Rain by Robert Louis Stevenson

Rain

The rain is falling all around,
It falls on field and tree,

It rains on the umbrellas here,
And on the ships at sea.
--Robert Louis Stevenson

I have a special fondness for this poem, though the source of the fondness is of a more recent date than most of the poems I have a special fondness for. Last year I was tutoring a little girl named Fatima. She needed help in reading, mostly because English was her second language, and she simply didn't have the vocabulary to recognize when she had sounded out a word correctly. During our tutoring sessions, I brought storybooks to read along with the worksheets and vocabulary building exercises that I was required to use. One day, we read a book of nursery rhymes, and she LOVED it. She recognized a few of them, but mostly she liked the predictability of the rhythm and rhyme in poetry.

As a tutor, I'm quick to grab hold of anything that motivates a child, so I brought her more poetry: Shel Silverstein, Jack Prelutsky, Robert Louis Stevenson and even some Haiku. She liked reading poems herself, but she also loved hearing me read them since I could do it with more fluency, and she could get the full effect. She was especially impressed when I showed her that I had some of the poems memorized and could recite them without looking at the words. She decided that she really wanted to do that too, and picked this poem as her first (she already knew some nursery rhymes, as I've said, but this was the first she set out to memorize as a poem).

We copied it down onto a little piece of paper that she kept in her desk and she practiced it for weeks, finally getting it just right. We copied down a few others that she especially liked, but I soon realized that it would take too long to do much more of that during tutoring. That's when I set out to compile a book of poems for her--including the best of the ones she'd already read, and some more of my favorites for her to grow into. While compiling poems and illustrations for her little book, I found many others that I loved, but which didn't fit the scope I had decided on. It was at that point that I decided to start this blog.

Anyway, it rained all day today -- We haven't had this much rain at once in months and months -- maybe not since last winter. It was nice to wake up last night to the sound of rain, and it was nice to have the rain wash away a lot of the ashy dust from the wildfires and general smog. My biggest complaint about living in California is that I miss the rain (though my biggest reason for liking it is the constant sunshine). If we could get a good thunderstorm rolling through about once a month, I think that would be the perfect compromise.

I'm a Little Teapot by George Sanders and Clarence Kelly

I'm a Little Teapot

I'm a little teapot, short and stout
Here is my handle, here is my spout
When I get all steamed up, hear me shout
Tip me over and pour me out
--George Sanders and Clarence Kelly

I'm a little teapot, short and stout
Here is my handle, here is my...other handle
Oops...
I'm a little sugar bowl short and stout...
--Author Unknown

Here's another from my intermittent series on poems with funny responses. I don't think it needs much explanation.

I've been feeling more and more like a teapot lately, not so much short, but definitely round and bulgy. Even my stretchiest pants don't fit around my belly anymore, and driving is starting to be a problem (If I recline far enough to keep from squishing my belly, then my arms aren't long enough to reach the steering wheel).

Yesterday I decided to take a nap on the couch (My doctor has been suggesting daytime naps to make up for my lousy sleeping at night). I was only out for an hour or so, but I neglected to prop up all the relevant bits with pillows like I do at night. Bad Idea! I was SOOOO sore all evening. I felt like somebody had folded me in half, then roughly unfolded me but neglected to work the kinks out of my ribs and spine. Consequently, it felt like very sharp bony bits were poking thru my innards -- especially my lungs (which were in bad shape to begin with having been squished for weeks now).

While I was trying to describe how I felt to Peter, I remembered a game Daddy used to play with us. He'd say, "Gravity Belt OFF!" and hold some body part up in the air while we tried to get it down. Then when he got tired, he'd shout, "Gravity Belt ON!" and crush whoever he was playing with to the floor under an enormously heavy arm or leg (Telling it like this, it sounds like seriously abusive behavior, but Daddy always knew just how hard he could push without actually hurting a child, and if we really wanted to stop, he would). Anyway, last night I felt like somebody shouted "Gravity Belt ON!" and then forgot to turn it off.

There's six weeks to go in this pregnancy, but I am SO ready to be done with it and see the baby for real.

Hogswatch Filk by Daibhid Chienedelh

Hogswatch Filk

Have yourself a happy little Hogswatch,
Let your heart be light
From now on, Old Man Trouble will be out of sight
Have yourself a happy little Hogswatch,
Don't be cruel or mean,
Just make sure your meal doesn't contain a bean...

Here were are as in early days,
Nasty, churly days of old.
When the pigs would be sacrificed,
To eradicate the cold..

(Take it away, Big D!)

THROUGH THE YEARS YOU MAY ALL BE TOGETHER,
ONLY I CAN KNOW.
EVERY YEAR THROUGH FASCINATING WORLDS YOU GO
SO HAVE YOURSELF A HAPPY LITTLE HOGSWATCH...
HO. HO. HO.
--Daibhid Chienedelh
(backed up by The Librarian, with an amusing mistletoe-on-a-spring headband, on organ, Imp, in ceremonial Bardic robes, on guitar and Death-as-Hogfather on drums)

Peter and I happened on the made-for-TV-movie/miniseries The Hogfather on TV Sunday night (one of our channels regularly plays made-for-TV-movies/miniseries in single sittings on the weekends). We're both Terry Pratchett fans, so we decided to watch it.

The production values seemed pretty high in that the sets, costumes, casting and special effects were all as good or better than I could have hoped from such a piece, but I'm sorry to say that we were, on the whole, disappointed. It seemed to follow the structure and plot of the book almost slavishly, which you might think is a good thing, since Terry Pratchett is a comic genius, but instead, made the movie terribly slow and plodding. People making movies out of books ought to realize that books and movies are different, and what works for one does not necessarily work in the other. In a book, you can present a series of seemingly unrelated amusing incidents, and then slowly weave them together till you get to a whirlwind climax. In a movie, the whole needs to be more coherent from the beginning if you want to keep your audience from wandering off thinking you've forgotten what your movie is about.

The tone of the book also got lost somewhere. Almost all of the silliness disappeared. Characters or situations would appear on the screen, and you'd think, "Oh, I like this bit, that guy is always good for a laugh." Then the character would provide a bit of exposition and disappear without doing any of the silly things they're known for. The silly things that were left in were played so VERY straight, that they weren't funny either. All we were left with an ominous sense of doom throughout the whole thing. Sure, the ominous sense of doom is there in most of the Discworld books, but it's just one more absurd thing that the hero has to deal with, and not the main tone of the piece.

If I had been making the movie, I would have condensed the plot, cut the running time in half, and thrown in a lot more jokes.

I got this poem from the L-space filks page which has archived and indexed posts from the old alt.fan.pratchett newsgroup. It isn't especially great poetry, but it was the best of the ones that mentioned Hogswatch.

Frere Jacques Birthday by Binky the Clown

Frere Jacques Birthday

Happy Birthday,
Happy Birthday,
Whoop-tee-doo,
Whoop-tee-doo,
May your day be pleasant,
Open up your present,
Just for you,
Just for you.
--Binky the Clown on Garfield and Friends

OK, so it's a dumb poem, but it's less annoying than a lot of other birthday songs.

Today is Peter's birthday! Hooray! You should call him and sing him the birthday song of your choice. Call me if you don't know his number, and I'll be happy to give it to you (I assume that if you know my number, you're somebody safe to give his number to).

Birthday plans are modest this year -- as they generally are for Peter's birthday. I'm making him his special cake (sweetened with honey, which doesn't seem to mess with his blood sugar), and I have a couple of GREAT presents that I found at Goodwill a few months ago and I've been excited about giving him ever since (as well as some boring presents that're things he needs).

We may go out for dinner tomorrow, but tonight is Monday, and we have 3 TV shows we're following on Mondays this season. Chuck will probably have a regular episode, but both Journeyman and Heroes ended with big cliffhangers last week, and we really want to know what'll happen next. There's only a few more weeks till the regular midseason break, and we don't know whether there'll be any more episodes after that due to the writers' strike, so we're watching while we can (we did consider taping the shows, but since we've only got a rabbit-ears antenna on top of the TV, reception is pretty bad to begin with, and it gets worse when you pipe it thru the VCR, and you can't adjust it if you're not there while it's recording).

So back on topic, HAPPY BIRTHDAY PETER! I hope you have a great one!

The Eagle by Alfred Tennyson

The Eagle

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely lands,
Ring'd with the azure world, he stands.

The wrinkled sea beneath him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he falls.
--Alfred Tennyson

Here's another poem I found in whatever class that was at BYU. I love the way this poem conveys the majesty of the eagle. Other than the title, the word eagle isn't used, and there's no description of the bird itself other than the two words "crooked hands." What we have is majesty by association. The eagle's lines are as sharply defined as a rocky crag, his feathers shine like the sun, he stands in sharp contrast against the blue sky. He is as changeable and powerful as the sea -- sometimes as still and immovable as a mountain, and then diving with the violence and speed of a thunderbolt. All the images are the sorts of things you'd find on inspirational posters, and the eagle owns them all.

Hail Poetry by WS Gilbert

Hail Poetry

Although our dark career
Sometimes involves the crime of stealing,
We rather think that we're
Not altogether void of feeling.
Although we live by strife,
We're always sorry to begin it,
For what, we ask, is life
Without a touch of Poetry in it?

Hail, Poetry, thou heaven-born maid!
Thou gildest e’en the pirate’s trade:
Hail, flowing fount of sentiment!
All hail, Divine Emollient!
--WS Gilbert

Last night at Grandma's house, we were looking for a movie to watch. Larry and Joyce were there with their two youngest, Trace and Cesia, and it was a challenge to match Grandma's video selection with the cinematic taste of a couple of High Schoolers. We ended up with about 5 musicals as the possible choices, and eventually narrowed it down to Pirates of Penzance because Cesia hadn't seen it.

It's amazing how much more fun it is to see a G&S show with somebody who has no idea what they're getting into. All the old jokes become new again, and you can laugh without feeling self conscious. We had a great time, and I felt especially impressed that I ought to post this as today's poem.

It's a great moment in the play. General Stanley has just announced that "he is an orphan boy," and the pirates are all so touched that they not only agree to let him go, but they all drop to their knees and sing this chorus to poetry in five part harmony. It's the sort of moment that reminds you that Sullivan also wrote hymns (like Onward Christian Soldiers), and that as silly as his music is, he really was a great composer (as evidenced by the fact that people keep stealing his tunes).

I do have a few nit-picky complaints about the movie, though. First, there's the plot holes in the original: Given that the action happens on Frederick's birthday, what are all these girls doing taking off their shoes and socks on the coast of Cornwall in February? and How can the pirates simultaneously be poor orphans and noblemen who have gone wrong? Was there some great plague among the peerage twenty years ago? Besides that, they cut out a couple of songs from the original, and import replacements from other G&S operettas. This seems odd to me -- I agree that the Matter Patter song from Ruddigore deserves to be heard more often, but at the expense of half the Major General song, and How Beautifully Blue the Sky?

The also left out one of my favorite jokes:

GENERAL: Why do I sit here? To escape from the pirates' clutches, I described myself as an orphan; and, heaven help me, I am no orphan! I come here to humble myself before the tombs of my ancestors, and to implore their pardon for having brought dishonour on the family escutcheon.

FREDERIC: But you forget, sir, you only bought the property a year ago, and the stucco on your baronial castle is scarcely dry.

GENERAL: Frederic, in this chapel are ancestors: you cannot deny that. With the estate, I bought the chapel and its contents. I don't know whose ancestors they were, but I know whose ancestors they are, and I shudder to think that their descendant by purchase (if I may so describe myself) should have brought disgrace upon what, I have no doubt, was an unstained escutcheon.

But even with all those problems, it's still worth it to see Kevin Kline as the Pirate King singing With Catlike Tread at the top of his lungs.

PS: for those of you who don't know the plot or the music, and want to have some idea of what I'm talking about, there's an amateur recording here (though the songs are out of order on the page), and a plot synopsis on Wikipedia (including a list of the musical numbers in order). I'd encourage you to see a production of it though, because it really is funnier that way.

PPS: You may find it interesting to know that an Emollient is something soothing, especially face creams.

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England by Felicia Hemans

The Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers in New England

The breaking waves dash'd high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches toss'd;

And the heavy night hung dark,
The hills and waters o'er,
When a band of exiles moor'd their bark
On the wild New-England shore.

Not as the conqueror comes,
They, the true-hearted came;
Not with the roll of the stirring drums,
And the trumpet that sings of fame:

Not as the flying come,
In silence and in fear;–
They shook the depths of the desert gloom
With their hymns of lofty cheer.

Amidst the storm they sang,
And the stars heard and the sea!
And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang
To the anthem of the free.

The ocean-eagle soar'd
From his nest by the white wave's foam;
And the rocking pines of the forest roar'd–
This was their welcome home!

There were men with hoary hair,
Amidst that pilgrim band;–
Why had they come to wither there,
Away from their childhood's land?

There was woman's fearless eye,
Lit by her deep love's truth;
There was manhood's brow serenely high,
And the fiery heart of youth.

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine?
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?–
They sought a faith's pure shrine!

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod!
They have left unstain'd what there they found–
Freedom to worship God.
--Felicia Hemans

I'm not sure whether I'll get around to posting a poem tomorrow, so I thought I'd post this famous one today. As I was looking for Thanksgiving poem options, I found, as I have for many other holidays and subjects, a LOT of really lousy, forgettable poetry. I found a few good poems about autumn or the harvest in general, and lyrics to thanksgiving songs and hymns, but most of the explicitly "Thanksgiving" poems were either acrostics (which can be done well, but seldom are) or sappy sentimental dreck.

Why does this poem stand out, remembered after more than a hundred and fifty years? First, it's not a poem about a meal -- which I don't think I've ever seen turn out well (we don't have that many good words to describe how things taste, and merely listing dishes is boring). Second, it's not about which specific family members are there at the table -- which I don't like reading about, because they're not MY family members (and the people at the table are different every year anyway). Third, it's not a generalized you-ought-to-be-grateful-for-what-you-have poem -- which generally comes off as inducing guilt rather than gratitude. Now that I think about it, it's not really about Thanksgiving at all, but about the Pilgrims who we remember at Thanksgiving.

It tells, in well chosen, dramatic words, what it was that they did that was worth remembering. They came, through a lot of hardship, to a new land, not for money or adventure, or military goals, but just to have the chance to worship God as they chose. And they gave their thanks to that God for simply allowing them to survive.

I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I have a beautiful house, and I've finally got a handle on most of the housework (I still need to figure out how to plan meals better, but I am cooking more than before). I have a wonderful husband, Peter, who loves me to death, and takes good care of me. I am very close to my family, as spread out as we are, we all keep in touch and still like each other, which is really saying something if the TV is to be believed. Peter and I have good jobs that we enjoy doing and which pay enough to meet our needs right now. I have lots of friends at church, and I feel socially welcomed there in a way I haven't felt in a long time. Most importantly, the baby is coming soon, and that's a blessing I've been wishing and waiting and praying for for a long time.

May all of you be as blessed as I have been! Happy thanksgiving!