On this dark, dreary, and very wet Monday, only two choices seem to make any sense…
1) Crawl into bed with an improving book and a cup of tea.
or…
2) Fetch the quill and pen set from the attic and get cracking on some melancholic poetry to herald the full arrival of winter in all its damp and dismal 'glory'.
I'd tend toward option 1 if I wasn't stuck out in the university waiting for a bus. Having said that, the Peter Biskind book I'm currently reading isn't so much improving…as ocassionally maddening. Here's a choice example of some of the wretched, descriptive prose on offer at times: "Eve was stunning, with perfect features marred only by a small, wine-colored birthmark on one side of her face (p.53)."
If there's much more of that kind of shit I'll be on the next plane over to New York to administer a fist-shaped, "wine-coloured" mark to the side of Biskind's face!
Option 2 might tempt me if I hadn't long ago abandoned 'poesy' as a form of self-expression. The world is already liberally stocked with dreadful poets, without yours truly adding to their number.
While we're on the subject of bad poetry (and bad prose) it's always good to give a shout out to the notorious William Topaz McGonagall: by common consent, one of the very worst poets of the 19th Century (and he faced some stiff competition).
His most famous (or infamous) work is The Tay Bridge Disaster, which, as Chris Hunt has suggested, is a fitting commemoration of his career, "since it deals with visionary ideals plunged into total disaster"!1
Here's a representative extract…those who suffer from a surfeit of literary sensitivity are advised to look away now:
Beautiful Railway Bridge of the Silv'ry Tay!
Alas! I am very sorry to say
That ninety lives have been taken away
On the last Sabbath day of 1879,
Which will be remember'd for a very long time.'Twas about seven o'clock at night,
And the wind it blew with all its might,
And the rain came pouring down,
And the dark clouds seem'd to frown,
And the Demon of the air seem'd to say-
"I'll blow down the Bridge of Tay."
Another fantastic 19th century stinker is a poem oft' half-remembered by Bertie Wooster (whenever he'd been nabbed for pinching a 'cow creamer' or two): The Dream of Eugene Aram by Thomas Hood. Aram was an 18th century English philologist executed for the murder of his friend (whose skeleton was discovered 14 years after the event), and Bertie was rarely able to recall much more than:
Tum-tum, tum-tum, tum-tumty-tum,
Tum-tum tum-tumpty mist [I think it's mist],
And Eugene Aram walked between,
With gyves upon his wrist.
He was lucky he couldn't remember more…as the following stanza illustrates:
At last he shut the pond'rous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp
He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp;
"Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"2
Having read the poem in its entirety I too wish I could "close my mind, and clasp it with a clasp", but (in a way) there is something rather magnificent, admirable and 'human' about verse this spectacularly appalling.
Anyway, the "Demon of the air" is still working overtime outside my office window…and, in spite of myself, I feel the muse drawing me near…
Any relation of McG[ar]nagall, the rule-breaking cop who gets the job done; famously beloved of Homer Simpson?
It was McGonagall’s appalling and awesome gift to make the grisly deaths of some 90 folk the occasion of great mirth. Still, he had the moral courage to impart at the conclusion of his lay the following sage advice, no doubt much appreciated by the bereaved.
“I must now conclude my lay
By telling the world fearlessly without the least dismay,
That your central girders would not have given way,
At least many sensible men do say,
Had they been supported on each side with buttresses,
At least many sensible men confesses,
For the stronger we our houses do build,
The less chance we have of being killed.”
It is perhaps for his practicality of tone, more than his bathetic poesy, for which the name of the poet-seer McGonagall will echo down the remaining ages of man…I think.
October 12th, 2005 at 11:18 amWell fair play to him. Instead of laying the blame at the feet of devils, a caprice (not the model) of nature, cursed fortune etc, he had the good sense to point the finger squarely at the construction industry. I can imagine ’twas a right shower of cowboys built the Tay Bridge.
October 12th, 2005 at 12:00 pmMcGonagall penned on visiting the site of the disaster with bereaved families a little recorded addendum to his finest work. If memory serves it goes like this…
The weeping mourners did their teeth gnash,
October 12th, 2005 at 1:15 pmTo see in the bridge the terrible gash,
Wherein fell the train with a mighty splash,
Where the silvery Tay makes a watery sash,
And a grave for the souls now washed in the brine,
That will be remembered for a very long time.
And don’t forget this other ‘lost stanza’ dealing with the rebuilding of the bridge:
Now there is a bridge once more at Tay,
October 12th, 2005 at 1:40 pmMade from sterner, tougher stuff they say,
Let’s hope it falls not into disarray,
So no more decent Scots in trains get washed away,
This I pray as I do wield my pen,
For ‘twould be sad if it occur’d again.
Thanks for the link to my site, always good to see the great Poet and Tragedian getting more exposure. If you haven’t read it already, I recommend reading the autobiography. The man was clearly convinced of his genius, despite all evidence to the contrary - and you’ve gotta admire his perseverance if nothing else.
I think you’re a little harsh on Hood, though “clasp it with a clasp” was admittedly not one of his better lines. Personally I can forgive much of the man who wrote “The Song of the Shirt”, not to mention his brilliant punning in “Faithless Sally Brown”:
His death which happened in his berth,
At forty-odd befell:
They went and told the sexton, and
The sexton toll’d the bell.
If you’re looking for a competitor for McGonagall, the closest is another scot, albeit an emigrant to Canada. James McIntyre wasn’t interested in disasters, his poems were about CHEESE. From “Ode On the Mammoth Cheese”:
We have seen thee, queen of cheese,
Lying quietly at your ease,
Gently fanned by evening breeze,
Thy fair form no flies dare seize.
That’s true class. I guess there must be something in the water up in Scotland…
October 14th, 2005 at 11:13 pmHi Chris,
I must have a look at the autobiography for, as you say, there’s something quite striking about such baseless confidence. I guess McGonagall must have been drawing his inspiration from a hitherto unknown Muse…one devoted to comical folly and hubris!
You’re probably right about my unfair jibes at Hood. The “told” and “toll’d” pun is undoubtedly delicious. It’s merely that The Dream of Eugene Arram perfectly captures the rather fevered and hysterical tone of much bad 19th century verse.
I hadn’t heard of the cheese-lovin’ Mr. McIntyre before, but I’ll certainly check him out now. Thanks for the recommendation/warning.
October 17th, 2005 at 2:13 pm