By night on my bed I sought him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
I will rise now, and go about the city in the streets, and in the broad ways I will seek him whom my soul loveth: I sought him, but I found him not.
The watchmen that go about the city found me: to whom I said, Saw ye him whom my soul loveth?
It was but a little that I passed from them, but I found him whom my soul loveth: I held him, and would not let him go, until I had brought him into my mother’s house, and into the chamber of her that conceived me.
I charge you, O ye daughters of Jerusalem, by the roes, and by the hinds of the field, that ye stir not up, not awake my love, till he please.
Who is this that cometh out of the wilderness like pillars of smoke, perfumed with myrrh and frankincense, with all powders of the merchant?
Behold his bed, which is Solomon’s: threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant is Israel.
They all hold swords, being expert in war: every man hath his sword upon his thigh because of fear in the night.
King Solomon made himself a chariot of the wood of Lebanon.
He made the pillars thereof of silver, the bottom thereof of gold, the covering of it of purple, the midst thereof being paved with love, for the daughters of Jerusalem.
Go forth, O ye daughters of Zion, and behold King Solomon with the crown wherewith his mother crowned him in the day of his espousals, and in the day of the gladness of his heart.
Name:
Better than Shakespeare: Pt. 245
Tom Waits, “16 Shells from a 30.0.6″
“I plugged 16 shells from a thirty-ought-six
and the Black Crow snuck through
a hole in the sky
so I spent all my buttons on an
old pack mule
and I made me a ladder from
a pawn shop marimba
and I leaned it up against
a dandelion tree
and I filled me a sachel
full of old pig corn
and I beat me a billy
from an old French horn
and I kicked that mule
to the top of the tree
and I blew me a hole
’bout the size of a kickdrum
and I cut me a switch from a
long branch elbow
I’m gonna whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow, sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six
whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six
Well I slept in the holler
of a dry creek bed
and I tore out the buckets
from a red Corvette, tore out the buckets from
a red Corvette
Lionel and Dave and the Butcher made three
you got to meet me by the knuckles of the skinnybone
tree
with the strings of a Washburn
stretched like a clothes line
you know me and that mule scrambled right through
the hole
I’m gonna whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow, sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six
whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six
Now I hold him prisoner
in a Washburn jail
that strapped on the back of my old kick mule
I bang on the strings just
to drive him crazy
I strum it loud to rattle his cage
strum it loud just to rattle his cage
I’m gonna whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow, sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six
whittle you into kindlin’
Black Crow sixteen shells from a thirty-ought-six”.
Or,
Stephen Sondheim -”I Remember You”,
“I remember sky
It was blue as ink
Or at least I think
I remember sky.
I remember snow
Soft as feathers
Sharp as thumb tacks
Coming down like lint
And it made you squint
When the wind would blow.
And ice like vinyl
On the streets
Cold as silver
White as sheets
Rain like strings
And changing things
Like leaves.
I remember leaves
Green as spearmint
Crisp as paper.
I remember trees
Bare as coat racks
Spread like broken umbrellas.
And parks and bridges,
Ponds and zoos,
Ruddy faces,
Muddy shoes,
Light and noise and
Bees and boys
And days.
I remember days,
Or at least I try.
But as years go by
They’re sort of haze,
And the bluest ink
Isn’t really sky
And at times I think
I would gladly die
For a day of sky.”
I was all fired up to start posting a bunch of song lyrics into this latest ‘better than shakespeare’ thread, but after reading the lyrics (sans music) I’m not so sure anymore.
Song lyrics draw so much of their power from the surrounding music, whereas prose, spoken word, plays and etc need to stand alone.
Some songs don’t even need words, “dark was the night, cold was the ground” is probably the most perfect expression of human loneliness I have ever heard, and the vocal part is just a wordless moan.
Oh, I don’t know Alistair; I feel the Waits, aside from the (obvious) chorus, could stand alone as piece of poesy.
I also think that your “need to stand alone” comment is highly problematic, especially with respect to drama/theatre.
But before I have a go, can I ask you to flesh out that idea?
Thanks,
The Waits is very, very good. I think you might be right, the whole stand alone thing is a little problematic. I think it comes down to what is the primary method for expressing the feeling/message of a piece of poetry, play or song.
So for Poetry, it’s all in the use of the words. Of course rhythm, timing, etc is important, for example the frantic feeling evoked by reading “the Raven” is very much due to the meter and pacing.
However the poet only has words and the use of words available to connect with the reader or listener.
A playwright has the words, the use of words and hopefully some talented actors at their disposal. A piece of prose may take on a totally new meaning if it’s conveyed by a skilled actor. The presence of the actors could (and I’m making this up on the spot here so bear with me) “fill the gaps” between the words used and the feeling that the playwright is trying to evoke.
Finally, music. The songwriter now has all the tools available to the poet, plus some of those available to the playwright (how the musicians come across onstage during a live performance) and the big one, the music itself. The music can do a lot of the work.
So an example, “Nutshell” by Alice in Chains. Very simple lyrics:
We chase misprinted lies
We face the path of time
And yet I fight
And yet I fight
This battle all alone
No one to cry to
No place to call home
Oooh…Oooh…
Oooh…Oooh…
My gift of self is raped
My privacy is raked
And yet I find
And yet I find
Repeating in my head
If I can’t be my own
I’d feel better dead
Oooh…Oooh…
Oooh…Oooh…
But add the music in and it’s (at least to me) a hauntingly beautiful, sad song. One that’s certainly better than most of Titus Andronicus!
Thanks for the longer post Alistair.
I feel, and agree with you, that the prose and the poem can be suitably “read” by an attentive reader.
The play however, written as it is, for a performance needs its full compliment of active “players”; stage, sets, lighting, music, to be fully appreciated.
The imagination of the reader is one thing, the visual/aural intent of the author is quite another.
I proposed Waits and Sondheim as a further argument to Mr Ellis as to the futile nature of his “Better than Shakespeare” gestures. For me Waits, hands down. For you, possibly, the Sondheim.
Subjectivity; such as the “values” in Ellis’ “Better”, have bothered me from the first moment he set up the argument.
All we are doing is making our top ten lists with no further interrogations.
Lovely but lite.
Let me try this:
To Mr Ellis, why is this particular piece “better” than Shakespeare?
Which Shakespeare did you have in mind?
How?
Why?
Describe, outline, articulate.
Argue your case.
It all comes down to personal preference in the end, doesn’t it? Something as subjective as your taste in poetry, drama and music…who can ever really say that one thing is better than another.
I think what annoys Bob is that Shakespeare is held up as the pinnacle of english wordsmithery and any attempt to suggest otherwise is immediately howled down.
Well, the complete work is somewhat lacking in the consistency of a Shakespeare’s authorship.
However in the King James version we have fertile ground for a theory that a contemporary aristocrat penned a translation of his prose.
Once upon a time you dressed so fine
You threw the bums a dime in your prime, didn’t you ?
People’d call, say, “Beware doll, you’re bound to fall”
You thought they were all kiddin’ you
You used to laugh about
Everybody that was hangin’ out
Now you don’t talk so loud
Now you don’t seem so proud
About having to be scrounging for your next meal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be without a home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone ?
You’ve gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely
But you know you only used to get juiced in it
And nobody has ever taught you how to live on the street
And now you find out you’re gonna have to get used to it
You said you’d never compromise
With the mystery tramp, but know you realize
He’s not selling any alibis
As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes
And say do you want to make a deal?
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone ?
You never turned around to see the frowns on the jugglers and the clowns
When they all come down and did tricks for you
You never understood that it ain’t no good
You shouldn’t let other people get your kicks for you
You used to ride on the chrome horse with your diplomat
Who carried on his shoulder a Siamese cat
Ain’t it hard when you discover that
He really wasn’t where it’s at
After he took from you everything he could steal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone ?
Princess on the steeple and all the pretty people
They’re drinkin’, thinkin’ that they got it made
Exchanging all precious gifts
But you’d better take your diamond ring, you’d better pawn it babe
You used to be so amused
At Napoleon in rags and the language that he used
Go to him now, he calls you, you can’t refuse
When you got nothing, you got nothing to lose
You’re invisible now, you got no secrets to conceal.
How does it feel
How does it feel
To be on your own
With no direction home
Like a complete unknown
Like a rolling stone ?
(Bob Dylan)
The Whitlams do an amazing cover of this. I’ve always found Bob Dylan to be a wonderful songwriter, but the best of his songs only appear when someone else covers them.
Based on anything from the electrified phase of his career I’d agree. Though his earlier stuff has a folk sensibility that seems totally connected with the tradition that it developed out of.
A listen to Woody Guthrie in particular might make that point.
“Based on anything from the electrified phase of his career I’d agree”
What the hell are you talking about? There is hardly a cover that dares to speak its name of the ‘electrified work’. Dylan sang many versions of his work and whilst many might not be to my taste (original is best with Rolling Stone for example), many of his Rolling Thunder concert versions are classics for me in most cases (even without The Band whose Dylan versions of Rainy Day Women, It ain’t me babe, Watchtower, You go your Way, Knockin on Heavens Door are my best). Hard Rain, I pity the Poor Immigrant, Idiot Wind, Stuck Inside of Mobile, One too Many Mornings etc etc. For the Woody Guthrie fan out there, the RT version of Deportees with Joan Baez is a great one also. Just a pity that the filmed concerts weren’t released in full and that the ‘Hard Rain’ album omitted Hard Rain!
I adore practically all of Dylan’s work (there was perhaps just that short time in the early we forgive him for).
I simply happened to have formed the impression after listening to other earlier artists in the folk tradition, Woody Guthrie in particular, that Dylan very early in his career was reminiscent and I think somewhat deliberately so in homage to those others who came before him in the grand traditions of American folk music. Maybe at some point that was also due to Joan Baez’s influence.
Later in his career as the song writing improved and the music became more complex he began to write the kind of songs that while quintessentially still Dylanesque would also be interpreted favourably as covers. And Joan still does Forever Young so beautifully.
If you’ve issue with something Alistair said that I agreed with (perhaps unwisely in your view) about the relative merits of originals and covers then I sympathise. But please remember that the two versions of Forever Young off Planet Waves were both Dylan and you inevitably had a favourite so perhaps what you’re getting whenever you hear a creditworthy cover is still essential the Dylan in it.
Dylan was very influenced by Woody Guthrie as one would expect of any folk singer of the era, but I didn’t know how close he was until reading his Chronicles a few years ago, when he said that when at the Village he asked for Woody’s papers etc, but this was declined by his widow. Then when listening to Woody’s daughter only on Saturday did I know that Dylan actually visited him when faltering with Huntington’s and used to sing Woody’s own songs to him.
For anyone really interested in Guthrie the Saturday interview with his daughter revealed that rather than ‘never’ writing about women or love songs he wrote hundreds about them (as well as on baseball, delicatessens and simply everything you could think of – ‘life’). Having a traditional version of This Land is Your land by PP&M to accompany me on various walks I was only mildly surprised to find that it was written in New York as, like Mackellar and her ‘sunburnt country’, distance probably crystallises inspiration far more than immediacy.
Can you find us a link to the interview and is it an interview with Nora or possibly Arlo’s daughter Sarah?
This land is your land is actually Woody’s original lyrics to a older Gospel tune recorded by the Carter Family who were parents to Johnny Cash’s wife June Carter. It’s kind of the song’s commonest most interesting trivia fact.
And I think either footage or stills of Dylan visiting Woody in what I think may have been hospital was shown in the Scorsese documentary.
It is Nora and was on Radio National late Sat afternoon. The papers(poems really) were neglected for decades and only as some afterthought was she asked whether she wanted them. It was quite interesting to hear how she went (up the back) to a Woody Guthrie lecture and heard all the experts talking about Woody never did this or never did that and all the while she was working on multiple works which showed a totally unknown side of his thoughts.
http://www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/intothemusic/nora-guthrie—her-father27s-daughter/4093874
Are you serious?
I second that, with the exception of PP&M versions which popularised some major Dylan pieces in the early days (Blowing in the Wind, Quit your Lowdown Ways, Don’t think Twice - still the best version around).
Big call Alistair.
I’d say, wrong call.
Wrong call indeed. To odiously compare the version of the song by a middle standard Australian group to Bob’s own version is nonsense.
Yes, there are many great covers of Dylan’s songs by others and yes, some of these are more popular than Dylan’s own version and have promoted his popularity amongst the great unwashed. And yes, the occasional one is better than Bob’s original cut (eg Hendrix’s Watchtower, Baez’s Angelina, Byrds’ Tambourine Man, Manfred Mann’s Go Now)but, and it is important to remember this, there is no one interpretation of Dylan’s songs by Dylan himself. He continues to change and will still be listened to and loved when the Whitlams are long forgotten.
“Well ah jumpt! and fled this fucken heap on doctored wings
Mah flailin pinions, with splints and rags and crutches!
(damn things nearly hardly flap)
Canker upon canker upon one million tiny punctures
That look like…
Long thin red ribbons draped across the arms of a lil mortal girl
(like a ground -plan of Hell)
Curse these smartin strings! these fucken ruptures!
Enough! enough is enough!
(if this is Heaven ah’m bailin out)
If this is Heaven ah’m bailin out
Ah caint tolerate this ol tin-tub
So fulla trash and rats! Felt one crawl across mah soul
For a seckon there , as thought as wassa back down in the ghetto!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
Ah’m bailin out! there’s a mutiny in Heaven!
Ah wassa born…
And Lord shakin, even then was dumpt into some icy font,
Like some great stinky unclean!
From slum-chuch to slum-church, ah spilt mah heart
To some fat cunt behind a screen…
[ Lyrics from: http://www.lyricsfreak.com/b/birthday+party/mutiny+in+heaven_20018699.html ]
Evil poppin eye presst up to the opening
He’d slide shut the lil perforated hatch…at night mah body
Blusht
To the whistle of the birch
With a lil practice ah soon learnt to use in on mahself
Punishment?! reward!! punishment?! reward!!
Well, ah tied on…percht on mah bed ah was…
Sticken a needle in mah arm…
Ah tied off! fucken wings burst out mah back
(like ah was cuttin teeth!!)
Ah took off!!!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
There’s a mutiny in Heaven!
Oh lord, ah git down on mah knees
(ah git down on mah knees and start to pray)
Wrapped in mah mongrel wings, ah nearly freeze
In the howlin wind and drivin rain
(all the trash blowin round ‘n’ round)
From slum-heaven into town
Ah take mah tiny pain and rollin back mah sleeve
(roll anna roll anna roll anna roll)
Ah yank the drip outa mah vein! UTOPIATE! ah’m bailin out!
UTOPIATE!
If this is Heaven ah’m bailin out!
Mah threadbare soul teems with vermin and louse
Thoughts come like a plague to the head…in god’s house!
Mutiny in Heaven!
(ars infectio forco Dio)
To the plank!
(rats in Paradise! rats in Paradise!)
Ah’m bailin out!
(hail Hypuss Dermio Vita Rex!)
Hole inna ghetto! hole inna ghetto!
(Scabio Murem per Sanctum…Dio, Dio, Dio)
I like that.
Nearly as much as I like Mike Bloomfield’s guitar in “Maggie’s Farm” with Dylan on Sunday July 25th 1965 at Newport.
The Decemberists – The Hazards of Love (2009)
(The Prettiest Whistles Won’t Wrestle The Thistles Undone)
My true love went riding out in white and green and gray
Past the pale of Offa’s wall where she was wont to stray
And there she came upon a white and wounded fawn
Singing, “Oh, the hazards of love”
She, being full of charity, a credit to her sex,
Sought to right the fawn’s hind legs when here her plans were vexed
The taiga shifted strange the beast began to change
Singing, “Oh, the hazards of love.”
Singing, “Oh, the hazards of love.”
You’ll learn soon enough the prettiest whistles won’t wrestle the thistles undone, undone
(A Bower Scene)
Fifteen lithesome maidens lay alone in their bower
Fourteen occupations paid to pass the idle hour
But Margaret heaves a sigh her hands clasped to her thigh
Singing, “Oh, the hazards of love.”
Singing, “Oh, the hazards of love.”
You’ll learn soon enough the prettiest whistles won’t wrestle the thistles undone, undone
Undone, undone, undone
“Thou unconsolable daughter,” said the sister
“When wilt thou trouble the water in the cistern?
And what irascible blackguard is the father?”
And when young Margaret’s waistline grew wider
The fruit of her amorous entwine inside her
And so our heroine withdraws to the taiga
{Won’t Want For Love (Margaret In The Taiga)}
Margaret:
Gentle leaves, gentle leaves, please array a path for me
The woods are growing thick and fast around
Columbine, columbine, please alert this love of mine
Let him know his Margaret comes along
And all this stirring inside my belly won’t quell my want for love
And I may swoon from all this swelling but I won’t want for love
Mistle thrush, mistle thrush, lay me down in the underbrush
My naked feet grow weary with the dusk
Willow boughs, willow boughs, make a bed to lay me down
Let your branches bow to cradle us
And all this stirring inside my belly won’t quell my want for love
And I may swoon from all this swelling but I won’t want for love
William:
O my own true love, o my own true love!
Can you hear me, love, can you hear me, love?
Margaret:
And all this stirring inside my belly won’t quell my want for love
And I may swoon from all this swelling, but I won’t want for love
Won’t want for love, won’t want for love
I won’t want for love
{The Hazards Of Love 2 (Wager All)}
William:
And here I am softer than a shower
And here I am to garland you with flowers
To lay you down in clover bed
The stars, a roof above our heads
And all my life I never felt the tremor
And all my life that now disturbs my fingers
I’ll lay you down in clover bed
The stars, a roof above our heads
And we’ll lie ’til the corncrake crows
Bereft the weight of our summer clothes
And I’d wager all, the hazards of love, the hazards of love
And take my hand and cradle it in your hand
And take my hand to feel the pull, the quicksand
I’ll lay you down in clover bed
The stars, a roof above our heads
And we’ll lie till the corncrake crows
Bereft the weight of our summer clothes
And I’d wager all, the hazards of love, the hazards of love
The hazards of love, the hazards of love
(The Queen’s Approach)
(Isn’t it a lovely night?)
Margaret:
Isn’t it a lovely night, and so alive
With fireflies providing us their holy light
And here we made a bed of boughs and thistledown
That we had found to lay upon the dewy ground
And isn’t it a lovely way, we got in from our play
Isn’t it babe, a sweet little baby
William:
Wasn’t it a lovely breeze? that swept the leaves
Of arbor eaves and bent to brush our blushing knees
Margaret & William:
And here we died our little deaths and we were left
To catch our breaths so swiftly lifting from our chests
And isn’t it a lovely way, we got in from our play
Isn’t it babe, a sweet little baby
(The wanting comes in waves/Repaid)
William:
Mother I can hear your foot fall now
A soft disturbance in the dead fall how
It precedes you like a black smoke pall
Still the wanting comes in waves
And you delivered me from danger, then
Pulled my cradle from the reedy glen
Swore to save me from the world of men
Still the wanting comes in waves, in waves, and waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And I want this night, and I want this night, ohh…
The Queen:
How I made you, I wrought you, I pulled you
From ore I labored you, from cancer I cradled you, and now
This is how I am repaid, this is how I am repaid?
Remember when I found you the miseries that hounded you
And I gave you motion, anointed with lotions, and now
This is how I am repaid, this is how I am repaid?
William:
Mother hear this proposition, right:
Grant me freedom to enjoy this night
And I’ll return to you at break of light
For the wanting comes in waves, and waves, and waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
Still the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
Still the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
Still the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And you owe me life, and you owe me life, oh
The Queen:
And if I grant you this favor to hand you
Your life for the evening, I will retake by morning; and so
Consider it your debt repaid, consider it your debt repaid, repaid, repaid!
(An interlude)
(The Rake’s Song)
I had entered into a marriage
In the summer of my twenty-first year
And the bells rang for our wedding
Only now do I remember it clear
Alright, alright, alright!
No more a rake and no more a bachelor
I was wedded and it whetted my thirst
Until her womb start spilling out babies
Only then did I reckon my curse
Alright, alright, alright!
Alright, alright, alright!
First came Isaiah with his crinkled little fingers
Then came Charlotte and that wretched girl Dawn
Ugly Myfanwy died on delivery
Mercifully taking her mother along
Alright, alright, alright!
What can one do when one is a widower,
Shamefully saddled with three little pests?
All that I wanted was the freedom of a new life
So my burden I began to divest
Alright, alright, alright!
Alright, alright, alright!
Charlotte I buried after feeding her foxglove
Dawn was easy, she was drowned in the bath
Isaiah fought but was easily bested
Burned his body for incurring my wrath
Alright, alright, alright!
And that’s how I came, your humble narrator,
To be living so easy and free
I expect that you think that I should be haunted
But it never really bothers me
Alright, alright, alright!
Alright, alright, alright!
(The abduction of Margaret)
Second Voice:
And all the while whispering arbors provide cover
What previous witnessed ardors of our lovers
Our heroine here falls prey to her abductor
All a’gallop with Margaret slung rude ‘cross withers
Having clamped her innocent fingers in fetters
This villain must calculate crossing the wild river
(The Queen’s rebuke)
The Queen:
I’m made of bones of the branches, the boughs, and the brow beating light
While my feet are the trunks and my head is the canopy high
And my fingers extend to the leaves and the eaves and the bright, brightest shine, it’s my shine
And he was a baby abandoned, entombed in a cradle of clay
And I was the soul who took pity and stole him away
And gave him the form of a faun to inhabit by day, brightest day, it’s my day
And you have removed this temptation that’s troubled my innocent child
To abduct and abuse and to render her rift and defiled
But the river is deep to the banks and the water is wild, I will fly you to the far side
(Annan Water)
William:
Annan water, you loom so deep and wide
I would cross over if you would stem the tide
Or build a boat that I might ford the other side
To reach the farther shore where my true love lies in wait for me
In wait for me, in wait for me, in wait for me
O gray river, your waters ramble wild
The horses shiver and bite against the bridle
But I will cross if mine own horse is pulled from me
Though my mother cries that if I try I sure will drowned be
Will drowned be, will drowned be, will drowned be
But if you calm and let me pass
You may render me a wreck when I come back
So calm your waves and slow the churn
And you may have my precious bones on my return
Annan water, oh hear my true love’s call
Hear her holler above your water’s pall
God that I could, that my two arms could give me wing
And I would cross your breadth and rest my breast about her amber ring
Her amber ring, her amber ring, her amber ring
But if you calm and let me pass
You may render me a wreck when I come back
So calm your waves and slow the churn
And you may have my precious bones on my, on my return
(Margaret in captivity)
The Rake:
I have snipped your wingspan my precious captive swan
Here all clipped of kickstand your spirit won’t last long
Don’t you lift a finger, don’t you snap and jaw
Limber limbs akimbo rest till rubbing raw
Margaret:
O my own true love, o my own true love
Can you hear me love, can you hear me love?
The Rake:
Don’t hold out for rescue none can hear your call
Till I have wrest and wrecked you behind these fortress walls
Margaret:
O my own true love, o my own true love
Can you hear me love, can you hear me love?
{The Hazards Of Love 3 (Revenge!)}
Charlotte:
Father I’m not feeling well, the flowers me you fed
Tasted spoiled for suddenly I find that I am dead
But father don’t you fear
Your children all are here
Singing, “Oh the hazards of love!”
Dawn:
Papa turn the water down, the basin’s overflown
The water covers everything and me left all alone
But Papa here in death
I have regained my breath
To sing, “Oh the hazards of love!”
To sing, “Oh the hazards of love!”
Isaiah:
Spare the rod, you’ll spoil the child, but I’d prefer the lash
My sisters drowned and poisoned, all, and me reduced to ash
And buried in an urn
But father, I return
Singing, “Oh the hazards of love”
Singing, “Oh the hazards of love”
“The hazards of love”
“The hazards of love”
(The wanting comes in waves/ Reprise)
William:
And here come the waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And the wanting comes in waves (Ooh, ooh, oooooooh)
And I want this night
{The Hazards Of Love 4 (The Drowned)}
William:
Margaret, array the rocks around the hole before we’re sinking
A million stones, a million bones, a million holes within the chinking
Painting rings around your eyes, these peppered holes so filled with crying
A whisper-weight upon the tattered down where you and I were lying
Tell me now, tell me this - a forest’s son, a river’s daughter
A willow wand, a will-o-wisp - our ghosts will wander all of the water
William & Margaret:
So let’s be married here today, these rushing waves to bear our witness
And we will lie like river stones, rolling only where it takes us
But I pulled you and I called you here (Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I)
And I caught you and I brought you here (Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I)
But these hazards of love never more will trouble us
William:
Margaret, the lapping waves are licking quietly at our ankles
Another bow, another breath - this brilliant chill has come for to shackle
William & Margaret:
But with this long last rush of air let’s speak our vows in starry whisper
And when the waves came crashing down, he closed his eyes and softly kissed her
(Singing) But I pulled you and I called you here (Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I)
And I caught you and I brought you here (Didn’t I, didn’t I, didn’t I)
But these hazards of love never more will trouble us
And these hazards of love never more will trouble us
———————————————————————-
Hetty Green my ignorance!
Ambien(Stilnox)tab reminds me of Annabel Crabbe and her coining at least in my mind of the term “hallucinogenically”. It is a fine adjective.
Here’s to being hallucinogenically assiduous!
“Come from Livanus, come, come,
Come from Livanus, come.
Thou hast wounded my heart, my sister, my spouse.
Thou hast wounded my heart”.
F.I. - where is this from? What’s the larger story as to why you have chosen this?
This is not better than Shakespeare or the Songs Of Salomon,but this just might be a bit funnier…and as the ‘fun’ is missing here, here we go:
LAST CHANCE TRENDY
I wear a suit by Armani,
I like an after-shave called Frangipani,
I have got this bird who’s Azerbaijani.
I feel like I’m twenty-three.
I’ve got a CD of right-on hip-hop,
I’ve got Warhol print of a flip-flop,
I drive a Porsche-style Honda that’s tip-top,
Who’s coming clubbing with me?
I’ve got a gold chain that sits in my chest hair,
And tight-fitting trousers that flatter my derriere,
I reckon I could get off with the au pair,
I’m just an LCT.
by Christopher Matthew, from NOW THAT WE ARE SIXTY.
‘Who is she that cometh forth as the morning rising, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, terrible as an army set in battle array?
My soul doth magnify the Lord, and my spirit hath rejoiced in God my saviour. Because he hath regarded the lowliness of his handmaid, and from henceforth all generations will call me blessed.”
Or not, as the case may be.
Alan Sillitoe wrote of how an early teacher read from Genesis each day to them, and how, although the words were unfathomable, the rhythm and majesty sank deep into his soul.
Our contempt for kids is too huge to allow this today.
“What means have I not used? I have armed my own hands against myself? I have exhausted my strength in constant exercises; I comment upon St. Paul; I dispute with Aristotle; in short, I do all I used to do before I loved you, but all in vain; nothing can be successful that opposes you. Oh! do not add to my miseries by your constancy; forget, if you can, your favours, and that right which they claim over me; permit me to be indifferent. I envy their happiness who have never loved; how quiet and easy are they! But the tide of pleasures has always a reflux of bitterness. I am but too much convinced now of this; but though I am no longer deceived by love, I am not cured: while my reason condemns it, my heart declares for it. I am deplorable that I have not the ability to free myself from a passion which so many circumstances, this place, my person, and my disgraces, tend to destroy. I yield, without considering that a resistance would wipe out my past offences, and would procure me in their stead merit and repose. Why should you use eloquence to reproach me for my flight, and for my silence? Spare the recital of our assignations, and your constant exactness to them; without calling up such disturbing thoughts, I have enough to suffer. What great advantages would philosophy give us over other men, if by studying it we could learn to govern our passions? but how humbled ought we to be when we cannot master them? What efforts, what relapses, what agitations, do we undergo? and how long are we tossed in this confusion, unable to exert our reason, to possess our souls, or to rule our affections?”
The letters of Abelard to Heloise,
I imagine this written by Hamlet to Ophelia if she had made it to the nunnery and Hamlet had returned to Wittenberg after the “unpleasantness” at court before things got out of hand.
I would find it a little too prolix if addressed to me, Allthumbs.
I think Heloise would have been thankful for the distraction back in the 12th century. Great loves have been reduced by SMS text and Twitter.
“HI H, Can I CU later, can U break the Habit? ROTFL Peter:)
Poison Ivy
Words and Music by Jerry Lieber and Mike Stoller
She comes on like a rose but everybody knows
She’ll get you in Dutch
You can look but you better not touch
Poison iv-y-y-y-y, poison iv-y-y-y-y
Late at night while you’re sleepin’ poison ivy comes a’creepin’
Arou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ound
She’s pretty as a daisy but look out man she’s crazy
She’ll really do you in
If you let her under your skin
Poison iv-y-y-y-y, poison iv-y-y-y-y
Late at night while you’re sleepin’ poison ivy comes a’creepin’
Arou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ound
Measles make you bumpy
And mumps’ll make you lumpy
And chicken pox’ll make you jump and twitch
A common cold’ll fool ya
And whooping cough can cool ya
But poison ivy, Lord’ll make you itch!!
You’re gonna need an ocean of calamine lotion
You’ll be scratchin’ like a hound
The minute you start to mess around
Poison iv-y-y-y-y, poison iv-y-y-y-y
Late at night while you’re sleepin’ poison ivy comes a’creepin’
Arou-ou-ou-ou-ou-ound
Not meaning to hijack the topic but sometimes this is out of our control and mention of ‘Dylan’ does this sometimes. To each his own, but on music all is derivative and for a fantastically rich melting pot for music, aided by mass communications, nothing beats the United States. Multiple visits to Memphis or New Orleans can never be enough and to think of the foresight certain people had (John and Alan Lomax in particular plus their initial backers) this history is a living one. American roots music is extraordinary and the way it has been chronicled makes your mouth water for what might have been for an Australian Lomax family to appear years ago.
For the uninitiated (or not), Memphis and Beale Street, especially the festival in May, Rock and Soul Museum, stand in Sun Studios, get to Nashville and the Country Music Hall of Fame and particularly the Museum, RCA Studio B, Merlefest in the Carolinas and on and on and on.
Music festivals all over the place every year and then there is New Orleans. Forget the modern noise cranks we have here in this nanny state of Australia. Get to New Orleans or Memphis and see full bands in streets, check out Bourbon street at night and hear a dozen live bands in a few blocks of venues, cool music, even a flute floating from cafes as you walk past in daytime and so on.
After you add it all up THIS is a country which is defined by its music and all of it giving and taking from each other to get to where they (and we) are – and onwards.
Close To Shops Transport And Schools
Hush-
the kids have
gone to school:
rush-
move the dust
from ledge to
shelf:
mid-afternoon-
clickety-clack
the slats on the
venetian blinds
chat:
another day-
ready for work
he runs his hand
along the bird-cage
bars-
didn’t he hear?
the canary died
last week.
by Eve Dickinson
I can appreciate this very much.
By Chomskyian Poet Rukmini Bhaya Nair.
Love
my son, not quite seven, said
It was a bad day at school
Six children cried
Why? Were they sick? Did teacher scold?
Which six?
Trinanjan
Ishita – two times Ishita!
Arjun
Jatin
Actually, three times Ishita!
I can’t tell you about it
Why not?
Neha started it
Rahul and I ran away
It was a madhouse!
A madhouse? Viraj, tell Amma, please.
You’ll scold me. It was in the break
Teacher wasn’t there
Okay, don’t tell me! You don’t have to tell me.
They were talking about
Love.
Love?
My not-quite-seven son looks sheepish, then mulish
Yeah, love.
But why did everyone cry? Love is nothing
To cry about! Love’s a happy thing
Viraj, you know that
dear god, how we lie to our children
my son, named for procreation
amalgam of wild Aryan rituals
my son, the first Vedic man
stares at me
his glowing rhesus eyes
full of candour, of trust
my son says
Neha said Trinanjan loves Lori
And then Trinanjan started crying
Ishita loves Subir. Everybody says she loves Subir
Even Devika loves Subir
And Ishita cried
Actually, Trinanjan loves Lori, but Lori
Doesn’t love Trinanjan
So Trinanjan cried
And you, Viraj, whom do you love?
You know.
No, I don’t. Who?
Neha.
And Neha? Does anyone else love Neha?
She loves me.
That’s lucky. How do you love Neha, Viraj?
Do you play with her? Is she your special friend?
No, I just love her.
Viraj, why didn’t you cry?
I was brave
yes you were brave, Viraj
you don’t know just how brave
you’ll have to be
it’s a lonely business – this love
you were the first man, you ought to know
and then I think how primitive
this thing is, how old
what fires have burned for it
what fantailed dances it inspires
schooldays
neatly segmented into periods, subjects
Hindi, Maths, English
and something mysterious called E.V.S.
but all that method, that learning
those iterated aisles of desks
rows of little chairs
then come to this –
a break at high noon
at recess
Love breaks into that gap in the day
it holds its own classes
Erich Segal, sentimentaliser of a generation
you knew love was about crying, Ryan O’Neal
had to love Ali McGraw, if it was really
Love
you knew about the accusations, the guilt
but you had no inkling that all the schmaltz
the romance, begins with this instinct
for pairing
with recitations, incantations
encirclements
spells
Neha began it. It was a madhouse.
Trinanjan and Lori, Viraj and Neha, Ishita
and Subir, Subir and Devika, have they all
entered the madhouse?
Love
is not never having to says things
it is to say things, show things
over and over and over again
with all the desperate jazz at your disposal
see, that’s Romeo on his bum guitar
and that’s the moon, shameless mauve
riding the tide – and Neha
you can make out Neha
stirring her amateur brew
O Viraj, step back, step back
from the red-bottomed langur turn-ups
from the aggrieved jackal cries
from the kingfisher’s Dionysiac blue
you are too young for a tragic hero
too young to die of natural causes
O Viraj – you are just too young for words!
words, even words
can tear you apart –
if those are all you have
but today my son Viraj, not quite seven
is indifferent to danger
he is brave
merged with the brilliant sky, the earth’s
dark quilted bracken
he has become his first self –
three thousand, twelve thousand
a billion years old . . .
*
Your posts are generally too long William.
William, I love this poem, I love it it because it is without artifice, it goes straight to your heart…
I’ll print it and give it to a nine-year-old, who is spending too much time on his Bieber style hair…
This is a reply to hudsongodfrey (Sorry to get off ‘Solomon’ but this is information-sharing).
I am very interested in the possible Carter family connection, because I was going to add before that in the history of American roots music and the vital Lomax involvement, it was the Carter family which gave John Lomax a host of songs from Appalachia which AP had deliberately gone out to collect and whilst he made money from them, if this had not been done perhaps loads of them would have disappeared from history. When seeing Doc Watson perform in 2005 he related multiple stories about traditional songs floating around the South when he was a boy and anyone interested in the metamorphosis of black, blues, jazz, folk, country and everything else into what is that VERY rich music tradition of the USA, with begging borrowing and stealing across genres, it is there to find and enjoy. In any Smithsonian music-oriented facility or the various music museums you can hear the originals of these songs. I picked up the great DVD set ‘American Roots Music’ (www.palmpictures.com) in 2003 and it is typical of what the Americans offer just for their history – a joint Library of Congress/ Smithsonian/ the Rock and Country music museums etc.
Thanks for the link to the Nora Guthrie interview.
I haven’t much to add or to offer aside from this which I’m sure you’ll recognise.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxo-zayI6tE&feature=related