Wilfrid Wilson Gibson, poet and playwright, lived 1878-1962 in London and elsewhere in England. He founded the short-lived poetry magazine, "New Numbers". In 1917 he lectured in the United States, and in 1924 he wrote the play, "Kestrel Edge".
Here and there, Wilfrid Gibson's first name has been misspelled Wilfred. But I have read these two poems and many others in "Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson", NYC, September 1917, "Copyright 1912, 1914, 1915, 1916 and 1917 by The Macmillan Company". (That's what its title page says; its cover reads, "Collected Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson.") This book, acquired by the Natick library in 1918, is a direct and contemporary reference and its frontispiece is an unfinished portrait of him, with his personal signature beneath: the dot over the second "i" in "Wilfrid" is very clear. That's his own opinion, AFTER he wrote both poems -- it also lists dates for the collections in which each appeared: "The Dancing Seal" was in "Fires" (1910-11), "The Ice-Cart" in "Friends" (1915-16).
I first read these two poems in "Echoes of the Sea", an anthology of sea poetry by Elinor Parker; her book spells his name Wilfred, and has dozens of punctuation changes. The following versions are from the 1917 "Collected Poems, by Wilfrid Wilson Gibson". Their punctuation, while unorthodox, is authentic.
When, work all over for the day,
He'd take his fiddle down and play
His merry tunes beside the sea,
Their eyes grew brighter and more bright,
And burned and twinkled merrily:
And, as I watched them one still night,
And saw their eager sparkling eyes,
I felt those lively seals would rise
Some shiny night ere he could know,
And dance about him, heel and toe,
Unto the fiddle's heady tune.
And at the rising of the moon,
Half-daft, I took my stand before
A young seal lying on the shore;
And called on her to dance with me.
And it seemed hardly strange when she
Stood up before me suddenly,
And shed her black and sheeny skin;
And smiled, all eager to begin . . .
And I was dancing, heel and toe,
With a young maiden white as snow,
Unto a crazy violin.
We danced beneath the dancing moon
All night, beside the dancing sea,
With tripping toes and skipping heels:
And all about us friendly seals
Like Christian folk were dancing reels
Unto the fiddle's endless tune
That kept on spinning merrily
As though it never meant to stop.
And never once the snow-white maid
A moment stayed
To take a breath,
Though I was fit to drop:
And while those wild eyes challenged me,
I knew as well as well could be
I must keep step with that young girl,
Though we should dance to death.
Then with a skirl
The fiddle broke:
The moon went out:
The sea stopped dead:
And, in a twinkling, all the rout
Of dancing folk had fled . . .
And in the chill bleak dawn I woke
Upon the naked rock, alone.
They've brought me far from Skua Isle . . .
I laugh to think they do not know
That as, all day, I chip the stone,
Among my fellows here inland,
I smell the sea-wrack on the shore . . .
And see her snowy-tossing hand,
And meet again her merry smile . . .
And dream I'm dancing all the while,
I'm dancing ever, heel and toe,
With a seal-maiden, white as snow,
On that moonshiny Island-strand,
For ever and for evermore.
The carter cracked a sudden whip:
I clutched my stool with startled grip,
Awakening to the grimy heat
Of that intolerable street.
Away by the lands of the Japanee,
When the paper
lanterns glow
And the crews of all the shipping drink
In the house of
Blood Street Joe,
At twilight, when the landward breeze
Brings up the
harbour noise,
And ebb of Yokohama Bay
Swigs chattering
through the buoys,
In Cisco's Dewdrop Dining Rooms
They tell the tale
anew
Of a hidden sea and a hidden fight,
When the Baltic ran from the Northern Light
And the Stralsund
fought the two!
Now this is the law of the Muscovite, that he
proves with shot and steel,
When ye come by his isles in the Smoky Sea ye
must not take the seal,
Where the gray sea goes nakedly between the
weed-hung shelves,
And the little blue fox he is bred for his skin
and the seal they
breed for themselves;
For when the matkas seek the shore to
drop their pups aland,
The great man-seal haul out of the sea,
aroaring, band by band;
And when the first September gales have slaked
their rutting-wrath,
The great man-seal haul back to the sea and no
man knows their path.
Then dark they lie and stark they
lie--rookery, dune, and floe,
And the Northern Lights come down o' nights
to dance with the
houseless snow.
And God who clears the grounding berg and
steers the grinding floe,
He hears the cry of the little kit-fox and the
lemming on the snow.
But since our women must walk gay and money
buys their gear,
The sealing-boats they filch that way at hazard
year by year.
English they be and Japanee that hang on the
Brown Bear's flank,
And some be Scot, but the worst, God wot,
and the boldest
thieves, be Yank!
It was the sealer Northern Light, to the Smoky
Seas she bore.
With a stovepipe stuck from a starboard port
and the Russian flag
at her fore.
(Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light--oh!
they were birds of a feather--
Slipping away to the Smoky Seas, three
seal-thieves together!)
And at last she came to a sandy cove and the
Baltic lay therein,
But her men were up with the herding seal to
drive and club and skin.
There were fifteen hundred skins abeach, cool
pelt and proper fur,
When the Northern Light drove into the bight
and the sea-mist drove
with her.
The Baltic called her men and weighed--she
could not choose but run--
For a stovepipe seen through the closing mist,
it shows like a four-inch gun
(And loss it is that is sad as death to lose
both trip and ship
And lie for a rotting contraband on
Vladivostock slip).
She turned and dived in the sea-smother as a
rabbit dives in the whins,
And the Northern Light sent up her boats to
steal the stolen skins.
They had not brought a load to side or slid
their hatches clear,
When they were aware of a sloop-of-war,
ghost-white and very near.
Her flag she showed, and her guns she showed--
three of them, black,
abeam,
And a funnel white with the crusted salt, but
never a show of steam.
There was no time to man the brakes, they
knocked the shackle free,
And the Northern Light stood out again,
goose-winged to open sea.
(For life it is that is worse than death, by
force of Russian law
To work in the mines of mercury that loose the
teeth in your jaw!)
They had not run a mile from shore--they heard
no shots behind--
When the skipper smote his hand on his thigh
and threw her up in
the wind:
"Bluffed--raised out on a bluff," said he, "for
if my name's Tom Hall,
"You must set a thief to catch a thief--and a
thief has caught us all!
"By every butt in Oregon and every spar in
Maine,
"The hand that spilled the wind from her sail
was the hand of Reuben
Paine!
"He has rigged and trigged her with paint and
spar,
and, faith, he has
faked her well--
"But I'd know the Stralsund's deckhouse yet
from here to the booms
o' Hell.
"Oh, once we ha' met at Baltimore, and twice on
Boston pier,
"But the sickest day for you, Reuben Paine,
was the day that you
came here--
"The day that you came here, my lad, to scare
us from our seal
"With your funnel made o' your painted cloth,
and your guns o'
rotten deal!
"Ring and blow for the Baltic now, and head her
back to the bay,
"For we'll come into the game again with a
double deck to play!"
They rang and blew the sealer's call--the
poaching cry o' the sea--
And they raised the Baltic out of the mist, and
an angry ship was she:
And blind they groped through the whirling
white,
and blind to the bay
again,
Till they heard the creak of the Stralsund's
boom
and the clank of her
mooring-chain.
They laid them down by bitt and boat, their
pistols in their belts,
And: "Will you fight for it, Reuben Paine, or
will you share the pelts?"
A dog-toothed laugh laughed Reuben Paine, and
bared his flenching knife.
"Yea, skin for skin, and all that he hath a man
will give for his life;
But I've six thousand skins below, and Yeddo
Port to see,
And there's never a law of God or man runs
north of Fifty-Three.
So go in peace to the naked seas with empty
holds to fill,
And I'll be good to your seal this catch, as
many as I shall kill."
Answered the snap of a closing lock and the
jar of a gun-butt slid,
But the tender fog shut fold on fold to hide
the wrong they did.
The weeping fog rolled fold on fold the wrath
of man to cloak,
And the flame-spurts pale ran down the rail as
the sealing-rifles spoke.
The bullets bit on bend and butt, the splinter
slivered free,
(Little they trust to sparrow-dust that stop
the seal in his sea!)
The thick smoke hung and would not shift,
leaden it lay and blue,
But three were down on the Baltic's deck and
two of the Stralsund's crew.
An arm's length out and overside the banked
fog held them bound;
But, as they heard a groan or word, they fired
at the sound.
For one cried out on the name of God, and one
to have him cease;
And the questing volley found them both and
bade them hold their peace.
And one called out on a heathen joss and one on
the Virgin's Name;
And the schooling bullet leaped across
and showed them whence
they came.
And in the waiting silences the rudder whined
beneath,
And each man drew his watchful breath slow
taken 'tween the teeth--
Trigger and ear and eye acock, knit brow and
hard-drawn lips--
Bracing his feet by chock and cleat for the
rolling of the ships;
Till they heard the cough of a wounded man
that fought in the fog
for breath,
Till they heard the torment of Reuben Paine
that wailed upon his death:
"The tides they'll go through Fundy Race but
I'll go never more
"And see the hogs from ebb-tide mark turn
scampering back to shore.
"No more I'll see the trawlers drift below the
Bass Rock ground,
"Or watch the Fall steamer lights tear blazing
up the Sound.
"Sorrow is me, in a lonely sea and a sinful
fight I fall,
"But if there's law o' God or man you'll swing
for it yet, Tom Hall!"
Tom Hall stood up by the quarter-rail.
"Your words in your
teeth," said he.
"There's never a law of God or man runs north
of Fifty Three.
"So go in grace with Him to face, and an
ill-spent life behind,
"And I'll take care o' your widows, Rube, as
many as I shall find."
A Stralsund man shot blind and large, and a
warlock Finn was he,
And he hit Tom Hall with a bursting ball a
hand's-breadth over the knee.
Tom Hall caught hold by the topping-lift, and
sat him down with an oath,
"You'll wait a little, Rube," he said, "the
Devil has called for both.
"The Devil is driving both this tide, and the
killing-grounds are close,
"And we'll go up to the Wrath of God as the
holluschickie goes.
"O men, put back your guns again and lay your
rifles by,
"We've fought our fight, and the best are down.
Let up and let us die!
"Quit firing, by the bow there--quit! Call off
the Baltic's crew!
"You're sure of Hell as me or Rube--but wait
till we get through."
There went no word between the ships, but
thick and quick and loud
The life-blood drummed on the dripping decks,
with the fog-dew from
the shroud,
The sea-pull drew them side by side, gunnel to
gunnel laid,
And they felt the sheerstrakes pound and clear,
but never a word was said.
Then Reuben Paine cried out again before his
spirit passed:
"Have I followed the sea for thirty years to
die in the dark at last?
"Curse on her work that has nipped me here with
a shifty trick unkind--
"I have gotten my death where I got my bread,
but I dare not face it blind.
"Curse on the fog! Is there never a wind of all
the winds I knew
"To clear the smother from off my chest, and
let me look at the blue?"
The good fog heard--like a splitten sail, to
left and right she tore,
And they saw the sun-dogs in the haze and the
seal upon the shore.
Silver and gray ran spit and bay to meet the
steel-backed tide,
And pinched and white in the clearing light the
crews stared overside.
O rainbow-gay the red pools lay that swilled
and spilled and spread,
And gold, raw gold, the spent shell rolled
between the careless dead--
The dead that rocked so drunkenwise to weather
and to lee,
And they saw the work their hands had done as
God had bade them see!
And a little breeze blew over the rail that
made the headsails lift,
But no man stood by wheel or sheet, and they
let the schooners drift.
And the rattle rose in Reuben's throat and he
cast his soul with a cry,
And "Gone already?" Tom Hall he said. "Then
it's time for me to die."
His eyes were heavy with great sleep and
yearning for the land,
And he spoke as a man that talks in dreams, his
wound beneath his hand.
"Oh, there comes no good in the westering wind
that backs against the
sun;
"Wash down the decks--they're all too red--and
share the skins and run,
"Baltic, Stralsund, and Northern Light,--clean
share and share for all,
"You'll find the fleets off Tolstoi Mees, but
you will not find Tom Hall.
"Evil he did in shoal-water and blacker sin on
the deep,
"But now he's sick of watch and trick, and now
he'll turn and sleep.
"He'll have no more of the crawling sea that
made him suffer so,
"But he'll lie down on the killing-grounds
where the holluschickie go.
"And west you'll turn and south again, beyond
the sea-fog's rim,
"And tell the Yoshiwara girls to burn a stick
for him.
"And you'll not weight him by the heels and
dump him overside,
"But carry him up to the sand-hollows to die as
Bering died,
"And make a place for Reuben Paine that knows
the fight was fair,
"And leave the two that did the wrong to talk
it over there!"
Half-steam ahead by guess and lead, for the
sun is mostly veiled--
Through fog to fog, by luck and log, sail ye
as Bering sailed;
And, if the light shall lift aright to give
your land-fall plain,
North and by west, from Zapne Crest, ye
raise the Crosses Twain.
Fair marks are they to the inner bay, the
reckless poacher knows,
What time the scarred see-catchie lead their
sleek seraglios.
Ever they hear the floe-pack clear, and the
blast of the old bull-whale,
And the deep seal-roar that beats off shore
above the loudest gale.
Ever they wait the winter's hate as the
thundering boorga calls,
Where northward look they to St. George, and
westward to St. Paul's.
Ever they greet the hunted fleet--lone keels
off headlands drear--
When the sealing-schooners flit that way at
hazard year by year.
Ever in Yokohama Port men tell the tale
anew
Of a hidden sea and
a hidden fight,
When the Baltic ran
from the Northern Light
And the Stralsund fought the two!
North of the Aleutian Islands, where the Japan Current spills warm water into the Bering Sea, fog prevails and storms are common. It cost Russian colonists twenty years of dangerous searching with a hundred ships in fog-bound seas before, in June 1786, they finally located the Pribilof Islands, elusive breeding grounds for the world's largest population of fur-bearing seals. By 1867, when Russia sold the Pribilof Islands and the rest of Alaska to the United States of America, these small isles were already heavily plundered by foreign sealing-schooners. "Seward's Folly" was hardly that, as the annual income from Pribilof Islands sealskins quickly returned more than the entire purchase price of Alaska!
Rudyard Kipling knew sailing ships, and if he
didn't visit the Pribilof Islands in person, he certainly
researched them well, as evidenced in this poem, and in his
Jungle Book tale, "The
White Seal" (with its explanations of Pribilof Islands
terminology) and its sad seal-poem, "Lukannon".
For an accurate, contemporary description of
these strange isles, their seals and sealers, see the following
recommended reading:
"The Seal-Islands of Alaska" (The History
and Present Condition of the Fishery Industries), by Henry Wood Elliott (of the "Smithsonian
Institution"), Government Printing Office, Washington D.C.,
1881.
"Investigation of the Fur-seal and other
Fisheries of Alaska" by the U.S. House of
Representatives, G.P.O., Washington D.C., 1889.
Also recommended:
"Libby -- The Sketches, Letters and Journal
of Libby Beaman, Recorded in the Pribilof Islands,
1879-1880". by Libby Beaman.
"Sea Bears, The Story of the Fur Seal",
by Fredericka Martin, Chilton Co., Philadelphia and Ambassador
Books, Ltd., Toronto, 1960.
"Lord of Alaska", by Hector
Chevigny, 1942.
"Russian America; The Great Alaskan Venture,
1741-1867", by Hector Chevigny, 1965.
"The Thousand-Mile War--World War II in
Alaska and the Aleutians", by Brian Garfield,
Doubleday & Co., N.Y.C., 1969.
See today's Pribilof Islands weather.
A poetry note: "And God who clears the grounding berg and steers the grinding floe" retains Kipling's punctuation from the 1896 original edition. Other online versions may show "God Who", or "God, who", instead.
Rudyard Kipling was the youngest poet to win the
Nobel Prize for Literature. The second youngest was Albert
Camus.
THE PALACE
by Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936; this poem
1902; in "The Five Nations", 1903)
RENEE AND RUTHIE IN PROVINCETOWN
Copyright (C) 1996 by Mary Andrist Leech;
all rights reserved.
Note: Mary originally dashed this off as a take-off on what New Yorker Magazine likes. By the time she finished, her spoof was good enough to win!
by Finnish poet Henry Parland (1908-1930)
The gospels are served up
as sanctifying
-- so also this:
On four words
created by the devil himself
hangs all suffering:
ugly, beautiful, good, bad.
Gasoline
I am a great God
and my price is $1.40 per gallon
and men murder one another for my sake.
Whee!
when fire has kissed me
and iron trembles: life!
Then
I know
why I have dreamt so long
under the earth.
GROOKS
by Danish poet/scientist/architect Piet Hein (1905–1996)
There is one art,
no more, no less:
to do all things
with artlessness.
T. T. T.
Put up in a place
where it's easy to see,
the cryptic admonishment
T. T. T.
When you feel how depressingly
slowly you climb,
it's well to remember that
Things Take Time.
Gospel
Truth
People
take for gospel
things that are
imposs'ble.
A PALM-TREE
by German writer/poet Heinrich Heine
(1797-1856)
A
single fir-tree, lonely, on a northern mountain height, sleeps in a white blanket, draped in snow and ice. His dreams are of a palm-tree, who, far in eastern lands, weeps, all alone and silent, among the burning sands. |
by Bert Leston Taylor (1866-1921; Chicago Herald-Tribune, Oct. 24th, 1905)
Behold
the mighty dinosaur Famous in prehistoric lore, Not only for his power and strength But for his intellectual length. You will observe by these remains The creature had two sets of brains — One in his head (the usual place), The other in his spinal base. Thus he could reason "A priori" As well as "A posteriori." No problem bothered him a bit He made both head and tail of it. So wise was he, so wise and solemn, Each thought filled just a spinal column. If one brain found the pressure strong It passed a few ideas along. If something slipped his forward mind 'Twas rescued by the one behind. And if in error he was caught He had a saving afterthought. As he thought twice before he spoke He had no judgment to revoke. Thus he could think without congestion Upon both sides of every question. Oh, gaze upon this model beast; Defunct ten million years at least. |
By 1880, Stegasaurus was thought to have two brains, with the second, much-larger one in the hip region of its spine. That still-possible theory inspired this lovely 1905 poem.
The rails that run by Honey Creek are eaten
up with rust,
And no one walks the greasy bed hid in
the roses' dust;
But yet at night a slender ghost may
stalk the quiet sky--
And bats will shiver as they see Kate
Shelley going by.
Kate Shelley from a quiet house, Kate
Shelley in the storm...
She took a lantern in her hand to keep
her spirit warm;
The clouds came up and thundered haste
and Honey Creek was foam;
The waters laughed with blackened
breath below Kate Shelley's home.
"O daughter, go you to the door, I hear a
whistle call,
Crying within the valley dark that
shadows over all.
Your father was a section man; you are
the seed he sowed..
So listen, listen in the storm and
guard the iron road."
Her father was a section man; she knew the
mighty wheels
That ground along the bottom land amid
the tempest's heels.
She listened in the howling dark--and
heard a sundered scream,
When ninety tons of steel went down
into the boiling stream.
"My father was a section man--he reared me
for the road.."
She climbed the gashed and sullen grade
while oaken saplings bowed;
She prayed to gods of spade and pick,
she prayed to tie and rail...
The river bridge was like a priest in
rainy vestments pale.
The midnight coaches from the west plunged
in the dripping rain;
West of Moingona ties were sound--east
was a broken train.
(East in the bile of Honey Creek in one
drowned, twisting curl,
Lay ninety tons of twisted steel.)
Between them was a girl.
Under the river bridge was death--black
fathoms frothing down.
Beyond Moingona sang the train on to a
lonely town;
The engineer swayed in his cab, he
could not see ahead;
"Two hours more...I leave the run and
get me home to bed."
Two hours more...The whistle whined shrill
in the driven rain,
Two hours more...(A broken span, a
ghost where there was a train).
Across the river bridge a girl came
creeping on the ties;
The wind wiped out her lantern flame,
but still she had her eyes.
And still she had her Irish soul, and still
she had her heart!
The spikes cut furrows in her skin and
tore her flesh apart,
Two yards beneath, the river's tongue
clove at the shaking span...
A wraith beside her urged her on: "I
was a section man..."
Down in a pocket of the hills Moingona hid
its head--
And men with muscles pillowed down,
slumbering as the dead,
One light shone thinly through the
night under the battled din,
A bleeding hand clutched the door--a
torn shape staggered in.
No song of thanks, no valiant yell: "God!
and the train is saved!"
None but wheels which tightened down
when crimson lanterns waved;
Nothing but brandy held to lips by
someone of the crew...
"I'll ride the cab," she said, "and
show just where the boys went through."
She rode the cab and guided them. (The
anxious whistle bawled.)
She rode in torn and bloody rags the
ties where she had crawled.
And if the station mice were there they
saw the sundered heap,
And watched the rescue party toil
before Kate went to sleep.
And nine and forty years are gone; the
trains no longer come
Along the crest of Honey Creek before
Kate Shelley's home.
Oh, there were songs for other years
when all the road was hers--
And there were men to bless her name,
and gold to fill her purse.
This story is true; Kate Shelley was "The Iowa Heroine" who crawled across the Des Moines River Bridge on July 6th, 1881 to save a Chicago and North Western passenger train. But she was nearly forgotten when a young reporter, not yet known as one of America's great authors, wrote this tribute in 1930. This poem does not appear in MacKinlay Kantor's poetry collection, "Turkey In The Straw", and it isn't even listed by the U.S. Library of Congress. I am indebted to Charles Irwin of the Boone County Historical Society in Boone, Iowa for providing an old, typewritten copy, and am pleased to share it with you.
You can read more about Kate Shelley at:Here is an earlier poem, "Kate
Shelly", by Eugene J. Hall:
Kate Shelly poem
TWENTY YEARS AGO
by Thomas Gold, Jr. (1939)
Page 65 of that historic book prints the Town Seal of the early (and vastly larger) Village of Whitesborough. It depicts Hugh White in a friendly wrestling contest with an Oneida Chieftain, accepting a favorite sport of his new neighbors. Some 230 years later, unknowing and suspicious fans of Political Correctness want Whitesboro's traditional seal redesigned; they assume Hugh White is strangling his new Indian friend. (Look closely at that 1881 engraving; White's hand is on the shoulder, and most certainly not about the throat, of his friend. Earlier in the book, there is further reference to the unusual trust that Hugh White and the Oneidas shared.) I am reminded that PETA, a modern animal-rights group, actually mounted a campaign to make New York State rename the Catskill Mountains--themselves ignorant of (and later, ignoring) the region's early Dutch-settler word for Creek, which was Kill; hence, Kaater's Kill, now Catskill. In Whitesboro, too, I hope that history-understood will persevere over the temporary enthusiasms of worst-assuming crowds.
BTW, Indian?
Yes; back then, Native
American was in neither group's vocabulary.
And to this day, my Natick
Praying Indian friends agree. History, after
all, is His
Story. Not ours.
FOUR
PROMINENT BASTARDS
by Ogden Nash (1933)
The banker:
I'm an autocratic figure in these democratic states.
I'm a dandy demonstration of hereditary traits.
As the children of the baker bake the most delicious
breads,
As the sons of Casanova fill the most exclusive
beds,
As the Barrymores, the Roosevelts, and others I
could name
Inherited the talents that perpetuate their fame,
My position in the structure of society I owe
To the qualities my parents bequeathed me long ago.
My pappy was a gentleman and musical to boot.
He used to play piano in a house of ill repute.
The madam was a lady and a credit to her cult.
She enjoyed my pappy's playing, and I was the
result.
So my mammy and my pappy are the ones I have to
thank
That I'm chairman of the board of the National
County Bank.
Chorus:
Oh, our parents forgot to get married.
Oh, our parents forgot to get wed.
Did a wedding bell chime? It was always a time
When our parents were somewhere in bed.
Oh, thanks to our kind, loving parents,
We are kings in the land of the free --
Your banker, your broker, your Washington joker,
Three prominent bastards are we, tralalala,
Three prominent bastards are
we.
The broker:
In a cozy little farmhouse, in a cozy little dell,
A dear, old-fashioned farmer and his daughter used
to dwell.
She was pretty, she was charming, she was tender,
she was mild,
And her sympathies were such that she was frequently
with child.
The year her hospitality attained a record high,
She became the happy mammy of an infant, which was
I.
Whenever she was gloomy, I could always make her
grin
By childishly inquiring who my pappy might have
been.
The hired man was favored by the girls in mammy's
set,
And a traveling man from Scranton was an even-money
bet,
But such were mammy's motives, and such was her
allure,
That even Roger Babson wasn't altogether sure.
Well, I took my mammy's morals, and I took my
pappy's crust,
And I grew to be the founder of a big investment
trust.
Chorus
The senator:
On a lonesome southern chain gang on a dusty
southern road,
My late lamented daddy made his permanent abode.
Now some were there for stealing, but daddy's only
fault
Was an overwhelming weakness for criminal assault.
His philosophy was simple and free from moral tape:
Seduction is for sissies -- a he-man wants his rape.
Daddy's total list of victims was embarrasingly
rich,
And though one of them was mammy, he couldn't tell
me which.
Well, I didn't go to college, but I got me a degree:
I reckon I'm the model of a perfect S.O.B.
I'm a debit to my country, but a credit to my dad:
I'm the most expensive senator the country ever had.
I remember daddy's warning me that rapin' is a
crime,
Unless you rape the voters a million at a time.
Chorus
You and I:
I'm an ordinary figure in these democratic states,
A pathetic demonstration of hereditary traits.
As the children of the cops possess the flattest
kind of feet
And the daughter of a floosy has a wiggle to her
seat,
My position at the bottom of society I owe
To the qualities my parents bequeathed me long ago.
My father was a married man, and what is even more,
He was married to my mother, a fact that I deplore.
I was born in holy wedlock; consequently bye and bye
I was rooked by every bastard with plunder in his
eye.
I invested, I deposited, I voted every fall,
And if I saved a penny, the bastards took it all.
At last I've learned my lesson and I'm on the proper
track:
I'm a self-appointed bastard, and I'm going to get
it back!
Chorus:
Oh, our parents forgot to get married.
Oh, our parents forgot to get wed.
Did a wedding bell chime? It was always a time
When our parents were somewhere in bed.
Oh, thanks to our kind, loving parents,
We are kings in the land of the free --
Your banker, your broker, your Washington joker,
Three prominent bastards are we (and ME!),
Four prominent bastards are
we!
From Another Time,
Poems by W. H. Auden (1940). Auden later disowned this
poem, which he wrote at the outbreak of World War II,
in the same year he moved from England to the USA. The
poem apparently was also inspired by Psychology and Religion
(C. G. Jung, 1938).
April 18th - Protest march:
First, students
stood, and asked to speak
With rulers now
grown old and weak.
They sought a fair
exchange of views,
Honest rulers,
honest news.
Their rulers
shunned them, week by week.
April 22nd - Hunger
strike:
The students stood in Tiananmen
Square.
"Democracy!", they said. "Be fair!"
Soon, a million with them stood
And all were hopeful, all were
good.
But the rulers were not there.
May 20th - Martial law declared:
At last, the rulers gave a sign.
They would maintain their Party
line,
Ignore the people, suppress the
news,
Fight to hold their hard-won views.
To act all-knowing, yet still
benign.
May 20th - Army dispatched:
The people bravely held their
Square.
When tanks and soldiers tried to
marshal there,
Ten thousand unarmed patriots
before them stood
And stopped them, chanting
"Brotherhood!"
The rulers must have torn their
hair.
June 4th-27th - Army attacks
defenseless citizens:
Forty-four days these patriots held
their ground,
But then, less friendly soldiers
came around
And massacred five hundred, or
three thousand. Some say more;
Perhaps we'll never know the awful
score.
The rulers then were nowhere to be
found.
Epilogue:
The rulers, heroes once themselves,
thus fiercely held their sway.
In Tiananmen Square, new heroes
bled their lives away.
Beijing, and soon all China, saw
the truth:
Old heroes now oppressed the
country's youth.
Old heroes once, they lost their
nation's love today.
First published in The Middlesex
News (Framingham, Massachusetts, USA), June
14th, 1989 (page 13A). Copyright 1989 by A.R.Miller.
--I wrote this poem upon awakening one morning in April, 2011.
"You can
fly!" "You can fly!" "You can fly!" The
image remained from a dream. It seemed a perfect fit for
the 20th anniversary of the Linux computer operating
system (in August 2011), and for the GNU/Linux
philosophy. Free, open-source software - the opposite of
what's sold in the stores. You can just do it. Expert or
beginner, you can help to spread the word and to make
Linux better.
But the typical first response is resistance. We are
accustomed to follow our beaten paths, and this offer
seems too good to be true. Isn't it just another fake
advertisement, exaggerating the benefit and ignoring the
hassle? Dare we to accept the challenge?
Decades earlier, my wife and I used and taught another
computer language, Forth. Our company's own brand was
MMSFORTH. In those days of speed-limited and
capacity-limited computers, Forth was a "magic wand" for
us and others. But it was different, and too good to be
readily believable. It was a hard sell. I learned to
liken it to that magic wand, saying, "If I were to ask
you to flap your arms and jump off a cliff, you'd rebel.
But suppose that it could
work. How would you ever find out? Forth is that good, and
you won't know unless you try. Here, let me give you a
short demonstration." Some stayed to learn, and did
learn. But most assumed that it couldn't work that well,
and moved on.
I did the same with Esperanto, the simple bridge
language for humans. "Not my cup of tea", was my first
response. But ten years after I had attended that
lecture about Esperanto, I recalled it in a conversation
with my new wife. She checked it out, I followed, and
that brought both of us into one of the many "parallel
universes" that have enriched our lives. As Piet Hein
said, and often it's true, "T.T.T."
This poem is about the
moment of acceptance of a challenge. It can be
any challenge which your mind has been prepared to
reject, but which awakens your curiosity. We all have
these moments of growth. Some are rites of progress for
all. Some are rare. A few of these moments change
society.
Neotony is the preservation of childish traits into
maturity. Curiosity is one of those traits, and lucky is
the human who preserves curiosity into later life.
Parents, friends, and other teachers channel our native
curiosity to the society's goals, and away from danger
both real and perceived. Advertisers try to channel our
curiosity - and fears - into buying their goods.
Politicians and other lawyers... Let's not even go
there.
Once we've been trained to "know" what's right and
wrong, only the most neotenous of us are likely to break
the mold. But that is how we grow. "You can do anything
you put your mind to!" is overstated. But you can make
significant changes for the better, once you put your
mind to it. Can you recognize the right challenge? Do
you dare? Do you
accept the challenge?
Things take time.
--Dick Miller (August
2011)