Suzanne -- Leonard Cohen

(Poem #116) Suzanne Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river You can hear the boats go by You can spend the night beside her And you know that she's half crazy But that's why you want to be there And she feeds you tea and oranges That come all the way from China And just when you mean to tell her That you have no love to give her Then she gets you on her wavelength And she lets the river answer That you've always been her lover And you want to travel with her And you want to travel blind And you know that she will trust you For you've touched her perfect body with your mind. And Jesus was a sailor When he walked upon the water And he spent a long time watching From his lonely wooden tower And when he knew for certain Only drowning men could see him He said "All men will be sailors then Until the sea shall free them" But he himself was broken Long before the sky would open Forsaken, almost human He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone And you want to travel with him And you want to travel blind And you think maybe you'll trust him For he's touched your perfect body with his mind. Now Suzanne takes your hand And she leads you to the river She is wearing rags and feathers From Salvation Army counters And the sun pours down like honey On our lady of the harbour And she shows you where to look Among the garbage and the flowers There are heroes in the seaweed There are children in the morning They are leaning out for love And they will lean that way forever While Suzanne holds the mirror And you want to travel with her And you want to travel blind And you know that you can trust her For she's touched your perfect body with her mind. -- Leonard Cohen

Dylan's only serious challenger for the title of greatest popular
lyricist ever is a Canadian singer-songwriter-poet named Leonard Cohen.
Who happens to be a genius. Absolutely.

Cohen started his career as a poet and writer; indeed, he finds
prominent mention in any number of anthologies of contemporary verse,
while his second novel prompted the reviewer of the Boston Globe to say
'James Joyce is alive and well and living under the name of Leonard
Cohen'. But when barely getting into his stride as a writer, he switched
to performance; armed with a guitar and minimalistic (yet poignant)
tunes, he hit home with a series of impassioned, truthful songs. He
concentrated on exploring relationships - 'the battles of the boudoirs'
- yet he was never out of touch with the social context of his lyrics;
songs like "Please don't pass me by" (a stunning 14-minute
improvisation, which can be found on the album "Cohen Live") and "First
we take Manhattan" (from "I'm your man") stand out as the defining
classics of his genre.

Todays' poem/song grows on you. Cohen himself once described it as being
'the best song he'd ever written', and looking at the simple, frank
lyrics, it's not hard to see why. Just read it aloud several times, or
(better yet) listen to it... beautiful.

thomas.

There are lots of Cohen websites out there (and I won't even mention the
number of Bob Dylan sites floating around in the ether :-)), but I think
the most comprehensive one is http://nebula.simplenet.com/cohen/

For an interview with the Suzanne of the title, go to
[broken link] http://nebula.simplenet.com/cohen/verdal.html

For a rather gushingly written but nonetheless comprehensive Cohen
biography, go to
[broken link] http://nebula.simplenet.com/cohen/yourman.html

And finally, many thanks to Movin Miranda, Rajeev Chakravarthy and
Sheetal Bahl for their suggestions for poems to run this week.

Next week: Aboriginal Poetry.

The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna -- Charles Wolfe

(Poem #115) The Burial of Sir John Moore at Corunna Not a drum was heard, nor a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turning; By the struggling moonbeam's misty light And the lanthorn dimly burning. No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Nor in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, And we bitterly thought of the morrow. We thought, as we hollowed his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him,-- But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring: And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone, But left him alone with his glory. -- Charles Wolfe

I learnt this one way back in school, and it has stuck with me ever since -
the resonant lines, the timeworn but never trite sentiments and the
well-turned phrases make this a particularly memorable poem. The last two
lines of the second verse, in particular, are among my favourite pieces of
verse, both for the image and the sound of the words.

m.

Notes:

The battle of Corunna was part of the Peninsular War

  January 16, 1809: Sir John Moore, given command, takes the small British
  army through Portugal and into Spain to support the rumoured Spanish
  uprising and relieve Madrid. When this proves to be false, he has to
  retreat over and through terrible snow covered mountains pursued by
  Bonaparte himself with a massive army. Though saving Spain from fulI
  occupation and conquest by the French, he partially loses control of his
  army and scenes of drunkeness ensue. At Corunna harbour, he defeats the
  French pursuit under Marshal Soult but is killed at the moment of victory.

        <http://www.sharpe.stayfree.co.uk/the_battles-noframes.htm>

Biography:

 b. Dec. 14, 1791, Dublin, Ire.
 d. Feb. 21, 1823, Queenstown, County Cork

  Irish poet and clergyman, whose "Burial of Sir John Moore" (1817),
  commemorating the commander of the British forces at the Battle of Corunna
  (La Coruqa, Spain) during the Peninsular War, is one of the best-known
  funeral elegies in English. Wolfe attended Trinity College, Dublin, was
  ordained in 1817, and held curacies in County Tyrone.

        -- EB

The Soul Cages -- Gordon Matthew 'Sting' Sumner

continuing the rock lyrics theme...

(Poem #114) The Soul Cages A boy child lies locked in the fisherman's yawl There's a bloodless moon where the oceans die A shoal of nightstars hang fire in the nets And the chaos of cages where the crayfish lie. Where is the fisherman, where is the boat? Where is the keeper in his carrion coat? Eclipse on the moon where the dark birds fly Where is the child with his father's eyes? He's the King of the Ninth World Twisted son of the fog bell's toll In each and every lobster cage, A tortured human soul. These are the souls of the broken factories Subject slaves of the broken crown Dead accounting for old broken promises, These are the souls of the broken town. These are the Soul Cages, These are the Soul Cages. "I have a wager," the brave child spoke, The Fisherman laughed, though disturbed at the joke. "You will drink what I drink, and you must equal me, If the drink leaves me standing, a soul shall go free. I have here a cask of most magical wine, A vintage that's blessed every ship in the line. It's wrung from the blood of the sailors who died, Young white bodies adrift in the tide." "What's in it for me, my pretty young thing? Why should I whistle when the caged bird sings? If you lose a wager with the King of the Sea, You'll spend the rest of forever in the cage with me." These are the Soul Cages, These are the Soul Cages. A body lies open in the Fisherman's yawl, Like the side of a ship where the iceberg rips. One less soul in the Soul Cages, One last curse on the Fisherman's lips. And he dreamed of a ship on the Sea, That would carry his father and he, To a place they would never be found, To a place far away from this town. A Newcastle ship without coals, That would sail to the Island of Souls. These are the Soul Cages, These are the Soul Cages. -- Gordon Matthew 'Sting' Sumner

The difficulty in writing truly good lyrics (especially to popular
music) is that the form-content relationship is emphasized a good deal
more than it is in ordinary (ie, printed) poetry. The lyrics have not
only to conform to the constraints of metre, rhyme, scansion and
emphasis, they have to fit in with the 'mood' of the music - which last
task is far tougher to accomplish from scratch than it appears to be.
That's what I like about today's piece of poetry - Sting's evocative
lyrics merge with some multilayered background music to form a
wonderfully dense piece of aural experience, but at the same time, the
music doesn't detract from the fact that 'The Soul Cages' is an
excellent ballad in and of itself.

As for 'hidden meanings', well, there are any number of possible
explanations to the lyrics... they're supposed to be a psychoanalyst's
delight. You're welcome to come up with your own interpretation(s) of
the symbolism used; in the meantime, I'm going back home to listen to
the CD :-).

thomas.

Morning -- Sara Teasdale

(Poem #113) Morning I went out on an April morning All alone, for my heart was high, I was a child of the shining meadow, I was a sister of the sky. There in the windy flood of morning Longing lifted its weight from me, Lost as a sob in the midst of cheering, Swept as a sea-bird out to sea. -- Sara Teasdale

Teasdale is perhaps best known for her love poetry, but what first attracted
me to her were her beautiful, lyrical nature poems like the one above (which
remains my favourite). Her nature poetry is reminiscent of Browning's, with
it's combination of apparent simplicity and unexpectedly powerful images,
and at it's best comaprable to it. Apart from the imagery, I love the
rhythms of this poem, and the way they reinforce its soaring, expansive
feel.

m.

Biography:

(1884-1933), poet

  Born in St. Louis, Missouri, on August 8, 1884, Sara Trevor Teasdale was
  educated privately and made frequent trips to Chicago, where she
  eventually became part of Harriet Monroe's Poetry magazine circle. Her
  first published poem appeared in the St. Louis weekly Reedy's Mirror in
  May 1907, and later that year she published her first volume of verse,
  Sonnets to Duse, and Other Poems. A second volume, Helen of Troy, and
  Other Poems, followed in 1911. She married in 1914 (having rejected
  another suitor, the poet Vachel Lindsay), and in 1915 her third collection
  of poems, Rivers to the Sea, was published. She moved with her husband to
  New York City in 1916. In 1918 she won the Columbia University Poetry
  Society prize (forerunner of the Pulitzer Prize for poetry) and the annual
  prize of the Poetry Society of America for Love Songs (1917). During this
  time she also edited two anthologies, The Answering Voice: One Hundred
  Love Lyrics by Women (1917), and Rainbow Gold for children (1922).

        -- EB

Assesment:

  Teasdale's poems are consistently classical in style. She wrote
  technically excellent, pure, openhearted lyrics usually in such
  conventional verse forms as quatrains or sonnets. Her growth as a poet is
  nonetheless evident in Flame and Shadow (1920), Dark of the Moon (1926),
  and Stars To-night (1930). The poems in these collections evince an
  increasing subtlety and economy of expression. Teasdale's marriage ended
  in divorce in 1929, and she lived thereafter the life of a semi-invalid.
  In frail health after a recent bout of pneumonia, she took an overdose of
  barbiturates and died on the night of January 29, 1933, in New York City.
  Her last and perhaps finest collection of verse, Strange Victory, was
  published later that year. Her Collected Poems appeared in 1937.

        -- EB

Mr.Tambourine Man -- Bob Dylan

(Poem #112) Mr.Tambourine Man Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to. Hey, Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me, In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come followin' you. Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand, Vanished from my hand, Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping. My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet, I have no one to meet And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming. Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc. Take me on a trip upon your magic swirlin' ship, My senses have been stripped, my hands can't feel to grip, My toes too numb to step, wait only for my boot heels To be wanderin'. I'm ready to go anywhere, I'm ready for to fade Into my own parade, cast your dancing spell my way, I promise to go under it. Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc. Though you might hear laughin', spinnin', swingin' madly across the sun, It's not aimed at anyone, it's just escapin' on the run And but for the sky there are no fences facin'. And if you hear vague traces of skippin' reels of rhyme To your tambourine in time, it's just a ragged clown behind I wouldn't pay it any mind, it's just a shadow you're Seeing' that he's chasing Hey, Mr.Tambourine Man, etc. -- Bob Dylan

What makes a poet great?

Is it sheer depth of emotion? Sensitivity and social conscience?
Honesty, both intellectual and moral? The ability to see the truth, and
the courage to recognize it for what it is? A knack for creating
resonant phrases and haunting images? There's all this and more, and all
these and more are present in the songs of Bob Dylan, who absolutely
rules my world :-)

No other poet - indeed, no other person - has managed to exemplify a
time, a place and a generation as completely as Dylan did his. (I know
that's a rather sweeping statement, but I'll stand by it. So there!). In
his lyrics, in his music, and most especially in his uncompromising
social stance, Dylan stood for the hopes and fears of an entire
generation of young Americans, not afraid to criticise the old, not too
cynical to embrace the new, both unrelentingly harsh and deeply
compassionate, biting, yet surprisingly vulnerable...

Today's poem is Dylan in a mellow, subdued mood. The lyrics are complex,
sophisticated - there's a keen and intense sensitivity underlying the
surface psychedelia. The internal rhymes, the repetitions of form, the
uneven metre (and the swirling harmonica music, though you can't hear it
by email) all combine to create a soft, surreal, hypnotic atmosphere...
"In the jingle-jangle morning I'll come following you".

thomas.