Poem: A Cry of the Foreign Born - by St. Louis poet, Leah Rachel Yoffie (1883-1956)

The following poem by Leah Rachel Clara Yoffie appears in Contemporary Verse, Volume 9 (1920), p. 144, as well as the St. Louis weekly newspaper, The Modern View, April 2, 1926, p. 27.  While I originally found the poem browsing through the microfilm at the library, the Google Books scan of the 1920 volume is a lot clearer than the microfilm printout, so I will share that below.

I suspect from her references she may have grown up in the same slums that my Polish, Russian and Lithuanian ancestral immigrants to St. Louis did. Her plea rings strong today.

Posted for the Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge

Poem: Cause of Death

Below is the poem which won 3rd place in the Poetry & Song category of the 2017 ISFHWE Excellence-in-Writing Competition. Last year, I finished 2nd with The Genetic and Synthetic.

Cause of Death

A dozen distant cousins
in Prienai, Lithuania
died on the same day
all with the same cause of death.

If my cousin who researched the family
had written down ‘Auschwitz,’
“Treblinka,’ or ‘Bergen Belsen,’
I think I would have nodded
and kept on reading.

It’s what I expect happened
to most of my relatives
who didn’t get out of Europe
before the war.

I wasn’t ready for
"townspeople with axes" -
Neither were my cousins.

"Townspeople with axes"
could be the name
of a b-grade horror movie
with vampires and zombies.

"Townspeople with axes"
should not appear
in my genealogy database.

Poem: The Genetic and Synthetic

The below poem of mine was entered into the 2016 International Society of Family History Writers and Editors Excellence-in-Writing competition and was awarded second-place in its category.

I've added a few footnotes for the references.

The Genetic and Synthetic

I research my roots:
The nucleotides of life
and the synthesis
of ancestral experience
make me whole.

If she hadn’t left
her Texas home at age 20;¹
If he hadn’t fled
the Russian pogroms;²
These words wouldn’t be written.

Rural Transylvania, 1910.
A gun fired:
One child maimed;
One child entered
a depression-fueled starvation
he never exited;
One child, my maternal grandfather,
stood witness.³

Philippines, 1945.
A gun fired:
One soldier cleaning his rifle;
One soldier entered
a hospital he never exited;
His brother, my paternal grandfather,
stood Kaddish.⁴

Neither event changed my DNA,
but both influenced how I was raised,
who I became.

1. My maternal grandmother, Myrtle Vanevery Deutsch
2. My paternal 2nd great grandfathers, Moshe Leyb Cruvant, Morris Blatt, and Selig Dudelczak could all be referenced here, with a little flexibility on the term, Russian, to include Lithuania, Poland, and Volhynia, respectively.
3. More details can be read here.
4. More details can be read here.

The Amen Stone - by Yehuda Amichai

In honor of Israeli Independence Day and Jewish Heritage Month, here is part of a poem by Yehuda Amichai (1924-2000) - considered by many to be one of Israel's greatest modern poets.

The Amen Stone

By Yehuda Amichai
Translated by Chana Bloch

On my desk there is a stone with the word “Amen” on it,
a triangular fragment of stone from a Jewish graveyard destroyed
many generations ago. The other fragments, hundreds upon hundreds,
were scattered helter-skelter, and a great yearning,
a longing without end, fills them all:
first name in search of family name, date of death seeks
dead man’s birthplace, son’s name wishes to locate
name of father, date of birth seeks reunion with soul
that wishes to rest in peace. And until they have found
one another, they will not find a perfect rest.
Only this stone lies calmly on my desk and says “Amen.”

The rest of the poem

Poetry Friday: Niagara Fell (March 1848)

I wrote this poem five years ago.

George Van Every, the first son of my second great grandparents, Samuel and Abigail (Stuart) Van Every, was born eight months after the incident, in Dumfries, Brant County, Ontario - about 125 km from Niagara Falls.

Niagara Fell
©2010 John C Newmark

In 1848, on a day in March
Huge chunks of ice
Pierced Niagara’s head.
Downstream, the falls dried up.

Residents looked down -
The mighty thunder, silenced -
Then up to the sky, fearful.
News traveled slowly.

The churches were filled
as the fish died.
Tourists came from far
To walk across the bed.

When the ice dam cleared
Some must have felt foolish,
While others just waited
for their god’s next missive.

More about Niagara's fall - March 29-30, 1848

Surname Poetry

Crestleaf - a genealogical database - is sponsoring a surname challenge to compose a creative post using their surname database. I think they had posts similar to my Friday Fives in mind. However, poetry was on my brain at the time, so that became the theme of my entry.

---

I've mentioned before that I am descended from Thomas and Katherine Stoughton. According to Gary Boyd Roberts of the New England Historic Genealogical Society, so was Clement Clarke Moore. [Source: The NEHGS recently moved their website, and it appears this is no longer viewable to the public.]

Moore's poem, A Visit from St. Nicholas, is fairly well-known. I thought I would attempt to reconstruct it using surnames. As I often do in my genealogy research, I had to be a little flexible with spelling.

Every link goes directly to a person's entry in the Crestleaf database, so by following a few of the links you can get a general idea of the information they provide.

Avist From St. Nicholas
-- Clement Clarke Moore

Twasta Night Before Christmas Whenal Through Thee House
Notte Creature Waz Stirr Inge, Nott Even Amos;
Destocki Ng Zwar Hung Bythe Chimney Withcer,
Ihne Hopes Thatt Saint Nicholas Soon Would Bether;
Thee Children Ware Nestle Dall Snug Intihar Bedez;
While Vision Zove Sugar Plum Dance Intihar Heads;
Anda Mammana Kerchief, Andia Inma Kapp,
Hadjes Settle Dour Brain Sforza Long Winters Napp,
Wenot Onda Lawn Theroux Sucha Clatter,
Eye Sprange Fromme Bidtah Seewaldt Waz Demato.
Awai Tothe Window Eye Fleu Lika Flash,
Toro Penta Shutter Zandt Throop Thee Sash.
Thee Moon Onda Breast Oft Henu Fallen Snow,
Gavala Sterr Ohff Midday Tew Objay Below,
Wennwright Tomy Wonderling Eyes Didde Peer,
Buta Miniter Sleigh Andeits Tine Reinders,
Withall ittel Ohl Driver Soli Vly Ahn Quick,
Inoue Ihne Moment Hemus Beeh Sainick.
Moore Rapida Than Eagles Hizcorr Sers Theye Camm,
Ahn Dhew Hissel D,ahn Shoutd, Ahn Called Themm Bye Nam:
"Nahl, Dasher! Nahl, Dancer! Nahl Prance Ahn Vix Ehn!
Onn, Comet! Onn, Cupid! Onn, Donner Ahn Blitz Ehn!
Tohe Topoff Thee Porch! Tothe Topoff Thee Wall!
Nahl Dash Awai! Dash Awai! Dash Awai Awl!"
Ash Leaves That Before Thee Wild Hurry Cane Fly,
Whent Hey Meetz Withan Obsta Cle,ment Tothe Sky;
Souppa Tothe House Topp Thee Courser Sthay Fleu
Withee Sleigh Fullove Toyz,an Saint Nicholas Tew—
Anthen, Ihne Twinkley Ng,ai Heard Onn Theroff
Thee Prance Ngan Paal Ingo Veach Little Hoof.
Asid Rew Ihne Meehe Ad,an Dwass Turning Arounds,
Downs Thee Chimney St. Nicholasy Camm Witta Bound.
Hee Waz Dresdale Ihne Furr, From Hisheh Tohid Foot,
Ahn Hesz Clothe Zwar Altar Nishi Dwight Ashes Ahn Soot;
Abunda Oft Oys Hee Haade Flang Ohnhaus Back,
Ahn Helou Kedl Ike Aap Edler Just Oppen Ingis Pack.
Hisey Es—how Theye Twinn Kuld! Hisz Dimple S,howmar Rye!
Hische Eek Zwar Like Roses, Hisz Nosel Ika Cherry!
Hisz Droll Little Mouth Wasz Drawn Upp Like Abow,
Anthe Beard Onn Hisz Chin Wasas White Ash Thee Snow;
Thee Stump Ovah Pipe Hee Held Tight Innis Teeth,
Anthe Smoke, Itten Circle Dizh Head Lika Wreath;
Hee Hada Broadf Ace Anda Little Round Belly
Thatt Shook Wenhe Laughed, Lika Boll Fullove Jelly.
Hee Wasz Chubby Ahn Plump, Arite Jolly Ohlde Elff,
Andey Laughed Weney Sawh Him,inez Piteo Mais Elff;
Awin Koff Hisey Anda Twist Office Head
Soong Avem Eto Knoy Hadnot Hing Tew Dread;
Hee Spoke Nota Word, Butt Whent Straight Tew Hisz Work,
Anfield Ahl Thee Stockings; Then Turnn Dwight Ajer,
Ahn Lay Inge Hisz Finger Asid Eoff Hisz Nose,
Ahn Giving Ano, Upp Thee Chimney Heros;
Hee Sprang Tew Hisz Sleigh, Tew Hist Eem Gaveau Whistle,
Anda Way Thaye Ahl Fleu Like Thee Dounn Ofat Histel.
Buti Heard Hime Exx Claim, Airhea Drof Outa Sight—
"Happy Christmas Toal L,and Toala Goodnight!"

---

This was fun, but next time I do it, I'm going to select a shorter poem!

Thanksgiving Poetry

Below are several poems for the holiday

Gratitude - by Edgar A. Guest (©1917)

Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way;
Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day;
Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do,
For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.

Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses soon to bloom,
The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your days of gloom;
Be grateful for the morning dew, the grass beneath your feet,
The soft caresses of your babes and all their laughter sweet.

Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest you are,
How much there is to gladden life, how little life to mar!
And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with grief are sad;
Be grateful that you can recall the joys that you have had.

---

Thanksgiving - by Edgar A. Guest (©1917)

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin' more beautiful day after day;
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
Buildin' the old family circle again;
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
Father's a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin' our stories as women an' men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
Home from the east land an' home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We've come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.

---

Looking Back - by Edgar Guest (©1921)

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made.
I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I purposely played.
Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking backward to see
What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that has happened to me.

I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my name,
And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of fame.
But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the birds and the trees;
I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures as these.

I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and we've played,
And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that I might have made.
I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits of men;
And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life over again.

I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with all of its tears;
I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've squandered my years.
For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to my best,
And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might have possessed.

---

A Song of Thanks - by Edward Smyth Jones (©1922)

FOR the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham,
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old “turk” of the farmer’s barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep,
dark mines, For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

Sixth Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge - Scotland

Bill West of West In New England is hosting The Sixth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge

1. Find a poem by a local poet, famous or obscure, from the region one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written! Or if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone performing the song. 

2. Post the poem or song to your blog (remembering to cite the source where you found it.). If you wish to enter an older post, you may as long as long as it has not appeared here in an earlier Poetry Challenge. 

3.Tell us how the subject of the poem or song relates to your ancestor's home or life, or the area of the country where they lived.

To celebrate my wife’s Wallace roots, I thought I would share some poetry from Scotland. I traveled to the Scottish Poetry Library.

A Red, Red Rose – Robert Burns (1759-1796)

O my Luve's like a red, red rose,
That's newly sprung in June;
O my Luve's like the melodie
That's sweetly play'd in tune.

As fair are thou, my bonie lass,
So deep in luve am I;
And I will luve thee still, my Dear,
Till a' the seas gang dry.

Till a' the seas gang dry, my Dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
I will luve thee still, my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

And fare thee weel, my only Luve!
And fare thee weel, a while!
And I will come again, my Luve,
Tho' it were ten thousand mile!

And here’s The Rowan Tree, by Carolina Oliphant, Lady Nairne (1766-1845) - sung by Kenneth McKellar (1927-2010)




Entries from past years:

• First Annual: Emilius Buczi – Hungary ; Julian Ursin Niemciwicz – Poland and Lithuania ; TS Eliot – St. Louis and London
• Second Annual: Texas State Anthem
• Third Annual: Chaim Bialik – Volhynia, Russia
• Fourth Annual: Portsmouth, Hamsphire – Charles Dickens and Arthur Conan Doyle
• Fifth Annual: I was a no-show

A Toast to the First and the Fourth of July (repost)

A Toast to the First and the Fourth of July
for David Van Every (1757-1820)
©July 2009 - John Newmark

For two years my fourth great fought
for the creation of our nation
then in seventeen seventy seven
he deemed his disloyalty a disservice
and joined the other side.
Finally, he and his family fled to Canada.

His motivations are unrecorded.
Beyond his appearance on muster rolls,
a few brief mentions elsewhere,
we have nothing. No inkling
of the wherefores behind his decision
either in seventy five, or seventy seven.

In July’s opening barrage
of national celebrations
I honor both of his decisions -
whatever the reasons, and his willingness
to fight for what he believed
even when those beliefs changed.

***
July 1 is Canada Day
July 4 is Independence Day

This poem was based on information I'd found on the web, citing The Records of the Van Every Family, by Mary Blackadar Piersol, 1947.  After writing this poem, I discovered the muster rolls for David Van Every on Footnote that put the information somewhat in doubt.

The muster rolls suggest he enlisted on July 4, 1775, and deserted on Sept 12 (or Sept / 2) 1775. And re-enlisted on May 23, 1777, and redeserted in June of 1777. So in total it would have been for three months, not two years.

Also, since writing the poem, I obtained a copy of The Records of the Van Every Family, by Mary Blackadar Piersol. She only mentions David joining and deserting in 1777. So she didn't know about the 1775 muster roll. Somebody else must have found documentation that he joined in 1775, and an incorrect interpretation was made that he remained in service between 1775 and 1777.

It's impossible to assign motivation to the enlistments and desertions. David was 18 and 20 years old in 1775 and 1777. He may have just been a very confused young man.

While McGregory Van Every and his children ultimately joined the Loyalist camp, and fled to Canada, there were many Van Everys who fought as Patriots throughout the war.  They just aren't my ancestors.  As one researcher notes concerning David and his brother, Benjamin:

David and Benjamin Van Every perhaps had decided to join the New York Militia, as it was in this Regiment that the cousins of their father, McGregory Van Every had been serving: Martin as a Lieutenant, Cornelius (1730 - 1815) as an Ensign and later as a Lieutenant, and Rynier as a Captain. However, soon after deserting from the New York Militia, both David and Benjamin transferred themselves to Butler's Rangers, within which they fought for the duration of the American Revolution, David as a Sergeant and Benjamin as a regular soldier.

--- "Warner Cemetery: an important piece of Canada's heritage worth preserving," Robert Collins McBride, The Loyalist Gazette, March 22, 2000. 

Two Poems for April 19th (Repost)

The Midnight Ride of William Dawes - by Helen F Moore (1896)

I am a wandering, bitter shade,
Never of me was a hero made;
Poets have never sung my praise,
Nobody crowned my brow with bays;
And if you ask me the fatal cause,
I answer only, “My name was Dawes.”

‘Tis all very well for the children to hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
But why should my name be quite forgot,
Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
Why should I ask? The reason is clear –
My name was Dawes and his Revere.

When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,
Paul Revere was waiting about,
But I was already on my way.
The shadows of night fell cold and gray
As I rode, with never a break or a pause;
But what was the use, when my name was Dawes!

History rings with his silvery name;
Closed to me are the portals of fame.
Had he been Dawes and I Revere,
No one had heard of him, I fear.
No one has heard of me because
He was Revere and I was Dawes.

***

Excerpt from Campo dei Fiori, by Czeslaw Milosz (1943)

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.

(full poem)

April 19th is filled with historical events.

Many Americans think of the Battles of Lexington and Concord.  (Some erroneously place it on April 18th, but it was a midnight ride. The battles took place the next day.)

But this is also the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943. Last year's April edition of Tablet Magazine was devoted to Warsaw, including a haunting look at repurposed gravestones.

Note: According to this source William Dawes, who rode with Revere, was related to Henry L Dawes, for whom The Dawes Act was named.

Tu b'Av - A Day of Love

Tu b'Av is a relatively obscure Jewish holiday that falls on the fifteenth day of the month of Av (sundown Sunday, July 21 to sundown Monday, July 22 this year).

The fifteenth day of each month on the Hebrew calendar falls on a full moon, and the holiday was observed as a sort of fertility festival during the period of the Second Temple.  After the destruction of the Second Temple, it was forgotten for the most part in the Diaspora, only to be revived in modern times as a Jewish alternative to Valentine's Day.

To A Lady
by Victor Hugo,
From Les Feuilles D'Automne 

Child, were I king, I'd yield my royal rule,
     My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due,
My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool,
My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool,
     For a glance from you!

Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs,
     Angels, the demons abject under me,
Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs,
Time, space, all would I give--aye, upper spheres,
     For a kiss from thee!


translation by Thomas Hardy
photogravure by Goupil et Cie, from a drawing by Deveria, appears in a collection of Hugo's poetry published by Estes and Lauriat in the late 1800s.

Happy Independence Day

Happy Independence Day!

The New Colossus Emma Lazarus Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame, With conquering limbs astride from land to land; Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame. "Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

A poem I wrote a few years back: A Toast to the First and the Fourth of July

Two Poems for Today - April 19

The Midnight Ride of William Dawes - by Helen F Moore (1896)

I am a wandering, bitter shade,
Never of me was a hero made;
Poets have never sung my praise,
Nobody crowned my brow with bays;
And if you ask me the fatal cause,
I answer only, “My name was Dawes.”

‘Tis all very well for the children to hear
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere;
But why should my name be quite forgot,
Who rode as boldly and well, God wot?
Why should I ask? The reason is clear –
My name was Dawes and his Revere.

When the lights from the old North Church flashed out,
Paul Revere was waiting about,
But I was already on my way.
The shadows of night fell cold and gray
As I rode, with never a break or a pause;
But what was the use, when my name was Dawes!

History rings with his silvery name;
Closed to me are the portals of fame.
Had he been Dawes and I Revere,
No one had heard of him, I fear.
No one has heard of me because
He was Revere and I was Dawes.

***
Excerpt from Campo dei Fiori, by Czeslaw Milosz (1943)

I thought of the Campo dei Fiori
In Warsaw by the sky-carousel
One clear spring evening
To the strains of a carnival tune.
The bright melody drowned
The salvos from the ghetto wall,
And couples were flying
High in the cloudless sky.

(full poem)

April 19th is filled with historical events. 

Many Americans think of the Battles of Lexington and Concord.  (Some erroneously place it on April 18th, but it was a midnight ride. The battles took place the next day.)

But this is also the anniversary of the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising in 1943. The most recent edition of Tablet Magazine was devoted to Warsaw, including a haunting look at repurposed gravestones.

Note: According to this source William Dawes, who rode with Revere, was related to Henry L Dawes, for whom The Dawes Act was named.

Fifteen Poems from the Archives

I am an aficionado of poetry. I enjoy reading, writing, and performing  the art. In the past six years I have devoted several blog posts to poetry. Below are fifteen of these. Click on the 'Poetry' label at the bottom of the post to find more.

Poems Written by Me

1. Genealogy Research
2. Where I'm From
3. A Toast to the First and the Fourth of July
4. E Pluribus Unum; Cognatus, Ergo Sum
5. Divergent, Yet Intersecting
6. Ode to a Microspatula
7. Genealogy Limericks 

Poems Written by Kin

1. Mother - by Willa Van Every
2. Mother - by Ida Green 

Poems Written by Others

1. Our Mother Was the Pussy-Cat - by Edward Lear (an unfinished sequel to The Owl and the Pussy-Cat)
2. On Going Home For Christmas - by Edgar Guest
3. To a Lady - by Victor Hugo (Translation by Thomas Hardy)
4. On the Burial of his Brother - by Caius Valerius Catullus (Translation by Aubrey Vincent Beardsley)
5. The Mounds of Cahokia - by Micah P. Flint
6. The Jewish Cemetery at Newport - by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

SNGF: 100-word challenge

Tonight's Saturday Night Genealogy Fun challenge from Randy Seaver at Genea-Musings was based on the 100-word challenge.

The 100-word challenge is a weekly challenge given to children under the age of 16. The majority of participants appear to be from England or Australia, though there are some American youth. Last week's prompt was "Grandparents are important because."

For the SNGF challenge, Randy provided readers with the same prompt.

I didn't write a story. I wrote a poem - exactly 100 words in length, if one includes the title.


Grandparents are Important Because 

They can share the stories
of when our parents were young
and didn’t listen to what they were told.

They can also share the stories
of when they were young
and didn’t listen to what they were told.

They can teach us
the world was around long before we were,
and while we may think

everything is now different
a lot of it is still very much the same.
And while it might appear

we aren’t listening,
when we are grandparents
we’ll remember the stories,

and pass them on,
and that is why
grandparents are important.

Fourth Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge: Portsmouth, Hampshire

It is time for me to share my selection for the Fourth Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge hosted by West in New England.

Find a poem by a local poet, famous or obscure, from the region one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written! Or if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone performing the song...If you submit a humorous poem or song that will be entered under the "Willy Puckerbrush" division. Willy was the late geneablogger Terry Thornton's alias for some humorous posts and comments. [Deadline: November 18th]

• For the Third Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge, I shared a poem by Chaim Bialik, representing my ancestors from Volhynia, Russia.
• For the Second Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge, I submitted the song, Texas our Texas, representing my ancestors from the Lone Star State
• For the First Annual Genealogy Poetry Challenge, I shared a poem by Emilius Buczi, representing my Hungarian ancestors, Julian Ursin Niemciwicz, representing my Polish and Lithuanian ancestors, and T.S. Eliot, representing my hometown of St. Louis, as well as my London ancestors, since he was an ex-pat.

This year I decided to return to England and find a poet or poets from there, preferably from Hampshire, where my Denyer and Goldfinch ancestors were from, and more specifically, from Portsmouth.  I soon realized I had several choices.

Rudyard Kipling spent six years of his childhood (age 5-11) in Portsmouth. However, most everyone is familiar with the poetry of Kipling.

I found another two authors who were born in Portsmouth, very well-known for their fiction. I went in search to see if I could find some poetry, and I did. Both of these poems display wit possibly suitable for the Willy Puckerbrush division of this challenge.

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This first poem is not only in honor of my Portsmouth ancestry, but also the blacksmith trade.

I have several ancestral blacksmiths:
My 2nd great grandfather, Selig Dudelsack/Feinstein
My 7th great grandfather, Burger Van Iveren
My 8th great grandfather, Myndert Fredericksen

The humor in this poem should be obvious to even the least artful old codger - as it is forged on word-play.

***

The Blacksmith
Charles Dickens (1812-1870)

Old England, she has great warriors,
Great princes, and poets great;
But the Blacksmith is not to be quite forgot,
In the history of the State.

He is rich in the best of all metals,
Yet silver he lacks and gold;
And he payeth his due, and his heart is true,
Though he bloweth both hot and cold.

The boldest is he of incendiaries
That ever the wide world saw,
And a forger as rank as e'er robbed the Bank,
Though he never doth break the law.

He hath shoes that are worn by strangers,
Yet he laugheth and maketh more;
And a share (concealed) in the poor man's field,
Yet it adds to the poor man's store.

Then, hurrah for the iron Blacksmith!
And hurrah for his iron crew!
And whenever we go where his forges glow,
We'll sing what A MAN can do.

***

It doesn't take the world's greatest detective to identify the following poem as satire. If I were to offer some literary criticism, I'd say the author should have shown faith in his readers, and omitted the final stanza.

***

The Bigot - 1919
Arthur Conan Doyle (1859-1930)

The foolish Roman fondly thought
That gods must be the same to all,
Each alien idol might be brought
Within their broad Pantheon Hall.
The vision of a jealous Jove
Was far above their feeble ken;
They had no Lord who gave them love,
But scowled upon all other men.

But in our dispensation bright,
What noble progress have we made!
We know that we are in the light,
And outer races in the shade.
Our kindly creed ensures us this—
That Turk and infidel and Jew
Are safely banished from the bliss
That's guaranteed to me and you.

The Roman mother understood
That, if the babe upon her breast
Untimely died, the gods were good,
And the child's welfare manifest.
With tender guides the soul would go
And there, in some Elysian bower,
The tiny bud plucked here below
Would ripen to the perfect flower.

Poor simpleton! Our faith makes plain
That, if no blest baptismal word
Has cleared the babe, it bears the stain
Which faithless Adam had incurred.
How philosophical an aim!
How wise and well-conceived a plan
Which holds the new-born babe to blame
For all the sins of early man!

Nay, speak not of its tender grace,
But hearken to our dogma wise:
Guilt lies behind that dimpled face,
And sin looks out from gentle eyes.
Quick, quick, the water and the bowl!
Quick with the words that lift the load!
Oh, hasten, ere that tiny soul
Shall pay the debt old Adam owed!

The Roman thought the souls that erred
Would linger in some nether gloom,
But somewhere, sometime, would be spared
To find some peace beyond the tomb.
In those dark halls, enshadowed, vast,
They flitted ever, sad and thin,
Mourning the unforgotten past
Until they shed the taint of sin.

And Pluto brooded over all
Within that land of night and fear,
Enthroned in some dark Judgment Hall,
A god himself, reserved, austere.
How thin and colourless and tame!
Compare our nobler scheme with it,
The howling souls, the leaping flame,
And all the tortures of the pit!

Foolish half-hearted Roman hell!
To us is left the higher thought
Of that eternal torture cell
Whereto the sinner shall be brought.
Out with the thought that God could share
Our weak relenting pity sense,
Or ever condescend to spare
The wretch who gave Him just offence!

'Tis just ten thousand years ago
Since the vile sinner left his clay,
And yet no pity can he know,
For as he lies in hell to-day
So when ten thousand years have run
Still shall he lie in endless night.
O God of Love! O Holy One!
Have we not read Thy ways aright?

The godly man in heaven shall dwell,
And live in joy before the throne,
Though somewhere down in nether hell
His wife or children writhe and groan.
From his bright Empyrean height
He sees the reek from that abyss—
What Pagan ever dreamed a sight
So holy and sublime as this!

Poor foolish folk! Had they begun
To weigh the myths that they professed,
One hour of reason and each one
Would surely stand a fraud confessed.
Pretending to believe each deed
Of Theseus or of Hercules,
With fairy tales of Ganymede,
And gods of rocks and gods of trees!

No, no, had they our purer light
They would have learned some saner tale
Of Balaam's ass, or Samson's might,
Or prophet Jonah and his whale,
Of talking serpents and their ways,
Through which our foolish parents strayed,
And how there passed three nights and days
Before the sun or moon was made!

....

O Bigotry, you crowning sin!
All evil that a man can do
Has earthly bounds, nor can begin
To match the mischief done by you—
You, who would force the source of love
To play your small sectarian part,
And mould the mercy from above
To fit your own contracted heart.

Valentine's Day

To A Lady
by Victor Hugo,
From Les Feuilles D'Automne

Child, were I king, I'd yield my royal rule,
     My chariot, sceptre, vassal-service due,
My crown, my porphyry-basined waters cool,
My fleets, whereto the sea is but a pool,
     For a glance from you!

Love, were I God, the earth and its heaving airs,
     Angels, the demons abject under me,
Vast chaos with its teeming womby lairs,
Time, space, all would I give--aye, upper spheres,
     For a kiss from thee!

translation by Thomas Hardy
photogravure by Goupil et Cie, from a drawing by Deveria, appears in a collection of Hugo's poetry published by Estes and Lauriat in the late 1800s.

Why is Valentine's Day on February 14th?

There is a theory that the only reason tomorrow is associated with Cupid is due to a poem Geoffrey Chaucer wrote.

In 1381, Chaucer was busy composing a poem in honor of the arranged marriage between England's Richard II and Anne of Bohemia. This was a very big deal indeed, and Chaucer was looking for just the right saint to honor on May 3, the day Richard II signed the papers of engagement to his Bohemia beauty.


His search ended, Kelly surmises, when Chaucer learned that a Saint Valentine of Genoa had an honorary feast day on May 3. Perfect! So he wrote the poem "The Parliament of Fowls" in the couple's honor.


"The Parliament of Fowls" literally means "the meeting of birds," says Kelly. "Chaucer dreamed up the idea that all birds chose their mates on May 3rd," he says.


After Chaucer's death in 1400, Valentine's Day celebrations got pushed back to February.

Why exactly is unclear, however, if you forgot, and someone is upset, perhaps you can use this information to give yourself a few extra months.

Genealogy Research - a poem

Genealogy Research

I was kneeling in front of the gravestone
Wearing a faded pair of jeans
I had forgotten to bring my digital camera
But had remembered the charcoal and paper
I rubbed the grave, and read the results
November 11 1819
November 13 1820
The child would have been
One year, two days old when he died
The stone had to be wrong
This was the grave of my ancestor
I looked at the death certificate
I had found on the state website
And brought with me to the cemetery
1820 should be 1870
I stood up
And walked over
To my computer desk
Which was incomprehensibly situated
Between two nearby stones
I entered the data
Into my family tree
And then entered
My ancestor’s name
Into a database
The name of which I don’t recall
But I knew I had never seen it before
There was one result
And following the link
I was reading the diary
Of my fourth great grandma
Where she mentioned the name
Of the ship on which the family traversed
The Pacific ocean
I had thought they came from Europe
But apparently
They came by a more
Circuitous route
I entered the name of the ship
Into Google
And learned the passengers
Were ex-convicts
Exiled to Australia
Who commandeered a boat
And sailed to America
By way of Argentina
I returned to the diary
Of my fourth great grandmother
Only to discover
Someone had deleted it
From the database
And I hadn’t yet downloaded it
To my desktop

I woke up, clichéd sweat
Covered my forehead
I grabbed pen and paper
And wrote down everything I’d learned
Fully aware my dream
Was as reliable a source
As most of what I find
On the Internet
My only concern
I didn’t know the proper
Citation format

© John Newmark, 2011

Some prior attempts at poetry

• A Toast to the First and the Fourth of July
• Where I'm From
• Ode to Sarah Hartley Denyer Foster
• E Pluribus Unum; Cognatus, Ergo Sum 
• Divergent Yet Intersecting
• Ode to a Microspatula

Thanksgiving Poetry

Below are several poems I have posted here on past Thanksgivings, all gathered together in one post. 
I am posting them a day early in case someone is inspired to include any of them in their festivities tomorrow.

GRATITUDE - by Edgar A. Guest (©1917)

Be grateful for the kindly friends that walk along your way;
Be grateful for the skies of blue that smile from day to day;
Be grateful for the health you own, the work you find to do,
For round about you there are men less fortunate than you.

Be grateful for the growing trees, the roses soon to bloom,
The tenderness of kindly hearts that shared your days of gloom;
Be grateful for the morning dew, the grass beneath your feet,
The soft caresses of your babes and all their laughter sweet.

Acquire the grateful habit, learn to see how blest you are,
How much there is to gladden life, how little life to mar!
And what if rain shall fall to-day and you with grief are sad;
Be grateful that you can recall the joys that you have had.

Thanksgiving - by Edgar A. Guest (©1917)

Gettin' together to smile an' rejoice,
An' eatin' an' laughin' with folks of your choice;
An' kissin' the girls an' declarin' that they
Are growin' more beautiful day after day;
Chattin' an' braggin' a bit with the men,
Buildin' the old family circle again;
Livin' the wholesome an' old-fashioned cheer,
Just for awhile at the end of the year.

Greetings fly fast as we crowd through the door
And under the old roof we gather once more
Just as we did when the youngsters were small;
Mother's a little bit grayer, that's all.
Father's a little bit older, but still
Ready to romp an' to laugh with a will.
Here we are back at the table again
Tellin' our stories as women an' men.

Bowed are our heads for a moment in prayer;
Oh, but we're grateful an' glad to be there.
Home from the east land an' home from the west,
Home with the folks that are dearest an' best.
Out of the sham of the cities afar
We've come for a time to be just what we are.
Here we can talk of ourselves an' be frank,
Forgettin' position an' station an' rank.

Give me the end of the year an' its fun
When most of the plannin' an' toilin' is done;
Bring all the wanderers home to the nest,
Let me sit down with the ones I love best,
Hear the old voices still ringin' with song,
See the old faces unblemished by wrong,
See the old table with all of its chairs
An' I'll put soul in my Thanksgivin' prayers.
 
Looking Back - by Edgar Guest (©1921)

I might have been rich if I'd wanted the gold instead of the friendships I've made.
I might have had fame if I'd sought for renown in the hours when I purposely played.
Now I'm standing to-day on the far edge of life, and I'm just looking backward to see
What I've done with the years and the days that were mine, and all that has happened to me.

I haven't built much of a fortune to leave to those who shall carry my name,
And nothing I've done shall entitle me now to a place on the tablets of fame.
But I've loved the great sky and its spaces of blue; I've lived with the birds and the trees;
I've turned from the splendor of silver and gold to share in such pleasures as these.

I've given my time to the children who came; together we've romped and we've played,
And I wouldn't exchange the glad hours spent with them for the money that I might have made.
I chose to be known and be loved by the few, and was deaf to the plaudits of men;
And I'd make the same choice should the chance come to me to live my life over again.

I've lived with my friends and I've shared in their joys, known sorrow with all of its tears;
I have harvested much from my acres of life, though some say I've squandered my years.
For much that is fine has been mine to enjoy, and I think I have lived to my best,
And I have no regret, as I'm nearing the end, for the gold that I might have possessed.

A Song of Thanks - by Edward Smyth Jones (©1922)

FOR the sun that shone at the dawn of spring,
For the flowers which bloom and the birds that sing,
For the verdant robe of the gray old earth,
For her coffers filled with their countless worth,
For the flocks which feed on a thousand hills,
For the rippling streams which turn the mills,
For the lowing herds in the lovely vale,
For the songs of gladness on the gale,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the farmer reaping his whitened fields,
For the bounty which the rich soil yields,
For the cooling dews and refreshing rains,
For the sun which ripens the golden grains,
For the bearded wheat and the fattened swine,
For the stalled ox and the fruitful vine,
For the tubers large and cotton white,
For the kid and the lambkin frisk and blithe,
For the swan which floats near the river-banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks

For the pumpkin sweet and the yellow yam,
For the corn and beans and the sugared ham, 
For the plum and the peach and the apple red,
For the dear old press where the wine is tread,
For the cock which crows at the breaking dawn,
And the proud old “turk” of the farmer’s barn,
For the fish which swim in the babbling brooks,
For the game which hide in the shady nooks,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the sturdy oaks and the stately pines,
For the lead and the coal from the deep,
dark mines, For the silver ores of a thousand fold,
For the diamond bright and the yellow gold,
For the river boat and the flying train,
For the fleecy sail of the rolling main,
For the velvet sponge and the glossy pearl,
For the flag of peace which we now unfurl,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

For the lowly cot and the mansion fair,
For the peace and plenty together share,
For the Hand which guides us from above,
For Thy tender mercies, abiding love,
For the blessed home with its children gay,
For returnings of Thanksgiving Day,
For the bearing toils and the sharing cares,
We lift up our hearts in our songs and our prayers,—
From the Gulf and the Lakes to the Oceans’ banks,—
Lord God of Hosts, we give Thee thanks!

Third Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge

Bill West at West in New England is hosting his Third Annual Great Genealogy Poetry Challenge

Find a poem by a local poet, famous or obscure, from the region one of your ancestors lived in. It can be about an historical event, a legend, a person, or even about some place (like a river)or a local animal. It can even be a poem you or one of your ancestors have written! Or if you prefer, post the lyrics of a song or a link to a video of someone performing the song.

The deadline for submission is November 20th.  The rest of the details can be read on his blog.

***

I have participated in the first two editions of this contest, but between last year and now I have come to the conclusion my Feinstein/Dudelsack ancestors arrived from Volhynia, Russia.  So I decided to find a Volhynian poet. It wasn't difficult, and I was pleasantly surprised, as he turned out to already be one of my favorite poets.

In 1873, Chaim Nachman Bialik was born in Radi, Volhynia. Bialik's father died in 1880, when Bialik was 7 years old. In his poems, Bialik romanticized the misery of his childhood, describing seven orphans left behind—though modern biographers believe there were fewer children, including grown step-siblings who did not need to be supported. Be that as it may, from the age 7 onwards Bialik was raised in Zhitomir by his grandfather. (source).

Bialik is considered by many to be the "father of Modern Hebrew poetry," and it is great to see he was raised in the same town (Zhitomir) my great great grandfather's brother, Julius, put down as his town of origin on his immigration papers.  Selig and Julius Dudelsack left Russia in the 1890s, a decade before Bialik began publishing poetry - but did the Dudelsack family know Bialik's grandfather?

Bialik's poetry (in Hebrew) can be found here.

I share an excerpt below of an English translation. with a link to another site where the entire poem can be read. (While the original Hebrew was written in 1904, the translation is still under copyright.) The poem below was read in 2003 at the Memorial for the fallen Columbia astronauts.
 
***
After My Death

Say this when you mourn for me:

There was a man – and look, he is no more.
He died before his time.
The music of his life suddenly stopped.
A pity!  There was another song in him.
Now it is lost
forever.

(Read the rest of the poem)

***

Bialik is also known for his gathering and editing of the Sefer Ha-gaddah (Legends from Talmud and Midrash)



***
Note for the curious - actress Mayim Bialik has indicated she is descended from a sibling of Bialik's.