Did I Miss Anything -- Tom Wayman

(Poem #1940) Did I Miss Anything Question frequently asked by students after missing a class Nothing. When we realized you weren't here we sat with our hands folded on our desks in silence, for the full two hours Everything. I gave an exam worth 40 per cent of the grade for this term and assigned some reading due today on which I'm about to hand out a quiz worth 50 per cent Nothing. None of the content of this course has value or meaning Take as many days off as you like: any activities we undertake as a class I assure you will not matter either to you or me and are without purpose Everything. A few minutes after we began last time a shaft of light descended and an angel or other heavenly being appeared and revealed to us what each woman or man must do to attain divine wisdom in this life and the hereafter This is the last time the class will meet before we disperse to bring this good news to all people on earth Nothing. When you are not present how could something significant occur? Everything. Contained in this classroom is a microcosm of human existence assembled for you to query and examine and ponder This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered but it was one place And you weren't here -- Tom Wayman

Being a teacher has its rewards, yes, but it has its frustrations too, as so
perfectly summed up by this marvellous poem. For sheer, undiluted annoyance,
"did I miss anything" has to rank up there with "will this be on the test?",
and Wayman surely speaks for every teacher, everywhere, when he replies with
this dryly sarcastic, amusing and yet heartfelt monologue.

And I love the power of the ending, where the tone changes, the flow of
words slowing and sarcasm giving way to deeper emotion, as the narrator has
one, final attempt at the possibly hopeless task of explaining just what the
student *did* miss...

     This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered

     but it was one place

     And you weren't here

martin

[Links]

Wayman's homepage [including biography and writing philosophy]:
  http://www.library.utoronto.ca/canpoetry/wayman/index.html

The Wild Swans at Coole -- William Butler Yeats

Guest poem sent in by Radhika Gowaikar

(Poem #1939) The Wild Swans at Coole The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine and fifty swans. The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold, Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes, when I awake some day To find they have flown away? -- William Butler Yeats

I am surprised that we haven't run this before. I think the line, "And
scatter wheeling in great broken rings" is what does it for me. It is as if
Yeats is part of the picture with the swans and yet remains a mere onlooker.
The line describes the image in my mind perfectly.

The idea of returning to a place time after time and contrasting the changes
in oneself with the (apparent) constancy of the surroundings is not exactly
novel. But this poem does it justice. Perhaps the popularity of the idea
stems the fact that we are all practitioners of it, though not always
consciously.

--
radhika.

Notes:

1. Coole Park and Gardens are understandably pround of their connection to
Yeats.
  http://www.coolepark.ie/

2. I am also reminded of this poem/song
  http://www.recmusic.org/lieder/get_text.html?TextId=8272
Men reminiscing by the water.

Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour -- Thomas Moore

(Poem #1938) Oh! Ever Thus, From Childhood's Hour Oh! ever thus, from childhood's hour, I've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never lov'd a tree or flower, But 'twas the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well, And love me, it was sure to die! -- Thomas Moore

   (from 'Lalla Rookh, An Oriental Romance')

There is about "old" poetry - particularly that of the Romantic and Georgian
periods - a quality that I find sadly absent in more modern verse: the
underlying sense that rhymed and metrical verse is a *natural* medium in
which to express one's thoughts and writings. Today's excerpt is a wonderful
example of this sort of unselfconsciousness - the verse flows easily and
naturally, but the primary focus is the dialogue between Moore and the
reader, and at no point do we stop and feel that what he has to say is in
any way constrained by the requirements of the form.

While "Lalla Rookh" itself has faded into relative obscurity, the above
quoted lines - particularly the second quatrain - have remained both
well-known and popular. (In particular, no fan of Wodehouse can fail to be
familiar with the "dear gazelle"!). And though it is a verse that has
inevitably attracted its share of parodies, this is more due to its
distinctiveness than to any inherent mockability. (That said, some of the
parodies are truly delightful, such as Tom Hood Jr.'s

  I never nursed a dear gazelle,
     To glad me with its dappled hide,
  But when it came to know me well,
     It fell upon the buttered side.

or Henry Leigh's

  My rich and aged Uncle John
    Has known me long and loves me well
  But still persists in living on -
    I would he were a young gazelle.
)

I've remarked, about some of Moore's other works, that their salient feature
is their musicality; today's piece does exhibit the same wonderful sense of
the sound and flow of the words, but it is more of a background quality.
Also, the fact that this is not a standalone poem but part of an extended
epic lends it a very different character (and indeed, by choosing to excerpt
such a small piece, I have inevitably sacrificed some of that character). To
convey some idea of the tradeoff involved,
http://rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poem/1492.html for instance has a longer
excerpt that loses some of the distinctive beauty of the shorter piece, but
gives far more of the flavour of its setting.

martin

[Links]

Biography:
  http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Thomas_Moore

Full text of "Lalla Rookh"
  http://www.columbia.edu/itc/mealac/pritchett/00generallinks/lallarookh/index.html

A bit about Lalla Rookh:
  [broken link] http://www.wwnorton.com/nto/romantic/topic_4/moore.htm

Mimi on the Beach -- Jane Siberry

Guest poem submitted by J. Goard:

(Poem #1937) Mimi on the Beach I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I scan for the both of us... I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I stand and scan on the strand of sand, Stand and scan on the strand of sand... But first I'm sitting over here. See that gaggle of guys and girls? A typical day at the beach, Well, typical 'til I make my speech. There is a girl out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard, With a picnic lunch and parasol, Sitting there like a typical girl. Well, this is not a locker room, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... there... One girl laughs at skinny guys; someone else points out a queer. They're all jocks, both guys and girls: Press a button, take your cue. And see the girl with perfect teeth? She picks up lonely guys in bars, Then takes off when they've bought her drinks. "Don't you have money?" I ask - "Of course I do!" This is not a locker room, here, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... there... But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... I'm still sitting over here. One guy just got up and brayed. They wag their words - they're all in heat - I can ignore it; just don't steam up the view. Mimi's still out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard; She's checking out her arms and legs In case her casing's getting burnt. This is not a locker room, here, And that's a surfboard, not a yacht; The arrangement's not... quite... quite... there... But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... You don't know me but I've been watching you all day, And I've come to the edge of the water now to have my say. The picnic lunch is off. Throw your parasol away. Put your belly to the board, Mimi, and paddle out to sea, Then turn the board around, Mimi, until you're facing me, Then you wait for the waves to start building, For the valleys to deepen And the mountains to increase in height, And when the right time comes, Mimi, You grab the edges of the board with your hands, Lift yourself up and stand there And see as far as you can see... Stand up, Mimi. Stand up! I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I scan for the both of us... I scan the horizon for you, Mimi, I stand and scan on the strand of sand, Stand and scan on the strand of sand... The great leveller is coming, And he's not going to stop to take your pulse, And he's not going to ask you why you're the way you are, And I think that's the worst part: You never get a chance to explain yourself. And he's going to take those mountains And shove them into the valleys Until there's nothing left except a vast expanse... And you'll float there, Mimi, On the flat Sargasso Sea of your soul... And if they pull you away from your bleaching pink surfboard And stretch you across the wind, You'll make no sound, Wet leaves on a dry map, Nothing, Nobody, The great leveller, or the great escape? But the day was faultless in beauty, Pitched on tropical scenery Stretched from white sand up to the open sky Down to the shining sea again and then back to me... And Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach... Mimi on the beach Mimi on the beach Mimi and me... There's a girl out on the sea, Floating on a pink surfboard. A parasol floats nearby. The arrangement's not... quite... quite... there. -- Jane Siberry

Jane Siberry (now, apparently, named "Issa") is probably the most
bizarre lyricist I've ever encountered, spinning dramatic monologues
that would seem too profoundly insane to be believable if she didn't
sell them so well with off-kilter rhythms and her quirky voice.  "Mimi
on the Beach" was her big indie hit from the early nineties, but I never
really registered its lyrics until recently.  I love this portrait of a
bitter wallflower -- or is it a homicidal stalker? -- fixated on the
singular importance of "Mimi and me", or, if you will, "me, me, and me".
"The great leveller is coming", indeed, but is it the inevitability of
death or aging, or the flatness of a "real world" outside of surfing, or
"me coming to kill you"?  (There is a sequel from a later album called
"Mimi Speaks", but I dislike its overly blunt attempt at resolution.)
However you hear it, it's a truly weird, cool song close to the heart of
"new wave".

J.

Untitled -- Michael Leunig

Guest poem sent in by Prachi Gupta

(Poem #1936) Untitled When the heart Is cut or cracked or broken Do not clutch it Let the wound lie open Let the wind From the good old sea blow in To bathe the wound with salt Let a stray dog lick it Let a bird lean in the hole and sing A simple song like a tiny bell And let it ring Let it go. Let it out. Let it all unravel. Let it free and it can be A path on which to travel. -- Michael Leunig

This is a poem without a title, by the Australian writer, poet, cartoonist,
philosopher, Michael Leunig. I first discovered Leunig about 10 years ago
when a cousin gifted me one of his books, I have followed his work ever
since and have always found it endearing and enchanting. Like this poem
here, he talks of simple things around us, within us and talks of them in an
amazingly simple and human way; and reading his work mostly opens a tiny
window somewhere in the heart.

I hope everyone enjoys this!

Prachi

[Links]

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

Leunig's official site:
  http://www.leunig.com.au/