Because we felt like it....

This National Poetry Month is really growing on us.....

JABBERWOCKY

Lewis Carroll

(from Through the Looking-Glass and What Alice Found There, 1872)

`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
  The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
  The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:
  Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
  And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
  The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
  And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
  The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
  He went galumphing back.

"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
  Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
  He chortled in his joy.


`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
  Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
  And the mome raths outgrabe.

April is National Poetry Month

A Reader's Respite makes no claim of knowledge in the poetry department.  In college, we deftly ducked and dodged, avoiding any class with a reference to that mystical prose that eluded our understanding.  No, not for us the angst-filled facial expressions, black clothing and ever-present cigarette and glass of cheap wine.

We now suspect, however, that we were missing out on something really good.

While we may not know the first thing about poetry (other than, evidently, the words do not *have* to rhyme...gee, who knew?), every so often we come across some verses that resonate.  Lately, A Reader's Respite has been reading an awful lot about the Vietnam War, thanks to the War Through the Generations Reading Challenge whose focus this year is that ugly conflict that took place in Southeast Asia.

We recently found a non-fiction compilation of letters sent home by U.S. soldiers stationed in Vietnam during the war and devoured the book in a day or two.  The letters were heartbreaking.  But included in some of these letters were poems....many of them were striking.  A Reader's Respite will share a few of them with you throughout the remainder of April in honor of National Poetry Month.

So now that you know that this following poem was chosen by a poetic-imbecile (that would be us), read on.....

Ambush

One night we wandered far and long

To kill young men who, brave and strong

And precious to their loved, their own,

Were coming to kill us.

Aching, filthy, weak, afraid,

Creeping through the dripping shades,

Searching forms through jungle haze,

We stalked those men as prey.

A stinging, steaming, humming hell

Tried our flesh and pride and will,

But we walked and watched and waited, until

We froze - and saw them coming.

Quietly picking their way along,

Far from their loved ones, far from home,

They seemed to be dreaming.  One muttered a song,

And they carried their weapons slack.

I fired first!  The shattering blast

Unleashed a deafening force that smashed

And ripped and shook, and seemed to last

Till the very Earth was torn.

Then, silently, coldly, on command, 

We plucked among that gory band

And left, with a simple wave of the hand,

The offal to the leeches.

Now jungle covers the stench and sight

Of the wrecks we left behind that night,

Yet we, too, die, while winning such fights,

From a sickness caused by slaughter.

And when we next go out again

At night to kill more killer men,

Or else be hunted to our end,

Will it prove The Cause is ours?

How can we ever "know we're right,"

Lost in this dark, primeval Night?

Must we kill them, as beasts must fight,

Until the Earth is torn?

Written by 1Lt. James McLeroy who spent six months serving in Vietnam in 1967.  Reproduced in Bernard Edelman's compilation, Dear America: Letters Home from Vietnam.


A Reader's Respite may not know the first thing about poetry, but we know something powerful when we read it, no?  And for all of you poetry experts out there, this is your chance to edu-ma-cate us:  what is the name of the form this poem takes?  Cause we likes it.  Lots.

Prepare for April 2010.....

What's happening in April, you ask?

That's right.  National Poetry Month is coming up quickly.  And this year, A Reader's Respite is doggedly determined to overcome our general fear and loathing of that which we don't understand:  Poetry.

You see, aside from our strange ability to recite Tennyson's The Charge of the Light Brigade in it's entirety from memory, A Reader's Respite has managed to avoid poetry in all shapes and forms.  We suspect that this is yet another result of our sub-par primary education and if it were possible to sue a high school English teacher for gaps in education, Mr. Bellings would be in deep trouble right about now.

We consulted several poetic geniuses and acknowledged experts on the subject and they all recommended the following complicated solution:

Read. More. Poetry.

Easy for them to say.  But it's true.  Everyone recommends that we read poetry, then some more poetry, and even more poetry to find what we like. What speaks to us.

One especially enjoyable place to explore poetry in a historical context is a fantastic new site comprised of poetry centering around the American Dust Bowl during the Great Depression (we admit that the historical aspect appealed to us....kind of like historical fiction, but historical poetry instead).

Rain: A Dust Bowl Story is a collection of poems - a new one each day - by poet Shelly Shaver, a college professor originally from West Texas.  The poems are not disjointed....together they reveal the story of a farming family struggling through the devastation of the Great Depression.  Each poem can be taken individually, but together they create an even bigger picture.  It's a very cool concept.

The best part about the site is that there is plenty of interaction between the reader and the author....you can ask questions, comment freely, and not feel intimidated if poetry isn't your literary forte.

So check it out....pretty cool stuff, even for us poetry illiterates.

And we'll leave you with our sad, sad claim-to-fame: 

Half a league, half a league,

Half a league onward,

All in the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!

Charge for the guns!" he said:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

"Forward, the Light Brigade!"

Was there a man dismayed?

Not tho' the soldiers knew

Someone had blundered:

Theirs was not to make reply,

Theirs was not to reason why,

Theirs was but to do and die:

Into the valley of Death

Rode the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thunder'd;

Storm'd at with shot and shell,

Boldly they rode and well,

Into the jaws of Death,

Into the mouth of Hell,

Rode the six hundred.

Flashed all their sabres bare,

Flashed as they turned in air,

Sab'ring the gunners there,

Charging and army, while

All the world wondered:

Plunging in the battery smoke,

Right through the line they broke;

Cossack and Russian

Reeled from the sabre-stroke

Shattered and sundered.

Then they rode back, but not--

Not the six hundred.

Cannon to the right of them,

Cannon to the left of them,

Cannon in front of them

Volleyed and thundered;

Stormed at with shot and shell,

While horse and hero fell,

They that fought so well,

Came thro' the jaws of Death,

Back from the mouth of Hell,

All that was left of them,

Left of the six hundred.

When can their glory fade?

Oh, the wild charge they made!

All the world wondered.

Honor the charge they made!

Honor the Light Brigade,

Noble Six Hundred!

The Charge of the Light Brigade, by Lord Alfred Tennyson