The Aim Is Song: Listen—How It Ought to Go

By David Madison

Taking Aim

Before man heard the wind he thought
that he could sing, now soft, now strong,
now proud—more, being so self-taught—
of knowing all there was of song.

Then blew the wind, "Man, what is wrong
is there are airs you just don’t know.
There’s more—oh, so much more to song.
Man, listen—how you ought to blow."

The wind blew sweet and sad and strong,
so like a love song, then let slip
a lover’s sigh, "The aim is song.
—Man, you are shooting from the hip."

Man saw, through tears, moved to rejoice.
So blowing, he could truly claim
to “singer,” and he raised his voice
up to his shoulder, and took aim.

So moved, I have taken aim, in this volume, at thirty-nine disparate subjects, and endeavored to put them into song. But of course merely taking aim is no guarantee of bringing the quarry down. Many factors come into play, not least of which is hand shake; especially considering that no few were not the species of quarry that readily yield their lives up to being put into song, any more than pigs do to being put into sausage. Among these are:

the embalming of President Abraham Lincoln, and of the embalmer’s increasingly frantic attempts with makeup to keep the Great Emancipator, his lips contorted into a slight smile, free of the ever mounting look of death throughout his agonizingly slow three-week funeral train home to Springfield, Illinois [photo of Lincoln lying in state];

the Death Zone discovery of the frozen body of British mountaineer George Leigh Mallory, one-third eaten by ravening goraks, 75 years after he was lost in 1924 along with climbing partner Andrew “Sandy” Irvine attempting to be the first to climb Mt. Everest [photo of Mallory as he was found];

the uniquely creative suicides of seven death-wish poets: Vachel Lindsay, Hart Crane, Sara Teasdale, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and John Berryman;

Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370, which mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth, along with 239 passengers and crew, somewhere in the deep, frigid forlornness of the southern Indian Ocean;

to name but four. Could I bring any one of them down, let alone thirty-nine? So it’s not hard to see that I would be subject to hand shake, often uncontrollably. How could my hand not shake at such a daunting undertaking? And this is before even factoring in distance. Often, even peering through the high-powered scope, I was so far from my quarry, not only in space but in time (in the case of Lincoln, thousands of miles and fourteen score and fourteen years ago), that I despaired of coming within a country mile. Then, of course, I hardly knew where to begin making allowance for wind shear, not just of one wind, but an incalculable number—from all directions and of all strengths—over so much space and time. Finally, there was the bore of my fowling piece. To me they were all riveting narratives, and I couldn’t see how any one of them had any bore at all; but there is no accounting for the interest and the attention span of readers. This alone was so calculated to put me off my aim that I couldn’t see how my once trusty fowling piece would not be perceived, to derisive laughter, as my ever dependable fouling piece. And did I mention that these typical quarry were just four of thirty-nine? So you can see I was in a tight place.

So, lover of song, in the final analysis, if, in poring upon this unlikely songbook, it should be your kind opinion that, against all odds, I have successfully brought down a quarry or two, you might as metaphorically give my hand a shake—but the shortest one possible, mind you, for still I have in sight some trophy beasts that I have designs on bringing down, to be stuffed and mounted alike, and that it would be such a shame to miss. Chief among these are the killings of Osama bin Laden and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in graphic narrative verse; songs so sweet that everywhere they wou

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Madison
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370602391

David Madison

Canadian by birth, expatriate by climate, David Madison is an inveterate idyller who idylls his time away writing idylls, that is, narrative poems, especially longer ones, such as "The Witch of Sulphur Mountain: The Supernatural Life of Agnes Baron, Meher Baba’s Beloved Watchdog."And yet, as if being an inveterate idyller were not enough to recommend him to you, he is also a tireless fabulist, meaning, a fabulous writer. But if you’ve had the novel pleasure of reading his first published book, "Ms. Spinster’s Novel Grammar: More Novel Yet Her Punctation, Spelling, Style . . . ," you already know that. Each of the 330 tales illustrating a rule is written in the manner of a fable, “a short narrative making an edifying or cautionary point, often employing as characters animals that speak and act like humans.” He is a permanent resident of Belize, which, being situated below Mexico on the Caribbean Sea, is fabulous in its own right. But one look at a map will undeceive you: it is nowhere near as fabulous as he is. When he’s not being fabulous, in one sense, he spends the remainder of his waking hours answering the question What qualifies you to write a grammar book? His ready answer, marvelous for its concision, is that he has some five more years of school learning than Mark Twain, and far fewer cats. While those two seeming disqualifications are sinking in, he is quick to emphasize that he correctly said far fewer, not far less cats.

Book preview

by Robert Frost

Before man came to blow it right

The wind once blew itself untaught,

And did its loudest day and night

In any rough place where it caught.

Man came to tell it what was wrong:

It hadn’t found the place to blow;

It blew too hard—the aim was song.

And listen—how it ought to go!

He took a little in his mouth,

And held it long enough for north

To be converted into south,

And then by measure blew it forth.

By measure. It was word and note,

The wind the wind had meant to be—

A little through the lips and throat.

The aim was song—the wind could see.

Taking Aim

Before man heard the wind he thought

that he could sing, now soft, now strong,

now proud—more, being so self-taught—

of knowing all there was of song.

Then blew the wind, Man, what is wrong

is there are airs you just don’t know.

There’s more—oh, so much more to song.

Man, listen—how you ought to blow.

The wind blew sweet and sad and strong,

so like a love song, then let slip

a lover’s sigh, The aim is song.

—Man, you are shooting from the hip.

Man saw, through tears, moved to rejoice.

So blowing, he could truly claim

to singer, and he raised his voice

up to his shoulder, and took aim.

So moved, I have taken aim, in this volume, at thirty-nine disparate subjects, and endeavored to put them into song. But of course merely taking aim is no guarantee of bringing the quarry down. Many factors come into play, not least of which is hand shake; especially considering that no few were not the species of quarry that readily yield their lives up to being put into song, any more than pigs do to being put into sausage. Among these are:

the embalming of President Abraham Lincoln, and of the embalmer’s increasingly frantic attempts with makeup to keep the Great Emancipator, his lips contorted into a slight smile, free of the ever mounting look of death throughout his agonizingly slow three-week funeral train home to Springfield, Illinois [photo of Lincoln lying in state];

the Death Zone discovery of the frozen body of British mountaineer George Leigh Mallory, one-third eaten by ravening goraks, 75 years after he was lost in 1924 along with climbing partner Andrew Sandy Irvine attempting to be the first to climb Mt. Everest [photo of Mallory as he was found];

the uniquely creative suicides of seven death-wish poets: Vachel Lindsay, Hart Crane, Sara Teasdale, Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, and John Berryman;

Malaysia Airlines Flight MH370, which mysteriously disappeared from the face of the earth, along with 239 passengers and crew, somewhere in the deep, frigid forlornness of the southern Indian Ocean;

to name but four. Could I bring any one of them down, let alone thirty-nine? So it’s not hard to see that I would be subject to hand shake, often uncontrollably. How could my hand not shake at such a daunting undertaking? And this is before even factoring in distance. Often, even peering through the high-powered scope, I was so far from my quarry, not only in space but in time (in the case of Lincoln, thousands of miles and fourteen score and fourteen years ago), that I despaired of coming within a country mile. Then, of course, I hardly knew where to begin making allowance for wind shear, not just of one wind, but an incalculable number—from all directions and of all strengths—over so much space and time. Finally, there was the bore of my fowling piece. To me they were all riveting narratives, and I couldn’t see how any one of them had any bore at all; but there is no accounting for the interest and the attention span of readers. This alone was so calculated to put me off my aim that I couldn’t see how my once trusty fowling piece would not be perceived, to derisive laughter, as my ever dependable fouling piece. And did I mention that these typical quarry were just four of thirty-nine? So you can see I was in a tight place.

So, lover of song, in the final analysis, if, in poring upon this unlikely songbook, it should be your kind opinion that, against all odds, I have successfully brought down a quarry or two, you might as metaphorically give my hand a shake—but the shortest one possible, mind you, for still I have in sight some trophy beasts that I have designs on bringing down, to be stuffed and mounted alike, and that it would be such a shame to miss. Chief among these are the killings of Osama bin Laden and Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi in graphic narrative verse; songs so sweet that everywhere they would be acclaimed poetry in emotion. So please keep the handshakes short.

1

A Bridge Too Far

2

A Dressing: The Rooster

O creature most obnoxious, foul,

a curse on He who gave you vowel,

to grate my nerves that I’m an owl

who cannot sleep.

"On he who keeps you [my avowal]

I’ll vengeance heap!"

Most impudent, rebellious cock,

you think I need your zealous squawk

to rouse me like some hellish clock

and break my ease?

I daily dream to give a flock

mine enemies!

Around his dungyard, fie! you peck,

and, horny now, leap on her neck,

to sate your virile self most wreck

your careworn mate.

I would a mute—and sterile—chick

be just your fate!

Your comb you strut in fair fowl weather,

to think you’ve such a pretty feather

—go preen in Hell, in fiery tether

arch and yell!

and haunt His cockamamie heather,

there to dwell.

But mind your cheek clears not the fence,

that keeps me here, and keeps you hence.

You’ll find a spare benevolence

to gobble here.

Your master, for your accidents,

shed woeful tear.

Fie! thirteen times now have you loosed;

one rhyme be beggar’s bread to boost

your vanity atop the roost

of neighborhood.

And with each, cocksure, smartly spruced

your feathers good.

For this you are a sheltered pet;

give dung to fools for all you’ve et

—and never a thought to pay the debt

for bell and board.

And look a hen now to beget

to swell your horde.

You, Chanticleer, must surely laugh

in pulling off your cunning gaff:

that Man should toil on your behalf

—and reap such woe!

To buy you wheat—and eat your chaff.

You can but crow.

3

A New Year’s Dream

Late New Year’s Eve, in fitful pains,

I fell into a dream

whilst mincemeat tarts surfed through my veins

on crests of white-whipt cream.

Dear God!—of all the things to float

(oh, fearful sight to me!),

a spectre rowed a gravy boat

upon a gravey sea.

Two drumstick-arms, to blood in debt,

beat out a reckless time;

and how that wretch did row—and sweat!—

to ferry through the chyme.

The sea’s face bubbled rendered oil

(so ghostly blue and green!).

No witch-stirred cauldron once did boil

with such a ghastly sheen.

How rowed that wretch, and moaned—and sweat!—

beneath no chastening moon;

how sickening oft the foul sea wet

each oar-locked gravy spoon.

And—oh, alack!—the void was black,

as black as black could be;

yet horrid-luminous were the . . . things

did float upon that sea!

And on and on the spectre came;

anon he drew apace;

he turned—I knew the spectre’s name!—

God save me!—knew . . . my face!

And, oh, alack! my sky was black,

as black as black could be;

and horrid-luminous was the wrack

did float upon that sea!

And, like the wretch, I knew them—all!

had loved them all so late!

All they that were (now bitterest gall)

up-lusted from my plate!:

plump candied yams, blood pickled beets;

sweet ham sliced warm and thick;

rich gravies smothering steaming meats

—dear God! my soul was sick!

A flood of pies unmeet did rise,

and surge about my bark,

so reeking, all, of sour demise

—I dashed them from the ark.

Just then the ghastly, gravey sea,

inflamed with gastric juice,

revolted up, and heaved up me,

and all life’s hells broke loose!

Uprose the hellish steaming bog,

as if to Heaven’s gate!

then down did sink (could Hell more stink?)

I swooned to contemplate.

How high it rose, how deep it fell,

how oft, I fathomed not.

Dear God! if not some nightmare-spell,

all sense was cannon-shot!

Uplashed the storm—how was I stung!

with hot and bilious hail,

that all eve long cold-passed my tongue

as egg-nogs, wine, and ale!

—as I did ail to ride that swell,

pray, how shall I invoke?

with what archfiendish decibel

those hideous bowels bespoke!

Then, all at once, the sea convulsed

(dear God!) I, sea, and boat,

fast up did rush as if expulsed

right up the Devil’s throat!

The boat, the sea, and I—all Hell,

in one Satanic roar,

Shot stinking up, and reeking fell,

upon a . . . moonlit shore.

Oh, sure, it’s sure! no silver moon

did ever shine so fair

upon a more God-blest lagoon,

nor ever knelt in prayer

more chastened wretch, for all his ills,

beneath such lunar light;

nor flowed such tears,