The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Firdaus Janoos :

(Poem #1964) The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus In Baltimore there lived a boy. He wasn't anybody's joy. Although his name was Jabez Dawes, His character was full of flaws. In school he never led his classes, He hid old ladies' reading glasses, His mouth was open when he chewed, And elbows to the table glued. He stole the milk of hungry kittens, And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE. He said he acted thus because There wasn't any Santa Claus. Another trick that tickled Jabez Was crying 'Boo' at little babies. He brushed his teeth, they said in town, Sideways instead of up and down. Yet people pardoned every sin, And viewed his antics with a grin, Till they were told by Jabez Dawes, 'There isn't any Santa Claus!' Deploring how he did behave, His parents swiftly sought their grave. They hurried through the portals pearly, And Jabez left the funeral early. Like whooping cough, from child to child, He sped to spread the rumor wild: 'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes There isn't any Santa Claus!' Slunk like a weasel of a marten Through nursery and kindergarten, Whispering low to every tot, 'There isn't any, no there's not!' The children wept all Christmas eve And Jabez chortled up his sleeve. No infant dared hang up his stocking For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking. He sprawled on his untidy bed, Fresh malice dancing in his head, When presently with scalp-a-tingling, Jabez heard a distant jingling; He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof Crisply alighting on the roof. What good to rise and bar the door? A shower of soot was on the floor. What was beheld by Jabez Dawes? The fireplace full of Santa Claus! Then Jabez fell upon his knees With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.' He howled, 'I don't know where you read it, But anyhow, I never said it!' 'Jabez' replied the angry saint, 'It isn't I, it's you that ain't. Although there is a Santa Claus, There isn't any Jabez Dawes!' Said Jabez then with impudent vim, 'Oh, yes there is, and I am him! Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't' And suddenly he found he wasn't! From grimy feet to grimy locks, Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box, And ugly toy with springs unsprung, Forever sticking out his tongue. The neighbors heard his mournful squeal; They searched for him, but not with zeal. No trace was found of Jabez Dawes, Which led to thunderous applause, And people drank a loving cup And went and hung their stockings up. All you who sneer at Santa Claus, Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes, The saucy boy who mocked the saint. Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint. -- Ogden Nash

It's a bit too  early for Christmas [not any more it isn't! -- ed.], but
I had to send this one in -- it is one of Nash's real gems. I'll not say
much about it -- a light, witty ditty, showing Ogden Nash's typical
flair for nonsense verse.  I'll let your readers chuckle over its silly
simplicity, without my analyzing or philosophizing over it.

Firdaus.

Breakfast -- Jacques Prevert

Guest poem sent in by Firdaus Janoos

(Poem #1932) Breakfast He poured the coffee Into the cup He poured the milk Into the cup of coffee He added the sugar To the coffee and milk He stirred it With a teaspoon He drank the coffee And put back the cup Without speaking to me He lit a cigarette He blew some rings With the smoke He flicked the ashes Into the ashtray Without speaking to me Without looking at me He got up He put his hat On his head He put on His raincoat Because it was raining He went out Into the rain Without a word Without looking at me And I I took my head In my hands And I wept -- Jacques Prevert

   (translated by Alastair Campbell)

Jacques Prévert is one of France's most well-known poets, and I was
surprised to see him so well represented on minstrels ;)

The thing I love about him is his remarkable obervation of and sympathy for
people and everyday life. He evokes deep emotions with suprising simplicity
and grace. The poem "Breakfast" published in Paroles, Prévert's first
collection of poetry which appeared late in 1945, is typical of his lucid
and poignant style.

Firdaus

[Martin adds]

As an aside, I'd like to thank reader Ian Barnett (of the Parole
Translations and Literary Agency) for drumming into me the importance of
finding out about and acknowledging the translators of non-English poems we
run. I don't always succeed, I'll admit, but I do always make the effort.
Quoting Ian's spot-on rant about this all-too-common omission:

  This lacuna annexes foreign poets to the English language in a most
  unwholesome, if reflexive, nay, automatic way. It does the invisible
  profession of the literary translator no favours either. And strictly
  it is illegal not to acknowledge provenance -- a law which, for the
  authorship of the translator, is also strangely invisible.

martin

[Links]

Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pr%C3%A9vert

A collection of Prévert's poems, translated by Campbell:
  http://www.otago.ac.nz/DeepSouth/vol3no1/campbell.html

Gitanjali (excerpt) -- Rabindranath Tagore

Guest poem sent in by Firdaus Janoos

(Poem #1772) Gitanjali (excerpt) The song that I came to sing remains unsung to this day. I have spent my days in stringing and unstringing my instrument. The time has not come true, the words have not been rightly set; only there is the agony of wishing in my heart. The blossom has not opened; only the wind is sighing by. I have not seen his face, nor have I listened to his voice; only I have heard his gentle footsteps on the road before my house. The livelong day has passed in spreading his seat on the floor; but the lamp has not been lit and I cannot ask him into my house. I live in the hope of meeting with him; but this meeting is not yet. -- Rabindranath Tagore

       from the Gitanjali (1923)

Cloying is not the first epithet that springs to mind when reading
Tagore.[1] Re-reading the Gitanjali (song offerings), one begins to realize
an intriguing profundity underlying its apparent simplicity. It is not
without good reason that this work won the 1923 Nobel prize for literature.
This poem is just an example of the textured, layered quality that permeates
the Gitanjali. At first it seems like the pensive song sung by a lover
cleaving for her beloved. But one becomes aware of an ineffable mysticism to
it - a yearning for a re-uniting with God, but without the morbidity that is
the usual adjunct of fatalism.

-firdaus

To a Skylark -- Percy Bysshe Shelley

Guest poem submitted by Firdaus Janoos:

(Poem #1495) To a Skylark 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. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In the golden light'ning Of the sunken sun, O'er which clouds are bright'ning, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. The pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven, In the broad daylight Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight- Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All the earth and air With thy voice is loud, As when night is bare, From one lonely cloud The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou art we know not; What is most like thee? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see, As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:- Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower: Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingèd thieves. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awaken'd flowers- All that ever was Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass. Teach us, sprite or bird, What sweet thoughts are thine: I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine. Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Match'd with thine would be all But an empty vaunt- A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want. What objects are the fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain? With thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be: Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee: Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem Things more true and deep Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream? We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet, if we could scorn Hate and pride and fear, If we were things born Not to shed a tear, I know not how thy joy we ever should come near. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, Better than all treasures That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! Teach me half the gladness That thy brain must know; Such harmonious madness From my lips would flow, The world should listen then, as I am listening now. -- Percy Bysshe Shelley

The best poetry is what Shelley terms "unpremeditated art". This is
almost in line with the Zen philosophy of effortless achievement. This,
perhaps the loveliest of Shelley's poems, is a tribute of art born of
pure understanding. But there is also an acknowledgement that the
frailties of humans -- hate, pride, fear, sorrow -- are essential
ingredients of the human experience, however flawed that might be. Quite
paradoxical.

The lines:

     Teach me half the gladness
        That thy brain must know;
      Such harmonious madness
        From my lips would flow,
 The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

are some of the best lines in English poetry -- a tribute to his muse,
something like Kubla Khan, or Wordsworth's 'Highland lass' -- inspiring
them to heights of poetry.