Proud-pied April: Never a bargain better driven

You could spend the entire month on various Elizabethan poets. Shakespeare, Marlowe, Spenser, Donne, Jonson…the age doesn’t get more golden as far as English lit goes.

So let’s have Sir Philip Sidney today. Like Marlowe and Raleigh, Sidney was one of those utility players: soldier, courtier, poet, politician. He was part of the Dudley family, which put him in close proximity to Elizabeth, and embarked on diplomatic missions before he was 20; at the age of 22 he was in Paris and witnessed the Saint Bartholomew Day Massacre, which must have shaped his already strong Protestant convictions.

By age 25 he wrote an open letter the Queen detailing why she should not marry the (French Catholic) Duc d’Alençon. Among his objections was the fact that d’Alençon was a son of Catherine de Medicis, “the Jezebel of our age”, who of course had been critical to the Saint Bartholomew Day events of five years earlier. Pretty bold for a young man, although of course it was a different age, and he’d already paid a lot of dues.

Sidney was as bold a military leader against Spain as he was a matrimonial advisor. He was wounded at the Battle of Zutphen. I have to think that the 26 days it took to die from gangrene must have been ghastly. He was not yet 32 years old.

As a man of letters, Sidney held that the purpose of poetry is “to lead and draw us to as high a perfection as our degenerate souls, made worse by their clayey lodgings, can be capable of.” He wrote in a variety of formats. Here’s an example.

“My true love hath my heart”

My true-love hath my heart and I have his,

By just exchange one for the other given:

I hold his dear, and mine he cannot miss;

There never was a bargain better driven.

His heart in me keeps me and him in one;

My heart in him his thoughts and senses guides:

He loves my heart, for once it was his own;

I cherish his because in me it bides.

His heart his wound received from my sight;

My heart was wounded with his wounded heart;

For as from me on him his hurt did light,

So still, methought, in me his hurt did smart:

Both equal hurt, in this change sought our bliss,

My true love hath my heart and I have his.

Proud-pied April: Pomme qu'y n'échelle

We last saw poems from Mots d’Heures: Gousses, Rames a couple of years ago, so we’re due for more.

If you’ll recall, these are definitely meant to be read aloud, by a Francophone, but not one who’s a language Nazi. What I love about them is that you have to completely disengage your preconceptions about order and sense, and concentrate on the sounds.

Then you read the footnotes and just crack up. I do love footnotes.

As with our previous outing, I have included a more usual translation of the rhymes at the bottom of the post, in invisible writing. If you need to ch, uh, look, run your mouse over the area to highlight.

Pis-terre, pis-terre

Pomme qui n'y terre¹

Ah! de ouilles² fenil³ coup ne qu'y perd⁴

Il peut terrine et pomme qu'y n'échelle⁵

Iéna équipe soeur verrou elle.⁶

1.  Woe to the earth left to lie fallow. It is not quite clear whether a lack of apples or potatoes is meant.
2.  Ouiller (verb). The practice of filling a half empty wine barrel with wine of the same vintage up to capacity. Air tends to sour wine.
3.  Fenil. A hay press or baler.
4.  Nothing must be wasted?
5.  Terrine refers, of course, to the earthenware cooking pots of French farm kitchens, and apples that need no ladders are, we suppose, windfalls. These must be gathered and made into conserves.
6.  Iéna, town in Thuringia, Germany, pop., 70,000. Famous for its manufacture of optical and precision instruments. Also Napoleon I's victory against the Prussians in 1806. In the balance of the line, "to equip a sister with a bolt (or latch)," the poet refers to the use of chastity belts, in this case of German silver. In bold, broad strokes we have here a magnificent portrait of the thrifty, cautious French farmer.

Reine, reine,

gueux éveille.

Gomme à gaine,

en horreur, taie.¹

1.  "Queen, Queen, arouse the rabble
Who use their girdles, horrors, as pillow slips."

Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,

Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.

He put her in a pumpkin shell

And there he kept her very well.

Rain, rain, go away.

Come again some other day.

Proud-pied April: Nose and thumb

Dorothy Parker is another mainstay of my National Poetry Month; I couldn’t get through it without her. She’s not someone you want to binge-read, because poem after poem of biting wit begins to feel like the death of a thousand cuts. She's like the very best Courvoisier: sip a little and savor it.

Parker’s life wasn’t happy; she repeatedly loved not wisely but too well, and her longest relationship was with booze. So it’s not surprising that her short stories are deeply depressing and that her poetry is bitter. Still—like Courvoisier—in moderation, there’s nothing like a bit of her verse to say what you’d like to; if you only had both the skill and the nerve.

“Neither Bloody nor Bowed”

They say of me, and so they should,

It’s doubtful if I come to good.

I see acquaintances and friends

Accumulating dividends,

And making enviable names

In science, art, and parlor games.

But I, despite expert advice,

Keep doing things I think are nice,

And though to good I never come—

Inseparable my nose and thumb!

Proud-pied April: Purple from Severn side

Another poem from World War I today, this time from Ivor Gurney, who was not quite 25 when he enlisted as a private in the Gloucestershire Regiment in 1915. He’d already had one mental breakdown (what we would now call bipolar disorder) and had been rejected from service due to poor eyesight, but by that time the British Army wasn’t being too picky about who enlisted.

Gurney was wounded in the shoulder in 1917, but returned to battle and gassed a few months later. Interestingly, at the time he rather dismissed those effects, “Being gassed (mildly) with the new gas is no worse than catarrh or a bad cold.” But in March 1918 he suffered another breakdown and was hospitalized, where he wrote songs and poetry.

After the war he was regarded as very promising, studied under Ralph Vaughn Williams at the Royal College of Music, but had problems sustaining the effort. He continued composing, but by 1922 his family had him declared insane. He spent his last years in various psychiatric hospitals, dying in 1937 of tuberculosis.

Gurney wrote and composed on a wide range of themes. His collection of poems about the war, Severn and Somme, includes “To his love”, which was written in 1917. His restraint in juxtaposing the violence of the manner of death against the bucolic loveliness of his dead friend’s home is extremely powerful.

“To his love”

He’s gone, and all our plans

Are useless indeed.

We’ll walk no more on Cotswolds

Where the sheep feed

Quietly and take no heed.

His body that was so quick

Is not as you

Knew it, on Severn River

Under the blue

Driving our small boat through.

You would not know him now…

But still he died

Nobly, so cover him over

With violets of pride

Purple from Severn side.

Cover him, cover him soon!

And with thick-set

Masses of memoried flowers-

Hide that red wet

Thing I must somehow forget.

Proud-pied April: The rude bridge

I’m guessing that unless you are of a Certain Age (meaning, Boomer or possibly Gen-X) you’ve never had to memorize poetry and recite it in front of your classmates. Dunno whether that makes you lucky or culturally deprived; perhaps someone can do a doctoral dissertation on that.

At any rate, one of the poets that we in the U.S.A. used to have to declaim was Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. Either “The Song of Hiawatha”, “Evangeline” or “Paul Revere’s Ride”.

You’d never get “Hiawatha” today on account of Cultural Appropriation, which would save countless children from lengthy psychotherapy. I suppose “Evangeline” might be hauled out by the anti-colonial crowd, if they want to close their eyes to the fact that the victims of British imperial expansion in this poem were French colonists. And “Paul Revere” may still be saddling up in schoolrooms around the country round about now.

That’s because the historical event commemorated in the poem took place on 18 April, 1775, as Revere and two others rode into the hinterlands to warn colonists that the British Army was going to be marching out to seize arms that had been thought to be stockpiled in Concord. (As it happens, British intelligence was faulty; the matériel had been moved. But the militia were ready to take a stand on principle.)

The Redcoats came under fire at Lexington, and then went on to Concord. Fire was exchanged at the North Bridge, with casualties on both sides. The British regrouped and withdrew to Boston.

(There’s an early Bill Cosby routine, where he describes the pre-battle Toss of the Coin, which went to the Americans, who decided that the British had to wear red uniforms and march in a straight line, while they got to hide behind rocks and trees and shoot at the slowly moving targets. I always thought that was hysterical.)

So today let’s have a poem about these opening shots in the War of Independence. Ralph Waldo Emerson was the patron saint of anyone who ever lived in a commune and could pronounce Transcendentalism (even if not quite understanding the meaning). When a memorial to the militia was erected at the North Bridge, Emerson wrote “Concord Hymn” and gave us one of the other recital pieces, invoking “the shot heard round the world”.

In revisiting it, I’m reminded of why I never much liked it, or any of Longfellow’s stuff. But what the hell—in honor of, etc.

“Concord Hymn”

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,

   Their flag to April’s breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood

   And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

   Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

   Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,

We set today a votive stone;

That memory may their deed redeem,

When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

    To die, and leave their children free,

Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

Proud-pied April for Gratitude Monday: Myvoice's sink and fall

What better format than poetry to express gratitude, right? Distilling the appreciation of joys large and small into a framework of words just seems to cry out for a poem. So let’s have one from Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

Everyone knows her “How do I love thee” sonnet, XLIII. And love can certainly be an manifestation of gratitude (or maybe vice versa; I dunno). But Barrett Browning, who suffered illnesses and pain all her life, also understood that you should seize every possible opportunity to give thanks out loud, since nothing’s guaranteed.

Sonnet XLI

I thank all who have loved me in their hearts,

With thanks and love from mine. Deep thanks to all

Who paused a little near the prison-wall

To hear my music in its louder parts

Ere they went onward, each one to the mart’s

Or temple’s occupation, beyond call.

But thou, who, in my voice’s sink and fall

When the sob took it, thy divinest Art’s

Own instrument didst drop down at thy foot

To hearken what I said between my tears, …

Instruct me how to thank the! Oh, to shoot

My soul’s full meaning into future years,

That they should lend it utterance, and salute

Love that endures, from Life that disappears!

Proud-pied April: A pint of plain

Remember G.K. Chesterton’s famous dictum about the Irish? “The great Gaels of Ireland are the men that God made mad; for all their wars are merry and all their songs are sad.” Well, we know that’s not entirely true, but since we’ve had a very stark poem from Ireland already this month, let’s turn to something on the light side.

Actually, the subject matter of “The Workman’s Friend” is stereotypically “Oirish”—the kind of thing you find hauled out on Saint Patrick’s Day or populating 1950s sitcoms. Brian O’Nolan wrote novels, plays, essays and poetry, much of it under the pen name Flann O’Brien. He also wrote satirical columns in The Irish Times as Myles na gCopaleen. The latter was taken from a stereotypically charming Irish rogue character in a Dion Boucicault play.

Actually, his fluid use of pseudonyms has made doing detailed analysis of his work quite the challenge. We don’t actually know what all he wrote, under whose names and in which capacity. Still—here’s one that’s been verified.

“The Workman’s Friend”

When things go wrong and will not come right,

Though you do the best you can,

When life looks black as the hour of night –

A pint of plain is your only man.

When money's tight and hard to get

And your horse has also ran,

When all you have is a heap of debt –

A pint of plain is your only man.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,

And your face is pale and wan,

When doctors say you need a change,

A pint of plain is your only man.

When food is scarce and your larder bare

And no rashers grease your pan,

When hunger grows as your meals are rare –

A pint of plain is your only man.

In time of trouble and lousey strife,

You have still got a darlint plan

You still can turn to a brighter life –

A pint of plain is your only man.

This kind of thing is somewhat less charming when you realize that O’Nolan was an alcoholic. But that’s O’Nolan-O’Brien-na gCopaleen for you.

A native Irish speaker, he nonetheless took the piss out of language Nazis, as witnessed in this little offering:

Said a Sassenach back in Dun Laoghaire

“I pay homage to nationalist thaoghaire.

But whenever I drobh

I found signposts that strobh

To make touring in Ireland so draoghaire.”

Well, having had to manage those same signposts myself, I concur.

Proud-pied April: Poems in the lap of death

First off, you knew we weren’t going to get out of National Poetry Month without anything by e. e. cummings, right? Does anyone else cover the range of what we might call “word play” with such power and so few actual, you know, words?

Second—I’ll just get right to today’s entry, because I don’t need to ‘splain to you the power of his images of the crimes of and against Humanity. This is poetry, folks.

“Humanity i love you”

Humanity i love you

because you would rather black the boots of

success than enquire whose soul dangles from his

watch-chain which would be embarrassing for both

parties and because you

unflinchingly applaud all

songs containing the words country home and

mother when sung at the old howard

Humanity i love you because

when you’re hard up you pawn your

intelligence to buy a drink and when

you’re flush pride keeps

you from the pawn shop and

because you are continually committing

nuisances but more

especially in your own house

Humanity i love you because you

are perpetually putting the secret of

life in your pants and forgetting

it’s there and sitting down

on it

and because you are

forever making poems in the lap

of death Humanity

i hate you

Proud-pied April: Deceitfulness and suavity

We’ve not had any T.S. Eliot for a long time—not since I started out National Poetry Month in 2013 with a clip from “The Waste Land”. On account of April being the cruelest month.

If you’re a young person looking for existential angst and despair, Eliot’s your man. I mean, really—if “The Waste Land” doesn’t do it, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" will. There’s no better description of what youth fears (when youth thinks about it) in old age than “I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

(He also perfectly described the academic environment when he said of his time at Merton College, “I hate university towns and university people, who are the same everywhere, with pregnant wives, sprawling children, many books and hideous pictures on the walls… Oxford is very pretty, but I don’t like to be dead.”)

But there’s another side to Eliot, as evidenced by Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, a collection of light verse. You’ll know a lot of the pieces if you’ve heard anything by Andrew Lloyd Webber. But if you can divorce yourself from those earworms, tuck into “Macavity: The Mystery Cat”.

I’ve got an edition of Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats illustrated by Edward Gorey. Here’s the one for Macavity:

This is a great poem to read with kids, especially with all the repetition of his name. The notion of a cat outwitting the best that grownups have to offer (Scotland Yard, the Foreign Office) is just so delicious. The descriptions link Macavity to Professor Moriarty and the Scarlet Pimpernel; you know—elusive, triumphant scofflaws. Precisely what you’d expect from a Feline of the World.

This is definitely one you should read aloud.

“Macavity: The Mystery Cat”

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw—

For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.

He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:

For when they reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.

His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,

And when you reach the scene of crime—Macavity’s not there!

You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air—

But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;

You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.

His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly domed;

His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.

He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;

And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.

You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square—

But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)

And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s

And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,

Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,

Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair

Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office find a Treaty’s gone astray,

Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,

There may be a scrap of paper in the hall or on the stair—

But it’s useless to investigate—Macavity’s not there!

And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:

It must have been Macavity!’—but he’s a mile away.

You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumb;

Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,

There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.

He always has an alibi, and one or two to spare:

At whatever time the deed took place—MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!

And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known

(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)

Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time

Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Proud-pied April: Sleeping Dragon and Leaping Horse

Okay, even though a little Tang poetry goes a long way, once a year is manageable. And I’ll revisit Du Fu, the writer who had intended to be a courtier and administrator, but ended up giving us some spectacular word images.

For example, “Night in the Pavilion”, where in the pre-dawn hour the Milky Way is waning, and two heroes come to naught. A lot of Du Fu’s poems evoke the elements of awaiting news of fighting at varying distances; a mark of the times, I guess.

“Night in the Pavilion”

At year’s end, yin and yang hurry the shortened day,

At sky’s end, frost and snow clear the frozen night.

Fifth watch: the drum and horn sound out mournful and strong,

Three gorges: the river of stars casts its trembling shadow.

Countryside cries from a thousand homes hearing news of the fighting.

Barbaric songs here and there rise from fishers and woodsmen.

Sleeping Dragon and Leaping Horse both ended in yellow dirt;

Waiting for news of worldly affairs brings me useless grief.