Number 184: Robert Burns "Charlie, He's My Darling"

Charlie, He's My Darling

'Twas on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.

An' Charlie, he's my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie, he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

As he was walking up the street,
The city for to view,
O there he spied a bonnie lass
The window looking through,

Sae light's he jumped up the stair,
And tirl'd at the pin;
And wha sae ready as hersel'
To let the laddie in.

He set his Jenny on his knee,
All in his Highland dress;
For brawly weel he ken'd the way
To please a bonie lass.

It's up yon heathery mountain,
An' down yon scroggie glen,
We daur na gang a milking,
For Charlie and his men,

An' Charlie, he's my darling,
My darling, my darling,
Charlie, he's my darling,
The young Chevalier.

-- Robert Burn

Hap Notes: We'll set some vocabulary first before we talk of the history of this poem/song. Let's head right to the fourth stanza: He lightly jumped up the stairs and rang the doorbell (tirld at the pin) and who's so ready as she is (wha sai ready as hersel') . Then, He very well knew the way (brawly weel he kenned the way). The scroggie glen is scrub land, and we daur not gang a milking means "we dare not go a milking." If that last phrase reminds you of "The Fairies" by William Allingham ("Up the airy mountain/Down the rushy glen,/We daren't go a-hunting, For fear of little men...") Burns' poem was written in 1794, Allingham was born in 1824.

This poem/song is about Bonnie Prince Charlie (Prince Charles Edward Louis John Casimir Sylvester Maria Stuart). It's a long involved tale of the Jacobite (named for the Latin word for James) uprising and starts out back with the Plantagenets and the Lancasters (red rose) and the Yorks (white rose) and the Wars of the Roses. We won't go back that far because the names of the British succession and heirs of who was supposed to be king and who actually was, hurts my old head. You'll often see in the pictures of Charlie, the white rose, a signifier of the Yorks.

Suffice it to say Bonnie Prince Charlie (the great-great-grandson of Mary, Queen of Scots and the grandson of James II) arranged an uprising to get the throne back (from the Hanovers, I think) to secure it for his dad, and eventually himself. He had the help of France (Louis XV was his 2nd cousin) but as he and his troops were battling it out, France (who was supposedly sending help) backed out for a number of reasons and Bonnie Prince Charlie hid in the highlands and was eventually smuggled out of the country. He wasn't born in Scotland, since his family was in exile, and he didn't die there either. He was hidden in the highlands for months with a 50,000 pound reward on his head and nary a Scot ratted him out.

The Stuarts were Catholics (Mary changed the spelling from Stewart to the French, Stuart) and they had many supporters in Scotland and throughout Ireland and Great Britain. Prince Charlie hardly had the troops or arms or money to take over but he made a valiant stab at it and was greatly admired in Scotland for it. In fact, it's said there are more songs about Bonnie Prince Charlie than any other monarch (or "pretender" to the throne) and as you can see from the masthead pics, he was sort of a dish.

In Burns' poem we see that Bonnie Prince Charlie had a way with women and that even his soldiers weren't to be trusted with the milkmaids. They had cool uniforms and that always helps.

After the last Jacobite rebellion, Charlie tried to reassemble it once more but it never took place. Instead, he took to drink and women on the continent and ended sadly. In the poem, however, he is hale, hearty and fightin'.

Burns' poem/song spawned two other versions, and in fact, Burn's may have been a compilation of local songs about the prince. The other ones are:

James Hogg (1821) Noted for the line "Our King shall have his own again" a line which inspired another poem about the prince.

T was on a Monday morning,
Right early in the year,
That Charlie came to our town,
The young Chevalier.

As Charlie he came up the gate,
His face shone like the day;
I grat to see the lad come back
That had been lang away.

Then ilka bonny lassie sang,
As to the door she ran,
"Our King shall hae his ain again",
An' Charlie is the man:

Out ow'r yon moory mountain,
An' down the craggy glen,
Of naething else our lasses sing,
But Charlie an' his men.

Our Highland hearts are true an' leal,
An' glow without a stain;
Our Highland swords are metal keen,
An' Charlie he 's our ain.


and Lady Nairne ( 1821) You will note her troops are married men concerned with national pride and not the girls, so much.

'T was on a Monday mornin

Right early in the year

When Charlie came to our town

The Young Chevalier.

As he cam' marchin' up the street

The pipes played loud and clear

And a' the folk cam' rinnin' out

To meet the Chevalier.

Wi' highland bonnets on their heads

And claymores bright and clear

They cam' to fight for Scotland's right

And for the Chevalier.

They've left their bonnie highland hills

Their wives and bairnies dear

To draw the sword for Scotland's lord

The young Chevalier.

Oh, there were mony beating hearts

And mony a hope and fear

And mony were the pray'rs put up

For the young Chevalier.

Now if you think all this Rabbie (as he's often called) Burns talk is ancient history, look at this charming Scottish school's winners for the Burns Day competition that took place this year.
He's still first in the hearts of many a Scot to this day.
The video is utterly charming: www.youtube.com/watch?v=DN4DO-NVfNY

And of course, the song itself, which has loads of entries on YouTube: www.youtube.com/watch?v=1p-5RloO2HY

Honestly the reason I chose this poem is because the song started going through my head, unbidden, a few days ago. I just followed my odd stuffed-full-of-verses head, like I often do here.
(Ye also mae have notic'd I ha' a more tha' a wee soft spot for Rabbie Burns.)

Interestingly enough, divers have lately found proof that France may have tried to send help but got scuttled. They may have tried to use a British ship they bought to fool the Brits and it didn't quite work out. www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/5387583/Shipwreck-found-by-divers-was-vessel-sent-to-help-Bonnie-Prince-Charlie.html

Number 183: Shel Silverstein "Hippo's Hope"

Hippo's Hope

There once was a hippo who wanted to fly
--Fly-hi-dee, try-hi-dee, my-hi-dee-ho.
So he sewed him some wings that could flap through the sky
--Sky-hi-dee, fly-hi-dee, why-hi-dee-go.

He climbed to the top of a mountain of snow
--Snow-hi-dee, slow-hi-dee, oh-hi-dee-hoo.
With the clouds high above and the sea down below
--Where-hi-dee, there-hi-dee, scare-hi-dee-boo.

(Happy ending)

And he flipped and he flapped and he bellowed so loud
--Now-hi-dee, loud-hi-dee, proud-hi-dee-poop.
And he sailed like an eagle, off into the clouds
--High-hi-dee, fly-hi-dee, bye-hi-dee-boop.

(Unhappy ending)

And he leaped like a frog and he fell like a stone
--Stone-hi-dee, lone-hi-dee, own-hi-dee-flop.
And he crashed and he drowned and broke all his bones
--Bones-hi-dee, moans-hi-dee, groans-hi-dee-glop.

(Chicken ending)

He looked up at the sky and looked down at the sea
--Sea-hi-dee, free-hi-dee, whee-hi-dee-way.
And he turned and went home and had cookies and tea
--That's hi-dee, all hi-dee, I have to say.

-- Shel Silverstein

Hap Notes: I love Saturday. I suppose it's because I still have that percolating joyous feeling when I wake up that there's no school today. Then I remember that I'm an adult and Saturdays mean cleaning out the garage, doing laundry, running errands and lawn work. But always in the back of my head there's some strange delight in the idea that there's no school today which meant cartoons, tennis shoes, reading, playing "statue" (did you ever play that?) or pirate and more reading. When I wake up in the morning I still say "YAY! It's Saturday!" and I have for more than 40 years. It has now passed into a happy ritual.

Today's Saturday poem reminds me just a bit of those "Choose Your Own Adventure" books where after reading a couple of pages, you decided what would happen next based on a couple of choices and then turn to the page number where that option would play out in the story. Remember those? I'll be amazed if you don't; they sold more than 250 million copies of those books from 1979-1998. (Yeah, I looked that up.)

I always choose the chicken option in this poem but I suppose it's really because I just like cookies and tea.

Hippos are the source of much light verse from Hillaire Belloc (I shoot the hippotomus/ With bullets made of platinum/ Because if I use leaden ones/ His hide is sure to flatten 'em.) to T.S. Eliot's wry comments on the church. (Have you ever read that? It's evil good. You can find it here: www.poetry-archive.com/e/the_hippopotamus.html. There's a good Ogden Nash one, too:
www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-hippopotamus/

For cartoons today, here's a very freaky explanation of why the blue danube is blue (although for years it was filled with pollution but they've fixed it a bit, now). This is the kind of cartoon people used to see exclusively at the movie theater: www.youtube.com/watch?v=9LQpK0UFolY&feature=related

Here's a really funny Mel Brooks (!) voiced and written cartoon from the 60's: www.youtube.com/watch?v=otPkk1sUFkI&feature=related

And here's Betty Boop (in another pre-movie cartoon) with the housecleaning blues. Grampy fixes that right up: www.youtube.com/watch?v=ISzY6N25lrg&feature=related

The masthead includes one of my favorite Thurber cartoons. The extraordinary hippo with wings hatching is from Allforart.com.

Number 182: Paul Verlaine "Claire De Lune"

Like most of Verlaine's poetry, it's short so I've given you a few translations:

Claire De Lune

Your soul is as a moonlit landscape fair,
Peopled with maskers delicate and dim,
That play on lutes and dance and have an air
Of being sad in their fantastic trim.

The while they celebrate in minor strain
Triumphant love, effective enterprise,
They have an air of knowing all is vain,—
And through the quiet moonlight their songs rise,

The melancholy moonlight, sweet and lone,
That makes to dream the birds upon the tree,
And in their polished basins of white stone
The fountains tall to sob with ecstasy.

--Paul Verlaine
Translated by Gertrude Hall


Claire De Lune

Your soul is the choicest of countries
Where charming maskers, masked shepherdesses,
Go playing their lutes and dancing, yet gently
Sad beneath fantastic disguises.

While they sing in a minor key
Of all-conquering love and careless fortune,
They seem to mistrust their own fantasy
And their song melts away in the light of the moon,

In the quiet moonlight, lovely and sad,
That makes the birds dream in the trees, all
The tall water-jets sob with ecstasies,
The slender water-jets rising from marble.

-- Paul Verlaine
Translated by A.S. Kline

Moonlight

Your soul is a select landscape

Where charming masqueraders and bergamaskers go

Playing the lute and dancing and almost
Sad beneath their fantastic disguises.

All sing in a minor key

Of victorious love and the opportune life,

They do not seem to believe in their happiness

And their song mingles with the moonlight,

With the still moonlight, sad and beautiful,

That sets the birds dreaming in the trees

And the fountains sobbing in ecstasy,

The tall slender fountains among marble statues.

--Paul Verlaine
Translated by Chris Routledge

Hap Notes: Are we really gonna tackle Verlaine (1844-1896) on a Friday? Well, sure. He's the easiest of the French Symbolists to understand and this is a pretty famous poem seeing as how it's been set to music or inspired music by Faure', Debussy, Ferre' and Poldowski just to name a few. Bob Dylan mentions him, too. Verlaine's sensuous descriptions inspire music.

In point of fact Verlaine is all about the sound, feel and colors of words and his poems are written in the moment, deeply felt, passionate and often wistful or sorrowful or besotted with love and beauty. If you are just learning French, he is a good choice for reading and translating and if you ever go to France and can recite some Verlaine, ooh la la, mes amis.

Verlaine's life is that scary and cautionary tale one always hears about the dangers of absinthe, a green liquor that had properties much like liquid marijuana in the late 1800s. It's a delicious licorice/anise flavored herbal drink that is no longer made to induce the high that Verlaine and his compadres got from it. Verlaine is the guy who called it "the green fairy."

Verlaine was born in Metz and started writing poetry early, his first poem was published when he was 19. Verlaine seems to have been two people trapped in one body. One of the people, let's call him V1, had a civil service job, fell in love, married, and had a child.

The other person in Verlaine, V2, got a letter from a young poet, Arthur Rimbaud, whom Verlaine , 27, thought talented and at least a man of 30 years old. Rimbaud was handsome, wild and 17. Verlaine's passionate and tumultuous affair with Rimbaud was ecstatic and degrading. Rimbaud disturbed the Verlaine household and encouraged the ultra-sensitive Verlaine to live a life of debauchery and alcohol. Verlaine didn't need much persuasion.

Verlaine left his wife and son and bummed around with Rimbaud. They went to England and things just kept deteriorating. It ended after a year or so, with Verlaine shooting Rimbaud, injuring the young poet's wrist. Rimbaud pressed charges, mostly out of concern for Verlaine's mental state, and Verlaine went to jail.

While in jail, Verlaine read voraciously, Shakespeare and Cervantes etc. etc. and wrote like a madman. He converted to Catholicism (V1) and wrote letters to Rimbaud (V2). Rimbaud said that when Verlaine got out of prison and visited him in Germany, he had, after plying him with drink, shattered most of the commandments. Okay, Rimbaud's actual words were "he made the 98 wounds of Christ bleed again." They were a romantic, passionate, wild and rather vile couple, all in all.

Verlaine was probably inspired and encouraged by Rimbaud's youthful genius but he sank into the life of V2- the drunken, dirty, beggar/poet who lived the rest of his life in slums and public hospitals, always still writing and remembering. Rimbaud, whose poetry is often called genius, became a merchant and never wrote another word after the age of 21.

Verlaine was in a bad way towards the end of his life but the French love artists and poets and a small pension was arranged for him. He was even given the title of "Prince of Poets" an unofficial title honored by French poets. He succeeded Leconte' de Lisle and preceded Mallarme' in the position. Verlaine died at 51.

Rimbaud wanted to break the frames of standard poetry and he saw that Verlaine's talent was in the impression rather than the facts. Verlaine's work is tied up with Rimbaud like smoke is tied to fire. Verlaine wanted to use language like music and memory like paint. He generally succeeds in this.

In today's poem, we see the results of Verlaine's ultra-sensitivity. His poems are generally short and loaded with moonlight, love, loss, fragrance and signifiers like puppets, masks, statues and clowns. There is nobody who writes with more wistful longing. It is not hard to imagine masked dancing people who do not seem to believe in their happiness, is it?

Here is David Oistrakh playing Debussy's Verlaine inspired piece Claire De Lune. That's almost assuredly a Stradivarius he's playing. While it was originally intended for piano, this really captures the "feel" of the Verlaine: www.youtube.com/watch?v=SKd0VII-l3A

Here is the original French version of the poem. Remember that Verlaine wanted the words to feel and sound appropriate to the mood so the French adds yet another dimension.

Clair de lune

Votre âme est un paysage choisi

Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques

Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi

Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur

L’amour vainqueur et la vie opportune,

Ils n’ont pas l’air de croire à leur bonheur

Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,

Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,

Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres

Et sangloter d’extase les jets d’eau,

Les grands jets d’eau sveltes parmi les marbres.

-- Paul Verlaine

Here's a good Verlaine quote:

"The poet is a madman lost in adventure."

You can find more Verlaine here: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8426

The masthead picture is Verlaine in 1892, seated with pens, paper, hat, cane and absinthe.

Number 181: Harold Munro "Overheard on a Saltmarsh"

Overheard on a Saltmarsh

Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?

------ Green glass, goblin. Why do you ask?

Give them me.

------No.

Give them me. Give them me.

------No.

Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.

------Goblin, why do you love them so?

They are better than stars or water,
Better than the voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.

------Hush, I stole them out of the moon.

Give me your beads, I want them.

------ No.

I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them me.

------No.


Hap Notes: When I was about 8 or 9 years old I thought this was possibly the most brilliant poem of all time. The mysterious pauses and Tolkienesque dialog thrilled me. I can still feel it and so must many more because it is the subject of countless illustrations. The poem brings out the artist in us all as we paint a picture in our minds of the scene.

Harold Edward Munro (1879-1932) was a major force in British literature but not for his poetry. His Poetry Bookshop in London launched the careers of many poets. He published poetry from young poets and published the first collection (with Edwin Marsh) of the so-called Georgian poets (from King George V) in 1912.

Poets in the first Georgian collection included D.H. Lawrence, Rupert Brooke, G.K. Chesterton and John Masefield among others. Munro edited a 1933 collection of poetry just before he died, "Poets in the 20th Century" which contains a who's who of English poets and included many poets we have covered over the last few months, Ezra Pound, Gerard Manley Hopkins, Robert Graves, Rudyard Kipling and a score or two more.

Munro also founded a magazine, The Poetry Review, which published many poets of the era as well being influential to poets of the time. Wilfred Owen was not only published by Munro, but lived for a time over the bookshop. He published much of these works at his own expense and published several magazines devoted to poetry.

Born in Brussels to Scottish parents, Munro was an educated man suffering from the social mores of the time because he was gay, which was a crime in Great Britain. Monro said of his school years "I was too slow and dreamy and could stick at nothing." He married once, for love but it ended predictably unhappily and again, later in life to his assistant Alida Klementaski. His second marriage was one of a platonic nature. He struggled with alcoholism and eventually died from complications caused by it.

Harold Munro was actually in love with poetry and life only lets you get one really big true love and poetry was his. As a youth, he read Virgil and it stirred him up for life. He read frenetically and deeply after Virgil; Tennyson, Browning, Moliere, everything by Goethe and on and on. All his life he read poetry, wrote it, published many poets in pamphlets when he was younger and in books as he got older and was devoted to it. His own poetry was often dismissed and that's a shame because he wrote some excellent ones.

Munro was not an elitist and he cared more for poetry itself than any fad or school. T.S. Eliot said he was "one of the few poets of whom it can be said that they cared more for poetry in general than for their own work." Eliot wrote the introduction for Muno's posthumous collected works.

We will do more Munro this year, I do believe.

Here's a good Munro quote, it's from a poem but it's irresistable:

"Here's a new day. Oh pendulum move slowly!"

and another:

"I hate literary gossip and anecdote."

and another:

"By a stroke of good fortune I left school young, and then I suddenly became conscious of myself as a solitary and wayward person and in the seclusion of my bedroom, I wrote a dozen poems and the same number of short stories, all about an individual too obviously myself..."

and again:

"By the time I went to Cambridge poetry had become an obsession, but I kept this a close secret and not till my third year did I form a little group with three other undergraduates to discuss and criticize each other's verses."

You can find more Munro here: www.poemhunter.com/harold-monro/

Number 180: Jack Spicer "Any Fool Can Get Into an Ocean..."

Any Fool Can Get Into an Ocean...

Any fool can get into an ocean
But it takes a Goddess
To get out of one.
What’s true of oceans is true, of course,
Of labyrinths and poems. When you start swimming
Through riptide of rhythms and the metaphor’s seaweed
You need to be a good swimmer or a born Goddess
To get back out of them
Look at the sea otters bobbing wildly
Out in the middle of the poem
They look so eager and peaceful playing out there where the
water hardly moves
You might get out through all the waves and rocks
Into the middle of the poem to touch them
But when you’ve tried the blessed water long
Enough to want to start backward
That’s when the fun starts
Unless you’re a poet or an otter or something supernatural
You’ll drown, dear. You’ll drown
Any Greek can get you into a labyrinth
But it takes a hero to get out of one
What’s true of labyrinths is true of course
Of love and memory. When you start remembering.

-- Jack Spicer

Hap Notes: Jack Spicer (1925-1965) is going to mess with your head if you are brave enough to get to know him even slightly. He was so far ahead of his time we are still trying to catch up to him. Sometimes he's pulling your leg, except that this is just a turn of phrase and it's not actually your leg, he can't be pulling because he's dead and phonemes aren't turning. Or is it, he, they? Let's start over.

Jack Spicer was born in Los Angeles. He went to school at Berkeley where he met a variety of like-minded poets who encouraged him, most notably Kenneth Rexroth, Robin Blaser and Robert Duncan. Duncan inspired Spicer to come out of the closet and embrace his sexuality. Spicer often called (as many gays often do on the year when they are finally allowed the freedom to be who they are) 1946 the year of his birth. Spicer lost his teaching assistanceship at Berkeley when he refused to sign that paranoid Sloan-Levering Act loyalty oath. He was a student of linguistics and studied Anglo-Saxon and Old Norse in which he was close to getting a Ph.D.

Spicer was politically active and was involved in the gay liberation group, the Mattachine Society. He was hired as the head of the humanities department at the California School of Fine Arts in the early 50's. Spicer and five of his literary/art friends founded the "Six" Gallery, the place where Ginsburg read "Howl" and changed the direction of poetry. Spicer, however, was not a 'Beat'. He wasn't really from any school of poetry at all. He was his own school of thought.

Spicer's work was incredibly individual, beautiful, lyric, self-mocking, somewhat difficult and brilliant. His book "After Lorca" published in 1957, was his "translations" of Lorca's poems and also letters written to the poet. Lorca writes back and even writes the preface to the book. The fact that Lorca had been dead for 20 years when Spicer wrote the book is part of the charm and miracle and wonders of Spicer since it is Spicer writing both for Lorca, about Lorca and to Lorca and to himself as Lorca. Spicer, while he wrote some wonderful individual poems, felt that a book of poems should be more like a series of poems that are roughly sewn from the same threads.

Spicer also worked for a time as the host for a folk music radio show at Berkeley where he made a connection with music archivist Harry Smith and ended up assisting Smith with the Anthology of American Folk Music.

Spicer sort of held court in local bars with people who were attracted to his theories and poetry. He was adamant about not being published nationally, detested the idea of poetry as something one "sold" and refused to copyright his work when it was published on a small press locally (he called copyrighting "the big lie of the personal"). All his poetry was published in the public domain. His belief was that poetry came from the "outside." He called it "Martians," I call it the universe, but in any case he felt the poet was a conduit for these "transmissions" and that the poet's vocabulary was the "furniture" that the muse or Martians or the universe used to arrange the "room" of a poem.

He said of these "transmissions" at one of his Vancouver lectures "I don't think it's something the electroencephalogram would get. I don't think it has anything to do with what's in my skull. I think there's something Outside. I really believe that, and I haven't noticed anyone really, in all of these people who come here, who did seem to believe that I believed it, but I do."

Before you dismiss him as a nutcase, let me point out he was a highly educated linguist with a solid background of reading in the classics. Those of you who know something about Science Fiction authors will get a kick out of the fact that when Spicer attended Berkeley he roomed at the same boarding house with Philip K. Dick. (All of us who know Dick's work are now sporting a wry smile.) What Spicer is talking about is a connection with the "muses" that often miraculously helps one create a work of art. He felt the inspiration for poetry was from some "outer" source that one interpreted with their own vocabulary.

Spicer had an alcohol addiction that was pretty fierce. He collapsed into a coma from alcohol poisoning and died in the poverty ward of San Francisco General Hospital when he was only 40. His last murmured words were " My vocabulary did this to me."

Spicer is a book and a half of information that I'm not qualified to write. It's ironic, but not unpredictable, that Spicer's poetics are highly lauded by linguists and philosophy majors who love to disseminate his theories with even more obfuscating theories. Wittgenstein is often dragged in, and, of course, Derrida. Or Derrida-da as I like to joke. (Just trying to lighten up the mood...)

Today's poem, in addition to referencing a lot of Greek and Roman mythology, is a sly response to Robert Frost who said, "any damned fool can get into a poem but it takes a poet to get out of one."

Here are some Spicer quotes that are somewhat enlightening about his work:

In response to his saying poetry was not important:

"What I'm trying to say is that when I say "not important," it is the kind of thing that - you want a job, you want a million dollars, you want someone to sleep with - no. That doesn't help a bit. It is important to your life in the sense that you live your life not just as a human being but as something more than a human being, and I don't know how much it is. In terms of biography, I doubt if poems that you write or poems that you read by others really change the course of, or the flow of events, of things. But at the same time they do in a fundamental way."

"Words are what sticks to the real. We use them to push the real, to drag the real into the poem. They are what we hold on with, nothing else. They are as valuable in themselves as rope with nothing to be tied to. ”

I add this quote strictly because it shocked me. I always thought this was MY crazy theory. I'm happy to see it is Spicer's: "But there are different kinds of levels of gravity and Vancouver has a different level than San Francisco does, and it's one I prefer." (yes, he's talking about the force gravity, not seriousness)

You can find more Spicer here: www.poetryfoundation.org/search/?q=Jack+spicer

P.S. I have no idea if Jack Spicer from "Xiaolin Showdown" has anything to do with the poet but it would be charming if he did have. I kinda doubt it, though.

Number 179: Henry Lawson "Past Carin' "

Past Carin'

Now up and down the siding brown
The great black crows are flyin',
And down below the spur, I know,
Another `milker's' dyin';
The crops have withered from the ground,
The tank's clay bed is glarin',
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin' --
Past worryin' or carin',
Past feelin' aught or carin';
But from my heart no tear nor sound,
For I have gone past carin'.

Through Death and Trouble, turn about,
Through hopeless desolation,
Through flood and fever, fire and drought,
And slavery and starvation;
Through childbirth, sickness, hurt, and blight,
And nervousness an' scarin',
Through bein' left alone at night,
I've got to be past carin'.
Past botherin' or carin',
Past feelin' and past carin';
Through city cheats and neighbours' spite,
I've come to be past carin'.

Our first child took, in days like these,
A cruel week in dyin',
All day upon her father's knees,
Or on my poor breast lyin';
The tears we shed -- the prayers we said
Were awful, wild -- despairin'!
I've pulled three through, and buried two
Since then -- and I'm past carin'.
I've grown to be past carin',
Past worryin' and wearin';
I've pulled three through and buried two
Since then, and I'm past carin'.

'Twas ten years first, then came the worst,
All for a dusty clearin',
I thought, I thought my heart would burst
When first my man went shearin';
He's drovin' in the great North-west,
I don't know how he's farin';
For I, the one that loved him best,
Have grown to be past carin'.
I've grown to be past carin'
Past lookin' for or carin';
The girl that waited long ago,
Has lived to be past carin'.

My eyes are dry, I cannot cry,
I've got no heart for breakin',
But where it was in days gone by,
A dull and empty achin'.
My last boy ran away from me,
I know my temper's wearin',
But now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.
Past wearyin' or carin',
Past feelin' and despairin';
And now I only wish to be
Beyond all signs of carin'.

--Henry Lawson

Hap Notes: Henry Lawson (1867-1922) was one of Australia's first well known writers. He has often been called Australia's greatest writer as has his contemporary Andrew Barton "Banjo" Paterson, although their outlooks on the rural life of Australia were very different. Their contrast will be immediately obvious to you if you know the song "Waltzing Matilda," which Paterson wrote and contrast it with today's poem's intense realism. Although 'Waltzing Matilda isn't all THAT cheery, it certainly is more spirited and lively than "Past Carin' " which bursts your heart when you read it aloud and own it. (Don't worry, I'll show you Paterson's poem in a moment if you'd like to read it.)

Back to Lawson. He was born in New South Wales and his mother was a writer in the women's movement there and she later became a publisher and poet herself. When Lawson was nine he got an ear infection that left him partially deaf, by the time he was 14 the deafness was total. He had trouble in the classroom after that but was a voracious reader. He had always been shy and the deafness just compounded it.

His whole life he patched together odd jobs as he wrote poetry and short stories and short "sketches"." His first poetry was published when he was 20 in the Sydney Bulletin. He had a job at the "Brisbane Boomerang," -the newspaper- for a bit and also worked for the Bulletin. In his many trips in the Australian bush he came away with a far different and less romantic picture than did his contemporary Paterson. He was an avid drinker all his life and it contributed to his misery as it comforted him, as is often the case with the stuff.

He had an unhappy marriage which ended in divorce. The couple had two children together and Lawson was occasionally jailed for non-payment to his ex-wife. He didn't get a lot of money, wasn't very good with it when he did get it and, well, there's that alcohol thing again. He also suffered from deep depressions.

He finally met a woman, Mrs. Isabella Byers, who was of independent means, much older than he and a writer, too. She took up the Lawson cause making sure that he got royalties that were fair for his work (remember I said he wasn't very good with money and was a bit shy). She negotiated with his publishers, made sure he got to see his kids, nursed him through his alcoholism and depression. He was famous but completely broke until she took up his banner.

When Lawson died he was the first "distinguished citizen" to be granted a state funeral, an honor usually reserved for Governors, justices etc. His funeral was attended by thousands of people including the Prime Minister of Australia and the Premier of New South Wales (I don't know Australian political offices well enough to know what they all do, I just know the big guys in the country's government all showed up.)

Lawson's picture has been issued on stamps and money. No one schooled in Australia does not know his name.

Lawson's fiction has been described as Hemingway-esque and his short sketches are highly critically regarded. He was a proud proponent of Australia's separate identity from England and nationalism.

In the first verse of today's poem there is a dearth of fresh water and a lot of mud- in the river possibly. The 'milker' is, of course, a cow. Lawson's picture of rural life, though bleak, was often considered the most accurate. Have you ever seen the movie "My Brilliant Career"? There's a connection here, first with the muddy life of an Australian bush farmer depicted in the film. And second, the wall paper at the farm where the protagonist works is just newspaper and today's poem was published in it and she reads it aloud- finding it in several places on the wall. (It's the masthead pic with Judy Davis.)

Here's a good Lawson quote: "We shall never be understood or respected by the English until we carry our individuality to extremes, and by asserting our independence, become of sufficient consequence in their eyes to merit a closer study than they have hitherto accorded us."

and

“Beer makes you feel the way you ought to feel without beer”

You can find more Lawson here: rpo.library.utoronto.ca/poet/197.html

Here's Paterson's poem with a few definitions:

Waltzing Matilda

Oh there once was a swagman camped in the billabongs,

Under the shade of a Coolibah tree,

And he sang as he looked at the old billy boiling,

"Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me?"

Chorus:

Who'll come a waltzing Matilda, my darling,

Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me?

Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag,

Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me?

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,

Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee,

And he sang as he put him away in the tucker-bag,

You'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."

(Chorus)

Up came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred,

Up came policemen—one, two, a and three.

"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?

You'll come a waltzing Matilda with we."

(Chorus)

Up sprang the swagman and jumped in the waterhole,

Drowning himself by the Coolibah tree.

And his voice can be heard as it sings in the billabongs,

Who'll come a waltzing Matilda with me."

(Chorus)

----Banjo Paterson

Waltzing is traveling, hobo-ing around, a Matilda is a bag, like big bindle for carrying belongings on your back- like a homemade backpack. A swagman is a guy who carries or "waltzes" with a bag or "Matilda". A billabong is a bend in the river, a Coolibah tree is a kind of eucalyptus, a "billy" is a can for boiling water, a jumpbuck is an energetic unsheared sheep.

Number 178: Carl Sandburg "Happiness"

Happiness

I asked the professors who teach the meaning of life to tell

me what is happiness.

And I went to famous executives who boss the work of

thousands of men.

They all shook their heads and gave me a smile as though

 I was trying to fool with them

And then one Sunday afternoon I wandered out along

the Desplaines river

And I saw a crowd of Hungarians under the trees with

 their women and children and a keg of beer and an

accordion.

-- Carl Sandburg

Hap Notes: The Des Plaines river (I've left Sandburg's spelling as he wrote it) runs through northern Illinois, down through Joliet and meets up with the Kankakee river and the Channahon where becomes the Illinois River which, in turn, is a tributary of the Mississippi. Why am I telling you this? Well, mostly to show that Sandburg is writing about urban workers (from Chicago) who are picnicking on their off hours. A good deal of the Hungarian population worked at the steel mills, railroads and brick factories along the Des Plaines in Chicago and it's surrounding suburbs. So what I'm telling you is that these celebrating happy people had hard, dirty, noisy jobs.

Just a side note: The Hungarian population in Chicago in 1870 was 159. By 1920 that number had grown to 70, 209. Many of the first Hungarians in Chicago were Hungarian revolutionaries who escaped after trying to throw off the choking shackles of the Hapsburg Empire. Hungarian was not even considered Hungary's "official" language until 1825, before then it was Latin. I can't possibly explain (or even understand) much of the history of the Austrian-Hungarian governments but Hungary was often getting the fuzzy part of the lollipop.

Anyway, all I'm really saying is that these working class folks having a picnic with an accordion were hard working people with a pedigree that came from the Kingdom of Hungary (established in 1000 A.D.) Many of them had to learn another language as an adult- it's hard to do and they did it. So, they aren't happy, "simple" people- you know how we tend to think happiness is simple-minded? This is not necessarily true.

Why is it we always understand what Sandburg is saying but we culturally continue to do the opposite? You know how cynics say that money can't buy happiness but it can buy the things that make you happy? Do you think they are talking about an accordion and a keg of beer?

Here's where we've mentioned Sandburg before:
happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/04/number-137-carl-sandburg-electric-sign.html
and here:
happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-15-carl-sandburg-arithmetic.html

The masthead today is a Thomas Cole painting "The Picnic." Cole was one of the founders of the Hudson River School of painting characterized by landscapes and "naturalism." Another aside: When I go to art galleries I usually ask the guards which paintings they like. The answers are always illuminating. At the Minneapolis Institute of Art one of the guards showed me a wonderful Pierre Bonnard, "Dining Room in the Country." At the National Gallery of Art, a guard took me to four very large Cole paintings "The Voyage of Life." A surprising and thoughtful choice. Here are the four paintings en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Voyage_of_Life
Another interesting Cole series is "The Course of Empire" which references Byron, by the way. It's here en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Course_of_Empire