Writing Advice on Responding to Criticism

There’s the wrong way, as in the recent case study dissected by Teresa Nielsen Hayden at Making Light. And there’s the right way, from an anecdote the poet Alexander Pope told about himself and the first Earl of Halifax, who actually did a spot of writing himself, what what:

When I had finished the two or three first books of my translation of the Iliad, that Lord desired to have the pleasure of hearing them read at his house. Addison, Congreve, and Garth were there at the reading.

In four or five places Lord Halifax stopped me very civilly, and with a speech each time of much the same kind, “I beg your pardon, Mr. Pope, but there is something in that passage that does not quite please me. Be so good as to mark the place, and consider it a little more at your leisure: I am sure you can give it a better turn.”

I returned from Lord Halifax’s with Dr. Garth, in his chariot; and as we were going along, was saying to the Doctor, that my lord had laid me under a good deal of difficulty, by such loose and general observations; that I had been thinking over the passages ever since, and could not guess what it was that offended his lordship in either of them.

Garth laughed heartily at my embarrassment; said I had not been long enough acquainted with Lord Halifax to know his way yet; that I need not puzzle myself in looking those places over and over again when I got home. “All you need do,” said he, “is to leave them just as they are; call on Lord Halifax two or three months hence; thank him for his kind observations on those passages; and then read them to him as if altered. I have known him much longer than you have, and will be answerable for the event.”

I followed his advice; waited on Lord Halifax some time after; said I hoped he would find his objections to those passages removed, and read them to him exactly as they were at first. His lordship was extremely pleased with them, and cried out, “Ay, now, Mr. Pope, they are perfectly right; nothing can be better.”

Of course, the famously thin-skinned Pope was probably a lot more emotional during the reading and the chariot ride than this story suggests. But Pope was also entirely dependent on rich patrons, so he had to grit his teeth. In 1714 he gave the same earl the first volume of his Iliad translation and wrote a fawning letter that said, in part: “It is indeed a high strain of generosity in you, to think of making me easie all my life, only because I have been so happy as to divert you an [h]our or two…”

Ideas Are Incombustible

From Ellen Hopkins’s poem “Manifesto,” inspired by a challenge to one of her novels, and made more timely not just by Banned Books Week but also by challenges to two of her other books:

A word to the unwise.
Torch every book.
Char every page.
Burn every word to ash.
Ideas are incombustible.
And therein lies your real fear.

Full poem and downloadable poster from Censorship-Free Libraries.

Alphabet Ahoy!

The Wonderful Wizard of Oz wasn't the only book that L. Frank Baum published in 1900. In addition to A New Wonderland, a collection of stories now better known as The Magical Monarch of Mo, he published two alphabet books on the themes of the army and the navy. (Which should have given pause to critics who described Baum as a pacifist with a lifelong resentment of his brief time in military school.)

The Army Alphabet and The Navy Alphabet had four-color pictures by Harry Kennedy. Charles Costello hand-lettered Baum's verses, using two colors and a q that looks like a g. These books are closer in shape and style to Baum's first best-seller with W. W. Denslow, Father Goose, than to the novels that we remember him for.

The color art made Baum's alphabet books prohibitively expensive to reprint until recently, when Applewood Books reissued the naval volume. That firm hasn't tried the army volume, but here's a look at the Oz Enthusiast's copy, scans at nocloo.com, and scans at the University of Florida's library.

I spoke at the Charlestown Navy Yard on Sunday night, and took the opportunity to buy my first copy of The Navy Alphabet. Here's Baum's topical verse for the letter P:

The naughty PIRATE, fierce and bold,
Oft sailed the seas in times of old
To seize our ships, and climb aboard
With marlin-spike and knife and sword.
And then he whacked, and cut and hacked
Until the helpless ship was sacked.
But now no Pirates over-run
Our seas, we've conquered every one.

Finally, the X question, the bane of all alphabet books. What can start with X? In The Navy Alphabet X is for xebec. In the army book, it's xalatin.

Go to the Groggery’s Cell

For Poetry Friday, here's some of the deathless verse of Dr. Charles Jewett, as published in the Almanac of the American Temperance Union, for 1842, recently acquired by the Boston Athenaeum.

Ye who have felt the joy
Of childhood's guiltless life,
Pity the drunkard's boy,
And the drunkard's wretched wife.

For through the winter day
He leaves them cold and ill;
The night comes on his way,
But he returns not still.

The fire is getting low,
And o'er the dreary plain
That barefoot boy must go,
To seek for wood again.

He weeps when he is told
That he again must go;
It makes his feet so cold
To tread upon the snow.

But where's the father, where?
Go to the groggery's cell,
And ask the question there:--
The rum-seller could tell.

Jewett died in 1879 at the age of 72 after a lifetime of crusading against alcohol. He was also known for his Holmesian powers of observation. (He's not to be confused with his contemporary Charles Coffin Jewett, one of the founders of American library cataloguing.)

The same imagery survives in an urban setting in Hal Standish's Fred Fearnot series, as published in "an interesting weekly" in 1906. We just don't see children's literature like this anymore.

“But I Have to Drop the Name ‘Bud’ in There!”

"Otherwise, how will everyone know that we're dear, dear friends?"

In today's New York Times, Michiko Kakutani reviewed Calvin Trillin's book of verse about the recent US election with rhymes of her own:

There once was a poet named Bud Trillin,
Who cast George Bush as his villain.
He sounded like a new Ogden Nash,
Writing doggerel with real panache,
Chronicling the reign of Bush Two,
And Rove’s quest to wipe out the blue.

Which illustrates my primary rule for writing verse: rhyme is easy, rhythm is hard.

My secondary rule is that you shouldn't write verse at all if you can't understand rule #1.

Quite Different

The poetry editor of Guernica sent me this link to "Only Different," a new poem by Richard Howard in that online magazine. It imagines a correspondence among L. Frank Baum, Henry James, William James's daughter Margaret, and her future husband Bruce Porter, all circling around the Hotel del Coronado. Both James and Baum stayed at that hotel in the early 1900s, along with many other rich people.

So for Poetry Friday I'll be so bold as to quote some lines from near the end, in Porter's voice:

we learned that L. Frank Baum,
author of a couple of fantastic
(and fantastically popular) books
for children, more or less, was living on
what Henry James calls
the lagniappe of such
popularity in the same hotel;
perhaps it was the inordinateness
of the Del Coronado, a really
extravagant resort, which inspired
our scheme: we proposed to this pair of
antithetical literary lights
who, I was rightly sure, had never heard
of one another, that they have what their
various readers would nevertheless
view as a veritable “author’s lunch”.

Along the way we learn that the fictional Henry James dislikes Tip's transformation into Ozma in The Marvelous Land of Oz, and that the fictional L. Frank Baum has been corresponding with William James at Harvard.

I have to say I don't recognize that fictional Baum at all, calling What Maisie Knew "line after crapulous line" and quoting William's criticism of American "worship of the bitch-goddess Success"--he was too Victorian to write like that. And he would never have passed up a possible fun time with another literary celebrity; I doubt Baum would have enjoyed lunch with Henry James, but he wouldn't have known that till he'd tried it.

Howard also has Baum trumpeting Theosophy. I think far more has been written about Baum and Theosophy in the last fifteen years than Baum wrote about it in his lifetime. Yes, he dabbled in those beliefs in the early 1890s, just as he dabbled in a lot of things. Theosophy is such a squishy "system" that people can find its tenets reflected almost anywhere.

The poem suggests that in 1904 Baum had written "but two [books] so far." He'd written only two Oz books, it's true, but he'd written about a dozen others, including an earlier national bestseller, Father Goose. And he was best known for the hit stage extravaganza based on The Wizard of Oz.

I know fact-checking's a poor way to read poetry, but if the poem involves real people I can't help but look for their essence as well as the essence of language. And seeing people I don't recognize is as disappointing as seeing poor word choices.

Poetry Friday: The Original Dark Knights

Marc Tyler Nobleman, author of the recent Boys of Steel, wrote about his disappointment that the new movie The Dark Knight didn’t credit Bill Finger with having first applied that title phrase to the Batman in Detective Comics, #40. Finger had created the character with artist Bob Kane a few months before, and wrote many Batman scripts from the 1930s through the 1960s, almost always uncredited.

Marc’s posting made me curious about where the phrase “dark knight” originally came from. Finger was obviously trying to evoke our cultural memories of the Middle Ages, just as one of the supposed inspirations for Robin was Robin Hood. A little searching for “dark knight” in Google Books’s “Full Texts” database led me to the British literary scene of the early 1800s, a time of medieval revivalism. So for Poetry Friday here are the two earliest examples of the “dark knight” that I could find.

The Anglo-Irish writer Charles Maturin (1782-1824) used the phrase in his play Bertram; or The Castle of St. Aldobrand (1816). A prior describes an off-stage character this way:

The dark knight of the forest,
So from his armour named and sable helm,
Whose unbarred vizor mortal never saw.
He dwells alone; no earthly thing lives near him,
Save the hoarse raven croaking o’er his towers,
And the dank weeds muffling his stagnant moat.

It turns out this dark knight is a personification of the devil, who corrupts Bertram. Walter Scott, Byron, and other top writers of the day admired Maturin's play. (In fact, it’s easier to find Scott’s review quoting this scene than to find a copy of the play itself.) Maturin knew that he had a good thing because he also used the phrase “dark knight” in his 1824 novel The Albigenses.

Maturin was never able to match the quality of Bertram, however. He overspent his income, got into quarrels with critics, and died (possibly a suicide) after a literary career of less than a decade.

Later, a Scottish poet named Henry Glassford Bell (1803-1874) wrote a ballad named “The Dark Knight” in pseudo-medieval style. It was first published in 1830 in The Edinburgh Literary Review, which Bell happened to edit. The poem is more easily read here in Bell’s collection Summer and Winter Hours.

Here’s the story in a nutshell:

There came a dark knight from a far countrie,
And no one ever saw his face, for he
Wore his black vizor down continuallie.

He came to a gay bridal, where the bride
Stood, in rich robes, her destined lord beside,
Who gazed upon her with a joyful pride.
...
Yet ever and anon her look would fall
On the dark knight who stood apart from all,
Dark as his shadow, moveless on the wall.
...
The hour grows late, and one by one depart
The guests, with bounding step and merry heart,--
Methought I saw that new wed ladie start.

None in her father’s hall are left but she
And her young bridegroom, who, as none may see,
Hath twined his arm around her lovinglie.

Yes, there is still a third,--the vizor’d knight,--
...
A shriek was heard at midnight, such as broke
On every ear, like the first pealing stroke
Of the alarm bell, and the sleepers woke!

In the old hall, where fitful moonlight shone,
There lay the bridegroom and the bride alone,
Pale, dead, and cold as monumental stone,--
A vizor’d helm was near, but the dark knight was gone.

Obviously, both Maturin’s and Bell’s dark knights are villains. Finger and Kane created the Batman as either a hero or an anti-hero, depending on the editorial direction. Nonetheless, Bell’s poem provides interesting commentary on the new movie’s love triangle among Bruce Wayne, his childhood friend Rachel Dawes (who has no equivalent in the comics), and district attorney Harvey Dent.

(The thumbnail above shows the determined Black Knight from Monty Python and the Holy Grail, as rendered in “plush with removeable limbs,” courtesy of Geek Venue's Monty Python Toys collection.)

Denslow and the Civilized Boy

Leonard S. Marcus's new history of American children's books, Minders of Make-Believe, features cover art that W. W. Denslow created in 1899 for Father Goose, his first collaboration with L. Frank Baum.

The image is licensed from Corbis (also known as "your chance to give Bill Gates even more money"). I don't see Denslow's name on online images of the jacket or copyright page, but his signature's there in the lower left corner, and Corbis credits him.

The illustration adorned Baum's poem "Civilized Boy," which I now offer for Poetry Friday:

Pray, what can a civilized boy do now,
When all the Dragons all are dead,
And the Giants stout, that we have read about,
Have never one a head?

Now, wasn't it mean that Jack o' the Bean
Should slay these monsters fast,
And the other Jack should cut and hack
When there weren't enough to last?

The boys today are as bold as they say,
As ever they were of yore;
And they'd spill a flood of Dragon's Blood
If Dragons lived any more.

As in many of his later fantasy stories, Baum was playing with the theme of traditional fairy tales in opposition to the modern world.

Poetry Friday: All Hail to the Rev. George Gilfillan

My English teacher during junior year in high school, David Outerbridge, assigned everyone to memorize and recite a poem in class. Cheeky bastard that I was, I chose "An Address to the Rev. George Gilfillan," by William Topaz McGonagall. I still remember most of it, which is probably Mr. Outerbridge's revenge.

And so, for Poetry Friday:

All hail to the Rev. George Gilfillan of Dundee,
He is the greatest preacher I did ever hear or see.
He is a man of genius bright,
And in him his congregation does delight,
Because they find him to be honest and plain,
Affable in temper, and seldom known to complain.
He preaches in a plain straightforward way,
The people flock to hear him night and day,
And hundreds from the doors are often turn'd away,
Because he is the greatest preacher of the present day.
He has written the life of Sir Walter Scott,
And while he lives he will never be forgot,
Nor when he is dead,
Because by his admirers it will be often read;
And fill their minds with wonder and delight,
And wile away the tedious hours on a cold winter's night.
He has also written about the Bards of the Bible,
Which occupied nearly three years in which he was not idle,
Because when he sits down to write he does it with might and main,
And to get an interview with him it would be almost vain,
And in that he is always right,
For the Bible tells us whatever your hands findeth to do,
Do it with all your might.

I think that last couplet's daring use of metre is the high point of the poem, but you can find the concluding four lines at McGonagall Online.

That site's front page quotes a note from the Rev. Mr. Gilfillan himself, which was probably how he earned this encomium. The minister had this to say about McGonagall's poetry:

Dundee, 30th May 1865

I certify that William McGonagall has for some time been known to me. I have heard him speak, he has a strong proclivity for the elocutionary department, a strong voice, and great enthusiasm. He has had a great deal of experience too, having addressed audiences and enacted parts here and elsewhere.

George Gilfillan

I'm in Scotland right now, so this posting is doubly timely.

Sonnet to My Lady’s Eye

Since it's Friday, and Poetry Friday eases the need for blogging inspiration, I'm sharing one of the verses from L. Frank Baum's By the Candelabra’s Glare, recently reissued by Pumpernickel Pickle Press.

A SONNET TO MY LADY’S EYE

If inspiration comes, I’ll try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her black eye.

And yet, there seems a woeful lack
Of proper words to rhyme with “black,”
And black eyes savor of attack--
I’d best abandon black.

I’ll start again, and this time try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her gray eye.

And yet, what color does convey
So passionless a sense as gray?
And tigers’ eyes are gray, they say–
My lady’s can’t be gray.

Ah, now the idea comes! I’ll try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her violet eye.

And yet, unless I much forget,
No lady’s eye was violet
Since time began; so, with regret,
Adieu to violet!

And so at last I’m forced to try
A sonnet to my lady’s eye--
Her blue eye.

And yet, what can I say that’s new?
The whole world knows blue eyes are true;
Besides, I must confess to you
My lady's eyes are blue.

Technically, this isn't a sonnet. But then the difficulty of writing a poem is what this poem is all about.

Prick'd Out for Women's Pleasure

After yesterday's grumbling, I might as well observe Poetry Friday with William Shakespeare's sonnet 20:

A woman’s face with Nature’s own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all “hues” in his controlling,
Much steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

Longfellow’s “The Witnesses”

A sample of American protest poetry from the middle of the nineteenth century:

THE WITNESSES

In Ocean's wide domains,
Half buried in the sands,
Lie skeletons in chains,
With shackled feet and hands.

Beyond the fall of dews,
Deeper than plummet lies,
Float ships, with all their crews,
No more to sink nor rise.

There the black Slave-ship swims,
Freighted with human forms,
Whose fettered, fleshless limbs
Are not the sport of storms.

These are the bones of Slaves;
They gleam from the abyss;
They cry, from yawning waves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

Within Earth's wide domains
Are markets for men's lives;
Their necks are galled with chains,
Their wrists are cramped with gyves.

Dead bodies, that the kite
In deserts makes its prey;
Murders, that with affright
Scare school-boys from their play!

All evil thoughts and deeds;
Anger, and lust, and pride;
The foulest, rankest weeds,
That choke Life's groaning tide!

These are the woes of Slaves;
They glare from the abyss;
They cry, from unknown graves,
"We are the Witnesses!"

--Henry W. Longfellow

Poetry Friday: And You Don't Know It

The illustration to the left, titled "Mr. Peter Piper sees a shark," comes from a well-known American poet. Indeed, this artist was without doubt the most popular American poet of the late 1800s, when people quoted verse to express their emotions the way we now crank up popular songs.

This little drawing comes from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, author of "Paul Revere's Ride," "The Children's Hour," Hiawatha, Evangeline, and much more. He drew Mr. Piper and his fishy friend in a tale he wrote for his children (he had six, five of whom lived to adulthood). The Houghton Library at Harvard University, which owns former professor Longfellow's papers, opened a display on his life and work this month. Its online component consists of these drawings and similar ones about "Mr. Peter Quince," who has trouble with a balloon.

Longfellow was born on 27 Feb 1807, so this year is his bicentennial, with various events planned around the country. He wrote for a wide audience, but his work has come to be associated with children, for a number of reasons:

• In the late 1800s and early 1900s thousands of American children were taught to memorize long stretches of Longfellow poetry. (Sens. Ted Kennedy and Robert Byrd can still recite all of "Paul Revere's Ride.")
• Rhyming, metrical verse was deemed old-fashioned by modernist poets, but still dominates in children's literature, for good reasons.
• Some of Longfellow's shorter poems have been illustrated and published for children in fine picture-book editions.

But in his lifetime, Longfellow was the poet for everyone.

Indeed, Longfellow was such a dominant literary voice that he coined several phrases that seem to have come down to us from the heavens: "Ships that pass in the night"; "Into each life some rain must fall"; "All things come round to him who will but wait"; "Peace on earth, good will to men." Yes, somebody actually wrote those.

Another little item Longfellow created for his children, specifically for daughter Edith after a bad hair day, was:

There was a little girl,
Who had a little curl,

Right in the middle of her forehead.

When she was good,
She was very good indeed,

But when she was bad she was horrid.

Longfellow never meant this to leave the household, but after it got into print he admitted to writing it. Using a parental metaphor, he lamented how juvenile verses "cling to one's skirt with a terrible grasp."