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Poetry Friday: Carl Sandburg

Tomorrow, January 6th, is Carl Sandburg’s birthday. So I thought today would be a good Friday to post something by and about Sandburg. I’ve already posted my favorite Sandburg poem, Arithmetic, here. I found this poem tonight:

“Joy” (1916) by Carl Sandburg

Let a joy keep you.
Reach out your hands
And take it when it runs by,
As the Apache dancer
Clutches his woman.
I have seen them
Live long and laugh loud,
Sent on singing, singing,
Smashed to the heart
Under the ribs
With a terrible love.
Joy always,
Joy everywhere–
Let joy kill you!
Keep away from the little deaths.

I like those last two lines.

To This Great Stage of Fools: Born December 30th


Rudyard Kipling, b. 1865, d. January 18, 1936.

Kipling was wildly popular in his time; he’s now condemned as a moralist, a racist, and and imperialist. Nevertheless, his poetry and his stories are a delight, even if it’s sometimes necessary to suspend one’s cultural assumptions and attitudes. Eldest Daughter took a Victorian fantasty class last semester, and the class read Puck of Pook’s Hill, a tale of Puck, the Last of the Little People, who takes two children, Dan and Una, on a journey through a fantastical version of ancint British history. They hear stories from Puck and see the adventures of Picts and Danes, knights and Romans, and other more fairy-like folk.

THe following poem is from the book Puck of Pook’s Hill by Rudyard Kipling:

Of all the trees that grow so fair,
Old England to adorn,
Greater are none beneath the Sun,
Than Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.
Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs,
(All of a Midsummer morn!)
Surely we sing no little thing,
In Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oak of the Clay lived many a day,
Or ever AEneas began.
Ash of the Loam was a lady at home,
When Brut was an outlaw man.
Thorn of the Down saw New Troy Town
(From which was London born);
Witness hereby the ancientry
Of Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Yew that is old in churchyard-mould,
He breedeth a mighty bow.
Alder for shoes do wise men choose,
And beech for cups also.
But when ye have killed, and your bowl is spilled,
And your shoes are clean outworn,
Back ye must speed for all that ye need,
To Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Ellum she hateth mankind, and waiteth
Till every gust be laid,
To drop a limb on the head of him
That anyway trusts her shade:
But whether a lad be sober or sad,
Or mellow with ale from the horn,
He will take no wrong when he lieth along
‘Neath Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Oh, do not tell the Priest our plight,
Or he would call it a sin;
But–we have been out in the woods all night,
A-conjuring Summer in!
And we bring you news by word of mouth-
Good news for cattle and corn–
Now is the Sun come up from the South,
With Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

Sing Oak, and Ash, and Thorn, good sirs
(All of a Midsummer morn):
England shall bide till Judgment Tide,
By Oak, and Ash, and Thorn!

In the story Puck swears “by Oak, and Ash, and Thorn.” If I were going to swear an oath by anything, I would enjoy that one. I do like the Victorians and Edwardians. There’s something solid and comforting and indestructible about even the most doubting and wavering of the Victorians, not that Kipling falls into the latter category. I’m sure that Tolkien and Lewis read their Kipling and were influenced by him. Doesn’t the tree poem remind you of Tolkien’s love of trees?

If you can get your hands on a copy, I would recommend a romp through Puck of Pook’s Hill. In the same class on Victorian fantasy, Eldest Daughter also enjoyed Thackeray’s The Ring and the Rose, also worth searching out.

Complete Collection of Poems by Rudyard Kipling.

Kipling’s Birthday, December 2004: “When Earth’s Picture Is Painted.”

Poetry Friday: You by Edgar Guest

You are the fellow that has to decide
Whether you’ll do it or toss it aside.
You are the fellow who makes up your mind
Whether you’ll lead or will linger behind
Whether you’ll try for the goal that’s afar
Or just be contented to stay where you are.
Take it or leave it. Here’s something to do!
Just think it over — It’s all up to you!

What do you wish? To be known as a shirk,
Known as a good man who’s willing to work,
Scorned for a loafer or praised by your chief,
Rich man or poor man or beggar or thief?
Eager or earnest or dull through the day,
Honest or crooked? It’s you who must say!
You must decide in the face of the test
Whether you’ll shirk it or give it your best.

Nobody here will compel you to rise;
No one will force you to open your eyes;
No one will answer for you yes or no,
Whether to stay there or whether to go.
Life is a game, but it’s you who must say,
Whether as cheat or as sportsman you’ll play.
Fate may betray you, but you settle first
Whether to live to your best or your worst.

So, whatever it is you are wanting to be,
Remember, to fashion the choice you are free.
Kindly or selfish, or gentle or strong,
Keeping the right way or taking the wrong,
Careless of honor or guarding your pride,
All these are questions which you must decide.
Yours the selection, whichever you do;
The thing men call character’s all up to you!

The poetry of Edgar Guest is out of fashion in our sophisticated age; it’s unambiguous, unsubtle, too moralizing, not enough vivid images and fine-drawn metaphors and understated suggestions. Guest’s too preachy for lots of people, but sometimes I find that I need, even enjoy, the bracing, cold slap of a challenge put into plain terms that can’t be misinterpreted or evaded.

No, I don’t actually believe that it’s all up to me. But I do believe that it’s a good idea to act as if it were. “Life is a game, but it’s you who must say whether as cheat or as sportsman you’ll play.”

Take it or leave it.

Emily Dickinson

My American literature class, the one I teach, not a class I’m taking, although I do read and discuss along with my students, anyway, my American literature class is reading the poetry of Emily Dickinson this week. Do you have a favorite poem by Miss Dickinson, and can you leave some comments on why you like it?

I’ve posted my favorite before, back when I did this American literature discussion group thing a couple of years ago. I probably like it because I remember my mother quoting it to me, and I have it memorized. Also it comes in handy to quote in so many situations.

Emily Dickinson fans?

Poetry Friday: This is the forest primeval . . .

Lost - Kate (Advance)
We’re reading Longfellow’s Evangeline for American literature class this week. I wonder if my high school students will appreciate it; i wonder if they’ll even get through it. Maybe if I tie the story to somethng or someone nowadays . . . (Just kidding, guys.)

But a celestial brightness—a more ethereal beauty—
Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after confession,
Homeward serenely she walked with God’s benediction upon her.
When she had passed, it seemed like the ceasing of exquisite music.

Hawthorne had a different reaction to the illustrations (1860 Edition of Evangeline, illustrated by Jane Bentham). After Fields sent him a copy of the deluxe edition, he wrote back to say that Benham’s “representations of the heroine have suggested to me a new theory” about the poem: “Evangeline is so infernally awkward and ugly . . . that Gabriel was all the time running away from her, . . . when she at last caught him, it was naturally and inevitably the instant death of the poor fellow.”

I think Hawthorne’s interpretation unlikely in light of the plain words of the poem itself, but I also can’t imagine anyone so beautiful that when she passed by it would seem as if exquisite music had ceased. Wouldn’t that be a delightful effect to create? Exhausting, perhaps, but fun for a while.

Benedict Bellefontaine, thou hast ever thy jest and thy ballad!
Ever in cheerfullest mood art thou, when others are filled with
Gloomy forebodings of ill, and see only ruin before them.
Happy art thou, as if every day thou hadst picked up a horseshoe.

Now I do know people who seem to be unfailingly cheerful. Not me.

Feeling is deep and still; and the word that floats on the surface
Is as the tossing buoy that betrays where the anchor is hidden.
Therefore trust to thy heart, and to what the world calls illusion.

Evangeline, like Don Quixote or Abraham in the Bible, has only faith to sustain her, faith in God and faith in her quest to find Gabriel. I was discussing characters like Abraham and Don Quixote, characters of faith, with someone yesterday. We couldn’t think of any female literary characters who qualified as “White Knights of Faith.” Perhaps Evangeline, Bellefontaine, not Lilly, qualifies. No one on LOST, it seems so far, has a true faith, faith in something real that “the world calls illusion,” faith that’s not tinged with superstition and romanticism. Maybe Mr. Eko—or Rose.

To This Great Stage of Fools: Born September 28th

William Mickle, b.1735. Scots poet. I can identify with the theme of this poem, There’s Nae Luck about the House. Engineer Husband doesn’t have to travel too often, but when he is gone, there’s no luck about the house at all.

Rise, lass, and mak a clean fire side,
Put on the muckle pot,
Gie little Kate her button gown,
And Jock his Sunday coat;
And mak their shoon as black as slaes,
Their hose as white as snaw,
It’s a’ to please my ain gudeman,
For he’s been lang awa.
For there’s nae luck about the house,
There’s nae luck at a’,
There’s little pleasure in the house
When our gudeman’s awa.

Sir WIlliam Jones, b. 1746. Philoligist and student of Indian history.

The Sanscrit language, whatever be its antiquity, is of a wonderful structure; more perfect than the Greek, more copious than the Latin, and more exquisitely refined than either, yet bearing to both of them a stronger affinity, both in the roots of verbs and the forms of grammar, than could possibly have been produced by accident; so strong indeed, that no philologer could examine them all three, without believing them to have spring from some common source, which, perhaps, no longer exists: there is a similar reason, though not quite so forcible, for supposing that both the Gothick and the Celtick, though blended with a very different idiom, had the same origin with the Sanscrit, and the old Persian might be added to this family, if this were the place for discussing any question concerning the antiquities of Persia.


Kate Douglas Wiggin, b. 1856, author and educator. She wrote Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm and The Birds’ Christmas Carol. Eldest Daughter always thought Rebecca compared rather unfavorably to L.M. Mongomery’s Anne of Green Gables, but I remember enjoying both books and both heroines.
Read Rebecca online.
Wiggin also wrote an autobiography, My Garden of Memories, and an adult novel, The Village Watchtower. I added both to The List last year, but I haven’t found copies of either one yet.

Edith Mary Pargeter, b. 1913. She wrote several fine historical fiction novels, including The Heaven Tree Trilogy about a thirteenth century family of British stonecarvers. Of course, Pargeter’s more famous series of books takes place a century before the Heaven Tree books, and she wrote them under a different name. If you’ve never read these and if you have a morbid taste for bones, you should go immediately to your nearest library and check one out. An excellent mystery.

For Your Listening Pleasure

Kiddie Records.

“Kiddie Records Weekly is a three year project celebrating the golden age of children’s records. This brief but prolific period spanned from the mid forties through the early fifties, producing a wealth of all-time classics. Many of these recordings were extravagant Hollywood productions on major record labels and featured big time celebrities and composers.
Over the years, these forgotten treasures have slipped off the radar and now stand on the brink of extinction. Our mission is to give them a new lease on life by sharing them with today’s generation of online listeners. Each recording has been carefully transferred from the original 78s and encoded to MP3 format for you to download and enjoy. You’ll find a new addition every week, all year long.”

Singing Science Records.
From the creator of the webpage:

“When I was a kid my parents got this six-LP set of science-themed folk songs for my sister and me. They were produced in the late 1950s / early 1960s by Hy Zaret (William Stirrat) and Lou Singer. . . .The Singing Science lyrics were very Atomic Age, while the tunes were generally riffs on popular or genre music of the time. We played them incessantly.
In February 1998 I found the LPs in my parents’ basement. I cleaned them up, played them one last time on an old turntable, and burned them onto a set of three CD-R discs. In December 1999 I read the songs back off the CDs and encoded them into MP3, so now you can hear them on the web.

I already told you about LibriVox, a site which “provides free audiobooks from the public domain.” You can download these mp3 files of books (and poems) into your computer or iPod, or you can listen at the website. I’m enjoying it immensely.

American Rhetoric is a website with a “database of 5000+ full text, audio and video (streaming) versions of public speeches, sermons, legal proceedings, lectures, debates, interviews, other recorded media events, and a declaration or two.” I’ll be visiting this website frequently this year as I teach US History and American Literature at our homeschool co-op.

The Genevan Psalter. This webpage includes versified psalms in English and midi files to listen to the original (used in Calvin’sGeneva) melodies.

Isn’t the internet wonderful?

Poetry Friday: Of Snarks and Quarks

Eldest Daughter has fallen in love. . . again . . . this time with Lewis Carroll. According to my daughter’s Victorian Fantasy professor, the word “quark” is a portmanteau word, a combination of quasi-snark, from Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark. According to my computer dictionary, the term quark was invented by a man named Murray Gell-Mann. “Originally quork, the term was changed by association with the line ‘Three quarks for Muster Mark’ in Joyce’s Finnegans Wake.” Somebody’s mistaken.

Anyway, mistake or no, I’m told that scientists, especially physicists, are also quite fond of Lewis Carroll. Carroll was quite the mathemetician, and his brand of nonsense appeals not only to Eldest Daughter, but also to the logical, imaginative, physics-types who, I assume, read his works looking for quarks and gluons and other nonsensical entities.

All this verbiage I’ve written is to introduce the fact that I have a new guilty pleasure. The other night, in my bed, I listened to Lewis Carroll’s The Hunting of the Snark as I went to sleep. To indulge, it helps to have a computer next to your bed. Then go to LibriVox, a site which “provides free audiobooks from the public domain.” You can download these mp3 files of books (and poems) into your computer or iPod, or you can listen at the website. Either way find a poem or story that you want to listen to for a bedtime story, and tuck yourself in and listen. I didn’t hear the entire poem, but I did enjoy the part I heard before I fell asleep. I think falling asleep to the sound of poetry might be even better than falling asleep to music.

By the way, boojum is a term used in physics, coined by a physicist, and taken from The Hunting of the Snark. And The Snark becomes a Boojum. In the poem. Not in physics. Eldest Daughter says that snarks transforming themselves into boojums is a very scary and deeply disturbing concept. Physicists probably find the phenomenon fascinating and mathematically intriguing.

“For, although common Snarks do no manner of harm,
Yet, I feel it my duty to say,
Some are Boojums–” The Bellman broke off in alarm,
For the Baker had fainted away.
———————————————–
“But oh, beamish nephew, beware of the day,
If your Snark be a Boojum! For then
You will softly and suddenly vanish away,
And never be met with again!”
———————————
In the midst of the word he was trying to say,
In the midst of his laughter and glee,
He had softly and suddenly vanished away —
For the Snark was a boojum, you see.

Read The Hunting of the Snark here.

Poetry Friday

The City where I hope to dwell,
There’s none on earth can parallel;
The stately Walls both high and strong,
Are made of precious Jasper stone;
The Gates of Pearl, both rich and clear,
And Angels are for Porters there;
The Streets thereof transparent gold,
Such as no Eye did e’re behold.

A Chrystal River there doth run,
Which doth proceed from the Lamb’s Throne:
Of Life, there are the waters sure,
Which shall remain for ever pure,
Nor Sun, nor Moon, they have no need,
For glory doth from God proceed:
No Candle there, nor yet Torch light,
For there shall be no darksome night.

From sickness and infirmity,
For evermore they shall be free,
Nor withering age shall e’re come there,
But beauty shall be bright and clear;
This City pure is not for thee,
For things unclean there not shall be:
If I of Heaven may have my fill,
Take thou the world, and all that will.
From The Flesh and the Spirit by Anne Bradstreet

Don’t you think these words would make a good hymn? I’ve already put them to this music, sort of, in my mind, but I think someone who was musically talented could write music for these words and make the poem into a beautiful worship hymn.

Happy Friday, everyone! I hope we all meet in heaven where “things unclean there not shall be.”

To This Great Stage of Fools: Born July 3rd

W.H. Davies, b. 1871, poet. Interesting life.
CountryCottage

Truly Great by W.H. Davies

MY walls outside must have some flowers,
My walls within must have some books;
A house that’s small; a garden large,
And in it leafy nooks.

A little gold that’s sure each week;
That comes not from my living kind,
But from a dead man in his grave,
Who cannot change his mind.

A lovely wife, and gentle too;
Contented that no eyes but mine
Can see her many charms, nor voice
To call her beauty fine.

Where she would in that stone cage live,
A self-made prisoner, with me;
While many a wild bird sang around,
On gate, on bush, on tree.

And she sometimes to answer them,
In her far sweeter voice than all;
Till birds, that loved to look on leaves,
Will doat on a stone wall.

With this small house, this garden large,
This little gold, this lovely mate,
With health in body, peace in heart–
Show me a man more great.

Franz Kafka, b.1883. Author of The Metamorphosis and other novels and short stories. Has anyone here actually read Kafka’s Metamorphosis, or is it just one of those stories that everyone knows about and hardly anyone has read? Kafka was Jewish, born in Prague in what is now the Czech Republic.

Tom Stoppard,b.1937, playwright and screenwriter. Stoppard was also born into a Jewish family in Czechoslovakia. He wrote the play Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead and the screenplay for Shakespeare in Love. No, I’ve not seen either of those works either.