Poetry in Suburbia

                    

  Those of you who follow my blogs will know, that once a moth I meet with a group of like-minded people. We begin with coffee and biscuits, and sit around chatting about whatever comes to mind, and try to work out who may, or may not, be coming to the meeting, until our host decides that it is time to be serious, at which point, and as a group, we spring into life for the discussion of poetry. 

Well this month the theme was humorous/funny poems, so I did my usual careful preparation, looking in several anthologies of poetry, as well as the works of specific poets, poets such as Robert Frost, John Betjeman, and Carol Ann Duffy, before deciding what I would bring. And in making my choice, and so as to lessen the risk of duplication, I was careful to avoid works that are well known within the group. So to that end I passed over, The Nation's Favourite Comic Poems, published by the BBC, and The Rattle Bag, edited by Seamus Heaney and Ted Hughes. Well what I finally decided to bring to the group, was a central portion of the poem, Verses on the Death of Dr Swift. 

Now despite my care, I have to tell you that my poem went down, as we say, "like a lead balloon". Even before I had finished reading it, I knew that it had failed to capture the imagination, and when I had finished reading it, the silence was thunderous. So accepting the situation for what it was, (and with no one seeming willing to put their thoughts into words,) I lead the discussion, by asking why it was, that a poem that I had considered humorous, failed to capture the imagination. Immediately Joan, (not her real name,) said: "I thought it was terrible, it was about an old man dying." And Alice, (not her real name either,) who is relatively new to poetry, said, that she didn't understand it. But more interesting from my point of view, was the fact that Peggy, (yet another pseudonym,) a retired university teacher of Masters level students, wasn't coming to my aid. So I did my best. I acknowledged my disappointment at the response, and conceded that the extract could be regarded as a social commentary, but that I had found it humorous, and believed that Jonathan Swift had not intended it to be taken seriously, after which, we moved on to the next poem. But when it came to Joan,  and after she had made her contribution, I felt compelled to reopen the discussion about the response to my poem: as to haw, having described my poem as "terrible", she could defend hers as humorous. I described her poem as brilliant, and her reading of it as excellent, and when she demurred I pointed out, that as a retired teacher of English literature, she had brought all the skills necessary to making the reading of the poem a success. But that said, and given her observation about my own poem, I just didn't see how, brilliant though it was, she could conceive of her poem as humorous. To me it was both clever and subtle, but not humorous. In response, and as a justification, Joan said that it made her smile, an observation that I considered uncharacteristically feeble. And though I didn't say so, the thought crossed my mind, that I could use the same justification for my own poem.

Now it is important to make the point, that this was a discussion that took place without acrimony: a case of adults talking as adults, and Joan accepted that what I was trying to do, was put what she saw as the failure of my poem, into some kind of context in relation to her own; rather than, as we say, "having a go." 

Well, by the time the meeting was coming to an end, Peggy was musing aloud as to how interesting it was, that a topic that we had all thought was simple, had turned out to be somewhat more complicated, with us struggling to define what it is that constitutes humour, and why it can vary so much between  individuals.

Well, here are the poems in question, so that you can decide for yourself as to whether or not you would have wanted to contribute to the debate. But first, allow me to tell you a little about Jonathan Swift and Vikram Seth.

Jonathan Swift, (1667-1745) was a poet, novelist, satirist, and famously, dean of St. Patrick's Cathedral in Dublin, the city where he was born; and as a satirist, he probably made as many enemies as he made friends, for though a member of the protestant establishment, at a time when the English occupation of Ireland, (with all its negative consequences) was in full swing, he was an ardent pacifist, who loathed "cruelty, imperialism, and war." Famously, as a satirist, and as a solution to the problem of famine, and as the Irish had so many children, he suggested that they could eat a few of them. He frequently travelled to London where he mixed in high society. Among his friends there, was the poet and fellow satirist, Alexander Pope, who, as a Roman Catholic, and under the recently enacted Test Acts, was by law, prevented from teaching, attending a university, voting, or holding public office, "under pain of perpetual imprisonment." And just as Pope is remembered for his translation of Homer, Swift, apart from his poetry, is remembered for his novels, in particular, Gulliver's Travels, and for his long love affair with Esther Vanhomrigh that is celebrated in his poem Cadenus and Vanessa.

There could hardly be a greater contrast than there is, between Jonathan Swift and Vikram Seth. Born in India in 1952, Seth is from the Hindi tradition, and is described on Wikipedia as  a "poet, novelist, travel writer, librettist, children's writer, biographer and memorist." He studied at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and at Stanford University, and he is famed for his his novels, A Suitable Boy and The Golden Gate. So it is important to remember when you are reading his poem, Fire, in which alliteration is important, that English is not his first language, or perhaps, as will become apparent in the poem, that factors other than the English language, are at work.

See what you think.

Verses on the Death of Dr Swift

   The time is not remote, when I
Must by the Course of Nature dye:
When I foresee my special Friends,
Will try to find their private Ends:
Tho' it is hardly understood,
Which way my Death can do them good;
Yet, thus methinks, I hear 'em speak;
See how the Dean begins to break:
Poor Gentleman, he droops apace,
You plainly find it in his Face:
That old Vertigo in his Head,
Will never leave him, till he's dead:
Besides, his Memory decays,
He recollects not what he says;
He cannot call his Friends to Mind;
Forgets the Place where last he din'd:
Plyes you with Stories o'er and o'er,
He told them fifty Times before.
How does he fancy we can sit,
To hear his out-of-fashion'd Wit?
But he takes up with younger Fokes,
Who for his Wine will hear his Jokes:
Faith, he must make his stories shorter,
Or change his Comrades once a Quarter:
In half the Time, he talks them round;
There must another Set be found.

   For Poetry, he's past his Prime,
He takes an Hour to find a Rhime:
His Fire is out, his Wit decay'd,
His Fancy sunk, his Muse a Jade.
I'd have him throw away his Pen;
But there's no talking to some Men.

   And, then their Tenderness appears,
By adding largely to my Years:
"He's older that he would be reckon'd,
And well remember Charles the Second.

"He hardly drinks a Pint of Wine;
And that, I doubt, is no good Sign.
His stomach too begins to fail:
Last Year, we thought him strong and hale;
But now, he's quite another Thing;
I wish he may hold out till Spring."

                   *    *    *

   My female Friends, whose tender Hearts
Have better learn'd to act their Parts,
Receive the News in doleful Dumps,
The Dean is dead (and what is Trumps?)
The Lord have Mercy on his Soul
(Ladies I'll venture for the Vole)
Six Deans they say must bear the Pall,
(I wish I knew what King to call.)
Madam, your Husband will attend
The Funeral of so good a friend.
No Madam, 'tis a shocking Sight,
And he's engag'd Tomorrow Night!
My Lady Club wou'd take it ill
If he shou'd fail Her at Quadrille.
He lov'd the Dean. (I led a Heart.)
But dearest Friends, they say, must part.
His Time was come, he ran his Race;
We hope he's in a better Place.

_______________

Fire

Fa-yaah
O Fayah - fayah -fayaaah
Dizayaah
Hot hot hot
I'm burning a lot with Dizaaah
O fayah fayah fayah
Hot as a filament wa-yah
Hot as prawn jamba-la-yah
I'm burning so hot
I'm baking a pot -
O hot hot hot as dizayaah
Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah!

All was born from me -
All your eyes can see.
Who gave life and birth
To sun and star and earth?
Who gave pulse and germ
To man and beast and worm?
Who is hot hot hot
When black space is not?
Who is bright bright bright
In this endless night?
Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah!

Fa-yaah
O Fayah - fayah -fayaaah
Dizayaah
Hot hot hot
I'm burning a lot with Dizaaah
O fayah fayah fayah
Hot as a funeral pa-yaah
Leaping up ha-yaah and ha-yaah -
I sizzle, I daze,
I fizzle, I blaze,
I scorch. I toast,
I smoulder, I roast,
I flare, I excite,
I flash, I ignite,
I rage, I lust,
I blaze, I combust,
Red, yellow, white,
I light up the night,
This endless night, with dizayaah,
O fa-yaah! Fa-yaah! Fa-yaah

_______________

© Cormac McCloskey

"having a go": meaning to retaliate or get back at someone who has offended you.

"Verses on the Death of Dr Swift" taken from:
Jonathan Swift: The complete Poems
Penguin Classics 1983
ISBN 0-14-042261-7

Images of Swift and Seth taken from Wikipedia