In the preceding post about Bunyan's pilgrim poem, I mentioned that at our family's Thanksgiving feast we all take turns reading a little something. This is one of our favorite family traditions. We take our time; each person eventually finds their own moment during natural lulls in conversation to read the little scroll tucked next to their plate. Nothing about this is forced or scheduled -- it always flows quite leisurely and naturally.
We have lots of wonderful memories of snaggle-toothed pilgrims slowly and carefully weading fwom their little scwolls over their pumpkin pie. Nowadays they can make the pie and everything else besides if necessary. But even so, the little scrolls are still ready and waiting at each place setting when we sit down to feast together. For us, Thanksgiving just wouldn't be the same without all these beautiful words and thoughts and praises.
As we take our turns, each person tells something they feel particularly thankful for over the year since we last sat around the Thanksgiving table together. This is always my favorite family mealtime of the whole year. Precious beyond words.
This simple tradition has always been a way for our family to come together at Thanksgiving not just in shared appetite, but also in a common spirit of gratitude. And that is what we remember-- so clearly-- even after our memories of all the food have long since faded.
Our collection of poems and Psalms is posted in our archives here, and I encourage you to enjoy them with us again-- and maybe even print them out for your own family feast.
I am so looking forward to Thanksgiving this year! I hope you are, too.
(Which is kind of a funny sort of double entendre, since it's about a pilgrim. On a pilgrimage. "Gets around"-- get it? Oh well, never mind.)
Let's see if I can pack John Bunyan, Ralph Vaughan Williams, and Maddy Prior and the Carnival Band (oh, and how about some hobgoblins and foul fiends!) all into one post. Ready?
I shall let Brother Bunyan go first, which is the only proper thing to do, chronologically, deferentially, spiritually, ecumenically, grammatically... oh, sorry. Too many Englishman on this ship there for a minute.
Ahem.
::tap-tap-tap::
We shall begin with a poetry recitation.
To Be A Pilgrim
Who would true valour see, Let him come hither; One here will constant be, Come wind, come weather.
There’s no discouragement Shall make him once relent His first avowed intent To be a pilgrim.
Whoso beset him round With dismal stories Do but themselves confound; His strength the more is.
No lion can him fright, He’ll with a giant fight, He will have a right To be a pilgrim.
Hobgoblin nor foul fiend Can daunt his spirit, He knows he at the end Shall life inherit.
Then fancies fly away, He’ll fear not what men say, He’ll labor night and day To be a pilgrim.
by John Bunyan
Now, this, friends, is a poem that has achieved poetic immortality. First of all, Pilgrim's Progress, from which it is derived, is one of the most widely read books in history. If that weren't enough to make this poem a classic, it most likely would have lived on as a much-beloved hymn. And in the absence of that, it probably still would have emerged somehow or another as a folk song. As it is, it's all three-- the very rare poetic triple threat.
For many years, it's been one of the poems we take turns reading aloud at our family Thanksgiving feast. Justin requested it for recitation this month, freshly enthused by our most recent pass through Pilgrim's Progress, via the brilliant dramatized recording from Orion's Gate, which I cannot recommend highly enough. Every family library should have this recording. It's just basic household equipment in my estimation. My children wore out the tape sets, so we recently replaced them with the new MP3 versions. (Dandy Christmas gift!)
Alrighty then, the music! You'll enjoy this. I think.
English composer Ralph Vaughan Williams adapted this poem for the English Hymnal, setting it to a traditional English folk tune called "Monk's Gate"-- which, as you will see, has proven quite a versatile tune.
This first video is the full-blown Anglican choir treatment, a cappella. Love the way those English choristers sing "'gaaainst oll dis-ahh-stahh." You'll never hear vowels like that on this side of the pond!
Do notice that Bunyan's lions, giants, hobgoblins and foul fiends are all tidily banished from the hymn adaptation. I guess that's supposed to make the lyrics more sacred or something, but of course the very wise Bunyan knew better-- the Good Book is smack full of lions and giants and foul fiends, and we'd best not be forgetting that.
(I'm not sure what all the train footage is about here. Maybe someone thought locomotive conveyance is an apt modern metaphor for pilgrimage?)
This second version is the wonderful English folksinger Maddy Prior and the Carnival Band taking the Monk's Gate tune back to its roots as a hearty folk tune in the Sussex tradition. Prior manages to howl all of Bunyan's cast of horrors back into the song, where they belong.
And, if you're up for a third, this is a fellow doing a mighty fine job of it on an organ.
Amazing how different one tune can sound performed in different ways! And how different the poem feels in the two vocal settings, don't you think?
So, which setting do you think best suits the poem-- the pious atmosphere of the hymn version, or the hearty peasant tone of the folk song?
The Beehive Poetry Ceilidh was quite festive! A big thank you to all of you who stepped up on the Beehive stage and shared a few verses. I feel quite well-regaled, don't you all?
More than half the poems posted for the Ceilidh were original works! Love it! I had hoped we'd get an original or two, but half? Really? You people are fantastic. And all your poems are, too.
And never fear, if you're still tinkering with tropes out there-- I'm already getting buzzed for Ceilidh II!
So some of you probably noticed that it's been over a week since I said I was going to post some poems. Well, I decided to keep the Ceilidh linky up top for a week so your poems could have center stage. Now then, I'm just itching to post a few, namely some Wendell Berry poems that I've been befriending this year. Up shortly.
Thanks again to all the partying poets out there! The Beehive has the best readers in all of blogdom, I'm just sure of it. Keep your anthologies open and your pencils humming!
Here's what to do: simply post a poem on your blog. It can be original or a favorite by another poet. Then come back to The Beehive and give Mr. Linky, below, the link to your poem post on your blog (not the link to your main blog page).
If you prefer, you may share your poem in the comments to this post.
Funnity fun!
ps. For those of you who wanted to know, ceilidh is pronounced KAY-lee.
Einstein has now left the building. He was a fun guest for a fortnight, was he not? But my brain, which is by no means the same variety of cauliflower as Albert's, has a fickle appetite.
Which brings us to waffles. No, really, it does. Anyone knows that good waffles have the power to reform a person's point of view. But only the Wise Ones, those venerable souls robed in floury aprons of splendor, know that the Belgian variety, when the planets align and the vanilla is just right, possess powers that surpass even advanced rhetoric and bribery. Particularly when fresh whipped cream is invoked.
Deep down inside, you know I speak truth.
So it makes perfect sense that when it comes to the navigational drift of The Beehive, much depends upon breakfast.
Just so, this particular morning, Justin rather brilliantly buried his waffles under the last of yesterday's pears -- a basket of Boscs stewed into a state of ecstacy with cardamom, ginger and little maple syrup. I could not bear letting those pears forever fade from my existence without my fond adieu, so I stole a hefty forkful. (You would have done the same.) And whilst I was in the midst of all that mellow fruitfulness, my muses woke from their semi-permanent nap to mutter a flash of something dimly mimicking inspiration.
In short, they declared that a dozen Einsteinisms were pleasant enough as an appetizer or tailgating sort of snack, but what they now desire is a whole platter of words more akin to those delectable pears atop Justin's waffles. Something aromatic and spicy with a little crunch underneath. Something poetic.
Even drowsy muses have power to enthuse, apparently. Because I now have a Novemberish sort of rumbling to host a Poetry Ceilidh here on the Beehive next week.
(A ceilidh, you ask? It's a Gaelic word that means party -- but a particular sort of party. One where everyone present contributes to the entertainment. Scots are not exactly known for being wallflowers.)
So here's the plan, aspiring Beehive Bards. I shall post several poems next week. And you? Well, just pick a poem you like, or better yet, pen one yourself. I may just do a bit of both.
I'll post a Mr. Linky late Friday night. Then you can post a poem on your blog and link back to it here, or if you aren't a bloggity bloggerson, you can post your poems here in the comments.
And if your pencil balks, maybe your muses just need a happy breakfast.
* * * * *
In the meantime, while your pears are stewing perhaps, here's a bit of verbal glory to appease the rumbling --Sarah Clarkson, whose blog is a fine blend of brains and beauty, offers up praise in her gorgeous, poetic prose. What a gift this young lady has and is.
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