Old, old poems in an old, old trunk
Hard to believe. Stuck in a box forty years ago. Yellow around the edges.
Poems I had forgotten about, and not too bad.
I kinda like that.
The letterhead, yellow and speckled with age, says HEADQUARTERS, Army Air
Forces Tactical Center, Orlando, Florida. (That was long ago–1947.)
The poems typed on it, on both sides, are varied, questionable, uncertain– all
because I am not sure I wrote them. As a matter of fact, the shortest, I am
sure someone else wrote. It’s just too familiar. I ll put that one first. Here:
O, My love is like a red, red rose that s newly sprung in June;
O, My love is like the melody that s sweetly played in tune.
As fair art thou, my bonny lass, so deep in love am I;
And I will love thee still, my dear, till all the seas go dry.
Now, That’s Bobbie Burnes if I ve ever heard him.
The next poem I m sure is mine, that s certain because I published it in the
college literary magazine as an editorial. It looked like this:
REMEMBER THE TIME - - -
When Caesar split up Gaul?
He didn t think about Saint Paul,
Or the Pontus Maximus.
He did the job, in three parts.
And what about - - -
When Sambo met those cats?
He didn t mess with flapjacks or mustard and pickles.
He made butter. Lots of it.
And even - - -
When Stalin made his split.
He didn t hesitate a minute, but cabled F.D.R.
for his okay, and got it.
But what about - - -
When we smeared old Hiroshima?
Uncle Sugar lit a Fatima, and burned his finger tips.
Quick, Harry! The Unguentine.
That one is fun, if you can recall the headlines that long ago. But the remaining
three might be mine. They sound like the kind of thing I was writing then.
Starting at the top of the old yellow page:
AND THE DREAM GOES ON
Consider if you choose, the American dream;
Draw intimations of its nobility
as the fast freight trembles the darkest hour,
westward bound from Caribou through Wild Horse, Colorado.
But forget not the promise implied
To those who wake to the lonely thunder of the Siberian Express.
Sing the bright anthem
As the sun probes the Atlantic shoals
and the eight o clock whistles stride hourly across the continent.
But hear, too, the beauty of the cry from the minaret.
Remember the names of the Dream.
All have their mornings and their midnights - - -
but the Dream remains.
ht
I kinda like that. I wish I knew who wrote it, and it turned out it was I.
Enough talk. Let’s just look at the other three:
LIGHTENING
The lightening is a yellow fork
From the tables in the sky
By inadvertant fingers dropped,
The awful cutlery of mansions
Never quite disclosed
And never quite concealed.
The apparatus
Of the dark
To ignorance revealed.
ht
And, an even stranger one
ABOUT SADNESS, PERHAPS?
GRIEF
Grief is a mouse
And chooses wainscot in the breast
For his shy house
And baffles quest.
Grief is a thief,
Quick startled,
Pricks his ear
Report to hear
Of that vast dark
That swept his being back.
Grief is a juggler,
Boldest at the play,
Lest if he flinch,
The eye that way
Pounce on his bruises,
One say, or three.
Grief is a gourmand,
Span his luxury.
Best,
Grief is toungless - -
Before he ll tell,
Burn him in the public square,
His embers will,
Possibly.
If they refuse
How,
Then know,
Since a rack couldn t coax
A syllable now.
THE QUEER PUNCTUATION SUGGESTS OTHER MEANINGS.
And I guess that s part of this approach to verse.
And on the back of the page is a long one about Cardinal Newman. It tells
about the conversion of a famous clergyman in England and also has some
handwritten notes by my father. Apparently I sent the following verse to him
for his help, or whatever. In fact, I liked his suggestions; but, they were his
style. Not mine.
I think this piece was published in some college journal and it had a title, I’m
sure. Though what, I don t recall. So, take a look at this a title, too:
APOLOGIA TO YOU, JOHN
John Henry Newman, later D.D.
Cardinal (of the Catholic Religion),
Didn t take to new ideas, per se.
So he quit his own division
Of the Protestant Religion
And took a ship to Rome to see the See.
The College felt a bit afraid,
When he donned the Roman hat
And took the robe with fancy braid,
That when they d knelt he d sat.
But the Pope couldn t see that,
On bent knee with bowed head.
Next morning at Matin the Pope prayed.
“Let him be a good Cardinal, Lord,”
That s what (but in Latin) the Pope said
In prayer quite in accord
With the Church and the Lord.
So Cardinal John returned on the Southeast Trade.
In Britian the Protestants knelt.
“God,” they said, “he tried hard,
Studied and wrote,
Argued and spoke. . . .
He wasn t a man, God,
To be bossed or compromised.
He went so far he lost.
He proved their side.
So, look after him, God,
He tried so hard
To look after You.
Amen.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Now, after all these years, I think that s kinda clever. Much too clever for me to
have written it. But, I guess I did.
9-29-03/ht