Friday, April 9, 2010

#9 ...my fancy gave her eyes of blue...

Today's a doubleheader day, two poems for the price of one!

My first poem is my favorite of Shakespeare's sonnets. It's not one of his more romantic sonnets, not something a lovestruck hero and heroine would recite to each other. It's earthy, honest, and realistic, and that's what I like best about it.

The second poem is Lewis Carroll's take on the same idea. In both cases, the poets are speaking of their loves and realizing they may not be beautiful, but they love them regardless. So often in literature the ideal woman is held up to be one at the pinnacle of beauty, and it's refreshing to read a poem where the speaker's saying "Yeah, you know, she can crack a mirror but I love her anyway."

Sonnet 130
by William Shakespeare


My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.

My Fancy
by Lewis Carroll


I painted her a gushing thing,
With years perhaps a score;
A little thought to find they were
At least a dozen more;
My fancy gave her eyes of blue,
A curly, auburn head;
I came to find the blue a green
The auburn turned to red.

She boxed my ears this morning--
They tingled very much;
I own that I could wish her
A somewhat lighter touch;
And if you were to ask me how
Her charms might be improved,
I would not have them added to,
But just a few removed!

She has the bear's ethereal grace,
The bland hyena's laugh,
The footstep of the elephant,
The neck of the giraffe.
I love her still, believe me,
Though my heart its passion hides;
"She is all my fancy painted her,"
But, oh, how much besides!

Author review: Kate Seredy

Every spring, I reread two particular books---Kate Seredy's The Good Master (1935) and The Singing Tree (1939). These are two rightfully-acclaimed children's books that were each awarded the Newberry Honor award for excellence in children's literature.* I first read them back in elementary school, probably around the age of 7 or 8. They were favorite books of my mother, who bought me my own copies. Needless to say, I promptly fell in love with them and reread them every year.

Kate Seredy was born at the end of the 19th century in Hungary. She served as a nurse in WWI, then afterwords got an art degree and teaching certification. She moved to America and quickly made a name for herself by illustrating children's books. One of the editors she worked with suggested that she write a story herself, one about her experiences growing up in Hungary before the war. The Good Master is that book, and won immediate acclaim. The Singing Tree is the sequel.

(side note: I'm including the pictures for the original hardcovers, rather than the reprinted paperbacks I own. The original hardcovers are absolutely gorgeous and much more worthy of inclusion)

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The Good Master is about two Hungarian children, cousins Jancsi (YAN-zsee) and Kate. Jancsi's father is the titular "good master", the primary landowner of the area. He has an enormous ranch on the Hungarian puszta (plains), and Jancsi, an only child, has grown up there. When he's ten years old, his cousin Kate from Budapest comes to live with the family. Jancsi and Kate have never met. Jancsi, who has never been to the city, imagines that Kate will be a delicate princess with ethereal beauty and manners. What he gets is a mischievous tomboy with dirty knees and a propensity for pranks. He realizes pretty quickly that this is much better than the princess he was hoping for---Kate ends up becoming his best friend and playmate. The book follows their adventures during the idyllic pre-war period, around 1912.

What I like best about The Good Master is its depiction of Hungarian customs. Kate, having lived in the city her entire life, is only familiar with Western ways. Her new life in the countryside immerses her in the traditional ways of her people, and she learns all about Magyar culture. We see the traditions of Easter, of county fairs, of harvest and Christmas. We learn about life on the farm, about the importance of their way of life to the Magyar people. Through Kate's conversations with her uncle's shepherds, we hear several traditional Hungarian folk tales. This is a book that just brims with beauty.

A critic accused The Good Master of lacking relevance, saying it failed on two levels. Firstly, that it depicts Kate as going from a girl who loves riding horses at the beginning of the book, to one who's happiest weaving and cooking by the end of the book. Clearly, this is an anti-feminist book. Secondly, that children today can't relate to it, that it's mawkish and sappy and outdated. My response to the first is this: yes, I'm sad when Kate grows up and has to leave off her tomboyish habits. It would have killed me, had I had a horse of my own, to have had to have given him up at a certain age. BUT. That's the way things were back then, and The Good Master accurately depicts that. Saying we shouldn't read it because it's wrong is like saying we shouldn't read Uncle Tom's Cabin because slavery is wrong. We learn about things by reading about them. When I read this book to my children someday, I'll use that particular plotline as a starting point for conversation. What was life like back then for girls? How is it different today? Why is it important that things have changed? And on the second matter, if children today can no longer appreciate sweet, old-fashioned books like The Good Master, then I'm raising my children in the Yukon. I'm already disgusted enough by things like Bratz dolls and Gossip Girl and I don't even HAVE kids yet. A book that shows ten year olds acting like ten year olds seems far more worthy to me than one where they act like streetwalkers and frat boys.

Sigh. Anyway, I absolutely adore this book and have so many happy memories of reading it throughout the years.

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The Singing Tree is a little more bittersweet than The Good Master because it deals with the effects on WWI on Kate and Jancsi's lives. Both their fathers and most of the young men of the village leave to become soldiers. Kate's father is taken prisoner in Russia, Jancsi's is missing and presumed dead. Jancsi must take charge of the farm and become the Young Master, and the family, with their role of community leadership, takes in as many people as they can to help. A troop of Russian prisoners arrive to help with the farm work. A group of German children come to stay to get away from the fighting in Germany. While the war does not directly come to the farm, its effects are felt by the Nagy family in many different ways. It's a sober, sad, and yet ultimately moving depiction of the ending of one age and the beginning of another.

The Singing Tree is definitely meant for older readers than The Good Master. In addition to war, the book also deals with topics such as anti-semitism, socialism, hatred and forgiveness. As with The Good Master, I think this makes it an easy way to discuss such things with children. I especially like the fact that the book doesn't try to portray one side of the war as good and the other as bad---it simply says that war's awful no matter which side you're on. As somebody with ancestors on both sides of both WWI and WWII, I appreciate that neither side of my heritage is demonized.

After I reread the books last month, I decided I'd finally give some of Seredy's other books a try. The one that looked most appealing was this one:

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Philomena is the story of a 13 year old girl from a tiny village in what's now the Czech Republic but was, at the time of the story, the Austro-Hungarian empire. The tradition in Philomena's villages is for girls, upon turning 13, to go to Prague to work as maidservants. By the time of their traditional four years there, they've learned everything they need to keep house, and return to their village as attractive candidates for marriage (yes, I can hear the feminists screaming from here).

Philomena's time in Prague, however, is complicated by her search for a missing aunt. It's a very comic story, somewhere in between a picture book and a chapter book, and more or less one long romp from beginning to end. Philomena's an appealing, likeable protagonist and the conclusion to her story and her search is satisfying and almost fairy-tale-like. Do I like it as much as The Good Master and The Singing Tree? No, but that may just be because I don't have the history with it that I do with the others. I don't know. It lacks the depth of the chapter books, but it is charming in its own right.

The best part of the three books are Kate Seredy's illustrations. She was primarily an artist and saw her stories merely as something to go with the art she created, rather than the other way around. I have such strong memories of the artwork from the The Good Master and The Singing Tree--it's beautiful, accessible, and instantly recognizable as hers. She makes a concerted effort to infuse her illustrations with Hungarian details, and that was the part that fascinated me the most as a child:

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In the picture above, the three men are in traditional Hungarian dress. They are performing "the calling", the Hungarian tradition by which people are invited to a wedding. It's that kind of vernacular detail within the illustrations that I like the best, and Seredy's books are brimful of folk art and beauty. Her illustrations of the horses within the story (Father's Bator, Jancsi's Barsony, and Kate's Milky---and yes, I've remembered and loved those names all these years) are breathtaking and worthy of printing and framing. Its even occurred to me to have some of her folk-art illustrations transferred into needlework patterns. Nothing is beneath her notice as an illustrator; she makes everything beautiful, even the chapter headings.

Anyway, I adore Kate Seredy's work and intend her books to be a pivotal part of my children's library. They are just plain GOOD books. I suppose they're old-fashioned. They're certainly sweet books with happy endings (which apparently is a terrible thing these days). The highest acclaim I can give them is that they are books that uplift me---by the time I've finished reading them, I'm reminded about the beauty around me, about what's worth cherishing in life.

*Seredy won the Newberry award itself in 1937 for The White Stag, a mythical retelling of the life of Attila the Hun and the settling of the Huns and Magyars in Hungary. Wikipedia describes the plot thusly: For generations the tribes of Huns and Magyars had moved westward, obeying their Pagan Gods' orders to follow a White Stag to their promised homeland. They could see the White stag but could never catch it. I've never gotten around to reading this, but it's on my list of books to buy for my future children.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

#8 ...it is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal...

I have another Edgar Guest poem for you today. I do love the simplicity of his poems, and how they exhort us to think about what really matters in life. Granted, this is something different for everyone, but I think the basics should be the same---finding happiness in loved ones and purity of spirit, rather than material goods or the acclaim of others.

I have trouble remembering this at Powells, however. Walking out of there with a big stack of books makes me happy, indeed.

I don't agree with EVERYTHING he says in this poem--I think there's a great deal of benefit to be gained from travel, but that's splitting hairs--but I think the general intention of the poem is correct.

What I Call Living
by Edgar Guest


The miser thinks he's living when he's hoarding up his gold;
The soldier calls it living when he's doing something bold;
The sailor thinks it living to be tossed upon the sea,
And upon this vital subject no two of us agree.
But I hold to the opinion, as I walk my way along,
That living's made of laughter and good-fellowship and song.

I wouldn't call it living always to be seeking gold,
To bank all the present gladness for the days when I'll be old.
I wouldn't call it living to spend all my strength for fame,
And forego the many pleasures which to-day are mine to claim.
I wouldn't for the splendor of the world set out to roam,
And forsake my laughing children and the peace I know at home.
Oh, the thing that I call living isn't gold or fame at all!

It's good-fellowship and sunshine, and it's roses by the wall;
It's evenings glad with music and a hearth fire that's ablaze,
And the joys which come to mortals in a thousand different ways.
It is laughter and contentment and the struggle for a goal;
It is everything that's needful in the shaping of a soul.

Wednesday, April 7, 2010

#7 ...though God knows when we shall meet...

Sorry for the late posting today! I had a spectacularly absorbing book with me and spent my breaks reading instead of posting. Anyway, here it is a few hours later.

Today's poem is by one of my favorite WWI poets, Winifred M. Letts. I posted her "The Spires of Oxford" last year, along with two other WWI poems ("The Soldier" and "The Mother"). Like I said last April, WWI poetry is one of my favorite genres. It's hideously depressing, I have to admit, and rightfully so. But in the midst of all that madness and tragedy, a handful of poets were able to create these beautiful expressions of the human experience---not only of soldiers, but of their family and loved ones and those left behind.

The Call to Arms in Our Street
by Winifred M. Letts


There’s a woman sobs her heart out,
With her head against the door,
For the man that’s called to leave her,
— God have pity on the poor!
But its beat, drums, beat
While the lads march down the street,
And its blow, trumpets blow,
Keep your tears until they go.

There’s a crowd of little children
That march along and shout,
For it’s fine to play at soldiers
Now their fathers are called out.
So its beat, drums, beat;
But who’ll find them food to eat?
And its blow, trumpets, blow,
Oh, its little children know.

There’s a mother who stands watching
For the last look of her son,
A worn poor widow woman,
And he her only one,
But its beat, drums, beat,
Though God knows when we shall meet:
And its blow trumpets, blow
We must smile and cheer them so.

There’s a young girl who stands laughing
For she thinks a war is grand
And it’s fine to see the lads pass,
And it’s fine to hear the band,
So its beat, drums, beat,
To the fall of many feet:
And its blow, trumpets, blow,
God go with you where you go.

Monday, April 5, 2010

#5 ...where flash the legions of the sun...

Today, you get a double treat, folks!

The first poem is from my beloved Edward Arlington Robinson, the tragic figure of American poetry and winner of three Pulitzers for his work. I posted two of Robinson's poems last year ("Miniver Cheevy" and "The Dead Village"). This is the only one of his that I'm posting this year, but I urge you to check out his other poems. "Richard Cory" is particularly haunting and "Aunt Imogen" absolutely breaks my heart (perhaps because I can see it as a possible future for myself). I suppose what I like best about Robinson's poetry is the sense of being on the outside looking in, a feeling I'm quite familiar with. I don't say that to paint myself as some sort of similarly tragic figure, because I'm not and I don't feel like I am. But in being a hearing-impaired person in a hearing world, I do experience a feeling of being separate from the people around me in a lot of ways, and so I understand that feeling of separateness that permeates a lot of Robinson's poems.

Anyhoo. Today's poem is quite short and simple and full of visual imagery of "endings'--sunset, death, final days.....In spite of how brief it is, it has a powerful impact for me. It also reminds me quite strongly of the poetry of J. R. R. Tolkien, both in tone and imagery. Maybe I just feel that way because I watched part of The Return of the King on TV last night and therefore have The Lord of the Rings on the brain, I don't know. But I thought I'd pair Robinson's poem with one of Tolkien's that looks at the end of things in a different way.

I don't think I need to talk about Tolkien at all, do I? He's awesome. 'Nuff said.

The Dark Hills
by E. A. Robinson


Dark hills at evening in the west,
Where sunset hovers like a sound
Of golden horns that sang to rest
Old bones of warriors under ground,
Far now from all the bannered ways
Where flash the legions of the sun,
You fade--as if the last of days
Were fading, and all wars were done.


Journey's End
by J. R. R. Tolkien


In western lands beneath the Sun
The flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,
And swaying branches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey's end I lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.

Sunday, April 4, 2010

#4 ...we can make our lives sublime...

Happy Easter, everyone! I picked today's poem with the holiday in mind---it's not strictly an Easter poem, or even an overtly religious one, but it seemed fitting to me. It's something I like to reread whenever I'm discouraged by things going wrong in my life, and it helps to bolster me up and renew my spirit.

I've been a Longfellow fan since fifth grade, when my class was required to memorize the first stanze of "Paul Revere's Ride". I can still recite it today, in case you're curious! Anyway, I realized at the time that I loved his style of writing, and I've since fallen in love with many of Longfellow's other poems.

Longfellow is one of the most famous poets in American history, and one of the most highly regarded. He wrote lyric poetry, usually with a very musical undertone---this is poetry that fairly begs to be read aloud. We're still studying these poems over a hundred years later, and they're rightfully acclaimed.

A Psalm of Life
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow


Tell me not in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou are, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sand of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solenm main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

#3 ...what is the self amid this blaze?...

Today's poem is a little different than most of the others I'll post. While it contains my chief criteria for a good poem (rhyming lines, albeit only somewhat), it's distinctively modern and murky and I don't normally like poems like that. But there's a more personal connection to it.

I first came across it without realizing it was actually a poem. In the movie Star Trek Generations (for the nongeeks, the one where Captains Kirk and Picard meet), the film's villain quotes a line from the poem to Captain Picard:

"They say time is the fire in which we burn. Right now, Captain, my time is running out. We leave so many things unfinished in our lives. I know you understand."

I was entranced by that line, time is the fire in which we burn, but eventually forgot about it. I didn't see the movie again for many years, but when I did, that line jumped out at me again. This time, I googled it and discovered it was from a poem by Delmore Schwarz.

I won't lie. The poem doesn't make much sense to me. It's about a man walking through a park and remembering people he used to know. Beyond that, I'm lost. I'm sure it's deeply symbolic and meaningful and I'm Just Not Getting It, but....whatever. I can take my own meaning from it and that's enough for me.



Calmly We Walk Through This April's Day
by Delmore Schwartz



Calmly we walk through this April's day,
Metropolitan poetry here and there,
In the park sit pauper and rentier,
The screaming children, the motor-car
Fugitive about us, running away,
Between the worker and the millionaire
Number provides all distances,
It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now,
Many great dears are taken away,
What will become of you and me
(This is the school in which we learn...)
Besides the photo and the memory?
(...that time is the fire in which we burn.)

(This is the school in which we learn...)
What is the self amid this blaze?
What am I now that I was then
Which I shall suffer and act again,
The theodicy I wrote in my high school days
Restored all life from infancy,
The children shouting are bright as they run
(This is the school in which they learn ...)
Ravished entirely in their passing play!
(...that time is the fire in which they burn.)

Avid its rush, that reeling blaze!
Where is my father and Eleanor?
Not where are they now, dead seven years,
But what they were then?
No more? No more?
From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day,
Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume
Not where they are now (where are they now?)
But what they were then, both beautiful;

Each minute bursts in the burning room,
The great globe reels in the solar fire,
Spinning the trivial and unique away.
(How all things flash! How all things flare!)
What am I now that I was then?
May memory restore again and again
The smallest color of the smallest day:
Time is the school in which we learn,
Time is the fire in which we burn.