While we're on this Paul Simon kick . . .

The original poem by Robinson is told from the POV of the townspeople. In Paul Simon's version, it's first person. It's interesting how the meaning changes with the last chorus in the song. I'd bet this was unintentional on Paul Simon's part, although I'm sure he was aware of it.


Richard Cory

by Edwin Arlington Robinson (1897)

WHENEVER Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him:
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich—yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace:
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.


Richard Cory

by Paul Simon

They say that Richard Cory owns one half of this whole town
with political connections to spread his wealth around
born into society a banker's only child
He had everything a man could want power, grace and style
But I work in his factory and I curse the life I'm living
and I curse my poverty and I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be Oh I wish that I could be Richard Cory

The papers print his picture almost everywhere he goes
Richard Cory at the opera Richard Cory at a show
and the rumor of his parties and the orgies on his yacht
oh he surely must be happy with everything he's got
But I work in his factory and I curse the life I'm living
and I curse my poverty and I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be Oh I wish that I could be Richard Cory

He freely gave to charity he had the common touch
and they were greatfull for his patronage and they thanked him very much
so my mind was filled with wonder when the evening headlines read
Richard Cory went home last night and put a bullet through his head
But I work in his factory and I curse the life I'm living
and I curse my poverty and I wish that I could be
Oh I wish that I could be Oh I wish that I could be Richard Cory

http://www.wordcentric.net/cory.mp3

DWill wrote:The guy was plain ignorant. How could he not at least appreciate, even if not like, the lyrics to Simon's song? There's a concentrated imagery in it that you usually don't see even in pieces not set to music.

I wish I could remember what his criticism was all about. I want to say it had to do with the line about all of the colors being black, but I don't trust my memory. But, yeah, song lyrics have to be taken in context with the song. By the way, Paul Simon borrowed Art Garfunkel for this one song. It's possibly the last studio song they worked on together.

I appreciate the kid's confusion in that Sopranos clip: "I thought black was death." Well, why go there, is my feeling. Why go to such a so-called interpretation of the poem. It may be cliched, but what about Archibald MacLeish's admonishment: "A poem should not mean but be"?

But let's go on with some Halloween-ish poems. One I can think of I used with some kids once, and they liked it.

The Bat by Theodore Roethke •

By day the bat is cousin to the mouse.
He likes the attic of an aging house.

His fingers make a hat about his head.
His pulse beat is so slow we think him dead.

He loops in crazy figures half the night
Among the trees that face the corner light.

But when he brushes up against a screen,
We are afraid of what our eyes have seen:

For something is amiss or out of place
When mice with wings can wear a human face.

Edit: Yes, Simon did great with Robinson's poem. A case of the adaptor surpassing the creator? I remember having the vinyl album in my hands as about a 13-year-old and reading under the title, "Apologies to E. A. Robinson." I wondered, "What is Simon apologizing for?"

Ah, so sorry for messing up your thread, geo. I'll put The Bat where he belongs. I did just read Ciardi's introduction and I think he defines the "point" of poetry very well. He also indirectly explains why poetry is not taught well to us, people who need this kind of tuition since we do not breathe poetry as the Milanese breathe opera.

Not to be pedantic, but Milton's Paradise Lost isn't a rhymed poem. Wigglesworth's "Day of Doom," I just found out, is.

I was encouraged by Ciardis' perspective of familiarity or lack of familiarity with poetry. Sounds obvious, but it's a good point. He says New Yorkers are typically well-versed in baseball to the point they can rattle off stats and other esoteric data . It's second nature to them. So if I read poetry on a regular basis, I'll become more acclimated to the form.

Ciardi's book is first and foremost a collection of poetry. Ch. 2 discusses Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll which he says is deeply indebted to the techniques of the English ballad. And, so, he goes through a bunch of old folk ballads, many of them quite gruesome.


Childe Maurice

I
CHILDE MAURICE hunted the Silver Wood,
He whistled and he sang:
‘I think I see the woman yonder
That I have lovèd lang.’

II
He callèd to his little man John, 5
‘You don’t see what I see;
For yonder I see the very first woman
That ever lovèd me.’

III
He says, ‘Come hither, my little man John,
That I pay meat and fee, 10
For thou shalt go to John Steward’s wife
And greet her well from me;

IV
‘And as it falls as many times
As knots be knit in a kell,
Or merchantmen go to leeve Londòn 15
To buy ware or to sell;

V
‘And as it falls as many times
As any heart can think,
Or school-masters are in any school
Writing with pen and ink. 20

VI
‘Here is a glove, a glove,’ he says,
‘Lined wi’ the silver-gris;
Bid her to come to Silver Wood
To speak with Childe Maurice.

VII
‘And here is a ring, a ring,’ he says, 25
‘A ring of the precious stone:
He prays her come to Silver Wood
And ask the leave of none.’—

VIII

‘Well do I love your errand, master,
But better I love my life. 30
Would ye have me go to John Steward’s castle,
To tryst away his wife?’—

IX

‘Do not I give you meat?’ he says,
‘Do not I give you fee?
How daur you stop my errand 35
When that I bid you flee?’

X
This little man John one while he yode,
Another while he ran;
Until he came to John Steward’s castle
I wis he never blan. 40

XI
He ask’d no porter’s leave, but ran
Up hall and bower free,
And when he came to John Steward’s wife,
Says, ‘God you save and see!

XII
‘I come, I am come from Childe Maurice— 45
A message unto thee!
And Childe Maurice he greets you well,
And ever so well from me,

XIII
‘And as it falls as oftentimes
As knots be knit in a kell, 50
Or merchantmen go to leeve Londòn
To buy ware or to sell;

XIV
‘And as oftentimes he greets you well
As any heart can think,
Or schoolmasters are in any school 55
Writing with pen and ink.

XV
‘Here is a glove, a glove,’ he says,
‘Lined wi’ the silver-gris;
Ye’re bidden to come to Silver Wood
To speak with Childe Maurice. 60

XVI
‘And here is a ring, a ring of gold,
Set wi’ the precious stone:
He prays you to come to Silver Wood
And ask the leave of none.’—

XVII
‘Now peace, now peace, thou little man John, 65
For Christ’s sake I pray thee!
For gif my lord heard one o’ thy words
Thou must be hangèd hie!’

XVIII
O aye she stampèd with her foot
And winkèd with her e’e; 70
But for all that she could say or do
Forbidden he would not be.

XIX
‘It’s surely to my bower-woman,
It cannot be to me!’—
‘Nay, I brought it to John Steward’s lady, 75
And I trow that thou art she.’

XX
Out then spake the wily nurse,
Wi’ the bairn just on her knee:
‘If this be come from Childe Maurice
It’s dear welcome to me.’— 80

XXI
‘Thou liest, thou liest, thou wily nurse,
So loud as I hear thee lie!
I brought it to John Steward’s lady,
And I trow thou be not she.’

XXII
Then up and rose him John Steward, 85
And an angry man was he:
‘Did I think there was a lord in the world
My lady loved but me!’

XXIII
He struck the table wi’ his foot,
And kepp’d it with his knee, 90
Till silver cup and ezar dish
In flinders they did flee.

XXIV
He call’d unto his horse-keeper,
‘Make ready you my steed!’
So did he to his chamberlain, 95
‘Go fetch my lady’s weed!’

XXV
O he dress’d himself in the holland smock,
[The mantle and the snood],
And he cast a lease upon his back,
And he rode to Silver Wood. 100

XXVI
And when he came to Silver Wood,
No body saw he there
But Childe Maurice upon a block
Combing his yellow hair.

XXVII
Childe Maurice sat in Silver Wood, 105
He whistled and he sang:
I think I see the woman come
That I have lovèd lang.’

XXVIII
But then stood up him Childe Maurice
His mother to help from horse: 110
‘O alas, alas!’ says Childe Maurice,
‘My mother was ne’er so gross!’

XXIX
‘No wonder, no wonder,’ John Steward he said,
‘My lady loved thee well,
For the fairest part of my body 115
Is blacker than thy heel.’

XXX
John Steward had a little brown sword
That hung low down by his knee;
He has cut the head off Childe Maurice
And the body put on a tree. 120

XXXI
And he prick’d the head on his sword’s point,
Went singing there beside,
And he rode till he came to the castle
Whereas his lady ly’ed

XXXII
And when he came to his lady— 125
Look’d o’er the castle-wall—
He threw the head into her lap,
Saying ‘Lady, tak’ the ball!’

XXXIII
Says, ‘Dost thou know Childe Maurice’ head,
If that thou dost it see? 130
And lap it soft, and kiss it oft,
For thou loved’st him better than me.’

XXXIV
But when she look’d on Childe Maurice’ head
She ne’er spake words but three:
‘I never bare no child but one, 135
And you have slain him, trulye.’

XXXV
And she has taken the bloody head
And kiss’d it, cheek and chin:
‘I was once as full o’ Childe Maurice
As the hip is o’ the stane. 140

XXXVI
‘I got him in my mother’s bower
Wi’ mickle sin and shame;
I brought him up in the good greenwood
Under the shower and rain.’

XXXVII
And she has taken her Childe Maurice 145
And kiss’d him, mouth and chin:
‘O better I love my Childe Maurice
Than all my royal kin!’

XXXVIII
‘Woe be to thee!’ John Steward he said,
And a woe, woe man was he; 150
For if you had told me he was your son
He had never been slain by me.’

XXXIX
Says, ‘Wicked be my merry men all,
I gave meat, drink and cloth!
But could they not have holden me 155
When I was in all that wrath?’

Fairport Convention does a song called "Matty Groves" which is based on an early English ballad. There are some similarities between this and Childe Maurice.

Matty Groves

A holiday, a holiday, and the first one of the year
Lord Donald's wife came into the church, the gospel for to hear
And when the meeting it was done, she cast her eyes about
And there she saw little Matty Groves, walking in the crowd
"Come home with me, little Matty Groves, come home with me tonight
Come home with me, little Matty Groves, and sleep with me till light"
"Oh, I can't come home, I won't come home and sleep with you tonight
By the rings on your fingers I can tell you are my master's wife"
"But if I am Lord Donald's wife, Lord Donald's not at home
He is out in the far cornfields bringing the yearlings home"

And a servant who was standing by and hearing what was said
He swore Lord Donald he would know before the sun would set
And in his hurry to carry the news, he bent his breast and ran
And when he came to the broad millstream, he took off his shoes and he swam

Little Matty Groves, he lay down and took a little sleep
When he awoke, Lord Donald was standing at his feet
Saying "How do you like my feather bed and how do you like my sheets
How do you like my lady who lies in your arms asleep?"
"Oh, well I like your feather bed and well I like your sheets
But better I like your lady gay who lies in my arms asleep"
"Well, get up, get up," Lord Donald cried, "get up as quick as you can
It'll never be said in fair England that I slew a naked man"
"Oh, I can't get up, I won't get up, I can't get up for my life
For you have two long beaten swords and I not a pocket knife"
"Well it's true I have two beaten swords and they cost me deep in the purse
But you will have the better of them and I will have the worse
And you will strike the very first blow and strike it like a man
I will strike the very next blow and I'll kill you if I can"

So Matty struck the very first blow and he hurt Lord Donald sore
Lord Donald struck the very next blow and Matty struck no more
And then Lord Donald took his wife and he sat her on his knee
Saying "Who do you like the best of us, Matty Groves or me?"
And then up spoke his own dear wife, never heard to speak so free
"I'd rather a kiss from dead Matty's lips than you or your finery"

Lord Donald he jumped up and loudly he did bawl
He struck his wife right through the heart and pinned her against the wall
"A grave, a grave," Lord Donald cried, "to put these lovers in
But bury my lady at the top for she was of noble kin

Bob Dylan knew, of course, just about every English ballad in print and produced many of his own. One ballad, "Sir Patrick Spens," was judged by William Harmon semi-scientifically to be the second most popular poem in English. Here's some of what he says about it: "The poem presents its dramatically elliptical narration with superlative economy of design: just a few quick bold strokes and a thoroughgoing reliance on concrete detail. We are not told that the king was worried in some vague way; he is drinking and asking for help. Four brief speeches (king, knight, Sir Patrick Spens, a nameless sailor) and then a focus on the marvelous detail of "cork heel'd shoon" (the last word in Medieval chic) and floating hats."

Sir Patrick Spens

The King sits in Dunfermline town,
Drinking the blood-red wine;
"O where shall I get a skeely skipper
To sail this ship of mine?"

Then up and spake an eldern knight,
Sat at the King's right knee:
"Sir Patrick Spens is the best sailor
That ever sailed the sea."

The King has written a broad letter,
And sealed it with his hand,
And sent it to Sir Patrick Spens,
Was walking on the strand.

"To Noroway, to Noroway,
To Noroway o'er the foam;
The King's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis thou must fetch her home."

The first line that Sir Patrick read,
A loud laugh laughed he;
The next line that Sir Patrick read,
The tear blinded his ee.

"O who is this has done this deed,
Has told the King of me,
To send us out at this time of the year,
To sail upon the sea?

"Be it wind, be it wet, be it hail, be it sleet,
Our ship must sail the foam;
The king's daughter of Noroway,
'Tis we must fetch her home."

They hoisted their sails on Monenday morn,
With all the speed they may;
And they have landed in Noroway
Upon a Wodensday

They had not been a week, a week,
In Noroway but twae,
When that the lords of Noroway
Began aloud to say, -

"Ye Scottishmen spend all our King's gowd,
And all our Queenis fee."
"Ye lie, ye lie, ye liars loud!
So loud I hear ye lie.

"For I brought as much of the white monie
As gane my men and me,
And a half-fou of the good red gowd
Out o'er the sea with me.

"Make ready, make ready, my merry men all,
Our good ship sails the morn."
"Now, ever alack, my master dear
I fear a deadly storm.

"I saw the new moon late yestreen
With the old moon in her arm;
And if we go to sea, master,
I fear we'll come to harm."

They had not sailed a league, a league,
A league but barely three,
When the lift grew dark, and the wind blew loud,
And gurly grew the sea.

The ankers brake and the top-masts lap,
It was such a deadly storm;
And the waves came o'er the broken ship
Till all her sides were torn.

"O where will I get a good sailor
Will take my helm in hand,
Till I get up to the tall top-mast
To see if I can spy land?"

"O here am I, a sailor good,
Will take the helm in hand,
Till you go up to the tall top-mast,
But I fear you'll ne'er spy land."

He had not gone a step, a step,
A step but barely ane,
When a bolt flew out of the good ship's side,
And the salt sea came in.

"Go fetch a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And wap them into our good ship's side,
And let not the sea come in."

They fetched a web of the silken cloth,
Another of the twine,
And they wapp'd them into the good ship's side,
But still the sea came in.

O loth, both, were our good Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon,
But long ere all the play was play'd
They wet their hats aboon.

And many was the feather-bed
That fluttered on the foam;
And many was the good lord's son
That never more came home.

The ladies wrang their fingers white,
The maidens tore their heair,
All for the sake of their true loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O lang, lang may the maidens sit
With their gold combs in their hair,
All waiting for their own dear loves,
For them they'll see nae mair.

O forty miles of Aberdeen,
'Tis fifty fathoms deep;
And there lies good Sir Patrick Spens,
With the Scots lords at his feet.

This page is maintained by Rich Spens

Good call, DWill. A condensed version of Sir Patrick Spense is included in this chapter as well. Ciardi points out a couple of lines that might pose difficulty for the modern reader. As you say, "shoon" means shoes and "aboon" means above. So they wet their hats aboon means the crew members sank, leaving their hats floating on the surface. A stark image to be sure.

O loth, both, were our good Scots lords
To wet their cork-heel'd shoon,
But long ere all the play was play'd
They wet their hats aboon.