I Need Air -- Alan Lerner

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver :

(Poem #1954) I Need Air I could see it wasn't worth Spending time with them on earth. There were fewer in the sky. I decided I would fly. I need air... Where only stars get in my hair: And only eagles stop and stare. I need air. Oh, the work is mad And I've had my share. I need air. I need air. I need air... There's not a sign of life down there. Just hats and grown-ups everywhere. I need air. Lots of cosy sky That God and I can share. I need air. I need air. -- Alan Lerner

     (from the musical 'The Little Prince', based on the book by
      Antoine St. Exupery)

I guess this describes the pilot who is not one of the gang, a loner, who
flies to get away from it all. A nice poem to read on days when everyone
around is getting on your nerves.

  I could see it wasn't worth
  Spending time with them on earth.
  There were fewer in the sky.
  I decided I would fly.

As good a reason to fly as any!

Loved the cheekiness in the lines:
  There's not a sign of life down there.
  Just hats and grown-ups everywhere.

Yes, I feel like this quite often.

Zen

[Martin adds]

It's surprising how many flying poems and songs have their essence captured
by Yeats's immortal line "a lonely impulse of delight". Today's is no
exception.

martin

[Links]

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alan_Jay_Lerner

The Little Prince [I really need to see this! - martin]:
  http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0071762/maindetails

Impressions of a Pilot -- Gary Claude Stoker

This week, a guest theme run by Zenobia Driver :
poems about flying.

(Poem #1951) Impressions of a Pilot Flight is freedom in its purest form, To dance with the clouds which follow a storm; To roll and glide, to wheel and spin, To feel the joy that swells within. To leave the earth with its troubles and fly, And know the warmth of a clear spring sky; Then back to earth at the end of the day, Released from the tensions which melted away. Should my end come while I am in flight, Whether brightest day or darkest night; Spare me no pity and shrug off the pain, Secure in the knowledge that I'd do it again. For each of us is created to die, And within me I know, I was born to fly. -- Gary Claude Stoker

Some time ago, I was reading 'On Wings of Fire' by Dr. Abdul Kalam, and came
across a reference to a poem about Darius Greene. While trying to track down
that poem, I came across lots of other poems about flying and realized that
this was one topic that was not sufficiently represented in the poems we
read in school, college etc, or on the minstrels.

(A notable exception to this being 'An Irish Airman Foresees His Death' by
W.B.Yeats, which is reproduced and quoted everywhere, but that is not about
flying alone and it has only one reference to the 'lonely impulse of
delight' that 'drove to this tumult in the clouds'.)

So here are some poems that describe the joy of flying, the reasons for
flying, the irreverent attitude of fighter pilots and of course, the story
of Darius Greene. For those who want to read more quotes, poems etc about
flying, http://www.skygod.com/quotes/misc.html is one good site.

I thought I would start with a poem that describes the sensation of flying.
I loved the first paragraph - I can feel a plane rolling and spinning and
dancing with the clouds as I say the lines. Also loved the analogy of flight
as freedom.

The last paragraph was great too - wouldn't it be marvellous if you knew
exactly why you were on this earth, and you knew that you were doing exactly
that and you absolutely loved it?

Zenobia

[Martin adds]

As usual, contributions to the theme are welcome - send them in!

Reflection on the Fallibility of Nemesis -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1881) Reflection on the Fallibility of Nemesis He who is ridden by a conscience Worries about a lot of nonscience; He without benefit of scruples His fun and income soon quadruples. -- Ogden Nash

Found this gem while leafing through a random book on poetry. Who could
but agree, albeit with a rueful grin. You haven't run any Ogden Nash for
a while, how about this one?

Z.

A Pot Of Tea -- Robert Service

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1742) A Pot Of Tea You make it in your mess-tin by the brazier's rosy gleam; You watch it cloud, then settle amber clear; You lift it with your bay'nit, and you sniff the fragrant steam; The very breath of it is ripe with cheer. You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot; You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot; It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot: God bless the man that first discovered Tea! Since I came out to fight in France, which ain't the other day, I think I've drunk enough to float a barge; All kinds of fancy foreign dope, from caffy and doo lay, To rum they serves you out before a charge. In back rooms of estaminays I've gurgled pints of cham; I've swilled down mugs of cider till I've felt a bloomin' dam; But 'struth! they all ain't in it with the vintage of Assam: God bless the man that first invented Tea! I think them lazy lumps o' gods wot kips on asphodel Swigs nectar that's a flavour of Oolong; I only wish them sons o' guns a-grillin' down in 'ell Could 'ave their daily ration of Suchong. Hurrah! I'm off to battle, which is 'ell and 'eaven too; And if I don't give some poor bloke a sexton's job to do, To-night, by Fritz's campfire, won't I 'ave a gorgeous brew (For fightin' mustn't interfere with Tea). To-night we'll all be tellin' of the Boches that we slew, As we drink the giddy victory in Tea. -- Robert Service

Here's a nice poem on tea. Actually I got it from Aseem who seems to be
contributing a lot to the Minstrels these days, dunno why he has not
submitted this one yet. I love tea, hence the very title of this poem grabs
my attention. Love the simple and matter-of-fact way in which the poem
announces its existence - "a pot of tea". These are my favourite lines:

 You're awful cold and dirty, and a-cursin' of your lot;
 You scoff the blushin' 'alf of it, so rich and rippin' 'ot;
 It bucks you up like anythink, just seems to touch the spot:
 God bless the man that first discovered Tea!

I just love having a warm, fragrant cup of tea when I am tired - just the
smell of the brew makes me feel better.

Zenobia.

The World Is A Box -- Sophie Hannah

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1518) The World Is A Box My heart is a box of affection. My head is a box of ideas. My room is a box of protection. My past is a box full of years. The future's a box full of after. An egg is a box full of yolk. My life is a box full of laughter And the world is a box full of folk. -- Sophie Hannah

There's this amazing collection of poems edited by Carol Ann Duffy called
'Overheard on a Salmarsh' (which also is the title of a poem by Harold
Monro) [Minstrels Poem #594 - ed.] in which poets choose their favourite
poem from among their own writings and then choose a favourite children's
poem which could have been written by anyone. Sophie Hannah chose "The World
Is A Box" as her favourite poem from among her own writings.

I liked all the 'box' analogies, but I really loved 'my life is a box full
of laughter' -- I think that's the sign of a good, well-enjoyed life. I
would love to lie back in a rocking chair at the age of 80, with a cup of
steaming hot chai in my hand, and reflect on my life and feel that it's a
box full of laughter. What more could one ask for ? (apart from a hot samosa
to go with the chai).

Zenobia.

After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #1450) After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern Physics If all a top physicist knows About the Truth be true, Then, for all the so-and-so's, Futility and grime, Our common world contains, We have a better time Than the Greater Nebulae do, Or the atoms in our brains. Marriage is rarely bliss But, surely it would be worse As particles to pelt At thousands of miles per sec About a universe Wherein a lover's kiss Would either not be felt Or break the loved one's neck. Though the face at which I stare While shaving it be cruel For, year after year, it repels An ageing suitor, it has, Thank God, sufficient mass To be altogether there, Not an indeterminate gruel Which is partly somewhere else. Our eyes prefer to suppose That a habitable place Has a geocentric view, That architects enclose A quiet Euclidian space: Exploded myths - but who Could feel at home astraddle An ever expanding saddle? This passion of our kind For the process of finding out Is a fact one can hardly doubt, But I would rejoice in it more If I knew more clearly what We wanted the knowledge for, Felt certain still that the mind Is free to know or not. It has chosen once, it seems, And whether our concern For magnitude's extremes Really become a creature Who comes in a median size, Or politicizing Nature Be altogether wise, Is something we shall learn. -- W H Auden

Note: As the son of a physicist, Auden had an enduring interest in science and
the moral issues surrounding it.
   -- http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/auden.shtml

I could not resist a poem called 'After Reading a Child's Guide to Modern
Physics'. Never read a poem like this before - that compared one's life to
the way it would be if one was a nebula or one were an atom. (BTW can a
nebula or an atom have an identity? So 'one' in the sense of 'me' could
never be a nebula right? Anyway. )  The first time I read the poem I
couldn't stop grinning at consequences of the lovers kiss. And the lines 'but
who/ Could feel at home astraddle/ An ever expanding saddle?' totally grabbed
me. They are just too cool - the idea of some astronomical body feeling
uncomfortable because it was being stretched as the universe expanded was a
nice quirky way to think of the big bang theory. Wish he had taken a shot at
some more science theories - Darwinism would have been interesting I think.

Regards,
Zenobia D. Driver

[Links]

Auden's reading of the poem here:
  http://www.bbc.co.uk/arts/poetry/outloud/auden.shtml

Being Boring -- Wendy Cope

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #1444) Being Boring If you ask me 'What's new?', I have nothing to say Except that the garden is growing. I had a slight cold but it's better today. I'm content with the way things are going. Yes, he is the same as he usually is, Still eating and sleeping and snoring. I get on with my work. He gets on with his. I know this is all very boring. There was drama enough in my turbulent past: Tears and passion-I've used up a tankful. No news is good news, and long may it last, If nothing much happens, I'm thankful. A happier cabbage you never did see, My vegetable spirits are soaring. If you're after excitement, steer well clear of me. I want to go on being boring. I don't go to parties. Well, what are they for, If you don't need to find a new lover? You drink and you listen and drink a bit more And you take the next day to recover. Someone to stay home with was all my desire And, now that I've found a safe mooring, I've just one ambition in life: I aspire To go on and on being boring. -- Wendy Cope

The title of this poem caught my eye and I knew I just had to read it.
Somehow heading a poem 'being boring' promises an interesting poem (it
cannot be a confession, it has to be sarcy or humourous or something). Dunno
the theory of meter and all, but the words march along very briskly when I
read it aloud. I think the poem is something you can imagine some character
played by Emma Thompson reciting in a movie.

zenobia

Out of Control -- Neil Young

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #1427) Out of Control Once, high on a hill, there was a song Nothing was wrong, that's when time stood still Now lovers are caught, tied in their dreams Bound in their thoughts, wrapped in the depth of their love If I can hold on to you If I can hold on to you Somewhere near the end, lovers pretend Fake what they feel, take what they get from love Start missing the drive, staying alive Four out of five, without the feeling of love If the sky is fire and hell is blue If all of our dreams won't come true If the sky is fire and hell is blue I'll cover you, I'll cover you Sky is fire, hell is blue Sky is fire, hell is blue That's why I'm out of control Tear myself down, build myself up, tear myself down again I'm talking to you, trying to get through Don't want to hide, lost in the mirror of love If I can hold on to you If I can hold on to you -- Neil Young

Heard this CSNY song this morning and thought i would submit it. its not
great poetry, but its nice.

Funny thing is, the song is titled 'Out of Control', but the tune and rhythm
are very serene and calm and peaceful; the words also seem very calm and
measured and not very out of control - either in rhythm or in meaning. So
the title doesnt exactly match the rest of it.

I liked the way falling out of love is described - 'Somewhere near the end,
lovers pretend'. Also the 'Tear myself down, build myself up, tear myself down
again' part - describes the confusion nicely.

Basically I liked the song and now I'm trying to give commentary to explain
why I liked it. Can't think of anything more to write.

Regards,
Zenobia D. Driver

Biography:
  http://www.rollingstone.com/artists/bio.asp?oid=229&cf=229

You cannot put a fire out -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1328) You cannot put a fire out You cannot put a fire out; A thing that can ignite Can go, itself, without a fan Upon the slowest night. You cannot fold a flood And put it in a drawer, -- Because the winds would find it out, And tell your cedar floor. -- Emily Dickinson

I really like this poem, because it's sort of rebellious and
revolutionary and because the images are whacko. I keep imagining trying
to fold a flood the way I would sheets :-). Also I like the image of the
wind whispering quietly to the cedar floor.

[Minstrels Links]

Emily Dickinson:
Poem #92, There's a certain Slant of light
Poem #174, A Route of Evanescence
Poem #341, The Grass so little has to do -
Poem #458, The Chariot
Poem #529, If you were coming in the fall
Poem #580, Split the Lark
Poem #687, Success is counted sweetest
Poem #711, I'm Nobody! Who are you?
Poem #829, It dropped so low in my regard
Poem #871, I felt a Funeral, in my Brain
Poem #891, A Doubt If It Be Us
Poem #950, The Cricket Sang
Poem #1294, The reticent volcano keeps

The reticent volcano keeps -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1294) The reticent volcano keeps The reticent volcano keeps His never-slumbering plan; Confided are his projects pink To no precarious man. If nature will not tell the tale Jehovah told to her Can human nature not survive Without a listener? Admonished by her buckled lips Let every babbler be The only secret people keep Is immortality. -- Emily Dickinson

I really liked the volcano imagery, especially because it suggests that
a silent person has a never slumbering plan, and he never confides it to
those it affects - the men who eke out a precarious existence on its
slopes. I also really liked the last two lines - I think the way
immortality is used to illustrate that people can never keep things to
themselves is amazing.

Basically I like this poem because most people talk too much and just
can't keep quiet, even when I ignore them and maintain a stony silence.
One more thought - why are people so uncomfortable even with friendly
silences? Why must they rush to fill them in with higgledy-piggledy
words?

Zenobia.

Coffee In Heaven -- John Agard

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1071) Coffee In Heaven You'll be greeted by a nice cup of coffee when you get to heaven and strains of angelic harmony. But wouldn't you be devastated if they only serve decaffeinated while from the percolators of hell your soul was assaulted by Satan's fresh espresso smell? -- John Agard

I love coffee and hence I had to check out a poem with a title that read
'Coffee in Heaven'. I love the contrast between a sterile, decaffeinated,
virtuous heaven and a strong espresso hell.

Zen.

Words -- Edward Thomas

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #1032) Words Out of us all That make rhymes Will you choose Sometimes - As the winds use A crack in a wall Or a drain, Their joy or their pain To whistle through - Choose me, You English words? I know you: You are light as dreams, Tough as oak, Precious as gold, As poppies and corn, Or an old cloak: Sweet as our birds To the ear, As the burnet rose In the heat Of Midsummer: Strange as the races Of dead and unborn: Strange and sweet Equally, And familiar, To the eye, As the dearest faces That a man knows, And as lost homes are: But though older far Than oldest yew, - As our hills are, old, - Worn new Again and again: Young as our streams After rain: And as dear As the earth which you prove That we love. Make me content With some sweetness From Wales Whose nightingales Have no wings, - From Wiltshire and Kent And Herefordshire, - And the villages there, - From the names, and the things No less. Let me sometimes dance With you, Or climb Or stand perchance In ecstasy, Fixed and free In a rhyme, As poets do. -- Edward Thomas

I liked this poem because the image of a poet beseeching words to accept
him, and using a poem as a medium to do so, appealed to me. I also liked the
way he describes words in the second section of the poem.

Zenobia.

August 1968 -- W H Auden

Guest poem sent in by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #895) August 1968 The Ogre does what ogres can, Deeds quite impossible for Man, But one prize is beyond his reach: The Ogre cannot master speech. About a subjugated plain, Among it's desperate and slain, The Ogre stalks with hands on hips, While drivel gushes from his lips. -- W H Auden

This poem by Auden is one of the nicest put-downs I have read. I'd love to
say this to a few people, except that they wouldn't even understand what I
was saying.

-Zenobia

Martin adds:

The poem's title refers to the Communist invasion of Czechoslovakia in
August 1968, to quash Dubcek's nascent series of reforms. See
http://www.rferl.org/nca/features/1998/08/F.RUhtml for more
background on the invasion. Auden's Ogre was a (fairly transparent) symbol
of Stalin and his forces, but, as Zenobia observes, the type is common even
today.

Love Minus Zero / No Limit -- Bob Dylan

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #832) Love Minus Zero / No Limit My love she speaks like silence, Without ideals or violence, She doesn't have to say she's faithful, Yet she's true, like ice, like fire. People carry roses, Make promises by the hours, My love she laughs like the flowers, Valentines can't buy her. In the dime stores and bus stations, People talk of situations, Read books, repeat quotations, Draw conclusions on the wall. Some speak of the future, My love she speaks softly, She knows there's no success like failure And that failure's no success at all. The cloak and dagger dangles, Madams light the candles. In ceremonies of the horsemen, Even the pawn must hold a grudge. Statues made of match sticks, Crumble into one another, My love winks, she does not bother, She knows too much to argue or to judge. The bridge at midnight trembles, The country doctor rambles, Bankers' nieces seek perfection, Expecting all the gifts that wise men bring. The wind howls like a hammer, The night blows cold and rainy, My love she's like some raven At my window with a broken wing. -- Bob Dylan

There was this concert in Bombay on Dylan's birthday where a lot of Indian
artists sang his songs. Some of them were putrid singers but some were
really nice. There was someone called Geeta Raheja who sang Joan Baez's
'Diamonds and Rust' and it was brilliant - partly due to the atmosphere - it
was amazing, just when she began, this wind sprang up out of nowhere and the
leaves in the trees started rustling and suddenly the sky turned cloudy -
and there she was on stage, singing beautifully in a plain dark black saree.
Amazing effect. Just for that song alone the concert was worth it. Kim
Cardoz sang 'House of the Rising Sun' really well too. And someone whose
name I disremember sang 'love minus zero'. I had never heard the song before
and fell in love with it. I have no clue what the original is like and
whether he was mauling it, but I liked the way he sang it. Hence the hunt
for the lyrics and this poem.

Zenobia.

[Minstrels Links]

Bob Dylan:
Poem #112, Mr.Tambourine Man
Poem #227, Desolation Row

And the inspiration for his assumed name, Dylan Thomas:
Poem #14, Prologue
Poem #38, Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night
Poem #58, The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower
Poem #138, Fern Hill
Poem #225, Poem In October
Poem #270, Under Milk Wood
Poem #335, After the Funeral (In memory of Ann Jones)
Poem #405, Altarwise by Owl-Light (Stanzas I - IV)
Poem #476, In my craft or sullen art
Poem #568, Especially when the October Wind

Song of Perfect Propriety -- Dorothy Parker

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #638) Song of Perfect Propriety Oh, I should like to ride the seas, A roaring buccaneer; A cutlass banging at my knees, A dirk behind my ear. And when my captives' chains would clank I'd howl with glee and drink, And then fling out the quivering plank And watch the beggars sink. I'd like to straddle gory decks, And dig in laden sands, And know the feel of throbbing necks Between my knotted hands. Oh, I should like to strut and curse Among my blackguard crew.... But I am writing little verse, As little ladies do. Oh, I should like to dance and laugh And pose and preen and sway, And rip the hearts of men in half, And toss the bits away. I'd like to view the reeling years Through unastonished eyes, And dip my finger-tips in tears, And give my smiles for sighs. I'd stroll beyond the ancient bounds, And tap at fastened gates, And hear the prettiest of sound- The clink of shattered fates. My slaves I'd like to bind with thongs That cut and burn and chill.... But I am writing little songs, As little ladies will. -- Dorothy Parker

Ever since I was a kid, I've been hearing those awful words, "Ladies don't
do such things". I hate that sentence. I hate walking daintily, speaking
softly and giggling with a gentle tinkling noise. Which is why I find Parker
brilliant. She professes utterly nasty, unladylike emotions - ooooooooooooo
I love it - and then ends with two soft little ladylike lines. The contrast
is hilarious.

Zen.

I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing -- Walt Whitman

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver:

(Poem #508) I Saw in Louisiana a Live-Oak Growing I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing, All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches, Without any companion it stood there uttering joyous leaves of dark green, And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself, But I wondered how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its friend near, for I knew I could not, And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around it a little moss, And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room, It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends, (For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,) Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love; For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat space, Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend or lover near, I know very well I could not. -- Walt Whitman

I was reminded of this poem by the ending of 'Wild Geese' [1]. Coincidentally i
was thinking of Whitman's poem this morning anyway - I find it very soothing,
and I love trees and somehow the poem seems to comfort and ward off loneliness
as well. And I really like the description of the tree in the poem...

Zenobia Driver.

[1] Zenobia submitted today's poem back in May, the day we ran Mary Oliver's
'Wild Geese'. You can read the latter poem at poem #426

The Music Crept By Us -- Leonard Cohen

Guest poem submitted by Zenobia Driver

(Poem #339) The Music Crept By Us I would like to remind the management that the drinks are watered and the hat-check girl has syphilis and the band is composed of former SS monsters However since it is New Year's Eve and I have lip cancer I will place my paper hat on my concussion and dance. -- Leonard Cohen

A friend and I read this while working on a project last night and at
first we wondered and wondered about how depressed and suicidal Cohen
must be (all his poems that I have read so far are dark), then we read
it again and looked at it differently and couldn't stop laughing. The
man's imagination is amazing. And I love the way the mood is maintained
till the very end with the 'paper hat on my concussion' instead of on
his head.

Zen.

[Minstrels Links]

Canadian singer-songwriter Leonard Cohen has been featured on the
Minstrels before - 'Suzanne', at poem #116