The Betrothed -- Rudyard Kipling

Inspired by yesterday's poem...

(Poem #1922) The Betrothed "You must choose between me and your cigar." --BREACH OF PROMISE CASE, CIRCA 1885. Open the old cigar-box, get me a Cuba stout, For things are running crossways, and Maggie and I are out. We quarrelled about Havanas--we fought o'er a good cheroot, And I know she is exacting, and she says I am a brute. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider a space; In the soft blue veil of the vapour musing on Maggie's face. Maggie is pretty to look at--Maggie's a loving lass, But the prettiest cheeks must wrinkle, the truest of loves must pass. There's peace in a Laranaga, there's calm in a Henry Clay, But the best cigar in an hour is finished and thrown away-- Thrown away for another as perfect and ripe and brown-- But I could not throw away Maggie for fear o' the talk o' the town! Maggie, my wife at fifty--gray and dour and old-- With never another Maggie to purchase for love or gold! And the light of Days that have Been the dark of the Days that Are, And Love's torch stinking and stale, like the butt of a dead cigar-- The butt of a dead cigar you are bound to keep in your pocket-- With never a new one to light tho' it's charred and black to the socket. Open the old cigar-box--let me consider awhile-- Here is a mild Manilla--there is a wifely smile. Which is the better portion--bondage bought with a ring, Or a harem of dusky beauties fifty tied in a string? Counsellors cunning and silent--comforters true and tried, And never a one of the fifty to sneer at a rival bride. Thought in the early morning, solace in time of woes, Peace in the hush of the twilight, balm ere my eyelids close. This will the fifty give me, asking naught in return, With only a Suttee's passion--to do their duty and burn. This will the fifty give me. When they are spent and dead, Five times other fifties shall be my servants instead. The furrows of far-off Java, the isles of the Spanish Main, When they hear my harem is empty, will send me my brides again. I will take no heed to their raiment, nor food for their mouths withal, So long as the gulls are nesting, so long as the showers fall. I will scent 'em with best Vanilla, with tea will I temper their hides, And the Moor and the Mormon shall envy who read of the tale of my brides. For Maggie has written a letter that gives me my choice between The wee little whimpering Love and the great god Nick o' Teen. And I have been servant of Love for barely a twelve-month clear, But I have been Priest of Partagas a matter of seven year; And the gloom of my bachelor days is flecked with the cheery light Of stumps that I burned to Friendship and Pleasure and Work and Fight. And I turn my eyes to the future that Maggie and I must prove, But the only light on the marshes is the Will-o'-the-Wisp of Love. Will it see me safe through my journey or leave me bogged in the mire? Since a puff of tobacco can cloud it, shall I follow the fitful fire? Open the old cigar-box--let me consider anew-- Old friends, and who is Maggie that I should abandon you? A million surplus Maggies are willing to bear the yoke; And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke. Light me another Cuba--I hold to my first-sworn vows, If Maggie will have no rival, I'll have no Maggie for spouse! -- Rudyard Kipling

This is one of those poems that I remembered mostly because I liked a
fragment of it, in this case the wonderfully flowing line

 And a woman is only a woman, but a good cigar is a Smoke.

In truth, when I went to read it again, I was rather disappointed - the
premise is clever enough, and there are some nice lines, but overall the
poem felt like it was trying to squeeze too much out of a single idea, and
ended up sounding rather dull in consequence.

I do have to wonder, considering my usual high regard of Kipling's poetry,
whether this is at least in part because, not being a smoker myself, I have
no emotional or visceral reaction to anything in the poem, and that makes
potentially moving, stirring or humorous lines fall flat. What say those of
you who do indulge? Is this actually one of Kipling's nail-on-the-head poems
that I simply lack the context to appreciate? Or is this indeed one of the
rare times when he has simply missed the mark?

martin

Tobacco Is Like Love -- Tobias Hume

Guest poem sent in by Catherine Pegg

(Poem #1921) Tobacco Is Like Love Tobacco, Tobacco sing sweetly for Tobacco, Tobacco is like love, O love it for you see I wil prove it Love maketh leane the fatte mens tumor, so doth Tobacco, Love still dries uppe the wanton humor, so doth Tobacco, love makes men sayle from shore to shore, so doth Tobacco Tis fond love often makes men poor so doth Tobacco Love makes men scorn al Coward feares, so doth Tobacco Love often sets men by the eares so doth Tobacco. Tobaccoe, Tobaccoe Sing sweetely for Tobaccoe, Tobaccoe is like Love, O love it, For you see I have prowde it. -- Tobias Hume

Note: from "The First Part of Ayres (or Musicall Humors)", 1605

All the poems about smoking that I've been seeing on your site made me think
of this one.  Alas, I cannot say much about it, save that it is meant to be
sung, and belongs with work by Dowland and Campion in Elizabethan (or
thereabouts) England.

Why I like it: because it's clever. It writes about all the horrible things
of tobacco and love (excepting lung cancer), and yet I get the feeling that
the writer is saying: "But you know you're gonna pick up the baccy again -
and Love? There's no hope for us, mate, and ain't that wonderful...". He
takes two of the great tragedies of human nature, love and addiction, and
turns them into a source of innocent merriment for a while. I like that.
Not every jewel has to be the Koh i Noor, and neither every poem an abyss
hidden inside a crack in the footpath.

Catherine

[Martin adds]

I was tangentially but irresistibly reminded of Kipling's immortal line
"A woman is only a woman, but a good Cigar is a Smoke." (And I note we've
not run the poem yet - tomorrow is as good a time as any, I guess!)

[Links]

More on Mr Hume can be found at:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tobias_Hume

The Sonnet -- William Wordsworth

Guest poem sent in by Paul E Collins

(Poem #1920) The Sonnet Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown'd, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlock'd his heart; the melody Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound; A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound; With it Camöens sooth'd an exile's grief; The Sonnet glitter'd a gay myrtle leaf Amid the cypress with which Dante crown'd His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp, It cheer'd mild Spenser, call'd from Faery-land To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains -- alas, too few! -- William Wordsworth

Here's Wordsworth's famous defence of the sonnet, followed by a
playful but thought-provoking parody by Dickinson:

  'Scorn not the sonnet' (Wordsworth)

  Scorn not the sonnet on the sonnet, critic;
    It is a bank where poets love to lie
    And praise each other's ingenuity
  In finding such a form. The analytic
  Reader may stigmatise as parasitic
    The mirror-image of a mystery,
    The echo of lost voices, find it dry,
  And intellectually paralytic.
    Yet 'tis a child of Fancy, light and live,
  A fragile veil of Nature, scarcely worn
    (Of Wordsworth's two, of Shakespeare's none, survive);
  Empty not then the vials of scorn upon it.
    Nor, since we're on the subject, should you scorn
  The sonnet on the sonnet on the sonnet.

  - Peter Dickinson

The latter notes that Wordsworth, who wrote more than 500 sonnets in his
lifetime, produced two of these 'meta-sonnets' (the other being 'Nuns Fret
Not at Their Convent's Narrow Room') and Shakespeare, who wrote 154, none at
all.

Dickinson's selection of rhymes for 'critic' - and the self-referential
closing couplet - may raise a smile. One has to wonder what Wordsworth, ever
the serious Romantic, would have made of his "parasitic ingenuity".

Paul

[Martin adds]

The final two lines of Dickinson's parody are absolutely brilliant. I wonder
why Unauthorized Versions[1] didn't pick this one up.

[1] an absolutely delightful anthology of poems paired with their parodies,
which both Thomas and I are huge fans of. We once ran a theme based on the
book (see links), which today's pair of poems would have fitted very nicely
into.

[Links]

Biography of Wordsworth:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Wordsworth

And of Dickinson:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Peter_Dickinson

The poem/parody theme:
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/376.html
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/378.html
  http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/poems/380.html

The Last Quadrille -- Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Guest poem sent in by Peter Kiff

(Poem #1919) The Last Quadrille Not yet, not yet, it's hardly four Not yet, we'll send the chair away Mirth still has many smiles in store And love has fifty things to say. Long leagues the weary sun must drive Ere pant his hot steeds o'er the hill The merry stars will dance till five One more quadrille, one more quadrille! 'Tis only thus, 'tis only here That maids and minstrels may forget The myriad ills they feel or fear Ennui, taxation, cholera, debt. With daylight, busy cares and schemes Will come again to chafe or chill This is the fairyland of dreams One more quadrille, one more quadrille! What tricks the French in Paris play And what the Austrians are about And whether that tall knave Lord Grey Is staying in or going out. And what the House of Lords will do At last with that eternal bill, I do not care a rush, do you? One more quadrille, one more quadrille! Me book don't sell, me play don't draw, Me garden gives me only weeds. And Mr Quirk has found a law, Deuce take him, in me title deeds. Me aunt has scratched her nephew's name From that sweet corner of her will. Me dog is dead, me horse is lame. One more quadrille, one more quadrille! Not yet, not yet, it is not late. Don't whisper so to sister Jane. Your brother I am sure will wait, Papa will go to cards again. Not yet, not yet, your eyes are bright, Your step is like a wood nymph's still. Oh no! You can't be tired tonight. One more quadrille, one more quadrille! -- Winthrop Mackworth Praed

Winthrop Mackworth Praed was a nineteenth century Tory MP and Old Etonian.  He
was a brilliant scholar who delighted in creating verse which parodied the
follies and foibles of his day.

I love his dashing style and sparkling wit.  The unflagging vivacity of his
verse goes on and on just like the never-ending quadrilles.

Peter

[Links]

 Wikipedia entry:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winthrop_Mackworth_Praed

Everybody Knows -- Leonard Cohen

Guest poem sent in by Matt Chanoff :

Here's another song lyric that I love and think people will enjoy.  Last
year, a group of people did a show of Leonard Cohen songs, which they
performed in New York and Sydney. It's the basis for a documentary about
Cohen that's in theaters now, called 'Came So Far for Beauty'.  I've been
listening to the soundtrack, which is phenomenal, and particularly love the
following song, performed on the album by Rufus Wainwright.

(Poem #1918) Everybody Knows Everybody knows that the dice are loaded Everybody rolls with their fingers crossed Everybody knows that the war is over Everybody knows the good guys lost Everybody knows the fight was fixed The poor stay poor, the rich get rich That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows that the boat is leaking Everybody knows that the captain lied Everybody got this broken feeling Like their father or their dog just died Everybody talking to their pockets Everybody wants a box of chocolates And a long stem rose Everybody knows Everybody knows that you love me baby Everybody knows that you really do Everybody knows that you've been faithful Ah give or take a night or two Everybody knows you've been discreet But there were so many people you just had to meet Without your clothes And everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows And everybody knows that it's now or never Everybody knows that it's me or you And everybody knows that you live forever Ah when you've done a line or two Everybody knows the deal is rotten Old black Joe's still pickin cotton For your ribbons and bows And everybody knows And everybody knows that the plague is coming Everybody knows that it's moving fast Everybody knows that the naked man and woman Are just a shining artifact of the past Everybody knows the scene is dead But there's gonna be a meter on your bed That will disclose What everybody knows And everybody knows that you're in trouble Everybody knows what you've been through From the bloody cross on top of Calvary To the beach of Malibu Everybody knows its coming apart Take one last look at this sacred heart Before it blows And everybody knows Everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Oh everybody knows, everybody knows That's how it goes Everybody knows Everybody knows -- Leonard Cohen

Here's what I love about this song. The first three stanzas let up this
barbed, vicious view of human nature. The world is sick, they say, because
people are crooked.  Then with the next stanza the focus of all that
hostility shifts from the world at large to an unfaithful lover.  You
automatically reinterpret the stuff in the third stanza about 'everybody
wants a box of chocolates, a long stemmed rose' from belonging to the first
sentiment to belonging to the second.

More gradually, the meaning of the refrain, 'everybody knows' shifts too,
from 'everybody knows the sad truth of the world' to 'everybody knows that
you've been unfaithful to me.'

This terrific conflation of the individual, personal hurt and the grand
sense that the world is sinful works in a macro way - as a betrayed lover,
you do feel that you've been betrayed by the whole world.  Cohen emphasizes
the theme by conflating big and small things throughout the song.  For
example 'Everybody got this broken feeling/ Like their father or their dog
just died'. One would think that these would be different orders of grief,
but not in this song. Another example is 'Everybody knows what you've been
through/ From the bloody cross on top of Calvary/ To the beach of Malibu'.

The other thing I love about the song is just simply the great lines.  For
example, the run up to the instance of 'everybody knows' where you suddenly
realize it means 'everybody knows you've been unfaithful' goes like this

    Everybody knows you've been discreet
    But there were so many people you just had to meet
    Without your clothes
    And everybody knows

I also love

    Everybody knows the deal is rotten
    Old black Joe's still pickin cotton
    For your ribbons and bows

Leonard Cohen's got this deep unvarying monotone of a voice, that has turned
me off to his music for years.  This album of good (and some great) singers
has given me an appreciation for what a great lyricist he is.

Matt Chanoff