POETIC METER
END RHYME (Lesson for elementary or middle-school children.)
Poetry Resources
NY Review of Books
Omar Khayyam, The Rubaiyat (1100?)
LXXI
The Moving
Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on:
nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure
it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all
your Tears wash out a Word of it.
10th Grade Poems
Robert
Frost's "The Road Not Taken" This poem I would
read and teach on a unit of technical aspects of poetry. For some reason
it has traditionally been taught at a poem in which the speaker looks back on
his life and how a single decision has made all the differences in his life.
But if you get a change to read Ivor Winters' essay on the poem
Anti-War Poems
1. Fighting for Strangers by Steeleye
Span. Here is a video to the poem.
What makes you go abroad fighting for strangers
When you
could be safe at home free from all dangers?
A
recruiting sergeant came our way
To an Inn
nearby at the close of day
He said
young Johnny you're a fine young man
Would you
like to march along behind a military band,
With a
scarlet coat and a big cocked hat,
And a
musket at your shoulder,
The
shilling he took and he kissed the book,
Oh poor
Johnny what will happen to ya?
The
recruiting sergeant marched away
From the
Inn nearby at the break of day,
Johnny
went too with half a ring
He was
off to be a soldier he'd be fighting for the King
In a far
off war in a far off land
To face a
foreign soldier,
But how
will you fare when there's lead in the air,
-Oh poor
Johnny what'll happen to ya?
What
makes you go abroad fighting for strangers
When you
could be safe at home free from all dangers?
The sun
shone hot on a barren land
As a thin
red line took a military stand,
There was
sling shot, chain shot, grape shot too,
Swords
and bayonets thrusting through,
Poor
Johnny fell but the day was won
And the
King is grateful to you
But your
soldiering's done and they're sending you home,
Oh poor
Johnny what have they done to ya?
They said
he was a hero and not to grieve
Over two
wooden pegs and empty sleeves,
They
carried him home and set him down
With a
military pension and a medal from the crown.
You
haven't an arm and you haven't a leg,
The enemy
nearly slew you,
You'll
have to go out on the streets to beg,
Oh poor
Johnny what have they done to ya?
What
makes you go abroad fighting for strangers
When you
could be safe at home free from all dangers?
Percy Bryce Shelley, 1792-1822.
The name "Fireside Poets" is derived from that popularity: their general adherence to poetic convention (standard forms, regular meter, and rhymed stanzas) made their body of work particularly suitable for memorization and recitation in school also at home, where it was a source of entertainment for families gathered around the fire. The poets' primary subjects were the domestic life, mythology, and politics of the United States, in which several of the poets were directly involved. The Fireside Poets did not write for the sake of other poets: they wrote for the common people. They meant to have their stories told for families. Mark Twain gave an infamous after-dinner speech in which he satirized the poets as uncouth drunkards.
Civil War Poetry
William Cullen Bryant (1794-1878)
|
Thanatopsis, 1817.
Here is a
brief review of "Thanatopsis."
"Thanatopsis"
views death as part of the return to nature, claiming death as one phase of
life rather than the end to life. Bryant states, "Earth, that
nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again,"
(Bryant). This line says that as a person has lived upon the Earth, the Earth
will now live upon him. The person shall live on but in another form.
"Surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix
forever with the elements," (Bryant) states that one's ownership is self
will be lost to the cosmos
"Thanatopsis" reminds the reader that he will not go to death alone.
In death's eyes, we are all equal. And this is supposed to be
comfort for the living. "and what if thou withdraw In silence from the
living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe will share
thy destiny" Insufficient to console the brilliance and excentricities of
the individual.
The Present Crisis, 1844. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, 1807-1882.
The
Jewish Cemetery at Newport, 1852.
I heard the bells on
Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play, And wild and sweet The words repeat Of peace on earth, good-will to men! And in despair I bowed my head; "There is no peace on earth," I said; "For hate is strong, And mocks the song Of peace on earth, good-will to men!" Then pealed the bells more loud and deep: "God is not dead, nor doth he sleep! The Wrong shall fail, the Right prevail, With peace on earth, good-will to men!" ― Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Ichabod, 1820.
Oliver Wendell Holmes, 1809-1894.
Old
Ironsides, 1830.
"Taxes are the price we pay for a civilized society.” This is typical liberal drek. What a terrible idea. Reportedly said by Holmes in a speech in 1904. Alternately phrased as "Taxes are what we pay for civilized society, including the chance to insure", Compania General De Tabacos De Filipinas v. Collector of Internal Revenue, 275 U.S. 87, 100, dissenting; opinion (21 November 1927). The first variation is quoted by the IRS above the entrance to their headquarters at 1111 Constitution Avenue.
Walt Whitman, 1819-1892.
Those of
mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong,
The
carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam,
The mason
singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work,
The
boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat,
the
deckhand singing on the steamboat deck,
The
shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands,
The
wood-cutter's song, the ploughboy's on his way in the morning,
or at
noon intermission or at sundown,
The
delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl
sewing or washing,
Each
singing what belongs to him or her and to none else,
The day
what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly,
Singing
with open mouths their strong melodious songs.
Abraham Lincoln, 1809-1865
51,000 died at the Battle of Gettysburg.
Lincoln's address justified and consecrated the slaughtered.
Julia
Ward Howe,1819-1910
Julia
Ward Howe, author of the murderous "Battle Hymn of the Republic"—written to
glorify Lincoln's war—had the honesty and decency to reject war after she saw
its results. In 1870, she advocated the institution of a Mother's Day.
Here is her radical and moving proclamation:
Arise,
then, women of this day!
Arise, all women who have hearts,
Whether
our baptism be of water or of tears!
Say
firmly: "We will not have great questions decided by irrelevant agencies,
Our
husbands will not come to us, reeking with carnage, for caresses and applause.
Our sons
shall not be taken from us to unlearn
All that
we have been able to teach them of charity, mercy and patience.
We, the
women of one country, will be too tender of those of another country
To allow
our sons to be trained to injure theirs."
From the
bosom of the devastated Earth a voice goes up with our own.
It says:
"Disarm! Disarm! The sword of murder is not the balance of justice."
Blood
does not wipe out dishonor, nor violence indicate possession.
As men
have often forsaken the plough and the anvil at the summons of war,
Let women
now leave all that may be left of home for a great and earnest day of counsel.
Let them
meet first, as women, to bewail and commemorate the dead.
Let them
solemnly take counsel with each other as to the means
Whereby
the great human family can live in peace,
Each
bearing after his own time the sacred impress, not of Caesar, but of God.
In the
name of womanhood and humanity, I earnestly ask
That a
general congress of women without limit of nationality
May be
appointed and held at someplace deemed most convenient
And at
the earliest period consistent with its objects,
To
promote the alliance of the different nationalities,
The
amicable settlement of international questions,
The great
and general interests of peace.
Emily Dickinson, 1830-1886. "There Is No Frigate Like a Book," 1873. "Because I Could Not Stop for Death," 1890. "Success Is Counted Sweetest," 1859. More Dickinson's poems.
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Thomas Hardy (1840-1928)
The Man He Killed, 1902, Thomas Hardy
Had he and I but met
By some old ancient inn,
We should have set us down to wet
Right many a nipperkin!
But ranged as infantry,
And staring face to face,
I shot at him as he at me,
And killed him in his place.
I shot him dead because—
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That's clear enough; although
He thought he'd 'list, perhaps,
Off-hand like—just as I—
Was out of work—had sold his traps—
No other reason why.
Yes; quaint and curious war is!
You shoot a fellow down
You'd treat, if met where any bar is,
Or help to half a crown.
WWI Poetry, 1914-1918
Alan Seeger,
1888-1916.
I Have a Rendezvous with Death, 1916
Alan Seeger
I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling
shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and
fair.
It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my
breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered
hill,
When Spring comes round again this
year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.
God knows ‘twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful
sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to
breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I’ve a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this
year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.
Wilfred Owen, 1893-1918.
Dulce
Et Decorum Est, 1920
Bent
double, like old beggars under sacks,
Knock-kneed,
coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Till on
the haunting flares we turned our backs
And
towards our distant rest began to trudge.
Men
marched asleep. Many had lost their boots
But
limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind;
Drunk
with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots
Of
disappointed shells that dropped behind.
GAS! Gas! Quick, boys!-- An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting
the clumsy helmets just in time;
But
someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And
floundering like a man in fire or lime.--
Dim,
through the misty panes and thick green light
As under
a green sea, I saw him drowning.
In all my dreams, before my helpless sight,
He
plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind
the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch
the white eyes writhing in his face,
His
hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you
could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come
gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene
as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile,
incurable sores on innocent tongues,--
My
friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To
children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old
Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro
patria mori.
"I Didn't Raise My Boy to Be a Soldier" by
Morton Harvey, 1915
Oh, What a Lovely War, 1969, ending sequence.
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Aftermath, March 1919
Have you
forgotten yet?…
For the world’s events have rumbled on since those gagged days,
Like
traffic checked a while at the crossing of city ways:
And the
haunted gap in your mind has filled with thoughts that flow
Like
clouds in the lit heavens of life; and you’re a man reprieved to go,
Taking
your peaceful share of Time, with joy to spare.
But the
past is just the same—and War’s a bloody game…
Have you
forgotten yet?…
Look
down, and swear by the slain of the War that you’ll never forget.
Do you remember the dark months you held the sector at Mametz—
The
nights you watched and wired and dug and piled sandbags on parapets?
Do you
remember the rats; and the stench
Of
corpses rotting in front of the front-line trench—
And dawn
coming, dirty-white, and chill with a hopeless rain?
Do you
ever stop and ask, ‘Is it all going to happen again?’
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack—
And the
anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you
peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you
remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With
dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-gray
Masks of
the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Have you forgotten yet?…
Look up,
and swear by the slain of the war that you’ll never forget!
__________________________________________________________________ Thursday, November 13, 2014 from the Bionic Mosquito . . .
Siegfried
Sassoon, a veteran of the war, writes in “Blighters” that he:
…would like to see them
crushed to death by a tank in one of their silly patriotic music halls, . . .
and in
“Fight to the Finish” he enacts a similar fantasy. The war over, the
army is marching through London in a Victory Parade, cheered by the
“Yellow-Pressmen” along the way.
Here is the poem:
The boys came back. Bands played and flags were
flying,
And Yellow-Pressmen thronged the sunlit street
To cheer the soldiers who'd refrained from dying.
And hear the music of returning feet.
'Of all the thrills and ardours War has brought,
This moment is the finest' (So they thought.)
Snapping their bayonets on to charge the mob,
Grim Fusiliers broke ranks with glint of steel,
At last the boys had found a cushy job.
I heard the Yellow-Pressmen grunt and squeal;
And with my trusty bombers turned and went
To clear those Junkers out of Parliament.
. . .
Suddenly the soldiers fix bayonets and turn on the crowd:
"At last the boys found a cushy job."
Sassoon did not neglect the politicians:
*************************************************************************
Picasso's 1937 Guernica is always offered up as the painting to defer to as an indictment against slaughter, brutality, and atrocities by mankind during the 20th century. But consider Otto Dix's paintings, 1891-1969, as the strongest indictment against the horrors of WWI. Here is a Google collection of Dix's work. |
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Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869-1935
Mending Wall
By Robert Frost
Something there is
that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the
frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper
boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even
two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters
is another thing:
I have come after
them and made repair
Where they have left
not one stone on a stone,
But they would have
the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping
dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them
made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time
we find them there.
I let my neighbour
know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet
to walk the line
And set the wall
between us once again.
We keep the wall
between us as we go.
To each the boulders
that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves
and some so nearly balls
We have to use a
spell to make them balance:
"Stay where you
are until our backs are turned!"
We wear our fingers
rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind
of out-door game,
One on a side. It
comes to little more:
There where it is we
do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I
am apple orchard.
My apple trees will
never get across
And eat the cones
under his pines, I tell him.
He only says,
"Good fences make good neighbours."
Spring is the
mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a
notion in his head:
"Why do they
make good neighbours? Isn't it
Where there are cows?
But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall
I'd ask to know
What I was walling in
or walling out,
And to whom I was
like to give offence.
Something there is
that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it
down." I could say "Elves" to him,
But it's not elves
exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for
himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone
grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an
old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness
as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and
the shade of trees.
He will not go behind
his father's saying,
And he likes having
thought of it so well
He says again,
"Good fences make good neighbours."
Frost's "Mending
Wall" may indeed be a reply to Henry David Thoreau's question in
"Brute Neighbors" of Walden on
what makes a good neighbor.
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in
a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not
travel both
And be one traveler,
long I stood
And looked down one
as far as I could
To where it bent in
the undergrowth;
Then took the other,
as just as fair,
And having perhaps
the better claim,
Because it was grassy
and wanted wear;
Though as for that
the passing there
Had worn them really
about the same,
And both that morning
equally lay
In leaves no step had
trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first
for another day!
Yet knowing how way
leads on to way,
I doubted if I should
ever come back.
I shall be telling
this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and
ages hence:
Two roads diverged in
a wood, and I—
I took the one less
traveled by,
And that has made all
the difference.
"The Road Not
Taken" has often been used at high-school commencement ceremonies to send
seniors on their way with circumspection about their decisions. The
decision to use this poem as a caution is well-intentioned. Though it is popular it may be the wrong poem to alert kids to portentousness of any single
decision, for the poem, according to Yvor Winters, is about a guy who makes no
decision at all. Winters' essay is worth a read. I have made the case several
times that the speaker never makes a decision, but but suffers crippling doubt and hesitation that effectively renders his decision meaningless if non-existent. Winters'
essay is worth a read.
Other favorite poems by Robert Frost.
Birches, 1929.
Mending
Wall, 1914.
Wallace Stevens, 1879-1955.
"Sunday Morning," 1915. And some evaluations of the poem from Illinois University.
William Carlos Williams, 1883-1963
"Sunday Morning," 1915. And some evaluations of the poem from Illinois University.
"Anecdote of the Jar," 1919. And evaluations on "Anecdote of the Jar."
"Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock," 1915. Wikipedia advances its own take on the poem. Here are some critiques. Outside of "Sunday Morning," this is one of my favorite of Stevens' poems.
Find more of Stevens' poems and reviews here.
A bit of trivia surrounding Wallace Stevens. Wikipedia explains that "Weinman never disclosed the name of the model for the obverse, and no person ever claimed to have been her. The winged Liberty is widely believed, however, to have been based on a 1913 bust Weinman sculpted of Elsie Stevens, wife of Wallace Stevens.[23] A lawyer and insurance executive, Wallace Stevens later became famous as a poet; Wallace and Elsie Stevens rented an apartment from Weinman from 1909 to 1916. In a draft of his unpublished autobiography, Woolley wrote that Weinman refused to name the model, but told him it was the wife of a lawyer who lived above his Manhattan apartment. (Woolley, in a later version, omitted the location, saying only that Weinman said it was the wife of a lawyer friend.) Woolley recorded that he was told that the model wore the top of an old pair of stockings to simulate the cap. In 1966, Holly Stevens, Wallace and Elsie's daughter, noted in her edition of her father's letters that Elsie had been the model for Weinman's dime and half dollar."
"Disillusionment of Ten O'Clock," 1915. Wikipedia advances its own take on the poem. Here are some critiques. Outside of "Sunday Morning," this is one of my favorite of Stevens' poems.
Find more of Stevens' poems and reviews here.
A bit of trivia surrounding Wallace Stevens. Wikipedia explains that "Weinman never disclosed the name of the model for the obverse, and no person ever claimed to have been her. The winged Liberty is widely believed, however, to have been based on a 1913 bust Weinman sculpted of Elsie Stevens, wife of Wallace Stevens.[23] A lawyer and insurance executive, Wallace Stevens later became famous as a poet; Wallace and Elsie Stevens rented an apartment from Weinman from 1909 to 1916. In a draft of his unpublished autobiography, Woolley wrote that Weinman refused to name the model, but told him it was the wife of a lawyer who lived above his Manhattan apartment. (Woolley, in a later version, omitted the location, saying only that Weinman said it was the wife of a lawyer friend.) Woolley recorded that he was told that the model wore the top of an old pair of stockings to simulate the cap. In 1966, Holly Stevens, Wallace and Elsie's daughter, noted in her edition of her father's letters that Elsie had been the model for Weinman's dime and half dollar."
William Carlos Williams, 1883-1963
John Dos Passos, 1886-1970.
from John Dos Passos, The Grand Design (Boston: Houghton Mifflin Co., 1949), pp. 416–18.
At home we organized bloodbanks and civilian defense and imitated the rest of the world by setting up concentration camps (only we called them relocation centers) and stuffing into them American citizens of Japanese ancestry (Pearl Harbor the date that will live in infamy) without benefit of habeas corpus….
The President of the United States talked the sincere democrat and so did the members of Congress. In the Administration there were devout believers in civil liberty. "Now we're busy fighting a war; we'll deploy all four freedoms later on," they said…
War is a time of Caesars.
The President of the United States was a man of great personal courage and supreme confidence in his powers of persuasion. He never spared himself a moment, flew to Brazil and Casablanca, Cairo to negotiate at the level of the leaders; at Teheran the triumvirate without asking anybody's leave got to meddling with history; without consulting their constituents, revamped geography, divided up the bloody globe and left the freedoms out.
And the American People were supposed to say thank you for the century of the Common Man turned over for relocation behind barbed wire so help him God.
We learned. There were things we learned to do but we have not learned, in spite of the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence and the great debates at Richmond and Philadelphia, how to put power over the lives of men into the hands of one man and to make him use it wisely.[3]
Ezra Pound, 1885-1972
Thomas Stearns (T.S.) Eliot, 1888-1965.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, 1915. This site has decent review of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Here are some interesting critiques on Eliot.
"The Waste Land," 1922.
More T.S. Eliot poems here. This page and this one have a decent background on Eliot.
"The Waste Land," 1922.
More T.S. Eliot poems here. This page and this one have a decent background on Eliot.
NEW DEAL SAGAS
In his Reclaiming the American Right, Justin Raimondo says "Archibald MacLeish, the 'poet laureate of the New Deal' and Librarian of Congress, gave the lunch party his blessings when he told the ANPA (the American Newspaper Publishers Association) that certain of their members were guilty of treason."
Ken Burns' The Dust Bowl. The Dust Bowl was a 1930's ecological disaster brought on by easy credit that created an army of farmers who tore up the land.
Now wake up, boys, get out on the rock
It ain’t daybreak, but it’s four o’clock
Oh, no, no, no, Pops, you know that ain’t the play
What you talkin’ ’bout? It’s the W.P.A.
The W.P.A.
The W.P.A.
Sleep while you work, while you rest, while you play
Lean on your shovel to pass the time away
T’ain’t what you do; you can’t die for your pay
The W.P.A.
The W.P.A.
The W.P.A.
Now don’t be a fool; working hard is passe
You’ll stand from five to six hours a day
Sit down and joke while you smoke; it’s okay
The W.P.A.
I’m so tired, I don’t know what to do
Can’t get fired, so I’ll take my rest until my work is through
The W.P.A.
The W.P.A.
Don’t mind the boss if he’s cross when you’re gay
He’ll get a pink slip next month anyway
Three little letters that make life okay
The W.P.A.
Elizabeth Bishop
poetry seems to be my favorite. She was the US Poet Laureate. Here
is her poem "The Fish," published in 1946. I made
the argument, erroneous it turns out, that Elizabeth Bishop's poem "The
Fish" was addressing confessional poets who bared the rawness of their
soul in print. I was wrong. The Confessional Poets came after Elizabeth Bishop in the
1950s and 1960s.
A brief list of
Bishop poems:
Randall Jarrell, 1914-1965.
The Death of the Ball
Turret Gunner by Randall Jarrell, 1945
From my mother's
sleep I fell into the State,
And I hunched in its
belly till my wet fur froze.
Six miles from earth,
loosed from its dream of life,
I woke to black flak
and the nightmare fighters.
When I died they
washed me out of the turret with a hose. 5
Randall Jarrell's
note:
"A ball turret
was a Plexiglas sphere set into the belly of a B-17 or B-24, and inhabited by
two .50 caliber machine-guns and one man, a short small man. When this gunner
tracked with his machine guns a fighter attacking his bomber from below, he
revolved with the turret; hunched upside-down in his little sphere, he looked
like the foetus in the womb. The fighters which attacked him were armed with
cannon firing explosive shells. The hose was a steam hose."
The 1990, star-filled
cast of Memphis Belle is about a B-17 bomber with a
ball turret gunner. Here' s a little background on the Memphis Belle.
A ball turret with gunner inside.
Here is the Poetry Speaks series where poets read their
own works. Might be worth having if you're going to create some YouTube
poetry videos.
Cold War Poetry
In Thai Binh (Peace)
Province for Muriel and Jane, 1972.
by Denise
Levertov
I’ve used up all my film on bombed hospitals,
bombed village
schools, the scattered
lemon-yellow cocoons
at the bombed silk-factory,
and for the moment
all my tears too
are used up, having
seen today
yet another child
with its feet blown off,
a girl, this one,
eleven years old,
patient and
bewildered in her home, a fragile
small house of mud
bricks among rice fields.
So I’ll use my dry
burning eyes
to photograph within
me
dark sails of the
river boats,
warm slant of
afternoon light
apricot on the brown,
swift, wide river,
village towers –
church and pagoda – on the far shore,
and a boy and small
bird both
perched, relaxed, on
a quietly grazing
buffalo.
Peace within the
long war.
It is that life,
unhurried, sure, persistent,
I must bring home
when I try to bring
the war home,
Child, river, light.
Here the future,
fabled bird
that has migrated
away from America,
nests, and breeds,
and sings,
common as any
sparrow.
Posted Monday, June
10, 2013
What Were They Like?,
1966
1) Did the
people of Vietnam
use lanterns of stone?
2) Did they
hold ceremonies
to reverence the opening of buds?
3) Were they
inclined to quiet laughter?
4) Did they use
bone and ivory,
jade and silver, for ornament?
5) Had they an
epic poem?
6) Did they
distinguish between speech and singing?
1) Sir, their
light hearts turned to stone.
It is not remembered whether in gardens
stone lanterns illumined pleasant ways.
2) Perhaps they
garthered once to delight in blossom,
but after the children were killed
there were no more buds.
3) Sir,
laughter is bitter to the burned mouth.
4) A dream ago,
perhaps. Ornament is for joy.
All the bones were charred.
5) It is not
remembered. Remember,
most were peasants, their life
was in rice and bamboo.
When peaceful clouds were reflected in the paddies
and the water buffalo stepped surely along terraces,
maybe fathers told their sons odd tales.
When bombs smashed those mirrors
there was time only to scream.
6) There is an
echo yet
of their speech which was like a song.
It was reported their singing resembled
the flight of moths in moonlight.
Who can say? It is silent now.
Theodore Roetke (1908-1963)
"My Papa’s Waltz," 1942.
BY THEODORE ROETHKE
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small
boy dizzy;
But I hung on like
death:
Such waltzing was not
easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen
shelf;
My mother’s
countenance
Could not unfrown
itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one
knuckle;
At every step you
missed
My right ear scraped
a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked
hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off
to bed
Still clinging to
your shirt.
Sylvia Plath (1932-1963)
"Mirror," 1961.
I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I
swallow immediately
Just as it is,
unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only
truthful ‚
The eye of a little
god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I
meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with
speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of
my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness
separate us over and over.
Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches
for what she really is.
Then she turns to
those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and
reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with
tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to
her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is
her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned
a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day
after day, like a terrible fish.
Anne Sexton, 1928-1974.
Allen Ginsberg, 1926-1997.
"Capitol Air," 1980.
I don’t like the government where I live
I don’t like
dictatorship of the Rich
I don’t like
bureaucrats telling me what to eat
I don’t like Police
dogs sniffing round my feet
I don’t like Communist censorship of my books
I don’t like Marxists
complaining about my looks
I don’t like Castro
insulting members of my sex
Leftists insisting we
got the mystic Fix
L don’t like capitalists selling me gasoline Coke
Multinationals
burning Amazon Trees to smoke
Big Corporation
takeover media mind
I don’t like the
Top-bananas that’re robbing Guatemala banks blind
I don’t like K.G.B. Gulag concentration camps
I don’t like the
Maiosts’ Cambodian Death Dance
15 Million were
killed by Stalin Secretary of Terror
He has killed our old
Red Revolution for ever
I don’t like Anarchists screaming Love Is Free
I don’t like the
C.I.A. they killed John Kennedy
Paranoiac tanks sit
in Prague and Hungary
But I don’t like
counterrevolution paid for by the C.I.A.
Tyranny in Turkey or Korea Nineteen Eighty
I don’t like Right
Wing Death Squad Democracy
Police State Iran
Nicaragua yesterday
Laissez-faire please
Government keep your secret police offa me
I don’t like Nationalist Supremacy White or Black
I don’t like Narcs
& Mafia marketing Smack
The Generals bulling
Congress in his tweed vest
The President
building up his Arimies in the East & West
I don’t like Argentine police Jail torture Truths
Government terrorist
takeover Salvador news
I don’t like Zionists
acting Nazi Storm Troop
Palestine Liberation
cooking Israel into Moslem soup
I don’t like the Crown’s Official Secrets Act
You can get away with
murder in the Government that’s a fact
Security cops
teargassing radical kids
In Switzerland or
Czechoslovakia God Forbids
In America it’s Attica in Russia it’s Lubianka Wall
In China if you
disappear you wouldn’t know yourself at all
Arise Arise you
citizens of the world use your lungs
Talk back to the
Tyrants all they’re afraid of is your tongues
Two hundred Billion dollars inflates World War
In United States
every year hey’re asking for more
Russia’s got as much
in tanks and laser planes
Give or take Fifty
Billion we can blow out everbody’s brains
School’s broken down ’cause History changes every night
Half the Free World nations
are Dicatorships of the Right
The only place
socialism worked was in Gdansk, Bud
The Communist world’s
stuck together with prisoners’ blood
The Generals say they know something worth fighting for
They never say what
till they start an unjust war
Iranian hostage Media
Hysteria sucked
The Shah ran away
with 9 Billion Iranian bucks
Dermit Roosevelt and his U.S. dollars overthrew Mossadegh
They wanted his oil
then they got Ayatollah’s dreck
They put in the Shah
and they trained his police the Savak
All Iran was our
hostage quarter-century That’s right Jack
Bishop Romero wrote President Carter to stop
Sending guns to El
Salvador’s junta so he got shot
Ambassador White blew
the whistle on the White House lies
Reagan called him
home cause he looked in the dead nuns’ eyes
Half the voters didn’t vote they know it was too late
Newspaper headlines
called it a big Mandate
Some people voted for
Reagan eyes open wide
3 out of 4 didn’t
vote for him That’s a landslide
Truth may be hard to find but Falsehood’s easy
Read between the
lines our Imperialism is sleazy
But if you think the People’s State is your Heart’s Desire
Jump right back in
the frying pan from the fire
The System the System in Russia & China the same
Criticize the System
in Budapest lose your name
Coca Cola Pepsi Cola
in Russia & China come true
Khrushchev yelled in
Hollywood “We will bury You”
America and Russia want to bomb themselves Okay
Everybody dead on
both sides Everybody pray
All except the Generals
in caves where they can hide
and fuck each other
in the ass waiting for the next free ride
No hope Communism no hope Capitalism Yeah
Everybody’s lying on
both sides Nyeah nyeah nyeah
The bloody iron
curtain of American military Power
Is a mirror image of
Russia’s red Babel-Tower
Jesus Christ was spotless but was Crucified by the Mob
Law & Order
Herod’s hired soldiers did the job
Flowerpower’s fine
but innocence has got no Protection
The man who shot John
Lennon had a Hero-worshipper’s connection
The moral of this song is that the world is in a horrible place
Scientific Industry
devours the human race
Police in every
country armed with tear Gas & TV
Secret Masters
everywhere bureaucratize for you and me
Terrorists and police together build a lowerclass Rage
Propaganda murder
manipulates the upperclass Stage
Can’t tell the
difference ‘tween a turkey & a provacateur
If you’re feeling
confused the Government’s in there for sure
Aware Aware wherever you are. No Fear
Trust your heart
Don’t ride your Paranoia dear
Breathe together with
an ordinary mind
Armed with Humor Feed
& Help Enlighten Woe Mankind
Frankfurt-New York,
December 15, 1980 By Allen Ginsberg
Vietnam War Poetry
Buffalo Springfield's "For What It's Worth" is a bit of a pacifist's song and not so much a pro-peace song. One line of the lyrics reads "Battle lines are bein' drawn, and nobody's right, if everybody's wrong." Problem with that is that not everybody is wrong, and that not nobody is right. The melody is beautiful. The singers are high-profile and representatives of a party lifestyle. They were not serious social philosophers or fantastic poets for that reason. They were the troubadours for a liberal, pot-smoking, booze-drinking, psychedelic-experimenting culture.
Edwin Starr's 1970's
"War! What Is It Good For?"
Gil Scott-Heron's "The
Revolution Will Not Be Televised"
John Lennon's "Happy
Xmas"
Bob Marley "War
No More"
Bob Dylan's "Masters
of War"
"Hey, hey, LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?!"
Porter Robinson's
"The State."
Murray Rothbard's
"The Anatomy of the State," 1974.
Poems Outside the
Canon
Sunday,
June 9, 2013
I found
an interesting poem this morning, quite by accident. Is there any other
way to find a poem? It is written by Ann Darr, 1920-2007. This poem
reads almost like an Emily Dickinson poem but better.
Advice I
Wish Someone Had Given Me, 1971
by Ann Darr
Be
strange if it is necessary, be
quiet,
kindly as you can without
feeling
the heel marks on your head.
Be expert
in some way that pleasures
you,
story-telling, baking, bed;
put truth
and people in their right-
ful angle
in the sun . . . find the shadow,
what it
falls upon.
Trust
everyone a little, no one much.
Care
carefully.
Thicken
your skin to hints and hurts, be
allergic
to the soul scrapers.
Monday,
June 10, 2013
I Sing of
That Which I Would Rather Hide (before 1200)
by Countess of Dia (born about 1140)
I sing of
that which I would rather hide:
Where is
the one who should be at my side
And whom
I dearly love, come ebb or tide?
My
kindness and sweet grace he has denied,
My beauty
and good sense and goodly show.
I am
betrayed, deceived, my love defied,
As if I
were the lowest of the low.
Yet I
take heart: I never brought you shame
Nor ever
did the least to hurt your name.
My love
surpasses loves of greater fame,
And I am
pleased I beat you at love's game--
Outscored
you when devotion was the test.
Your cold
words and your slights all speak the same--
And yet
you play the charmer with the rest.
Friday, November 14, 2014
One Tin Soldier
Writes Daniel Mahaffey: Lew, There’s a lot of anger, and a lot to be angry about, in the
antiwar songs you’ve place in the blog. Given the empty reasons for war, and
the hypocritical support for war from our neighbors and friends, I can’t help
but recommend “One Tin Soldier,” my favorite antiwar message. The suicidal
folly of it all comes through clearly, and without anger—just shame.
Writes Bill: Interesting being reminded of the different sources of antiwar songs. Thanks for the posts.
Here’s a few more. From the 1930s, Bill Monroe on the Forgotten Soldier Boy. Writer of Universal Soldier was Buffy St Marie. Her version with her introduction explaining writing it. Gary North did an LRC article on Earl Scruggs when he died a couple years ago. Flatt and Scruggs also did a version of Universal Soldier in the 60s I think. Hard to imagine this from country music today.
Writes Bill: Interesting being reminded of the different sources of antiwar songs. Thanks for the posts.
Here’s a few more. From the 1930s, Bill Monroe on the Forgotten Soldier Boy. Writer of Universal Soldier was Buffy St Marie. Her version with her introduction explaining writing it. Gary North did an LRC article on Earl Scruggs when he died a couple years ago. Flatt and Scruggs also did a version of Universal Soldier in the 60s I think. Hard to imagine this from country music today.
A more modern song about W's war, "Man of God" by Eliza Gilkyson
Universal
Soldier Flatt & Scruggs with Doc Watson - Topic
BuffySainte-Marie, Universal Soldier The Forgotten Soldier Boy
The Forgotten Soldier Boy
The Forgotten Soldier Boy
(Bert Layne)
I'm just a poor ex-soldier that's broken down
and blue,
Fought out in the Great War for the old red,
white, and blue.
I left my parents and my girl I loved, to
France did go
And fought out on the battlefield through
hunger, sleet, and snow.
I saw my buddies dying, and some shellshocked
and torn
Although we never faltered at the battle of
Amarne
And we were told when we left home we'd be
heroes of the land,
So we came back and found no one would lend a
helping hand.
They promised gold and silver, and bid us all
adieu.
They said they'd welcome us back home when the
terrible war was through.
We fought until the war was o'er, they said
we'd won the fight,
But we have no job or money, no place to sleep
at night.
They called us wandering boys bums, asking for
shelter and bread
Although we fought in no man's land and a-many
poor boy is dead.
So listen to my story and lend a helping hand
To the poor forgotten soldier boy who fought
to save our land.
Somebody asked about whether
there were any serious bluegrass songs. This is very early, from the Monroe Brothers, Charlie and Bill,
1936. I am not sure it is available anywhere at the moment. It was on a old (great) vinyl
collection, Country Music South and West from New World Records.
recorded by the Monroe
Brothers, October 12, 1936
I appreciate all you do and
I love your antiwar, non-interventionist stance. I was a war mongering right
wing Christian for many years and hated anyone who was Anti-American.
Through God’s grace and the
influence of men like you and Ron Paul, I have since repented and changed
direction.
When you talk about anti
war songs, you should also include the Rise Against song, “Hero of War”. It is
about a soldier whose eyes are opened during his destructive tour for America’s
military machine.
Once again, thanks for all
you do. Blessings.
Here are the lyrics.
And the beat rolls on . . . .
Songs of war-weary soldiers by Will Grigg.
MOVIES WORTH SHOWING TO STUDENTS
1. The Lego Movie with Will Ferrell, 2014.
2.
Eva Marie Saint. One of my favorite actresses when growing up was Eva Marie Saint. I loved her look. I loved her voice. I loved the empathy in her voice. I loved her in On the Water Front, 1954, and I loved her in the How the West Was Won, 1977.
And the beat rolls on . . . .
Songs of war-weary soldiers by Will Grigg.
MOVIES WORTH SHOWING TO STUDENTS
1. The Lego Movie with Will Ferrell, 2014.
2.
Eva Marie Saint. One of my favorite actresses when growing up was Eva Marie Saint. I loved her look. I loved her voice. I loved the empathy in her voice. I loved her in On the Water Front, 1954, and I loved her in the How the West Was Won, 1977.
This shows the advantages of technology exquisitely.
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