Quite Rightly So: Issa's Sunday Service, #151

Wheatfield by Vincent Van Gogh

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Those of you who have been around these parts for a while know my weakness for the lyrical work of Keith Reid and its execution via Procol Harum.  They've appeared a number of times on the Sunday Service (one, two, three, four, five, & this, number six), in a general tribute post to the band (and Cid Corman), in an earlier incarnation of this blog (Beneath Cherry Blossoms) in a post where I put Shelley's Ozymandis side by side with Reid's Conquistator for quiet contemplation.

Whew, who's a fanboy, what?

This week's tune, Quite Rightly So, comes from the Shine on Brightly album and, as "an ode by any other name," finds itself classified acceptable for your litrock listening pleasure. 

"Be kind and humour me" - they just don't write 'em like this anymore (and, yes, I realize, there are many who are thanking the powers that be for making that so.)

 

Quite Rightly So

For you (whose eyes were opened wide 

whilst mine refused to see)
I'm sore in need of saving grace. 

Be kind and humour me
I'm lost amidst a sea of wheat
where people speak but seldom meet
And grief and laughter, strange but true
Although they die, they seldom cry

An ode by any other name 

I know might read more sweet
Perhaps the sun will never shine 

upon my field of wheat
But still in closing, let me say
for those too sick, too sick to see
though nothing shows, 

yes, someone knows
I wish that one was me 


I'm not sure if this would qualify for the Sunday Service, lit allusion-wise, but since it's one of my all time fav songs by Procol Harum, here you go: Juicy John Pink - 

 



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Artwork by Hieronymus Bosch

begging actors--
even the wheat field
gets a song

 Issa

 translated by David G. Lanoue 

best,
Don

   

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Pilgrim's Progress: Issa's Sunday Service, #104

I hardly need an excuse to feature a song by Procol Harum; they've already made the list here and here  and here, to say nothing about this non-Sunday Service rant   (in fact, there is even a post that compares Shelley's "Ozymandias" and Keith Reid "Conquistador", dating way back to the old Lilliput blog, "Beneath Cherry Blossoms") Since it's Gary Brooks birthday today, May 29th, we'll call it excuse du jour, needed or no, and make it a fourth (or fifth) appearance.

"Pilgrim's Progress" is the last song on the seminal A Salty Dog album, a summing up of went on before.  The litrock connection is to John Bunyan's book of the same, being a title shout-out and all.   It continues the loose nautical theme that permeates the album, dealing with anchors, explorers, pirates, and all.  The last 3 lines are not as honest as it gets with rock but, in my opinion, with literature.

We are all taking turns passing it on ...

Pilgrim's Progress
   I sat me down to write a simple story
   which maybe in the end became a song
   In trying to find the words which might begin it
   I found these were the thoughts I brought along

   At first I took my weight to be an anchor
   and gathered up my fears to guide me round
   but then I clearly saw my own delusion
   and found my struggles further bogged me down

   In starting out I thought to go exploring
   and set my foot upon the nearest road
   In vain I looked to find the promised turning
   but only saw how far I was from home

   In searching I forsook the paths of learning
   and sought instead to find some pirate's gold
   In fighting I did hurt those dearest to me
   and still no hidden truths could I unfold

   I sat me down to write a simple story
   which maybe in the end became a song
   The words have all been writ by one before me
   We're taking turns in trying to pass them on
   Oh, we're taking turns in trying to pass them on

                                    Keith Reid

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This week's poem comes from Lilliput Review #90, from which only one poem over the years has been featured on this blog.  It would seem that, perhaps, #90 wasn't quite the issue I thought it to be at the time I laid it out back in July 1997.  I could be wrong.  Like a poet's poem, once you let something go it's out there; the same is true for an editor and her/his work.  Here's one, however, I find particularly relevant.  Enjoy.

For Cavafy

   The poems are sad and short:
   love half-remembered,
   history--beautiful, closed and Greek.
   But what I like best
   is the blank three-quarters page,
   white as a statue's marble eyes- -

   a space to write or cry.

   Bruce Williams

spring rain--
there's one window
per person

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

PS Really happy I got through the whole post and didn't mention the other thing. 

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Shine on Brightly: Issa's Sunday Service, #77

 



It's three wise kings from the East that bring us this week's selection for the Sunday Service: "Shine On Brightly," by Procol Harum, who are becoming something of a house band.   Perhaps a tad early for Christmas, but it seems their quest was long and nearly endless; our doomed narrator, however, receives the gifts in stead (ahem), presumably giving the Prussian blue electric clock an extra wack for some additional rest for that poor befuddled brain.

Keith Reid rules.

Shine on Brightly   
 My Prussian-blue electric clock's
 alarm bell rings, it will not stop
 and I can see no end in sight
 and search in vain by candlelight
 for some long road that goes nowhere
 for some signpost that is not there
 And even my befuddled brain
 is shining brightly, quite insane

 The chandelier is in full swing
 as gifts for me the three kings bring
 of myrrh and frankincense, I'm told,
 and fat old Buddhas carved in gold
 And though it seems they smile with glee
 I know in truth they envy me
 and watch as my befuddled brain
 shines on brightly quite insane

 Above all else confusion reigns
 And though I ask no-one explains
 My eunuch friend has been and gone
 He said that I must soldier on
 And though the Ferris wheel spins round
 my tongue it seems has run aground
 and croaks as my befuddled brain
 shines on brightly, quite insane

Though often scoffed at for their art rock sensibility, this live performance puts the lie to any such thought. In particular note one of rock's great, underrated drummers, B. J. Wilson can be seen and heard at his finest.  His performance on the second tune, "In the Wee Small Hours of Sixpence," will no doubt remind many of the late, great Keith Moon, in style, flair, and competence.

************

This week's features the opening 4 poems of issue #115, from March, 2001.  In fact, let me include the cover, by the late poet/artist Harland Ristau, since the sequence seems to start with that.

THIS IS THE FIRST PART
OF A LONG ESSAY ON RELATIVITY
AND QUANTUM MECHANICS FROM
THE STANDPOINT OF KANT
AND SOME GERMAN IDEALISTS WHO
SHALL BE NAMED LATER IN
THE DISCUSSION WHICH WILL BE
ALL ABOUT EPISTEMOLOGY
AND PROCEDURE AND REFERENCE-FRAMES
AND PARADOX AND THE ENTANGLEMENT
OF SPACE AND TIME AS SEEN
FROM GREAT DISTANCES PLUS A LOT
OF OTHER STUFF TOO

(... to be continued)

Wayne Hogan

through
              the birds
                              a history of stars

Marcia Arrieta

Etude
  Eighty-eight keys,
  each a telescope trained
  upon a single constellation.

  Stephen Power

Belief
  Those who
  Believe
  The universe
  Ends
  Stop at
  the edge of it.

Edward Supranowicz

looking pretty
in a hole in the paper door…
Heaven’s River

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

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A Whiter Shade of Pale: Issa's Sunday Service, #63

Illustration for "The Miller's Tale"

It's a summer song of pervasive dread, a wedding hymn riven with sexual anxiety, an epochal composition which routinely functions as background muzak for the keep-fit class (if you don't believe me, dig out Diana Moran's album Get Fit with the Green Goddess). Contradiction only bolsters the enigma of A Whiter Shade of Pale.

Mike Butler, from Lives of the Great Songs

As long-time time readers of The Hut know, I am a big fan of the art-rock band Procol Harum and so it is kind of surprising, at least to me, that it's taken this long to get to this hairy old chestnut (though they've appeared on The Jukebox twice before). Admittedly, for those who lived through those times, it was in many ways one of the most over-played songs on its initial release, rivaled in dread by some only slightly less than "MacArthur Park." To understand this dread (as opposed to the kind Mike Butler is talking about), one needs harken back to AM top 40 radio when number 1 singles were played at least once an hour. Ok, no more than once an hour, but it often seemed like much, much more.

The literary connection in this classic tune is the reference to "The Miller's Tale" from Geoffrey Chaucer's Canterbury Tales; at least that is the collective wisdom. One problem though: Keith Reid, the writer, denies it.

Sort of.

According to Reid, the reference to the Canterbury Tales is a red herring; pointedly, in an interview with Mike Butler linked above, he doesn't deny the reference is there. When asked why he put it in, he said "I can't remember now." Since the interview took place in 1994 and the song ostensibly recounts getting good and loaded, his answer seems hardly surprising, though there is no denying there may be a coyness there. In any case, for the purposes of Issa's Sunday Service, LitRock it is.

While doing a bit of background, I ran across versions of this song by Percy Sledge, whose tune "When a Man Loves a Woman" has been noted as a musical inspiration for "A Whiter Shade of Pale," Annie Lennox, a funky instrumental by King Curtis, and a surprisingly well-done vocal rendition by South Side Johnny and the Asbury Jukes.


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This week's featured poem comes from the fine poet David Chorlton, who hails from Phoenix, Arizona. David's chapbook, Getting Across, is #5 in the "Modest Proposal Chapbook" series and was published back in 1997. Though 13 years ago, his lyric chronicle of the immigrant experience in the West is sadly as relevant today as it was back then. Here is a beautiful little poem of his from Lilliput Review, #97, in July 1998.

Central Station

Playing Bach in the glass construction
sewn into an iron frame,
a flautist paces the traffic of the masses;
adagio, allegro, allegretto,
and every costume has a face
beneath the sparrow trapped inside

David Chorlton

in and out
of prison they go...
baby sparrows

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don

Conquistador: Issa's Sunday Service, #45

Those of you who have been following these posts for awhile know I have many little vices (and many more that I'm not telling). Some of those include pop bands of perhaps questionable value. One band, making there second appearance on the Sunday Service, is Procol Harum and, I'm happy to say, I'm not hanging my head here. I've blogged about them more than a few times; once an entire post was picked up and reprinted on the biggest PH site on the net, Beyond the Pale. As far back as the previous Lilliput blog, Beneath Cherry Blossoms, I printed the lyrics to their song "Conquistador," in tandem with Shelley's Ozymandis, which I always felt was the song's inspiration.

All of which brings us to today's feature: that's right, it's "Conquistador," today being the birthday of the band's outstanding organ player, Matthew Fisher, who no doubt will be best remembered for his beautiful contribution to their signature song, "A Whiter Shade of Pale" (and the nasty lawsuit that was recently settled in his favor over said organ part).
So as not to end on a sour note, here's E-Verse Radio's discussion of Shelley's "Ozymandis," turning lemonade back into lemons.
Um, wait, on second thought, ending with lemons would make it a sour note. Let me, therefore, simply say, hey, E-Verse guys, I liked the pictures.












------------------------------------------------
This week's poem comes from issue #69, eight poems from which were featured in a previous post. This poem, which opened the issue, was not. Here it is. I've often pondered, and practiced, using it in past readings, and may in fact work up the courage for next month's New Yinzer reading. It is a challenge to read on the page, never mind out loud; however, if done correctly, it is worth the effort.

What Was Is

All that was is now is
all that is was was
----and is again
what was is what is was --
was is is, is is was;
so what was is what is is
and is is what was was,
----is what was
will become.

Cy Keith Jones

And Issa, on the same subject:






at my hut
what will come of it?
spring's first dawn

Issa
translated by David G. Lanoue

best,
Don
PS A complete list of all 45 songs is available on the stand alone LitRock website, along with a jukebox to listen to songs separately or altogether. Of course, the Jukebox is also available on the sidebar of this page.
Suggestions for future feature songs will be rewarded with riches beyond your wildest dreams, if your dreams are modest and your idea of a good time, well, wistful.

Procol Harum: Wreck of the Hesperus - Issa's Sunday Service, #25

Keith Reid 2nd from right

As long-time reader's of The Hut know, Keith Reid, the lyricist for the great artrock band, Procol Harum, is one of my favorite little known songwriters. Reid, like Robert Hunter of the Grateful Dead, is a default member of the band and, since neither plays an instrument in performance, both suffer from a deplorable lack of recognition. I've written about the Reid and the band before and, though I was taken to task for calling A Salty Dog, from which today's featured song is taken, a concept album, my post was reprinted on the Procol Harum blog, Beyond the Pale, so I feel I wasn't too far off the mark. In another post on the previous Lilliput blog, Beneath Cherry Blossoms, I placed Shelley's "Ozymandis" and Reid's "Conquistador" side by side for comparison. Reid's homage to Shelley was skilled, dark, and delightful, and one of Procol Harum's biggest hits. The song itself will no doubt be finding its way on to this ever growing list of literature inflected rock songs some time in the future.

Their most famous song, "Whiter Shade of Pale," is perhaps the consummate litrock song, referencing Chaucer's "The Miller's Tale" from The Canterbury Tales, which I will be cantankerously skipping today, saving it for a future post. Today, to celebrate the birthday of the talented Mr. Reid (which is tomorrow, October 19th), the selected song above is the lesser known "Wreck of the Hesperus," which tips its briny hat to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow's poem of the same name. The contrast might serve as an example of the difference between traditional and modern approaches, Longfellow's being a frightful, external narrative and Reid's, in the context of the songs that surround it (that concept thingy rears its noddling noggin again - perhaps I should simply state the songs are thematically related), an internal, metaphoric one.

Ah, too many words, not enough notes, eh? Well, hope you enjoy it.

For a list of all 25 songs so far, check out this website.



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From featured song to featured poems, which come from Lilliput Review, #38, October 1992. With the leaves reeling and the snow falling and memories of the nicest summer in these parts (and, I suspect, many others) in quite sometime, here's a little bouquet of two (plus Issa) to spruce things up a bit. Enjoy.

daisies

daisies in a ceramic
---swan vase
on a living room sill
---in the sun
radiating
---white and yellow
'till the end of time

Michael Estabrook

Lilacs.
Somehow it seems true.
Delicate of scent and color,
they hurt one's heart so.

Terria Tucker Smith

wildflowers--
all we say or speak about
is autumn wind

Issa
translated by David Lanoue

And, because I always spend so time on Mr. Reid, here's the band at its height, showing their talents in the instrumental "Repent Walpurgis."






Walpurgis, after whom Walpurgis Night is named, was a British missionary and saint, who died somewhere in the late 770's. Why or even if she needed to repent I'm not sure.




best,
Don

Singing for the Squeal: I Hear My Gate Slam - Chinese Poets on Meeting and Parting

I ran across a book in the library last week from Pressed Wafer entitled I Hear My Gate Slam: Chinese Poets Meeting and Parting. Though the title is not all that accurate a representation of the content and a tad unwieldy to boot, this is an excellent collection of work, translated by Taylor Stoehr, which I'd highly recommend to any reader with a predilection for Eastern verse.

Though there are, indeed, quite a few poems on meeting and parting, as the subtitle suggests, there are also others with more general themes. The poets represented here are ones you would expect: Wang Wei, Tu Fu, Li Po. Happily, too, we find Han Shan and Po Chü-I, among others. Taylor Stoehr has done a very fine job, indeed, in translating these disparate poets, sticking with a clear, minimalist approach without sacrificing any of subtly and resonance for which early Chinese poetry is renowned. In addition, the text is accompanied by ink drawings by the multi-talented Mr. Stoehr, as well as a cover painting of his own creation. Here's a selection to tempt you to head for the library, bookstore etc. for a more comprehensive look.

In the Mountains

You want to know why I live in here on the mountain?
Ha! What can I say? Is this where I am?

Peach blossoms reflected in the water –
in which green world do they bloom?

Li Po

I Wait Here Alone

Two white gulls glide to and fro.
High above them a hawk hovers.

Blind to the shadow flitting below,
they ride the wind along the river.

Morning dew drenches the grass.
The spider's web stretches wide.

The world attends to its business
of slaughter. I wait here alone.

Tu Fu

The Demon Poetry

I strive to pass through the Empty Gate
and clear my head of all its idle song,

but the Demon Party lies in wait:
a breeze, a moonbeam – I'm humming along.

Po Chü-i

Ask Yang Qiong

The ancients sang because their hearts were full,
today people sing just for the squeal.

If you want to know why, don't ask me,
go ask Yang Quong the singsong girl.

Po Chü-i

Too Many Words

Talking about food doesn't fill you up,
talking about clothes won't keep you warm.

What your belly wants is rice
and a thick coat is nice in a storm.

Sometimes words just confuse things
and make the Buddha hard to find.

While your talking the Buddha sits
fat and warm inside your mind.

Han Shan

Life in a Bowl

Man lives in a circle of dust
like a beetle in a bowl,

busy going round and round
never getting anywhere.

Enlightenment never comes
to those who scabble in the dirt.

Days flow by like a rushing river,
suddenly we find ourselves old.

Han Shan

Puzzling Things Out

Is my body real or just an illusion?
Who is it who asks such a question?

See how one puzzle leads to another!
I sit on the mountainside lost in wonder

till the green grass grows up between my toes
and the red dust settles on my head.

Country folk come to me with wine and fruit
pious offerings set out for the dead.

Han Shan

Cold Mountain's Poems

Here are Cold Mountain's poems,
better medicine than pills or sutras.

Copy out your favorite
and pin it to the wall.

Han Shan

Hibiscus

Hibiscus flowering twig and tip,
the whole mountainside aflame.

By the stream a hut, silent and empty,
and petals falling as fast as they bloom

Wang Wei

One editorial note: for those unfamiliar with the work of Han Shan, his name literally means "cold mountain" and so the poem himself is often called "Cold Mountain" and so he is referring to himself in the above poem, "Cold Mountain's Poems."

That's just a taste of this fine volume of work and belongs on the shelf of anyone interested in Chinese poetry. Mr Stoeher's are both carefully measured and natural, no mean feat. Since this Pressed Wafer is a relatively small press, I'd urge you to get a copy now if this kind of work is your cup of meat. It's liable to go out of print fast.

I hope to be offering a few more poems from this collection in a future post.

Finally, today is the anniversary of the birthday of B. J. Wilson, the fine, talented, underrated drummer for the band Procol Harum. In order to address this neglect and in his memory, enjoy the following.

B. J. Wilson

best,
Don

Keith Reid and Cid Corman

Perhaps the single most neglected writer of rock lyrics is Keith Reid, the non-playing sixth member of Procol Harum. Among other non-playing lyricists, there is Robert Hunter of the Grateful Dead and Peter Brown of, among others, Cream. In a post from last year at the old Beneath Cherry Blossoms blog, I placed the Reid penned "Conquistador" side by side with Shelley's "Ozymandias" for comparison and resonance.

Currently, I have the first four Procol albums on my mp3 player and have for the last month or so. It might seem odd to call them timeless; perhaps the more apt description would be out of time. Here are the lyrics from "Pilgrim's Progress," the cut that closes their masterwork, A Salty Dog:

Pilgrim’s Progress

I sat me down to write a simple story
which maybe in the end became a song
In trying to find the words that might begin it
I found these were the thoughts I brought along

At first I took my weight to be an anchor
and gathered up my fears to guide me round
but then I clearly saw my own delusion
and found my struggles further bogged me down

In starting out I thought to go exploring
and set my foot upon the nearest road
In vain I looked to find the promised turning
but only saw how far I was from home

In searching I forsook the paths of learning
and sought instead to find some pirate’s gold
In fighting I did hurt those dearest to me
and still no hidden truths could I unfold

I sat me down to write a simple story
which maybe in the end became a song
The words have all been writ by one before me
We’re taking turns in trying to pass them on
Oh, we’re taking turns in trying to pass them on

In the history of rock, there has been many a concept album; most of them have been noble, if pretentious, failures. The reason A Salty Dog is, in my opinion, the very best is simple; the concept is metaphoric, not literal. To sustain an entire story over a whole album strains believability, mostly because the medium cannot bear the weight (if truth be told, herein lies where many an opera fails, but, of course, that's not the point: so, too, rock fans might argue with, perhaps, less credulity). But the subtle art of suggestion, one of the writer's most powerful tools, within a loose conceptual framework is what gives this album its incredible power, a staying power that only grows over the passing years. Because A Salty Dog, magnificently executed by a fine band at the top of its game, is quite simply one man's story: the story of one particular writer.

Keith Reid.

The enigmatic quality of "A Whiter Shade of Pale," with its allusion to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, has often stumped the casual listener of popular music. The allusion in "Pilgrim's Progress" is even more overt. The words "anchor" and "pirate's gold" tie the song to the overall concept, but no one would mistake this for a song about anything other than a metaphoric salty dog. This album smokes; if you can listen to "Crucifiction Lane" without a wince of recognition, you're a better person than I.

I was very happy to see this week that Garrison Keillor is doing his bit to keep the memory of Cid Corman alive. Check out his rendition of "Someone I cared for" by Cid from Monday's The Writer's Almanac.

Long live Cid.

Cover art by Keddy Ann Outlaw

The ongoing tour of past issues of Lilliput Review brings us to #145. For those following along, #144 is a broadside by Christien Gholson entitled Spiral, that does not lend itself to excerpting so has been skipped.

Enjoy.

The Arrival
We have arrived without luggage
in a country we don’t recognize
among people who distrust us
where the walls have no windows
and the doors open only
for the chosen. We are home at last.

David Chorlton

moist petals open,
the tumor blooms

Karen R. Porter

cutting glass
the guy in the neat suit
picked his way into a part
of the mirror & began
to see everything backwards.

Guy R. Beining

The short space
between the joints
growing along the Naniwa shore
- may the time before
your next visit be as brief

Princess Ise
translated by Dennis Maloney & Hide Oshiro

Till next week,

Don