I don’t have the Romantic poets’ penchant for equating poets with saints nor the sentimentality that elevates mothers to sainthood, but I do remember the poetry my mother read to me and quoted to me with some fondness and notalgia. I looked for a while (pre-internet) to find the anthology that my mother read from, My Poetry Book: An Anthology of Modern Verse for Boys and Girls.

This book, published in 1956, was the one from which my mother read poetry to me and my sister. Since it’s out of print, I was happy to be able find a used copy several years ago with the advent of online internet booksellers. It has some of my favorite childhood memory poems, including Mumps by Elizabeth Maddox Roberts, I Meant To Do My Work Today by Richard LeGallienne, Seein’ Things by Eugene Field, A Vagabond Song by Bliss Carman, Leetla Giorgio Washeenton by Thomas Augustine Daly, The Pobble Who Has No Toes by Edward Lear, and this one:

Lullaby by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Bedtime’s come fu’ little boys,
Po’ little lamb.
Too tiahed out to make a noise,
Po’ little lamb.
You gwine t’ have tomorrer sho’?
Yes, you tole me dat befo’,
Don’t you fool me, chile, no mo’,
Po’ little lamb.

You been bad the livelong day,
Po’ little lamb.
Th’owin’ stones an’ runnin’ ‘way,
Po’ little lamb.
My but you’s a runnin’ wil’,
Look jes’ lak some po’ folks’ chile;
Mam’ gwine whup you atter while,
Po’ little lamb.

Come hyeah! you mos’ tiahed to def,
Po’ little lamb.
Played yo’se’f clean out o’ bref,
Po’ little lamb.
See dem han’s now–sich a sight!
Would you evah b’lieve dey’s white?
Stan’ still twell I wash ’em right,
Po’ little lamb.

Jes’ cain’t hol’ yo’ haid up straight,
Po’ little lamb.
Hadn’t oughter played so late,
Po’l ittle lamb.
Mammy do’know whut she’d do,
If de chillun’s all lak you;
You’s a caution now fu’ true,
Po’ little lamb.

Lay yo’ haid down in my lap,
Po ‘little lamb.
Y’ought to have a right good slap,
Po’ little lamb.
You been runnin’ roun’ a heap.
Shet dem eyes an’don’t you peep,
Dah now, dah now, go to sleep,
Po’ little lamb.

I loved to try to read this poem out loud when I was a child. Dunbar was criticized for his dialect poems; people said he was perpetuating negative stereotypes about black people and the way they spoke and also about the way they lived under slavery. I just liked (and still do) the way the lullaby rolled off my tongue and sounded so comforting.

More poems by Paul Laurence Dunbar.

The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue. — Cowper

Lincoln, the Man of the People
By Edward Markham

WHEN the Norn Mother saw the Whirlwind Hour
Greatening and darkening as it hurried on,
She left the Heaven of Heroes and came down
To make a man to meet the mortal need.
She took the tried clay of the common road�
Clay warm yet with the genial heat of earth,
Dashed through it all a strain of prophecy;
Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.

My brother-in-law said he memorized this poem for “declamation” back in the 1950’s, back when schoolchildren memorized poems about heroes. My urchins all thought he was making up the “Norn Mother.” Read the entire poem here.

Dr. Lloyd Huff was a professor at Hardin-Simmons University in Abilene, Texas when I was an undergraduate student there. He taught English, was unabashedly sentimental, and at the same time inspiring and intelligent. He taught a Shakespeare class in which he told the students that every time he read Romeo and Juliet he hoped that somehow everything would turn out right for the “star-crost lovers.” He also invented something called “The Six Hundred Club.” Any freshman who memorized six hundred lines of selected poetry or any Shakespeare student who memorized six hundred selected lines from the plays and sonnets of Shakespeare could become a member of “The Noble Six Hundred.’ The mimeographed lines of poetry Dr. Huff gave out to all the freshmen in his English classes began with this note:

Because one of the fringe thrills of your life will be your ability to recall the magic of some literature’s greatest lines long after your college years, the following selections are offered for you to commit to memory. Successful completion of this endeavor entitles you to membership in that exclusive and august society,
THE SIX HUNDRED CLUB

Happy thoughts,
Lloyd Huff

The “selections” were poems like The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, America For Me by Henry van Dyke, and The Picture That is Turned Toward the Wall by Charles Graham. There are also a couple of poems by Emily Dickinson, a portion of Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant, and The Last Leaf by Oliver Wendell Holmes. Some freshmen and some fellow English professors may have looked with disdain and superiority at Dr. Huff’s selections, but I’d wager he brought more magic and joy to more students than many an erudite explainer of T.S. Eliot and Sylvia Plath. (Don’t shoot; I like T.S. Eliot, sometimes.)
As far as I can tell, Dr. Huff is retired and still lives in Abilene. And purely bragging, I am a member of “The Six Hundred Club.” (I memorized Shakespeare, not general poetry.)

A poet is someone who is astonished by everything.–Anonymous

Free verse! You may as well call sleeping in a ditch, “free architecture!” —G.K. Chesterton

It had to come. Every writer, no matter how humble, tries to write some poetry, sometime, somewhere. I haven’t written any poetry in a long time. My life is mostly prose and story now. I’m not saying that’s bad at all, but every writer should attempt some poetry. Here’s an old attempt:

Judas’ Justification

I saw him as a dream
in starless night;
yet though his words seemed clear, crystalline droplets in the air,
he was elusive, hint of light without a form, out of reach.
I followed, hoping
to pull him down
to see him make in this world
Something real.
His death was real.

Stickiness, memorability is one sign of a good poem. You hear it and a day later some of it is still there in the brainpan.–Garrison Keillor

I checked Garrison Keillor’s anthology Good Poems out of the library, and it does indeed have some good poems. Unfortunately, I can’t post many of my favorites here because they’re copyright protected. If I understand correctly, I can read these modern day poems out loud to you. I can type one up and carry it around in my pocket. I can link to the poem if it’s posted somewhere else (legally) on the internet. However, I can’t share the poem with you by posting it on my blog unless I get permission to do so from the copyright holder (more trouble than most bloggers would want to take).
I understand the reason for this law. I understand that writers would like to be compensated for their work. I also understand that authors feel entitled to get credit for their writing and that they don’t want me making their poem into something else.
On the other hand, there’s something called “Fair Use,” which is more complicated than I can understand. It may mean you can use a poem if you don’t use too much of it or too many poems by the same author and if your purpose is to educate or comment. Maybe. It also seems to me that some poets would be happy to have a poem posted on someone’s blog and recommended by the blogger. Someone who is reading might actually go out and buy (pay real money for) the poet’s work.

So . . . I’m going to try to stay legal and ethical here by posting only poems that are no longer copyright-protected, but if I make a mistake, I apologize in advance. And without further ado, here’s your old, legal, sticky poem for today:

To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time by Robert Herrick

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
The higher he’s a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he’s to setting.

That age is best which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry:
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Classify this one under LOVE–or DEPRESSION. Carpe diem.

All poems are about God, love or depression.–Susan Wise Bauer

This pronouncement is another one of those statements that I’m not sure is true, but it does sound true–or at least useful for classification purposes.

Then, again, is Jabberwocky about God, love or depression? Birthday by Rossetti obviously falls into the love category. The psalms are about God, love, and depression. My favorite poem, Annabel Lee by Poe, is a love/depression poem that hints at an unjust God. But this one that I memorized in sixth grade doesn’t seem to fit any of those three categories:

THE RAGGEDY MAN by James Whitcomb Riley

O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa;
An’ he’s the goodest man ever you saw!
He comes to our house every day,
An’ waters the horses, an’ feeds ’em hay;
An’ he opens the shed — an’ we all ist laugh
When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf;
An’ nen — ef our hired girl says he can —
He milks the cow fer ‘Lizabuth Ann. —
Ain’t he a’ awful good Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W’y, The Raggedy Man — he’s ist so good,
He splits the kindlin’ an’ chops the wood;
An’ nen he spades in our garden, too,
An’ does most things ‘at boys can’t do. —
He clumbed clean up in our big tree
An’ shooked a’ apple down fer me —
An’ ‘nother ‘n’, too, fer ‘Lizabuth Ann —
An’ ‘nother ‘n’, too, fer The Raggedy Man. —
Ain’t he a’ awful kind Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An’ The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes,
An’ tells ’em, ef I be good, sometimes:
Knows ’bout Giunts, an’ Griffuns, an’ Elves,
An’ the Squidgicum-Squees ‘at swallers the’rselves:
An’, wite by the pump in our pasture-lot,
He showed me the hole ‘at the Wunks is got,
‘At lives ‘way deep in the ground, an’ can
Turn into me, er ‘Lizabuth Ann!
Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man!
Ain’t he a funny old Raggedy Man?
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man — one time, when he
Wuz makin’ a little bow-‘n’-orry fer me,
Says “When you’re big like your Pa is,
Air you go’ to keep a fine store like his —
An’ be a rich merchunt — an’ wear fine clothes? —
An’ nen he laughed at ‘Lizabuth Ann,
An’ I says “‘M go’ to be a Raggedy Man! —
I’m ist go’ to be a nice Raggedy Man!”
Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

On second thought, I guess it’s about love. Enjoy.
I wrote here last summer about memorizing poetry. I believe it’s a very useful exercise, but we haven’t done enough of it in our homeschool. Scripture, yes; poetry, no. What poetry have you memorized? Is memorization of poetry a good thing to require of elementary and secondary students? If so, what should they memorize?