K Is for Keeler

Sunday Poetry XXIX -- TEXTBOOK POETRY 3.1

Today’s textbook (and that of the next few weeks) is, surprisingly, very much the collection I'd have assembled were I to edit a literature textbook for educational purposes (not because I’d be the best literature assembler ever, but because this one just happens to match me, I guess).  Though some of the works aren't exactly what I'd have chosen (I like to keep up a little bit with what's modern), the pbvious process of selection and the instructional motivation for each and the entire collection are—wow! —just what I'd have done.  There is still an quite a bit of stuff here that I'm not totally, if at all, familiar with, so the perusal of the collection is exciting.  Apart from all that, unfortunately, this is still A TEXTBOOK.  It, no matter how great the assemblage, cannot escape this stultifying label.  It makes me think that publishers shouldn't bother printing (or districts shouldn't bother purchasing) student editions, rather just teacher manuals, and with ten times the selection.

This particular textbook is humongous, its editors particularly generous in their poetical offerings.  It is broken into a series of sections, which I'll move through one at a time.  The first section focuses on narrative poetry.

An Approach to Literature

Brooks, Purser, Warren

1952

Sir Patrick Spens

Anonymous

The king sits in Dumferling toune,

      Drinking the blude-reid wine:

'O whar will I get guid sailor,

      To sail this schip of mine?'

Up and spak an eldern knicht,

      Sat at the kings richt kne:

'Sir Patrick Spence is the best sailor

      That sails upon the se.'

The king has written a braid letter,

      And signd it wi his hand,

And sent it to Sir Patrick Spence,

      Was walking on the sand.

The first line that Sir Patrick red,

      A loud lauch lauched he;

The next line that Sir Patrick red,

      The teir blinded his ee.

'O wha is this has don this deid,

      This ill deid don to me,

To send me out this time o' the yeir,

      To sail upon the se!

'Mak haste, mak haste, my mirry men all,

      Our guid schip sails the morne:'

'O say na sae, my master deir,

      For I feir a deadlie storme.

'Late late yestreen I saw the new moone,

      Wi the auld moone in hir arme,

And I feir, I feir, my deir master,

      That we will cum to harme.'

O our Scots nables wer richt laith

      To weet their cork-heild schoone;

Bot lang owre a' the play wer playd,

      Their hats they swam aboone.

O lang, lang may their ladies sit,

      Wi thair fans into their hand,

Or eir they se Sir Patrick Spence

      Cum sailing to the land.

O lang, lang may the ladies stand,

      Wi thair gold kems in their hair,

Waiting for thair ain deir lords,

      For they'll se thame na mair.

Haf owre, haf owre to Aberdour,

      It's fiftie fadom deip,

And thair lies guid Sir Patrick Spence,

      Wi the Scots lords at his feit.

Danny Deever

Rudyard Kipling

"What are the bugles blowin' for?" said Files-on-Parade.

"To turn you out, to turn you out", the Colour-Sergeant said.

"What makes you look so white, so white?" said Files-on-Parade.

"I'm dreadin' what I've got to watch", the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they're hangin' Danny Deever, you can hear the Dead March play,

The regiment's in 'ollow square -- they're hangin' him to-day;

They've taken of his buttons off an' cut his stripes away,

An' they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What makes the rear-rank breathe so 'ard?" said Files-on-Parade.

"It's bitter cold, it's bitter cold", the Colour-Sergeant said.

"What makes that front-rank man fall down?" said Files-on-Parade.

"A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun", the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, they are marchin' of 'im round,

They 'ave 'alted Danny Deever by 'is coffin on the ground;

An' 'e'll swing in 'arf a minute for a sneakin' shootin' hound –

O they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'!

"'Is cot was right-'and cot to mine", said Files-on-Parade.

"'E's sleepin' out an' far to-night", the Colour-Sergeant said.

"I've drunk 'is beer a score o' times", said Files-on-Parade.

"'E's drinkin' bitter beer alone", the Colour-Sergeant said.

They are hangin' Danny Deever, you must mark 'im to 'is place,

For 'e shot a comrade sleepin' -- you must look 'im in the face;

Nine 'undred of 'is county an' the regiment's disgrace,

While they're hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'.

"What's that so black agin' the sun?" said Files-on-Parade.

"It's Danny fightin' 'ard for life", the Colour-Sergeant said.

"What's that that whimpers over'ead?" said Files-on-Parade.

"It's Danny's soul that's passin' now", the Colour-Sergeant said.

For they're done with Danny Deever, you can 'ear the quickstep play,

The regiment's in column, an' they're marchin' us away;

Ho! the young recruits are shakin', an' they'll want their beer to-day,

After hangin' Danny Deever in the mornin'. 

Love on the Farm

D.H. Lawrence

What large, dark hands are those at the window

Grasping in the golden light

Which weaves its way through the evening wind

      At my heart's delight?

Ah, only the leaves! But in the west

I see a redness suddenly come

Into the evening's anxious breast—

'Tis the wound of love goes home!

The woodbine creeps abroad

Calling low to her lover:

      The sunlit flirt who all the day

      Has poised above her lips in play

      And stolen kisses, shallow and gay

      Of pollen, now has gone away—

            She woos the moth with her sweet, low word;

And when above her his moth-wings hover

Then her bright breast she will uncover

And yield her honey-drop to her lover.

Into the yellow, evening glow

Saunters a man from the farm below;

Leans, and looks in at the low-built shed

Where the swallow has hung her marriage bed.

      The bird lies warm against the wall.

      She glances quick her startled eyes

      Towards him, then she turns away

            Her small head, making warm display

      Of red upon the throat. Her terrors sway

      Her out of the nest's warm, busy ball,

      Whose plaintive cry is heard as she flies

      In one blue stoop from out the sties

      Into the twilight's empty hall.

Oh, water-hen, beside the rushes

Ride your quaintly scarlet blushes,

Still your quick tall, lie still as dead,

Till the distance folds over his ominous tread!

The rabbit presses back her ears,

Turns back her liquid, anguished eyes

And crouches low; then with wild spring

Spurts from the terror of his oncoming;

To be choked back, the wire ring

Her frantic effort throttling:

      Piteous brown ball of quivering fears!

Ah, soon in his large, hard hands she dies,

And swings all loose from the swing of his walk!

Yet calm and kindly are his eyes

And ready to open in brown surprise

Should I not answer to his talk

Or should he my tears surmise.

I hear his hand on the latch, and rise from my chair

Watching the door open; he flashes bare

His strong teeth in a smile, and flashes his eyes

In a smile like triumph upon me; then careless-wise

He flings the rabbit soft on the table board

And comes towards me: ah! the uplifted sword

Of his hand against my bosom! and oh, the broad

Blade of his glance that asks me to applaud

His coming! With his hand he turns my face to him

And caresses me with his fingers that still smell grim

Of the rabbit's fur! God, I am caught in a snare!

I know not what fine wire is round my throat;

I only know I let him finger there

My pulse of life, and let him nose like a stoat

Who sniffs with joy before he drinks the blood.

And down his mouth comes to my mouth! and down

His bright dark eyes come over me, like a hood

Upon my mind! his lips meet mine, and a flood

Of sweet fire sweeps across me, so I drown

Against him, die, and find death good.

*

Just a thought: From what I’ve read—and that’s considerably more than just a month ago—I expect Kipling’s poetry was at least as much a contributing factor to his Nobel as his fiction.

KIM XI -- chapter 6.1: Trousers and Jacket Cripple [the] Body and Mind

"First I will take my pay."

Stop reading at: "This somewhat consoled Kim for the beatings."


While I enjoyed this chapter perhaps more than much of the rest of the book to this point, there's not really a lot to discuss or question.  One thing, however, that caught my eye here as well as previously, and which also connects to something I learned prior to beginning the reading of the novel, is the issue of Kipling's racism.  While decidedly racist (and how could one supporting imperialism not be, really?), his bigotry appears to toe a line.  In this chapter we see the distasteful word, "nigger," repeatedly, but Kipling's use thereof is about as favorable as that of Twain's--that is an indicator of ignorance, stupidity, or simply [the stultifying, as opposed to Kipling's subtler and entirely non-self-conscious, brand of] racism and superstition on the part of the one uttering it.  Kipling appears here to recognize a line dividing acceptable and unacceptable "levels" of racism.  Thoughts?  In support of this, there is the issue of Kipling's use of the swastika as an accompaniment to his signature and emblem appearing in early editions of his books.  Despite the immensely negative connotations of the swastika, it's originally/etymologically intended use is markedly innocuous.  The word itself is Sanskrit for "auspicious object" (and I prefer Princeton's definition of "auspicious" simply for its simplistic elegance).  In other words, a swastika is pretty much a good-luck charm.  Yet, according to Wikipedia and its pertinent article's sources, Kipling tossed aside the symbol as soon as there was even the slightest possibility that it might associate him with the Nazi movement, which, of course, was founded nearly entirely upon racism, bigotry, and supposed biological superiority.  But isn't this essentially what an imperialist movement is also built on? --that one race (or government/religion) is exactly what makes the moving country better than / superior to the one it's invading and conquering?  Kipling supported imperialism.  Where did his racism lie?

Wednesday's for Kids XXII -- KIPLING and an "A IS FOR ALPHABET"

Since we're reading a novel by Rudyard Kipling right now (Kim, which, by the way, is surprisingly more difficult than I thought it would be), I figured it not inappropriate, particularly as Kipling was so otherwise skilled at stuff so pointedly for kids, to feature a story from his so well-known Just So Stories.  If you're not familiar with these tales of origin (and Tolkien, by the way, was not the first Briton to invent a mythology, though Kipling's takes place "abroad" rather than in Britain, as Tolkien so intended his tales), they include answers to such life questions as "How Leopard Got His Spots" (the most famous of them, really, as this story is read and modeled to the point of "hackney-fication" by grade- and middle-schoolers across the English-speaking world), "The Beginning of the Armadillos," and "How the Whale Got His Throat."  While these stories are all so just fine, there are two that are perhaps so much more appropriate to the blog, here: "How the First Letter Was Written" and "How the Alphabet Was Made."

the alphabet necklace

All of these stories are brilliant, wonderfully simplistic little tales, and particularly perfect for narration (and so I think more appropriately so through oral retellings, fairytale-style, rather than straight readings) to kids.  Considering "How the Alphabet Was Made," I expect that an ambitious (more accurately read perhaps as "desperate" or "creative," depending) parent would even be able to generate such a discussion with his/her kid[s] and create their own alphabet, illustrations and all, just like the father/daughter duo of the story's Neolithic cave.

My favorite part of this particular story is Kipling's acrostic (sort of) poem (less sort of) and illustration:

ONE of the first things that Tegumai Bopsulai did after Taffy and he had made the Alphabet was to make a magic Alphabet-necklace of all the letters, so that it could be put in the Temple of Tegumai and kept for ever and ever. All the Tribe of Tegumai brought their most precious beads and beautiful things, and Taffy and Tegumai spent five whole years getting the necklace in order. This is a picture of the magic Alphabet-necklace. The string was made of the finest and strongest reindeer-sinew, bound round with thin copper wire.

Beginning at the top, the first bead is an old silver one that belonged to the Head Priest of the Tribe of Tegumai; then came three black mussel-pearls; next is a clay bead (blue and gray); next a nubbly gold bead sent as a present by a tribe who got it from Africa (but it must have been Indian really); the next is a long flat-sided glass bead from Africa (the Tribe of Tegumai took it in a fight); then come two clay beads (white and green), with dots on one, and dots and bands on the other; next are three rather chipped amber beads; then three clay beads (red and white), two with dots, and the big one in the middle with a toothed pattern. Then the letters begin, and between each letter is a little whitish clay bead with the letter repeated small. Here are the letters—

A is scratched an a tooth—an elk-tusk I think.

B is the Sacred Beaver of Tegumai on a bit of old glory.

C is a pearly oyster-shell—inside front.

D must be a sort of mussel shell—outside front.

E is a twist of silver wire.

F is broken, but what remains of it is a bit of stag's horn.

G is painted black on a piece of wood. (The bead after G is a small shell, and not a clay bead. I don't know why they did that.)

H is a kind of a big brown cowie-shell.

I is the inside part of a long shell ground down by hand. (It took Tegumai three months to grind it down.)

J is a fish hook in mother-of-pearl.

L is the broken spear in silver. (K aught to follow J of course, but the necklace was broken once and they mended it wrong.)

K is a thin slice of bone scratched and rubbed in black.

M is on a pale gray shell.

N is a piece of what is called porphyry with a nose scratched on it. (Tegumai spent five months polishing this stone.)

O is a piece of oyster-shell with a hole in the middle.

P and Q are missing. They were lost, a long time ago, in a great war, and the tribe mended the necklace with the dried rattles of a rattlesnake, but no one ever found P and Q. That is how the saying began, 'You must mind your P's. and Q's.'

R is, of course, just a shark's tooth.

S is a little silver snake.

T is the end of a small bone, polished brown and shiny.

U is another piece of oyster-shell.

W is a twisty piece of mother-of-pearl that they found inside a big mother-of-pearl shell, and sawed off with a wire dipped in sand and water. It took Taffy a month and a half to polish it and drill the holes.

X is silver wire joined in the middle with a raw garnet. (Taffy found the garnet.)

Y is the carp's tail in ivory.

Z is a bell-shaped piece of agate marked with Z-shaped stripes. They made the Z-snake out of one of the stripes by picking out the soft stone and rubbing in red sand and bee's-wax. Just in the mouth of the bell you see the clay bead repeating the Z-letter.

These are all the letters.

The next bead is a small round greeny lump of copper ore; the next is a lump of rough turquoise; the next is a rough gold nuggct (what they call water-gold); the next is a melon-shaped clay bead (white with green spots). Then come four flat ivory pieces, with dots on them rather like dominoes; then come three stone beads, very badly worn; then two soft iron beads with rust-holes at the edges (they must have been magic, because they look very common); and last is a very very old African bead, like glass--blue, red, white, black, and yellow. Then comes the loop to slip over the big silver button at the other end, and that is all.

I have copied the necklace very carefully. It weighs one pound seven and a half ounces. The black squiggle behind is only put in to make the beads and things look better.

ANNOUNCING: Our Next Title -- KIM, by Rudyard Kipling

If Modern Library were to base their distinctive List solely upon reader preferences, their list wouldn't be worth much.  Thankfully, the "Reader's List" is ancillary to the "Board's List," upon which we find, at place number 78, our next book, Kim.  Perhaps more than just about anything else, this is what drew me to this particular work of Rudyard Kipling's, rather than my once top-choice pick, Just So Stories.

More than that, I really don't have anything to say more than what I've otherwise read at Wikipedia; I don't know anyone who's read the book, and I really don't know anything about it apart from, well, Kipling wrote it, likely it had something to do with his 1907 Nobel for literature, and it's set in British-ruled India (which for some reason keeps connecting itself in my mind to the film, The Painted Veil, based upon Maugham's novel).

Don't have a hard copy of the book (like me)?  HTML format here; or select another of Gutenberg's offerings here.

WE START MONDAY, APRIL 18

Check out the "Books Completed" list over on the sidebar.  Of six books, 4 are already Brits'; this makes 5 (not that that's a bad thing; they've produced a heckuva lot of fantastic books).  We're reading another American novelist next--and a modern one.

Rudyard Kipling -- Our Next Author: PLEASE CAST YOUR VOTE

Rudyard Kipling

While I can't say I've read tons of Kipling, I've made it through a fair amount of his verses and many of his stories.  For better or worse (likely the latter), I have not read The Jungle Book, and the Disney version, like the original or not (likely the latter), is on my short list of all time favorite movies.  That said, of his poetry/verse stuff I've read, this is my favorite:

I have eaten your bread and salt.
I have drunk your water and wine.
In deaths ye died I have watched beside,
And the lives ye led were mine.

Was there aught that I did not share
In vigil or toil or ease, –

One joy or woe that I did not know,
Dear hearts across the seas?

I have written the tale of our life
For a sheltered people's mirth,
In jesting guise – but ye are wise,
And ye know what the jest is worth.

It is the prelude poem, brief and surprisingly elegant, to his "Departmental Ditties."


SO HERE IT IS (because of the hope for short/fun):  I suggest that Kipling be our next author, and hope, therefore, to narrow our search down to one from the following three (please read a little about each and indicate your preference below in comment):

• Kim
• Just So Stories (with original illustrations here)
• The Jungle Book (all three novels here in various forms, thanks to the treasure of Gutenberg.org)

* added later, because, well, who doesn't need friends: