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The Roman Road -- Thomas Hardy

       
(Poem #519) The Roman Road
 The Roman Road runs straight and bare
 As the pale parting-line in hair
 Across the heath. And thoughtful men
 Contrast its days of Now and Then,
 And delve, and measure, and compare;

 Visioning on the vacant air
 Helmeted legionnaires, who proudly rear
 The Eagle, as they pace again
 The Roman Road.

 But no tall brass-helmeted legionnaire
 Haunts it for me. Uprises there
 A mother's form upon my ken,
 Guiding my infant steps, as when
 We walked that ancient thoroughfare,
 The Roman Road.
-- Thomas Hardy
There is something ineffably romantic about the old Roman roads, those
enduring remnants of a vanished empire. They spoke then, and speak now, of
the might and organization of that empire, and their present day existence
is a continuing point of contact between Then and Now.

It is the second of these properties that forms the basis of Hardy's poem,
a reflection on the Road, and the way it bridges the past and present -
except that he refers to a far more personal and immediate past, and in
doing so, raises the road to the same level of immediacy. The two images
overlap - the Road of the ancient Romans, that survives even now and recalls
a bygone civilisation, and the road of the poet's youth, recalling a
bygone past.

And finally, the use of 'ancient' in the penultimate line brings the whole
thing into focus - the road not only is ancient, it *was* ancient even in
childhood memory, and so the timeline clicks into place and two roads become
one again.

Links:

You can find a biography at
  poem #96

We've recently done a theme on ancient Rome:
  poem #490
  poem #492
  poem #494
  poem #495

And rather longer ago, one on roads:
  poem #47
  poem #49
  poem #51

And, of course, you can see all the previous Hardy poems we've run at
  [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet.html

PostScript:

This is, by Hardy's standards, a remarkably cheerful poem :)

-martin

The Gates of Damascus -- James Elroy Flecker

Guest poem submitted by Jairam Panickssery;
one that slots neatly into our theme:
(Poem #518) The Gates of Damascus
        Four great gates has the city of Damascus
                And four Great Wardens, on their spears reclining,
        All day long stand like tall stone men
                And sleep on the towers when the moon is shining.


        This is the song of the East Gate Warden
        When he locks the great gate and smokes in his garden.

 Postern of Fate, the Desert Gate, Disaster's Cavern, Fort of Fear,
 The Portal of Baghdad am I, and Doorway of Diarbekir.

 The Persian Dawn with new desires may net the flushing mountain spires:
 But my gaunt buttress still rejects the suppliance of those mellow fires.

 Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
 That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?

 Pass not beneath! Men say there blows in stony deserts still a rose
 But with no scarlet to her leaf--and from whose heart no perfume flows.

 Wilt thou bloom red where she buds pale, thy sister rose? Wilt thou not fail
 When noonday flashes like a flail? Leave nightingale the caravan!

 Pass then, pass all! "Baghdad!" ye cry, and down the billows of blue sky
 Ye beat the bell that beats to hell, and who shall thrust you back? Not I.

 The Sun who flashes through the head and paints the shadows green and red,
 The Sun shall eat thy fleshless dead, O Caravan, O Caravan!

 And one who licks his lips for thirst with fevered eyes shall face in fear
 The palms that wave, the streams that burst, his last mirage, O Caravan!

 And one--the bird-voiced Singing-man--shall fall behind thee, Caravan!
 And God shall meet him in the night, and he shall sing as best he can.

 And one the Bedouin shall slay, and one, sand-stricken on the way
 Go dark and blind; and one shall say--"How lonely is the Caravan!"

 Pass out beneath, O Caravan, Doom's Caravan, Death's Caravan!
 I had not told ye, fools, so much, save that I heard your Singing-man.


        This was sung by the West Gate's keeper
        When heaven's hollow dome grew deeper.

 I am the gate toward the sea: O sailor men, pass out from me!
 I hear you high in Lebanon, singing the marvels of the sea.

 The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea,
 The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea.

 Beyond the sea are towns with towers, carved with lions and lily flowers,
 And not a soul in all those lonely streets to while away the hours.

 Beyond the towns, an isle where, bound, a naked giant bites the ground:
 The shadow of a monstrous wing looms on his back: and still no sound.

 Beyond the isle a rock that screams like madmen shouting in their dreams,
 From whose dark issues night and day blood crashes in a thousand streams.

 Beyond the rock is Restful Bay, where no wind breathes or ripple stirs,
 And there on Roman ships, they say, stand rows of metal mariners.

 Beyond the bay in utmost West old Solomon the Jewish King
 Sits with his beard upon his breast, and grips and guards his magic ring:

 And when that ring is stolen, he will rise in outraged majesty,
 And take the World upon his back, and fling the World beyond the sea.


        This is the song of the North Gate's master,
        Who singeth fast, but drinketh faster.

 I am the gay Aleppo Gate: a dawn, a dawn and thou art there:
 Eat not thy heart with fear and care, O brother of the beast we hate!

 Thou hast not many miles to tread, nor other foes than fleas to dread;
 Home shall behold thy morning meal and Hama see thee safe in bed.

 Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots,
 And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten brassware pots:

 And thou shalt sell thy wares for thrice the Damascene retailers' price,
 And buy a fat Armenian slave who smelleth odorous and nice.

 Some men of noble stock were made: some glory in the murder-blade;
 Some praise a Science or an Art, but I like honorable Trade!

 Sell them the rotten, buy the ripe! Their heads are weak; their pockets burn.
 Aleppo men are mighty fools. Salaam Aleikum! Safe return!


        This is the song of the South Gate Holder,
        A silver man, but his song is older.

 I am the Gate that fears no fall: the Mihrab of Damascus wall,
 The bridge of booming Sinai: the Arch of Allah all in all.

 O spiritual pilgrim rise: the night has grown her single horn:
 The voices of the souls unborn are half adream with Paradise.

 To Mecca thou hast turned in prayer with aching heart and eyes that burn:
 Ah Hajji, wither wilt thou turn when thou art there, when thou art there?

 God be thy guide from camp to camp: God be thy shade from well to well;
 God grant beneath the desert stars thou hear the Prophet's camel bell.

 And God shall make thy body pure, and give thee knowlede to endure
 This ghost-life's piercing phantom-pain, and bring thee out to Life again.

 And God shall make thy soul a Glass where eighteen thousand aeons pass.
 And thou shalt see the gleaming Worlds as men see dew upon the grass.

 And sons of Islam, it may be that thou shalt learn at journey's end
 Who walks thy garden eve on eve, and bows his head, and calls thee Friend.
-- James Elroy Flecker
Ever since I subscribed to the Minstrels a long time ago (another id, another
time and another country) I've toyed with the idea of sending in a guest poem,
but it always remained just that - an idea. This Monday morning when I opened my
mailbox to find Flecker's poem, it reminded me of this poem that has remained in
my mind over so many years, hence this email.

When I first read Agatha Christie's 'Postern of Fate' I was too young to
understand the deeper connotations of her titles. 'Diabekir', for instance,
sounded like a villain in a kids' comic book... so the snippet of verse that
prefixed the book sounded eerie to me those days and the feeling remained.

"Pass not beneath, O Caravan, or pass not singing. Have you heard
That silence where the birds are dead yet something pipeth like a bird?"

The confusion that always accompanies fear sounded very logical in this context.
A desert, a caravan and a Gate - a slice of a strange life, and one that many a
child might want to live in his fantasy (no wonder most kids love stories of
gypsies and such).

Jairam.

[thomas adds]

Another very Kiplingesque poem, but it also reminds me of Tolkien's 'Lament for
Boromir': poem #46

Flecker really is very very good; I'm surprised that his verse is so
little-known. Of course, his poetic career is too short and his output too
limited for him to ever be considered a truly great poet, or even a particularly
insightful one; still, he deserves to be more famous than he actually is. He
certainly has a marvellous way with words: the versification in today's poem,
for example, is as close to perfection as you'll see, this side of Tennyson.
Flecker also has that rarest of poetic abilities, the ability to evoke that
ineffable quality called _atmosphere_... whether it's that of the bazaar:
"Take to Aleppo filigrane, and take them paste of apricots,
 And coffee tables botched with pearl, and little beaten brassware pots: "
or the sea:
"The dragon-green, the luminous, the dark, the serpent-haunted sea,
 The snow-besprinkled wine of earth, the white-and-blue-flower foaming sea. "

Simply beautiful.

The Gipsy Girl -- Ralph Hodgson

       
(Poem #517) The Gipsy Girl
 "Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
 A penny for three tries!"
 Some threw and lost, some threw and won
 A ten-a-penny prize.

 She was a tawny gipsy girl,
 A girl of twenty years,
 I liked her for the lumps of gold
 That jingled from her ears;

 I liked the flaring yellow scarf
 Bound loose around her throat,
 I liked her showy purple gown
 And flashy velvet coat.

 A man came up, too loose of tongue,
 And said no good to her;
 She did not blush as Saxons do,
 Or turn upon the cur;

 She fawned and whined "Sweet gentleman,
 A penny for three tries!"
 - But oh, the den of wild things in
 The darkness of her eyes!
-- Ralph Hodgson
A vivid poem, dancing with life and colour, and enhanced by a simple
narrative style - Georgian poetry may have fallen into disfavour, but at its
best it produced some very good poems indeed, and today's is a fine example.
'Gipsy Girl' is a perceptive look at the Gypsy as coloured by popular
stereotypes - all the little details that stand out and mark her as the
exotic Outsider, one who 'did not blush as Saxons do', or indeed dress or
act as they did, or pursue a respectable occupation.

The shift in tone at the end is handled beautifully too - it made me shiver,
both for the unexpectedness and for the sheer power of the image. (And note
how, on a deeper level, it merely reinforces the perception of gypsies as
wild, and not quite human.)

Biography:

Hodgson, Ralph

b. Sept. 9, 1871, Yorkshire, Eng.
d. Nov. 3, 1962, Minerva, Ohio, U.S.

  poet noted for simple and mystical lyrics that express a love of nature
  and a concern for modern man's progressive alienation from it.

  While working as a journalist in London and later as the editor of Fry's
  Magazine, Hodgson belonged to the loosely connected group of poets known
  as the Georgians. After teaching English literature at Sendai University
  in Japan (1924-38), he emigrated to the United States, retiring to a small
  farm outside Minerva, Ohio. Most of Hodgson's works were written between
  1907 and 1917, a period that ushered in the modernist revolution in
  poetry, in which he took little part. He achieved fame as a poet with the
  publication of the frequently anthologized "The Bull" in 1913. His
  collections include The Last Blackbird and Other Lines (1907), Eve (1913),
  Poems (1917), The Skylark and Other Poems (1958), and Collected Poems
  (1961).

        -- EB

Links:

Here's a collection of Georgian poetry:
http://www.geocities.com/~bblair/gp3_title.htm

and a note on the movement:
http://www.britannica.com/bcom/eb/article/printable/1/0,5722,37231,00.html

For a nice commentary on the poem, see
http://www.geocities.com/~bblair/990909.htm

-martin

The Patriot -- Nissim Ezekiel

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:
(Poem #516) The Patriot
 I am standing for peace and non-violence.
 Why world is fighting fighting
 Why all people of world
 Are not following Mahatma Gandhi,
 I am simply not understanding.
 Ancient Indian Wisdom is 100% correct,
 I should say even 200% correct,
 But modern generation is neglecting-
 Too much going for fashion and foreign thing.

 Other day I'm reading newspaper
 (Every day I'm reading Times of India
 To improve my English Language)
 How one goonda fellow
 Threw stone at Indirabehn.
 Must be student unrest fellow, I am thinking.
 Friends, Romans, Countrymen, I am saying (to myself)
 Lend me the ears.
 Everything is coming -
 Regeneration, Remuneration, Contraception.
 Be patiently, brothers and sisters.

 You want one glass lassi?
 Very good for digestion.
 With little salt, lovely drink,
 Better than wine;
 Not that I am ever tasting the wine.
 I'm the total teetotaller, completely total,
 But I say
 Wine is for the drunkards only.

 What you think of prospects of world peace?
 Pakistan behaving like this,
 China behaving like that,
 It is making me really sad, I am telling you.
 Really, most harassing me.
 All men are brothers, no?
 In India also
 Gujaratis, Maharashtrians, Hindiwallahs
 All brothers -
 Though some are having funny habits.
 Still, you tolerate me,
 I tolerate you,
 One day Ram Rajya is surely coming.

 You are going?
 But you will visit again
 Any time, any day,
 I am not believing in ceremony
 Always I am enjoying your company.
-- Nissim Ezekiel
Nissim Ezekiel, a Jew who lives in Bombay, is possibly India's greatest living
poet [1].

He's most famous for his wry commentaries on contemporary India - often written
in an exaggerated 'Indian English' - note, for instance, the overuse of the
present continuous tense in today's monologue. (Or is it that much of an
exaggeration? I meet people who talk like that all the time...).

Today's poem is in many ways typical of Ezekiel: a wry view of patriotism mixed
with some fairly sarcastic political commentary. It appears to have been written
around the time of the infamous Emergency in 1977 (which was invoked by the then
Prime Minister Indira Gandhi - to suppress her political rivals, according to
some).

That particular Indira regime was marked by lots of corruption, a '20 point
program' for regeneration, the forced sterilization of people (to implement a
'one family, one child' rule mooted by her power hungry and vicious son Sanjay
Gandhi)...

... all as seen through the eyes of an old pedant gossiping over a cup of lassi
(sweetened yoghurt) with his neighbor.  Also, note the dig at the 'unity in
diversity' which is official Indian policy.  India is a huge mix of several
races - most of which speak different languages, wear different clothes ...

All in all, though, a refreshing change from blood and thunder jingoism.

Suresh.

[thomas adds]

[1] Suresh goes on to ask, "Is the man still alive? He turned eighty a few years
ago"; to which I reply, yes, he's alive, but he suffers from an advanced case of
Alzheimer's disease and is in institutional care.

[Note on Indian English]

Like most hybrid dialects, Indian English [2] has its own curious set of
syntactical structures and odd coinages [3]. Usually, these result from
over-generalizations of rules that hold in the vernacular; for example, many
Indian languages use doubled verbs to indicate an ongoing action, hence phrases
like "world is fighting fighting" in today's poem.

[2] The usual compound form is 'Hinglish', a portmanteau of 'Hindi' and
'English'. Truth to say, though, there are almost as many forms of Indian
English as there are Indian languages, which is why I've chosen not to be more
specific in my nomenclature.
[3] Odd, that is, to native speakers of English. To Indians, they sound
perfectly natural: witness my astonishment on finding out (just a few months
ago) that 'black money' [4] was not a phrase in currency [5] elsewhere in the
world.
[4] That is, money made on the black market. Who'd have thunk it?
[5] Pun fully intended. Need you ask?

Other often-seen idiosyncracies include the following:

"I am simply not understanding" - as Suresh pointed out above, the misuse of the
continuous tense is rife in India. And in this poem.
"modern generation is neglecting" - another common mistake, the omission of the
object of a transitive verb.
"Too much going for fashion" - 'too much' is by way of being a universal
modifier in Indian English; I use it very often myself <grin>.
"Other day I'm reading newspaper" - Hindi doesn't have articles; hence either
their complete omission as in this sentence, or their replacement by numbers, as
in "You want one glass lassi?".
"To improve my English Language" - This one's a classic: the use of the phrase
'English Language', where just 'English' will do, is widespread.
"One goonda fellow" - Nouns are often used as adjectives, as also in "student
unrest fellow".
"Lend me the ears" - when articles _are_ used, they're as likely as not to be
used incorrectly; as also in "Not that I am ever tasting the wine".
"All men are brothers, no?" - The interrogative 'no?' at the end of the sentence
is common to many non-native speakers of English.

Please note that I'm not trying to pick holes in the language of today's poem,
nor am I poking fun at Indian English; rather, I'm trying to point out how
brilliantly Ezekiel has managed to capture the essence of the latter in the
former.

Incidentally, linguaphiles and/or Indophiles might be interested in
Hobson-Jobson, the definitive reference on words of Anglo-Indian origin,
available online at http://www.bibliomania.com/Reference/HobsonJobson/

Also, the latest edition of the Oxford English Dictionary has a supplement on
Indian English; sadly, it isn't available for public access online (as far as I
know; I would be happy to be corrected on this point).

[Moreover]

Both Martin and I first read Ezekiel's poem in an anthology titled 'Panorama: A
Selection of Poems', which we had to study in high school. The choice of poems
is astonishingly good - there's a lovely mix of the famous and the obscure.
Highly, highly recommended.

thomas.

The Persian Version -- Robert Graves

Still in Persia, but looking westward now...
(Poem #515) The Persian Version
 Truth-loving Persians do not dwell upon
 The trivial skirmish fought near Marathon.
 As for the Greek theatrical tradition
 Which represents that summer's expedition
 Not as a mere reconnaisance in force
 By three brigades of foot and one of horse
 (Their left flank covered by some obsolete
 Light craft detached from the main Persian fleet)
 But as a grandiose, ill-starred attempt
 To conquer Greece - they treat it with contempt;
 And only incidentally refute
 Major Greek claims, by stressing what repute
 The Persian monarch and the Persian nation
 Won by this salutary demonstration:
 Despite a strong defence and adverse weather
 All arms combined magnificently together.
-- Robert Graves
Although the tone is light-hearted, this is actually a fairly major poem. Graves
is a past master at capturing the exact tone of voice of the figure he wishes to
lampoon [1]; here, the Persian speaker's words leave us in no doubt that the art
of political 'spin' was alive and well several thousands of years ago; his
pompous self-justification, though, betrays its own purpose.

thomas.

[1] See, for example, 'Welsh Incident', archived at poem #55

[Note on construction]

Like Yeats and Auden, Graves' poetry is written in a remarkably assured
'speaking voice' - it stays strictly within the rules of rhyme and metre, yet
never seems artificial or strained. It takes great skill to be able to craft
words as naturally as those in today's poems; Graves pulls off the task so
adroitly that we hardly even notice the fact.

[Minstrels Links]

This is the fifth in a series of poems based on the theme of 'The Silk Road'; so
far, we've covered China, Mongolia, Samarkand and Persia. You can read the
previous poems at http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

The final line of the poem - "All arms combined magnificently together" - is
more than a little reminiscent of Southey's "It was a famous victory", the
refrain of 'The Battle of Blenheim', which you can read in full at poem #203

We've done several Grave poems before; there's the uproariously funny 'Welsh
Incident', at poem #55...

the spine-tingling enchantment of 'The Cool Web', at poem #298...

and the bewitchingly beautiful 'Like Snow', at poem #467

If nothing else, these three should serve to show how varied Graves' poetic
output was: I would be hard-pressed to choose a single favourite from among
them; yet they're three very different poems, and I like them for very different
reasons.

[On the Battle of Marathon]

The 'Greek Version' is chronicled in Britannica thusly:

Marathon, Battle of, (September 490 BC), in the Greco-Persian Wars, decisive
battle fought on the  Marathon plain of northeastern Attica in which the
Athenians, in a single afternoon, repulsed the first Persian invasion of Greece.
Command of the hastily assembled Athenian army was vested in 10 generals, each
of whom was to hold operational command for one day. The generals were evenly
divided on whether to await the Persians or to attack them, and the tie was
broken by a civil official, Callimachus, who decided in favour of an attack.
Four of the generals then ceded their commands to the Athenian general
Miltiades, thus effectively making him commander in chief.

The Greeks could not hope to face the Persians' cavalry contingent on the open
plain, but before dawn one day the Greeks learned that the cavalry were
temporarily absent from the Persian camp, whereupon Miltiades ordered a general
attack upon the Persian infantry. In the ensuing battle, Miltiades led his
contingent of 10,000 Athenians and 1,000 Plataeans to victory over the Persian
force of 15,000 by reinforcing his battle line's flanks and thus decoying the
Persians' best troops into pushing back his centre, where they were surrounded
by the inward-wheeling Greek wings. On being almost enveloped, the Persian
troops broke into flight. By the time the routed Persians reached their ships,
they had lost 6,400 men; the Greeks lost 192 men, including Callimachus. The
battle proved the superiority of the Greek long spear, sword, and armour over
the Persians' weapons.

According to legend, an Athenian messenger was sent from Marathon to Athens, a
distance of about 25 miles (40 km), and there he announced the Persian defeat
before dying of exhaustion. This tale became the basis for the modern marathon
race. Herodotus, however, relates that a trained runner, Pheidippides (also
spelled Phidippides, or Philippides), was sent from Athens to Sparta before the
battle in order to request assistance from the Spartans; he is said to have
covered about 150 miles (240 km) in about two days.

        -- EB