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Nonadaptation -- Czeslaw Milosz

Guest poem submitted by Sarah Korah :
(Poem #1731) Nonadaptation
 I was not made to live anywhere except in Paradise.

 Such, simply, was my genetic inadaptation.

 Here on earth every prick of a rose-thorn changed into a wound.
 whenever the sun hid behind a cloud, I grieved.

 I pretended to work like others from morning to evening,
 but I was absent, dedicated to invisible countries.

 For solace I escaped to city parks, there to observe
 and faithfully describe flowers and trees, but they changed,
 under my hand, into the gardens of Paradise.

 I have not loved a woman with my five senses.
 I only wanted from her my sister, from before the banishment.

 And I respected religion, for on this earth of pain
 it was a funereal and a propitiatory song.
-- Czeslaw Milosz
As a statement of intent, and as a memorable first line, Milosz makes things
very clear by saying "I was not made to live anywhere except in Paradise".
Yet in typical Milosz style, what follows is NOT a funny, escapist take on
life. Instead we're treated to 13 lines of intelligent, memorable poetry.

It amuses me that whenever I quote from this poem, I tend to choose the
light hearted lines ("I pretended to work like others from morning to
evening, but I was absent, dedicated to invisible countries.").. and people
naturally assume that it's from a funny poem. Talk of taking a quote out of
context !

Czeslaw Milosz's bio, and more of his poems, can be found on minstrels at
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/1599.html

Sarah Korah.

You're the Top -- Cole Porter

Guest poem submitted by Aseem Kaul:
(Poem #1730) You're the Top
 You're the top!
 You're the Coliseum.
 You're the top!
 You're the Louvre Museum.
 You're a melody
 From a symphony
 By Strauss
 You're a Bendel bonnet,
 A Shakespeare sonnet,
 You're Mickey Mouse!

 You're the Nile,
 You're the Tower of Pisa,
 You're the smile
 On the Mona Lisa
 I'm a worthless check,
 A total wreck,
 A flop!
 But if, baby, I'm the bottom
You're the top!

 You're the top!
 You're Mahatma Gandhi.
 You're the top!
 You're Napoleon Brandy.
 You're the purple light
 Of a summer night
 In Spain,
 You're the National Gallery
 You're Garbo's salary,
 You're cellophane!

 You're sublime,
 You're a turkey dinner,
 You're the time
 Of a Derby winner,
 I'm a toy balloon
 That's fated soon
 To pop
 But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
 You're the top!

 You're the top!
 You're an arrow collar
 You're the top!
 You're a Coolidge dollar,
 You're the nimble tread
 Of the feet of Fred
 Astaire,
 You're an O'Neill drama,
 You're Whistler's mama,
 You're camembert!

 You're a rose,
 You're Inferno's Dante,
 You're the nose
 On the great Durante.
 I'm just in a way,
 As the French would say,
 "de trop".
 But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
 You're the top!

 You're the top!
 You're a dance in Bali.
 You're the top!
 You're a hot tamale.
 You're an angel, you,
 Simply too, too, too
 Divine,
 You're a Boticcelli,
 You're Keats, you're Shelley,
 You're Ovaltine!

 You're a boom,
 You're the dam at Boulder,
 You're the moon,
 Over Mae West's shoulder,
 I'm the nominee
 Of the G.O.P.
 Or GOP!
 But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
 You're the top!

 You're the top!
 You're a Waldorf salad.
 You're the top!
 You're a Berlin ballad.
 You're the boats that glide
 On the sleepy Zuid-
 -er Zee,
 You're an old Dutch master,
 You're Lady Astor,
 You're broccoli!

 You're romance,
 You're the steppes of Russia,
 You're the pants,
 On a Roxy usher,
 I'm a broken doll,
 A fol-de-rol,
 A blop,
 But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
 You're the top!
-- Cole Porter
Was listening to my old Ella Fitzgerald recordings [1] of the Cole Porter
songbook, and decided to see if he was represented on Minstrels. Discovered
that he doesn't feature on the site at all, so figured would send in one of
my favourite songs of all time. "You're the Top", is, of course, one of the
many classic jazz standards that Porter has given us (other familiar tunes
include: 'I Love Paris', 'Begin the Beguine' 'I've got you under my skin'
'Easy to Love' 'You do something to me' 'De-lovely' 'I get a kick out of
you', etc., etc.) - but it's the one that, IMHO, best shows off his
incredible skill as a songwriter.

What makes the song particularly brilliant is the fact that it's at once a
parody and an exquisitely crafted piece of music (I'm reminded of Mozart in
Cosi fan tutte - all those stunning arias for what is essentially a false
love). This is a song that is (forgive the pun) completely over the top -
Porter takes the fine art of paying extravagant compliments / making
exaggerated comparisons to ridiculous extremes, but it's a parody done with
such good will, such conscious self-ridicule, such amazing quickness of wit,
that you can't help being a little moved even as you're laughing out loud.

And laughing out loud you should be - this is a truly hilarious song. What I
love about it most is the way it constantly fluctuates between the sublime
and the mundane ("you're a Bendel bonnet / A Shakespeare sonnet / You're
Mickey Mouse" or "You're Botticelli / You're Keats, You're Shelley / You're
Ovaltine!) so that the very contrast between the different things the loved
one is compared to is incredibly funny. Plus, of course, the references are
thrilling in themselves - forget bright copper kettles and warm woolen
mittens, if there was a ever a list of my favourite things (well, maybe not
Bendel Bonnets, but Dante and Shakespeare and Keats and Shelley and Berlin
ballads and O'Neill dramas and Strauss and Napoleon Brandy and Fred Astaire
and Waldorf Salads? wow!) this is it. And added to it, there's Porter's
wonderful sense of humour (this is a man who wrote a song with the lyrics
"Mr. Harris, plutocrat / Wants to give my cheek a pat / If the Harris pat
means a Paris hat, Hurray!") - how can you not love a man who would actually
write a song that went "I'm the nominee / of the G.O.P. / Or GOP"?

But behind the seemingly gay and effortless rhythm of the song (and the
sense of things being a little forced, a little raw around the edges) is
Porter's incredible craftsmanship. To begin with, this is an incredibly
complicated rhyme pattern to pull off: ababccdeed fgfghhaia with the 'a' -
the -op sound - being repeated through all the stanzas. And all of this with
short punchy lines, with some of the rhymes being virtually internal. This
is truly a virtuoso accomplishment, specially when you consider that these
are song lyrics, and so Porter not only has to get the lines to rhyme per
se, he also needs to get them to go together with the same general rhythm.
The fact that he makes it so fluid, so effortless, actually managing to
enhance the punchline of some of his lines with the tune (and always keeping
you guessing as to the next line - an effect I've hardly ever seen this side
of Urdu Ghazals) is simply breathtaking.

Bottomline: I defy anyone to listen to this song and not end up grinning (if
not actually laughing aloud) at its perfectly balanced mix of intelligence,
wit and pure silliness. I defy anyone to get through all five stanzas and
not feel his or her heart leap with the soaring notes of that final "You're
the Top!". I defy anyone to listen to this song and not end up falling in
love with it.

Aseem.

[1] Although to really appreciate this song, check out the Louis Armstrong
version - that deep moaning voice singing "mama, you're the smile / on the
Mona Lisa" so sweet you can taste it.

The Star-Spangled Banner -- Francis Scott Key

Guest poem sent in by Emlen Smith
[our apologies to Emlen; this was meant to go out yesterday - ed.]
(Poem #1729) The Star-Spangled Banner
 Oh, say can you see, by the dawn's early light,
 What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming?
 Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the perilous fight,
 O'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming?
 And the rockets' red glare,
 The bombs bursting in air,
 Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there.
 O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

 On the shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
 Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
 What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
 As it fitfully blows, half conceals, half discloses?
 Now it catches the gleam
 Of the morning's first beam,
 In full glory reflected now shines on the stream:
 'Tis the star-spangled banner! O long may it wave
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

 And where is that band who so vauntingly swore
 That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion
 A home and a country should leave us no more?
 Their blood has wiped out their foul footstep's pollution.
 No refuge could save
 The hireling and slave
 From the terror of flight, or the gloom of the grave:
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave.

 Oh! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
 Between their loved homes and the war's desolation!
 Blest with victory and peace, may the heaven-rescued land
 Praise the Power that hath made and preserved us a nation.
 Then conquer we must,
 When our cause it is just,
 And this be our motto: "In God is our trust."
 And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave
 O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave!
-- Francis Scott Key
I think the National Anthem is underappreciated as a poem. We Americans take
it for granted, or if we think about it, probably assume we only like it out
of tradition (and I doubt anyone else knows it at all). It's not, I admit,
Shakespeare, but it's a fine poem, worth looking over more closely
(Americans are lucky in this respect; the lyrics of "God Save the Queen"
are, no offense to anyone, pretty dull.).

"The Star-Spangled Banner" requires a bit of context to be understood:
during the War of 1812, Key went out in a truce ship toward the British
fleet to negotiate the release of a prisoner who was a friend of his. Before
he returned, the British attacked Fort McHenry, 8 miles away; Key watched
from the sea, amid "the foe's haughty host." When the fighting stopped at
night, he could not see what had happened, and had to wait till morning for
the flag to appear.

It's a shame that we generally only sing the first verse, which ends on a
cliffhanger -- does that banner still wave, or what? (People often get
confused by line 7, which says that the flag WAS still there at twilight;
Key can't see once night falls, and wonders if it will still be there in the
morning.) Read rightly, verse 1 is just preparation, building up suspense:
we start with a question, interrupt for a little proud reminiscence, but
then come back to the same question. This verse is the whole long, anxious
night of September 13, 1814, drifting, waiting, surrounded by foes who know
no more than we do.

Which sets us up for verse 2, my favorite. The tenseness of verse 1 is still
there at the beginning, in the dread silence and the fitful, teasing breeze
-- but it exists only to be broken. After the two short lines 14 and 15, the
flag's full appearance bursts out, and you (or at least, I) just want to get
up and cheer. Verse 2 is about that one moment, when relief floods in all at
once and drowns our uncertainty, that sudden leap of the heart as we see the
flag. It's the same jump that interrupts the beginning of the refrain in
line 17; in all the other verses that line is an unbroken thought, but here
it has an exclamation point and an "O" in the middle.

The third verse is a source of some embarrassment now that the British are
our friends again, and is omitted even more often than the second and
fourth.  But we lose something when we omit it. "The Star-Spangled Banner"
is a whole; it travels naturally from one verse to the next. The great
release of verse 2 must, inevitably, pour out the gloating of verse 3. "And
where is that band...." We can see Key, as soon as the first moment of joy
is past, turning his head to look for those arrogant Brits in the ships
around him, who, remember, have been waiting just as anxiously as he has.
The poem would be more kind and polite if it passed immediately into the
sober reflection of verse 4 without any emotion, or even with emotions a bit
less savage; but it would read like a poem composed to educate men, not like
a sincere, joyful celebration of victory. (Besides, this is nothing. If you
want a really bloodthirsty national anthem, try reading the Marseillaise.)

But we do get some sober reflection at last. Once he's gotten that gloating
out of his system, Key doesn't just continue jumping on British graves. He
turns calm and serious, and he gives us a moral lesson, as, after all, he
has to.  There isn't any wildly original insight here, of course, and there
isn't meant to be: the force comes from the simple, strong, short words in
the three rhyming lines 32-34. The point isn't to teach us anything new, but
to remind us of what we already know, to make sure that we don't get carried
away with our (appropriate) joy in victory, but calm down and think about
the purpose of that victory, and the Power that gave it to us. Then,
finally, we get the joy again, enhanced, not reduced, by the lesson, when
the refrain comes back.

Key's use of the refrain, by the way, is masterful. The variation
effectively fits it to each verse, and the movement of each verse builds
toward it in a different way, so that it never becomes boring, or seems put
in just because it has to be there.

So, basically, I like this poem. (Of course, it's better with the music,
which I believe was a traditional English drinking tune or something;
certainly not original. I am utterly unqualified to discuss the quality of
the music at all.) I admit, of course, that I like it more because it's
associated, to say the least, with American patriotism, because I've heard
it played at a million baseball games, etc. But I think, even without that,
that it's a real good poem. I'd be interested to know how it strikes
English, Australian, Indian, etc. readers, who don't have my biases. Happy
Independence Day.

Emlen

[Links]

You can hear the song, and find a biography of Key, at:
  [broken link] http://www.bcpl.net/~etowner/anthem.html

Cecil Adams on the origins of the tune:
  http://www.straightdope.com/classics/a3_011.html

The Stories -- Stephen Dunn

Guest poem sent in by Sarah Korah
(Poem #1728) The Stories
 I was unfaithful to you last week.
 Thought I tried to be true
 to the beautiful vagaries
 of our unauthorized love,
 I told a stranger our story,
 arranging and rearranging us
 until we were orderly, reduced.
 I didn't want to sleep with this stranger.
 I wanted, I think, to see her yield,
 to sense her body's musculature,
 her history of sane resistance
 become pliable, as yours had
 twenty-two years ago.
 I told her we met in parks
 and rest stops along highways.
 Once, deep in the woods,
 a blanket over stones and dirt.
 I said that you were, finally,
 my failure of nerve,
 made to the contours of my body,
 so wrongly good for me
 I had to give you up.
 Listening to myself, it seemed
 as if I were still inconsolable,
 and I knew the seductiveness in that,
 knew when she'd try to console me
 I'd allow her the tiniest of victories.
 I told her about Laguna, the ruins
 we made of each other.
 To be undone -- I said I learned
 that's what I'd always wanted.
 We were on a train from Boston
 to New York, this stanger and I,
 the compartment to ourselves.
 I don't have to point out to you
 the erotics of such a space.
 We'd been speaking of our marriages,
 the odd triumphs of their durations.
 "Once....," I said, and my betrayal began,
 and did not end.
 She had a story, too.
 Mine seemed to coax hers out.
 There was this man she'd meet
 every workday Thursday at noon.
 For three years, every Thursday
 except Thanksgiving. She couldn't
 bear it anymore, she said,
 the lies, the coming home.
 Ended, she said.
 Happiest years of my life, she said.
 At that moment (you understand)
 we had to hug, but that's all we did.
 It hardly matters. We were in each other's
 sanctums, among the keepsakes,
 we'd gone where most sex cannot go.
 I could say that telling her our story
 was a way of bringing you back to life,
 and for a while it was, a memorial
 made of memory and its words.
 But here's what I knew:
 Watching her react, I was sure I'd tell
 our story again, to others. I understood
 how it could be taken to the bank,
 and I feared I might not ever again
 feel enough to know when to stop.
-- Stephen Dunn
I once watched in stunned silence as a girl in our bus gave the driver a
detailed account of what was going wrong in her life. It made me wince.. and
also wonder if it's somehow easier for people to reveal their innermost
thoughts and fears to absolute strangers ?

Do public dissemblers feel embarrassed later on? Does talking in public
help them gain a new perspective.. or is it merely addictive? Trust Stephen
Dunn to come up with a beautiful poem on the topic.

The day a cherished memory becomes an 'orderly, reduced' story, something
has slowly, but surely, changed..

Sarah Korah

When The Great Gray Ships Come In -- Guy Wetmore Carryl

A week after the signing of the treaty of peace with Spain, Sampson's fleet
came into New York harbor.
(Poem #1727) When The Great Gray Ships Come In
 To eastward ringing, to westward winging, o'er mapless miles of sea,
 On winds and tides the gospel rides that the furthermost isles are free;
 And the furthermost isles make answer, harbor, and height, and hill,
 Breaker and beach cry, each to each, "'Tis the Mother who calls! Be still!"
 Mother! new-found, beloved, and strong to hold from harm,
 Stretching to these across the seas the shield of her sovereign arm,
 Who summoned the guns of her sailor sons, who bade her navies roam,
 Who calls again to the leagues of main, and who calls them this time home!

 And the great gray ships are silent, and the weary watchers rest;
 The black cloud dies in the August skies, and deep in the golden west
 Invisible hands are limning a glory of crimson bars,
 And far above is the wonder of a myriad wakened stars!
 Peace! As the tidings silence the strenuous cannonade,
 Peace at last! is the bugle-blast the length of the long blockade;
 And eyes of vigil weary are lit with the glad release,
 From ship to ship and from lip to lip it is "Peace! Thank God for peace!"

 Ah, in the sweet hereafter Columbia still shall show
 The sons of these who swept the seas how she bade them rise and go;
 How, when the stirring summons smote on her children's ear,
 South and North at the call stood forth, and the whole land answered "Here!"
 For the soul of the soldier's story and the heart of the sailor's song
 Are all of those who meet their foes as right should meet with wrong,
 Who fight their guns till the foeman runs, and then, on the decks they trod,
 Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!

 Yes, it is good to battle, and good to be strong and free,
 To carry the hearts of a people to the uttermost ends of sea,
 To see the day steal up the bay, where the enemy lies in wait,
 To run your ship to the harbor's lip and sink her across the strait:—
 But better the golden evening when the ships round heads for home,
 And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam,
 And the people wait at the haven's gate to greet the men who win!
 Thank God for peace! Thank God for peace, when the great gray ships come in!
-- Guy Wetmore Carryl
       August 20, 1898

Having long been a fan of Carryl's humorous poems, it was interesting here
to see him turn his hand to "stirring" verse. What was underscored for me
was that the same talents that made him such a master of the former genre
stood him in good stead here too - above all, the understanding that rhyme
and metre are not mere adjuncts to a poem, but, often, its very heartbeat.

The poem conveys its central emotion very well indeed, but despite the
superficial reference to peace, that emotion is not really the relief of
peace - rather, it is the heady exultation of victory. This is an
incontrovertibly martial poem, swept along by the anapests and internal
rhymes, by the constant reference  to the foe and the turbulent images like
"And the long gray miles slip swiftly past in a swirl of seething foam".

And, ultimately, this is a patriotic poem - a poem where

 Brave faces raise, and give the praise to the grace of their country's God!

And if Carryl does tap a rather easy source of emotion and imagery, he does
so exquisitely well. The only problem with the poem is that, despite its
excellent execution, it ends up sounding very generic. I enjoyed reading it,
but (in sharp contrast to the brilliant humorous poems we've already run), I
cannot call it in any way memorable.

martin

[Links]

Bob Blair calls the poem "almost a primer of American patriotism" - his
explanation is well worth a read:
  http://www.geocities.com/~bblair/030205.htm

Previous Carryl poems on Minstrels:
  [broken link] http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/index_poet_C.html#Carryl

Spanish American War:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spanish-American_War