I Asked No Other Thing -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1925) I Asked No Other Thing I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled. Brazil? He twirled a button Without a glance my way: But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show today? -- Emily Dickinson

I was skimming through Jean Webster's "Daddy Long Legs" yesterday, because I
was sure I remembered a poem written by her heroine Judy Abbott in college,
which would go with the current theme. Couldn't find it, but I did come
across this rather enigmatic Dickinson piece.  Judy, writing to her
guardian, tells him about the poem --

  "In English class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson.
  This was it:

     I asked no other thing,
     No other was denied.
     I offered Being for it;
     The mighty merchant smiled.

     Brazil? He twirled a button
     Without a glance my way:
     But, madam, is there nothing else
     That we can show today?

  That is a poem. I don't know who wrote it or what it means. It was
  simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered
  to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I had an
  idea--The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in
  return for virtuous deeds-- but when I got to the second verse and found
  him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and I
  hastily changed my mind.  The rest of the class was in the same
  predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank
  paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an awfully
  wearing process!"

I must admit that, like Judy, my idea of what it means is rather vague. But
since, unlike Judy, I don't have to get an education out of it, I'm free to
enjoy it with my own interpretation!

I'd guess that the Mighty Merchant is meant to be God, a God who seems to
smile indifferently at her deepest desires. Some commentators suggest that
Brazil is a reference to heaven -- apparently, "during this period, exotic
locations frequently... represented heaven, or something desired and dreamt
of, yet beyond reach and denied." Other readings of the poem say Dicksinson
is speaking for all women seeking emancipation and freedom, the one thing
that is denied to them.

Quite apart from meaning, I think those first two lines just stick in the
memory somehow! Anyone else care to take a stab at interpretation?

Priscilla

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

A School Song -- Rudyard Kipling

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1905) A School Song "Let us now praise famous men"-- Men of little showing-- For their work continueth, And their work continueth, Greater than their knowing. Western wind and open surge Tore us from our mothers; Flung us on a naked shore (Twelve bleak houses by the shore! Seven summers by the shore!) 'Mid two hundred brothers. There we met with famous men Set in office o'er us. And they beat on us with rods-- Faithfully with many rods-- Daily beat us on with rods-- For the love they bore us! Out of Egypt unto Troy-- Over Himalaya-- Far and sure our bands have gone-- Hy-Brasil or Babylon, Islands of the Southern Run, And cities of Cathaia! And we all praise famous men-- Ancients of the College; For they taught us common sense--- Tried to teach us common sense-- Truth and God's Own Common Sense Which is more than knowledge! Each degree of Latitude Strung about Creation Seeth one (or more) of us, (Of one muster all of us-- Of one master all of us--) Keen in his vocation. This we learned from famous men Knowing not its uses When they showed in daily work Man must finish off his work-- Right or wrong, his daily work- And without excuses. Servants of the staff and chain, Mine and fuse and grapnel-- Some before the face of Kings, Stand before the face of Kings; Bearing gifts to divers Kings-- Gifts of Case and Shrapnel. This we learned from famous men Teaching in our borders. Who declare'd it was best, Safest, easiest and best-- Expeditious, wise and best-- To obey your orders. Some beneath the further stars Bear the greater burden. Set to serve the lands they rule, (Save he serve no man may rule) Serve and love the lands they rule; Seeking praise nor guerdon. This we learned from famous men Knowing not we learned it. Only, as the years went by-- Lonely, as the years went by-- Far from help as years went by Plainer we discerned it. Wherefore praise we famous men Prom whose bays we borrow-- They that put aside Today-- All the joys of their Today-- And with toil of their Today Bought for us Tomorrow! Bless and praise we famous men Men of little showing! For their work continueth And their work continueth Broad and deep continueth Great beyond their knowing! -- Rudyard Kipling

I'm not sure this qualifies for the theme --  it's the introductory poem to
Kipling's school story "Stalky and Co", but the school IS called the
College :)  (If you don't want to use it for this theme, why not save it up
for Teacher's Day on September 5?) [Works for me - it fits the theme in
spirit, at least - martin]

I must admit I'm submitting the poem largely because I loved the book.  I
remember discovering it during my own college days...fed up of exams and
literary criticism essays, I was rummaging through WCC's dusty and
unorganised fiction library looking for something light and entertaining
when I found "Stalky and Co". I laughed my way through the antics of Stalky,
Beetle and M'Turk, sparing hardly a thought for their poor teachers.

Interesting, then, that the opening lines of the book are a paean to those
same teachers. To me, they seem idealistic in a way the book is not. But
I've realised the truth of some of it now...while I feel none of the sheer
affection for my college professors that I did for elementary school
teachers for example, it's certainly true that I did learn so many things
from them without even realising it:

  This we learned from famous men
  Knowing not we learned it.

And certainly my favourite teachers were those who...

 ...taught us common sense---
 Tried to teach us common sense--
 Truth and God's Own Common Sense
 Which is more than knowledge!

I like the rhythm of the poem without being able to explain why (obviously,
I remember little of the lectures which attempted to teach me such basics of
poetry appreciation!)

Stalky and Co is rather different from the typical school story, both the
schoolboy tales of its own time or the more modern schoolgirl exploits I
devoured in middle school. Here's an essay that explores both the negative
and positive aspects of those differences and provides quite a good
background to the book: http://www.kipling.org.uk/rg_stalky_intro.htm#top

I'm just quoting an excerpt from it here:

  Stalky & Co. is the only school story which shows school as a direct
  preparation for life. Most others actually make the world outside
  school seem irrelevant, an anticlimax, an unimaginable void. Kipling,
  for all his intense feeling for the school atmosphere and the moods of
  adolescence, shows school as the first stage of a much larger game, a
  pattern-maker for the experiences of life. This is mainly what makes
  it unlike the others, with their narrow, school-centred preoccupations
  and their belief, often implied and sometimes even stated, in the
  overwhelming importance of this preliminary stage of life, which was
  actually presumed to outdo the rest in importance. In Kipling, not
  only is a later life envisaged very clearly at school, but the
  divisions between school and the world outside are less clearly
  defined than they are in most other school stories; not just in the
  sense that the boys make free with the surrounding countryside and
  hobnob happily with the locals, bilingual in standard English and
  broad Devon, but in a metaphorical sense: school teaches lessons
  (obviously), but, less obviously, the lessons are much more than those
  of the classroom. It teaches the boys how to live..."

And while this link between school/college and life is made clear in the
last chapter (a kind of epilogue that traces the later imperialistic careers
of its main characters), it's foreshadowed in this introductory poem as
well.

Priscilla

The Tree of Song -- Sara Teasdale

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj , who writes:

i just loved the last poem (Each in his own Tongue, Poem #1197): as you
said, both the imagery and attitude are lovely. i was looking for another
poem i once read on finding God in the world around us, in our daily lives;
but i just couldn't find it, even with a google search. i'm sure i've got a
hard copy somewhere, so maybe i'll send it some other time.

but when i did that google search, i discovered this other gem of a poem, and
just had to send it:

(Poem #1198) The Tree of Song I sang my songs for the rest, For you I am still; The tree of my song is bare On its shining hill. For you came like a lordly wind, And the leaves were whirled Far as forgotten things Past the rim of the world. The tree of my song stands bare Against the blue -- I gave my songs to the rest, Myself to you. -- Sara Teasdale

Something about this poem just struck a chord within me, but i'm not sure i
can explain WHY i like it in a very intelligible manner. there's just
something about it... of its image of a love that sweeps you off your feet,
so much so that the usual expressions of love seem insignificant. and a love
which requires the gift of oneself.

maybe i'm over-reacting to what is after all a simple love poem, (and no,
i'm *not* in love right now!) but i just liked the poem.

priscilla

i found lots more teasdale poems on the net, but precious little
biographical material. here's what i got from the mount holyoke college
archives:

  Sara Teasdale, an American poet, was born in 1884 in Saint Louis, Missouri
  to John W. Teasdale and Mary E. Willard. She was tutored at home and then
  graduated from a local private school in 1903. In 1905 she visited Europe
  and in 1907 she published her first collection of poems. In 1911, the
  publication of "Helen of Troy" introduced her to Louis Untermeyer, who,
  with his wife Jean, was to become a lifelong friend. On December 19, 1914,
  she married Ernst B. Filsinger. They divorced fifteen years later.
  Following the divorce, she published numerous volumes of poetry. Sara
  Teasdale committed suicide on January 29, 1933 in New York.

and here's a link to her poems:

  http://www.poemhunter.com/p/t/poet.asp?poet=3104

priscilla

Die Gedanken Sind Frei (Our Thoughts Are Free) -- Traditional

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

This one's not really a war poem, but it struck me as being relevant to the
times:

(Poem #1185) Die Gedanken Sind Frei (Our Thoughts Are Free) Die Gedanken sind frei My thoughts freely flower, Die Gedanken sind frei My thoughts give me power. No scholar can map them, No hunter can trap them, No man can deny: Die Gedanken sind frei! I think as I please And this gives me pleasure, My conscience decrees, This right I must treasure; My thoughts will not cater To duke or dictator, No man can deny-- Die Gedanken sind frei! And if tyrants take me And throw me in prison My thoughts will burst free, Like blossoms in season. Foundations will crumble, The structure will tumble, And free men will cry: Die Gedanken sind frei! Neither trouble or pain Will ever touch me again. No good comes of fretting, My hope's in forgetting. Within myself still I can think as I will, But I laugh, do not cry: Die Gedanken sind frei! -- Traditional

       (Old German song, translation by Arthur Kevess and Gerda Lerner)

I first discovered this poem in what was my favourite book as a child: 'From
Anna' by Jean Little. It tells the story of a German family in the 1930s who
are digusted with Hitler and Nazism and leave the Fatherland for Canada.

This song was apparently very popular immediately before and during World
War II. At a time when all freedoms were being attacked, Germans clung to
the fact that their thoughts were still free. It was a source of hope in the
concentration camps and an weapon of defiance to the resistance. (In fact, I
found this translation on a website about the student protest group, The
White Rose).

The poem has a long history of protest. It can be traced back to the 12th
Century when the minstrel (!) Dietmar von Aist sang "Die Gedanken, die sind
ledig frei".

It appeared in its current form during the Peasant Wars of 1524-5, a series
of rural uprisings directed against unbearable taxation.  Both Lutheran and
Catholic landlords cut the rebels down: Martin Luther himself condemned the
peasants.  But they didn't really care -- after all, their thoughts were
still free.

I guess it's still the same today. The manipulation of ideas and thoughts,
whether in Baghdad or Washington, will ultimately fail, because "Die
gedanken sind frei!"

Priscilla

PS: Interestingly, there are several fairly different versions and
translations of this song. If you want to read it in the original German, or
listen to the song set to music, check out this site:
http://members.aol.com/masksfaces/whiterose/free.html

And here's a not-so-popular version that some people say is more authentic:

Thoughts are free!
Who can guess them?
They fly along like nightly treasures.
No man can know them
No hunter can shoot them
With powder and lead
Thoughts are free!

I think about what I want
and what makes me happy
But everything quietly,
and just how it comes.
To my wish and desire
Nobody can oppose,
It stays this way:
Thoughts are free!

And if they lock me in a dark dungeon
That is something that can be forgiven
'Cause my thoughts tear up the bars and walls.
Thoughts are free!

I think about what I want
and what makes me happy ...

And if they lock me in a dark dungeon ...

I love wine, my girl most of all,
Only me she pleases best
I am not alone
With my glass of wine
My girl is with me:
Thoughts are free!

That's why I will never worry anymore
And I will never tease myself
with whims anymore
Because in one's heart
One can keep laughing and joking
While thinking
Thoughts are free!

Priscilla

The Little Boy and the Old Man -- Shel Silverstein

Guest poem submitted by Priscilla Jebaraj:

(Poem #996) The Little Boy and the Old Man Said the little boy, "Sometimes I drop my spoon." Said the old man, "I do that, too." The little boy whispered, "I wet my pants." "I do that too," laughed the little old man. Said the little boy, "I often cry." The old man nodded, "So do I." "But worst of all," said the boy, "it seems Grown-ups don't pay attention to me." And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand. "I know what you mean," said the little old man. -- Shel Silverstein

   This is the only Shel Silverstein poem I'd read till the one on the
pencil maker appeared on the Minstrels a couple of days ago [Make that a
couple of months ago - ed.]. I guess the special thing about this poem is
that when I first read it, I was still a child who understood what it felt
like when grown-ups didn't pay attention to me. And it had never really
struck me till then that very often the very old are also treated like the
very young. It helped me understand an aging grandfather. And ever since
then, I've tried to pay attention - to both the little boys and the little
old men around me.

Priscilla.

[Minstrels Links]

Shel Silverstein:
Poem #845, Recipe for a Hippopotamus Sandwich
Poem #892, Stupid Pencil Maker

Maiden Name -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Priscilla Jebaraj:

(Poem #886) Maiden Name Marrying left your maiden name disused. Its five light sounds no longer mean your face, Your voice, and all your variants of grace; For since you were so thankfully confused By law with someone else, you cannot be Semantically the same as that young beauty: It was of her that these two words were used. Now it's a phrase applicable to no one, Lying just where you left it, scattered through Old lists, old programmes, a school prize or two Packets of letters tied with tartan ribbon - Then is it scentless, weightless, strengthless, wholly Untruthful? Try whispering it slowly. No, it means you. Or, since you're past and gone, It means what we feel now about you then: How beautiful you were, and near, and young, So vivid, you might still be there among Those first few days, unfingermarked again. So your old name shelters our faithfulness, Instead of losing shape and meaning less With your depreciating luggage laden. -- Philip Larkin

I like everyday poems too, and I thought of this one when I read Night
Vision. I guess it's not really an everyday poem -- giving up your maiden
name doesn't happen everyday! -- but the images used are everyday. This
isn't a profound reflection on the loss of identity. Or maybe it is; except
that big words aren't used. Instead, there are simple, everyday pictures of
school prizes and tartan ribbon. This doesn't seem a poem with a forceful
message to propagate. But maybe it does just that, in its everyday way.

Priscilla.

[Minstrels Links]

Philip Larkin:
Poem #73, I Remember, I Remember
Poem #100, Days
Poem #178, Water
Poem #254, The North Ship
Poem #502, MCMXIV
Poem #544, Toads
Poem #756, An Arundel Tomb
Poem #793, No Road