The Puffin and Nuffin -- Robert Williams Wood

For a change of pace...

(Poem #1835) The Puffin and Nuffin Upon this cake of ice is perched The paddle-footed Puffin: To find his double we have searched, But have discovered - Nuffin! -- Robert Williams Wood

Note: Illustration at [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Vienna/2406/rww/pg27.html

A few years ago, we ran Wood's "The Auk and the Orchid", a wonderfully
quirky little poem with an equally wonderful illustration to accompany it.
Quoting Ajit's commentary on that poem:

  When "How To Tell the Birds from the Flowers" was published (in 1907, I
  think), it was primarily a children's book, but has been described as a
  book of comic verse pretending to be a nature book. Wood was a fine
  illustrator as well as a writer; with each poem in the book he also drew
  two pictures, one of the bird and another of the flower, with such skill
  that they actually _do_ look almost indistinguishable! In truth, his poems
  (this one included) lose much of their comic appeal without the pictures
  that go with them, and the whole book, with the pictures and the verse,
  can be viewed on several sites on the net, such as
        [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Vienna/2406/cov.html

The aforementioned book is indeed full of several delightful poems and
brilliantly executed pictures, pairing each bird with a sound-alike plant;
today's poem is an added bonus at the very end of the (short, worth reading
in one sitting) book. Most of the poems made me smile; this one made me
laugh out loud.

martin

[Links]

"The Auk and the Orchid" [Poem #1292]:
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1292.html

Wikipedia on Wood:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Robert_W._Wood

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Verses Turned... -- John Betjeman

Guest poem submitted by Mac Robb:

(Poem #1834) Verses Turned... Across the wet November night The church is bright with candlelight And waiting Evensong. A single bell with plaintive strokes Pleads louder than the stirring oaks The leafless lanes along. It calls the choirboys from their tea And villagers, the two or three, Damp down the kitchen fire, Let out the cat, and up the lane Go paddling through the gentle rain Of misty Oxfordshire. How warm the many candles shine Of Samuel Dowbiggin's design For this interior neat, These high box pews of Georgian days Which screen us from the public gaze When we make answer meet; How gracefully their shadow falls On bold pilasters down the walls And on the pulpit high. The chandeliers would twinkle gold As pre-Tractarian sermons roll'd Doctrinal, sound and dry. From that west gallery no doubt The viol and serpent tooted out The Tallis tune to Ken, And firmly at the end of prayers The clerk below the pulpit stairs Would thunder out "Amen." But every wand'ring thought will cease Before the noble altarpiece With carven swags array'd, For there in letters all may read The Lord's Commandments, Prayer and Creed, And decently display'd. On country mornings sharp and clear The penitent in faith draw near And kneeling here below Partake the heavenly banquet spread Of sacramental Wine and Bread And Jesus' presence know. And must that plaintive bell in vain Plead loud along the dripping lane? And must the building fall? Not while we love the church and live And of our charity will give Our much, our more, our all. -- John Betjeman

How wonderful now to be into John Betjeman! If we were to work our way
through Philip Larkin's version of the English canon Betjeman of course
ranks high on the roll. Here is another [poem by him; see Poem #1815 for the
previous example -t.], from Betjeman's survey of English country churches.
You don't have to be a staunch Anglican or an Anglican at all to enjoy these
poems. (Possibly these days that is a bit of an oxymoron in any case, but
I'm certainly far from it, either by ancestry or conviction. I am, though,
an anglophone of some few generations' standing and it's my adoptive
culture, so to speak. Doubtless at least some subscribers to the Minstrels
share that view.)

The pieties in Betjeman's lovely little poem about the parish church at
Chislehampton in Oxfordshire (for so it is) are in the long view of these
things a little off the mark. But it contains a potted history of matters
which while now vastly irrelevant at one time issues considerably exercised
the full range of national life in England, from ecclesiastical potentates
to the judicial committee of the Privy Council to ordinary churchgoing
citizens. Readers of Jane Austen, George Eliot and Charles Dickens will be
well attuned to them, quaint though they may now seem.

The actual church is indeed a lovely little gem of Georgian (the 18th, not
the 20th century Georges) elegance, with, certainly,

  a.. The "high box pews of Georgian days." Eighteenth century Anglican
churches had box pews in which the congregation sat facing each other
screened from each others' view for the decidedly non-sacramental recitation
of prayers, the hearing of a sermon and the singing of hymns led by a band
in the gallery.
  b.. The Ten Commandments on the wall over the Communion Table (sic, for
certainly that's what it was in the 18th century - no "altars" in those
days). This was the standard decoration if, indeed, the chancel wasn't
entirely blocked off from view so as not to cause anyone erroneously to
infer any "popery" from the unseemly display of the pre-Reformation site of
the altar.
  c.. A lofty pulpit for "pre-Tractarian sermons./Doctrinal, sound and dry."
Well, maybe they were dry, but generations of the faithful seem to have
found them sustaining and indeed Methodism sought to raise the sermon to
even greater prominence.
  d.. Below the pulpit, the desk where "firmly at the end of prayers/The
clerk.[w]ould thunder out 'Amen.' The Prayer Book services of Morning and
Evening Prayer were in some measure a duet between the parson and the clerk,
who took the part of the congregation, in the manner that in pre-Vatican II
Catholic churches there was a duet between the presiding celebrant and the
altar boy.
  e.. And a west gallery for a parish band to lead in "Tallis's tune to Ken"
(ie the non-jurant bishop Thomas Ken's Morning and Evening Hymns - "Glory to
thee who safe has kept/And hast refresh'd me while I slept" and "All praise
to thee my God this night/For all the blessings of the light/". "Praise God
from whom all blessings flow/Praise him all creatures here below." The 19th
century saw the introduction of pipe organs and elegant chancel choirs,
possibly robed in cassock and surplice - somewhat known beyond Anglicanism
by the popular recordings of choirs such as those of Kings College Cambridge
and Westminster Abbey, and also in prosperous evangelical Protestant
denominations of other historical traditions - but 18th century parish
worship was heartily led by a gallery band of trumpets, strings, and other
catch-as-catch-can instruments.

It is, indeed, a considerable anachronism: a parish church whose "living" is
(or till recently was - haven't checked up on the current state of affairs)
in the gift of the local squire. Betjeman rather gilds the lily with 19th
century piety when he suggests sacramental small-c catholicism in such a
place: it is quintessentially of the kind of stoutly Protestant Anglicanism
that Samuel Pepys knew in the 1660s - when he spoke of going to "hear Mr X
preach," assuredly not to "take the sacrament."

An old friend of mine is a Canadian Anglican prelate and a cousin of the
squire of Chislehampton who vastly relishes the quaint family prerogative of
visiting there and dressing up in 18th century rig complete with clerical
bands (alas, not a wig though) to say Morning Prayer or Evensong. Far more
Congregationalist or Presbyterian than Anglican by current sensibilities, to
be sure, but authentically a part of English history.

Mac Robb
Brisbane, Australia

External links: John Betjeman home page
  [broken link] http://www.johnbetjeman.com/oldhome.htm

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Lying -- Jane Hirshfield

(Poem #1833) Lying He puts his brush to the canvas, with one quick stroke unfolds a bird from the sky. Steps back, considers. Takes pity. Unfolds another. -- Jane Hirshfield

      (November 1994)

Hirshfield's another new-to-me poet - I stumbled across this little gem
while randomly surfing poetry sites and was instantly captivated. There is a
wonderful balance between the static and the dynamic - the explicit
description of painting leads me almost subconsciously to visualise the poem
itself as a painting, beautiful and self-contained, and then a metaphorical
step backwards reveals a temporal, almost balletic aspect that paradoxically
enhances rather than shattering the impression of containedness.

I was reminded strongly of Basho's famous haiku

  old pond.....
  a frog leaps in
  water's sound

(Poem #23, and see also Poem #1455 and
http://www.bopsecrets.org/gateway/passages/basho-frog.htm) - there is the
same impression of a sequence of events captured within a bounded whole,
though Hirshfield's penultimate "Takes pity" adds a human element that takes
it beyond the isolated beauty of the haiku.

martin

[Links]

Biography: American Poet, 1953-
  http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/563
  [broken link] http://www.sunyulster.edu/people/Hirshfield.asp

Interesting articles:
  [broken link] http://www.poems.com/hirinter.htm
  http://www.salon.com/weekly/hirshfield.html

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Even Such is Time -- Sir Walter Raleigh

Guest poem submitted by Steve Cookinham

(Poem #1832) Even Such is Time Even such is time, that takes in trust Our youth, our joys, our all we have, And pays us but with earth and dust; Who, in the dark and silent grave, When we have wandered all our ways, Shuts up the story of our days: But from this earth, this grave, this dust, My God shall raise me up, I trust. -- Sir Walter Raleigh

I'm 59 years old, and though a lifetime avid reader (mostly history) I
really hadn't often "clicked" with a poem and so hadn't done much
exploration of the genre before stumbling onto your site a couple of years
ago.

While on what was supposed to be a 'round the world bicycle trip - Odyssey
2000 - I missed a turn in the Drakensberg range in the Transvaal in South
Africa and augured into a mountainside, breaking my pelvis, sacrum and some
ribs.  End of trip for me, and after surgery I spent a couple of months
living in the home of a Boer couple in Mpumalanga.  In a way the accident
wasn't a completely bad thing, in that our discussions provided each of us
insights into the others' country we didn't have before and I got to know
some wonderful people.

While I was recovering they took me one day to a used bookstore, where Petra
found a 19th century anthology of English poetry and gave it to me.  I
stumbled onto Sir Walter Raleigh's "Even Such is Time" and in my near-death
experience PTSD frame of mind it struck a deep chord. I loved this poem so
much I even posted most of it on my country-store website along with a local
photograph of a spot which always reminds me of the poem:
[broken link] http://www.dayvillemerc.com/time.htm

Steve Cookinham.

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My Name -- Mark Strand

Guest poem submitted by Masha Saakova:

(Poem #1831) My Name One night when the lawn was a golden green and the marbled moonlit trees rose like fresh memorials in the scented air, and the whole countryside pulsed with the chirr and murmur of insects, I lay in the grass feeling the great distances open above me, and wondered what I would become -- and where I would find myself -- and though I barely existed, I felt for an instant that the vast star-clustered sky was mine, and I heard my name as if for the first time, heard it the way one hears the wind or the rain, but faint and far off as though it belonged not to me but to the silence from which it had come and to which it would go. -- Mark Strand

You already have three Mark Strand poems up, but this one is, by far, my
favorite. I saw it last year in The New Yorker.  I don't want to dissect
this poem too much because I have read it over and over again simply for the
experience. It also seems that Strand poems do not necessarily have a
singular or definite meaning, and that's really part of their beauty. "My
Name" needs to be read aloud -- the sounds are musical (he does a lot of
near-rhymes, consonsance, assonance, alliteration.) I love the stillness
and, yet, the suspense and darkness of the night. The numerous details
convey his awareness of self and of the nature, the surroundings, the world
of which he is a part and still separated from.  To me (emphasis on me,)
this poem is about enjoying a moment and the world that is all ours to take
in, but it is also about realizing our insignificant role in it. I've read
this poem at least a dozen times, and each time I make a discovery -- I
think that's what Strand intended. Hope you like it.

Thanks for your time,
Masha

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The Dentist -- A P Herbert

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1830) The Dentist Yes, yes, the dentist talks a lot For he's content and you are not. He is the tiger in the house And you are, as it were, the mouse. No wonder, then, as you come in He greets you with a happy grin And drops hilarious remarks About the flowers in the parks, About the holidays he's had, About the weather, good or bad, Though at the moment, as he knows, You don't care if it rains or snows. For ever since the date was made You've been dejected and afraid. You dreamed of drills, in vain you chewed Your favourite forbidden food, Since every bite reminded you Of this repugnant interview. And now that you are in the chair, You cannot think what brought you there, In fact you hardly like to name The tusk you fancied was to blame. At least it is quiescent now Why stir it up and cause a row? And he who has the notion too That there is nothing wrong with you With cruel steel goes picking round A tooth that's absolutely sound Deliberately tries to bore A hole where there was none before! You splutter "That is not the one!" He answers "Plenty to be done" And makes a systematic mess Of all the teeth that you possess. Then still with gossip bright and gay He moves the horrid wheel your way And from a crowd delights to draw The largest drill you ever saw. The rest's too painful to be read. I think that Aristotle said That children of a certain age Should not be eaten on the stage And there are things too dark and solemn To be recorded in this column, Whose purpose after all is just To show the bread beneath the crust And how the darkest cloud is lined With silver of the brightest kind. Well then, I will not dwell on all The horrors that may now befall The things with which he stuffs your mouth, The cotton wadding, north and south, The pumps which suck with such a will But seem to make you wetter still, And when the fun begins to flag, The grisly gutta-percha gag. But I implore you all the time To concentrate on the Sublime. Remember in the woods of June The nightingale salutes the moon, The Thames keeps rolling up and down, In Autumn all the leaves are brown, The bluebells still will flood the copse However many teeth he stops. And if you still remain distressed Hug this reflection to your breast That some poor fellows, after all, Have not got any teeth at all. -- A P Herbert

Although dental technology has advanced considerably in the last 80 years,
many elements of the dental surgery are instantly recognizable, and the
affective impact of a visit to the dentist is little changed. Some
biographical notes on the poet were included with [1] to which this is a
marvellous companion piece. Herbert's representations on Minstrels remain
sparse [1], [2]. More details about his life can be found in his
autobiography [3].

William Grey

[1] Poem #1805, The Doctor -- A.P. Herbert
[2] Poem #732, To the Lady Behind Me at the Theatre --  A.P. Herbert
[3] A.P.H.: His Life and Times (1970) -- A.P. Herbert

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Poet -- Hugo Claus

Guest poem submitted by Dimitri Avgoustakis []

(Poem #1829) Poet Autumn. Listen. Crackling. Can you hear that heavy rattling? It draws near in our clothes, in our hair. Lice of sound. What is this leprous mumbling? Child, it's the poets outside, their teeth chattering. The closer the poets get to their moment of dying The more furiously they groan for the stars. In the morning mist in which their images melt The poets freeze in a recognisable jacket. Hear how feverishly they explain their imminent demise For their death rattle has to be transparent, Cause their widow readers to sob. 'Oh, our ego was too obscure!' they complain. 'Time required that, polyinterpretable like us!' And look, they crawl out the swathes of their souls, Their mouths full of rissoles and prayers for mercy For their prostates, their plagiaries. Oh close to death the poets suddenly discover The calming miracles of gods, aphorisms, Aspirins, caresses. For the first time their love Can read something of her love with her lips. And before the poets, loose winter apples Rejected by the pickers because undersize Finally also fall in November They want to fall for ever comprehensible to the neighbours. In milkman language, bruised fruit. They continue to listen bitterly to the crumpling Of the newspaper than keeps on spelling their name wrong And they do their crosswords Full of anecdotes, fear and stumbling loves. But too late, too deaf, the poets realise That what was obscure and obtuse in their verses Does not become clearer by wear, by duration, But that it goes on decaying. Their house, their word, The equator, the azure remain unfathomable. Their surly dark remains as volatile as money And as vulgar as death. 'But, by the way, yourself? Yes, you! Did you not revere Fission, ferment rather than the monument? Also seek an epitaph in each motet? Wring an emblem out of each injury? Find your dented ego in each plate of thymus?' - 'Oh yes. Still upright I dream of the literal. For sure. Until the end those worries, roses. Paradises, radishes, dried-out likenesses. With To this sheet of paper these corpses of letters.' Adieu the poets write all life long And greying like lavender in November They continue - gangrene and jest and puzzle -to pitifully beg for sympathy, As I for the wear and tear on my ears and eyes That loved you, love you. -- Hugo Claus

       (c) Translation: 2005, John Irons

I am not one for strong patriotism but I was amazed you never run a Hugo
Claus poem.

A highly versatile and prolific Belgian author writing in Flemish, Claus's
oeuvre includes poetry, novels, dramas, short stories, screenplays, essays
and translations. He has also worked as a stage and film director - his
films have been regarded as scandalous due to their eroticism and bluntness.
Most of Claus's writing has an experimental quality. He has for decades been
the dominant figure in Belgium's postwar Dutch-language literature. Claus's
attacks on conventional bourgeois mores, religious bigotry, and his
anti-authoritarianism have aroused much controversy in his own country. In
1983 Claus made his international breakthrough with the postmodern novel The
Sorrow of Belgium.
       -- http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/hclaus.htm

"Poet" is one of my favorite poems from him, translated into English by John
Irons. The original Dutch poem is included bellow:

 "Dichter"

 Herfst. Hoor. Geknetter. Hoor je dat zwaar geratel?
 Het nadert in onze kleren, in onze haren.
 Luizen van geluid. Wat is dit melaats geprevel?
 Kind, het zijn de dichters buiten die klappertanden.

 Hoe dichter de dichters bij hun sterven geraken
 Des te grimmiger kermen zij naar de sterren.
 In de ochtendmist waarin hun beelden smelten
 Bevriezen de dichters in een herkenbaar colbert.

 Hoor hoe koortsig zij hun naderend vergaan verklaren
 Want hun laatste gereutel moet doorzichtig zijn,
 Hun weduwen van lezers doen snikken.

 'O, ons ego was te duister!' klagen zij.
 'Dat vroeg de tijd, polyinterpretabel als wij!'
 En kijk, zij kruipen uit de windsels van hun ziel,
 De mond vol kroket en gebed om genade
 Voor hun prostaat, hun plagiaat.

 Ei op sterven na ontdekken de dichters plots
 De bedarende mirakels van goden, aforismen,
 Aspirines, tederheden. Voor het eerst kan hun lief
 Iets van haar lief met haar lippen lezen.

 En voordat de dichters, loze winterappels
 Daar de plukkers als ondermaats versmaad
 Uiteindelijk ook vallen in november
 Willen zij voor eeuwig voor de buren verstaanbaar
 Vallen. In melkboerentaal, als ooft natuurlijk beurs.

 Zij blijven bitter luisteren naar het gefrommel
 Van de krant die hun naam verkeerd blijft spellen
 En zij vullen hun kruiswoordraadsels in
 Vol anekdotes, angst en struikelende liefdes.

 Maar te laat, te doof worden de dichters gewaar
 Dat wat duister en bot was in hun verzen
 Niet lichter wordt door sleet, door de duur,
 Maar dat het blijft bederven. Ondoorgrondelijk
 Blijven hun huis, hun woord, de evenaar, het azuur.
 Hun stuurse donkerte blijft gemeen als geld
 En als de dood zo vluchtig.

 'Maar apropos, jij zelf? Ja, jij! Vereerde jij ook niet
 De splitsing, de gisting eerder dan het monument?
 Zocht jij ook niet in elk motet een epitaaf?
 Wrong jij niet een embleem uit elk letsel?
 Vond jij je geblutste ik niet in elk bord zwezerik?'

 -  'Jawel. Nog overeind droom ik van het letterlijke.
 Zeker. Tot het einde toe die muizenissen, rozen,
 Paradijzen, radijzen, voze gelijkenissen. Met
 Tot op dit papier deze lijken van letters.'

 Adieu schrijven de dichters een leven lang
 En vergrijzend als lavendel in november
 Blijven zij, gangreen en grap en raadsel,
 Erbarmelijk bedelen om mededogen,
 Zoals ik voor de sleet op mijn oren en ogen
 Die jou beminden, beminnen.

       -- Hugo Claus
       (c) 1993, Hugo Claus

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