Tobacco's But an Indian Weed -- Traditional

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1926) Tobacco's But an Indian Weed Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve, It shews our decay, we are but clay: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, Is broke with a touch -- man's life is such: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so foul within, Shows man's soul is stained with sin; It doth require the purging fire; Think of this when you smoke tobacco! The ashes that are left behind, Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust return we must: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The smoke, that does so high ascend, Shews us man's life must have an end, The vapour's gone -- man's life is done: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. -- Traditional

      (17th Century England)

The song "Tobacco's But an Indian Weed" goes back at least to the mid-17th
century. It can be sung to an appropriately mournful, dirge-like melody.

This version is based on Thomas D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy"
(1699), sourced from: http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/smokepage.html

William Grey

[Martin adds]

What fascinates me about this song is how likely it is (at least in
retrospect) that it would be caught up in the folk process. The combination
of a simple, strong pattern (one rhyming couplet, one internally-rhyming
line and a refrain), a subversive topic that has room for infinite
variation, and the lack of any real ordering to the verses makes the
temptation to tweak or add a verse or two almost irresistible.

[Links]

http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/tobacco.html has a nice writeup on the
history of the song

Against Sundials -- Plautus

Guest poem submitted by William Grey, in response to
yesterday's offering:

(Poem #1901) Against Sundials The gods confound the man who first found out How to distinguish hours! Confound him, too, Who in this place set up a sundial, To cut and hack my days so wretchedly Into small portions! When I was a boy, My belly was my sundial -- one surer, Truer, and more exact than any of them. This dial told me when 'twas proper time To go to dinner, when I had aught to eat; But nowadays, why even when I have, I can't fall to unless the sun gives leave. The town's so full of these confounded dials The greatest part of the inhabitants, Shrunk up with hunger, crawl along the street. -- Plautus

        (c.254-184 BC)

This fragment from Plautus is offered in juxtaposition to Henry Austin
Dobson's "On The Hurry of This Time" (Poem #1905). As Martin justly
observes, 'Plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.' The verse fragment
(with my suggested title) is from "The Boeotian Woman", (3rd century
BC), preserved by Aulus Gellius (2nd century AD), and discussed in his
Attic Nights, [1], p. 247.

William Grey

[1] Aulus Gellius, The Attic Nights of Aulus Gellius. Vol 1 Loeb Library
Edition (trans John C. Rolfe). London: Heinemann, 1927.

Windows is Shutting Down -- Clive James

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1879) Windows is Shutting Down Windows is shutting down, and grammar are On their last leg. So what am we to do? A letter of complaint go just so far, Proving the only one in step are you. Better, perhaps, to simply let it goes. A sentence have to be screwed pretty bad Before they gets to where you doesnt knows The meaning what it must of meant to had. The meteor have hit. Extinction spread, But evolution do not stop for that. A mutant languages rise from the dead And all them rules is suddenly old hat. Too bad for we, us what has had so long The best seat from the only game in town. But there it am, and whom can say its wrong? Those are the break. Windows is shutting down. -- Clive James

Clive James is an illustrious expatriate Australian poet and author
living in London. The title (and opening phrase) of his poem will be
familiar to everyone reading these words. I've read them often enough
myself, but it has taken James's wit to point out how they should have
grated painfully on my grammatical ear. It is a marvellously chosen
example to illustrate his claim about declining grammatical standards,
since digital technology has been such a powerful force for generating
mangled syntax. There are many fine essays on the decline of the English
language: George Orwell's 'Politics and the English Language' remains
one of the best. This poem is a companion piece to James's own lament on
the subject. The poem states James's argument more succinctly than the
delightful accompanying essay, 'The Continuing Insult to the Language',
both of which are published in 'The Monthly', June 2006.

William Grey

[Links]

Clive James: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Clive_James
Orwell's essay: http://www.mtholyoke.edu/acad/intrel/orwell46.htm

The Dentist -- A P Herbert

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1830) The Dentist Yes, yes, the dentist talks a lot For he's content and you are not. He is the tiger in the house And you are, as it were, the mouse. No wonder, then, as you come in He greets you with a happy grin And drops hilarious remarks About the flowers in the parks, About the holidays he's had, About the weather, good or bad, Though at the moment, as he knows, You don't care if it rains or snows. For ever since the date was made You've been dejected and afraid. You dreamed of drills, in vain you chewed Your favourite forbidden food, Since every bite reminded you Of this repugnant interview. And now that you are in the chair, You cannot think what brought you there, In fact you hardly like to name The tusk you fancied was to blame. At least it is quiescent now Why stir it up and cause a row? And he who has the notion too That there is nothing wrong with you With cruel steel goes picking round A tooth that's absolutely sound Deliberately tries to bore A hole where there was none before! You splutter "That is not the one!" He answers "Plenty to be done" And makes a systematic mess Of all the teeth that you possess. Then still with gossip bright and gay He moves the horrid wheel your way And from a crowd delights to draw The largest drill you ever saw. The rest's too painful to be read. I think that Aristotle said That children of a certain age Should not be eaten on the stage And there are things too dark and solemn To be recorded in this column, Whose purpose after all is just To show the bread beneath the crust And how the darkest cloud is lined With silver of the brightest kind. Well then, I will not dwell on all The horrors that may now befall The things with which he stuffs your mouth, The cotton wadding, north and south, The pumps which suck with such a will But seem to make you wetter still, And when the fun begins to flag, The grisly gutta-percha gag. But I implore you all the time To concentrate on the Sublime. Remember in the woods of June The nightingale salutes the moon, The Thames keeps rolling up and down, In Autumn all the leaves are brown, The bluebells still will flood the copse However many teeth he stops. And if you still remain distressed Hug this reflection to your breast That some poor fellows, after all, Have not got any teeth at all. -- A P Herbert

Although dental technology has advanced considerably in the last 80 years,
many elements of the dental surgery are instantly recognizable, and the
affective impact of a visit to the dentist is little changed. Some
biographical notes on the poet were included with [1] to which this is a
marvellous companion piece. Herbert's representations on Minstrels remain
sparse [1], [2]. More details about his life can be found in his
autobiography [3].

William Grey

[1] Poem #1805, The Doctor -- A.P. Herbert
[2] Poem #732, To the Lady Behind Me at the Theatre --  A.P. Herbert
[3] A.P.H.: His Life and Times (1970) -- A.P. Herbert

Crossing the Frontier -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1807) Crossing the Frontier Crossing the frontier they were stopped in time, Told, quite politely, they would have to wait: Passports in order, nothing to declare And surely holding hands was not a crime Until they saw how, ranged across the gate, All their most formidable friends were there. Wearing his conscience like a crucifix, Her father, rampant, nursed the Family Shame; And, armed with their old-fashioned dinner-gong, His aunt, who even when they both were six, Had just to glance towards a childish game To make them feel that they were doing wrong. And both their mothers, simply weeping floods, Her head-mistress, his boss, the parish priest, And the bank manager who cashed their cheques; The man who sold him his first rubber-goods; Dog Fido, from whose love-life, shameless beast, She first observed the basic facts of sex. They looked as though they had stood there for hours; For years -- perhaps for ever. In the trees Two furtive birds stopped courting and flew off; While in the grass beside the road the flowers Kept up their guilty traffic with the bees. Nobody stirred. Nobody risked a cough. Nobody spoke. The minutes ticked away; The dog scratched idly. Then, as parson bent And whispered to a guard who hurried in, The customs-house loudspeakers with a bray Of raucous and triumphant argument Broke out the wedding march from Lohengrin. He switched the engine off: "We must turn back." She heard his voice break, though he had to shout Against a din that made their senses reel, And felt his hand, so tense in hers, go slack. But suddenly she laughed and said: "Get out! Change seats! Be quick!" and slid behind the wheel. And drove the car straight at them with a harsh, Dry crunch that showered both with scraps and chips, Drove through them; barriers rising let them pass Drove through and on and on, with Dad's moustache Beside her twitching still round waxen lips And Mother's tears still streaming down the glass. -- A D Hope

This is submitted as a juxtaposition and contrast with Seamus Heaney [1].
Both Hope and Heaney use the frontier metaphor, but each uses it to explore
very different themes. Heaney's concern is the struggle of the writer in
what is experienced as a hostile environment. (I read Heaney's menacing
antagonists as his readers and critics.) Hope is writing about pre-marital
sex, an issue of not much concern today, but one which was more problematic
for an earlier generation. (In particular before the advent of reliable oral
contraceptives.  The poem is dated 1963.)  In Hope's case the menacing
antagonists at the frontier are conventional morality and its upholders
(parents, head-mistress, the parish priest). Interestingly in Hope's poem
the decisive move to break the shackles of conventional morality is taken by
the woman. (John Taber remarked earlier on Hope's characteristically
positive treatment of women in his comment on [2]. This is further support
for Taber's claim.)

The poem was published in [3].

William Grey

[1] Poem #1807, 'From the Frontier of Writing, Seamus Heaney
[2] Poem #1568, 'His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell', A.D. Hope
[3] A.D. Hope, 'Collected Poems (1930-1965)'. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1966.

The Doctor -- A P Herbert

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1800) The Doctor The doctor took my shirt away; He did it for the best; He said, "It's very cold today," And took away my vest; Then, having nothing more to say, He hit me in the chest. Oh, he did clout my ribs about Till I was bruised and red, Then stood and listened to my spine To see if I was dead, And when I shouted "Ninety-nine!" He simply shook his head. He rather thought that rain would fall, He made me hop about the hall, And savagely he said, "There's nothing wrong with you at all You'd better go to bed! "Oh you must eat no scrap of meat, No rabbit, bird, or fish; Apart from that have what you please, But no potato, bread, or cheese; Not butter, alcohol, or peas; Not sausage, egg, and ratafias A very starchy dish; Have any other foods but these HAVE ANYTHING YOU WISH! But at and after every meal, And twice an hour between, Take this -- and this -- and this -- and THIS In water and quinine, And wash it down with liquorice And nitro-glycerine. "You must not smoke, or read a book, You must not eat or drink; You must not bicycle or run, You must not talk to anyone; It's better not to think. A daily bath I don't advise; It's dangerous to snore; But let your life be otherwise As active as before. And don't imagine you are ill, I beg you not to mope; There's nothing wrong with you -- but still, While there is life, there's hope." I woke and screamed a hideous scream As greedy children do Who eat too much vanilla cream For I was having 'flu; And it was just an awful dream But, all the same, it's true. -- A P Herbert

Sir Alan Patrick Herbert, 1890-1971, was a regular contributor of comic
verse (over his initials "A.P.H.") to the English magazine 'Punch'. He is a
distinguished member of a great tradition of English comic poets, which
includes such luminaries as Edward Lear (1812-1888), Lewis Carroll
(1832-1898), and Herbert's contemporary Patrick Barrington (1909-1990).  The
only poem of Herbert on Minstrels to date is 'To the Lady Behind Me at the
Theatre'[1]. He merits more extensive representation.

As well as comic verse, Herbert was a novelist, librettist of successful
comic operas, author of children's books, and he served as a member of the
House of Commons for Oxford University from 1935 until 1950. He was largely
responsible for the passage of the bill (1937) which reformed the
then-archaic divorce law of England. For more details see his autobiography[2].

William Grey

[1] Poem #732, To the Lady Behind Me at the Theatre --  A.P. Herbert
[2] A.P.H.: His Life and Times (1970) -- A.P. Herbert

Tangmalangaloo -- John O'Brien

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1795) Tangmalangaloo The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime, And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time. And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around, With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound. Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo? A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling, And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring; Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim, And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb; There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too -- But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo. The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can; He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man. But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat; He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that. The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do, And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo. "Come, tell me, boy," his lordship said in crushing tones severe, "Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year? "How is it that around the world we celebrate that day "And send a name upon a card to those who're far away? "Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?" A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo. He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf, He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself. And so, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say, "That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?" The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew -- "It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo." -- John O'Brien

This is a Christmas poem by my favourite Australian bush poet: Patrick
Joseph Hartigan (1878-1952) who published under the alias "John O'Brien".
The poem immortalises an incident that took place at a school at
Tanbangaroo, a "Back-o'-Bourke" town (see notes to [1]), near Yass in New
South Wales. Tangmalangaloo is a fictitious town, presumably invented to
serve the poet's prosodic requirements.

Hartigan was a Roman Catholic priest in rural New South Wales, in particular
the Goulburn diocese and later at Narrandera. He is less well known than
Banjo Paterson[2] and Henry Lawson[3][4], the doyens of the Australian
bush ballad tradition, though he expresses a closer and gentler affinity for
the Australian bush and its communities than either of them. Hartigan has
another connection with Paterson: he gave the last rites to Jack Riley of
Bringenbrong, the man whose legendary exploits are supposedly recorded in
Paterson's epic bush ballad 'The Man from Snowy River'.

According to legend, Hartigan was in the Albury presbytery in 1914 when word
came through that an old man named Riley was dying at a place called
Bringenbong on the Upper Murray, and had asked for a priest to bring him the
last sacraments. It took Hartigan several days to reach Riley, who he found
not at Bringenbong but at a place called Hickeys, in sight of Mt Kosciusko
at the end of the track. After administering the sacraments it was too late
for Hartigan to return to Albury, so he gratefully accepted local
hospitality and, in front of a blazing log fire, recited one of his
favourite poems, 'The Man From Snowy River'. After he had finished he
remarked that it must have been in these parts that the man from Snowy River
had made his famous ride. To his astonishment the laconic reply came that
the subject of Paterson's poem was none other than Riley, the old man he had
just prepared for death.

Hartigan was known as an ecumenist and was greatly respected for his
pastoral care, particularly during the Great Depression, for those of all
faiths and none. 'Tangmalangaloo' was published in [5]. A second collection
of his poetry [6], honouring his Narrandera parishioners, was published
posthumously.

William Grey

[1] Poem #1573, 'Said Hanrahan',  John O'Brien
[2] Poem #566, 'Clancy of the Overflow',  Banjo Paterson
[3] Poem #569, ' The Great Grey Plain',  Henry Lawson
[4] Poem #1569, 'Past Carin',  Henry Lawson
[5] John O'Brien. 'Around the Boree Log and Other Verses'. Sydney: Angus &
Robertson, 1921.
[6] John O'Brien. 'The Parish of St. Mel's and Other Verses'. Sydney: Angus
& Robertson, 1954.

The Invaders -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1774) The Invaders Coming by night, furtively, one by one They infiltrate according to the Plan, Their orders memorized and their disguise Impenetrable. With the rising sun Our citizens welcome them. Nobody can Think that such charming creatures might be spies. So feeble, so helpless, no one could suspect They come to make this commonwealth their prey; So few, they pose no threat; their cohort grows So imperceptibly that we neglect To notice how it musters day by day And, unalarmed, we watch as they impose Themselves, make friends in all directions, take Impressions of all keys. They gain access To all our secrets; learn to speak our tongue Like natives; profit by each false move we make; Work on our weaknesses; observe and guess The sources of power and study them to be strong. And when it happens, there will be no fuss, No streets running with blood, no barricade. We shall simply wake one morning to discover, As those who ruled this city before us Found by each door a headstone and a spade, That a new generation has taken over. -- A D Hope

This poem by Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000) is based on an utterly
simple idea, with an underlying tension (even menace) beautifully developed,
and brilliantly resolved in the final line. Like Hope's "Ode on the Death of
Pius the Twelfth" [1] this poem deals with the issue of age and death, which
are recurrent themes for Hope (see also [2]) -- as they are, of course, for
many poets.

The poem is from A.D. Hope, A Late Picking: Poems 1965-1974. (Sydney: Angus
& Robertson, 1975)

William Grey

[1] Poem #1764, Ode on the Death of Pius the Twelfth -- A.D. Hope
[2] Poem #571, The Death of the Bird -- A.D. Hope

Doggerel by a Senior Citizen -- W H Auden

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1771) Doggerel by a Senior Citizen Our earth in 1969 Is not the planet I call mine, The world, I mean, that gives me strength To hold off chaos at arm's length. My Eden landscapes and their climes Are constructs from Edwardian times, When bath-rooms took up lots of space, And, before eating, one said Grace. The automobile, the aeroplane, Are useful gadgets, but profane: The enginry of which I dream Is moved by water or by steam. Reason requires that I approve The light-bulb which I cannot love: To me more reverence-commanding A fish-tail burner on the landing. My family ghosts I fought and routed, Their values, though, I never doubted: I thought the Protestant Work-Ethic Both practical and sympathetic. When couples played or sang duets, It was immoral to have debts: I shall continue till I die To pay in cash for what I buy. The Book of Common Prayer we knew Was that of 1662: Though with-it sermons may be well, Liturgical reforms are hell. Sex was of course -- it always is -- The most enticing of mysteries, But news-stands did not then supply Manichean pornography. Then Speech was mannerly, an Art, Like learning not to belch or fart: I cannot settle which is worse, The Anti-Novel or Free Verse. Nor are those Ph.D's my kith, Who dig the symbol and the myth: I count myself a man of letters Who writes, or hopes to, for his betters. Dare any call Permissiveness An educational success? Saner those class-rooms which I sat in, Compelled to study Greek and Latin. Though I suspect the term is crap, There is a Generation Gap, Who is to blame? Those, old or young, Who will not learn their Mother-Tongue. But Love, at least, is not a state Either en vogue or out-of-date, And I've true friends, I will allow, To talk and eat with here and now. Me alienated? Bosh! It's just As a sworn citizen who must Skirmish with it that I feel Most at home with what is Real. -- W H Auden

This poem is a lot of fun. It was written by Auden (1907-1973), for Robert
Lederer, when he was getting old and curmudgeonly, and it's about getting
old and curmudgeonly. Writing engaging doggerel is more challenging than it
seems. Auden often expresses his values by dialectical opposition --
Arcadian versus Utopian ('Vespers'), or Hermetic versus Apollonian ('Under
Which Lyre', Poem #1082) -- in this one his prejudices are articulated
simply and directly.

William Grey.

The Perfume -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by "William Grey"

(Poem #1748) The Perfume "... marked males of the silkworm moth have been known to fly upwind seven miles to a fragrant female of their kind ... the chemical compound with which a female silkworm moth attracts mates is highly specific; no other species seem aware of it. In 1959, the Nobel Laureate Adolph Butenandt of the Max Planck Institute for Biochemistry in Munich succeeded in analysing it. He found it to be an alcohol with sixteen carbon atoms per molecule ...." L. and M. Milne: The Senses of Animals and Men. 0 Chloë, have you heard it, This news I sing to you? It's true, my lovely bird, it Is absolutely true! A biochemist probing Has caught without a doubt The Queen of Love disrobing And found her secret out. What drives the Bombyx mori To fly, intrepid male, Lured by the old, old story Six miles against the gale? The formula, my Honey, Is now in print to prove What is, and no baloney, The very stuff of love. At Munich on the Isar Those molecules were found Which everyone agrees are What makes the world go round; What draws the male creation To love, my darling doll, Turns out, on trituration, To be an alcohol. A Nobel Laureatus Called Adolph Butenandt Contrived to isolate us This strong intoxicant. The boys are celebrating And singing at the club: Here's Bottoms up! to mating, Since Venus keeps a pub! My angel, 0, my angel, What is it you suffuse, What redolent evangel, What nosegay of good news? What draws me like a dragnet And holds and keeps me tight? What odds! my fragrant magnet, I shall be drunk tonight! -- A D Hope

The thread of poems on intoxication prompts me to submit a poem  by
Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000) linking intoxication and love. It is
the second in a sextet entitled 'Six Songs for Chloë'. Hope had a thirst
for learning which ranged widely over texts ancient and modern, and which
included contemporary research in science as well as poetry and philosophy.

The poem is from A.D. Hope, New Poems 1965-69, pp. 33-34.

William Grey

When I was Young and Ignorant -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1698) When I was Young and Ignorant When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall, Our days were spent in happiness, although our means were frugal; We did not sigh for worldly wealth, for vain and tawdry treasures, We were a simple country pair with simple country pleasures. Beneath the village chestnut-tree it was our joy to meet once; We used to tread the dewy fields with wonder-waking feet once; We wandered once in leafy lanes and walked in Woodlands shady; But now she's gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady I loved her as I loved my life when I was young and tender, And happily our time was spent although our means were slender. We used to pass the golden days in countrified pursuits once; We walked through simple country bogs in simple country boots once. High hopes of happiness I had, but now my hopes are zero, Alas! My love has left me now to carve her own career O; Not all the hopes of her I had of her are worth a maravedi; My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. My love now dwells in circus halls with clowns and tight-rope dancers, Where dromedaries play bassoons and sea-lions do the lancers; She moves amongst trick-bicyclists, buffoons and comic waiters, With elephants and acrobats and prestidigitators. No longer daily by my side she wanders through the hay now, The glamour of the public eye has lured are far away now. Remorseless Fates, my tender hopes how cruelly betrayed ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. When I was young and ignorant I loved a Miss McDougall; But that was e'er she heard the call of Fame's imperious bugle. I thought her kind as she was fair, but I was green and calfish; My love, though brighter than a star, was colder than a starfish. High hopes of happiness I had when I was young and tender; But time and tide have falsified my juvenile agenda. Farewell, my castle is in the air! Phantasmal mansions, fade ye! My love has gone to Birmingham to be a Bearded Lady. -- Patrick Barrington

Another chequered romantic adventure from the imagination of Patrick
Barrington, once again from 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Co Ltd,
1934). Earlier romantic adventures by Barrington on Minstrels are [1] and
[2].  As usual an eccentric choice of lover and also, as usual, romantic
disappointment.  Though Barrington never married I wonder: was he ever
engaged?

William Grey

[1] Poem #1551, My Love is a Theosophist -- Patrick Barrington
[2] Poem #1597, I Met a Lady in the Wood -- Patrick Barrington

[Martin adds]

This one hits a new high for tortured yet perfect rhymes (even if he stole
the "worth a maravedi"/lady rhyme from Gilbert! :)). Calfish/starfish was
particularly groanworthy, especially since you can see it coming when he
mentions the star. Delightful stuff.

Battle Song -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1655) Battle Song There's havoc on the staircase where the guests come streaming, Shirt-fronts shining and tiaras gleaming, Frail folk shuddering and stout folk steaming -- Steaming in the heat of the fray. Midnight striking and the strife appalling, Strong men staggering and weak men falling, And deep in the heart of me a still voice calling: 'Make for the buffet while you may. 'Make for the buffet while you may, poor stranger, Make for the buffet while you can; There's hope for the stale there, strength for the frail there, Drink for the thirsty man. Thrust through the throng! Be obstreperous and strong! Fight till your strength is sped. Fight and prevail; do not falter, do not fail, Make for the buffet and be fed! 'Make for the buffet and be fed, poor stranger, Make for the buffet and be strong; Dense is the press and the air is growing less, Fierce is the fight and long. Fierce is the fight and oppressive is the night, Stern is the strife and fell; Pale is your cheek; you are wan and you are weak; Make for the buffet and be well!' Painfully and wearily the hours are dragging, Old men are falling now and young men flagging; White ties weakening and stiff shirts sagging -- Sagging as the hours go by. Consciousness is failing me and outlines merging, Thunder in my ears as of sea-foam surging, And deep in the heart of me a faint voice urging: 'Make for the buffet lest you die. 'Make for the buffet lest you die, poor stranger; Make for the buffet while you can; Fight your way through like a woman in a queue, Fight like a jungle-man! Batter the élite with your hands and your feet, Butt them in the backs with your head: Strike for your own! You are hungry and alone; Make for the buffet and be fed. 'Make for the buffet and be fed, poor stranger, Make for the buffet lest you die. There's hope for stale there, strength for the frail there, Drink for the throat that's dry. Courage and strength will rewarded be at length; Weight in the end will tell. Up, then, and on! Are you weary? Are you wan? Make for the buffet and be well, Poor stranger! Make for the buffet and be well, Poor ranger! Make for the buffet and be well!' -- Patrick Barrington

The rousing heroic metre of this poem is sublime. Imagine the jingoistic
ends to which this form might have been pressed by a Henry Newbolt! Indeed
some of the lines could almost have been penned by Newbolt -- except that
Newbolt never wrote poetry anywhere near as good as Barrington's. But one
can almost imagine some of the lines seamlessly incorporated into a Newbolt
paean:

  Strong men staggering and weak men falling,

  Consciousness is failing me and outlines merging,
  Thunder in my ears as of sea-foam surging,
  And deep in the heart of me a faint voice urging:

Perhaps not. The prosody is too good. Newbolt's sentimental jingoistic
claptrap (Vitai Lampada, Poem #946) enjoyed an inflated reputation only
because of its timely articulation of tiresome (but then-fashionable)
imperialist values. His reputation was based not on poetic merit but on
politics. Barrington in contrast possesses fine prosodic skills, masked by
his wonderfully eccentric loopiness -- and the exuberant absurdity which
shines through his verse.  (Carefully rereading him while typing the poem
deepened my appreciation of his prosodic talents.)

The genius of this poem lies in Barrington's handling of the heroic verse
genre, subtly applied to a formal social occasion -- circumstances in which
anything like the belligerent heroic behaviour which Barrington recommends
would be simply unthinkable. The absurd juxtaposition in this case is a
wonderful clash between form and content.

The poem was published in 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Company
Limited, 1934).

William Grey

As Well as They Can -- A D Hope

William Grey sends this in as a followup of sorts to
yesterday's poem...

(Poem #1620) As Well as They Can As well as it can, the hooked fish while it dies, Gasping for life, threshing in terror and pain, Its torn mouth parched, grit in its delicate eyes, Thinks of its pool again. As well as he can, the poet, blind, betrayed Distracted by the groaning mill, among The jostle of slaves, the clatter, the lash of trade, Taps the pure source of song. As well as I can, my heart in this bleak air, The empty days, the waste nights since you went, Recalls your warmth, your smile, the grace and stir That were its element. -- A D Hope

An offering for this year's Valentine's Day romantic anniversary by Australian
poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000). Somewhere Hope reported witnessing the death of a
fish -- I think it was when he was a young man in Tasmania. The memory of grit
of sand in the fish's dying eye long haunted him and provided the focal image
for this poem, composed more than forty years later. The blind and betrayed man
struggling with the groaning mill (I think) is an allusion to the biblical
story of Samson. The three stanzas of this subtle, poignant and profound
triptych resonate to perfection. "Human speech", Flaubert famously said (in
Madame Bovary), "is like a cracked kettle on which we tap crude rhythms for
bears to dance to, while we long to make music that will melt the stars."
Flaubert was able to achieve stellar meltdown. So too was Hope.

The poem was published in A.D. Hope, New Poems 1965-69 (Sydney: Angus &
Robertson, 1969), p. 52.

William Grey

Second Honeymoon -- Tony Scanlon

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1619) Second Honeymoon The blue that startled his heart has faded: blue-grey like denim now her eyes by candlelight across the table -- and he knows the fingerprints of time are on him, too, though candle's bloom is less truthful than the unrelenting sun. He knows them both to be weathered in the cascade of the years, beyond redress -- still, his hand which has crept without volition over the linen to clasp hers, touches, not the flesh time mars, but the undimmed radiance of her love, pulsing stronger for the passage of the years since first he touched her. His hand tightens over hers in that familiar reflex which has saved him, times beyond remembering, from drowning. -- Tony Scanlon

With the romantic anniversary of Valentine's Day approaching, here's a romantic
poem from Tony Scanlon. A romantic poem for the over-50s.  What's moving in the
poem is the tribute it pays the durability and depth of a love beyond the
ephemeral and passionate urgency of youth -- though that's also pretty good!

I don't have any biographical information about the poet. The poem is a
singleton in an anthology of Australian verse.

William Grey

I Met a Lady in the Wood -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem submittedy by William Grey:

(Poem #1596) I Met a Lady in the Wood I met a lady in the wood. No mortal maid, I knew, was she; She was no thing of flesh and blood, No child of human ancestry. Her beauty held my eyes in thrall. I spoke to her sweet words, soft-toned. She answered me no word at all, But only looked at me and moaned. I spoke to her about Exchange, Of Sterling and its recent rise. The subject was beyond her range; She stared at me with haunting eyes. I touched upon the price of Rye And its effect upon the Pound. She walked beside me silently, Like one that treads on charméd ground. She witched me with her elfin grace. I spoke of Wages and the Dole And briefly sketched for her the case For International Control. She gazed upon me as I talked; Some elfin thing she seemed to be. I knew her, by the way she walked, A creature of the Faëry. Through green and leafy glades we went, Knee-deep among the dewy ferns; I touched upon the Law of Rent And of Diminishing Returns. And, as we wandered through the wood Mid oaks and elm-tree boles rotund, Explained to her as best I could The workings of a Sinking Fund. I said that Rubber was depressed By recent rumours from Malay. She only moaned and beat her breast And cried aloud, 'Alack-a-day!' I said my brokers had foreseen A rise in Oil, and asked her view As to the trend of Margarine, She only answered 'Willaloo!' I took her to a green-lit glade Where tall trees twined their branches high And a moss-muted streamlet made Unmeditating melody; And there I paused awhile; and there I offered her my heart and hand, And bade her take me in her care To dwell with her in Fairyland. I said I was a Whale-oil King, With gold and goods and gear in plenty. She said she was a Mrs. Byng And had a family of twenty. She turned and left me where I stood. While round her elfin pipes were fluting She walked away into the wood, And I walked home to Lower Tooting. -- Patrick Barrington

 [Notes]

Edward Lear (1812-1888) was an early pioneer of nonsense poetry, a genre
developed further by the Rev Charles Lutwidge Dodgson, (alias Lewis Carroll,
1832-1898), and more recently by Spike Milligna (the well-known
typing-error, 1918-2002). Barrington (1909-1990) is a golden link in this
brilliant chain of absurdists.

Like many of Barrington's poems the comic effect is generated by an
absurdity of juxtapositions -- perhaps most absurdity comes to that, one way
or another. In this masterpiece of inspired nonsense Barrington juxtaposes
Arcadian romance with economic and commercial discourse. The denouement --
when the identity of the elfin companion is exploded -- is vintage
Barrington. As usual, Barrington's romantic narrative is unconsummated.
(Barrington never married.)

The poem was published in 'Songs of a Sub-Man' (London: Methuen & Company
Limited, 1934). The title of the collection presumably parodies Nietzsche's
"ubermensch" ("overman"). Barrington sketches more than one credible
untermensch.

William Grey.

Heaven -- Rupert Brooke

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1579) Heaven Fish (fly-replete, in depth of June, Dawdling away their wat'ry noon) Ponder deep wisdom, dark or clear, Each secret fishy hope or fear. Fish say, they have their Stream and Pond; But is there anything Beyond? This life cannot be All, they swear, For how unpleasant, if it were! One may not doubt that, somehow, Good Shall come of Water and of Mud; And, sure, the reverent eye must see A Purpose in Liquidity. We darkly know, by Faith we cry, The future is not Wholly Dry. Mud unto mud! -- Death eddies near -- Not here the appointed End, not here! But somewhere, beyond Space and Time, Is wetter water, slimier slime! And there (they trust) there swimmeth One Who swam ere rivers were begun, Immense, of fishy form and mind, Squamous, omnipotent, and kind; And under that Almighty Fin, The littlest fish may enter in. Oh! never fly conceals a hook, Fish say, in the Eternal Brook, But more than mundane weeds are there, And mud, celestially fair; Fat caterpillars drift around, And Paradisal grubs are found; Unfading moths, immortal flies, And the worm that never dies. And in that Heaven of all their wish, There shall be no more land, say fish. -- Rupert Brooke

This poem by Rupert Brooke (1887-1915) is based on a simple idea, and not an
original one at that -- it is an idea that goes back at least to the ancient
Greek philosopher Xenophanes (c.570 - c.475 BC), who suggested that horses
(if they could draw) would draw the gods like horses, and cattle like
cattle...

It is however a wonderful articulation of the idea -- perhaps germinated in
idle summer reverie on a punt at Grantchester.

William Grey

[Martin adds]

Brooke is one of my favourite 'comfort poets' (by analogy with comfort food) -
I know that I can always pick up one of his poems and be guaranteed a
pleasurable experience. Today's poem is a great example.

Said Hanrahan -- John O'Brien

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1572) Said Hanrahan "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, In accents most forlorn, Outside the church, ere Mass began, One frosty Sunday morn. The congregation stood about, Coat-collars to the ears, And talked of stock, and crops, and drought, As it had done for years. "It's looking crook," said Daniel Croke; "Bedad, it's cruke, me lad, For never since the banks went broke Has seasons been so bad." "It's dry, all right," said young O'Neil, With which astute remark He squatted down upon his heel And chewed a piece of bark. And so around the chorus ran "It's keepin' dry, no doubt." "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out." "The crops are done; ye'll have your work To save one bag of grain; From here way out to Back-o'-Bourke They're singin' out for rain. "They're singin' out for rain," he said, "And all the tanks are dry." The congregation scratched its head, And gazed around the sky. "There won't be grass, in any case, Enough to feed an ass; There's not a blade on Casey's place As I came down to Mass." "If rain don't come this month," said Dan, And cleared his throat to speak -- "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If rain don't come this week." A heavy silence seemed to steal On all at this remark; And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed a piece of bark. "We want an inch of rain, we do," O'Neil observed at last; But Croke "maintained" we wanted two To put the danger past. "If we don't get three inches, man, Or four to break this drought, We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out." In God's good time down came the rain; And all the afternoon On iron roof and window-pane It drummed a homely tune. And through the night it pattered still, And lightsome, gladsome elves On dripping spout and window-sill Kept talking to themselves. It pelted, pelted all day long, A-singing at its work, Till every heart took up the song Way out to Back-o'-Bourke. And every creek a banker ran, And dams filled overtop; "We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "If this rain doesn't stop." And stop it did, in God's good time; And spring came in to fold A mantle o'er the hills sublime Of green and pink and gold. And days went by on dancing feet, With harvest-hopes immense, And laughing eyes beheld the wheat Nid-nodding o'er the fence. And, oh, the smiles on every face, As happy lad and lass Through grass knee-deep on Casey's place Went riding down to Mass. While round the church in clothes genteel Discoursed the men of mark, And each man squatted on his heel, And chewed his piece of bark. "There'll be bush-fires for sure, me man, There will, without a doubt; We'll all be rooned," said Hanrahan, "Before the year is out." -- John O'Brien

Notes:
  John O'Brien was the nom de plume of Patrick Joseph Hartigan (1878-1952),
  born in Yass, New South Wales. He was a Roman Catholic priest in the Goulburn
  diocese and later parish priest at Narrandera -- also rural towns in New
  South Wales.

Banjo Paterson and Henry Lawson are better (indeed the best) known names in the
Australian bush ballad tradition. Paterson ('Clancy of the Overflow', Poem
#566; 'The Man from Snowy River') and Lawson ('The Great Grey Plain', Poem
#569;
'Sweeney') however celebrate (or in Lawson's case lament -- see 'Past
Carin' ', Poem #1569) the Australian bush in a very different vein. Paterson
and
Lawson are city voices dreaming about, or meditating on, the bush while
detached from it living in the city. O'Brien, in comparison, is gentler and
indeed tenderly affectionate toward Australia's harsh brown land and its
seasonal cycles. O'Brien's poems are deeply and lovingly embedded in the
farming life of the Irish community in rural Australia, of which he was a part.

'Said Hanrahan' paints a wonderful portrait of Australian-Irish bush culture,
together with its church, the land, the climate and the seasons which
constitute its core. Hanrahan (a quintessentially Irish name) expresses
unconquerable Irish pessimism about the prospects down on the farm. (Hanrahan
has a point however: the lush growth from spring rain can indeed dry out into
fuel which poses a serious fire risk in summer.)

'Said Hanrahan', I think, is readily accessible to non-Australians but here are
a couple of notes:
'rooned' is Australian-Irish pronunciation of 'ruined';
'never since the banks went broke' refers to the turbulent 1890s which were bad
drought years and also when (in the absence of a central bank) nearly all the
land banks and building societies and 12 of the 22 trading banks went broke,
following the collapse of an intense property boom.
'Back-o'-Bourke' is an Australian colloquialism for being just about anywhere
in the vast and sparsely populated heartland of bush Australia;
'every creek a banker ran' means that the rivers overflowed.

'Said Hanrahan' was published in Around the Boree Log and Other Verses (1921).

William Grey

His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell -- A D Hope

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1567) His Coy Mistress to Mr. Marvell Since you have world enough and time Sir, to admonish me in rhyme, Pray Mr Marvell, can it be You think to have persuaded me? Then let me say: you want the art To woo, much less to win my heart. The verse was splendid, all admit, And, sir, you have a pretty wit. All that indeed your poem lacked Was logic, modesty, and tact, Slight faults and ones to which I own, Your sex is generally prone; But though you lose your labour, I Shall not refuse you a reply: First, for the language you employ: A term I deprecate is "coy"; The ill-bred miss, the bird-brained Jill, May simper and be coy at will; A lady, sir, as you will find, Keeps counsel, or she speaks her mind, Means what she says and scorns to fence And palter with feigned innocence. The ambiguous "mistress" next you set Beside this graceless epithet. "Coy mistress", sir? Who gave you leave To wear my heart upon your sleeve? Or to imply, as sure you do, I had no other choice than you And must remain upon the shelf Unless I should bestir myself? Shall I be moved to love you, pray, By hints that I must soon decay? No woman's won by being told How quickly she is growing old; Nor will such ploys, when all is said, Serve to stampede us into bed. When from pure blackmail, next you move To bribe or lure me into love, No less inept, my rhyming friend, Snared by the means, you miss your end. "Times winged chariot", and the rest As poetry may pass the test; Readers will quote those lines, I trust, Till you and I and they are dust; But I, your destined prey, must look Less at the bait than at the hook, Nor, when I do, can fail to see Just what it is you offer me: Love on the run, a rough embrace Snatched in the fury of the chase, The grave before us and the wheels Of Time's grim chariot at our heels, While we, like "am'rous birds of prey", Tear at each other by the way. To say the least, the scene you paint Is, what you call my honour, quaint! And on this point what prompted you So crudely, and in public too, To canvass and , indeed, make free With my entire anatomy? Poets have licence, I confess, To speak of ladies in undress; Thighs, hearts, brows, breasts are well enough, In verses this is common stuff; But -- well I ask: to draw attention To worms in -- what I blush to mention, And prate of dust upon it too! Sir, was this any way to woo? Now therefore, while male self-regard Sits on your cheek, my hopeful bard, May I suggest, before we part, The best way to a woman's heart Is to be modest, candid, true; Tell her you love and show you do; Neither cajole nor condescend And base the lover on the friend; Don't bustle her or fuss or snatch: A suitor looking at his watch Is not a posture that persuades Willing, much less reluctant maids. Remember that she will be stirred More by the spirit than the word; For truth and tenderness do more Than coruscating metaphor. Had you addressed me in such terms And prattled less of graves and worms, I might, who knows, have warmed to you; But, as things stand, must bid adieu (Though I am grateful for the rhyme) And wish you better luck next time. -- A D Hope

         (1907-2000)

An effective rejoinder to a great poem requires a poet of greatness, and one
who appreciates and respects the genius under attack. No poet was able to do
this more effectively than Australian poet A.D. Hope (1907-2000). In his
introduction to this rejoinder Hope commented:

  This most famous of all Marvell's poems is deservedly so. Yet it is a
  brilliant tour de force in which the poet's imaginative language triumphs
  over the fact that his arguments to the lady are a set of worn-out clichés,
  which were never very persuasive even when they were new -- but the lady can
  best speak for herself.

Marvell's most famous poem was an early contribution to Wondering Minstrels
(Poem #158). 'His Coy Mistress to Mr Marvell' was published in Hope's Book of
Answers (Sydney: Angus & Robertson, 1978), which includes a number of gems --
though none more brilliant than this Marvell parody. (It includes a fine parody
of Gerard Manley "Hop-skip-jump-kins" -- which I may submit at some future
time.) The power of Hope's language, and the range of genres which he
commanded, were immense. He is a poet of considerable stature not just within
Australia, but globally.

William

On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes -- Thomas Gray

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1555) On a Favourite Cat, Drowned in a Tub of Gold Fishes 'Twas on a lofty vase's side, Where China's gayest art had dyed The azure flowers that blow; Demurest of the tabby kind, The pensive Selima reclined, Gazed on the lake below. Her conscious tail her joy declared; The fair round face, the snowy beard, The velvet of her paws, Her coat, that with the tortoise vies, Her ears of jet, and emerald eyes, She saw; and purr'd applause. Still had she gazed; but 'midst the tide Two angel forms were seen to glide, The Genii of the stream: Their scaly armour's Tyrian hue Thro' richest purple to the view Betray'd a golden gleam. The hapless Nymph with wonder saw: A whisker first and then a claw, With many an ardent wish, She stretch'd in vain to reach the prize. What female heart can gold despise? What Cat's averse to fish? Presumptuous Maid! with looks intent Again she stretch'd, again she bent, Nor knew the gulf between. (Malignant Fate sat by, and smiled.) The slipp'ry verge her feet beguiled, She tumbled headlong in. Eight times emerging from the flood She mew'd to ev'ry wat'ry god, Some speedy aid to send. No Dolphin came, no Nereid stirr'd: Nor cruel Tom, nor Susan heard. A Fav'rite has no friend! From hence, ye Beauties, undeceived, Know, one false step is ne'er retrieved, And be with caution bold. Not all that tempts your wand'ring eyes And heedless hearts, is lawful prize; Nor all that glisters, gold. -- Thomas Gray

        (1716-1771)

As a recent subscriber to Wondering Minstrels I ask indulgence for
nominating a poem which is justly famous. This poem is a personal favourite
of mine. I marvel at Gray's poetic genius transforming a sad domestic
misadventure into an immortal moral tale. The mock heroic form is pure
delight. The poem is richly steeped in literary allusion, and much detail
can be found at:
        http://www.thomasgray.org/index.shtml

A couple of notes: "Genii" are guardian spirits. Cats have nine lives; hence
Selima emerged eight times before succumbing to her wat'ry fate. The dolphin
alludes to the story of the dolphin which saved Arion from drowning. The
allusion in Nereid is possibly to the story of Sabrina in Comus. "Tom" and
"Susan" are generic names of domestic servants.

My Love is Theosophist -- Patrick Barrington

Guest poem submitted by William Grey:

(Poem #1551) My Love is Theosophist My love is a Theosophist And reads the Ramayana; Her luncheon is a pot of tea, Her breakfast a banana. She says that matter tends to clog The spirit-force behind it. My love is a Theosophist, And very tough I find it. My love is a Theosophist And wears no combinations; She says they get her thought-urge weak And lower her vibrations. She tells me flannel next the skin Impedes the astral motions. My love is a Theosophist, And has the strangest notions. My love is a Theosophist, And few things I deplore as Sincerely as the thoughtless way She crabs her neighbours' auras. She sensed Miss Hope's as bilious green, And got some quack to vet it. My love is a Theosophist, And many folk regret it. My love is a Theosophist, And though distinctly stouter She moves on a more mental plane Than do the folks about her. She moved into a potted plant Last week at Mrs Reece's. My love is a Theosophist, So I picked up the pieces. My love is a Theosophist, And has an intimation That she was Florence Nightingale In her last incarnation. She senses me as Titus Oates, More Ape-man than Apollo, My love is a Theosophist, And difficult to follow. My love is a Theosophist, And does not seem to worry If they forget to send the fish Or fail to cook the curry. As my potatoes grow more burnt Her temper grows the sweeter. My love is a Theosophist, And lives on Veeta Weeta. My love is a Theosophist-- Or, rather, is no longer; For, though her Ego-urge was strong, The Cosmic Will was stronger. While moving on the Higher Plane She moved into a lorry. My love was a Theosophist, And really I'm not sorry. -- Patrick Barrington

Patrick Barrington succeeded an uncle to become the 11th Viscount
Barrington. He died at the age of 81 on 6 April 1990.  There was an
enthusiastic audience of devotees for Barrington's whimsical verse, much of
it published in Punch in the early 1930s.

'My Love is a Theosophist' is characteristic of his style.  It is
instructive as well as entertaining. References to psychic beliefs
("vibrations", "cosmic will", and so on) show that little has changed in
psychic belief systems over the last 70 years. A chemist or physicist who
walked through a time warp in a laboratory of 70 years ago would be
immediately struck by the archaic apparatus in use.  If you walked into a
spiritualist's or psychic's den of 70 years ago -- apart from the absence of
a personal computer on the desk in the corner -- you would perceive little
change.

That is one way of illustrating how science develops by it superseding and
replacing inferior theories and methods in a continuing process of
innovation which fosters a progressive incremental process of improvement in
our understanding.  Paranormal beliefs, in contrast, are moribund. The
silver lining to this otherwise darkish cloud is that Barrington's whimsical
scepticism resonates as delightfully and with as much relevance today as
when they were penned more than seventy years ago.

William Grey.