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The Age Demanded -- Ernest Hemingway

       
(Poem #1113) The Age Demanded
 The age demanded that we sing
 And cut away our tongue.

 The age demanded that we flow
 And hammered in the bung.

 The age demanded that we dance
 And jammed us into iron pants.

 And in the end the age was handed
 The sort of shit that it demanded.
-- Ernest Hemingway
           (1922)

This is precisely the sort of tough, hard-hitting, no-nonsense poetry that
so many poets attempt, and so few get right. Appearances to the contrary, a
keen sense of moral indignation does not by itself make a great poem - the
missing ingredient, which today's poem possesses in ample measure, is
*craftsmanship*. This craftsmanship is something that shines through in most
of Hemingway's work and makes his poetry a pleasure to read.

The concept is sadly disparaged by a certain class of 'poets', who make
sniffy remarks about craft versus Art, and blindly repeat phrases like
'spontaneous overflow of emotion' to justify their unwillingness to *work*
at a poem, but the fact remains that a good poem needs as much work as it
does inspiration.  Note that this is not a structured versus free verse
rant - I've seen some very finely crafted free verse (and some truly sloppy
structured verse, for that matter) - it's more a reaction to the attitude
that shaping a poem spoils its artistic purity. No, I don't understand it
either.

Like 'Chapter Heading' [Poem #976], today's poem is spare but not
minimalist. The terseness is never allowed to get in the way of the smooth
flow of the words, but Hemingway nevertheless manages to convey his point
with a remarkable economy that I find very refreshing.

martin

Links:

http://www.library.utoronto.ca/utel/rp/poems/heminw1.html has a couple of
notes on the poem

Bilbo's Last Song -- J R R Tolkien

Guest poem sent in by Jeffrey Sean Huo
(Poem #1112) Bilbo's Last Song
 Day is ended, dim my eyes,
 but journey long before me lies.
 Farewell, friends! I hear the call.
 The ship's beside the stony wall.
 Foam is white and waves are grey;
 beyond the sunset leads my way.
 Foam is salt, the wind is free;
 I hear the rising of the Sea.

 Farewell, friends! The sails are set,
 the wind is east, the moorings fret.
 Shadows long before me lie,
 beneath the ever-bending sky,
 but islands lie behind the Sun
 that I shall raise ere all is done;
 lands there are to west of West,
 where night is quiet and sleep is rest.

 Guided by the Lonely Star,
 beyond the utmost harbour-bar,
 I'll find the heavens fair and free,
 and beaches of the Starlit Sea.
 Ship, my ship! I seek the West,
 and fields and mountains ever blest.
 Farewell to Middle-earth at last.
 I see the Star above my mast!
-- J R R Tolkien
For many years, Joy Hill served as secretary for J.R.R. Tolkien, and a
close relationship they had. As the story goes, Professor Tolkien used to
joke that, if ever a diamond bracelet were to fall out of an envelope of
the correspondence she handled for him, it would be hers.

Near the end of Professor Tolkien's life, as she helped him pack his office
for a move, a poem Professor Tolkien had written fell out of a book. Ms.
Hill read it, and fell in love with the short, three-verse piece; and
Tolkien made it a gift to her, her "diamond bracelet", so to speak.

Some time shortly later, after Professor Tolkien's death in 1973, Ms. Hill
gave the poem to the composer Donald Swann, who in 1967 had worked with
Professor Tolkien himself to set many of Tolkien's songs to music in the
collection _The Road Goes Ever On_.  Mr. Swann himself was so moved by the
piece that he set it to music, and added it to the 2nd edition of the
collection, which was published in 1978. The same poem was published as a
poster in 1974, illustrated by Pauline Baynes, one of Tolkien's favorite
illustrators; and was included in the BBC audio production of the _Lord of
the Rings_.

The poem does not itself actually appear in _The Return of the King_, the
last volume of the _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, but takes place at it's
very end, when many of the principal heroes of the War of the Ring prepare
to set sail into the West, to leave Middle Earth forever: among them the
great wizard Gandalf the White; Frodo Baggins, the great Ringbearer; and
his elder Bilbo, who found the Ring so long before.

.

  " 'Well, here at last, dear friends," [said Gandalf], "on the shores of
  the Sea comes the end of our fellowship in Middle-earth. Go in peace! I
  will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.'

  Then Frodo kissed Merry and Pippin, and last of all Sam, and went aboard;
  and the sails were drawn up, and the wind blew, and slowly the ship slipped
  away down the long grey firth; and the light of the glass of Galadriel that
  Frodo bore glimmered and was lost.

          -Chapter 9, "The Gray Havens", _The Return of the King_

.

The poem is Bilbo's farewell to his friends and to Middle Earth, and in a
sense, this poem is Tolkien's farewell as well: to the Middle Earth he
created, to the secretary who served him so faithfully; and to us, his
readers, who came to cherish the world he created. But the poem's depth and
meaning still rings strong even for those who know nothing of Tolkien's
great masterpiece. The feelings Bilbo sings of are universal. In a few
short lines Tolkien has for me, and so many others, captured perfectly the
sorrow and hope alloyed together that make up all partings, from the ends
of visits with beloved friends and family, to the final depature for
mysteries unknown that all of us must one day face. And in that
achievement, Tolkien demonstrates again the genius that has made him one of
the greatest poets of this, or any, age.

Sources include the Foreward to the 2nd Edition (1978) of _The Road Goes
Ever On and On: A Song Cycle_, by Donald Swann; and various Usenet and
Internet sources, available upon request.

-Jeffrey Huo

The Common Cormorant -- Christopher Isherwood

       
(Poem #1111) The Common Cormorant
 The common cormorant (or shag)
 Lays eggs inside a paper bag,
 You follow the idea, no doubt?
 It's to keep the lightning out.

 But what these unobservant birds
 Have never thought of, is that herds
 Of wandering bears might come with buns
 And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.
-- Christopher Isherwood
What I like even more than this poem's inspired silliness is the absolutely
deadpan manner in which it is delivered. Even Silverstein's "Recipe for a
Hippopotamus Sandwich" [Poem #845], of which today's poem is strongly
reminiscent, didn't exude that tone of perfect reasonableness, that air of
merely elaborating on a well-known fact.

Is this a children's poem? It certainly works as one - children are for the
most part deeply appreciative of whimsy and topsy-turvy logic. But so are
many adults, and something about the poem makes me think that the latter
were Isherwood's intended audience, though I can't quite pin it down.

martin

Links:

  I found today's poem at http://www.newtrix.com/poems/ci-corm.htm which
  has a biography and a photo of Isherwood.

My Rifle (The Creed of a United States Marine) -- Maj Gen WH Rupertus

Guest poem sent in by Suresh Ramasubramanian
(Poem #1110) My Rifle (The Creed of a United States Marine)
 This is my rifle.

 There are many like it, but this one is MINE.

  My rifle is my best friend. It is my life.

  I must master it as I must master my life.

 My rifle without me is useless. Without my rifle, I am useless.

  I must fire my rifle true.

  I must shoot straighter than my enemy who is trying to kill me.

  I must shoot him before he shoots me. I will...

  My rifle and myself know that what counts in war is not the rounds we fire,

  the noise of our bursts, nor the smoke we make.

 We know it is the hits that count. We will hit...

 My rifle is human, even as I, because it is my life.

  Thus, I will learn it as a brother.

  I will learn its weaknesses, its strengths, its parts, its accessories,
  its sights, and its barrel.

 I will ever guard it against the ravages of weather and damage.

  I will keep my rifle clean and ready, even as I am clean and ready.

  We will become part of each other. We will...

  Before God I swear this creed.

  My rifle and myself are the defenders of my country.

  We are the masters of our enemy.

  We are the saviors of my life.

 So be it, until there is no enemy, but PEACE.
-- Maj Gen WH Rupertus
        (USMC)

The Marine Credo is the stuff of legend - a legend that is woven into
into assorted books and war movies (Sands of Iwo Jima, The Thin Red Line).

I was reminded of this poem when I saw Stanley Kubrick's "Full Metal
Jacket", though that was another war, Vietnam instead of Iwo Jima and
Guadalcanal.

This was written following the attack on Pearl Harbor, and Maj Gen
Rupertus was with the marines through some of the toughest fighting in
world war II.

I'm pretty sure the good general was deadly serious about this when he
wrote it, as serious as David when he wrote 'The Lord is my Shepherd'
(below). In fact, I have a feeling Gen. Rupertus had that in mind when
he wrote this one.

However, I *can* poke fun at at least some part of it - like the last
line "... no enemy, but Peace".  So peace is a Marine's final enemy, I
take it? :)

    -srs

~Psalms 23:1-6~

The LORD is my Shepherd, I shall not be in want.
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.
He guides me in paths of righteousness for his name's sake.
Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
I will fear no evil, for you are with me;
Your rod and your staff, they comfort me.
You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies.
You anoint my head with oil; my cup overflows.
Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life,
And I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever.

Porphyria's Lover -- Robert Browning

A Halloween guest poem sent in by David Wright
(Poem #1109) Porphyria's Lover
 The rain set early in tonight,
 The sullen wind was soon awake,
 It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
 And did its worst to vex the lake:
 I listened with heart fit to break.
 When glided in Porphyria; straight
 She shut the cold out and the storm,
 And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
 Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
 Which done, she rose, and from her form
 Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
 And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
 Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
 And, last, she sat down by my side
 And called me. When no voice replied,
 She put my arm about her waist,
 And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
 And all her yellow hair displaced,
 And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
 And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
 Murmuring how she loved me -- she
 Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,
 To set its struggling passion free
 From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
 And give herself to me forever.
 But passion sometimes would prevail,
 Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain
 A sudden thought of one so pale
 For love of her, and all in vain:
 So, she was come through wind and rain.
 Be sure I looked up at her eyes
 Happy and proud; at last l knew
 Porphyria worshiped me: surprise
 Made my heart swell, and still it grew
 While I debated what to do.
 That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
 Perfectly pure and good: I found
 A thing to do, and all her hair
 In one long yellow string I wound
 Three times her little throat around,
 And strangled her. No pain felt she;
 I am quite sure she felt no pain.
 As a shut bud that holds a bee,
 I warily oped her lids: again
 Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
 And I untightened next the tress
 About her neck; her cheek once more
 Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
 I propped her head up as before,
 Only, this time my shoulder bore
 Her head, which droops upon it still:
 The smiling rosy little head,
 So glad it has its utmost will,
 That all it scorned at once is fled,
 And I, its love, am gained instead!
 Porphyria's love: she guessed not how
 Her darling one wish would be heard.
 And thus we sit together now,
 And all night long we have not stirred,
 And yet God has not said a word!
-- Robert Browning
    This early dramatic monologue by Robert Browning is just such a ghastly
delight!  It has few of the subtleties of the later monologues, and the
macabre melodrama of it really runs the risk of becoming comic at one or two
points, but even some of this is intentional, I think.  (The pathetic little
clarifying aside "Only, this time my shoulder bore Her head", for instance -
the matter-of-factness of that detail and the narrator’s attention to it
just thrusts his madness fully home.)

    Of course the main treat, or trick, for readers new to this poem is that
shocking change of direction, such a violent swerve in the middle of the
poem.  Compare to the line in ‘My Last Duchess’ - "This grew; I gave
commands; Then all smiles stopped together." So much more left to the
imagination in that, and a much more chilling poem.

    Still, I love this earlier poem, with its sensationalistic gothic
effect, its enthusiasm for the perverse.  And Browning’s great skill, even
here, with the narrative voice - the natural flow of thought and direction
of attention over the line-breaks, that enjoyable Browning tension between
the rigorous structure and the conversational voice.  The prevalent pathetic
fallacy in which the narrator's feelings completely color everything he
views.  The narrator's methodical progress in telling the story, his
defensiveness about disputable points ('No pain felt she, I am quite sure
she felt no pain.') his desperate attempt to justify, to explain the
rightness of what he has done, even going so far as to impute thoughts to
the lolling head of his corpse-lover, I suppose the ultimate fulfillment for
a control-freak.

    But then the crack in the narrator's facade - that last line, which just
looms out of the chasm, and goes echoing around the empty heavens of this
irredeemable sinner’s lost world - the worst horror of all: that the
narrator may indeed have a conscience somewhere that appreciates his act.
Strong echoes of Othello, and you know the narrator will hurl himself from
some precipice or overdose on some opiate, or worse - wind up a raver in
Bedlam.  Shiver!

David Wright
Seattle Public Library