Number 101: Russell Edson "With Sincerest Regrets"

With Sincerest Regrets
for Charles Simic

Like a monstrous snail, a toilet slides into a living room on a track of wet, demanding to be loved.
It is impossible, and we tender our sincerest regrets. In the book of the heart there is no mention made of plumbing.
And though we have spent our intimacy many times with you, you belong to an unfortunate reference, which we would rather not embrace ...
The toilet slides away ...

--Russell Edson

Hap Notes: Well, prose-poet Russell Edson (born 1935) is surely a paradigm shift from Medieval poetry. As we all know, I am not a fan of prose-poetry but there's an exception to every rule and mine is Edson (breaking off briefly to say that if there IS an exception to every rule and if that is a rule, then there isn't.) If you understood my parenthetical comment then you will probably find something to enjoy in Edson who is slightly on the surreal side, often amusing and always thought provoking.

Edson was born in Connecticut and was the son of the cartoonist Gus Edson who created the comic strip "The Gumps"- which is a bit before my time, and wrote the text and was co-creator of the Irwin Hasen drawn "Dondi," which I remember reading in the Sunday paper when I was a kid.

Edson studied art at the Art Students League in the early 50s. He has been enormously influential on contemporary poets. He has won several NEA writing fellowships and a Guggenheim. He is a great proponent of the dream and the subconscious as the originator of poetry, particularly his. He has commented that most people have that kind of creativity- what a writer needs to be is an editor.

The poem has many levels. For one thing a talking toilet is certainly something our culture would use to sell toilet cleaners, wouldn't it? So apparently a talking toilet is a device for sales but other than that, what? For another- there's nothing to bring you down from the heights of overblown romanticism than the ubiquitous, useful and helpful porcelain commode that all must use. The throne on which we all reign. This is not poetry as bathroom humor, though. It's poetry with a new perspective on an old thing, our humanity, our need for privacy, our shame at our uh... output. It brings up the question of why we feel the way we do about it. Perhaps there are some who see the toilet with romantic joy but I daresay it has more to do with constipation than with love.

We will do more Edson this year. His images are astonishing and memorable.

Here is a quote from Edson in an interview with Mark Tursi for web del sol. I thought it was germane to today's poem. Tursi is asking Edson about a cure for writer's block/constipation:

"Possibly a good psychological physic, which goes: just get something on the page, you have nothing to lose except your life, which you're going to lose anyway. So get with it, enjoy this special moment that brings you to the writing table. Relax into the writing and enjoy the creative bowel movement, remembering all is lost anyway."

The rest of the interview is here: www.webdelsol.com/Double_Room/issue_four/Russell_Edson.html

You can find more Edson here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/russell-edson

And also here: famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/russell_edson/poems

Number 100: Medieval poem "Sir Isumbras"

Excerpt from 14th century poem "Sir Isumbras"

He was mekil man and long
With armes grete and body strong
And fair was to se.
He was long man and heygh,
The fayreste that evere man seygh;
A gret lord was he.
Menstralles he lovyd wel in halle
And gaf hem ryche robes withalle,
Bothe golde and fe.
Off curteysye he was kyng
And of his mete never nothyng
In worlde was non so free.

A fayr lady hadde hee
As any man myghte see,
With tungge as I yow nevene.
Bytwen hem they hadde chyldren thre,
The fayreste that myghte on lyve be
Undyr God off hevene.
Swyche pryde in his herte was brought,
On Jhesu Cryst thoghte he nought
Ne on His names sevene.
So longe he levede in that pryde
That Jhesu wolde no lenger abyde;
To hym he sente a stevenne.

So hit byfell upon a day
The knyghte wente hym to play,
His foreste for to se.
As he wente by a derne sty,
He herde a fowle synge hym by
Hye upon a tre.
He seyde, "Welcome Syr Isumbras,
Thow haste forgete what thou was
For pryde of golde and fee.
The kynge of hevenn the gretheth so:
In yowthe or elde thou schall be wo,
Chese whedur hyt shall be."

The poem in its entirety is here:www.lib.rochester.edu/camelot/teams/isumfrm.htm

Hap Notes: Well I wanted to show you the poem about the fella from the JE Millais painting on masthead (you can see a larger version here: en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:ISUMBRAS.jpg). However 14th century verse is not for everyone and I thought this would give you a good idea about the story.

It's an odd story- Isumbras (as these verses say) was a tall, powerful, handsome lanky man with a beautiful wife and three sons. He was generous to minstrels- giving them fine robes and gold (leave it to a poet to mention that since poets/minstrels were the same job really). Isumbrus had it all and wealth besides but he "thought not on Jesus Christ." One day a bird (a Holy Spirit messenger) come to Isumbras and said, "Okay, you haven't been thinking about your creator or your savior and I'm giving you a choice; do you want wealth and happiness in your youth or your old age?"

Isumbras (you'll have to go to the link to see this part of the poem) says he chooses old age- an interesting and fairly wise choice, actually, and says now he will live for "Chryste". Immediately bad stuff starts to happen. First his home and all his possessions burn to the ground. He comes home to find his naked family, who'd been roused by the fire in the night, standing in front of the burnt rubble that was his home. He takes his wife and sons away and they come to a river. Isumbrus swims the first child over and leaves him on the river bank and goes back for another son. The son left on the river bank gets "taken" (or maybe eaten) by a lion while he is gone. Oops.

So now he (honestly, this is beginning to be like one of those logic problems with taking the chickens and the wolves across the stream- you know that one?) takes the next son over and leaves him and, you guessed it, he gets "taken" by a leopard ("lybarte"). Uh, oops.

He now gets smart and takes his last son and his wife across at the same time. A rich Sultan appears and offers to buy Isumbrus' wife because she is beautiful and "white as a whale's bone". Of course he declines and they beat him up and take her anyway. She implores Isumbrus to search for her and not forget her. She manages to get some clothes and food and money to her husband and son before she is taken away which includes a red cloak. So now the aching Isumbrus travels the land with the son. One day he is sitting with his last son under a tree and a griffin steals the cloak. Isumbrus runs after the griffin to get the cloak back and while he's gone his last son is "taken" by a unicorn. (This is one of the only times I can think of when a unicorn does something sort of oddly bad.)

Isumbras goes on and ends up working for a blacksmith (where he hauls lumps of iron- and the name Isumbras is sort of a portmanteau of the German Eisen (Iron) and the Latin Umbra (shadow)- Iron Shadow.) He fights valiantly in a battle for a Christian king and humbly takes no laurels for his bravery. He travels as a pilgrim to Jerusalem and lives there for seven years. Finally an angel of the lord appears to him and tells him his years of suffering are at an end.

He is miraculously reunited with his wife, and the two of them face a battle with 30,000 men. It's two Christians against 30,000 guys- the odds are a bit daunting. And then- ta da!- the three sons ride in (they weren't eaten, just "taken" hurrah!). Now they are heartened because 5 versus 30,000 is so much better (!?!). And they win! And convert the country to Christianity! And they're rich again and better Christians for it. (!?!)

It's sort of a Job story in reverse since Job refuses to curse God and holds on through his troubles and Isumbras must learn hard lessons about devotion and faith before he will be rewarded.

Now, what has this to do with the painting, other than the title of it? Not much, I'm afraid. I guess Millais was making a statement of how the aged Isumbrus had become kind to all from his suffering. Notice that the girl has a purse and the little boy is carrying firewood, perhaps an illusion to Isumbras finally getting love and warmth and wealth after many years of suffering. I love the horse in the painting- so still and big and gentle looking.

This painting was much criticized in its day most notably by John Ruskin. Of course, one has to consider that Ruskin's wife left him for Millais. Maybe the painting was just a little too close to home for him.

Number 99: Lewis Carroll "Ways and Means"

A-sitting on a Gate

I'll tell thee everything I can:
There's little to relate.
I saw an aged aged man,
A-sitting on a gate.

'Who are you, aged man?' I said.
'And how is it you live?'
And his answer trickled through my head,
Like water through a sieve.
He said, 'I look for butterflies
That sleep among the wheat:
I make them into mutton-pies,
And sell them in the street.

I sell them unto men,' he said,
'Who sail on stormy seas;
And that's the way I get my bread —
A trifle, if you please.'
But I was thinking of a plan
To dye one's whiskers green,
And always use so large a fan
That they could not be seen.

So having no reply to give
To what the old man said, I cried
'Come, tell me how you live!'
And thumped him on the head.
His accents mild took up the tale:

He said 'I go my ways,
And when I find a mountain-rill,
I set it in a blaze;
And thence they make a stuff they call
Rowland's Macassar-Oil —
Yet twopence-halfpenny is all
They give me for my toil.'

But I was thinking of a way
To feed oneself on batter,
And so go on from day to day '
Getting a little fatter.
I shook him well from side to side,
Until his face was blue:
'Come, tell me how you live,' I cried,
'And what it is you do!'

He said, 'I hunt for haddocks' eyes
Among the heather bright,
And work them into waistcoat-buttons
In the silent night.
And these I do not sell for gold
Or coin of silvery shine,
But for a copper halfpenny,
And that will purchase nine.

'I sometimes dig for buttered rolls,
Or set limed twigs for crabs:
I sometimes search the grassy knolls
For wheels of Hansom-cabs.
And that's the way' (he gave a wink)
'By which I get my wealth —
And very gladly will I drink
Your Honour's noble health.'

I heard him then, for I had just
Completed my design
To keep the Menai bridge from rust
By boiling it in wine.
I thanked him much for telling me
The way he got his wealth,
But chiefly for his wish that he
Might drink my noble health.

And now, if e'er by chance I put
My fingers into glue,
Or madly squeeze a right-hand foot
Into a left-hand shoe,
Or if I drop upon my toe
A very heavy weight,
I weep, for it reminds me so
Of that old man I used to know —
Whose look was mild, whose speech was slow
Whose hair was whiter than the snow,
Whose face was very like a crow,
With eyes, like cinders, all aglow,
Who seemed distracted with his woe,
Who rocked his body to and fro,
And muttered mumblingly and low,
As if his mouth were full of dough,
Who snorted like a buffalo-
That summer evening long ago,
A-sitting on a gate.

--Lewis Carroll

Hap Notes: This is from Through the Looking-Glass, and What Alice Found There by the mathematician and writer Charles Lutwidge Dodgson AKA Lewis Carroll (1832-1898). I've always thought the white knight, who is the chess piece of the same name come to life, to be a character somewhat like the author. The knight is clumsy and odd, somewhat like the "L" shaped movement of the chess piece seems to be and he is charming, odd and a bit sad in spite of his strange and thoughtful "inventions."

Both Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking-Glass have been made into movies or squished together into one movie and while every version has its charm no one version ever satisfies. It's sort of like Hamlet that way; one never sees a version that is perfect because one has ideas about who should play what character and how the books compare. I suppose the same could be said for all of my favorite books and plays including Anna Karenina- the imagination is the best movie maker, I think.

Oh, but how they have tried with Alice. Here are several version of the White Knight:
This is Richard Burton with a cunningly designed Tenniel-like-drawing costume. He's got the sadness right but they make him do the old soft shoe. Not a good idea. That's his daughter playing Alice, by the way.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=cH14glXzfSE

Here's Gary Cooper giving it a try:
Edna May Oliver as the Red Queen is wonderful. Cooper does a good job. It's a bit weird and old Hollywood, though. And he doesn't say the poem.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=ePD7XiQ6Ox0

Here's Christopher Lloyd as the White Knight :
Lloyd is wonderful but, of course, they wrote extra dialog for him (like Carroll wasn't clever enough for the film makers- sheesh!) and he doesn't say the poem.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=4K2m11Pq6rY

Finally we have Ian Holm:
Kate Beckinsale is Alice. This film got it most right as far as the poem and Holm is good but again...one wants everything.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=pWz9r-icoIA&feature

Now. Did you know some believe that John Tenniel based his drawings of the knight upon a painting by JE Millias, "Sir Isumbrus at the Ford"? (That's the masthead painting today).

Also there is a Lewis Carroll Society (which I found out strictly by chance when interviewing Robyn Hitchcock- it's a long story.) But the society does a bit of studying on Carroll and you can see it here : lewiscarrollsociety.org.uk/

Lot of links in this chain(mail) today. Thought it might be fun for a weekend.

Here's the title of the poem as written in the book:

"The name of the song is called 'Haddocks' Eyes.'"

"Oh, that's the name of the song, is it?" Alice said,
trying to feel interested.

"No, you don't understand," the knight said, looking a little vexed.
"That's what the name is called. The name really is 'The Aged, Aged
Man.'"

"Then I ought to have said 'That's what the song is called'?" Alice
corrected herself.

"No, you oughtn't: that's quite another thing! The song is called 'Ways
and Means': but that's only what it is called, you know!"

"Well, what is the song, then?" said Alice, who was, by this time
completely bewildered.

"I was coming to that," the Knight said. "The song really is'A-sitting
On a Gate': and the tune's my own invention."

Oh- one more thing: Rowland's Macassar-Oil is a hair oil used by men in Victorian times. That's why the little doily which is often put on the back of an overstuffed arm chair is called an "anti-macassar" - it absorbed the oil and saved the chair.

Number 98: B.H. Fairchild "Old Men Playing Basketball"

Old Men Playing Basketball

The heavy bodies lunge, the broken language

of fake and drive, glamorous jump shot

slowed to a stutter. Their gestures, in love

again with the pure geometry of curves,

rise toward the ball, falter, and fall away.

On the boards their hands and fingertips

tremble in tense little prayers of reach

and balance. Then, the grind of bone

and socket, the caught breath, the sigh,

the grunt of the body laboring to give

birth to itself. In their toiling and grand

sweeps, I wonder, do they still make love

to their wives, kissing the undersides

of their wrists, dancing the old soft-shoe

of desire? And on the long walk home

from the VFW, do they still sing

to the drunken moon? Stands full, clock

moving, the one in army fatigues

and houseshoes says to himself, pick and roll,

and the phrase sounds musical as ever,

radio crooning songs of love after the game,

the girl leaning back in the Chevy’s front seat

as her raven hair flames in the shuddering

light of the outdoor movie, and now he drives,

gliding toward the net. A glass wand

of autumn light breaks over the backboard.

Boys rise up in old men, wings begin to sprout

at their backs. The ball turns in the darkening air.

-- B. H. Fairchild

Hap Notes: One of the many reasons I like poetry about sports (in addition to the slight edge of shadenfreude I feel when "sports guys" are shocked and slightly pained that there is such a thing) is the melding of the everyday and the body with the intellect. No poet deftly welds these things quite like B.H. Fairchild (born 1942) who manages to take a working class background and show us the poetry which lurks underneath the most common of experiences. He deftly illustrates why "common" is a word which means both something quotidian and something shared.

Fairchild was born in Houston and grew up around the oil fields of Oklahoma and Texas. His dad was a lathe machinist and he worked for his dad as he went through high school and college. He uses words the way a tool and die man uses machinery, in order to get a precise cut. He files the words like a jig grinder and this careful craftsmanship yields stunning results.

Fairchild taught literature at a number of universities, mostly in the heartland of Kansas and Texas (yes, I think Texas is part of the heartland- it's so full of music it has to be part of the heart.) He came to prominence as a writer with his book on the music of Blake's poetry and it is well worth a read or two: Such Holy Song: Music as Idea, Form, and Image in the Poetry of William Blake. (We'll get to Blake- I dropped the ball on that a week ago. I'll blame it on my jury duty but it's really because I haven't thought it out well enough to write about him yet.)

As to the poem, I love the beautiful details, the "glass wand" of light, the image of kissing the underside of the wrist, the houseshoes, the VFW's basketball hoop. I want those guys to fly up to the basket, don't you? Remember when you sang to the "drunken moon"?

Here's a good Fairchild quote taken from an essay her wrote for Poems Out Loud which you can find here:poemsoutloud.net/columns/archive/why_i_write/ : "I was drawn specifically to the writing of poems because, growing up among skilled laborers and artisans, people for whom the precise making of a thing was vital, I had a natural admiration for precision."

You can find more Fairchild here: www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/b-h-fairchild

Number 97: Flann O'Brien/Myles na gCopaleen/Brian O'Nolan "The Workman's Friend"

The Workmans Friend

When things go wrong and will not come right,
Though you do the best you can,
When life looks black as the hour of night -
A pint of plain is your only man.

When money's tight and hard to get
And your horse has also ran,
When all you have is a heap of debt -
A pint of plain is your only man.

When health is bad and your heart feels strange,
And your face is pale and wan,
When doctors say you need a change,
A pint of plain is your only man.

When food is scarce and your larder bare
And no rashers grease your pan,
When hunger grows as your meals are rare -
A pint of plain is your only man.

In time of trouble and lousey strife,
You have still got a darlint plan
You still can turn to a brighter life -
A pint of plain is your only man.

--Flann O'Brien (Brian O'Nolan)

Hap Notes: Flann O'Brien/Myles na gCopaleen/Brian O'Nolan ,( 1911 - 1966) was an Irish novelist, poet and humorist. Thought this poem, which is regularly quoted, would be a good one for St. Patrick's Day. O'Nolan wrote under a variety of pseudonyms and his novels are extraordinary. Much of his work was published in the fleeting worlds of magazines and newspapers so it takes some digging to find.

Number 96: John Updike "Ex-Basketball Player"

Ex-Basketball Player

Pearl Avenue runs past the high-school lot,

Bends with the trolley tracks, and stops, cut off

Before it has a chance to go two blocks,

At Colonel McComsky Plaza. Berth’s Garage

Is on the corner facing west, and there,

Most days, you'll find Flick Webb, who helps Berth out.

Flick stands tall among the idiot pumps—

Five on a side, the old bubble-head style,

Their rubber elbows hanging loose and low.

One’s nostrils are two S’s, and his eyes

An E and O. And one is squat, without

A head at all—more of a football type.

Once Flick played for the high-school team, the Wizards.

He was good: in fact, the best. In ’46

He bucketed three hundred ninety points,

A county record still. The ball loved Flick.

I saw him rack up thirty-eight or forty

In one home game. His hands were like wild birds.

He never learned a trade, he just sells gas,

Checks oil, and changes flats. Once in a while,

As a gag, he dribbles an inner tube,

But most of us remember anyway.

His hands are fine and nervous on the lug wrench.

It makes no difference to the lug wrench, though.

Off work, he hangs around Mae’s Luncheonette.

Grease-gray and kind of coiled, he plays pinball,

Smokes those thin cigars, nurses lemon phosphates.

Flick seldom says a word to Mae, just nods

Beyond her face toward bright applauding tiers

Of Necco Wafers, Nibs, and Juju Beads.

--John Updike

Hap Notes: Here's a poem to celebrate basketball playoff season- sorta.

Normally, I'd say this poem speaks for itself but there's a lot of information in this poem that is about an America many readers do not know. "Bubble head" gas pumps and "Juju Beads" are not part of everyday life anymore, neither is a luncheonette. Once again we have a reference to an Esso station, which were so common on the East coast. And again, the gray greasy look of all service station's employees uniforms (remember Elizabeth Bishop's "Filling Station"?) America was a charming and fairly dirty place in the 30s and 40s. The 50s started that streamlined "clean" look that most gas stations have now.

The candy at the luncheonette (which is sort of like a diner only they usually were only open for lunch) is on a slanted display (probably on a shelf behind the cash register) which looks very much like bleachers in a gym, like an audience. A lemon phosphate is an old time drugstore/diner/luncheonette drink made with carbonated soda water, a flavored syrup and a pinch of phosphoric acid. They came in lots of flavors: vanilla, cherry, lime, lemon and chocolate. (If you want to make one now use a pinch of citric acid- I don't think you can find restaurant grade phosphoric acid now.) The flavored syrups were often added to Coke, too, but that's not a phosphate- that's just a cherry Coke or a chocolate Coke or a lemon Coke etc.

Juju Beads are harder candies than Jujubes (which are still around) and they were regional. Necco Wafers can still be purchased at Walgreens (they've been around since the late 1800s!). Nibs were small pieces of licorice. They came in both the red and black variety. (Although "red" licorice is NOT licorice. There's no licorice in it. Just sayin'.) I have pictured the candies and gas pumps and the luncheonette (at the masthead.)

Now, of course, Flick would get a scholarship, flunk out of college, maybe make the grade as a professional athlete or maybe not. After he got through rehab he could open up his own station if he'd saved some money. I'm not so sure high school athletes have it much better than they did in Flick's day. All of us know someone who was a great athlete in high school-- some turn out happier than others.

Here's where we talked about Updike before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-4-john-updike-thoughts-while.html

I will also reassert my original statement that John Updike was a better poet than most and I wish he'd concentrated on it more and saved us from having to read "Rabbit Redux." He had a gift for poetry.

Number 95: Robert Frost "Spring Pools"

Spring Pools

These pools that, though in forests, still reflect
The total sky almost without defect,
And like the flowers beside them, chill and shiver,
Will like the flowers beside them soon be gone,
And yet not out by any brook or river,
But up by roots to bring dark foliage on.
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods --
Let them think twice before they use their powers
To blot out and drink up and sweep away
These flowery waters and these watery flowers
From snow that melted only yesterday.

-- Robert Frost

Hap Notes: Frost is often a bundle of seeming contradictions. What is he saying in this poem, that he hates summer? That brutal trees suck up all the spring pools beneath them and darken the woods? Or maybe, that nothing, even as beautiful as these puddles of water under the bare trees which reflect early blossoming flowers, can last?

Winter is a time of survival, especially in the Northeastern part of the U.S. where Frost was living. The melting snow, the first blossoms, the reflected sky, the buds on the trees all stand as a mark that winter is over, one has survived another cold snowy season and life is returning anew to the earth. Does Frost really want the trees to not "use their powers" to drink up the water and grow? Does he think that will happen, that the trees will "think twice"?

There's something going on in this lovely poem with its "flowery waters" and its "watery flowers" aside from the declaration that summer is coming on too fast. It has to do with the passage of time, survival, growth and loneliness. Any contradiction in the poem is really supplied by nature who gives with one gesture as it takes with another. Is Frost, perhaps, encouraging us to "think twice" about the passing of the seasons and the delicacy of the beauty of the spring before we go to another phase of our lives?

Think how this poem also replicates the human condition. Nobody packs a pretty poem with more dangerous, lonely and mysterious stuff than Frost and a lot of that is because he is describing the supreme mysteries of life and death.

It's a good poem for the coming spring as we watch the land changing in our eyeblink of existence. Everything changes- and sometimes that seems dark and forlorn and we are filled with a sadness at the passing loveliness of life.