Twofer

Illustrated Poems from the Past

Friend and fellow author D. Jason Fleming sent me a few poems to add to my trove of them a little while back. I’m pairing two which share a theme, as both are short. We were discussing the death of poetry in the current era, because if schools teach children to loathe reading, it is poetry most of all which has borne that burden of disdain and dispair. There is a reason I’m doing this little weekly thing, because a good poem is a work of art. I can only gild the lily with the illustrations, but perhaps I can also remind my readers of the power of words.

The Roughneck

 Maiden aunts, both male and female, like him not;

   He offends their sensibilities too much,

   And he's always sure to get himself in Dutch

 With the genteel, ultra-cultured, bloodless lot.

 He is always knocking platitudes to pot,

   While he crushes old traditions in his clutch;

   He's a sort of bomb exploding at a touch,

 Or Volcano, spouting lava, fierce and hot.

 He is shaggy, craggy, heavy-shouldered, crude;

   He is oftentimes unconscionably wrong,

 But—he fights the unctuous, pussy-footed brood

   And his voice is that of progress, youthful, strong.

 You may scorn him, flay him, hound him and suppress him

 But he'll go his way in spite of you, God bless him!

—Berton Braley

(From the July 3, 1918 edition of Adventure magazine)

And of the same ilk is the man in this obscure poem.

Godde helpe alle good adventurers

Godde helpe alle good adventurers

Who love strange roades sae welle

Whose prysonne ys a citye

Whose countynge-house a celle.

Sende them a safe deliveraunce

That each may lyte his fyre

Wythe only starres for gaolers

Inne the lande of hys desyre.

—Russell Mott

(From the October 1917 edition of Adventure magazine)