Wildwood Flowers

Oh, I’ll twine with my mingles and waving black hair / With the roses so red and the lilies so fair
And the myrtle so bright with the emerald hue / The pale amanita and eyes look like blue
Oh I’ll dance, I will sing and my laugh shall be gay / I will charm every heart, in his crown I will sway
When I woke from my dreaming, my idols were clay / All portion of love had all flown away
Oh he taught me to love him and promised to love / And to cherish me over all others above
How my heart is now wond’ring no mis’ry can tell / He’s left me no warning, no words of farewell
Oh, he taught me to love him and called me his flow’rThat was blooming to cheer him through life’s dreary hour
Oh, I long to see him and regret the dark hour / He’s gone and neglected this pale wildwood flow’r

The Carter Family: 1935

The Carter Family

The Carter Family: Helen, Anita, June

Flatt & Scruggs

Emmy Lou Harris

Rosanne Cash

Reese Witherspoon

 

 

 

Popular Poem

I am surprised, as I look at the blog statistics, to see that this poem, written in the early 1800’s, is one of the most often-viewed items at ConnectHook. I am not sure why. I imagine acned high-schoolers Googling furiously to finish Social Studies papers at 11 PM being directed to my poetry blog by the data-driven mechanisms of the internet. But it is encouraging to know that so many unknown readers are taking in this profound and timely message in elegantly-phrased rhyme, from an American Master. Let’s hear it for decasyllabic couplets:

A Warning to America

Philip Freneau (1752 – 1832)

Removed from Europe’s feuds, a hateful scene

(Thank heaven, such wastes of ocean roll between)

Where tyrant kings in bloody schemes combine,

And each forbodes in tears, Man is no longer mine !

Glad we recall the Day that bade us first

Spurn at their power, and shun their wars accurst;

Pitted and gaffed no more for England’s glory

Nor made the tag-rag-bobtail of their story.

Something still wrong in every system lurks.

Something imperfect haunts all human works —

Wars must be hatched, unthinking men to fleece,

Or we, this day, had been in perfect peace,

With double bolts our Janus’ temple shut.

Nor terror reigned through each backwoodsman’s hut,

No rattling drums assailed the peasant’s ear

Nor Indian yells disturbed our sad frontier,

Nor gallant chiefs, ‘gainst Indian hosts combined

Scaped from the trap — to leave their tails behind.

Peace to all feuds ! — and come the happier day

When Reason’s sun shall light us on our way ;

When erring man shall all his Rights retrieve.

No despots rule him, and no priests deceive,

Till then, Columbia ! — watch each stretch of power.

Nor sleep too soundly at the midnight hour,

By flattery won, and lulled by soothing strains,

Silenus took his nap — and waked in chains —

In a soft dream of smooth delusion led

Unthinking Gallia bowed her drooping head

To tyrants’ yokes — and met such bruises there.

As now must take three ages to repair;

Then keep the paths of dear bought freedom clear,

Nor slavish systems grant admittance here.

Defunkt Poetry

You are strangling me with your love
in your hotel room of permanent disorder
I cry for help—for open air / you close the window and I pass out
between your walls / in your arms . . .

I slept alone for many whole nights / but one more minute / and I will kill you
you look at me as if you had no eyes / but when you touch me / I have no skin

You made love to a photocopy / and left the room / in perfect order
by leaning out of the window / and traveling / by ambulance

strangling me with your love…  (x 4)

You are strangling me with your love
in your hotel room of permanent disorder
I cry for help—for open air / you close the window and I pass out
between your walls / in your arms
(chokin’ to death)

strangling me with your love
(chokin’ . . .)

strangling me with your love
strangling me with your love

⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ DEFUNKT ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ ⊕ 

…and for you funky Germanophiles

 

as The Writer To His Blog, so


The Author To Her Book

Anne Bradstreet (1612 – 1672)

Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth did’st by my side remain,
Till snatcht from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call.
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight,
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot, still made a flaw.
I stretcht thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet.
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save home-spun cloth, i’ th’ house I find.
In this array, ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands, beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known.
If for thy father askt, say, thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.