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.