The Tale of Custard the Dragon -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Vivian Eden:

(Poem #1672) The Tale of Custard the Dragon Belinda lived in a little white house, With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse, And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon, And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink, And the little gray mouse, she called her Blink, And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard, But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard. Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth, And spikes on top of him and scales underneath, Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose, And realio, trulio, daggers on his toes. Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs, Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful, Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival, They all sat laughing in the little red wagon At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon. Belinda giggled till she shook the house, And Blink said Week!, which is giggling for a mouse, Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age, When Custard cried for a nice safe cage. Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound, And Mustard growled, and they all looked around. Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda, For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda. Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right, And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright, His beard was black, one leg was wood; It was clear that the pirate meant no good. Belinda paled, and she cried, Help! Help! But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp, Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed. But up jumped Custard, snorting like an engine, Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon, With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm. The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon, And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon, He fired two bullets but they didn't hit, And Custard gobbled him, every bit. Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him, No one mourned for his pirate victim Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate Around the dragon that ate the pyrate. Belinda still lives in her little white house, With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse, And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon, And her realio, trulio, little pet dragon. Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears, And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs, Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage, But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage. -- Ogden Nash

If the theme is beasts gobbling people, then Custard is essential. I think
chidren love this poem so much because it ends with everything satisfyingly
back to normal after all the excitement and they can fall asleep free of
fears of dragons and pirates, and grownups love it because it is very acute
in its psychology -- Doesn't everyone know people like all the characters in
this poem, including Custard? -- and because it is so much fun to read
aloud. And of course keeping a cowardly pet dragon around is an excellent
way to tame fears and at the same time to get rid of unwanted intruders,
especially if you are a brave little girl like Belinda. As for the poetry,
my favorite lines are: "Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,  /
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed." The verb for Ink is
brilliant, and the rhyme is priceless, with "mouseholed" a wink at the habit
that American English at least has of taking a noun and making a verb of it
-- "to backpack," "to party."

On the Internet, an Ogden Nash site  with good links is at
        http://www.poetrymagazine.com/archives/2001/May01/nash.htm

Vivian.

The Lion and Albert -- Marriott Edgar

Martin Alexander sends in a followup to yestarday's
poem...

(Poem #1671) The Lion and Albert There's a famous seaside place called Blackpool, That's noted for fresh-air and fun, And Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Went there with young Albert, their son. A grand little lad was their Albert All dressed in his best; quite a swell 'E'd a stick with an 'orse's 'ead 'andle The finest that Woolworth's could sell. They didn't think much to the ocean The waves, they was fiddlin' and small There was no wrecks... nobody drownded 'Fact, nothing to laugh at, at all. So, seeking for further amusement They paid and went into the zoo Where they'd lions and tigers and cam-els And old ale and sandwiches too. There were one great big lion called Wallace His nose were all covered with scars He lay in a som-no-lent posture With the side of his face to the bars. Now Albert had heard about lions How they were ferocious and wild And to see Wallace lying so peaceful Well... it didn't seem right to the child. So straight 'way the brave little feller Not showing a morsel of fear Took 'is stick with the'orse's 'ead 'andle And pushed it in Wallace's ear! You could see that the lion didn't like it For giving a kind of a roll He pulled Albert inside the cage with 'im And swallowed the little lad... whole! Then Pa, who had seen the occurrence And didn't know what to do next Said, "Mother! Yon lions 'et Albert" And Mother said "Eeh, I am vexed!" So Mr and Mrs Ramsbottom Quite rightly, when all's said and done Complained to the Animal Keeper That the lion had eaten their son. The keeper was quite nice about it He said, "What a nasty mishap Are you sure that it's your lad he's eaten?" Pa said, "Am I sure? There's his cap!" So the manager had to be sent for He came and he said, "What's to do?" Pa said, "Yon lion's 'eaten our Albert And 'im in his Sunday clothes, too." Then Mother said, "Right's right, young feller I think it's a shame and a sin For a lion to go and eat Albert And after we've paid to come in!" The manager wanted no trouble He took out his purse right away And said, "How much to settle the matter?" And Pa said "What do you usually pay?" But Mother had turned a bit awkward When she thought where her Albert had gone She said, "No! someone's got to be summonsed" So that were decided upon. Round they went to the Police Station In front of a Magistrate chap They told 'im what happened to Albert And proved it by showing his cap. The Magistrate gave his o-pinion That no-one was really to blame He said that he hoped the Ramsbottoms Would have further sons to their name. At that Mother got proper blazing "And thank you, sir, kindly," said she "What waste all our lives raising children To feed ruddy lions? Not me!" -- Marriott Edgar

      (1880-1951)

Great poem [Poem #1671] and wonderful introduction to Trelease, which has
delayed coffee and toast this Hong Kong Sunday morning....

My first thought was of Edgar Marriot's famous monologue, The Lion and
Albert (in spite of the word order below, the Lion is clearly neither a
secondary character nor the villain of the tale):

[broken link] http://www.monologues.co.uk/Albert_and_the_Lion.htm

The site includes the poem below and a (currently broken) link to the
original 'Marriott Edgar' recording... I had a quick look on the Minstrels
site, and to my consternation found that the poem isn't yet included.
Perhaps it should be - and perhaps Silverstein's poem is a natural (and
deliberate?) appendix.

(Your glaring omission is, of course, evidence only of the huge, growing and
generally benevolent beast that poetry is - not a reflection of any poverty
of content in the Magnificent Minstrels!)

Martin

[Links]

There's a very brief biography up at
  http://oldpoetry.com/authors/Marriott%20Edgar

Edgar appears to have been fairly prolific - check out some of his other
monologues at [broken link] http://monologues.co.uk/

[I don't believe this piece directly inspired Silverstein, since lions as a
whole are a ravenous lot, and Death of Being Eaten By a Lion makes its
appearance in several children's stories and poems. It's still a charming poem,
though, and I'm delighted to be introduced to Marriott Edgar. -- martin (the
other one)]

It's Dark in Here -- Shel Silverstein

(Poem #1670) It's Dark in Here I am writing these poems From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. So please excuse the handwriting Which may not be too clear. But this afternoon by the lion's cage I'm afraid I got too near. And I'm writing these lines From inside a lion, And it's rather dark in here. -- Shel Silverstein

A bit of nostalgia attached to today's piece - it's the first Silverstein
poem I ever read, thanks to it being included in one of my school poetry
books. This was way back in my early childhood, when I had no idea who
Silverstein was, but my siblings and I all adored the poem and can, to this
day, quote it with much glee and amusement.

It appears to have started life as a song - you can see the lyrics at
[broken link] http://www.banned-width.com/shel/works/lion.html - and there's a charming
illustration alongside, though not the one I remember from my textbook.

And speaking of Silverstein and textbooks, I'd like to quote a marvellous
excerpt from Jim Trelease's "Read Aloud Handbook" that I discovered when
searching for today's poem:

    'Where the Sidewalk Ends', by Shel Silverstein, is so popular with
    children, librarians and teachers insist it is the book most frequently
    stolen from their schools and libraries. Over the last eight years I've
    asked eighty thousand teachers if they know 'Where the Sidewalk Ends'
    (two million copies in print), and three-quarters of the teachers raise
    their hands. "Wonderful!" I say. "Now, who has enough copies of this
    book for every child in your room?" Nobody raises a hand. In eight
    years, only eighteen teachers out of eighty thousand had enough copies
    in their rooms for every child.

    I continue, "Do each of you know the books in your classroom no child
    would ever consider stealing?" They nod in recognition. "Do you have
    enough copies of those books for every child in the room?" Reluctantly,
    they nod agreement. Here we've got a book kids love to read so much
    they'll steal it right and left and we haven't got enough copies; but
    every year we've got twenty-eight copies of a book they hate.

       -- Jim Trelease, "What's Right or Wrong With Poetry"
                         [broken link] http://www.poets.org/exh/parts.cfm?prmID=81

Check Trelease's website [http://www.trelease-on-reading.com/] out - I think
he's just become one of my heroes.

martin

Shawondasee -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Guest poem submitted by Lisa:

(Poem #1669) Shawondasee Shawondasee, fat and lazy, Had his dwelling far to southward In the drowsy, dreamy sunshine, In the never-ending Summer. He it was who sent the wood-birds, Sent the robin, the Opechee, Sent the bluebird, the Owaissa, Sent the Shawshaw, sent the swallow, Sent the wild-goose, Wawa, northward, Sent the melons and tobacco, And the grapes in purple clusters. From his pipe the smoke ascending Filled the sky with haze and vapor, Filled the air with dreamy softness, Gave a twinkle to the water, Touched the rugged hills with smoothness, Brought the tender Indian Summer To the melancholy north-land, In the dreary Mood of Snow-shoes. Listless, careless Shawondasee! In his life he had one shadow, In his heart one sorrow had he. Once, as he was gazing northward, Far away upon a prairie He beheld a maiden standing, Saw a tall and slender maiden All alone upon a prairie ; Brightest green were all her garments, And her hair was like the sunshine. Day by day he gazed upon her, Day by day he sighed with passion, Day by day his heart within him Grew more hot with love and longing For the maid with yellow tresses. But he was too fat and lazy To bestir himself and woo her. Yes, too indolent and easy To pursue her and persuade her; So he only gazed upon her, Only sat and sighed with passion For the maiden of the prairie. Till one morning, looking northward, He beheld her yellow tresses Changed and covered o'er with whiteness, Covered as with whitest snow-flakes. "Ah! my brother from the North-land, From the kingdom of Wabasso, From the land of the White Rabbit! You have stolen the maiden from me, You have laid your hand upon her, You have wooed and won my maiden, With your stories of the North-land!" Thus the wretched Shawondasee Breathed into the air his sorrow; And the South-Wind o'er the prairie Wandered warm with sighs of passion, With the sighs of Shawondasee, Till the air seemed full of snow-flakes, Full of thistle-down the prairie, And the maid with hair like sunshine Vanished from his sight forever; Never more did Shawondasee See the maid with yellow tresses! Poor, deluded Shawondasee! 'Twas no woman that you gazed at, 'Twas no maiden that you sighed for, 'Twas the prairie dandelion That through all the dreamy Summer You had gazed at with such longing, You had sighed for with such passion, And had puffed away forever, Blown into the air with sighing. Ah! deluded Shawondasee! -- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Other exerpts from the epic poem "The Song of Hiawatha" have appeared here
before.  But I adore this little vignette about the South Wind.  Such a
wonderful description, and such a tragic (yet humorous) romance too!  Plus,
the meter is amazing.  This poem begs to be read aloud.  I've read this
particular passage to my husband three times this evening.

Okay, I admit, I was led here by the reference to it in Spiderman 2.  But it
fits well with my latest interest in epic poetry, and now I'm in the middle
of Hiawatha, enjoying every syllable.

Lisa.

Aedh Laments the Loss of Love -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Kamalika Chowdhury

(Poem #1668) Aedh Laments the Loss of Love (or The Lover Mourns for the Loss of Love) Pale brows, still hands and dim hair, I had a beautiful friend And dreamed that the old despair Would end in love in the end: She looked in my heart one day And saw your image was there; She has gone weeping away. -- William Butler Yeats

On reading the recent Yeats poem (Poem #1657 - "The Rose of the World"), I
was reminded that the minstrels does not yet have two of my favourite poems
by Yeats.  This gem of a poem, from "The Wind Among the Reeds" (1899), is
one of them.

The poignancy of loss of love has seldom been better expressed in the
English language. Yet the spell of this poem goes beyond that perfect
execution, and into the intriguingly complex play of time and emotion
captured in these few short, heart-stopping lines. No words are wasted here.
Even as the gentle, patient cadence of the opening lines sets the scene, the
powerful simplicity of the final image brings a sudden and immense sense of
permanence. In the end one is left with a picture far wider than the title
promised. Which was the real loss? Whence the haunting despair, and how deep
love's lament? Beautiful.

Kamalika

[Martin adds]

I also love the way the closing "she has gone weeping away" plays against the
incompleteness of the "missing" eighth line. The poem ends on a brief,
expectant  pause, a held breath, perhaps a hope that this is not then end of
the story. And then the realisation that the poem has indeed come to an end
surges back, and the reader is almost compelled to silently reread the last
line, both to lay to rest the feeling that the poem should continue a line
more, and by the very repetition perhaps to supply that closure. (And yet, in
the end, I am unable to read finality into the last line; the more I look at
it, the more I feel the promise of a second chance. And that, too, is perhaps
as it should be.)

martin