h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

After Sunset. William Allingham again - trying to be a Victorian Irish Wordsworth?


Now, by contrast, this piece of real mysticism, with similarities to the Bhavagad Gita:


IF the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

Far or forgot to me is near;
Shadow and sunlight are the same;
The vanish'd gods to me appear;
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.


Poet and title please.

Brahma by Emerson

That's right, of course, Saavz. The idea is you set us a new one, but in the meantime, as I'm currently into 'clerihews', can someone tell me who wrote this?


Sir Henry Rider Haggard
Was completely staggered
When his bride-to-be
Announced, "I am She!"


(Are you still here, Jabs?)

That was Auden, showing he could turn his hand to anything, rude things included. Now try this one, (anyone):

'Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' 'er name was Supi-yaw-lat — jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen,
An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,
An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:

(excerpt)

It was easy to guess the poet, Jabs - Kipling - but I had to look up the title - Mandalay.

I didn't spot anything rude about that clerihew of Auden's; it seems like a straightforward literary quip to me. Am I missing something? (No, don't answer that.)

Try this one.

Oh, how I love Humanity,
With love so pure and pringlish,
And how I hate the horrid French,
Who never will be English!

The International Idea,
The largest and the clearest,
Is welding all the nations now,
Except the one that’s nearest.

This compromise has long been known,
This scheme of partial pardons,
In ethical societies
And small suburban gardens—

The villas and the chapels where
I learned with little labour
The way to love my fellow-man
And hate my next-door neighbour.

That was The World State, G.K.Chesterton, with an outlandishly contrived rhyme.

WFT - The hands of Auden didn't relate to the poem. It was a non-PC reference to his gayness, to which I have no objection, but like to feel free to refer to.

Now a very celebrated poet, with his stuff all over the internet, which I'm afraid I don't 'get' at all. My loss? Stuff like this makes me doubt itit's translated):

At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
A boy brought the white sheet
at five in the afternoon.
A frail of lime ready prepared
at five in the afternoon.
The rest was death, and death alone.

The wind carried away the cottonwool
at five in the afternoon.
And the oxide scattered crystal and nickel
at five in the afternoon.

(and so on and so on ad infinitum - J.)

That's from "Lament for Ignacio Sánchez Mejías" by Federico García Lorca (or Federico del Sagrado Corazón de Jesús García Lorca according to Wiki) supposedly one of Spain's leading 20th century poets. I'm not familiar with his work: must ask my daughter if she came across him during her Spanish A level studies.

Here's one from an English poet whom I've only encountered very recently.

'Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
A penny for three tries!'
Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.

She was a tawny gypsy girl,
A girl of twenty years,
I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;

I liked the flaring yellow scarf
Bound loose about her throat,
I liked her showy purple gown
And flashy velvet coat.

A man came up, too loose of tongue,
And said no good to her;
She did not blush as Saxons do,
Or turn upon the cur;

She fawned and whined, 'Sweet gentleman,
A penny for three tries!'
- But oh, the den of wild things in
The darkness of her eyes!

The Gypsy Girl, some quiet racism and misogyny from Rudyard Kipling.
For a more refreshing attitude:

When I am an old woman I shall wear purple
With a red hat which doesn't go and doesn't suit me.
And I shall spend my pension on brandy and summer gloves
And satin sandals, and say we've no money for butter.
I shall sit down on the pavement when I'm tired
And gobble up samples in shops and press alarm bells
And run my stick along the public railings
And make up for the sobriety of my youth.
I shall go out in my slippers in the rain
And pick the flowers in other people's gardens . . .

NB This is a very strong, very popular poem which doesn't need to rhyme.


Jabs

Even I recognize that one, Jabs: it's "Warning" by Jenny Joseph, once voted the nation's most popular post-war poem.

Here's something a bit more Shakespearean.

Not only marble, but the plastic toys
From cornflake packets will outlive this rhyme.
I can't immortalize you, love - our joys
Will lie unnoticed in the vault of time.
When Mrs. Thatcher has been cast in bronze
And her administration is a page
In some O-Level text-book, when the dons
Have analysed the story of our age,
When travel firms sell tours of outer space,
When aeroplanes take off without a sound
And Tulse Hill has become a trendy place
And upper Norwood's on the underground,
Your beauty and my name will be forgotten -
My love is true, but all my verse is rotten.

This is a Strugnell's Sonnet (no 1573) by Wendy Cope, a travesty of a lampoon of Keats' 'When I have fears that I may cease to be', which itself IMO is one of the most wonderful sonnets in the language bar none, WFAT. Shakespeare was a big and particular influence on Keats of course.


This (excerpt) has its fair share of a more serious, bitter irony:


'O 'Melia, my dear, this does everything crown!
Who could have supposed I should meet you in Town?
And whence such fair garments, such prosperity?'
'O didn't you know I'd been ruined?' said she.

'You left us in tatters, without shoes or socks,
Tired of digging potatoes, and spudding up docks;
And now you've gay bracelets and bright feathers three!'
'Yes: that's how we dress when we're ruined,' said she.


Quite well known, but its recall is maybe harder.

Jabs

C'mon folks! This one was quite easy to find on the net. Would it help if I told you it was Thomas Hardy in one of his many bitter moods transformed into art? We just need the title now + any comments (not obligatory). And the next poem of course!

Jabs

If that one was too easy to deign to deal with, try this:

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"The few locks which are left you are grey;
You are hale, father William, a hearty old man;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,
"I remember'd that youth would fly fast,
And abus'd not my health and my vigour at first,
That I never might need them at last."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"And pleasures with youth pass away.
And yet you lament not the days that are gone;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"In the days of my youth," father William replied,
"I rememberd that youth could not last;
I thought of the future, whatever I did,
That I never might grieve for the past."

"You are old, father William," the young man cried,
"And life must be hast'ning away;
You are cheerful and love to converse upon death;
Now tell me the reason, I pray."

"I am cheerful, young man," father William replied,
"Let the cause thy attention engage;
In the days of my youth I remember'd my God!
And He hath not forgotten my age."

Well, Jabs, that one of Hardy's is called "The Ruined Maid". And the other poem, whose parody by Lewis Carroll is now better known than the original, is "The Old Man's Comforts and How He Gained Them" by Robert Southey.

I was a bit puzzled by your comments about Strugnell's Sonnet (iv). Firstly, I'm not sure where you got 1573 from - unless it was Wandering Minstrels - and secondly, I thought it was meant to be a parody of this, which I'm sure you can readily identify:-


Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

Your puzzlement over Wendy Cope, WFAT. 1573 is the spoof number of the Sonnet, not the year. And I was linking it to 'When I have fears that I may cease to be' by Keats, though I think you're right :I overlooked the Shakespeare sonnet, in spite of your clue.

Now try this bit of sensual writing, which made the poet famous:


Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
"Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries-
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries--
All ripe together
In summer weather--


I can taste 'em while I write 'em down!

Jabs

I think that must be my daughter's shopping list, Jabs - she's a bit of fruit-bat. Either that, or it's Goblin Market by Christina Rossetti. An odd piece by today's standards; I'm not sure what to make of it. Is it allegorical? Or just a cautionary tale?

Here's something more straightforward:-

There's a graveyard near the White House
Where the Unknown Soldier lies,
And the flowers there are sprinkled
With the tears from mother's eyes.

I stood there not so long ago
With roses for the brave,
And suddenly I heard a voice
Speak from out the grave:

"I am the Unknown Soldier,
The spirit voice began
"And I think I have the right
To ask some questions man to man.

"Are my buddies taken care of?
Was their victory so sweet?
Is that big reward you offered
Selling pencils on the street?

"Did they really win the freedom
They battled to achieve?
Do you still respect that Croix de Guerre
Above that empty sleeve...

Both, WFAT - an allegorical warning to Victorian maidens not to 'ruin themselves' through carnal indulgence, 'forbidden fruit'.

I had no knowledge of your poem before - The Unknown Soldier by Billy Rose. It may be used on Memorial Day in America, but it's not really clear to me after looking it up whether it is or not. Do you know, WFAT?

Nothing changes -

I wonder if the profiteers
Have satisfied their greed
(Iraq - huge oil profits and more for the invaders)

An interesting poem but not a good one, it seems to me, because of its slightly out of control tum-te-tum rhythm - excellent sentiments though.

Next: a far better poem, but one serving a similar function:

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:

Jab

Here's the full poem:

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.

Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres,
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.

They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.

They shall not grow old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.

They mingle not with their laughing comrades again;
They sit no more at familiar tables of home;
They have no lot in our labour of the day-time;
They sleep beyond England’s foam.

But where our desires are and our hopes profound,
Felt as a well-spring that is hidden from sight,
To the innermost heart of their own land they are known
As the stars are known to the Night;

As the stars that shall be bright when we are dust,
Moving in marches upon the heavenly plain;
As the stars that are starry in the time of our darkness,
To the end, to the end, they remain.

I'm afraid I don't know much about that Unknown Soldier poem, Jabs - I hadn't seen it before it was posted recently on a poetry site I frequent. As you say, there are problems with the rhythm. I assume the Billy Rose who wrote it was the impresario, showman and lyricist of that name, so maybe it was written as a song lyric.

I don't think it's used as a performance piece on Memorial Day, but some lines are sometimes quoted in speeches, as far as one can tell.

Your more polished memorial offering was "The Fallen" by Laurence Binyon, written - as you probably know, but I've only just discovered - in September, 1914 - so I suppose it was more of a prophecy.


Here's an easy one for you.


That is no country for old men. The young
In one another's arms, birds in the trees
—Those dying generations—at their song,
The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,
Fish, flesh, or fowl, commend all summer long
Whatever is begotten, born, and dies.
Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

Yep, I know that one of course - Sailing To Byzantium, W.B.Yeats.
The country for the young is America, where

Caught in that sensual music all neglect
Monuments of unaging intellect.

Same here, these days.
---------------------------------------------

Next the first few lines of a poem written in a caravan by the side of the road, where the poet lived and wrote for a time:

Trees crisp with Maeterlinck blue, screen
Submarine suns and baskets of bees: but
Men nettled with pie-powdered feet, angry
As rooks on their pernickety beds 'training
For another Cattraeth' said Evans shop.

DISSIMILAR. DISSUNDERED. CRANCH-CRAKE
CRANCH-CRAKE
ASHIVER. ANHUNGERED ANHELATION.
CERAUNIC CLOUDS CRACK IN THEIR BRAIN.

An overlooked but excellent poet. There was a great program on the poet and works a couple of years ago on BBC TV.

A note of appreciation:

Esp. Jabberwock and Paulh

I haven't been posting here since I know next to nothing about poetry.

But I certainly know whom to ask if have questions.