Pilgrimage of poems: Draw out the night

Okay, last Saturday I gave you examples of two forms of Japanese poetry, so how about today we hop over the Sea of Japan to Korea?

It turns out that there’s a form of poem related to both haiku and tanka, the sijo. Like its Japanese cousins, sijo are constrained by syllable count; in this case three lines totaling 44 to 46 of them. It’s interesting to me that each line has a purpose: first is introduction of a theme; second elaborates on it; third provides a twist and an end. They can use metaphors, puns and other forms of word play.

You gotta love a tight format that messes with your head and makes you giggle.

Also, I really like the notion that sijo were meant to be sung.

Take a look (and remember that sometimes translations don’t adhere to the syllabic constraints):

Where pure snow flakes melt

Dark clouds gather threatening

Where are the spring flowers abloom?

A lonely figure lost in the shadow

Of sinking sun, I have no place to go.

                                                Yi Saek (1328-1395)

I will break the back of this long, midwinter night,

Folding it double, cold beneath my spring quilt,

That I may draw out the night, should my love return.

                                                Hwang Jin-i (1522-1565)

Oh that I might capture the essence of this deep midwinter night

And fold it softly into the waft of a spring-moon quilt

Then fondly uncoil it the night my beloved returns.

It turns out that Hwang Jin-i’s nom de plume was Myongwol, or Bright Moon, so her “spring moon” could also be a reference to herself. Little play on words there.

Pilgrimage of poems: Ocelot serre chypre

Yay—it’s Friday, and it’s Friday in National Poetry Month. And today I’m getting as silly as it’s possible to be without aid of chemical substances.

There’s this collection of, uh, well, you know—rhymes—by a fellow called Luis d’Antin van Rooten (and, no, I am not making that name up). The book is Mots d’Heures: Gousses, Rames. And no, I am not making that title up, either:

See, this is a, um, scholarly presentation and deconstruction of these very interesting poems from, oh, way, way back. I mean—it has footnotes and everything. Yeah, okay, I’ll show you.

Keep in mind that, as with all poetry, these verses are meant to be read aloud to get the full appreciation. This may be difficult if you don’t speak French. It might be a challenge even if you do. So I have included the, erm, phonetic transliteration of the poems at the bottom of this post, in invisible electrons. If you really, really need it, just highlight the space and the text will become visible. As will the reason why this is a Friday set of poetry.

The poems don’t have titles; they are helpfully numbered, like Shakespeare’s sonnets. Or the Psalms. Or items on a Chinese menu.

By the way, though this is a slim volume, I’ve been extremely hard put to choose which gems to share, because they all cry out to be known by the wider world. It’s a tough job to blog during National Poetry Month, so I’ll just suck it up and get on with it.

2

Eau la quille ne colle

Oise à me rest haulte de soles

Aîné marié au sol, vas-y!¹

École vorace paille

Pain école vorace boule

En école vorace fille de loterie. ²

Et vérifie d’allure, ah! des fidèles

En avarie faille ne fille te l’a dit

Et puis, tu lui dis, tu lui dis, tu lui dis, vingt-deux filles de loure.³

Oh! d’hère, se nom soeur erre

Ascain compère

Huit qui ne collent et ne se fient de loterie.⁴

1. An eldest son, wedded to the family estates by primogeniture, is here urged to seek adventure. The general area in which he lives is clearly identified by the Oise River, a tributary of the Seine, navigable for most of its length. A truly poetic image is created by the first line and the promise of a sea teeming with Channel sole in the second line.

2. Here he is warned of fish that will rise to any lure, but also of voracious schools of lottery girls. Evidently, he is to seek adventure and a wife.

3. He is told to study their bearing, so many having failed or come to grief, who might have been faithful. He is particularly warned against twenty-two dancing girls, perhaps some notorious corps de ballet of the period.

4. The country boy is told not to give his name to an erring sister. The good example of his pal from Ascain (small Basque town in the foothills of the Pyrenees, not far from St.-Jean-de-Luz) is set before him. He didn’t get stuck because he didn’t trust to luck.

35

Lille¹ beau pipe

Ocelot serre chypre

Endouzaine aux verres tuf indemne

Livre de melons un dé huile qu’aux mômes

Eau à guigne d’air telle baie indemne.²

1. Lille is one of the great industrial cities of France and must be assumed to be the residence of the subject of this little poem.

2. We are dealing with a chemist or alchemist, since this can’t be anything but a recipe for an ointment or perfume of doubtful magical qualities. The scent sac of an ocelot which produces a disturbingly penetrating odor is squeezed with a quantity of chypre (which ditto) in a dozen containers of flawless volcanic glass. To this is added a pound of melons, a thimbleful of oil (1/2 oz.), a sweet cherry and the fragrance of unspoiled berries, any kind will do. The verse, unfortunately, gives no clue as to its application. We must, of course, suspect an aphrodisiac.

* * *
Transliteration—only reveal by highlighting the space below with your mouse after you’ve really tried (and I'm being nice by giving it to you; van Rooten doesn't let slip a dicky bird on this):

2

Old King Cole was a merry old soul,

And a merry old soul was he.

He called for his pipe, and he called for his bowl,

And he called for his fiddlers three.

Every fiddler, he had a fiddle,

And a very fine fiddle had he.

Oh there's none so rare, as can compare

With King Cole and his fiddlers three.

 *          *           *

35

Little Bo-Peep

Has lost her sheep

And can’t tell where to find them

Leave them alone, and they’ll come home

Wagging their tails behind them.

Il n'y à pas de quoi

Pilgrimage of poems: I choose day

I was never much of an Emily Dickinson fan. I mean—yeah, she churned ‘em out in her little Amherst hermitage, and pushed quite the range of topics. Her poems are intense expressions, with vivid imagery; I just find it hard to get into them.

So it was interesting to me that my literary hero, Reginald Hill, built one of his Dalziel and Pascoe novels around Dickinson’s poetry. But instead of making me like her, in fact, Good Morning, Midnight kind of reinforces my disconnect from Dickinson.

Perhaps it’s because the character who’s the biggest fan of Dickinson in the novel is a self-absorbed, distant, calculating woman who pretty much destroys everyone she touches. Yes, she’s damaged goods, and suffered a terrible loss in her early adulthood. So she spends the rest of her life running through men and family like tap water, and can only focus on one single thing, being a “mother” to her youngest stepchild. Whatever the cost to anyone and everyone else, that’s what she does.

It’s interesting that one of the men she’s able to scam is Andy Dalziel, because she has just the right mix of control, nobility, dispassion and pseudo-warmth. And perhaps that’s my objection to the eponymous poem, “Good Morning—Midnight”: I just want it to get over itself.

I’m giving it to you anyway, on account of Hill, and this way I get it out of the way so we can move on to poems more to my liking.

Good Morning—Midnight—

I'm coming Home—

Day—got tired of Me—

How could I—of Him?

Sunshine was a sweet place—

I liked to stay—

But Morn—didn't want me—now—

So—Goodnight—Day!

I can look—can't I—

When the East is Red?

The Hills—have a way—then—

That puts the Heart—abroad—

You—are not so fair—Midnight—

I chose—Day—

But—please take a little Girl—

He turned away!

All the history that fits

A friend sent me the link to this story by the BBC—it’s supposedly to provide historical background for the British public for the visit of Irish president Michael Higgins to the UK this week. It’s a big deal because this is the first time ever an Irish head of state has set official foot there.

(It was also a big deal when Queen Elizabeth II paid a state visit to Ireland in 2011. I had a few observations on that occasion, too. Well, it freaked me out to hear “God Save the Queen” at the Garden of Remembrance in Dublin.)

I have no squawk about this diplomatic exchange or the notion of not letting yourself be hobbled for all eternity by the past. I say, make up, drink up and grow up, and I hope a very good time is had by all.

What I do object to here is the fact that this alleged political reporter, Gavin Stamp, is an idiot, and the BBC slapped this up on their website.

First off—“700 years of shared history”? Shared freakin' history? What the hell?

That would be “shared history” in the sense that the USSR had “shared history” with Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia and Romania from 1945 to 1989.

And that whole “sporting rivalry” fluff—what is up with that? Is it supposed to be somehow more significant than the rivalry between England and Germany? Or, for that matter, between Celtic and Rangers?

But what caused me to snort tea all over my keyboard is the notion that, while (Irish) literary giants such as Joyce and Beckett “preferred Paris to London”, these days the fact that the likes of Graham Norton and Terry Wogan are in residence in the British capital indicates it’s now a “literary destination”.

Oh, yeah—Norton and Wogan: the very heart and soul of, uh…TV. But, of course, Wogan does work for the BBC, so that would explain his elevation to the status of Joyce.

Plus—“Ireland leads the UK by seven victories to three in the Eurovision song contest.”

Well, then, say no more.

Pilgrimage of poems: Lonely impulse of delight

Okay, look—you knew you weren’t going to get out of National Poetry Month without William Butler Yeats, didn’t you? Yeats is my go-to guy for exquisite use of language, for strength of form and for just all-around delight.

Last year I gave you two of his poems, “Easter 1916” and “Second Coming”. I still recommend them both. The imagery—particularly in “Second Coming” is about as powerful as you’ll find in the English language.

Yeats wrote today’s poem upon the death of Robert Gregory, beloved son of Lady Gregory, who—with Yeats—was a major force in the Irish Literary Revival at the turn of the last century. Robert, an artist in his own right (and a cricketer, which earned him some renown, although I of course have no take on that), was a pilot in the Royal Flying Corps (RFC) and served in Italy when he was killed (age 36) by “friendly fire” from an Italian ally.

Yeats wrote several poems about Gregory’s death, including this one, in which he attempts to understand why the young man volunteered to serve in the war. (In “Easter 1916” the poet tries to do the same regarding the Irish nationalists who tried to seize control of the political infrastructure while Britain was involved in the war.) Because Gregory—an artist and sportsman, remember—didn’t “love” those he served, nor “hate” those he fought. He was Irish and whatever happened on the fields of Flanders or in the air over Italy or in the oceans of the world was not likely to change Ireland’s condition in any respect.

(Well, that was certainly the expectation in 1918, when Gregory died and Yeats wrote the poem. The reality was that World War I shook loose Britain’s death grip on a lot of its empire.)

Yeats ascribes Gregory’s decision to serve to a “lonely impulse to delight”, which is a little confusing to me. I mean, I could see that if he’d gone straight into the RFC; being a flyer in that war was viewed as chivalric and romantic in a way that the ground war was not. (At least it wasn’t after the first few months in the trenches.) But Gregory initially served in the 4^th Connaught Rangers and didn’t transfer to the RFC until 1916.

Well, in the end, the poet/airman seems to be saying that the choice to serve—knowing that it’s assuredly gong to lead to death—is the right, possibly the only, course to follow. And I’m not seeing a “dulce et decorum est pro patria mori” side to this. It wasn’t pubic pressure or civic obligation that persuaded him to take the king’s shilling. We’re back to that impulse of delight.

I’m really trying to get my head around this. Any thoughts?

“An Irish Airman Foresees His Death”

I know that I shall meet my fate

Somewhere among the clouds above;

Those that I fight I do not hate,

Those that I guard I do not love;

My country is Kiltartan Cross,

My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,

No likely end could bring them loss

Or leave them happier than before.

Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,

Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,

A lonely impulse of delight

Drove to this tumult in the clouds;

I balanced all, brought all to mind,

The years to come seemed waste of breath,

A waste of breath the years behind

In balance with this life, this death.

Pilgrimage of poems: Sufficient champagne

Dorothy Parker is one of my favorite poets. She’s brittle and cynical and powerful. And she can pack more meaning into the fewest syllables of any writer I know.

Last year I gave you two of her poems, the two I probably love the best. But here are a couple more—see what you think.

Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:

Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I’d been better without:

Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:

Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:

Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.

“One Perfect Rose” also distills modern life pretty well. And it gives you an idea why it’s not a good idea to read a lot of Parker in one go. Just a couple of poems, and maybe a short story; then out into the sunshine for a brisk walk.

One Perfect Rose

A single flow'r he sent me, since we met.

All tenderly his messenger he chose;

Deep-hearted, pure, with scented dew still wet –

One perfect rose.

I knew the language of the floweret;

'My fragile leaves,' it said, 'his heart enclose.'

Love long has taken for his amulet

One perfect rose.

Why is it no one ever sent me yet

One perfect limousine, do you suppose?

Pilgrimage of poems: Quite clear, no doubt, somehow

Technically, today’s entry for National Poetry Month is a song. You know—poetry plus music. But Bob Dylan has to be one of the most powerful poets of the second half of the 20^th Century. He certainly influenced most of popular songwriters—indeed, considerable parts of pop culture in general—since the 1960s.

Besides—I’m the boss of this blog; I get to choose what I include by way of poetry.

And “My Back Pages” is pretty much my personal anthem. It’s on my gym playlist, and I’ve been known to frighten other treadmillers by singing along when it comes around.

When I first heard The Byrds sing it I doubt I’d have understood what the refrain could possibly signify; it was just deep, you know? It was Dylan. But now it’s etched in my cortex. Here’s the full version:

Crimson flames tied through my ears

Rollin’ high and mighty traps

Pounced with fire on flaming roads

Using ideas as my maps

“We’ll meet on edges, soon,” said I

Proud ’neath heated brow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

Half-wracked prejudice leaped forth

“Rip down all hate,” I screamed

Lies that life is black and white

Spoke from my skull. I dreamed

Romantic facts of musketeers

Foundationed deep, somehow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

Girls’ faces formed the forward path

From phony jealousy

To memorizing politics

Of ancient history

Flung down by corpse evangelists

Unthought of, though, somehow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

A self-ordained professor’s tongue

Too serious to fool

Spouted out that liberty

Is just equality in school

“Equality,” I spoke the word

As if a wedding vow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

In a soldier’s stance, I aimed my hand

At the mongrel dogs who teach

Fearing not that I’d become my enemy

In the instant that I preach

My pathway led by confusion boats

Mutiny from stern to bow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

Yes, my guard stood hard when abstract threats

Too noble to neglect

Deceived me into thinking

I had something to protect

Good and bad, I define these terms

Quite clear, no doubt, somehow

Ah, but I was so much older then

I’m younger than that now

And here’s a great performance of it by Dylan, Eric Clapton, George Harrison, Roger McGuinn and Tom Petty, from the 1992 Bob Dylan 30^th Anniversary concert. This is the one I listen to at the gym, and I love it, even though Clapton muffs the refrain in the verse he sings.

Pilgrimage of poems: Undo the folded lie

You probably know W.H. Auden. Yeah, you do, if you sat through the funeral part of Four Weddings and a Funeral. That’s where John Hannah recites Auden’s “Funeral Blues”, leaving not a dry eye on or off-screen.

I can’t take that one seriously, as it’s associated with another DQ in my life. He often confuses himself with the likes of Paul McCartney, Gabriel Byrne and other shortish celebs and assumes that everyone else will also see the resemblance. He watched Hannah in FWAF and couldn’t wait for an occasion—no matter how inappropriate or insincere—to bring down the house. And I just can’t get that ludicrous image out of my head.

But I was introduced to “September 1, 1939” in Christopher Hitchens’ Mortality, and found it truly powerful. (The line Hitchens latched onto, as he was being treated for esophageal cancer, was “All I have is a voice.”)

I don’t know exactly when Auden wrote it, beyond sometime in September, 1939. It must have been after the Third, when France and Britain finally decided that Hitler had crossed a border too far, and declared war on Germany.

In contrast to Anna Akhmatova’s “July 1914”, Auden wastes neither time nor words on the beauty of the deceptively peaceful preceding summer. No—he captures the deceit and cowardice of the 1930s, ending in the stench of death. He’s revolted by it all.

In the following decade, Auden tried to obliterate this poem—renouncing it, removing the last two stanzas and then flat-out denying anyone permission to reprint it at all. But I’m glad it’s survived.

I sit in one of the dives

On Fifty-second Street

Uncertain and afraid

As the clever hopes expire

Of a low dishonest decade:

Waves of anger and fear

Circulate over the bright

And darkened lands of the earth,

Obsessing our private lives;

The unmentionable odour of death

Offends the September night.

Accurate scholarship can

Unearth the whole offence

From Luther until now

That has driven a culture mad,

Find what occurred at Linz,

What huge imago made

A psychopathic god:

I and the public know

What all schoolchildren learn,

Those to whom evil is done

Do evil in return.

Exiled Thucydides knew

All that a speech can say

About Democracy,

And what dictators do,

The elderly rubbish they talk

To an apathetic grave;

Analysed all in his book,

The enlightenment driven away,

The habit-forming pain,

Mismanagement and grief:

We must suffer them all again.

Into this neutral air

Where blind skyscrapers use

Their full height to proclaim

The strength of Collective Man,

Each language pours its vain

Competitive excuse:

But who can live for long

In an euphoric dream;

Out of the mirror they stare,

Imperialism's face

And the international wrong.

Faces along the bar

Cling to their average day:

The lights must never go out,

The music must always play,

All the conventions conspire

To make this fort assume

The furniture of home;

Lest we should see where we are,

Lost in a haunted wood,

Children afraid of the night

Who have never been happy or good.

The windiest militant trash

Important Persons shout

Is not so crude as our wish:

What mad Nijinsky wrote

About Diaghilev

Is true of the normal heart;

For the error bred in the bone

Of each woman and each man

Craves what it cannot have,

Not universal love

But to be loved alone.

From the conservative dark

Into the ethical life

The dense commuters come,

Repeating their morning vow;

"I will be true to the wife,

I'll concentrate more on my work,"

And helpless governors wake

To resume their compulsory game:

Who can release them now,

Who can reach the deaf,

Who can speak for the dumb?

All I have is a voice

To undo the folded lie,

The romantic lie in the brain

Of the sensual man-in-the-street

And the lie of Authority

Whose buildings grope the sky:

There is no such thing as the State

And no one exists alone;

Hunger allows no choice

To the citizen or the police;

We must love one another or die.

Defenceless under the night

Our world in stupor lies;

Yet, dotted everywhere,

Ironic points of light

Flash out wherever the Just

Exchange their messages:

May I, composed like them

Of Eros and of dust,

Beleaguered by the same

Negation and despair,

Show an affirming flame.