To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems -- Oscar Wilde

Vikram Doctor writes "For no particularly clear
reasons, today's poem [Poem #1225] made me think of three others, each quite
different, but well worth carrying on the list."

I agree - the poems are very different, and yet all connected in some way to
Flecker's poem; they form a nice theme. So, back to Vikram, with the first
of his poems:

(Poem #1226) To My Wife - With A Copy Of My Poems I can write no stately proem As a prelude to my lay; From a poet to a poem I would dare to say. For if of these fallen petals One to you seem fair, Love will waft it till it settles On your hair. And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand. -- Oscar Wilde

  proem: An introduction; a preface

The first was by Oscar Wilde, a very simple and
delicate poem to his wife. Its not very much, and in
less sure hands could be too mawkish or pretty. But
Wilde gets the balance just right, and the result is a
poem which I read just casually once, but its always
stayed with me.

Vikram

[Martin adds]

As Vikram says, the poem has a very light, delicate touch - I was reminded in
places of Teasdale. What particularly struck me was the way it kept getting
better with every line - it starts off conventionally enough, but by the time
it gets to the last verse, it is evident that Wilde has painted a softly
beautiful image with a few, precise strokes; and the last line is quietly and
hauntingly perfect.

Not Waving But Drowning -- Stevie Smith

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, one last
hurrah for the 'poems in movies' theme:

(Poem #1180) Not Waving But Drowning Nobody heard him, the dead man, But still he lay moaning: I was much further out than you thought And not waving but drowning. Poor chap, he always loved larking And now he's dead It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way, They said. Oh, no no no, it was too cold always (Still the dead one lay moaning) I was much too far out all my life And not waving but drowning. -- Stevie Smith

I was surprised to find Minstrels hadn't run this since it's now quite a
well known poem and one that often crops up on websites where people have
collected their favourite poems. But there's only one other Stevie Smith
poem here and perhaps her rather quirky talent deserves more. She can
sometimes be almost tiresomely whimsical, but quite often, as with this
poem, this whimsy cuts through to reveal a bone chilling despair.

I thought this could go in the series of poems in films because I'm pretty
sure its used in 'Stevie' the biopic of her made in 1978 which stars Glenda
Jackson. The film is OK, it started life as a play and one gets the feeling
it must have worked better that way. It's too talky and everything is too
much like a stage set.

But Jackson's performance is good, both sprightly and sad, as one imagines
Stevie must have been. And she plays off very well with the other good
performance from Mona Washbourne as Stevie's 'Lion aunt' with whom she spent
her life. The interaction between the two is really warm and affectionate
and the best part of the film. In the course of it several poems of Stevie's
are quoted, and this I'm sure is one of them.

'The Faber Book of Movie Verse' edited by Philip French and Ken Waschin list
several other films based on the lives of poets, though they say that in
general
"real-life poets have been romanticized in a dotty, sometimes
unintentionally comic fashion." For example they give:

- the Brownings in 'The Barretts of Wimpole Street'
- Shelley & Byron in a prelude to James Whale's "The Bride of Frankenstein'
(egging Mary Shelley on to top her earlier work)
- Ronald Colman as Villon in 'If I Were King'
- Shelley, Byron and co. again having orgies in Ken Russell's 'Gothic'
- Byron alone in 'The Bad Lord Byron' (this sounds so cheesy I really want
to see it now!) and 'Lady Caroline Lamb'
- Rip Torn as Walt Whitman in 'Beautiful Dreamers'
- Swift, Pope and Addison in 'Orlando'
- Oscar Wilde in several films
- Edgar Allan Poe in D. W. Griffith's poem of the same name
- Verlaine and Rimbaud (played by Leonardo DiCaprio!) in 'Total Eclipse'.
(After he achieved teen love god status in Titanic this film became
unexpectedly popular since it has Leo in the nude!)
- Shakespeare in several films
- Ezra Pound in 'The Cage'
- T. S. Eliot in 'Tom and Viv'

Vikram.

Wires -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #1070) Wires The widest prairies have electric fences, For though old cattle know they must not stray Young steers are always scenting purer water Not here but anywhere. Beyond the wires Leads them to blunder up against the wires Whose muscles-shredding violence gives no quarter. Young steers become old cattle from that day, Electric limits to their widest senses. -- Philip Larkin

Have we run Larkin's Wires? It's the antithesis of Lindsay's poem or more
precisely, perhaps, its explanation. I suppose it's the common bovine
imagery that's making me imagine a link, but Larkin's poem can be seen as an
explanation of how the young that Lindsay sorrows for end up this way. It
is, of course, characteristic that Larkin takes the pessimistic view, while
Lindsay offers, if not exactly optimism, a plea to think that way.

Vikram.

[Minstrels Links]

The Lindsay poem Vikram is referring to is
Poem #1069, "The Leaden-Eyed" -- Vachel Lindsay

For other poems by Philip Larkin, see Poet #Larkin on the Minstrels website.

[thomas adds]

Do note the rhyme scheme -- abcd dcba. I don't think I've seen that one
before...

Partition -- W H Auden

A poem for India's indepedence day, submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #868) Partition Unbiased at least he was when he arrived on his mission, Having never set eyes on the land he was called to partition Between two peoples fanatically at odds, With their different diets and incompatible gods. "Time," they had briefed him in London, "is short. It's too late For mutual reconciliation or rational debate: The only solution now lies in separation. The Viceroy thinks, as you will see from his letter, That the less you are seen in his company the better, So we've arranged to provide you with other accommodation. We can give you four judges, two Moslem and two Hindu, To consult with, but the final decision must rest with you." Shut up in a lonely mansion, with police night and day Patrolling the gardens to keep the assassins away, He got down to work, to the task of settling the fate Of millions. The maps at his disposal were out of date And the Census Returns almost certainly incorrect, But there was no time to check them, no time to inspect Contested areas. The weather was frightfully hot, And a bout of dysentery kept him constantly on the trot, But in seven weeks it was done, the frontiers decided, A continent for better or worse divided. The next day he sailed for England, where he could quickly forget The case, as a good lawyer must. Return he would not, Afraid, as he told his Club, that he might get shot. -- W H Auden

 From the Collected Poems, 1976, p. 604, poem dated May 1966.

A good example of how while poets are normally thought of as estranged from
daily life, they can comment on news events in illuminating ways. This poem
says as much or more about the impossible nature of Radcliffe's job that any
thing I've read on the subject. The only thing perhaps to add in Radcliffe's
defence is that he refused the fee he was offered for his services.

Vikram.

Chorus from 'Atalanta in Calydon' -- Algernon Charles Swinburne

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #857) Chorus from 'Atalanta in Calydon' Before the beginning of years, There came to the making of man Time, with a gift of tears; Grief, with a glass that ran; Pleasure, with pain for leaven; Summer, with flowers that fell; Remembrance fallen from heaven, And madness risen from hell; Strength without hands to smite; Love that endures for a breath; Night, the shadow of light, And life, the shadow of death. And the high gods took in hand Fire, and the falling of tears, And a measure of sliding sand From under the feet of the years; And froth and drift of the sea; And dust of the laboring earth; And bodies of things to be In the houses of death and birth; And wrought with weeping and laughter, And fashioned with loathing and love, With life before and after, And death below and above, For a day and a night and a morrow, That his strength might endure for a span, With travail and heavy sorrow, The holy spirit of man. From the winds of the north and the south, They gathered as unto strife; They breathed upon his mouth, They filled his body with life; Eyesight and speech they wrought For the veils of the soul therein, A time for labor and thought, A time to serve and to sin; They gave him light in his ways, And love, and a space for delight, And beauty and length of days, And night, and sleep in the night. His speech is a burning fire; With his lips he travaileth; In his heart is a blind desire, In his eyes foreknowledge of death; He weaves, and is clothed with derision; Sows, and he shall not reap; His life is a watch or a vision Between a sleep and a sleep. -- Algernon Charles Swinburne

Swinburne is known for the musicality of his verse. There's another
frequently anthologised part of Atlanta in Calydon, "When the hounds of
spring are on their winter traces", which is one of the most insistently
rhythmic and musical pieces of verse I know. But he also had the ability to
create verse which is almost epigrammatic in its precision and polish -
without any loss of musicality. These lines sound like they are engraved on
the wall of a tomb - omniscient, tragic, hard edged and clear. They are so
simple that they enter your memory almost without your knowing it.

Vikram.

[thomas adds]

Swinburne's poetry fascinates me, and repels me. There's no denying the
felicity (I would hesitate to call it 'beauty') of his verse, the flowing
end-stopped lines, lush with alliteration, laden with promise. But it's a
promise which never seems to be fulfilled. Instead, the poetry turns in on
itself, phrase piled on phrase until the reader is left gasping for any
breath of meaning, any escape from the suffocating music of the words. The
synaesthesia they induce is tempting at first, but its sickly sweet odour
quickly becomes cloying.

Part of the problem is the poet's irritating vagueness. Swinburne never
particularizes; indeed, he delights in using twenty words where one will do.
He never offers details for readers to latch on to; his material is almost
completely abstract. And yet, to rebuke him for this is to miss the point
entirely: for Swinburne, words _are_ meaning; they do not exist to describe
an external world; they form a world in themselves. Their vagueness is not
the vagueness of bad poetry; rather, it forms a vital part of the poet's
style. Eliot puts it well: "The diffuseness is essential; had Swinburne
practised greater concentration his verse would be, not better in the same
kind, but a different thing. His diffuseness is one of his glories".

thomas.

No Road -- Philip Larkin

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #793) No Road Since we agreed to let the road between us Fall to disuse, And bricked our gates up, planted trees to screen us, And turned all time's eroding agents loose, Silence, and space, and strangers - our neglect Has not had much effect. Leaves drift unswept, perhaps; grass creeps unmown; No other change. So clear it stands, so little overgrown, Walking that way tonight would not seem strange, And still would be followed. A little longer, And time would be the stronger, Drafting a world where no such road will run From you to me; To watch that world come up like a cold sun, Rewarding others, is my liberty. Not to prevent it is my will's fulfillment. Willing it, my ailment. -- Philip Larkin

This is not one of Larkin's best known poems, and I've always wondered why.
In its quiet way it's one of the saddest and most haunting poems I know. The
first two verses capture very precisely the way that even after a really
deep relationship ends one has the feeling that one could just turn it on
again.

It's wishful thinking maybe, but it's only after things have ended that you
realise how deeply the relationship has delved into you, and you feel that
with no problem you could just forget all the problems and go down that road
again.

But then there's the last verse and this is one of the bleakest bits of
verse I know. Because it acknowledges that the road will never be opened
again, and the reason for that is not the many superficial reasons you ended
it for, but because of you. Because you did it, and you did it because you
could do it. And that is the way people behave, even though that is what is
wrong with them.

Vikram.

[Minstrels Links]

Poems by 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"
The first and fourth of these have biographies attached; the second and
sixth have external critical commentary, by George Macbeth and Gary Geddes,
respectively.

"Deprivation is to me what daffodils are to Wordsworth."
        -- Philip Larkin.

Love Without Hope -- Robert Graves

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #763) Love Without Hope Love without hope, as when the young bird-catcher Swept off his tall hat to the Squire's own daughter, So let the imprisoned larks escape and fly Singing about her head, as she rode by. -- Robert Graves

Graves isn't always an easy poet to read. His more mystical works are pretty
hard going. But nothing could be simpler than today's poem in the way it
captures both the impossibilities of one-sided love, and yet the good that
can come of it.

The pain of one-sided loving can have some redeeming benefits. Perhaps it
could be in the way it makes you more aware of your feelings (as in the
Auden poem 'The More Loving One' which I sent earlier). Perhaps it could be
with the art that comes from it - think of the many masterpieces of
literature that have come from unattainable love. Perhaps even just in the
generosity of a gesture that can "let the imprisoned larks escape and fly /
Singing about her head... "

Vikram.

[Minstrels Links]

Other poems by Robert Graves:
Poem #55, "Welsh Incident"
Poem #298, "The Cool Web"
Poem #467, "Like Snow"
Poem #515, "The Persian Version"
Poem #564, "Warning to Children"
Poem #663, "A Child's Nightmare"
The first of these has a Graves bio attached.

Be Near Me -- Faiz Ahmed Faiz

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #748) Be Near Me You who demolish me, you whom I love, be near me. Remain near me when evening, drunk on the blood of the skies, becomes night, in its one hand a perfumed balm, in the other a sword sheathed in the diamond of stars. Be near me when night laments or sings, or when it begins to dance, its steel-blue anklets ringing with grief. Be here when longings, long submerged in the heart's waters, resurface and when everyone begins to look: Where is the assassin? In whose sleeve is hidden the redeeming knife? And when wine, as it is poured, is the sobbing of children whom nothing will console - when nothing holds, when nothing is: at that dark hour when night mourns, be near me, my destroyer, my lover, be near me. -- Faiz Ahmed Faiz

translated by Agha Shahid Ali.

I don't find Urdu poets very easy reading (in English, unfortunately I don't
read Urdu). I'm intrigued and attracted to them by the extravagance of their
emotions, the intensity of their images. Perhaps it's translation, perhaps
it's their frequent use of the ghazal, hardly the easiest of form of poetry
to understand, but I often find it hard to figure out what's going on.

The exception is Faiz. He's one poet who manages to balance deep emotion, as
in this poem, with more complex issues of life and politics. (He has also
been lucky in having an exceptionally good translator in Agha Shahid Ali). I
have no particular sympathy for Faiz's Marxist politics, at least as
expressed by politicians, but with Faiz you get the feeling that his views
spring from a deep, passionate engagement with humanity, a concern for
people, a love of life that one cannot help connecting to. Perhaps Marxism
would have been more successful if it had had more poets like Faiz.

This poem though is not one of his political ones, but one just focusing on
love. I was going to say it's a simple poem, but perhaps it's not, since the
Beloved in this poem is both the one he loves and the one who he feels will
destroy him. It's a hugely extravagant and intense poem, but Faiz's skill
prevents it from going over the top.

Vikram.

[Moreover]

Vikram's friend Vicente has some interesting comments to add:

There may in my view be more connection between "Hispanic" poets (Latin
American and Spanish/Portuguese), and Indian poets than meets the eye,
particularly but not exclusively the Northern Indian poets with strong
influences from the Mughal, Arabic and Islamic traditions. And even the
explicitly Hindu poets were not uninfluenced by the Islamic forms, nor were
they uninfluenced in turn. The southern coasts also share this influence,
due to the maritime Arab trade routes, which brought Kerala and Tamil Nadu
into contact with these same poetics (and had some influence no doubt in
reverse also).

The link is of course Islamic Spain, which lasted 500 years up to the
1490's, and the influence of Arab/Islamic forms in Al-Andaluz or Andalucia.
If you listen to the ancient Saetas of Seville, or the Cante Jondo (Deep
Song) of Granada, you could be forgiven for thinking you are listening to
the bitter sweet music and lyrics directly reflected in this poem by Faiz.
Here I am talking about the "real" saetas that can still be heard sung in
the streets of Seville during Holy week. The flamenco of today, or the pop
flamenco of The Gypsy Kings, are only a poor reflection.

The imagery of the oasis and desert (water and thirst, abundance and loss,
youth and age), the symbology of flowers, death and love, blood and revenge,
the sound of birds, the reverie of wine and the impermanence of all earthly
phenomena, are all the stock in trade of Spanish Andalucian poetics, and
continue in the contemporary "Andalucian" music of Morocco.

The pogrom against Jews and Muslims by Their Catholic Majesties Isabella and
Ferdinand (Los Reyes Catolicos) also served to disperse Andalucian music
across the whole globe. There are Sephardic Jewish songs, variations of
which can be found in Spain, Morocco, Egypt, Iraq, Bombay, Cochin, Burma,
and Shanghai. Last year, I was telling a Jewish elder in Cochin about a
particular Sephardic song I like about domestic violence and choice in
marriage, which I have heard in Ladino (the Medieval Spanish and Hebrew
creole of Sephardic Jews), and lo and behold a version was known in the
Keralan creole of the Cochin Jews. Similarly, an old man of Vypin (Vypeen)
sang another song "Shingly Nona" to me two years ago which is a mix of
Keralan dialect and corrupted Portuguese [1].

The Granadan poet Federico Garcia Lorca was strongly influenced by the cante
jondo tradition, and did much to revitalise it, and his poetry, although
reflective of the surrealist (and Republican) trends of his time, is
recognisably within the broad stream in which Faiz also sits. Following the
"discovery" of the Americas in 1492, these streams of influence traveled
west, and can be felt amongst not only poets like Octavio Paz,
Pablo Neruda and Vicente Huidobro, but also novelists.

Vicente.

[1] http://www.terravista.pt/ilhadomel/1899/cochimpoema1.html has several
versions of this poem, in different languages/dialects.

from The Dog Beneath The Skin -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Vikram Doctor

(Poem #728) from The Dog Beneath The Skin Now through night's caressing grip Earth and all her oceans slip, Capes of China slide away From her fingers into day And the Americas incline Coasts towards her shadow line. Now the ragged vagrants creep Into crooked holes to sleep: Just and unjust, worst and best, Change their places as they rest: Awkward lovers lie in fields Where disdainful beauty yields: While the splendid and the proud Naked stand before the crowd And the losing gambler gains And the beggar entertains: May sleep's healing power extend Through these hours to our friend. Unpursued by hostile force, Traction engine, bull or horse Or revolting succubus; Calmly till the morning break Let him lie, then gently wake. -- W H Auden

Another Auden poem, another lullaby. This shows Auden's ability with the
simplest of poems - just a matchless word picture of our 'swiftly tilting
planet' (have we had Aiken's Senlin poem?), infused with that unique feeling
of tenderness and protectiveness that anyone who has watched someone one
loves sleeping will know.

Vikram

On His Queerness -- Christopher Isherwood

Winding up the theme, a third guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #704) On His Queerness When I was young and wanted to see the sights, They told me: 'Cast an eye over the Roman Camp If you care to. But plan to spend most of your day at the Aquarium - Because, after all, the Aquarium - Well, I mean to say, the Aquarium - Till you've seen the Aquarium you ain't seen nothing.' So I cast my eye over The Roman Camp - And that old Roman Camp, That old, old Roman Camp Got me Interested. So that now, near closing-time, I find that I still know nothing - And am still not even sorry that I know nothing - About fish. -- Christopher Isherwood

This sort of carries on and updates the Roman ruin link to today - but in a
very different way! Not the best of poems, and Isherwood isn't really a
poet. But in a way I like the poem for capturing that cool, ironic gaze on
life that Isherwood made so much his own in books like 'Goodbye To Berlin'.

Vikram.

[Biography]

        b. Aug. 26, 1904, High Lane, Cheshire, Eng.
        d. Jan. 4, 1986, Santa Monica, Calif., U.S.

CHRISTOPHER WILLIAM BRADSHAW-ISHERWOOD, Anglo-American novelist and
playwright best known for his novels about Berlin in the early 1930s.

After working as a secretary and a private tutor, Isherwood gained a measure
of coterie recognition with his first two novels, All the Conspirators
(1928) and The Memorial (1932). During the 1930s he collaborated with his
friend W.H. Auden on three verse dramas, including The Ascent of F6 (1936).
But it had been in 1929 that he found the theme that was to make him widely
known. Between 1929 and 1933 he lived in Berlin, gaining an outsider's view
of the simultaneous decay of the Weimar Republic and the rise of Nazism. His
novels Mr. Norris Changes Trains (1935; The Last of Mr. Norris) and Goodbye
to Berlin (1939), which were later published together as The Berlin Stories,
established his reputation as an important writer and inspired the play I Am
a Camera (1951; film 1955) and the musical Cabaret (1966; film 1972). These
books are detached but humorous studies of dubious characters leading seedy
expatriate lives in the German capital. In 1938 Isherwood published Lions
and Shadows, an amusing and sensitive account of his early life and
friendships while a student at the University of Cambridge.

The coming of World War II saw not merely a change of outlook in Isherwood's
writing but also a permanent change of domicile. He immigrated to the United
States in 1939 and settled in southern California, where he taught and wrote
for Hollywood films. He was naturalized in 1946. It was also in 1939 that
Isherwood turned to pacifism and the self-abnegation of Indian Vedanta,
becoming a follower of Swami Prabhavananda. In the following decades,
Isherwood produced several works on Vedanta and translations with
Prabhavananda, including one of the Bhagavadgita.

Isherwood's postwar novels continued to demonstrate his personal style of
fictional autobiography. A Single Man (1964), a brief but highly regarded
novel, presents a single day in the life of a lonely, middle-aged
homosexual. His avowedly autobiographical works include a self-revealing
memoir of his parents, Kathleen and Frank (1971); a retrospective biography
of himself in the 1930s, Christopher and His Kind (1977); and a study of his
relationship with Prabhavananda and Vedanta, My Guru and His Disciple
(1980).

From 1953 on, Isherwood lived with a companion, Don Bachardy, a painter and
portraitist, and both later became involved in homosexual-rights causes.

        -- EB

[Minstrels Links]

As Vikram remarks, Isherwood isn't really a poet; nevertheless, he is
perhaps most remembered for his long association with someone who was,
namely, W. H. Auden. Interestingly enough, Auden also wrote several poems
about ancient Rome (and the shadow it casts upon modern European culture);
check out Poem #491, "Roman Wall Blues", and Poem #494, "The Fall of Rome".

On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble -- A E Housman

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #703) On Wenlock Edge The Wood's In Trouble On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves; The gale, it plies the saplings double, And thick on Severn snow the leaves. 'Twould blow like this through holt and hanger When Uricon the city stood; 'Tis the old wind in the old anger, But then it threshed another wood. Then, 'twas before my time, the Roman At yonder heaving hill would stare; The blood that warms an English yeoman, The thoughts that hurt him, they were there. There, like the wind through woods in riot, Through him the gale of life blew high; The tree of man was never quiet: Then 'twas the Roman, now 'tis I. The gale, it plies the saplings double, It blows so hard, 'twill soon be gone: Today the Roman and his trouble Are ashes under Uricon. -- A E Housman

Poem XXXI from "A Shropshire Lad", 1896.

While I was typing out the Masefield I suddenly thought of this, realising
the similarity in what the poet is doing in both. It seems a continuous
tradition in English poetry, the contemplation of the ruins of Roman Britain
to make one think of the past - a tradition that goes all the way back to
that fragment of Anglo-Saxon verse I think Thomas posted on the list
sometime back.

Vikram.

PS. This poem, by the way, has also given the title to a very fine book:
Patrick White's The Tree Of Man, the Australian epic which was one of the
books mentioned in his Nobel Prize citation.

PPS. Uricon was the Roman city also known as Virconium.

[Minstrels Links]

The Masefield referred to is yesterday's poem, "Night is on the Downland":
poem #702

We've posted lots of 'fragments of Anglo-Saxon verse' on the list; check out

[broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html
and search for 'Anon' in the list of poets.

Other Minstrels poems about ancient Rome:
Poem #296, "Footsteps", Constantine Cavafy.
Poem #489, "Horatius", Thomas Babbington Macaulay.
Poem #491, "Roman Wall Blues", W. H. Auden.
Poem #493, "A Pict Song", Rudyard Kipling.
Poem #494, "The Fall of Rome", W. H. Auden.
Poem #499, "Lay of Ancient Rome", Thomas Ybarra.
Poem #519, "The Roman Road", Thomas Hardy.

Other Minstrels poems by A. E. Housman:
Poem #33, "White in the Moon the Long Road Lies", A Shropshire Lad, XXXVI.
Poem #86, "When I Was One-and-Twenty", A Shropshire Lad, XIII.
Poem #377, "Loveliest of trees, the cherry now", A Shropshire Lad, II.
Poem #439, "Look not in my eyes, for fear", A Shropshire Lad, XV.
Poem #588, "Terence, this is stupid stuff", A Shropshire Lad,  LXII.
Poem #539, "Yonder see the morning blink", Last Poems, XI.

The first and third of these have Housman biographies attached.

Night Is On The Downland -- John Masefield

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #702) Night Is On The Downland Night is on the downland, on the lonely moorland, On the hills where the wind goes over sheep-bitten turf, Where the bent grass beats upon the unplowed poorland And the pine-woods roar like the surf. Here the Roman lived on the wind-barren lonely, Dark now and haunted by the moorland fowl; None comes here now but the peewit only, And moth-like death in the owl. Beauty was here in on this beetle-droning downland; The thought of a Caesar in the purple came From the palace by the Tiber in the Roman townland To this wind-swept hill with no name. Lonely Beauty came here and was here in sadness, Brave as a thought on the frontier of the mind, In the camp of the wild upon the march of madness, The bright-eyed Queen of the Blind. Now where Beauty was are the wind-withered gorses, Moaning like old men in the hill-wind's blast; The flying sky is dark with running horses, And the night is full of the past. -- John Masefield

A very vivid poem from Masefield. You can almost see the wind pouring the
clouds past, whipping past your ears in the dark. "Brave as a thought on the
frontier of the mind" is a line that has particularly stuck in my mind.

Masefield, by the way, is one of those poets best read in anthology. I once
tried reading a collected works, and tired quite fast. And I read this in
one of the best anthologies I've ever found: The Pocket Book Of Modern
Verse, edited by Oscar Williams.

I bought it years ago in a place that has now sadly vanished - Moore Market
in Madras. This was a wonderful old red brick structure from the Raj, in the
ornate Indo-Saracenic style you get in Madras. It was a warren of shops of
all kinds, but the ones I stuck to were all in the circle of old book shops
that ringed the Market. (Very sadly, it burned down - or was burned down,
it's never been precisely solved - some years later)

I was quite young then and just starting to read poetry as opposed to
mugging it in school. And this book I think was the perfect introduction.
Williams' definition of modern is a broad one, going from Walt Whitman,
Matthew Arnold and W.S.Gilbert, via Wallace Steves and Ezra Pound,
A.E.Housman and John Masefield all the way to Philip Larkin and Ted Hughes.
(No Eliot though, his estate didn't allow it).

This may seem too broad a sweep, but I think it was best for the reader I
then was. The traditional poems like this Masefield one were easy to
understand, so I wasn't put off and form the impression so many people have
of poetry has weird and difficult. Williams steered clear though of the more
mawkish traditional poems and mixed with them were always the more
challenging ones.

It started right from Whitman, whose burst of pure energy got the collection
off to a high power start. There were the formal melodies of Wallace Steves,
more energy from Ezra Pound, and as the book progressed poets who I didn't
always understand then, but came to appreciate over the years.

The other reason I liked the book was the photographs. Tiny, sepia, passport
ones of the poets' faces. I can't say why but it somehow made it more read
and vivid, it added some quality of life, to have faces one could connect
with poems. Perhaps it was a bit specious, but there seemed to be a link.
The melancholy of Housman reflected in the bleakness of his gaze. Edna
St.Vincent Millay looked as beautiful and doomed as her poems suggest.

I wasn't the only one who felt this way. Years later I read an article by a
poet from, I think, the Soviet Union. Some country under censorship, with
access to Western works curtailed. Somehow he got a copy of this same book,
and for him too the faces came to matter along with the poems. The book was
a link to a wider world of poetry, and the faces helped reinforce their
iconic stature.

I've read many other good anthologies since then, learning to appreciate the
anthologist's art. Palgrave's classic one, for example. Or The Faber Book of
Modern Verse, for example, which finally introduced me to the Wasteland. Or
a more personal one, like Lord Wavell's Other Men's Flower's (both because
its really nice, as well as for the thought of him reading them in between
all the frustrating negotiations for Indian Independence). But, though it's
old now and falling to pieces now so I can't really read it much, The Pocket
Book remains one of the best anthologies for me.

Vikram.

True Love -- Wislawa Szymborska

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #694) True Love True love. Is it normal is it serious, is it practical? What does the world get from two people who exist in a world of their own? Placed on the same pedestal for no good reason, drawn randomly from millions but convinced it had to happen this way - in reward for what? For nothing. The light descends from nowhere. Why on these two and not on others? Doesn't this outrage justice? Yes it does. Doesn't it disrupt our painstakingly erected principles, and cast the moral from the peak? Yes on both accounts. Look at the happy couple. Couldn't they at least try to hide it, fake a little depression for their friends' sake? Listen to them laughing - its an insult. The language they use - deceptively clear. And their little celebrations, rituals, the elaborate mutual routines - it's obviously a plot behind the human race's back! It's hard even to guess how far things might go if people start to follow their example. What could religion and poetry count on? What would be remembered? What renounced? Who'd want to stay within bounds? True love. Is it really necessary? Tact and common sense tell us to pass over it in silence, like a scandal in Life's highest circles. Perfectly good children are born without its help. It couldn't populate the planet in a million years, it comes along so rarely. Let the people who never find true love keep saying that there's no such thing. Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die. -- Wislawa Szymborska

Translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh.

Wislawa Szymborska has got to be one of the best things thrown up by the
Nobel Prize. When she won it in 1996 she wasn't widely known outside Poland.
But in this case the Prize did what it does rarely. It took a break from
honouring well known writers because "they have to get it" or writers who
get it as a political statement rather than because of the quality of their
writing, and gave it to a writer who can simply be enjoyed.

I love her poems to bits. He voice is warm, witty, knowing and human,
mocking, yet life-affirming. Her language is direct and easy to understand.
She's one poet you automatically feel you're friends with. She may not be a
'great' poet and her themes may not be 'great' themes. But she speaks for
all the not-so-great people, who, while all the great people are making
history, simply have to get on with their lives. I strongly recommend buying
'View With A Grain Of Sand' which is a book of her selected poems.

This is a typical Wislawa poem. She takes the figure of the troooo luvvers
and looks at them through the eyes of the Outraged and Earnest Majority,
asking Is This A Good Thing? What Does It Mean For Society? Should It Be
Encouraged? And let's admit here that there are probably bits of the
Outraged and Earnest Majority in us because let's be honest, haven't some
these thoughts occurred to us as well? I mean, maybe it's envy, maybe
exasperation, but haven't we all looked at some eyes-only-for-each-other
couple and muttered, "God look at them, can't they get over it!"

Wislawa builds on these human if dishonourable feelings and takes them to
the extremes of such pompous statements as "It couldn't populate the planet
in a million years". All the people in the Earnest Majority, who are never
going to know true love are told to keep insisting it's not possible.

And then with her last line she undermines it all. Such people may feel the
need to keep believing this, but this simply affirms the reality of love.
"Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die". The harder you
need to not believe in love, in order not to be depressed by its lack for
you, the stronger in reality you affirm its importance.

Vikram.

In Westminster Abbey -- John Betjeman

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #613) In Westminster Abbey Let me take this other glove off As the vox humana swells, And the beauteous fields of Eden Bask beneath the Abbey bells. Here, where England's statesmen lie, Listen to a lady's cry. Gracious Lord, oh bomb the Germans. Spare their women for Thy Sake, And if that is not too easy We will pardon Thy Mistake. But, gracious Lord, whate'er shall be, Don't let anyone bomb me. Keep our Empire undismembered Guide our Forces by Thy Hand, Gallant blacks from far Jamaica, Honduras and Togoland; Protect them Lord in all their fights, And, even more, protect the whites. Think of what our Nation stands for, Books from Boots and country lanes, Free speech, free passes, class distinction, Democracy and proper drains. Lord, put beneath Thy special care One-eighty-nine Cadogan Square. Although dear Lord I am a sinner, I have done no major crime; Now I'll come to Evening Service Whensoever I have the time. So, Lord, reserve for me a crown. And do not let my shares go down. I will labour for Thy Kingdom, Help our lads to win the war, Send white flowers to the cowards Join the Women's Army Corps, Then wash the Steps around Thy Throne In the Eternal Safety Zone. Now I feel a little better, What a treat to hear Thy word, Where the bones of leading statesmen, Have so often been interr'd. And now, dear Lord, I cannot wait Because I have a luncheon date. -- John Betjeman

I don't want to run down patriotism, or the giving of charity - both are
always needed. But I have my suspicions - to the point of rather retching -
at the quick and easy way patriotism is quickly taken up by people, and just
as quickly dropped (except where required for electoral purposes). About
Betjeman no info at hand, and I know there's tons, about his Poet
Laureateship, and his public image and more, but am too lazy to go rooting
for it at the moment.

Vikram.

PS. Bio: poem #543 - t.

Deep Sorriness Atonement Song -- Glyn Maxwell

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #602) Deep Sorriness Atonement Song (for missed appointment, BBC North, Manchester) The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle, He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle, And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn't think they'd make it So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought "Oh well I'll bake it" But his chances they were slim And his brothers they were Grimm, And he's sorry, very sorry, But I'm sorrier than him. And the drunken plastic surgeon who said "I know, let's enlarge 'em!" And the bloke who told the Light Brigade "Oh what the hell, let's charge 'em", The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic And the Mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic, And the Dong about his nose And the Pobble re his toes, They're all sorry very sorry But I'm sorrier than those. And don't forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas, And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as, And anyone who reckoned it was City's year for Wembley. And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly, And the man who always smiles Cause he knows I have his files, They're all sorry, really sorry, But I'm sorrier by miles. And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to the Norwegian, And anyone who's ever split a pint with a Glaswegian, Or told a Finn a joke or spent an hour with a Swiss-German, Or got a mermaid in the sack and found it was a merman, Or him who smelt a rat, And got curious as a cat, They're all sorry, deeply sorry, But I'm sorrier than that. All the people who were rubbish when we needed them to do it, Whose wires crossed, whose spirit failed, who ballsed it up or blew it, All notches of nul points and all who have a problem Houston, At least they weren't in Kensington when they should have been at Euston. For I didn't build the Wall And I didn't cause the Fall But I'm sorry, Lord, I'm sorry, I'm the sorriest of all. -- Glyn Maxwell

There are irritating sorts of people who don't read poetry because they ask
what use its for. Of course, just answering this is stupid, since usefulness
is hardly the point. Nonetheless, I'm still happy to note that I have often
found poetry useful. There are many situations where I've screwed up,
offended someone, need to make amends, and just saying sorry alone never
seems enough. Adding a poem, like the one above, is an easy way of making
the apology a bit different and making the person you've offended laugh and
be more forgiving.

Gyn Maxwell is a young British poet. I don't actually much like his work,
but this was an exception.

Vikram.

[thomas adds]

I'll type in some notes - just as soon as I stop laughing...

[Notes]

'The man who sold Manhattan for a halfway decent bangle': In 1626 Peter
Minuit, the first director general of New Netherland province, is said to
have purchased the island from the local Indians (the Manhattan, a tribe of
the Wappinger Confederacy) with trinkets and cloth valued at 60 guilders,
then worth about 1 1/2 pounds (0.7 kg) of silver
        -- EB, http://www.eb.com

'He had talks with Adolf Hitler and could see it from his angle': Probably a
reference to Neville Chamberlain, who returned from negotiations with Hitler
in Munich and famously declared "I believe it is peace for our time". It
wasn't.

'And he could have signed the Quarrymen but didn't think they'd make it':
'The Quarrymen' was one of the early names of the greatest rock group of all
time, the Beatles. Manager Brian Epstein sent demo tapes to literally dozens
of recording companies before landing a contract with EMI/Parlophone.

'So he bought a cake on Pudding Lane and thought "Oh well I'll bake it"':
The Great Fire of London, in 1666, started in a bakery on Pudding Lane. (It
ended on Pie Lane, but that's a different matter altogether).

'And the bloke who told the Light Brigade "Oh what the hell, let's charge
'em"': The ill-fated Charge of the Light Brigade, immortalized by Tennyson;
see poem #355

'The magician with an early evening gig on the Titanic': One can safely
assume that the performance sank without a trace.

'And the Mayor who told the people of Atlantis not to panic': Famous last
words.

'And the Dong about his nose / And the Pobble re his toes': The Dong with
the Luminous Nose, and the Pobble who has no Toes are characters from the
mysterious, twilit world of Edward Lear's imagination. See poem #297 for
the latter (we haven't run the former yet).

'And don't forget the Bible, with the Sodomites and Judas,
And Onan who discovered something nothing was as rude as'
Sodomy: copulation with a member of the same sex or with an animal
Onanism: masturbation
Judas: one who betrays under the guise of friendship
        -- Merriam Webster, http://www.m-w.com

'And anyone who reckoned it was City's year for Wembley': Manchester City
have never won the F. A. Cup.

'And the kid who called Napoleon a shortarse in assembly': The widespread
notion of Napoleon's shortness lies in the inaccurate translation of old
French feet ("pieds de roi") to English. The French measure of five foot two
(5' 2"), recorded at his autopsy, actually translates into five feet six and
one half inches (5' 6.5") in English measure, which was about the average
height of the Frenchman of his day. It's also probable that the grenadiers
of his Imperial Guard, with whom he "hung out," were very tall men, therefor
creating the illusion that Napoleon was very short.
        -- http://www.lucidcafe.com/library/95aug/napoleon.html

'And Robert Falcon Scott who lost the race to the Norwegian': Roald Amundsen
reached the South Pole about a month before Scott's doomed expedition.

'And anyone who's ever split a pint with a Glaswegian': Glaswegians are
notorious for their tightfistedness...
'Or told a Finn a joke': ... Finns for their lack of humour...
'or spent an hour with a Swiss-German': ... and Germans for their
boringness.

'All notches of nul points': I'm not sure exactly what this is a reference
to, but Vikram says it might have something to do with the Eurovision song
contest. (Songs that get booed even on Eurovision - ooh, horrendous thought
<grin>).

'and all who have a problem Houston': Astronaut Jack Swigert, command module
pilot of the unsuccessful Apollo 13 mission, reported the first signs of
trouble with this marvellous piece of understatement: "Houston, we've had a
problem here". A vivid account of the subsequent rescue can bo found here:
http://science.ksc.nasa.gov/history/apollo/apollo-13/apollo-13.html

'they should have been at Euston': Euston station, point of departure for
trains from London to Manchester.

[Moreover]

Here's a nicely written review of Maxwell's latest collection of poems:
[broken link] http://www.thenewrepublic.com/archive/0699/061499/kirsch061499.html
The Maxwell-specific stuff starts only in the eighth paragraph; the
preceding material is all about 'the crisis of modern poetry'. Very
interesting - read it!

[Random Ramblings]

The subtitle, 'for missed appointment, BBC North, Manchester, reminds me of
a Muir and Norden classic [1] - the time Frank and Denis were going to a BBC
audition and got hopelessely lost: "Muir in Surrey, Den in Ongar".

[1] Frank Muir and Denis Norden used to run this BBC radio show called 'My
Word', in which they would each improvise outrageous stories culminating in
a punchline which was always an atrocious pun. Sidesplittingly funny.

The Death Of The Bird -- A D Hope

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, who was
actually the person who first suggested the Australian theme to us:

With everyone's eyes turning to Sydney, why not do an Australian theme? I
can't think off-hand of too many Australian poems, but there are good poets
like Les Murray and Peter Porter. And there is this one, which has remained
with me ever since I first read it:

(Poem #571) The Death Of The Bird For every bird there is this last migration; Once more the cooling year kindles her heart; With a warm passage to the summer station Love pricks the course in lights across the chart. Year after year a speck on the map divided By a whole hemisphere, summons her to come; Season after season, sure and safely guided, Going away she is also coming home; And being home, memory becomes a passion With which she feeds her brood and straws her nest; Aware of ghosts that haunt the heart's possession And exiled love mourning within the breast. The sands are green with a mirage of valleys; The palm-tree casts a shadow not its own; Down the long architrave of temple or palace Blows a cool air from moorland scraps of stone. And day by day the whisper of love grows stronger, The delicate voice, more urgent with despair, Custom and fear constraining her no longer, Drives her at last on the waste leagues of air. A vanishing speck in those inane dominions, Single and frail, uncertain of her place. Alone in the bright host of her companions, Lost in the blue unfriendliness of space. She feels it close now, the appointed season: The invisible thread is broken as she flies; Suddenly, without warning, without reason, The guiding spark of instinct winks and dies. Try as she will the trackless world delivers No way, the wilderness of light no sign, The immense and complex map of hills and rivers Mocks her small wisdom with its vast design. And darkness rises from the eastern valleys, And the winds buffet her with their hungry breath, And the great earth, with neither grief not malice, Receives the tiny burden of her death. -- A D Hope

A simple poem, but one that has always impressed me for the quiet way it
builds up in force. Starting from the small presence of the bird getting the
migratory itch, it slowly expands to show her smallness against the
immensity of what she sets out to do.

Then suddenly, without any warning, the thread is terrifyingly cut and it is
our worst nightmare of being totally lost in a blind, indifferent world. And
the last verse is hugely impactful as the the immensity of the world rises
up to overwhelm the bird.

(There is something almost pagan about it, since this is literally as far as
you get from the Biblical "not a sparrow shall fall...").

Vikram.

[thomas adds]

Les Murray wrote 'An Absolutely Ordinary Rainbow', a guest poem submitted by
Ron Heard (who's from Queensland, if I remember correctly): poem #387

Peter Porter has featured several times on the Minstrels (I happen to like
his work); check out
'Instant Fish', poem #64
'Japanese Jokes', poem #198
'Your Attention Please', poem #222

Ballade of the Hanged (Villon's Epitaph) -- Francois Villon

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor:

(Poem #556) Ballade of the Hanged (Villon's Epitaph) Brothers that live when we are dead, don't set yourself against us too. If you could pity us instead, then God may sooner pity you. We five or six strung up to view, dangling the flesh we fed so well, are eaten piecemeal, rot and smell. We bones in a fine dust shall fall. No one make that a laugh to tell: pray God may save us one and all. Brothers, if that's the word we said, it's no disparagement to you although in justice we hang dead. Yet all the same you know how few are men of sense in all they do. Pray now we're dead that Jesu's well of grace shall not run dry - nor Hell open in thunder as we fall. We're dead don't harry us as well: pray God may save us one and all. Showered and rinsed with rain, we dead the sun has dried out black and blue. Magpie and crow gouge out each head for eyes and pluck the hair. On view, never at rest a moment of two, winds blow us here or there a spell; more pricked than a tailor's thumb could tell we're needled by the birds. Don't fall then for our brotherhood and cell: pray God may save us one and all. Prince, Lord of Men, oh keep us well beyond the sovereignty of Hell. On him we've no business to call. And, men, it's no joke now I tell: pray God may save us one and all. -- Francois Villon

tr. Peter Dale.

There is no poet quite like Villon, which is why we have to have something by
him, though the problem is immediately obvious: Villon does not translate well
at all. 'Where are the snows of yesteryear' for 'Ou sont les neiges d'antan' is
a fluke; apart from that I've never seen any translation that quite does justice
to his tone.

And that tone is so unmistakeable, even to someone like me whose French is only
passable. Witty, pithy, sad, romantic, vituperative, street-smart, crude and yet
refined, it simply reeks from every line of Villon's colourful life. (There's a
biographical sketch after this, also the original for those who know some
French. It's medieval French, but can still be understood to some extent by
speakers of current French).

Perhaps it's this legend that colours the reading, but then one has to accept
that there are poets whose lives and verse cannot be separated (for some reason
it's the French poets like Villon, Baudelaire, Rimbaud and Verlaine who come
most immediately to mind, though of course it's also true of Byron, Shelley and
others).

And of all the poems Villon wrote, none carries more emotional impact than this.
Villon was imprisoned and very definitely facing execution when he wrote this,
and this expectation hugely fills every syllable of this poem. That cliche of
never being more aware of life at the point of death is no cliche here, its what
the poem is all about. There is an agonising awareness of life in his precise
description of the corpses hung up in the wind and how their bodies rot.

And the plea for mercy is agonisingly real too. For all his quarrels with the
Church, there is no doubt that Villon was a believer, and that faith - or
horror, the two seem to be the same for him - aches through this poem.

This is also an example of a poetic form that fits the purpose brilliantly. In
English the ballade often seems an artificial form: the fixed rhymes, the strict
number of verses and the poet's address to himself or a superior at the end
(which always reminds me of the ghazal, the last couplet of which also starts
with such an address to someone). In English it seems to work best in comic
verse.

But not in French. Ballades are among the best poems in French, and in Villon's
hand reached a level no one else ever really did. Villon's handling of the
technical constraints is so easy and skillful, one almost never becomes aware of
them. And in this poem, the address in last quatrain comes in all too
appropriately for Villon to beg Jesus for mercy.

Vikram.

 "Ballade des Pendus (L'Epitaphe Villon)"

 Freres humains qui après nous vivez
 N'ayez les cuers contre nous endurcis
 Cas se pitié de nous povres avez
 Dieu en aura plus tost de vous mercis.
 Vous nous voiez cy attachez cinq, six.
 Quant de la chair que trop avons nourrie,
 Elle est pieça devorée et pourrie,
 Et nous, les os, devenons cendre et pouldre.
 De nostre mal personne ne s'en rie
 Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

 Se freres vous clamons, pas n'en devez
 Avoir desdaing, quoy que fusmes occis
 Par justice. Toutesfois, vous sçavez
 Qua tous hommes n'ont pas bon sens rassis.
 Excusez nous, puis que sommes transsis,
 Envers le fils de la Vierge Marie
 Que sa grace ne soit pour nous tarie
 Nous sommes mors; ame ne nous harie
 Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

 La pluye nous a debuez et lavez
 Et le soleil dessechiez et noircis.
 Pies, corbeaulx, nous ont les yeux cavez
 Et arrachié la barbe et les sourcis.
 Jamais nul temps nous ne sommes assis;
 Puis ça, puis la, comme le vent varie
 A son plaisir sans cesser nous charie,
 Plus becquetez d'oiseaulx que dez a couldre.
 Ne soiez donc de nostre confrarie
 Mis priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

 Prince Jesus qui sur tous a maistrie
 Garde qu'Enfer n'ait de nous seigneurie.
 A luy n'ayons que faire ne que souldre.
 Hommes, icy n'a point de mocquerie;
 Mais priez Dieu que tous nous vueille absouldre.

        -- Francois Villon

[Bio]

Francois Villon was born Francois Montcorbier or Francois des Loges in 1431. He
took his surname, Villon, from his guardian and benefactor, Guillaume de Villon,
chaplain of Saint-Benoît-le-Bétourné, a man of whom he speaks well, in both Le
Lais and Le Testament. He took his baccalauréat from the University of Paris in
1449. Around 1451, he was probably involved in a student rag which removed a
landmark (le Pet au Diable: The Devil's Fart) from the front of Mademoiselle de
Bruyère's house. He himself mentions a poem, Le Roman du Pet au Diable, in Le
Testament.

However, in 1452, he received his licence and maire ès arts from the University
of Paris. His first clash with the law occurred in 1455 when he was involved in
a fight with a priest who was killed An eye-witness, admittedly a friend of
Villon's, maintains he acted in self-defence. Though pardoned for the murder in
1456, that same year he was implicated in the famous robbery of five hundred
golden écus from the College of Navarre. Guy Tabary and Colin de Cayeux are two
of his confederates mentioned in Le Testament. In this year he wrote, presumably
in some haste, Le Lais. Tabary's confession to the robbery in 1457 made Villon
leave Paris and go on the run. Much of the rest of the detail of his life comes
from Le Testament, on the assumption that it is truly autobiographical.
According to this he was imprisoned, somewhat unjustly or pettily if his mood is
anything to judge from, by the Bishop of Orleans in his palace-dungeons at
Meung.

He was set free to celebrate King Louis IX's progress through the town., In this
year he wrote Le Testament in which he speaks of his wanderings and various
towns that must have been his itinerary between, say, 1456 and 1461. In 1462, he
is again in prison, the Châtelet, charged with robbery of the College of
Navarre. He was released quickly on promising to repay the money. The last real
fact we have about Villon is his arrest for brawling later in 1462... He had
been imprisoned for a minor brawling incident with a papal scribe Ferrebouc who,
unluckily, had influence. He was tortured and sentenced to be strangled and
hanged... Parliament set aside the sentence, imposing banishment from Paris.

        -- from Francois Villon: Selected Poems.

[EndNote]

I forgot to add that the one English poet who Villon reminds me of a bit is John
Skelton. Skelton's short, rapid lines, are very different technically, but there
is a bit of Villon in his street wise cocky quality.

I might be going out on a bit of a limb here, since I just consulted my local
Eng. Litt. expert who sort of kindly told me this was a bit far fetched, Villon
being part of the courtly love tradition.

But reading Le Testament again for this I was struck by how much of it is simply
making fun of and abusing random people who seem to have annoyed him, and for
some reason it made me think of Skelton. Anyway, the only thing to result from
this is the suggestion that we have some Skelton sometime since he's fun and
very distinctive.

Vikram.

Will Consider Situation -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, as part of his
guest theme "Poems at Work":

(Poem #542) Will Consider Situation There here are words of radical advice for a young man looking for a job; Young man, be a snob. Yes, if you are in search of arguments against starting at the bottom, Why I've gottem. Let the personnel managers differ; It,s obvious that you will get on faster at the top than at the bottom because there are more people at the bottom than at the top so naturally the competition at the bottom is stiffer. If you need any further proof that my theory works Well, nobody can deny that presidents get paid more than vice-presidents and vice-presidents get paid more than clerks. Stop looking at me quizzically; I want to add that you will never achieve fortune in a job that makes you uncomfortable physically. When anybody tells you that hard jobs are better for you than soft jobs be sure to repeat this text to them, Postmen tramp around all day through rain and snow just to deliver other people's in cozy air-conditioned offices checks to them. You don't need to interpret tea leaves stuck in a cup To understand that people who work sitting down get paid more than people who work standing up. Another thing about having a comfortable job is you not only accommodate more treasure; You get more leisure. So that when you find you have worked so comfortably that your waistline is a menace, You correct it with golf or tennis. Whereas is in an uncomfortable job like piano-moving or stevedoring you indulge, You have no time to exercise, you just continue to bulge. To sum it up, young man, there is every reason to refuse a job that will make heavy demands on you corporally or manually, And the only intelligent way to start your career is to accept a sitting position paying at least twenty-five thousand dollars annually. -- Ogden Nash

A poem that's evidently the theme song of management institutes (and I say that
being a somewhat unlikely MBA myself).

Vikram.

[thomas adds]

Inflation has not been kind to Ogden Nash - now, how many poets can you say
_that_ about? - ... apart from that, though, this is a wonderfully typical piece
of Nashery. Not as good as some of his best work, but delightful nonetheless.

thomas.

You Will Be Hearing From Us Shortly -- U A Fanthorpe

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, as part of his
theme "Poems at Work":

(Poem #541) You Will Be Hearing From Us Shortly You feel adequate to the demands of this position? What qualities do you feel you Personally have to offer? Ah. Let us consider your application form. Your qualifications, though impressive, are Not, we must admit, precisely what We had in mind. Would you care To defend their relevance? Indeed. Now your age. Perhaps you feel able To make your own comment about that, Too? We are conscious ourselves Of the need for a candidate with precisely The right degree of immaturity. So glad we agree. And now a delicate matter: your looks. You do appreciate this work involves Contact with the actual public? Might they, Perhaps, find your appearance Disturbing? Quite so. And your accent. That is the way You have always spoken, is it? What Of your education? We mean, of course, Where were you educated? And how Much of a handicap is that to you, Would you say? Married, children, We see. The usual dubious Desire to perpetuate what had better Not have happened at all. We do not Ask what domestic desires shimmer Behind that vaguely unsuitable address. And you were born--? Yes. Pity. So glad we agree. -- U A Fanthorpe

Nothing much to add on this, except it made me laugh out loud when I read it in
the Oxford Book of Work. I love the image it conjures up of a malign interviewer
peering down in disgust at the unfortunate interviewee. I've been there too...

Vikram.

Office Friendships -- Gavin Ewart

Guest poem submitted by Vikram Doctor, as part of his
theme "Poems at Work":

(Poem #540) Office Friendships Eve is madly in love with Hugh And Hugh is keen on Jim. Charles is in love with very few And few are in love with him. Myra sits typing notes of love With romantic pianist's fingers. Dick turns his eyes to the heavens above Where Fran's divine perfume lingers. Nicky is rolling eyes and tits And flaunting her wiggly walk Everybody is thrilled to bits By Clive's suggestive talk. Sex suppressed will go berserk, But it keeps us all alive. It's a wonderful change from wives and work. And it ends at half past five. -- Gavin Ewart

I love Ewart, he's always fun and cool. And offices _are_ sort of cruisy places,
especially given the amount of time we spend in them these days, and the modern
management emphasis on how we all have to be close and one big family. So we all
spend this much time together, and it's hardly surprising then that our thoughts
turn towards incest... with the predictably disastrous consequences.

It's also why, I think, that all offices I've been in are obsessed with food.
Everyone is always eating, offering food around, going out for lunches,
comparing lunchboxes. Since you can't have the one kind of sensory
gratification, you overdo the other.

Vikram.