Tobacco's But an Indian Weed -- Traditional

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1926) Tobacco's But an Indian Weed Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve, It shews our decay, we are but clay: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, Is broke with a touch -- man's life is such: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so foul within, Shows man's soul is stained with sin; It doth require the purging fire; Think of this when you smoke tobacco! The ashes that are left behind, Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust return we must: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The smoke, that does so high ascend, Shews us man's life must have an end, The vapour's gone -- man's life is done: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. -- Traditional

      (17th Century England)

The song "Tobacco's But an Indian Weed" goes back at least to the mid-17th
century. It can be sung to an appropriately mournful, dirge-like melody.

This version is based on Thomas D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy"
(1699), sourced from: http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/smokepage.html

William Grey

[Martin adds]

What fascinates me about this song is how likely it is (at least in
retrospect) that it would be caught up in the folk process. The combination
of a simple, strong pattern (one rhyming couplet, one internally-rhyming
line and a refrain), a subversive topic that has room for infinite
variation, and the lack of any real ordering to the verses makes the
temptation to tweak or add a verse or two almost irresistible.

[Links]

http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/tobacco.html has a nice writeup on the
history of the song

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I Asked No Other Thing -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1925) I Asked No Other Thing I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled. Brazil? He twirled a button Without a glance my way: But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show today? -- Emily Dickinson

I was skimming through Jean Webster's "Daddy Long Legs" yesterday, because I
was sure I remembered a poem written by her heroine Judy Abbott in college,
which would go with the current theme. Couldn't find it, but I did come
across this rather enigmatic Dickinson piece.  Judy, writing to her
guardian, tells him about the poem --

  "In English class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson.
  This was it:

     I asked no other thing,
     No other was denied.
     I offered Being for it;
     The mighty merchant smiled.

     Brazil? He twirled a button
     Without a glance my way:
     But, madam, is there nothing else
     That we can show today?

  That is a poem. I don't know who wrote it or what it means. It was
  simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered
  to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I had an
  idea--The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in
  return for virtuous deeds-- but when I got to the second verse and found
  him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and I
  hastily changed my mind.  The rest of the class was in the same
  predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank
  paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an awfully
  wearing process!"

I must admit that, like Judy, my idea of what it means is rather vague. But
since, unlike Judy, I don't have to get an education out of it, I'm free to
enjoy it with my own interpretation!

I'd guess that the Mighty Merchant is meant to be God, a God who seems to
smile indifferently at her deepest desires. Some commentators suggest that
Brazil is a reference to heaven -- apparently, "during this period, exotic
locations frequently... represented heaven, or something desired and dreamt
of, yet beyond reach and denied." Other readings of the poem say Dicksinson
is speaking for all women seeking emancipation and freedom, the one thing
that is denied to them.

Quite apart from meaning, I think those first two lines just stick in the
memory somehow! Anyone else care to take a stab at interpretation?

Priscilla

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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 Bee Box -- Lowell Parker

Guest poem sent in by Prateek Sharma

(Poem #1923) The Bee Box In this small box, my love, you'll not find a ring, but instead, a brave, little bee. He'll be dead by morn, having given his life defending his flowers against me. I felt his sting while picking the small, purple pansies growing wild along the roadside, in hopes of an afternoon bouquet for you. And I grieved the sting, more for him than me, knowing full well the price he paid for my small pain. And I allowed him his victory, leaving his flowers as a memory, and brought you instead this brave, little bee, who proves there is love even in the smallest of things. -- Lowell Parker

Form vs Freedom of Expression has been an age old question for art creators
and critics. When I posed this question to our poetry teacher, she came up
with this poem. This poem does not score too well on the metre/rhyme front.
There are some grammatical errors and inconsistency in style as well.

Yet, the poem just soars. The imagery is transforming. It touches us on a
very human level. It says so much about love and courage. And about
sensitivity. How much can we learn from this world and its creatures!

Prateek

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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 Like Love -- Tobias Hume

Guest poem sent in by Catherine Pegg

(Poem #1921) Tobacco Is Like Love Tobacco, Tobacco sing sweetly for Tobacco, Tobacco is like love, O love it for you see I wil prove it Love maketh leane the fatte mens tumor, so doth Tobacco, Love still dries uppe the wanton humor, so doth Tobacco, love makes men sayle from shore to shore, so doth Tobacco Tis fond love often makes men poor so doth Tobacco Love makes men scorn al Coward feares, so doth Tobacco Love often sets men by the eares so doth Tobacco. Tobaccoe, Tobaccoe Sing sweetely for Tobaccoe, Tobaccoe is like Love, O love it, For you see I have prowde it. -- Tobias Hume

Note: from "The First Part of Ayres (or Musicall Humors)", 1605

All the poems about smoking that I've been seeing on your site made me think
of this one.  Alas, I cannot say much about it, save that it is meant to be
sung, and belongs with work by Dowland and Campion in Elizabethan (or
thereabouts) England.

Why I like it: because it's clever. It writes about all the horrible things
of tobacco and love (excepting lung cancer), and yet I get the feeling that
the writer is saying: "But you know you're gonna pick up the baccy again -
and Love? There's no hope for us, mate, and ain't that wonderful...". He
takes two of the great tragedies of human nature, love and addiction, and
turns them into a source of innocent merriment for a while. I like that.
Not every jewel has to be the Koh i Noor, and neither every poem an abyss
hidden inside a crack in the footpath.

Catherine

[Martin adds]

I was tangentially but irresistibly reminded of Kipling's immortal line
"A woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke." (And I note we've
not run the poem yet - tomorrow is as good a time as any, I guess!)

[Links]

More on Mr Hume can be found at:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tobias_Hume

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The Sonnet -- William Wordsworth

Guest poem sent in by Paul E Collins

(Poem #1920) The Sonnet Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief; The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains -- alas, too few! -- William Wordsworth

Here's Wordsworth's famous defence of the sonnet, followed by a
playful but thought-provoking parody by Dickinson:

  'Scorn not the sonnet' (Wordsworth)

  Scorn not the sonnet on the sonnet, critic;
    It is a bank where poets love to lie
    And praise each other's ingenuity
  In finding such a form. The analytic
  Reader may stigmatise as parasitic
    The mirror-image of a mystery,
    The echo of lost voices, find it dry,
  And intellectually paralytic.
    Yet 'tis a child of Fancy, light and live,
  A fragile veil of Nature, scarcely worn
    (Of Wordsworth's two, of Shakespeare's none, survive);
  Empty not then the vials of scorn upon it.
    Nor, since we're on the subject, should you scorn
  The sonnet on the sonnet on the sonnet.

  - Peter Dickinson

The latter notes that Wordsworth, who wrote more than 500 sonnets in his
lifetime, produced two of these 'meta-sonnets' (the other being 'Nuns Fret
Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room') and Shakespeare, who wrote 154, none at
all.

Dickinson's selection of rhymes for 'critic' - and the self-referential
closing couplet - may raise a smile. One has to wonder what Wordsworth, ever
the serious Romantic, would have made of his "parasitic ingenuity".

Paul

[Martin adds]

The final two lines of Dickinson's parody are absolutely brilliant. I wonder
why Unauthorized Versions[1] didn't pick this one up.

[1] an absolutely delightful anthology of poems paired with their parodies,
which both Thomas and I are huge fans of. We once ran a theme based on the
book (see links), which today's pair of poems would have fitted very nicely
into.

[Links]

Biography of Wordsworth:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth

And of Dickinson:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Dickinson

The poem/parody theme:
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/376.html
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/378.html
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/380.html

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