Sunday Poetry: There once was a man from Nantucket . . ., by the Editors of the Princeton Tiger

Limerick

There once was a man from Nantucket,
Who kept all of his cash in a bucket,
But his daughter, named Nan,
Ran away with a man,
And as for the bucket, Nantucket.

- by the Princeton Tiger (1924)
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It's the week of St. Patrick's Day, and it's as good a time as any to talk about Limericks. Often bawdy, and usually humorous, limericks are an example of a poetic form working with humor to make something memorable. The example above is a classic, printed in 1924 by the Princeton Tiger and drawing responses from other newspapers. The creative tension of the above poem comes from a rhyme which does not get stated - the reader waits for another "ucket" rhyme that never comes.

Often, the unmentionable does, in fact, get stated, and that is part of the fun. Clean limericks appear in childrens' books and bawdy ones draw a laugh in raucous bars.

I won't go into a lengthy recitation of the history of the lyric, except to observe that Edward Lear's reputation far outstrips his talent (he often repeats the first rhyme), and that St. Patrick's week is a fine occasion to try writing a few of your own.

Thoughts on My Irish Heritage

I won't be at the parade this afternoon, and I'm not preparing a "traditional" dinner of corned beef, cabbage and boiled potatoes. I don't have any Guinness in the house. You probably won't hear me singing sentimental songs late in the evening, and for that you can consider yourself blessed.

When I was a kid, St. Patrick's day had its own traditions. Milk at the dinner table poured right in front of our eyes turned from white in the jug to green in our glasses, except for one misbehaving sibling who would receive the dreaded orange color. It was the work of leprechauns, we believed. We also had green snake bread at the dinner table.

Our heritage was heavily dependent on food coloring, I suppose.

As I grew older, I learned more of the history of the Irish. Racially, the Celts were a different people than the many invaders who visited the shores of Ireland, but eons of invasion and interbreeding have diminished the distinction. Those of us in America have intermarried with everyone, so, if someone more apparently African-American or Asian or Hispanic has a "kiss me, I'm Irish" pin on today, they very well may be deserving of the kiss they claim to seek.

But, for those of us with Irish last names, it's easy to feel somehow more Irish than the rest. In my own case, I'm less than half Irish, and my wife, with her German maiden name, is a good deal more Irish by bloodline than I am. But I've always identified myself as Irish, and read my history through that lens.

What does heritage really mean in the United States? I've known people who have learned in their later years that their family background was something different than they had been raised in. Someone who thought they were from a heritage of Polish Catholics finds out that he is really descended from Hungarian Jews. Ellis Island offered fresh starts and opportunities for revision of family histories. We get our heritage through stories told to us by a string of ancestor-narrators, some of whom may have had motives to lie.

It's difficult for me, as an American, to imagine true heritage, in the sense that more ancient cultures have it. My wife is from Buffalo, I'm from St. Louis, and our kids are currently in New Orleans and New York. We don't grow up and die in the same place that our ancestors did. My great-great grandfather didn't help build my church. The local cemetery does not include a section where all the stones bear my last name. My family bears no grudges against another family because of a fence line set down generations ago. A few hours on Ancestor.com can deliver only a whiff of the groundedness that growing up in a thatched cottage in Ireland might offer.

Heritage, for many of us, is so shallow that it approaches willful illusion. A suitcase full of papers found with my family's belongings could, conceivably, have completely redefined my understanding of where I come from. No such suitcase turned up, so I am sprung from Irish who came to Troy, New York, and then somehow went to South Dakota, and wound up in St. Louis - on my father's side. I was named after a man who fought in the Civil War Cavalry on the Union side, came home to drop off his sword and pistol, and headed West, never to be heard from again.

Pretty slim pickings, really.

But here's the scary thing - I can use that tiny sliver of heritage to make myself a monster. As I mentioned above, I have read history through Irish eyes. I have read accounts of boats packed with food leaving the ports of Ireland while people were starving. I have read about the suppression of religion and language committed by the English. I have read the treachery of Cromwell, and remember what happened at Wexford. I consider O'Connell's decision at Clontarf to be a vivid lesson on the limits of pacifism.

Back when I was a young man, I allowed my knowledge of history to override my sense of morality. I didn't feel bad at all when the IRA planted a bomb and blew Lord Montbatten to pieces. Terrorism, sure, but it was part of a struggle that was justified by history. A year later, I rode a bicycle around Ireland, and felt even more deeply connected to the struggles of the Irish. I could rationalize almost any atrocity they could commit, even to the extent of not resenting a bomb threat that interfered with my travel.

I'm a deeply flawed person, but I will give myself credit for trying to be a good one, and wanting to live a moral life. But, when I was 20 years old, I was sympathetic to terrorism, for a cause I had not lived and only read about. How would I have lived my life if I were closer to the conflict? What if the stories told to me included ancestors and neighbors gunned down by the "Brits"? What if I stood on that turf and really felt like my people had been subjected to hundreds of years of oppression by the Brits. What if, having been raised with REAL heritage, and being twenty years old and full of the "moral" confidence that sometimes inflicts that age, I were granted an opportunity to strike back?

Someday, I hope that Sunnis, Kurds, Jews, Palestinians, and every other historically aggrieved people has a parade that features colored beer and warm sunshine. I hope today's parade is a huge success, and I'm thrilled that the weather looks absolutely wonderful. I know that St. Patrick's day is nothing more than what it seems - a fun day to go out and party and welcome spring. Maybe next year I'll ride on a float and toss candy and laugh like a banshee.

But today I look at my Irish heritage, and I'm remembering how I once thought that my Irish heritage was enough to secretly kind of cheer on terrorism. I know I deserve the orange milk at dinner.

Sunday Poetry: The Lake Isle of Innisfree, by William Butler Yeats

The Lake Isle of Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.

I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.

- by William Butler Yeats
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Of course, on the Sunday before St. Patrick's Day, I must feature an Irish poet. "The Lake Isle of Innisfree" was in Yeats' second book of poems, and it was his first major success. Over a hundred years ago, long before email and air travel and telephones, this poem's message of yearning for a quieter, more grounded world struck a chord in readers, and its appeal has only grown as the world has sped up.

Structurally, the poem abandons iambic pentameter for a looser rhythm of 6 accents per line for the first three lines of each stanza, followed by a four-stress line. To me, the "irregular steadiness" of it matches the sound of the sea. The ABAB rhyme scheme reinforces the rhythm without becoming sing-songy. The form fits the poem.

To save a trip to the dictionary, "wattles" were woven sticks that helped form strong walls when covered with clay or mud. "Linnets" are long-tailed finches. The poem is as understandable in 2009 Kansas City as it was in 1893 Dublin. It achieves greatness with words as simple as a clay wall - "peace comes dropping slow" and "deep heart's core" are thrilling passages, but not because of heightened language.

There are more obvious poems to choose on the Sunday before St. Patrick's Day. I love "Easter, 1916", and it is a more obviously Irish poem. There are dozens of other Irish poets I could feature, having already indulged my love of Yeats once (The Second Coming), like Seamus Heaney or Thomas Kinsella. Perhaps I've brought up a small nugget from the deep gold vein of Irish poetry, but perhaps if you hear William Butler Yeats read and comment on his work, you will understand.

Sunday Poetry: On Raglan Road, by Patrick Kavanagh

On Raglan Road

On Raglan Road on an autumn day I met her first and knew
That her dark hair would weave a snare that I might one day rue;
I saw the danger, yet I walked along the enchanted way,
And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.

On Grafton Street in November we tripped lightly along the ledge
Of the deep ravine where can be seen the worth of passion's pledge,
The Queen of Hearts still making tarts and I not making hay -
O I loved too much and by such and such is happiness thrown away.

I gave her gifts of the mind I gave her the secret sign that's known
To the artists who have known the true gods of sound and stone
And word and tint. I did not stint for I gave her poems to say.
With her own name there and her own dark hair like clouds over fields of May

On a quiet street where old ghosts meet I see her walking now
Away from me so hurriedly my reason must allow
That I had wooed not as I should a creature made of clay -
When the angel woos the clay he'd lose his wings at the dawn of day.

- by Patrick Kavanagh
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This is not my favorite poem by Patrick Kavanagh. For that distinction, I would lean toward his lengthy consideration of choked lust, "The Great Hunger" or his (ironically) much shorter "Epic". And yet, it is probably Kavanagh's best-known poem, because it was set to music after Kavanagh met Luke Kelly, a member of The Dubliners, at a pub named The Bailey. Since then, the song has been covered by Van Morrison, Sinead O'Connor and dozens of others, and it appears in the soundtrack of Oscar-nominated "In Bruges". Here's the story and the song:



The relationship between poetry and music is a tricky one. I sometimes wonder whether the rise of recorded music has destroyed the need for spoken word poetry - clearly, the Youtube version above resonates within me more than the words above it, and Sinead O'Connor's voice brings a bittersweet nuance that my internal voice lacks entirely.

Poetry originated as a mnemonic device for recalling and retelling stories around the campfire. In Ireland, men made their living walking from town to town and reciting the poetry of their ancestors, and the legends of Cuchulain and others. Poetry helped culture and tradition survive in a semi-literate world.

Those days are over. My iPod exceeds the memory of any wandering reciter of poetry, and repeats flawlessly the guitars, drums and bass that enhance the performance of words.

If Bob Dylan was the poet of his generation, what were Lawrence Ferlinghetti or Allen Ginsburg doing? Where is the poet who can sell out the Sprint Center the way that Bruce Springsteen did? Are we talking about two entirely separate things when we discuss poetry and music, or are we talking about the same art delivered in different packages. Is it a venn diagram or a circle within a circle? And if it's a circle in a circle, are lyrics set to music a smaller (though immensely profitable and popular) circle within the greater circle of poetry, or is poetry, with its attempts at music through rhymes and rhythm, a narrower form of words set to music?

Worst Movie Title Ever?

I understand the impulse toward pretension and self-importance (not that I ever suffer from either), but I got the giggles in the theater yesterday when the great-looking movie about Ireland's title came on at the end of the trailer - "The Wind that Shakes the Barley".

Perhaps the giggles were brought on by the unintended cinematic references to Christopher Guest's "A Mighty Wind" and Spinal Tap's immortal "Break Like the Wind".

Either way, it looks like a movie I'll enjoy, even if I must stifle giggles over its awful title.