The cruelest month: The awfullest way you ever saw

I don’t know whether you have to be an American Lit major, or from the South, to recognize today’s National Poetry Month poem. And I can’t recall now which of my grandmothers was the one to recite it to me—the one from San Francisco or the one from Georgia. But Eugene Field’s “The Duel” has been part of my life for a long time.

The only adult I’ve met who not only recognized it, but could (and did) quote from it was a colleague of mine at the data networking company. She came from South Carolina, and had degrees in English from the USC that isn’t the one in LA. (Bruins rule, Trojans drool. Just sayin’…)

I’ve never been able to hear the words “gingham” or “calico” without picturing coming into the room and finding a blizzard of shreds and scraps. Gotta love pomes, folks.

The Duel

The gingham dog and the calico cat

Side by side on the table sat;

'T was half-past twelve, and (what do you think!)

Nor one nor t' other had slept a wink!

      The old Dutch clock and the Chinese plate

      Appeared to know as sure as fate

There was going to be a terrible spat.

            (I wasn't there; I simply state

            What was told to me by the Chinese plate!)

The gingham dog went "Bow-wow-wow!"

And the calico cat replied "Mee-ow!"

The air was littered, an hour or so,

With bits of gingham and calico,

      While the old Dutch clock in the chimney-place

      Up with its hands before its face,

For it always dreaded a family row!

            (Now mind: I 'm only telling you

            What the old Dutch clock declares is true!)

The Chinese plate looked very blue,

And wailed, "Oh, dear! what shall we do!"

But the gingham dog and the calico cat

Wallowed this way and tumbled that,

      Employing every tooth and claw

      In the awfullest way you ever saw---

And, oh! how the gingham and calico flew!

            (Don't fancy I exaggerate---

            I got my news from the Chinese plate!)

Next morning, where the two had sat

They found no trace of dog or cat;

And some folks think unto this day

That burglars stole that pair away!

      But the truth about the cat and pup

      Is this: they ate each other up!

Now what do you really think of that!

            (The old Dutch clock it told me so,

            And that is how I came to know.)

The cruelest month: Buena para decir adiós

If you were at all sensate in the late 60s/early 70s, you heard someone somewhere singing “Guantanamera”. Maybe starting with Pete Seeger, I disremember at the moment. However, you were thereby introduced to José Martí.

Martí was a Cuban poet in the latter half of the 19^th Century. His use of language is lyrical, flowing like the tide on a Caribbean beach. If you’re a high school student, the Spanish is clear and amazingly easy to absorb.

Today, then, for National Poetry Month, you have Martí’s “Dos Patrias”. I love the opening line: I have two homelands, Cuba and the night. Damn.

Dos Patrias

Dos patrias tengo yo: Cuba y la noche.

¿O son una las dos? No bien retira

su majestad el sol, con largos velos

y un clavel en la mano, silenciosa

Cuba cual viuda triste me aparece.

¡Yo sé cuál es ese clavel sangriento

que en la mano le tiembla! Está vacío

mi pecho, destrozado está y vacío

en donde estaba el corazón. Ya es hora

de empezar a morir. La noche es buena

para decir adiós. La luz estorba

y la palabra humana. El universo

habla mejor que el hombre.

                          Cual bandera

que invita a batallar, la llama roja

de la vela flamea. Las ventanas

abro, ya estrecho en mí. Muda, rompiendo

las hojas del clavel, como una nube

que enturbia el cielo, Cuba, viuda, pasa...

Here’s the English translation (by Mark Weiss):

Two homelands have I, Cuba and the night.

Or are they one? The sun’s

majesty but now withdrawn,

trailing long veils she comes

to me, Cuba, in the guise

of a grieving widow, holding

a carnation. That blood-stained flower

is my shattered breast, the hollow

that held my heart. Now is the hour come

to die. The night is made for parting, light and speech

a barrier, the universe more eloquent than man.

The red flame of the candle flutters

like a flag summoning to battle.

Clutching it to me I open the window.

Mute as a cloud that hides the sky

the widow passes, scattering flowers.

The cruelest month: Seize the fire

[NB: My post today is dedicated to my friends MLD and LQ. I missed Saint George’s Day by 24 hours, MLD; but “Jerusalem” is for you and your ringers. And, LQ: Nini and the Tyger are very closely related.]

Today’s National Poetry Month offering is one of my all-time favorites, one whose imagery I find powerful and gripping. William Blake’s “The Tyger” has always torn my heart out, and I’ve been glad for the tearing.

I suppose the visual impact of Blake’s poetry shouldn’t come as a surprise because he was also an engraver, a printer, an etcher and a painter. His visual works are often allegorical and highly symbolic (well, much like his poetry); not surprising in a man of many talents who saw visions all his life.

By way of example, I give you “The Great Red Dragon and the Woman Clothed in Sun”. Even that title is extraordinary. I believe I would like to be a woman clothed in Sun. (and if the Great Red Dragon is the price of admission, well, I’ll pay up.)

“The Tyger” absolutely shimmers with grace and strength, sleek and dangerous in the forests of the night. This is a creature powerful beyond all understanding—and yet when the poet asks about the maker of the Lamb, well…there you have it.

The Tyger

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies

Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?

What the hand dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder,and what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart?

And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? and what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain?

In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp

Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears,

Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright

In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

Blake was also a hymnist, and he wrote one of my all-time favorites, which you don’t seem to hear all that often (outside of Women’s Institute meetings, of course). Perhaps because of its symbolism and sense of militancy. But I’ll give it to you anyhow. Consider it a bonus.

I’m sorry to say that I’m finding it impossible to find a clean audio of this glorious anthem with the descant on the second verse. So I’ll link to a clip of the closing scenes of Chariots of Fire, where it’s being sung at the funeral of Harold Abrahams. 

If that finish doesn’t send chills up your spine, even in the background, you need to have your soul checked.

The cruelest month: Fish, fiddle-de-dee!

I came to know Edward Lear in childhood. I can’t remember the first time my mother read from The Little Book of Nonsense, or when I began to read it myself. But I was always quite fascinated by the idea that a Pobble might exist, much less have an Aunt Jobiska.

Plus—isn’t “runcible” a great word? I must have read (or heard) “The Owl & the Pussycat” before the Pobble, because eating mince and slices of quince with a runcible spoon certainly stuck in my brain.

Although a runcible cat with crimson whiskers is certainly memorable, too. Or it would be if I’d ever seen one.

The Pobble Who Has No Toes

The Pobble who has no toes

Had once as many as we;

When they said "Some day you may lose them all;"

He replied "Fish, fiddle-de-dee!"

And his Aunt Jobiska made him drink

Lavender water tinged with pink,

For she said "The World in general knows

There's nothing so good for a Pobble's toes!"

The Pobble who has no toes

Swam across the Bristol Channel;

But before he set out he wrapped his nose

In a piece of scarlet flannel.

For his Aunt Jobiska said "No harm

Can come to his toes if his nose is warm;

And it's perfectly known that a Pobble's toes

Are safe, -- provided he minds his nose!"

The Pobble swam fast and well,

And when boats or ships came near him,

He tinkledy-blinkledy-winkled a bell,

So that all the world could hear him.

And all the Sailors and Admirals cried,

When they saw him nearing the further side -

"He has gone to fish for his Aunt Jobiska's

Runcible Cat with crimson whiskers!"

But before he touched the shore,

The shore of the Bristol Channel,

A sea-green porpoise carried away

His wrapper of scarlet flannel.

And when he came to observe his feet,

Formerly garnished with toes so neat,

His face at once became forlorn,

On perceiving that all his toes were gone!

And nobody ever knew,

From that dark day to the present,

Whoso had taken the Pobble's toes,

In a manner so far from pleasant.

Whether the shrimps, or crawfish grey,

Or crafty Mermaids stole them away -

Nobody knew: and nobody knows

How the Pobble was robbed of his twice five toes!

The Pobble who has no toes

Was placed in a friendly Bark,

And they rowed him back, and carried him up

To his Aunt Jobiska's Park.

And she made him a feast at his earnest wish

Of eggs and buttercups fried with fish, -

And she said "It's a fact the whole world knows,

That Pobbles are happier without their toes!"

You know, reading through it, it’s kind of a gruesome tale to be passing off to the young ‘uns. Kind of like a lot of Grimm’s Fairy Tales. But then kids can ingest a lot of that stuff without major disruption to the psyche. I think. At least I could. 

I clearly recall the version of Rapunzel that involved her and the prince being separated by the enraged witch and then in the next scene, Rapunzel is wandering the forest with twin children (hers) and comes across the prince who (if memory serves) has been blinded. And a version of Cinderella where, as she goes up the aisle to be married, two doves peck out one eye each of the wicked stepsisters, and on the way from the altar they peck out the other two eyes. That just seemed, you know, as it should be.

So having some unnamed indescribable creature nibble off the Pobble’s toes may not be a big deal after all. Especially if all the world does indeed know that Pobbles are happier without them.

The cruelest month: The fire in my eyes

My National Poetry Month poem for today is a recent acquisition, Maya Angelou’s “Phenomenal Woman”.

This is one of the more attitudinal poems I’m sharing, and I love it.

Phenomenal Woman

Pretty women wonder where my secret lies.

I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size

But when I start to tell them,

They think I'm telling lies.

I say,

It's in the reach of my arms

The span of my hips,

The stride of my step,

The curl of my lips.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I walk into a room

Just as cool as you please,

And to a man,

The fellows stand or

Fall down on their knees.

Then they swarm around me,

A hive of honey bees.

I say,

It's the fire in my eyes,

And the flash of my teeth,

The swing in my waist,

And the joy in my feet.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Men themselves have wondered

What they see in me.

They try so much

But they can't touch

My inner mystery.

When I try to show them

They say they still can't see.

I say,

It's in the arch of my back,

The sun of my smile,

The ride of my breasts,

The grace of my style.

I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

Now you understand

Just why my head's not bowed.

I don't shout or jump about

Or have to talk real loud.

When you see me passing

It ought to make you proud.

I say,

It's in the click of my heels,

The bend of my hair,

The palm of my hand,

The need for my care,

'Cause I'm a woman

Phenomenally.

Phenomenal woman,

That's me.

I wish I had Google Glass and could project this onto the surface when I go to a job interview.

Going the distance

If you missed it, participants in yesterday’s London Marathon paid tribute to the victims at the Boston Marathon—runners wore black ribbons and armbands, and there was a 30-second moment of silence before the race began.

This video of that is absolutely spellbinding. Seeing thousands and thousands of runners, moments before a huge race for which every one of them (including those dressed like pea pods) has been training and psyching for months, stand completely still and silent is honor indeed.

The cruelest month: Une langueur monotone

Today’s National Poetry Month poem is a bit of a change. Not just because it’s not English, but because my first acquaintance of it was made through reading about D-Day.

Throughout the war (WWII, if you’re in any confusion), the BBC broadcast messages to resistance organizations in Nazi-occupied countries. Things like, “Baby needs new shoes” or “Uncle Ralph lost his eyeglasses”. There would be a whole string of this sort of thing, and the “baby” one might mean “blow the bridge tonight” to a group in Bruges, and “Uncle Ralph” could announce “arms drop tomorrow” to a cell in Bordeaux.

As the buildup to the invasion of France progressed, it was decided to use the opening lines from Paul Verlaine’s “Chanson d’automne” to signal resistance groups in France to engage in specific acts of sabotage—destroy lines of communication, railroads, bridges, etc., to hinder the German ability to counterattack in the early days of acquiring a toehold on the continent.

Broadcasting the first three lines meant: invasion is coming within two weeks; get ready. It went out over the airwaves on 1 June, 1944. The next three lines meant: invasion within 48 hours; start the destruction. That was broadcast 5 June, 1944, 45 minutes before midnight, when the armada was on its way.

I’ve read other French poets since then (I was in junior high when I started studying WWII), but—leaving aside the historical reference—I really like the imagery in this one. “Les sanglot longs des violons de l’automne blessent mon coeur”… The long sobs of the violins of autumn wound my heart—doesn’t that just strike home?

Chanson d’automne

Les sanglots longs

Des violons

De l'automne

Blessent mon coeur

D'une langueur

Monotone.

Tout suffocant

Et blême, quand

Sonne l'heure,

Je me souviens

Des jours anciens

Et je pleure

Et je m'en vais

Au vent mauvais

Qui m'emporte

Deçà, delà,

Pareil à la

Feuille morte.

If you’d like the English, here you go:

The long sobs

Of the violins

Of Autumn

Wound my heart

With a monotonous

Languor.

All choked

And pale, when

The hour chimes,

I remember

Days of old

And I cry

And I’m going

On an ill wind

That carries me

Here & there,

As if a

Dead leaf.

The cruelest month: My beamish boy

We’ve been wading through some heavy stuff during National Poetry Month. Death, love, hell, war; all the usual suspects. Now it’s time for something silly. Yes, of course I’m talking about Lewis Carroll.

“Jabberwocky” was one of the poems we read in the 10^th grade. Oh, we ranged wide in that class.

At the end of the module the test was that Mr. Sheinkopf would give us a quote from each of the poem, and we would have to identify it. For example, from “Ozymandias”, the line might have been “a shattered visage lies”; from “Lake Isle of Innisfree”, perhaps “peace comes dropping slow”.

For weeks, every night, I’d have my mom go through the poetry book and dish out lines at random and clock my answers. I was dreaming the things. I reckoned that “Jabberwocky” would be one of the shoo-ins, because just about every word in the bloomin’ thing is sui generis.

You want to know what line we got on the test? “He left it dead”. 

That’s right—about the only four words in sequence that you could have picked up at the bus stop. And I tanked it.

It’s been a whole lotta years since that class and I still feel rooked by that one.

Jabberwocky

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

      The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

      The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;

      Long time the manxome foe he sought—

So rested he by the Tumtum tree

      And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

      The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

      And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through

      The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

      He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

      Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”

      He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

      Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogoves,

      And the mome raths outgrabe.

If you would like an interesting presentation of “Jabberwocky”, here’s a video done by the daughter of a former colleague.

If you’re at work, you might want to turn down the volume.