Okay, I’ve given you some high-flown stuff for National
Poetry Month. Looking back on it, a lot of it has dealt with heavy-duty
subjects. Tennyson and Thomas,
on reaching the end of one’s life; Arnold,
on the loss of joy, love, light, certitude, peace and help for pain; Yeats,
on the shattering of pretty much the same.
It’s time for a bit of a break, for an entirely
different perspective on things. Like from a vers libre poet reincarnated as a
cockroach, writing on an old newsroom manual typewriter. Which he does as
described thus by his “literary agent”, Don Marquis:
”He would climb painfully upon the framework of the
machine and cast himself with all his force upon a key, head downward, and his
weight and the impact of the blow were just sufficient to operate the machine,
one slow letter after another. He could not work the capital letters, and he
had a great deal of difficulty operating the mechanism that shifts the paper so
that a fresh line may be started. We never saw a cockroach work so hard or
perspire so freely in all our lives before. After about an hour of this
frightfully difficult literary labor he fell to the floor exhausted, and we saw
him creep feebly into a nest of the poems which are always there in profusion.”
Now, when I started in the newsroom at the Pasadena Star News, we used those old manual
typewriters, which is why—to this day—I smack the hell out of any keyboard I
use, because you had to apply a lot of force to the keys to get the letters to
strike the page. So give it up for archy, who loves an alley cat named
mehitabel (a female feline who gives new meaning to the phrase, “she’s been
around”) so much that every night he pours his heart (and pulps his head) out
to her glory.
(I must have been in high school when I first came across
archy and mehitabel. But what I remember is mentioning the poems to my mother,
who had known them from when they’d been syndicated in the newspapers she read
as a young woman. At the time I’m sure I thought it more bizarre that Mom had
read poems than that a cockroach would write them.)
Do not be deceived by his present appearance,
however; archy is definitely tackling the Big Things—transmigration, descent
into hell, beer. There are plenty of allusions splattered through the poems; I
had to look up Gambrinus.) You have to set yourself down one evening in a
darkened room, with just one lamp on (with maybe a glass of whisky), and take
up with archy and mehitabel.
archy’s writing style—no caps, no punctuation—has been
revived in today’s texting/IMing world. The difference is, he knows what he’s
doing, and he's making a point in the process.
Anyhow, by way of introduction, I give you “the song
of mehitabel”:
this
is the song of mehitabel
of
mehitabel the alley cat
as
i wrote you before boss
mehitabel
is a believer
in
the pythagorean
theory
of the transmigration
of
the soul and she claims
that
formerly her spirit
was
incarnated in the body
of
cleopatra
that
was a long time ago
and
one must not be
surprised
if mehitabel
has
forgotten some of her
more
regal manners
i
have had my ups and downs
but
wotthehell wotthehell
yesterday
sceptres and crowns
fried
oysters and velvet gowns
and
today i herd with bums
but
wotthehell wotthehell
i
wake the world from sleep
as
i caper and sing and leap
when
i sing my wild free tune
wotthehell
wotthehell
under
the blear eyed moon
i
am pelted with cast off shoon
but
wotthehell wotthehell
do
you think that i would change
my
present freedom to range
for
a castle or moated grange
wotthehell
wotthehell
cage
me and i d go frantic
my
life is so romantic
capricious
and corybantic
and
i m toujours gai toujours gai
i
know that i am bound
for
a journey down the sound
in
the midst of a refuse mound
but
wotthehell wotthehell
oh
i should worry and fret
death
and i will coquette
there
s a dance in the old dame yet
toujours
gai toujours gai
i
once was an innocent kit
wotthehell
wotthehell
with
a ribbon my neck to fit
and
bells tied onto it
o
wotthehell wotthehell
but
a maltese cat came by
with
a come hither look in his eye
and
a song that soared to the sky
and
wotthehell wotthehell
and
i followed adown the street
the
pad of his rhythmical feet
o
permit me again to repeat
wotthehell
wotthehell
my
youth i shall never forget
but
there s nothing i really regret
wotthehell
wotthehell
there
s a dance in the old dame yet
toujours
gai toujours gai
the
things that i had not ought to
i
do because i ve gotto
wotthehell
wotthehell
and
i end with my favorite motto
toujours
gai toujours gai
boss
sometimes i think
that
our friend mehitabel
is
a trifle too gay
You can find more of a sampling here.
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