Christ in the Universe -- Alice Meynell

Guest poem sent in by Dr. Roger Thurling

(Poem #1927) Christ in the Universe With this ambiguous earth His dealings have been told us. These abide: The signal to a maid, the human birth, The lesson, and the young Man crucified. But not a star of all The innumerable host of stars has heard How He administered this terrestrial ball. Our race have kept their Lord¿s entrusted Word. Of His earth-visiting feet None knows the secret, cherished, perilous, The terrible, shamefast, frightened, whispered, sweet Heart-shattering secret of His way with us. No planet knows that this Our wayside planet, carrying land and wave, Love and life multiplied, and pain and bliss, Bears, as chief treasure, one forsaken grave. Nor, in our little day, May His devices with the heavens be guessed, His pilgrimage to thread the Milky Way Or His bestowals there be manifest. But in the eternities, Doubtless we shall compare together, hear A million alien Gospels, in what guise He trod the Pleiades, the Lyre, the Bear. O, be prepared, my soul! To read the inconceivable, to scan The million forms of God those stars unroll When, in our turn, we show to them a Man. -- Alice Meynell

As a convinced atheist of many years I had often wondered how Christians
reconciled their belief in an all-knowing all-powerful universe-wide God,
with what they believed to be its (his?) interest in, and manifestation in
our parochial little planet, with all its peculiarities of biology and
geography - almost all of them unlikely to be repeated anywhere else in the
universe.

Alice Meynell tackled this problem head-on, walking over it as though it
didn't exist.

Roger

[Links]

Biography:
  Alice Meynell (1847 - 1922), English writer, editor, critic, and
  suffragist, now remembered mainly as a poet.

  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Alice_Meynell

Tobacco's But an Indian Weed -- Traditional

Guest poem sent in by William Grey

(Poem #1926) Tobacco's But an Indian Weed Tobacco's but an Indian weed, Grows green at morn, cut down at eve, It shews our decay, we are but clay: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so lily white, Wherein so many take delight, Is broke with a touch -- man's life is such: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The pipe that is so foul within, Shows man's soul is stained with sin; It doth require the purging fire; Think of this when you smoke tobacco! The ashes that are left behind, Do serve to put us all in mind That unto dust return we must: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. The smoke, that does so high ascend, Shews us man's life must have an end, The vapour's gone -- man's life is done: Think of this when you smoke tobacco. -- Traditional

      (17th Century England)

The song "Tobacco's But an Indian Weed" goes back at least to the mid-17th
century. It can be sung to an appropriately mournful, dirge-like melody.

This version is based on Thomas D'Urfey's "Pills to Purge Melancholy"
(1699), sourced from: http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/smokepage.html

William Grey

[Martin adds]

What fascinates me about this song is how likely it is (at least in
retrospect) that it would be caught up in the folk process. The combination
of a simple, strong pattern (one rhyming couplet, one internally-rhyming
line and a refrain), a subversive topic that has room for infinite
variation, and the lack of any real ordering to the verses makes the
temptation to tweak or add a verse or two almost irresistible.

[Links]

http://kitchenmusician.net/smoke/tobacco.html has a nice writeup on the
history of the song

I Asked No Other Thing -- Emily Dickinson

Guest poem sent in by Priscilla Jebaraj

(Poem #1925) I Asked No Other Thing I asked no other thing, No other was denied. I offered Being for it; The mighty merchant smiled. Brazil? He twirled a button Without a glance my way: But, madam, is there nothing else That we can show today? -- Emily Dickinson

I was skimming through Jean Webster's "Daddy Long Legs" yesterday, because I
was sure I remembered a poem written by her heroine Judy Abbott in college,
which would go with the current theme. Couldn't find it, but I did come
across this rather enigmatic Dickinson piece.  Judy, writing to her
guardian, tells him about the poem --

  "In English class this afternoon we had an unexpected written lesson.
  This was it:

     I asked no other thing,
     No other was denied.
     I offered Being for it;
     The mighty merchant smiled.

     Brazil? He twirled a button
     Without a glance my way:
     But, madam, is there nothing else
     That we can show today?

  That is a poem. I don't know who wrote it or what it means. It was
  simply printed out on the blackboard when we arrived and we were ordered
  to comment upon it. When I read the first verse I thought I had an
  idea--The Mighty Merchant was a divinity who distributes blessings in
  return for virtuous deeds-- but when I got to the second verse and found
  him twirling a button, it seemed a blasphemous supposition, and I
  hastily changed my mind.  The rest of the class was in the same
  predicament; and there we sat for three-quarters of an hour with blank
  paper and equally blank minds. Getting an education is an awfully
  wearing process!"

I must admit that, like Judy, my idea of what it means is rather vague. But
since, unlike Judy, I don't have to get an education out of it, I'm free to
enjoy it with my own interpretation!

I'd guess that the Mighty Merchant is meant to be God, a God who seems to
smile indifferently at her deepest desires. Some commentators suggest that
Brazil is a reference to heaven -- apparently, "during this period, exotic
locations frequently... represented heaven, or something desired and dreamt
of, yet beyond reach and denied." Other readings of the poem say Dicksinson
is speaking for all women seeking emancipation and freedom, the one thing
that is denied to them.

Quite apart from meaning, I think those first two lines just stick in the
memory somehow! Anyone else care to take a stab at interpretation?

Priscilla

Nice To Be Here -- Ray Thomas

Guest poem sent in by Don Case

(Poem #1924) Nice To Be Here Nice to be here hope you agree Lying in the sun Lovely weather, must climb a tree The show has just begun All the leaves start swaying To the breeze that's playing On a thousand violins And the bees are humming To a frog sat strumming On a guitar with only one string I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight And it seems worth noting Water rats were boating As a lark began to sing The sounds kept coming With Jack Rabbit loudly drumming On the side of a biscuit tin I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight Silver minnows were devising Water ballet so surprising A mouse played a daffodil A mole came up blinking Underneath an owl who's thinking How he came to be sat on a hill I can see them they can't see me I feel out of sight I can see them they can't see me Much to my delight I know you won't believe me But I'm certain that I did see A mouse playing daffodil All the band was really jumping With Jack Rabbit in there thumping I found that I couldn't sit still I just had to make it with them Cause they played my kind of rhythm And the bees hummed in harmony And the owl played his oboe Then the frog's guitar solo It was all just too much for me I know you won't believe me But I'm certain that I did see A mouse playing daffodil All the band was really jumping With Jack Rabbit in there thumping I found that I couldn't sit still -- Ray Thomas

   (of the Moody Blues)

Note: From the album Every Good Boy Deserves Favour, 1971

This song has always been uplifting to me even out of the context of the
album.  In the album it follows "One More Time To Live" by John Lodge, a
heavy song musically. Then this light hearted melody comes on and delivers
the twinkle in the eye of Mother Earth that is longed for. The Moody Blues
have made some great albums and this one deserves a listen.

Don Case

[Links]

Wikipedia on the Moody Blues:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Moody_Blues

The Bee Box -- Lowell Parker

Guest poem sent in by Prateek Sharma

(Poem #1923) The Bee Box In this small box, my love, you'll not find a ring, but instead, a brave, little bee. He'll be dead by morn, having given his life defending his flowers against me. I felt his sting while picking the small, purple pansies growing wild along the roadside, in hopes of an afternoon bouquet for you. And I grieved the sting, more for him than me, knowing full well the price he paid for my small pain. And I allowed him his victory, leaving his flowers as a memory, and brought you instead this brave, little bee, who proves there is love even in the smallest of things. -- Lowell Parker

Form vs Freedom of Expression has been an age old question for art creators
and critics. When I posed this question to our poetry teacher, she came up
with this poem. This poem does not score too well on the metre/rhyme front.
There are some grammatical errors and inconsistency in style as well.

Yet, the poem just soars. The imagery is transforming. It touches us on a
very human level. It says so much about love and courage. And about
sensitivity. How much can we learn from this world and its creatures!

Prateek