To A Sad Daughter -- Michael Ondaatje

Guest poem sent in by Ameya Nagarajan

(Poem #1270) To A Sad Daughter All night long the hockey pictures gaze down at you sleeping in your tracksuit. Belligerent goalies are your ideal. Threats of being traded cuts and wounds --all this pleases you. O my god! you say at breakfast reading the sports page over the Alpen as another player breaks his ankle or assaults the coach. When I thought of daughters I wasn't expecting this but I like this more. I like all your faults even your purple moods when you retreat from everyone to sit in bed under a quilt. And when I say 'like' I mean of course 'love' but that embarrasses you. You who feel superior to black and white movies (coaxed for hours to see Casablanca) though you were moved by Creature from the Black Lagoon. One day I'll come swimming beside your ship or someone will and if you hear the siren listen to it. For if you close your ears only nothing happens. You will never change. I don't care if you risk your life to angry goalies creatures with webbed feet. You can enter their caves and castles their glass laboratories. Just don't be fooled by anyone but yourself. This is the first lecture I've given you. You're 'sweet sixteen' you said. I'd rather be your closest friend than your father. I'm not good at advice you know that, but ride the ceremonies until they grow dark. Sometimes you are so busy discovering your friends I ache with loss --but that is greed. And sometimes I've gone into my purple world and lost you. One afternoon I stepped into your room. You were sitting at the desk where I now write this. Forsythia outside the window and sun spilled over you like a thick yellow miracle as if another planet was coaxing you out of the house --all those possible worlds!-- and you, meanwhile, busy with mathematics. I cannot look at forsythia now without loss, or joy for you. You step delicately into the wild world and your real prize will be the frantic search. Want everything. If you break break going out not in. How you live your life I don't care but I'll sell my arms for you, hold your secrets forever. If I speak of death which you fear now, greatly, it is without answers. except that each one we know is in our blood. Don't recall graves. Memory is permanent. Remember the afternoon's yellow suburban annunciation. Your goalie in his frightening mask dreams perhaps of gentleness. -- Michael Ondaatje

Found this poem in a friend's house and thought it was a
beautiful expression of the relationship between a father
and his daughter.

Biography:

Michael Ondaatje was born on September 12, 1943 in
Colombo, Ceylon (now Sri Lanka). The son of Mervyn
Ondaatje and Doris Gratiaen, prominent members among the
inhabitants of what once comprised Ceylon's colonial
society. Mervyn Ondaatje was a tea and rubber-plantation
superintendent who was afflicted with alcoholism. Doris
Gratiaen performed part-time as a radical dancer,
inspired by Isadora Duncan. As a result of his father's
alcoholism, OndaatjeÕs parents eventually separated in
1954 and he moved to England with his mother.

Ondaatje was educated initially at St. Thomas College in
Colombo, Ceylon. After moving with his mother to England,
he continued his education at Dulwich College in London.
Between 1962-64, Ondaatje attended Bishop's University in
Lennoxville, Quebec. He then went on to obtain his B.A.
at the University of Toronto in 1965, and his M.A. at
Queen's University, in Kingston, Ontario, in 1967.
Ondaatje began his teaching career at the University of
Western Ontario, London between 1967-71. Today he is a
member of the Department of English at Glendon College,
York University in Toronto, Ontario, a position he has
held since 1971.

Ondaatje currently resides in Toronto with his wife,
novelist/editor Linda Spalding, where they edit Literary
Magazine. During his career Ondaatje has received
numerous awards and honors. He was awarded the Ralph
Gustafson Award, 1965; the Epstein Award, 1966; and the
President's Medal from the University of Ontario in 1967.
In addition, Ondaatje was the recipient of the Canadian
Governor-General's Award for Literature in 1971 and again
in 1980. Also in 1980 he was awarded the Canada-Australia
price and in 1992 he was presented with the Booker
McConnell Prize for his novel The English Patient.

a good web resource is www.postcolonialweb.org

Ameya

The Common Collection of Distichs (Excerpts) -- Dionysius Cato

Guest poem sent in by Vijay D'silva

(Poem #1269) The Common Collection of Distichs (Excerpts) Libros lege. Read books. Liber I 18. Cum fueris felix, quae sunt aduersa caueto: Non eodem cursu respondent ultima primis. When fortune smiles, beware lest some ill strike; End and beginning often are unlike. Liber II 18. Insipiens esto, cum tempus postulat ipsum: Stultitiam simulare ioco, cum tempore laus est. To fit th' occasion laughable appear; 'T is sometimes wisdom folly's mask to wear. Liber III 18. Multa legas facito, tum lectis neglege multa; Nam miranda canunt, sed non credenda poetae. Read much and much of it forget: 'T is well T' admire but not believe what poets tell. Liber IV 18. Cum sapias animo, noli ridere senectam; Nam quoicumque seni puerilis sensus inhaeret. Flout not old age while thou dost sense possess; Age ever brings to all some childishness. -- Dionysius Cato

The Cato were proverbial couplets popular in teaching Latin. This is a
translation due to Wayland Johnson Chase. We've been through quite a
few parental advisory committee type poems.  Apart from the line in
the Monostich which appears as a prologue to the Distichs, I found
nothing that I particularly liked. I started out by copying down a few
tolerable couplets from each book (Liber) and discovered that I had
copied the 18th from each so decided to restrict it to that. The
entire set can be found at:
[broken link] http://icg.harvard.edu/~chaucer/special/authors/cato/index.html

    Jaggi pointed out in poem #761 that the Desiderata is "not overly
preachy" and Jaggi is an honourable man. Not so for me. The translation of
the Cato is preachy preachy and dripping dripping.  Barring the first line,
I did not like it.

What I did like was Chapter 43 of Don Quixote:

------
"With regard to the mode in which thou shouldst govern thy person and
thy house, Sancho, the first charge I have to give thee is to be
clean, and to cut thy nails, not letting them grow as some do, whose
ignorance makes them fancy that long nails are an ornament to their
hands"

"Go not ungirt and loose, Sancho; for disordered attire is a sign of
an unstable mind, unless indeed the slovenliness and slackness is to
he set down to craft, as was the common opinion in the case of Julius
Caesar."

"Eat not garlic nor onions, lest they find out thy boorish origin by
the smell; walk slowly and speak deliberately, but not in such a way
as to make it seem thou art listening to thyself, for all affectation
is bad."

"Take care, Sancho, not to chew on both sides, and not to eruct in
anybody's presence."

"Eruct!" said Sancho; "I don't know what that means."

"To eruct, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "means to belch, and that is one
of the filthiest words in the Spanish language, though a very
expressive one; and therefore nice folk have had recourse to the
Latin, and instead of belch say eruct, and instead of belches say
eructations; and if some do not understand these terms it matters
little, for custom will bring them into use in the course of time, so
that they will be readily understood; this is the way a language is
enriched; custom and the public are all-powerful there."

"In truth, senor," said Sancho, "one of the counsels and cautions I
mean to bear in mind shall be this, not to belch, for I'm constantly
doing it."

"Eruct, Sancho, not belch," said Don Quixote.
------

   On the 24th of March, I went to watch a production of Hamlet and
returned wanting to send in Polonius' advice to Laertes. The next day
I discovered that it has appeared just two days before and Milligan's
'Hamlet' appeared in my inbox that very day. Synchronicity! While
searching for 'To thine ownself be true' I came across the Don Quixote
excerpt.  Getting it to masquerade as a poem seemed to be a long shot.
The rest if I may say is a guest poem on minstrels.

   And that is one of the most pragmatic pieces of advice that I have
come across. As Mr. Victor J. Menezes so wisely said at the IITB
convocation in 2001
"My first piece of advice is  brush your teeth regularly."

Eruct - what a cool word!

Vijay.

Twenty Tons of TNT -- Michael Flanders

Guest poem sent in by Reed C Bowman

(Poem #1268) Twenty Tons of TNT I have seen it estimated: Somewhere between death and birth There are now three thousand million People living on this earth And the stock-piled mass destruction Of the Nuclear Powers-That-Be Equals--for each man or woman-- Twenty tons of TNT. Every man of every nation (Twenty tons of TNT) Shall receive this allocation Twenty tons of TNT. Texan, Bantu, Slav or Maori, Argentine or Singhalee, Every maiden brings this dowry Twenty tons of TNT. Not for thirty silver shilling Twenty tons of TNT Twenty thousand pounds a killing-- Twenty tons of TNT. Twenty hundred years of teaching, Give to each his legacy, Plato, Buddha, Christ or Lenin, Twenty tons of TNT Father, Mother, Son and Daughter, Twenty tons of TNT Give us land and seed and water, Twenty tons of TNT. Children have no need of sharing; At each new nativity Come the ghostly Magi bearing Twenty tons of TNT Ends the tale that has no sequel Twenty tons of TNT. Now in death are all men equal Twenty tons of TNT. Teach me how to love my neighbour, Do to him as he to me; Share the fruits of all our labour Twenty tons of TNT. -- Michael Flanders

          (of Flanders & Swann)

I ran across this a few weeks ago and wanted to send it in. "Contribution
to Statistics" (Poem #1267) reminded me of it again. Somewhat more
stark than the Szymborska poem, and from a rather different angle, but
with a similar message in the end. For Flanders & Swann, it's an
unusually political and astonishingly bleak song. From the population
statistic (and presumably from the destructive tonnage statistic as
well) it is clear this is quite old, from the height of the Cold War
arms race. Now we have twice as many people, I wonder if each has a
greater or a lesser allocation of explosive potential?

Anyway, like many pieces - poetic, dramatic, cinematic - which succeed
in being affectingly dire or tragic or bleak, this poem achieves its
effect by humourous touches and a humourous tone throughout, which
better sets off the message in its very real horror. The rhythm is
bouncy, the alliteration of the refrain makes it sound cute, and the
constant repetition of that refrain fits into F&S's usual comic style,
though in this case, it also serves to drive home that awful, absurd,
insane statistic. It's been way too long since I heard the recording,
but I assume the performance both reinforced the jaunty silliness to
draw you in, and came down hard enough on the refrain to make the point

(One textual note: this transcription is a corrected version of the main
text I've seen on the web, but I haven't been able to compare it to the
original, or find a printed copy, so problems may remain. I'm especially
leery of the "Twenty thousand pounds of killing" line, since - obviously
- it should be forty thousand, but all texts I've seen so far seem to
keep the "twenty" repetition even in the face of proper conversions.)

Reed

[addendum]

  [Bob J subsequently submits a corrected, "official" version of the poem,
  which has been used to replace the earlier copy. Here are his notes.]

  I offer this as a copy from "The Songs of Michael Flanders and Donald
  Swann"

  Only minor differences e.g. "Twenty thousand pounds a killing"

  International Music Publications Ltd First published in 1977 (This
  edition 1996)

  ISBN 1-85909-439-2

  Bob J

A Contribution to Statistics -- Wislawa Szymborska

Guest poem sent in by Sashidhar Dandamudi

(Poem #1267) A Contribution to Statistics Out of a hundred people those who always know better -fifty-two doubting every step -nearly all the rest, glad to lend a hand if it doesn't take too long -as high as forty-nine, always good because they can't be otherwise -four, well maybe five, able to admire without envy -eighteen, suffering illusions induced by fleeting youth -sixty, give or take a few, not to be taken lightly -forty and four, living in constant fear of someone or something -seventy-seven, capable of happiness -twenty-something tops, harmless singly, savage in crowds -half at least, cruel when forced by circumstances -better not to know even ballpark figures, wise after the fact -just a couple more than wise before it, taking only things from life -thirty (I wish I were wrong), hunched in pain, no flashlight in the dark -eighty-three sooner or later, righteous -thirty-five, which is a lot, righteous and understanding -three, worthy of compassion -ninety-nine, mortal -a hundred out of a hundred. thus far this figure still remains unchanged. -- Wislawa Szymborska

Comments:

Since today's poem by Seth (Poem #1226) to me read like a "listing", I
remembered this poem by Szymborska (phew! they should ask this in a
Spelling Bee), which I was reading the other night from the latest
anthology of the Favorite Poem Project. Well, no more commentry because
the poem speaks for itself.

Sashi

Research in Jiangsu Province -- Vikram Seth

Guest poem sent in by Nakul Krishna

(Poem #1266) Research in Jiangsu Province From off this plastic strip the noise Of buzzing stops. A human voice Asks its set questions, pauses, then Waits for responses to begin. The questions bore in. How much is The cost and area of this house? I see you have two sons. Would you Prefer to have had a daughter too? And do your private plots provide Substantial income on the side? Do you rear silkworms? goslings? pigs? How much per year is spent on eggs? How much on oil and soya sauce And salt and vinegar? asks the voice. The answering phantom states a figure Then reconsiders, makes it bigger. Children and contraceptives, soap And schooling rise like dreams of hope To rise with radios and bikes Round pensions, tea and alarm clocks. 'Forty square metres. Sixteen cents. To save us from the elements. Miscarriage. Pickle with rice gruel Three times a week. Rice-straw for fuel. Chicken and fruit trees.' In Jiangning Green spurts the psychedelic Spring And blossoming plum confounds the smell Of pig-shit plastered on the soil. Life and production, drought and flood Merge with the fertile river mud And maids come forth sprig-muslin drest And mandarin ducks return to nest. The Yangtse flows on like brown tape. The research forms take final shape, Each figure like a laden boat With white or madder sails afloat. Float on, float on, O facts and facts, Distilled compendia of past acts, Reveal the grand design to me, Flotilla of my PhD. On the obnoxious dreary pillage Of privacy, imperfect knowledge Will sprout like lodged rice, rank with grain In whose submerging ears obtain Statistics where none grew before And housing estimates galore, Diet and wealth and income data, Age structures and a price inflator. Birth and fertility projections, Plans based on need and predilections, O needful numbers, and half true, Without you what would nations do? I switch the tape off. This to me Encapsulates reality, Although the beckoning plum-trees splayed Against the sky, the fragrant shade, Have something tellable, it seems, Of evanescence, light and dreams, And the cloud-busy, far-blue air Forms a continuous questionnaire And Mrs Gao herself whose voice Is captive on my tape may choose Some time when tapes and forms are far To talk about the Japanese War, May mention how her family fled, And starved, and bartered her for bread, And stroke her grandson's head and say Such things could not occur today. -- Vikram Seth

Note: 'Research in Jiangsu Province' appears in Seth's 1985 poetry
collection -- 'The Humble Administrator's Garden' for which he won the
Commonwealth Poetry Prize. Richly deserved, I think.

Written while researching China's economic demography for his PhD, Vikram
Seth's 'Research in Jiangsu Province' is typical of his poetry --
atmospheric and gently evocative, with an ear for quiet detail, placing the
narrator away from the centre of his narrative, passing from an almost
brutal banality to sheer music, epiphanies strewn along the way -- in his
own words, 'encapsulat[ing] reality' with a chilling conclusion that brings
it all together.

Nakul.