User Poetry

[GeoffC]

Problem, Kenny, is that using forefathers and father changes the metre ...

[kennyc]

Well, yeah, I never notice/pay attention to that myself.

which is also why I never write "form" poetry....

[GeoffC]

Originally Posted by kennyc

Well, yeah, I never notice/pay attention to that myself.

which is also why I never write "form" poetry....

Do you want part II ?

[kennyc]

Love to see it! As I said I really like it....

I'll try to ignore the pa's and grandpa's

[GeoffC]

Rebellion

Part II

The Turning

support I have, said he, we wait
until they rally round, my friends
will come, I have no doubt they will;

but no more came to aid his cause
his friends, they failed to come, they let
him down, deserted him in hour of need;

he was advised, against his will,
no further men nor gold nor arms
had come; he had to turn and 'scape
back home, they said; the reds were on
the march, these men from fights across
the sea were hard and led by men
with zeal who yearned to take them on;
a Prince was one, they called a Duke.

no more did come, the promised aid,
support of men and gold and arms,
in pain he had to lead his men
back home; but still they fought and won
though black their mood as winter came
and some did flee as if they knew
the end was nigh, the chase was on,
for battle hardened reds were in
pursuit of them and woe betide
the stragglers lagging on behind,
who melted as they could, away.

[GeoffC]

Rebellion

Part III

The Battle 16th April 1746…Culloden Moor

they northward fled to mossy moor,
they knew pursuit was closing in;
a try was made one night to face
their foe, but in the dark the men
did loose their way, their plan so failed
they skulked away, the men so faint
through lack of food and warmth, they did
not know they’d lost a chance that might
have swung the fight their way, (the reds
were up, in party mood, their Duke
was five and twenty years of age
that day, and brandy filled their cups);
and as the dawn appeared they knew
at last the dream had lost its hope;
this ground they knew was water logged;
they hoped the bog was on their side,
it seemed, to them, that God was not;
the morn was cold, and colder still
they grew as wait they did, and trust
their Prince had chosen well this moor.

full shorn of hope, but still they dreamt,
they’d beat the reds afore, (but not
like these), they placed their hands
in God and Prince and hoped, and hoped,
they could again; but no one thought
with hand on heart and targe and sword,
they had a chance, as glories of
the past did fade behind the door
of dawn; they braved the cold, the ice
the blast of gale, of hail, of snow;

the morn wore on, and weary worn
their mien, through hunger, thirst and wear;
they staggered up and shook their heads,
for on the hill did mass the reds
arranged in lines, who marched did they
as though the fight was all but won.

the Chiefs did cuss and place their men,
at worst they knew the highland charge
would fail, as bog was not the ground
for them; untrained they were in fights
against such men as these, who ranged
themselves in battle form ahead;

four hundred yards was all there was
between the groups of men; and one
was lead by men of hope, so vain
they failed to see beyond their dreams,
and looked to God and Right to win;
the other band of men were fresh
from battles far a-field and trained
to face a foe of war beyond
the likes of these; in arms and men,
the reds had more by far, and knew
they would prevail upon this field;
the Duke who led was keen, and told
to wipe, at last, away this Prince
and all that he was feign to be.

in weary lines the highland clans
did stand, ill shod, full worn, ill fed,
ill served by leaders, vain and proud;
their lines did number barely two,
the reds by count had twice the men
such overwhelming odds did crush
the spirits of a few, but these
were men inured by life, and fight
they’d do until the last; they ken.

the battle starts as cannons roar
to scythe like corn the highland ranks;
the charge then came as clans did run
and break their foes upon their left;
but all for naught as numbers count
the cannon roared, then mortars joined
the hail of death, and so at last
the reds fought back and won the day,
in spite of further charge by clans
who sought but glory on their land;
the reds were helped by numbers huge
their grape was hot, their shot as dense
as flies upon the blood that wept
that day, to mark the end for all
the highland clans had held so dear.

the writing on the wall that day
does tell of death that fell upon
the clans; of slaughter called by Duke
upon the hapless men who lay
with wounds upon the field; and those
of whom his troops did find near by,
and then for days and days beyond,
old scores were paid in blood and gore;

5 more parts to follow ....

[kennyc]

Epic.

[GeoffC]

Rebellion

Part IV

… And days beyond

at last the lust for blood was quenched,
those caught were tried, some hanged, some drawn—

those Lords who rashly plagued
and mocked the rightful crown—;

for some the end did mean a life
abroad in foreign toil alone;
some sold as slaves and had to wait
for years afore their kin would join.

of Prince, he hitched his skirts and fled,
so bruised he was he fled with naught
but life, but that was more than some;
he failed to make his mark and died,
exiled from home, his claim now lost.

Of “Butcher” Duke, he earned this taunt
for brutal acts against the Scots
of Charles; “no quarter” ordered he
to men and “harried were the Glens”;
he failed to make his mark in war
again, but lived a better life than Charles.

the reds were told to rape at will,
the lands, the maids; they torched with fire
the lands and homes; so folk would starve
they stole the kine and stripped the wealth;
the kilt was banned by threat of death
(unless they joined the Watch abroad).

the blood of rebels spilt for cause
does stain the grass of nation torn;
the clans were broke and some did leave;
and those, ‘tis said, did win their way
to mark their life in victory
for work they did across the sea
in lands so new they had a say,
a chance unknown in lands they’d left.

[badgoodDeb]

In the highland accents I've read, they use "da" and "grandda". In case those would work better than pa and grand pa .....

[GeoffC]

Originally Posted by badgoodDeb

In the highland accents I've read, they use "da" and "grandda". In case those would work better than pa and grand pa .....

aye, but then I'd have to pepper more of the accents throughout the work and I'm not confident enough to carry it through.....

[kennyc]

Originally Posted by GeoffC

aye, but then I'd have to pepper more of the accents throughout the work and I'm not confident enough to carry it through.....

I think it would work fine for me just like that, no other changes needed, and it would not have caused the pause that I experienced .. at least I don't think it would. As an American I'm just so conscious of "Pa" and "GrandPa" as southern and with southern accents, I have a hard time hearing them otherwise.

[GeoffC]

Originally Posted by kennyc

I think it would work fine for me just like that, no other changes needed, and it would not have caused the pause that I experienced .. at least I don't think it would. As an American I'm just so conscious of "Pa" and "GrandPa" as southern and with southern accents, I have a hard time hearing them otherwise.

mmm ; the vagaries of the common language we sometimes call English .... !

There's no Da in this list of Scottish words ... only faither http://www.cs.stir.ac.uk/~kjt/genera...l#DialectWords

But there is in this .... http://www.archive.org/stream/cu3192...38813_djvu.txt

[GeoffC]

Rebellion

Poems taken from letters written by participants ....

The Boy Who Came To Join the Cause

came news unto our croft that he
was close and called our aid that day,
red tide approached to wash our lands
I left the glen with kith and kin
in tow, and sought the fight to come;
he was I thought, a man so great,
ne’er seen the like afore nor since,
on white he rode amongst the ranks.

(the reds they held the upper ground).

the morn was cold, the storm it held
such rain and snow, so wet and wild,
but failed to mar the spirits held;
the reds they formed in lines in front,
their shot did mingle with the snow
and came like hail and mowed our lines;
the guns they fired, did thunder through
to cut and slice and hew our ranks;
our men did charge and try in vain,
but slaughter was the game that day,
like swatted flies our dead and maimed
did strew the field, and those who could
did cry with pain; a steed did jump
as if were mad, it may be true
that mad was said of us as well.

I saw that all was lost, so ran
with those of kin who could, with haste;
I had some cake of oats, and milk
to ease my faint along the way;
“It went so bad”, we cried of him,
to those who asked along the way;
we made it home, though it be night
a’fore we reached the safety of
the door; and pa was home by morn.

Donald McKay joined the Jacobites as a young boy, on the day of the battle. He accompanied his father and brother to the field, but escaped the slaughter. He surrendered to the redcoats and was sentenced for transportation, but escaped to stow away to work on Jamaican plantations. He returned to Scotland as an old man.

~ ~ ~

The Jacobite Officer

three nights we fled before the reds,
the hunger clenched my belly hard
and tired I was, but as the sleep
was almost there, “to horse, to horse”
the cry was heard, as drum and horn
did sound, to harken me awake;
on horse I joined my men and viewed
the sight of reds upon the hill,
and then they moved so quick it seemed
they closed the field and drew themselves
in lines of three, while those of ours
were barely two; their horse, we thought,
would fail to charge through watered marsh.

our Prince did try to order force
but army lords they did not chose
to heed his words; the reds attacked
across a wall that edged our lines
onto our right, and moved they did
four pieces in and fired their grape
which scythed us down like we were corn,
whole ranks of men I saw them slay.

I watched the flanking terror maim
and those of us who could did flee;
I saw the centre of our force
it pierced the reds, line one then two,
It reached the left of field and checked,
but then the rout began; I saw the
backs of men of mine; and worthy friends
I saw them littered on the ground.

In horror I belayed in shock
at sights before my eyes, and raged
as fire did I my blunderbuss;
then tried to turn but found my boots
were stuck in marsh up to my thighs,
my horse I’d lost, my servant too;
and Prince, he’d gone and all I saw
were men whose bodies floated dead
in marsh or those who could, did run
and fast away from tide of death.

James Johnstone, born 1719 was the son of an Edinburgh merchant. He was aged 27 and fought on the left of the field under the Duke of Perth. There is nothing in his description that tells how he escaped from the marsh, nor the battlefield. He is described as having an adventurous life after Culloden. He apparently escaped via England to France, disguised as a pedlar. He later served with French forces in America, but died in France around 1800.

~ ~ ~

The Government Soldier

we came to Nairn the fourteenth day,
a Monday I reflect, as we
did halt by there a day, and sought
to gain, by rack or plea, of those
we’d caught, the plans they had against
our Duke; our foes were close, they planned
attack the Tuesday night, thus warned
we warded true by God and won.

in early morning start we marched,
from Nairn through wind and rain; the wind
it blew us on our way, for miles
that numbered ten; upon a moor
we found them lined in two, and bold;
we each did peer across the moor
through wind blown hail and rain.

the wind still blew upon our backs
but all at once the rain did clear;
began at noon, the fight it did,
two pieces they did fire; we six,
through these they boldly came and fast,
a cloud en-mass with swords in hand
their guns they shot, then threw to ground;
we could not see, I doubt them us,
as smoke did cast a sulph’ry veil
our guns did lay a warming fire
and pieces strewed the field with grape,
a cannonade as strong as this
did gall them hard and they did turn
and run, we marked their flight with ball
and hand grenade to bid them quick
farewell; our horse to right and left
pursued to cut them thick upon
the field; by one o’clock we’d done.

It took, in minutes, but five and ten
of small arms fire, and three times that
in cannonade to clear the field
of them who sought to change our
King; we lost not one in our command,
though few were wounded sore against
the luck we had; our total count
of dead and hurt I make a mere
two hundred souls-but them it seems
the count is many many more.

we took great prize of arms, and killed
on field the maimed who failed to flee;
a host of French gave up their swords,
and day by day the foot and horse
drug in the heaps of those who fled
the field, to stand their trial; to those
we add our men who fled and they
shall hang, as Duke makes harsh with us.

they called us mad to see us fight,
they’d never seen our way of war
and chose the moor to thwart our guns
and, true enough, a few did bog;
they thought it strange our firelocks stayed
so dry, as hope did they the rain
would save their day, but we did know
a trick to keep them dry, our coats;
the Moor was deep but we prevailed
and Duke himself did praise our pluck
and said that God had blest our fight.

Edward Linn, a soldier in the Government Army, the 21st Royal Scots Fusiliers. He wrote a letter to his wife from the Inverness Camp on the 20th. Nothing more is known.

~ ~ ~

The Government Officer;
Highlander detailed as guard of the baggage.

at Nairn we stopped and made our plans
at Duke’s Demand, to garner faith
of those to whom we have command;
the camp we broke on early morn,
the men at ease with task of day;
the Horse of Light, and troop of men,
went on ahead to scout the way
while we did march in lines of four;
we met again towards the noon.

I ordered men to right and left
to march the wings until the start
and then to turn and guard the rear
and keep it safe, the equipage.

I safely watched the field that day,
our foes did mount their guns beside
a croft, they numbered three; they fired
our lines but we responded loud
and clear; theirs failed their mark but ours
did execute a fine discharge
into their face, they aught not stand
but swords in hand they firmly moved
ahead, but heated fire from ours
was seen to drive them back; they soon
gave up and fled; a pleasing sight I
thought; then Dragoons and Light did chase,
and slaughter I did see; all in all
this fight, I doubt an hour had passed.

I saw our horses on the left
had stopped by walls; they broke them down
and caused stramash upon their right
and laid unto the foes with blades;
but then two Lords of ours were down,
one then to die, the other in time;
our right-a quiet day they had,
whilst others did the deeds and thanks
were due to some; the Duke did bless
the Scots Fusiliers who made
first break upon the foe, by them
the victory was made so cheap
not one man did they lose that day.

we won the field, our foes did rout
and left their all upon the ground;
the Duke was cool, his troops complete
and losses few; of foes we killed
I cannot count, but hundreds on
the field and on the chase; some caught
and brought to heel, for trial and more.

of Prince I heard he’d upped and gone,
though of his Chiefs a few were took;
the rest, I heard it told, were said
to gather in the west; I wait
for news on what we are to do.

Donald Campbell of Airds was one of Highlanders who were loyal to the Government. He hailed from the west coast, employed by the Duke of Argyll. A captain of the Argyll Militia, he watched the battle closely as he and his men guarded the baggage train. He wrote his account shortly after the battle. Inconsistent with other accounts, he describes the battle starting at 1PM.

~ ~ ~

[GeoffC]

As the silent hour strikes Eleven
On this, the Eleventh Day
In this, the Eleventh Month;
shall we take time, pause and remember those
who went ‘afore their time, to Heaven;

called in hail of fire
torn from life
their folks;

in blood red poppy
adorned on coats
circled in wreaths
fallen in ceremony
the lowering of the flags,
evoke the silence of the guns;

shattered by the guns
that still reap their spoils;
even as we remember them.

As the silent hour strikes Eleven
On this, the Eleventh Day
In this, the Eleventh Month;
shall we take time, pause and remember those
who went ‘afore their time, to Heaven;

[RonPrice]

I thank Zelda_pinwheel for suggesting I post this piece here.-RonPrice, Tasmania
---------------------
As an English teacher, now retired, who taught Austen's "Emma" and who has been drawn into the TV vortex of recent Austen films--I took an interest in Austen's letters the other day and found them witty and humorous. Reading collections of letters, though, is not my favorite activity. I was moved, though, to pen the following prose-poem which I post here. I hope readers will find this piece of interest.-Ron Price, Tasmania
-------------------
A SECULAR AND NARROW WORLD

My mother-in-law, a woman in her late eighties, finds watching movies adapted from Jane Austen’s novels boring. The hundreds of students I had over the years would have had, for the most part, the same reaction to Austen's letters. Still, I have had my mental set moved as a result of rethinking Austen's literary contribution to our age(the last 200 years for she died in 1817)--to write this reflection on Jane Austen. My mother-in-law's and my students' attitudes mirror, somewhat, the reaction of novelist Henry James who saw the characters in Austen’s novels as having “small and second-rate minds,” Philistines one and all. Emerson found Austen to be imprisoned in a wretched and smothering conventionality with an excessive concern for “marriageableness.”1

Not everyone has reacted this way to Austen, not now nor in the nearly two centuries since her death in 1817. Some saw her writing as “a prose Shakespeare,”2 a writer who exposed with her mildly acidic, satirical solution of words the brittle, indeed, empty foundations of social and personal morality in a violent and repressive age in English society. It was this world that sought violent release in the next century and found that release when it was blown apart in WW1. -Ron Price with thanks to 1Lee Siegel, “A Writer Who Is Good For You,” The Atlantic Online, January 1998; and 2William B. MacAuley in Jane Austen: The Critical Heritage, Vol. 2, B.C. Southam, editor, Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd., London, 1987.

There is nothing to equal
your smallness in a small
town---the commonplace
has never found a master
finer than your divine chit-
chat some have said, Jane.

Petty inconsistencies, parochial
vanities, familiar everydayisms,
vulgarity and pride, delineated
as entertainment and amusement,
tissues of character in speech,
gently undulating life-surface,
triviality laid on intense relations,
satire’s world without bitterness,
hermetically sealed with supreme
moments quite inarticulate giving
you: coolness, patience, poise and
leisure obtained so you could write
and me too, Jane!----and me too!

Your wholly secular and narrow
world with people you disliked,
tolerated but accepted in the only
society you knew where nothing
was too little for your little world
and happiness=simple pleasures.1

Balance, moderation, courtesy:
recipe for survival in two worlds—
yours and ours—inner landscapes—
the triumph of the ordinarily ordinary
and the inherited order over change:2
but we can’t triumph with that recipe
and order can we Jane? Can we Jane?
Nor could you---would you, Jane?3

1 Jane Austen: A Collection of Critical Essays, editor, Ian Watt, Prentice-Hall Inc., Inglewood Cliffs, N.J., 1963, p. 172.
2 Adena Rosmarin, “Misreading Emma: The Powers and Perfidies of Interpretive History, English Literary History, Vol. 51, pp. 315-42.
3 What would Austen have written, if she had lived beyond the age of 41?

Ron Price
4 June 2008
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