War Song of the Saracens -- James Elroy Flecker

Guest poem sent in by Frank O'Shea

(Poem #1145) War Song of the Saracens We are they who come faster than fate: we are they who ride early or late: We storm at your ivory gate: Pale Kings of the Sunset, beware! Not on silk nor in samet we lie, not in curtained solemnity die Among women who chatter and cry, and children who mumble a prayer. But we sleep by the ropes of the camp, and we rise with a shout, and we tramp With the sun or the moon for a lamp, and the spray of the wind in our hair. From the lands, where the elephants are, to the forts of Merou and Balghar, Our steel we have brought and our star to shine on the ruins of Rum. We have marched from the Indus to Spain, and by God we will go there again; We have stood on the shore of the plain where the Waters of Destiny boom. A mart of destruction we made at Jalula where men were afraid, For death was a difficult trade, and the sword was a broker of doom; And the Spear was a Desert Physician who cured not a few of ambition, And drave not a few to perdition with medicine bitter and strong: And the shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate pool, And as straight as the rock of Stamboul when their cavalry thundered along: For the coward was drowned with the brave when our battle sheered up like a wave, And the dead to the desert we gave, and the glory to God in our song. -- James Elroy Flecker

The recent Andrew Motion poem [Poem #1143] is a good reminder of the reasons
people go to war, all the more relevant in view of the gadarene buildup
going on as I write.

As a follow-up, I suggest the following Flecker warning - surprisingly, it
has not been run before. It's from a different age, but the pale kings of
the sunset who lie in silk and samet might do well to remember that as
Michael Collins put it long ago "The victory is not to those who can inflict
the most but to those who can endure the most" (or something like that).

Think of the billions invested in the Star Wars program and then read the
chilling "The shield was a grief to the fool and as bright as a desolate
pool." Scary.

Frank

[Martin adds]

As is often the case with Flecker, I find myself getting swept along by the
sheer magnificent sound and rhythm of the words, and the almost overly-vivid
imagery. This may have elements of warning in it, but in tone and feel it is
very much a war poem. You can almost hear the drums in the background, and
the pounding of horses' hooves. Not a 'pretty' poem, but one with a
visceral, shiver-inducing intensity that grips the reader whether or not he
agrees with the sentiment.

The Stare's Nest by My Window -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff

(Poem #1144) The Stare's Nest by My Window The bees build in the crevices Of loosening masonry, and there The mother birds bring grubs and flies. My wall is loosening; honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare. We are closed in, and the key is turned On our uncertainty; somewhere A man is killed, or a house burned. Yet no clear fact to be discerned: Come build in the empty house of the stare. A barricade of stone or of wood; Some fourteen days of civil war: Last night they trundled down the road That dead young soldier in his blood: Come build in the empty house of the stare. We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love; O honey-bees, Come build in the empty house of the stare. -- William Butler Yeats

           ("Meditations in Time of Civil War - VI", 1928)

Note:
  stare: starling

The build-up of US troops facing Iraq seems ready to boil over into war,
sometime around Valentine's day.  I was thinking about love and war, and
came across this Yeats, which seems brilliantly about both.  The thing this
poem does for me is not to compare love and war (passion, intensity,
uncertainty, etc.) and not to contrast them either (intimacy vs distance,
hope vs dread etc). Rather, it talks about both in the same terms, meaning
different things by the terms. Look at the second stanza. The text there is
war, but the subtext is love going wrong. Then look at the last stanza.
There, the text is love and the subtext war.

I don't understand the central metaphor. I thought at first that the house
of the stare (starling) had been vacated, and then the bees moved in, and I
was wondering if Yeats was thinking of the bees in terms of their honey or
in terms of their stings, or maybe their military-like organization.  But
the mother birds "bring" grubs and flies, so why is the house empty? And why
are there multiple mothers? Don't know.  Maybe the point isn't so much about
the birds vs bees, but about the collapse of the masonry which lets both in,
and echoes with the barricade in stanza 3.

Anyway, the last stanza is just haunting, and I thought deserved a place on
Minstrels even though Yeats is so well represented already.

Matt

Causa Belli -- Andrew Motion

Guest poem sent in by Steve Axbey , who writes:

A bit late for your series on war poems, but topical nonetheless is the
latest poem by Andrew Motion the Poet Laureate.  (The United Kingdom's
poet laureate I should say).

(Poem #1143) Causa Belli They read good books, and quote, but never learn a language other than the scream of rocket-burn Our straighter talk is drowned but ironclad; elections, money, empire, oil and Dad. -- Andrew Motion

Here's some references, with some commentary
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/entertainment/2641477.stm#quote
[broken link] http://www.guardian.co.uk/Iraq/Story/0,2763,871251,00.html

The role of Poet Laureate is an odd one, and I have been unable to
Google out an official definition.  However here's an interview with
Andrew Motion who talks a bit about what he thinks the role is
http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/840752.stm

The poem itself I find disappointing - I've thought about it a bit now,
but I'm not at sure I know what he's really trying to say...or is that
just me?

But it must be anti-war, anyway - it says so in all the newspapers :-)

Cheers
Steve Axbey

[Martin adds]

Apparently Steve wasn't the only one disappointed - take a look at
[broken link] http://groups.google.com/groups?threadm=3E20FAB8.C94A1B82%40arvig.net&rnum=1

My favourite quote: "Call me old-fashioned but I don't think you can
extensively parody a poem without a guest turn from at least one dear
gazelle."

Amen, say I :)

In Paris with You -- James Fenton

Guest poem sent in by ochemma

(Poem #1142) In Paris with You Don’t talk to me of love. I’ve had an earful And I get tearful when I’ve downed a drink or two. I’m one of your talking wounded. I’m a hostage. I’m maroonded. But I’m in Paris with you. Yes, I’m angry at the way I’ve been bamboozled And resentful at the mess that I’ve been through. I admit I’m on the rebound And I don’t care where are we bound. I’m in Paris with you. Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre, If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame If we skip the champs Elysees And remain here in this sleazy Old hotel room Doing this or that To what and whom Learning who you are, Learning what I am. Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris, The little bit of Paris in our view. There’s that crack across the ceiling And the hotel walls are peeling And I’m in Paris with you. Don’t talk to me of love. Let’s talk of Paris. I’m in Paris with the slightest thing you do. I’m in Paris with your eyes, your mouth, I’m in Paris with…..all points south. Am I embarrassing you? I’m in Paris with you. -- James Fenton

           (1993)

This is one of my recent discoveries by James Fenton, currently holding the
Auden chair at Oxford. A poem about Love which rejects sentimentality and
yet, in its simplicity, manages to convey it all the more. I particularly
love the last verse which substitutes ‘Paris’ for love whilst ‘loving’ love
all the while. Fenton’s gentle and light hearted touch sings a sensual and
loving poem.

Marina Furniss-Roe

Links:

  Here's a biography of Fenton:
    http://www.bedfordstmartins.com/litlinks/poetry/fenton.htm

  An excerpt from his book 'Slave to the Rhythm', on the uses of rhyme:
    [broken link] http://books.guardian.co.uk/fentonserial/story/0,12098,819318,00.html

I So Liked Spring -- Charlotte Mew

(Poem #1141) I So Liked Spring I so liked Spring last year Because you were here; -- The thrushes too -- Because it was these you so liked to hear -- I so liked you. This year's a different thing, -- I'll not think of you. But I'll like Spring because it is simply Spring As the thrushes do. -- Charlotte Mew

One of the things I enjoy about love poetry is the thousand subtle
variations played upon every theme, the appeal to universal emotions and
experiences that manage to be at once common to every poem and different in
each one of them.

Today's poem is, indeed, combined out of several common themes and elements.
Where its beauty lies is in the delicate arrangement of those elements, the
simple but precise combination of images and the way they blend into a
complete poem. Even the rather faltering metre and phrasing are a deliberate
and carefully crafted effect, echoing the narrator's 'simple' outlook - as
Shine Kannikkatt put it in his comment to Poem #1084, there is a
  'vulnerability' evident in this and others like Teasdale's works [...]
  poems which remind us of the preciousness of life / small things which
  does have big impacts and 'longing' etc.
that definitely adds to the poem's appeal.

martin

Links:
  Biography:
    [broken link] http://www.bbc.co.uk/nature/poetry/charlotte_mew.shtml
    http://www.sappho.com/poetry/c_mew.html

  Minstrels Links:
    Poem #315: Hilaire Belloc, 'Juliet'
    Poem #430: Sara Teasdale, 'Wild Asters'