poetry – S'amusing

She Loved My Poetry, I Think…

(Note: this first appeared in April 7, 24 and was republished, here, following a correction revision)

Not my poetry, in the sense that I wrote them. No, they belonged to real poets: Clemente Clarke Moore, Ernest Thayer, Robert W. Service, Hugh Antoine D’Arcy, Grantland Rice and Abraham Lincoln. I just memorized and recited them to her.

But she didn’t know, or care, who wrote the words. I think she just enjoyed the rhythmic sound that accompanied our steady pace. She never sighed or balked when I began each line, or repeated sections until I had it right.

The Night Before Christmas may have been her favorite. I’d recite it over and over and over until I couldn’t change the inflection points and it got boring, probably for both of us.

Spring came along and with it the start of a new baseball season. What could be more appropriate to memorize than Casey At The Bat. I did, a little bit a time as we walked along, side by side.

It was the All-Star game before I had it down verbatim and recited it ad nauseum. By the ‘dog days of Summer’, it was wearing thin on both of us. I sensed her boredom.

Following a short break, I picked up memorizing again and locked down Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address before the November 19th anniversary of the President’s iconic speech.

Lincoln, himself, may have delivered the speech in a quiet manner but each dramatic line found me delivering it with gusto. Neighbors probably thought it odd to see me talking and gesturing theatrically, only stopping to pee or sniff.

Memorizing poetry gave this Senior’s brain some very good exercise, I’m uncertain what it gave her, but she didn’t complain. Dogs are like that, they give you all the attention you want and don’t ask for much in return, just your love.

Over time, I managed to conquer The Cremation of Sam McGee, Alumnus Football and The Face On The Barroom Floor. She approved them all.

I still walk daily but since Daisy passed away this February, I’ve stopped with the poetry. Music accompanies me, now, on the same paths where we walked and talked. She’s deeply missed.

The Last Battle is a poem about a pet’s message to its guardian in its final days. The message is clear. The following is the opening stanza and the author is unknown but I like to think that our pets wrote it…

If it should be that I grow frail and weak
And pain should keep me from my sleep,
Then will you do what must be done,
For this — the last battle — can’t be won.
You will be sad I understand,
But don’t let grief then stay your hand,
For on this day, more than the rest,
Your love and friendship must stand the test.

Steve, 040724

For more stories, follow by blog at ‘srbottch.com’

To pet lovers, everywhere.

Listen My Children…

I first wrote this last year but today is a good time to repost it.

Listen my children and you shall hear of The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere

Twas the 18th of April, ‘75, hardly a man is now alive who remembers that famous day and year

As he said to his friend, “If the British march by land or sea from the town tonight, hang a lantern aloft in the belfry arch of the North Church tower as a signal light.

One if by land, and two if by sea, and I on the opposite sure shall be ready to ride and to spread the alarm through every Middlesex village and farm for the country folk to be up and to arm” (Longfellow)

Miss Meehan, my 5th Grade teacher at Woodland Street School in Worcester, MA wrote this on the chalkboard and had the students memorize and recite it. I’ve never forgotten it. Of course, there’s lots more to the poem.

About 1981, on April 18th, I was driving along the New York State Thruway, Rte 90, at an excessive speed. Why so fast? Because I was reciting this poem out loud, caught up in a bit of patriotism. At least that was my story to the state trooper who commented, “I bet Paul wasn’t going this fast”, as he handed me the speeding citation.

I will never forget the poem, the officer, the patriotic deed by Paul and friends, nor Miss Meehan.

Steve

Happy Patriots Day to all Bay Staters today, as well as Boston Marathoners.

Love On The Sidewalk…

It happened in a most awkward way, as love is wont to do. A thrown kiss, a wink, a wave and a look of expectation that it would be returned. But I would have none of it.

Alas, my misguided ego momentarily led me to believe that I was the target of the young gentleman’s affection, when, in actuality, I was caught in a crossfire, a crossfire of love, playing out on the sidewalk of my favorite coffee shop in the town center.

But it was over as quickly as it happened. The February breeze carried the romantic gesture past me to the attractive young woman at my back, the target of his affection. Her reply mirrored his, lovingly thrown back. I stepped aside and let it pass, unbroken.

Not a word was spoken between them but it was obvious by their flirtatious comportment, this was unabashed love, love on the sidewalk. And it was on display for anyone to see. I saw it because I’m an observer of people, especially those who blow kisses my way, albeit, inadvertently.

It’s winter in western New York and with that comes a string of cold temperatures and depressing cloudy skies. It can be overbearing. Today, however, the air was warmer, the sun was filling the sky and moods changed. Gaiety filled the air. And there was love, love on the sidewalk.

The humorist in me wanted to ask if the kisses were meant for me, but I bit my tongue and held back. Why spoil a good street performance with a silly annoyance.

Valentine’s Day is upon us. Love sightings will abound. Will you observe them?

Happy Valentine’s Day to lovers everywhere…

Steve #021423

Listen My Children…1775

‘Listen my children and you shall hear…of the midnight ride of Paul Revere…T’was the 18th of April, ’75…’ (H. W. Longfellow)

A little bit of US history as memorialized in Longfellow’ long poem, The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere.

My 5th grade teacher, Miss Meehan, wrote several stanzas on the blackboard (remember those?) and had each student write them, ourselves, then memorize them.

I’ve never forgotten those stanzas and am reminded of the history and Miss Meehan every April 18th, today. It’s important to remember our history and important people in our lives. Miss Meehan was a good teacher and that period in US history was, well, what can I say.

It’s also important to understand our past, as a country and an individual, so we can learn and make in-course corrections as we continue to grow.

Paul Revere wasn’t the only rider that night and the British grabbed him before he got carried away with his warnings to the public. However, HWL chose to use him in his narrative and now his name is synonymous with revolution and liberty.

I hope you find the poem to read, yourself. And, as I like to do, read it aloud. It seems to resonate better with me when I do.

Remember history, and the teachers who made it come alive for you.

Steve

The Bar Chronicles, #7: ‘Presidential Campaigns’

Bar Night 2

“Want to join us for a beer tonight?”
“But the Presidential debate is tonight”.
“It’s beer!”“
“What time shall I meet you?”

And so our newest ‘bar night’ guest joined the boys for an evening of ‘brotherhood and beer’. No arm twisting, just old fashioned subtle ‘salesmanship’, beer vs politics.

Caverly’s, in Rochester’s South Wedge, calls itself an Irish pub. It definitely tilts that way with an oversized Irish flag in the bar, dart boards on the wall and a variety of Irish beers. The owner/bartender and patrons were a friendly group and the beer was fairly priced.

At first, we were like the proverbial strangers in a western movie who get stared down by the locals when they ride into town. Four seniors, not riding, but strolling through the open door, surveying the decor and nodding approval, caused a momentary pause to a couple’s Scrabble game. We passed the final test, a sniff over by a couple of old dogs who were there with their regulars, then claimed the only 4 person table in this small neighborhood establishment. Our evening was about to commence.

As always, the clinking of our pints and well wishes to each other signaled the start of another evening of recollection and remembrances. With the usual small talk out of the way, we got down to a not-too-serious political discussion, ‘past presidential campaigns and elections’. We adroitly omitted the current campaign in an effort to maintain high standards, however, as we discussed, past elections weren’t innocent affairs, either.

Adams and Jefferson were most uncivil in 1800 and when Adams lost he declined to attend the inauguration of our third President, who needed help from the House of Representatives to break a tie with Arron Burr.

John Q Adams won the highest office in 1824, besting ‘Old Hickory’ Andrew Jackson, courtesy of the House, again. See a trend to close elections? Nastiness and divisiveness was not invented in 2016. After Abe Lincoln won in 1860, the entire country fell into civil chaos, war.

Then there were mottos and headlines: ‘I Like Ike’ and ‘Dewey Wins’. Of course, it took until 1960 before a Catholic was elected, thanks to John Kennedy. He beat Nixon who won a ‘do-again’ eight years later.

Remember Lyndon Johnson lifting his beagle by the ears? He lost the SPCA vote on that one and famously declared, in 1968, “if nominated, I will not run, and if elected, I will not serve”. So Democrats nominated Hubert Horatio Humphrey* at their convention and the streets of Mayor Daley’s Chicago erupted in violent protests with the Vietnam War as a backdrop.

Political campaigns are major events, grueling work for the candidates and expensive. But, if they come through Rochester, it would be fun to sit down and have a beer with the candidates. They could join us at Caverly’s and for one night we could be ‘all the President’s men’. That would certainly be a ‘Bar Chronicle’ to remember. I just hope they don’t read the writing on the bathroom wall…

caverlys-wall

srbottch.com

*In President Carter’s nomination acceptance speech of 1980, he referred to Humphrey as Hubert Horatio ‘Hornblower’, a fictional naval character in novels.

The Bar Chronicles, #6: ‘The Bards of The Genesee’

Bar Night 2

‘I think that I shall never see a poem lovely as a tree…’ (1)

The Genesee River works its way north from Pennsylvania through the hills, valleys and plateaus of western New York, cascading over falls, sliding over limestone and shale before slicing through Rochester and quietly slipping into the Great Lake, Ontario, at the city’s port. The river is a landmark of our community, inspiring photographers, writers and poets.

high-falls

(photo by Kathy Davis: blog.life-verses.com)

Tonight, at the Wegman’s Pub* in Perinton, NY, was a night for poetry, inspired not by the river, but by ‘beer and brotherhood’.

‘Let those who are in favor with their stars
of public honor and proud titles boast…’ (2)

To call us ‘Bards’’ would be an exaggeration. We’re just four old guys sitting around a table, enjoying a couple of brews and reading poetry. Four men with three hundred combined years, reading other people’s work, real poets’ work. A beautiful thing!

A tool-maker, a software engineer, a Marine fighter pilot and a screw salesman, reading Blake, Kilmer and Shakespeare between sips of IPAs, stouts and lagers. But not just reading them, actually interpreting them and discussing the role of poetry in our own lives. Believe me, it happened.

From the personification of a tree as a living being to tigers and everlasting love, we brought our favorite poems to the table tonight and read them aloud, in a pub. Our voices rose to the occasion.

Who knew Joyce Kilmer was a man? One of us admitted taking a poetry class. Shakespeare was being Shakespeare, and one of us was never exposed to poetry. Life’s lessons are a result of our own places and times. Growing up in coal country, on a farm or in an urban setting makes a difference in one’s experiences. Sharing those differences is exciting.

‘Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night…’ (3)

When did poetry come into our lives, someone asked. I’m not sure, myself, I suppose it was required reading in school. In 5th grade, I memorized the first few stanzas of Longfellow’s ‘The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere’ and still can recite it, although I forget names of people I’ve recently met.

Some find poetry inspirational, I enjoy its imagery. Poets excel at using language to effectively tell their stories. The rhythm of their words completes a process that makes poetry so different from prose. Poems have ‘voices’.

Do you like poetry? Tell us your favorite. By the way, I recommend reading it with beer and friends…

‘The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees…
And the highwayman came riding, riding, riding…’(4)

srbottch.com

Trees by Joyce Kilmer
Shakespeare’s Sonnet #25
The Tyger by William Blake
The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes.

*The Pub at Wegmans in Perinton was very nice. More of an eating environment than a genuine pub, but it was quiet, perfect for our social event. We didnt have to ‘cup’ our ears.