Number 143: William Blake "And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time?"

"And Did Those Feet in Ancient Time?"

And did those feet in ancient time.
Walk upon England's mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England's pleasant pastures seen!

And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?

Bring me my Bow of burning gold;
Bring me my Arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!

I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my Sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In England's green and pleasant Land.

-- William Blake

Hap Notes: Well, I just wasn't thinking or I'd have posted this for the royal wedding. This poem by Blake is set to music by Sir Hubert Parry ( in 1916) and is regularly sung in the Church of England and is called "Jerusalem." It was played at the wedding of Prince William and Catherine Middleton. The Brits do not have an "official" national anthem and it has often been mentioned as a choice for it. In popularity polls in England "Jerusalem" always runs a close second to "God Save the Queen" (although many folks outside of the U.K. believe "Rule Britannia" is the national anthem, it is not.)

The poem is asking several questions concerning a theory that Jesus had once traveled, with Joseph of Arimathea to England. The story is often that Jesus "appeared" to him in England.

The "dark Satanic Mills" that Blake is speaking of are the factories of the Industrial Revolution, which spit up dark smoke and had inhuman working conditions. The "chariot of fire" is more than likely an allusion to Elijah who was taken up to heaven (without dying, by the way) in such a vehicle and yes, that's where the movie got its name.

In the legend, when Joseph put his staff on the ground in Glastonbury, England, it rooted to the ground and grew up as a "Glastonbury Thorn", a kind of Hawthorn tree. Traditionally a branch of Glastonbury Thorn is cut and shown every year in Buckingham Palace in May. (The flowers in the masthead are from the tree, with the original Blake manuscript.)

The song has always had a very deeply rooted place in the hearts of English citizens. I hesitate to call it a hymn because the term raises some controversy about the nature of the song. It's easy to see that Blake was worried about England and says that the fight for human rights will go on until England becomes a holy place, a paradise. The term "England's green and pleasant land" is an oft-used phrase to describe various parts of and things about England.

The royal family, by the by, must all be confirmed members of the Church of England. It is part of their responsibilities as reigning monarchs to maintain the church.

"Jerusalem" is often sung at cricket and rugby games.

Speaking of the royal wedding, if you've got an extra ten minutes here's Queen Elizabeth II, William's grandmother, getting married: www.itnsource.com/shotlist//BHC_RTV/1947/11/24/BGU410270105/

You will note that the ceremonies are pretty much the same as the one we saw Friday, 4/29/11.

But this is the 21st century so here's the official website of the wedding: www.officialroyalwedding2011.org/

And here's "Jerusalem": www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKaJ4b0XYmI

The inset photo is Joseph of Arimathea by Pietro Perugino. Joseph was also thought to be the first keeper of the "Holy Grail."

Here's where we've talked about Blake before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/03/number-89-william-blake-tyger.html

Number 142: Robert Burns "To A Mouse"

To A Mouse

On Turning Her Up In Her Nest With The Plough, November, 1781

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,

Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie!

Thou need na start awa sae hasty,

Wi' bickering brattle!

I would be laith to rin an' chase thee,

Wi' murd'ring pattle!




I'm truly sorry man's dominion

Has broken Nature's social union,

An' justifies that ill opinion

Which makes thee startle

At me, thy poor, earth-born companion

An' fellow-mortal!




I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve;

What then? poor beastie, thou maun live!

A daimen-icker in a thrave

'S a sma' request;

I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,

And never miss't!




Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!

Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!

An' naething, now, to big a new ane,

O' foggage green!

An' bleak December's winds ensuin,

Baith snell an' keen!




Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste

An' weary winter comin fast,

An' cozie here, beneath the blast,

Thou thought to dwell,

Till crash! the cruel coulter past

Out thro' thy cell.




That wee bit heap o' leaves an stibble,

Has cost thee mony a weary nibble!

Now thou's turn'd out, for a' thy trouble,

But house or hald,

To thole the winter's sleety dribble,

An' cranreuch cauld!




But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,

In proving foresight may be vain:

The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,

For promis'd joy!




Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!

The present only toucheth thee:

But och! I backward cast my e'e,

On prospects drear!

An' forward, tho' I cannot see,

I guess an' fear!

-- Robert Burns

Hap Notes: First off- don't let the Scottish brogue throw you. Read out loud with a grand flourish and roll your "r's"- it's fun and you'll enjoy the words more. Barring that, just think of Ewen McGregor or Sean Connery or Robbie Coltran or Billy Connolly reading it aloud (all Scots.)

Robert Burns (1759-1796) was born to tenant farmer parents, the oldest of 7 children, and by the time he was 15 he was a seasoned hand at farm work. He was educated by his father in the three "R's" and was a voracious reader. He had a bit of schooling where he was taught a bit of Latin and French but he always retained a working man's view of life and the dignity that goes with one who works hard and thinks deeply. He wrote his first poetry to a girl (naturally) in 1774.

He got into a bit of trouble with women; he was a handsome devil and bit wild. He also got into trouble by supporting the principles of the French Revolution. His output of poetry, and his fame are remarkable considering that he died when he was only 37 (from dental surgery- although he had, ironically, a "weak" heart.) He was prone to periods of feverish work and deep depression (you know what's coming, right?) and is thought to have been a manic-depressive (which gets played down a bit in Scotland.)

Sir Walter Scott said, upon meeting him, that he'd never seen a man with eyes more vivid, glowing and passionate when speaking. He also said, "His person was strong and robust; his manners rustic, not clownish, a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity which received part of its effect perhaps from knowledge of his extraordinary talents."

You might think you don't know Burns even though you hear a song he wrote the lyric to every New Year's Eve, "Auld Lang Syne," you know..."May old acquaintance be forgot and never brought to mind...." The phrase "Of Mice and Men" in today's poem, was taken by Steinbeck for his book of the same title.

I have to admit I love Burns' poetry and it's a satisfying, romantic and gorgeously textured read. I'm not the only one, either, he's a national hero to this very day in Scotland. I'll wager there's not a person who can read in Scotland that doesn't have a Burns poem committed to memory.

Let's get to the poem. The poet has turned up a mouse with a plow, a mouse who the poet surmises had planned to live in a warm little nest throughout the winter and whose plans are now upended by the interfering plow. I don't like this much but it may help to have the "Standard English" translation. It kicks the stuffing out of the beauty of the rhythms and the gorgeous words but here it is:

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Here's a good Burns quote: "My way is: I consider the poetic sentiment, correspondent to my idea of the musical expression, then chose my theme, begin one stanza, when that is composed - which is generally the most difficult part of the business - I walk out, sit down now and then, look out for objects in nature around me that are in unison or harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom, humming every now and then the air with the verses I have framed. when I feel my Muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of my study, and there commit my effusions to paper, swinging, at intervals, on the hind-legs of my elbow chair, by way of calling forth my own critical strictures, as my, pen goes."

and another:
“Let us do or die.” (Just adding it to show that Burns is in the vernacular i.e. "man's inhumanity to man" and perhaps you know the song "Flow Gently Sweet Afton" (www.youtube.com/watch?v=tr_K_Rr6y9k)or the song "Comin' Through the Rye" (www.youtube.com/watch?v=aeGvxz_dxKI) I don't know who the guy is who's singing "Comin' Through the Rye" but he was the ONLY one I found of the dozens I heard (my brain is pickled from them) who had the spirit of the song.

You can find more Burns here: www.poemhunter.com/robert-burns/

Number 141: Spike Milligan "On the Ning Nang Nong"

On The Ning Nang Nong

On the Ning Nang Nong
Where the Cows go Bong!
and the monkeys all say BOO!
There's a Nong Nang Ning
Where the trees go Ping!
And the tea pots jibber jabber joo.
On the Nong Ning Nang
All the mice go Clang
And you just can't catch 'em when they do!
So its Ning Nang Nong
Cows go Bong!
Nong Nang Ning
Trees go ping
Nong Ning Nang
The mice go Clang
What a noisy place to belong
is the Ning Nang Ning Nang Nong!!

-- Spike Milligan

Hap Notes: I just don't think there is a way to over-estimate Spike Milligan's (1918-2002) contribution to popular culture. His uniquely British/Irish take on comedy strongly influenced most members of Monty Python, not to mention the shenanigans of Firesign Theater and from these two comedy troupes spring forth a good deal of what we take for granted now in the form of comedy shows like Saturday Night Live (yes, it's true- it used to be a comedy show- you mightn't believe it but it's true,) Second City, Kids in the Hall etc. You might not like or appreciate Milligan's comedic genius today but, most British school children (and Canadian and Australian) knew today's poem by heart in the 60s. No kidding.

I daresay most of the surreal humor currently in the culture is a direct outcropping from Milligan.

Milligan's output is not strictly in sketch comedy as he wrote light verse and books of humor and plays but, unfortunately, much of Milligan's genius was in the ad lib which really can't be written. He was a bright, quick thinker who suffered from (ready?) manic-depression. (It's not surprising at all, is it?)

Since it's Saturday and we read something fun and amusing in honor of cartoons, Milligan is a natural. Once again, remember that "light" verse, and often comedy, are things that have a darkly serious side and only a really intelligent mind can make them seem amusing. We will do more Milligan this year.

You can find more Milligan poetry here: www.poemhunter.com/spike-milligan/

Here is a delightful example of Milligan's sketch comedy for the radio with great illustrations. Milligan wrote the bit and plays Eccles:www.youtube.com/watch?v=VSSGiA4f5cs&feature=related

And here's the famous "Ying Tong Song": www.youtube.com/watch?v=33-fVsL5Kdc&feature=related

Added for your enjoyment––For some reason I always mix up Spike Milligan with musician Spike Jones. One look at this famous clip of "Cocktails for Two" will, at least, show I'm in the right ballpark with the wrong name: www.youtube.com/watch?v=lvt4b_qwC_Q

And here's Spike Jones and his City Slickers version of Khachaturian's "Sabre Dance", replete with his window-pane-check suit and his frenetic stage presence and energy: www.youtube.com/watch?v=vgZpzS-aVpU

Just a P.S. how can those percussionists chew gum and play so well? Jones is always chewing gum as he works. Didn't Gene Krupa chew gum, too?

Number 140: Lisel Mueller "Place and Time"

Place And Time

History is your own heartbeat. 

—Michael Harper 

Last night a man on the radio,
a still young man, said the business district
of his hometown had been plowed under.
The town was in North Dakota.
Grass, where the red-and-gold
Woolworth sign used to be,
where the revolving doors
took him inside Sears;
gone the sweaty seats
of the Roxy—or was it the Princess—
of countless Friday nights
that whipped his heart to a gallop
when a girl touched him, as the gun
on the screen flashed in the moonlight.
Grass, that egalitarian green,
pulling its sheet over rubble,
over his barely cold childhood,
on which he walks as others walk
over a buried Mayan temple
or a Roman aqueduct beneath
a remote sheep pasture
in the British Isles. Yet his voice,
the modest voice on the radio,
was almost apologetic,
as if to say, what’s one small town,
even if it is one’s own,
in an age of mass destruction,
and never mind the streets and stones
of a grown man’s childhood—
as if to say, the lives we live
before the present moment
are graves we walk away from.

Except we don’t. We’re all
pillars of salt. My life began
with Beethoven and Schubert
on my mother’s grand piano,
the shiny Bechstein on which she played
the famous symphonies
in piano reductions. But they were no
reductions for me, the child
who now remembers nothing
earlier than that music,
a weather I was born into,
a jubilant light or dusky sadness
struck up by my mother’s hands.
Where does music come from
and where does it go when it’s over—
the child’s unanswered question
about more than music.

My mother is dead, and the piano
she could not take with her into exile
burned with our city in World War II.
That is the half-truth. The other half
is that it’s still her black Bechstein
each concert pianist plays for me
and that her self-taught fingers
are behind each virtuoso performance
on the stereo, giving me back
my prewar childhood city
intact and real. I don’t know
if the man from North Dakota has
some music that brings back
his town to him, but something does,
and whatever he remembers
is durable and instantly
retrievable and lit
by a sky or streetlight
which does not change. That must be why
he sounded casual about
the mindless wreckage, clumsy
as an empty threat.

-- Lisel Mueller

Hap Notes: The small town in which I grew up, in Illinois, is the sad husk of a place that I remember as so colorful and vital. I moved back there to take care of my mother when she was dieing of cancer and after she passed away, for a while, I was the companion to a woman in her 90s (Bertha, who took care of me when I was a child.) The three of us all lived in a different town even though it was in the same geographic space. All of us had memories of a place we loved. I shudder to think what younger people will remember with all the fast-food chains and discount stores (K-Mart, Wal-Mart, Loewe's, etc. in a long row with their vast parking lots) and sad empty buildings downtown. The town still lived, in gorgeous color, for each of us, and maybe it will for the discount store generation, too. Who knows?

I know that I got to live in all three towns as my mother would talk about the "Teddy Bear" ice cream truck and Bertha would talk about the community gardens during WWII and the Princess Candy Kitchen (a candy store that will always live, because I never saw it, as an ideal.) So now I'm carrying those shared memories with me. I suppose the discount store generation will get to hear them, too. And the candy store/comic book store I loved as a kid is still there. I always say where there is candy and comic books, there is hope. And poetry.

Mueller is right, we are all pillars of salt; the people who look back at the destruction of our towns like Lot's wife at the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. I remember when I was a kid, reading the Bible, and she was told NOT to look back, I wondered why did she? Did she want to see the place destroyed? Was she curious about what exactly God was going to do to the place? Did she have a fond memory or two of her daughters growing up there, of her cooking something for dinner and Lot coming home to have a pleasant supper with his family? Was life always horrible there or was there a shady palm or two and a friendly date and honey vendor on the town square? Was she going to miss some parts of town? We are all sometimes compelled to look back. (Uh, by the way, I'll just mention that the whole "Destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah" is one of the most amazing (and freakiest) parts of the Old Testament. Read the whole story-it's got everything- sex, violence, mystery, compassion.)

In Mueller's case, it's the destruction of war. But, as she so aptly points out, destruction is somewhat of an illusion because we all hold the places we love in our memories. The destruction of a small town in North Dakota might seem unimportant, even to those that knew it, but it says a lot about humans that we wantonly destroy things, and yet, can still love, remember and keep safe the things that are important in our hearts and minds.

Of course, there's much more in the poem- always is when it's a good one.

Here is where we have talked about Mueller before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/02/number-72-lisel-mueller-why-i-need.html


P.S. The masthead is a painting I did of the destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah. It's a bad photo of a mediocre painting which is now out in the shed being enjoyed by the local bugs. I knew it was good for somethin'.

Number 139: John Updike "Sunflower"

Sunflower


Sunflower, of flowers

the most lonely,

yardstick of hours,

long-term stander

in empty spaces,

shunner of bowers,

indolent bender

seldom, in only

the sharpest of showers:

tell us, why

is it your face is

a snarl of jet swirls

and gold arrows, a burning

old lion face high

in a cornflower sky,

yet by turning

your head we find

you wear a girl's

bonnet behind?

--John Updike

Hap Notes: It's possible I may be the only person in the world kvetching about John Updike spending so much time writing novels and not enough writing poetry. He's dead for heaven's sake and I'm still miffed at him. His natural ear and pacing is perfect for poetry. He's a potentially a great poet. He knew there was no money in it and chose fiction writing. We all have to make choices, eh?

Maybe that's what I'm mad about– not that he wanted money– that there is not much money to be had in writing poetry. First, somebody has to take your verses seriously. You have to give readings. Many folks will peer at you suspiciously for choosing poetry as a calling; why not architecture or basket weaving? You know, something functional. Then of course, you'll need grants – your books won't exactly fly off the shelves. People will expect poetry to fall out of you all the time. It's a scrappy life, even when you're famous. (Feel free to use these excuses about your own poetic output- I certainly have.)

This spiny poem about the sunflower tells us something about people, too, because we mirror the natural world in which we live. Their leaves and buds do measure the hours, by the way, and follow the sun in its travels across the sky, hence their name. This following of the sun is called heliotropism and mature sunflowers don't do it- they usually face east. Here's an interesting factoid: the sunflower has a slightly more complicated and longer genome (an organism's genetic heredity info found in DNA/RNA) than human beings.

Sunflowers, by the way, are so useful. They are great producers of seeds favored by people and animals and birds. The seeds produce sunflower oil. The sunflower head, after the seeds have dropped off are used for cattle feed. Sunflowers produce a kind of latex that can be used to make a "greener" rubber. When planted, they can suck toxic ingredients out of the soil. Sunflowers were planted at a pond near Chernobyl to extract nuclear waste chemicals (which ones? cesium-137 and strontium-90 – impressive, huh?)

Oh, and they are quite beautiful in all their gold and yellow splendor. If you have a few in your yard, you know that they always look as if they are nodding at you pleasantly in a light wind.

Back to the poem– a lion face in a girl's bonnet is a pretty good description, don't you think? The more I read the poem the sadder I am about Updike's lack of poetic output. So there. Still holding a grudge against something– let's say it's money.

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

and here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/03/number-96-john-updike-ex-basketball.html

Number 138: Linda Pastan "What We Want"

What We Want

What we want

is never simple.

We move among the things

we thought we wanted:

a face, a room, an open book

and these things bear our names–

now they want us.

But what we want appears

in dreams, wearing disguises.

We fall past,

holding out our arms

and in the morning

our arms ache.

We don’t remember the dream,

but the dream remembers us.

It is there all day

as an animal is there

under the table,

as the stars are there

even in full sun.

-- Linda Pastan

Hap Notes: Linda Pastan (born 1932) has written a good dozen books of poetry and has won tons of awards (over a half dozen, I believe is considered a ton) and was Poet Laureate of Maryland from 1991-1995. She lives in Maryland, still.

When she attended Radcliffe she won the Mademoiselle magazine poetry prize. The runner-up in that contest was Sylvia Plath. Pastan got her masters at Brandeis. She concentrated on raising a family and her husband, Ira, encouraged her to go back to poetry.

Pastan's subject matter borders on the practical and the everyday – the stirring of pots, the eating of pears, the scrubbings and dustings of life. But Pastan's ear is her gift, when she turns the phrase just right, bastes it with the spaces, gives it time to settle, her poetry is a marvel of verbal beauty and economy. She writes of the natural world and grief and children and the other thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.

In today's poem, she embraces a difficult subject– what the hell is that mysterious something that we all want? That thing we yearn for, that whatchamacallit that will fill us up with enough whatever the hell it is? It's almost there – we can almost get to it. And whatever we do get, starts to own us, have you ever noticed that? And whatever we do get – it's not enough, not right, not exactly right, not quite. This spiny little poem packs a powerful punch.

Here's a good Pastan quote: " No, there is no ease in writing. The job is to make it by the end feel as if it flows easily. But each poem of mine goes through something like 100 revisions. "

You can find more Pastan here: www.poemhunter.com/linda-pastan/

Number 137: Carl Sandburg "An Electric Sign Goes Dark"

An Electric Sign Goes Dark

Poland, France, Judea ran in her veins,
Singing to Paris for bread, singing to Gotham in a fizz at the pop of a bottle’s cork.

“Won’t you come and play wiz me” she sang … and “I just can’t make my eyes behave.”
“Higgeldy-Piggeldy,” “Papa’s Wife,” “Follow Me” were plays.

Did she wash her feet in a tub of milk? Was a strand of pearls sneaked from her trunk? The newspapers asked.
Cigarettes, tulips, pacing horses, took her name.

Twenty years old … thirty … forty …
Forty-five and the doctors fathom nothing, the doctors quarrel, the doctors use silver tubes feeding twenty-four quarts of blood into the veins, the respects of a prize-fighter, a cab driver.
And a little mouth moans: It is easy to die when they are dying so many grand deaths in France.

A voice, a shape, gone.
A baby bundle from Warsaw … legs, torso, head … on a hotel bed at The Savoy.
The white chiselings of flesh that flung themselves in somersaults, straddles, for packed houses:
A memory, a stage and footlights out, an electric sign on Broadway dark.

She belonged to somebody, nobody.
No one man owned her, no ten nor a thousand.
She belonged to many thousand men, lovers of the white chiseling of arms and shoulders, the ivory of a laugh, the bells of song.

Railroad brakemen taking trains across Nebraska prairies, lumbermen jaunting in pine and tamarack of the Northwest, stock ranchers in the middle west, mayors of southern cities
Say to their pals and wives now: I see by the papers Anna Held is dead.

--Carl Sandburg

Hap Notes: Here's somewhat a contrast to O'Hara's "Lana Turner Has Collapsed" in that Sandburg is not playing it for laughs. Anna Held was a hugely famous star on Broadway whose life was the subject of much publicity. She was known all over America as a vital and charming actress/singer/performer even though she spent little time in the country outside of New York save for a vaudeville tour or two. Her picture made good copy.

Held was born to a Jewish couple in Poland in the mid-to-late 1800s (her birth date is somewhat up for grabs- somewhere between 1865-1873-actresses, you know.) Her mother was French, hence the first line of the poem. She was pert and lively on stage and she sang suggestive flirtatious songs- she showed her legs on stage- oh my! Anyway Florenz Ziegfeld meets her when he's in Europe, is smitten and feeds the press a bunch of sensational stories about his new theatrical "find." (Ziegfeld was a very famous Broadway show maker and producer- you knew that, right?)

Ziegfeld told the press she bathed in milk and/or champagne. She was a tiny five foot fireball of a performer who wore super-tight corsets to emphasize her 18 inch waist. She was a sensation before she'd even hit the stage. There were Anna Held corsettes, face powder, pomades (for the hair) and cigars. And of course there were postcards showing her in elaborate and feathered French gowns and pearls.

She became Ziegfeld's common-law wife. She helped him create the famous "Ziegfeld Follies." She was enormously famous, somewhat naughty (she reputedly wore a nightgown when meeting reporters seeking interviews) and thoroughly charming. Ziegfeld made her a millionaire. She once told the press she was visiting a movie set and shot a runaway tiger. There was always some titillating story around about Held. She sang "I joost cahn't make my eyes be'ave" and fellas swooned.

Now the story gets a bit sad. She had been previously married and had a child from that marriage. The child is given to the birth father so Held can continue her career. The child (who is in her early teens) comes to America to seek her mother and is used as sort of fuel for the Held image as a mysterious French coquette- the "hidden child"- ooh la la!

Then she either had a miscarriage or an abortion (it was Ziegfeld's child) in 1908. Ziegfeld's interest in her was waning. She entertained the troupes in France during WWI, going close to enemy lines and was thought to be very brave. But Ziegfeld had gone on to other women and finally settled on a red-haired beauty named Billie Burke whom he married. Billie Burke had the opposite reputation from Held- she was billed as the pure, old fashioned American girl. You probably only know Burke as "Glenda, the Good Witch" from the "Wizard of Oz" movie but she was also a great beauty and very famous in her early career as a "Ziegfeld Girl."

Held dies in her mid-forties of cancer although the newspaper jive was that her internal organs were damaged by corsets laced up too tight. She flitted through the fantasies of men the world over and even Sandburg has his moment of remembering her.

Unlike "Lana Turner Has Collapsed" though, Sandburg is pointing out the way people react to celebrity tragedy- they comment but their private thoughts and fantasies (then, anyway) drift through their memories unspoken.

Here's where we've talked about Sandburg before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-15-carl-sandburg-arithmetic.html