Everybody Knows -- Leonard Cohen

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff :

Here's another song lyric that I love and think people will enjoy.  Last
year, a group of people did a show of Leonard Cohen songs, which they
performed in New York and Sydney. It's the basis for a documentary about
Cohen that's in theaters now, called 'Came So Far for Beauty'.  I've been
listening to the soundtrack, which is phenomenal, and particularly love the
following song, performed on the album by Rufus Wainwright.

(Poem #1918) Everybody Knows Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows that the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows that the boat is leaking Everybody knows that the captain lied Everybody got this broken feeling Like their father or their dog just died Everybody talking to their pockets Everybody wants a box of chocolates And a long stem rose Everybody knows Everybody knows that you love me baby Everybody knows that you really do Everybody knows that you've been faithful Ah give or take a night or two Everybody knows you've been discreet But there were so many people you just had to meet Without your clothes And everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows And everybody knows that it's now or never Everybody knows that it's me or you And everybody knows that you live forever Ah when you've done a line or two Everybody knows the deal is rotten Old black Joe's still pickin cotton For your ribbons and bows And everybody knows And everybody knows that the plague is coming Everybody knows that it's moving fast Everybody knows that the naked man and woman Are just a shining artifact of the past Everybody knows the scene is dead But there's gonna be a meter on your bed That will disclose What everybody knows And everybody knows that you're in trouble Everybody knows what you've been through From the bloody cross on top of Calvary To the beach of Malibu Everybody knows its coming apart Take one last look at this sacred heart Before it blows And everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Oh everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows -- Leonard Cohen

Here's what I love about this song. The first three stanzas let up this
barbed, vicious view of human nature. The world is sick, they say, because
people are crooked.  Then with the next stanza the focus of all that
hostility shifts from the world at large to an unfaithful lover.  You
automatically reinterpret the stuff in the third stanza about 'everybody
wants a box of chocolates, a long stemmed rose' from belonging to the first
sentiment to belonging to the second.

More gradually, the meaning of the refrain, 'everybody knows' shifts too,
from 'everybody knows the sad truth of the world' to 'everybody knows that
you've been unfaithful to me.'

This terrific conflation of the individual, personal hurt and the grand
sense that the world is sinful works in a macro way - as a betrayed lover,
you do feel that you've been betrayed by the whole world.  Cohen emphasizes
the theme by conflating big and small things throughout the song.  For
example 'Everybody got this broken feeling/ Like their father or their dog
just died'. One would think that these would be different orders of grief,
but not in this song. Another example is 'Everybody knows what you've been
through/ From the bloody cross on top of Calvary/ To the beach of Malibu'.

The other thing I love about the song is just simply the great lines.  For
example, the run up to the instance of 'everybody knows' where you suddenly
realize it means 'everybody knows you've been unfaithful' goes like this

    Everybody knows you've been discreet
    But there were so many people you just had to meet
    Without your clothes
    And everybody knows

I also love

    Everybody knows the deal is rotten
    Old black Joe's still pickin cotton
    For your ribbons and bows

Leonard Cohen's got this deep unvarying monotone of a voice, that has turned
me off to his music for years.  This album of good (and some great) singers
has given me an appreciation for what a great lyricist he is.

Matt Chanoff

Big River -- Zachary Richard

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff

(Poem #1590) Big River Water's on the river rising More water come than float away People from Catahoula down to Burway Bay They've got no place left to stay When the water's coming out the basin There ain't nothing waterproof Standing on the levee with the river raging I've got nothing left to lose Big river Big river on the rise Big river gonna overflow Big river is going to wash us to the sea Back in 1927 Six feet of water in Evangeline Now the government trying to tell us Said that the levee's going to hold next time Big river Big river on the rise Big river is gonna overflow Big river is gonna wash us to the sea I've seen the water come under the levee Boiling up from a crawfish hole And before the sun was setting Four feet of water in my front door Big river Big river on the rise Big river gonna overflow Big river, Oh mighty Mississippi on the rise Oh mighty Mississippi is gonna overflow Big river Gonna wash us to the sea. -- Zachary Richard

Today's poem is by Zachary Richard, one of the greatest Zydeco singers
around. It's a heartbreaking song -- though you have to hear him sing it for
the full effect. The reason to run it now is painfully obvious.

It's one an album called "Zach's Bon Ton" You can read about Richard at
[broken link] http://www.zacharyrichard.com/bio.html.

Matt Chanoff

Lobachevsky -- Tom Lehrer

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff

(Poem #1316) Lobachevsky Who made me the genius I am today, The mathematician that others all quote, Who's the professor that made me that way? The greatest that ever got chalk on his coat. One man deserves the credit, One man deserves the blame, and Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy! Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache... I am never forget the day I first meet the great Lobachevsky. In one word he told me secret of success in mathematics: Plagiarize! Plagiarize, Let no one else's work evade your eyes, Remember why the good Lord made your eyes, So don't shade your eyes, But plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize... Only be sure always to call it please "research". And ever since I meet this man my life is not the same, And Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy! Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache... I am never forget the day I am given first original paper to write. It was on analytic and algebraic topology of locally Euclidean metrization of infinitely differentiable Riemannian manifold. Bozhe moi! This I know from nothing. But I think of great Lobachevsky and I get idea - haha! I have a friend in Minsk, Who has a friend in Pinsk, Whose friend in Omsk Has friend in Tomsk With friend in Akmolinsk. His friend in Alexandrovsk Has friend in Petropavlovsk, Whose friend somehow Is solving now The problem in Dnepropetrovsk. And when his work is done - Haha! - begins the fun. From Dnepropetrovsk To Petropavlovsk, By way of Iliysk, And Novorossiysk, To Alexandrovsk to Akmolinsk To Tomsk to Omsk To Pinsk to Minsk To me the news will run, Yes, to me the news will run! And then I write By morning, night, And afternoon, And pretty soon My name in Dnepropetrovsk is cursed, When he finds out I published first! And who made me a big success And brought me wealth and fame? Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy! Nicolai Ivanovich Lobache... I am never forget the day my first book is published. Every chapter I stole from somewhere else. Index I copy from old Vladivostok telephone directory. This book, this book was sensational! Pravda - ah, Pravda - Pravda said: (Russian double-talk) It stinks. But Izvestia! Izvestia said: (Russian double-talk) It stinks. Metro-Goldwyn-Moskva bought the movie rights for six million rubles, Changing title to 'The Eternal Triangle', With Brigitte Bardot playing part of hypotenuse. And who deserves the credit? And who deserves the blame? Nicolai Ivanovich Lobachevsky is his name. Oy! -- Tom Lehrer

This current mathematical theme made me think that it's time once again for
Minstrels to put out something by the great Tom Lehrer.  The following was
referred to in the commentary on Lehrer's one previous appearance, Poem #490,
The Elements. The Elements is more interesting poetically, but on the
other hand, this one is funnier.  Attached to #490 you can also find links
for info on this peculiar genius, who, three decades after he stopped
performing publically, still leaves us wanting more.

Matt Chanoff

[Martin adds]

This one really, really, really needs to be listened to to be fully
appreciated. It's not just the music - the performance is sidesplittingly
funny, and maintains the mix of patter and singing most impressively.
Luckily for the current generation, Lehrer's works have been recenely
reissued in a three CD box set titled "The Remains of Tom Lehrer". Highly
recommended.

martin

Paradise Lost (excerpt) -- John Milton

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff

(Poem #1213) Paradise Lost (excerpt) Who first seduced them to that foul revolt? Th' infernal Serpent; he it was, whose guile Stirred up with envy and revenge, deceived The mother of mankind, what time his pride Had cast him out from heav'n, with all his host Of rebel angels, by whose aid aspiring To set himself in glory above his peers, He trusted to have equaled the Most High, If he opposed; and with ambitious aim Against the throne and monarchy of God Raised impious war in heav'n and battle proud With vain attempt. Him the Almighty Power Hurled headlong flaming from th' ethereal sky With hideous ruin and combustion down To bottomless perdition, there to dwell In adamantine chains and penal fire, Who durst defy th' Omnipotent to arms. Nine times the space that measures day and night To mortal men, he with his horrid crew Lay vanquished, rolling in the fiery gulf Confounded though immortal: but his doom Reserved him to more wrath; for now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting pain Torments him; round he throws his baleful eyes That witnessed huge affliction and dismay Mixed with obdúrate pride and steadfast hate: At once as far as angels ken he views The dismal situation waste and wild, A dungeon horrible, on all sides round As one great furnace flamed, yet from those flames No light, but rather darkness visible Served only to discover sights of woe, Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace And rest can never dwell, hope never comes That comes to all; but torture without end Still urges, and a fiery deluge, fed With ever-burning sulphur unconsumed: Such place Eternal Justice had prepared For those rebellious, here their prison ordained In utter darkness, and their portion set As far removed from God and light of heav'n As from the center thrice to th' utmost pole. -- John Milton

No Milton has been posted here since 1999. Here's something I've appreciated
during these apocalyptic times. It's from Paradise Lost, right near the
beginning. The lines "Hurled headlong flaming from th'ethereal sky/ With
hideous ruin and combustion down" are, and I think, belong, in the pantheon of
immortal poetry. I'm no Christian, but the embers of that combustion seem all
around us recently.

There's a lot more about Milton than I know described and linked to Poem #106,
Poem #127, Poem #279 and Poem #281.

Matt

The Stare's Nest by My Window -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff

(Poem #1144) The Stare's Nest by My Window The bees build in the crevices Of loosening masonry, and there The mother birds bring grubs and flies. My wall is loosening; honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare. We are closed in, and the key is turned On our uncertainty; somewhere A man is killed, or a house burned. Yet no clear fact to be discerned: Come build in the empty house of the stare. A barricade of stone or of wood; Some fourteen days of civil war: Last night they trundled down the road That dead young soldier in his blood: Come build in the empty house of the stare. We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love; O honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare. -- William Butler Yeats

           ("Meditations in Time of Civil War - VI", 1928)

Note:
  stare: starling

The build-up of US troops facing Iraq seems ready to boil over into war,
sometime around Valentine's day.  I was thinking about love and war, and
came across this Yeats, which seems brilliantly about both.  The thing this
poem does for me is not to compare love and war (passion, intensity,
uncertainty, etc.) and not to contrast them either (intimacy vs distance,
hope vs dread etc). Rather, it talks about both in the same terms, meaning
different things by the terms. Look at the second stanza. The text there is
war, but the subtext is love going wrong. Then look at the last stanza.
There, the text is love and the subtext war.

I don't understand the central metaphor. I thought at first that the house
of the stare (starling) had been vacated, and then the bees moved in, and I
was wondering if Yeats was thinking of the bees in terms of their honey or
in terms of their stings, or maybe their military-like organization.  But
the mother birds "bring" grubs and flies, so why is the house empty? And why
are there multiple mothers? Don't know.  Maybe the point isn't so much about
the birds vs bees, but about the collapse of the masonry which lets both in,
and echoes with the barricade in stanza 3.

Anyway, the last stanza is just haunting, and I thought deserved a place on
Minstrels even though Yeats is so well represented already.

Matt

Grackles, Goodbye -- Robert Penn Warren

Guest poem submitted by Matt Chanoff:

(Poem #968) Grackles, Goodbye Black of grackles glints purple as, wheeling in sun-glare, The flock splays away to pepper the blueness of distance. Soon they are lost in the tracklessness of air. I watch them go. I stand in my trance. Another year gone. In trance of realization, I remember once seeing a first fall leaf, flame-red, release Bough-grip, and seek, through gold light of the season's sun, Black gloss of a mountain pool, and there drift in peace. Another year gone. And once my mother's hand Held mine while I kicked the piled yellow leaves on the lawn And laughed, not knowing some yellow-leaf season I'd stand And see the hole filled. How they spread their obscene fake lawn. Who needs the undertaker's sick lie Flung thus in the teeth of Time, and the earth's spin and tilt? What kind of fool would promote that kind of lie? Even sunrise and sunset convict the half-wit of guilt. Grackles, goodbye! The sky will be vacant and lonely Till again I hear your horde's rusty creak high above, Confirming the year's turn and the fact that only, only, In the name of Death do we learn the true name of Love. -- Robert Penn Warren

Here's [another] piece about crows [1]. It's considerably more verbose, but
achieves a kind of Haiku-ish compression and regard for nature in the first
two stanzas. Warren looses it in stanza four, as far as I'm concerned, but
regains coherence by the end.

Matt.

[1] The first one was a haiku by Basho, Poem #802 on the Minstrels.

[Biography]

Robert Penn Warren was born in Guthrie, Todd County, Kentucky, on April 24,
1905. He was the oldest of three children; others being Mary, the middle
child,  and Thomas, the youngest. His parents were Robert Franklin Warren, a
proprietor and banker, and Anna Ruth Penn Warren, a schoolteacher. In the
fall of 1911 he entered the Guthrie School from which he graduated at age
15. He did not then enter college as his mother felt he was too young and
went instead, in September, 1920, to Clarksville High School, Clarksville,
Montgomery County, Tennessee, graduating after the full school year. In the
spring of 1921 he suffered an injury to his left eye from a rock throwing
incident perpetrated by his younger brother. The injury eventually led to
removal of the eye. During the summer of 1921, he spent six weeks in
Citizens Military Training Corp, Fort Knox, Kentucky, where he published his
first poem, "Prophecy", in The Messkit. He earlier had obtained an
appointment to the United States Naval Academy but because of the eye the
appointment was can he entered Vanderbilt
University at age 16.

While at Vanderbilt he came under the tutelage of some of the foremost
teachers in literature such as Allen Tate, John Crowe Ransom, and Andrew
Lytle.  Also he became involved with two groups; the Fugitives and the
Agrarians. In the summer of 1925 he graduated from Vanderbilt summa cum
laude, Phi Beta Kappa, and Founder's Medalist. Then, in August, he entered
the University of California as a graduate student and teaching assistant.
Here he met his first wife, Emma "Cinina" Brescia. In 1927 he received his
M.A. from University of California and, in the fall, entered Yale University
on fellowship. In October, 1928 he entered New College at Oxford as a Rhodes
Scholar receiving his B.Litt. in the spring of 1930.

He secretly married Emma Brescia in the summer of 1929, a marriage that was
to end on June 28, 1951.On December 7, 1952, he married Eleanor Clark. This
marriage produced two children, Rosanna Phelps Warren and Gabriel Penn
Warren.

Warren was a poet, critic, novelist, and teacher. He taught at Vanderbilt
University, Nashville, Tennessee, Southwestern College, Memphis, Tennessee,
University of Minnesota, Yale University, and Louisiana State University.
While at LSU he founded and edited, along with Cleanth Brooks and Charles W.
Pipkin, the literary quarterly, The Southern Review. As a poet, he was
appointed the nation's first Poet Laureate, February 26, 1986. He published
sixteen volumes of poetry and two---Promises: Poems, 1954-1956 and Now and
Then: Poems, 1976-1978---won Pulitzer Prizes. Warren published ten novels.
One novel, All the King's Men, won a Pulitzer Prize. Two novels, All the
King's Men and Band of Angels were made into movies. In addition he
published a book of short stories, two selections of critical essays, a
biography, three historical essays, a study of  Melville, a critical book on
Dreiser, a study of Whittier, and two studies of race relations in America.
As of this writing, he is the only author to have won the Pulitzer for both
fiction and poetry. Other honors include the Bolingen Prize, National Medal
for Literature, and Presidential Medal of Freedom.

Warren's first published novel was Night Rider, Houghton, (1939) and was
about the tobacco war (1905-1908) between independent tobacco growers in
Kentucky and large tobacco companies. His last published novel was A Place
to Come To, Random House, (1977) which is, to a certain extent,
autobiographical. Along with Cleanth Brooks he collaborated in writing the
text books, Understanding Poetry, Holt, (1938), 4th edition, (1976) and
Understanding Fiction, Crofts, (1943), 2nd Edition, Appleton-Century-Crofts,
(1959). He was one of the leading representatives of the New Criticism and
these works helped revolutionize the teaching of literature by bringing the
New Criticism into general practice in America's college classrooms.

From the 1950's until his death September 15, 1989, from cancer, Warren
lived in Connecticut and at his summer home in Vermont. He is buried at
Stratton, Vermont, and, at his request, a memorial marker is situated in the
Warren family gravesite in Guthrie, Kentucky.

        -- http://www.robertpennwarren.com/biography.htm

[Minstrels Links]

Sort of similar poems:
Poem #677, Villanelle  -- W. H. Auden
Poem #58, The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower  -- Dylan
Thomas
Poem #138, Fern Hill  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #225, Poem In October  -- Dylan Thomas
Poem #219, Full many a glorious morning (Sonnets XXXIII)  -- William
Shakespeare
Poem #377, Loveliest of trees, the cherry now  -- A. E. Housman
Poem #545, The Moving Finger Writes; and, Having Writ -- Omar Khayyam
Poem #254, The North Ship  -- Philip Larkin
Poem #392, Good  -- R. S. Thomas

The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood' -- Agha Shahid Ali

Another guest poem submitted by Matt Chanoff:

(Poem #961) The Wolf's Postcript to 'Little Red Riding Hood' First, grant me my sense of history: I did it for posterity, for kindergarten teachers and a clear moral: Little girls shouldn't wander off in search of strange flowers, and they mustn't speak to strangers. And then grant me my generous sense of plot: Couldn't I have gobbled her up right there in the jungle? Why did I ask her where her grandma lived? As if I, a forest-dweller, didn't know of the cottage under the three oak trees and the old woman lived there all alone? As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before? And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf, now my only reputation. But I was no child-molester though you'll agree she was pretty. And the huntsman: Was I sleeping while he snipped my thick black fur and filled me with garbage and stones? I ran with that weight and fell down, simply so children could laugh at the noise of the stones cutting through my belly, at the garbage spilling out with a perfect sense of timing, just when the tale should have come to an end. -- Agha Shahid Ali

Ali died this week, at age 52. He was a Kashmiri exile, living most recently
in New York. He's apparently famous for introducing the Ghazal into modern
American poetry, where it's now common. The poem seems to me appropriate
this week, not only as a memorial for Ali, but for the comment it makes on
the vilified. The thing about Osama bin Laden and his ilk is that the evil
they do swamps any legitimacy. If there's something to think about how
Western (and Hindu) culture and politics constrict the possibilities for
Islam, or about how poverty and loss of culture lead young men to violence,
or about the the responsibilities that the world's only superpower may have
toward weaker nations, then these things are drowned out by the casual
murderers who act in their name.

Ali could have made this a trivial poem by being just contrarian and taking
the side of the wolf. Instead, he makes a stronger point by making the big
bad wolf human.

You can read about him at
[broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=128
or
http://www.salem.mass.edu/sextant/v4n2/keyes.html

You can read about the Ghazal form at
http://www.umr.edu/~gdoty/poems/essays/ghazals.html

In the Minstrels, Poem #748 by Faiz Ahmed Faiz was translated by Ali.

Matt.

The Prologue to 'Sweeney Todd' -- Stephen Sondheim

Guest poem submitted by Matt Chanoff:

(Poem #960) The Prologue to 'Sweeney Todd' [A Man:] Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd His skin was pale and his eye was odd He shaved the faces of gentlemen Who never thereafter were heard of again. He trod a path that few have trod. Did Sweeney Todd. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. [Another Man:] He kept a shop in London town Of fancy clients and good renown. And what if none of their souls was saved? They went to their maker impeccably shaved By Sweeney, By Sweeney Todd. The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. [Company, variously:] Swing your razor wide, Sweeney! Hold it to the skies! Freely flows the blood of those Who moralize! His needs were few, his room was bare. A lavabo and a fancy chair. A mug of suds and a leather strop, An apron a towel a pail and a mop. For neatness he deserved a nod, Did Sweeney Todd, The Demon Barber of Fleet Street. Inconspicuous Sweeney was, Quick and quiet and clean 'e was. Back of his smile, under his word, Sweeney heard music that nobody heard. Sweeney pondered and Sweeney planned Like a perfect machine 'e planned. Sweeney was smooth, Sweeney was subtle, Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle. Sweeney was smooth, Sweeney was subtle, Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle. Inconspicuous Sweeney was, Quick and quiet and clean 'e was. Like a perfect machine 'e was, Was Sweeney! Sweeney! Sweeeeeeneeeeey! [Todd appears from the grave] [Todd and Company:] Attend the tale of Sweeney Todd. He served a dark and a vengeful god. [Todd:] What happened then - well that's the play, And he wouldn't want us to give it away, Not Sweeney. [Company:] Not Sweeney Todd The Demon Barber of Fleet Street! -- Stephen Sondheim

I first heard this only a month ago, at the San Francisco concert production
of the play. I then went out and bought the CD and have been listening
often. The first song in a musical has to do a lot of work. It's got to tell
you who the story's about, what's happening, and hint at why it's happening.
In Sweeney, it's got to make the faintly ridiculous character of a barber
seem menacing, and it's got to leave you wanting more. Most expository songs
are lousy - too dense with stuff you've got to remember to be any fun. In
contrast, this one is a masterpiece.

Sondheim starts with a crowd and a series of rumors. You get the sense of a
half-legendary figure, a bogeyman.  The legend grows and grows, to the point
that you cringe when, near the end, Sweeney steps out of the grave to give
you his take and introduce his story. You don't know exactly why he's
killing people, but the fact that he shaves gentlemen, that their souls
aren't saved, that the clients are fancy, all lead you to believe that it's
a class thing - he's killing rich people, bad rich people. Then come the
lines:
  "Freely flows the blood of those
   Who moralize!"
He's after rich hypocrites.

Another terrific thing about these lyrics is the way the story imbues
ordinary things with menace.  Look at the inventory of his shop:
  "His needs were few, his room was bare.
   A lavabo and a fancy chair.
   A mug of suds and a leather strop,
   An apron a towel a pail and a mop."
What's more prosaic than a pail and a mop? Except that here, just 30 seconds
into the play, you know he needs them to clean up the gore. "Lavabo," by the
way, is the perfect word. When I first heard it, I thought they said "barber
pole," which would have scanned and fit the sense perfectly. Why throw in an
archaic word instead?  According to the dictionary, a lavabo is (1) the
ceremonial washing of the hands and recitation from the Psalms by the
celebrant before the Eucharist in the Roman Catholic and Anglican churches,
and (2) a washbowl that is attached to a wall and filled from a water tank
fastened above. Sweeney's clients think it's there for washing up, but the
religious meaning is both implied and mocked.

Like Hannibal Lecter, Sweeney is preternaturally skilled and cunning. My
favorite couplet is:
  "Sweeney was smooth, Sweeney was subtle,
   Sweeney would blink and rats would scuttle.
Here's a rhyme that manages to be ingenious and subtle simultaneously, and
give you sense of pure evil.

For the true story of Sweeney, check out
[broken link] http://www.crimelibrary.com/serial9/sweeney/

For details on the musical, check out
[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Broadway/9432/sondheim/sweeney.html

Matt.

[thomas adds]

Homicidal barbers? Say no more! See
http://www.montypython.net/scripts/barber.php