archy and mehitabel by Don Marquis

Source of book: I own this.

Every reader, I suspect, has a particular obscure author that gives him or her a unique pleasure. Don Marquis is one of mine.

Marquis wrote in a variety of genres from novels to plays, but he was best known for his work as a journalist and humorist for the New York Evening Sun, and the New York Herald Tribune in the 1910s, 20s, and 30s. It was in this capacity that he conceived the character of Archy in 1916.

Archy is a cockroach who was a free verse poet in a previous life. As punishment for his abandonment of classical forms, he is condemned to live as a despised life form while fully retaining his poetic powers. As he puts it:

gods i am pent up in a cockroach

i with the soul of a dante

am mate and companion of fleas

i with the gift of homer

must smile when a mouse calls me pal

tumble bugs are my familiars

this is the punishment meted

because i have written vers libre

…

i with the brain of a milton

fell into the mincemeat at christmas

and was damned-near baked in a pie 

Marquis “discovers” him flinging his body against the typewriter keys one night, and thereafter leaves a sheet of paper in the machine each night. Since capitalization (and most punctuation on older machines) requires two keys at a time, Archy cannot use them, and so writes with all lower case and without punctuation. In this, he parallels E. E. Cummings, who lived roughly at the same time, although it appears that Marquis published the first Archy poems before Cummings published his first collection. The two share the unorthodox approach to capitalization and punctuation (although Marquis did it as part of the humor rather than for shocking effect) and a fascination with transcendentalism and reincarnation. (Both were popular in the latter years of the 19th Century.)

Archy’s friend Mehitabel is a female alley cat,  who claims to be a reincarnated version of Cleopatra. (Doesn’t everyone pick Cleopatra? Or is it just my impression?) Despite her royal origin and claim to the status of lady, her behavior is decidedly indecorous and her language (mildly) salty.

Accompanying the poems are the delightful illustrations of George Herriman, the African-American cartoonist responsible for Krazy Kat.

archy and mehitabel is the first collection of poems, and covers the Prohibition era. While humor is certainly present, the poems also are a pointed commentary on human nature, social issues, and hypocrisy. The introductory poem reads as follows:

the coming of archy

expression is the need of my soul

i was once a vers libre bard

but i died and my soul went

into the body of a cockroach

it has given me a new outlook on life

i see things from the under side now

thank you for the apple peelings in the wastepaper basket

but your paste is getting so stale i can't eat it

there is a cat here called mehitabel i wish you would have

removed she nearly ate me the other night why don't she

catch rats that is what she is supposed to be for

there is a rat here she should get without delay

most of these rats here are just rats

but this rat is like me he has a human soul in him

he used to be a poet himself

night after night i have written poetry for you

on your typewriter

and this big brute of a rat who used to be a poet

comes out of his hole when it is done

and reads it and sniffs at it

he is jealous of my poetry

he used to make fun of it when we were both human

he was a punk poet himself

and after he has read it he sneers

and then he eats it

i wish you would have mehitabel kill that rat

or get a cat that is onto her job

and i will write you a series of poems

showing how things look

to a cockroach

that rats name is freddy

the next time freddy dies i hope he won't be a rat

but something smaller i hope i will be a rat

in the next transmigration and freddy a cockroach

i will teach him to sneer at my poetry then

don't you ever eat any sandwiches in your office

i havent had a crumb of bread

for i dont know how long

or a piece of ham or anything but apple parings

and paste leave a piece of paper in your machine

every night you can call me archy

Mehitabel is gradually introduced into the book, and her various love affairs are a recurring subject of the poems. In many cases, the tom cats contribute their own poetry, usually rhymed doggerel, such as the following.

persian pussy from over the sea

demure and lazy and smug and fat

none of your ribbons and bells for me

ours is the zest of the alley cat

over the roofs from flat to flat

we prance with capers corybantic

what though a boost should break a slat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

we would rather be rowdy and gaunt and free

and dine on a diet of roach and rat

than slaves to a tame society

ours is the zest of the alley cat

fish heads freedom a frozen sprat

dug from the gutter with digits frantic

is better than bores and a fireside mat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

when the pendant moon in the leafless tree

clings and sways like a golden bat

i sing its light and my love for thee

ours is the zest of the alley cat

missiles around us fall rat a tat tat

but our shadows leap in a ribald antic

as over the fences the world cries scat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

persian princess i dont care that

for your pedigree traced by scribes pedantic

ours is the zest of the alley cat

mehitabel us for the life romantic

The stray cat meme wasn’t limited to Marquis, of course. T. S. Eliot used the idea in Old Possum’s Book of Practical Cats, which I read last year. I got to hear Brian Setzer perform one of his signature tunes from his Stray Cats days - another fun use of the idea.


I can’t quote all of the poems I liked, but I do want to mention “the cockroach who had been to hell,” which tells of a roach that stumbled into a house that was being fumigated and believed it to be hell. I also loved the rather longish “archy interviews a pharaoh,” wherein Archy interviews a mummy, who complains of being rather dry after all these centuries. He craves beer, and would trade his royal history for a job in a brewery. He is unamused to discover that Prohibition will prevent him from slaking his thirst. There are several pointed poems about Prohibition in the collection. Presumably, subsequent books will comment on the passage of the 21st Amendment.

“clarence the ghost” is also fun - a complaint by a ghost about the annoyance of mediums always calling him up to ask him silly questions. In this as in many others, Marquis shows a talent for looking at situations from the other perspective.

I would also recommend “unjust,” a meditation on the sad fact that we consider superficial beauty to be good and ugliness to be evil. These lines alone makes the poem worthwhile:

but there is very little

justice in the universe

what is the use

of being the universe

if you have to be just

interrogation point

Marquis’ concern for the poor and downtrodden permeates the collection. I imagine that the poems composed during the Great Depression will be even more poignant.

pity the poor spider

i have just been reading

an advertisement of a certain

roach exterminator

the human race little knows

all the sadness it

causes in the insect world

i remember some weeks ago

meeting a middle aged spider

she was weeping

what is the trouble i asked

it is these cursed

fly swatters she replied

they kill off all the flies

and my family and i are starving

to death it struck me as

so pathetic that i made

a little song about it

as follows to wit

twas an elderly mother spider

grown gaunt and fierce and gray

with her little ones crouched beside her

who wept as she sang this lay

curses on these here swatters

what kills off all the flies

for me and my little daughters

unless we eats we dies

swattin and swattin and swattin

tis little else you hear

and we'll soon be dead and forgotten

with the cost of living so dear

my husband he up and left me

lured off by a centipede

and he says as he bereft me

tis wrong but i ll get a feed

and me a working and working

scouring the streets for food

faithful and never shirking

doing the best i could

curses on these here swatters

what kills off all the flies

me and my poor little daughters

unless we eats we dies

only a withered spider

feeble and worn and old

and this is what

you do when you swat

you swatters cruel and cold

i will admit that some

of the insects do not lead

noble lives but is every

man s hand to be against them

yours for less justice

and more charity

I am reminded again of Scrooge’s “If they would rather die, they had better do it, and decrease the surplus population.” Perhaps also of the casual disregard of the “47%” that became the deciding factor in a recent election.

On a lighter note, “certain maxims of archy” contains some humorous gems.

prohibition makes you

want to cry

into your beer and

denies you the beer

to cry into

every cloud

has its silver

lining but it is

sometimes a little

difficult to get it to

the mint

there is always
something to be thankful
for you would not
think that a cockroach
had much ground
for optimism
but as the fishing season
opens up i grow
more and more
cheerful at the thought
that nobody ever got
the notion of using
cockroaches for bait

My favorite satiric poem of the bunch is “warty bliggins the toad.”

i met a toad
the other day by the name
of warty bliggens
he was sitting under
a toadstool
feeling contented
he explained that when the cosmos
was created
that toadstool was especially planned for his personal
shelter from sun and rain
thought out and prepared
for him

do not tell me
said warty bliggens
that there is not a purpose
in the universe
the thought is blasphemy

a little more
conversation revealed
that warty bliggens
considers himself to be
the centre of the said
universe
the earth exists
to grow toadstools for him
to sit under
the sun to give him light
by day and the moon
and wheeling constellations
to make beautiful
the night for the sake of
warty bliggens

to what act of yours
do you impute
this interest on the part
of the creator
of the universe
i asked him
why is it that you
are so greatly favoured
 
ask rather
said warty bliggens
what the universe has done to deserve me

if i were a
human being i would
not laugh
too complacently
at poor warty bliggens
for similar
absurdities
have only too often
lodged in the crinkles
of the human cerebrum

I’ll close with my wife’s favorite, “the robin and the worm” She is not nearly as fond of poetry in general as I am, but she does have a dry sense of humor.

a robin said to an
angleworm as he ate him
i am sorry but a bird
has to live somehow the
worm being slow witted could
not gather his
dissent into a wise crack
and retort he was
effectually swallowed
before he could turn
a phrase
by the time he had
reflected long enough
to say but why must a
bird live
he felt the beginnings
of a gradual change
invading him
some new and disintegrating
influence
was stealing along him
from his positive
to his negative pole
and he did not have
the mental stamina
of a jonah to resist the
insidious
process of assimilation
which comes like a thief
in the night
demons and fishhooks
he exclaimed
i am losing my personal
identity as a worm
my individuality
is melting away from me
odds craw i am becoming
part and parcel of
this bloody robin
so help me i am thinking
like a robin and not
like a worm any
longer yes yes i even
find myself agreeing
that a robin must live
i still do not
understand with my mentality
why a robin must live
and yet i swoon into a
condition of belief
yes yes by heck that is
my dogma and i shout it a
robin must live
amen said a beetle who had
preceded him into the
interior that is the way i
feel myself is it not
wonderful when one arrives
at the place
where he can give up his
ambitions and resignedly
nay even with gladness
recognize that it is a far
far better thing to be
merged harmoniously
in the cosmic all
and this comfortable situation
in his midst
so affected the marauding
robin that he perched
upon a blooming twig
and sang until the
blossoms shook with ecstasy
he sang
i have a good digestion
and there is a god after all
which i was wicked
enough to doubt
yesterday when it rained
breakfast breakfast
i am full of breakfast
and they are at breakfast
in heaven
they breakfast in heaven
all s well with the world
so intent was this pious and
murderous robin
on his own sweet song
that he did not notice
mehitabel the cat
sneaking toward him
she pounced just as he
had extended his larynx
in a melodious burst of
thanksgiving and
he went the way of all
flesh fish and good red herring
a ha purred mehitabel
licking the last
feather from her whiskers
was not that a beautiful
song he was singing
just before i took him to
my bosom
they breakfast in heaven
all s well with the world
how true that is
and even yet his song
echoes in the haunted
woodland of my midriff
peace and joy in the world
and over all the
provident skies
how beautiful is the universe
when something digestible meets
with an eager digestion
how sweet the embrace
when atom rushes to the arms
of waiting atom
and they dance together
skimming with fairy feet
along a tide of gastric juices
oh feline cosmos you were
made for cats
and in the spring
old cosmic thing
i dine and dance with you
i shall creep through
yonder tall grass
to see if peradventure
some silly fledgling thrushes
newly from the nest
be not floundering therein
i have a gusto this
morning i have a hunger
i have a yearning to hear
from my stomach
further music in accord with
the mystic chanting
of the spheres of the stars that
sang together in the dawn of
creation prophesying food
for me i have a faith
that providence has hidden for me
in yonder tall grass
still more
ornithological delicatessen
oh gayly let me strangle
what is gayly given
well well boss there is
something to be said
for the lyric and imperial
attitude
believe that everything is for
you until you discover
that you are for it
sing your faith in what you
get to eat right up to the
minute you are eaten
for you are going
to be eaten
will the orchestra please
strike up that old
tutankhamen jazz while i dance
a few steps i learnt from an
egyptian scarab and some day i
will narrate to you the most
merry light headed wheeze
that the skull of yorick put
across in answer to the
melancholy of the dane and also
what the ghost of
hamlet s father replied to the skull
not forgetting the worm that
wriggled across one of the picks
the grave diggers had left behind
for the worm listened and winked
at horatio while the skull and the
ghost and prince talked
saying there are more things
twixt the vermiform appendix
and nirvana than are dreamt of
in thy philosophy horatio
fol de riddle fol de rol
must every parrot be a poll

“there are more things twixt the vermiform appendix and nirvana than are dreamt of in thy philosophy horatio.” Yes indeed.

Perhaps I am one of the very few, but I find Marquis’ writing to be amusing while more applicable to our present times than one might think on first glance.

Early Poems by William Carlos Williams

Source of book: I own this

 

While I had previously read a few poems by William Carlos Williams, I was encouraged to read more by my English teacher cousin-in-law Jennifer. This particular collection is published by Dover, and contains selections from his collections Al Que Quiere!, The Tempers, and Sour Grapes; along with selections previously published in various magazines. Like most books published by Dover, it is a simple paperback, and so inexpensive as to be nearly free. It was a good introduction, but I enjoyed it enough to keep my eyes open for a larger hardback collection.

Williams was born in New Jersey to an English father and a Puerto Rican mother. His first career was that of a physician, with an emphasis on pediatrics. He was also successful as a writer and poet, but continued to practice medicine throughout his working years. He was also notable as a mentor to younger poets, the best known of which was Allen Ginsberg. I find this connection to be interesting because I am not particularly fond of Ginsberg but really, really, enjoyed Williams. (See endnote for further discussion of my feelings on this issue.)

Williams wrote primarily in free verse. Unfortunately, this form (or lack of form in some cases) has been overused and abused over the last century by poet wannabes who seem to think that it is the way to write. All one has to do is break up a thought into uneven lines, make the language obscure and inscrutable, and bingo! A “poem”. Williams is a perfect example of the distinction between “poetry” and true poetry.

One of the things I really like about Williams is his use of line length. He chooses the length of line in a given poem, and within a given poem, to suit the impression he wishes to create. To that end as well, he selects his words and the way they fit together to make the reader’s voice create the desired impression. For example, in In Harbor, from Al Que Quiere!, he uses primarily long lines, with long sounds (among, moored) to create a smooth, rocking rhythm as he describes the ships.

Surely there, among the great docks, is peace, my mind;
there with the ships moored in the river.
Go out, timid child,
and snuggle in among the great ships talking so quietly.
Maybe you will even fall asleep near them and be
lifted into one of their laps, and in the morning—
There is always the morning in which to remember it all!

Of what are they gossiping? God knows.
And God knows it matters little for we cannot understand them.
Yet it is certainly of the sea, of that there can be no question.
It is a quiet sound. Rest! That's all I care for now.
The smell of them will put us to sleep presently.
Smell! It is the sea water mingling here into the river—
at least so it seems—perhaps it is something else—but what matter?

The sea water! It is quiet and smooth here!
How slowly they move, little by little trying
the hawsers that drop and groan with their agony.
Yes, it is certainly of the high sea they are talking.

In contrast to these lines are those of Winter Sunset, from the same collection. Williams uses the short lines to recreate the way the eye is drawn from one part of the vista to another.

Then I raised my head
and stared out over
the blue February waste
to the blue bank of hill
with stars on it
in strings and festoons—
but above that:
one opaque
stone of a cloud
just on the hill
left and right
as far as I could see;
and above that
a red streak, then
icy blue sky!

It was a fearful thing
to come into a man's heart
at that time: that stone
over the little blinking stars
they'd set there.

This poem also demonstrates another facet of Williams’ genius: his use of color. He seems to be painting with blues, when he suddenly splashes this unexpected red across the canvas. He also uses this technique in his description of a failed relationship in A Portrait in Greys.

Will it never be possible
to separate you from your greyness?
Must you be always sinking backward
into your grey-brown landscapes—and trees
always in the distance, always against
a grey sky?
               Must I be always
moving counter to you? Is there no place
where we can be at peace together
and the motion of our drawing apart
be altogether taken up?
                      I see myself
standing upon your shoulders touching
a grey, broken sky—
but you, weighted down with me,
yet gripping my ankles,—move
                    laboriously on,
where it is level and undisturbed by colors.

The repetition of grey, as with his repetition of blue in the previous poem, creates a monochromatic effect. The use, or omission, of a contrasting color is the fulcrum on which the whole poem turns.

In another poem which is too long to quote in full, To A Solitary Disciple, he further makes effective use of visual effect as he (sarcastically, in my opinion) contrasts the poetic point of view with that of the surveyor or draftsman. My favorite line from this poem is “smooth as turquoise”, which is, of course, not smooth at all.

Rather observe
that it is early morning
than that the sky
is smooth
as a turquoise.

I just love how the impression of the sky as turquoise, with all its “blemishes” and markings truly resonates as an unexpected analogue to the sky with a few clouds.

Williams, like many great poets, thrives on the unexpected. To me, this is one of the true joys of poetry – to discover something new and unexpected, that speaks to something deep inside and unknown until the poet brought it to light. Another great example of this is his longer poem A Goodnight, which is truly an anti-lullaby. The whole poem seems calculated to feel anything but restful, anything but peaceful, and to lead to anything but sleep. The first stanza is perhaps the most truthful depiction of gulls I have ever read.

Go to sleep--though of course you will not--
to tideless waves thundering slantwise against
strong embankments, rattle and swish of spray
dashed thirty feet high, caught by the lake wind,
scattered and strewn broadcast in over the steady
car rails! Sleep, sleep! Gulls' cries in a wind-gust
broken by the wind; calculating wings set above
the field of waves breaking.
Go to sleep to the lunge between foam-crests,
refuse churned in the recoil. Food! Food!
Offal! Offal! that holds them in the air, wave-white
for the one purpose, feather upon feather, the wild
chill in their eyes, the hoarseness in their voices--
sleep, sleep . . .

There are far too many good poems to quote, so I will suggest that the reader seek out Smell!, a none-too-fond tribute to the poet’s nose; and Pastoral, with its memorable image. Two more, however, demand to be quoted in full:

Peace on Earth

The Archer is wake!
The Swan is flying!
Gold against blue
An Arrow is lying.
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Bears are abroad!
The Eagle is screaming!
Gold against blue
Their eyes are gleaming!
Sleep!
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

The Sisters lie
With their arms intertwining;
Gold against blue
Their hair is shining!
The Serpent writhes!
Orion is listening!
Gold against blue
His sword is glistening!
Sleep!
There is hunting in heaven--
Sleep safe till tomorrow.

It took me a while to realize that this was about the constellations. This is why each poem should be read aloud at least twice. I cannot say how much I love “gold against blue”.

Finally, a perfect poem for a winter storm, for a musician, and for the first month of 2012. It occurs to me that “perfect fifths of derision” is not only one of the best lines in the whole collection, but also a great name for a heavy metal band. (Sorry, couldn’t resist…)

January

Again I reply to the triple winds
running chromatic fifths of derision
outside my window:
Play louder.
You will not succeed. I am
bound more to my sentences
the more you batter at me
to follow you.
And the wind,
as before, fingers perfectly
its derisive music.

Note on Allen Ginsberg:

I find Allen Ginsberg to be irritating for the same reason I find Walt Whitman to be irritating. To me, they both seem to make lists rather than music. The idea of stream-of-consciousness writing is risky because it can become bloated and free of focus and clarity. Some people really enjoy it, but it has never done anything for me. I emotionally respond to a clear and striking image, but not to an abundance of images in rapid succession. This may be related to my introverted tendencies – I am looking for something that resonates with my inner self, which is somehow quieter than all that. I think this is related to my dislike of crowds. I can handle a little, particularly if I can withdraw into my own mind for a break once in a while. However, if I am placed in the middle of the cacophony with no escape, no order, no direction; I just do not enjoy the experience. I also find I have a difficult time seeing the point of both Whitman and Ginsberg. Perhaps their champions can set me straight, but I feel like they lack discipline and purpose. It is enough to throw some paint at the canvas. Never mind the idea of purpose, which to me is the key to good poetry. Anyone can look at the world. Many can write down the details. Only a true poet can draw an unexpected and enlightening meaning from what he or she sees.