldly wealth, for vain and tawdry treasures, We were a simple country pair with simple country pleasures. Beneath the village chestnut-tree it was our joy to meet once; We used to tread the dewy fields with wonder-waking feet once; We wandered once in leafy lanes and walked in Woodlands shady; But now she's gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady I loved her as I loved my life when I was young and tender, And happily our time was spent although our means were slender. We used to pass the golden days in countrified pursuits once; We walked through simple country bogs in simple country boots once. High hopes of happiness I had, but now my hopes are zero, Alas! My love has left me now to carve her own career O; Not all the hopes of her I had of her are worth a maravedi; My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. My love now dwells in circus halls with clowns and tight-rope dancers, Where dromedaries play bassoons and sea-lions do the lancers; She moves amongst trick-bicyclists, buffoons and comic waiters, With elephants and acrobats and prestidigitators. No longer daily by my side she wanders through the hay now, The glamour of the public eye has lured are far away now. Remorseless Fates, my tender hopes how cruelly betrayed ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall; But that was e'er she heard the call of Fame's imperious bugle. I thought her kind as she was fair, but I was green and calfish; My love, though brighter than a star, was colder than a starfish. High hopes of happiness I had when I was young and tender; But time and tide have falsified my juvenile agenda. Farewell, my castle is in the air! Phantasmal mansions, fade ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. -- Patrick Barrington

Another chequered romantic adventure from the imagination of Patrick
Barrington, once again from 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Co Ltd,
1934). Earlier romantic adventures by Barrington on Minstrels are [1] and
[2].  As usual an eccentric choice of lover and also, as usual, romantic
disappointment.  Though Barrington never married I wonder: was he ever
engaged?

William Grey

[1] Poem #1551, My Love is a Theosophist -- Patrick Barrington
[2] Poem #1597, I Met a Lady in the Wood -- Patrick Barrington

[Martin adds]

This one hits a new high for tortured yet perfect rhymes (even if he stole
the "worth a maravedi"/lady rhyme from Gilbert! :)). Calfish/starfish was
particularly groanworthy, especially since you can see it coming when he
mentions the star. Delightful stuff.

Read More

Tithonus -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

Guest poem submitted by Hilary Caws-Elwitt:

(Poem #1697) Tithonus The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes; I wither slowly in thine arms. Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-haired shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn. Alas! for this gray shadow, once a man-- So glorious in his beauty and thy choice, Who madest him thy chosen, that he seemed To his great heart none other than a God! I asked thee, "Give me immortality." Then didst thou grant mine asking with a smile, Like wealthy men who care not how they give. But thy strong Hours indignant worked their wills, And beat me down and marred and wasted me, And though they could not end me, left me maimed To dwell in presence of immortal youth, And all I was ashes. Can thy love, Thy beauty, make amends, though even now, Close over us, the silver star, thy guide, Shines in those tremulous eyes that fill with tears, To hear me? Let me go; take back thy gift. Why should a man desire in any way To vary from the kindly race of men, Or pass beyond the goal of ordinance Where all should pause, as is most meet for all? A soft air fans the cloud apart; there comes A glimpse of that dark world where I was born. Once more the old mysterious glimmer steals From thy pure brows, and from thy shoulders pure, And bosom beating with a heart renewed. Thy cheek begins to redden through the gloom, Thy sweet eyes brighten slowly close to mine, Ere yet they blind the stars, and the wild team Which love thee, yearning for thy yoke, arise, And shake the darkness from their loosened manes, And beat the twilight into flakes of fire. Lo! ever thus thou growest beautiful In silence, then before thine answer given Departest, and thy tears are on my cheek. Why wilt thou ever scare me with thy tears, And make me tremble lest a saying learnt, In days far-off, on that dark earth be true? "The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts." Ay me! ay me! with what another heart In days far-off, and with what other eyes I used to watch--if I be he that watched-- The lucid outline forming round thee; saw The dim curls kindle into sunny rings; Changed with thy mystic change, and felt my blood Glow with the glow that slowly crimsoned all Thy presence and thy portals, while I lay, Mouth, forehead, eyelids, growing dewy-warm With kisses balmier than half-opening buds Of April, and could hear the lips that kissed Whispering I knew not what of wild and sweet, Like that strange song I heard Apollo sing, While Ilion like a mist rose into towers. Yet hold me not forever in thine East; How can my nature longer mix with thine? Coldly thy rose shadows bathe me, cold Are all thy lights, and cold my wrinkled feet Upon thy glimmering thresholds, when the steam Floats up from those dim fields about the homes Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead. Release me, and restore me to the ground. Thou seest all things, thou wilt see my grave; Thou wilt renew thy beauty morn by morn, I earth in earth forget these empty courts, And thee returning on thy silver wheels. -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson

--
[My first submission to Minstrels, which I've been enjoying for several
years now!]

Continuing on the "memorized" theme, this is one of my all-time favorite
poems, which I memorized about ten years ago. I still remember chunks but
need to brush up to be able to recite the whole thing again (the longer the
poem, the more maintenance it needs in my mind!).

_Tithonus_ still gives me shivers to read, and even more so to say aloud.
It's the "after" of the myth in which Eos, goddes of dawn, falling in love
with a young man who asks her for the gift of immortality. He gets eternal
life but not eternal youth.

Tennyson's personalization of Dawn captures the perfectly silent, slow,
spectacular changes of sunrise; to me it evokes both its beauty and its
chill loneliness, the sublime aspect of this enormous dramatic change that
happens every morning yet which we often barely notice. The contrast between
the glamour of the immortals and the small human scale is so clear yet
subtle ("cold my wrinkled feet!"). But what I love most about this poem is
its depiction of death as a natural end, a part of life, rejoining the earth
like the woods that decay and fall.

Hilary Caws-Elwitt.

Read More

nobody loses all the time -- e e cummings

Guest poem sent in by Lisa

(Poem #1696) nobody loses all the time nobody loses all the time i had an uncle named Sol who was a born failure and nearly everybody said he should have gone into vaudeville perhaps because my Uncle Sol could sing McCann He Was A Diver on Xmas Eve like Hell Itself which may or may not account for the fact that my Uncle Sol indulged in that possibly most inexcusable of all to use a highfalootin phrase luxuries that is or to wit farming and be it needlessly added my Uncle Sol's farm failed because the chickens ate the vegetables so my Uncle Sol had a chicken farm till the skunks ate the chickens when my Uncle Sol had a skunk farm but the skunks caught cold and died and so my Uncle Sol imitated the skunks in a subtle manner or by drowning himself in the watertank but somebody who'd given my Uncle Sol a Victor Victrola and records while he lived presented to him upon the auspicious occasion of his decease a scruptious not to mention splendiferous funeral with tall boys in black gloves and flowers and everything and i remember we all cried like the Missouri when my Uncle Sol's coffin lurched because somebody pressed a button (and down went my Uncle Sol and started a worm farm) -- e e cummings

I knew if I thought long enough I'd come up with a poem I've been moved to
memorize that isn't (insha'allah) on the Minstrels all ready.

I love e.e. cummings.  My favorite poem is "Anyone lived in a pretty how
town" (Poem #1260) which has the most beautiful melody of any poem I've ever
encountered.  But this is my second favorite.  How charming, the description
of Uncle Sol; how fitting and even touching that he won at last.  And as I
contemplate my occasional wins and my frequent losses in this world, it is
comforting to realize that no one can lose all the time.  Is it symbolic
that this perpetual loser is named after the sun -- and if so, how?  Or is
the poem merely straightforward?  Whatever else it does, it shows us a side
of cummings we rarely see -- his frivolous side.

Lisa

Read More

As You Came from the Holy Land -- Sir Walter Raleigh

Guest poem submitted by Fraser Spratt :

(Poem #1695) As You Came from the Holy Land As you came from the holy land Of Walsinghame, Met you not with my true love By the way as you came ? How shall I know your true love, That have met many one, As I went to the holy land, That have come, that have gone ? She is neither white nor brown, But as the heavens fair ; There is none hath a form so divine In the earth or the air. Such a one did I meet, good sir, Such an angel-like face, Who like a queen, like a nymph, did appear, By her gait, by her grace. She hath left me here all alone, All alone, as unknown, Who sometimes did me lead with herself, And me loved as her own. What's the cause that she leaves you alone, And a new way doth take, Who loved you once as her own, And her joy did you make ? I have loved her all my youth, But now old, as you see, Love likes not the falling fruit From the withered tree. Know that Love is a careless child, And forgets promise past ; He is blind, he is deaf when he list, And in faith never fast. His desire is a dureless content, And a trustless joy ; He is won with a world of despair, And is lost with a toy. Of womankind such indeed is the love, Or the word love abusèd, Under which many childish desires And conceits are excusèd. But true love is a durable fire, In the mind ever burning, Never sick, never old, never dead, From itself never turning. -- Sir Walter Raleigh

I've been listening to Andrew Motion's "A Map of British Poetry" series on
Radio 4 [1] and have simply been blown away by every show. The vast range of
poetry that is being performed is amazing, and all the actors they've hired
are simply outstanding, Simon Russell Beale especially. It was his reading
of this poem I'm submitting that opened my eyes, if you will, to just how
moving poetry can be.

And you know, there's a lot of brilliant analysis in this archive, and for
that I applaud all involved. It can, however, feel slightly unnecessary and
intimidating on occasion. That of course may simply be my limited experience
showing through. Nevertheless, I know what effects me emotionally and this
poem most certainly does that.

Fraser.

[1] http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/arts/mapportal.shtml

Read More

Learning -- Judith Viorst

Guest poem sent in by Kathryn Stinson

(Poem #1694) Learning I'm learning to say thank you. And I'm learning to say please. And I'm learning to use Kleenex, Not my sweater, when I sneeze. And I'm learning not to dribble. And I'm learning not to slurp. And I'm learning (though it sometimes really hurts me) Not to burp. And I'm learning to chew softer When I eat corn on the cob. And I'm learning that it's much Much easier to be a slob. -- Judith Viorst

I memorized Viorst's "Learning" with my third grade son and recited it in
front of his third grade class, with him.  What a pleasure to share it,
parenting the same child who memorized it with me, as he was actually
learning little nuances of polite living.

It was a class assignment, and all the children memorized something and then
stood to recite, some with their parents, some going it alone.

Public school teachers are unsung heroes.  I thank mine whenever I get the
chance.

And a bunch of them have put together poetry sites for the little guys.
Here's a gateway site for several good children's poetry sites:

http://www.shadowpoetry.com/links/childrenspoetrylinks.html

~Kathryn Stinson

[Biography]

 Judith Viorst is the author of eight collections of poetry and five books of
 prose, including the bestseller Necessary Losses and her comic novel,
 Murdering Mr. Monti.

 ....

 Viorst has ... written twelve children's books, among them the classic
 Alexander and the Terrible, Horrible,  No Good, Very Bad Day.

 http://www.annonline.com/interviews/980112/biography.html

[Theme]

 The current theme, poems worthy of memorisation, started at Poem #1687

Read More

The Garden -- Andrew Marvell

Guest poem submitted by Andrew Bateman:

(Poem #1693) The Garden How vainly men themselves amaze To win the palm, the oak, or bays, And their uncessant labors see Crowned from some single herb or tree, Whose short and narrow-vergèd shade Does prudently their toils upbraid; While all the flowers and trees do close To weave the garlands of repose. Fair Quiet, have I found thee here, And Innocence, thy sister dear! Mistaken long, I sought you then In busy companies of men: Your sacred plants, if here below, Only among the plants will grow; Society is all but rude, To this delicious solitude. No white nor red was ever seen So amorous as this lovely green; Fond lovers, cruel as their flame, Cut in these trees their mistress' name. Little, alas, they know or heed, How far these beauties hers exceed! Fair trees! wheresoe'er your barks I wound No name shall but your own be found. When we have run our passion's heat, Love hither makes his best retreat: The gods who mortal beauty chase, Still in a tree did end their race. Apollo hunted Daphne so, Only that she might laurel grow, And Pan did after Syrinx speed, Not as a nymph, but for a reed. What wondrous life is this I lead! Ripe apples drop about my head; The luscious clusters of the vine Upon my mouth do crush their wine; The nectarine and curious peach Into my hands themselves do reach; Stumbling on melons as I pass, Insnared with flowers, I fall on grass. Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less, Withdraws into its happiness: The mind, that ocean where each kind Does straight its own resemblance find; Yet it creates, transcending these, Far other worlds, and other seas; Annihilating all that's made To a green thought in a green shade. Here at the fountain's sliding foot, Or at some fruit-tree's mossy root, Casting the body's vest aside, My soul into the boughs does glide: There like a bird it sits and sings, Then whets and combs its silver wings; And, till prepared for longer flight, Waves in its plumes the various light. Such was that happy garden-state, While man there walked without a mate: After a place so pure and sweet, What other help could yet be meet! But 'twas beyond a mortal's share To wander solitary there: Two paradises 'twere in one To live in Paradise alone. How well the skillful gardener drew Of flowers and herbs this dial new; Where from above the milder sun Does through a fragrant zodiac run; And, as it works, the industrious bee Computes its time as well as we. How could such sweet and wholesome hours Be reckoned but with herbs and flowers! -- Andrew Marvell

        (1621-1678)

Given the last poem ("You, Andrew Marvell" by Archibald MacLeish, Poem
#1692) I thought it would be good to include Marvell's "The Garden." I have
no idea what this poem is about. The garden relates to Earth and to
Paradise, and there is a to and fro between human endeavour and the mindless
perfection of the garden. There are religious overtones (and who, living in
Marvell's England, at war between the King/Church of England and
Puritanism/Parliament could avoid such overtones?). All I can say is that
this poem has wandered around my head since I  first read it. At times when
everything seems to be going to the dogs, I find much comfort in the quiet
sanity of the lines

   Meanwhile the mind, from pleasure less,
   Withdraws into its happiness:
   The mind, that ocean where each kind
   Does straight its own resemblance find;
   Yet it creates, transcending these,
   Far other worlds, and other seas;
   Annihilating all that's made
   To a green thought in a green shade.

For me, if he had written nothing else, this would have been enough. You
could argue that the lines "Two paradises 'twere in one / To live in
Paradise alone." are misogynist, but the rest of the work, I think,
compensates for this.

Andrew.

Read More