The solo career of John Lennon was a marvel. No matter how much one thought in terms of marketing and smoke and mirrors (it is, after all, rock and roll, and John was one of the most savvy of rockers), one got the sense of watching an artist grow in public, personally as well as artistically.
This song goes right to the heart of where the personal and communal converge - put succinctly it's stop the bullshit, stop the bullshit.
Thank you, John.
The literature connection in this one is John's referencing the old English nursery rhyme "Old Mother Hubbard." Fittingly, the book in which it was published, The Comic Adventures of Old Mother Hubbard and Her Dog, was believed by many to be political satire though of what is still a question for the ages.
And, finally, just in case the youtube video above disappears into the ether, here is Jakob Dylan and Dhani Harrison in pursuit of the same old truth:
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It seems somehow at once extremely odd and just right that Bob Dylan should pen a eulogy for John Lennon some thirty plus years after Lennon's death. One is, of course, tempted to see in this a bit of self-eulogizing but, if that's a case, it is not simply a eulogy for a poet/songwriter but for an entire generation who venerated him, or more precisely stated, them.
Listen to this song and, like the title song Tempest, about the Titanic, you'll be tempted to never listen to it again. And that would be a mistake. Because when you listen to it again and then again, it will grab you hard and grab you deep. It's really a lesson in songwriting - it is hardly at all like what we might have expected if someone had said, say 6 months ago, what do you think a song by Bob Dylan about John Lennon would be like.
This is Bob Dylan's John Lennon and it is, indeed, a privilege to get a glimpse into his thoughts, as it always is.
Doctor, doctor, tell me the time of day
Another bottle's empty
Another penny spent
He turned around and he slowly walked away
They shot him in the back and down he went
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
From the Liverpool docks to the red light Hamburg streets
Down in the quarry with the Quarrymen.
Playing to the big crowds Playing to the cheap seats
Another day in your life until your journey’s end
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Sailing through the tradewinds
Bound for the sun
Rags on your back just like any other slave
They tied your hands and they clamped your mouth
Wasn’t no way out of that deep dark cave
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
I heard the news today, oh boy
They hauled your ship up on the shore
Now the city’s gone dark
There is no more joy
They tore the heart right out and cut it to the core
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Put on your bags and get ‘em packed.
Leave right now you won’t be far from wrong
The sooner you go, the quicker you’ll be back
You’ve been cooped up on an island far too long
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Slow down you’re moving too fast
Come together right now over me
Your bones are weary
You’re about to breathe your last
Lord, you know how hard that it can be
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Roll on John, roll through the rain and snow
Take the righthand road and go where the buffalo roam
They’ll trap you in an ambush before you know
Too late now to sail back home
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John
Tyger, Tyger burning bright
I pray the lord my soul to keep In the forest of the night
Cover him over and let him sleep
Shine your light, move it on, you burn so bright, roll on John.
At any given moment in time, you will get a different Bob Dylan (as you will, in fact, get a different you). Here's an interview by Ed Bradley when Dylan published the autobiographical Chonicles, One. His latest interview, with Rolling Stone magazine, in which he declares he has been transfigured and asserts some very strange notions about a Sonny Barger biography published quite a ways back, is still another moment in time. When all these moments in time are strung together, is there contradicition? Why, yes. Is there transfiguration? Eh, maybe so. Is there revelation, in the artistic sense of the word? Most definitely.
And, for all you rock singers out there, your definitive lesson on how to sing lead and chew gum at the same time (while touching the soul of the world) follows:
It may seem that this selection for the Sunday Service is more of a reflection of the current state of things than a song with a literary allusion and all I can say is nobody is gonna "Mother Hubbard, soft soap" me, this late February Sunday morning.
Beatles songs, Van Morrison songs and any number of other well-known artists have been conspicuously absent from early on at the Sunday Service because of copyright issues. I've refrained from the youtube route but have decided to deviate in this instance because I just needed to hear this one.
To balance out the karma, from the other end of things (with a tip of the hat to Mr. Clark fromBeyond the Pale) here's a little something to warm the heart (Doc Cheatham - Someday You'll Be Sorry):
And this one's for John, again in the interest of balance - as angry as he could be, compassion, too, was a strong suit:
And one for John's Mom, done by son Sean, which recalls in the lyrics, a little something by Issa (haiku at bottom of linked post):
---------------------
speaking truth
the rainy season's crack
of thunder
I ran across this video around the blogosphere somewhere - on Ron Silliman's blog, perhaps, or the Allen Ginsberg Project - and was really taken with it. An all access cable show, buried deep in the Internet archive, this hasn't gotten much play and it deserves to. This is around the time - the 90s - when Allen was very taken with song and some of these work better than others. Some fine work here and, of course, it's Allen.
What really struck me in this show was his remarks regarding Shelley which just set off a sparkling of synapses (synapsi?), as he quoted the following lines from Ode to the West Wind:
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
I immediately, for some reason, thought of John Lennon's remarkable song "Across the Universe." Ginsberg's take here on shedding ambition and changing the world, on poetry's place in that world, threads these two apparently unrelated pieces together for me. Here's how he puts it:
"I keep thinking there must be some mighty rhythm with the right words that would penetrate through all consciousness and wake earth up to its terrific non-transcendent living possibility of having a continuing destiny."
"Doesn't everybody have that? ... I did, since I was a kid. ... Or penetrate through the world with some great song, cry, mantra, or poem like Shelley (in Ode to the West Wind)...
Here's the Shelley and Lennon, side by side.
ODE TO THE WEST WIND by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
I.
O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!
II.
Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail, will burst: oh hear!
III.
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!
IV.
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! if even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven
As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V.
Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is;
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies
Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an extinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unwakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Across the Universe by John Lennon
Words are flowing out like endless rain into a paper cup,
They slither while they pass, they slip away across the universe
Pools of sorrow, waves of joy are drifting through my open mind,
Possessing and caressing me.
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Images of broken light which dance before me like a million eyes,
That call me on and on across the universe,
Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letter box they
Tumble blindly as they make their way
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Sounds of laughter shades of earth are ringing
Through my open views inviting and inciting me
Limitless undying love which shines around me like a
Million suns, it calls me on and on
Across the universe
Jai guru deva om
Nothing's gonna change my world,
Nothing's gonna change my world.
Thanks, Allen, as always, for that incredible mind.
Hope everyone is enjoying the various holidays celebrated around this time of year and all have a friend, a companion, perhaps family to spend time with.
Currently, I'm reading two books on classic Chinese love poetry. I hope to be taking a longer look at these in a future post, but, for now, here is a poem of love, from the Peter Pauper Press book, Chinese Love Lyrics, to go with the idea of peace. Enjoy.
Among the Bamboos
Bring me no more flowers. Bring me cypress branches in which to plunge my face.
When the sun has disappeared behind The mountains I put on my robe of blue With the thin sleeves and go and sleep Among the bamboos she loved.
Tu Fu translated by Gertrude L. Joerissen
in night's winter rain a face... his parents' gate
This week folks everywhere will remember John Lennon on his birthday, October 9th. For this edition of Issa's Sunday Service, The Beatles' song "Paperback Writer" is featured.
Why "Paperback Writer" you might ask? Isn't that a Macca tune? Indeed, it is. However, as the story goes, John helped him finish it up and there are a couple of touches, which seem at once distinctly John and definitely litrock material. Here is, for the time, the brilliant first verse:
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book? It took me years to write, will you take a look? It's based on a novel by a man named Lear And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer, Paperback writer.
If Lennon only contributed one word to the song, chances are that word was "Lear," after one of his famed influences in all-things verse, Edward Lear. John's propensity for punning and word play, which we already saw in a previous ISS selection, find a direct antecedent in Lear and making him the author of "a dirty story by a dirty man" was certainly right up John's street. In addition the background vocal by John and George singing the children's tune "Frere Jacques" is more than likely a John touch and perhaps one of the most brilliant throwaway bits ever. I probably heard this song 100's of times before I realized what was going on about 20 years ago and now I can barely hear anything else when I listen to it.
John, of course, was the literary one, the Beatle who published a book under his own name, In His Own Write, which was heavily influenced by Lear, Lewis Carroll, James Joyce, and Bob Dylan. I always thought the song was, on some level, a little tweak of John by Paul, but the written record says otherwise, so I'll stand down on that one. In any case, the irony swings both ways, so to speak.
**********************************
This week's poem is aptly titled "Sermon" from Lilliput Review #34, June 1992, and is followed by a poem of Master Issa, from a few years before that. The Lillie poem is a "Brobdingnag Feature Poem" (an occasional poem over 10 lines that finds its way into the mag) by another master, Albert Huffstickler. Enjoy.
Sermon
All the old, grizzled men sleeping it off in alleys. Cold. Cold. There should be a way for ancient wine-soaked joints not to be cold. There should be a warm room where they can sit together immersed in their communal stink. nodding away the hours
This is our disgrace (and I don't ever forget it): that there is no room in the richest nation in history for our fractured ancients to sit nodding away the hours warming their wine-soaked joints immersed in their communal stink.
This week's LitRock number on Issa's Sunday Serviceis the Beatles'sI Am the Walrus, which takes the title character from Lewis Carroll's "The Walrus and the Carpenter" poem from the Alice book Through The Looking Glass. There is also the reference to Poe and the infamous fadeout ending with a recitation of King Lear courtesy of a BBC broadcast that happened to be on sometime during the recording sessions . Lennon was hitting all the stops on this one. Here's the lyrics.
This week's featured poem on the count up from Lilliput Review#1 comes from issue #16, October 1990. Enjoy.
A Short Poem
A short poem
should reach
at least
the left hand of God.
Daniel McCaffrey
from this year on
in my left hand, umbrella-hat
in the right, knapsack
In next Thursday's post, I'll announce the winner of the Basho Haiku Challenge. The response was so encouraging that my intent is to issue a mini-chapbook of a selection of about 20 of the poems (plus the winner) of the nearly 200 poems submitted. Since this was not part of the original Challenge, I will be upping the prize ante. The winner will receive a brand new copy of Basho: the Complete Haiku, translated and annotated by Jane Reichhold, plus two copies of the anthology collection and a 15 issue subscription to Lilliput Review. Other poets featured in the anthology collection will also receive 2 copies of the mini-chapbook and a 6 issue subscription (or a 6 issue extension of their current subscription).
I expect the anthology collection will appear after the 1st of the year. If all goes well, I can see this possibly becoming an annual event. Stay tuned for further details.
Tonight is the first meeting of the new poetry group I will be co-moderating with my colleague and formidable poet, William the Silent. The discussion group, 3 Poems By ..., tonight will be looking at three Emily Dickinson poems:
The more I immerse myself in these 3 little gems, the more I feel out to sea. They seem as infinite in depth and resonance as the deepest, darkest ocean. My amazement and awe is total and absolute. Simply put, she was a genius beyond par.
If anyone shows up tonight, it should be an interesting discussion. I'm not sure an hour could begin to cover it.
I've finished up David Landis Barnhill's Basho's Haiku, a selection of over 700 haiku translated into English. There are a number of comprehensive reviews out there: one at Hokku and another at Modern Haiku, both of which make interesting points and feature a number of haiku from the collection. In addition, a generous selection of the poems may be previewed at google books. I've also learned from google books that Landis Barnhill has translated Basho's prose, in a collection entitled Basho's Journey: the Literary Prose of Matsuo Basho. A nice selection of Basho's haibun may be viewed there.
Looking over my notes, I see that I marked 35 haiku in this collection for further review. The collection itself is very readable, the notes are somewhat cursory and overall there is a minimal amount awkwardness in the translations. As I've alluded to in previous posts, my inability to feel a more substantial connection to these poems seems to be the result of my own cultural and historical shortcomings. For me, many of the ideas behind the poems are either untranslatable or strictly period pieces, ephemeral in that sense. Here's a selection from the 35 that did grab me:
on the scales— ----Kyoto and Edo balanced --------in this spring of a thousand years
the bell fades ----the blossoms' fragrance ringing: -----------early evening
this mallet ----long ago was it a camellia? --------a plum tree?
I've hit the bottom ----of my bag of discretion: --------year's end
misty rain, ----a day with Mt. Fuji unseen: --------so enchanting
an orchid's scent— ----its incense perfuming --------a butterfly's wings
The above is a selection from Basho's early work. These are undeniably beautiful, imagistic pieces. Here are some from the later part of his life:
may the hokku that come ----be unlike our faces: --------first cherry blossoms
on a journey through the word, ----tilling a small field, ---------back and forth
in the plum's fragrance ----the single term "the past" ---------holds such pathos
know my heart: ----with a blossom, --------a begging bowl
so very precious: ----are they tinting my tears? ---------falling crimson leaves
loneliness— ----dangling from a nail, --------a cricket
Of the poems I've chosen to highlight, the later poems seem to me to be more personal, more human. More Issa-like, if you will. I don't want to misrepresent: some of the early haiku are more personal, some of the later haiku, more workman-like. In general, however, it felt to me that this generous selection of work truly captures Basho's real journey, the journey to self. When I finished, I felt I knew more about the poet than any briefer collection featuring his famous work allowed me to. Of course, many of those briefer collections have excellent translations, surpassing many contained here. But oddly enough, the ones I was attracted to tended to be the ones not featured in any of the "greatest hits" type collections I've read previously. In fact, I don't believe that any of the above have been highlighted in previous posts, which really accents how special this substantial selection by David Landis Barnhill really is.
Though I've talked about highlighting some of the books from the Near Perfect Books of Poetry list, I can't resist dipping back into the Lilliput archive for another issue. Since the last posting, the season has turned to autumn. Temps have dropped, there is a chill in the air and the house, and a general dampness that signals the end of the finest summer I've spent in Pittsburgh in my 17 plus years here. Issue #73, from November 1995, has a nice selection of poems that just happen to fit the season nicely, starting off with some nods to the beauty of the wind. Enjoy.
Finally in celebration of John Lennon's birthday, here's a little something that just seems to dovetail nicely with our contentious election atmosphere:
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