It's less than a week before the 4th of July - and I felt moved to post one poem that is appropriate. This poem is longer than most of Edgar's and has a very involved poetic line spacing, which I compromised for simplicity (my apologies to Edgar).
This poem will be more meaningful to those families that actually have soldiers currently overseas in today's conflicts.
Here is "The Things That Make A Soldier Great"
The Things That Make a Soldier Great Edgar A. Guest
The things that make a soldier great
and send him to die,
To face the flaming cannon’s mouth
nor ever question why,
Are lilacs by a little porch,
the row of tulips red,
The peonies and pansies, too,
the old petunia bed,
The grass plot where the children play,
the roses on the wall:
‘Tis these that make a soldier great.
He’s fighting for them all.
Tis’ not the pomp and pride of kings
that make a soldier brave;
‘Tis not allegiance to the flag
that over him may wave;
For soldiers never fight so well
on land or on the foam
As when behind the cause they see
the little place called home.
Endanger but that humble street
whereon his children run,
You make a soldier of the man
who never bore a gun.
What is it through the battle smoke
the valiant soldier sees?
The little garden far away,
the budding apple trees,
The little patch of ground back there,
the children at their play,
Perhaps a tiny mound behind
the simple church of gray.
The golden thread of courage
isn’t linked to castle dome
But to the spot, where’er it be –
the humblest spot called home.
And now the lilacs bud again
and all is lovely there
And homesick soldier far away
know spring is in the air;
The tulips come to bloom again,
the grass once more is green,
And every man can see the spot
where all his joys have been.
He sees his children smile at him,
he hears the bugle call,
And only death can stop him now –
he’s fighting for them all.
I'd like to include here, Wikipedia's introductory piece on Edgar. I promised that I'd include information about Edgar as I came across it. Here it is.....
Edgar Guest
From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia
Edgar Albert Guest
Born -- August 20, 1881, Birmingham England –
Died -- August 5, 1959, Detroit, Michigan)
(aka Eddie Guest) was a prolific American poet who was popular in the first half of the 20th Century and became known as the People’s Poet.
In 1891, Guest came with his family to the United States from England. After he began at the Detroit Free Press as a copy boy and then a reporter, his first poem appeared December 11, 1898. He became a naturalized citizen in 1902. For 40 years, Guest was widely read throughout North America, and his sentimental, optimistic poems were in the same vein as the light verse of Nick Kenny, who wrote syndicated columns during the same decades.
From his first published work in the Detroit Free Press until his death, in 1959, Guest penned some 11,000 poems which were syndicated in some 300 newspapers and collected in more than 20 books, including A Heap o’ Livin’ (1916) and Just Folks (1917). Guest was made Poet Laureate of Michigan, the only poet to have been awarded the title.
Michael: I finally found your post. Thanks. You are the first (and only) person to respond. Now I know that it can be done. Thanks.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Monday, June 8, 2009
Valentines Day and Mother's Day Poems
A couple of things that I skipped over in my last post were Valentines Day and Mother's Day. Of my 14 grandchildren, 7 of them are girls. Their ages range from 5 to 21. This year I enclosed one of Edgar's precious poems in each of their Valentines Day cards. This one is called "Little Girls are Best". Some of his best poems are about boys and girls. It's clear that he has a special place in his heart for children.
Here is "Little Girls are Best":
Little Girls Are Best Edgar A. Guest
Little girls are mighty nice,
Take ‘em any way they come;
They are always worth their price;
Life without ‘em would be glum;
Run earth’s lists of treasures through,
Pile ‘em high until they fall,
Gold an’ costly jewels , too –
Little girls are best of all.
Nothing equals ‘em on earth!
I’m an old man an’ I know
Any little girl is worth
More than all the gold below;
Eyes ‘o blue or brown or gray,
Raven hair or golden curls,
There’s no joy on earth today
Quite so fine as little girls.
Pudgy nose or freckled face,
Fairy-like or plain to see,
God has surely bless the place
Where a little girl may be;
They’re the jewels of His crown
Dropped to earth from heaven above,
Like wee angle souls sent down
To remind us of His love.
God has made some lovely things –
Roses red an’ skies o’ blue,
Trees an’ babbling silver springs,
Gardens glistening with dew –
But take every gift to man,
Big an’ little, great an’ small,
Judge it on its merits, an’
Little girls are best of all.
The intent of my blog is to share my favorites of Edgar's works. Although I will tell you what I can about the man, my intent is to concentrate on his work, his philosophy, his values, and the way he is able to touch your heart. There is a lot of good biographical material out there, and I will share it as I read it.
On Mother's Day, I e-mailed all 6 of my daughter/daughter-in-laws, enclosing a humorous, but insightful poem that mothers would enjoy. Even if you are not a mother, but a father or child, you can relate to Edgar's poem - "Where's Mamma?"
Where's Mamma? Edgar A Guest
Comes in flying from the street:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Friend or stranger thus he’ll greet:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Doesn’t want to say hello,
Home from school or play he’ll go
Straight to what he wants to know:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Many times a day he’ll shout,
“Where’s Mamma?”
Seems afraid that she’s gone out;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Is his first thought at the door –
She’s the one he’s looking for,
And he questions o’er and o’er,
“Where’s Mamma?”
Can’t be happy till he knows:
“Where’s Mamma?”
So he begs us to disclose
“Where’s Mamma?”
And it often seems to me,
As I hear his anxious plea,
That no sweeter phrase can be:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Like to hear it day by day;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Loveliest phrase that lips can say:
”Where’s Mamma?”
And I pray as time will flow,
And the long years come and go,
That he’ll always want to know
“Where’s Mamma?”
This should catch me up on some of the personal ways I've shared some of Edgar's best. I will continue to post poems that are special to me, even if I don't have an occasion in which to celebrate. I hope you will just copy any of these poems that you want to keep or to share.
Time will not allow me to read all of his poetry and I will no doubt miss some gems. But there are lots of the thousands to keep me busy and will, I'm sure, offer many precious posts.
Note: You are reading this because, after posting four times, I am finally directing people to the "Edgar and I" blog. Those of you who like poetry, I hope will keep coming back. To those of you that feel you don't like poetry, just let me say that Edgar offers more that just poetry. At least your intelectual curiosity got you this far. Come on back now, Ya hear!
Here is "Little Girls are Best":
Little Girls Are Best Edgar A. Guest
Little girls are mighty nice,
Take ‘em any way they come;
They are always worth their price;
Life without ‘em would be glum;
Run earth’s lists of treasures through,
Pile ‘em high until they fall,
Gold an’ costly jewels , too –
Little girls are best of all.
Nothing equals ‘em on earth!
I’m an old man an’ I know
Any little girl is worth
More than all the gold below;
Eyes ‘o blue or brown or gray,
Raven hair or golden curls,
There’s no joy on earth today
Quite so fine as little girls.
Pudgy nose or freckled face,
Fairy-like or plain to see,
God has surely bless the place
Where a little girl may be;
They’re the jewels of His crown
Dropped to earth from heaven above,
Like wee angle souls sent down
To remind us of His love.
God has made some lovely things –
Roses red an’ skies o’ blue,
Trees an’ babbling silver springs,
Gardens glistening with dew –
But take every gift to man,
Big an’ little, great an’ small,
Judge it on its merits, an’
Little girls are best of all.
The intent of my blog is to share my favorites of Edgar's works. Although I will tell you what I can about the man, my intent is to concentrate on his work, his philosophy, his values, and the way he is able to touch your heart. There is a lot of good biographical material out there, and I will share it as I read it.
On Mother's Day, I e-mailed all 6 of my daughter/daughter-in-laws, enclosing a humorous, but insightful poem that mothers would enjoy. Even if you are not a mother, but a father or child, you can relate to Edgar's poem - "Where's Mamma?"
Where's Mamma? Edgar A Guest
Comes in flying from the street:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Friend or stranger thus he’ll greet:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Doesn’t want to say hello,
Home from school or play he’ll go
Straight to what he wants to know:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Many times a day he’ll shout,
“Where’s Mamma?”
Seems afraid that she’s gone out;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Is his first thought at the door –
She’s the one he’s looking for,
And he questions o’er and o’er,
“Where’s Mamma?”
Can’t be happy till he knows:
“Where’s Mamma?”
So he begs us to disclose
“Where’s Mamma?”
And it often seems to me,
As I hear his anxious plea,
That no sweeter phrase can be:
“Where’s Mamma?”
Like to hear it day by day;
“Where’s Mamma?”
Loveliest phrase that lips can say:
”Where’s Mamma?”
And I pray as time will flow,
And the long years come and go,
That he’ll always want to know
“Where’s Mamma?”
This should catch me up on some of the personal ways I've shared some of Edgar's best. I will continue to post poems that are special to me, even if I don't have an occasion in which to celebrate. I hope you will just copy any of these poems that you want to keep or to share.
Time will not allow me to read all of his poetry and I will no doubt miss some gems. But there are lots of the thousands to keep me busy and will, I'm sure, offer many precious posts.
Note: You are reading this because, after posting four times, I am finally directing people to the "Edgar and I" blog. Those of you who like poetry, I hope will keep coming back. To those of you that feel you don't like poetry, just let me say that Edgar offers more that just poetry. At least your intelectual curiosity got you this far. Come on back now, Ya hear!
Monday, June 1, 2009
Well, it's been awhile since I've made an entry. I recently had an occasion to give a close friend a couple appropriate Guest poems. He found himself in a traumatic and life changing situation. I laminated the two poems and gave them to him.
The next day his assistant saw the poems on his desk, read them, and asked if she could get copies. When I brought the copies to her, she told me that when she read one of them, it was so meaningful to her that she cried through the whole poem.
She gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.
Following is: No use Sighin' and All for the Best.
No Use Sighin’ Edgar A. Guest
No use frettin’ when the rain comes down,
No use grievin’ when the gray clouds frown,
No use sighin’ when the wind blows strong,
No use wailin’ when the world’s all wrong;
Only thing that a man can do
Is work an’ wait till the sky gets blue.
No use mopin’ when you lose the game,
No use sobbin’ if you’re free from shame,
No use cryin’ when the harm is done,
Just keep on tryin’ an’ workin’ on;
Only thing for a man to do,
Is take the loss an’ begin anew.
No use weepin’ when the milk is spilled,
No use growlin’ when your hopes are killed,
No use kickin’ when the lightnin’ strikes,
Or the floods come along an’ wreck your dykes;
Only thing for a man right then
Is to grit his teeth an’ start again.
For it’s how life is an’ the way things are
That you’ve got to face if you travel far:
An’ the storms will come an’ the failures too,
An’ plans go wrong spite of all you do;
An’ the only thing that will help you win,
Is the grit of a man and a stern set chin.
All for the Best Edgar A. Guest
Things mostly happen for the best.
However hard it seems today,
When some fond plan has gone astray
Or what you’ve wished for most is lost
An’ you sit countin’ up the cost
With eyes half-blind by tears o’ grief
While doubt is chokin’ out belief,
You’ll find when all is understood
That what seemed bad was really good.
Life can’t be counted in a day.
The present rain that will not stop
Next autumn means a bumper crop.
We wonder why some things must be –
Care’s purpose we can seldom see –
An’ yet long afterwards we turn
To view the past, an’ then we learn
That what once filled our minds with doubt
Was good for us as it worked out.
I’ve never known an hour of care
But that I’ve later come to see
That it has brought some joy to me,
Even the sorrows I have borne,
Leavin’ me lonely an’ forlorn
An’ hurt an’ bruised an’ sick at heart,
In life’s great plan have had a part.
An’ though I could not understand
Why I should bow to Death’s command,
As time went on I came to know
That it was really better so.
Things mostly happen for the best.
So narrow is our vision here
That we are blinded by a tear
An’ stunned by every hurt an’ blow
Which comes to-day to strike us low.
An’ yet some day we turn an’ find
That what seemed cruel once was kind.
Most things, I hold, are wisely planned
If we could only understand.
Then a week ago, we celebrated Memorial Day at or church. Every year this is a separate service held in our cemetary beside the church. Usually - a prayer, a hymn, a message from a military guest, taps, and the cannon is fired. This year, between the message and taps, I read Edgar's poem, Memorial Day. A few people thanked me and praised the poem.
One lady gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.
Following is Memorial Day.
Memorial Day Edgar A. Guest
These did not pass in selfishness: they died for all mankind;
They died to build a better world for all who stay behind;
And we who hold their memory dear, and bring them flowers today,
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
These were defenders of the faith and guardians of the truth;
That you and I might live and love, they gladly gave their youth;
And we who set this day apart to honor them who sleep
Should pledge ourselves to hold the faith they gave their lives to keep.
If tears are all we shed for them, then they have died in vain;
If flowers are all we bring them now, forgotten they remain;
If by their courage we ourselves to courage are not led,
Then needlessly these graves have closed above our heroes dead.
To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do;
We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.
They died to build a better world, and we who mourn to-day
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
The next day his assistant saw the poems on his desk, read them, and asked if she could get copies. When I brought the copies to her, she told me that when she read one of them, it was so meaningful to her that she cried through the whole poem.
She gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.
Following is: No use Sighin' and All for the Best.
No Use Sighin’ Edgar A. Guest
No use frettin’ when the rain comes down,
No use grievin’ when the gray clouds frown,
No use sighin’ when the wind blows strong,
No use wailin’ when the world’s all wrong;
Only thing that a man can do
Is work an’ wait till the sky gets blue.
No use mopin’ when you lose the game,
No use sobbin’ if you’re free from shame,
No use cryin’ when the harm is done,
Just keep on tryin’ an’ workin’ on;
Only thing for a man to do,
Is take the loss an’ begin anew.
No use weepin’ when the milk is spilled,
No use growlin’ when your hopes are killed,
No use kickin’ when the lightnin’ strikes,
Or the floods come along an’ wreck your dykes;
Only thing for a man right then
Is to grit his teeth an’ start again.
For it’s how life is an’ the way things are
That you’ve got to face if you travel far:
An’ the storms will come an’ the failures too,
An’ plans go wrong spite of all you do;
An’ the only thing that will help you win,
Is the grit of a man and a stern set chin.
All for the Best Edgar A. Guest
Things mostly happen for the best.
However hard it seems today,
When some fond plan has gone astray
Or what you’ve wished for most is lost
An’ you sit countin’ up the cost
With eyes half-blind by tears o’ grief
While doubt is chokin’ out belief,
You’ll find when all is understood
That what seemed bad was really good.
Life can’t be counted in a day.
The present rain that will not stop
Next autumn means a bumper crop.
We wonder why some things must be –
Care’s purpose we can seldom see –
An’ yet long afterwards we turn
To view the past, an’ then we learn
That what once filled our minds with doubt
Was good for us as it worked out.
I’ve never known an hour of care
But that I’ve later come to see
That it has brought some joy to me,
Even the sorrows I have borne,
Leavin’ me lonely an’ forlorn
An’ hurt an’ bruised an’ sick at heart,
In life’s great plan have had a part.
An’ though I could not understand
Why I should bow to Death’s command,
As time went on I came to know
That it was really better so.
Things mostly happen for the best.
So narrow is our vision here
That we are blinded by a tear
An’ stunned by every hurt an’ blow
Which comes to-day to strike us low.
An’ yet some day we turn an’ find
That what seemed cruel once was kind.
Most things, I hold, are wisely planned
If we could only understand.
Then a week ago, we celebrated Memorial Day at or church. Every year this is a separate service held in our cemetary beside the church. Usually - a prayer, a hymn, a message from a military guest, taps, and the cannon is fired. This year, between the message and taps, I read Edgar's poem, Memorial Day. A few people thanked me and praised the poem.
One lady gave me a hug. This is why I share Edgar's poems.
Following is Memorial Day.
Memorial Day Edgar A. Guest
These did not pass in selfishness: they died for all mankind;
They died to build a better world for all who stay behind;
And we who hold their memory dear, and bring them flowers today,
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
These were defenders of the faith and guardians of the truth;
That you and I might live and love, they gladly gave their youth;
And we who set this day apart to honor them who sleep
Should pledge ourselves to hold the faith they gave their lives to keep.
If tears are all we shed for them, then they have died in vain;
If flowers are all we bring them now, forgotten they remain;
If by their courage we ourselves to courage are not led,
Then needlessly these graves have closed above our heroes dead.
To symbolize our love with flowers is not enough to do;
We must be brave as they were brave, and true as they were true.
They died to build a better world, and we who mourn to-day
Should consecrate ourselves once more to live and die as they.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)