WHERE MUSES MIGHT FEAR TO TREAD

WRITING ANYWHERE LIKE WILL CARLETON

WILL McKENDREE CARLETON (Michigan Poet)

WHERE MUSES MIGHT FEAR TO TREAD

WRITING ANYWHERE LIKE WILL CARLETON.

I remember writing with trepidation in a Miami dentist’s waiting rooms, scribbling excitedly backstage at family concerts on a World Tour, fearfully relating the horror of a bombing incident that blew a massive hole in the road and killed soldiers in front of us, bringing the school bus to a halt one morning in Northern Ireland. We had to divert and did not get the day off, even though most of us could not hear properly for a week and then heard whispered gossip of fingers or toes found in fields.

I remember writing by a lake upstate in New York, looking down to find a four-leafed clover growing beside me. It ended up as a gift from Nature and placed in a jewellery box. I still have it, now tucked into a Leyland’s book on Gypsy Sorcery.

I sketched children in a family lounge in a pub in Mullaghmore, Ireland, who daringly dipped their lemonade straws into the Guinness or Sherry as soon as the parents went up to the bar to refresh the drinks, then the imps quickly returned the straws to the lemonade with innocent but rather flushed faces, giving me the ‘stare’ to keep mute.

I blissfully wrote spiritual letters after meditating in India and recalled a ten-minute cobra visitation in the forbidden gardens at night on Mount Abu. The hood flared out, but I stayed perfectly still in meditation and the snake didn’t bite me.

I wrote a poem at Mount Fuji in Japan, with the warning “Don’t Whistle in the Mountain.” Huge electrical pylons like steel giants strode over the landscape.

In Hiroshima and Nagasaki, I commiserated with the radiated but still living Ginkgo Biloba trees, looked after by monks.

Even the Muse shudders at the history behind it all.

Then, I discovered a book on Farm Ballads by Will Carleton, inscribed by the author with kind regards and best wishes to General Wm. Booth, and wondered if Will had been one of the early boy scouts. It was dated 1886 from Brooklyn, New York.

Reading the preface I was amused by his words, almost reflecting my own dealings with the Muse in curious situations. Of course he was a People’s Poet and well known in America. I was thrilled to find him.

Will said: “These poems were written under various and, in some cases, difficult, conditions; in the open air, “with team afield;”(helping with horses, I assumed) or in the student’s den, with the ghosts of unfinished lessons hovering gloomily about; amid the rush and roar of railroad travel, which trains of thought are not prone to follow; and in the editor’s sanctum, where the dainty feet of Muses do not deign to tread.”

I had to buy and read the book and saw that it was dedicated to his Mother. (I assumed he was devoted to her.) He said he did not expect to escape his writing, what he needed so greatly, the discipline of severe criticism, for he was aware that he wandered away from the beaten track, had too little disregard for the established rules of rhythm, in what he declared was his (oftentimes vain) search for the flowers of poesy!

He further wrote that he believed The People were, after all, the true critics, and capable of ascertaining that there were ‘more good than poor things’ in a book; and whatever may be their verdict in the case of this book, he made up his mind to remain happy.

I was immediately drawn in by his honesty and the unique style of writing and wished to share some of his poetic insights and his gift of story-telling to those who had not read them in this day and age.

GONE WITH A HANDSOMER MAN

I’ve worked in the field all day, a-plowin’ the ‘stony streak’,

I’ve scolded my team till I’m hoarse, I’ve tramped till my legs are weak,

I’ve choked a dozen swears (so’s not to tell Jane fibs)

When the plow-point struck a stone and the handles punched my ribs.

I’ve put my team in the barn, and rubbed their sweaty coats,

I’ve fed them a heap of hay and half a bucket of oats,

And to see the way they eat makes me like eatin’ feel,

And Jane won’t say to-night that I don’t make out a meal.

He went on to say that when he got home, the door was locked! Jane had left the key under the step, in a place only known to them both. He wondered idly if someone had died and she had hustled off very ‘pell-mell’, and then he found the note.

Good God! My wife is gone! My wife is gone astray!

The letter it says, “Good-bye, for I’m a-going away,

I’ve lived with you six months, John, and so far I’ve been true,

But I’m going away to-day with a handsomer man than you.”

He was shocked and said that handsomer men than him go by every day! Then self-deprecated himself by saying he wasn’t the handsome kind, but a ‘lovin’er’ man than he, she would never find.

Curse her! Curse her! I say and give my curses wings!

May the words of love I’ve spoke be changed to scorpion stings!

Oh, she filled my heart with joy, she emptied my heart of doubt,

And now, with the scratch of a pen, she lets my heart blood out!

He ranted and raved for a few verses and swore she would rue that day, then said there would come a time she would find a devilish heart in the handsomer man than himself, and that that cad would find that she who is false to one could be the same with two!

Then he supposed that when the fellow was tired of her and she tired of him, she would count the real cost of what she had lost. But he would harden his heart against her having blotted her out and she would mourn for him and not be able to have him back! It would be the sweet revenge.

Then, he thought that there was something about her girlish heart that fastened him to her and that she was not all bad, so he would treat her with coolness and but take away the curses and just make her regret her actions. He was tortured by his thoughts, staring at her kitchen dress and her wedding gown, wondering why she did not take them with her. He messed the kitchen up a bit because his eyes were blurring.

He remembered that in the morning she had called him her “dearest dear” and that caused him pain, that she would turn her back and chose the handsomer man in one day!

He decided he would learn to pray that he might be happy again, and would rather that death had severed them apart than to go through this suffering, nor would he worship another woman again.

At this point in the ballad, Jane returns, accompanied by her father.

“Why, John, what a litter here! You’ve thrown things all around! Come, what’s the matter now? And what ‘ve you lost or found?

And here’s my father here, waiting for supper too…

I’ve been a’riding home with him… he’s that handsomer man than you!”

Ha! Ha! Pa, take a seat, while I put the kettle on,

And get things ready for tea and kiss my dear old John.

Why, John, you look so strange! Come, what has crossed your track?

I was only a-joking, you know; I’m willing to take it back.

John thought the joke had rather a bitter cream! He felt he had awakened from a mighty awful dream. He thought her smile was so queer, and she could “smell a rat”. He did not want her to guess he had been fretting over her and that it spoiled their trust, just like that. His relief was overwhelming.

“Twas one of her practical drives… she thought I’d understand!

But I’ll never break sod again till I get the lay of the land.

But one thing’s settled with me… to appreciate heaven well,

“Tis good for a man to have some fifteen minutes of hell!”

The book had an enrichment of words and quaint stories full of human quirks. I enjoyed every moment of his works.

Another one that tickled me was called:

UNCLE SAMMY

Some men were born for great things

Some were born for small

Some… it is not recorded

Why they were born at all

But Uncle Sammy was certain he had a legitimate call

Some were born with a talent

Some with scrip and land

Some with a spoon of silver

And some with a different brand

But Uncle Sammy came holding an argument in each hand

By now, I had the gist of Uncle Sammy, being contrary and argumentative.

Through his childhood, through youth, into manhood

Argued and argued he,

And he married a simple maiden,

Though scarcely in love was she,

But he reasoned the matter so clearly she could hardly help but agree.

At first, he said she was blooming and Uncle Sammy loved her,

But she faded away in silence and even though he helped her, it was obvious something was wrong. He devised medicine and tried out remedies with logic, but everything failed and one day she just died.

He raised a costly tombstone for her in a quiet churchyard, listing her virtues and knew in his heart she had been a victim of arguments ‘pro and con’ that had worn her out.

Apparently for many a year afterwards:

“He had discussion as his occupation and altercation his sport, arguing himself out of churches and arguing himself into court!”

Eventually he met a ponderous widow who bested him and was not the arguing kind.

Sammy tried with all his might, strength and wit, but could not out beat her confidence, nor could he budge her own mind, or the various preachers she brought to his table.

And so, with his life-aspirations

Thus suddenly brought to a check…

And so, with the foot of his victor

Unceasingly pressing his neck…

He wrote on his face, “I’m a victim,” and drifted… a logical wreck.

Uncle Sammy one morning

Lay down on his comfortless bed,

And Death and he had a discussion,

And Death came out ahead,

And the fact that SHE failed to start him was only because he was dead.

But on his face an expression

Of quizzical study lay,

As if he were sounding the angel

Who travelled with him that day,

And laying the pipes down slyly for an argument on the way.

And one new-fashioned old lady

Felt called upon to suggest

That the angel might take Uncle Sammy,

And give him a good night’s rest,

And then introduce him to Solomon, and tell him to do his best!

UNCLE SAMMY AND SOLOMON

I loved the writings, poems and ballads of Will Carleton who wrote the ballads for the Farmer’s Series. They were collected and published by Harper and Brothers as Farm Ballads accompanied by fine penned illustrations by an unnamed artist presumedly within their company.

Will Carleton wrote a beautiful tribute ballad called The Ship-Builder

obviously dedicated to Charles Dickens, using the characters of Dickens’s works, accompanied by a portrait of Charles Dickens.

I was thrilled to find it in the book.

Two of the verses resonated with me. Each verse of the entire poem mentioned a character from Charles Dickens’s books:

There came a ship of stranger seeming still,

With ‘Curiosities’ in plenty stored,

And thousands crowded ‘round her with one will’

To view the passengers she had on board,

And one there was… her name was ‘Little Nell’…

The people much admired, and loved full well,

And many wept, and lingered by her side,

When, wearily, she laid her down and died.

And so, the millions, eager to confess

The pleasures they from his creations drew,

Hastened to praise, and glorify, and bless

The telling man whose face they hardly knew,

Who, in his lonely room, worked for his goal,

With busy brain and tender, yearning soul,

And with his good pen built and rigged and manned

The noble argosies his genius planned.

Such a grand poem from one genius for another.

Robin and I both loved the works of Charles Dickens. Our house on Long Island was named ‘Gad’s Hill’ after ‘Gad’s Hill Place’, the home of Charles Dickens.

I am grateful to have found the American author Will Carleton. I wondered if he was related to William Carleton, an author from County Tyrone. He wasn’t, but they had similar interests in rural life.

Dwina***