C.+Wingate

 

**Wiki Poetry Project Catharine Wingate **

 **"The Cremation of Sam McGee"** By Robert 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'erhead 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 cold, and it's got right hold, till I'm chilled clean through to the bone. Yet 'tain'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 swore 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 heart 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 — Oh God! how I loathed the 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 it, and I thought a bit, 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 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. Explication: Robert Service was born on January 16, 1874 in Scotland. In 1896 he left his job as a bank teller and set sail in search of adventure, eventually landing in Canada. After traveling around for years, he settled as a bank teller in Northern Canada in Whitehorse, in the Yukon. He quickly became fascinated with the thousands of men arriving daily in search of gold, thus inspiring many poems, including "The Cremation of Sam McGee." "The Cremation of Sam McGee" is a poem about two men searching for gold in Alaska. One, Sam McGee, ends up freezing to death. However, before his death he makes the narrator, to whom he refers to as "Cap," promise to not bury him in the "icy grave" but to instead cremate him. The remaining stanzas of the poem are spent discussing the way in which the narrator carries out the promise he made to Sam McGee. The "Cremation of Sam McGee" is a narrative poem that is made up of fifteen stanzas, containing four lines each, written in an AABB rhyme scheme. Robert Service uses many literary devices throughout the poem to send chills down the spines of the reader. He uses simile in many places including in line two of stanza three when he said that the wind blew "like a driven nail." Service also uses personification when describing the "stars o'erhead" that were "dancing heel and toe" on Sam's last night. Robert Service was uses the same exact words for the opening and closing stanzas, creating two very different effects. In the opening stanza the use of phrases such as "make your blood run cold" and "the queerest they ever did see" create a sense of impending doom and terror that shakes the readers to their very core. However, in the last stanza, following the previous stanza's events, the Northern Lights have become far less ominous and the cremation of Sam McGee seems like much more of a friendly and heart-warming (pun intended) event. In addition, there is some question as to whether Sam McGee is really alive and "cool and calm" in the midst of a fiery furnace. My love for this poem started at a very young age. This is my grandfather's very favorite poem and when I was about five and my older sister was eleven, he offered her ten dollars for every stanza that she memorized. She memorized the entire thing in less than a day and to this day we still recite it every time we are around a fire, at the farm, on a cold winter night. I know the southern blood that ran through Sam McGee's veins making him cold all the time because I have it too. So I also know the feeling when you get near the fire and feel as though you could jump right in. It seems as though when Sam is in the midst of that fire he is finally out from under "the spell" of gold. In death, he became the man that he truly was, rather than the whimpering wisp of an old man that is described to the reader in the opening stanzas.

The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner" By Randall Jarrell From my mother's sleep I fell into the State, And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze. Six miles from earth, loosed from the dream of life, I woke to black flak and the nightmare fighters. When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.

EXPLICATION:  In 1942, Randall Jarrell left his job teaching at the University of Texas at Austin to join the United States Army Air Force, starting out as a flying cadet, and later becoming a celestial navigation tower operator. Jarrell considered his navigation job as the “most poetic in the Air Force,” indeed it was a job that inspired much of his early poetry focusing on the subject of his war-time experiences. “The Death of the Ball Turret Gunner” is a five line poem narrated by a ball turret gunner in the midst of World War II. The ball turret was an extension on the bottom of both B-17 and B-24 bombers. It was considered the most dangerous place to be. Separated from the entire body of the plane and curled with their knees by their ears and guns backfiring only millimeters from their heads, the gunners in the ball turret only knew that there was life above because of the occasional coating of yellow ice on the ball turret. Often, flak would hit the hydraulics mechanisms for the wheels and the plane would be forced to make a belly landing, crushing the man in the ball turret. Thus the last line, “When I died they washed me out of the turret with a hose.” In the first line of the poem, the narrator says, “From my mother’s sleep I fell into the State,” giving the reader a sense of a baby being robbed from its cradle. By the capitalization on “State” we know that it is talking about the government. The boys that flew in these ball turrets had to be tiny in order to fit, and therefore were often in their mid-to-late teens. In addition, many were drafted and assigned to the ball turret merely because of their size, not by choice. In line two, the narrator says, “And I hunched in its belly till my wet fur froze.” The gunners wore fur-lined jackets to keep from freezing; however by the end of an eight hour mission they were soaked with urine and sweat. In line five, the narrator speaks of his death. Referring back to times when the hydraulics on the plane were knocked out and the plane had to make a belly landing, the body of the gunner would be beyond disfigurement and in no way recognizable. This poem gives me some idea as to the price many people have paid for our country. Our generation has no idea of the price many have had to pay for us. Imagine sending your seventeen or eighteen year old son off to the ball turret of a B-17? I am personally very thankful for new technology and the price those before us have paid.

"Fog" By Carl Sandburg

THE fog comes on little cat feet.

It sits looking over harbor and city on silent haunches and then moves on.

Explication: Carl Sandburg left school at the age of thirteen and proceeded on to an odd assortment of physical jobs including bricklaying and milk wagon driving. He then began his career in writing as a journalist at the Chicago Daily News. In 1913, while working for the newspaper he wrote the poem “Fog.” This poem is a two stanza poem with no particular rhyme scheme. To the reader it is almost a scientific study on fog. The tone of the poem is very serene and calming. The poem almost seems to roll into the reader’s mind, just as the fog rolls into a scene. Contained within the poem is an extended metaphor of fog as a cat. Just as a cat comes into a room, sits back, observes silently, and then moves on, so does the fog. Just as a cat has no rhyme or reason to his comings and goings, the fog does not either. The fog may roll in on a chilly or hot day, a rainy day or the most humid day. It cannot decide what circumstances under which it will grace us with its presence. In addition, as a cat comes into a room, the pads on its feet mute any noise or approach. Unlike rain or thunder or lightning, the fog makes zero noise. The fog seems to come in, envelop the city and all of its secrets, and then to swirl them up and move on, taking them with him. My brother analyzed this poem for a fifth grade poetry project, and as a little seven year old girl, I remember pouring through his notebook of poems and coming to this one. On the page he drew a little cat foot and every time I see or read this poem all I see in my head is that little gray colored pencil drawing.

"I Love My Job" By Dr. Seuss

 I love my job! I love the pay! I love it more and more each day. I love my boss, he is the best! I love his boss and all the rest.

I love my office and its location. I hate to have to go on vacation. I love my furniture, drab and grey, And piles of paper that grow each day!

I think my job is really swell, There’s nothing else I love so well! I love to work among my peers, I love their leers and jeers and sneers.

I love my computer and its software; I hug it often though it won’t care. I love each program and every file, I’d love them more if they worked a while.

I’m happy to be here. I am. I am. I’m the happiest slave of the Firm, I am. I love this work. I love these chores. I love the meetings with deadly bores.

I love my job-I’ll say it again- I even love those friendly men. Those friendly men who’ve come today, <span style="color: #0000ff; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 15.6pt; text-align: center;">In clean white coats to take me away!!!

<span style="color: #0000ff; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 15.6pt; text-align: center;"> <span style="color: #404040; font-family: Tahoma,Geneva,sans-serif; font-size: 140%;">Explication: <span style="color: #808080; display: block; font-family: Tahoma,Geneva,sans-serif; font-size: 14pt; text-align: center;">Theodor Seuss Geisel may have received the inspiration for this poem from his time working in the First Motion Picture Unit of the United States Army Air Forces. As we all know there is much red tape in any government job and considering it was war-time, I am sure this was no exception. There are hints within the poem “I Love My Job” that he is most likely referring to his time spent working for the government: in stanza one, Seuss says, “I love his boss and all the rest,” perhaps speaking of the levels of authority in the U.S. Armed Forces. “I Love My Job” is a six stanza poem written in an AABB rhyme scheme. In the poem, the narrator is literally bemoaning his job and everything from his boss to his lack of vacation time to his drab office. The poem contains verbal irony left and right. For example, in line two of the fifth stanza the narrator says, “I’m the happiest slave of the Firm, I am.” The reader knows because of their knowledge of what work is like that this statement is irony. In the last stanza he begins to talk of the “friendly men who’ve come today, in clean white coats to take me away.” Here he is implying that his job has sent him so far off the deep end that a trip to the mental institution is required. The use of exclamation marks to punctuate the final sentence implies that he is so desperate to get out of his job, he is excited at the prospect of being whisked away to the institution. I love this poem because I feel like this applies to me as an adult but Dr. Seuss wrote it so it takes me back to my childhood. It is also comforting to know that even happy, whimsical Dr. Seuss did not always love his job.

<span style="background-color: #ffff00; color: #0000ff; display: block; font-size: 240%; text-align: center;">"The Raggedy Man" By James Whitcomb Riley

<span style="display: block; font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif; font-size: 110%; text-align: center;">O the Raggedy Man! He works fer Pa; An' he's the goodest man ever you saw! He comes to our house every day, An' waters the horses, an' feeds 'em hay; An' he opens the shed -- an' we all ist laugh When he drives out our little old wobble-ly calf; An' nen -- ef our hired girl says he can -- He milks the cow fer 'Lizabuth Ann. -- Ain't he a' awful good Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

W'y, The Raggedy Man -- he's ist so good, He splits the kindlin' an' chops the wood; An' nen he spades in our garden, too, An' does most things 'at boys can't do. -- He clumbed clean up in our big tree An' shooked a' apple down fer me -- An' 'nother 'n', too, fer 'Lizabuth Ann -- An' 'nother 'n', too, fer The Raggedy Man. -- Ain't he a' awful kind Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' The Raggedy Man one time say he Pick' roast' rambos from a' orchurd-tree, An' et 'em -- all ist roast' an' hot! -- An' it's so, too! -- 'cause a corn-crib got Afire one time an' all burn' down On "The Smoot Farm," 'bout four mile from town -- On "The Smoot Farm"! Yes -- an' the hired han' 'At worked there nen 'uz The Raggedy Man! -- Ain't he the beatin'est Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man's so good an' kind He'll be our "horsey," an' "haw" an' mind Ever'thing 'at you make him do -- An' won't run off -- 'less you want him to! I drived him wunst way down our lane An' he got skeered, when it 'menced to rain, An' ist rared up an' squealed and run Purt' nigh away! -- an' it's all in fun! Nen he skeered ag'in at a' old tin can ... Whoa! y' old runaway Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' The Raggedy Man, he knows most rhymes, An' tells 'em, ef I be good, sometimes: Knows 'bout Giunts, an' Griffuns, an' Elves, An' the Squidgicum-Squees 'at swallers the'rselves: An', wite by the pump in our pasture-lot, He showed me the hole 'at the Wunks is got, 'At lives 'way deep in the ground, an' can Turn into me, er 'Lizabuth Ann! Er Ma, er Pa, er The Raggedy Man! Ain't he a funny old Raggedy Man? Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' wunst, when The Raggedy Man come late, An' pigs ist root' thue the garden-gate, He 'tend like the pigs 'uz bears an' said, "Old Bear-shooter'll shoot 'em dead!" An' race' an' chase' 'em, an' they'd ist run When he pint his hoe at 'em like it's a gun An' go "Bang! -- Bang!" nen 'tend he stan' An' load up his gun ag'in! Raggedy Man! He's an old Bear-shooter Raggedy Man! Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

An' sometimes The Raggedy Man lets on We're little prince-children, an' old King's gone To git more money, an' lef' us there -- And Robbers is ist thick ever'where; An' nen -- ef we all won't cry, fer shore -- The Raggedy Man he'll come and "'splore The Castul-halls," an' steal the "gold" -- An' steal us, too, an' grab an' hold An' pack us off to his old "Cave"! -- An' Haymow's the "cave" o' The Raggedy Man! -- Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man!

The Raggedy Man -- one time, when he Wuz makin' a little bow-'n'-orry fer me, Says "When you're big like your Pa is, Air you go' to keep a fine store like his -- An' be a rich merchunt -- an' wear fine clothes? -- Er what air you go' to be, goodness knows?" An' nen he laughed at 'Lizabuth Ann, An' I says "'M go' to be a Raggedy Man! -- I'm ist go' to be a nice Raggedy Man!" Raggedy! Raggedy! Raggedy Man! <span style="font-family: 'Palatino Linotype','Book Antiqua',Palatino,serif; font-size: 160%;">Explication: James Whitcomb Riley was raised in a cabin in central Indiana, perhaps inspiring the setting for his poem “The Raggedy Man.” The son of an attorney, he picked up on the cadence and characters of the different dialects of his father’s many visitors, utilizing it in this poem. “The Raggedy Man” is an eight stanza poem with an AABBCCDD rhyme scheme. The poem is written from the point of view of a merchant’s young son. The boy speaks of the Raggedy Man helping the hired girl, shaking apples down from the tree for him, playing pretend with him, and tending the pigs among other things. In the end the boy says that he wants to grow up to be a nice Raggedy Man. “The Raggedy Man” is a very straightforward poem. We have to remember that the narrator is a little boy however and that all his perceptions were from the view of one who is young and innocent. Perhaps the Raggedy Man and Elizabeth Ann have a romantic relationship, for we see them often together in the poem. This poem is another one of my grandfather’s very, very favorite poems. Every Thanksgiving it is so awe-inspiring to watch him and his brothers and sisters stand all together and recite it from memory because their father taught it to them. I think that this poem is a great example to our generation. I feel that often we look down our noses at those working for us and overlook the fact that they can teach us many things. The Raggedy Man was not much to look at but he was a hard-worker and he not only taught the merchant’s boy life-lessons such as helping others, taking care of one’s responsibilities, and learning to use imagination, but he was also the role model for the little boy.

<span style="background-color: #808000; color: #008000; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; text-align: center;"> <span style="background-color: #808000; color: #000000; display: block; font-family: 'Comic Sans MS',cursive; font-size: 230%; text-align: center;">"The Jeep Ride" By Catharine Wingate



<span style="display: block; font-family: Impact,Charcoal,sans-serif; text-align: center;">Jump in the jeep. Let’s go for a ride. Hold on tight; So far no one has died.

Bouncing down the hill, Too bad there are no brakes; Shocks are gone, too. Don’t run into the lake!

Swerving ‘round the bend, Watch out for that tree! Ducks fly up; We all shout with glee.

Hang a sharp left! It’s alligator alley. Watch out for the ditch, <span style="display: block; font-family: Impact,Charcoal,sans-serif; font-size: 12pt; text-align: center;">It’s the grand finale! <span style="font-family: Impact,Charcoal,sans-serif; font-size: 150%;">E<span style="font-family: Impact,Charcoal,sans-serif; font-size: 170%;"> xplication: <span style="display: block; font-family: 'Lucida Sans Unicode','Lucida Grande',sans-serif; font-size: 110%; text-align: center;">The family farm, Limerick, is the source of many of my childhood memories. Hunting, fishing, and horseback riding are a few of the many activities to do at Limerick. But the most fun activity to do is, by far, a jeep ride. The old Limerick jeep is almost reliable: the clutch is spotty, the seats are not bolted down, the brakes may or may not work, but a guarantee for any Limerick jeep ride is a few thrills!! “The Jeep Ride” is a poem consisting of four stanzas of four lines each. There is a continuous rhyme scheme in which the second and fourth lines rhyme. The poem describes a ride on the old Limerick Jeep. Everything from pumping the brakes as you go flying down the hill by the pond to swerving around the bend to keep from falling off the edge of the dike.To many this poem may just be a simple little melody, but to me, my family, and all those who have experienced this ride it is quite unforgettable. This event is not only an unforgettable ride but a tradition that has accompanied all trips to Limerick. Many of my memories of bonding with family have been while holding onto each other for dear life as we go flying over the dikes of the rice fields. Occasionally, the old jeep has taught me life lessons, such as the time that my brother and I were driving it too fast and wrapped the exhaust pipe around the axle, in this case we learned to take responsibility for our actions and I also learned a few mechanical skills from unwrapping the exhaust pipe from the axle. This is only one of many fun memories and life lessons made and learned on the Limerick Jeep Ride.