Part 4
Amber and gold, Deep-stained in mystery, And the colours of mystery, Inapprehensible, Golden like wet-gold, Amber like a woman of Arabia That has in her breast The forsaken treasures of old Time, Love and Destruction, Oblivion and Decay, And immemorial tins, Tin upon tin, Old boots and bottles that hold no more Their richness in them. And I----
We might do a good deal more of this descriptive business, bringing in something about dead bodies, mud of course being full of dead bodies. But we had better go on. We strike now the personal note:--
And I, I too am no more than a bottle, An empty bottle, Heaving helpless on the mud of life, Without a label and without a cork, Empty I am, yet no man troubles To return me. And why? Because there is not sixpence on me. Bah! The sun goes down, The birds wheel home, But I remain here, Drifting empty under the night, Drifting----
When one is well away with this part of the poem it is almost impossible to stop. When you are writing in metre you come eventually to the eighth line of the last verse and you have to stop; but in _vers libre_ you have no assistance of that kind. This particular poem is being written for instructional purposes in a journal of limited capacity, so it will probably have to stop fairly soon; but in practice it would go on for a long time yet. In any case, however, it would end in the same way, like this:--
Mud, mud, Nothing but mud, O, my God!
That reasserts, you see, in a striking manner, the original _motif_, and somehow expresses in a few words the poignant melancholy of the whole poem. Another advantage in finishing a long poem, such as this would be, in the same way as you began it is that it makes it clear to the reader that he is still reading the same poem. Sometimes, and especially in _vers libre_ of an emotional and digressive character, the reader has a hideous fear that he has turned over two pages and got into another poem altogether. This little trick reassures him; and if you are writing _vers libre_ you must not lose any legitimate opportunity of reassuring the reader.
To treat the same theme in metre and rhyme will be a much more difficult matter. The great thing will be to avoid having _mud_ at the end of a line, for the reasons already given. We had better have long ten-syllable lines, and we had better have four of them in each verse. Gray wrote an elegy in that metre which has given general satisfaction. We will begin:--
As I came down through Chintonbury Hole The tide rolled out from Wurzel to the sea.
In a serious poem of this kind it is essential to establish a locality atmosphere at once; therefore one mentions a few places by name to show that one has been there. If the reader has been there too he will like the poem, and if he hasn’t no harm is done. The only thing is that locally Chintonbury is probably pronounced Chun’bury, in which case it will not scan. One cannot be too careful about that sort of thing. However, as an illustration Chintonbury will serve.
It is now necessary to show somehow in this verse that the poem is about mud; it is also necessary to organize a rhyme for “Hole” and a rhyme for “sea,” and of the two this is the more important. I shall do it like this:--
And like the unclothèd levels of my soul The yellow mud lay mourning nakedly.
There is a good deal to be said against these two lines. For one thing I am not sure that the mud ought to be yellow; it will remind people of Covent Garden Tube Station, and no one wants to be reminded of that. However, it does suggest the inexpressible biliousness of the theme.
I think “levels” is a little weak. It is a good poetical word and doesn’t mean anything in particular; but we have too many words of that kind in this verse. “Deserts” would do, except that deserts and mud don’t go very well together. However, that sort of point must be left to the individual writer.
At first sight the student may think that “naked_ly_” is not a good rhyme for “sea.” Nor is it. If you do that kind of thing in comic poetry no Editor will give you money. But in serious poetry it is quite legitimate; in fact it is rather encouraged. That is why serious poetry is so much easier than comic poetry. In my next lecture I shall deal with comic poetry.
I don’t think I shall finish this poem now. The fact is, I am not feeling so inspired as I was. It is very hot. Besides, I have got hay-fever and keep on sneezing. Constant sneezing knocks all the inspiration out of a man. At the same time a tendency to hay-fever is a sign of intellect and culture, and all the great poets were martyrs to it. That is why none of them grew very lyrical about hay. Corn excited them a good deal, and even straw, but hay hardly ever.
So the student must finish this poem as best he can, and I shall be glad to consider and criticize what he does, though I may say at once that there will be no prize. It ought to go on for another eight verses or so, though that is not essential in these days, for if it simply won’t go on it can just stop in the middle. Only then it must be headed “MUD: A Fragment.”
And in any case, in the bottom left-hand corner, the student must write:
_Chintonbury, May 28th, 1920._
II
In this lecture I propose to explain how comic poetry is written.
Comic poetry, as I think I pointed out in my last lecture, is much more difficult than serious poetry, because there are all sorts of rules. In serious poetry there are practically no rules, and what rules there are may be shattered with impunity as soon as they become at all inconvenient. Rhyme, for instance. A well-known Irish poet once wrote a poem which ran like this:--
“Hands, do as you’re bid, Draw the balloon of the mind That bellies and sags in the wind Into its narrow shed.”
This was printed in a serious paper; but if the poet had sent it up to a humorous paper (as he might well have done) the Editor would have said, “Do you pronounce it _shid_?” and the poet would have had no answer. You see, he started out, as serious poets do, with every intention of organizing a good rhyme for _bid_--or perhaps for _shed_--but he found this was more difficult than he expected. And then, no doubt, somebody drove all his cattle on to his croquet-lawn, or somebody else’s croquet-lawn, and he abandoned the struggle. I shouldn’t complain of that; what I do complain of is the _deceitfulness_ of the whole thing. If a man can’t find a better rhyme than _shed_ for a simple word like _bid_, let him give up the idea of having a rhyme at all; let him write--
Hands, do as you’re TOLD,
or
Into its narrow HUT (or even HANGAR).
That at least would be an honest confession of failure. But to write _bid_ and _shed_ is simply a sinister attempt to gain credit for writing a rhymed poem _without doing it at all_.
Well, that kind of thing is not allowed in comic poetry. When I opened my well-known military epic, “Riddles of the King,” with the couplet--
Full dress (with decorations) will be worn When General Officers are shot at dawn.
the Editor wrote cuttingly in the margin, “Do you say _dorn_?”
The correct answer would have been, of course, “Well, as a matter of fact I do”; but you cannot make answers of that kind to Editors; they don’t understand it. And that brings you to the real drawback of comic poetry; it means constant truck with Editors. But I must not be drawn into a discussion about them. In a special lecture--two special lectures---- Quite.
The lowest form of comic poetry is, of course, the Limerick; but it is a mistake to suppose that it is the easiest. It is more difficult to finish a Limerick than to finish anything in the world. You see, in a Limerick you cannot begin:--
There was an old man of West _Ham_
and go on
Who formed an original _plan_.
finishing the last line with _limb_ or _hen_ or _bun_. A serious writer could do that with impunity, and indeed with praise, but the more exacting traditions of Limerical composition insist that, having fixed on _Ham_ as the end of the first line, you must find two other rhymes to _Ham_, and good rhymes too. This is why there is so large a body of uncompleted Limericks. For many years I have been trying to finish the following unfinished masterpiece:--
There was a young man who said “_Hell!_ I don’t think I feel very well----”
That was composed on the Gallipoli Peninsula; in fact it was composed under fire; indeed I remember now that we were going over the top at the time. But in the quiet days of Peace I can get no further with it. It only shows how much easier it is to begin a Limerick than to end it.
Apart from the subtle phrasing of the second line this poem is noteworthy because it is cast in the classic form. All the best Limericks are about a young man, or else an old one, who said some short sharp monosyllable in the first line. For example:--
There was a young man who said “_If_----
Now what are the rhymes to _if_? Looking up my _Rhyming Dictionary_ I see they are:--
cliff hieroglyph hippogriff skiff sniff stiff tiff whiff
Of these one may reject _hippogriff_ at once, as it is in the wrong metre. _Hieroglyph_ is attractive, and we might do worse than:--
There was a young man who said “If One murdered a hieroglyph----”
Having, however, no very clear idea of the nature of a hieroglyph I am afraid that this will also join the long list of unfinished masterpieces. Personally I should incline to something of this kind:--
There was a young man who said “If I threw myself over a cliff I do not believe _One_ person would grieve----”
Now the last line is going to be very difficult. The tragic loneliness, the utter disillusion of this young man is so vividly outlined in the first part of the poem that to avoid an anticlimax a really powerful last line is required. _But there are no powerful rhymes._ A serious poet, of course, could finish up with _death_ or _faith_, or some powerful word like that. But we are limited to _skiff_, _sniff_, _tiff_ and _whiff_. And what can you do with those? Students, I hope, will see what they can do. My own tentative solution is printed, by arrangement with the Publisher, on another page (87). I do not pretend that it is perfect; in fact it seems to me to strike rather a vulgar note. At the same time it is copyright, and must not be set to music in the U.S.A.
I have left little time for comic poetry other than Limericks, but most of the above profound observations are equally applicable to both, except that in the case of the former it is usual to think of the _last_ line first. Having done that you think of some good rhymes to the last line and hang them up in mid-air, so to speak. Then you think of something to say which will fit on to those rhymes. It is just like Limericks, only you start at the other end; indeed it is much easier than Limericks, though, I am glad to say, nobody believes this. If they did it would be even harder to get money out of Editors than it is already.
We will now write a comic poem about Spring Cleaning. We will have verses of six lines, five ten-syllable lines and one six-syllable. As the last line for the first verse I suggest
Where have they put my hat?
We now require two rhymes to _hat_. In the present context _flat_ will obviously be one, and _cat_ or _drat_ will be another. Our resources at present are therefore as follows:--
Line 1-- ---- “ 2-- ... flat. “ 3-- ---- “ 4-- ... cat or drat. “ 5-- ---- “ 6-- Where have they put my hat?
As for the blank lines, _wife_ is certain to come in sooner or later, and we had better put that down, supported by _life_ (“What a life!”), and _knife_ or _strife_. There are no other rhymes, except _rife_, which is a useless word.
We now hold another parade:---
Terumti--umti--umti--umti--wife, Terumti--umti--umti--umti--flat; Teroodle--oodle--oodle--What a life! Terumti--oodle--umti--oodle--cat (or drat); Teroodle--umti--oodle--umti--knife (or strife); Where have they put my hat?
All that remains now is to fill in the umti-oodles, and I can’t be bothered to do that. There is nothing in it.
III
In this lecture I shall deal with the production of Lyrics, Blank Verse and (if I am allowed) Hymns (Ancient and Modern).
First we will write a humorous lyric for the Stage, bearing in mind, of course, the peculiar foibles, idiosyncrasies and whims of Mr. Alf Bubble, who will sing it (we hope). Mr. Bubble’s principal source of fun is the personal appearance of his fellow-citizens. Whenever a new character comes on the stage he makes some remark about the character’s “face.” Whenever he does this the entire audience rolls about on its seat, and cackles and gurgles and wipes its eyes, and repeats in a hoarse whisper, with variations of its own, the uproarious phrasing of Mr. Bubble’s remark. If Mr. Bubble says, “But look at his _face_!” the audience, fearful lest its neighbours may have missed the cream of the thing, splutters hysterically in the intervals of eye-wiping and coughing and choking and sneezing, “He said, ‘_What_ a face!’” or “He said, ‘_Did_ you _see_ his face?’” or “He said, ‘Is it a _face_?’”
All this we have got to remember when we are writing a lyric for Mr. Bubble. Why Mr. Bubble of all people should find so much mirth in other men’s faces I can’t say, but there it is. If we write a song embodying this great joke we may be certain that it will please Mr. Bubble; so we will do it.
Somebody, I think, will have made some slighting remark about the Government, and that will give the cue for the first verse, which will be political.
We will begin:--
Thompson ...
I don’t know why the people in humorous lyrics are always called Thompson (or Brown), but they are.
Thompson, being indigent, Thought that it was time he went Into England’s Parliament, To earn his daily bread....
That is a joke against Parliament, you see--Payment of Members and all that; it is good. At the same time it is usual to reserve one’s jokes for the chorus. The composer, you see, reserves his tune for the chorus, and, if the author puts too much into the verse, there will be trouble between their Unions.
Now we introduce the _face-motif_:--
Thompson’s features were not neat; When he canvassed dahn our street Things were said I won’t repeat, And my old moth-ah said:--
This verse, you notice, is both in metre and rhyme; I don’t know how that has happened; it ought not to be.
Now we have the chorus:--
“Oh, Mr. Thompson, It isn’t any good; I shouldn’t like to vote for you, So I won’t pretend I should; I know that you’re the noblest Of all the human race....”
That shows the audience that _face_ is coming very soon, and they all get ready to burst themselves.
“I haven’t a doubt, if you get in, The Golden Age will soon begin-- But I DON’T LIKE--your FACE.”
* SOLUTION: It comes of my having a sniff (see page 83).
At this point several of the audience will simply slide off their seats on to the floor and wallow about there, snorting.
The next verse had better be a love-verse.
Thompson wooed a lovely maid Every evening in the shade, Meaning, I am much afraid, To hide his ugly head...
_Head_ is not very good, I admit, but we must have _said_ in the last line, and as we were mad enough to have rhymes in the first verse we have got to go on with it.
But when he proposed one night-- Did it by electric light-- Mabel, who retained her sight, Just looked at him and said:--
Now you see the idea?
“Oh, Mr. Thompson, It isn’t any good; I shouldn’t like to marry you, So I won’t pretend I should; I know that you have riches And a house in Eaton Place ...
(Here all the audience pulls out its handkerchief)
I haven’t a doubt that you must be The properest possible match for me, But I DON’T LIKE--your FACE.”
I have got another verse to this song, but I will not give it to you now, as I think the Editor is rather bored with it. It is fortunate for Mr. Bubble that he does not have to perform before an audience of Editors.
Having written the lyric the next thing to do is to get a composer to compose music for it, and then you get it published. This is most difficult, as composers are people who don’t ever keep appointments, and music publishers like locking up lyrics in drawers till the mice have got at the chorus and the whole thing is out of date.
By the time that this song is ready Mr. Bubble may quite possibly have exhausted the _face-motif_ altogether and struck a new vein. Then we shall have wasted our labour. In that case we will arrange to have it buried in somebody’s grave (Mr. Bubble’s for choice), and in A.D. 2000 it will be dug up by antiquaries and deciphered. Even a lyric like this may become an Old Manuscript in time. I ought to add that I myself have composed the music for this lyric, but I really cannot undertake to explain composing as well as poetry.
The serious lyric or Queen’s Hall ballad is a much easier affair. But I must first warn the student that there are some peculiar customs attaching to this traffic which may at first sight appear discouraging. When you have written a good lyric and induced someone to compose a tune for it your first thought will be, “I will get Mr. Throstle to sing this, and he will pay me a small fee or royalty per performance”; and this indeed would be a good arrangement to make. The only objection is that Mr. Throstle, so far from paying any money to the student, will expect to be paid about fifty pounds by the student for singing his lyric. I do not know the origin of this quaint old custom, but the student had better not borrow any money on the security of his first lyric.
For a serious or Queen’s Hall lyric all that is necessary is to think of some natural objects like the sun, the birds, the flowers or the trees, mention them briefly in the first verse and then in the second verse draw a sort of analogy or comparison between the natural object and something to do with love. The verses can be extremely short, since in this class of music the composer is allowed to spread himself indefinitely and can eke out the tiniest words.
Here is a perfect lyric I have written. It is called, quite simply, _Evening_:--
Sunshine in the forest, Blossom on the tree, And all the brave birds singing For you--and me.
Kisses in the sunshine, Laughter in the dew, And all the brave world singing For me--and you.
I see now that the dew has got into the second verse, so it had better be called quite simply “The Dawn.”
You notice the artistic parallelism of this lyric; I mean, “The brave birds singing” in one verse and “The brave _world_ singing” in the next, That is a tip I got from Hebrew poetry, especially the Psalms: “One day telleth another; and one night certifieth another,” and so on. It is a useful trick to remember, and is employed freely by many modern writers, the author of “The King’s Regulations,” for example, who in Regulation 1680 has the fine line:--
“Disembarkations are carried out in a similar manner to embarkations.”
That goes well to the Chant in C major by Mr. P. Humphreys.
But I am wandering. It is becoming clear to me now that I shall not have time to do Blank Verse or Hymns (Ancient and Modern) in this lecture, after all, so I will give you a rough outline of that special kind of lyric, the Topical Song. All that is required for this class of work is a good refrain or central idea; when you have got that, you see how many topics you can tack on to it. But if you can tack on Mr. Winston Churchill you need not bother about the others.
Our central idea will be “Rations,” and the song will be called “Heaps and Heaps”:--
Now Jimmy Brown
(always begin like that)
Now Jimmy Brown He went to town, But all the people said, “We’re rationed in our jam, you know, Likewise our cheese and bread; But we’ve lot of politicians And Ministers galore, We’ve got enough of them and, gee! We don’t want any more.”
_Chorus._
We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of Mr. SMILLIE (Loud cheers); We’ve had heaps and heaps and heaps of our M.P. (Significant chuckles); At political carouses We’ve had heaps of (paper) houses But though we WAIT, no houses do we SEE (Bitter laughter). The khaki-boys were good enough for fighting, But now we hear the khaki-coat is barred; If they ration us in Mr. WINSTON CHURCHILL, Why, anyone may have my ration-card! (Uproar.)
All you have to do now is to work in some more topics. I don’t think I shall do any more now. The truth is, that that verse has rather taken it out of me.
I feel all barren.
The Book of Jonah
(_As almost any modern Irishman would have written it_)
(_The circumlocution of the play--there is no action--takes place I don’t know where and I can’t think when. But the scene is the corner of the village square. Mrs. Joner is discovered sitting in front of her house, knitting, washing socks, or perhaps just thinking. In the distance can be seen the figure of a male statue, very new, with a long inscription on the pedestal. Timothy James O’Leary walks by, gazing at the statue._)
_T.J._ Good day to you, Bridget Ellen Joner. And it’s many’s the day since I was seeing you. (_With a jerk of his head._) And isn’t it the fine statue you have on himself there?
_Mrs. J._ It is so. Though, indeed, it is like no husband I ever had--or ever will have, I’m hoping.
_T.J._ It is not--and why would it be? Who wants likenesses in a statue when they have all that writing and printing below to tell who it is above--(_piously_)--“Michael Flannigan Joner, that gave his life for his fellow-travelers”?
_Mrs. J._ Aye, it was the only time he ever gave anything away in his life, to my knowing, unless it would be them sermons and prophecies that he would be handing to the folk in the public street, and none wanting them any more than the cows in the bog.
_T. J._ Ah, it was a queer thing entirely! Have you heard any more now what was the way of it, for I am not understanding how it was at all.
_Mrs. J._ It was the sailors of the ship that did be saying they would sail the ship no longer when they found that himself was in the Post Office, and him travelling for the Government. And there was a great storm and the ship was tossing the way you wouldn’t know was she a ship at all, or a cork that a boy throws in the water out of a bottle; and the sailors said it was the English Government--and why would it not be?--and they cried out against himself and said it was having the ship sunk on them he would be, and he rose up out of his bed and “Is it sinking the ship I would be?” he said, and he threw himself over the side into the water--and that was the way of it.
_T. J._ (_reflectively_). And him with the rheumatics--God rest his soul! And have you any pension taken from the Government?
_Mrs. J._ I have so. And it’s worth more to me he is now he’s dead than ever he was when he was alive with all his praying and preaching and prophesying----
_T. J._ Maybe it’s thinking of marrying again you might be?
_Mrs. J._ And how would I be marrying again, Timothy James, and I a lone widow woman with no money to pay for the roof over my head--let alone weddings?
_T. J._ And why would you not be? Sure, you have the pension for himself, and what better use can a woman find for a pension that is for her man that is dead than to get another that is alive and well?
_Mrs. J._ Will you tell me now where I would find a husband that would be the equal of a man who gave his life for his fellow-travellers--and him with the rheumatics?