There's a certain Slant of light -- Emily Dickinson

(Poem #92) There's a certain Slant of light There's a certain Slant of light, Winter Afternoons-- That opresses, like the Heft Of Cathedral Tunes-- Heavenly Hurt, it gives us-- We can find no scar, But internal difference, Where the meanings are-- None may teach it--Any-- 'Tis the Seal Despair-- An imperial affliction Sent us of the Air-- When it comes, the Landscape listens-- Shadows--hold their breath-- When it goes, 'tis like the Distance On the look of Death-- -- Emily Dickinson

Dickinson's style is decidedly unusual, and I don't always like it, but
when it works, it works well. The above poem is a nice example, the
unusual construction blending well with the somewhat mystical imagery.
One of the things I especially like about Dickinson's poetry is the
wonderful job she does of capturing images and examining them from
unexpected angles, and the 'slant of light, winter afternoons' is imho one
of her most beautiful. And the final two lines are simply exquisite.

m.

Biographical Notes and Assessment:

Dickinson, Emily

 b. Dec. 10, 1830, Amherst, Mass., U.S.
 d. May 15, 1886, Amherst

 in full EMILY ELIZABETH DICKINSON, American lyric poet who has been called
 "the New England mystic" and who experimented with poetic rhythms and
 rhymes. Almost all her poetry was published posthumously.

Emily began to write verse about 1850, apparently while under the spell of
the poems of Ralph Waldo Emerson and Emily Brontk and under the tutelage of
Benjamin F. Newton, a young man studying law in her father's office. Only a
handful of her poems can be dated before 1858, when she began to collect
them into small, handsewn booklets.

[...]

The poems of the 1850s are fairly conventional in sentiment and form, but
beginning about 1860 they become experimental both in language and prosody,
though they owe much to the metres of the English hymn writer Isaac Watts
and to Shakespeare and the King James Version of the Bible. Emily's
prevailing poetic form was the quatrain of three iambic feet, a type
described in one of the books by Watts in the family library. She used many
other forms as well, and to even the simpler hymnbook measures she gave
complexity by constantly altering the metrical beat to fit her thought: now
slow, now fast, now hesitant. She broke new ground in her wide use of
off-rhymes, varying from the true in a variety of ways that also helped to
convey her thought and its tensions. In striving for an epigrammatic
conciseness, she stripped her language of superfluous words and saw to it
that those that remained were vivid and exact. She tampered freely with
syntax and liked to place a familiar word in an extraordinary context,
shocking the reader to attention and discovery.

[...]

The later 19th century and early years of the 20th century were a poor
period for American poetry; yet (in addition to William Vaughn Moody) two
poets of distinction wrote songs that survived long after scores of minor
poets had been forgotten. One was Southern-born Sidney Lanier, [...]

The other poet was a New Englander, Emily Dickinson. A shy, playful, odd
personality, she allowed practically none of her writings to be published
during her lifetime. Not until 1890, four years after her death, was the
first book of her poems published, to be followed at intervals by other
collections. Later poets were to be influenced by her individual
techniques--use of imperfect, or eye, rhymes, avoidance of regular rhythms,
and a tendency to pack brief stanzas with cryptic meanings. Like Lanier, she
rediscovered the value of conceits for setting forth her thought and
feeling. Such poems as "The Snake," "I Like to See It Lap the Miles," "The
Chariot," "Farther in Summer than the Birds," and "There's a Certain Slant
of Light" represented her unusual talent at its best.

        -- EB

Cottleston Pie -- A A Milne

this week's theme: poems written by fictional characters - metapoets, if
you will.

(Poem #91) Cottleston Pie Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie, A fly can't bird, but a bird can fly. Ask me a riddle and I reply Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie. Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie, Why does a chicken? I don't know why. Ask me a riddle and I reply Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie. Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie, A fish can't whistle and neither can I. Ask me a riddle and I reply Cottleston Cottleston Cottleston Pie. -- A A Milne

This charming little snippet of verse was written by one of my favourite
characters, a Bear of Very Little Brain, Winne-the-Pooh. I remember
having been fascinated by the surrealism of the 6th line from my
childhood days, long ago when all the world and time was young...

... I continue to be fascinated by it :-)

As for what sort of beast a Cottleston Pie is, a search of the Web
revealed only the following URL:

http://www.students.uiuc.edu/~chpeters/cottleston_pie/

Enjoy!

thomas.

Casey At The Bat -- Ernest Lawrence Thayer

(Poem #90) Casey At The Bat It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to play. So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the same, A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the game. A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human breast. for they thought: "If only Casey could get a whack at that," they'd put even money now, with Casey at the bat. But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a pudd'n and the latter was a fake. So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat; For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat. But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all. And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball." And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred, There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-huggin' third. Then from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous yell-- It rumbled in the mountaintops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey was advancing to the bat. There was ease in Casey's manner as he stepped into his place, There was pride in Casey's bearing and a smile on Casey's face; And when responding to the cheers he lightly doffed his hat. No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat." Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt, Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt; Then when the writhing pitcher ground the ball into his hip, Defiance glanced in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip. And now the leather-covered sphere came hurtling through the air, And Casey stood a watching it in haughty grandeur there. Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped; "That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said. From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar, Like the beating of the storm waves on the stern and distant shore. "Kill him! kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the stand; And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised his hand. With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage shone; He stilled the rising tumault, he made the game go on; He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike Two." "Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and the echo answered "Fraud!" But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed; They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain, And they knew that Casey wouldn't let the ball go by again. The sneer is gone from Casey's lips, his teeth are clenched in hate, He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate; And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's blow. Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright, The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light; And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout, But there is no joy in Mudville: Mighty Casey has struck out. -- Ernest Lawrence Thayer

A number of poets are known for just one poem, but seldom is that one poem
as famous as 'Casey at the Bat'; seldom has it conferred upon its author the
deep-seated immortality that 'Casey' brought Thayer. "Casey at the Bat is an
enduring example of American baseball literature." writes the Cosmic
Baseball Assocaiation. "Read countless times to countless children as they
fall asleep; memorized and recited by countless orators to countless
audiences, it is a tale that sinks deeply into the American soul."

And a pretty good poem it is too. It has all the features one looks for in a
good narrative poem - a gripping story, a strong rhythm and a rhyme scheme
that advances the poem in a series of couplets, lending itself well to
recitation.

Of course, so famous and distinctive a poem has attracted its share of
parodies. Unfortunately, most of them aren't particularly good. Frank Jacobs
(of Mad Magazine fame) had a few nice ones, but they aren't online. A few
others may be found at <[broken link] http://www.clark.net/pub/cosmic/catb1.html>

m.

For the full story behind the writing of the poem, see
<http://www.historybuff.com/library/refcasey.html>

Biography and Appraisal:

  Born August 14, 1863 in Lawrence, Massachusetts, Ernest Thayer was the son
  of a prosperous mill owner. His family eventually moved to Worcester,
  Massachusetts where his father ran several wool mills.

  Ernest graduated magna cum laude with a major in philosophy in 1885.
  At Harvard he edited the college humor magazine, the Harvard Lampoon.
  The eminent American philosopher William James was a teacher and
  friend. Other classmates included William Randolph Hearst and George
  Santayana.

  After college, and typical of the sons of the well-to-do, Ernest went
  abroad and settled for a time in Paris. Despite his father's desire to
  have him work in the family business, Ernest took a job writing humor
  pieces for his college friend Hearst, who was now running the San
  Francisco Examiner newspaper. Returning to Worcester in 1888, Thayer wrote
  "Casey" in May and Hearst published it in the June 3, 1888 edition of his
  newspaper. Thayer wrote his columns for the newspaper using the pseudonym
  "Phin" and it would be several years before the true authorship of "Casey"
  would be determined.

  Thayer eventually went to work for his father but ultimately quit
  altogether when he moved to Santa Barabara in in 1912. It was in
  California, at age 50 that he married Rosalind Buel Hammett, a widow
  from St. Louis. They had no children.

  Described as a slightly built, soft-spoken man who wore a hearing aid
  after middle age, Thayer died in Santa Barabara, in 1940.

  In his brief review of Thayer's life, Martin Gardner writes:

        One might argue that Thayer, with his extraordinary beginning at
        Harvard, his friendship with James and Santayana, his lifelong
        immersion in philosophy and the great books, was himself
        something of a Casey.

  Just before Thayer died he attempted to put some thoughts down on
  paper. However, he was too old or too sick to carry out the task and
  he lamented, "Now I have something to say and I am too weak to say
  it."

  Nevertheless, Thayer will forever be remembered for one remarkable at
  bat, a tragic-comic hit about a mighty hero who struck out.
        -- The Cosmic Baseball Association
        <[broken link] http://www.clark.net/pub/cosmic/thayer.html>

  Thayer was not without literary credentials. He had been the editor of the
  Lampoon in his undergraduate days...(Famed poet-philosopher George
  Santayana was his associate editor.) He accepted Hearst's offer, and soon
  his weekly column began to appear under the pseudonym "Phin," an echo of
  his Harvard days, where his friends had called him "Phinny."

  Santayana might have provided a clue as to why his old editor made Casey
  into a flawed hero.

  "Ernest...seemed to be a man apart...who saw the broken edges of things
  that appear whole." Casey could have been the lead character in a Greek
  tragedy, for he was given an opportunity to fulfill a truly heroic
  destiny, but his hubris caused him to take two pitches, either of which a
  less haughty man would have jumped on in an effort to win the game. But
  Casey, in Ted Williams fashion, was "waiting for his pitch." If only he
  had had Williams' eyes, his trigger reflexes, his fluid swing. But if he
  had been thus blessed, he would not have been playing in
  Mudville/Stockton, he would have been across the Charles River from
  Harvard, playing for the Red Sox or the Braves. And Thayer, although he
  had consorted with the likes of James and Santayana, was no Euripides. We
  get no clue of Casey's impending doom. We are sure that despite all the
  Mudville misfortune that had preceded the mighty one's fateful at bat, he
  would come through as he always had.

  [...]

  The poem became somewhat of a curse for Thayer. He was embarrassed when
  people hailed him as the author. When asked to recite it, he did so
  reluctantly and not well. He never accepted royalties for it and never
  submitted another for publication.

  [...]

  Santayana was right. Thayer was "a man apart." He lived in quiet
  retirement until his death 1940. His 15 minutes of fame echoed down
  through the decades in five minute and 40 second segments as Hopper,
  Connors and countless others regaled audiences from Little League picnics
  to Hall of Fame induction banquets with Phin's immortal muse.

    -- Bob Brigham, 'Where the Mighty Casey Struck Out'
    <[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Colosseum/Field/1538/TDA59B/casey.html>

Dover Beach -- Matthew Arnold

(Poem #89) Dover Beach The sea is calm to-night, The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; -- on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanch'd land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in. Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Aegean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea. The sea of faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furl'd. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world. Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night. -- Matthew Arnold

... like most 'classic poems', 'Dover Beach' has its share of redeeming
features <g>

To tell the truth, Arnold isn't one of my favourite poets - much of his
work is too overtly didactic for my taste. The first and last stanzas of
'Dover Beach', however, are not; although I disagree with the
philospophy implied by the poem, I can't help being enchanted by its
language... "Where ignorant armies clash by night" has got to be one of
the most evocative (and in its way, saddest) lines ever written, right
up there with Keats' "Silent, upon a peak in Darien"...

thomas.

[Brief Biography]

Matthew Arnold (1822 - 1888): English poet and critic. His first two
volumes of poems The Strayed Reveller and other Poems (1849) and
Empedocles on Etna and other Poems (1852) were published anonymously and
with little success. He made his mark with his third volume of poetry
Poems: A New Edition (1853-54) which contained 'The Scholar Gipsy',
'Sohrab and Rustum', and 'Memorial Verses to Wordsworth'. He reinforced
his standing as a poet with New Poems (1867) which included 'Dover
Beach' and 'Thyrsis'. He established himself as the leading critic of
the age with a number of works including Essays and Criticism (1865,
1888), Culture and Anarchy (1869) and Literature and Dogma (1873).

[Less Brief Biography]

Matthew Arnold was born in Laleham, Surrey. His father was Dr Thomas
Arnold, Headmaster of Rugby School. He was educated at Winchester,
Rugby, and Balliol College, Oxford where he met another well-known poet
of the age, A.H.Clough, and won the Newdigate prize with a poem on
Cromwell (1843). In 1845 he was elected a fellow of Oriel, another
Oxford college.

After working as private secretary to Lord Landsdowne (1847-51), he
became an inspector of schools (1851) and travelled widely in England
and the Continent observing how schools were organised and suggesting
how they could be improved.

In 1851 he married Fanny Lucy Wightman and part of his famous poem
'Dover Beach' (1867) dates from his honeymoon on the Continent. He was
to have six children, only three of whom outlived him.

His critical work, most of which was written after 1860, was to have a
profound influence on many writers after his death, including the poet
T.S.Eliot. In Essays and Criticism (1865) Arnold widened the limits of
literary criticism by using it to attack the state of English culture.
The focus of this attack was 'provinciality', or the narrowness of mind
caused by people's preoccupation with local affairs.

His eagerness to escape the limits of 'provinciality' formed the basis
of his work as an inspector of schools. He is now seen as having made a
valuable contribution to the improvement of education in England.

from http://www.netpoets.com

The Major General's Song -- W S Gilbert

(Poem #88) The Major General's Song SONG--MAJOR-GENERAL I am the very model of a modern Major-General, I've information vegetable, animal, and mineral, I know the kings of England, and I quote the fights historical From Marathon to Waterloo, in order categorical; I'm very well acquainted, too, with matters mathematical, I understand equations, both the simple and quadratical, About binomial theorem I'm teeming with a lot o' news, With many cheerful facts about the square of the hypotenuse. ALL: With many cheerful facts, etc. GENERAL: I'm very good at integral and differential calculus; I know the scientific names of beings animalculous: In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General. ALL: In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, He is the very model of a modern Major-General. GENERAL: I know our mythic history, King Arthur's and Sir Caradoc's; I answer hard acrostics, I've a pretty taste for paradox, I quote in elegiacs all the crimes of Heliogabalus, In conics I can floor peculiarities parabolous; I can tell undoubted Raphaels from Gerard Dows and Zoffanies, I know the croaking chorus from the Frogs of Aristophanes! Then I can hum a fugue of which I've heard the music's din afore, And whistle all the airs from that infernal nonsense Pinafore. ALL: And whistle all the airs, etc. GENERAL: Then I can write a washing bill in Babylonic cuneiform, And tell you ev'ry detail of Caractacus's uniform: In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General. ALL: In short, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, He is the very model of a modern Major-General. GENERAL: In fact, when I know what is meant by "mamelon" and "ravelin", When I can tell at sight a Mauser rifle from a javelin, When such affairs as sorties and surprises I'm more wary at, And when I know precisely what is meant by "commissariat", When I have learnt what progress has been made in modern gunnery, When I know more of tactics than a novice in a nunnery -- In short, when I've a smattering of elemental strategy, You'll say a better Major-General has never sat a gee. ALL: You'll say a better Major-General, etc. GENERAL: For my military knowledge, though I'm plucky and adventury, Has only been brought down to the beginning of the century; But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, I am the very model of a modern Major-General. ALL: But still, in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral, He is the very model of a modern Major-General. -- W S Gilbert

                   from 'The Pirates of Penzance'

Gilbert is beyond a doubt one of the greatest lyricists the language has
produced to date. Of course his lyrics need Sullivan's accompanying music
for their full effect, but even alone they are outstanding examples of pure
comic verse. What I especially love about Gilbert is his scrupulous
attention to perfect form, and his unhesitating forays into some remarkably
complicated and innovative metres and rhyme-schemes. Not to mention his
predilection for triple-rhmyes, an increasingly rare commodity (as are rhymes
in general, for that matter <g>).

The song above is one of his most famous, and certainly his most parodied -
again, the utterly distinctive rhmyes and metre draw imitators like a
magnet. Sadly, few of them get it right - perfect triple-rhymes are hard to
achieve, and most parodists take the easy way out, resorting to single
rhymes, assonance, eye rhymes and suchlike. And, of course, a large and
increasing number of them are from the modern school, to whom scansion is an
eight letter word beginning with s. <g>

There's a parody archive at <http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~valkyrie/parody/>, my
undoubted favourite being <http://www.cs.cmu.edu/~valkyrie/parody/xena.html>
Tom Lehrer did not precisely a parody, but a song to the same tune - The
Elements - see <[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/Vienna/5758/school.htm#elements>

m.

Biographical Notes:

WILLIAM SCHWENCK GILBERT

(1836 - 1911)

  William Schwenck Gilbert, born in London in 1836, was the son of a retired
  naval surgeon. Except for a kidnapping by Italian brigands in Italy at age
  two, and a ransomed release, he appears to have had a very normal
  upbringing. Beyond ordinary schooling, he took training as an artillery
  officer and was tutored in military science with hopes of participating in
  the Crimean War. Unfortunately for him, but not for us, he did not
  graduate until after the War was over. Gilbert subsequently joined the
  militia and was a member for 20 years.

  After finishing his military training Gilbert worked in a government
  bureau job which he hated. Upon receiving a nice inheritance from an aunt,
  Gilbert indulged his fancy and became a barrister. Called to the bar at
  age 28, Gilbert's law career, with no "rich attorney's elderly, ugly
  daughter" to help him escape mediocrity, lasted just a few years. Before
  leaving his law practice, however, he married the daughter of an army
  officer.

  Gilbert had shown a proclivity for caustic wit and sarcasm from an early
  age and it was this talent that put him on the path to greatness.
  Beginning in 1861, Gilbert contributed dramatic criticism and humorous
  verse (unsigned) to the popular British magazine FUN. Some of his work was
  accompanied by cartoons and sketches which were signed "Bab." Many of the
  characters in the G&S operas were modelled after some of Gilbert's "Bab"
  characters. A collection of these Bab Ballads was later published in 1869.

  The period from 1868 to 1875 was a very fruitful period for Gilbert,
  primarily because two plays which he wrote in 1871 netted him huge
  financial rewards. This was also the year that he collaborated briefly
  with a composer named Sullivan on a production entitled Thespis which did
  not bring the duo any notoriety. Their collaboration, however, spanned
  twenty-five years and produced a total of fourteen comic operas of which
  The Grand Duke, the last in the order, premiered in 1896.

  Gilbert was knighted by Edward VII in 1907 and died in 1911, at age 74,
  while attempting to save a drowning woman.

  For a longer version, see <[broken link] http://diamond.idbsu.edu/gas/html/gilbert_1.html>

Criticism:

  Gilbert was extremely adept in the difficult art of three-syllable rhyming,
  an art which seems to be almost completely lost today. Most pastiches of the
  Major-General's song make this distressingly clear. Now in the first line of
  this song Gilbert rhymes "Gineral" with "mineral". In both words the
  accented syllable is the first, so Gilbert is forced to find two words
  ending with "-ineral". For this reason Gilbert has to mis-spell "General",
  which is much more difficult to rhyme. (If I remember correctly, in a piece
  of discarded material for Pirates he rhymes "General" with "ten or all",
  which almost works as a rhyme, but is a bit of a strain.)

  So now we see why the Major-General is forced to the horrible rhyme
  "strategy/sat a gee". "Sat a gee" is nonsense, of course: "sat on a gee-gee"
  would at least be grammatical, though that wouldn't work even as a strained
  rhyme. But what else rhymes with "strategy"? We are looking for another
  word, remember, which ends "-ategy". The only word I can suggest is the
  Indian name "Chatterjee".

  Of course, the flexibility of English pronunciation means that a word
  seeming to require a three-syllable rhyme can be made to require a
  one-syllable rhyme without much strain - thus Samuel's couplet:

    We'd better pause, or danger may befall,
    Their father is a Major-General.

  But the Major-General's song is written in a scheme which commits Gilbert to
  three-syllable rhymes, and he is forced to obey his own rules scrupulously.
  I wouldn't mention the requirement that all rhymes in a set lyrical scheme
  should have the same number of syllables, but Richard Suart's rewrite of
  "Small titles and orders" in the 1997 Proms Gondoliers perpetrated
  "lottery/mockery" where two-syllable rhymes were required. (Even as a
  three-syllable rhyme it doesn't work.)

          -- From <http://www.users.globalnet.co.uk/~ajcrowth/metre.htm>

  Gilbert began to write in an age of rhymed couplets, puns, and travesty;
  his early work exhibits the facetiousness common to writers of
  extravaganza. But he turned away from this style and developed a genuinely
  artful style burlesquing contemporary behaviour. Many of his original
  targets are no longer topical--Pre-Raphaelite aesthetes in Patience;
  women's education (Princess Ida); Victorian plays about Cornish pirates
  (The Pirates of Penzance); the long theatrical vogue of the "jolly jack
  tar" (H.M.S. Pinafore); bombastic melodrama (Ruddigore)--but Gilbert's
  burlesque is so good that it creates its own truth. As a librettist,
  Gilbert is outstanding not only because of his gift for handling words and
  casting them in musical shapes but also because through his words he
  offered the composer opportunities for burlesquing musical conventions.

          -- EB