The Bronco That Would Not Be Broken -- Vachel Lindsay

Guest poem sent in by Gregg Morgan

(Poem #1477) The Bronco That Would Not Be Broken A little colt -- bronco, loaned to the farm To be broken in time without fury or harm, Yet black crows flew past you, shouting alarm, Calling "Beware," with lugubrious singing... The butterflies there in the bush were romancing, The smell of the grass caught your soul in a trance, So why be a-fearing the spurs and the traces, O bronco that would not be broken of dancing? You were born with the pride of the lords great and olden Who danced, through the ages, in corridors golden. In all the wide farm-place the person most human. You spoke out so plainly with squealing and capering. With whinnying, snorting, contorting, and prancing, As you dodged your pursuers, looking askance. With Greek-footed figures, and Parthenon paces. O bronco that would not be broken of dancing. The grasshoppers cheered. "Keep whirling," they said The insolent sparrows called from the shed, "If men will not laugh, make them wish they were dead." But arch were your thoughts, all malice displacing, Though the horse-killers came, with snake-whips advancing. You bantered and cantered away from your last chance. And they scourged you, with Hell in their speech and their faces, O bronco that would not be broken of dancing. "Nobody cares for you," rattled the crows, As you dragged the whole reaper, next day, down the rows. The three mules held back, yet you danced on your toes. You pulled like a racer, and kept the mules chasing. You tangled the harness with bright eyes side-glancing, While the drunk driver bled you -- a pole for a lance -- And the giant mules bit at you -- keeping their places. O bronco that would not be broken of dancing. In that last afternoon your boyish heart broke. The hot wind came down like a sledge-hammer stroke. The blood-sucking flies to a rare feast awoke. And they searched out your wounds, your death-warrant tracing. And the merciful men, their religion enhancing, Stopped the red reaper, to give you a chance. Then you died on the prairie, and scorned all disgraces, O bronco that would not be broken of dancing. -- Vachel Lindsay

This is one of my many favorite Vachel Lindsay poems. The message
is simple, and full of devices that pull the reader to save the little
donkey -- to be the one who stands for he who will not be "broken"
and fights though winning is not an option, but the fight to be
free, your own man is also not an option...Genius!

Gregg

[Martin adds]

There are echoes of Invictus [Poem #221] and The Slave's Dream [Poem #629],
both worth rereading alongside this one for the several perspectives on a
common theme.

Then Wear the Gold Hat -- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers

Guest poem submitted by Will Chiong:

(Poem #1476) Then Wear the Gold Hat Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her; if you can bounce high, bounce for her too, Till she cry "Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover, I must have you!" -- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers

I remember being moved by this poem a long time ago, and it has a
strange backstory, so I was hoping you could include it in your archive.
This poem is presented as the dedication in the intro pages of
Fitzgerald's "The Great Gatsby".  The 'joke' is that D'Invilliers is a
fictional character in Fitzgerald's first novel, "This Side of
Paradise".

I love this poem, though, as it is seems like a whimsical addition to
Fitzgerald's masterpiece; but really sums up one of the book's most
intriguing themes quite well.

A great biography of Fitzgerald can be found at
        http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/F_Scott_Fitzgerald

Will.

I Sought on Earth a Garden of Delight -- George Santayana

Guest poem sent in by Cristina Gazzieri

(Poem #1475) I Sought on Earth a Garden of Delight I sought on earth a garden of delight, Or island altar to the Sea and Air, Where gentle music were accounted prayer, And reason, veiled, performed the happy rite. My sad youth worshipped at the piteous height Where God vouchsafed the death of man to share; His love made mortal sorrow light to bear, But his deep wounds put joy to shamed flight. And though his arms, outstretched upon the tree, Were beautiful, and pleaded my embrace, My sins were loath to look upon his face. So came I down from Golgotha to thee, Eternal Mother; let the sun and sea Heal me, and keep me in thy dwelling-place. -- George Santayana

   I was born and brought up in Italy, the very heart of Christianity, and
it is not difficult, for me, to understand the feeling of the poet in this
sonnet.  The sense of guilt, the feeling of constant inadequacy of your
moral life, the denial of pleasure... They are all part of the religious
feeling they tried to inculcate in us. The reaction against all this,
particularly from the 60s onwards has been radical, so that, today,
Catholicism has become (here, at least) more tolerant towards human
weakness, less strict and demanding, more open.

As many others of my generation I have read and re-read Bertrand Russell's
'Why I am not A Christian', yet, though from an intellectual point of view I
have always shared his views, I cannot completely avoid feeling the need for
a divine presence. As Santayana, I have often hoped for the existence (and,
I must admit, in times of need, I have also prayed) of a female divinity (a
mother goddess or a Madonna – call her what you like) – I thought I did so
because it was easier for me to pray to a divinity of the same gender, so I
was surprised when I read Santayana's poem. Our need must probably be
something more ancestral, the need to be soothed by a mother also in
maturity; the feeling that  we are bond to simple, elemental laws: the
cycles of nature, life and death, biological laws and an "Eternal Mother" is
closer to this than any other abstract, frowning or anguishing father god.

Cristina

Ae Fond Kiss -- Robert Burns

Guest poem submitted by Steve Axbey:

(Poem #1474) Ae Fond Kiss Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. Who shall say that Fortune grieves him, While the star of hope she leaves him? Me, nae cheerful twinkle lights me; Dark despair around benights me. I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, Naething could resist my Nancy: But to see her was to love her; Love but her, and love for ever. Had we never lov'd sae kindly, Had we never lov'd sae blindly, Never met -- or never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted. Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest! Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest! Thine be ilka joy and treasure, Peace, Enjoyment, Love and Pleasure! Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! Ae fareweel, alas, for ever! Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. -- Robert Burns

This is quite a well known poem, so I imagine many Minstrels subscribers
will be familiar with it, but I think it's worth featuring -- it's one
of my favourites, sentimental as it is.

Nancy was a real person: Agnes McLehose, with whom Burns established a
long running platonic relationship, and with whom he continued a long
correspondence, in which they addressed each other as 'Clarinda' and
'Sylvander'. "Ae Fond Kiss" is contained in Burns' final letter to
Nancy, written in Dec 1791, and is generally considered to be much the
best of the nine poems or songs he sent her (this one is sometimes
classified as a song).

Nancy lived a long life - she was 83 when she died in 1841, by which
time she was something of a celebrity: well known as "the woman who
broke Rabbie Burns' heart". You can read more about her here:
http://www.robertburns.org/encyclopedia/MLehoseAgnesCraigClarinda1759-18
41.555.html

It's a great poem full of heartfelt passion. Like all the folk poetry,
and folk music, it tells a story and, like all the *best* folk/country
poetry the story is a sad one. (Q: What do you get if you play country
music backwards? A: You get your wife back, your home back, your kids
back, you car back...).

If I had a criticism: it's the timing. Surely the best lines -- and
indeed the whole point of the poem -- are these:
        Had we never lov'd sae blindly
        Never met -- or never parted
        We had ne'er been broken-hearted"
So shouldn't those lines  come at the end?

I first came across the poem as a song by Fairground Attraction, a 1980s
Scottish band fronted by Eddi Reader. Their debut (and as it turned out
final) album was called "First of a Million Kisses".  Then, after they
broke up and an album of off-cuts was released, it was symmetrically
called "Ay Fond Kiss", with a version of this as the title track.  And a
very beautiful version it is: released nearly 20 years ago, it's still
got a high billing on my iPod :-)

Although Fairground Attraction broke up, Eddi Reader is still going
strong and indeed she released an album of Robbie Burns' songs in 2003.
That album includes a new version of Ae Fond Kiss, and with lyrics more
faithful to the original, and I can recommend it whole-heartedly.

You can find more details of Eddi at her official site
www.eddireader.com

For more on Robbie Burns try
        http://www.robertburns.org/
or      http://www.rabbie-burns.com/index.cfm
for starters... but a quick Google will turn up many, many more
references.

Steve.

Drinking Song -- J K Stephen

(Poem #1473) Drinking Song There are people, I know, to be found, Who say, and apparently think, That sorrow and care may be drowned By a timely consumption of drink. Does not man, these enthusiasts ask, Most nearly approach the divine, When engaged in the soul-stirring task Of filling his body with wine? Have not beggars been frequently known, When satisfied, soaked, and replete, To imagine their bench was a throne And the civilised world at their feet? Lord Byron has finely described The remarkably soothing effect Of liquor, profusely imbibed, On a soul that is shattered and wrecked. In short, if your body or mind Or your soul or your purse come to grief, You need only get drunk, and you'll find Complete and immediate relief. For myself, I have managed to do Without having recourse to this plan, So I can't write a poem for you, And you'd better get someone who can. -- J K Stephen

"Get drunk!" urges Baudelaire. "Turn down an empty glass!", Khayyam
exhorts us. Well, in today's poem - and in particular the last verse -
Stephen stands on its head the image of the sober man as a dry,
humourless stick-in-the-mud. Suffice it to say that I laughed out loud in
sheer surprise and delight when I reached the end.

While Stephen was, sadly, struck down before he managed to transcend "minor
poet" status, his talent is unmistakable; personally, his ability to
blend humour with an elegantly restrained understatement is as impressive
as it is delightful.

martin

Links:

 Brief biography and assessment:
   http://www.bartleby.com/223/0615.html