Thursday, January 11, 2007

Poetry Thursday

Indiana claims James Whitcomb Riley as the "Hoosier Poet," and there is a collection of his manuscripts at the Lilly Library at Indiana University. You really only need one poet like Riley to enchant the school children with the rural dialect and old stories, so there probably wasn't much demand for Harry S. Chester, the "Elkhart County Poet," who also enjoyed and wrote poetry in this style. He was the Clerk of Courts, and although I've browsed through the Internet, this poem, "The Wakarusa Band," is the only title I can find. I didn't actually find it on the Internet either--I was doing genealogical research at the public library, and it is in the Elkhart County History. I have few ties to this county, but don't you get a little misty eyed thinking about old Harry behind the desk scratching out the marriage licenses, and tapping his toe while he passed his time writing poetry.

The Wakarusa Band
by Harry S. Chester

You talk about your Brooks's Band and Boyer at his best
An' Thomas's big orchestra, an' Sousa an' the rest
Their hifalutin' music, I suppose, is good enough
For city folks who educate on operatic stuff;
But when you want to reach the heart and make it laugh an' sob,
An' be in touch with nature like, and make it thrill an' throb
With melody an' music that a child can understand,
You ought to hear a concert by the Wakarusa Band.

They ain't up on concertos an' cantatas an' the like
But you can't beat 'em grindin' out a quickstep on the pike
An' when they play "Old Nellie Gray" an' "Where the Daisies Grow,"
My memory goes slidin' back to the long, long ago;
An' music that'll work like that an' strike your very soul,
An' flood you full of memories an' all your past unroll
That kind of music playin' fills its highest mission and
That's why I like to listen to the Wakarusa Band.

I saw the great directors in Chicago at the Fair,
With all their fine musicianers annihilatin' air;
A drum'd bang, a horn'd blat, a clarinet's shriek
An' ef you call that music, say, you ought to hear me speak;
I want the kind of music, that'll melt into the heart
I wouldn't give a picayune for all their classic art;
Let educated critics gulp it down an' call it grand
But I’ll just sit an' listen to the Wakarusa Band.


There are several photos of the Wakarusa Band (not to be confused with the music festival in Kansas) in the archives at the Public Library in Wakarusa, Indiana, here and here.

While I was at my public library, there were some middle school “musicianers annihilatin' air" with bang and blat and shriek.

My Turn
You ramble in your Myspace on why you do that stuff--
Your fuzzy youtube I 'spose is good enuf.
But still I'd rather read your words and text
without that noise ef from you gen-next
which don' melt my heart or strike my soul
as your past and future you unroll.




10 comments:

Anonymous said...

Awesome! That was a great poem, Norma. I thought I would see one of your own. :)

Mine's up too.

Catherine said...

Such fun! Another one in this vein that I really enjoyed was posted on a genealogy list and was called "The Scotsman's Farewell". It was an advertisement for shoes! I'll have to see if I can find it

Anonymous said...

Thanks for stopping by and commenting. This poem brought back memories of bandstands on greens and parades through small towns. Thanks for sharing. :)

Anonymous said...

That's a great one. and it's true about some my space folk. But I have a my space site too. That's the only way I get to talk to my grandkids in California and Oregon. They don't come to my regular site, it's too boring for them. So I got a my space account for them. And my kids in Hawaii are on my space.

What's an old lady doing on my space? LOL! :) Some of my regular blog friends are there too.

Anonymous said...

Hi Norma,

Thanks for stopping by and commenting. Sorry you got caught in the spam blocker. Don't know why, but you are up know.

Sassy Dewy

xo

Tammy Brierly said...

Harry is delightful and yours was full of truths!

Anonymous said...

What a terrific little surprise at the end there - nice!

Anonymous said...

According to my lights, this isn't poetry but verse, light verse. The distinction is very important in literary history. That is by no means to say it is not enjoyable!

Norma said...

According to my Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, verse is poetry, as distinct from prose, although has a requirement of rhythm and metre which poetry doesn't require. I'm assuming old Harry's admirers didn't care a lot about Whitman, so in his day, he was Elkhart County's Poet. A 1930s roadster isn't an SUV, but they can both get you there.

Anonymous said...

Liked your poem - it's so true about *this* generation. Are there any real thinkers amongst them? Will they be able to have 'real' moments?
CHeers
Glenn