Barmaid -- William Ernest Henley

Once again, posting on Martin's behalf:

(Poem #1054) Barmaid Though, if you ask her name, she says Elise, Being plain Elizabeth, e'en let it pass, And own that, if her aspirates take their ease, She ever makes a point, in washing glass, Handling the engine, turning taps for tots, And countering change, and scorning what men say, Of posing as a dove among the pots, Nor often gives her dignity away. Her head's a work of art, and, if her eyes Be tired and ignorant, she has a waist; Cheaply the Mode she shadows; and she tries From penny novels to amend her taste; And, having mopped the zinc for certain years, And faced the gas, she fades and disappears. -- William Ernest Henley

Today's poem belongs to a fairly small, but interesting, genre of poems that
combine aspects of biography, character sketch and synecdoche and explore an
entire class of people by suitable focus on one of its members. Perhaps the
best-known writer of such poems is Edward Arlington Robinson, though there
have been several others (John Betjeman comes to mind).

'Barmaid' is an excellent example of the genre. Note that the barmaid is
wonderfully developed as an individual, Henley achieving an enviable density
of description in fourteen short lines. The opening lines set the tone right
away - "she says 'Elise', being plain Elizabeth", writes Henley, and the
sense of recognition is almost automatic - we know exactly the kind of
person he's talking about.

The progression of the poem is interesting. Having established the barmaid's
working-class background, Henley goes on to build her up as a dignified,
self-contained person, until he undercuts the description with "her eyes be
tired and ignorant". From then on, the portrait is irretrievably pathetic,
and, indeed, the next few lines merely underscore that. And then the final
couplet steps back a pace to suggest that Elise made very little impression
on the world - she "mopped the zinc for certain years" (certainly not a
phrase to suggest any great accomplishment), and then faded and disappeared.
And in doing so, she suddenly becomes as much a symbol as a person - every
barmaid, shop girl or what-have-you who has lived in grey and tired
anonymity and disappeared as silently as she appeared.

-martin

Links:

  Henley on Minstrels:
    Poem #117, 'The Rain and the Wind' (biography attached)
    Poem #221, 'Invictus'

  Some other character sketches:
    Poem #234, Edwin Arlington Robinson, 'Miniver Cheevy'
    Poem #516, Nissim Ezekiel, 'The Patriot'
    Poem #543, John Betjeman, 'Executive'
    Poem #636, Edwin Arlington Robinson, 'Aaron Stark'
    Poem #798, John Updike, 'V.B. Nimble, V.B. Quick'

Tears of a Clown -- William 'Smokey' Robinson

Guest poem submitted by Gerry Rowe:

(Poem #1053) Tears of a Clown Now if there's a smile on my face it's only there tryin' to fool the public but when it comes down to foolin' you; Now honey, that's quite a different subject But don't let my glad expression give you the wrong impression Really I'm sad I'm sadder than sad You're gone and I'm hurtin' so bad Like a clown I pretend to be glad Now there's some sad things known to man but ain't too much sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around Now if I appear to be carefree it's only to camouflage my sadness In order to keep my pride I try to cover the hurt with a show of gladness But don't let my show convince you that I've been happy since you decided to go Oh, I need you so I'm hurt and I want you to know Now there's some sad things known to man but ain't too much sadder than the tears of a clown when there's no one around Just like Pagliacci did I try to keep my sadness hid Smiling in the public eye But in my lonely room I cry the tears of a clown when there's no one around Now if there's a smile on my face Don't let my glad expression Give you the wrong impression. Don't let this smile I wear Make you think that I don't care Really I'm sad Hurtin' so bad... -- William 'Smokey' Robinson

(Song credited to W. Robinson/H. Cosby/S. Wonder)

Why Smokey Robinson on the Minstrels? It's not a reason, but Bob Dylan
allegedly once referred to Robinson as America's Greatest Living poet. When
allegedly queried about this he allegedly said that he had in fact meant to
say Arthur Rimbaud! Also, Smokey Robinson is definitely a minstrel and this
is a minstrel's song!

Stevie Wonder, who co-wrote Tears of a Clown, also nominates William
Robinson as an all time-great lyricist. I have to say that if the song
wasn't composed and sung so nicely I might never have noticed these lyrics
but once I did I found them more than up to snuff (English understatement
for very good indeed).

The starting point is fairly standard for a pop tune but it's elevated by
clever use of the clown image, tremendous metre that sings and reads equally
well and some fine rhyming that never diverts the piece. The whole thing is
very cogent and beautifully crafted.

I like the internal rhyme of 'convince you' with 'since you'.

Pagliacci is an opera by Leoncavallo in which a clown called Canio sings a
lament similar in substance to Tears of a Clown. Pagliacci wasn't a
character as such but what the hell!

If you're wondering who Smokey Robinson is you could check out a host of
websites for details. Briefly, soul singer, songwriter, Motown producer who
wrote many hits for himself and others. According to one website he's still
looking for gigs in his sixties so you could hire him!

Gerry.

Angel Wings -- Brian Patten

Guest poem submitted by Caro Orange:

(Poem #1052) Angel Wings In the morning I opened the cupboard and found inside it a pair of wings, a pair of angel's wings. I was not naive enough to believe them real. I wondered who had left them there. I took them out the cupboard, brought them over to the light by the window and examined them. You sat in the bed in the light by the window grinning. 'They are mine,' you said; You said that when we met you'd left them there. I thought you were crazy. Your joke embarrassed me. Nowadays even the mention of the word angel embarrasses me. I looked to see how you'd stuck the wings together. Looking for glue, I plucked out the feathers. One by one I plucked them till the bed was littered, 'They are real,' you insisted, your smile vanishing. And on the pillow your face grew paler. Your hands reached to stop me but for some time now I have been embarrassed by the word angel. For some time now in polite or conservative company I have checked myself from believing anything so untouched and yet so touchable had a chance of existing. I plucked then till your face grew even paler; intent on proving them false I plucked and your body grew thinner. I plucked till you all but vanished. Soon beside me in the light, beside the bed in which you were lying was a mass of torn feathers; glueless, unstitched, brilliant, reminiscent of some vague disaster. In the evening I go out alone now. You say you can no longer join me. You say Ignorance has ruined us, disbelief has slaughtered. You stay at home listening on the radio to sad and peculiar music, who fed on belief, who fed on the light I'd stolen. Next morning when I opened the cupboard out stepped a creature, blank, dull, and too briefly sensual it brushed out the feathers gloating. I must review my disbelief in angels. -- Brian Patten

I've never read a Brian Patten poem that I didn't like.  He has a couple of
poetry books - 'Gargling with Jelly' and can't remember the name of the
other one. There are web sites about him I think - it's been a while since I
looked. This one is a particular favourite - each time I read it I get
something different from it.

Caro.

Happiness -- A A Milne

Guest poem submitted by M.E. Lasseter:

(Poem #1051) Happiness John had Great Big Waterproof Boots on; John had a Great Big Waterproof Hat; John had a Great Big Waterproof Mackintosh -- And that (Said John) Is That. -- A A Milne

I like this poem because of the simple way it rolls off the tongue. It's
orderly because of its simplicity and non-verbosity.

Robert Fulghum has this to say about this poem in his book Words I Wish I
Wrote: "If you live for a long time, as I have, in the Pacific Northwest,
where it rains all winter long, you cherish the feeling of being warm and
dry and still out in the weather. This poem expresses that sense of
well-being. A child understands. In the quest for God, when you find out
there there is nowhere God is not and that you are as much a part of the
universe as the
farthest star, you have a sense of well-being not unlike the child in this
poem. That is that. I often recited this to my children before a meal or at
bedtime. It's not a prayer. It's a state of being, understood by a child of
six or sixty."

That, I think, is all the analysis that is needed. :)

mel.

[Minstrels Links]

A. A. Milne:
Poem #91, Cottleston Pie
Poem #463, Disobedience
Poem #562, The King's Breakfast
Poem #576, Tra-la-la, tra-la-la
Poem #1022, Buckingham Palace
Poem #1051, Happiness

Devonshire Street W.1 -- John Betjeman

(Poem #1050) Devonshire Street W.1 The heavy mahogany door with its wrought-iron screen Shuts. And the sound is rich, sympathetic, discreet. The sun still shines on this eighteenth-century scene With Edwardian faience adornment -- Devonshire Street. No hope. And the X-ray photographs under his arm Confirm the message. His wife stands timidly by. The opposite brick-built house looks lofty and calm Its chimneys steady against the mackerel sky. No hope. And the iron knob of this palisade So cold to the touch, is luckier now than he "Oh merciless, hurrying Londoners! Why was I made For the long and painful deathbed coming to me?" She puts her fingers in his, as, loving and silly At long-past Kensington dances she used to do "It's cheaper to take the tube to Piccadilly And then we can catch a nineteen or twenty-two". -- John Betjeman

Betjeman is often belittled as a poet of light verse: popular, and populist;
charming and witty and undeniably easy to read, but also (dare I say it) a
wee bit frothy, even frivolous: "the kind of poet that the Queen Mother
would enjoy" [1].

This is very unfair.

It's not a crime to be popular, nor is it a crime to write fluently and
well. Least of all is it a crime to hold true to the subjects dear to your
heart, be they ever so specialized. Betjeman, in his charm, in his language,
in his unabashed fondness for Victorian England, does all three.

And yet...

And yet I do wish, at times, that he had put his talent to (what I consider)
better use. Today's poem is an excellent example of what might have been:
it's sombre, yet not depressing; the verse is a rich amalgam of
conversational lightness and underlying sorrow; the descriptions are
delicate and concise, the characters surprisingly real. Above all, there is
a profound sense of sympathy for the afflicted couple, a sympathy which
finds expression in the essence of the poem, the stoic (and ever-so-English)
message: Life goes on.

thomas.

[1] Sadly, I don't remember who perpetrated this particular statement.

[Minstrels Links]

John Betjeman:
Poem #543, Executive
Poem #613, In Westminster Abbey
Poem #764, A Subaltern's Love Song