Check this out.

Think: "Stephen Vincent Benet."

A nice poem....

About the modern progressive.

By Chesterton, who did his best throughout life to prove that progress is not inevitable, at least in the spiritual and pyschological realm.

He died before his claims on that subject turned true.

April is Poetry Month!

Thanks for reminding us, Happy Catholic!

O'course, I did post this glittering jewel of poems up for no reason...surely a Divine Purpose guided me and my keyboard that night.

But, excessive amounts of poetry are harmless, so here's another.


The Rolling English Road


Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode,
The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road.
A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire,
And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire;
A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread
The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.

I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire,
And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire;
But I did bash their bayonets because they came arrayed
To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made,
Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands,
The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.

His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run
Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun?
The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which,
But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch.
God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear
The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.

My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage,
Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age,
But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth,
And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death;
For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen,
Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.

- G.K. Chesterton

One bit of advice that I give poets (from a lousy critic and worse writer): watch your rhythm. Poems are made or broken on rhythm.

While y'all are at it, here's another Chesterton poem.

Poem by Robert W. Service

For no reason AT ALL...I am popping this poem at y'all.

The Cremation of Sam McGee

- Robert W. Service


There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold,
The arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see,
Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee, where the cotton blooms and blows,
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole, God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him like a spell,
Though he'd often say, in his homely way, that "he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze 'til sometimes we couldn't see,
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we laid packed tight in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed, and the stars o'erhead were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," said he, "I'll cash in this trip, I guess,
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no, then he says with a kind of moan,
"It's that cursed cold, and it's gotten hold, 'til I'm chilled clean through to the bone.
Yet 'tain't being dead, it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains,
So I want you to swear, that foul or fair, you'll cremate my last remains."

Now a pal's last need is a thing to heed, so I swore I would not fail,
And we started on at the streak of dawn, but Ah! he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home in Tennessee,
And before nightfall, a corpse was all that was left of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death, and I hurried, horror-driven,
With a corpse half-hid, that I couldn't get rid, because of a promise given,
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say, "You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate my last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid, and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb, in my heart how I cursed that load.
In the long, long, night, by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows - oh man! how I loathed that thing.

And every day that quiet clay seemed to heavy and heavier grow,
And on I went, though the dogs were spent and the grub was getting low,
The trail was bad, and I felt half-mad, but I swore I would not give in,
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and it hearkened with a grin.

Then I came to the marge of Lake LeBarge, and a derelict there lay,
It was jammed in the ice, but I saw in a trice it was called the Alice May,
And I looked at it, and I thought a bit, and I looked at my frozen chum,
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry, "is my cre-ma-tor-e-um."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor, and I lit the boiler fire,
Some coal I found that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher,
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared - such a blaze you seldom see,
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal, and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike, for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so,
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled, and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks, and I don't know why,
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow I wrestled with grisly fear,
But the stars came out and they danced about ere again I ventured near,
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said, "I'll just take a peep inside,
I guess he's cooked and it's time I looked..." then the door I opened wide.

And there sat Sam, looking cool and calm, in the heat of the furnace roar,
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said, "Please close that door!
It's fine in here, but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm -
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done 'neath the midnight sun by the men who moil for gold,
The arctic trails have their secret tales that would make your blood run cold.
The Northern Lights have seen queer sights, but the queerest they ever did see,
Was that night on the marge of Lake LeBarge I cremated Sam McGee.

Since it seems to be "Cat Day" in the blogosphere, let me present you...

Growltiger's Last Stand

- T.S. Eliot



Growltiger was a Bravo Cat, who travelled on a barge:
In fact he was the roughest cat that ever roamed at large.
From Gravesend up to Oxford he pursued his evil aims,
Rejoicing in his title of `The Terror of the Thames'.

His manners and appearance did not calculate to please;
His coat was torn and seedy, he was baggy at the knees;
One ear was somewhat missing, no need to tell you why,
And he scowled upon a hostile world from one forbidding eye.

The cottagers of Rotherhithe knew something of his fame;
At Hammersmith and Putney people shuddered at his name.
They would fortify the hen-house, lock up the silly goose,
When the rumour ran along the shore:
GROWLTIGER'S ON THE LOOSE!

Woe to the weak canary, that fluttered from its cage;
Woe to the pampered Pekingese, that faced Growltiger's rage;
Woe to the bristly Bandicoot, that lurks on foreign ships,
And woe to any Cat with whom Growltiger came to grips!

But most to Cats of foreign race his hatred had been vowed;
To Cats of foreign name and race no quarter was allowed.
The Persian and the Siamese regarded him with fear -
Because it was a Siamese had mauled his missing ear.

Now on a peaceful summer night, all nature seemed at play,
The tender moon was shining bright, the barge at Molesey lay.
All in the balmy moonlight it lay rocking on the tide -
And Growltiger was disposed to show his sentimental side.

His bucko mate, GRUMBUSKIN, long since had disappeared,
For to the Bell at Hampton he had gone to wet his beard;
And his bosun, TUMBLEBRUTUS, he too had stol'n away -
In the yard behind the Lion he was prowling for his prey.

In the forepeak of the vessel Growltiger sate alone,
Concentrating his attention on the Lady GRIDDLEBONE.
And his raffish crew were sleeping in their barrels and their bunks -
As the Siamese came creeping in their sampans and their junks.

Growltiger had no eye for aught but Griddlebone,
And the Lady seemed enraptured by his manly baritone,
Disposed to relaxation, and awaiting no surprise -
But the moonlight shone reflected from a hundred bright blue eyes.

And closer still and closer the sampans circled round,
And yet from all the enemy there was not heard a sound.
The lovers sang their last duet, in danger of their lives -
For the foe was armed with toasting forks and cruel carving knives.

Then GILBERT gave the signal to his fierce Mongolian horde;
With a frightful burst of fireworks the Chinks they swarmed aboard.
Abandoning their sampans, and their pullaways and junks,
They battened down the hatches on the crew within their bunks.

Then Griddlebone she gave a screech, for she was badly skeered;
I am sorry to admit it, but she quickly disappeared.
She probably escaped with ease, I'm sure she was not drowned -
But a serried ring of flashing steel Growltiger did surround.

The ruthless foe pressed forward, in stubborn rank on rank;
Growltiger to his vast surprise was forced to walk the plank.
He who a hundred victims had driven to that drop,
At the end of all his crimes was forced to go ker-flip, ker-flop.

Oh there was joy in Wapping when the news flew through the land;
At Maidenhead and Henley there was dancing on the strand.
Rats were roasted whole at Brentford, and at Victoria Dock,
And a day of celebration was commanded in Bangkok.

-----------------------------------------------

I memorized this way back when. It hasn't stayed in my mind (unlike, say, "The Yarn of the Nancy Bell), but it still is the best poem about cats I ever heard.

Plus, with a little modification, you can sing it to "Music Box Dancer." Remove one syllable from each line, by hook or by crook, and voila! it fits the tune!

The Muse speaks to me...

but urges me to quote Chesterton.

I wish I was a Jelly Fish

That cannot fall down-stairs

Of all the things I wish to wish

I wish I was a Jelly Fish

That hasn't any cares

And doesn't even have to wish

"I wish I was a Jelly Fish

That cannot fall down-stairs!"

Some more Chesterton, apropos to my posting this at midnight, November 24:

"Misers get up early in the morning, and burglars the night before."

Sleep off that turkey!

(PS: Any British readers celebrate Hooray-The-Puritans-Are-Gone-Day? Chesterton recommended that it become a holiday.)