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Easter Wings -- George Herbert

Guest poem submitted by Suresh Ramasubramanian:
(Poem #567) Easter Wings
Lord, Who createdst man in wealth and store,
      Though foolishly he lost the same,
                  Decaying more and more,
                       Till he became
                         Most poore:

                         With Thee
                       O let me rise,
                  As larks, harmoniously,
      And sing this day Thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne;
      And still with sicknesses and shame
                  Thou didst so punish sinne,
                       That I became
                         Most thinne.

                         With Thee
                       Let me combine,
                  And feel this day Thy victorie;
      For, if I imp my wing on Thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.
-- George Herbert
A beautiful metaphysical poem.  Here, the wings are literal, not just
the 'wings of poesy' (Keats, wasn't it?) - notice the phrasing and
punctuation, giving a butterfly-like shape to the whole poem.

Carefully arranged in related sequences, they explore and praise God as
Herbert discovered Him within the fluctuations of his own experience.
These poems are intensely personal prayers, besides being beautiful (and
artistic) poetry.

Suresh.

There is a Herbert bio on Luminarium:
http://www.luminarium.org/sevenlit/herbert/herbbio.htm

[thomas adds]

Two other 'visual poems' to have featured on the Minstrels are

'A Prayer to the Sun', by Geoffrey Hill: poem #349

'Landscape: I', by bpNichol poem #497

Herbert's most famous poem is probably 'The Pulley', which you can read
at poem #391

Clancy of the Overflow -- A B "Banjo" Paterson

This week I'll be running a series of Australian poems; thanks to Vikram
Doctor for the suggestion.
(Poem #566) Clancy of the Overflow
 I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
 Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
 He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
 Just on spec, addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow"
 And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
 (And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
 Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
 "Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."

 * * * * * * * * *

 In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
 Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
 As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
 For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.

 And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
 In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
 And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
 And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.

 * * * * * * * * *

 I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
 Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
 And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
 Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all

 And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
 Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
 And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
 Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless tramp of feet.

 And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
 As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
 With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
 For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.

 And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
 Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
 While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal --
 But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.
-- A B "Banjo" Paterson
Today's choice of poet was easy - Banjo Paterson is far and away the best
known of Australian poets - and not just for his ubiquitous masterpiece
"Waltzing Matilda". His poems of the Australian bush capture the 'feel' of
country (at least from my perspective) vividly - the wide open spaces, the
sweep of the sky reaching down to the horizon, the

                vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
        And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars

are what I mostly associate with the Australia of song and story.

Which brings us to today's poem - a rather straightforward contrast between
the two Australias of open space and city. All brought out in Paterson's
wonderfully flowing verse, with its long, pattering lines and internal
rhymes, drawing the reader in not so much by the imagery as by the sheer
sound of it. Indeed, I would not be too surprised if 'Clancy' has been set
to music; like much of Paterson's poetry, it has a wonderfully musical
quality to it. (Strangely enough, the internym "Banjo" does not stem from
any connection to music; the story, quoted from the biography referred to
below, runs as follows:
  By the time Paterson came to submit his first verses (in 1885) to the
  Bulletin, he had been admitted to the Roll of Solicitors. Paterson
  claimed, afraid to use his own name "lest the editor, identifying one with
  the author of the pamphlet, would dump my contribution, unread, into the
  waste-paper basket...", adopted the pen-name of "The Banjo" after a
  "so-called racehorse" his family had owned - and the legend was born.
)

The other noteworthy element in the poem is Clancy himself, a typically
larger-than-life character of the sort that Australian - and, indeed,
frontier - tradition abounds with. (Another example worth mentioning here is
Paterson's own 'Man from Snowy River'). The contrast between the life of the
drover and that of the townsman is summed up beauifully in the wonderfully
dry last line

    But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of The Overflow.

Notes:

The Lachlan and the Cooper are rivers in New South Wales and Queensland
respectively; the illustrated poem (see the links) includes popup maps of
their courses.

Biography:

There's a nice biography (only one of several; just feed 'banjo paterson
biography' into google) at
 [broken link] http://www.waltzingmatilda.com/wmbanjo.html

I quote one paragraph for its striking parallel with Kipling:

 Today, in some circles, there is a view that Paterson was "the spokesman of
 the squattocracy and the station owners". But this is certainly not true of
 Paterson the balladist and Bulletin sketch writer (even if in his last
 years, took a less impassioned and more detached view of life around him).
 But in his hey-day he wrote about the underdogs of bush and city life. Take
 Waltzing Matilda for example.

Links:

There's an illustrated copy of the poem at
- http://www.uq.oz.au/~mlwham/banjo/clancy_of_the_overflow.html

Taken from the extensive Banjo Paterson site
- http://www.uq.oz.au/~mlwham/banjo/

A rather different poem with a similar theme:
- poem #261

On the Theme:

As usual, guest poems and suggestions are both welcome, as are comments
added to the poems. In fact, given that this is a topic with which I am
relatively unfamiliar, I'd be glad to replace one or more of my selections
with additional guest poems, so any fans of Australian poetry, speak now or
forever hold your piece.

-martin

Now Winter Nights Enlarge -- Thomas Campion

       
(Poem #565) Now Winter Nights Enlarge
 Now winter nights enlarge
 The number of their hours,
 And clouds their storms discharge
 Upon the airy towers.
 Let now the chimneys blaze,
 And cups o'erflow with wine;
 Let well-tuned words amaze
 With harmony divine.
 Now yellow waxen lights
 Shall wait on honey love,
 While youthful revels, masques, and courtly sights
 Sleep's leaden spells remove.

 This time doth well dispense
 With lovers' long discourse;
 Much speech hath some defence,
 Though beauty no remorse.
 All do not all things well;
 Some measures comely tread,
 Some knotted riddles tell,
 Some poems smoothly read.
 The summer hath his joys
 And winter his delights;
 Though love and all his pleasures are but toys,
 They shorten tedious nights.
-- Thomas Campion
Campion's poems have to be appreciated from close quarters; take a step
away, and they lose much of their magic. The reasons are plain enough -
the poems are short on particularity; their range of subject matter is
narrow; the emotions they depict are too conventional, too _ordinary_...

... and yet the poems themselves are far from ordinary. On the contrary,
they're possessed of a peculiar sort of enchantment, a delicate,
ethereal sort of perfection, and one that's especially notable when set
beside the towering but decidedly uneven verse of, say, a Marlowe or a
Donne.

The key to resolving this particular paradox is to realize that
Campion's poems aren't poems at all: they're songs. Campion was "one of
the outstanding songwriters of the brilliant English lutenist school of
the late 16th and early 17th centuries. His lyric poetry reflects his
musical abilities in its subtle mastery of rhythmic and melodic
structure" [1]. Campion's words appeal to 'the auditory imagination'
[2]; they do not depend on visual imagery or effects, hence their
apparent lack of detail, their irritating vagueness. The empty spaces
are to be filled with music; the phrases [3] gain depth and meaning from
the aural background.

thomas.

[1] EB; more from EB in the Assessment section below.
[2] the phrase is due to Campion's editor, the critic W. R. Davies.
[3] Do I _have_ to say it? Pun fully intended <grin>.

[Links]

http://www.luminarium.org/renlit/campion.htm is an excellent Campion
companion [4]; it includes a biography, essays and analyses, his
(more-or-less) complete Poetickal Workes, and (an added bonus) MIDI
files of several of his songs.

[4] <grin> Say _that_ as quickly as you can!

[Biography]

        b. Feb. 12, 1567, London
        d. March 1, 1620, London

also spelled Campian, English poet, composer, musical and literary
theorist, physician, and one of the outstanding songwriters of the
brilliant English lutenist school of the late 16th and early 17th
centuries. His lyric poetry reflects his musical abilities in its subtle
mastery of rhythmic and melodic structure.

After attending the University of Cambridge (1581-84) Campion studied
law in London, but he was never called to the bar. Little is known of
him until 1606, by which time he had become a doctor. Possibly he
studied medicine in France or Holland. He practiced medicine from 1606
until his death.

Campion's first publication was five sets of verses appearing
anonymously in the pirated 1591 edition of Sidney's Astrophel and
Stella. In 1595 his Poemata (Latin epigrams) appeared, followed in 1601
by A Booke of Ayres (written with Philip Rosseter), of which much of the
musical accompaniment and verses were Campion's. He wrote a masque in
1607 and three more in 1613, in which year his Two Bookes of Ayres
probably appeared. The Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres came out in 1617,
probably followed by a treatise (undated) on counterpoint.

        -- EB

[Assessment]

Campion's lyric poetry and songs for lute accompaniment are undoubtedly
his works of most lasting interest. His music (always for "ayres," not
madrigals) is delicate, singable, and expressive. Though his theories on
music are slight, he thought naturally in the modern key system, with
major and minor modes, rather than in the old modal system. Campion
stated his theories on rhyme in Observations in the Art of English
Poesie (1602). In this work he attacked the use of rhymed, accentual
metres, insisting instead that timing and sound duration are the
fundamental element in verse structure. Campion asserted that in English
verse the larger units of line and stanza provide the temporal stability
within which feet and syllables may be varied.

With the exception of his classic lyric Rose-cheekt Lawra, Come, Campion
usually did not put his advocacy of quantitative, unrhymed verse into
practice. His originality as a lyric poet lies rather in his treatment
of the conventional Elizabethan subject matter. Rather than using visual
imagery to describe static pictures, he expresses the delights of the
natural world in terms of sound, music, movement, or change. This
approach and Campion's flowing but irregular verbal rhythms give
freshness to hackneyed subjects and seem also to suggest an immediate
personal experience of even the commonest feelings. The Selected Songs,
edited by W.H. Auden, was published in 1972

        -- EB

[Moreover]

Recently I bought a CD titled 'Shakespearean Songs', recorded by the
Alfred Deller  Consort. Most magical. (For those of you who haven't
heard of Alfred Deller, he's a contratenor who specialized in medieval
music, specifically, lute pieces from the Elizabethan and Jacobean age.
Very celebrated, and justly so. The August 1998 issue of Gramophone has
an excellent survey of his career). Deller has recorded some of
Campion's songs as well; I must try to get hold of them.

Warning to Children -- Robert Graves

Guest poem submitted by Reed C Bowman

Well, the appearance of another Milne poem gives me a perfect chance to
submit this, which I have been wanting to send in since I first found it was
not on the site.

I would like to submit Robert Graves'
(Poem #564) Warning to Children
 Children, if you dare to think
 Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
 Fewness of this precious only
 Endless world in which you say
 You live, you think of things like this:
 Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
 Red and green, enclosing tawny
 Yellow nets, enclosing white
 And black acres of dominoes,
 Where a neat brown paper parcel
 Tempts you to untie the string.
 In the parcel a small island,
 On the island a large tree,
 On the tree a husky fruit.
 Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
 In the kernel you will see
 Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
 Red and green, enclosed by tawny
 Yellow nets, enclosed by white
 And black acres of dominoes,
 Where the same brown paper parcel -
 Children, leave the string alone!
 For who dares undo the parcel
 Finds himself at once inside it,
 On the island, in the fruit,
 Blocks of slate about his head,
 Finds himself enclosed by dappled
 Green and red, enclosed by yellow
 Tawny nets, enclosed by black
 And white acres of dominoes,
 With the same brown paper parcel
 Still untied upon his knee.
 And, if he then should dare to think
 Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
 Greatness of this endless only
 Precious world in which he says
 he lives - he then unties the string.
-- Robert Graves
My father introduced me to this poem, as one of his favorites. It
captured me by its imagery out of dreams (or hallucinations - Graves was
not averse to the occasional psychotropic), rendered the more vivid
and ensorceling by the strong meter and (almost) repetition. Some years
ago I decided to try to memorize it, and found it difficult, because of
the slight changes with each recurrence of the cycle. Then I wrote it
out, and found I understood it better and could memorize it. There is
nothing like slow and careful calligraphy, I find, to make one pay
attention to every nuance of every word (and indeed letter) - the only
thing that comes close is setting type by hand ... but not that many of
us do that sort of thing, more's the pity.

The poem's structure is intricate and, involving as it does the concept
of infinite regress, it is self-referential. The reversal of "enclosing"
to "enclosed by" allows the poet to escape from the infinite regress,
even while involving the daring child more directly in the visual and
tactile maelstrom.

At the end, of course, the outcome is a vindication and validation of
curiosity and daring to think. The Yellow Submarinesque enfoldings of
the package, island, and child stand for the wonders, the wonder of the
world as seen by the inquisitive mind and eye. And that is the real
reason the poem should be read by and to children.

One last note: I find, when I read this poem aloud (almost all poems
should be read aloud) or recite it, that the first string of adjectives
"the greatness, rareness, muchness,/Fewness of this precious only/
Endless world..." reads with "only" somehow qualifying "endless", or
being almost a mere conjunction. In the second instance, I find myself
reading it with equal weight and space to the adjectives around it, as
if it were commaed off and part of the list: "this Endless, Only,
Precious world." I suppose that's going a bit against Graves'
instructions (a.k.a. his punctuation) but I find the reading powerfully
suggests itself.

Reed

[I've added in a few links - martin]

We've run several of Graves' poems before; there's a biography at poem #55

Another dizzingly Escherian poem is Kreymborg's 'Geometry': poem #306

The Milne poem referred to is the recently run poem #562

Also, the mention of Milne in conjunction with today's poem reminds me of
one of my favourite verse fragments from his work:

  I think I am a Traveller escaping from a Bear
  I think I am an Elephant
  Behind another Elephant
  Behind *another* Elephant who isn't really there...
        - A. A. Milne, from 'Busy'

martin

Butterfly -- S Thomas Ansell

To round off the theme, a guest poem from Uma Raman
(Poem #563) Butterfly
 Down the air
     He falls sun-lazy
 Debonair
     Upon a daisy;

 Now he drifts
     To fall between
 Snowy rifts
     Of scented bean;

 And where petals
     Lift in flight,
 There he settles
     Hid from sight.
-- S Thomas Ansell
The real test....
Read the poem out aloud. The musicality and rhyme actually make you
drunk as you follow this tippler's descent.

Uma