Not Waving But Drowning
Stevie Smith
Nobody heard him, the dead man,
But still he lay moaning:
I was much further out than you thought
And not waving but drowning.
Poor chap, he always loved larking
And now he’s dead
It must have been too cold for him his heart gave way,
They said.
Oh, no no no, it was too cold always
(Still the dead one lay moaning)
I was much too far out all my life
And not waving but drowning.
The Cinnamon Peeler
If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.
Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under the rain gutters, monsoon.
Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbour to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler’s wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
When we swam once
I touched you in the water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said
this is how you touch other women
the grass cutter’s wife, the lime burner’s daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume
and knew
what good is it
to be the lime burner’s daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in the act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of a scar.
You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler’s wife. Smell me.
-- Michael Ondaatje
I’ve adored this one for almost ten years.
I posted this before, elsewhere, but it’s a favorite.
When I was young and had no sense
In far-off Mandalay
I lost my heart to a Burmese girl
As lovely as the day.
Her skin was gold, her hair was jet,
Her teeth were ivory;
I said, “for twenty silver pieces,
Maiden, sleep with me”.
She looked at me, so pure, so sad,
The loveliest thing alive,
And in her lisping, virgin voice,
Stood out for twenty-five.
–George Orwell
Let Me Die a Youngman’s Death - Roger McGough
Let me die a youngman's death
not a clean and inbetween
the sheets holywater death
not a famous-last-words
peaceful out of breath death
When I’m 73
and in constant good tumour
may I be mown down at dawn
by a bright red sports car
on my way home
from an allnight party
Or when I’m 91
with silver hair
and sitting in a barber’s chair
may rival gangsters
with hamfisted tommyguns burst in
and give me a short back and insides
Or when I’m 104
and banned from the Cavern
may my mistress
catching me in bed with her daughter
and fearing for her son
cut me up into little pieces
and throw away every piece but one
Let me die a youngman’s death
not a free from sin tiptoe in
candle wax and waning death
not a curtains drawn by angels borne
‘what a nice way to go’ death
Yeah Baby—Take me down to the water and toss me in. Love this poem.
I recommend the Louvin brother’s 1956 version of this song, creepy song with them harmonizing and a few cool mandolin
solos. Reads poetic.
BTW
( I’ll be in the shed sharpening some garden tools, best you ignore any strange sounds you may hear.)
The Knoxville Girl
The Knoxville Girl
I met a little girl in Knoxville
A town we all know well
And every Sunday evening
Out in her home I’d dwell
We went to take an evening walk
About a mile from town
I picked a stick up off the ground
And knocked that fair girl down;
She fell down on her bended knees
For mercy she did cry
Oh, Willie dear, don’t kill me here
I’m unprepared to die
She never spoke another word
I only beat her more
Until the ground around me
Within her blood did flow.
I took her by her golden curls
And I drug her 'round and 'round
Throwing her into the river
That flows through Knoxville town
Go down, go down, you Knoxville girl
With the dark and roving eyes
Go down, go down, you Knoxville girl
You can never be my bride.
I started back to Knoxville
Got there about midnight
My mother she was worried
And woke up in a fright
Saying, ““Dear son, what have you done
To bloody your clothes so?””
I told my anxious mother
I was bleeding at my nose.
I called for me a candle
To light myself to bed
I called for me a handkerchief
To bind my aching head
Rolled and tumbled the whole night through
As troubles was for me
Like flames of hell around my bed
And in my eyes could see.
They carried me down to Knoxville
And put me in a cell
My friends all tried to get me out
But none could go my bail
I’m here to waste my life away
Down in this dirty old jail
Because I murdered that Knoxville girl
The girl I loved so well.
Note. Based on the old English Ballad of the Wexford Girl
Recorded by The Louvin Brothers - Traditional
Thanks. Reminds me of Doc Watson’s version of Omie Wise
[quote] Oh, listen to my story, I’ll tell you no lies,
How John Lewis did murder poor little Omie Wise.
He told her to meet him at Adams's Springs.
He promised her money and other fine things.
So, fool-like she met him at Adams's Springs.
No money he brought her nor other fine things.
"Go with me, little Omie, and away we will go.
We'll go and get married and no one will know."
She climbed up behind him and away they did go,
But off to the river where deep waters flow.
"John Lewis, John Lewis, will you tell me your mind?
Do you intend to marry me or leave me behind?"
"Little Omie, little Omie, I'll tell you my mind.
My mind is to drown you and leave you behind."
"Have mercy on my baby and spare me my life,
I'll go home as a beggar and never be your wife."
He kissed her and hugged her and turned her around,
Then pushed her in deep waters where he knew that she would drown.
He got on his pony and away he did ride,
As the screams of little Omie went down by his side.
T'was on a Thursday morning, the rain was pouring down,
When the people searched for Omie but she could not be found.
Two boys went a-fishin' one fine summer day,
And saw little Omie's body go floating away.
They threw their net around her and drew her to the bank.
Her clothes all wet and muddy, they laid her on a plank.
Then sent for John Lewis to come to that place --
And brought her out before him so that he might see her face.
He made no confession but they carried him to jail,
No friends or relations would go on his bail.[/quote]
geocities.com/Nashville/3448/omie.html
My favorite version is by Pentangle off the Reflection album.
Spooky, Bubba. I was listening to the Dillards singing that song this morning.
Hmm, won’t be long until folks start posting from Nick Cave’s Murder Ballads…disturbing, but you get pulled in despite it.
The Willow Garden
Down in the willow garden, me and my love did meet
And as we sat a-courting, my love fell off to sleep
I had a bottle of burgundy wine; my love, she did not know
And so I poisoned that dear little girl along the banks below
Along the banks below
I drew my saber through her; it was a bloody night
I threw her in the river, which was a dreadful sight
My father often told me that money would set me free
And so I murdered that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly
My father sits at his cabin door wiping his tear-dimmed eyes
His only son soon should walk to yonder scaffold high
My race is run beneath the sun; the scaffold now waits for me
For I did murder that dear little girl whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly
Whose name was Rose Connelly.
The previous song inspired Cave to write this one:
Where The Wild Roses Grow
CHORUS:
They call me The Wild Rose
But my name was Elisa Day
Why they call me it I do not know
For my name was Elisa Day
From the first day I saw her I knew she was the one
As she stared in my eyes and smiled
For her lips were the colour of the roses
They grew down the river, all bloody and wild
When he knocked on my door and entered the room
My trembling subsided in his sure embrace
He would be my first man, and with a careful hand
He wiped the tears that ran down my face
CHORUS
On the second day I brought her a flower
She was more beautiful than any woman I’d seen
I said, ‘Do you know where the wild roses grow
So sweet and scarlet and free?’
On the second day he came with a single rose
Said: ‘Will you give me your loss and your sorrow?’
I nodded my head, as I lay on the bed
He said, ‘If I show you the roses will you follow?’
CHORUS
On the third day he took me to the river
He showed me the roses and we kissed
And the last thing I heard was a muttered word
As he stood smiling above me with a rock in his fist
On the last day I took her where the wild roses grow
And she lay on the bank, the wind light as a thief
As I kissed her goodbye, I said, ‘All beauty must die’
And knelt down and planted a rose 'tween her teeth
CHORUS
While we are on the subject of death, murder and tragedy another catchy tune to teach the kids that is sweet, sad and poetic:
Louvin Brothers and Johnny Cash covered this.
Mary of the wild moor
'Twas on one cold winty night
And the wind blew across the wild moor
As poor Mary came wandering home with her child
She stopped at her own father’s door
Oh, father, dear father, she cried
Come down and open the door
Or the child in my arms will perish and die
From the winds that blow across the wild moor
But the father was deaf to her cry
Not a sound of her voice did he hear
Though the watch dogs did howl and the village bells tolled
And the winds blew across the wild moor
Oh, how the old man must have felt
When the came to the door the next morn
And found Mary dead, but the child still alive
Closely clasped in it’s dead mother’s arms
In anguish he tore his gray hair
And the tears down his cheeks they did pour
When he saw how that night she had perished and died
From the winds that blew across the wild moor
The old man with grief pined away
And the child to it’s mother went soon
And no one they say has lived there to this day
And the cottage to ruin has gone
But the villagers point out the spot
Where the willows droop over the door
Saying there mary died once a gay village bride
From the winds that blew across the wild moor
The Louvin Brothers .
Were they hillbilly Cain and Abel?
Charlie Louvin was a certifiable psycopath.
Here’s an old favourite of mine
[quote]Hail Mary, full of grace
Help me win this stock car race[/quote]
Never fails to bring tears to my eyes.
Holly Hunter sang this as a lullaby for Nathan Jr in Raising Arizona. 
[quote=“MissAnomaly”]The Cinnamon Peeler – Michael Ondaatje
I’ve adored this one for almost ten years.[/quote]
Yes. Thank you.
One Art
The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.
Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.
I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.
I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.
– Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.
Elizabeth Bishop
Lately whenever a waltz comes on the radio (not uncommon at FM99.7), my girl will often come over, grab my hand, and have me dance with her, swinging about the room, which reminds me of this Roethke poem:
My Papa’s Waltz
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
Here’s my own go at poetry, its called :
Donald Trump
Trump! You’re fired.
[quote=“Mother Theresa”]Lately whenever a waltz comes on the radio (not uncommon at FM99.7), my girl will often come over, grab my hand, and have me dance with her, swinging about the room, which reminds me of this Roethke poem:
My Papa’s Waltz
The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.
We romped until the pans
Slid from the kitchen shelf;
My mother’s countenance
Could not unfrown itself.
The hand that held my wrist
Was battered on one knuckle;
At every step you missed
My right ear scraped a buckle.
You beat time on my head
With a palm caked hard by dirt,
Then waltzed me off to bed
Still clinging to your shirt.
[/quote]
Great poem, MT.
I remember first reading it in college; the first stanza really touched me.
“The whiskey on your breath
Could make a small boy dizzy;
But I hung on like death:
Such waltzing was not easy.”
Thanks for posting this poem.
[quote=“Kay Ryan”]Turtle
Kay Ryan
Who would be a turtle who could help it?
A barely mobile hard roll, a four-oared helmet,
She can ill afford the chances she must take
In rowing toward the grasses that she eats.
Her track is graceless, like dragging
A packing-case places, and almost any slope
Defeats her modest hopes. Even being practical,
She’s often stuck up to the axle on her way
To something edible. With everything optimal,
She skirts the ditch which would convert
Her shell into a serving dish. She lives
Below luck-level, never imagining some lottery
Will change her load of pottery to wings.
Her only levity is patience,
The sport of truly chastened things.[/quote]
A fine American poem, very fine.
‘Below luck-level,’ never a good place to be.
No matter how many poets I read, I always come back, eventually, to Whitman:
To One Shortly To Die
From all the rest I single out you, having a message for you,
You are to die – let others tell you what they please, I
cannot prevaricate,
I am exact and merciless, but I love you – there is no escape
for you.
Softly I lay my right hand upon you, and you just feel it,
I do not argue, I bend my head close and half envelop it,
I sit quietly by it, I remain faithful,
I am more than nurse, more than parent or neighbor,
I absolve you from all except yourself spiritual bodily, that
is eternal, you yourself will surely escape,
The corpse you will leave will be but excrementitious.
The sun bursts through in unlooked-for directions,
Strong thoughts fill you and confidence, you smile,
You forget you are sick, as I forget you are sick,
You do not see the medicines, you do not mind the weeping
friends, I am with you,
I exclude others from you, there is nothing to be
commiserated,
I do not commiserate, I congratulate you.
This one, I think, is anonymous and may actually be from English oral tradition, but I used it in class with some of my Taiwan students, and their mothers were horrified, and they didn’t understand that we westerners occasionally like to frighten our children to death with sing-songy bedtime verse, just for sport…:
Oranges and lemons,
Say the bells of St. Clement’s.
You owe me five farthings,
Say the bells of St. Martin’s.
When will you pay me?
Say the bells of Old Bailey.
When I grow rich,
Say the bells of Shoreditch.
When will that be?
Say the bells of Stepney.
I’m sure I don’t know,
Say the great bells of Bow.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed,
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
There has always been a debate as to whether or not poetry has a legitimate social function. I think the social function of poetry has always been a tad overstated, but having said that, I thank the initiator of this thread for the social joy of reading all these wonderful posts. It has been an education of the most enjoyable sort…
On the subject of death and dying, this by Wallace Stevens:
THE EMPEROR OF ICE CREAM
Call the roller of big cigars,
The muscular one, and bid him whip
In kitchen cups concupiscent curds.
Let the wenches dawdle in such dress
As they are used to wear, and let the boys
Bring flowers in last month’s newspapers.
Let be be the finale of seem.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.
Take from the dresser of deal
Lacking the three glass knobs, that sheet
On which she embroidered fantails once
And spread it so as to cover her face.
If her horny feet protrude, they come
To show how cold she is, and dumb.
Let the lamp affix its beam.
The only emperor is the emperor of ice-cream.