Farewell -- Agha Shahid Ali

Guest poem sent in by amulya gopalakrishnan

(Poem #1129) Farewell At a certain point I lost track of you. They make a desolation and call it peace. when you left even the stones were buried: the defenceless would have no weapons. When the ibex rubs itself against the rocks, who collects its fallen fleece from the slopes? O Weaver whose seams perfectly vanished, who weighs the hairs on the jeweller's balance? They make a desolation and call it peace. Who is the guardian tonight of the Gates of Paradise? My memory is again in the way of your history. Army convoys all night like desert caravans: In the smoking oil of dimmed headlights, time dissolved- all winter- its crushed fennel. We can't ask them: Are you done with the world? In the lake the arms of temples and mosques are locked in each other's reflections. Have you soaked saffron to pour on them when they are found like this centuries later in this country I have stitched to your shadow? In this country we step out with doors in our arms Children run out with windows in their arms. You drag it behind you in lit corridors. if the switch is pulled you will be torn from everything. At a certain point I lost track of you. You needed me. You needed to perfect me. In your absence you polished me into the Enemy. Your history gets in the way of my memory. I am everything you lost. You can't forgive me. I am everything you lost. Your perfect Enemy. Your memory gets in the way of my memory: I am being rowed through Paradise in a river of Hell: Exquisite ghost, it is night. The paddle is a heart; it breaks the porcelain waves. It is still night. The paddle is a lotus. I am rowed- as it withers-toward the breeze which is soft as if it had pity on me. If only somehow you could have been mine, what wouldn't have happened in the world? I'm everything you lost. You won't forgive me. My memory keeps getting in the way of your history. There is nothing to forgive.You can't forgive me. I hid my pain even from myself; I revealed my pain only to myself. There is everything to forgive. You can't forgive me. If only somehow you could have been mine, what would not have been possible in the world? -- Agha Shahid Ali

The first time I heard of Agha Shahid Ali was at a reading about 9/11,
where Amitav Ghosh read this poem from " A Country Without A Post
Office'. "His name means 'witness' and that is what he has been," said
Ghosh.

But we do not witness things as they are. We witness them as we are.
Agha Shahid Ali's abiding themes were Kashmir, exile, loneliness, love-
and longing, always longing. The mythos of Kashmir, and the opulence of
Urdu poetry shaped much of his writing.

This poem, Farewell, is a shattering evocation of conflict. Of belief
pitted against belief, of memories and histories intertwined and
warring. A pity beyond all telling in the lines, 'They make a desolation
and call it peace'.  There is no attempt to resolve the implacable anger
that fuels such conflict- beyond a sense of bitter, bitter mourning. '
We cannot ask them yet, are you done with the world?'

And yet, what seeps through in this poem and all the others in 'The
Country Without a Post Office' is the unbearable wistfulness, the unsaid
plea of its final lines, 'If only you could have been mine- what could
not have been possible in the world?'

amulya

Snowball -- Shel Silverstein

I've received several theme submissions; rather than risk an overdose I've
decided to wait a while and then run another series of narrative poems. In
the mean time, on with your regular Minstrels...

(Poem #1128) Snowball I made myself a snowball As perfect as could be. I thought I'd keep it as a pet And let it sleep with me. I made it some pajamas And a pillow for its head. Then last night it ran away, But first it wet the bed. -- Shel Silverstein

'Snowball' is Silverstein at his aww-inspiring best. I know of very few
people who can enter a child's world with such a combination of insight,
humour and oh-so-deceptive simplicity - even 'Calvin and Hobbes' doesn't
have that convincingly natural "if a kid had the talent, this is what he
might write" feel to it. I can just picture a parent keeping a *very*
straight face and sympathising with the child - and I'm very glad there's
nothing to stop me from laughing out loud.

martin

Gunga Din -- Rudyard Kipling

A few notes: Since there are a lot of Hindi phrases in today's poem, I've
left the translations alongside rather than put them in the Notes at the
end. *word* is used in place of italics. 'Din' is roughly pronounced Dheen.
The transliterations aren't my fault :)

(Poem #1127) Gunga Din You may talk o' gin and beer When you're quartered safe out 'ere, An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it; But when it comes to slaughter You will do your work on water, An' you'll lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it. Now in Injia's sunny clime, Where I used to spend my time A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen, Of all them blackfaced crew The finest man I knew Was our regimental *bhisti*, Gunga Din. [water carrier] He was "Din! Din! Din! You limpin' lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din! Hi! slippery *hitherao*! Water, get it! *Panee lao*! [bring water swiftly] You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din." The uniform 'e wore Was nothin' much before, An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind, For a piece o' twisty rag An' a goatskin water-bag Was all the field-equipment 'e could find. When the sweatin' troop-train lay In a sidin' through the day, Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl, We shouted "*Harry By!*" [Mr. Atkins's equivalent for "O brother."] Till our throats were bricky-dry, Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all. It was "Din! Din! Din! You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been? You put some *juldee* in it [be quick] Or I'll *marrow* you this minute [hit you] If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!" 'E would dot an' carry one Till the longest day was done; An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear. If we charged or broke or cut, You could bet your bloomin' nut, 'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear. With 'is *mussick* on 'is back, [water-skin] 'E would skip with our attack, An' watch us till the bugles made "Retire", An' for all 'is dirty 'ide 'E was white, clear white, inside When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire! It was "Din! Din! Din!" With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green. When the cartridges ran out, You could hear the front-files shout, "Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!" I shan't forgit the night When I dropped be'ind the fight With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been. I was chokin' mad with thirst, An' the man that spied me first Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din. 'E lifted up my 'ead, An' he plugged me where I bled, An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green: It was crawlin' and it stunk, But of all the drinks I've drunk, I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din. It was "Din! Din! Din! 'Ere's a beggar with a bullet through 'is spleen; 'E's chawin' up the ground, An' 'e's kickin' all around: For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!" 'E carried me away To where a dooli lay, An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean. 'E put me safe inside, An' just before 'e died, "I 'ope you liked your drink", sez Gunga Din. So I'll meet 'im later on At the place where 'e is gone -- Where it's always double drill and no canteen; 'E'll be squattin' on the coals Givin' drink to poor damned souls, An' I'll get a swig in hell from Gunga Din! Yes, Din! Din! Din! You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din! Though I've belted you and flayed you, By the livin' Gawd that made you, You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din! -- Rudyard Kipling

Today's poem has received perhaps the highest accolade possible - the phrase
"you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din" has passed into the language
complete with variants of the form "you're a $fooer $bar than I am, Gunga
Din". This is, of course, mostly due to the perfect cadence of the last line
- it's an irresistibly quotable phrase once you've heard it, for reasons
that have nothing to do with the rest of the poem.

Quite apart from that, though, this is very justly one of Kipling's best
known pieces. In a body of poems dealing with the plight of Thomas Atkins, an
ordinary man doing a thankless job in a war he didn't care about, Gunga Din
stands out as perhaps Kipling's most memorable hero. His status as a
noncombatant makes the tale at once more heroic and more tragic, and his
rough treatment at the hands of the regiment invests him with all the pathos
an age-old literary tradition can be made to yield - but over and above that,
there is the very Kiplingesque touch of presenting his story from a
soldier's point of view, and that makes a significant difference.

What we get, almost without realising it, is not just the story of Gunga
Din, but the story of Din's relationship with the regiment he served - a
relationship far more complex than the "harsh masters and mistreated but
nobly loyal servant" situation that lines like

 Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.

might lead one to assume. This is a crucial point, because if you do not
allow a measure of genuine love - or perhaps a mutual *belonging* is more to
the point - between Din and the regiment, the final line comes across as
nothing more than a pretty and somewhat patronising statement.

As for the theme, I won't repeat my remarks on what makes a good narrative
poem; suffice it to say that Gunga Din satisfies the criteria in full
measure.

martin

Links:

  Translations from Gutenberg, via http://penn.betatesters.com/kipling.htm

  Theme: [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/collections/58.html

  There was a movie loosely based on the poem:
    http://www.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gunga_Din

The Shooting of Dan McGrew -- Robert Service

(Poem #1126) The Shooting of Dan McGrew A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon; The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune; Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew, And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou. When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and the glare, There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear. He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse, Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house. There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue; But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew. There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell; And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell; With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done, As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one. Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do, And I turned my head -- and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou. His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze, Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze. The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool, So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool. In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands -- my God! but that man could play. Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear, And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear; With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold, A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold; While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars? -- Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars. And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans, But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means; For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above; But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowned with a woman's love -- A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true -- (God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge, -- the lady that's known as Lou.) Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear; But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear; That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie; That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die. 'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through -- "I guess I'll make it a spread misere", said Dangerous Dan McGrew. The music almost died away ... then it burst like a pent-up flood; And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood. The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash, And the lust awoke to kill, to kill ... then the music stopped with a crash, And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way; In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway; Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm, And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn; But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true, That one of you is a hound of hell. . .and that one is Dan McGrew." Then I ducked my head, and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark, And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark. Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew, While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou. These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know. They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so. I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two -- The woman that kissed him and -- pinched his poke -- was the lady that's known as Lou. -- Robert Service

Note: 'Spread misere': also 'open misere', a bid in some whist derivatives
  involving the bidding player playing for no tricks (misere) and placing
  his cards face up on the table (spread).

As I mentioned a couple of poems ago, frontiers tend to produce some highly
vivid and colourful stories and narrative poems, and Service's tales of the
Yukon are surely among the best of the breed. An often overlooked
'character' in these tales is the land itself - Kipling's India, Paterson's
Australia, Twain's Mississippi all have an unmistakable presence that
permeates the tales and moulds and shapes their characters. Service, perhaps
more so than any of them, makes this explicit in his poems:

  Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
  And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
  With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
  A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
  While high overhead, green, yellow and red, the North Lights swept in bars?
--
  Then you've a hunch what the music meant. . . hunger and night and the stars.

and it is this, more than anything else, that draws me to reread them time
and again, seldom without a shiver.

Today's tale of mysterious strangers, calculating women, and sudden violence
seems perfectly natural in its setting, and Service's verse hews and shapes
it without robbing it of any of its raw intensity. Definitely an immortal
poem - perhaps even more so than the haunting "Cremation of Sam McGee".

martin

Links:

  See Poem #781 for a collection of Service-related sites - I couldn't find
  anything interesting specifically related to today's poem.

  The current theme:
    [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/collections/58.html

Waltzing Matilda -- A B "Banjo" Paterson

(Poem #1125) Waltzing Matilda Oh! there once was a swagman camped in a Billabong, Under the shade of a Coolabah tree; And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling, "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?" Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling? Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag -- Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me? Down came a jumbuck to drink at the water-hole, Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him with glee; And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag, "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me." Down came the Squatter a-riding his thoroughbred; Down came Policemen -- one, two and three. "Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag? You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me!" But the swagman he up and he jumped in the water-hole, Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree; And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the Billabong "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?" -- A B "Banjo" Paterson

Notes: Published as sheet music in 1903. This is Paterson's original version;
I've included a link to the somewhat altered popular version

There is little doubt that Waltzing Matilda belongs in any collection of
immortal narrative verse. As one commentator put it,

    Waltzing Matilda is an Australian icon.  It is quite likely that more
    Australians know the words to this song than the national anthem.  There
    is probably no other song that is more easily recognised by a populace:
    young or old: ocker or a newly arrived immigrant.
      -- http://www.ozramp.net.au/~senani/waltz.htm

and even outside its homeland, it is unquestionably the world's best known
piece of Australian writing. Or perhaps that should be "writing and music",
for the words are inextricably entwined with the tune (I have to wonder how
popular the poem, with its heavy use of Australianisms, would have been
internationally were it not for the delightfully catchy tune - it is
definitely a great poem, but I wouldn't really call it accessible. The tune
has ensured, though, that people do take the time to find out what exactly
all the words mean.)

While I have chosen to run Paterson's original words, I do think the popular
version is in several ways an improvement upon it. (Indeed, while WM is
Paterson's most famous work, it is far from his best). The greatest
improvement is in line two of the last verse - the rather weak

  Drowning himself by the coolabah tree

becomes

  You'll never catch me alive, said he

and lends the song that touch of desperate, defiant romance that was missing
from its earlier incarnation.

martin

Links:

  [broken link] http://www.anu.edu.au/people/Roger.Clarke/WM/ is a great starting point
  for all things related to the poem

  Biography of Paterson: [broken link] http://www.waltzingmatilda.com/wmbanjo.html

  The popular "Marie Cowan" version of the poem, with annotations:
    http://www.ozramp.net.au/~senani/waltz.htm

  The original "Queensland" version, with sheet music and several midi
  files: http://www.uq.edu.au/~mlwham/banjo/waltzing_matilda.html

  Paterson's handwritten manuscript:
    [broken link] http://waltzingmatilda.com/wmwords.html

  Bogle's "And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda": Poem #981

  The current theme:
    [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/collections/58.html