A Newer Kingdom -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Cornelius 0Brien

(Poem #1952) A Newer Kingdom The men who billow down the sea in ships Have earned these ages tributes justly high; But now is newly told on peoples's lips Of men in airy craft who seek the sky. Flung freely through their newer kingdom won, Clean wings describe the geometric arc, And hurtle down the starlight to the dark Or gambol with the spear-shafts of the sun. A newer kingdom and a newer race - They spurn with pride the lowly creed of earth, And glory in the boundlessness of space, Where worlds through aeons past have leapt to birth. Though mortal span is told in numbered weeks They brush eternity with youthful cheeks. -- Anonymous

Notes: I found this sonnet in the published memoirs of Gordon Fox. Gordon,
uncle of my wife Rosie, was a bomber pilot in World War Two. His memoirs,
written in diary form, were published privately about a year after his death
in September, 2001. His eldest son Kennedy Fox very kindly sent us a copy.
This sonnet ("A Newer Kingdom" is my name for it) was found by Gordon in an
anthology of air force poems. Kennedy says that neither he nor his father
had any idea who wrote the poem.

It is beautifully crafted, and to my heart and mind does what all good poems
do - draws pictures with words and stirs emotions in the reader or listener.
Yeats' "An Irish Airman Foresees his Death" could be a blood relative of
this lovely sonnet. I am also reminded of Wilfred Owen, although I cannot
really say why.

Cornelius

Sing a Song of Europe -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1917) Sing a Song of Europe Sing a song of Europe, highly civilized, Four and twenty nations wholly hypnotised, When the battle opens, the bullets start to sing - Isn't it a silly way to act for any King? The Kings are in the background, issuing commands, The Queens are in the parlours, per etiquette's demand; The bankers in the country house are busy multiplying The common people at the front are doing all the dying. -- Anonymous

In the comments on the last poem, Vivian had said, "Like many folk songs,
this is a kind of oral poetry that gives license to its 'users' to invent
verses and variations of their own." I immediately remembered a variation on
Sing a Song of Sixpence that a former classmate and current Minstrels member
Amulya Gopalakrishnan used to quote. As far as I remember, it was about the
confusion of the European Union. Or was it the Common Market?

I couldn't find it on the net (Amu, if you're reading this, do send the
lyrics you used to sing), but I did find this earlier parody, apparently
Australian in origin. It was published in a 1928 edition of The Iron Worker,
a newspaper of the NSW, a branch of Federated Ironworkers Association. It
refers, I would guess, to World War I. But since the War to End All Wars
didn't quite succeed in that, don't you think the meaning is applicable to
any modern war as well?

Priscilla

Who is in Charge of the Clattering Train? -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Bill Whiteford:

(Poem #1888) Who is in Charge of the Clattering Train? Who is in charge of the clattering train? The axles creak and the couplings strain, And the pace is hot, and the points are near, And Sleep has deadened the driver's ear; And the signals flash through the night in vain, For Death is in charge of the clattering train. -- Anonymous

I don't know the title (though I would guess it's the whole first line).
It appears to be anonymously written. You may have heard the Churchill
character quoting this verse in the TV drama "The Gathering Storm". It
was apparently one of Winston's favourites, having been committed to
memory by him from the pages of Punch when he was about nine.

I quite like the train-like rhythm of the lines, and the way the poem
crashes into the last line. It is, of course, a kind of Victorian
melodrama in six lines. The whole thing sometimes springs to mind when,
at work, colleagues phone up and ask who is in charge.

Bill Whiteford.

[Thomas adds]

Project Gutenberg reveals that today's poem forms merely an extract --
the first two and last four lines -- of a much longer poem titled "Death
and His Brother Sleep", which appeared in Volume 99 of Punch magazine,
published October 4, 1890. The poem was attributed to "Queen Mab", and
was written in response to a rail accident at Eastleigh; it appeared in
Punch prefaced by the following lines:

  Major Marindin, in his Report to the Board of Trade
  on the railway collision at Eastleigh, attributes it
  to the engine-driver and stoker having "failed to
  keep a proper look-out." His opinion is, that both
  men were "asleep, or nearly so," owing to having
  been on duty for sixteen hours and a-half. "He
  expresses himself in very strong terms on the great
  danger to the public of working engine-drivers and
  firemen for too great a number of hours."

        -- Daily Chronicle

"Queen Mab" is also the title of a poem by Shelley, which begins:

     How wonderful is Death,
     Death, and his brother Sleep!
  One, pale as yonder waning moon
     With lips of lurid blue;
     The other, rosy as the morn
  When throned on ocean's wave
        It blushes o'er the world;
  Yet both so passing wonderful!

Clearly today's poet took both title and pseudonym from Shelley's
earlier work.

The full text of "Death and His Brother Sleep" can be found here:
  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12306/12306-h/12306-h.htm (HTML)
  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12306/12306.txt (plain text)
  http://www.gutenberg.org/files/12306/12306-h/images/163.png (pic)

It's interesting to note how the emphasis of the two pieces -- the
lengthy Punch original, and today's pithier (I'm tempted to say
"punchier") extract -- is completely different. Speaking for myself, I
much prefer the short version, but readers are encouraged to read them
both and make up their own minds.

Thomas.

Moses' Poem -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Dale Rosenberg

(Poem #1783) Moses' Poem Give ear, O heavens, let me speak; Let the earth hear the words I utter! May my discourse come down as the rain, My speech distill as the dew, Like showers on young growth, Like droplets on the grass. For the name of the Lord I proclaim; Give glory to our God! The Rock! -- His deeds are perfect, Yea, all His ways are just; A faithful God, never false, True and upright is He. Children unworthy of Him -- That crooked, perverse generation -- Their baseness has played Him false. Do you thus requite the Lord, O dull and witless people? Is not He the Father who created you, Fashioned you and made you endure! Remember the days of old, Consider the years of ages past; Ask your father, he will inform you, Your elders, they will tell you: When the Most High gave nations their homes And set the divisions of man, He fixed the boundaries of peoples In relation to Israel's numbers. For the Lord's portion is His people, Jacob His own allotment. He found him in a desert region, In an empty howling waste. He engirded him, watched over him, Guarded him as the pupil of His eye. Like an eagle who rouses his nestlings, Gliding down to his young, So did He spread His wings and take him, Bear him along on His pinions; The Lord alone did guide him, No alien god at His side. He set him atop the highlands, To feast on the yield of the earth; He fed him honey from the crag, And oil from the flinty rock, Curd of kine and milk of flocks; With the best of lambs, And rams of Bashan, and he-goats; With the very finest wheat -- And foaming grape-blood was your drink. So Jeshurun grew fat and kicked -- You grew fat and gross and coarse -- He forsook the God who made him And spurned the Rock of his support. They incensed Him with alien things, Vexed Him with abominations. They sacrificed to demons, no-gods, Gods they had never known, New ones, who came but lately, Who stirred not your fathers' fears. You neglected the Rock that begot you, Forgot the God who brought you forth. The Lord saw and was vexed And spurned His sons and His daughters. He said: I will hide My countenance from them, And see how they fare in the end. For they are a treacherous breed, Children with no loyalty in them. They incensed Me with no-gods, Vexed Me with their futilities; I'll incense them with a no-folk, Vex them with a nation of fools. For a fire has flared in My wrath And burned to the bottom of Sheol, Has consumed the earth and its increase, Eaten down to the base of the hills. I will sweep misfortunes on them, Use up My arrows on them: Wasting famine, ravaging plague, Dedly pestilence, nd fanged beasts Will I let loose against them, With venomous creepers in dust. The sword shall deal death without, As shall the terror within, To youth and maiden alike, The suckling as well as the aged. I might have reduced them to naught, Made their memory cease among men, But for fear of the taunts of the foe, Their enemies who might misjudge And say, "Our own hand has prevailed; None of this was wrought by the Lord!" For they are a folk void of sense, Lacking in all discernment. Were they wise, they would think upon this, Gain insight into their future: "How could one have routed a thousand, Or two put ten thousand to flight, Unless their Rock had sold them, The Lord had given them up?" For their rock is not like our Rock, In our enemies' own estimation. Ah! The vine for them is from Sodom, From the vineyards of Gomorrah; The grapes for them are poison, A bitter growth their clusters. Their wine is the venom of asps, The pitiless poison of vipers. Lo, I have it all put away, Sealed up in My storehouses, To be My vengeance and recompense, At the time that their foot falters. Yea, their day of disaster is near, And destiny rushes upon them. For the Lord will vindicate His people And take revenge for His servants, When He sees that their might is gone, And neither bond nor free is left. He will say: Where are their gods, The rock in whom they sought refuge, Who ate the fat of their offerings And drank their libation wine? Let them rise up to your help, And let them be a shield unto you! See, then, that I, I am He; There is no god beside Me. I deal death and give life; I wounded and I will heal: None can deliver from My hand. Lo, I raise My hand to heaven And say: As I live forever, When I whet My flashing blade And My hand lays hold on judgment, Vengeance will I wreak on My foes, Will I deal to those who reject Me. I will make My arrows drunk with blood -- As My sword devours flesh -- Blood of the slain and the captive From the long-haired enemy chiefs. O nations, acclaim His people! For He'll avenge the blood of His servants, Wreak vengeance on His foes, And cleanse the land of His people. -- Anonymous

(translation provided by the Jewish Theological Seminary)

Much of the Torah (Jewish bible) is poetic, but very little is explicitly
identified as poetry and laid out on the page or scroll as such.  Moses'
poem is one of those exceptions.  I love the vividness of the imagery, even
as I cringe at the vindictiveness of this view of G-d.  G-d is often
portrayed as a parent, but the kind of parenting shown in the middle of the
poem is what I and I believe most loving parents try never to fall into. The
poem does, at least, end with some hope.

I'm fifty years old and will be leyning (chanting in Hebrew directly from
the Torah) for the first time on this coming Saturday on the occasion of my
daughter's bat mitzvah.  It's not easy to do, since the Torah scroll has no
vowels, no punctuation and no musical notes in it, and you're not allowed to
use cheat sheets.  Kendra, my daughter, has been studying for a long time
for her bat mitzvah.  She will also be leyning for the first time this
Saturday, as well as chanting haftarah, leading a service and giving a Dvar
Torah (speech about Torah).

When I was Kendra's age girls were not allowed to leyn, so I never learned,
but I always wanted to.  I decided I'd learn to leyn in time to be part of
her celebration.

I love that my first time I got poetry to read! I also luckily got the first
6 verses of the poem, with the beautiful words but before the
vindictiveness.

Dale

Cuckoo Song -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Bill Whiteford :

(Poem #1709) Cuckoo Song Sumer is icumen in, Lhude sing cuccu! Groweth sed, and bloweth med, And springth the wude nu- Sing cuccu! Awe bleteth after lomb, Lhouth after calve cu; Bulluc sterteth, bucke verteth, Murie sing cuccu! Cuccu, cuccu, well singes thu, cuccu: Ne swike thu naver nu; Sing cuccu, nu, sing cuccu, Sing cuccu, sing cuccu, nu! -- Anonymous

GLOSS:  lhude] loud.  awe] ewe.  lhouth] loweth.  sterteth] leaps.  swike]
cease.

I stumbled across this the other day, while trying to find out more about
cuckoos; why they sing, that sort of thing. I now realise it's the origin of
the phrase most usually rendered as "summer is a-comin' in", which is
interesting.  What I like about it is that the anonymous author (or more
likely, authors) was hearing the same noise that I am, some 800 years later.

Here in Scotland the cuckoos call most insistently in the month of May.
Since they sing as long as there's daylight, that's a long time this far
north. The minstrels who would have passed this around would tap into the
same feelings we have when we we're outdoors now at this time: it's nice to
hear the cuckoo song  ("well sings thu, cuccu") but they don't half go on
("ne swike thu naver nu")! Hope it's not too obscure.

Bill Whiteford.

[Links and Stuff]

Here's the Columbia Encyclopedia on today's poem:

"Sumer Is Icumen In", an English rota or round composed c.1250. It is the
earliest extant example of canon, of six part music, and of ground bass.
Four tenor voices are in canon and two bass voices sing the pes, or ground,
also in canon. The secular text is in Wessex dialect, and in the same
manuscript source, from Reading Abbey in England, is a Latin text to adapt
the tune for church use. The attribution to the monk John of Fornsete, who
kept the records of Reading Abbey, is no longer credited.
        -- http://www.bartleby.com/65/su/SumerIsI.html

For a picture of the original illuminated manuscript, follow this link:
  http://www.soton.ac.uk/~wpwt/harl978/sumer.htm
The above website also includes a translation into "modern" English, notes,
a full glossary, and a lengthy bibliography. Plus instructions on how to
sing the song karaoke-style, from the original manuscript.

Richard Thompson opened his "1000 Years of Popular Music" tour with a
version of this song; see
  http://www.richardthompson-music.com/catch_of_the_day.asp?id=117

The Distracted Centipede -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Gregory Marton:

(Poem #1664) The Distracted Centipede A centipede was happy quite, Until a frog in fun Said, "Pray, which leg comes after which?" This raised her mind to such a pitch, She lay distracted in the ditch Considering how to run. -- Anonymous

I took a friend back home to Hungary this past week, and in teaching her
Hungarian, and in the simultaneous translation, I oft forgot for a few
moments how to speak either language!  She appraised my predicament with
this apt and catchy limerick, and I am the richer for it.

I have seen several titles " The Puzzled Centipede", "The Frog and the
Centipede", "The Poor Worm", "The Centipede Poem", and several minor
variants: "figuring how to run", "Pray tell which leg...", a/the in several
places, his/her mind and so on. The indentation is mine, and feel free to
quash it.  I was unable to find attribution, as were the editors of the
Oxford Book of Verse for Children, according to one second-hand source:
        [broken link] http://faqs.jmas.co.jp/FAQs/buddhism-faq/questions

[And a few minutes after sending us the original submission, Gremio adds:]
In fact, I find some more variants and titles, when I search without "frog".
The antagonist is often a toad and sometimes a bird.  I hadn't realized how
devious it is of either predator to distract its prey until I read it with a
bird.  This page emphasizes the point, by cleverly (I'm giving benefit of
the doubt) substituting "Prey" for "Pray":
        [broken link] http://www.camp4.com/coolsite.php?newsid=321

I also read in several places:
        This raised his doubts to such a pitch
        He fell distracted in the ditch
        Not knowing how to run.

This has been (probably mis-)attributed to Marion Quinlan Davis here:
        http://www.cognitivebehavior.com/theory/quickconcepts.html
and to Allan Watts here:
        http://www.businessweek.com/smallbiz/0008/an000811.htm

Grem.

Winter -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Dave Fortin

(Poem #1433) Winter Wind piercing, hill bare, hard to find shelter; Ford turns foul, lake freezes. A man could stand on a stalk. Wave on wave cloaks the land's edge; Shrill the shrieks from the peaks of the mountain; One can scarce stand outside. Cold the lake-bed from winter's blast; Dried reeds, stalk broken; Angry wind, woods stripped naked. Cold bed of fish beneath a screen of ice; Stag lean, stalks bearded; Short evening, trees bent over. Snow is falling, white the soil. Soldiers go not campaigning. Cold lakes, their color sunless. Snow is falling, white hoar-frost. Shield idle on an old shoulder. Wind intense, shoots are frozen. Snow is falling upon the ice. Wind is sweeping thick tree-tops. Shield bold on a brave shoulder. Snow is falling, cloaks the valley. Soldiers hasten to battle. I go not, a wound stays me. Snow is falling on the slope. Stallion confined; lean cattle. No summer day is today. Snow is falling, white the mountain's edge. Ship's mast bare at sea. A coward conceives many schemes. -- Anonymous

The recent winter and snow related poems made me think of this one, from a
13th c. Welsh manuscript (but probably dates from the eleventh century or
earlier).  It's a reminder that winter meant much more than pretty snowflakes
and scenic landscapes in pre-industrial times.  To most folks winter was a
lean time, full of hardships.  I also like this poem as it has the sub-theme
of the wounded warrior who is stuck at home unable to fight while his supposed
friends fight a winter battle (or is he the scheming coward of the last
stanza?).  Like the Old English "Wanderer" and "Seafarer", the poet leaves us
guessing at what's going on, which is part of what makes this so intriguing.

This translation is from the Oxford Book of Welsh Poetry in English.  Just to
give a taste of the alliteration and rhyme schemes, here's the last three
stanzas in the original Middle Welsh:

Otid eiry, toid ystrad;
Dyfrysynt cedwyr i gad;
Mi nid af, anaf ni'm gad.

Otid eiry o du rhiw;
Carcharor gorwydd, cul biw;
Nid annwyd hafddydd heddiw.

Otid eiry, gwyn goror mynydd;
Llwm gwydd llong ar for;
Mecid llwfr llawer cyngor.

Dave Fortin

English Monarchs -- Anonymous

Guest poem requested by Christie le Goy, and
almost simultaneously submitted by Christopher Martin:

(Poem #1361) English Monarchs Willie Willie Harry Stee Harry Dick John Harry three; One two three Neds, Richard two Harrys four five six... then who? Edwards four five, Dick the bad, Harrys (twain), Ned six (the lad); Mary, Bessie, James you ken, Then Charlie, Charlie, James again... Will and Mary, Anna Gloria, Georges four, Will four, Victoria; Edward seven next, and then Came George the fifth in nineteen ten; Ned the eighth soon abdicated Then George six was coronated; After which Elizabeth And that's all folks until her death. -- Anonymous

[Christopher's comments]

I first read a version of this in Alan Bennett's play "Forty Years On"
which however stopped at Victoria. This version I found on the web at
        http://www.britannia.com/history/h6.html
There are no doubt many others.

For those who aren't immediately reminded by it of their school years,
the scrap of verse is supposed to put you in mind of:

William the Conqueror
William II (Rufus)
Henry I (Beauclerc)
Stephen (of Blois)
Henry II (Curtmantle)
Richard I (Lionheart)
John (Lackland)
Henry III
Edward I (Longshanks)
Edward II
Edward III
Richard II
Henry IV (Bolingbroke)
Henry V
Henry VI
Edward IV
Edward V
Richard III (Crookback)
Henry VII (Tudor)
Henry VIII
Edward VI
Mary I (Queen of Scots)
Elizabeth I
James VI of Scotland and I of England
Charles I
Charles II
James II
William II
Mary II
Anne (dead)
George I
George II
George III
George IV
William IV
Victoria
Edward VII
George V
Edward VIII (abdicated)
George VI
Elizabeth II

[Not mentioned in the list or the mnemonic are the Empress Matilda, only
surviving legitimate child of Henry I, and mother of Henry II, who was
deposed by her cousin Stephen; and Lady Jane Grey, who was queen for
nine days in 1553 - t.]

[Also omitted are the monarchs who ruled prior to the Battle of
Hastings, though looking at their names -- Egbert and Aethelwulf through
Eadwig and Svein to Hardicanute and Harold -- it's not hard to see why -
t.]

A Strike Among the Poets -- Anonymous

(Poem #1340) A Strike Among the Poets In his chamber, weak and dying, While the Norman Baron lay, Loud, without, his men were crying, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Know you why the ploughman, fretting, Homeward plods his weary way Ere his time? He's after getting Shorter hours and better pay. See! the Hesperus is swinging Idle in the wintry bay, And the skipper's daughter's singing, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him Joining in the labour fray With his placards slung about him, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Oh, young Lochinvar is coming; Though his hair is getting grey, Yet I'm glad to hear him humming, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' E'en the boy upon the burning Deck has got a word to say, Something rather cross concerning Shorter hours and better pay. Lives of great men all remind us We can make as much as they, Work no more, until they find us Shorter hours and better pay. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley) Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay. Soaring, sing above the mêlée, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' -- Anonymous

Ah, shorter hours and better pay. What we all wish for.

thomas.

[Notes]

To make up for the lack of insightful commentary (really, what would you
expect, except for the obvious statement that I love the conceit :)),
here's a list of sources:

Stanza #1: "The Norman Baron" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=4763

        In his chamber, weak and dying,
          Was the Norman baron lying;
        Loud, without, the tempest thundered
          And the castle-turret shook,

Stanza #2: "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" -- Thomas Gray
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1091.html

        The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
          The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
        The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
          And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Stanza #3: "The Wreck of the Hesperus" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/717.html

        It was the schooner Hesperus,
          That sailed the wintry sea;
        And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
          To bear him company.

Stanza #4: I have no idea where this comes from. Any pointers, gentle
readers?

Stanza #5: "Lochinvar" -- Sir Walter Scott
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/125.html

        O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
        Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

Stanza #6: "Casabianca" -- Felicia Hemans
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1000.html

        The boy stod on the burning deck,
          Whence all but him had fled;
        The flame that lit the battle's wreck
          Shone round him o'er the dead.

Stanza #7: "A Psalm of Life" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/888.html

        Lives of great men all remind us
          We can make our lives sublime,
        And, departing, leave behind us
          Footprints on the sands of time;

Stanza #8: "To a Skylark" -- Percy Byshhe Shelley
  http://www.bartleby.com/106/241.html

        Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
           Bird thou never wert,
        That from heaven, or near it,
           Pourest thy full heart
   In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

And finally, 'blackleg' : "A name of opprobrium for a workman willing to
work for a master whose men are on strike" (OED).

Sadness in Spring -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by David Fortin

(Poem #1187) Sadness in Spring Maytime, loveliest season, Loud bird-parley, new growth green, Ploughs in furrow, oxen yoked, Emerald sea, land-hues dappled. When cuckoos call from fair tree-tops Greater grows my sorrow; Stinging smoke, grief awake For my kinsfolk's passing. On hill, in vale, in ocean's isles, Whichever way man goes, Blest Christ there's no evading. -- Anonymous

   (13th century Welsh poem)

In the original Welsh:

 'Tristwch yn y Gwanwyn'

  Cyntefin ceinaf amser,
  Dyar adar, glas calledd,
  Ereidr yn Rhych, ych yng ngwedd,
  Gwyrdd mor, brithotor tiredd.

  Ban ganont gogau ar flaen gwydd gwiw,
  Handid mwy fy llawfrydedd,
  Tost mwg, amlwg anhunedd,
  Can ethynt fy ngheraint yn adwedd.

  Ym mryn, yn nhyno, yn ynysedd mor,
  Ymhob ffordd ydd eler
  Rhag Crist gwyn nid oes ynialedd.

This is a favorite poem of mine, and, given that we just celebrated St.
David's Day (March 1) and have a war that will probably begin in the not too
distant future, I felt it was appropriate.  I've included the Welsh text for
anyone interested in the poetic elements of the original.

This very interesting poem comes from a 13th century medieval Welsh
manuscript by an anonymous author.  It starts out like many nature poems,
praising the end of winter and the appearance of spring--much as we do, even
to this day.  In the Middle Ages, spring was the period of rejuvenation of
life and the end of the days of want and famine of winter.

However, in the second stanza, the poem takes a turn.  Rather than being
happy about the burgeoning of life in nature, instead the poet is sad
because spring also begins the season for warfare.  I can't say that I've
seen too many examples of this contrast being made-- between Spring the
Life-Bringer and Spring the War-Bringer.

The translation is from The Oxford Book of Welsh Verse in English (Oxford,
1977).

David Fortin
Doctoral Candidate
The Catholic University of America

The Law Locks Up the Man or Woman -- Anonymous

(Poem #1120) The Law Locks Up the Man or Woman The law locks up the man or woman Who steals the goose from off the common; But lets the greater felon loose Who steals the common from the goose. -- Anonymous

I've always thought of this one as a nursery rhyme that didn't quite make
it. More fairly, it's balanced somewhere between traditional nursery rhymes
like 'The Lion and the Unicorn' and biting social commentary like
Cleghorn's "The Golf Links" [Poem #216], with a dash of the proverb thrown
in.

The reason today's poem never made it as a nursery rhyme is fairly obvious -
it's too explicit. Traditional 'hidden meaning' nursery rhymes were slyly
humorous, veiling their ridicule in allusion. Of course, at the time of
writing, the allusion would have been totally transparent, and ensured that
the rhyme got passed around with a wink and a nudge in taverns and on street
corners. Later generations would see it merely as an amusing children's
poem, but there again it would get handed down from parent to child, until
it was ubiquitous.

On the other hand, today's poem's meaning is clear in general terms. It's
even relevant enough that people can still relate to it. However, the
Inclosure Act to which it refers was passed hundreds of years ago; the poem
is no longer current, and loses something thereby. And, lacking the enforced
whimsy of the more allusive nursery rhymes, it was never seen as a
children's poem - rather than being passed down as attractive nonsense when
it lost its topicality, it faded into a sort of semiobscurity.

One aspect of the nursery rhyme it *has* shared is alteration via the folk
process. There are several versions floating around, from minor variants
like the substitution of 'villain' for 'felon', to the following from the
Oxford Dictionary of Quotations:

  "The fault is great in man or woman
   Who steals a goose from off a common:
   But what can plead that man's excuse
   Who steals a common from a goose?"

           --The Tickler Magazine, 1 Feb. 1821.

Like Swift's poem on lesser fleas, though, I am fairly confident that the
folk process has improved the original - poems that are handed down orally
tend to undergo a rather ruthless evolutionary winnowing. If they're not
good enough, they don't get repeated, and if a mutated form is more quotable
or pleasing, it has a very good chance of replacing the original.

martin

Links:
 An alt.quotations thread on the poem:

http://groups.google.com/groups?threadm=dpbsmith-B90F%40news.cis.dfn.de

 The Inclosure Act, in context
  [broken link] http://www.coprolite.care4free.net/page70.html
  http://www.soilandhealth.org/01aglibrary/010136ernle/010136ch7.htm

Greensleeves -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian

(Poem #1027) Greensleeves A new Courtly Sonet, of the Ladie Greensleeves. Chorus: Greensleeves was all my joy Greensleeves was my delight Greensleeves was my heart of gold And who but my Ladie Greensleeves Alas, my love, you do me wrong To cast me off discourteously And I have lov-ed you so long Delighting in your companie (Chorus) I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever you would crave, I have both waged life and land, Your love and good-will for to have. (Chorus) I bought thee kerchers to thy head, That were wrought fine and gallantly I kept thee both boord and bed Which cost my purse well favouredly (Chorus) I bought thee petticoats of the best, The cloth so fine as might be; I gave thee jewels for thy chest, And all this cost I spent on thee. (Chorus) Thy smock of silk, both fair and white, With gold embroidered gargeously; Thy petticoat of sendal right, And these I bought thee gladly (Chorus) Thy girdle of gold so red, With pearles bedecked sumptuously; The like no other lasses had, And yet thou wouldst not love me (Chorus) Thy purse and eke thy gay gilt knives, Thy pincase gallant to the eye; No better wore the Burgesse wives And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy crimson stockings all of silk, With golde all wrought above the knee, Thy pumps as white as was the milk And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy gown was of the grossie green, Thy sleeves of satten hanging by, Why made thee be our harvest Queen. And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thy garters fringed with the golde, And silver aglets hanging by, Which made thee blithe for to beholde And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) My gayest gelding I thee gave, To ride where ever liked thee, No Ladie ever was so brave And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) My men were clothed all in green, And they did ever wait on thee; All this was gallant to be seen And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) They set thee up, they took thee downe, They served thee with humilitie, Thy foote might not once touch the ground And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) For everie morning when thou rose, I sent thee dainties orderly; To cheare thy stomack from all woes And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) Thou couldst desire no earthly thing, But still thou hadst it readily; Thy musicke still to play and sing And yet thou wouldst not love me. (Chorus) And who did pay for all this geare, That thou didst spend when pleased thee, Even I that am rejected here And thou disdainst to love me. (Chorus) Well I will pray to God on high, That thou my constancy mayst see, And that yet once before I die Thou wilt vouchsafe to love me. (Chorus) Greensleeves, now farewell! adieu! God I pray to prosper thee, For I am still thy lover true, Come once again and love me. (Chorus) -- Anonymous

Note:
  sonet. Obs. rare. [a. OFr. sonet (sonnet), = Prov. sonet, f. son sound. ]
  Song, melody, music. -- OED

One of my favorite songs - a 16th century english ballad called
Greensleeves, by our old friend "Anon".  The song was first licensed
to a printer called Richard Jones, but several others have claimed
credit.

At least one version of this song's origin says that Henry VIII wrote
it about Anne Boleyn, but this is unlikely, as the style belongs to a
period after Henry's death, and the first printed version appeared
during the reign of Elizabeth I.

Since then, it became a popular ballad, carried over by the englishmen
to America, where it became one of the classic campfire ballads of the
old west.

The classic 1962 western "How the West Was Won" had a theme song set
to the "Greensleeves" tune - and "Ritchie Blackmore's Night" has a
beautiful cover of this old song (which I am listening to as I type
this).

Blackmore's brilliant guitaring adds to the magic of this old song
(and sounds far better than the ringtone in my colleague's cellphone -
again "Greensleeves" ;)

A beautiful, haunting melody - and words which show the deep grief of
a jilted man who has been rejected by a woman he has showered love
and squandered his fortune on.

Suresh

Martin adds:

  Greensleeves and Tolkien combine in the popular quote "Do not anger a bard,
  for thy name is silly, and scans to Greensleeves".

  And here's the hilarious Flanders and Swann sketch on the 'history' of
  Greensleeves:
    [broken link] http://timothyplatypus.tripod.com/FaS/hat_green.html

Donal Og -- Anonymous

Guest poem send in by David

(Poem #974) Donal Og It is late last night the dog was speaking of you; the snipe was speaking of you in her deep marsh. It is you are the lonely bird through the woods; and that you may be without a mate until you find me. You promised me, and you said a lie to me, that you would be before me where the sheep are flocked; I gave a whistle and three hundred cries to you, and I found nothing there but a bleating lamb. You promised me a thing that was hard for you, a ship of gold under a silver mast; twelve towns with a market in all of them, and a fine white court by the side of the sea. You promised me a thing that is not possible, that you would give me gloves of the skin of a fish; that you would give me shoes of the skin of a bird; and a suit of the dearest silk in Ireland. When I go by myself to the Well of Loneliness, I sit down and I go through my trouble; when I see the world and do not see my boy, he that has an amber shade in his hair. It was on that Sunday I gave my love to you; the Sunday that is last before Easter Sunday. And myself on my knees reading the Passion; and my two eyes giving love to you for ever. My mother said to me not to be talking with you today, or tomorrow, or on the Sunday; it was a bad time she took for telling me that; it was shutting the door after the house was robbed. My heart is as black as the blackness of the sloe, or as the black coal that is on the smith's forge; or as the sole of a shoe left in white halls; it was you that put that darkness over my life. You have taken the east from me; you have taken the west from me; you have taken what is before me and what is behind me; you have taken the moon, you have taken the sun from me; and my fear is great that you have taken God from me! -- Anonymous

  Anonymous; 8th Century Irish ballad; translated by Lady Augusta Gregory;
  published in The School Bag, edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes, 1997.

  Donal Og: 'Young Daniel'

This poem combines a keening tone with some wonderful images and the result
builds in anxiety, moving from the physical to the metaphysical.

The poem, originally a ballad, begins with a report from the animal world:
late last night the dog was speaking of you, the snipe (a wading marsh bird)
was speaking of you; nature, both domesticated and wild, knows and tells of
the absent seducer, who is transformed into a lonely bird.  The stanza ends
with an imprecation, a spell: may you be without a mate until you find me.

This is followed by series of three stanzas, all of which start with a
statement followed by three lines of elaboration, eg, to paraphrase the
second stanza: you promised, and you lied, and here's what happened; third
stanza: you promised me something very hard for you to do, and here's an
elaboration of the different promises; stanza four: you promised me a thing
not possible, and here's an elaboration of the impossible things. It would
be an easy format for a balladeer to remember: opening promise/subsequent
elaboration. In the third and fourth stanzas the 'thing' in the first line
of each stanza is singular; the things promised are multiple, and
increasingly surreal, suggesting multiple encounters, each with increasingly
outlandish promises.  That animals speak, that gloves could be made of the
skin of a fish, shoes of the skin of a bird, a ship of gold -- all
effectively testify to the credulousness of the young girl betrayed.

In the following three stanzas the girl tells of her life: at the 'Well of
Loneliness' she sees the world, but not her boy (whom we know to actually
exist, from the 'has' in the following line.) I like to think of this boy as
pre-figured by the 'bleating lamb' of the second stanza.  The next stanza
places the seduction as occurring on Palm Sunday, 'the last before Easter
Sunday'.  The introduction of Easter complicates the poem somewhat,
introducing not just the notion of resurrection, but in the third line,
forcing us to ask what the 'myself' opens up: is she to be like Christ, on
his knees suffering; that would affect how we understand the 'you' of the
fourth line: no longer just the absent lover, but now God?

And of course, good advice comes to late, as mother's words (in stanza 7)
are like 'shutting the door after the house was robbed.'  Stanza 8
interrupts the previous three narrative stanzas for an emotional description
focussing on the blackness in her heart (and in a homophonic playing on
'sole'/soul, keeping the move to the metaphysical alive).

The poem concludes with four wonderfully balanced lines: you have taken all,
is the sense, now on a stage that is timeless and universal. Here the move
from the particular -- the many 'me/I/myself's' and 'you's' of the poem --
to something more eternal is completed.  The last line echoes the last of
the first stanza,  each beginning with 'and', each ending with the similar
'find me'/'from me', and most importantly, each conveying the dialectic of
presence and absence (of the lover, of the boy, of God) that equals fear of
loss.

David

The Bookworm -- Anonymous

(Poem #958) The Bookworm A moth, I thought, munching a word. How marvellously weird! a worm Digesting a man's sayings -- A sneakthief nibbling in the shadows At the shape of a poet's thunderous phrases -- How unutterably strange! And the pilfering parasite none the wiser For the words he has swallowed. -- Anonymous

 From the Exeter Book, riddle No. 47.
 Translated by Gerard Benson.

[About the Exeter Book]

 Probably transcribed c960-970, and later owned by [Leofric,] the first
Bishop of Exeter. The riddles vary greatly in subject and style. Many are
about the animal kingdom, others are about artefacts and yet others about
the forces of nature -- and there is a sprinkling of teasing double
entendre, of a type still popular, which leads the reader to imagine two
parallel solutions, one obscene, the other innocent.

        -- "Poems on the Underground"

[Commentary]

 The physicality of language fascinates me. Not just the sounds of words,
nor even the feel of syllables rolling in my mouth; I'm equally entranced by
weight and texture, the heft of a good book in my hands, the beauty of its
pages. No surprise, then, that I love the curlicues and incidentals of of
medieval illuminated manuscripts such as the Winchester Bible and the Book
of Kells. And, of course, the Exeter Book, the oldest and most venerable of
them all.

 Today's poem is typical of the hundred or so riddles that make up the bulk
of the book (along with four major poems - The Seafarer, The Wanderer,
Widsith, and Eadwacer). It describes an object (in this case, the bookworm)
cleverly and well, yet every phrase can be interpreted differently, and
rather less charitably: the disparaging comments the author makes about the
bookworm could very easily apply to a certain type of scholar. After a
thousand years, the criticism remains ingenious and perfectly apt.

thomas.

[Links and stuff]

Minstrels Poem #676, "Eating Poetry", by Mark Strand, is similar to today's
poem, but also very different.

We've done quite a few pieces by that most prolific of authors, the
reclusive Anon.:
Poem #167, Pangur Ban  -- Anon. (Irish, 8th century)
Poem #109, The Viking Terror  -- Anon. (Irish, 9th century)
Poem #372, Icham of Irlaunde  -- Anon. (Irish, 14th century)
Poem #145, Ice  -- Anon. (Old English, 10th century)
Poem #326, The Seafarer  -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century
Poem #897, Grendel -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century)
Poem #333, Gnomic Stanzas  -- Anon. (Welsh, 12th century)
Poem #175, I am Taliesin. I sing perfect metre  -- Anon. (Welsh, 13th
century)

Here's a a short description of the Exeter Book, along with an image of a
page from the book - specifically, the page containing the opening lines of
"The Wanderer":
http://faculty.goucher.edu/eng211/exeter_book_and_wanderer.htm

Here are three riddles from the book which appear obscene on first reading,
but turn out to have perfectly innocent answers:
[broken link] http://itsa.ucsf.edu/~snlrc/britannia/flowers/enigmata.html

Here is another page from the book, featuring the starting lines of
"Widsith":
[broken link] http://www.exeter-cathedral.org.uk/Gallery/Library/L01.html

[Endnote]

There's a lot more I could say about the questions that today's riddle poses
on the relationship between form and content, idea and realization, meaning
and representation, reading and understanding. An additional frisson arises
from the fact that the riddle occurs in the Exeter Book, a truly lovely work
of art whose appeal lies as much in its form (the "physicality" alluded to
above) as in its content; furthermore, said content is always at a layer of
remove due to the artifice of translation, another subject I'm endlessly
interested in...

The Limerick Packs Laughs Anatomical -- Anonymous

(Poem #909) The Limerick Packs Laughs Anatomical The limerick packs laughs anatomical Into space that is quite economical. But the good ones I've seen So seldom are clean - And the clean ones so seldom are comical. -- Anonymous

The poem says it all <g>.

More seriously, while there are several excellent clean limericks, the vast
majority do tend to be - well, as Don Marquis put it, there are three
distinct types: "Limericks to be told when ladies are present; limericks to
be told when ladies are absent but clergymen are present--and LIMERICKS".

As I said in a previous commentary, the limerick is a nicely balanced
combination of a clever and entertaining structure and a fairly low entry
barrier; this has been responsible for a flood of limericks that is,
conceivably, greater in volume than the sum total of all other amateur
verse. And, while the form was popularised by the decidedly clean (but so
seldom comical[1]) limericks of Lear, somewhere along the line it became
inextricably intertwined with the bawdy.

[1] please don't flame me :)

An intriguing thing about limericks is that, while few of them are
attributed, they nonetheless have a surprising spreading power and lifetime.
There is a large body of famous limericks, many of them in several minor
variations, that seem to have entrenched themselves in the collective canon
without much benefit of formal publication or compilation. The humour
definitely helps here, as does the simple, and easily memorised verse form -
good limericks can and do get spread very rapidly by word of mouth (and
now, of course, the internet).

One drawback (if you can call it that) of the form is that it is almost
irretrievably frivolous. It's nigh impossible to write a serious poem in
limerick form (though I have seen some scattered examples), and most people
don't even bother trying. Also, the limerick is a very self-contained form;
while I've seen several poems with each verse consisting of a limerick, I
feel that the technique doesn't really work, because of the irresistible
feeling of closure when the reader reaches the fifth line.

Links:

  http://www.cc.emory.edu/ENGLISH/classes/Handbook/limerick.html is an
  excellent essay on limericks

  http://www.interviews-with-poets.com/poetry-directory/limerick.html has a
  nice collection of links

  We've run a couple of limericks on Minstrels:
    Poem #378: "There Was an Old Man with a Beard", Edward Lear
    Poem #801: "A Mosquito Was Heard to Complain", Dr. D. D. Perrin

-martin

Leviathan -- Anonymous

One final monster, from the biblical Book of Job:

(Poem #903) Leviathan Can you draw out Leviathan with a fishhook, or press down his tongue with a cord? Can you put a rope in his nose, or pierce his jaw with a hook? Will he make many supplications to you? Will he speak to you soft words? Will he make a covenant with you to take him for your servant for ever? Will you play with him as with a bird, or will you put him on leash for your maidens? Will traders bargain over him? Will they divide him up among the merchants? Can you fill his skin with harpoons, or his head with fishing spears? Lay hands on him; think of the battle; you will not do it again! Behold, the hope of a man is disappointed; he is laid low even at the sight of him. No one is so fierce that he dares to stir him up... ... Who can strip off his outer garment? Who can penetrate his double coat of mail? Who can open the doors of his face? Round about his teeth is terror. His back is made of rows of shields, shut up closely as with a seal. One is so near to another that no air can come between them. They are joined one to another; they clasp each other and cannot be separated. His sneezings flash forth light, and his eyes are like the eyelids of the dawn. Out of his mouth go flaming torches; sparks of fire leap forth. Out of his nostrils comes forth smoke, as from a boiling pot and burning rushes. His breath kindles coals, and a flame comes forth from his mouth. In his neck abides strength, and terror dances before him. The folds of his flesh cleave together, firmly cast upon him and immovable. His heart is hard as a stone, hard as the nether millstone. When he raises himself up the mighty are afraid; at the crashing they are beside themselves. Though the sword reaches him, it does not avail; nor the spear, the dart, or the javelin. He counts iron as straw, and bronze as rotten wood. The arrow cannot make him flee; for him slingstones are turned to stubble. Clubs are counted as stubble; he laughs at the rattle of javelins. His underparts are like sharp potsherds; he spreads himself like a threshing sledge on the mire. He makes the deep boil like a pot; he makes the sea like a pot of ointment. Behind him he leaves a shining wake; one would think the deep to be hoary. Upon earth there is not his like, a creature without fear. He beholds everything that is high; he is king over all the sons of pride. -- Anonymous

 From the Bible, The Book of Job, chapter 41.

 Leviathan is, of course, the canonical monster, the "dragon in the sea"
that haunted the imagination of the Hebrew poets and seers who wrote the Old
Testament, and the clerics who translated it into Greek, Latin and English.
The descriptions of his strength and size are vastly, immensely hyperbolic,
yet that is precisely the intention of their compositors: Leviathan himself
is beyond imagining.

[The OED on Leviathan]

leviathan (lI"vaI@T@n). Forms: 4-6 levyathan, (4 -ethan), 5 lyvyatan, -on,
5- leviathan. [a. L. (Vulg.) leviathan, a. Heb. livyathan.
   Some scholars refer the word to a root lavah = Arab. laway to twist (cf.
livyah, conjecturally rendered 'wreath'); others think it adopted from some
foreign lang.]
   1. The name of some aquatic animal (real or imaginary) of enormous size,
frequently mentioned in Hebrew poetry.
   1382 Wyclif Job xl[i.] 20 [21] Whether maist thou drawen out leuyethan
with an hoc? 1535 Coverdale Ps. ciii[i.] 26 There is that Leuiathan, whom
thou hast made, to take his pastyme therin. 1555 Eden Decades To Rdr. (Arb.)
51 The greate serpente of the sea Leuiathan, to haue suche dominion in the
Ocean. 1591 Spenser Vis. World's Van. 62 The huge Leuiathan, dame Natures
wonder. 1667 Milton P.L. vii. 412 Leviathan, Hugest of living Creatures, on
the Deep Stretcht like a Promontorie. 1713 Young Last Day i. 35 Leviathans
but heave their cumb'rous mail, It makes a tide. 1725 Pope Odyss. xii. 119
She [Scylla] makes the huge leviathan her prey.
   2. (After Isa. xxvii. 1.)  The great enemy of God, Satan. Obs.
   [1382 Wyclif Isa. xxvii. 1 In that dai viseten shal the Lord in his harde
swerd,..vp on leuyathan,..a crookid wounde serpent.] c1400 Destr. Troy 4423
This fende was the first that felle for his pride..that lyuyaton is cald.
1412-20 Lydg. Chron. Troy ii. xvii, The vile serpent the Leuiathan. 1447 O.
Bokenham Seyntys (Roxb.) 150 By the envye deceyvyd of hys enmy Clepyd
serpent behemot or levyathan. 1595 B. Barnes Spir. Sonn. li, Breake thou the
jawes of olde Levyathan, Victorious Conqueror!
   3. Used by Hobbes for: The organism of political society, the
commonwealth.  (See quot. 1651.)
   1651 Hobbes Leviath. (1839) 158 The multitude so united in one person, is
called a Commonwealth... This is the generation of that great Leviathan, or
rather, to speak more reverently, of that mortal god, to which we owe under
the immortal God, our peace and defence. 1657 R. Ligon Barbadoes 20 What it
is that makes up..harmony in that Leviathan, a well governed Commonwealth.
1690 Locke Hum. Und. i. iii. (1695) 17 An Hobbist..will answer; Because..the
Leviathan will punish you, if you do not. 1714 Mandeville Fab. Bees (1725)
I. 195 The gods have..design'd that millions of you, when well joyn'd
together, should compose the strong Leviathan.
   4. attrib. passing into adj. when sense: Huge, monstrous.
   1624 Middleton Game at Chess ii. ii, This leviathan-scandal that lies
rolling Upon the crystal waters of devotion. 1751 H. Walpole Lett. (1846)
II. 398, I had suspected that this leviathan hall must have devoured half
the other chambers. 1861 A. Smith Med. Stud. 12 He has duly chronicled every
word..in his leviathan note-book. 1892 W. Beatty-Kingston Intemper. v. 32
The leviathan liquor interests
   Hence leviathanic a., huge as a leviathan.
   1848 Tait's Mag. XV. 789 The leviathanic railway that stretches out its
fins amongst its contemporaries like Captain McQuhae's sea-serpent.

        -- Oxford English Dictionary

[Other biblical references]

"Yet God my King is from of old, working salvation in the midst of the
earth.
 Thou didst divide the sea by thy might; thou didst break the heads of the
dragons on the waters.
 Thou didst crush the heads of Leviathan, thou didst give him as food for
the creatures of the wilderness."
        -- Psalm 74

 "O Lord, how manifold are thy works! In wisdom hast thou made them all; the
earth is full of thy creatures.
 Yonder is the sea, great and wide, which teems with things innumerable,
living things both small and great.
 There go the ships, and Leviathan which thou didst form to sport in it."
        -- Psalm 104

 "In that day the Lord with his hard and great and strong sword will punish
Leviathan the fleeing serpent, Leviathan the twisting serpent, and he will
slay the dragon that is in the sea."
        -- Isaiah 27

(all biblical quotations are from the revised standard version, which is
available online at (for instance) http://www.hti.umich.edu/r/rsv/)

[Moreover]

As mentioned in the OED entry above, "Leviathan" is also the title of a
famous political treatise by Thomas Hobbes. In it, Hobbes argues that
mankind's natural state (not to be confused with that of Rousseau's "noble
savage") is one of conflict; life is "nasty, brutish and short". In order to
rise out of the morass, it becomes necessary to sacrifice individual
liberties for the sake of "the common wealth". This monster he calls
"Leviathan" - a being that is greater than any one man. Hobbes than goes on
to argue that Leviathan's power is properly concentrated in the person of
the sovereign, who has a "divine right" to rule.

An excellent set of excerpts at
http://campus.northpark.edu/history/Classes/Sources/Hobbes.html serves to
summarize Hobbes' arguments, which I have only glanced upon above.

John Locke refined Hobbes' arguments a generation later in his "Two
Treatises on Government"; however, his liberal and humanistic view rejects
the "divine right of kings" on the grounds that there is no appealing the
sovereign's decisions; the common wealth is a contract that one cannot opt
out of, and is hence unsatisfactory. The following websites compare and
contrast the two systems:
 [broken link] http://www-philosophy.ucdavis.edu/phi001/hobbelec.htm
 [broken link] http://members.dca.net/rbilson/hoblock.htm
 [broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Athens/7011/hobbes.html
Recommended, if you're at all interested in this sort of thing.

[Minstrels Links]

A previous extract from the Book of Job:
poem #40

Monsters:
Poem #52, Jabberwocky  -- Lewis Carroll
Poem #215, The Loch Ness Monster's Song  -- Edwin Morgan
Poem #370, Troll sat alone on his seat of stone  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #775, The Maldive Shark -- Herman Melville
Poem #895, August 1968 -- W. H. Auden
Poem #896, The Kraken -- Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Poem #897, Grendel -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century)
Poem #899, The Diatonic Dittymunch -- Jack Prelutsky

Grendel -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Vivian Eden:

Herewith, something from near the roots of the family tree of Auden's Ogre
and Tennyson's Kraken:

(Poem #897) Grendel Then a powerful demon, a prowler through the dark, nursed a hard grievance. It harrowed him to hear the din of the loud banquet every day in the hall, the harp being struck and the clear songs of a skilled poet telling the mastery of man's beginnings, How the Almighty had made the earth a gleaming plain girdled with waters; in his splendour He set the sun and the moon to be earth's lamplight, lanterns for men, and filled the broad lap of the world with branches and leaves; and quickened life in every other thing that moved. So times were pleasant for the people there until finally one, a fiend out of hell, began to work his evil in the world. Grendel was the name of the grim demon haunting the marches, marauding around the heath and the desolate fens; he had dwelt for a time among the banished monsters, Cain's clan, whom the Creator had outlawed and condemned as outcasts. For the killing of Abel the Eternal Lord had exacted a price: Cain got no good for committing that murder because the Almighty made him anathema and out of the curse of his exile there sprang ogres and elves and evil phantoms and the giants too who strove with God time and again until He gave then their reward. So, after nightfall, Grendel set out for the lofty house, to see how the Ring-Danes were settling into it after their drink, and there he came upon them, a company of the best asleep from their feasting, insensible to pain and human sorrow. Suddenly then the God-cursed brute was creating havoc: greedy and grim. -- Anonymous

 From Seamus Heaney's translation of "Beowulf," Farrar, Straus and Giroux,
New York, 2000.

 The entirety of Heaney's "Beowulf: A New Verse Translation" is compelling
both narratively and poetically, but of course too long for this forum.  The
poet-translator's introduction to the volume is a masterpiece in its own
right. This extract (lines 86-120) come after the description of a towering
"hall of halls" built by Hrothgar, leader of the Ring-Danes, a center of
power, wealth and culture. Composed something over a thousand years ago,
these lines from the Old English saga  are fascinating for their synergy of
the monotheistic history of the world and more ancient embodiments of evil,
with the sensuous hints of a "Mother Earth" in the "gleaming plain girdled
with waters" and "the broad lap of the world [filled] with branches and
leaves." Grendel himself, incidentally, has a truly horrible mother, whose
lair is much like the Kraken's. As we used to say at the end of our book
reports in fourth grade, if you want to find out what happens - read the
book.

Vivian.

[Minstrels Links]

Old English poems:
Poem #145, Ice  -- Anon. (Old English, 10th century)
Poem #326, The Seafarer  -- Anon. (Old English, pre-10th century

Poems by Seamus Heaney:
Poem #883, Personal Helicon -- Seamus Heaney
Poem #61, Song -- Seamus Heaney

Minstrels subscriber Matt Chanoff commented on "The Road Goes Ever On"
(Poem #4 on the Minstrels) that Tolkien alchemized many elements of the
Beowulf saga in the tale of Bilbo Baggins. Other Tolkien poems on the
Minstrels include:
Poem #46, Lament for Boromir  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #93, Eärendil was a mariner  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #142, He chanted a song of wizardry  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #220, Lament for Eorl the Young  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #257, Three Rings for the Elven Kings  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #318, Tall ships and tall kings  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #370, Troll sat alone on his seat of stone  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #440, Bregalad's Lament  -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #643, The Man in the Moon Came Down Too Soon -- J. R. R. Tolkien
Poem #736, The world was young, the mountains green -- J. R. R. Tolkien

Matt also submitted his own (different) set of excerpts from "Beowulf" for
inclusion on the list; we'll run them some day soon.

[Erratum]

Yes, we goofed. Badly. There was a misplaced apostrophe in Friday's poem - a
very noticeable one, too:
   "Among it's desperate and slain,
   The Ogre stalks with hands on hips"
Ugh. As one of our readers said, Mr Auden would not have been amused.

Thanks to all the Alert Readers who wrote in to point out the error. We'll
proofread our posts more carefully in the future.

Song of Creation -- Anonymous

Guest poem submitted by Sameer Siruguri

(Poem #739) Song of Creation Then there was neither Aught nor Nought, no air nor sky beyond. What covered all? Where rested all? In watery gulf profound? Nor death was then, nor deathlessness, nor change of night and day. That One breathed calmly, self-sustained; nought else beyond it lay. Gloom hid in gloom existed first - one sea, eluding view. That One, a void in chaos wrapt, by inward fervour grew. Within it first arose desire, the primal germ of mind, Which nothing with existence links, as sages searching find. The kindling ray that shot across the dark and drear abyss- Was it beneath? or high aloft? What bard can answer this? There fecundating powers were found, and mighty forces strove- A self-supporting mass beneath, and energy above. Who knows, who ever told, from whence this vast creation rose? No gods had then been born - who then can e'er the truth disclose? Whence sprang this world, and whether framed by hand divine or no- Its lord in heaven alone can tell, if even he can show. -- Anonymous

Translated by John Muir, in 'Original Sankrit Texts', volume 5.

Notes:

The Creation Hymn is better known through Prof Friedrich Max Mueller's
translation of it ([broken link] http://www.msci.memphis.edu/~ramamurt/gems/gem101.html)
but I chose this version because I thought Muir had done a commendable job
of metrification.

The hymn itself is a favourite of mine, ever since I first heard the Hindi
translation sung as the opening tune to Shyam Benegal's televised version of
Jawahar Lal Nehru's Discovery of India. The climactic note of perplexity,
voiced after all the esoteric speculations made on no less a subject than
the origin of the Universe itself, has always fascinated me. To me, it
conjures up the image of a sage looking defiantly into the skies, thumbing
his nose up at the powers above and challenging them, with all their
omniscience and omnipotence, to unravel this, the most mystifying secret of
existence.

Too, the hymn, and subsequent commentary, evoke the academic intensity and
diversity of theological debates in Vedic and classical Hindu traditions.
This presents a marked contrast to the ritualism and orthodoxy that suffuse
the religion today.

Muir's work contains a compact chronology of the dissections of this verse,
in various Upanishads and Puranas. An interesting point made in one is that
the author is not expressing the Creator's ignorance in the final line.
Instead, he postulates that since all Being is part of the Creator, the
Creator cannot "know" of any existence external to his own, simply because
there is none. Muir, writing in 1880, with the hindsight of centuries of
Humanism, preferred to believe that the "simple author" of the hymn could
hardly have entertained such "transcendental notions."

Sameer.

Edward, Edward -- Anonymous

Guest poem sent in by Ira Cooper

(Poem #656) Edward, Edward 'Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, Edward, Edward? Why does your brand sae drop wi' blude, And why sae sad gang ye, O?' 'O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my hawk sae gude, And I had nae mair but he, O.' 'Your hawk's blude was never sae red, Edward, Edward; Your hawk's blude was never sae red, My dear son, I tell thee, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my red-roan steed, That erst was sae fair and free, O.' 'Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair, Edward, Edward; Your steed was auld, and ye hae got mair; Some other dule ye dree, O.' 'O I hae kill'd my father dear, Mither, mither; O I hae kill'd my father dear, Alas, and wae is me, O!' 'And whatten penance will ye dree for that, Edward, Edward? Whatten penance will ye dree for that? My dear son, now tell me, O.' 'I'll set my feet in yonder boat, Mither, mither; I'll set my feet in yonder boat, And I'll fare over the sea, O.' 'And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', Edward, Edward? And what will ye do wi' your tow'rs and your ha', That were sae fair to see, O?' 'I'll let them stand till they doun fa', Mither, mither; I'll let them stand till they doun fa', For here never mair maun I be, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your bairns and your wife, When ye gang owre the sea, O?' 'The warld's room: let them beg through life, Mither, mither; The warld's room: let them beg through life; For them never mair will I see, O.' 'And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, Edward, Edward? And what will ye leave to your ain mither dear, My dear son, now tell me, O?' 'The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear, Mither, mither; The curse of hell frae me sall ye bear: Sic counsels ye gave to me, O!' -- Anonymous

Glossary:
  brand: blade [of a sword]
  erst: before, at first [cf erstwhile]
  gang: go
  dree: do, perform, suffer [penance etc.]
  dule ye dree: grief you suffer.
  bairns: children

In keeping with a misogynist theme, the above has always been a favorite of
mine.  It apparently is considered anonymous, from the seventeenth century.
I seem to remember reading  a commentary that this ballad was based on an
actual historical incident.  I cannot remember what.  Anyway, this ballad is
frequently listed in anthologies of British literature as a prime example of
its type.  Supposedly they were very popular amongst the good people of the
time.  These days, we have video games and movies for our blood and gore!

-Ira

Links:

Brahms' 'Edward Ballade' is a musical interpretation of the ballad
http://www.qedinteractive.com.au/html/jbc/brahint.htm

Andrew Lang's Collection of Ballads is online at
[broken link] http://www.ulib.org/webRoot/Books/CMU_Classics/Browse_By_Title/C/A_Collection_of_Ballads/index.html

Some other old, traditional ballads we've run:
 poem #303
 poem #437
 poem #548

The 'misogynist theme' was with reference to yesterday's poem: poem #655

The North Wind Doth Blow -- Anonymous

(Poem #646) The North Wind Doth Blow The north wind doth blow, And we shall have snow, And what will the robin do then, Poor thing? He'll sit in a barn, To keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing, Poor thing. -- Anonymous

One of the several nursery rhymes I learnt at my mother's knee (hi mum!).
This one has always been one of my favourites, possibly helped by the
wonderful illustrations that accompanied it in a number of children's poetry
books. Like many other nursery rhymes, this one has an associated tune - as
much chanted as sung, as is also typical of the genre, and rather dolorous,
as befits the poem.

Note: It practically goes without saying that there are several minor
variants of the poem, with no one version laying claim to definitiveness.
This is merely the wording I like best.

On Mother Goose:

  fictitious old woman, reputedly the source of the body of traditional
  children's songs and verses known as nursery rhymes. She is often pictured
  as a beak-nosed, sharp-chinned elderly woman riding on the back of a
  flying gander. "Mother Goose" was first associated with nursery rhymes in
  an early collection of "the most celebrated Songs and Lullabies of old
  British nurses," Mother Goose's Melody; or Sonnets for the Cradle (1781),
  published by the successors of one of the first publishers of children's
  books, John Newbery. The oldest extant copy dates from 1791, but it is
  thought that an edition appeared, or was planned, as early as 1765, and it
  is likely that it was edited by Oliver Goldsmith, who may also have
  composed some of the verses. The Newbery firm seems to have derived the
  name "Mother Goose" from the title of Charles Perrault's fairy tales,
  Contes de ma mère l'oye (1697; "Tales of Mother Goose"), a French folk
  expression roughly equivalent to "old wives' tales."

  The persistent legend that Mother Goose was an actual Boston woman,
  Elizabeth Goose (Vergoose, or Vertigoose), whose grave in Boston's Old
  Granary Burying Ground is still a tourist attraction, is false. No
  evidence of the book of rhymes she supposedly wrote in 1719 has ever been
  found. The first U.S. edition of Mother Goose rhymes was a reprint of the
  Newbery edition published by Isaiah Thomas in 1785.

        -- EB

Links:

http://www-personal.umich.edu/~pfa/dreamhouse/nursery/rhymes.html has a
large collection of nursery rhymes

I'd hoped to list a site that explained the stories behind some of the
nursery rhymes, but was unable to find one I liked. Suggestions welcomed.

The Cambridge History of English and American Literature on Nursery Rhymes
http://www.bartleby.com/221/1610.html

-martin