Please Fire Me -- Deborah Garrison

Guest poem sent in by Katherine Woolfitt

(Poem #1344) Please Fire Me Here comes another alpha male, and all the other alphas are snorting and pawing, kicking up puffs of acrid dust while the silly little hens clatter back and forth on quivering claws and raise a titter about the fuss. Here comes another alpha male-- a man's man, a dealmaker, holds tanks of liquor, charms them pantsless at lunch: I've never been sicker. Do I have to stare into his eyes and sympathize? If I want my job I do. Well I think I'm through with the working world, through with warming eggs and being Zenlike in my detachment from all things Ego. I'd like to go somewhere else entirely, and I don't mean Europe. -- Deborah Garrison

I've been quite behind on reading Minstrels, and I just today got to the
math poems of late July.  They reminded me of graduate school & what it's
like to do philosophy professionally, which in turn reminded me of one of
the more unpleasant aspects of analytic research, viz. the all-too-frequent
sexism.  And that in turn reminded me of this poem by Deborah Garrison (who I
think hasn't appeared on the list yet?) that I've always liked, for
capturing exactly what it's like to deal with this sort of thing.

Katherine

[Martin adds]

Perfect ending (I do love those) - beautifully timed, and eliciting almost
unbidden that audible "ah" of surprise and gratification. I wasn't really
getting into the poem until the last stanza, but that pulled it all together
for me. (I wonder if there's a deliberate reference to Cummings's "listen:
there's a hell of a good universe next door; let's go", but either way, it's
fully as satisfying a line).

[Links]
  Brief biography and some poems:
    http://www.pbs.org/wnet/foolingwithwords/t_txtgarrison.html

  Academy of American Poets page:
    [broken link] http://www.poets.org/poets/poets.cfm?prmID=594

Poem to be read at 3 a.m. -- Donald Justice

This poem was submitted independently by two readers in response to
yesterday's offering (statius' 'to sleep'): Howard Weinberg
and William Schubert :

(Poem #1343) Poem to be read at 3 a.m. Excepting the diner On the outskirts. The town of Ladora At 3 a.m. Was dark but For my headlights And up in One second-story room A single light Where someone Was sick or Perhaps reading As I drove past At seventy Not thinking. This poem Is for whoever Had the light on -- Donald Justice

 from "Night Light".

[Howard's comments]

Two things I like about this poem: the way it acknowledges the
brotherhood of those who are not asleep; and the way it captures that
midwestern gothic feeling, which is not at all about dentists with
pitchforks, pace Grant Wood, but is about frail cones of light
shimmering in the prairie darkness.

It is plain, elegant, spare, devastating and, somehow, redemptive. Read
it again.

[William's comments]

I am not an insomniac.  My brain typically shuts down around 9pm and I
get up for meditation around 4:15 so I have little understanding of
insomnia however grateful I am that I don't suffer it.  My social life
has always been a bit truncated by my lack of enjoyment of anything that
happens after 10pm.

But, I feel the voices in this poem.  I think it is because something in
me travels in the night.  I've been on the road through Ladora.
Otherwise how could I so readily recognize the landscape of this simple
poem.  My life (all of our lives) zip along at 70 and it is so difficult
to be aware in the present tense of that single light we passed, that
single person who was by the roadside, that single soul existing in the
periphery of our vision.  Except in memory and regret at having not been
sufficiently in the moment to connect with that other sentient
inhabitant of our world.

I read this poem for the first time in high school. It touched me then
and has haunted me ever since.  I've heard the sound of those tires on
the streets of Ladora in the back of my mind for thirty five years.  And
I have more than once looked up and seen a lighted window and sent a
thought there.  Not alone.  Not alone.

To Sleep -- Statius

Guest poem submitted by Dave Fortin:

(Poem #1342) To Sleep What is the charge, young god, what have I done Alone to be denied, in desperate straits, Epitome of Calm, your treasure, Sleep? Hush holds enmeshed each herd, fowl, prowling beast; The trees, capitulating, nod to aching sleep; The raging floods relinquish their firm roar; The heavy sea has ceased and the oceans curl Upon the lap of land to sink and rest. The moon has now in seven visits seen My wild eyes staring; seven stars of dawn And twilight have returned to me And sunrise, transient witness of distress, Has in compassion sprayed dew from her whip. Where is the strength I need? It would defeat The consecrated Argus, thousand-eyed Despite the watch that one part of him keeps, Nerves taut, on guard relentlessly. Oh Sleep, some couple, bodies interlocked, Must shut you from their night-long ecstasy; So come to me. I issue no demand That you enfold mine eyes with your wings-- Let all the world, more fortunate, beg that. Your wand-tip's mere caress, your hovering form Poised lightly on tiptoe: that is enough. -- Statius

Statius (Publius Papinius Statius) was born in Naples around the year 45
AD. Very little is recorded about his life and most of what is known is
gleaned from his own writings. He lived in Rome most of his life and was
a court poet under the emperor Domitian.  He enjoyed some success in
public recitations and poetic contests in Rome, winning the poetry prize
at one of Domitian's annual festivals around 83 A.D.  However, in 94
A.D. he complains of being unsuccessful at the Capitoline contest,
considered the greatest of the declamatory contests in Rome.  His
disappointment at failing to win the coveted oak wreath, combined with
ill health, lead to his return to Naples where he died around 96 A.D.

As an insomniac, I love this poem. It is one of the few poetic
representations I have seen that conveys the feelings of one who cannot
sleep. The belief that such lack of sleep is against the natural order
of things (lines 4-8); the desperation of the want of sleep (lines 1-3,
8-10); the belief that even a supernatural being would not be able to
withstand the sleeplessness experienced by the insomniac (lines 15-17)
all ring true.  The appeal to the lost sleep of lovers to come the poet
is particularly appealing.

Dave Fortin
At 11:50 PM, with several hours to go before retiring...

Carpe Diem Baby -- James Hetfield

Guest poem sent in by Ajit Narayanan

(Poem #1341) Carpe Diem Baby Hit dirt Shake tree Split sky Part sea Strip smile Lose cool Bleed the day And break the rule Live win Dare fail Eat the dirt And bite the nail Then make me miss you… Then make me miss you… So wash your face away with dirt It don't feel good until it hurts So take this world and shake it Come squeeze and suck the day Come carpe diem, baby Draw Lead Piss wine Sink teeth All mine Stoke fire Break neck Suffer through this Cheat on death Hug the curve Lose the time Tear the map And shoot the sign Then make me miss you… Then make me miss you… So wash your face away with dirt It don't feel good until it hurts So take this world and shake it Come squeeze and suck the day Come carpe diem, baby Live win Dare fail Eat dirt Bite the nail Strip smile Lose cool Bleed the day And break the rule Hug the curve Lose the time Tear the map And shoot the sign Then make me miss you… Then make me miss you… So wash your face away with dirt It don't feel good until it hurts So take this world and shake it Come squeeze and suck the day Come make me miss you… Come carpe diem baby Come carpe diem baby -- James Hetfield

           (Metallica)

It has become unfashionable to like Metallica these days, but nonetheless,
of all the hard-rock and heavy-metal groups that I have heard, I think
Metallica would rank very high indeed for the power and beauty of their
lyrics. Indeed, they are one of the few bands that I started listening to
because I was very powerfully moved by the _poetry_ of songs like 'Sad But
True', 'Holier Than Thou', 'Fade To Black', 'Sanatarium' etc. 'Carpe Diem
Baby' is one of my favourites -- short lines, chosen and brought together
with a mastery that gives the whole song tremendous coherence and meaning.

In suggesting that you run this song on Minstrels, my judgment is clouded by
the fact that, having listened to the song before having read the lyrics, I
cannot imagine what the words sound like when read as poetry -- despite my
best attempts at self-control, whenever I read it out loud, I lapse into the
languid drawled-out melody of the song. However, reading it, one cannot
under any circumstances mistake it for the scribblings of an illiterate or
unskilled man. Metallica, for all the trappings of the genre that they
chose, still project an image of _culture_, and for that reason, I do think
their work deserves a place among the greats.

- Ajitq

[Martin adds]

Interestingly, until I got to the "then make me miss you..." bit, I didn't
realise it was a song at all. I was even more surprised to hear that the
music was languid and drawled-out; read in isolation the lyrics project a
sort of intense, driven energy, and a rhythm reminiscent of Hood's "No!"
[Poem #251] with its short, choppy and tightly rhymed lines. I ought to hunt
up the song sometime.

martin

A Strike Among the Poets -- Anonymous

(Poem #1340) A Strike Among the Poets In his chamber, weak and dying, While the Norman Baron lay, Loud, without, his men were crying, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Know you why the ploughman, fretting, Homeward plods his weary way Ere his time? He's after getting Shorter hours and better pay. See! the Hesperus is swinging Idle in the wintry bay, And the skipper's daughter's singing, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Where's the minstrel boy? I've found him Joining in the labour fray With his placards slung about him, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' Oh, young Lochinvar is coming; Though his hair is getting grey, Yet I'm glad to hear him humming, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' E'en the boy upon the burning Deck has got a word to say, Something rather cross concerning Shorter hours and better pay. Lives of great men all remind us We can make as much as they, Work no more, until they find us Shorter hours and better pay. Hail to thee, blithe spirit! (Shelley) Wilt thou be a blackleg? Nay. Soaring, sing above the mêlée, 'Shorter hours and better pay.' -- Anonymous

Ah, shorter hours and better pay. What we all wish for.

thomas.

[Notes]

To make up for the lack of insightful commentary (really, what would you
expect, except for the obvious statement that I love the conceit :)),
here's a list of sources:

Stanza #1: "The Norman Baron" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.emule.com/poetry/?page=poem&poem=4763

        In his chamber, weak and dying,
          Was the Norman baron lying;
        Loud, without, the tempest thundered
          And the castle-turret shook,

Stanza #2: "Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" -- Thomas Gray
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1091.html

        The curfew tolls the knell of parting day;
          The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea;
        The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
          And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Stanza #3: "The Wreck of the Hesperus" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/717.html

        It was the schooner Hesperus,
          That sailed the wintry sea;
        And the skipper had taken his little daughter,
          To bear him company.

Stanza #4: I have no idea where this comes from. Any pointers, gentle
readers?

Stanza #5: "Lochinvar" -- Sir Walter Scott
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/125.html

        O, young Lochinvar is come out of the west,
        Through all the wide Border his steed was the best;

Stanza #6: "Casabianca" -- Felicia Hemans
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1000.html

        The boy stod on the burning deck,
          Whence all but him had fled;
        The flame that lit the battle's wreck
          Shone round him o'er the dead.

Stanza #7: "A Psalm of Life" -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/888.html

        Lives of great men all remind us
          We can make our lives sublime,
        And, departing, leave behind us
          Footprints on the sands of time;

Stanza #8: "To a Skylark" -- Percy Byshhe Shelley
  http://www.bartleby.com/106/241.html

        Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
           Bird thou never wert,
        That from heaven, or near it,
           Pourest thy full heart
   In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

And finally, 'blackleg' : "A name of opprobrium for a workman willing to
work for a master whose men are on strike" (OED).