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Stately as a Galleon -- Joyce Grenfell

Guest poem sent in by Frank O'Shea

You are gone all serious, lately.

Here is something to lighten the mood.
(Poem #1241) Stately as a Galleon
 My neighbour, Mrs Fanshaw, is portly-plump and gay,
 She must be over sixty-seven, if she is a day.
 You might have thought her life was dull,
 It's one long whirl instead.
 I asked her all about it, and this is what she said:

 I've joined an Olde Thyme Dance Club, the trouble is that there
 Are too many ladies over, and no gentlemen to spare.
 It seems a shame, it's not the same,
 But still it has to be,
 Some ladies have to dance together,
 One of them is me.

 Stately as a galleon, I sail across the floor,
 Doing the Military Two-step, as in the days of yore.
 I dance with Mrs Tiverton; she's light on her feet, in spite
 Of turning the scale at fourteen stone, and being of medium height.
 So gay the band,
 So giddy the sight,
 Full evening dress is a must,
 But the zest goes out of a beautiful waltz
 When you dance it bust to bust.

 So, stately as two galleons, we sail across the floor,
 Doing the Valse Valeta as in the days of yore.
 The gent is Mrs Tiverton, I am her lady fair,
 She bows to me ever so nicely and I curtsey to her with care.
 So gay the band,
 So giddy the sight,
 But it's not the same in the end
 For a lady is never a gentleman, though
 She may be your bosom friend.

 So, stately as a galleon, I sail across the floor,
 Doing the dear old Lancers, as in the days of yore.
 I'm led by Mrs Tiverton, she swings me round and round
 And though she manoeuvres me wonderfully well
 I never get off the ground.
 So gay the band,
 So giddy the sight,
 I try not to get depressed.
 And it's done me a power of good to explode,
 And get this lot off my chest.
-- Joyce Grenfell
           (1910-79)

Born in London; her mother was sister of Nancy Astor. After school, she was
"finished" at a private school in Paris. She met her husband when she was
17; they were married two years later and lived in a cottage on the Astor's
Cliveden estate.

Her first job was writing reviews of radio programs for The Observer. She
got her first break in writing and performing on radio from Stephen Potter.

She wrote monologues, poems and sketches for radio and later starred in
films with people like Alastair Sims, George Cole and Frankie Howerd. Best
known for the St. Trinians films.

Also appeared in revues with people like Noel Coward, Edith Evans, Peter
Ustinov.

In the 70s she was a popular member of the panel of the BBC television
program Face the Music and contributed to Thought for the Day

It's sad that you probably couldn't do this kind of poem today without
offending someone - old people, large people, fans of Olde Tyme dancing etc.

You can find more information on Joyce Grenfell at
http://users.bestweb.net/~foosie/grenfell.htm

Frank O'Shea

The Night has a Thousand Eyes -- Francis William Bourdillon

Guest poem sent in by Mallika Chellappa
(Poem #1240) The Night has a Thousand Eyes
 The night has a thousand eyes,
      And the day but one;
 Yet the light of the bright world dies
      With the dying sun.

 The mind has a thousand eyes,
      And the heart but one:
 Yet the light of a whole life dies
       When love is done.
-- Francis William Bourdillon
This poem beautifully expresses the
psyche of someone who could go into a
decline and die of unrequited love.

Although I am not one of those, it
is only thanks to exposure to such poems
that I have developed a measure of
tolerance for people with more sensibility
(a la Jane Austen) than I.

Mallika

[If anyone has a biography, please do send it in. -- martin]

Hospital Haiku -- Dr K D Beernink

Guest poem sent in by Allen Finley
(Poem #1239) Hospital Haiku
 The new interns
       Stiff in starched white suits.
 The July heat!


 Grinning into
       The newborn nursery
 A man holding daisies.


 Screaming objections
       In the hospital lobby--
 A small naked boy.


 All night below zero.
       Today in the clinic
 New complaints of chest pain.


 Resting on the stairs
       An old man with a large chest
 And a cigarette.


 Holding daffodils
       Near the hospital florist--
 An old woman, weeping.


 Only one room is lit
       In the hospital tonight--
 And the August moon!


 Beside this death bed
       Two old men
 Embracing.
-- Dr K D Beernink
From Ward Rounds, Washington Square East Publishers, Wallingford, PA, 1970.

Kenneth Dale Beernink graduated from Stanford University Medical
School, started internship at Yale, and was married, all in 1965. In
1966, he was diagnosed with chronic myelogenous leukemia, returned to
Stanford as a research fellow. During three years at Stanford he
continued to play jazz (and other genres), built a harpsichord, and
fathered a child. He died in 1969.

I discovered this small book of poems when I was in medical school in
the late 1970s, and found them very moving. Most of the poems in the
book are quite long, and generate wonderful images of individual
patients (or patient types). I thought I would start, however, by
submitting these haiku, which portray gem-like moments in time that
would be recognized by any nurse or physician who has trained in a
general hospital. Although some of the descriptions and medical
outcomes seem dated now (interns haven't worn starched white for many
years), the images are timeless. If people are interested, I will
submit some of Beernink's other works.

Allen Finley, MD FRCPC
Professor of Anesthesia and Psychology
Dalhousie University, Halifax, Canada
www.pediatric-pain.ca

This Will Not Win Him -- Jalaluddin Rumi

Guest poem sent in by Seema Pai
(Poem #1238) This Will Not Win Him
 Reason says,
 I will win him with my eloquence.

 Love says,
 I will win him with my silence.

 Soul says,
 How can I ever win him
 When all I have is already his?

 He does not want, he does not worry,
 He does not seek a sublime state of euphoria -
 How then can I win him
 With sweet wine or gold? . . .

 He is not bound by the senses -
 How then can I win him
 With all the riches of China?

 He is an angel,
 Though he appears in the form of a man.
 Even angels cannot fly in his presence -
 How then can I win him
 By assuming a heavenly form?

 He flies on the wings of God,
 His food is pure light -
 How then can I win him
 With a loaf of baked bread?

 He is neither a merchant, nor a tradesman -
 How then can I win him
 With a plan of great profit?

 He is not blind, nor easily fooled -
 How then can I win him
 By lying in bed as if gravely ill?

 I will go mad, pull out my hair,
 Grind my face in the dirt -
 How will this win him?

 He sees everything -
 how can I ever fool him?

 He is not a seeker of fame,
 A prince addicted to the praise of poets -
 How then can I win him
 With flowing rhymes and poetic verses?

 The glory of his unseen form
 Fills the whole universe
 How then can I win him
 With a mere promise of paradise?

 I may cover the earth with roses,
 I may fill the ocean with tears,
 I may shake the heavens with praises -
 none of this will win him.

 There is only one way to win him,
 this Beloved of mine -

 Become his.
-- Jalaluddin Rumi
This poem actually arrived in my mailbox this morning from a 'Rumi poetry'
egroup I subscribed to recently. I love the way the poem builds up in
passion and desperation and ends in a quiet moment of realisation. Dont have
much to say about the poem except that I thought it was *so* romantic and
beautiful even in translation, that I wonder just how pretty it might have
been if I could read and understand it in Farsi.

Seema

No Images -- William Waring Cuney

Guest poem sent in by Vidur
(Poem #1237) No Images
 She does not know
 Her beauty,
 She thinks her brown skin
 Has no glory.
 If she could dance
 Naked,
 Under palm trees
 And see her image in the river
 She would know.

 But there are no palm trees
 On the street,
 And dishwater gives back no images.
-- William Waring Cuney
i first heard this poem on the album 'nina simone sings nina' - she
"sang" it without any instrumental accompaniment, her powerful and
distinctive voice bringing a poignancy to the lyrics. her song is
titled 'images.'

i don't know anything of waring cuney other than that he came out of
the harlem rennaissance. nina simone, however, i know a little more
about, and it was with some sadness that i read in the news that she
had passed away.

although nina simone is often referred to as a jazz and blues singer,
she is far too versatile to be squeezed into any category. in her raspy
(and undeniably sexy) voice she did definitive cover versions of some
very popular songs (she nearly moved me to tears with her rendition of
brel's 'ne me quitte pas').

nina simone was a powerful voice in the civil rights struggle, or as
she liked to say "for her people." she wrote and sang some of her best
songs in response to socio-political events in the 60s - 'mississipi
goddam', 'four women', and 'why?' (on the assassination of mlk jr.) to
name a few.

i think it's fair to say that nina was the last of the great black
divas.

vidur

Here's a biography:
  [broken link] http://www.dclibrary.org/blkren/bios/cuneyww.html