Taffy was a Welshman by Anonymous

Taffy was a Welshman

Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a thief.
Taffy came to my house
And stole a piece of beef.

I went to Taffy's house,
Taffy wasn't in;
I jumped upon his Sunday hat,
And poked it with a pin.

Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a sham.
Taffy came to my house
And stole a leg of lamb.

I went to Taffy's house,
Taffy was away,
I stuffed his socks with sawdust
And filled his shoes with clay.

Taffy was a Welshman,
Taffy was a cheat,
Taffy came to my house
And stole a piece of meat;

I went to Taffy's house,
Taffy was in bed;
I took up marrow bone
And beat him on the head.
--Anonymous

Here's a Mother Goose rhyme that I first heard in Richard Scarry's Best Mother Goose Ever. I could never figure out why the guy felt like he could call Taffy names like cheat and thief, when he did just as much bad stuff to Taffy. I also didn't know what being a Welshman had to with anything (or really what the word meant at all, since I wasn't really aware of Wales at the time). Mom told me something to the effect that it was a rude poem, and that I shouldn't repeat it, which just made it more mysterious.

I eventually learned that Taffy is a generic not-especially-polite name for Welshmen, much like Paddy or Mick for Irishmen. Evidently, it's sung on St. David's Day in England, especially near the Welsh border. Wikipedia claims that it's referring to a thief in Celtic Mythology, but I'm pretty sure that whatever its origins, it has come to symbolize and summarize the relations between England and Wales over the years with various border raids and conquests.

I still think what I thought when I first read it: if these guys would just stop being mean to each other, they'd be happier.

The Tale of Custard the Dragon by Ogden Nash

The Tale of Custard the Dragon

Belinda lived in a little white house,
With a little black kitten and a little gray mouse,
And a little yellow dog and a little red wagon,
And a realio, trulio, little pet dragon.

Now the name of the little black kitten was Ink,
And the little gray mouse, she called hum Blink,
And the little yellow dog was sharp as Mustard,
But the dragon was a coward, and she called him Custard.

Custard the dragon had big sharp teeth,
And spikes on top of him and scales underneath,
Mouth like a fireplace, chimney for a nose,
And realio, trulio daggers on his toes.

Belinda was as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chased lions down the stairs,
Mustard was as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Belinda tickled him, she tickled him unmerciful,
Ink, Blink and Mustard, they rudely called him Percival,
They all sat laughing in the little red wagon
At the realio, trulio, cowardly dragon.

Belinda giggled till she shook the house,
and Blink said Weeck! which is giggling for a mouse,
Ink and Mustard rudely asked his age,
When Custard cried for a nice safe cage.

Suddenly, suddenly they heard a nasty sound,
And Mustard growled, and they all looked around.
Meowch! cried Ink, and Ooh! cried Belinda,
For there was a pirate, climbing in the winda.

Pistol in his left hand, pistol in his right,
And he held in his teeth a cutlass bright,
His beard was black, one leg was wood;
It was clear that the pirate meant no good.

Belinda paled, and she cried Help! Help!
But Mustard fled with a terrified yelp,
Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household,
And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed.

But up jumped Custard snorting like an engine,
Clashed his tail like irons in a dungeon,
With a clatter and a clank and a jangling squirm,
He went at the pirate like a robin at a worm.

The pirate gaped at Belinda's dragon,
And gulped some grog from his pocket flagon,
He fired two bullets, but they didn't hit,
And Custard gobbled him, every bit.

Belinda embraced him, Mustard licked him,
No one mourned for his pirate victim.
Ink and Blink in glee did gyrate
Around the dragon that ate the pirate.

But presently up spoke little dog Mustard,
I'd been twice as brave if I hadn't been flustered.
And up spoke Ink and up spoke Blink,
We'd have been three times as brave, we think,
And Custard said, I quite agree
That everybody is braver than me.

Belinda still lives in her little white house,
With her little black kitten and her little gray mouse,
And her little yellow dog and her little red wagon,
And her realio, trulio little pet dragon.

Belinda is as brave as a barrel full of bears,
And Ink and Blink chase lions down the stairs,
Mustard is as brave as a tiger in a rage,
But Custard keeps crying for a nice safe cage.
--Ogden Nash

Here's another funny long narrative poem for kids. You can even find a nice picture book version. Once again, there are some truly clever rhymes, like "Ink trickled down to the bottom of the household, And little mouse Blink strategically mouseholed." and some oldies but goodies, like the "gyrate/pirate" one borrowed from Gilbert and Sullivan.

What I really like about this poem, though, is the idea that you don't have to be brave all the time. I've spent a large portion of my life being very afraid of a lot of things. It makes life really inconvenient at times. I've missed out on things like hiking Timp with my Dad because I'm afraid of falling off high things (Mountains are very high things, and mountain trails often have what I consider steep ledges dropping off one side. I have a hard time keeping myself from hyperventilating when I'm climbing the trail to the caves on Timp, which is a notoriously safe and easy trail). During college, I had a very hard time walking outside after dark, and often prevailed on my brothers or other guys to go out of their way to walk me home.

At the same time, I liked to tell myself that if it really mattered, I would be able to do the thing that scared me. I believed that if somebody's life depended on me climbing up someplace high, I'd be able to do it without freezing up, whereas when I was asked to climb up onto a rickety scaffolding to clean a roof (working at the metroparks), it reduced me to tears. Likewise, when I was in Moscow, and the only way to get to the Bolshoi theater was to walk, in the dark, past an abandoned construction site, and be accosted by mafia thugs, I made up my mind and did it.

I don't know if it makes sense to other people, but I think of myself as a brave person, even though I don't always do things that are uncomfortable for me. I've stopped worrying about what Peter will think of me if I make him deal with all the spiders and larger bugs that find their way into the house. I find other things to do with my family than mountain climbing. I may never go off a high dive. I carry a giant great safety pin for self defense when I go out at night (and believe me--that thing could do some damage). There are times when I let myself be shy at church events where I don't know people. I just plain don't watch certain types of scary movies--no matter how popular or well reviewed they are. I guess I'm saving up willpower for the times when it really matters.

Don't Quit by Quinton Howell

Don't Quit

When things go wrong, as they sometimes will
When the road you're trudging seems all uphill
When the funds are low and the debts are high
And you want to smile, but you have to sigh

When care is pressing you down a bit
Rest if you must - but don't you quit
Life is queer with its twists and turns
As everyone of us sometimes learns

And many a failure turns about
When he might have won had he stuck it out
Don't give up, though the pace seems slow
You might succeed with another blow

Success is failure turned inside out,
The silver tint of the clouds of doubt
And you never can tell how close you are,
It may be near when it seems so far

So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit
It's when things seem worst, That you MUST NOT QUIT!
--Quinton Howell

This poem was printed on a magnet that Mom had on the side of the fridge in Michigan (I don't remember whether it made it to Ohio). I would often stand by that side of the fridge and read the magnets and clippings while I ate sugar (I'd just drink it straight from the sugar shaker) since it was a good out of the way place to sort of hide while I did it.

I've always thought that this poem is about four lines too long. It feels like he made his point, but still had some rhymes he wanted to use, so he stuck in another stanza. There's nothing new in the fourth stanza -- he's already mentioned that you might be one "blow" away from success -- and it only serves to break up the fight metaphor that's begun at the end of the third stanza. I guess the poet just didn't know when to quit :)

Antigonish by William Hughes Mearns

Antigonish

Last night I saw upon the stair
A little man who wasn't there
He wasn't there again today
Oh, how I wish he'd go away...
--William Hughes Mearns

Hughes Mearns, who wrote this poem, was an educator around the turn of the century who dabbled in child psychology, especially as it relates to creativity. He pretty much invented "creative writing" as it's taught in schools. He thought that kids were naturally creative and eloquent, and they just needed to be shown how to let the natural poetry of their language come out as they put their thoughts down on paper. He said, "Poetry is an outward expression of instinctive insight that must be summoned from the vasty deep of our mysterious selves. Therefore, it cannot be taught; indeed, it cannot even be summoned; it can only be permitted." (quoted in Creative Writing And The New Humanities By Paul Dawson) He also talked about writing as a "transfer of experience" from writer to reader. He sounds like a fascinating person, and I'm surprised I didn't hear about him in my Education classes at college.

As for the man who wasn't there, I love how ambiguous this poem is. Is it a bit of nonsense rhyme? Is it talking about something prosaic like his shadow? Is it a ghost or fairy or spirit of some sort? A "man in black" government agent? A scandal that has little basis in reality, but won't stay out of the tabloids? A reference to some sort of mental illness? The answer is YES. It doesn't matter what he had in mind when he wrote it (though it might be an interesting bit of trivia to know), when I read it, it can mean any of those things or something else entirely.

Here's a good quote on that topic from a blog called Knocking From Inside:

One way that poetry can communicate is to make clear, simple statements with which the reader either agrees or not. Another way, perhaps more characteristic of poetry, is to deploy images or ideas whose “meaning” is not completely specified; this allows the reader to, as it were, fill in the blanks. Readers will associate these signifiers with whatever seems most emotionally immediate or relevant to the reader. Thus readers can tailor-make their own “meanings”, within a framework suggested by the poem.

This is why we sometimes read a poem written by a complete stranger and feel as though it was written expressly for and about us. In a sense, it is; as readers, we become co-authors. We write our own thoughts, feelings and experiences into the spaces between the poet’s lines.

Hope by Emily Dickinson

Hope

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
--Emily Dickinson

After I posted yesterday's poem, I found another by Emily Dickinson that I wanted to share. It reminded me of a quote that I printed out and hung on my cubicle wall way back when I was working at Dentrix:

Be like a bird, who,
Halting in flight
On limb too slight,
Feels it give way beneath him;
Yet sings
Knowing he has wings.
--Victor Hugo

Why is it that birds are such a potent symbol of hope? Is it because they have wings and can fly away from their troubles? Is it because they communicate by singing? Because they're heard most often in the early morning of a bright new day? Because their arrival after a long winter signals that spring is on the way? Because they are so beautiful and delicate? Maybe all of the above. I think it's interesting that though birds seem so carefree, they have all of the same struggles that other creatures do. They have to work hard to build homes, raise and feed their young, avoid predators, find enough food to eat, and make long journeys just to survive. Do we ignore these factors when we associate them with hope and freedom? Or do they make the symbol that much stronger? The birds have all sorts of troubles, but still find time to sing and make the world a prettier place.

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking by Emily Dickinson

If I Can Stop One Heart From Breaking

If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
If I can ease one life the aching,
Or cool one pain,
Or help one fainting robin
Unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
--Emily Dickinson

This is not precisely a love poem -- I'm thinking of revising my schedule since I have a lot of poems that don't fit into the listed categories. Anyway, here's another from the Belle of Amherst (though not our Amherst). I think that I'm drawn to her poems because of their simplicity. She doesn't try to take on the whole range of human emotions in one poem, or explore a deep metaphor. She picks one small thing and treats it carefully. You could paraphrase this poem to sum up her literary philosophy - If I can write about one thing well, I shall not have written in vain.

One thing I struggle with in my life is taking this philosophy (the original one, not the literary one I just made up) to the extreme. The flawed thinking goes like this: If a good deed is what keeps a life from being lived in vain, then any time not spent doing things for other people is living in vain, and therefore, if I'm not helping someone I'm a waste of space and not worthy of even being alive. I have to work hard to remember that while I can do many things, I physically can't do everything for everyone, and that I have to have the physical and mental resources available to do be able to do anything for anyone, and that means that I have to take care of myself too. Though at times, this train of thought devolves as well, and taking care of myself becomes one more duty that I have to do in order to be able to do more for everybody else.

Another conundrum I have is whether to tell people about all the skills I have, since if they know that I can do virtually anything well, they'll end up asking me to do more than I'm able to. This happens at church a lot. Each auxiliary is only asking me to do one little thing, but I end up leading the choir, going on splits with the missionaries, teaching a homemaking craft, and helping out with girls camp all at the same time and it's too much.

But then if I don't tell people that I can do things, I end up feeling bad too. Take the ward activity we had this weekend, for instance. It was advertised as a "Hoe Down" with dancing. The only dancing they ended up having was one single solitary line dance, badly taught so that half the dancers lost track of where they were every time through. If they had asked me, I could have taught six or seven line dances and/or called some square dancing (complete with music from Daddy's old reel to reel tapes (Oh Johnny Oh!).

But then I stop and remind myself that the poem says stop ONE heart from breaking. I've already managed that, so now my entire life is not in vain, and anything else I do is gravy. Gravy is nice though...especially on meat 'n potata's...though not on ice cream.

Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf by Roald Dahl

Little Red Riding Hood and the Wolf

As soon as Wolf began to feel
That he would like a decent meal,
He went and knocked on Grandma's door.
When Grandma opened it, she saw
The sharp white teeth, the horrid grin,
And Wolfie said, "May I come in?"
Poor Grandmamma was terrified,
"He's going to eat me up!" she cried.
And she was absolutely right.
He ate her up in one big bite.
But Grandmamma was small and tough,
And Wolfie wailed, "That's not enough!
I haven't yet begun to feel
That I have had a decent meal!"
He ran around the kitchen yelping,
"I've got to have a second helping!"

Then added with a frightful leer,
"I'm therefore going to wait right here
Till Little Miss Red Riding Hood
Comes home from walking in the wood."

He quickly put on Grandma's clothes,
(Of course he hadn't eaten those).
He dressed himself in coat and hat.
He put on shoes, and after that,
He even brushed and curled his hair,
Then sat himself in Grandma's chair.

In came the little girl in red.
She stopped. She stared. And then she said,
"What great big ears you have, Grandma."
"All the better to hear you with,"
the Wolf replied.
"What great big eyes you have, Grandma."
said Little Red Riding Hood.
"All the better to see you with,"
the Wolf replied.
He sat there watching her and smiled.
He thought, I'm going to eat this child.
Compared with her old Grandmamma,
She's going to taste like caviar.

Then Little Red Riding Hood said,
"But Grandma, what a lovely great big
furry coat you have on."

"That's wrong!" cried Wolf.
"Have you forgot
To tell me what BIG TEETH I've got?
Ah well, no matter what you say,
I'm going to eat you anyway."

The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers.
She whips a pistol from her knickers.
She aims it at the creature's head,
And bang bang bang, she shoots him dead.

A few weeks later, in the wood,
I came across Miss Riding Hood.
But what a change! No cloak of red,
No silly hood upon her head.
She said, "Hello, and do please note
My lovely furry wolfskin coat."
--Roald Dahl

Roald Dahl wrote several of these fairy tale poems in his book Revolting Rhymes. It's a fun read for kids that are old enough to know the original stories well enough to get a kick out of them being turned on their heads. I first found this poem in a collection of children's stories and poems by famous authors. I used it as one of the poems I read to my 4th grade Drama and Dance classes during Poetry Week at Lowell.

There are several things I like about the poem. First, it has an easy conversational rhythm that is just prominent enough to remind you that somebody worked on it and decided on each of these words. At the same time, he sacrifices his rhythm entirely when the characters are speaking their traditional lines. The point of this poem is that we know how the story goes -- until it goes in a completely different direction. Leaving in lines like, "All the better to hear you with," lulls the reader into a ice false sense of security.

Then there are the rhymes. Mostly, they're single syllable solid rhymes that any child might come up with in a rhyming game. Occasionally, though, he throws in something that doesn't quite work unless you've got an accent that tacks r's on to the end of some words that have them and drops them from the ends of words that do (for example, "Compared with her old Grandmamma, She's going to taste like caviar).

Finally, of course, there's the surprise ending: "The small girl smiles. One eyelid flickers. She whips a pistol from her knickers." Suddenly, she's not the familiar little girl from the fairy tale anymore. But in a very few words she's something just as familiar -- she's the sharp-shooting, sly, wise-cracking hero of the Westerns and cop shows we see all the time on TV. It's so masterfully done that it's no wonder his works are still very popular among readers and moviegoers alike.