JCpoetryblog

Everybody knows the story of The Pied Piper of Hamelin.  Browning's poem runs to 303 lines but I'll confine my sample to a just a couple of sections. HAMELIN TOWN ’s in Brunswick, By famous Hanover City;   The river Weser, deep and wide,   Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied;         5 But when begins my ditty,   Almost five hundred years ago,   To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin was a pity.           Rats!         10 They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,   And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats,   And licked the soup from the cook’s own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats,         15 Made nests inside men’s Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women’s chats,  ...

Muriel Spark will always be remembered for The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie but, like other accomplished novelists, she could turn her hand to poetry as well. THE LONELY SHOE LYING ON THE ROAD One sad shoe that someone has probably flung out of a car or truck. Why only one? This happens on an average one year in four. But always throughout my  life, my travels, I see it like  a memorandum. Something I have  forgotten to remember, that there are always  mysteries in life. That shoes do not always go in pairs, any more than we do. That one fits; the other, not. That children can  thoughtlessly and in a merry fashion chuck out someone's shoe, split up someone's life. But usually that shoe that I  see is a man's, old, worn, the sole parted from the upper. Then why did the owner keep the other, keep it to himself? Was he afraid (as I so often am with  inanimate objects) to hurt its feelings? That one shoe in the road invokes  my awe and my sad pity. ...

I can remember as a High School student visiting my friend, Brian's home to listen to vinyl records of Barry Humphries,  Sandy Stone was his favoured character in those days but he was seriously over-taken before long by Edna Everage.  I've only heard a couple of Humphries' poems and this is an example. I think that I shall never spy A poem as lovely as a pie Blushing with red tomato sauce A banquet in a single course. A pie whose crust is oven-kissed Whose gravy scalds the eater's wrist. The pastie and the sausage roll Have not thy brown mysterious soul The dark hued aborigine Is less indigenous than thee. As round and rich as Zara As tasteful as Patrick White With a glass of purple Para. You're the great Australian bite.

Clive James was only 4 years older than me and I was always in awe of his courage in being able to leave Australia, travel to London and make his mark in that vast metropolis.  Unfortunately, he died before his time but felt moved to mark his own passing through poetry.  His so-called death poem is Japanese Maple: JAPANESE MAPLE Your death, near now, is of an easy sort. So slow a fading out brings no real pain. Breath growing short Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain Of energy, but thought and sight remain: Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls On that small tree And saturates your brick back garden walls, So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls? Ever more lavish as the dusk descends This glistening illuminates the air. It never ends. Whenever the rain comes it will be there, Beyond my time, but now I take my share. My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new. Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame. What I must do Is li...

There must have been a copy of A Child's Garden of Verses in our house in Blantyre because some of the poems from the book are familiar, and we certainly didn't have a copy during my childhood in Australia.  Perhaps this one has stuck most firmly in my memory and I have always associated the name Leery with the occupation of lamplighter.  Looking at the poem now I wonder how I related to it in any way.  It doesn't touch me on any level. THE LAMPLIGHTER My tea is nearly ready and the sun has left the sky; It’s time to take the window to see Leerie going by; For every night at teatime and before you take your seat, With lantern and with ladder he comes posting up the street. Now Tom would be a driver and Maria go to sea, And my papa’s a banker and as rich as he can be; But I, when I am stronger and can choose what I’m to do, Oh Leerie, I’ll go round at night and light the lamps with you! For we are very lucky, with a lamp before the door, And Leerie stops ...

One of my favourite limericks is this one: There was a young man from Japan Whose limericks never would scan. When asked why that was, He replied "It's because I always try to cram as many words into the last line as I possibly can. Edward Lear wrote limericks as did many other upstanding authors but many believed that the only good limerick was a dirty one. The limerick packs laughs anatomical Into space that is quite economical. But the good ones I've seen So seldom are clean  And the clean ones so seldom are comical. [4] Someone with the wonderful name of Gershon Legman wrote a couple of volumes of limericks in the 1950s which scandalised American society and I like the warning from Professor Morris Bishop: The Limerick is furtive and mean You must keep her in close quarantine Or she sneaks to the slums And promptly becomes Disorderly, drunk and obscene.  

Recalling Donne's masterpiece inevitably makes me think of Gray's Elegy Written in a Country Church-yard written 125 years later. ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCH-YARD The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,           The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea,  The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,           And leaves the world to darkness and to me.  Now fades the glimm'ring landscape on the sight,           And all the air a solemn stillness holds,  Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,           And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds; 

Donne wrote his famous words in 1624, in Meditations and they might have been intended for a sermon.  No doubt they've been used for that purpose many times since. No man is an island, Entire of itself, Every man is a piece of the continent, A part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less. As well as if a promontory were. As well as if a manor of thy friend's Or of thine own were: Any man's death diminishes me, Because I am involved in mankind, And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls;  It tolls for thee. 

I have a memory of, when I was young, finding a book on my aunt's bookcase called 'At the Back of the North Wind' by George MacDonald who lived during the reign of Queen Victoria.  The book was interesting but too bulky for me to even think about completing.  However, Mr MacDonald is more famous for writing one of the shortest poems ever penned. Come Home (The gap between the two words is significant; I've read an analysis of the poem which ran into several paragraphs, which just goes to show that literary critics like the sound of their own voices.)

Another poem I learned at Chakola occurred to me last night.  It was the word 'skelington' which popped in to my mind and the rest of the poem unfolded.  We were fortunate that, at Chakola, we had a couple of Londoners who could say the poem as it should be expressed. BIBY'S EPITAPH A muvver was barfin' 'er biby one night, The youngest of ten and a tiny young mite, The muvver was poor an' the biby was thin, Only a skelington covered in skin; The muvver turned rahnd for the soap off the rack, She was but a moment, but when she turned back, The biby was gorn; and in anguish she cried, "Oh, where is my biby?" — The angels replied: "Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole, Your biby 'as gorn dahn the plug; The poor little thing was so skinny an' thin 'E oughter been barfed in a jug; Your biby is perfekly 'appy, 'E won't need a barf any more, Your biby 'as fell dahn the plug-'ole, Not lorst, but gorn before.

Eric Bogle is most famous, perhaps, for his anti-war songs, 'And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda' and 'No Man's Land' but the first of his songs I heard was 'Now I'm Easy'.  He said he wrote the song after meeting an old fellow in the pub at Collector in NSW. NOW I'M EASY For nearly sixty years, I've been a Cockie Of droughts and fires and floods I've lived through plenty This country's dust and mud have seen my tears and blood But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy I married a fine girl when I was twenty But she died in giving birth when she was thirty No flying doctor then, just a gentle old black 'gin But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy She left me with two sons and a daughter On a bone-dry farm whose soil cried out for water So my care was rough and ready, but they grew up fine and steady But it's nearly over now, and now I'm easy My daughter married young, and went her own way My sons lie burie...

John O'Grady is famous for They're a Weird Mob which caused quite a stir In Australia when it was published in 1957.  I don't know when I read it but I was only 14 in that year and the language was somewhat colourful.  O'Grady also wrote poetry and I particularly love the verse he called The Integrated Adjective.  It's perhaps now better known as Tumba-bloody-rumba. I was down the Riverina, knockin’ ’round the towns a bit, And occasionally resting with a schooner in me mitt, And on one of these occasions, when the bar was pretty full And the local blokes were arguin’ assorted kind of bull, I heard a conversation, most peculiar in its way. It’s only in Australia you would hear a joker say: “Howya bloody been, ya drongo, haven’t seen ya fer a week, And yer mate was lookin’ for ya when ya come in from the creek. ‘E was lookin’ up at Ryan’s, and around at bloody Joe’s, And even at the Royal, where ‘e bloody NEVER goes”. And the other bloke says “Seen ‘im? Owed...

During World War I, young men marched off, fully prepared to die for King and Country.  It was Wilfred Owen, among all the war poets, who saw through the futility and cynicism of this sentiment, calling it 'the old lie'.  Those of us who studied Latin were delighted that we could roughly translate the title: Dulce et Decorum Est - It is Sweet and Fitting (to die for one's country). DULCE ET DECORUM EST Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs, And towards our distant rest began to trudge. Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots, But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame; all blind; Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots Of gas-shells dropping softly behind. Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!—An ecstasy of fumbling Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time, But someone still was yelling out and stumbling And flound’ring like a man in fire or lime.— Dim through the misty pa...

I was listening to the BBC Weekend program on the radio today and heard the announcement that Roger Robinson, the British poet who was born in Trinidad, has been awarded the T S Eliott Prize.  I rushed to Google and downloaded A Portable Paradise.  I must say I am impressed. A PORTABLE PARADISE And if I speak of Paradise, then I’m speaking of my grandmother who told me to carry it always on my person, concealed, so no one else would know but me. That way they can’t steal it, she’d say. And if life puts you under pressure, trace its ridges in your pocket, smell its piney scent on your handkerchief, hum its anthem under your breath. And if your stresses are sustained and daily, get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel, hostel or hovel – find a lamp and empty your paradise onto a desk: your white sands, green hills and fresh fish. Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.

Most poems are encountered in school, or studied at University; others come through general reading. Then there are the ones which seem to be absorbed with no personal effort.  Almost as if they live in popular culture and seep their way into our consciousness. I've never read The Raven, until now, yet I know the first few lines and the refrain as well as I know any other poem.  It's a poem with a life of its own. The Raven  [5] Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. "'Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door—             Only this and nothing more." Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;...

My education was decidedly Euro-centric and I didn't read any poems by indigenous Australians until I was much older. Kath Walker changed her name in 1988 'as a way of stripping the label given her by invading forces.'Oodgeroo means 'paperbark' and Noonuccal is her tribal name. INTEGRATION - YES Gratefully we learn from you, The advanced race, You with long centuries of lore behind you. We who were Australians long before You who came yesterday, Eagerly we must learn to change, Learn new needs we never wanted, New compulsions never needed, The price of survival. Much that we loved is gone and had to go, But not the deep indigenous things. The past is still so much a part of us, Still about us, still within us. We are happiest Among our own people. We would like to see Our own customs kept, our old Dances and songs, crafts and corroborees. Why change our sacred myths for your sacred myths? No, not assimilation but integration, Not submergence but our uplifting, So bl...

Children are bloodthirsty creature and M. Belloc capitalised on that by writing poems where children came to a sticky end. This is about Jim, Who ran away from his Nurse and was eaten by a Lion There was a Boy whose name was Jim; His Friends were very good to him. They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam, And slices of delicious Ham, And Chocolate with pink inside And little Tricycles to ride, And read him Stories through and through, And even took him to the Zoo-- But there it was the dreadful Fate Befell him, which I now relate. You know--or at least you ought to know, For I have often told you so-- That Children never are allowed To leave their Nurses in a Crowd; Now this was Jim's especial Foible, He ran away when he was able, And on this inauspicious day He slipped his hand and ran away! He hadn't gone a yard when--Bang! With open Jaws, a lion sprang, And hungrily began to eat The Boy: beginning at his feet. Now, just imagine how it feels When first your toes and then your he...

The fog comes on little cat feet. It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

I hadn't read any poetry by Stevie Smith although I know she was very highly regarded in the UK.  This morning, my Poetry app threw up her poem, 'Thoughts About the Person from Porlock'.  I've often wondered who the person was who disturbed Coleridge as he raced to get down the verses from his fevered imagination before they dissipated into smoke. Coleridge received the Person from Porlock    And ever after called him a curse, Then why did he hurry to let him in?    He could have hid in the house. It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong    (But often we all do wrong) As the truth is I think he was already stuck    With Kubla Khan. He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished,    I shall never write another word of it, When along comes the Person from Porlock And takes the blame for it. It was not right, it was wrong,    But often we all do wrong.

Johnny Clarke started out as a punk poet in the 60s and 70s but, now that he is 70 years old, he calls himself a performance poet.  I've seen him many times on TV, taking part in various celebrity quiz shoes.  He's a rather scruffy individual who sports long black hair and sunglasses, but holds an honorary doctorate from some UK university. The Arctic Monkeys have recorded a hit song using the lyrics of this poem. I wanna be your vacuum cleaner Breathing in your dust I wanna be your Ford Cortina I will never rust If you like your coffee hot Let me be your coffee pot You call the shots I wanna be yours I wanna be your raincoat For those frequent rainy days I wanna be your dreamboat When you want to sail away Let me be your teddy bear Take me with you anywhere I don’t care I wanna be yours I wanna be your electric meter I will not run out I wanna be the electric heater You’ll get cold without I wanna be your setting lotion Hold your hair in deep devotion Deep as the deep Atlanti...

I didn't remember being impressed with Shelley's poetry until my aunt Mabel happened to mention the name Ozymandias in some conversation.  Aunt Mabel was widely read and thought of herself as an educated woman, gaining her BA after she retired. The name Ozymandias intrigued me and, in the days before the Internet, I checked my encyclopaedia. Apparently, it is the Greek name of the Egyptian pharaoh, Ramses II. This would have to be the most interesting sonnet I have encountered. I met a traveller from an antique land, Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed; And on the pedestal, these words appear: My name is  Ozymandias , King of Kings; Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair! No...

I loved his Songs of a Sentimental Bloke, trying to read the poems out loud to capture the supposed exaggerated Australian accent. THE PLAY OT'S in a name?" she sez… An' then she sighs, An' clasps 'er little 'ands, an' rolls 'er eyes. "A rose," she sez, "be any other name Would smell the same. Oh, w'erefore art you Romeo, young sir? Chuck yer ole pot, an' change yer moniker!" Doreen an' me, we bin to see a show— The swell two-dollar touch. Bong tong, yeh know. A chair apiece wiv velvit on the seat; A slap-up treat. The drarmer's writ be Shakespeare, years ago, About a barmy goat called Romeo. "Lady, be yonder moon I swear!" sez 'e. An' then 'e climbs up on the balkiney; An' there they smooge a treat, wiv pretty words Like two love-birds. I nudge Doreen. She whispers, "Ain't it grand!" 'Er eyes is shinin', an' I squeeze 'er 'and. ​ "Wot's in a name?...

Don Marquis's most famous creation was archy the cockroach who was the reincarnation of a human poet who contnued to write by jumping on the keys of Don's typewriter.  It's all in lower-case because archy couldn't use the Shift key to get capitals. THE COMING OF ARCHY expression is the need of my soul i was once a vers libre bard but i died and my soul went into the body of a cockroach it has given me a new outlook on life i see things from the under side now thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket but your paste is getting so stale i can't eat it there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have removed she nearly ate me the other night why don't she catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for there is a rat here she should get without delay most of these rats here are just rats but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him he used to be a poet himself night after night i have written poetry for you on your typewriter and t...

Another poet who devoted his life to writing poetry for children is Shel Silverstein.  He died in 1999, aged only 68, but left a priceless legacy. THIS BRIDGE This bridge will only take you halfway there To those mysterious lands you long to see: Through gypsy camps and swirling Arab fairs And moonlit woods where unicorns run free. So come and walk awhile with me and share The twisting trails and wondrous worlds I’ve known. But this bridge will only take you halfway there– The last few steps you’ll have to take alone.

I have an app on my iPad which gives me access to thousands of poems, from Shakespeare to ... well, Julian Stannard.  I can press a button marked SPIN and a poem, chosen at random, is displayed. Today, I was treated to Burlington Arcade by Julian Stannard: I’m being carried down the Burlington Arcade by Beadles in top hats, jewelers on both sides holding out their hands and wrapped in cashmere. When people speak of near-death experiences they’re always going through tunnels, they’re happy, they’re never going through the Burlington Arcade. Eric says, It’s good to see you wearing clothes and I have to admit he’s wearing the most beautiful trousers and I say, Eric you’re not supposed to be in this poem. Get back into your shop! I can see a light at the end of the tunnel. The Head Beadle’s saying “Burlington Gardens!” Should I tip him? Am I dead? What happens next?

Writing about Gwen Harwood reminded me of another famous hoax in Australian literary circles.  It happened in 1943 when two poets, James McCauley and Harold Stewart, sat down one afternoon, invented a poet, and wrote a number of poems in his name which they submitted to the Angry Penguins magazine.  They wanted to embarrass Max Harris, the editor of the magazine, by showing that he would print any old rubbish. The poems were ostensibly in the 'modernist' style but were really just a conglomeration of random phrases culled from whatever book they happened to pick up at the time.  However, long after the embarrassing event, several critics have said that the poems, in fact, have literary merit and are good examples of the surrealist style.  The emperor has no clothes. James McCauley, one of the conspirators, went on to become Professor of English at the University of Tasmania. Durer:Innsbruck, 1495 I had often cowled in the slumbrous heavy air, Closed my inanimate lids...

Our teacher in Year 5 primary school showed us a picture of Henry Lawson with his trademark walrus moustache.  "It's an impressive moustache," said Mr Buckley, "But it's a strain eating soup."  I decided then that teachers shouldn't try to be funny. Henry Lawson is probably best remembered for his short story, The Drover's Wife, which has secured a place in Australian folk lore, but his poetry is as memorable. ANDY'S GONE WITH CATTLE Our Andy's gone with cattle now - Our hearts are out of order With drought he's gone to battle now Across the Queensland border He's left us in dejection now Our thoughts with him are roving It's dull on this selection now Since Andy went a-droving Who now shall wear the cheerful face In times when things are blackest And who shall whistle round the place When Fortune frowns her blackest Oh, who shall cheek the squatter now When he comes round us snarling His tongue is growing hotter now Since Andy cr...

Gwen Harwood lived in Tasmania for most of her life.  Like many women poets, she found it difficult get her work published and had a particular 'beef' with The Bulletin who she believed were prejudiced against her just because she was female.  She became embroiled in one of Australia's great literary hoaxes, sending 2 sonnets to The Bulletin under the pseudonym, Walter Lehmann.  The Bulletin editors were happy to publish sonnets by a man but didn't notice that the first letters of each line in the first sonnet spelled out 'SO LONG BULLETIN' and the second sonnet had a similar message but contained 'an  obscene word'.   Setting aside her problems with prejudice, her non-offensive poetry is excellent. BARN OWL Daybreak: the household slept. I rose, blessed by the sun. A horny fiend, I crept out with my father's gun. Let him dream of a child obedient, angel-mind- old no-sayer, robbed of power by sleep. I knew my prize who swooped home at this hour with ...

THE GREEN MOUNTAIN You ask me why I dwell in the green mountain; I smile and make no reply for my heart is free of care. As the peach-blossom flows down stream and is gone into the unknown, I have a world apart that is not among men.

I don't know how I managed to overlook William Blake until now, especially as I had a bit of a special interest in his work when I was at High School.  His Songs of Innocence and of Experience and his extraordinary engravings fired my imagination, although the fairly overt sensuous nature of some his engravings might have had something to do with my interest. THE SICK ROSE O Rose thou art sick.  The invisible worm,  That flies in the night  In the howling storm:  Has found out thy bed  Of crimson joy:  And his dark secret love  Does thy life destroy.