Poetry Journal #3 - The shooting of Dan McGrew.

The poem I chose to do is called: The Shooting of Dan McGrew, by Robert W. Service:

A bunch of the boys were whooping it up in the Malamute saloon;
The kid that handles the music-box was hitting a jag-time tune;
Back of the bar, in a solo game, sat Dangerous Dan McGrew,
And watching his luck was his light-o'-love, the lady that's known as Lou.
When out of the night, which was fifty below, and into the din and glare,
There stumbled a miner fresh from the creeks, dog-dirty, and loaded for bear.
He looked like a man with a foot in the grave and scarcely the strength of a louse,
Yet he tilted a poke of dust on the bar, and he called for drinks for the house.
There was none could place the stranger's face, though we searched ourselves for a clue;
But we drank his health, and the last to drink was Dangerous Dan McGrew.

There's men that somehow just grip your eyes, and hold them hard like a spell;
And such was he, and he looked to me like a man who had lived in hell;
With a face most hair, and the dreary stare of a dog whose day is done,
As he watered the green stuff in his glass, and the drops fell one by one.
Then I got to figgering who he was, and wondering what he'd do,
And I turned my head--and there watching him was the lady that's known as Lou.

His eyes went rubbering round the room, and he seemed in a kind of daze,
Till at last that old piano fell in the way of his wandering gaze.
The rag-time kid was having a drink; there was no one else on the stool,
So the stranger stumbles across the room, and flops down there like a fool.
In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway,
Then he clutched the keys with his talon hands--my God! but that man could play.

Were you ever out in the Great Alone, when the moon was awful clear,
And the icy mountains hemmed you in with a silence you most could hear;
With only the howl of a timber wolf, and you camped there in the cold,
A helf-dead thing in a stark, dead world, clean mad for the muck called gold;
While high overhead, green, yellow, and red, the North Lights swept in bars?--
Then you've a hunch what the music meant...hunger and might and the stars.

And hunger not of the belly kind, that's banished with bacon and beans,
But the gnawing hunger of lonely men for a home and all that it means;
For a fireside far from the cares that are, four walls and a roof above;
But oh! so cramful of cosy joy, and crowded with a woman's love--
A woman dearer than all the world, and true as Heaven is true--
(God! how ghastly she looks through her rouge,--the lady that's known as Lou.)

Then on a sudden the music changed, so soft that you scarce could hear;
But you felt that your life had been looted clean of all that it once held dear;
That someone had stolen the woman you loved; that her love was a devil's lie;
That your guts were gone, and the best for you was to crawl away and die.
'Twas the crowning cry of a heart's despair, and it thrilled you through and through--
"I guess I'll make it a spread misere," said Dangerous Dan McGrew.

The music almost dies away...then it burst like a pent-up flood;
And it seemed to say, "Repay, repay," and my eyes were blind with blood.
The thought came back of an ancient wrong, and it stung like a frozen lash,
And the lust awoke to kill, to kill...then the music stopped with a crash,
And the stranger turned, and his eyes they burned in a most peculiar way;

In a buckskin shirt that was glazed with dirt he sat, and I saw him sway;
Then his lips went in in a kind of grin, and he spoke, and his voice was calm,
And "Boys," says he, "you don't know me, and none of you care a damn;
But I want to state, and my words are straight, and I'll bet my poke they're true,
That one of you is a hound of hell...and that one is Dan McGrew."

Then I ducked my head and the lights went out, and two guns blazed in the dark;
And a woman screamed, and the lights went up, and two men lay stiff and stark.
Pitched on his head, and pumped full of lead, was Dangerous Dan McGrew,
While the man from the creeks lay clutched to the breast of the lady that's known as Lou.

These are the simple facts of the case, and I guess I ought to know.
They say that the stranger was crazed with "hooch," and I'm not denying it's so.
I'm not so wise as the lawyer guys, but strictly between us two--
The woman that kissed him and--pinched his poke--was the lady known as Lou.

This poem is an interesting one, and I felt I should write about it, despite never having been in a saloon shoot-out myself. The original impression of the stranger is that he is a man returned from a long period of desolation, eager to be merry and meet some people. He comes into the saloon and his first words are: "Drinks on the house". This portion I can certainly relate to, I have moved around quite a lot, and it is difficult to meet new people when you arrive in a new place. If he truly had been isolated from people for an extended time, he might have thought his best shot at this was to make a scene at the saloon. After handing out drinks, the stranger turns to the empty piano and starts up a song. According to the narrator he was very good. His song surely is a reference to his travels and how he feels while he is alone. He needs to share his feelings with someone, so he chooses the whole group and sings away. His song changes, however, and becomes soft and powerful without a moment's warning and Dangerous Dan McGrew makes a comment. It seems at this point that Dan McGrew wants to stir up trouble, as someone often does when a new person appears and steals the spotlight that they are used to. Now you start to feel for the stranger, who was only trying to have a good time, and now Dangerous Dan McGrew is making trouble with him, but then something else happens... The music died, then crashed back "like a pent up flood" and the stranger turns to address the crowd. He announces that Dan McGrew is a "hound in hell" and this certainly stirs up the inevitable trouble. Suddenly the lights go out, and a series of gunshots ring out. When they come back, both me are lying stiff on the ground, Dan alone and the stranger being held by the lady known as Lou. This last turn of events suggests that the stranger's motivation for coming to the saloon was never a mystery to him, and that he had intended to kill Dan McGrew all along. This completely changes my perspective, I had assumed the stranger had innocent intentions and that he was simply looking for relief from isolation and loneliness, however it seems we knew even less about the stranger than the little that is said.

This poem has rhyme scheme for the most part, but it is not strict. Many stanzas contain only 1 or 2 rhymes while others contain many more. I would call it a ballad, because it tells a story and it flows. The author has made it a story first, and a poem second, and I think this works well. You are definitely left wondering when you finish this poem. Who is Lou, how is she connected with the stranger, how does the stranger know Dan McGrew and why does he hate him, where has the stranger been, who is he? This aspect is an additionally powerful element to the poem.





This picture was painted by Ted Harrison and is part of the illustrated version of this poem. It portrays the stranger at the piano, immersed in his song. Despite the picture not showing any other characters, I thought it showed the stranger very well. In the painting, it seems as though the stranger is alone, perhaps thats how he felt while singing.

Poetry Journal #2 - In Flanders Fields

The poem that I chose to do is "In Flanders Fields" by Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae:

IN FLANDERS FIELDS the poppies blow

Between the crosses row on row,

That mark our place; and in the sky

The larks, still bravely singing, fly

Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago

We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,

Loved and were loved, and now we lie

In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:

To you from failing hands we throw

The torch; be yours to hold it high.

If ye break faith with us who die

We shall not sleep, though poppies grow

In Flanders fields.

In Flanders Fields is about war, written from the battle field by a surgeon. He read it to a wounded man just after composing it and the man said that it described the situation perfectly. While I can't say that I can relate to this poem directly, I feel as though I can understand the position of the author and know what he is feeling. My father is a military man and he has gone away several times throughout my life to faraway places, to aid others. This includes recently in the middle east where he was gone for 8 months. While he is far away and in harm's way, I worry about him and pray that he will be safe. In addition to this, I have read a large number of books about war and combat from many different time periods, I feel that I have a good picture of the battle in my head, despite never engaging in it. The poem, while written about the war, can be applied to other things as well, it speaks of continuing a legacy or a "torch" and continuing the fight because the fallen people cannot. It touches on the delicacy of life, how you can be 'here one day and gone the next'. It also seems to tell of the dead watching the fight, and weeping for the loss of life that follows their own, perhaps this is why they "shall not sleep".

In Flanders Fields is a Lyrical poem, almost an elegy but not exactly. It has a rhyme scheme that is mostly AB, CD that is made up of end rhyme. Despite this, it still manages to convey it's message nicely. The author paints a picture of the scene around himself for us. Every day he sees men die, and he buries them in rows, with crosses on top. And the poppies that have grown on top of the graves since they have been built, are blowing in the wind. The larks are flying high above them, oblivious or apathetic to the grinding battle below them, while the rifle and artillery fire attempt to deafen the soldiers with every passing rapport. McCrae is distressed that so many men, who had hopes and dreams and families only hours or days before, now lie underground for eternity, soon to be joined by others. He conveys a request from the fallen men to those still fighting, to continue the fight and continue the cause that they gave their lives for. Closing by telling the men that they must keep fighting, to make sure that the deaths were not for naught.



I think this image is a great accompaniment to this poem. It shows a graveyard, filled with white crosses, and there are poppies growing all over the blood-red soil. All this beneath the larks, still flying high.

Poetry Journal #1 - The Cremation of Sam McGee

The poem that I chose is called The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service:

There are strange things done
in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights
have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

Now Sam McGee was from Tennessee,
where the cotton blooms and blows.
Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole,
God only knows.
He was always cold, but the land of gold seemed to hold him
like a spell;
Though he'd often say in his homely way that
"he'd sooner live in hell."

On a Christmas Day
we were mushing our way over the Dawson trail.
Talk of your cold! through the parka's fold
it stabbed like a driven nail.
If our eyes we'd close, then the lashes froze till sometimes
we couldn't see;
It wasn't much fun, but the only one to whimper
was Sam McGee.

And that very night, as we lay packed tight
in our robes beneath the snow,
And the dogs were fed,
and the stars o'er head were dancing heel and toe,
He turned to me, and "Cap," says he,
"I'll cash in this trip, I guess;
And if I do, I'm asking that you won't refuse
my last request."

Well, he seemed so low that I couldn't say no;
then he says with a sort of moan:
"It's the cursèd col, and it's got right hold till I"m chilled
clean through to the bone.
Yet 't ain't being dead--
it's my awful dread of the icy grave that pains;
So I want you to swear that, foul or fair,
you'll cremate my last remains."

A pal's last need is a thing to heed,
so I sword I would not fail;
And we started on at the streak of dawn; but God!
he looked ghastly pale.
He crouched on the sleigh, and he raved all day of his home
in Tennessee;
And before nightfall a corpse was all that was left
of Sam McGee.

There wasn't a breath in that land of death,
and I hurried, horror driven,
With a corpse half hid that I couldn't get rid, because
of a promise given;
It was lashed to the sleigh, and it seemed to say:
"You may tax your brawn and brains,
But you promised true, and it's up to you to cremate
those last remains."

Now a promise made is a debt unpaid,
and the trail has its own stern code.
In the days to come, though my lips were dumb,
in my hearth how I cursed that load.
In the long, long night,
by the lone firelight, while the huskies, round in a ring,
Howled out their woes to the homeless snows -O God!
how I loathed that thing.

And every day that quiet clay
seemed to heavy and heavier grow;
And on I went, though the dogs were spent
and the grub was getting low;
The trail was bad,
and I felt half mad, but I swore I would not give in;
And I'd often sing to the hateful thing, and
it hearkened with a grin.

Till I came to the marge of Lake Lebarge,
and a derelict there lay;
It was jammed in the ice,
but I saw in a trice it was called the "Alice May."
And I looked at my frozen chum;
Then "Here," said I, with a sudden cry,
"is my cre-ma-tor-eum."

Some planks I tore from the cabin floor,
and I lit the boiler fire;
Some coal I found
that was lying around, and I heaped the fuel higher;
The flames just soared, and the furnace roared--
such a blaze you seldom see;
And I burrowed a hole in the glowing coal,
and I stuffed in Sam McGee.

Then I made a hike,
for I didn't like to hear him sizzle so;
And the heavens scowled, and the huskies howled,
and the wind began to blow.
It was icy cold, but the hot sweat rolled down my cheeks,
And I don't know why;
And the greasy smoke in an inky cloak
went streaking down the sky.

I do not know how long in the snow
I wrestled with grisly fear;
But the stars came out
and they danced about ere again I ventured near;
I was sick with dread, but I bravely said:
"I'll just take a peep inside.
I guess he's cooked, and it's time I looked,"... then the door
I opened wide.

And there sat Sam,
looking cool and calm, in the heart of the furnace roar;
And he wore a smile you could see a mile, and he said:
"Please close that door.
It's fine in here,
but I greatly fear you'll let in the cold and storm--
Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee,
it's the first time I've been warm."

There are strange things done
in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The Arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold;
The Northern Lights
have seen queer sights,
But the queerest they ever did see
Was that night on the marge of Lake Lebarge
I cremated Sam McGee.

I can relate to this poem through Sam's desire to be warm. When I lived in Ottawa I delivered flyers as a part-time job 3 days a week. Ottawa can have some extreme weather, especially in the winter, and I've experienced temperatures as low as -40C. When you spend 2-3 hours outside, delivering flyers (which sometimes requires you to expose your fingers) in extremely low temperatures, all you can think about is 'keep going'. Your clothes are hard due to being frozen, the wagon gets stuck moving through the snow that is constantly falling around you, your fingers feel hot because they are so cold. Your breath is viable all-around you and your ears threaten to fall off. You just keep gritting your teeth and picturing yourself warm, beside the fire, covered in blankets, with a cup of hot chocolate. When you finally do get home, you can barely feel any part of your body. You are numb and chilled to the bone. You do everything you can to get warm, take a steaming shower, put on several layers of clothing, sit by the fire, eat hot food, and drink hot drink. But still, you do not feel warm. This is where I feel I can relate to Sam. He was always cold and could do nothing about it, he knew that the only way for him to truly be content was to go into the hottest thing he knew, a furnace. So therefore he knew he had to get his friend to promise to cremate his body following his death, for he had to get warm.

The Cremation of Sam McGee is a free verse poem with 15 stanzas. It is about a man from Tennessee who is living in the Arctic and is always cold. He is deathly afraid of being buried in the ice in "an icy tomb" and so his dying wish is to have his remains cremated. He wants nothing more then to be warm, once and for all. One of the final lines says: "Since I left Plumtree, down in Tennessee, it's the first time I've been warm." Sam says this as he is speaking to the narrator from inside the furnace and he is finally happy. The author uses a lot of rhyme, but it isn't necessarliy have a pattern (ex. ACBD), the rhymes are common but spaced out, and by not commiting to a pattern, the author allows his poem to make clear sense, as oppose to others which focus on rhyming first and being readable and comprehendable second. A good example of this is the line: "Why he left his home in the South to roam 'round the Pole". It doesn't rhyme with any other line and there is no rhyme in the line, and yet it makes better sense of the poem. I believe that this is a great feature of this poem.







This is an image taken from the illustrated book made from the poem. Painted by Ted Harrison it depicts Sam McGee sitting in the furnace, warm at last. I believe that this image represents the poem well because it summarizes Sam's Dream of being cremated and shows it fulfilled, all at once.