My friend Pat responded to my last blog by reminding me that during the 1940's memorizing and reciting of poetry was common in elementary school. She shared a sweet story about a poem she challenged herself to memorize in one night and how her dad stayed up half the night to help her accomplish her goal.

Not only did we memorize poetry, we were also taught to respect and cherish our books. I remember a teacher giving us specific instructions on how to carefully open a new book and smooth each page one by one so we didn't break the back. Books were not so easily available to children of the middle class in those days and I cherished every single one that I owned and I read and reread each one many times.

One day, something wonderful happened at school. Our teacher, Mrs. De Hart, explained that the school was replacing the old set of World Book Encyclopedias that we had in the library. Rather than throw the old copies away they were going to give each one of us second graders one volume to take home and keep. I remember how excited I felt, standing in line, wondering which one I would get. They must have mixed them up because I wasn't first in line but my book was A-B. When she handed me the book it felt amazing, with its leather like cover and it's substantial weight. I had never owned a book like that. For many years it was one of my favorite books. I soon became an expert on Ants, Alice in Wonderland and The Bells of St. Clements, an old English nursery rhyme.

The Bells of St. Clements

Gay go up and gay go down
To Ring the Bells of London Town

Oranges and Lemons say the Bells of St. Clements
Bullseyes and Targets say the Bells of St. Margaret's
Brickbats and Tiles say the Bells of St. Giles
Halfpence and Farthings say the Bells of St. Martin's
Pancakes and Fritters say the Bells of St. Peter's
Two Sticks and an Apple say the Bells of Whitechapel
Maids in white aprons say the Bells at St. Katherine's
Pokers and Tongs say the Bells of St. John's
Kettles and Pans say the Bells of St. Anne's
Old Father Baldpate say the slow Bells of Aldgate

You owe me Ten Shillings say the Bells of St. Helen's
When will you Pay me? say the Bells of Old Bailey
When I grow Rich say the Bells of Shoreditch
Pray when will that be? say the Bells of Stepney
I do not know say the Great Bell of Bow

Gay go up and gay go down
To Ring the Bells of London Town

Hello, a very short post today. The blog has surprised me with people sharing poetry they like with me and reviving more memories both for readers and myself. What fun this is.

I've been looking for a particular scrap of paper with a short poem that I clipped out of a Redbook Magazine back in the 80's. Yes, children that was 30 some years ago, but as I said, I've kept these little bits through many moves and life changes. I looked in all the places I knew it was but I haven't found it so far. However, I did find another tiny scrap, clipped from another Redbook Magazine, also in the 80's and I like it very much--esp. the third poem.

Three Poems About Friendship From "Cora Fry"

by Rosellen Brown

I have a neighbor
who is always deep
in a book or two.

High tides of clutter
rise in her kitchen

Which lasts longer, words,
words in her bent head,
or the clean spaces

between one perfect
dusting and the next?

*************************

You can do
anything alone
anything but
laugh out loud

**************************

What are friends for, my mother asks
A duty undone, visit missed,
casserole unbaked for sick Jane,
Someone has just made her bitter.

Nothing. They are for nothing, friends,
I think. All they do in the end--
they touch you. They fill you like music.

Excerpted from "Cora Fry" by Rosellen Brown, copyright 1977 by Rosellen Brown, W.W. Norton and Co., Inc. Page 146, Redbook Magazine January 1982

http://www.amazon.com/Cora-Fry-Poetry-Rosellen-Brown/dp/0393044610/ref=sr_1_26?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1359832690&sr=1-26

I remember almost all of the nursery rhymes and poems that I sang and recited to my children as they grew up. They come back easily as I work with the English Language Learner Kinders at my school, for instance:

Thumb in the thumb place
fingers all together
that's the song we sing
in mitten weather

And lucky for me, when I play with my great grandbabies: Christina, Eli and Logan:

Where is thumbkin....

So, since I started this blog I've mused on how hard-wired I seem to be for rhythm and rhyme and then I remembered my Dad's favorite book. Just before he died he took his falling-apart copy and had it rebound for me.

The book was, A Treasury of the Familiar edited by Ralph L. Woods, the People's Book Club, 1942, Chicago.

My Dad had an 8th grade education because he needed to work during the Great Depression but he was an avid reader. I think he got this book soon after he came home from the Navy after WWII and we moved to Oakland, Iowa. I certainly remember him reading it to my brother and me from very early on.

This book contains a huge variety such as; poetry, prose, and important documents including  the Constitution, and the Gettysburg address. But by far, his favorites to read aloud were the poems with strong rhythms and drama.  He had a great singing voice, (I thought he sounded like Bing Crosby) and I'm sure he enjoyed hearing his voice repeating these strong rhythms. My brother, Tom, and I certainly enjoyed hearing him.

Some of his favorites were: "The Walrus and the Carpenter", by Lewis Carroll, from Alice in Wonderland, "Abdul A-Bul-Bul A-Mir",by Anonymous,  "Casey at the Bat", by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, and "The Face on the Barroom Floor", by Hugh D'Arcy.

Don't get me wrong, he loved the serious too and at his knee was where I heard my first Shakespeare and one of his favorites was Thanatopsis by William Cullen Bryant.
However, we probably asked for, "The Cremation of Sam McGee," by Robert W. Service, most often and I can still quote most of it. My thermostat raising mother suffered the nick-name, 'Sam' because of it, and so in honor of my dad and my mother who put up with the nick-name, here is, "The Cremation of Sam McGee".

The Cremation of Sam McGee

Robert W. Service

 

 

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows.

Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.

He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell;

Though he'd often say in his homely way that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.

Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.

If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes we couldn't see;

It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,

And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,

He turned to me, and "Cap," says he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess;

And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no; then he says with a sort of moan:

"It's the cursèd cold, and it's got right hold till I'm chilled clean through to the bone.

Yet 'tain't being dead—it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;

So I want you to swear that, foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail;

And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God! he looked ghastly pale.

He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee;

And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,

With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given;

It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say: "You may tax your brawn and brains,

But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.

In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.

In the long, long night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,

Howled out their woes to the homeless snows— O God! how I loathed the thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow;

And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low;

The trail was bad, and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;

And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge, and a derelict there lay;

It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."

And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum;

Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire;

Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;

The flames just soared, and the furnace roared—such a blaze you seldom see;

And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;

And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.

It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why;

And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear;

But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near;

I was sick with dread, but I bravely said: "I'll just take a peep inside.

I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked"; ... then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;

And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said: "Please close that door.

It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm—

Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done in the midnight sun

By the men who moil for gold;

The Arctic trails have their secret tales

That would make your blood run cold;

The Northern Lights have seen queer sights,

But the queerest they ever did see

Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge

I cremated Sam McGee.

Thank you Poetry Foundation for this text.

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/174348

 







The Treasury of the Familiar has been reprinted and is available at:
http://www.amazon.com/Treasury-Familiar-Ralph-L-Woods/dp/0899668240/ref=sr_1_1?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1359324826&sr=1-1&keywords=a+treasury+of+the+familiar

I've been thinking about creating a blog for some time and trying to organize my files this summer confirmed what my subject would be: poetry. I will ramble some, sharing thoughts, possibly my poetry, mostly other's, maybe family history or stories or who knows. I hope there will be a fine thread connecting these poems and thoughts, at least for myself and possibly for a few others. A part of my Magnum Opus perhaps.

Poetry because I'm a poet? Not really, more of a poet's accomplice or a poet by chance. I have been enthralled by poetry since I was very young in Oakland, Iowa where I attended most of my early grades in school and was inspired by my 4th grade teacher Mrs. Miller. By going through my files I discovered that I have been collecting poetry books and clippings for a very long time. Some of it is grown-up poetry and some of it is in the form of nursery rhymes. So this will be an eclectic collection suited for my eclectic mind.

When I decided that January 2013 would be the beginning of my blog I knew that my first poem would be, "I Carried With Me Poems," by Gail Dusenbery, Possibilities of Poetry: an Anthology of American Contemporaries, selected and introduced by Richard Kostelanetz, Dell, NY 1970, page 264.

This book was a gift to me from my friend Sandra Bracken and for my choice to make sense I must include the first paragraph of her inscription before I share the poem, with Sandra's permission:

February 21, 1971

Happy Birthday dear friend-

     The primary reason I bought this book of poetry for you is on page 264. As I first read it, it was so much you, I shivered a little! Incredibly strange, when I read this poem to Pete he saw me in it. Do you suppose we can be together in a poem?

     ....With Love-Sandy

 

Gail Dusenbury

 

I CARRIED WITH ME POEMS

 

I carried with me poems, poems which spewed out of everything; I saw

   poems hanging from the clotheslines, hanging from the streetlamps;

   I saw poems glowing in the bushes, pushing out of the earth as

   tulips do;

I felt poems breathe in the dark March night like ghosts which squared

   and wheeled through the air;

I felt poems brushing the tops of chimneys, brushing by in the dark; I

   felt poems being born in the city, Venuses breaking through a

   shattered sea of mirrors;

   I felt all of the poets of the city straining,

   isolated poets, knowing none of the others, straining;

I felt that some gazed into the March night, looking, and finding;

and others were running down the steep streets, seeking, and seeking to

embrace;

and others stood in empty bookstores turning over pages of fellow poets

 whom

   they loved but didn't know;

and some pondered over coffee growing cold, in harshly lit cafeterias, and

   gazed at the reflections of the eaters in the wall-to-wall mirrors;

some dwelt on what it was to grow old;

some dwelled on love;

some had gone out of time;

some, going out of time, looked back into time, and started;

 

I felt all these lives and existences, all with poems at their center;

I knew none of these poets;

but I felt these intimations augured well, for me, and for poetry;

and my steps grew big, giant steps, I bounded down Parker Street;

a tall, taciturn, fast-walking poets' accomplice.