Mother's Little Helper -- Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti, the
final one in his guest theme:

(Poem #933) Mother's Little Helper What a drag it is getting old! "Kids are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Mother needs something today to calm her down. And though she's not really ill There's a little yellow pill She goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And it helps her on her way, gets her through her busy day. "Things are different today," I hear ev'ry mother say Cooking fresh food for a husband's just a drag. So she buys an instant cake And she burns her frozen steak And goes running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And two help her on her way, get her through her busy day. "Doctor please, some more of these!" Outside the door, she took four more. "Men just aren't the same today," I hear ev'ry mother say They just don't appreciate that you get tired. They're so hard to satisfy, You can tranquilize your mind So go running for the shelter of a mother's little helper And four help you through the night, help to minimize your plight. "Life's just much too hard today," I hear ev'ry mother say The pursuit of happiness just seems a bore. And if you take more of those You will get an overdose No more running for the shelter of a mother's little helper They just helped you on your way, through your busy dying day. -- Mick Jagger and Keith Richards

[Comments]

Whoa! Did you expect to see Jagger/Richards lyrics in this forum someday?
Well, why not? Tightness of form, good scansion, internal rhymes, plus
biting commentary on then-modern (i.e., 1960's) middle- class society...
it's all here. And the topic is original to boot. What other songs, or for
that matter, poems, do you know of about the sixties anti-depressant drug
craze? The craze has still not ended, afaik. There are any number of poems
and songs about drug addiction in general but this highlights not just one
(overlooked) kind of addiction but its association with basic middle class
boredom. If I were feeling lofty, I might have said "existential angst" but
I'm not, so I won't.

Anyway, this one almost needed to be written.

-Amit.

[Bio]

Mick Jagger and Keith Richards were the main songwriting force of the
British rock group "The Rolling Stones". Also, five times two equals ten.

[Links]

    http://www.therolling-stones.com/

[Notes]

The song is from the 1966 album "Aftermath". Unfortunately for the American
consumer, the album released under this name in the U.S. lacks this song.

[Sidenotes]

Here are two websites about those anti-depressant drugs (Prozac and its
relatives), if you want to learn more about the topic.
    [broken link] http://www.cchr.org/rape/mlh.htm
    http://www.breggin.com/minortranqs.html

[Administrivia]

Hey everybody, Sitaram's redesigned the Minstrels website! Check it out:
    http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

Fast Food -- Richard Thompson

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti, the
second in his guest theme (popular songs about urban problems):

(Poem #932) Fast Food Big mac, small mac, burger and fries Shove 'em in boxes all the same size Easy on the mustard, heavy on the sauce Double for the fat boy, eats like a horse. Fry them patties and send 'em right through Microwave oven going to fry me too Can't lose my job by getting in a rage Got to get my hands on that minimum wage. Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant. Shake's full of plastic, meat's full of worms Everything's zapped so you won't get germs Water down the ketchup, easier to pour on Pictures on the register in case you're a moron. Keep your uniform clean, don't talk back Blood down your shirt going to get you the sack Sugar, grease, fats and starches Fine to dine at the golden arches. Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant. Baby thrown up, booth number 9 Wash it down, hose it down, happens all the time Cigarettes in the coffee, contact lens in the tea I'd rather feed pigs than humanity. Shove it in their faces, give 'em what they want Got to make it fast, it's a Fast Food Restaurant. -- Richard Thompson

[Comments]

Little needs to be added by way of commentary to this wonderful piece of
vituperation. I only wonder why a certain extremely infamous and huge
company didn't go after Thompson, given such explicit lyrics as "Big Mac"
and "golden arches".

I find it fascinating that someone actually decided to dedicate a poem
(okay, a song) to this topic! That's originality.

-Amit.

[Notes]

For those who want to listen to the song, it's on the 1994 album "Mirror
Blue" about which I have raved earlier. But the ravings bear repeating. So
here goes: The album is a brilliant mix of wonderful Celtic acoustic
ballads, up-to-date rockers, biting social commentary and broken-hearted
love songs. If you're even vaguely interested in folk rock, buy this album.
Now.

Today's piece is set to full-blown Celtic folk accompaniment. The contrast
they make with the subject matter still gets me smiling, even after dozens
of listens.

[Links]

There's one other Richard Thompson song on Minstrels. It is also from
"Mirror Blue": Poem #299: "Taking My Business Elsewhere"

A brief bio of Thompson is included there.

Synchronicity II -- Gordon Matthew 'Sting' Sumner

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti, the
first in a guest theme:

(Poem #929) Synchronicity II Another suburban family morning Grandmother screaming at the wall We have to shout above the din of our rice krispies We can't hear anything at all Mother chants her litany of boredom and frustration But we know all her suicides are fake, Daddy only stares into the distance There's only so much more that he can take. Many miles away something crawls from the slime at the bottom of a dark Scottish lake. Another industrial ugly morning The factory belches filth into the sky He walks unhindered through the picket lines today, He doesn't think to wonder why. The secretaries pout and preen like cheap tarts in a red light street, But all he ever thinks to do is watch, And every single meeting with his so-called superior Is a humiliating kick in the crotch. Many miles away something crawls to the surface of a dark Scottish loch. Another working day has ended. Only the rush hour hell to face Packed like lemmings into shiny metal boxes Contestants in a suicidal race. Daddy grips the wheel and stares alone into the distance He knows that something somewhere has to break He sees the family home now looming in the headlights, The pain upstairs that makes his eyeballs ache. Many miles away there's a shadow on the door of a cottage on the shore of a dark Scottish lake. -- Gordon Matthew 'Sting' Sumner

[Comments]

The British rock trio known as "The Police" were on the verge of a breakup
and Sting was setting out on his singer-songwriter solo career when this
song was written. Thus, it captures Sting the Songwriter in his early years.
Already apparent are his gifts for vivid imagery and his ability to bring
out a bigger picture through little snapshots. Notice how with just a
handful of descriptive words Sting adds life to his scenes, e.g. "packed
like lemmings into shiny metal boxes" -- no mention of trains and noise and
crowds and jostling, but can't you just see it? Again, we're not told what
"pain upstairs" is seen "looming" in the headlights (lovely choice of word),
but we can guess.

To cap it all, Stings add a touch of surrealism by setting off his images of
urban angst against an ominous refrain involving the (never directly
mentioned) Loch Ness monster. What a touch!

-Amit.

[Notes]

For those who want to hear the song, it's on the hugely popular 1983 album
called "Synchronicity". The accompanying music features some nice interplay
between the band members, and cool Loch Ness monster sound effects.

[Links]

Other Sting songs on Minstrels:
Poem #114 "The Soul Cages"
Poem #287 "Mad About You"

[Trivia]

Sting seems to've bought the (possibly Disney-created) myth that Lemmings
commit group suicide every now and then when their population increases too
much. I can't claim to know what the truth
is, but see this site
      http://www.snopes2.com/disney/films/lemmings.htm

[On the theme]

It occurred to me that rock/pop lyrics are a vast enough body of work to be
able to supply a theme by themselves. Anyway, I recently noticed that three
very unrelated songs I like happen to talk about "urban problems" in a broad
sense. Hence the theme.

I Come and Stand at Every Door -- Nazim Hikmet

On seeing yesterday's tull poem, Amit Chakrabarti
chimed in with a guest theme - rock lyrics:

(Poem #742) I Come and Stand at Every Door I come and stand at every door But no one hears my silent tread I knock and yet remain unseen For I am dead, for I am dead. I'm only seven although I died In Hiroshima long ago I'm seven now as I was then When children die they do not grow. My hair was scorched by swirling flame My eyes grew dim, my eyes grew blind Death came and turned my bones to dust And that was scattered by the wind. I need no fruit, I need no rice I need no sweet, nor even bread I ask for nothing for myself For I am dead, for I am dead. All that I ask is that for peace You fight today, you fight today So that the children of this world May live and grow and laugh and play. -- Nazim Hikmet

[Comments]

I first learned of this poem listening casually to the album "Fifth
Dimension" by the Byrds. Somewhere in the middle of the poem the lyrics
grabbed my attention and jerked me alert from my state of casual listening.
I remember rewinding and re-listening to the song another couple of times
till I'd got all the lyrics and was seriously impressed.

As it turns out, these words were penned by Nazim Hikmet, one of the
foremost modern Turkish poets. Several artists have turned this poem to song
(the other notable being Pete Seeger), and as far as I could find out all of
them use the same words. It is not clear to me whose English translation the
above is. I would love to know.

Turning to the poem itself: it's the stark imagery in the third stanza that
I find the most moving. The only fellow Byrds enthusiast I know finds the
quote "When children die they do not grow" memorable. I think the conceit of
a little ghost from an alien land wandering around with his desperate plea
is beautiful; contrast this with other conceits seen in antiwar poems.

I'm somewhat puzzled by the choice of the word "fight" in the child's plea
in the final stanza; "work" sounds more right to me. Could any Turkish
reader familiar with the original please comment upon this?

[The Byrds and this song]

It is unfortunate that all but a few ardent classic rock fans know the Byrds
only as "those pleasant 1960's popsters who gave us those feel good tunes
like 'Turn! Turn! Turn!' and did several Bob Dylan covers". Certainly, their
first couple of albums didn't stray too far from this image. The third album
"Fifth Dimension" which was by turns psychedelic, dark, jazzy and sombre
must, therefore, have come as something of a shock in 1966. The Nazim Hikmet
poem is given a slow, dirge-like reading and set to a simple minor key
melody clearly designed to not interfere with the words.

Unfortunately though they were maturing musically by leaps and bounds, the
bandmembers of the Byrds soon broke apart. As a result the Byrds got to
produce only two more albums (after "Fifth Dimension") of superb material
before sinking into relative mediocrity.

Amit.

[Nazim Hikmet]

        b. 1902, Salonika, Ottoman Empire [now Thessaloníki, Greece]
        d. June 2, 1963, Moscow

...one of the most important and influential figures in 20th-century Turkish
literature.

...Nazim Hikmet grew up in Anatolia; after briefly attending the Turkish
naval academy, he studied economics and political science at the University
of Moscow.  Returning home as a Marxist in 1924 after the advent of the new
Turkish Republic, he began to work for a number of journals and started
Communist propaganda activities. In 1951 he left Turkey forever after
serving a lengthy jail sentence for his radical and subversive activities.
From then on he lived in the Soviet Union and eastern Europe, where he
continued to work for the ideals of world Communism.

His mastery of language and introduction of free verse and a wide range of
poetic themes strongly influenced Turkish literature in the late 1930s.
After early recognition with his patriotic poems in syllabic metre, in
Moscow he came under the influence of the Russian Futurists, and by
abandoning traditional poetic forms, indulging in exaggerated imagery, and
using unexpected associations, he attempted to "depoetize" poetry. Later his
style became quieter...

...Although previously censored, after his death in 1963 all his works were
published and widely read, and he became a poet of the people and a
revolutionary hero of the Turkish left. Many of his works have been
translated into English, including Selected Poems (1967), The Moscow
Symphony (1970), The Day Before Tomorrow (1972), and Things I Didn't Know I
Loved (1975).

...the figure of Nazim Hikmet (died 1963) looms large in Turkish poetry.
Expressing his progressive social attitude in truly poetical form, he used
free rhythmical patterns quite brilliantly to enrapture his readers; his
style, as well as his powerful, unforgettable images, has deeply influenced
not only Turkish but also progressive Urdu and Persian poetry from the 1930s
onward.

        -- EB

[Minstrels Links]

(Anti-)War poems:
Poem #132, "Dulce Et Decorum Est", Wilfred Owen
Poem #232, "Insensibility", Wilfred Owen
Poem #288, "Futility", Wilfred Owen
Poem #321, "Strange Meeting",   Wilfred Owen
Poem #385, "Base Details", Siegfried Sassoon
Poem #535, "The Working Party", Siegfried Sassoon
Poem #395, "Naming of Parts", Henry Reed

The Moonsheep -- Christian Morgenstern

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti:

(Poem #424) The Moonsheep The moonsheep stands upon the clearing. He waits and waits to get his shearing. The moonsheep. The moonsheep plucks himself a blade returning to his alpine glade. The moonsheep. The moonsheep murmurs in his dream: 'I am the cosmos' gloomy scheme.' The moonsheep. The moonsheep, in the morn, lies dead. His flesh is white, the sun is red. The moonsheep. -- Christian Morgenstern

1920.
Translated by Max Knight.

[Personal feelings]

The first time I read this surrealistic beauty of a poem, it was about 2.30
a.m., I was almost sleepy, and was startled wide awake. I reread and reread it,
savouring its delightful couplets and the hypnotic and insistent repetitions of
its refrain.

The sudden splash of a totally unexpected image in the final couplet (the *red*
sun) strikes me almost literally, even on the nth reading.

The first read wasn't too long ago, but I suspect this is one of those poems
that will remain a gem to me, forever.

Amit.

[Genesis]

This poem is an English translation by Max Knight from the original Deutsch poem
"Das Mondschaf" by Christian Morgenstern from his famous "Galgenlieder"
("Gallows Songs"), all of which are available at this Project Gutenberg site:
   http://www.gutenberg.aol.de/morgenst/galgenli/inhalt.htm

What makes English translations of Morgenstern's poetry interesting is that HE
IS ONE OF THE STANDARD EXAMPLES OF an untranslatable poet. Is this claim true?
You decide.

[Explanation]

Morgenstern hated to 'explicate' his Galgenlieder, insisting that they had far
less hidden meaning to them than many critics were bent on reading into them.
However, when pressed hard, he occasionally would offer a crumb. In this case,
he suggested the moonsheep might be the moon itself -- first against the sky;
then vanishing behind mountains; next, a dream of grandeur, with its own
tininess filling the cosmos; and at least appearing at dawn as a pale disk.

[Bio]

1871--1914. German poet and humorist whose work ranged from the mystical and
personally lyrical to nonsense verse.  Morgenstern's international reputation
came from his nonsense verse, in which he invented words, distorted meanings of
common words by putting them into strange contexts, and dislocated sentence
structure, but always with a rational, satiric point. Volumes of nonsense verse
include Galgenlieder (1905; "Gallows Songs"); Palmström (1910), named for an
absurd character; and three volumes published posthumously: Palma Kunkel (1916),
Der Gingganz (1919), and Die Schallmühle (1928; "The Noise Mill"), all collected
in Alle Galgenlieder (1932).

The above from Encyclopædia Brittanica, of course.

Hope you liked it!

- Amit.

[Minstrels Links]

'The Midnightmouse', also from Morgenstern's Galgenlieder, at poem #252
'The Pobble who has no toes', by Edward Lear, at poem #297

Taking My Business Elsewhere -- Richard Thompson

Guest poem sent in by Amit Chakrabarti

(Poem #299) Taking My Business Elsewhere If she's not here by now, then I guess she's not coming If she's not here by now, then I guess she don't care Oh waiter, I won't waste your time anymore You've already started to sweep down the floor And I guess she's not coming, so I'll head for the door I'll be taking my business elsewhere It wasn't for me, that spark in her eyes It wasn't for me, that halo in her hair When she touched me a lump rose up into my throat But she must act that way with any old soak And waiter you don't seem to share in the joke So I'll be taking my business elsewhere She called me her fantasy And boldly she kissed me I'll never get over the sheer surprise Of her acting that way And I'm healing okay But for the eyes of her... Oh it's cold in the rain and it's dark and it's sad And I'll miss her tonight on my lonely back stair I'm sorry for taking so much of your space I'll move down the street to some friendlier place 'Cause I guess she's not coming, and you're sick of my face I'll be taking my business elsewhere -- Richard Thompson

        1994

----------

With simple words and commonplace imagery Thompson paints
a picture that has doubtless haunted every man with red
blood in his veins. Any man who has actually experienced
something similar (and I do hope nobody on this list has)
will probably empathise instantly with the poor bloke who
is the narrator of this poem.

As a piece of poetry it is, I think, good though certainly
not great. Note how the poem evokes images of events that
happened earlier and that are not narrated here directly.
It is this "implicit imagery" aspect that raises this above
the ordinary. Of course the explicit imagery of the brooding,
possibly solitary, man in the cafe (bar? restaurant?) gets
to me too.

Ladies, I hope this touches you emotionally as well!

This was not written to be a poem. These are lyrics to a
song. Thomas has already pointed out some of the limitations
of popular song lyrics which must be borne in mind while
assessing their merit as poetry[1]. Thus the bridge, which
I've intentionally indented, would be jarring in a poem[2]
but should be forgiven here because of the requirements of
song sturcture.

[1] See poem #287.
[2] If I had to make a poem of it, I'd just delete the bridge.

Following Thomas, I urge you to give the song (whose melody
and slow rhythm are truly haunting) three good listens and
then reread the lyrics; your perception of the words above
*will* be changed. The song can be found on Thompson's album
"Mirror Blue" which is, IMHO, one of the finest rock albums
of the 90s. For more on the album, see [Bio].

[Structure]

Having deleted the bridge, the rest of the lyrics do have
compelling strcture. Apart from the obvious rhymes in lines
3-4-5 of each stanza and the one missing foot that gives the
refrain an air of finality, note that the second lines rhyme
across the stanzas. Thompson's use of the trotty anapestic
tetrameter for a serious subject might be questioned[3] but
he is vindicated by Swinburne's "By the North Sea"[4]. Anyway
on the album, Thompson's unique style of delivery greatly
distorts the meter.

[3] Did you question it? :)
[4] Or so Britannica assures me; I couldn't find a copy online.

[Bio]

Richard Thompson is among the most admired guitarists and songwriters
in folk-rock music, and in the 1980s and '90s, he moved from a fervent
cult following to broader exposure while maintaining critical accolades
for his biting guitar work and sardonic songs. He was a founding member
of Fairport Convention, the most important British folk-rock group to
emerge in the 1960s, and he recorded five albums with them.  Quitting
the group in January 1971, he made his debut solo album, "Henry the
Human Fly", before forming a duo with his wife Linda. The Thompsons
released six albums before breaking up personally and professionally.
In 1981, Thompson had made a second solo album of instrumentals,
"Strict Tempo!"; with 1983's "Hand of Kindness", his first charting
album, he relaunched his solo career. A couple of label changes later,
Thompson stuck with Capitol Records, for which he has made "Amnesia",
"Rumor and Sigh", "Mirror Blue", "You? Me? Us?", and "Mock Tudor". A
tribute album, "Beat the Retreat", featuring Thompson's songs performed
by R.E.M., Bob Mould, Bonnie Raitt, Los Lobos, and David Byrne, among
others, offers testimony to the high regard in which Thompson is held.

The above filched shamelessly from AMG's page on Thompson.

The album which contains today's song ("Mirror Blue") is a brilliant
mix of wonderful Celtic acoustic ballads, up-to-date rockers, biting
social commentary and of course today's wistfull, melancholy piece
which is the album's coda. If you're even vaguely interested in folk
rock, buy this album. Now.

[Links]

An excellent Thompson site: http://home.alphalink.com.au/~sfy/RT

- Amit
(a.k.a. Chacko)

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem submitted by Amit Chakrabarti

(Poem #32) 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. -- William Butler Yeats

Simple, almost mundane language, and yet resonant. There is
little need to add "explanations" to this poem; it speaks
for itself. However, I can't help mentioning that the last
stanza -- especially the repetition of the words "waste of
breath" -- is one of my all time favourite poem slices.

Although the poem can be enjoyed on its own, it is interesting
to learn the circumstances that led to its creation. The unnamed
narrator in this poem was meant to be Major Robert Gregory, the
son of Lady Augusta Gregory, the single most influential person
in Yeats' life and writings.

Robert himself was an artist (painter) whom Yeats respected and
collaborated with; he designed numerous side sets for Yeats'
plays. In this poem Yeats celebrates the self-chosen nature of
Robert Gregory's death (he did die fighting, while an airman).
For more glimpses of this man's life and his influence on Yeats'
read the (somewhat longish) "In Memory of Major Robert Gregory".

[ Info from "The Yeats Companion" by Ulick O'Connor ]

Amit

[Chacko has asked me to supply the rest of the annotation, so.... -m.]

Biographical Notes:

  Yeats was born in Dublin on June 13, 1865, the eldest of four children.
  [...] Yeats' mother Susan Pollexfen Yeats, the daughter of a successful
  merchant from Sligo in western Ireland, was descended from a line of
  intense, eccentric people interested in faeries and astrology. From his
  mother Yeats inherited a love of Ireland, particularly the region
  surrounding Sligo, and an interest in the folklore of the local peasantry.

  Not until he was eleven years old, when he began attending the Godolphin
  Grammar School in Hammersmith, England, did Yeats receive any type of
  formal schooling. From there he went on to the Erasmus Smith High School
  in Dublin, where he a generally disappointing student - erratic in his
  studies, prone to daydreaming, shy, and poor at sports. In 1884 Yeats
  enrolled in the Metropolitan School of Art in Dublin, where he met the
  poet George Russell. With Russell, Yeats founded the Dublin Hermetic
  Society for the purposes of conducting magical experiments and promoting
  their belief that "whatever the great poets had affirmed in their finest
  moments was the nearest we could come to an authoritative religion and
  that their mythology and their spirits of water and wind were but literal
  truth." This organization marked Yeats' first serious activity in occult
  studies, a fascination which he would continue for the rest of his life,
  and the extent of which was revealed only when his unpublished notebooks
  were examined after his death. Yeats joined the Rosicrucians, the
  Theosophical Society, and MacGregor Mathers' Order of the Golden Dawn.
  Frequently consulting spiritualists and engaging in the ritual conjuring
  of Irish gods, Yeats used his knowledge of the occult as a source of
  images for his poetry, and traces of his esoteric interests appear
  everywhere in his poems.

  In 1885 Yeats met Irish nationalist John O'Leary, who helped turn his
  attention to Celtic nationalism and who was instrumental in arranging for
  the publication of Yeats' first poems in The Dublin University Review.
  Under the influence of O'Leary, Yeats took up the cause of Gaelic writers
  at a time when much native Irish literature was in danger of being lost as
  the result of England's attempts to anglicize Ireland through a ban on the
  Gaelic language.

    -- excerpted from Exploring Poetry, Gale, 1997. see
    <[broken link] http://www.nelson.com/gale/poetry/yeatsbio.html> for the whole essay.

Criticism:

  "An Irish Airman Foresees His Death" is one of the three poems written on
  the occasion of the death of Yeats's friend Robert Gregory. Critic John
  Lucas, in his book 'Modern English Poetry - Hardy to Hughes: A Critical
  Survey', mentions that this poem was not only used to mourn the loss of
  Gregory but also to "affirm his commitment to values that are, so it
  seems, to become time's victims." According to Lucas, Yeats wished to show
  that Gregory chose death in order to escape the waste of age. He explains,
  "Yeats implies that Gregory knew his work to be finished in one brief
  flaring of creative intensity and that he therefore chose death rather
  than wasting into unprofitable old age." Lucas goes on to mention that the
  poem is essentially concerned with the balance between life and death.
  "Yeats presents Gregory in the act of balancing all, seeing himself poised
  between 'this life, this death.'"
         -- Exploring Poetry, Gale, 1997.