Number 155: William Morris "After Avalon"

After Avalon

A ship with shields before the sun,
Six maidens round the mast,
A red-gold crown on every one,
A green gown on the last.

The fluttering green banners there
Are wrought with ladies' heads most fair,
And a portraiture of Guenevere
The middle of each sail doth bear.

A ship with sails before the wind,
And round the helm six knights,
Their heaumes are on, whereby, half blind,
They pass by many sights.

The tatter'd scarlet banners there
Right soon will leave the spear-heads bare.
Those six knights sorrowfully bear
In all their heaumes some yellow hair.

--William Morris

Hap Notes: William Morris (1834-1896) was an amazing guy. He was a painter, a printer, a poet, a writer, a socialist organizer and a textile designer. You've heard of the Morris chair, maybe? It's not a Stickley Arts and Crafts invention named to honor Morris; Stickley took the design of the chair and modified it from Morris' original. Morris was one of the first writers to use fantasy and was one of the originators of the genre. He was actually offered Poet Laureate after Tennyson died (it's a life long post in England) and turned it down. His book designs and textiles were enormously influential in 20th century design. I haven't even scraped the surface and he did all this in his 62 year life span!

The poem is willfully mysterious. Morris is describing the barges that carry Arthur and Guinevere to Avalon. Avalon is a mythical (maybe) island where King Arthur was taken to treat his wounds after the battle with Mordred. It is also said to be where Joseph of Arimathea carried the Holy Grail when he visited England (remember that story?) It is said that Arthur was buried there and will rise up again when England needs him.

Now, there's a place, a monastery in Glastonbury, which is settled on a hill that at one time was surrounded by swamp and water. It is said to be Avalon and the monks living there claimed to have exhumed a casket with the remains of King Arthur within. We can't really check on this since it was in 1191. Long time ago. On the simple log casket was a slab of stone and on the slab was a lead cross with the words (in Latin) Here lies the renowned King Arthur" or some have claimed it said "Here lies King Arthur the once and future king." The cross has never been found. It was said that the bones of Arthur were huge, implying he was very tall.

Breaking off briefly to say that the history of holy and valuable relics is often that they are lost or mislaid. Our species has a habit of losing stuff that we say is important. The Holy Grail, the Iron Cross of Arthur, etc. etc. We get a holy relic, put it down for a moment to get a cup of coffee and when we come back we can't find it. Just sayin'. So when you misplace your glasses, don't fret- you'll find them. Unless they're a holy relic.

Avalon is said to be a magical place where crops and fruits grow abundantly by themselves. It is a place where mortal wounds can be healed. A Heaume, by the by, is a big helmet that extends down to and is supported by the shoulders.

On the masthead is the famous chair, some Morris wallpapers and tapestries and a Morris painting.

Here's a good Morris quote: "A man at work, making something which he feels will exist because he is working at it and wills it, is exercising the energies of his mind and soul as well as of his body. Memory and imagination help him as he works."

and another: "If you want a golden rule that will fit everything, this is it: Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful."

one more: "The true secret of happiness lies in taking a genuine interest in all the details of daily life."

You can find more Morris here: www.poemhunter.com/william-morris/

And because it's Saturday, three things to delight or amuse you. First, Barbie dolls (and other dolls) staged in re-enactments of ancient history and much more: www.avalonknights.com/index.htm

Do you like hot music? Here's Benny Goodman, Gene Krupa, Lionel Hampton and Teddy Wilson doing "Avalon": www.youtube.com/watch?v=wbU4zwhOGVg&feature=related

And finally, the Avalon most people remember from the 70s and 80s Bryan Ferry and Roxy Music: www.youtube.com/watch?v=7D6EiQs5KsY&feature=related

Number 153: W.S. Merwin "To Luck"

To Luck

In the cards and at the bend in the road
we never saw you
in the womb and in the crossfire
in the numbers
whatever you had your hand in
which was everything
we were told never to put
our faith in you
to bow to you humbly after all
because in the end there was nothing
else we could do
but not to believe in you

still we might coax you with pebbles
kept warm in the hand
or coins or the relics
of vanished animals
observances rituals
not binding upon you
who make no promises
we might do such things only
not to neglect you
and risk your disfavor
oh you who are never the same
who are secret as the day when it comes
you whom we explain
as often as we can
without understanding

-- W.S. Merwin

Hap Notes: Since it's Friday the 13th, I thought a poem about luck and how we hope for it, don't really believe in it, yet still court it, might be appropriate. Why does it seem that some people are so lucky? Why, as Hopkins said in an early poem we covered (Thou Art Indeed Just, Lord) do sinner's ways prosper? Is there such a thing as luck?

The poem points out that the things we carry for luck are a bit odd. I'm not the first one to observe that the rabbit's foot people carry for luck was not particularly lucky for the rabbit. The poem illustrates our delicate balance of believing in luck and yet, not totally believing in it. If we believe in luck, then, conversely, we have to believe in bad luck- a sort of purposeful misfortune. Which we all do, and don't, depending on how we look at it and how we deal with it.

You may think you are immune from such magical thinking. I wonder how many times you may have promised yourself not to talk about something you were planning or someone you were interested in dating for fear of "jinxing" it? That's kind of a mental rabbit's foot, isn't it?

I think luck, like most everything else, is just perspective. When I would complain about wanting new clothes when I was in high school, my mother would take on this school-teacherish look and say pointedly, "I had no shoes and I complained, until I met a man who had no feet." To which I would reply, "Well, he didn't need the shoes then, did he?" (I was a terrible smart-ass to my mom, I've always been glad we both lived long enough for me to apologize for that. She, by the way, said the same thing happened with her and her mother.) Her point was, of course, that everything is perspective.

If "bad" luck follows you around on Friday the 13th, or seems to, well, you are actually pretty lucky. The universe has selected you, out of billions of people on the earth, as somebody deserving of time and attention and some valuable lessons. See what I mean? It's all perspective.

In the advertising and political world this perspective is used all the time as "spin." My mother, as most moms are, was a great spin "doctor." She could turn the gloomiest thing into a bit of luck. It was always a bit vexing and Pollyanna-ish but, also, I was lucky to know her and develop a bit of this talent.

Now, if all this strikes you as not facing reality, you really need to think about that word. Vladimir Nabokov said the word "reality" should always be written in quotation marks. Because it's all perspective. There is no reality- only the one you create for yourself. You are always peering out of your own windows- you cannot move outside of yourself- you are stuck with you. So luck is what you say it is.

And a lucky rock. One should always carry a lucky rock. (I'm teasing you. But I do have one.)

We've already talked about Merwin here. happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/02/number-81-ws-merwin-small-woman-on.html

Number 153: Alfred Noyes "Daddy Fell Into the Pond"

Daddy Fell Into The Pond

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.

We had nothing to do and nothing to say.

We were nearing the end of a dismal day,

And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,

Then

Daddy fell into the pond!



And everyone's face grew merry and bright,

And Timothy danced for sheer delight.

"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!

He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!



Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,

And doubled up, shaking silently,

And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,

And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.

Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond

When

Daddy Fell into the pond!

--

Alfred Noyes

Hap Notes: Alfred Noyes (1880-1958) is probably familiar to you as the author of "The Highwayman." a poem that was required reading when I was in junior high. Don't know if it's taught so much today. It would be a pity if it weren't taught since it has all the elements kids like in a story: a beautiful girl, a handsome thief, sadistic bad guys, ghosts, a jealous vengeful stable boy, tragedy, fancy clothes (okay, maybe the lacy sleeves and velvet coat was only something in which I was interested.)

Noyes's dad taught Latin and Greek and he grew up in Wales. He reputedly missed a test for getting his degree at Exeter College because he was in a meeting with his publisher. He published loads of poetry over his lifetime, including a long poem which was a three book series (The Torch Bearers), a long blank verse poem on Sir Francis Drake and poems on Robin Hood and much, much more.

The BBC did a poll in 1995 of Britain's favorite (excuse me, favourite) poems and Noyes' Highwayman was listed as 15th. Curious about the 14 ahead of him?

Here's the list:

15:Alfred Noyes - The Highwayman

14:William Henry Davies - Leisure

13:Dylan Thomas - Fern Hill

12:Thomas Gray - Elegy Written In A Country Churchyard

11:Christina Rossetti - Remember

10:William Butler Yeats - He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

9:John Keats - Ode To A Nightingale

8:Wilfred Owen - Dulce Et Decorum

7:William Butler Yeats - The Lake Of Innisfree

6:John Keats - To Autumn

5:William Wordsworth - The Daffodils

4:Stevie Smith - Not Waving But Drowning

3:Walter De La Mare - The Listeners

2:Alfred, Lord Tennyson - The Lady Of Shallott

1:Rudyard Kipling - If

Noyes was capable of light verse as today's poem illustrates (note how Noyes gardener, sort of like the stable boy in "The Highwayman" is a somewhat interesting side character.) He wrote books and short stories, and, in fact, may have been the first author to use a "doomsday device" in a novel (which is a pretty common plot for current movies and most comic books.)

Here's a good Noyes quote. Noyes was a pacifist but before America's involvement in WWI he said: "If the people can't be worked up to the stage where they will be willing to ignore private interests for a while, we may as well devote ourselves to the philosophy of the expression "Eat, drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die."

You can find more Noyes here: www.poemhunter.com/alfred-noyes/

Here's an audio of "The Highwayman" : www.youtube.com/watch?v=99UH0JB7m5A&feature=related

Number 152: Susan Meyers "Mother, Washing Dishes"

Mother, Washing Dishes

She rarely made us do it— 

we’d clear the table instead—so my sister and I teased

that some day we’d train our children right

and not end up like her, after every meal stuck 

with red knuckles, a bleached rag to wipe and wring.

The one chore she spared us: gummy plates 

in water greasy and swirling with sloughed peas, 

globs of egg and gravy.

Or did she guard her place 

at the window? Not wanting to give up the gloss

of the magnolia, the school traffic humming.

Sunset, finches at the feeder. First sightings

of the mail truck at the curb, just after noon, 

delivering a note, a card, the least bit of news.

--Susan Meyers

Hap Notes: In spite of the invention of the dishwasher (the dishwasher has gone through many different types since the late 1800s but they were fairly common in homes by the 1970s), I don't know how many people actually use them. They are water and energy efficient but they don't seem to work as well as a scrubby sponge and some hot water in the sink. I don't think I am unusual in washing my dishes by hand. Dishwashing liquid maintains brisk sales.

A window over the kitchen sink, at least when I was a kid, was a big selling point for a house, seeing as how one would spend a good deal of time there, peeling vegetables and washing dishes and getting water. I've lived in homes and apartments without a window over the kitchen sink but there's a dull, blocked, almost brutal feel about staring at a wall while one does dishes. My sister and I always did the dishes and there was no window over the sink. My mom put up a little curio shelf over the sink but it's just not the same as being able to gaze out the window.

Meyers' poem has two (at the very least) interesting things to ponder. First, how the poet and her sister say they would train their children to do the dishes so they will not end up like mom with the red knuckles from kitchen work and the dishwater filled with the bits and pieces of the meal's endings on the plates. There's a reversal in this poem, then, when the poet figures out why mom would want to do the dishes. I suppose I should mention that a "dish rag" was more often used than a sponge years ago, and instead of "Scotchbrite" there were Brillo pads and steel wool.

For some reason doing the dishes is one of the foulest chores of childhood (especially at my house. My dad, a who did his share of dishes while serving in the Navy, ran the water for us to insure it was hot enough and he had a specific order in which the dishes must be done: glassware, silverware, plates, change the water to scalding hot again, serving dishes, pots and pans. We hated doing the dishes and the water was so hot my sister and I would use a drinking glass to reverse-telescope in the foamy water so as not to handle the hot silverware for too long before throwing it into the hot rinse water.)

Secondly, there's an interesting phrase in the poem that touches on something about the kitchen window- the poet's mother's "guarding" of her place at the window. Not only is it the place where she can look out and dream but it's a place from which you can see the world, the helm of the house, so to speak, at least in the poet's home where one can see the school buses and the mailman. The vantage point of the window is a place to see the beauty and regular humming of the world around her as she works. It's a poignant look at how women made an advantage of their often difficult house work as well as a charming feel of all the "machinery" of life whirring along as one does their job.

My mother's hands, when I was growing up, in spite of my sister and I doing the dishes, were always a bit red and rough and slightly redolent of chopped onion when she would sit on the edge of the bed and tuck us in at night. I loved that smell. And you know, I still do the dishes in that specific order. We learn things as we get older that change our perspective on what it means to be an adult. In Meyer's poem today, she figures out something about her mom that she would never have understood as a child.

We have already talked about Meyers here: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/04/number-129-susan-meyers-hat-of-many.html

Number 151: Stanley Kunitz "Hornworm: Summer Reverie" and"Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation"

Hornworm: Summer Reverie

Here in caterpillar country
I learned how to survive
by pretending to be a dragon.
See me put on that look
of slow and fierce surprise
when I lift my bulbous head
and glare at an intruder.
Nobody seems to guess
how gentle I really am,
content most of the time
simply to disappear
by melting into the scenery.
Smooth and fatty and long,
with seven white stripes
painted on either side
and a sharp little horn for a tail,
I lie stretched out on a leaf,
pale green on my bed of green,
munching, munching.

--Stanley Kunitz

Hornworm: Autumn Lamentation

Since that first morning when I crawled
into the world, a naked grubby thing,
and found the world unkind,
my dearest faith has been that this
is but a trial: I shall be changed.
In my imaginings I have already spent
my brooding winter underground,
unfolded silky powdered wings, and climbed
into the air, free as a puff of cloud
to sail over the steaming fields,
alighting anywhere I pleased,
thrusting into deep tubular flowers.

It is not so: there may be nectar
in those cups, but not for me.
All day, all night, I carry on my back
embedded in my flesh, two rows
of little white cocoons,
so neatly stacked
they look like eggs in a crate.
And I am eaten half away.

If I can gather strength enough
I'll try to burrow under a stone
and spin myself a purse
in which to sleep away the cold;
though when the sun kisses the earth
again, I know I won't be there.
Instead, out of my chrysalis
will break, like robbers from a tomb,
a swarm of parasitic flies,
leaving my wasted husk behind.

Sir, you with the red snippers
in your hand, hovering over me,
casting your shadow, I greet you,
whether you come as an angel of death
or of mercy. But tell me,
before you choose to slice me in two:
Who can understand the ways
of the Great Worm in the Sky?

-- Stanley Kunitz

Hap Notes: Kunitz, in addition to being a poet, was a patient and observant gardener. I posted both of his hornworm poems to show both this and how perspective plays into the poetic observation.

The summer hornworm poem is an observer imagining the monologue for a hornworm to be a bit more patiently playful and contented. The second hornworm poem indicates a consciousness of a God and the facts of natural life. I put them together because we rarely see them that way (except in Kunitz's Collected Poems) and the first one takes a bit of the sting out of the second one. Conversely, the second one makes the first one a bit more poignant.

The tomato hornworm (which is what all the pictures are and the moth the hornworm will become) can be infected with the parasitic eggs of the braconid wasp which feed on the host worm, feeding on it until it is just an empty husk of a creature. Most gardeners find it advantageous to leave a hornworm with parasites alone because the eggs hatch into wasps which are not dangerous to their plants and breed more wasps which kill more hornworms. Hornworms have a voracious appetite for leaves.

It's one of the few examples where parasites kill their hosts, usually parasitism is more of a complementary relationship with the parasite providing something to the host because if the host dies, so will the parasite.

So what are the worms, or rather what is Kunitz, saying about all this? Well, I've read analyses which claim the autumn worm is a bitter pronouncement about our beliefs in god. Kunitz himself once commented that "The God I believe in doesn't exist." (You are going to have to think on that one a bit since it's not atheism he's claiming in that statement.)

Even Darwin had trouble with the hornworm and wondered how a beneficent God could have created the wasp to feed off a living organism. (I guess he never ate meat? As a matter of fact this is an issue of some contention. Darwin wrote that he thought a vegetarian diet was best but there's no evidence to suggest that he was one himself. More controversy-- thanks Charles. We all need to be kept on the edge of intellectual uncertainty and he's certainly helped with that.)

Notice in the autumn poem how the hornworm knows that the gardener is not a god but merely some messenger. This, in itself says something. Stanley is not letting the god issue off the hook by making the worm see man as a god i.e. as though "primitive" weaker, smaller creatures see bigger more powerful creatures as gods. No, there's a Great Worm in the sky because gods are created in our own image- man is just a messenger of that worm god. Maybe.

The issue in this poem is not whether hornworms "dream" of becoming moths. Our narrator moth is saying something about the human condition because our narrator is really Kunitz, a messenger. Maybe of that Great Worm in the sky.

It's worth noting that someone of Kunitz' jewish background (or anyone really), post WWII, would call god the Great Worm.

Here's where we have talked about Kunitz before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-20-stanley-kunitz-portrait.html

Number 150: A.A. Milne "The King's Breakfast"

The King's Breakfast

The King asked
The Queen, and
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid:
“Could we have some butter for
The Royal slice of bread?”
The Queen asked
The Dairymaid,
The Dairymaid
Said, “Certainly,
I’ll go and tell
The cow
Now
Before she goes to bed.”

The Dairymaid
She curtsied,
And went and told
The Alderney:
“Don’t forget the butter for
The Royal slice of bread.”

The Alderney
Said sleepily:
“You’d better tell
His Majesty
That many people nowadays
Like marmalade
Instead.”

The Dairymaid
Said, “Fancy!”
And went to
Her Majesty.
She curtsied to the Queen, and
She turned a little red:
“Excuse me,
Your Majesty,
For taking of
The liberty,
But marmalade is tasty, if
It’s very
Thickly
Spread.”

The Queen said
“Oh!”
And went to
His Majesty:
“Talking of the butter for
The Royal slice of bread,
Many people
Think that
Marmalade
Is nicer.
Would you like to try a little
Marmalade
Instead?”

The King said,
“Bother!”
And then he said,
“Oh, dear me!”
The King sobbed, “Oh, deary me!”
And went back to bed.
“Nobody,”
He whimpered,
“Could call me
A fussy man;
I only want
A little bit
Of butter for
My bread!”

The Queen said,
“There, there!”
And went to
The Dairymaid.
The Dairymaid
Said, “There, there!”
And went to the shed.
The cow said,
“There, there!
I didn’t really
Mean it;
Here’s milk for his porringer
And butter for his bread.”

The Queen took
The butter
And brought it to
His Majesty;
The King said,
“Butter, eh?”
And bounced out of bed.
“Nobody,” he said,
As he kissed her
Tenderly,
“Nobody,” he said,
As he slid down
The banisters,
“Nobody,
My darling,
Could call me
A fussy man—
BUT
I do like a little bit of butter to my bread!”

-- A.A. Milne

Hap Notes: Alan Alexander Milne (1882-1956) would be just a tad dismayed that his children's books are his biggest claim to fame. Indeed, he was pretty ticked off about it during his lifetime. Milne wrote plays, short stories, "children's" poetry, mysteries and the series that catapulted him to children's literature fame, the Winnie the Pooh books. Milne wanted to write in a variety of genres and felt he was trapped by the success of his "Pooh" books.

Christopher Robin, as all Pooh-files (?) know was Milne's son. It's said Milne never actually read the stories aloud to him, although I don't know how true that is. He was a kindly and gentle father, though, as his son has often said.

I'm not particularly a Pooh fan and it's not just because of the word, Pooh, although it can get a bit freaky. They make Pooh underwear for kids, you know. Just sayin'. However, I have to admit to the extraordinary charm of the dialog between the characters in the Winnie the Pooh books and Milne has a gift for that somewhat surreal whimsy that Lewis Carrol had.

It's interchanges like the following that are so disarming and clever:

“"When you wake up in the morning, Pooh," said Piglet at last, "what's the first thing you say to yourself?"
"What's for breakfast?" said Pooh. "What do you say, Piglet?"
"I say, I wonder what's going to happen exciting today?" said Piglet.
Pooh nodded thoughtfully.
"It's the same thing," he said.

Today's poem is a charmer with it's rhymes and rhythms but I can't help feeling like the King is very much like Milne, himself. He wanted the freedom to write what he pleased. Of course what pleased others paid the bills. Did you know that Disney bought the exclusive rights to all this Pooh stuff? That's why Disney-fied Pooh is all you will see (oh, I'm not touchin' that one.) An Alderney, by the by, is a breed of cow.

The masthead photo is of the original stuffed animals owned by Christopher Robin Milne. They are currently housed at the New York Public Library. They are the toys Ernest H. Shepard used, then, when illustrating the famous books. Milne originally didn't think much of Shepard as an artist but grew to enjoy the spare line drawings as time went on. Milne inscribed Shepard's copy of Winnie the Pooh with this:

"When I am gone
Let Shepard decorate my tomb
and put (if there is room)
Two pictures on the stone:
Piglet from page a hundred and eleven,
And Pooh and Piglet walking (157) . . .
And Peter, thinking they they are my own,
Will welcome me to heaven."

One of Milne's teachers in school was H.G. Wells and he was friends with P.G. Wodehouse (even though they fought a bit.) Milne wrote the popular play "Toad of Toad Hall" based on Kenneth Grahame's Wind in the Willows and he often wrote prefaces for Grahame's book.

Milne's poetry collections for children, When We Were Very Young and Now We Are Six are quite charming.

Here's a good Milne quote: "One of the advantages of being disorderly is that one is constantly making exciting discoveries. "

You can find more Milne here: famouspoetsandpoems.com/poets/a__a__milne/poems

I have to admit that I've always loved A.A. Milne's poem about the changing of the guard at Buckingham Palace ever since I was a kid. It was made into a song and I was looking for the Danny Kaye version but after a long search I settled for Ann Stevens who made it into a minor hit in the U.K. www.youtube.com/watch?v=W_Z5LpHuXVE

Number 149: Two for Mother's Day- Langston Hughes and Margaret Atwood

Mother to Son

Well, son, I'll tell you:
Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.
It's had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I'se been a-climbin' on,
And reachin' landin's,
And turnin' corners,
And sometimes goin' in the dark
Where there ain't been no light.
So, boy, don't you turn back.
Don't you set down on the steps.
'Cause you finds it's kinder hard.
Don't you fall now—
For I'se still goin', honey,
I'se still climbin',
And life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

-- Langston Hughes


You Begin

You begin this way:
this is your hand,
this is your eye,
that is a fish, blue and flat
on the paper, almost
the shape of an eye.
This is your mouth, this is an O
or a moon, whichever
you like. This is yellow.

Outside the window
is the rain, green
because it is summer, and beyond that
the trees and then the world,
which is round and has only
the colors of these nine crayons.

This is the world, which is fuller
and more difficult to learn than I have said.
You are right to smudge it that way
with the red and then
the orange: the world burns.

Once you have learned these words
you will learn that there are more
words than you can ever learn.
The word hand floats above your hand
like a small cloud over a lake.
The word hand anchors
your hand to this table,
your hand is a warm stone
I hold between two words.

This is your hand, these are my hands, this is the world,
which is round but not flat and has more colors
than we can see.

It begins, it has an end,
this is what you will
come back to, this is your hand.

-- Margaret Atwood

Hap Notes: Well, this post is a bit late (if three hours could be categorized as a "bit") so I'll let you enjoy the poems today– two different moms speaking. We'll use more Hughes and Atwood this year so we'll talk more about them later.

Go call your mom or, if she has passed on, go do something she would like. Pick up your room or put on a clean shirt before dinner or make her favorite food or something. Your mom will always love you.