"Without Getting Killed or Caught" - (Guy and Suzanna Lark, Townes Van Zandt.) A Love Story.

 

A wonderful film about American singer-songwriters Guy Clark, Townes Van Zandt and their love of the same woman, Suzane Clark. It is also the story of the early years of the Independent Music scene in the 1970's. And probably one of the greatest love stories ever told.

The film encompasses the impact these two men, and one remarkable woman, had on the shift of mainstream country music and it's shift from Nashville to Austin. It's a uniquely American story, told by the people involved, through film and also the words of those involved. 

"We and They" by Rudyard Kipling

 

Father and Mother, and Me,
Sister and Auntie say
All the people like us are We,
And every one else is They.
And They live over the sea,
While We live over the way,
But-would you believe it? --They look upon We
As only a sort of They!

We eat pork and beef
With cow-horn-handled knives.
They who gobble Their rice off a leaf,
Are horrified out of Their lives;
While they who live up a tree,
And feast on grubs and clay,
(Isn't it scandalous? ) look upon We
As a simply disgusting They!

We shoot birds with a gun.
They stick lions with spears.
Their full-dress is un-.
We dress up to Our ears.
They like Their friends for tea.
We like Our friends to stay;
And, after all that, They look upon We
As an utterly ignorant They!

We eat kitcheny food.
We have doors that latch.
They drink milk or blood,
Under an open thatch.
We have Doctors to fee.
They have Wizards to pay.
And (impudent heathen!) They look upon We
As a quite impossible They!

All good people agree,
And all good people say,
All nice people, like Us, are We
And every one else is They:
But if you cross over the sea,
Instead of over the way,
You may end by (think of it!) looking on We
As only a sort of They!

"Long Time a Child" by Hartley Coleridge

If you were to ask me to name the one poem with which I identify the most, it would be this one. And it has been, for many, many years. Hartley was Samuel Taylor Coleridge eldest son, so he had much to live up to! For me, with this one alone, he scored his place as a poet. The breaks are mine. The poem has long been presented as one verse. I have taken the liberty to do this for the sake of clarity. It is a beautiful, though sad, sentiment expressed with great skill.

LONG TIME A CHILD by Hartley Coleridge

Long time a child, and still a child, when years

had painted manhood on my cheek, was I,—

For yet I lived like one not born to die;

a thriftless prodigal of smiles and tears,

no hope I needed, and I knew no fears.

But sleep, though sweet, is only sleep, and waking,

I waked to sleep no more, at once o’ertaking

the vanguard of my age, with all arrears

of duty on my back. Nor child, nor man,

nor youth, nor sage, I find my head is grey.

For I have lost the race I never ran:

a rathe December blights my lagging May;

and still I am a child, tho’ I be old.

Time is my debtor for my years untold.

"Ferlinghetti" with Allen Ginsburg and Bob Dylan (2010)

Most people first came across Lawrence Ferlinghetti in the film “The Last Waltz”, which chronicled the final concert of the group in San Francisco. The year was 1976. Lawrence Ferlinghetti had long ago made his mark on the world, but there were still many who had not read his poetry or even knew his name. 

His version of the Lord’s Prayer will forever be cemented in the minds of millions of movie goers who saw that film. (This version is from the film and is slightly different than the published one.)

“Our father whose art's in heaven

Hollow be thy name unless things change.

Thy kingdom come and gone

Thy will will be undone on Earth, as it isn't Heaven.

Give us this day our daily bread, at least three times a day

and lead us not into temptation too often on weekdays,

but deliver us from evil

whose presence remains unexplained in thy kingdom of power and

glory.”

Oh, man!"

In this film the poet explores the Beat Generation of poets and writers; many of whom appear in the film crediting Mr. Ferlinghetti with having been an inspiration to them. That list includes, Allen Ginsburg, Bob Dylan and Billy Collins. There are too many names to fit on the cover of this incredibly insightful documentary.

Poetry is one of the oldest arts; before stage and screen. It must have come about after people began telling tales around the fire at night. Certainly past the grunts and sounds which early on served as speech. But I suspect that as soon as words were formed someone started rhyming them, and shortly thereafter came free verse. And poetry has been around long enough to leave a complete account of history. "The Epic of Gilgamesh", an epic poem from Mesopotamia, is believed to date to the 18^th Century B.C.  The Greek tragedies are almost modern by comparison! And the poetry we call the Bible is pretty much contemporary in the grand scheme of things.

This film will inform you and entertain you; it will also help you understand the direction which poetry; and what we came to call the “sub-culture” of the post-war era; took in the most tumultuous years of the late 20^th century. 

For one of my favorite poems by Mr. Ferlinghetti; “I Am Waiting”, use this link;

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/171598

"I Rise" By Maya Angelou (RIP)

No poem is more emblematic to me of Maya Angelou than her own composition “I Rise.” With a simple rhyme scheme; which was not always the rule with her work; she paints a portrait of fierce determination in the face of overwhelming odds. The poem could well serve as her epitaph. How many of us ever get to write our own? 

RIP Maya Angelou. You took Marguerite Johnson from St. Louis, Missouri to every corner of the globe.

“I Rise” by Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history

With your bitter, twisted lies,

You may tread me in the very dirt

But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?

Why are you beset with gloom?

'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells

Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,

With the certainty of tides,

Just like hopes springing high,

Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?

Bowed head and lowered eyes?

Shoulders falling down like teardrops.

Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?

Don't you take it awful hard

'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines

Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?

Does it come as a surprise

That I dance like I've got diamonds

At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame

I rise

Up from a past that's rooted in pain

I rise

I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,

Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.

Leaving behind nights of terror and fear

I rise

Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear

I rise

Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,

I am the dream and the hope of the slave.

I rise

I rise

  I rise. 

Free Books @ The Guttenberg Project

The internet is not just the sewer of porn and political debate it would sometimes appear to be. If you are looking for that sort of thing it’s easy enough to find. But, look a little bit deeper, past all those pop up ads and gossipy tidbits designed to numb your brain and drain your soul, and you can actually be rewarded with some pleasant surprises.

When I first started using the internet in 2004; that’s right, I was one of the last to fall prey to its siren call; I got bogged down in all of the usual stuff, like chat rooms and Classmates, etc. But I also stumbled onto a lot of great things as well. One of those was, and still is, the Gutenberg Project site; which houses many books and works of literature for which there is no current copyright; making them free.

I have downloaded several things from there, which I keep on my computer, and also on a portable flash drive, making some of my favorite works of literature available wherever I go, even when there is no internet service. Some I have even printed out; things like “The Narrative of A. Gordon Pym” by Edgar Allan Poe, or this book of poetry by Edna St. Vincent Millay, the American poet who won the Pulitzer Prize for her 1922 collection of poetry “A Few Figs from Thistles.”

From the opening verse of this collection until the last, these poems reflect the spirit of Ms. Millay and her vibrant way of looking at life. She was way ahead of her time in so many respects, yet her poetry remains timeless. It speaks as poignantly now as it did when she wrote it. I’m pleased to be able to share it here, as well as call your attention to the Gutenberg Project, which can be accessed by the following link. I hope that you will visit their site and I am certain that you will come away with something long forgotten, or perhaps never knew about in the first place.

http://www.gutenberg.org/

A Few Figs from Thistles

Poems and Sonnets

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

This edition of "A Few Figs from Thistles" contains several poems

not included in earlier editions.

First Fig

  My candle burns at both ends;

    It will not last the night;

  But ah, my foes, and oh, my friends--

    It gives a lovely light!

Second Fig

  Safe upon the solid rock the ugly houses stand:

  Come and see my shining palace built upon the sand!

Recuerdo

  We were very tired, we were very merry--

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

  It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable--

  But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

  We lay on a hill-top underneath the moon;

  And the whistles kept blowing, and the dawn came soon.

  We were very tired, we were very merry--

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry;

  And you ate an apple, and I ate a pear,

  From a dozen of each we had bought somewhere;

  And the sky went wan, and the wind came cold,

  And the sun rose dripping, a bucketful of gold.

  We were very tired, we were very merry,

  We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

  We hailed, "Good morrow, mother!" to a shawl-covered head,

  And bought a morning paper, which neither of us read;

  And she wept, "God bless you!" for the apples and pears,

  And we gave her all our money but our subway fares.

Thursday

  And if I loved you Wednesday,

    Well, what is that to you?

  I do not love you Thursday--

    So much is true.

  And why you come complaining

    Is more than I can see.

  I loved you Wednesday,--yes--but what

    Is that to me?

To the Not Impossible Him

  How shall I know, unless I go

    To Cairo and Cathay,

  Whether or not this blessed spot

    Is blest in every way?

  Now it may be, the flower for me

    Is this beneath my nose;

  How shall I tell, unless I smell

    The Carthaginian rose?

  The fabric of my faithful love

    No power shall dim or ravel

  Whilst I stay here,--but oh, my dear,

    If I should ever travel!

Macdougal Street

  As I went walking up and down to take the evening air,

    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why must I be so shy?)

  I saw him lay his hand upon her torn black hair;

    ("Little dirty Latin child, let the lady by!")

  The women squatting on the stoops were slovenly and fat,

    (Lay me out in organdie, lay me out in lawn!)

  And everywhere I stepped there was a baby or a cat;

    (Lord God in Heaven, will it never be dawn?)

  The fruit-carts and clam-carts were ribald as a fair,

    (Pink nets and wet shells trodden under heel)

  She had haggled from the fruit-man of his rotting ware;

    (I shall never get to sleep, the way I feel!)

  He walked like a king through the filth and the clutter,

    (Sweet to meet upon the street, why did you glance me by?)

  But he caught the quaint Italian quip she flung him from the gutter;

    (What can there be to cry about that I should lie and cry?)

  He laid his darling hand upon her little black head,

    (I wish I were a ragged child with ear-rings in my ears!)

  And he said she was a baggage to have said what she had said;

    (Truly I shall be ill unless I stop these tears!)

The Singing-Woman from the Wood's Edge

  What should I be but a prophet and a liar,

  Whose mother was a leprechaun, whose father was a friar?

  Teethed on a crucifix and cradled under water,

  What should I be but the fiend's god-daughter?

  And who should be my playmates but the adder and the frog,

  That was got beneath a furze-bush and born in a bog?

  And what should be my singing, that was christened at an altar,

  But Aves and Credos and Psalms out of the Psalter?

  You will see such webs on the wet grass, maybe,

  As a pixie-mother weaves for her baby,

  You will find such flame at the wave's weedy ebb

  As flashes in the meshes of a mer-mother's web,

  But there comes to birth no common spawn

  From the love of a priest for a leprechaun,

  And you never have seen and you never will see

  Such things as the things that swaddled me!

  After all's said and after all's done,

  What should I be but a harlot and a nun?

  In through the bushes, on any foggy day,

  My Da would come a-swishing of the drops away,

  With a prayer for my death and a groan for my birth,

  A-mumbling of his beads for all that he was worth.

  And there'd sit my Ma, with her knees beneath her chin,

  A-looking in his face and a-drinking of it in,

  And a-marking in the moss some funny little saying

  That would mean just the opposite of all that he was praying!

  He taught me the holy-talk of Vesper and of Matin,

  He heard me my Greek and he heard me my Latin,

  He blessed me and crossed me to keep my soul from evil,

  And we watched him out of sight, and we conjured up the devil!

  Oh, the things I haven't seen and the things I haven't known.

  What with hedges and ditches till after I was grown,

  And yanked both ways by my mother and my father,

  With a "Which would you better?" and a "Which would you rather?"

  With him for a sire and her for a dam,

  What should I be but just what I am?

She Is Overheard Singing

  Oh, Prue she has a patient man,

    And Joan a gentle lover,

  And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--

    But my true love's a rover!

  Mig, her man's as good as cheese

    And honest as a briar,

  Sue tells her love what he's thinking of,--

    But my dear lad's a liar!

  Oh, Sue and Prue and Agatha

    Are thick with Mig and Joan!

  They bite their threads and shake their heads

    And gnaw my name like a bone;

  And Prue says, "Mine's a patient man,

    As never snaps me up,"

  And Agatha, "Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,

    Could live content in a cup;"

  Sue's man's mind is like good jell--

    All one colour, and clear--

  And Mig's no call to think at all

    What's to come next year,

  While Joan makes boast of a gentle lad,

    That's troubled with that and this;--

  But they all would give the life they live

    For a look from the man I kiss!

  Cold he slants his eyes about,

    And few enough's his choice,--

  Though he'd slip me clean for a nun, or a queen,

    Or a beggar with knots in her voice,--

  And Agatha will turn awake

    While her good man sleeps sound,

  And Mig and Sue and Joan and Prue

    Will hear the clock strike round,

  For Prue she has a patient man,

    As asks not when or why,

  And Mig and Sue have naught to do

    But peep who's passing by,

  Joan is paired with a putterer

    That bastes and tastes and salts,

  And Agatha's Arth' is a hug-the-hearth,--

    But my true love is false!

The Prisoner

  All right,

  Go ahead!

  What's in a name?

  I guess I'll be locked into

  As much as I'm locked out of!

The Unexplorer

  There was a road ran past our house

  Too lovely to explore.

  I asked my mother once--she said

  That if you followed where it led

  It brought you to the milk-man's door.

  (That's why I have not traveled more.)

Grown-up

  Was it for this I uttered prayers,

  And sobbed and cursed and kicked the stairs,

  That now, domestic as a plate,

  I should retire at half-past eight?

The Penitent

  I had a little Sorrow,

    Born of a little Sin,

  I found a room all damp with gloom

    And shut us all within;

  And, "Little Sorrow, weep," said I,

    "And, Little Sin, pray God to die,

  And I upon the floor will lie

    And think how bad I've been!"

  Alas for pious planning--

    It mattered not a whit!

  As far as gloom went in that room,

    The lamp might have been lit!

  My little Sorrow would not weep,

    My little Sin would go to sleep--

  To save my soul I could not keep

    My graceless mind on it!

  So up I got in anger,

    And took a book I had,

  And put a ribbon on my hair

    To please a passing lad,

  And, "One thing there's no getting by--

  I've been a wicked girl," said I;

  "But if I can't be sorry, why,

    I might as well be glad!"

Daphne

  Why do you follow me?--

  Any moment I can be

  Nothing but a laurel-tree.

  Any moment of the chase

  I can leave you in my place

  A pink bough for your embrace.

  Yet if over hill and hollow

  Still it is your will to follow,

  I am off;--to heel, Apollo!

Portrait by a Neighbor

  Before she has her floor swept

    Or her dishes done,

  Any day you'll find her

    A-sunning in the sun!

  It's long after midnight

    Her key's in the lock,

  And you never see her chimney smoke

    Till past ten o'clock!

  She digs in her garden

    With a shovel and a spoon,

  She weeds her lazy lettuce

    By the light of the moon,

  She walks up the walk

    Like a woman in a dream,

  She forgets she borrowed butter

    And pays you back cream!

  Her lawn looks like a meadow,

    And if she mows the place

  She leaves the clover standing

    And the Queen Anne's lace!

Midnight Oil

  Cut if you will, with Sleep's dull knife,

    Each day to half its length, my friend,--

  The years that Time takes off _my_ life,

    He'll take from off the other end!

The Merry Maid

  Oh, I am grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

  I set my throat against the air,

    I laugh at simple folk!

  There's little kind and little fair

    Is worth its weight in smoke

  To me, that's grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

  Lass, if to sleep you would repair

    As peaceful as you woke,

  Best not besiege your lover there

    For just the words he spoke

  To me, that's grown so free from care

    Since my heart broke!

To Kathleen

  Still must the poet as of old,

  In barren attic bleak and cold,

  Starve, freeze, and fashion verses to

  Such things as flowers and song and you;

  Still as of old his being give

  In Beauty's name, while she may live,

  Beauty that may not die as long

  As there are flowers and you and song.

To S. M.

  If he should lie a-dying

  I am not willing you should go

  Into the earth, where Helen went;

  She is awake by now, I know.

  Where Cleopatra's anklets rust

  You will not lie with my consent;

  And Sappho is a roving dust;

  Cressid could love again; Dido,

  Rotted in state, is restless still:

  You leave me much against my will.

The Philosopher

  And what are you that, wanting you

    I should be kept awake

  As many nights as there are days

    With weeping for your sake?

  And what are you that, missing you,

    As many days as crawl

  I should be listening to the wind

    And looking at the wall?

  I know a man that's a braver man

    And twenty men as kind,

  And what are you, that you should be

    The one man in my mind?

  Yet women's ways are witless ways,

    As any sage will tell,--

  And what am I, that I should love

    So wisely and so well?

Four Sonnets

I

  Love, though for this you riddle me with darts,

  And drag me at your chariot till I die,--

  Oh, heavy prince! Oh, panderer of hearts!--

  Yet hear me tell how in their throats they lie

  Who shout you mighty: thick about my hair

  Day in, day out, your ominous arrows purr

  Who still am free, unto no querulous care

  A fool, and in no temple worshiper!

  I, that have bared me to your quiver's fire,

  Lifted my face into its puny rain,

  Do wreathe you Impotent to Evoke Desire

  As you are Powerless to Elicit Pain!

  (Now will the god, for blasphemy so brave,

  Punish me, surely, with the shaft I crave!)

II

  I think I should have loved you presently,

  And given in earnest words I flung in jest;

  And lifted honest eyes for you to see,

  And caught your hand against my cheek and breast;

  And all my pretty follies flung aside

  That won you to me, and beneath your gaze,

  Naked of reticence and shorn of pride,

  Spread like a chart my little wicked ways.

  I, that had been to you, had you remained,

  But one more waking from a recurrent dream,

  Cherish no less the certain stakes I gained,

  And walk your memory's halls, austere, supreme,

  A ghost in marble of a girl you knew

  Who would have loved you in a day or two.

III

  Oh, think not I am faithful to a vow!

  Faithless am I save to love's self alone.

  Were you not lovely I would leave you now;

  After the feet of beauty fly my own.

  Were you not still my hunger's rarest food,

  And water ever to my wildest thirst,

  I would desert you--think not but I would!--

  And seek another as I sought you first.

  But you are mobile as the veering air,

  And all your charms more changeful than the tide,

  Wherefore to be inconstant is no care:

  I have but to continue at your side.

  So wanton, light and false, my love, are you,

  I am most faithless when I most am true.

IV

  I shall forget you presently, my dear,

  So make the most of this, your little day,

  Your little month, your little half a year,

  Ere I forget, or die, or move away,

  And we are done forever; by and by

  I shall forget you, as I said, but now,

  If you entreat me with your loveliest lie

  I will protest you with my favorite vow.

  I would indeed that love were longer-lived,

  And oaths were not so brittle as they are,

  But so it is, and nature has contrived

  To struggle on without a break thus far,--

  Whether or not we find what we are seeking

  Is idle, biologically speaking.

"The Land of Lost Content" by A.E. Housman

You can never tell where your next long forgotten memory may crop up. In this case it was while watching an episode of “Inspector Lewis” that I heard the familiar words of A.E. Housman, reminding me that in losing track of him as a poet I had created my own “Land of Lost Content.” This poem was always one of my favorites, and to see it on a television show lends hope to the medium.

The poem speaks to the places and people we all leave behind as we create our own lives.  It’s only in the looking back that one realizes the friendships, and passions, that were for some reason set aside, only to be missed later. This is a very personal poem to me and I was pleasantly surprised to have it appear so unexpectedly on the television. Life is a set of mysteries…

“The Land of Lost Content”

Into my heart an air that kills

From yon far country blows:

What are those blue remembered hills?

What spires, what farms are those?

That is the land of lost content,

I see it shining plain,

The happy highways where I went

And cannot come again.

A. E. Housman

"Educated Fish" - Max and Dave Fleischer (1937)

This is a “Stereoptical” cartoon, which was the name of a process meant to give greater clarity to the cartoons of the era. Max and Dave Fleischer had been toying with this process for a few years, and they produced some wonderful cartoons with the process. This is one of those.

Basically the plot revolves around Tommy Cod, who decides to play hooky from the A.B. Sea School, after being thrown in the closet for misbehavior. While out on his own he meets a pretty little worm whom he invites to play “hooky” with him. She readily agrees, but there’s a hook to it, as she takes the term literally. Tommy, predictably, soon finds himself “hooked” and in a struggle for his very life.

Using all the tricks he can think of to elude capture, he soon finds himself in the boat with the fisherman who caught him. But, slippery as he is, he manages to get away, flopping back into the ocean where he makes a beeline for the A.B. Sea School. Once there, he vows to never be a problem again. And even to  this very day, I have never heard a bad word about him.

___________________________________________

Seamus Heaney 

"Digging" by Seamus Heaney 1939–2013

Between my finger and my thumb  

The squat pen rests; snug as a gun.

Under my window, a clean rasping sound  

When the spade sinks into gravelly ground:  

My father, digging. I look down

Till his straining rump among the flowerbeds  

Bends low, comes up twenty years away  

Stooping in rhythm through potato drills  

Where he was digging.

The coarse boot nestled on the lug, the shaft  

Against the inside knee was levered firmly.

He rooted out tall tops, buried the bright edge deep

To scatter new potatoes that we picked,

Loving their cool hardness in our hands.

By God, the old man could handle a spade.  

Just like his old man.

My grandfather cut more turf in a day

Than any other man on Toner’s bog.

Once I carried him milk in a bottle

Corked sloppily with paper. He straightened up

To drink it, then fell to right away

Nicking and slicing neatly, heaving sods

Over his shoulder, going down and down

For the good turf. Digging.

The cold smell of potato mould, the squelch and slap

Of soggy peat, the curt cuts of an edge

Through living roots awaken in my head.

But I’ve no spade to follow men like them.

Between my finger and my thumb

The squat pen rests.

I’ll dig with it.

                                                                                 

"Where the Sidewalk Ends" with Dana Andrews (1950)

Dana Andrews plays a detective who accidently kills a murder suspect he believes to be innocent. Now, he finds himself in the awkward position of trying to prove the dead man guilty of a murder which he never did, even while trying to cover up the crime he himself has committed.

When he falls in love with the dead man’s widow, played by Gene Tierney, things get even more complicated. This is one of those truly underrated film noir classics with a great storyline and some serious acting, including Karl Malden as the new chief of Detectives, who has his doubts about the methods his men use, but still must answer to his own higher ups in order to justify his job.

Dana Andrews acts with a rare intensity in this film, opposite a sizzling Gene Tierney as they take you back to the days when detectives were “gumshoes” and the gals were “dames”. Round it out with some good old fashioned detective work, and it all adds up to a great viewing experience.

"The Perfect High" by Shel Silverstein

There once was a boy named Gimmesome Roy. He was nothing like me or you.
’Cause laying back and getting high was all he cared to do.
As a kid, he sat in the cellar, sniffing airplane glue.
And then he smoked bananas –– which was then the thing to do.

He tried aspirin in Coca–Cola, breathed helium on the sly,
And his life was just one endless search to find that perfect high.
But grass just made him want to lay back and eat chocolate–chip pizza all night,
And the great things he wrote while he was stoned looked like shit in the morning light.

And speed just made him rap all day, reds just laid him back,
And Cocaine Rose was sweet to his nose, but the price nearly broke his back.
He tried PCP and THC, but they didn’t quite do the trick,
And poppers nearly blew his heart and mushrooms made him sick.

Acid made him see the light, but he couldn’t remember it long.
And hashish was just a little too weak, and smack was a lot too strong,
And Quaaludes made him stumble, and booze just made him cry,
Till he heard of a cat named Baba Fats who knew of the perfect high.

Now, Baba Fats was a hermit cat who lived up in Nepal,
High on a craggy mountaintop, up a sheer and icy wall.
"But hell," says Roy, "I’m a healthy boy, and I’ll crawl or climb or fly,
And I’ll find that guru who’ll give me the clue as to what’s the perfect high."

So out and off goes Gimmesome Roy to the land that knows no time,
Up a trail no man could conquer to a cliff no man could climb.
For fourteen years he tries that cliff, then back down again he slides
Then sits –– and cries –– and climbs again, pursuing the perfect high.

He’s grinding his teeth, he’s coughing blood, he’s aching and shaking and weak,
As starving and sore and bleeding and tore, he reaches the mountain peak.
And his eyes blink red like a snow–blind wolf, and he snarls the snarl of a rat,

As there in perfect repose and wearing no clothes –– sits the godlike Baba Fats.

"What’s happening, Fats?" says Roy with joy, "I’ve come to state my biz.
I hear you’re hip to the perfect trip. Please tell me what it is.
For you can see," says Roy to he, "that I’m about to die,
So for my last ride, Fats, how can I achieve the perfect high?"

"Well, dog my cats!" says Baba Fats. "Here’s one more burnt–out soul,
Who’s looking for some alchemist to turn his trip to gold.
But you won’t find it in no dealer’s stash, or on no druggist’s shelf.
Son, if you would seek the perfect high –– find it in yourself."

"Why, you jive motherfucker!" screamed Gimmesome Roy, "I’ve climbed through rain and sleet,
I’ve lost three fingers off my hands and four toes off my feet!
I’ve braved the lair of the polar bear and tasted the maggot’s kiss.
Now, you tell me the high is in myself. What kind of shit is this?

My ears ’fore they froze off," says Roy, "had heard all kind of crap,
But I didn’t climb for fourteen years to listen to that sophomore rap.
And I didn’t crawl up here to hear that the high is on the natch,
So you tell me where the real stuff is or I’ll kill your guru ass!"

"Ok, OK," says Baba Fats, "you’re forcing it out of me.
There is a land beyond the sun that’s known as Zaboli.
A wretched land of stone and sand where snakes and buzzards scream,
And in this devil’s garden blooms the mystic Tzu–Tzu tree.

And every ten years it blooms one flower as white as the Key West sky,
And he who eats of the Tzu–Tzu flower will know the perfect high.
For the rush comes on like a tidal wave and it hits like the blazing sun,
And the high, it lasts a lifetime and the down don’t ever come.

But the Zaboli land is ruled by a giant who stands twelve cubits high.
With eyes of red in his hundred heads, he waits for the passers–by.
And you must slay the red–eyed giant, and swim the River of Slime,
Where the mucous beasts, they wait to feast on those who journey by.

And if you survive the giant and the beasts and swim that slimy sea,
There’s a blood–drinking witch who sharpens her teeth as she guards that Tzu–Tzu tree."
"To hell with your witches and giants," laughs Roy. "To hell with the beasts of the sea.
As long as the Tzu–Tzu flower blooms, some hope still blooms for me."

And with tears of joy in his snow–blind eye, Roy hands the guru a five,

Then back down the icy mountain he crawls, pursuing that perfect high.

"Well, that is that," says Baba Fats, sitting back down on his stone,

facing another thousand years of talking to God alone.

"It seems, Lord", says Fats, "it’s always the same, old men or bright–eyed youth,

It’s always easier to sell them some shit than it is to give them the truth."

"The Partisan" by Leonard Cohen

In 1968 I first heard Leonard Cohen on the radio doing "Suzanne", one of his signature ballads. I immediately recognized his talent as a songwriter and poet. He had me mesmerized with that song. Over the years I have heard many of his songs in movies and as background music on TV dramas. This song was used in the film "The Escapist", and the voice was easily recognizable as being that of Leonard Cohen.

Here he is on TV in France, performing the song in both English, and French, in 1969. I have printed the lyrics below, including both the French and English, just as he sings it. It is a hauntingly beautiful song about the courage and sacrifice of the French Resistance, and is emblamatic of people everywhere, pushing back when authority steps over the line.

"The Partisan"

When they poured across the border
I was cautioned to surrender,
this I could not do;
I took my gun and vanished.

I have changed my name so often,
I've lost my wife and children
but I have many friends,
and some of them are with me.

An old woman gave us shelter,
kept us hidden in the garret,
then the soldiers came;
she died without a whisper.

There were three of us this morning
I'm the only one this evening
but I must go on;
the frontiers are my prison.

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we'll come from the shadows.

Les Allemands e'taient chez moi, (The Germans were at my home)
ils me dirent, "Signe toi," (They said, "Sign yourself,")
mais je n'ai pas peur; (But I am not afraid)
j'ai repris mon arme. (I have retaken my weapon.)

J'ai change' cent fois de nom, (I have changed names a hundred times)
j'ai perdu femme et enfants (I have lost wife and children)
mais j'ai tant d'amis; (But I have so many friends)
j'ai la France entie`re. (I have all of France)

Un vieil homme dans un grenier (An old man, in an attic)
pour la nuit nous a cache', (Hid us for the night)
les Allemands l'ont pris; (The Germans captured him)
il est mort sans surprise. (He died without surprise.)

Oh, the wind, the wind is blowing,
through the graves the wind is blowing,
freedom soon will come;
then we'll come from the shadows.

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.

A tree whose hungry mouth is pressed
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

The author of this wonderful poem was born Alfred Joyce Kilmer on December 6, 1886 in New Brunswick, New Jersey, and passed away during the fighting in the Second Battle of the Marne on July 30, 1918. He was a member of New York's famed "Fighting 69th". Known as an American journalist, poet, critic, and editor, he had already made his mark upon the world when he died at age 31.

Though he is mostly remembered for the above poem "Trees", which he wrote in 1913, he was a most prolific writer, and appears frequently in anthologies of American poetry. Although most critics consider his work too simple, I have always found his words to be direct and compact. I find his style akin to Haiku poetry, where less often means more. He was the workingman's Wordsworth, easily understood by all.

I grew up just a few short blocks from Sgt. Joyce Kilmer Square on Kings Highway and East 12th Street in Brooklyn, New York. There used to be an Armed Forces Recruiting Station located there. Perhaps that is why I have always held his works in such high regard.

Wendell Berry: "Manifesto"

Wendell Berry was born on August 5th, 1934, in Kentucky. He is best known as an American man of letters, political activist, and a farmer. He has written countless novels, short stories and poems. He is a recipient of The National Humanities Medal. He has even been quoted on TV's "Law and Order" in the episode starring Robin Williams. In that show, Mr. Williams, acting as his own defense counsel, quotes from the following poem, which made me an instant fan of Mr. Wendell's. I have italized the portion which was quoted, so aptly, in that episode.

Manifesto: The Mad Farmer Liberation Front

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.

And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.

When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.
So, friends, every day do something
that won't compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.

Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.

Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.
Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.

Listen to carrion -- put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.

Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn't go.

Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

Francois Villon - Written for a Bridegroom

One of my all time favorite films is "The Petrified Forest" with Humphrey Bogart and Leslie Howard. The scenes in which Leslie Howard trades his views on life, and love, with Bette Davis are the meat of the film. For years I have watched this movie time and again, always awed by the scene in which Bette Davis reads Francois Villon's "Ballad for a Bridegroom." It's a beautiful poem, one that speaks of true love and the protections and responsibilities that come with it. It is, I believe, one of the most beautiful sentiments ever put to pen.

This woodcarving is one of Villon done in the mid 15th century, upon the publication of one his books of poetry. Here is the translation from the French by the English poet and author Algernon Charles Swinburne.

"Ballad Written For A Bridegroom" by Francois Villon
(translated by Algernon Charles Swinburne)

At daybreak, when the falcon claps his wings,
No whit for grief, but noble heart and high,
With loud glad noise he stirs himself and springs,
And takes his meat and toward his lure draws nigh;
Such good I wish you! Yea, and heartily
I am fired with hope of true love's meed to get;
Know that Love writes it in his book; for why,
This is the end for which we twain are met.

Mine own heart's lady with no gainsayings
You shall be always wholly till I die;
And in my fight against all bitter things
Sweet laurel with fresh rose its force shall try;
Seeing reason wills not that I cast love by
(Nor here with reason shall I chide or fret)
Nor cease to serve, but serve more constantly;
This is the end for which we twain are met.

And, which is more, when grief about me clings
Through Fortune's fit or fume of jealousy,
Your sweet kind eye beats down her threatenings
As wind doth smoke; such power sits in your eye.
Thus in your field my seed of harvestry
Thrives, for the fruit is like me that I set;
God bids me tend it with good husbandry;
This is the end for which we twain are met.

Princess, give ear to this my summary;
That heart of mine your heart's love should forget
Shall never be: like trust in you put I:
This is the end for which we twain are met.

Kristallnacht

Today marks the occurrence of "Kristallnacht", the German "Night of Broken Glass" in 1938 that marked the beginning of the Holocaust. 14 million people were systematically killed in the Nazi Death Camps, 6 million of whom were Jewish. There is not much that I can say that would even come close to describing the horrors of those times. So, instead I will let the 1980 Nobel Prize Winner, Polish poet Czeslaw Milosz speak for me.

This poem was written in Warsaw in 1943, after the ghetto had been destroyed and replaced with "Concentration Camp Warsaw." It describes the feelings of Mr. Milosz, a Polish Christian, who witnessed all of the events in Warsaw; from the formation of the Ghetto, to the subsequent uprising by the Jews, and the final inclusion of Polish Christians as victims of the Nazi horrors, within the grounds of the former Ghetto. In looking to distinguish the "ashes of each man", he alludes to an unearthly power that can distinguish those of the victims from the ashes of the rubble. But he concludes that no power can mark the difference of the Jewish ashes from the Polish ones. It is a remarkable poem, one which could only have been written by someone who was a witness to such inhumanity. May they all Rest in Peace.

"A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto" by Czeslaw Milosz

Bees build around red liver,
Ants build around black bone.
It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel, silver, foam
Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls, crystals.
Poof! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
Engulfs animal and human hair.

Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
Ants build around white bone. Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the foundations.
Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
With one leafless tree.

Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
Bees build around a red trace.
Ants build around the place left by my body.

I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
Who has sat much in the light of candles
Reading the great book of the species.

What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
My broken body will deliver me to his sight
And he will count me among the helpers of death:
The uncircumcised.

Edgar Allan Poe

It was on this date in 1849 that Edgar Allan Poe passed away. He was on his way from Richmond to Philadelphia via steamboat. He was to catch a train in Baltimore and then continue on to Philadelphia. He never made it. After having vanished for a period of 5 days, he was found in a tavern on High Street in Baltimore. Theories range from his death at the hands of his fiancee's brothers to his having been kidnapped and "cooped" in the cellar of a local tavern, where he was plied with cognac and opiates. He was then marched to several precints to vote for whatever candidate had "cooped" him prior to the election. We will probably never know the full extent of the mystery surrounding his death. But his poetry and stories will live on forever. Here is one of the first Edgar Allan Poe poems to which I was introduced. I was about 8 years old at the time and the lyrical quality of this poem, along with the sadness of his lost love, hooked me on him forever. While living in Baltimore, my daughter Sarah, and I, were regular visitors to his grave.

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of Annabel Lee;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me-
Yes!- that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling- my darling- my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.

A Boy Named Shel by Lisa Rogak

I have been an admirer of Shel Silverstein ever since I was about 8 years old and looking through my Dad's Playboy magazines. There were some great cartoons drawn very simply with screamingly funny lines written beneath the one panel drawings.

Shel Silverstein was a Korean War Veteran who came from Chicago and a Jewish family. Funny how in all those years I never thought of him as Jewish. He was larger than any label. He defied being defined.

When he got bored with the Playboy Mansion scene Hugh Hefner sent him on a round the world tour. His only task was to report back once a month with either an article, photo or cartoon. All expenses paid. What a job!

By 1964 he was writing childrens books-"The Giving Tree" was one of the first. After that he went on to songwriting- collabarating with the likes of Johnny Cash- "A Boy Named Sue", "One Piece at a Time" etc. He was even the "behind the scenes" collaborator with Bob Dylan on the 1975 release "Blood On The Tracks", long considered to be Dylans "comeback" album.

This is the guy who met Bobby Bare one afternoon and they discussed writing some songs for Bobby Bares next album. The very next day Shel called Bobby and told him the album was done. He had written almost all the songs for "Lullabys, Legends and Lies" overnight!

Ever hear of Dr. Hook and the Medicine Show? "Sylvias Mother" and all the other hits were written by Shel Siverstein. What would be next?

Childrens poetry of course! "Where the Sidewalk Ends", "A Light In The Attic","The Story of the Missing Piece", "The Missing Piece Meets the Big O"..... I have them all.


A very complex man, often misunderstood, Shel lived on a houseboat and had several houses from Cape Cod to San Francisco. He lived life by his own rules. Never married and often thought to be gay, he was the father of one daughter, whom he supported for the rest of his life.

If you are a fan of Shel Silverstein, or even if you have never heard of him, you will like the man you meet in this book. A very carefully crafted biography of a very unusual fellow.