Two Poems for Hill Country: Months of the Year by Coleridge and Ellis

Posted by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

Today two poems by English authors are presented. Each writer attempts to describe the twelve months --- one takes one-hundred twenty-three words and the other takes only twelve words. Both poems are widely quoted --- both are widely used as examples --- but I've never seen them together.

Sara Coleridge, daughter of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, wrote The Months. Compare her words to the older sparsely worded poem by George Ellis (who also used the wonderful pseudonym of Sir Gregory Gander), The Twelve Months.

The Months

by

Sara Coleridge (1802 - 1852)

January brings the snow,

Makes our feet and fingers glow.

February brings the rain,

Thaws the frozen lake again.

March brings breezes loud and shrill,

Stirs the dancing daffodil.

April brings the primrose sweet,

Scatters daisies at our feet.

May brings flocks of pretty lambs,

Skipping by their fleecy dams.

June brings tulips, lilies, roses,

Fills the children's hands with posies.

Hot July brings cooling showers,

Apricots and gilliflowers.

August brings the sheaves of corn,

Then the harvest home is borne.

Warm September brings the fruit,

Sportsmen then begin to shoot.

Fresh October brings the pheasant,

Then to gather nuts is pleasant.

Dull November brings the blast,

Then the leaves are whirling fast.

Chill December brings the sleet,

Blazing fire, and Christmas treat.

George Ellis (Sir Gregory Gander) clearly identified the months also with his one word description of each in this widely quoted small poem, The Twelve Months.

The Twelve Months

by George Ellis (1753 - 1815)

Snowy, Flowy, Blowy,

Showery, Flowery, Bowery,

Hoppy, Croppy, Droppy,

Breezy, Sneezy, Freezy.

I do believe that Snowy has continued into Flowy this year although here in the Deep South signs of Spring are rustling if you know where to look and take some time doing it.

SOURCES:

Coleridge, Sara. The Months. Pretty Lessons in Verse for Good Children; With Some Lessons in Latin in Easy Rhyme. London: John W. Parker and Son. 5th Edition. 1853. Pages 9 - 10.

Coleridge, Sara. Wikipedia. Click to access.

Ellis, George. The Twelve Months. A Book of Quotation, Proverbs and Household Words by W. Gurney Benham. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott Company. 1907. Page 123.

Ellis, George. Your Daily Poem. Click to access.

A Book of Poems for the Hill Country

Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia: A Life in Poems by Patricia Neely-Dorsey (GrantHouse Publishers, 2008).

A review by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

It was a pleasure to read Patricia Neely-Dorsey's collection of poems, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia: A Life in Poems. Neely-Dorsey presents perhaps the most positive view of growing up in Hill Country of any current author I've found --- she is Mississippi first, second, last, and forever! She is a true Hill Country resident and her life experiences are lovingly recorded in her most readable poems.

Not only do her poems read with a voice of true Southerness, her poems are also pleasing to hear --- I think that some of them are best heard as songs of the South. Many of her poems caused a smile to form and some even caused me to laugh out loud. But it was the ones which caused my heart to sing that I'll treasure most along with the ones which caused tears to form in my eyes.

Reading Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia: A Life in Poems was an emotional experience for me. Neely-Dorsey's accounts of her life experiences are so vivid and so true to the region that what she writes of Lee County, Mississippi, could be universal events throughout the Hill Country and elsewhere. She came of age some twenty-five years after I did and she was across the vast racial divide many erroneously think defines Mississippi. Her experiences and memories, however, recorded as poems paint an accurate picture of hill country living as I too remember it.

The solid foundation for life which Neely-Dorsey received parallels the foundations which most parents were building all across the Hill Country --- and no matter that her life experiences were from Saltillo and Tupelo, they are remarkably similar to those of Parham and Splunge. And we are all the better for having these shared experiences which Neely-Dorsey explains as "having Mississippi in us."

My greatest surprise (and the greatest comfort) found in Neely-Dorsey's book is that those of us blessed by having Mississippi in us are more alike than different. She writes with a clear voice for all Mississippians --- and the fact that she writes from the black perspective in a positive and loving way about her family, community, and region makes her book required reading.

The hardest task for me was to select three of Neely-Dorsey's poems as representative of her book -- so I selected four. Her recollections of country living paint compelling memories of country breakfasts and cures and of slopping hogs, cooking cracklings, hog killings, pea shelling and going to church for preachings. Her account of a "Baptismal Sunday" brought back many memories of Parham Pond and standing on Jordan's stormy banks watching friends and neighbors be submerged in the water. It was most difficult not to select a poem from that section of her work.

Further, it was difficult to not include her "Shades of Lovely" in which all of the hues of women of color are described in the most delicious terms: honey, spice, brown sugar, brown rice, nutmeg, cinnamon, gingerbread and toast, pecan, almond, walnut, coconut cream, white chocolate, dark chocolate, milk chocolate, caramel, toffee, coffee, coffee with cream, coffee black, espresso, mocha, cafe an lait, banana, licorice, hot fudge --- did I miss any? One cannot read "Shades of Lovely" by Neely-Dorsey without smiling!

But the following four poems were selected because of my interest in preserving and presenting the history of the Hill Country. The first two poems presented below, in my opinion, offer a little slice of history and viewpoint not widely available and the last two presented offer an explanation of how Mississippi gets in a person (Rules) and what it means to be a Mississippian.

Country Doctor

by Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia, page 30-31.

My dad was a country doctor

And I have such memories galore;

I even remember the house calls,

As he literally traveled 'round door to door.

Sometimes, on Saturday mornings,

When I was just a young thing;

My daddy would let me go with him,

As he did all his doctoring.

He'd have his black bag in one hand,

And his stethoscope wrapped 'round his neck

He was most definitely the captain,

And I was his first man on deck.

We traveled way deep in the country,

And there were always such sites to see;

Believe you me, I noticed them all,

Down to the last bumblebee.

I'd always meet really kind people,

As I stayed close by my daddy's side;

He'd always give my introduction,

As he stood there beaming with pride.

Many of the people had no indoor plumbing,

And most of them were all very poor;

So my daddy would let patients pay him,

With whatever it was they'd procure.

Sometimes, he took brown eggs or slab bacon,

Fresh vegetables, hams and the like;

All of this was so amazing to see,

For me as such a young tike.

The old women, he'd always call "young lady",

But old and young all addressed him as sir,

We'd make so many stops on our journey,

I'm quite surprised that it's not all a blur.

I remembered learning about all of these people,

And all of the crops that they grew,

Each time, I'd learn something different,

Each time, I'd learn something quite new.

My eyes would grow wide with excitement,

As I saw all the animals and stock;

We'd see so much beautiful scenery,

As we'd drive to our next door to knock.

My dad had such a busy schedule,

I can't imagine how he got it all done;

All I remember is I loved tagging along,

And all I remember is fun.

Right to Vote

by Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia, page 53

I love to hear the stories,

That my mama and daddy tell;

Sometimes, we'll just sit a while,

And they'll talk for a spell.

They've told me of how hard it was,

For them to get to vote;

They'd go down to the courthouse door,

And there would be a note;

"Out To Lunch" or "No One's In,"

"Come Back Another Day,"

In all kinds of ways you wouldn't believe,

They were turned away,

Even when they did get in,

There were more hurdles they had to cross;

They'd be asked to answer questions

That would put anyone at a loss,

"How many bubbles in a bar of soap?"

"How many pennies in that jar?"

"How many miles to a star?"

It seems almost incredulous

That this was how it was;

But, believe you me, no matter what,

I vote, now, just because.

The Rules

by Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia, page 6 - 7.

Most Southern folk have rules we're taught,

From when we're very young;

And most of us throughout our lives,

To these rules have clung.

Life can be much easier,

When you know what to do or not;

And you're sure to learn a lot of them,

If Southern parents you have got.

One of the first rules you come to know is

Children are to be seen and not heard;

It's best if you just sit down somewhere

Quietly as a bird.

You always say "Please" when you're asking,

And "Thank you", when you receive;

You address all your elders

As "Ma'am" or "Sir",

And if you don't do it, you'll grieve.

Don't touch anything in the store,

Keep your hands to yourself;

If it's not something you plan to buy,

Leave it soundly on the shelf.

Always say good morning,

Soon after you awake;

And always greet people pleasantly,

If friends you are to make.

Don't slam a door as you walk out,

"You don't live in a barn;"

You'd better close it gently,

Is what they'd always warn.

If you open a cabinet or anything,

Always close it back;

Once you do it repeatedly

You'll always have the knack.

Don't call someone before 8 a.m.,

Or after ten at night;

If it's something you feel you must do,

It's an urge that you must fight.

Never ask for food when you visit,

Although the host may ask;

Sometimes it's best if you decline,

And let the moment pass.

These are just a very few of the things,

We Southerners are taught;

Without some rule for every occasion,

We are never caught.

If Mississippi's In You

by Patricia Neely-Dorsey, Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia, page 86.

If Mississippi's in you,

It'll always be that way;

It matters not how far you go,

Or how long you stay.

If Mississippi's in you,

It always plays a part;

In how you live and move and breathe,

And in every notion of the heart.

If Mississippi's in you,

It's in you through and through;

It's who you are and how you be,

And it's in everything you do.

If Mississippi's in you,

There is some special glow;

A different something down inside,

That all the home folks know.

If Mississippi's in you,

It'll always be that way,

From the time you enter in the world,

Till in the grave you lay.

Every true Mississippian,

Can surely have it said:
"I'm Mississippi born,

I'm Mississippi bred,

And when I die,

I'll be Mississippi dead."

Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia: A Life in Poems is mighty fine reading for all who love the South and Mississippi and the Hill Country in particular. Neely-Dorsey offers those of us who already have Mississippi in us a reason to celebrate our good fortune and offers those from "off" a unique opportunity to start learning about the riches to be found in the Southern experience.

Patricia Neely-Dorsey, a native of Lee County, is a 1982 graduate of Tupelo High School. A graduate of Boston University, she currently lives in Tupelo where she is working on a new volume of poetry.

The book Reflections of a Mississippi Magnolia: A Life in Poems, is available at Reed's Gumtree Book Store (Tupelo) and online at amazon.com. The author may be contacted at her website http://www.patricianeelydorsey.webs.com/

She will be in Fulton February 26 for a poetry reading and book signing at Itawamba County Library, Lunching With Books. Noon.

Patricia Neely-Dorsey will be the guest speaker at the Itawamba Historical Society monthly meeting, March 16, 6 PM, at the Society's auditorium in Mantachie (at the Corner of Church Street and Museum Drive). The public is invited to all meetings of the Itawamba Historical Society.

A Poem for Hill Country: THE SNOW MAN by Wallace Stevens

Posted by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

Wallace Stevens, 1879 - 1955, was an American poet. His first published book of poems, Harmonium (1923) included The Snow Man which is the poem for this week at Hill Country. The Snow Man was selected for this series not just because of the unusual snow event we've just had in Hill Country nor just because of the bitter bone-chilling temperatures currently in place across the South, but for both those reasons and primarily for the words of the poem.

No attempt will be made to explain Stevens' The Snow Man --- the poem, I think, is successful because of the numerous ways in which his words and phrases may be received. Stevens is credited with the quote "A poem need not have a meaning and like most things in nature often does not have." It is not known if he applied that notion to The Snow Man. In any event, I leave it to the reader to determine what, if any, meaning there is in The Snow Man.

Some have called this poem one of the best short poems in the English language but Harmonium with its collection of eight-five of Stevens earlier works only sold 100 copies before it was withdrawn. A second edition with additional poems was issued a few years later to greater success.

Stevens spent a lot of time in Key West, Florida, where he is reported to have fought with Ernest Hemingway (Stevens broke his hand in that encounter when he hit Hemingway in the jaw --- and Hemingway knocked him to the street several times) and he argued publicly with Robert Frost on at least two occasions.

The Snow Man

by

Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Sources and additional reading:

Stevens, Wallace, The Snow Man, Poetry, XIX, Number 1, October 1921, pages 4 -5, Modern Poetry Association, edited by Harriett Monroe. Available on Google Full-view Books. Accessed January 8, 2010. A sampling of several early Stevens poems are included.

"Stevens, Wallace". Wikipedia (click link to read). Accessed January 8, 2010. Short concise review of the man and his work.

The Snow Man by Wallace Stevens. Wikipedia (click link to read). Accessed January 8, 2010. The poem and its possible meanings are discussed in this short Wiki article.

Harmonium by Wallace Stevens. Wikipedia (click link to read). Accessed January 8, 2010. A brief Wiki article about the first published book of Stevens poems.

A Poem for Hill Country: TO BRING THE DEAD TO LIFE by Robert Graves

A challenge to family and local history writers

by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com


Robert Graves, 1895 - 1985, was an English poet and novelist. His short poem, To Bring The Dead To Life, came to my attention last week when reading the novel, The Girls, by Lori Lansens (click here for my review) where the first five lines were quoted.


I hadn't thought of Poet Graves since my undergraduate days at Ole Miss. Off I went on a quest to find more works by Graves which I could access through the Internet --- and I spent a lazy afternoon reading an online collection of his works.


His poem, To Bring The Dead To Life, appeals to me because of my interest in preserving the local and family history from the Hill Country of Monroe County where I grew up in Parham in the 1940s. Much of the writing of family history is an attempt to put "flesh and bone" on those we are researching --- and the lines from Graves' first stanza jumped off the page.


Those of us who spend part of our efforts writing about individual ancestors long ago dead know the difficulty of accurately telling their story. Much of recorded family history is just a listing of who begat whom, when and where, and where and when they all were buried --- but we all know on occasion some writers can bring the dead to life as those gifted writers produce accounts to show, indeed, that Graves is correct --- that to blow on a dead man's embers can ignite a live flame and from that ignition ancestral history becomes alive. Certainly those of us writing in this field should attempt to ignite those embers --- but that task is much more difficult than merely describing the process.


That is why I've selected Graves' poem, To Bring The Dead To Life, as the poem to start the new year. I think his words, especially those of the first five lines, should be a challenge and an ideal. As I continue my puny attempts to bring life to the family and local history I'm recording, I certainly will keep Graves' words in mind. And I invite you to accept this as a challenge in your family history writing for 2010 --- to bring the dead to life by using words to fan the embers of those long dead bones and let the resulting flame illuminate their life and times.


TO BRING THE DEAD TO LIFE

by
Robert Graves


To bring the dead to life

Is no great magic.

Few are wholly dead:

Blow on a dead man's embers

And a live flame will start.



Let his forgotten griefs be now,

And now his withered hopes;

Subdue your pen to his handwriting

Until it prove as natural

To sign his name as yours.



Limp as he limped,

Swear by the oaths he swore;

If he wore black, affect the same;

If he had gouty fingers,

Be yours gouty too.



Assemble tokens intimate of him --

A ring, a hood, a desk:

Around these elements then build

A home familiar to

The greedy revenant.



So grant him life, but reckon

That the grave which housed him

May not be empty now:

You in his spotted garments

Shall yourself lie wrapped.




From http://cscs.umich.edu/~crshalizi/Poetry/Graves/To_Bring_the_Dead_to_Life at the link http://cscs.umich.edu/~crshalizi/Poetry/Graves/


See also Robert Graves at Wikipedia (click to read)

A Poem for Hill Country: Richard Cory by Edwin Arlington Robinson

Posted by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

Edwin Arlington Robinson, 1869 - 1935, was an American poet. His short Richard Cory paints a wonderful, but sad, word picture and addresses a most important issue. Once you read Richard Cory you will never forget it --- and never again wish to be someone else.

Richard Cory is taken from Robinson's Collected Poems (New York: The Macmillan Company. 1922. Page 82) available at Google Books.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,

We people on the pavement looked at him:

He was a gentleman from sole to crown,

Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,

And he was always human when he talked;

But still he fluttered pulses when he said,

"Good-morning," and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich -- yes, richer than a king---

And admirably schooled in every grace:

In fine, we thought that he was everything

To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,

And went without the meat, and cursed the bread;

And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,

Went home and put a bullet through his head.

Suggested reading:

Edwin Arlington Robinson, Wikipedia. Click to read.

Richard Cory, Wikipedia. Click to read.

Robinson, Edwin Arlington. Collected Poems. New York: The Macmillan Company. 1922. At Google Books. Click to read.

A Poem for Hill County: "To Mrs. Eleanor Potts" by Francis Scott Key

by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

Every school child remembers Francis Scott Key (1779 - 1843) as the author of the words to the American national anthem. But Key also accomplished much more than just having some of the words his poem, Defence of Fort McHenry, set to the music of an English drinking song. Key's words and the music they were set to became known as The Star Spangled Banner --- and in 1931 formally adopted as our national anthem --- and most individuals forgot that Keys wrote other verses. See general article about Keys at Wikipedia (click here) and see the article about the national anthem at Wikipedia by clicking here.

From a collection of Key's poems, I've selected the following because it paints a lovely word picture and because it adds, in my opinion, to the historical understanding of times past.

To Mrs. Eleanor Potts,

For many years afflicted with blindness, on hearing her play on the guitar

by

Francis Scott Key

I sat beside an aged saint;

It was a pleasure there to be,

Her kind and gentle words to hear,

The calm contented face to see.

She sat in darkness --- day's fair light

Had often come and gone,

Gilding the scenes she long had loved:

No more for her they shone.

And fond, familiar voices paid

Affection's homage there;

And as their words of love and truth

Fell on her charmed ear,

She could but think how great the bliss

If she again could ever trace

The looks of love she knew were there

Upon each well-remembered face.

But she had long since felt and said

Of all this --- "It is well;"

And the bowed spirit rose, sustained,

Its peace and hope to tell.

She sat in darkness; but the gloom

Was only in the body's eye,

And covered with the clouds of night

Only the objects that were nigh.

But the mind's eye that cloud could pierce,

And things far off descry,

Beyond the bounds of this dull earth

And its encircling sky.

She sat in darkness; but a light

Was hers of heavenly ray,

Shining upon a home on high,

And lighting all her way.

The "light of other days' was hers,

Of happy days now past and gone;

It called up friends long loved and mourned,

And sweetly round her shone.

'Twas then, as by her side I sat,

She softly touched the light guitar,

And tones, that had my childhood charmed,

Fell, in sweet sadness, on my ear.

I had not heard them since; the sounds

Thrilled through my guiv'ring frame,

And scenes, and friends, and joys long past,

Quick at their bidding came.

Those sounds called up a mother's form,

Her voice, her love, and care,

When at her feet, a happy child,

I drank with greedy ear

The songs she loved, of power to charm

And to exalt the heart,

That thoughts and feelings like her own

They might to me impart.

And if the magic power of song

Its influence o'er me ever threw,

And haply some small meed of fame

To lay of mine be ever due,

These early teachings at her knee,

To these, the high-prized boon I owe,

With all the blessings I have known,

And all I ever hope to know.

I could but thank her for the strain

That called up these forgotten lays,

And kindly bade me share with her

"The light of other days."

And I prayed that the light of the days to come

Might brighter and brighter prove,

And the gloom of this darkened world be lost

In the light of the world above.

Pipe Creek, October 22nd, 1840

Key, Francis Scott, To Mrs. Eleanor Potts, From Poems of the Late Francis S. Key, Esq. New York: Robert Carter and Brothers.1857, pages 89 - 93. Available at Google Fullview Books.

A Poem for Hill Country: THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN by Sam Foss

By special request, below is a re-post of the most widely read poem article published at Hill Country --- the delightful poem The Prayer of Cyrus Brown by Sam Walter Foss. It was originally presented at Hill Country on June 24, 2007 (#094, Hill Country of Monroe County Mississippi, Volume 1).

Praying in Hill Country

CYRUS BROWN TELLS US HOW TO PRAY

I'd bet that everyone who has ever prayed remembers the "prayingest prayer they ever prayed" --- remembers the circumstances, the time of day, the when and the where, and the outcome of that prayingest prayer they've ever uttered.

The American poet, Sam Walter Foss [1858-1911], summed it up just fine in his poem, The Prayer of Cyrus Brown. Foss' character Mr. Brown remembered well the circumstances of his prayingest prayer he'd ever uttered. And Foss' poems all have that touch of reality and humanity and humility to make him a true poet of the people. Plus Foss is funny as all get out at times.

Further, Foss tells us through this humor that there are perhaps many ways of accomplishing life's little tasks --- and that the soothsayers, naysayers, and self-appointed do-righters who argue that there is one and only one true way have never fallen head-first into the kind of problem Mr. Brown, a common man, found himself caught up in. Read on. . .

THE PRAYER OF CYRUS BROWN
by SAM WALTER FOSS

"The proper way for a man to pray,"
Said Deacon Lemuel Keyes, "
And the only proper attitude
Is down upon his knees."

"No, I should say the way to pray,"
Said Rev. Dr. Wise,
Is standing straight, with outstretched arms,
And rapt and upturned eyes."

"Oh, no; no, no," said Elder Slow,
Such posture is too proud;
A man should pray with eyes fast closed
And head contritely bowed."

"It seems to me his hands should be
Austerely clasped in front,
With both thumbs pointing toward the ground,"
Said Rev. Dr. Blunt.

"Las' year I fell in Hodgkin's well
Head first," said Cyrus Brown,
With both my heels a-stickin' up,
My head a-pinting down.

"An' I made a prayer right then an' there--
Best prayer I ever said.
The prayingest prayer I ever prayed,
A-standing on my head."

Also see a brief look at Foss at Hill County, post at http://hillcountryofmonroecountry.blogspot.com/2007/06/hill-country-center-of-universe.html

Foss, Sam Walter. The Prayer of Cyrus Brown. Project Gutenberg EBook of The Wit and Humor of America, Volume VII (of X). Available online at link: http://www.cise.ufl.edu/mirrors/gutenberg/1/9/3/2/19325/19325.txt

Foss, Sam Walter. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sam_Walter_Foss

Photograph "Well at the Back Door" by Clifton Johnson. Highways and Byways of the Pacific Coast. New York: Macmillan Company, page 213. Available online at Google Full-view Books. PDF copy in file of writer.

In Memoriam: Dr. William Earl Phillips 1939 - 2009

And a poem in honor of him, Invictus by William Ernest Henley.

by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

Yesterday I attended the funeral services for a childhood friend and my former college roommate, Dr. William Earl Phillips.

William Earl, as he was known locally, was born July 17, 1939. He lived with his parents Will and Lula Phillips on a farm been Mount Zion and Adley in the Hill Country of eastern Monroe County, Mississippi.

William Earl was about ten days older than I, a fact that he constantly reminded me of to establish seniority rights. In return, I liked to tease him that his name needed a comma --- William, Earl Phillips.

William Earl received his schooling in the Smithville Public School graduating there with the Class of 1957. An accomplished musician and photographer, William Earl enrolled at the University of Mississippi as a pre-med student. Devoted to his studies, William Earl was admitted to several medical schools. He graduated from the University of Tennessee Medical School.

William Earl, as a teenager, began a life-long interest in photography and travel. He had a darkroom set up in one of the outbuildings at the Phillips Farm --- the first such facility in eastern Monroe County. He learned photography as a complete process --- from camera work to film developing and print processing --- William Earl mastered it all at a very early age. Also as a teenager he started his first international travels going with a student group to England.

On his travels William Earl had the amazing capacity to make friends and acquaintances with those he met in far-flung places. Many of those individuals became life-long friends. His interest in people was evident from that first trip when, a few months later, a young person he met in England came to the Phillips Farm to visit for a few weeks.

I remember that visitor who came calling on William Earl --- a young lady who was fascinated with the Hill Country idioms. Our use of the terms "over yonder" and "down yonder" and "up yonder" were just a few terms she was determined to master and use when she returned to England.

His second international trip came during the early summer of 1959 --- I had just transferred to Ole Miss and the roommate assigned to me for the first summer term didn't enroll. William Earl returned from his trip to Europe in time to register for the second summer term and we shared a dormitory room.

He was the first and only college roommate I had who maintained a pantry in the dorm room. Back in the days before microwaves and mini-refrigerators and of strict rules including no food in the dormitory, William Earl had a hearty supply of a variety of foods which he happily shared. Not only did he have ordinary food items, but he would often show up with bags of specialty foods he found on some of his rambling about.

Once he had Russian caviar and small containers of chocolate-covered grasshoppers. He seemed determined to learn as much about international foods as he could --- a practice which probably served him well in his later travels abroad. Oh, it took some time before the gang of us in the dormitory that summer ate all of the grasshoppers --- but we consumed the caviar immediately.

During the fall term, we lived in different areas of the campus but saw each other frequently. I had but one class with William Earl --- comparative anatomy. The class laboratory was in the basement of the old Biology Building at Ole Miss. There was never sufficient time in the scheduled lab periods to do the work demanded by our Professor, Young John McGahee. Many of us learned to unsecure one of the lab windows so that on weekends we could "break in" and remove the dissection specimen assigned to us. Under the cover of darkness we would take the preserved animal back to our dormitory rooms for additional study --- a practice I think even Dr. McGahee knew about. William Earl and his then current roommate (another pre-medical student), even removed their cat from the lab for more study over both the Thanksgiving and the Christmas holidays. We were all careful to return the specimens to the lab before dawn on Monday morning. The "raids" into and out of the lab were coordinated and well-planned and well-executed. Not once did anyone get caught breaking and entering.

My roommate at that time was a theatre major --- he never could understand why a partially dissected cat would sometimes end up in our dorm room for the weekend -- nor why sometimes other dead cats and other students would show up for a joint study session. In fact my roommate at that time couldn't believe that I could sleep with a dead cat in a plastic bag under my bed.

William Earl did most of his book work and reading in the Periodicals Department Reading Room of Williams Library at Ole Miss; he could be found there most evenings until library closing time. On the weekends, he would sit for hours in concentrated study --- and when he would tire, he would place his head on the reading table and go to sleep. The librarians in the Periodicals Reading Room were very distressed to have a sleeping student on their hands and would often wake him up to determine that he was all right. I was a student clerk in the Periodicals Department and spoke to the Head of the Department about William Earl and explained that he would sleep for a few minutes and awake refreshed and study and read for several more hours until closing time. They left him alone --- and one of the reading tables became his "home" in the library. He would spread out his books, his notes, and study for hours, taking little catnaps along to keep him going and the library staff would tiptoe around him attempting to not wake him up.

Health problems required that William Earl receive a heart transplant in 1996 --- he recovered and continued wwith his love for travel and with his research in water horticulture. An expert in the exotic fields of water lily hybridization, William Earl was international known for his primary research with those species. He maintained enclosed water gardens for the plants he collected from all over the world or had grown from seeds from the experimental work he was doing. At least one of the hybrids that William Earl successfully developed is recognized as a new species. He published in a variety of professional journals.

William Earl Phillips died September 9, 2009, in Memphis. His funeral service was conducted in Amory at the Chapel of Pickle's Funeral Home on Saturday, September 12, 2009. He was buried at New Hope Cemetery, Parham, Monroe County, Mississippi.

No doubt that William Earl Phillips would remember this short poem by the English poet, William Ernest Henley. The reason I selected a work by Henley was because once Henley wrote a memorial article about a friend and penned these lines, "He was singularly kind to me at a moment when I needed kindness even more than I needed encouragement."

Such is my memory of William Earl --- he was kind to me at a dark moment at the beginning of my days at Ole Miss, at a moment when I needed kindness more than I needed encouragement. I shall never forget his friendship.

Invictus
by
William Ernest Henley 1849 - 1903

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from Pole to Pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate:

I am the captain of my soul.

Suggested reading:

Henley, William Ernest. Invictus, The Pilgrims' Way: A Little Scrip of Good Counsel for Travellors, Arthur T. Quiller-Couch. New York: E.P. Dutton and Company, 1907, page 185.

Invictus by William Ernest Henley at Wikipedia.

William Ernest Henley at Wikipedia.

A POEM FOR HILL COUNTRY: "The Purple Cow" by Frank Gelett Burgess

by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

We all know little bits and pieces of poems or lines of poems that have been passed on for decades. Such lines and such a poem is the little gem by the American poet Frank Gelett Burgess presented below --- poetry can be fun as you shall see.

Burgess was born in 1866 in Boston, educated at M.I.T., and is forever associated with his poem The Purple Cow which was published in 1895. Burgess died in 1951.

Burgess' Purple Cow inspired others to write on the same subject, "purple cow" became a brand name, spin-off literary works and publications were named purple cow, and my grandchildren's favorite summertime treat to drink at our house are specially made "Purple Cows" (see recipe below). Burgess even wrote a sequel to Purple Cow.

For more information about Frank Gelett Burgess (1866 - 1951), read the article at

Wikipedia (click to read).

The Purple Cow

by

Frank Gelett Burgess

I never saw a Purple Cow,

I never hope to see one;

But I can tell you, anyhow,

I rather see than be one.

Burgess, Frank Gelett, The Purple Cow, in The World's Best Poetry, edited by Bliss Carman, John V. Cheney, Charles G.D. Roberts, Charles F. Richardson, Francis H. Stoddard. Philadelphia: John D. Morris and Company. 1904, page 455.

Now, go make a tall purple cow and sit down and enjoy it. As you sip your purple cow, ponder on how such a small little poem from 1895 is considered to be among the best of short poems.

Here's is how to build a purple cow: take a tall drink glass (old-fashioned soda-fountain glass work best but an ice-tea or a water glass will do), an iced-tea spoon, a soda straw for each guest and place it in front of them. Into the glass add a generous amount of rich, smooth, vanilla ice cream. Top the ice cream with grape soda. Drink/eat. Use the spoon and straw --- add more soda because it never comes out even.

See, I told you poetry could be fun.

A POEM FOR HILL COUNTRY: "Crowded Tub" by Shel Silverstein

posted by Terry Thornton
email: hillcountrymonroecounty@gmail.com

To launch this new series of poetry at HC2, I'm using a poem memorized by accident back in the 1980s when I read it to my son. The lines of poetry have stayed with me since that one reading --- and although I forget sometimes the author's name and certainly forget the name of the book from which I read the lines, I can't forget the poem. I think you would agree with me that good poetry should be memorable and I hope this one "sticks" in your mind as is has in mine.

Remember those lazy hazy hot days from your childhood when a number three galvanized metal wash tub would be filled with water and placed outside in the sun? Remember how all day long you watched the clock waiting until the time was just right for you to strip off and get to play in that solar-heated water in the shade of the late afternoon before the bugs of the evening took flight to bite? Remember that every kid in the household all jumped into the tub at about the same time?

Were there too many kids in your tub?

If you can remember those tubs of water and kids, the short poem by the late American poet and song-writer Shel Silverstein (1930 - 1999) will be a special treat for you. And even if you didn't have the grand experience of sitting outside in a warmed tub of water knowing that all of the day's dirt would soak off before bedtime and that this outside a la natural fun was really your bath of the day, then this poem is also just for you.

Below is Silverstein's grand little poem. Enjoy. The lines of this small jewel are like those of a song which stick in your mind --- once you hear them, you'll remember them forever. Perhaps that is the hallmark of excellent writing --- being memorable.

CROWDED TUB

by

Shel Silverstein

(from A LIGHT IN THE ATTIC, 1981, HarperCollins, page 86)

There's too many kids in this tub

There's too many elbows to scrub

I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine

There's too many kids in this tub.

I strongly recommend you obtain a copies of Silverstein's books, A Light in the Attic especially, and read his poems for children. They are a delight --- and his genius comes shining through at the most unexpected times and places. Silverstein's books are available through your favorite bookstore or online book provider.

I also strongly recommend that if you don't already know Silverstein you click here to read the article about him at Wikipedia --- read it carefully and you will be amazed at how much of his work you've heard or read about without knowing the author. From popular songs (A Boy Named Sue, 25 Minutes to Go, and One's On the Way, hits for Johnny Cash and Loretta Lynn) to music scores to poems and books for children, Shel Silverstein and his words continue to influence and make us all think, feel good about ourselves, and become better for the exposure.

Photograph, Crowded Tub of Thornton Grandchildren, Rinnie, Tennessee, by Terry Thornton. 1994.