Edwin Arlington Robinson

Edwin Arlington Robinson is one of those great poets you've probably never heard of. He was an American, lived in the late 19^th Century and wrote long poems, epic poems and short poems. He was; in short; a poet. He did write some plays in verse but I am not familiar with them, so I can’t say if they are any good. I suspect that they are.

The poem here is called “Ballad By the Fire” and is considered; at least by me; to be one of his best. He wrote quite a few. Almost all of them end with a 4 line summary under the heading of ENVOY. I only mention this because if you have never read his stuff before it might throw you.

This is one of my favorite of his many ballads, as it speaks to my own self-doubts. Curiously I have the same ability as the author does, in that I can also feel myself shedding those doubts with each passing year. The more I get to know me the more comfortable I am with being me. Now, that’s easier said than done.

And that’s the beauty in this poem. A poet’s job is to distill complex feelings into as few, potent words as possible. The reader fills in the missing pieces, which is what makes poetry so personal. What this poem means to me may not mean the same thing to you. And neither one of us is probably even close to knowing what the poet felt when he wrote it. So, without further ado, I give you Edwin Arlington Booth.

Ballad by the Fire

Slowly I smoke and hug my knee,

The while a witless masquerade

Of things that only children see

Floats in a mist of light and shade:

They pass, a flimsy cavalcade,

And with a weak, remindful glow,

The falling embers break and fade,

As one by one the phantoms go.

Then, with a melancholy glee

To think where once my fancy strayed,

I muse on what the years may be

Whose coming tales are all unsaid,

Till tongs and shovel, snugly laid

Within their shadowed niches, grow

By grim degrees to pick and spade,

As one by one the phantoms go.

But then, what though the mystic Three

Around me ply their merry trade? --

And Charon soon may carry me

Across the gloomy Stygian glade? --

Be up, my soul! nor be afraid

Of what some unborn year may show;

But mind your human debts are paid,

As one by one the phantoms go.

ENVOY

Life is the game that must be played:

This truth at least, good friend, we know;

So live and laugh, nor be dismayed

As one by one the phantoms go.

For more poetry by Edwin Arlington Robinson, use the following links. You will find them all encompassing.

https://archive.org/stream/cu31924021671106#page/n11/mode/2up  (Audio as well as visual.)

http://www.poemhunter.com/edwin-arlington-robinson/  (Good biography.)

http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/391#sthash.VB4mfVKw.dpuf  (Whatever the others don’t have you can find here.)

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

This is another one of my favorite poems. It is also the first poem I ever recall reading that wasn't written in a four line rhyming sequence, as with "Jack and Jill" and all the other poems that are taught in the 1st and 2nd grades. Actually, this one was first introduced to me in 5th Grade by Mrs. Denslow. I don't know where she is today; I could probably find her, or one of her children, to let them know what an impact this poem had upon me. Simply put, it stretched the boundaries of what I accepted as poetry, to something a little bit different; something which would lead me, later on, to appreciate "free verse" and other poetic styles, as valid. And, since the main purpose of this blog is for my grandchildren to know me more fully when they are older, I decided to include it here.

Poetry is the ability to condense our most complex emotions into the fewest words possible, without losing the message. Strictly structured, Haiku poetry is the champion in that regard. There are also epic poems, such as "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner", and Poe's "The Raven", which are a bit more lengthy and have much to say. While I enjoy them, as well as Allen Ginsberg and Lawrence Ferlinghetti, I have always remained enamored of the simple rhyme schemes in poetry by the likes of Robert Frost, Emily Dickinson, etc. These poets also capture the same complex emotions as the others, but with one difference; they turn them into song, actually making the words sing. This particular poem always strikes me as the American version of Hartley Coleridge’s “Long Time A Child”, which I have posted here before;

"The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

The Big Tree

Some things, like this tree, need no words to enhance their beauty. They would seem inadequate. But, just like last year, I can't help but post Joyce Kilmer's poem, "Trees", to honor this beautiful specimen, neatly groomed, which sits off of Williamson Road in Mooresville.

A big thank you to the architect who decided to build around the tree, rather than rip it up. This tree, were it able to speak, could tell us so much about how things have changed over the course of it's life. In a way, though, the tree does speak; each time the breeze rustles it's leaves, or when the winter wind moans through her bare limbs, and when the birds of summer sing softly from her leafy branches, the tree sings. And the best part is that those are three of my favorite songs.

"Trees" by Joyce Kilmer

I Think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's 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.

"Food Blues" by Shel Silverstein - Recorded by Bobby Bare

I don't think you can find two people from such divergent backgrounds, who worked together for decades, shaping and influencing American pop culture, than Shel Silverstein and Bobby Bare. Everyone knows Shel Silverstein for his Playboy cartoons of the 1950's, as well as his travelogues, and still later his books, little gems such as "The Giving Tree." But his role as a songwriter of funny little ballads is not given as much attention as it deserves. He spanned every genre from country to pop to children's songs. And he did it effortlessly. He reportedly wrote on any available scrap of paper, from napkins to gum wrappers.

Bobby Bare is one of those country performers who made the transition from "straight" to "outlaw" during the late 1960's and early 1970's. He was one of the Kris Kristofferson, Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings crowd, who helped break down some of the old barriers in country music. Today's country music, which is mainly 1960's pop and rock, owes a large debt to these guys for putting some new life into the genre just as it was gasping for air.

During the 1970's and on through Shel Silverstein's death in 1999, the two continued to collaborate on several projects, most notably the 1998 release of "Old Dogs", for which Shel Silverstein did the artwork, produced and even wrote some of the tracks. The performers were Bobby Bare, Waylon Jennings, Jerry Reed and Mel Tillis.

These are the lyrics to an earlier collaboration from about 1978. Health foods were just gaining traction, and some folks were having problems with it. That's the gist of the song. Shel Silverstein wrote it- Bobby Bare recorded it. You can listen to the recorded version below the lyrics.

"Food Blues" by Shel Silverstein

I was waitin' in Rosie's Restaurant
When the waiter came up and said, "What do you want?"
I looked at the menu -- it looked so nice
Till he said, "Let me give you some advice."

He said, "Spaghetti and potatoes got too much starch,
Pork chops and sausage are bad for your heart.
There's hormones in chicken and beef and veal.
A bowl of ravioli is a dead man's meal.

Bread's got preservatives, there's nitrites in ham,
There's artificial coloring in jellies and jam.
Stay away from donuts. Run away from pie.
Pepperoni pizza is a sure way to die.

Sugar rots your teeth and makes you put on weight,
But artificial sweetener's got cyclamates.
Eggs got cholesterol, there's fat in cheese.
Coffee ruins your kidneys, and so does tea.

Fish got mercury. Red meat is poison.
Salt's gonna send your blood pressure risin'.
Hot dogs and bologna got deadly red dyes.
Vegetables and fruits are sprayed with pesticides."

So I said, "What can I eat that's gonna make me last?"
He said, "A small drink of water in a sterilized glass."
And then he stopped and he stared and he thought for a minute,
And said, "Never mind the water - there's carcinogenics in it."

So I got up from the table and walked out in the street
Realizing that there was nothing I could eat.
Now, I ain't eaten for a month, and I'm feeling fine...
'Cause he never mentioned beer, whiskey, women and sweet red wine.

You can hear the Bobby Bare recording here;

http://youtu.be/_e-hVkmVU6o

"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.