A miscellany like Grandma’s attic in Taunton, MA or Mission Street's Thrift Town in San Francisco or a Council, ID yard sale in cloudy mid April or a celestial roadmap no one folded—you take your pick.
When I was a child I played by myself in a corner of the schoolyard all alone.
I hated dolls and I hated games, animals were not friendly and birds flew away.
If anyone was looking for me I hid behind a tree and cried out "I am an orphan."
And here I am, the center of all beauty! writing these poems! Imagine!
Frank O’Hara
The Weekly Poem is serving a dual purpose this time around. Of course, O’Hara’s poem is fine & funny & well worth a read. I’ve been a fan of his poetry for years. But rather than going into any details about Mr O’Hara & his work (I did post about him earlier here), I’m using the poem as a jumping off point for my own “autobiographia literaria.”
Earlier this week René Wing of the excellent Yes is Red blog told the story of the connection with poetry that has run thru her life from an early age, & asked if other folks, & particularly those who’ve posted on Original Poetry Sunday, would do the same. Sandra Leigh of Amazing Voyages of the Turtle did so here in a moving & thought-provoking post.
So I’m taking on this subject. My challenge is doing so is not what to say, but what not to say—fact is, to quote Lorenz Hart, “If they asked me, I could write a book," & of course that’s not possible in this space.
But to write something the length of a blog post—even a longish one—that seems difficult. Because my connection with poetry runs very deep & is interwoven with some of my most personal experiences—childhood memories, not altogether positive ones; an 8-year bout with booze & chemicals that came at a young age (15 to 23) & led me to some very dark places; the loves in my life—since in many ways, my poetry always has been addressed to them. I’ve often said half jokingly that I have a very 16th century attitude about the relationship of poetry to audience, but it’s true. I almost always write with certain specific readers in mind, whether or not they will ever see the poem itself.
& as I look back at the poetry I’ve written, especially since my last few years in Charlottesville, I see these features as a constant; it does seem that I’ve been haunted by “ghosts”—not necessarily in the literal sense of people who are actually dead, but in the sense of absence. I know—that’s a pretty old poetic story. On the other hand, there’s a lot of “presence” involved too—because if someone were truly absent than there wouldn’t be any impulse to communicate. So in this way, I suppose poetry—or mine at least—involves a bit of magical thinking, because there is this impulse to “summon” someone; & an impulse, too, Ancient Mariner like, to “tell the tale” when the impulse to write comes over me.
Because I do write by impulse; an old girlfriend of mine used to tell people that I lived off “air & inspiration,” & while the first part’s no longer true, I have never been a particularly disciplined writer. I have written a fair amount in my time simply because the need to write has come over me fairly often & fairly powerfully.
But does this tell “the story” of my connection with poetry? One thing I’ll say: I did identify with some parts of both René’s & Sandra’s stories. Like René, I exhibited an interest in & a knack for writing at a relatively young age. Also like René, I eventually came to feel some of the pressures that can develop as one tries to move into the “serious” art world. & like Sandra, I grew up in a setting where some very negative emotions went on display, & the world of writing gave me both an imaginative escape & a way of trying to deal with emotions I couldn’t name; music was another such outlet for me, but as a teenager I talked myself into the idea that there was no future in music for me.
There was a time I gave up writing poetry & the giving up seemed permanent. I’d written almost constantly since my late grade school years at that point, but I consciously put it aside in 1996. I quit smoking in September of that year, & realized at that time I simply couldn’t write without chain smoking; a very destructive habit, needless to say. But then in the intervening years, I became convinced that poetry itself was, for me, an embodiment of destructive impulses that had dogged me since my teenaged years, & I turned again to music, which seemed a healthy creativity for me, not so burdened with the freight of a destructive past, & also a social art rather than a strictly interior one.
This changed last May. I’m choosing not to go into the specifics of why it changed, because it’s a personal matter, but change it did & in spades. Then, after a torrent of writing over a few weeks, I stopped again, again convinced that poetry was inescapably destructive for me.
I’ve come to see this isn’t necessarily true over the past year, & as regular readers know, I began writing again this April—the ghazal sequence. I’m trying to come to peace with this whole endeavor of poetry, at least as much peace as I can achieve. Robert Frost’s Banjo has been a big part of that attempt, & I’ve appreciated the support of all you folks as I wander done these lanes—some bright & sunny & others dark & stormy.
So did I tell the story? Yes & no—my mother reading to me when I was a child; my need to escape a world that seemed harsh & hostile; my successes; the tumultuous years in graduate school & following; a decision not to pursue a teaching career (the “logical” result of obtaining a Master of Fine Arts); various relationships that shaped my life….these are the “story” too of course. I’ve tried to tell the interior one.
The photo: not Frank O'Hara, but yours truly as "the poet" on the UVA campus with Camel straight, probably in the early spring of 1985 (despite what the photo says about August, even I wouldn't have worn a leather jacket on an August day in Virginia!)
Although I don’t listen to a whole lot of recorded music, when I find an album of music that I really like, I can get pretty obsessed, & right now I’ve found one that’s so good enough I have to write about it.
I should say the album “found me,” thanks to good blog friend Citizen K. who posted about it here—an excellent review that’s defintiely worth checking out— & then was kind enough to supply me with a copy. It’s called A Stew Called New Orleans (Threadhead Records), & it features the truly amazing vocals of John Boutté, along with vocals & rhythm guitar work by Paul Sanchez, trumpet by Leroy Jones, some exceptional electric guitar work by Todd Duke & bass by Peter Harris.
The album moves from comic to heartwrenching (e.g., from the Dave Frishberg-esque humor of “Two-Five-One” to the incredibly moving “A Meaning or a Message”); the latter song is clearly a response to the Hurricane Katrina tragedy, but it speaks to the emotions we all experience after some upheaval, whether on a large scale or on a personal one. The songs also range from infectiously upbeat (example: “Be a Threadhead,” which should get anyone dancing) to beautiful ballads—for instance, a breathtaking cover of Paul Simon’s “American Tune,” with Boutté’s deeply felt vocal & Sanchez’ lovely guitar back-up. This version exposes the emotional depth & lyrical beauty of the song, & each time I listen to it I’m reminded of the great Susannah McCorkle’s cover of “Still Crazy After All These Years”; Boutté reminds me of McCorkle in more ways than simply being a jazz singer covering a Paul Simon tune. Both singers have an impressive range that comes to life thru their uncanny ability to fully inhabit a song’s emotions.
Stew Called New Orleans ought to remind us—if we need reminding on this score—that New Orleans’ place in the jazz scene is not merely historical. The music on this album showcases all that’s great about music from this most musically mythic of all American cities—jazz that’s vibrant & yet accessible—& accessible in all the best senses of the word & none of the worst. This is an album I highly recommend. In the meantime, check out this live performance of John Boutté singing “American Tune” with Paul Sanchez on guitar.
As you may recall, last week we took a tour of my old stomping grounds, Bellows Falls, VT. For those of you who don’t know (which easily could be just about everyone) Bellows Falls is a town in the southeastern corner of the state, about 25 miles north of Brattleboro. The town stands right next to the Connecticut River, so New Hampshire (specifically a little town called North Walpole) lies directly across the river.
Last week we toured the town courtesy of some photos I took in the summer of 1984. I haven’t been back to Bellows Falls since 1988, so I don’t know how much has changed. But this week we’re going to look at the two industries that were crucial to the town’s development, & also crucial to a marked economic downturn thru most of the time I lived in the area as those industries—paper & railroads—either moved away or became less relevant in the overall economic picture.
My father could remember the days when lumbermen brought the logs downriver from the forests of northeastern Vermont to be processed for pulp for the town’s mills. From what I understand, Bellows Falls was a booming town at the end of the 19th century & at the beginning of the 20th, with the mills in full swing & a thriving railroad industry. According to my father, it was the end of the log run—which meant payday, & some rather lively times for the men who’d come downriver. Apparently (again, according to him) the town of North Walpole (quite a sleepy little place in my day) was then nicknamed “Hell’s Half Acre” because it was the scene of so much rowdiness.
Three generations of Hayes’ men worked in those mills—my grandfather, my father (who was a millwright) & I (worked on the shipping crew). One of my earliest memories involves my mother & I riding a freight elevator into the Moore & Thompson mill to meet my father at the end of his shift. Later I worked at Robertson Paper, one of the last two mills in Bellows Falls. Moore & Thompson both made paper & “converted” it—they made construction paper, & I can recall the end of their workday when they’d pump the excess dye right into the Connecticut & the water would turn red or green or yellow. Robertson Paper was strictly a “converting” mill—we made Christmas paper (pretty much old school) & florist’s tissue & old style wax paper. I believe Robertsons closed in 1986 or 1987 (the last year I worked there was 1984), & I believe the one remaining mill closed shortly therafter.
Of course, the story of the U.S. railroad industry, especially in the Northeast, is pretty well known. As the interstate system developed, trucking became a more economical way to deliver freight, & the railroads diminished in importance. Was this a “wrong turn?”
The photo at the top of the post shows a C&P Trucking rig backed up to the Robertson Paper Co. shipping dock. In all honesty, I can't remember the name of the fellow represented by the "P"—don't believe I ever met him—but I'll always remember "C" for Charlie Miller, an old trucker who was also boss of the shipping crew. He was about as old school as they come, & I probably learned more working for him than I learned from any one man. He was a really great guy. It's true Charlie could yell at you with the best of them, but he cared about his crew & worked as hardas anyone—probably harder. He chain smoked, but he always had a smoke to offer to his fellow workers, & he had a great sense of humor. My father knew him well, as Charlie used to haul freight out of Moore & Thompson. Apparently Charlie's driving skills were pretty much legendary.
The dam. There really is a falls at Bellows Falls, of course, so there's a dam across the Connecticut producing hydro-electric power. Of course that's New Hampshire on the other side.
The depot at Bellows Falls. There were still cobblestone streets in this area well into my youth.
A C&P truck backed up to a freight car. The shipping crew also helped the receiving crew from time to time, especially when the freight cars rolled in. No one particularly liked that job. Robertson Paper was a throwback. We literally did everything with two-wheel trucks & pallet jacks—no fork lift. The rolls that came by freight car were very large (up to around 800 pounds) & the work was dangerous. Although I got banged up here & there, I was lucky never to have any major injury.
A beautiful arch bridge, built in 1905, used to span the Connecticut between Bellows Falls & North Walpole. The bridge was demolished in 1982, tho that was the stuff of local legend, since the bridge resisted five attempts to dynamite it. Eventually cutting torches were used. At the time the bridge was built it was a bit of an engineering marvel. The bridge you see under construction is it's replacement (there was/is another bridge between the two towns a little way downriver). I have a small piece of the arch bridge on a plaque in my sitting room. The postcard below shows the bridge when it was new.
Although the old arch bridge was deemed unsafe for traffic by 1971, I've always thought its demolition was a bit of a scar on the town's psyche at a time when the town was really in the doldrums.
The railroad bridge
Robertson Paper Company, est. 1892
The train tracks headed toward New Hampshire. The hill in the background (at least a hill by western standards) is Fall Mountain, a local landmark.
The shipper & the millwright at my parents' old home in Westminster, VT, an even smaller town outside Bellows Falls. That's my father's woodworking shop in the background.
June is such a lovely month for gardens. Out here in the Idaho rangelands, July & August tend to be extremely hot & extremely dry, & while there are some very lovely hot weather flowers such as day lilies & sunflowers, I think the real peak starts sometime in May & last well into June. It’s the time for lilacs & poppies & columbine & geraniums & roses & calendula & California poppies (which last very well thru the hotter weather), all following the fruit blossoms of mid-May. The weather is warm enough, & can even be a bit warmer than one might ideally like, but it’s not the dead oppressive heat of late summer, when a 90-degree day feels cool, & temperatures rise to 100 or better on many days.
The songbirds are flocking to the feeders & to the shrubbery & the willows—goldfinches, blackheaded grosbeaks, redwing & yellow-headed blackbirds, lazuli buntings, cowbirds & all the sparrows—white-crowned, English, chipping & song! The evenings are very long—not only are we close to the 45th parallel, but we’re also in the extreme western part of Mountain Time—places to the east of us in north Idaho are actually on Pacific Time (an hour earlier), so there’s still daylight after 10:30 p.m. (of course this will seem much more remarkable to our friends to the south & probably pretty humdrum to our Canadian friends & friends in the British Isles).
In celebration of the peak garden season, here are some photos of Eberle’s garden, which I think is extraordinarily beautiful this year, even by her very high gardening standards. There’s also a slideshow with yet more pictures, & with background music by Eberle herself—an accordion piece titled “The Picnic” from our 2008 Moominpappa at Sea soundtrack.
Enjoy!
The columbines have hybridized & created some lovely colors.
Calendula - part of the xeriscape garden that Eberle has planted next to the south wall of the house. All the plants there like harsh desert-like conditions.
Wild rose - part of a hedge you can see out the music room window. You can also sit amongst this hedge on a cedar bench I made, or in some metal lawn furniture. Morning coffee, anyone? More columbines!
A lovely & delicate flower called Snow on the Mountain, presumably because when it blooms there still is snow at the highest elevations.
Ah, it’s June—along with May, a month that rhymes easily, & as such a long-time favorite for poets & songwriters. Of course it’s such a favorite that the phrase “Moon, June, Spoon” was originally a bit derogatory, ridiculing what were seen as the cookie cutter tunes produced by Tin Pan Alley. More recently, tho, the phrase was wonderfully rehabilitated by a simply wonderful musical duo, the Fabulous Heftones. I posted about their Moon June Spoon album here, & it’s really a delightful collection of music.
& since it’s June, I thought I’d take a look at “Moon Songs”—quite simply, songs that have the word “moon” in the title. Of course, because this list could be overwhelmingly long, I did set myself a couple of ground rules.
First, I limited it to songs that fit my current listening tastes. This means no “Moondance” or “Moonshadow” or “Dark Side of the Moon,” etc.—not to knock these as songs at all—it’s just not what piques my interest these days.
Second, I tried to limit the list to songs I have on a recording. I fudged on this with a few songs that I like a lot & know well, but just from happenstance don’t have on cd or vinyl.
I came up with a list of 42, & I’ll be presenting that in six installments throughout the month—each Wednesday, & then two other days as well. I didn’t go into great detail describing each song, but I did list the recordings or recordings I have, in case you’re interested in adding any of these songs to your own listening collection. There will also be a video per post featuring one of the songs—but since this is the kick-off post, there are two!
Aba Daba Honeymoon: This rather wild & wooly novelty tune was written in 1914 by Arthur Fields & Walter Donovan. For those who don’t know, it tells the love story of a monkey & a chimpanzee; Thomas Pynchon referred to the song as “the nadir of American expression”—despite this, there are many recordings available, & it is fun to play. You can check it out on: Cynthia Sayer:Attractions (Plunk) & The Fabulous Heftones:Moon June Spoon (Heftone Records)
All By Yourself in the Moonlight: Although Answers.com lists the composer for this as Traditional, the song was written by Jay Wallis in 1928—I have pretty conclusive evidence, having seen a vintage sheet music cover. This is another 20s novelty song with a real music hall feel & some rather madcap lyrics—a natural for singer Whispering Jack Smith, who was a star in the 20s, but who’s now mostly forgotten. Once you hear Whispering Jack “sing,” tho, you won’t forget him again. Whispering Jack Smith:Me & My Shadow (ASV)
Blood Red Moon: Dave Van Ronk was such a fantastic musician—a singer & guitar player & a songwriter. This is one of his originals, & it’s a wonderful acoustic blues with an old-time feel. The Van Ronk recording of this song I have is live. Dave Van Ronk:Statesboro Blues (Blues Collection)
Blue Moon: OK, so everyone has done this 1934 Rogers & Hart classic, complete with its chord progression that conquered the world (viz. everything from Hoagy Carmichael’s 1938 “Heart & Soul” to Blondies’ “The Tide is High”). But it’s hard to beat Billie Holiday’s version. Billie Holiday:Jazz Masters 12 (Verve). For the rockabilly minded—Elvis Presley:The Sun Sessions (RCA)
Blue Moon of Kentucky: Folks who know this song from the Elvis rockabilly version (also on The Sun Sessions) may be surprised to learn that it was written as a slow waltz by Bill Monroe (not a musician generally associated with slow songs!) Monroe’s version is really haunting & beautiful, & the recording dates from the days when Lester Flatt & Earl Scruggs were part of the Bluegrass Boys. But the vocal is all Monroe’s “high lonesome.” Bill Monroe:20th Century Masters - The Millennium Collection (MCA-Nashville)
By the Light of the Silvery Moon: Folks of a certain age certainly remember this as one of the old standby singalong songs. I wonder if that’s still true—however that may be, I’ve always liked this song a lot, & I can steer you toward a great version, complete with the verse! Almost all those old standards, dating back to these very early 20th century tunes, had verses, but these are rarely heard now, so I love it when folks include them in a performance. The Fabulous Heftones:Moon June Spoon (Heftone Records)
Carolina Moon: I’m a Jim Reeves fan, but I’ve somehow managed not to purchase any recordings of his music. Still, I love to play & sing songs like “He’ll Have to Go,” “When Two Worlds Collide” or “The Blue Side of Lonesome.” Reeves had a golden voice, & his version of “Carolina Moon is a classic. I believe he originally issued this on the Moonlight & Roses album, which is available doubled up on cd with The Jim Reeves Way on the RCA label.
[Here's the next installment in Eberle's Women's Art is Women's Work series. Hope you enjoy it!] Like much of the popular music of the 1950s and 1960s the song “How Much is That Doggie in the Window” has its roots in the Victorian era of music hall songs. “Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-Wow,” the original inspiration for That Doggie, was performed for the first time on stage by Vesta Victoria in 1892—around the same time that Beatrix Potter was writing the Peter Rabbit stories. Over the course of the nineteenth century a dramatic transformation had been taking place in the relationship between humans and animals. Parents were encouraging children to keep a variety of small creatures. Families wanted their dogs and cats to be included in portraits. The first cat show was held in the 1870s. Pet stores appeared on the scene. Animals had taken on an almost completely new role by the late nineteenth century in England and America: the role of household pets.
Cats and dogs had been connected to household life for a long time—as rat-killers, mouse-catchers, watch-dogs, hunting dogs, and herd dogs—but for most of their history they were seen primarily as working animals. Their official status as members of the family came about fairly recently; animal rights movements marched alongside this development, with the first society for animal protection starting in Britain in 1824. Dogs were quicker than cats to make the move across the parlor boundary, but by the last quarter of the nineteenth century, both had taken up residence in the heart of the home. Victorian girls and women mourned the loss of their pets as they did the loss of family members and friends, carrying locks of their favorite animals’ hair in rings and lockets. Before the advent of pet cemeteries at the turn of the century, pet-owners had been known to sneak into graveyards and secretly bury the bodies of beloved animals in plots reserved for themselves. The writer and activist Marguerite Durand created the first cemetery for pets in 1899. In addition to starting a feminist daily newspaper run entirely by women, she was known in Paris for walking the boulevards with her pet lion. This lion, along with some other famous animals including RinTinTin, is buried at the exclusive but charming garden-style resting place for pets that Marguerite founded on the Île des Ravageurs near Paris.
"His attachment was without selfishness, his playfulness without malice, his fidelity without deceit." That was the epitaph of Dash, a spaniel, the first girlhood dog of Queen Victoria. Nineteenth century women writers would echo her words, contrasting the ways of dogs with the ways of men. “Animals are such agreeable friends - they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms,” George Eliot wrote in 1857.
Long before dogs and cats had colonized the boudoir, another animal had successfully made the voyage from the farmyard to the house proper. Newborn lambs that could not be fed by their mothers were reared indoors at the kitchen hearth and often became favorites of the girls and women who tended them. Mary Cronk, writing to her husband who was serving in the New York State volunteer infantry in 1863 gave him an update on her pet: “I must tell you of something I washed to day it was our pet lamb it was just all I could lift in the wash tub and she fills it full when she is in it. She is the handsomest lamb or sheep you ever seen I wish you could see her she is as white as snow when she is clean.”
Domestic animals could mean money to girls and women who otherwise had very few ways of getting it. Until the late nineteenth century in Britain as well as in much of the United States, married women could not legally own property and often had no disposable income of their own at all. “Butter and egg” money was one solution that women found to this problem, earning money of their own by tending domestic animals. Some women basically started small businesses to produce and distribute their wares. Girls, too, would sometimes be allowed to keep money they made from the animals they specially tended. “Mary Had A Little Lamb” was written by Sarah Josepha Buell Hale in 1830 when many girls would have had lambs under their charge. Mary’sLamb
Mary had alittle lamb, Its fleece was white as snow, And every where that Mary went The lamb was sure to go; He followed her to school one day— That was against the rule, It made the children laugh and play, To see a lamb at school. And so the Teacher turned him out, But still he lingered near, And waited patiently about, Till Mary did appear; And then he ran to her, and laid His head upon her arm, As if he said—'I'm not afraid— You'll keep me from all harm.' 'What makes the lamb love Mary so?' The eager children cry— 'O, Mary loves the lamb, you know,' The Teacher did reply; — 'And you each gentle animal In confidence may bind, And make them follow at your call, If you are always kind.'
A new development in nineteenth century family life was the belief that if children learned to be kind to pets they would grow up to be moral individuals. Whether this was true or not, one child who definitely benefited from the trend was Beatrix Potter. She kept a varied household menagerie of mice, rats, dormice, hedgehogs and rabbits—occasionally varied by a lizard or squirrel. Benjamin Bunny, the inspiration for Peter Rabbit, traveled in a basket along with the family on railroad trips.
Animals figured largely in Every Girl's Book of Sport, Occupation and Pastimewritten by Mrs. Mary Whiteley in 1897. She has this advice about the feeding of cats: “For the cat’s breakfast, nothing can be better than oatmeal porridge and milk.” Commercialized pet food had not yet become a standard part of pet care—neither had cat litter, first marketed in 1945. Mrs. Whitely wrote at length about how girls could raise chickens and silkworms in their spare time. Both these activities were popular with girls in England and America as hobbies for enjoyment as well as with hopes for some serious pocket money. A scene worth pondering is that of the American pioneer woman raising silkworms near her loom and spinning wheel, as Mrs. Silas Palmer did after her 1836 arrival in Ohio. An ounce of silkworm eggs produced 40,000 caterpillars, which would produce eight pounds of raw silk.
Family members, dear companions, household helps, and home industries—pets acted as love tokens too. Eighteenth and nineteenth century novelists describe small animals being presented to women as gifts from prospective suitors— a lap-dog was a common choice. The way that a woman received such a gift could indicate her feelings toward the suitor—and the gift could reveal aspects of the suitor’s character as well. Some women writers of the time, however, turned the point of view around, drawing a connection between these sorts of pets and themselves. Margaret Blennerhassett, for instance, wrote her “Warning to a Lap-Dog” in 1824. She speculates on the probability that her lap-dog Rosa has fallen for the wrong sort, for the rambling kind, and hints that she has had the same difficulty herself.
Birds of course were present in the parlor long before the four-footed tribe took up residence there—canaries, parrots, and other exotics were the signature of centuries of far-flung shipping trade and provided music in the most intimate recesses of the home. Susanna Blamire lived during the second half of the eighteenth century and, like Margaret, saw a connection between the condition of pets and of women, which she described in her poem “Dear Nancy”:
Dear Nancy, since men have all made their own laws, Which oppress the poor women, whatever's the cause; Since by hardness of reason or hardness of fist All wrong must be right if they choose to persist; I'd have you with caution in wedlock engage, For if once you are caught you're a bird in a cage, That may for dear liberty flutter the wing As you hop round the perch, but 'tis chance if you sing.
Pix from top: Young Lady in a Boat: James Tissot, 1870 Marguerite Durand: 1910 photo 1902 Illustration for Mary's Lamb Beatrix Potter, age 15, with her dog Spot From an 1888 publication of the Toronto Humane Society Madame Rejane: Giovanni Boldini, 1885 The Caged Bird: John Liston Byam Shaw
Off to a bit of a late start this morning! Here’s the next batch of my father’s photos—a batch that seems to date from 1938, & may have been taken on a road trip, or they may be random shots. The first page of these particular photos is titled "Now & Then."
You can click on the photo under the heading Dad’s Photos in the lefthand frame—& now that really does work, since I corrected the link. Hope you enjoy these!
In a Street Car (Commonwealth Ave, Boston)
In an antique shop yard (Brattleboro, Vermont)
A border town (Canada & Vermont) Nightclub outside Springfield, Mass (all that goes up is prices)
