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The Dong with a Luminous Nose -- Edward Lear

Deftly merging two themes...
(Poem #628) The Dong with a Luminous Nose
 When awful darkness and silence reign
 Over the great Gromboolian plain,
 Through the long, long wintry nights;
 When the angry breakers roar,
 As they beat on the rocky shore;
 When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights
 Of the Hills on the Chankly Bore:

 Then, through the vast and gloomy dark,
 There moves what seems a fiery spark,
 A lonely spark with silvery rays
 Piercing the coal-black night,
 A meteor strange and bright:
 Hither and thither the vision strays,
 A single lurid light.

 Slowly it wanders - pauses - creeps -
 Anon it sparkles - flashes and leaps;
 And ever as onward it gleaming goes
 A light on the Bong-tree stem it throws.
 And those who watch at that midnight hour
 From Hall or Terrace, or lofty Tower,
 Cry, as the wild light passes along,
 "The Dong! - the Dong!
 The wandering Dong through the forest goes!
 The Dong! the Dong!
 The Dong with a luminous Nose!"

 Long years ago
 The Dong was happy and gay,
 Till he fell in love with a Jumbly Girl
 Who came to those shores one day.
 For the Jumblies came in a Sieve, they did -
 Landing at eve near the Zemmery Fidd
 Where the Oblong Oysters grow,
 And the rocks are smooth and gray.
 And all the woods and the valleys rang
 With the Chorus they daily and nightly sang -

 "Far and few, far and few,
 Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
 Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
 And they went to sea in a Sieve."

 Happily, happily passed those days!
 While the cheerful Jumblies staid;
 They danced in circlets all night long,
 To the plaintive pipe of the lively Dong,
 In moonlight, shine, or shade.
 For day and night he was always there
 By the side of the Jumbly Girl so fair,
 With her sky-blue hands, and her sea-green hair.
 Till the morning came of that fateful day
 When the Jumblies sailed in their Sieve away,
 And the Dong was left on the cruel shore
 Gazing - gazing for evermore -
 Ever keeping his weary eyes on
 That pea-green sail on the far horizon -
 Singing the Jumbly Chorus still
 As he sat all day on the grass hill -

 "Far and few, far and few,
 Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
 Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
 And they went to sea in a Sieve."

 But when the sun was low in the West,
 The Dong arose and said,
 "What little sense I once possessed
 Has quite gone out of my head!"
 And since that day he wanders still
 By lake and forest, marsh and hill,
 Singing - "O somewhere, in valley or plain
 Might I find my Jumbly Girl again!
 For ever I'll seek by lake and shore
 Till I find my Jumbly Girl once more!"
 Playing a pipe with silvery squeaks,
 Since then his Jumbly Girl he seeks,
 And because by night he could not see,
 He gathered the bark of the Twangum Tree
 On the flowery plain that grows.
 And he wove him a wondrous Nose,
 A Nose as strange as a Nose could be!
 Of vast proportions and painted red,
 And tied with cords to the back of his head.
 - In a hollow rounded space it ended
 With a luminous lamp within suspended,
 All fenced about
 With a bandage stout
 To prevent the wind from blowing it out;
 And with holes all round to send the light,
 In gleaming rays on the dismal night.

 And now each night, and all night long,
 Over those plains still roams the Dong!
 And above the wail of the Chimp and Snipe
 You may hear the wail of his plaintive pipe,
 While ever he seeks, but seeks in vain,
 To meet with his Jumbly Girl again;
 Lonely and wild - all night he goes -
 The Dong with a luminous Nose!
 And all who watch at the midnight hour,
 From Hall or Terrace, or Lofty Tower,
 Cry, as they trace the Meteor bright,
 Moving along through the dreary night,
 "This is the hour when forth he goes,
 The Dong with the luminous Nose!
 Yonder - over the plain he goes;
 He goes;
 He goes!
 The Dong with a luminous Nose!"
-- Edward Lear
Mysterious, surreal, deeply tinged with melancholy - "The Dong with a
Luminous Nose" embodies many of the themes that characterize Lear's longer
work. It's also more than a little reminiscent [1] of Yeats' magnificent
"Song of Wandering Aengus" [2] in its, errm, 'plot', and of the dream poems
that Martin has been running of late, in its twilit atmosphere.

Questions of theme apart, notice how "The Dong" shares with Hope's "Reverie
of Mahomed Akram" (yesterday's poem) a highly idiosyncratic use of rhyme and
metre: as is the case with the Hope poem, the irregularity contributes
greatly to the overall dreamy effect. Once again, it's a tribute to the
poet's prosodic skill that this difficult task is pulled off without a hint
of awkwardness or artificiality.

thomas.

[1] 'Reminiscent' is probably not the best choice of word, given that Lear's
poem predates Yeats' by at least 30 years (though I don't have the exact
dates to hand).

[2] poem #1 - yes, the very
first poem ever run on the Minstrels.

[Someone Else's Commentary]

[Lear's] songs are not as nonsensical as his limericks, and have often been
interpreted as the reductio ad absurdum of Romantic poetry. By Bowra (The
Romantic Imagination, 1950, p. 279), for example:

"He differs from his models not in his means but in his end. He wished to
write nonsense, and with the insight of genius saw that the romantic
technique was perfectly suited to it. With him the romantic indefiniteness
passes beautifully into absurdity, and his own inchoate sorrows vanish in
the divine light of nonsense."

Hugh Kenner (A Homemade World, 1975, p. 70) emphasizes the escapism implicit
in such a practice:

"Tennyson's friend Edward Lear at length perceived that the safest course
for poetry, since its ligatures with phenomena were causing it so much
trouble, was to shut itself up completely in its own cocoon of suggestion."

This is especially evident in poems such as The Yonghy-Bonghy-Bò, which
tells the story of an unrequited love, and The Dong with a Luminous Nose,
clearly about feelings of solitude; these are usually considered reflections
of Lear's personal condition.

        -- Marco Graziosi, [broken link] http://utenti.tripod.it/elear/learss.html

[Links]

Other Lear poems:

"The Owl and the Pussycat" is one of _the_ masterpieces of nonsense verse:
poem #165. (There's a Lear biography attached to the commentary
accompanying this poem).

Lear more or less invented the limerick as we know it; "There was an Old Man
with a Beard" is a good example of his pioneering work: poem #378

"The Pobble Who Has No Toes" cuts just as melancholy a figure as the
unfortunate Dong: poem #297

"The Akond of Swat" is hilarious in its progressively-increasing flights of
absurdity: poem #356

Previous poems in the Nose theme:

"The Sniffle", by Ogden Nash: poem #625

Cyrano's speech, "Twenty Ways to Insult a Nose", by Edmond Rostand: poem #626

Previous poems in the Dream theme:

"The Ice-Cart", by Wilfred Gibson: poem #622

"Reverie of Mahomed Akram at the Tamarind Tank", by Laurence Hope (Adela
Nicolson): poem #627

More about the wandering Jumblies (including a reference to their sojourn in
the Hills of the Chankly Bore) can be found in Lear's poem titled (you
guessed it) "The Jumblies", which you can read at
[broken link] http://www.engr.mun.ca/~john/jumblies.html

Incidentally, the stanza
 "Far and few, far and few,
 Are the lands where the Jumblies live;
 Their heads are green, and their hands are blue,
 And they went to sea in a Sieve."
(within quotes in today's poem) appears as a refrain in "The Jumblies".

Reverie of Mahomed Akram at the Tamarind Tank -- Laurence Hope

Another delightful Poets' Corner discovery...
(Poem #627) Reverie of Mahomed Akram at the Tamarind Tank
 The Desert is parched in the burning sun
 And the grass is scorched and white.
 But the sand is passed, and the march is done,
 We are camping here to-night.
 I sit in the shade of the Temple walls,
 While the cadenced water evenly falls,
 And a peacock out of the Jungle calls
 To another, on yonder tomb.
        Above, half seen, in the lofty gloom,
        Strange works of a long dead people loom,
 Obscene and savage and half effaced
 An elephant hunt, a musicians' feast --
 And curious matings of man and beast;
 What did they mean to the men who are long since dust?
 Whose fingers traced,
 In this arid waste,
 These rioting, twisted, figures of love and lust?

 Strange, weird things that no man may say,
 Things Humanity hides away; --
 Secretly done, --
 Catch the light of the living day,
 Smile in the sun.
 Cruel things that man may not name,
 Naked here, without fear or shame,
 Laughed in the carven stone.

 Deep in the Temple's innermost Shrine is set,
 Where the hats and shadows dwell,
 The worn and ancient Symbol of Life, at rest
 In its oval shell,
 By which the men, who, of old, the land possessed,
 Represented their Great Destroying Power.
 I cannot forget
 That, just as my life was touching its fullest flower,
 Love came and destroyed it all in a single hour,
 Therefore the dual Mystery suits me well.

 Sitting alone,
 The tank's deep water is cool and sweet,
 Soothing and fresh to the wayworn feet,
 Dreaming, under the Tamarind shade,
 One silently thanks the men who made
 So green a place in this bitter land
 Of sunburnt sand.

 The peacocks scream and the grey Doves coo,
 Little green, talkative Parrots woo,
 And small grey Squirrels, with fear askance,
 At alien me, in their furtive glance,
 Come shyly, with quivering fur, to see
 The stranger under their Tamarind tree.

 Daylight dies,
 The Camp fires redden like angry eyes,
 The Tents show white,
 In the glimmering light,
 Spirals of tremulous smoke arise, to the purple skies,
        And the hum of the Camp sounds like the sea,
 Drifting over the sand to me.
        Afar, in the Desert some wild voice sings
        To a jangling zither with minor strings,
 And, under the stars growing keen above,
 I think of the thing that I love.

        A beautiful thing, alert, serene,
 With passionate, dreaming, wistful eyes,
 Dark and deep as mysterious skies,
 Seen from,
 As radiant mornings fade into afternoon.
 I held what I loved in my arms for many a night,
 Yet ever the morning lightened the sky too soon.

 Beyond our tents the sands stretch level and far.
 Around this little oasis of Tamarind trees.
 A curious, Eastern fragrance fills the breeze
 From the ruinous Temple garden where roses are.

 I dream of the rose-like perfume that fills your hair,
 Of times when my lips were free of your soft closed eyes,
 While down in the tank the waters ripple and rise
 And the flying foxes silently cleave the air.

 The present is subtly welded into the past,
 My love of you with the purple Indian dusk,
 With its clinging scent of sandal incense and musk,
 And withering jasmin flowers.
 My eyes grow dim and my senses fail at last,
 While the lonely hours
 Follow each other, silently, one by one,
 Till the night is almost done.

 Then weary, and drunk with dreams, with my garments damp
 And heavy with dew, I wander towards the camp.
 Tired, with a brain in which fancy and fact are blent,
 I stumble across the ropes till I reach my tent
 And then to rest. To ensweeten my sleep with lies,
 To dream I lie in the light of your long lost eyes,
 My lips set free,
 To love and linger over your soft loose hair --
 To dream I lay your delicate beauty bare
 To solace my fevered eyes.
 Ah, -- if my life might end in a night like this --
 Drift into death from dreams of your granted kiss!
-- Laurence Hope
         (Adela Florence Nicolson)

One of the most notable things about today's poem is the wonderful
extravagance with which it is written. There seems to be something about the
East that engenders, in Western poets, an often reckless tendency towards
larger-than-life, or, at least, vivider-than-life imagery[1], the results of
which range all the way from beautiful to painful. While 'Reverie' is far
from the best example of the genre, it definitely falls in the upper half of
the spectrum. The imagery intertwining with the pleasingly irregular rhythm
paint a colourful and slightly dreamlike picture of an explicitly exotic
scene.

What really attracted me to the poem, though, was the aforementioned rhythm.
It's a rare poet who can handle a varying metre well, striking just the
right balance between evenness and irregularity, and it's always a delight
when it works. And Hope has done a beautiful job here - the line lengths,
the stress patterns, the verse structure all constantly shifting, and yet
doing so with no trace of abruptness, the various patterns flowing smoothly
into one another as the poem follows the narrator's reverie[2].

[1] Saki parodied this deftly in his short story 'The Recessional':

  "I've got a fine bit of colour painting later on," he [Clovis] added,
  "where I describe the dawn coming up over the Brahmaputra river:

       " 'The amber dawn-drenched East with sun-shafts kissed,
          Stained sanguine apricot and amethyst,
          O'er the washed emerald of the mango groves
          Hangs in a mist of opalescent mauves,
          While painted parrot-flights impinge the haze
          With scarlet, chalcedon and chrysoprase.' "

  "I've never seen the dawn come up over the Brahmaputra river," said
  Bertie, "so I can't say if it's a good description of the event, but it
  sounds more like an account of an extensive jewel robbery.

[2] By a rather happy coincidence, this is somewhat reminiscent of the last
poem I ran, 'The Ice-Cart'. Maybe I should extend the theme with a third
dream sequence - pity we already ran Kubla Kahn <g>.

Biography:

There's a disappointing lack of biographical information online. From the
Poets' Corner:

  Laurence Hope (Adela Florence Nicolson, nee Cory)
  (1865 - 1904) English Poet living in India

Links:

Hope reminds me somewhat of the (far better) James Elroy Flecker. See
poem #509
poem #518

A net search for Hope revealed two (deservedly) popular fragments that have
found their way into a multiplicity of quote files - you can read both at
[broken link] http://www.wam.umd.edu/~kghose/Random/thoughts/poetrySnips.txt

The complete 'Recessional' is online at
http://www.fluxus.freeserve.co.uk/Clovis/TheRecessional.html

And my periodic Poets' Corner plug
[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/

Hope being found at
[broken link] http://www.geocities.com/~spanoudi/poems/poem-gh.html

-martin

Twenty Ways to Insult a Nose -- Edmond Rostand

As suggested by several readers:
(Poem #626) Twenty Ways to Insult a Nose
DE GUICHE: Will no one put him down?. . .
THE VISCOUNT: No one? But wait!
  I'll treat him to ... one of my quips! ... See here! ...
(He goes up to Cyrano, who is watching him. With a conceited air):
  Sir, your nose is ... hmm ... it is ... very big!
CYRANO (gravely): Very!
THE VISCOUNT (laughing): Ha!
CYRANO (imperturbably): Is that all?
THE VISCOUNT: What do you mean?
CYRANO: Ah no! young blade!  That was a trifle short!
 You might have said at least a hundred things
 By varying the tone ... like this, suppose, ...
 Aggressive:  'Sir, if I had such a nose
 I'd amputate it!'  Friendly:  'When you sup
 It must annoy you, dipping in your cup;
 You need a drinking-bowl of special shape!'
 Descriptive:  ''Tis a rock! ... a peak! ... a cape!
 --A cape, forsooth!  'Tis a peninsular!'
 Curious:  'How serves that oblong capsular?
 For scissor-sheath?  Or pot to hold your ink?'
 Gracious:  'You love the little birds, I think?
 I see you've managed with a fond research
 To find their tiny claws a roomy perch!'
 Truculent:  'When you smoke your pipe ... suppose
 That the tobacco-smoke spouts from your nose--
 Do not the neighbors, as the fumes rise higher,
 Cry terror-struck:  "The chimney is afire"?'
 Considerate:  'Take care, ... your head bowed low
 By such a weight ... lest head o'er heels you go!'
 Tender:  'Pray get a small umbrella made,
 Lest its bright color in the sun should fade!'
 Pedantic:  'That beast Aristophanes
 Names Hippocamelelephantoles
 Must have possessed just such a solid lump
 Of flesh and bone, beneath his forehead's bump!'
 Cavalier:  'The last fashion, friend, that hook?
 To hang your hat on?  'Tis a useful crook!'
 Emphatic:  'No wind, O majestic nose,
 Can give THEE cold!--save when the mistral blows!'
 Dramatic:  'When it bleeds, what a Red Sea!'
 Admiring:  'Sign for a perfumery!'
 Lyric:  'Is this a conch? ... a Triton you?'
 Simple:  'When is the monument on view?'
 Rustic:  'That thing a nose?  Marry-come-up!
 'Tis a dwarf pumpkin, or a prize turnip!'
 Military:  'Point against cavalry!'
 Practical:  'Put it in a lottery!
 Assuredly 'twould be the biggest prize!'
 Or ... parodying Pyramus' sighs ...
 'Behold the nose that mars the harmony
 Of its master's phiz! blushing its treachery!'
 --Such, my dear sir, is what you might have said,
 Had you of wit or letters the least jot:
 But, O most lamentable man!--of wit
 You never had an atom, and of letters
 You have three letters only!--they spell Ass!
 And--had you had the necessary wit,
 To serve me all the pleasantries I quote
 Before this noble audience ... e'en so,
 You would not have been let to utter one--
 Nay, not the half or quarter of such jest!
 I take them from myself all in good part,
 But not from any other man that breathes!
-- Edmond Rostand
 from the play 'Cyrano de Bergerac'.
 translated from the French by Gladys Thomas and Mary F. Guillemard.

 Andrew Landgraf and Jeff Berndt both wrote in to comment that Thursday's
poem, Adrian Mitchell's  "Ten Ways to Avoid Lending Your Wheelbarrow to
Anybody", was quite obviously based on the above passage from Rostand's
masterpiece, "Cyrano de Bergerac"; our thanks to them for pointing this out.

 Apart from that... well, I have a cold, and that's about all you'll get by
way of commentary from me today <grin>.

thomas.

[Britannica on Cyrano]

 b. March 6, 1619, Paris
 d. July 28, 1655, Paris

French satirist and dramatist whose works combining political satire and
science-fantasy inspired a number of later writers. He has been the basis of
many romantic but unhistorical legends, of which the best known is Edmond
Rostand's play Cyrano de Bergerac (1897), in which he is portrayed as a
gallant and brilliant but shy and ugly lover, possessed (as in fact he was)
of a remarkably large nose.

As a young man, Cyrano joined the company of guards and was wounded at the
Siege of Arras in 1640. But he gave up his military career in the following
year to study under the philosopher and mathematician Pierre Gassendi. Under
the influence of Gassendi's scientific theories and libertine philosophy,
Cyrano wrote his two best known works, Histoire comique des états et empires
de la lune and Histoire comique des états et empires du soleil (Eng. trans.
A Voyage to the moon: with some account of the Solar World, 1754). These
stories of imaginary journeys to the Moon and Sun, published posthumously in
1656 and 1662, satirize 17th-century religious and astronomical beliefs,
which saw man and the world as the centre of creation.

Cyrano's use of science helped to popularize new theories; but his principal
aim was to ridicule authority, particularly in religion, and to encourage
freethinking materialism. He "predicted" a number of later discoveries such
as the phonograph and the atomic structure of matter; but they were merely
offshoots from an inquiring and poetic mind, not attempts to demonstrate
theories in practical terms.

Cyrano's plays include a tragedy, La Mort d'Agrippine (published 1654, "The
Death of Agrippine"), which was suspected of blasphemy, and a comedy, Le
Pédant joué (published 1654; "The Pedant Imitated"). As long as classicism
was the established taste, Le Pédant joué, a colossal piece of fooling, was
despised; but its liveliness appeals to modern readers as it did to Molière,
who based two scenes of Les Fourberies de Scapin on it. La Mort d'Agrippine
is intellectually impressive because of its daring ideas, and the direct and
impassioned character of the tragic dialogue makes it interesting
theatrically.

As a political writer, Cyrano was the author of a violent pamphlet against
the men of the Fronde, in which he defended Mazarin in the name of political
realism as exemplified in the tradition of Machiavelli. Cyrano's Lettres
show him as a master of baroque prose, marked by bold and original
metaphors. His contemporaries regarded them as absurdly farfetched, but they
came to be esteemed in the 20th century as examples of the baroque style.

        -- EB

[Britannica on Rostand]

Rostand's name is indissolubly linked with that of his most popular and
enduring play, Cyrano de Bergerac. First performed in Paris in 1897, with
the famous actor Constant Coquelin playing the lead, Cyrano made a great
impression in France and all over Europe and the United States. The plot
revolves around the emotional problems of Cyrano, who, despite his many
gifts, feels that no woman can ever love him because he has an enormous
nose. The connection between the Cyrano of the play and the 17th-century
nobleman and writer of the same name is purely nominal. But Rostand's
stirring and colourful historical play, with its dazzling versification,
skillful blend of comedy and pathos, and fast-moving plot, provided welcome
relief from the grim dramas of the naturalists and Symbolists.

        -- EB

[Rostand's original]

Tarun Agarwal was kind enough to send in the original text (in French) of
Cyrano's barrage of eloquence:

LE VICOMTE
 Attendez ! Je vais lui lancer un de ces traits !...
  Il s'avance vers Cyrano qui l'observe, et se campant devant lui d'un air
fat.
 Vous.... vous avez un nez... heu... un nez... très grand.

CYRANO, gravement
 Très.

LE VICOMTE, riant
 Ha !

CYRANO, imperturbable
 C'est tout ?...

LE VICOMTE
 Mais...

CYRANO
 Ah ! non ! c'est un peu court, jeune homme !
 On pouvait dire... Oh ! Dieu !... bien des choses en somme...
 En variant le ton, -par exemple, tenez
 Agressif : "Moi, monsieur, si j'avais un tel nez,
 Il faudrait sur-le-champs que je me l'amputasse !"
 Amical : "Mais il doit tremper dans votre tasse
 Pour boire, faites-vous fabriquer un hanap !"
 Descriptif : "C'est un roc !... c'est un pic !... c'est un cap !
 Que dis-je, c'est un cap ?... C'est une péninsule !"
 Curieux : "De quoi sert cette oblongue capsule ?
 D'écritoire, monsieur, ou de boîtes à ciseaux ?"
 Gracieux : "Aimez-vous à ce point les oiseaux
 Que paternellement vous vous préoccupâtes
 De tendre ce perchoir à leurs petites pattes ?"
 Truculent : "Ca, monsieur, lorsque vous pétunez,
 La vapeur du tabac vous sort-elle du nez
 Sans qu'un voisin ne crie au feu de cheminée ?"
 Prévenant : "Gardez-vous, votre tête entraînée
 Par ce poids, de tomber en avant sur le sol !"
 Tendre : "Faites-lui faire un petit parasol
 De peur que sa couleur au soleil ne se fane !"
 Pédant : "L'animal seul, monsieur, qu'Aristophane
 Appelle Hippocampelephantocamélos
 Dut avoir sous le front tant de chair sur tant d'os !"
 Cavalier : "Quoi, l'ami, ce croc est à la mode ?
 Pour pendre son chapeau, c'est vraiment très commode !"
 Emphatique : "Aucun vent ne peut, nez magistral,
 T'enrhumer tout entier, excepté le mistral !"
 Dramatique : "C'est la Mer Rouge quand il saigne !"
 Admiratif : "Pour un parfumeur, quelle enseigne !"
 Lyrique : "Est-ce une conque, êtes-vous un triton ?"
 Naïf : "Ce monument, quand le visite-t-on ?"
 Respectueux : "Souffrez, monsieur, qu'on vous salue,
 C'est là ce qui s'appelle avoir pignon sur rue !"
 Campagnard : "Hé, ardé ! C'est-y un nez ? Nanain !
 C'est queuqu'navet géant ou ben queuqu'melon nain !"
 Militaire : "Pointez contre cavalerie !"
 Pratique : "Voulez-vous le mettre en loterie ?
 Assurément, monsieur, ce sera le gros lot !"
 Enfin parodiant Pyrame en un sanglot
 "Le voilà donc ce nez qui des traits de son maître
 A détruit l'harmonie ! Il en rougit, le traître !"
 -Voilà ce qu'à peu près, mon cher, vous m'auriez dit
 Si vous aviez un peu de lettres et d'esprit
 Mais d'esprit, ô le plus lamentable des êtres,
 Vous n'en eûtes jamais un atome, et de lettres
 Vous n'avez que les trois qui forment le mot : sot !
 Eussiez-vous eu, d'ailleurs, l'invention qu'il faut
 Pour pouvoir là, devant ces nobles galeries,
 Me servir toutes ces folles plaisanteries,
 Que vous n'en eussiez pas articulé le quart
 De la moitié du commencement d'une, car
 Je me les sers moi-même, avec assez de verve,
 Mais je ne permets pas qu'un autre me les serve.

        -- Edmond Rostand

Tarun also recommends Brian Hooker's translation of Cyrano; he writes "I
have read three translations of Cyrano de Bergerac and the one that sticks
is the Brian Hooker version. Most plays lose meaning in the translation for
the theatrical aspect escapes the translator and he delivers an insipid text
with no stage value; Hooker, though, is a theatre personality who doubles as
a poet.". Unfortunately, I couldn't find Hooker's version anywhere on the
Web, and so had to fall back upon the Project Gutenberg edition. Could
someone whose French is better than mine kindly comment on how good Thomas
and Guillemard's translation is?

[Related Poems]

Edwin Brock, "Five Ways to Kill a Man", Poem #105
Wallace Stevens, "Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird", Poem #620
R. S. Thomas, "Thirteen Blackbirds Looking at a Man", Poem #621
Adrian Mitchell, "Ten Ways to Avoid Lending Your Wheelbarrow to Anybody",
Poem #623
all of which you can read at http://www.cs.rice.edu/~ssiyer/minstrels/

And finally,

[Martin on plagiarism/parody]

Mitchell didn't 'rip off' Rostand - 'parodied', perhaps, or 'paid tribute
to', or 'borrowed the idea from', but to call it a ripoff is to dismiss the
considerable creativity Mitchell dressed the bare framework of an idea in.
Likewise, although I've never seen Steve Martin's 'Roxanne', it's clearly a
retelling or adaptation of 'Cyrano de Bergerac', both from the name alone
and from the IMDB synopsis. Indeed, Rostand is listed in the writing
credits, and it explicitly says 'based on the play "Cyrano de Bergerac"'. So
the scene was not "brazenly stolen" from the original - au contraire, it
would have been quite surprising did it not feature in the movie.

This confusion between parody and plagiarism is a common one - it's a
perennial problem in Pratchett fandom, for example[1] - and it is almost
inevitably unjustified. The plagiarist steals in silence, and endeavours to
render his theft unrecognisable; the parodist, on the other hand, targets
his writing towards those people who are familiar with the original, and if
he veers towards subtlety it is more to reward the reader who catches the
reference than to deny the tribute to the original.

        -- martin

[1] to the extent that the Man Himself has said that he wishes people would
exercise more care in their choice of words.

The Sniffle -- Ogden Nash

Guest poem submitted by Anustup Datta:
(Poem #625) The Sniffle
 In spite of her sniffle
 Isabel's chiffle.
 Some girls with a sniffle
 Would be weepy and tiffle;
 They would look awful,
 Like a rained-on waffle,
 But Isabel's chiffle
 In spite of her sniffle.
 Her nose is more red
 With a cold in her head,
 But then, to be sure,
 Her eyes are bluer.
 Some girls with a snuffle,
 Their tempers are uffle.
 But when Isabel's snivelly
 She's snivelly civilly,
 And when she's snuffly
 She's perfectly luffly.
-- Ogden Nash
There's a nasty little bug going round Bangalore and pretty wisps of lace
and cambric are everywhere ("A handkerchief, my dear, is a tissue that you
don't throw away."). If all the pretty young things sniffling around the
city were laid end-to-end, I (and Dorothy parker) wouldn't be a bit
surprised. This is a dedication to all the colds-in-the-head this flu
season, in Beantown and elsewhere.

Alert Minstrels readers will remember another Ogden Nash gem on the common
cold (Poem no. 325) - this is more whimsical, and even more delightfully,
utterly Nash-esque (Nash-ian? Nash-istic?).

Anustup.

Gift -- Leonard Cohen

Guest poem submitted by Reed C. Bowman:
(Poem #624) Gift
    You tell me that silence
 is nearer to peace than poems
 but if for my gift
 I brought you silence
 (for I know silence)
 you would say
    "This is not silence
 this is another poem"
 and you would hand it back to me.
-- Leonard Cohen
One technical note: Where this appeared in a poetry book (_Sound and Sense_,
6th ed., by Laurence Perrine) the two lines I have placed in quotes were
unquoted but italic. Since that can't be done by many people's e-mail
systems, I used this punctuation. It is presumably a song lyric (it being
Leonard Cohen), so the typographic details are less important than with
other poems.

I don't know what I can say about this one. There's commentary on Leonard
Cohen elsewhere on the Minstrels archive. I assume it's actually a song
lyric, but I don't know the song. I just like it for its nice zen quality,
which makes you think more about the structure of poems, or the meaning of
"poem." Perhaps the best way to perform this as a song would be to record
silence (a la John Cage's 4'33") but include the lyrics on the album jacket
or CD booklet.

But apart from the self-reference (which I always like) the content of the
poem sets before us and yet gently twists a moment of potential stress
between the poet and the one for whom he writes. He can't get anything
right: the one for whom he writes prefers silence, yet recognizes any gift
he brings, even a poem's "negative space," as poetry in itself. Compliment
to the poet, sure, but makes it clear nonetheless that no gift from him is
acceptable... Respect is not, likely, all he wants from his special audience
and dedicatee. Or that's one way to take it.

RCB.

[Links]

Other Cohen poems:
poem #116
poem #339
poem #482