Saturday, November 27, 2010

My Blog

I have resisted blogging for a long time but I thought that I would do it now because I wanted to share some poems that are dear to my heart.

I will likely also post some things I have written or random thoughts on current events, but I suspect that after an initial flurry of activity, this blog will not be updated more than once every week or 2.

If you enjoy my reflections, please check back occasionally for more.

Poem: Well

I was introducted to this WW1 poem a few years ago. It always makes me cry. Unfortunately I took out most of the dialect (spellings, contractions, etc.) and I don't have the original so this is not as good as the way it was written. It should be read with stong British slang

Well? (dialect softened)

by GA Studdert Kennedy

Our Padre were a solemn bloke,
We called him dismal Jim.
It fair gave ye the blooming creeps,
To sit and hark at him,

When he went on 'bout Judgment Day,
About that great white throne,
And how each chap would have to stand,
And answer on his own.

And if he tried to chance his arm,
And hide a single sin,
There’d be the angel Gabriel,
With books to do him in.

He had it all writ down, he said,
And nothin' could be hid,
He had it all in black and white,
And He would take no kid.

And every single idle word,
A soldier chanced to say,
He’d have it all thrown back at him,
In court on Judgement Day.

Well I kept minding Billy Briggs,
A pal of mine what died.
He went to help our sergeant Smith,
But as he reached his side,

There came and bust atween his legs,
A big Boche[1] 5.9 pill[2].
And I picked up his corporal’s stripes,
That’s all there were of Bill.

I called to mind a stinking night
When we was carrying tea.
We went round there by
Limerick Lane
,
and Bill were ahead of me.
‘Twere raining heavens hard, ye know,
And the boards was thick with muck,
And umpteen times we slithered down,
And got the dicksee[3] stuck.

Well, when we got there by the switch,
A loose board tipped right up,
And Bill, he turned a somersault,
And down he came and whup!

I’ve heard men blind, I’ve heard 'em cuss,
And I’ve heard them do it hard;
Well, haven’t I heard our R.S.M.,
Inspecting special guard!

But Bill, he left them standing still.
He turned the black night blue,
And I guess the angel Gabriel
Had short hand work to do.

Well, how would poor old Bill go on,
When he stood all alone,
And had to hear that tale read out
Afore that great white throne?

If what our padre says is right,
He’d have a rotten spell,
And finish up of it, I s’pose,
He’d have to go to 'ell.

And yet he were a decent lad,
And met a decent end;
You’ll never finish decenter,
Than trying to help a friend.

But somehow I can’t think it’s right,
It ain’t what God would do.
This stunt of all these record books,
I think it’s all napoo[4],


‘Twould let some rotten beggars in,
And keep some good ‘uns out,
There’s lots of blokes, what does no wrong,
As can’t do naught but shout.

But t’other night I dreamed a dream,
And, just ‘twixt me and you,
I never dreamed like that afore:
I half think it were true.

I dreamed as I were dead, ye see,
At least as I had died,
For I were very much alive,
Out there on the other side.

I couldn’t see no judgment court,
Nor yet that great white throne,
I couldn’t see no record books,
I seemed to stand alone.

I seemed to stand alone, beside
A solemn kind of sea.
Its waves they got in my inside,
And touched my memory,

And day by day, and year by year,
My life came back to me.
I seed just what I were, and what
I’d had the chance to be.

And all the good I might of done,
And hadn’t stopped to do.
I seed I’d made a dash of it,
And God! but it were true.

A throng of faces came and went,
Afore me on that shore,
My wife, and mother, kiddies, pals,
And the face of a London whore.

And some was sweet, and some was sad,
And some put me to shame,
For the dirty things I’d done to them,
When I hadn’t played the game.
Then in the silence some one stirred,
Like when a sick man groans,
And a kind of shivering chill ran through
The marrow of my bones.

And there before me some one stood,
Just looking down at me,
And still behind Him moaned and moaned
That everlasting sea.

I couldn’t speak, I felt as though
He had me by the throat,
‘Twere like a drowning fellah feels,
Last moment he’s afloat.

And He said naught, He just stood still
For I dunno how long.
It seemed to me like years and years,
But time out there’s all wrong.

“What was He like?” you’re asking now.
Can’t word it anyway,
He just were Him, that’s all I knows.
There’s things as words can’t say.

It seems to me as though His face
Were millions rolled in one;
It never changed yet always changed,
Like the sea beneath the sun.

‘Twere all men’s face yet no man’s face,
And a face no man can see,
And it seemed to say in silent speech,
“Ye did them all to Me.

The dirty things ye did to them,
The filth ye thought was fine,
Ye did them all to Me,” it said,
“For all their souls were Mine.”

All eyes was in His eyes – all eyes,
My wife’s and a million more;
And once I thought as those two eyes
Were the eyes of the London whore.
And they was sad – my God, how sad,
With tears that seemed to shine,
And quivering bright with the speech of light
They said, “Her soul was Mine.”

And then at last He said one word,
He just said one word – “Well?”
And I said in a funny voice,
“Please can I go to Hell?”

And He stood an' looked at me,
And He kind of seemed to grow.
Till He shone like the sun above my head,
And then He answered “No

You can’t, that Hell is for the blind,
And not for those that see.
You know that you have earned it, lad,
So you must follow Me.

Follow me on the paths of pain,
Seeking what you have seen,
Until at last you can build the ‘Is’
With the bricks of the ‘Might have been.’”

That’s what He said, as I’m alive,
And that there dream were true.
But what He meant – I don’t quite know,
Though I know what I has to do.

I’s got to follow what I’s seen,
Till this old carcass dies;
For I daren’t face in the land of grace
The sorrow of those eyes.

There ain’t no throne, and there ain’t no books,
It’s Him you’ve got to see,
It’s Him, just Him, that is the Judge
Of blokes like you and me.

And, boys, I’d sooner frizzle up,
In the flames of a burning Hell,
Than stand and look into His face,
And hear His voice say – “Well?”


[1] French slang for German adopted by the English
[2] Bomb
[3] Or dixie a container in which food was cooked (from Urdu dechsie, a copper pot)
[4] ‘it’s all napoo’ is a corruption of the French ‘il n’y en a plus’

Poem: Timothy Took His Time

Another poem that my mother used to recite was this litte one.  I think it struck all too true with her as she herded us kids along.

Timothy Took His Time
by Frieda Wolfe

Timothy took his time to school
and plenty of time he took
but some he lost at the tadpole pool
and more at the stickleback brook
ever so much at the linets nest
and more at the five bar gate.
Timothy took his time to school
but he lost it all and was late.

Timothy has a lot to do,
how can it all be done?
He didn't get home 'til close on 2
when he might have been home by 1.
There's sums & writing & spelling too
And an apple tree to climb.
Timothy has a lot to do,
how shall he find the time?

Timothy sought it high and low,
he looked in the tadpole pool
To see if they'd taken the time to grow, that he'd lost on the way to school.
He found the nest and he found the
     tree
And he found the gate he'd crossed
But Timothy never shall find (ah me!) the time that Timothy lost!

Poems: Softie

This is another poem that I learned from my mother. It is a Canadian WW I poem but I have never found a source for it. This is from my memory. I beleive that Ms. Knight lived around the Thunder Bay area at the time of the war.

Softie
By Gertrude Cornish Knight

Softie was a soldier,
     with a face just like a girl's.
He had cheeks as pink as rosebuds
     and a head of chestnut curls.
His eyes so blue and tender,
     were full of artless mirth,
And he'd a voice, the sweetest tenor,
     that I'd ever heard on earth.

He was crazy over love songs
     and he sang them sweet and true.
He was crazy for the ladies
     and he didn't care who knew.
But he railed 'gainst war & bloodshed,
     they fair moved the lad to tears.
So of course we were astonished
     when he joined the volunteers.

Boys he said, I'm such a Softie,
     for I hate your swords and guns
And its just that stern word duty
     that would make me face the Huns.
So that's how we called him Softie,
     fact he gave himself the name
And we couldn't help but wonder
     how the lad would play the game.

But he stood camp life and drilling
     just as good as any there
And he seemed to like the teasing
     'bout his pretty face and hair.
He kept the boys good humoured
     with his music and his wit
And if just in song and laughter,
     dear old Softie did his bit.

There was one song that he gave us,
     heard him sing it 50 times
And to me it lingers sweeter
     than a great cathedral's chimes.
It was something 'bout a tulip,
     yes that's how the story goes,
"You wear a yellow tulip
     and I'll wear a big red rose."

The ladies, they all loved him
     and he knew it too, the rouge
And twice he got the guard house
     for stopping on the road
And rolling up those big blue eyes
     at a girl he thought he knew,
Instead of marching forward
     as a soldier ought to do.

In every town in which we halted
     on our way to hapless France,
Softie left some girl behind him,
     with the love-light in her glance.
And the treats they showered on him
     keep our whole platoon supplied.
He had just 14 Bibles,
     each one from a would-be bride.

When at last we struck the trenches
     Softie paled and held his breath,
While he openly acknowledged
     he was well nigh scared too death.
We all laughed and called him coward
     and were sure he'd come to grief,
Though there wasn't one among us
     but was shaking like a leaf.

We'd been fighting just a fortnight
     when one eve our captain stood,
With 3 score men about him
     in a sheltered bit of wood.
When all at once a bomb came hurling
     straight toward us at a bound,
But someone sprang and caught it
     just before it hit the ground.

Like a shot he leapt beyond us,
     left us standing safely there.
Then the crash of an explosion
     and the shrapnel filled the air.
There was silence for a moment,
     then the captain raised his cap,
"Boys," he said, "Softie saved us
     but he's gone himself, poor chap."

And we called that hero Softie.
     Well there's one thing now I know.
I'll think no man a Softie
     'til I've seen him face the foe.
He'd saved him chums and captain.
     Could a soldier boy do more
To keep the old flag flying
     where the British lions roar?

We buried him at midnight
     that battered broken form,
That had been as fair and perfect
     as a rosebud of the morn.
And as the chaplin read the service
     and his clear voice fell and rose,
I seemed to hear old Softie
     singing about his big red rose.

In this locket I've a treasure
     set around with gold and pearls.
No, its not a ladies ringlet
     but just one of Softie's curls.
And when war and strife are over
     far beyond where Jordan flows,
I'll know that Softie's happy
     singing about his big red rose.

Poems: THE ELF AND THE DORMOUSE

My mother used to recite poetry to us kids and this is one she taught us. This version is taken from Modern American Poetry. Ed. Louis Untermeyer. New York: Harcourt, Brace & Howe, 1919

by: Oliver Herford (1863-1935)

The Elf and the Dormouse

UNDER a toadstool crept a wee Elf,
Out of the rain to shelter himself.

Under the toadstool, sound asleep,
Sat a big Dormouse all in a heap.

Trembled the wee Elf, frightened and yet Fearing to fly away lest he get wet.

To the next shelter--maybe a mile!
Sudden the wee Elf smiled a wee smile.
Tugged till the toadstool toppled in two.
Holding it over him, gaily he flew.

Soon he was safe home, dry as could be.
Soon woke the Dormouse--"Good gracious me!

"Where is my toadstool?" loud he lamented.
--And that's how umbrellas first were invented.

All Through the Night

I sang this song to my mother the night she died. I don't know if she heard it or not as she never really woke but I like to think she did. She was a remarkable woman and I hope to make my journey to heaven as well as she made hers.

All Through the Night
Traditional Welsh lullabye of unknown author. English translation by Sir. Harold Boulton

Sleep, my child, and peace attend thee
All through the night
Guardian angels God will send thee
All through the night
Soft the drowsy hours are creeping
Hill and dale in slumber sleeping
I my love a vigil keeping
All through the night

While the moon her watch is keeping
All through the night
While the weary world is sleeping
All through the night
O'er thy spirit gently stealing
Visions of delight revealing
Breathes a pure and holy feeling
All through the night

Though I roam a minstrel lonely
All through the night
My true harp shall praise sing only
All through the night
Love's young dream, alas, is over
Yet my strains of love shall hover
Near the presence of my lover
All through the night

Hark, a solemn bell is ringing
Clear through the night
Thou, my love, art heavenward winging
Home through the night
Earthly dust from off thee shaken
Soul immortal shalt thou 'waken
With thy last dim journey taken
Home through the night