Written by
Philip Levine |
The first time I drank gin
I thought it must be hair tonic.
My brother swiped the bottle
from a guy whose father owned
a drug store that sold booze
in those ancient, honorable days
when we acknowledged the stuff
was a drug. Three of us passed
the bottle around, each tasting
with disbelief. People paid
for this? People had to have
it, the way we had to have
the women we never got near.
(Actually they were girls, but
never mind, the important fact
was their impenetrability. )
Leo, the third foolish partner,
suggested my brother should have
swiped Canadian whiskey or brandy,
but Eddie defended his choice
on the grounds of the expressions
"gin house" and "gin lane," both
of which indicated the preeminence
of gin in the world of drinking,
a world we were entering without
understanding how difficult
exit might be. Maybe the bliss
that came with drinking came
only after a certain period
of apprenticeship. Eddie likened
it to the holy man's self-flagellation
to experience the fullness of faith.
(He was very well read for a kid
of fourteen in the public schools. )
So we dug in and passed the bottle
around a second time and then a third,
in the silence each of us expecting
some transformation. "You get used
to it," Leo said. "You don't
like it but you get used to it."
I know now that brain cells
were dying for no earthly purpose,
that three boys were becoming
increasingly despiritualized
even as they took into themselves
these spirits, but I thought then
I was at last sharing the world
with the movie stars, that before
long I would be shaving because
I needed to, that hair would
sprout across the flat prairie
of my chest and plunge even
to my groin, that first girls
and then women would be drawn
to my qualities. Amazingly, later
some of this took place, but
first the bottle had to be
emptied, and then the three boys
had to empty themselves of all
they had so painfully taken in
and by means even more painful
as they bowed by turns over
the eye of the toilet bowl
to discharge their shame. Ahead
lay cigarettes, the futility
of guaranteed programs of
exercise, the elaborate lies
of conquest no one believed,
forms of sexual torture and
rejection undreamed of. Ahead
lay our fifteenth birthdays,
acne, deodorants, crabs, salves,
butch haircuts, draft registration,
the military and political victories
of Dwight Eisenhower, who brought us
Richard Nixon with wife and dog.
Any wonder we tried gin.
|
Written by
Vachel Lindsay |
[To be sung to the tune of The Blood of the Lamb with indicated instrument]
I
[Bass drum beaten loudly.]
Booth led boldly with his big bass drum --
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
The Saints smiled gravely and they said: "He's come."
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
Walking lepers followed, rank on rank,
Lurching bravoes from the ditches dank,
Drabs from the alleyways and drug fiends pale --
Minds still passion-ridden, soul-powers frail: --
Vermin-eaten saints with mouldy breath,
Unwashed legions with the ways of Death --
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
[Banjos.]
Every slum had sent its half-a-score
The round world over. (Booth had groaned for more.)
Every banner that the wide world flies
Bloomed with glory and transcendent dyes.
Big-voiced lasses made their banjos bang,
Tranced, fanatical they shrieked and sang: --
"Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?"
Hallelujah! It was ***** to see
Bull-necked convicts with that land make free.
Loons with trumpets blowed a blare, blare, blare
On, on upward thro' the golden air!
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
II
[Bass drum slower and softer.]
Booth died blind and still by Faith he trod,
Eyes still dazzled by the ways of God.
Booth led boldly, and he looked the chief
Eagle countenance in sharp relief,
Beard a-flying, air of high command
Unabated in that holy land.
[Sweet flute music.]
Jesus came from out the court-house door,
Stretched his hands above the passing poor.
Booth saw not, but led his ***** ones there
Round and round the mighty court-house square.
Then in an instant all that blear review
Marched on spotless, clad in raiment new.
The lame were straightened, withered limbs uncurled
And blind eyes opened on a new, sweet world.
[Bass drum louder.]
Drabs and vixens in a flash made whole!
Gone was the weasel-head, the snout, the jowl!
Sages and sibyls now, and athletes clean,
Rulers of empires, and of forests green!
[Grand chorus of all instruments. Tambourines to the foreground.]
The hosts were sandalled, and their wings were fire!
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
But their noise played havoc with the angel-choir.
(Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?)
O shout Salvation! It was good to see
Kings and Princes by the Lamb set free.
The banjos rattled and the tambourines
Jing-jing-jingled in the hands of Queens.
[Reverently sung, no instruments.]
And when Booth halted by the curb for prayer
He saw his Master thro' the flag-filled air.
Christ came gently with a robe and crown
For Booth the soldier, while the throng knelt down.
He saw King Jesus. They were face to face,
And he knelt a-weeping in that holy place.
Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?
|
Written by
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe |
I feel no small reluctance in venturing to give to the public a
work of the character of that indicated by the title-page to the
present volume; for, difficult as it must always be to render satisfactorily
into one's own tongue the writings of the bards of other lands,
the responsibility assumed by the translator is immeasurably increased
when he attempts to transfer the thoughts of those great men, who
have lived for all the world and for all ages, from the language
in which they were originally clothed, to one to which they may
as yet have been strangers. Preeminently is this the case with Goethe,
the most masterly of all the master minds of modern times, whose
name is already inscribed on the tablets of immortality, and whose
fame already extends over the earth, although as yet only in its
infancy. Scarcely have two decades passed away since he ceased to
dwell among men, yet he now stands before us, not as a mere individual,
like those whom the world is wont to call great, but as a type,
as an emblem--the recognised emblem and representative of the human
mind in its present stage of culture and advancement.
Among the infinitely varied effusions of Goethe's pen, perhaps
there are none which are of as general interest as his Poems, which
breathe the very spirit of Nature, and embody the real music of
the feelings. In Germany, they are universally known, and are considered
as the most delightful of his works. Yet in this country, this kindred
country, sprung from the same stem, and so strongly resembling her
sister in so many points, they are nearly unknown. Almost the only
poetical work of the greatest Poet that the world has seen for ages,
that is really and generally read in England, is Faust, the translations
of which are almost endless; while no single person has as yet appeared
to attempt to give, in an English dress, in any collective or systematic
manner, those smaller productions of the genius of Goethe which
it is the object of the present volume to lay before the reader,
whose indulgence is requested for its many imperfections. In addition
to the beauty of the language in which the Poet has given utterance
to his thoughts, there is a depth of meaning in those thoughts which
is not easily discoverable at first sight, and the translator incurs
great risk of overlooking it, and of giving a prosaic effect to
that which in the original contains the very essence of poetry.
It is probably this difficulty that has deterred others from undertaking
the task I have set myself, and in which I do not pretend to do
more than attempt to give an idea of the minstrelsy of one so unrivalled,
by as truthful an interpretation of it as lies in my power.
The principles which have guided me on the present occasion are
the same as those followed in the translation of Schiller's complete
Poems that was published by me in 1851, namely, as literal a rendering
of the original as is consistent with good English, and also a very
strict adherence to the metre of the original. Although translators
usually allow themselves great license in both these points, it
appears to me that by so doing they of necessity destroy the very
soul of the work they profess to translate. In fact, it is not a
translation, but a paraphrase that they give. It may perhaps be
thought that the present translations go almost to the other extreme,
and that a rendering of metre, line for line, and word for word,
makes it impossible to preserve the poetry of the original both
in substance and in sound. But experience has convinced me that
it is not so, and that great fidelity is even the most essential
element of success, whether in translating poetry or prose. It was
therefore very satisfactory to me to find that the principle laid
down by me to myself in translating Schiller met with the very general,
if not universal, approval of the reader. At the same time, I have
endeavoured to profit in the case of this, the younger born of the
two attempts made by me to transplant the muse of Germany to the
shores of Britain, by the criticisms, whether friendly or hostile,
that have been evoked or provoked by the appearance of its elder
brother.
As already mentioned, the latter contained the whole of the Poems
of Schiller. It is impossible, in anything like the same compass,
to give all the writings of Goethe comprised under the general title
of Gedichte, or poems. They contain between 30,000 and 40,000 verses,
exclusive of his plays. and similar works. Very many of these would
be absolutely without interest to the English reader,--such as those
having only a local application, those addressed to individuals,
and so on. Others again, from their extreme length, could only be
published in separate volumes. But the impossibility of giving all
need form no obstacle to giving as much as possible; and it so happens
that the real interest of Goethe's Poems centres in those classes
of them which are not too diffuse to run any risk when translated
of offending the reader by their too great number. Those by far
the more generally admired are the Songs and Ballads, which are
about 150 in number, and the whole of which are contained in this
volume (with the exception of one or two of the former, which have
been, on consideration, left out by me owing to their trifling and
uninteresting nature). The same may be said of the Odes, Sonnets,
Miscellaneous Poems, &c.
In addition to those portions of Goethe's poetical works which
are given in this complete form, specimens of the different other
classes of them, such as the Epigrams, Elegies, &c., are added,
as well as a collection of the various Songs found in his Plays,
making a total number of about 400 Poems, embraced in the present
volume.
A sketch of the life of Goethe is prefixed, in order that the
reader may have before him both the Poet himself and the Poet's
offspring, and that he may see that the two are but one--that Goethe
lives in his works, that his works lived in him.
The dates of the different Poems are appended throughout, that
of the first publication being given, when that of the composition
is unknown. The order of arrangement adopted is that of the authorized
German editions. As Goethe would never arrange them himself in the
chronological order of their composition, it has become impossible
to do so, now that he is dead. The plan adopted in the present volume
would therefore seem to be the best, as it facilitates reference
to the original. The circumstances attending or giving rise to the
production of any of the Poems will be found specified in those
cases in which they have been ascertained by me.
Having said thus much by way of explanation, I now leave the book
to speak for itself, and to testify to its own character. Whether
viewed with a charitable eye by the kindly reader, who will make
due allowance for the difficulties attending its execution, or received
by the critic, who will judge of it only by its own merits, with
the unfriendly welcome which it very probably deserves, I trust
that I shall at least be pardoned for making an attempt, a failure
in which does not necessarily imply disgrace, and which, by leading
the way, may perhaps become the means of inducing some abler and
more worthy (but not more earnest) labourer to enter upon the same
field, the riches of which will remain unaltered and undiminished
in value, even although they may be for the moment tarnished by
the hands of the less skilful workman who first endeavours to transplant
them to a foreign soil.
|
Written by
Andrew Barton Paterson |
Into her presence he gaily pranced,
A very fat spark, and a bit advanced.
With a Samson tread on the earth he trod,
He was stayed and gaitered, and fifty odd.
And she was a tulip just unfurled,
The sweetest thing in the motor world.
Her body was one of which poets dreamed;
Eighteen -- twenty, or so she seemed.
Her air was haughty, her spirit proud,
But properly governed, as all allowed.
"Pity," he said, "my sad condition;
My heart's in a state of advanced ignition.
"Ask me to do some desperate deed,
And I'll do it at once at my topmost speed."
"Sir," said the maiden, "pray be seated;
I fear from your bearing you're somewhat heated.
"And I trust that a timely lubrication
Of throttle will cool your circulation."
As a well-made mixture she indicated,
With joy and gladness he radiated.
"Oh, come," said he, "in this soft spring weather,
Let us run over the world together!"
But she slipped his clutch with a gesture mocking,
"Your heart," she said; "I can hear it knocking.
"You haven't the gear at my pace to last;
Both men and motors -- I like them fast.
"And I think that in me you have missed your mission;
You are only an old-style tube-ignition!"
With a sidelong motion he left the place;
For weal or woe he was off his base.
He drove his car to the cliffs of Dover,
Made one short circuit and ran her over.
And the stormy Petrol her rest is taking,
Where only the wild waves do the "braking".
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